This idea had hardly grazed his mind, when a dampening thought occurred to him. Glancing at the writing on the parchment paper again was enough to clinch his suspicions. The thing was written in English. Even Bertie possessed sufficient intelligence to realize that it was this that made the translation so simple.
The pencil slipped from his disappointed fingers. He obviously had the wrong parchment. A hurried search of the desk drawer and the shelves over the desk disclosed no other untranslatable parchments, so he assumed, with one of his unusual flashes of brilliance, that his brother must have put the document somewhere else.
“Oh well,” he sighed, “his loss after all.”
With a shrug he turned back to the fascinating book. For the rest of the afternoon he amused himself by reciting aloud a number of the euphonious incantations, all of which applied to various types of goblins, witches and demons. He had reached voodooism when the sport began to pall on him. After all even the creatures of the Nether Cosmos grow tiresome if taken in too large doses.
With a yawn he tossed the heavy book back to the desk and sauntered from the library. The house was dark. No cheery bustling from the region of the kitchen indicated that toothsome meals were being prepared for him, so, with a martyred sigh, he ascended the stairs to the guest bed room.
He wasn’t really hungry, for he had eaten on the train, so he decided to hit the hay and thus convince his brother that he was really the soul of virtuous respectability. Ordinarily the eve of the traditional game between State and Mosswood college would find Bertie carousing about the bright spots of the town, wassailing with boon and beery companions until the wee sma’. When his brother returned and found him tucked peacefully away in bed and sleeping the sleep of the innocent and the just, perhaps it would soften his heart a bit.
So with these cheerful speculations buzzing about in his head Bertie turned off the dark hallway and groped his way into the bed room he intended to occupy.
PPOSSIBLY it was because of this preoccupation that he did not notice the acrid odor of sulphurous smoke which was drifting through the room. That is, he didn’t notice it right away.
It wasn’t until he was in the middle of the room that he paused and sniffed the air.
“What ho!” he said, startled. “Something burning I’ll bet.”
Bertie was generally not so swift with his deductions. Now, possibly as a result of his studious afternoon, he was unusually sharp.
“Where there’s smoke there’s fire,” he reasoned shrewdly.
He was just moving to the window to let in a little fresh air when he noticed a peculiar thing.
Circling him on all sides and silhouetted against the blackness of the room were several dozen pairs of gleaming white eyes.
Bertie glanced carefully about to be sure he was not imagining things. His scrutiny convinced him that he was not imagining anything at all. The eyes were there, round and white, and they all seemed to be staring directly at him.
Now the average young man stumbling into a room full of staring white eyes would probably do his thinking with his legs and dash from the room at top speed.
This would have been the sensible thing to do, which is probably why Bertie did nothing of the sort.
He peered at the circle of eyes with interest.
As his eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness of the room he made out several dark shapes perched about. They appeared only as vague outlines and their shadowy forms were unlike anything Bertie had ever seen. Of their faces he could see nothing. Only the white staring eyes and the lumpy black shapes were visible. There must have been at least eight or ten of them, perched on the furniture of the room. “Well, well,” Bertie muttered.
He was not frightened, but he had the strange feeling that he should have been. The situation was rapidly developing into an impasse. After all he couldn’t just stand there and stare at these strange things which had chosen his bedroom as a roosting place.
He cleared his throat, while he tried to think of something that would more or less break the ice.
“Well, well,” he said finally. “Warm for May, isn’t it?”
THERE was a sound like the rustle of dead leaves as one of the vague, formless shapes seemed to stir slightly. A soft, strangely toneless voice said, “We have come to do your bidding, Oh Master. From the haunts of the nether cosmos we have traveled. By the unseen powers that bind us, what Is your wish?”
Bertie listened to the sepulchral voice with mingled emotions. He was touched by the fact that these things—whatever they were—seemed to be anxious to help him. That, however, did not alter the fact that there was something deuced peculiar about the whole matter.
“Well,” he said uncertainly, “it’s nice of you to—to stop in like this. But just who are you, anyway?”
“I am Xanthos,” the toneless voice replied softly.
Peering about Bertie couldn’t tell which of the shadowy beings was speaking. Not that it made a great deal of difference.
“I’m Crimmins, Bertie Crimmins,”
Bertie said companionably, “Class of ’39. Are you boys here for the game tomorrow?”
“We are here,” the toneless voice replied, “to do your bidding.”
“Very nice of you,” Bertie said warmly, “but I don’t need anything just now. If I do I’ll be glad to throw the business your way.”
There was no answer from the darkness. Peering about Bertie saw that the circle of eyes had disappeared and that the formless dark shapes had likewise vanished. He also noticed that the annoying odor of brimstone and sulphur had faded away.
“Well, well,” he said. “Neat trick, what?”
He stepped over and flicked on the light switch. Everything in the room seemed quite normal. It was unoccupied and the covers of the bed were turned down invitingly.
So Bertie undressed and went to bed.
He was just dozing off when a hazy fragment of thought brushed his mind, driving sleep away. Where had those strange dark creatures come from? Who and what were they?
These were the thoughts that buzzed about in his head like gadflies. They obviously weren’t college students or star boarders. The more he toyed with the problem the more interesting it became.
