I was base enough, at first, to suspect Mr. Staggers of inventing this word, but you will find it in any dictionary or any encylopaedia, and you may find myxomycetes itself on an old tree-stump — any number of species of it, and men of science call it protozoa — the lowest form of animal life.
Unless you are a hardened teetotaller you are probably aware of those wine-shops in London where a basket of free biscuits stands near a crumbled heap of eleemosynary cheese. It was at one of these institutions that Mr. Montgomery Staggers absorbed his daily sustenance and transacted such business as he could compass. The fluid share of the honour was mine, Mr. Montgomery Staggers being snugly entrenched between the biscuits and the cheese, while he proceeded to deliver himself of the following: —
People have been most shockingly fed up with mines, but they’re as good a promotion as anything even now, if you can only get ‘em to bite. Scientific invention’s all my eye; the scientific chaps don’t seem to know the game, and they’re bound to let you in for something, sooner or later. No more science for me, not after old Burridge and his blooming myxomycetes.
I was in with a useful little crowd at that time that were very enterprising, and game for anything. What money was wanted we usually got from a chap called Stibbins — for office furniture and such, not much — but he certainly had ideas sometimes, and synthetic goods was one of his specials. Commercial Syntheses, Unlimited — you could do so much with it, you see; anyhow, it seemed so; synthetic bricks, synthetic timber, synthetic leather, glass, wool, gold — anything; make ‘em all chemically. We made up our minds to do it properly; get a tame science merchant and put him in a proper laboratory, just to show the mugs, with all his synthetic bricks and timber round him, and a precious large lot o’ retorts and tubes and jars and glass bubble-shaped things and blow-pipes. So Stibbins got hold of Burridge. He’d been a teacher in science schools, but he was always hoofed out because he would muddle with his own experiments instead o’ teachin’. So we got him a new suit o’ clothes and all the retorts and stinks and stuff he wanted, and shoved ‘em all in the back room o’ the office Stibbins took in a court off Broad Street. “And now,” says we, “go ahead and make bricks out o’ straw or anything you like in them glass things.”
“Bricks?” says the old chap, “I want to make protoplasm. I believe I can generate life! It’s the dream of my career.”
“Life be blowed,” says we; “we want something with money in it, like bricks. It’ll do if you only make-believe to make ‘em, in a scientific way.”
They were buildin’ a new bank up the street, and I went out and borrowed a few bricks in the dusk. We brushed ‘em up neat and set ‘em out on a bit o’ green baize in the office with a label: “SYNTHETIC BRICKS — THE FINISHED ARTICLE!” And next morning old Bashford Keeble — he was one of us then — brought in a bit of synthetic timber he’d sawed off a new fence, and we put that on another bit o’ green baize with a label of its own. We bought a bit of synthetic leather at a grinder’s shop for a bob, and we all put in specimens of synthetic glass — such a lot of empty whisky-bottles that Stibbins said there was nothing so suspicious as overdoin’ it, and pitched most of ‘em out. You never saw anybody more surprised than old Burridge when he saw the specimens all nicely laid out with their labels, in the front office. “But I haven’t made ‘em yet,” says he.
“What rot!” says we. “Of course you made ‘em — here they are! We can’t wait for your experiments — this is business.”
I ought to have told you that besides Stibbins and me there was old Bashford Keeble and a couple of others, Pewtris and Crump. I did the gentlemanly man o’ the world, and Bashford Keeble was the respectable virtuous. He had a very high, shiny forehead — mostly baldness — beautiful wavy grey hair — and a beard like Moses. You’d have trusted him with your last bob — lots o’ people did it at different times, and sure enough it was their last. What?
Stibbins pulled the strings generally, and Pewtris and Crump were what you might call general utility.
First we were after a private syndicate — just a few select mugs at as much as they were good for apiece; got at through the partnership and investment advertisements.
Well, we began on the syndicate, but somehow the syndicate wouldn’t begin on us. We got out ads. solid-lookin’ enough for the Bank of England, but at first we didn’t get a bite. Nibbles, yes; miserable nibbles. Old fogies would come in and listen to it all, and take a peep at Burridge and his stinks, and say the bricks were wonderful, and the bit o’ wood was marvellous, and the leather amazing, and the bottles that life-like they almost smelt of whisky; and then they’d say they’d think over it, and they’d go fading out on to the stairs and never be heard of again.
