The Dream of X and Other Fantastic Visions

by William Hope Hodgson; Douglas A. Anderson

  “Damn a’ bloodsuckers an’ them as useth their power to oppress!” said Mr. Magee, solemnly, as he stood by the counter. “Am I never to live honest, or must the sins of my youth wither always the chances of my age?”

  Such phrases as these may be better understood when we realise that Mr. Andrew Magee’s proper name was Andrew McGuyles, and that in his young manhood he had been a Presbyterian minister, and had never, despite his deviations from the “narrow path,” ceased to have a deep feeling for all matters of religion. Many a time, had he fought to gain back to an honest life, and each time he had fallen, either when his own particular “devil” entered him, or because, as now threatened, the Fates were minded to deal him one more unkindly clout of misfortune.

  “Professionally,” Mr. Andrew Magee, or McGuyles, was known always as either “The Parson” or “Parson” Guyles. The title was a respected one on both sides of the water; for a cleverer safe-blower (i.e., safe-breaker) there had never been in either country.

  II

  The Agent was quite right, in the main, when he said they would run the “Parson” out of his shop, in quick time.

  The Agent, and Millionaire James Henshaw (who had made his first money by curious methods on the other side, and was now increasing it by methods equally undesirable) had a few words about the dour Scotsman, whose premises they wished to annex.

  “Yes,” said Millionaire Henshaw, when the Agent had told his story. “Run him out. Make an example of him, by all means. We can’t let that sort of thing pass. We’ve got to put the fear of God into them, and then buy ’em out at skim-milk prices.”

  Parson Guyles did not get even a “skim-milk” price. He was ruined utterly within three months, by being totally undersold, until he did not have half a dozen customers into his little dark shop in a day.

  The hour in which he put his shutters up for the last time over the little window, would have been a bad time for the Millionaire or his Agent to have met him. However, he had a little money saved, and he disappeared quietly, having paid all his debts; for Parson Guyles, when he was living honestly, lived honestly, because of the grim Puritan blood that was in him.

  III

  When Parson Guyles at any time ceased to be found at any address known to the Profession, it was generally concluded among his expert friends that “the Parson was on the honest lay again,” and no attempt would be made to discover his whereabouts, until he chose to re-discover himself. Perhaps this consideration for what many of them must have regarded as nothing more than a recurrent peculiarity of the Parson’s, may have been partly prompted by the complete and efficient unpleasantness that followed upon any intrusion, by his expert acquaintances, into what might be termed his “hours of honesty.”

  But now, three months after he had put up the shutters in the little book shop, the Parson appeared once more among people who knew and appreciated him for his record of “work accomplished”; and because of this, accorded him a welcome, that had in it a respect that rose above any criticism of his peculiar instincts for, and lapses into, what our spiritual advisers term the Narrow Path.

  During the months which lay between the closing of the little shop and Parson Guyles’ re-appearance, he must have put in a great deal of professional work, in the way of expert Inspection of Premises; for when he convened a meeting of three (John Vardon, engineer; Sandy Mech, expert “spade and shovel” man, and himself) the proposition he had to lay before the meeting, backed up by the very exact and appropriate information that he had to offer on all needful or disputable points, produced amazing, though professionally subdued, enthusiasm.

  “You are sure the limit of Eternal Wonder, Parson,” said Sandy Mech. “Count me and J. V. in to the last snuffing. I reckon the Almighty—”

  “We’ll ha’ na talk of the A’michty,” interrupted Parson Guyles, sternly. “There’s just John Vardon and you and me an’ the De’il in this; not to mention yon Millionaire hog. The A’michty, I pray, will no interfere, an’ that’s as much as ma conscience can hope.”

  IV

  “This is going to be a longish job, ye’ll understand” said the Parson, as they stood, together, in the cellar of a house across the street from the big Emporium, which had extended until all vestige of the shop of one, Andrew Magee, had vanished.

  There were a number of interesting parcels stacked upon the cellar floor, and John Vardon proceeded to unpack one of the longer packages.

