Elbow-Room: A Novel Without a Plot Read online

  CHAPTER XXV.

  _A PERSECUTED JOURNALIST_.

  That the editor of every daily paper is persecuted by poetasters is anunquestionable fact; and it is probable that some of the worst of thesufferers would be justified in taking extreme measures to protectthemselves from such outrages. But that Major Slott of _The Patriot_ever proposed to murder a poet in self-defence I doubt. The editor ofa rival sheet in our county declares, however, that the major actuallythirsts for blood; and in proof of the assertion he has printed thefollowing narrative, which, he says, he obtained from Mr. Grady, thepoliceman:

  "One day recently the major sent for a policeman; and when Mr. Grady,of the force, arrived, the major shut the door of his sanctum andasked him to take a seat.

  "Mr. Grady," he said, "your profession necessarily brings you intocontact with the criminal classes and familiarizes you with them. Thisis why I have sent for you. My business is of a confidential nature,and I trust to your honor to regard it as a sacred trust confided inyou. Mr. Grady, I wish to ascertain if among your acquaintances of thecriminal sort you know of any one who is a professional assassin--whorents himself out to any one who wants to destroy a fellow-creature?Do you know of such a person?'

  "'I dunno as I do,' said Mr. Grady, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.'There's not much demand for murderers now.'

  "'Well,' said the editor, 'I wish you'd look around and see if you canlight on such a man, and get him to do a little job for me. I want abutcher who will slay a person whom I will designate. I don't carehow he does it. He may stab him, or drown him, or bang him with ashot-gun. It makes no difference to me; I will pay him all the same.Now, will you get me such a man?'

  "'I s'pose I might. I'll look round, any way.'

  "'Between you and me,' said the editor, 'the chap I'm going toassassinate is a poet--a fellow named Markley. He has been sendingpoetry to this paper every day for eight months. I never printed aline, but he keeps stuffing it in as if he thought I was depositing itin the bank and drawing interest on it. Well, sir, it's got to be sobad that it annoys me terribly. It keeps me awake at night. I'm losingflesh. That man and his poetry haunt me. I'm getting gloomy andmorose. Life is beginning to pall upon me. I seem to be under theinfluence of a perpetual nightmare. I can't stand it much longer, Mr.Grady; my reason will totter upon its throne. Here, only this morning,he sent me a poem entitled "Lines to Hannah." Are you fond of poetry,Grady?'

  "'Oh, I dunno; I don't care so very much about it.'"

  "'Well, I'll read you one verse of the "Lines to Hannah." He says--toHannah, mind you--

  "The little birds sing sweetly In the weeping willows green, The village girls dress neatly-- Oh, tell me, do I dream?"

  Now, you see, Grady, that is what is unseating my mind. A man can'tstand more than a certain amount of that kind of thing. What do thepublic care whether he is dreaming or whether he is drunk? What doesHannah care? Why, they don't care a cent. Now, do they?

  "'Not a red cent.'

  "'Of course not. And yet Markley sends me another poem, entitled"Despondency," in which he exclaims,

  "Oh, bury me deep in the ocean blue, Where the roaring billows laugh; Oh, cast me away on the weltering sea, Where the dolphins will bite me in half."

  Now, Mr. Grady, if you can find a competent assassin, I wouldn't makeit a point with him to oblige Mr. Markley. I don't care particularlyto have the poet buried in the weltering sea. If he can't find aroaring billow, I'll be perfectly satisfied to have him chucked into acreek. And I dare say that it'll make no material difference whetherthe dolphins gobble him or the catfish and eels nibble him up. It'sall the same in the long run. Mention this to your murderer when youspeak to him, will you? Now, I'll show you why this thing takes allthe heart out of me. In his poem entitled "Longings" he uses thislanguage:

  "Oh, sing to me, darling, a sweet song to-night, While I bask in the smile of thine eyes, While I kiss those dear lips in the dark silent room, And whisper my saddening good-byes."

  Now, you see how it is yourself, Grady, don't you? How is she going tosing to him while he kisses those lips, and how is he going to whispergood-bye? Isn't that awful slush? Now, isn't it? And then, if the roomis dark, what I want to know is how he's going to tell whether hereyes are smiling or not? Mr. Grady, either the man is insane or I am;and if your butcher is going to stab Markley, you'll oblige me bytelling him that I want him to jab him deep, and maybe fill him upwith poison or something to make it absolutely certain.