Stibbins was getting short and rusty about the whole thing, and kept throwing up to us the money we were all costing him for the new clothes he’d rigged us out with, and all that. And then I had a good idea. So I knocked up a little ad. like this: —
A unique opportunity of lucrative investment in the greatest scientific discovery of the age, with an important directorship, is open to a woman who is able to exercise independent judgment untrammelled by the “advice” or other patronage of the duller sex. — Address, COMMERCIAL, 5, Duffield Court, Broad Street.
That went into a suffragette paper, and it rather fetched ‘em — quite a number. The trouble was we had so many call that were all ready for the directorship but wanted to leave out the investment. And then all of a sudden we had a double event in one day. Old Burridge invented his myxomycetes and Miss Agatha Gunter answered the ad.
We got the invention first. Stibbins and I were sittin’ in the office, when suddenly there came a frightful yell from the stink-shop. We thought old Burridge had caught fire at last or something, and rushed at the door in a bunch. But there was the old frump dancing and waving his arms like mad, and staring at a little gruelly splash on a bit o’ glass lyin’ on his bench.
“Got it!” shouts the old boy. “Organic life! Synthetic myxomycetes! Done it! Me! Alone! Hooray!”
And before we could make up our minds whether to knock him down or tie him up, he burst into a gabble of explanations.
“Oh, stow the pigeon-English,” says Stibbins; “what is it in plain Whitechapel?”
“Myxomycetes,” says Burridge; “protozoa, the lowest form of animal life — made it synthetically! It’s quite a new species, too — stronger in growth and assimilation than any of ‘em, and grows with the damp of the atmosphere alone. Look here that splash on the glass is dormant, and ready to throw out spores; but look at this!”
He scraped up a bit with a knife, and put it on a piece o’ firewood; and sure enough it settled down in a sort of blob and then began spreading out little points very slowly all round.
We watched the points creep out over the wood, hardly moving; and then Burridge dipped a little glass rod in water and let fall a drop or two in the wood just by the side of the jelly. The moment it reached the damp it rushed ahead like one o’clock; ran all along the bit of wood and spread round it, till it was covered.
“It’s eating that wood up,” says Burridge and he dropped it into a jar. Sure enough presently it all sort of melted down in the bottom of the jar and there was no wood there — one o’ the rummest things I ever saw. Creepy, too, to think that messy stuff was really alive and calmly lunchin’ off our firewood in that gluttonous way.
“It’s a most amazingly vigorous species,” says Burridge, grinning with triumph all over. “Nothing like it in the natural protozoa. Anything that’s really wet it gobbles up like lightning. Look at this.”
He tore off a bit from a duster, and dipped it in water. Then he picked up another bit of the jelly on the knife and wiped it on the wet rag. It just rushed all over that rag, and in two seconds it was another lump of jelly, which he dropped into the jar on top of the first.
“You see,” says Burridge, “in the glass jar it goes dormant. So it would on metal; it only grows on what it can eat,
and it only eats organic matter or its derivatives. Warmth makes it grow and eat quicker, so does darkness. Dryness stops most species, and perhaps absolute dryness would stop this; but as it is, the ordinary moisture of the atmosphere keeps it going, and any greater moisture — well, you’ve seen what that does.”
We were all standin’ round among the bottles and gadgets starin’ and tryin’ to think of some way to turn old Burridge’s jelly into the merry ha’pence, when I happened to peep over Crump’s shoulder into the outer office and there saw a lady. I dropped myxomycetes and skipped out for business.
This looked more like progress. The lady was labelled money all over. Real lace, no less; diamonds at her neck; gold chain-purse in one hand; gold lorgnette in the other. Not young, no; and a bit severe to look at, especially when she popped up her gold lorgnette and stared at you through it.