  John Vardon had been, as lately as the past year, a highly respected Consulting Engineer; but was now discredited, owing, to his connection with that unpleasant little affair of the Go-a-gath mines in West California. He unpacked the parcel and produced the component parts of a folding table, which he proceeded to erect. There followed further unpackings, which produced several instruments of a design familiar to mining engineers. He effected what I might term a conjunction of parts, and began to adjust the instruments.

  Meanwhile, the Parson had lit up a distinctly spirited “glow” lamp, by tapping the main wire, with a confidence that would have appalled a municipal expert, and a skill that would have bewildered the head Practical Electrician of a private wiring firm.

  Then the Parson and Sandy Mech began to unpack and lay out the contents of the other parcels; and while Sandy Mech gloated over ingenious little digging tools, that possessed surprising little nickel connections for electrical wiring, the Parson pored, with a grimmer appreciation, over sundries of a kind unknown outside of his own craft, and to few even who were of it.

  John Vardon was busy now with a tracing of a municipal street-plan, the obtaining of which had been due to night work on the part of the Parson.

  The rent of the basement in which the cellar was situated, had cost the Parson no less than £30 of his hardly saved money; this sum being three months’ “advance,” demanded by the City, Land and Estate agents, in the usual course.

  It was impossible to occupy the basement, without some sufficient business pretext to prevent suspicions; and the Parson boldly made use of his old trade name of Andrew Magee, Bookseller, which he had painted along the “sunk” windows, in black, backed in by a light cream, which would not keep out too much daylight; yet rendered the whole premises safe from the prying of any over-curious persons.

  He was able without difficulty to obtain sufficient stock on credit, owing to his having paid all his previous bills; though now, being on other Paths than those of honesty, he had not the least intention of paying.

  In this way, he was able to cover securely all doubtful signs; for it was merely apparent that Andrew Magee had obtained financial backing somehow, and returned to do further battle with the huge Emporium of all stores (including books and stationery), opposite. And this, after all, is a perfectly correct description of his intention!

  The tunnel under the road was commenced that night, the walls of the cellar being pierced after about two hours’ work. There followed six feet of soil, and then eight feet of earth packed so hard that it was like some patent composition.

  Four days, and the early portion of each night, they excavated, with Sandy Mech very earthy and damp and in his element, as he handled his pet midget drills. They did not work after the streets became still, lest the vibration of their machine should be conveyed through the earth, sufficiently to become apparent to any constable or passer-by. Moreover, the work was going forward at a speed that would enable them easily, unless something quite unexpected happened, to reach the strong-room by the eighteenth of the month. This was the date the Parson had fixed for entering the Millionaire’s new strong-room, which was of the latest model, and had been elaborately and incorrectly described at great length in a score of popular journals.

  The earth from the tunnel was stored in the empty rooms of the basement, which were kept locked. The sub-underground shop was very little patronised, luckily, as the Parson observed, for the wholesale book people, and this enabled Parson Guyles frequently to slip into the cellar, where he worked at carrying out the loose e
arth; having fixed up a temporary electric bell to warn him if anyone entered the shop.

  He found it undesirable, however, to leave the shop unattended; for one day, on hearing the bell ring, he went in, to find a big constable in uniform waiting impatiently.

  “You won’t get no trade here, if you keeps everybody waiting half the day like this,” said the big policeman. “I want a re-fill for this pocket book. I nearly went opposite, only I thought I’d patronise you; you had a shop t’other side, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Andrew Magee, tersely. “Here’s your re-fill. Sixpence ha’penny, please.”

  “Why, I gets ’em for four an’ a half, opposite!” said the policeman, aggrieved.

  “Maybe,” said the Parson. “But they’re only straw-paper, and they ha’ twenty-five leaves less in each book. Maybe, if you learnt to keep your eyes open, which I’ve a notion is your trade, you’d be a better policeman. You ha’ na room to teach me my trade, I’m thinkin’!”

  The policeman paid, grumbling, and went out.

  “I don’t want your sort in here,” said Andrew Magee, to himself. “And I reckon you’ll ha’ no mind to come here at that price again! All the same, maybe, it was pryin’ you were after; and I’ll leave the shop no more in hours.”