  "'I know that when he sent me that poem about "The Unknown" I parsedit, and examined it with a microscope, and sent it around to achemist's to be analyzed, but hang me if I know yet what he's drivingat when he says,

  "The uffish spectral gleaming of that wild resounding clang Came hooting o'er the margin of the dusky moors that hang Like palls of inky darkness where the hoarse, weird raven calls, And the bhang-drunk Hindoo staggers on and on until he falls."

  Isn't that--Well, now, isn't that just the most fearful mess of stuffthat was ever ground out of a lunatic asylum?'

  "'It's the awfullest I ever saw.'

  "'Well, then, I get eighteen of them a week, and they madden me.They keep my brain in a frenzied whirl. Grady, this man must die.Self-preservation is the first law of nature. I have a wife andchildren; I conduct a great paper; I educate the public mind. My lifeis valuable to my country. Destroy this poet, and future generationswill praise your name. He must be wiped out, exterminated, obliteratedfrom the face of the earth. Kill him dead and bury him deep, andfix him in so's he will stay down, and bring in the bill for thetombstone. I leave the case to you. You need not tell me you have donethis job. When the poems cease to come to me, I will know that he isdead. That will settle it. Good-morning.'"

  It is believed that the poet must have been warned by Grady, for thesupplies suddenly ceased; and Markley is saving up his effusions forsome other victim.

  * * * * *

  But the major has other persecutors. One of them came into theeditorial-room of the _Patriot_ during one of those very hot days inJune. Major Slott was perspiring in an effort to hammer out an articleon "The Necessity for Speedy Resumption." The visitor seized a chairand nudged up close to the major. Then he said,

  "My name is Partridge. I called to show you a little invention ofmine."

  "Haven't got time to look at it. I'm busy."

  "I see you are. Won't keep you more'n a minute" (removing his hat)."Look at that hat and tell me how it strikes you."

  "Oh, don't bother me! I'm not interested in hats just now."

  "I know you ain't, and that's not a hat. That's Partridge's PatentAtmospheric Refresher. Looks exactly like a high hat, don't it? Now,what's the thing you want most this kind of weather?"

  "The thing I want most is to have you skip out of here."

  "What everybody wants is to keep cool, of course. Now, how are yougoing to do it? Why, if you know when you are well off, you will do itwith this hat. But how? I will explain. If you compress air until itattains a considerable pressure, and then suddenly release it, therapid expansion causes the air to absorb heat and to produce quite amarked degree of cold. You know this, of course?"

  "I wish you'd compress _your_ air, and then expand it in the ears ofsomebody besides me."

  "Now, in my invention I have utilized this beautiful law of nature ina manner that is certain to confer an inestimable blessing upon thehuman race. This hat is really made of light boiler iron covered withsilk. The compressed air is contained in it. At the present moment itis subjected to a pressure of eighty-seven pounds to the square inch.If that hat should explode while I am sitting here, it would blow theroof off of this building."

  "So it killed you I wouldn't care."

  "Well, sir, the way I work this wonderful appliance is this: Theair-pump is concealed in the small of my back, under my coat. A pipeconnects it with the receiver in my hat, and there is a kind of crankrunning down my right trouser leg and fastened to my boot
, so thatthe mere act of walking pumps the air into the receiver. But how doI effect the cooling process? Listen: Another pipe comes fromthe receiver and empties into a kind of a sheet-iron undershirt,perforated with holes, which I wear beneath my outside shirt--"

  "If you'd wear something _over_ that shirt, so as to hide the dirt,you'd be more agreeable."

  "Now, s'posin' it's a warm day. I'm going along the street with theair-crank in operation. The receiver is full. I want to cool off. Ipull the string which runs down my left sleeve; the air rushes fromthe receiver, suddenly expands about my body, and makes me feel socold that I wish I had brought my overcoat with me."

  "I wish to gracious you'd go home and get it now."

  "You see, then, that this invention is of the utmost value andimportance, and my idea in calling upon you was to give you a chanceto mention and describe it in your paper, so that the public mightknow about it. You are the only editor I have revealed the secret to.I thought I'd give you the first chance to become a benefactor of yourrace."

  "I'm the kind of benefactor that charges one dollar a line for suchphilanthropy."

  "To assure yourself that the machine is perfect you must try it foryourself. Just stand up and take your coat off. Then I'll put the haton your head, screw the pump into the small of your back and fix theother machinery down your legs."

  "I'll see you hanged first."