She came to the point straight away — she was ready to invest in anything she was satisfied with. What was this? And before I could begin to explain, there was that oily old flatterer, Bashford Keeble, wagging his venerable locks on the other side of her, and taking the words out of my mouth. Stibbins lay low. He was no society ornament, and he had the sense to know it.
We pointed out the bricks, and old Bashford Keeble began to discourse at large on bricks as a moral institution. “Bricks, my dear madam,” he said; “bricks produced by this wonderful synthetic process add the advantage of great commercial possibilities to the universal higher significance of the brick in general. The thoughtless throng is apt to ignore the moral import of the brick. The brick in its multitudes gives shelter to the human race, supports the domestic hearth, has its part in the sanctity of the home. It is an inspiring thought—”
“Yes, yes,” says the lady; “and do these bricks support the domestic hearth any better than the usual kind?”
“Much,” says Keeble; “it’s one of their chief recommendations.”
“Also,” I put in, “the whole scheme is more particularly calculated to support in opulence the domestic hearths of those investors who come in privately now — on the ground floor as we say in the City.”
“Indeed?” she says; “and how do you make the bricks?”
“By the process invented by our Mr. Burridge, whose name will resound throughout the ages when Newton’s is forgotten. You see, we take hydrated silica of ammonia and magnesia, and then, combining these ingredients with calcium, and adding the proper quantity of potash and free silica, we pass the whole through an intricate process of — er — synthesis, and what with the synthesis of the combination actin’ on the combination of the synthesis, and the consequent reaction on both — why, there you are, don’t you know!”
“Dear me!” says she, looking hard at me through her lorgnette all the while. “So much simpler than baking clay! Show me something else!”
Somehow I began to feel that the stroke hadn’t quite come off, but I dashed in on the wood tack.
“Now, this timber,” I said, pickin’ up the specimen; “we’re anticipatin’ an enormous revenue from chemically produced timber. Quite indistinguishable from the natural article, and free from all knots and defects. Made in any length to order, at a price beyond the reach of competition with e-normous profits. To a lady of your educated intelligence, I need scarcely point out the enormous, the universal demand for timber.”
“Timber,” says old Keeble, shovin’ in his oar from the other side, “hitherto only to be procured by the barbarous destruction of the fairest scenes of sylvan delight, will now be supplied to the crying needs of our fellow-creatures by an inexpensive but moral chemical process, placing it within the reach of the humblest.”
“And what’s the inexpensive moral process?” asks Miss Gunter. She had a way of starin’ immovably at you through those frozen glasses all the while you were speakin’ with about as much expression on her face as the back of a tombstone, and then rappin’ out a question like an assegai.
Old Bashford Keeble never could be sure of the scientific patter. He flourished his hands in a sort of general way and said it was done with lignum and cellulose, and synthetic combination, and other secret ingredients.
“Oh!” says the lady, as though she hadn’t expected that. “Have you tried melting down sawdust?”
Poor old Keeble waggled his hands feebly and said it seemed a good idea, and he’d mention it to the board.
“Do,” says Miss Gunter; “it’s just the soft of thing that might interest a board.”
Old Keeble and I looked across at each other pretty blank, but to hear her voice and look at her tombstone face it was hard to believe she was guyin’ us, even now. She reached over and took up the piece of leather.
“And this is the synthetic leather, is it?” she said, turning it over. “Extraordinarily like the real thing, quite extraordinarily. If you were not so honest you might safely call it genuine. But it’s rather rudimentary. Why not synthetic boots? You’re more advanced with the glass, I see. Such a convenient shape, isn’t it? I suppose you’ll soon produce bottles ready labelled?”
“And with whisky in ‘em,” I said, with something as near a wink as I dared. For it was plain now we weren’t scorin’, and old Keeble was shakin’ his head and waggin’ his hands and tryin’ to look as though he wasn’t responsible for anything.
“Yes, yes; very profitable to somebody no doubt,” says Miss Gunter. “Where’s your works?”
“No works, as yet,” I said; “but we’ve a small laboratory here where Mr. Burridge works.”
It struck me suddenly that we might do something after all, if we could impress her with the myxomycetes. So I said, very confidentially, “I don’t know if I ought to mention it yet, but as a matter of fact he really has made the most astounding discovery only just now. He has produced life by chemical means!”