  V

  “That,” said John Vardon to the Parson, on the fifth day of their work, “is the gas main.” He touched with his thumb the edge of a great round of iron, that was visible through the clayey earth in the top of the tunnel. “I’ve run the drift straight, so the blessed main’s sunk a bit. There’s gravel showing here, and we’ll have to line her, I’m afraid. There’s been some proper municipal work in the laying of this tin pipe!”

  VI

  “I reckon we’re across. I’m up against the wall!” said Sandy Mech, coming out of the tunnel on the evening of the eleventh day.

  Five hours later, they were through the wall, and within the foundation of Millionaire Henshaw’s huge Emporium.

  “Six yards and twenty-seven inches more, including one division wall, and we’ll be up against the strong-room,” said John Vardon, after a further careful series of measurements on a tracing of the builders’ secret plans of the situation of the strong-room, which tracing was, like the others, also a product of the Parson’s skill in eluding those mechanical difficulties, which are presumed to ensure doors remaining closed to strangers.

  VII

  “We’re there,” said Sandy Mech’s voice, in hoarse excitement, as he came out into the cellar on the afternoon of the fifteenth day. “It’s cement outside. And I s’pose there’ll be that everlastin’ crossed railway iron to go through. How I do hate the fool as started that idee!”

  “There’s worse, lad,” said Parson Guyles. “This is nigh the latest, and they got Anson’s net wirin’, running right through the cement; and the current’s on all the twenty-four hours, and it’s a six-inch mesh. If we snick a single wire either way, the bells in all the Police Stations for a mile round will be ringing. How would you go through that, lad?”

  “Lordy!” said Sandy Mech. “Each man to his own job, Parson. I guess you’ll manage. You’re a holy wonder.”

  “I’m a mighty sinful man,” said Parson Guyies, sombrely.

  VIII

  “The wire’s laid just under a skin of the cement” said the Parson, about 11 p.m. that night; for the actual work of breaching the strong-room could not be attempted in the daytime. He fingered the stark, grey surface of cement, where the tunnel ended. “It lies in a hollow, between the main wall of the room and my finger. Hark to the hollow sound of this!” And he tapped it with a small, beautifully shaped pick-hammer, no more than two ounces in weight, that shone like silver.

  With swift, light strokes of marvellous judgment and skill, he picked an oblong hole clean through the outer cement-skin, which proved to be one inch thick.

  “This,” muttered the Parson, as he inserted an investigating finger, “is where a rash man would spoil himsel’ and ha’ the constables swarming round before he knew what might be wrong—” He broke off short, and stared at Sandy Mech, as if suddenly stirred by some other thought.

  “I wonder now if yon fat constable had a notion of ought,” he said, pondering.

  “Eh?” asked Sandy Mech, startled by the mention of so unpleasing a name. “What cop?”

  But Parson Guyles merely shrugged his shoulders. “Just a notion of mine, laddie,” he said. He knew Sandy Mech’s cautious nature too well to explain. He had never mentioned the incident to either Vardon or Mech of the constable’s brief and untimely patronage, Vardon might not have troubled unduly; but Sandy Mech was as shy as a rabbit. Perhaps his burrowing propensities had something to do with his nervous traits.

  “The K wrench,” said the Parson, a few seconds later. This instrument, which was made of nickel steel, and possessed extraordinarily thin jaws, covered with gutta-percha, he slipped carefully into the hole he had picked, and proceeded to break away the shell of cement. He worked with an infinite care, that showed how great he considered the risk; and presently he had laid bare a complete network of insulated wire.

  “Now,” said Parson Guyles, “I’ll ha’ yon insulation pliers an’ the coil of wire. I’ve a real respec’ for yon Anson; for it’s a pretty arrangement; but the wiring should ha’ been friction-spliced, an’ the splices supported in the outer skin; then it would ha’ been a mighty hard thing to peel away the skin, without breakin’ the circuit. But he’s a smart lad, is Anson, and maybe I’ll give him a point or two, that’ll help him to improvements. . . . Cut me a couple dozen four-foot lengths off the coil, an’ peel the ends ready, Sandy, lad.”