  "Well, then, I'll put it on myself and illustrate the theory for you.You see the rod here in my trousers? This is the air-pump here,just above my suspender buttons. The hat now contains about sixatmospheres. Now I am ready to move. See? You observe how it works?The only noise you hear is a slight click of the valve in the pump. Acouple more turns, and you put your hand on my shirt-collar and feelhow near zero it is. I will get the pressure up to one hundred poundsbefore I----"

  BANG!!!

  As soon as the major began to realize the situation he crawled out frombeneath his overturned desk, wiped the contents of the inkstand from hisface and hair with the copy of that unfinished article upon "TheNecessity for Speedy Resumption," and looked about him. Mr. Partridgewas lying in the corner with a splintered table over his legs, his headin a spittoon, and fragments of ruined machinery bursting out throughenormous rents in his trousers and his coat. His cast-iron undershirtprotruded in jagged points from a dozen orifices in his waistcoat. Asthe major took him by the leg to haul him out of the _debris_ Partridgeopened his eyes wearily and said,

  "Awful clap, wasn't it? You ought to've had lightning-rods on thisbuilding. Struck by lightning, wasn't I?"

  BANG!!!]

  "You intolerable ass!" exclaimed the major as the clerks and reporterscame rushing in and began to place Partridge on his legs; "it wasn'tlightning. It was that infernal machine that you wanted me to put onmy head. If it had driven you under ground about forty feet, I'd havebeen glad, even if it had also demolished the building."

  "What! the receiver exploded, did it? Too bad, ain't it? Blamed if Ididn't think she was strong enough to bear twice that pressure. I musthave made a mistake in my calculations, however," said Partridge,pinning up his clothes and holding his handkerchief to his bloodynose; "I'll have another one made, and come around to show you theinvention to better advantage."

  "If you do, I'll brain you with an inkstand," said the major.

  Then Partridge limped out, and the major, abandoning the subject ofresumption, began a fresh editorial upon "The Extraordinary Prevalenceof Idiots at the Present Time."

  * * * * *

  The _Patriot_ has shown a remarkable amount of enterprise lately inobtaining, or professing to obtain, an interview with the WanderingJew. The reader can form his own estimate of the value of the report,which appeared in the _Patriot_ in the following fashion:

  Reports were floating about the city yesterday to the effect that theWandering Jew had been seen over in New Jersey. A reporter was sentover at once to hunt him up, and to interview him if he should befound. After a somewhat protracted search the reporter discovereda promising-looking person sitting on the top rail of a fence justoutside of Camden engaged in eating some crackers and cheese. Thereporter approached him and addressed him at a venture:

  "Beautiful day, Cantaphilus!"

  This familiarity seemed necessary; because if the Wandering Jew hasany family name, the fact has not been revealed to the public.

  "Bless my soul, young man, how on earth did you know me?" exclaimedthe Jew.

  "Oh, I don't know; something about your appearance told me who it was.I'm mighty glad to see you, any way. When did you arrive?"

  "I came on here yesterday. Been down in Terra del Fuego, where I heardabout the Centennial, and I thought I'd run up and have a look at it.Be a good thing, I reckon. Time flies, though, don't it? Seems to meonly yesterday that a man over here in Siberia told me that you peoplewere fighting your Revolutionary war."

  THE WANDERING JEW]

  He sat upon the fence as he talked; his feet, cased in gum shoes,rested on the third rail from the bottom; his umbrella was under hisarm; his face was deeply wrinkled, and his long white beard bobbed upand down as he ate his lunch voraciously, diving into his carpet-bagevery now and then for more. The reporter remarked that he feared thatsuch a liberal diet of cheese would disagree with the eater, but theold man said,

  "Why, my goodness, sonny, I've been hunting all over the earth forseventeen centuries for something to disagree with me. That's what Iyearn for. If I could only get dyspepsia once, I might hope to wearmyself out. But it's no use. I could lunch on a pound of nails andfeel as comfortable as a baby after a bottle of milk. That's one of mypeculiarities. You know nothing ever hurts me. Why, I've been thrownout of volcanoes--lemme see: well, dozens of times--and never beensinged a bit. 'Most always, in real cold weather, I step over to Italyand roost around inside of Vesuvius; and then, maybe, there's aneruption, and I'm heaved out a couple of hundred miles or so, butalways safe and sound. What I don't know about volcanic eruptions, mychild, isn't worth knowing. I went sailing around through the air whenPompeii was destroyed. Yes, sir, I was there; saw the whole thing.Why, I could tell you the most wonderful stories. You wouldn'tbelieve."

  "How do you travel generally?"

