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"'Sustained,' said Blackstone, with a nervous glance at
Apollyon, who smiled reassuringly at him.
"'Ah, you say you know a dog when you see one?' asked Coke.
"'Yes,' said the witness, 'perfectly.'
"'Do you know two dogs when you see them, or even three?' asked
Coke.
"'I do,' replied the witness.
"'And how many dogs did you see when you saw Cerberus?' asked
Coke, triumphantly.
"'Three, anyhow,' replied the witness, with feeling, 'though
afterwards I thought there was a whole bench-show atop of me.'
"'Your witness,' said Coke.
"A murmur of applause went through the court-room, at which
Apollyon frowned; but his face cleared in a moment when Catiline
rose up.
"'My cross-examination of this witness, your honor, will be
confined to one question.' Then turning to the witness he said,
blandly: 'My poor friend, if you considered Cerberus to be
three dogs anyhow, why did you in your examination a moment
since refer to the avalanche of caninity, of which you so
affectingly speak, as him?'
"'He is a him,' said the witness.
"'But if there were three, should he not have been a them?'
"Coke swore profanely beneath his breath, and the witness
squirmed about in his chair, confused and broken, while both
Judge Blackstone and Apollyon smiled broadly. Manifestly the
point of the defence had pierced the armor of the plaintiff.
"'Your witness for re-direct,' said Catiline.
"'No thanks,' retorted Coke; 'there are others,' and,
motioning to his first witness to step down, he called the
second dog-catcher.
"'What is your business?' asked Coke, after the usual
preliminary questions.
"'I'm out of business. Livin' on my damages,' said the witness.
"'What damages?' asked Coke.
"'Them I got from the city for injuries did me by that there--I
should say them there--dorgs, Cerberus.'
"'Them there what?' persisted Coke, to emphasize the point.
"'Dorgs,' said the witness, convincingly--'D-o-r-g-s.'
"'Why s?' queried Coke. 'We may admit the r, but why the s?'
"'Because it's the pullural of dorg. Cerberus ain't any
single-headed commission,' said the witness, who was something
of a ward politician.
"'Why do you say that Cerberus is more than one dog?'
"'Because I've had experience,' replied the witness. 'I've
seen the time when he was everywhere all at once; that's why
I say he's more than one dorg. If he'd been only one dorg he
couldn't have been anywhere else than where he was.'
"'When was that?'
"'When I lassoed him.'
"'Him?' remonstrated Coke.
"'Yes,' said the witness. 'I only caught one of him, and then
the other two took a hand.'
"'Ah, the other two,' said Coke. 'You know dogs when you
see them?'
"'I do, and he was all of 'em in a bunch,' replied the witness.
"'Your witness,' said Coke.
"'My friend,' said Catiline, rising quietly. 'How many men
are you?'
"'One, sir,' was the answer.
"'Have you ever been in two places at once?'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'When was that?'
"'When I was in jail and in London all at the same time.'
"'Very good; but were you in two places on the day of this
attack upon you by Cerberus?'
"'No, sir. I wish I had been. I'd have stayed in the other
place.'
"'Then if you were in but one place yourself, how do you know
that Cerberus was in more than one place?'
"'Well, I guess if you--'
"'Answer the question,' said Catiline.
"'Oh, well--of course--'
"'Of course,' echoed Catiline. 'That's it, your honor; it is
only "of course,"--and I rest my case. We have no witnesses
to call. We have proven by their own witnesses that there is
no evidence of Cerberus being more than one dog.'
"You ought to have heard the cheers as Catiline sat down,"
continued Boswell. "As for poor Coke, he was regularly
knocked out, but he rose up to sum up his case as best he
could. Blackstone, however, stopped him right at the beginning.
"'The counsel for the plaintiff might as well sit down,' he
said, 'and save his breath. I've decided this case in favor of
the defendant long ago. It is plain to every one that Cerberus
is only one dog, in spite of his many talents and manifest
ability to be in several places at once, and inasmuch as the
tax which is sued for is merely a dog-tax and not a poll-tax, I
must render judgment for the defendants, with costs. Next case.'
"And the city of Cimmeria was thrown out of court," concluded
Boswell. "Interesting, eh?"
"Very," said I. "But how will this affect Blackstone? Isn't
he a City Judge?"
"No," replied Boswell; "he was, but his term expired this
morning, and this afternoon Apollyon appointed him Chief
Justice of the Supreme Court of Hades."
VIII
A HAND-BOOK TO HADES
"Boswell," said I, the other night, as the machine began to
click nervously. "I have just received a letter from an unknown
friend in Hawaii who wants to know how the prize-fight between
Samson and Goliath came out that time when Kidd and his pirate
crew stole the House-Boat on the Styx."