  While he talked, the Parson had been working. He had removed the insulation, for a space of several inches from the lowest of the horizontal wires, and now he took a length of wire from Sandy Mech, and twisted the two bare copper ends firmly round the cleaned portion of the horizontal wire, about an inch apart. Then, with a pair of pliers, he cut the horizontal wire clean through, in the inch between the two twisted-on ends of the loop of wire.

  “G’ Lord! Parson!” said Sandy Mech, as Parson Guyles cut the wire. “You’ve sure done it now!”

  “Na, lad,” said the Parson, “you’re a good spade and shovel man; but ye’re na good at this work, I’m thinkin’! Have ye no the brains to see that yon loop of wire carries, the current from one cut end to the other. I’ve but lengthened the wire a wee, to give us room to put our sinful bodies through.”

  “If you know it’s right, Parson, I’m satisfied,” said Sandy, in a doubtful voice; and continued to cut lengths of wire.

  Two hours later, Parson Guyles, having treated the rest of the network in similar fashion, commenced work upon the inner wall of cement.

  IX

  “For men wanting cash as we do, I reckon you’ll say this is the finger of Providence, Parson,” said Sandy Mech, three nights later, as he peered through the breach into the strong-room, on the night of the eighteenth.

  “There’s na finger of Providence about this, my lad,” said Parson Guyles, who already stood within the strong-room. “That I ha’ left the straight path, ye ken well; but I spread na honey! This is the finger o’ the de’il; and if I hope to make a wee profit from the pointing thereof, I hope also to keep my brain clear to ken Satan when I see him!”

  Sandy Mech grinned back silently at John Vardon, who was peering in over his shoulder. They were careful, in the main, not to “touch the Parson up” on this side of him; for he was too rough a fighter to provoke unnecessarily; and on religious subjects he was easily provoked.

  “There’s nothing now to stop us, but the inner circuits. They’ve altered them since the room was first wired, as I could see by the notes on the plan margins,” said the Parson. “I couldna just put my finger on the plan of the new co-ordination; and I’ll ha’ to be careful, laddies, or we shall touch off one of the spring connections, and there’ll be half the officers in the City round this block, before you can whistle.” />
  “I don’t like that, Parson,” said Sandy Mech, in a rather grim voice. “I’d a notion you said you knowed the wirings; an’ . . .”

  “The old wiring, Sandy,” said the Parson, smiling curiously. “The old wiring, lad. Maybe I misled you a wee; for I had need of help to get even with mine enemy; and maybe cautious Sandy Mech might ha’ held back if he’d thought it wasna all cut an’ dried—eh, lad?”

  “Stow it!” said Mech. “Once I sees the cash winkin’ up at me like this, I don’t go back, not this side chokee—”

  “That’s how I read you, laddie,” interpolated Parson Guyles, mildly.

  “All the same, Parson,” went on Sandy Mech, with growing wrath, “for a religious man, you ain’t careful if you speaks God’s trewth, or if you lies like a blame trooper; and I don’t mind tellin’ you so, straight,”

  “You son o’ the de’il—” began Parson Guyles, furiously; but John Vardon chipped in quickly.

  “Drop it, for all sakes!” he said. “We’re not going to mug things now by rowing like a lot of ‘new pups.’ Drop it, and let’s get to work. I’ll bet the Parson has a good notion how the new wiring is likely to be co-ordinated. He’s just making you hotter than you need be!”

  “You’re a wise man, Vardon, in your generation,” said the Parson, calming. “Put your gloves on, the two of ye, and hand me mine, and the big dividers. Then you can come in, both of you; and remember the two of ye have as much grease paint on your faces as would do for a puir de’il of an actress wench; so keep your gloves off it, or you’ll smear it.”

  “Why ain’t you made up, Parson?” asked Sandy Mech, as he began to put on a pair of good quality black kid gloves. “You need to be disguised more than me or John ’ere.”