  "Oh, different ways. I have gone around some in sleeping-cars, and hadmy baggage checked through; but generally I prefer to walk. I'm neverin a hurry, and I like to take my own route. I'm a mighty good walker.I did think of getting up some kind of a pedestrian match with someof your champion walkers, but it's no use; it'd only create anexcitement."

  "How do people treat you usually?"

  "Well, I can't complain. Snap me up for a tramp sometimes, or makedisagreeable remarks about me. But generally I get along well enough.The undertakers are hardest on me. They say I exercise a depressinginfluence on their business by setting a bad example to other people;and one of 'em, over in Constantinople, he said a man who'd defraudedabout fifty-four generations of undertakers ought to be ashamed toshow his face in civilized society. But bless you, sonny, I don't mindthem. Business, you know, is business. It's perfectly natural for themto feel that way about it; now, isn't it?"

  "Will you have a cigar, after eating?"

  "No; none for me. Raleigh wanted me to learn to smoke when he was inVirginia, but I didn't care for it. You remember him, of course?Oh no; I forgot how young you are. Pleasant man, but a little toochimerical. I liked Columbus better. Nero was a man who'd've suitedyou newspaper people. 'Most always a murder every day. And then thatfire in Rome when he fiddled; made a splendid report for the papers,wouldn't it? Poor sort of a man, though. The only time I ever saw himwas when he was drowning his mother. Dropped the old lady over and lether drift off as if he didn't care a cent."

  "Talking of newspapers, how would you like to make an engagement asthe traveling correspondent of the _Patriot_?"

  "Well, I dunno. I wouldn't mind sending you a letter now and then, butI don't care to make any regular engagement. You see I haven't writtena great deal
for about eighteen hundred years, and a man kind of getsout of practice in that time. I write such an awful poor hand, too.No; I guess I won't contribute regularly. I have thought sometimesmaybe I might do a little work as a book-agent, so's to pick up a fewstray dollars. But I never had a fair chance offered to me, and Ididn't care enough about it to hunt it up; and so nothing ever cameof it. I could make a good book fairly hum around this globe, though,don't you think?"

  "Were you ever married? Did you ever have a wife?"

  "See here, my son, I never did you any harm, and what's the use ofyour bringing up such disagreeable reminiscences? The old lady died inEgypt in 73. They made her up into a mummy, and I reckon they put apyramid on her to hold her down. That's enough; that satisfies me."

  "Is your memory generally good?"

  "Well, about fair; that's all. I know I used to get Petrarch mixed upin my mind with St. Peter, and I've several times alluded to Plutarchas the god of the infernal regions. I'm often hazy about people. Thequeerest thing! You know that once, in conversation with BenjaminFranklin, I confounded Mark Antony with Saint Anthony, and actuallyalluded to the saint's oration over the dead body of Caesar. Positivefact. I'll tell you how I often keep the run of things: I say of acertain event, 'That happened during the century that I was bilious,'or, 'It occurred in the century when I had rheumatism.' That's the wayI fix the time. I did commence to keep a diary back in 134, but I ranup a stack of manuscript three or four hundred feet high, and then Igave it up. Couldn't lug it round with me, you know."

  "I suppose you have known a great many celebrated people?"

  "Plenty of 'em--plenty of 'em, sir. By the way, did anybody ever tellyou that you looked like Mohammed? Well, sir, you do. Astonishinglikeness! Now, _there_ was an old scalawag for you. A perfect fraud! Ilent that man a pair of boots in 598, and he never returned them; saidI'd get my reward hereafter. I've regretted those boots for nearlythirteen hundred years."

  "Did it ever occur to you to lecture?"

  "Oh yes; I've turned it over in my mind. But I guess I won't. You see,my son, I'm so crammed full of information that if I began a discourseI could hardly stop under a couple of years; and that's too long for alecture, you know. Then they might _encore_ it; and so I hardly thinkI'd better go in. No, I'll just trudge along in the old fashion."

  "Have you any views about the questions of the day? Are you in favorof soft money or hard?"

  "Young man, the advice to you of a man who has studied the world fornearly two thousand years is to take any kind you can get. That'ssolid wisdom."

  Then, as the old man babbled on, he descended from the fence,shouldered his umbrella, and together the two started for the ferry.He said he wanted to buy a new suit of clothes. That he had on he hadbought in 1807 in Germany, and it was beginning to get threadbare. Sothe reporter led him over the river, put him in a horse-car, asked himto send his address to the office, and the aged pilgrim nudged up intoa corner seat, put his valise on the floor and sailed serenely out ofsight amid the reverberation of the oaths hurled by the driver at anIrish drayman who occupied the track in front of the car.