"Just wait a minute, please," the machine responded. "I am very
busy just now mapping out the itinerary of the first series of
the Boswell Personally Conducted Tours you suggested some time
ago. I laid that whole proposition before the Entertainment
Committee of the Associated Shades, and they have resolved
unanimously to charter the Ex-Great Eastern from the Styx
Navigation Company, and return to the scenes of their former
glory, devoting a year to it."
"Going to take their wives?" I asked.
"I don't know," Boswell replied. "That is a matter outside
of the jurisdiction of the committee and must be decided
by a full vote of the club. I hope they will, however. As
manager of the enterprise I need assistance, and there are
some of the men who can't be managed by anybody except their
wives, or mothers-in-law, anyhow. I'll be through in a few
minutes. Meanwhile let me hand you the latest product of the
Boswell press."
With this the genial spirit produced from an invisible
pocket a red-covered book bearing the delicious title of
"Baedeker's Hades: A Hand-book for Travellers," which has
entirely superseded, according to the advertisement on the
fly-leaves, such books as Virgil and Dante's Inferno as the best
guide to the lower regions, as well it might, for it appeared
on perusal to have been prepared with as much care as one of
the more material guide-books of the same publisher, which so
greatly assist travellers on this side of the Stygian River.
Some time, if Boswell will permit, I shall endeavor to have
this little volume published in this country since it contains
many valuable hints to the man of a roving disposition, or
for the stay-at-home, for that matter, for all roads lead to
Hades. For instance, we do not find in previous guide-books,
like Dante's Inferno, any references whatsoever to the languages
it is well to know before taking the Stygian tour; to the
kind of money needed, or its quantity per capita; no allusion
to the necessity of passports is found in Dante or Virgil;
custom-house requirements are ignored by these authors; no
statements as to the kind of clothing needed, the quality of the
hotels--nor indeed any real information of vital importance to
the traveller is to be found in the older books. In Baedeker's
Hades, on the other hand, all these subjects are exhaustively
treated, together with a very comprehensive series of chapters
on "Stygian Wines," "Climate," and "Hellish Art"--the expression
is not mine--and other topics of essential interest.
And of what suggestive quality was this little book. Who
would ever have guessed from a perusal of Dante that as
Hades is the place of departed spirits so also is it the
ultimate resting-place of all other departed things. What
delightful anticipations are there in the idea of a visit to
the Alexandrian library, now suitably housed on the south side
of Apollyon Square, Cimmeria, in a building that would drive
the trustees of the Boston Public Library into envious despair,
even though living Bacchantes are found daily improving their
minds in the recesses of its commodious alcoves! What joyous
feelings it gives one to think of visiting the navy-yards of
Tyre and finding there the ships concerning the whereabouts
of which poets have vainly asked questions for ages! Who would
ever dream that the question of the balladist, himself an able
dreamer concerning classic things, "Where are the Cities of
Old Time," could ever find its answer in a simple guide-book
telling us where Carthage is, where Troy and all the lost
cities of antiquity!
Then the details of amusements in this wonderful country--who
could gather aught of these from the Italian poet? The theatres
of Gehenna, with "Hamlet" produced under the joint direction
of Shakespeare and the Prince of Denmark himself, the great
Zoo of Sheolia, with Jumbo, and the famous woolly horse of
earlier days, not to mention the long series of menageries
which have passed over the dark river in the ages now forgotten;
the hanging gardens of Babylon, where the picnicking element of
Hades flock week after week, chuting the chutes, and clambering
joyously in and out of the Trojan Horse, now set up in all its
majesty therein, with bowling-alleys on its roof, elevators in
its legs, and the original Ferris-wheel in its head; the freak
museums in the densely populated sections of the large cities,
where Hop o' my Thumb and Jack the Giant Killer are exhibited
day after day alongside of the great ogres they have killed;
the opera-house, with Siegfried himself singing, supported by
the real Brunhild and the original, bona fide dragon Fafnir,
running of his own motive power, and breathing actual fire
and smoke without the aid of a steam-engine and a plumber to
connect him therewith before he can go out upon the stage to
engage Siegfried in deadly combat.
For the information contained in this last item alone, even if
the book had no other virtue, it would be worthy of careful
perusal from the opening paragraph on language, to the last,
dealing with the descent into the Vitriol Reservoir at Gehenna.