“Indeed? How wonderful!” says she calm and stony as ever. “Show me. ‘Let us come and see life — by chemical means.”
We went into the back room, and she almost seemed to take to old Burridge, comparatively speaking. He was bubblin’ all over still, and he explained all about myxomycetes and the formic aldehydes and amino acids, and he did the experiments again with a larger piece of wood and a wet duster. Miss Gunter was so taken with it she forgot to say anything sarcastic, and old Keeble, findin’ her comin’ round a bit on this, butted in again, and poked his fingers and his whiskers into things and muddled up the explanations, and did all he could to shove himself in front of poor old Burridge, who was providin’ the show.
I must say it was a fascinatin’ show, with its horrid, slobbery creepiness. To know that beastly jelly was alive, and to see it go reachin’ out over things and wrap ‘em round and eat ‘em up, and to see it rush ahead like lightning the moment it met any sort of moisture, as though a drink stimulated its appetite — well, creepy fascination was all you could call it; I found myself sort o’ dislikin’ the stuff more and more, as you might lookin’ at a worse than usual kind of reptile, and yet bein’ fascinated to see it. Miss Gunter, stony as she was, kind of stood off and pulled in her skirts, but couldn’t take her eyes off the stuff till the experiment was done, and the swelled jelly dropped into a jar.
Then she said, “Thank you, Mr. Burridge; it is most interesting. This is one thing I can congratulate you on at any rate, and I really think I should like to come again!” Quite gracious to old Burridge.
“Certainly — delighted, I’m sure,” says old Keeble, buttin’ in as usual and nubbin’ his hands. “I shall always be most pleased—”
“Yes, yes,” says Miss Gunter, turnin’ on him stony again; “and what do you propose to produce from this discovery of chemical life? Synthetic menageries?”
She’d got him fixed with her glasses, and old Keeble could only smile uneasily and shrug his shoulders and waggle his hands as though he’d lost a towel.
Miss Gunter took a general look round and said, “Quite the most interesting afternoon! I really think I must come again. I’ve to see my broker to-mor
row morning at eleven, and if there’s time, I might come then. It’s all so very original! Good afternoon!”
With that she was gone, and in the next second old Keeble had bolted after her. I saw his game in a flash — treacherous old blighter. He was throwin’ us over — betrayin’ his pals. Here was a woman rollin’ in money, and — single; that was enough for him. He’d been sort of washin’ his hands of us in dumb-show ever since it was plain she wasn’t swallowin’ what we served her; and now he was off after her by himself. I saw at once it was a thing that must be seen to; and if the lady preferred a weddin’ to shares in a syndicate, what was the matter with me? I grabbed my hat and hooked it after Keeble.
It’s a short court, and by the time I was out of the front door the lady was gettin’ into a spankin’ landaulette car waitin’ at the end of the court in Broad Street, and Keeble, with his beard all flyin’ and his shoulders bobbin’, was holdin’ the door and seein’ her in.
There’s a tea-and-bun shop at the corner of the court, with an entrance in each street. So I just slipped in there till I saw Keeble retire and the car begin to move off, and then I dashed out of the front door and skipped on to the step.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” I said; “one word in justice to myself!”
She stopped the car. “Well,” she said, “and what do you want? I can’t wait here long.”
“My dear madam,” says I, “I am ashamed positively ashamed, to have appeared wanting in respect for the intelligence of a lady of your incisive intellect. I wish to be allowed to warn you against the nefarious designs of the Commercial Syntheses Syndicate. As to my own seeming part in their scheme, if you will allow me a few minutes’ explanation—”
“Oh,” says she. “Another penitent, is it? I can’t wait now. I’ve just sent the other away. He’s to be here at the entrance of the court to-morrow morning at half-past ten to catch me before I go in, and explain everything. You’d better come too. Good afternoon!”
I skipped off the step with the best bow I could muster, and the car sailed off. It was a bit awkward. To begin with, I wasn’t altogether sorry to be cut off just then because, as a matter of fact, I hadn’t any particular explanation ready, and it might have been a bit awkward to invent as I went along.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 273