Out of the Dark: Tales of Terror by Robert W. Chambers. Robert W. Chambers

and death-smitten firesides, and their newspapers will batten on blood and tears, but with me their spies must halt before the confessional. They know that Tessie is dead and that I am dying. They know how the people in the house, aroused by an infernal scream, rushed into my room and found one living and two dead, but they do not know what I shall tell them now; they do not know that the doctor said as he pointed to a horrible decomposed heap on the floor – the livid corpse of the watchman from the church: ‘I have no theory, no explanation. That man must have been dead for months!’

      I think I am dying. I wish the priest would—

       A PLEASANT EVENING

      ‘Et pis, doucett’ment on s’endort

      On fait sa carne, on fait sa sorgue,

      On ronfle, et, comme un tuyau d’orgue

      L’tuyau s’met à ronfler plus fort …’

      ARISTIDE BRUANT

      I

      As I stepped upon the platform of a Broadway cable-car at Forty-second Street, somebody said, ‘Hello, Hilton, Jamison’s looking for you.’

      ‘Hello, Curtis,’ I replied, ‘what does Jamison want?’

      ‘He wants to know what you’ve been doing all the week,’ said Curtis, hanging desperately to the railing as the car lurched forward; ‘he says you seem to think that the Manhattan Illustrated Weekly was created for the sole purpose of providing salary and vacations for you.’

      ‘The shifty old tom-cat!’ I said indignantly, ‘he knows well enough where I’ve been. Vacation! Does he think the State Camp in June is a snap?’

      ‘Oh,’ said Curtis, ‘you’ve been to Peekskill?’

      ‘I should say so,’ I replied, my wrath rising as I thought of my assignment.

      ‘Hot?’ inquired Curtis, dreamily.

      ‘One hundred and three in the shade,’ I answered. ‘Jamison wanted three full pages and three half pages, all for process work, and a lot of line drawings into the bargain. I could have faked them – I wish I had. I was fool enough to hustle and break my neck to get some honest drawings, and that’s the thanks I get!’

      ‘Did you have a camera?’

      ‘No. I will next time – I’ll waste no more conscientious work on Jamison,’ I said sulkily.

      ‘It doesn’t pay,’ said Curtis. ‘When I have military work assigned to me, I don’t do the dashing sketch-artist act, you bet; I go to my studio, light my pipe, pull out a lot of old Illustrated London News, select several suitable battle scenes by Caton Woodville – and use ’em too.’

      The car shot round the neck-breaking curve at Fourteenth Street.

      ‘Yes,’ continued Curtis, as the car stopped in front of the Morton House for a moment, then plunged forward again amid a furious clanging of gongs, ‘it doesn’t pay to do decent work for the fat-headed men who run the Manhattan Illustrated. They don’t appreciate it.’

      ‘I think the public does,’ I said, ‘but I’m sure Jamison doesn’t. It would serve him right if I did what most of you fellows do – take a lot of Caton Woodville’s and Thulstrup’s drawings, change the uniforms, “chic” a figure or two, and turn in a drawing labelled “from life”. I’m sick of this sort of thing anyway. Almost every day this week I’ve been chasing myself over that tropical camp, or galloping in the wake of those batteries. I’ve got a full page of the “camp by moonlight”, full pages of “artillery drill” and “light battery in action”, and a dozen smaller drawings that cost me more groans and perspiration than Jamison ever knew in all his lymphatic life!’

      ‘Jamison’s got wheels,’ said Curtis, ‘—more wheels than there are bicycles in Harlem. He wants you to do a full page by Saturday.’

      ‘A what?’ I exclaimed, aghast.

      ‘Yes he does – he was going to send Jim Crawford, but Jim expects to go to California for the winter fair, and you’ve got to do it.’

      ‘What is it?’ I demanded savagely.

      ‘The animals in Central Park,’ chuckled Curtis.

      I was furious. The animals! Indeed! I’d show Jamison that I was entitled to some consideration! This was Thursday; that gave me a day and a half to finish a full-page drawing for the paper, and, after my work at the State Camp I felt that I was entitled to a little rest. Anyway I objected to the subject. I intended to tell Jamison so – I intended to tell him firmly. However, many of the things that we often intended to tell Jamison were never told. He was a peculiar man, fat-faced, thin-lipped, gentle-voiced, mild-mannered, and soft in his movements as a pussy cat. Just why our firmness should give way when we were actually in his presence, I have never quite been able to determine. He said very little – so did we, although we often entered his presence with other intentions.

      The truth was that the Manhattan Illustrated Weekly was the best paying, best illustrated paper in America, and we young fellows were not anxious to be cast adrift. Jamison’s knowledge of art was probably as extensive as the knowledge of any ‘Art editor’ in the city. Of course that was saying nothing, but the fact merited careful consideration on our part, and we gave it much consideration.

      This time, however, I decided to let Jamison know that drawings are not produced by the yard, and that I was neither a floor-walker nor a hand-me-down. I would stand up for my rights; I’d tell old Jamison a few things to set the wheels under his silk hat spinning, and if he attempted any of his pussy-cat ways on me, I’d give him a few plain facts that would curl what hair he had left.

      Glowing with a splendid indignation, I jumped off the car at the City Hall, followed by Curtis, and a few minutes later entered the office of the Manhattan Illustrated News.

      ‘Mr Jamison would like to see you, sir,’ said one of the compositors as I passed into the long hallway. I threw my drawings on the table and passed a handkerchief over my forehead.

      ‘Mr Jamison would like to see you, sir,’ said a small freckle-faced boy with a smudge of ink on his nose.

      ‘I know it,’ I said, and started to remove my gloves.

      ‘Mr Jamison would like to see you, sir,’ said a lank messenger who was carrying a bundle of proofs to the floor below.

      ‘The deuce take Jamison,’ I said to myself. I started toward the dark passage that leads to the abode of Jamison, running over in my mind the neat and sarcastic speech which I had been composing during the last ten minutes.

      Jamison looked up and nodded softly as I entered the room. I forgot my speech.

      ‘Mr Hilton,’ he said, ‘we want a full page of the Zoo before it is removed to Bronx Park. Saturday afternoon at three o’clock the drawing must be in the engraver’s hands. Did you have a pleasant week in camp?’

      ‘It was hot,’ I muttered, furious to find that I could not remember my little speech.

      ‘The weather,’ said Jamison, with soft courtesy, ‘is oppressive everywhere. Are your drawings in, Mr Hilton?’

      ‘Yes. It was infernally hot and I worked like the devil—’

      ‘I suppose you were quite overcome. Is that why you took a two days’ trip to the Catskills? I trust the mountain air restored you – but – was it prudent to go to Cranston’s for the cotillion Tuesday? Dancing in such uncomfortable weather is really unwise. Good-morning, Mr Hilton, remember the engraver should have your drawings on Saturday by three.’

      I walked out, half