The account of the feeding of Fafnir, to which admission can be
had on payment of ten oboli, beginning with a puree of kerosene,
followed by a half-dozen cartridges on the half-shell, an entree
of nitro-glycerine, a solid roast of cannel-coal, and a salad
of gun-cotton, with a mayonnaise dressing of alcohol and a pinch
of powder, topped off with a demi-tasse of benzine and a box of
matches to keep the fires of his spirit going, is one of the
most moving things I have ever read, and yet it may be said
without fear of contradiction that until this guide-book was
prepared very few of the Stygian tourists have imagined that
there was such a sight to be seen. I have gone carefully over
Dante, Virgil, and the works of Andrew Lang, and have found
no reference whatsoever in the pages of any of these talented
persons to this marvellous spectacle which takes place three
times a day, and which I doubt not results in a performance
of Siegfried for the delectation of the music lovers of Hades,
which is beyond the power of the human mind to conceive.
The hand-book has an added virtue, which distinguishes it from
any other that I have ever seen, in that it is anecdotal in
style at times where an anecdote is available and appropriate.
In connection with this same Fafnir, as showing how necessary
it is for the tourist to be careful of his personal safety
in Hades, it is related that upon one occasion the keeper of
the dragon having taken a grudge against Siegfried for some
unintentional slight, fed Fafnir upon Roman-candles and a
sky-rocket, with the result that in the fight between the hero
and the demon of the wood the Siegfried was seriously injured
by the red, white, and blue balls of fire which the dragon
breathed out upon him, while the sky-rocket flew out into the
audience and struck a young man in the top gallery, knocking him
senseless, the stick falling into a grand-tier box and impaling
one of the best known social lights of Cimmeria. "Therefore,"
adds the astute editor of the hand-book, "on Siegfried nights
it were well if the tourist were to go provided with an asbestos
umbrella for use in case of an emergency of a similar nature."
In that portion of the book devoted to the trip up the river
Styx the legends surpass any of the Rhine stories in dramatic
interest, because, according to Commodore Charon's excursion
system, the tourist can step ashore and see the chief actors
in them, who for a consideration will give a full-dress
rehearsal of the legendary acts for which they have been
famous. The sirens of the Stygian Lorelei, for instance,
sit on an eminence not far above the city of Cimmeria, and
make a profession of luring people ashore and giving away at
so much per head locks of their hair for remembrance' sake,
all of which makes of the Stygian trip a thing of far greater
interest than that of the Rhine.
It had been my intention to make a few extracts from this
portion of the volume showing later developments in the legends
of the Drachenfels, and others of more than ordinary interest,
but I find that with the departure of Boswell for the night
the treasured hand-book disappeared with him; but, as I have
already stated, if I can secure his consent to do so I will
some day have the book copied off on more material substance
than that employed in the original manuscript, so that the
useful little tome may be printed and scattered broadcast
over a waiting and appreciative world. I may as well state
here, too, that I have taken the precaution to have the title
"Baedeker's Hades" and its contents copyrighted, so that any
pirate who recognizes the value of the scheme will attempt to
pirate the work at his peril.
Hardly had I finished the chapter on the legends of the Styx
when Boswell broke in upon me with: "Well, how do you like it?"
"It's great," I said. "May I keep it?"
"You may if you can," he laughed. "But I fancy it can't
withstand the rigors of this climate any more than an
unfireproof copy of one of your books could stand the caniculars
of ours."
His words were soon to be verified, for as soon as he left me
the book vanished, but whether it went off into thin air or was
repocketed by the departing Boswell I am not entirely certain.
"What was it you asked me about Samson and Goliath?" Boswell
observed, as he gathered up his manuscript from the floor
beside the Enchanted Typewriter. "Whether they'd ever been
in Honolulu?"
"No," I replied. "I got a letter from Hawaii the other day
asking for the result of the prize-fight the day Kidd ran off
with the house-boat."
"Oh," replied Boswell. "That? Why, ah, Samson won hands down,
but only because they played according to latter-day rules. If
it had been a regular knock-out fight, like the contests in the
old days of the ring when it was in its prime, Goliath could
have managed him with one hand; but the Samson backers played
a sharp game on the Philistine by having the most recently
amended Queensbury rules adopted, and Goliath wasn't in it
five minutes after Samson opened his mouth."
"I don't think I understand," said I.
"Plain enough," explained Boswell. "Goliath didn't know what
the modern rules were, but he thought a fight was a fight
under any rules, so, like a decent chap, he agreed, and when
he found that it was nothing but a talking-match he'd got
into he fainted. He never was good at expressing himself
fluently. Samson talked him down in two rounds, just as he
did the other Philistines in the early days on earth."
I laughed. "You're slightly off there," I said. "That was a
stand-up-and-be-knocked-down fight, wasn't it? He used the
jawbone of an ass?"