He tossed from one side to the other, tangling the covers about his neck. It must have been fully five minutes before the light dawned on Bertie.
When it did he almost chuckled out loud in relief.
The things—the vague black shapes—were obviously creatures such as described in the ancient leather bound book he had found on his brother’s desk. That was the first step of his reasoning. The second was simplicity itself. In his reading from the leather-bound book he had apparently called these creatures to his side. One of the mysterious incantations must have done the trick.
“Kind of a nasty stunt to pull on them,” he said thoughtfully. “But,” he decided philosophically, “it can’t be helped now. Whatever they are—demons, ghosts or ghouls—they’re here and they’ll just have to make the best of it.”
With a relieved sigh he snuggled down into the covers. Now he could sleep. With his little mystery logically explained he could close his eyes peacefully. He even felt somewhat superior about the matter. It wasn’t everyone who could whistle up a roomful of demons. No sir!
He slept like a babe.
THE next morning he awoke, cheerful and refreshed and after a brisk shower trotted downstairs whistling enthusiastically.
His brother’s housekeeper met him at the foot of the stairs.
“Morning,” Bertie said brightly. “What’s sizzling for breakfast?”
“Breakfast was over two hours ago,” the housekeeper answered. It was apparent that this fact gave her a good deal of satisfaction.
“Oh,” Bertie said, his spirit wilting at the prospect of a breakfastless morning. “Well, is the big brain up yet?”
“If you are referring to your brother, he left some time ago. I believe he intended to meet the president of the col
lege on a very important matter.”
“Oh,” Bertie said again.
Looking at his brother’s housekeeper’s grim jaw he decided that the prospects of wangling a spot of breakfast from her were extremely slim.
So, he decided to take his famished frame off to the local hotel, where he could also arrange for tickets for the day’s game between Mosswood and State and phone Ann.
With a stiff bow to the housekeeper he wrapped his injured dignity about him like a cloak and left the house.
The hotel lobby was a swarming mass of pennant-waving alumni and sharp looking bookmakers who were taking and giving bets on the game.
Bertie made for the hotel dining room and he was halfway through a plate of bacon and eggs when a disquieting thought struck him.
He signaled a waiter.
“I say,” he said, “I just remembered that I haven’t got tickets for today’s game yet. Can’t imagine how it slipped my mind. Will you pick me up a couple and bring them here like a fine fellow.” The waiter looked at him in slight astonishment.
“You can’t be serious, sir. Surely you must know that this game has been sold out for weeks. Why yesterday the scalpers were getting sixty dollars a pair for tickets. But now there are none available at any price.”
“Hmmmmm,” Bertie said thoughtfully. This was a pretty kettle of fish. Ann had her heart set on seeing the game. So, as a matter of fact, had Bertie. It would be more than tragic to miss it.
“Nothing you can do at all?” he asked the waiter.
“Not a thing, sir.”
“Very good. Thank you.”
“Yes sir.” The waiter moved away, leaving Bertie to his solitary gloom.
He speared a piece of bacon with unwonted savagery.
“I wish I had a ticket,” he muttered. “No, I wish I had two. There’s Ann to think of. I wish I had a hundred, a thousand of them.”
THERE was a faint rustle beside him. It was a sound like dry leaves scraping over hard, cold earth. Bertie hardly noticed it. He was so engrossed in his own misery that he didn’t hear the soft, toneless voice whisper,
“As you wish, Master!”
He went on eating, wondering what he could possibly use as an explanation to Ann. At last he was forced to the realization that nothing he could tell her would help things. She would consider this just another cotton-headed lapse on his part.
He was walking away from the table when the waiter’s voice called after him.
“Just a moment, sir. You’re forgetting your package.”
Bertie turned and saw that the waiter was lifting a small package from the table he had just left. The package was wrapped in brown paper and was about eight inches square.
“Is that mine?” he asked blankly.
“It must be,” the waiter said. “I know it wasn’t here when you arrived. I had just cleared the table and I remember distinctly.”
Bertie took the package in his hand. It wasn’t very heavy. He tried to remember whether or not he had had a package with him when he entered the hotel. The effort was a failure. He couldn’t. It might be his at that.”
“Thanks,” he said, “silly of me to forget it.”
He sauntered toward the lobby carelessly removing the outside wrappings from the package. After all if it belonged to him he had a right to know what it was, didn’t he?
As he reached the entrance of the lobby he had finished ripping the paper from the object. Only then did he glance down to see what it was he had been carrying about with him.
His knees almost failed him at the sight.
For the package contained three neat stacks of tickets to the game between Mosswood and State. There must have been at least a thousand tickets and all of them were for locations from the forty to the forty yard line.
He was still standing, staring dumbly at the stacks of ducats when a heavy set, florid faced man bumped into him.
“Watch where you’re going,” the man growled. He started to pass on, but then his eye dropped to the bundle of tickets Bertie was holding in his hands. His eyes lighted excitedly.
“Are those for today’s game?” he demanded tensely.
“Why, yes,” Bertie said. “I guess they are.”
“For sale?” the man snapped.
