Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (170 page)

Authors: Travelers In Time

BOOK: Philip Van Doren Stern (ed)

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"I
think
I
deserve
twenty-five
per
cent.,
don't
I,
at
least,"
he
said, with
beautiful
frankness.
"I
supplied
all
the
ideas,
didn't
I?"

This
greediness
for
silver
was
a
new
side
in
his
nature.
I
assumed that
it
had
been
developed
in
the
City,
where
Charlie
was
picking up
the
curious
nasal
drawl
of
the
underbred
City
man.

"When
the
thing's
done
we'll
talk
about
it.
I
can't
make
anything of
it
at
present.
Red-haired
or
black-haired
hero
is
equally
difficult."

He
was sitting by the fire staring at the red coals. "I can't understand what
you find so difficult. It's all as clear as mud to me," he replied. A jet
of gas puffed out between the bars, took light and whistled softly.
"Suppose we take the red-haired hero's adventures first, from the time
that he came south to my galley and captured it and sailed to the
Beaches."

I
knew better now than to interrupt Charlie. I was out of reach of pen and paper,
and dared not move to get them lest I should break the current. The gas-jet
puffed and whinnied, Charlie's voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he told a
tale of the sailing of an open galley to Furdurstrandi, of sunsets on the open
sea, seen under the curve of the one sail evening after evening when the
galley's beak was notched into the centre of the sinking disc, and "we
sailed by that for we had no other guide," quoth Charlie. He spoke of a
landing on an island and explorations in its woods, where the crew killed three
men whom they found asleep under the pines. Their ghosts, Charlie said,
followed the galley, swimming and choking in the water, and the crew cast lots
and threw one of their number overboard as a sacrifice to the strange gods whom
they had offended. Then they ate sea-weed when their provisions failed, and
their legs swelled, and their leader, the red-haired man, killed two rowers who
mutinied, and after a year spent among the woods they set sail for their own country,
and a wind that never failed carried them back so safely that they all slept at
night. This, and much more Charlie told. Sometimes the voice fell so low that I
could not catch the words, though every nerve was on the strain. He spoke of
their leader, the red-haired man, as a pagan speaks of his God; for it was he
who cheered them and slew them impartially as he thought best for their needs;
and it was he who steered them for three days among floating ice, each floe
crowded with strange beasts that "tried to sail with us," said
Charlie, "and we beat them back with the handles of the oars."

The gas-jet went out, a burned coal gave way,
and the fire settled down with a tiny crash to the bottom of the grate. Charlie
ceased speaking, and I said no word.

"By Jove!" he said, at last,
shaking his head. "I've been staring at the fire till I'm dizzy. What was
I going to say?"

"Something about the galley."

"I
remember
now.
It's
twenty-five
per
cent,
of
the
profits,
isn't it?"

"It's
anything
you
like
when
I've
done
the
tale."

"I
wanted
to
be
sure
of
that.
I
must
go
now.
I've—I've
an
appointment."
And
he
left
me.

Had
my
eyes
not
been
held
I
might
have
known
that
that
broken muttering
over
the
fire-
was
the
swan-song
of
Charlie
Mears.
But
i
thought
it
the
prelude
to
fuller
revelation.
At
last
and
at
last
I
should cheat
the
Lords
of
Life
and
Death!

When
next
Charlie
came
to
me
I
received
him
with
rapture.
He was
nervous
and
embarrassed,
but
his
eyes
were
very
full
of
light,
and his
lips
a
little
parted.

"I've
done
a
poem,"
he
said;
and
then,
quickly:
"it's
the
best I've
ever
done.
Read
it."
He
thrust
it
into
my
hand
and
retreated
to the
window.

I
groaned
inwardly.
It
would
be
the
work
of
half
an
hour
to criticise—that
is
to
say
praise—the
poem
sufficiently
to
please
Charlie. Then
I
had
good
reason
to
groan,
for
Charlie,
discarding
his
favorite centipede
metres,
had
launched
into
shorter
and
choppier
verse,
and verse
with
a
motive
at
the
back
of
it.
This
is
what
I
read: