Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  He bustled about, and in a short time managed to launch a leaky-looking old tub, into which he stepped, while I squatted down in the sheets.

  “Take me round the docks,” I said. “I want to have a look at the shipping.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said he, and away we went, and paddled about the docks for the best part of an hour. At the end of that time we turned back and pulled up to the little quay from which he had started. It was past eleven now and the place was crowded with people. Half Brisport seemed to have concentrated round the iron bridge. The melancholy hat was still visible.

  “Shall I pull in, sir?” asked the boatman.

  “Give me the sculls,” said I. “I want a bit of exercise — let us change places,” and I stood up.

  “Take care, sir!” yelled the boatman as I gave a stagger. “Look out!” and he made a frantic grab at me, but too late, for with a melodramatic scream I reeled and fell over into the Brisport dock.

  I hardly realised what it was I was going to do until I had done it. It was not a pleasant feeling to have the thick, clammy water closing over one’s head. I struck the bottom with my feet, and shot up again to the surface. The air seemed alive with shouts. “Heave a rope!” “Where’s a boat-hook!” “Catch him!” “There he is!” The boatman managed to hit me me a smart blow on the head with something, an oar, I fancy, and I went down again, but not before I had got my lungs well filled with air. I came up again and my top-booted friend seized me by the hair of my head as if he would tear my scalp off. “Don’t struggle!” he yelled, “and I’ll save you yet.” But I shook him off, and took another plunge. There was no resisting him next time, however, for he got a boat-hook into my collar, and though I kept my head under water as long as possible I was ignominiously hauled to land.

  There I lay on the hard stones of the quay, feeling very much inclined to laugh, but looking, no doubt, very blue and ghastly. “He’s gone, poor chap!” said some one. “Send for a doctor.” “Run, run to Markham.” “Quite dead.” “Turn him upside down.” “Feel his pulse.” “Slap him on the back.”

  “Stop,” said a solemn voice—”stop! Can I be of any assistance? I am a medical man. What has occurred?”

  “A man drowned,” cried a score of voices. “Stand back, make a ring — room for the doctor!”

  “My name is Doctor Crabbe. Dear me, poor young gentleman! Drop his hand,” he roared at a man who was making for my pulse. “I tell you in such a state the least pressure or impediment to the arterial circulation might prove fatal.”

  To save my life I couldn’t help giving a very audible inward chuckle at Tom’s presence of mind. There was a murmur of surprise among the crowd. Tom solemnly took off his hat. “The death rattle!” he whispered. “The young soul has flown — yet perchance science may yet recall it. Bear him up to the tavern.”

  A shutter was brought, I was solemnly hoisted on to the top of it, and the melancholy cortège passed along the quay, the corpse being really the most cheerful member of the company.

  We got to the Mariner’s Arms and I was stripped and laid in the best bed. The news of the accident seemed to have spread, for there was a surging crowd in the street, and the staircase was thronged with people. Tom would only admit about a dozen of the more influential of the townspeople into the room, but issued bulletins out of the window every five minutes to the crowd below.

  “Quite dead,” I heard him roar. “Respiration has ceased — no pulsation — but we still persevere, it is our duty.”

  “Shall I bring brandy?” said the landlady.

  “Yes, and towels, and a hip bath and a basin — but the brandy first.”

  This sentiment met with the hearty approbation of the corpse.

  “Why, he’s drinking it,” said the landlady, as she applied the glass to my lips.

  “Merely an instance of a reflex automatic action,” said Tom. “My good woman, any corpse will drink brandy if you only apply it to the glossopharyngeal tract. Stand aside and we will proceed to try Marshall Hall’s method of resuscitation.”

  The citizens stood round in a solemn ring, while Tom stripped off his coat and, climbing on the bed, proceeded to roll me about in a manner which seemed to dislocate every bone in my body.

  “Hang it, man, stop!” I growled, but he only paused to make a dart for the window and yell out “No sign of life,” and then fell upon me with greater energy than ever. “We will now try Sylvestre’s method,” he said, when the perspiration was fairly boiling out of him; and with that he seized me again, and performed a series of evolutions even more excruciating than the first. “It is hopeless!” he said at last, stopping and covering my head reverently with the bed-clothes. “Send for the coroner! He has gone to a better land. Here is my card,” he continued to an inspector of police who had arrived. “Doctor Crabbe of George Street. You will see that the matter is accurately reported. Poor young man!” And Tom drew his handkerchief across his eyes and walked towards the door, while a groan of sympathy rose from the crowd outside.

  He had his hand upon the handle when a thought seemed to strike him, and he turned back. “There is yet a possible hope,” he said, “we have not tried the magical effects of electricity — that subtle power, next of kin to nervous force. Is there a chemist’s near?”

  “Yes, doctor, there’s Mr. McLagan just round the corner.”

  “Then run! run! A human life trembles in the balance — get his strongest battery, quick!” And away went half the crowd racing down the street and tumbling over each other in the effort to be first at Mr. McLagan’s. They came back very red and hot, and one of them bore a shining brown mahogany box in his arms which contained the instrument in question.

  “Now, gentlemen,” said Tom, “I believe I may say that I am the first practitioner in Great Britain who has applied electricity to this use. In my student days I have seen the learned Rokilansky of Vienna employ it in some such way. I apply the negative pole over the solar plexus, while the positive I place on the inner side of the patella. I have seen it produce surprising effects; it may again in this case.”

  It certainly did. Whether it was an accident or whether Tom’s innate reckless devilry got the better of him I cannot say. He himself always swore that it was an accident, but at any rate he sent the strongest current of a most powerful battery rattling and crashing through my system. I gave one ear-splitting yell and landed with a single bound into the middle of the room. I was charged with electricity like a Leyden jar. My very hair bristled with it.

  “You confounded idiot!” I shouted, shaking my fist in Tom’s face. “Isn’t it enough to dislocate every bone in my body with your ridiculous resuscitations without ruining my constitution with this thing?” and I gave a vicious kick at the mahogany box. Never was there such a stampede! The inspector of police and the correspondent of the Chronicle sprang down the staircase, followed by the twelve respectable citizens. The landlady crawled under the bed. A lodger who was nursing her baby while she conversed with a neighbour in the street below let the child drop upon her friend’s head. In fact Tom might have founded the nucleus of a practice there and then. As it was, his usual presence of mind carried him through. “A miracle!” he yelled from the window. “A miracle! Our friend has been brought back to us; send for a cab.” And then sotto voce, “For goodness’ sake, Jack, behave like a Christian and crawl into bed again. Remember the landlady is in the room and don’t go prancing about in your shirt.”

  “Hang the landlady,” said I, “I feel like a lightning conductor — you’ve ruined me!”

  “Poor fellow,” cried Tom, once more addressing the crowd, “he is alive, but his intellect is irretrievably affected. He thinks he is a lightning conductor. Make way for the cab. That’s right! Now help me to lead him in. He is out of all danger now. He can dress at his hotel. If any of you have any information to give which may throw light upon this case my address is 81 George Street. Remember, Doctor Crabbe, 81 George Street. Good day, kind friends, good-bye!” And with tha
t he bundled me into the cab to prevent my making any further disclosures, and drove off amid the enthusiastic cheers of the admiring crowd.

  I could not stay in Brisport long enough to see the effect of my coup d’état. Tom gave us a champagne supper that night, and the fun was fast and furious, but in the midst of it a telegram from my principal was handed in ordering me to return to Manchester by the next train. I waited long enough to get an early copy of the Brisport Chronicle, and beguiled the tedious journey by perusing the glowing account of my mishap. A column and a half was devoted to Dr. Crabbe and the extraordinary effects of electricity upon a drowned man. It ultimately got into some of the London papers, and was gravely commented upon in the Lancet.

  As to the pecuniary success of our little experiment I can only judge from the following letter from Tom Crabbe, which I transcribe exactly as I received it:

  “What Ho! My resuscitated Corpse,

  “You want to know how all goes in Brisport, I suppose. Well, I’ll tell you. I’m cutting Markham and Davidson out completely, my boy. The day after our little joke I got a bruised leg (that baby), a cut head (the woman the baby fell upon), an erysipelas, and a bronchitis. Next day a fine rich cancer of Markham’s threw him up and came over to me. Also a pneumonia and a man who swallowed a sixpence. I’ve never had a day since without half a dozen new names on the list, and I’m going to start a trap this week. Just let me know when you are going to set up, and I’ll manage to run down, old man, and give you a start in business, if I have to stand on my head in the water-butt. Good-bye. Love from the Missus.

  “Ever yours,

  “Thomas Waterhouse Crabbe,

  “M.B. Edin.

  “81 George Street,

  “Brisport.”

  THE END

  UNCOLLECTED SHORT STORIES

  CONTENTS

  THE PARISH MAGAZINE

  THE CABMAN’S STORY

  THE PARISH MAGAZINE

  It was six o’clock on a winter evening. Mr. Pomeroy, the printer, was on the point of leaving his office, which was his back room, for his home, which was his front room, when young Murphy entered. Murphy was an imperturbable youth with a fat face and sleepy eyes, who had the rare quality of always doing without question whatever he was told. It is usually a great virtue — but there are exceptions.

  “There are two folk to see you,” said Murphy, laying two cards upon the table.

  Mr. Pomeroy glanced at them.

  “Mr. Robert Anderson. Miss Julia Duncan. I don’t know the names. Well, show them in.”

  A long, sad-faced youth entered, accompanied by a mournful young lady, clad in black. Their appearance was respectable, but depressing.

  “I dare say you know this,” said the youth, holding up a small, grey-covered volume, the outer cover of which was ornamented with the picture of a church. “It’s the St. Olivia’s Church Magazine. What I mean, it’s the Parish Magazine. This lady and I are what you might call the editors. It has been printed by — —”

  “Elliot and Dark, in the City,” said the lady, as her companion seemed to stumble. “But they have suddenly closed down their works. We have the month’s issue all ready, but we want to add to it.”

  “A Supplement, if you get my meaning,” said the youth. “That’s the word — supplement. The thing has become too dam’ — —”

  “What he is trying to say,” cried the girl, “is that the magazine wants lighting up on the social side.”

  “That’s it,” said the youth. “Just a bit of ginger, so to speak. So we arranged a Supplement. We will put it in as a loose leaf, if you follow my meaning. It’s all typewritten and clear” — here he drew a folded paper from his pocket—”and it needs no reading or correcting. Just rush it through, five hundred copies, as quickly as you can do it.”

  “The issue is overdue,” said the lady. “We must have it out by midday to-morrow. They tell me Ferguson and Co. could easily have it ready in the time, and if you won’t guarantee it, we must take it to them.”

  “Absolutely,” said the youth.

  Mr. Pomeroy picked up the typed copy and glanced at it. His eyes fell upon the words, “Our beloved Vicar, Mr. Ffolliott-Sharp, B.A.” There was some allusion to a bishopric. Pomeroy threw the paper across to his assistant. “Get on with it!” he said.

  “We should like to pay at once,” said Miss Duncan, opening her bag. “Here is a five-pound note, and you can account for it afterwards. Of course, you don’t know us, and might not trust us.”

  “Well, if one did not trust the Parish Magazine—” said Pomeroy, smiling.

  “Absolutely,” cried the youth. “But what I mean is that we want to pay now. You’ll send the stuff round to me at 16 Colgrove Road. Got it? Not later than twelve. Rush it through. What?”

  “It shall be there,” said Pomeroy.

  The pair were leaving the room when the girl turned back.

  “Put your name as printer at the bottom,” she said. “It’s the law. Besides, you may get the printing of the Magazine in the future.”

  “Certainly. We always print our name.”

  The couple passed out, and hugged each other in the passage.

  “I think we put it across,” said he.

  “Marvellous!” said she.

  “That fiver was my idea.”

  “Incredible!” she cried. “We’ve got him.”

  “Absolutely!” said he, and they passed out into the night.

  The stolid Murphy wrought long and hard, and the Pomeroy Press was working till unconscionable hours. The assistant found the matter less dull than most which he handled, and a smile spread itself occasionally over his fat face. Surely some of this was rather unusual stuff. He had never read anything quite like it. However, “his not to reason why”. He had been well drilled to do exactly what he was told. The packet was ready next morning, and before twelve o’clock it had been duly dispatched to the house mentioned. Murphy carried it himself and was surprised to find their client waiting for it at the garden gate. It took some energy, apparently, to be the editor of a Parish Magazine.

  It was twenty-four hours before the bomb burst, which blew Mr. Pomeroy and his household into fragments. The first intimation of trouble was the following letter:

  “Sir,

  “We can hardly Imagine that you have read the contents of the so-called Supplement to the Parish Magazine which has been distributed to the members of the congregation of St. Olivia’s Church. If you had you would hardly have dared to make yourself responsible by putting your name to it. I need not say that you are likely to hear a good deal more of the matter. As to my teeth, I may say that they are remarkably sound, and that I have never been to a dentist in my life.

  “James Wilson

  “(Major).”

  There was a second letter upon the breakfast table. The dazed printer picked it up. It was in a feminine hand, and read thus:

  “Sir,

  “With regard to the infamous paragraph in the new issue of the Parish Magazine, I may say that if I have bought a new car it is no business of anyone else, and the remarks about my private affairs are most unkind and uncalled for. I understand that as you are the printer you are legally responsible. You will hear in the course of a few days from my legal advisers.

  “Yours faithfully,

  “Jane Peddigrew.

  “14, Elton Square.”

  “What the devil does it mean?” cried Pomeroy, staring wildly at his wife and daughter. “Murphy! Murphy!”

  His assistant entered from the office.

  “Have you a copy of that Supplement, which you printed for the Parish Magazine?”

  “Yes, sir. I delivered five hundred, but there are a few in the office.”

  “Bring it in! Bring it in! Quick!”

  Then Mr. Pomeroy began to read aloud, and apoplexy grew nearer and nearer. The document was headed Social Notes, and began with several dates and allusions to services which might give confidence to the superficial and rapid reader. Then it o
pened out in this way:

  “‘Our beloved Vicar (Mr. Ffolliott-Sharp, B.A.) is still busy trying to wangle a bishopric. This time he says in his breezy way that it is ‘a perfect sitter’, but we have our doubts. It is notorious that he has pulled strings in the past, and that the said strings broke. However, he has a cousin in the Lord Chancellor’s office, so there is always hope.’

  “Gracious!” cried Pomeroy. “In the Parish Magazine too!”

  “‘In the last fortnight sixteen hymn books have disappeared from the church. There is no need for public scandal so if Mr. James Bagshaw, Junior, of 113 Lower Cheltenhan Place, will call upon the Churchwardens, all will be arranged.’

  “That’s the son of old Bagshaw, of the bank,” cried Pomeroy, “What can they have been dreaming of?

  “‘The Vicar (the Rev. Ffolliott-Sharp, B.A.) would take this opportunity to beg the younger Miss Ormerod to desisist from her present tactics. Delicacy forbids the Vicar from saying what those tactics are. It is not necessary for a young lady to attend every service, and to push herself into the front pew, which is already owned (though not paid for) by the Dawson-Braggs family. The Vicar has asked us to send marked copies of this paragraph to Mrs. Deknar, Miss Featherstone, and Miss Poppy Crewe.’”

  Pomeroy wiped his forehead. “This is pretty awful!” said he. Then:

  “‘Some of these Sundays Major Wilson’s false teeth will drop into the collecting bag. Let him either get a new set, or else take off that smile when he walks round with the bag. With lips firmly compressed there is no reason why the present set may not last for years.’

  “That’s where the answer comes in,” said Pomeroy, glancing at the open letter upon his table. “I expect he’ll be round with a stick presently. What’s this?

  “‘We don’t know if Miss Cissy Dufour and Captain Copperley are secretly married or not. If not, they should be. He could then enter Laburnum Villa instead of wearing out the garden gate by leaning on it!’