The idea hadn’t occurred to Bertie, but now he examined it and found it an excellent one.
“All but two,” he answered.
The florid-faced man pulled out a well-padded wallet.
“I’ll give you fifty for a pair,” he said. “Okay?”
“That seems a fair price,” Bertie said thoughtfully.
THE man paid him and Bertie gave him two tickets on the fifty yard line.
“Tell your friends,” Bertie said genially. “Plenty left.”
He pocketed the money with a pleased smile and strolled on. This was excellent. Very fine, indeed.
Before he reached the center of the lobby he was receiving quite a bit of attention. Men stared unbelievingly at the thick stacks of tickets in his hands, then edged closer to him.
In no time at all Bertie made two more sales and now he had one hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket.
As the word flashed about the lobby that tickets were being sold, something in the nature of a mild stampede resulted.
“Don’t crowd, don’t crowd,” Bertie said affably. “There’s plenty here for everybody.”
To facilitate things he climbed onto a table in the center of the lobby. There he was able to pass out the tickets to the crowd below him with little difficulty. From their extended hands he plucked the green bills and the feeling of happiness within him grew deeper with each additional purchase.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said. “It’s really dirt cheap, you know. It’s practically a steal. Thank you, and you too. Who else? There you are. Fifty dollars to see Mosswood beat State is practically a robbery.”
Bertie became aware of a sharp featured, nattily dressed chap standing directly in front of the table, glancing up at him with unwinking gray eyes.
“Yes sir,” he said genially, “how many?”
“I got tickets,” the sharp featured little man answered, “I just heard you say Mosswood’s goin’ to beat State. Would you care to back that up With a little cash?”
“My dear fellow,” Bertie said in a kind voice, “do you actually mean to tell me that you have money to throw away? State does not have a chance, that’s all there is to it. Save your lettuce, my good chap. Invest it in annuities or life insurance, but don’t bet on State.”
The nattily dressed fellow pulled a roll of bills from his pocket.
“I’m not worrying. If you’re on Mosswood, put up or shut up.”
Bertie’s pride was touched to the quick.
“Sir,” he said, “name the amount and make it light on yourself.”
It took only a few moments to arrange the bet. The money was held by the hotel desk clerk. Bertie bet every cent he had made on the tickets and felt stoutly virtuous about it. After all, it wasn’t really gambling. It was just a quick pleasant manner of doubling his stakes.
THE bet made, the sharp featured little gambler smirked unpleasantly at him and swaggered away.
“Who is he?” Bertie asked the clerk “Him? Oh he’s one of the bookmakers who comes down to this game every year. They call him Sure Thing Lindsay.”
“Hmmmm,” Bertie said.
“That’s because he never bets on anything but a sure thing.”
“Hmmmm,” Bertie said again. “Sure Thing Lindsay, eh?”
It was while he was musing upon the unpleasant things that Mr. Lindsay’s nickname suggested that he felt a firm tap on his shoulder.
Turning, he was confronted by two solidly built gentlemen, dressed in gray overcoats and gray fedoras and wearing large black shoes.
“You the guy who’s scalping the tickets?” one of them asked.
Bertie’s spirits rose. Here was fresh fish.
“I’m the one, boys,” he said cheerfully.
“Better get ’em now before the price goes up. How many?”
“Probably one to ten,” one of the gray overcoated men said grimly. He pulled a badge from his pocket and shoved it under Bertie’s nose. “We’ve been warning you scalpers all week and now I think we’re goin’ to make an example out of you. We didn’t think we’d find any of you dumb enough to scalp tickets right in the lobby of the leading hotel.”
“Now just a minute, gentlemen,” Bertie said feebly. “This is all some terrible mistake.”
“You said it. And you’re the one that made it. Come on.”
Bertie heard a metallic click and felt cold steel on his wrists. Handcuffed, and with a burly plainclothes man on either side of him, he was led across the lobby, protesting weakly and vainly-
Things looked very black. Gloomy thoughts bobbed through his head. What kind of a country was this turning into, anyway? A man tried to pick up an honest penny and he found himself bundled off to the bastille for possessing a little initiative.
He would certainly miss the game now. And so would Ann. Worse, he couldn’t get in touch with her and tell her he was in jail. That definitely would not be wise.
It was a terrible mess. He didn’t see how things could possibly be worse.
In this dark mood he was hustled across the lobby to the revolving doors that led to the street. There, to his intense humiliation, he was forced to stand like a culprit in the dock, while a steady flow of morbidly curious people surged past him.
Feeling as hounded and persecuted as Jean Valjean in Les Miserables, he nevertheless affected a blandly nonchalant pose. He even hummed a popular ditty and kept time with his feet. He’d show ’em. Let them try and break his spirit. So absorbed was he in this role that he didn’t notice the last two people to enter the revolving door.
He had no idea that disaster was practically nipping at his heels until a smooth, icily cold voice inquired,
“Is this your rehabilitated self?”
BERTIE jerked himself around, the breath left his lungs in a gust as he recognized the cold, stern features of his brother.
With his brother was a short, thin, scholarly looking gentleman whom Bertie also recognized. This was Professor Overton, president of Mosswood college.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 79