"Very true," observed Boswell, "but it is evident that it is
you who are slightly off. You haven't kept up with the higher
criticism. It has been proven scientifically that not only
did the whale not swallow Jonah, but that Samson's great feat
against the Philistines was comparable only to the achievements
of your modern senators. He talked them to death."
"Then why jawbone of an ass?" I cried.
"Samson was an ass," replied Boswell. "They prove that by the
temple episode, for you see if he hadn't been one he'd have
got out of the building before yanking the foundations from
under it. I tell you, old chap, this higher criticism is a
great thing, and as logical as death itself."
And with this Boswell left me.
I sincerely hope that the result of the fight will prove as
satisfactory to my friend in Hawaii as it was to me; for while
I have no particular admiration for Samson, I have always
rejoiced to hear of the discomfitures of Goliath, who, so far
as I have been able to ascertain, was not only not a gentleman,
but, in addition, had no more regard for the rights of others
than a member of the New York police force or the editor of
a Sunday newspaper with a thirst for sensation.
IX
SHERLOCK HOLMES AGAIN
I had intended asking Boswell what had become of my copy of
the Baedeker's Hades when he next returned, but the output of
the machine that evening so interested me that the hand-book
was entirely forgotten. If there ever was a hero in this world
who could compare with D'Artagnan in my estimation for sheer
ability in a given line that hero was Sherlock Holmes. With
D'Artagnan and Holmes for my companions I think I could pass the
balance of my days in absolute contentment, no matter what woful
things might befall me. So it was that, when I next heard the
tapping keys and dulcet bell of my Enchanted Type-writer, and,
after listening intently for a moment, realized that my friend
Boswell was making a copy of a Sherlock Holmes Memoir thereon
for his next Sunday's paper, all thought of the interesting
little red book of the last meeting flew out of my head. I
rose quickly from my couch at the first sounding of the gong.
"Got a Holmes story, eh?" I said, walking to his side,
and gazing eagerly over the spot where his shoulder should
have been.
"I have that, and it's a winner," he replied, enthusiastically.
"If you don't believe it, read it. I'll have it copied in
about two minutes."
"I'll do both," I said. "I believe all the Sherlock Holmes
stories I read. It is so much pleasanter to believe them true.
If they weren't true they wouldn't be so wonderful."
With this I picked up the first page of the manuscript and
shortly after Boswell presented me with the balance, whereon
I read the following extraordinary tale:
A MYSTERY SOLVED
A WONDERFUL ACHIEVEMENT IN FERRETING
From Advance Sheets of
MEMOIRS I REMEMBER
BY
SHERLOCK HOLMES, ESQ.
Ferreter Extraordinary by Special Appointment to his Majesty
Apollyon
---------------
WHO THE LADY WAS!
It was not many days after my solution of the Missing Diamond
of the Nizam of Jigamaree Mystery that I was called upon to take
up a case which has baffled at least one person for some ten or
eleven centuries. The reader will remember the mystery of the
missing diamond--the largest known in all history, which the
Nizam of Jigamaree brought from India to present to the Queen
of England, on the occasion of her diamond jubilee. I had been
dead three years at the time, but, by a special dispensation of
his Imperial Highness Apollyon, was permitted to return incog
to London for the jubilee season, where it so happened that I
put up at the same lodging-house as that occupied by the Nizam
and his suite. We sat opposite each other at table d'hote, and
for at least three weeks previous to the losing of his treasure
the Indian prince was very morose, and it was very difficult to
get him to speak. I was not supposed to know, nor, indeed, was
any one else, for that matter, at the lodging-house, that the
Nizam was so exalted a personage. He like myself was travelling
incog and was known to the world as Mr. Wilkins, of Calcutta--a
very wise precaution, inasmuch as he had in his possession a
gem valued at a million and a half of dollars. I recognized
him at once, however, by his unlikeness to a wood-cut that
had been appearing in the American Sunday newspapers, labelled
with his name, as well as by the extraordinary lantern which he
had on his bicycle, a lantern which to the uneducated eye was
no more than an ordinary lamp, but which to an eye like mine,
familiar with gems, had for its crystal lens nothing more nor
less than the famous stone which he had brought for her Majesty
the Queen, his imperial sovereign. There are few people who
can tell diamonds from plate-glass under any circumstances,
and Mr. Wilkins, otherwise the Nizam, realizing this fact, had
taken this bold method of secreting his treasure. Of course,
the moment I perceived the quality of the man's lamp I knew
at once who Mr. Wilkins was, and I determined to have a little
innocent diversion at his expense.
"It has been a fine day, Mr. Wilkins," said I one evening over
the pate.
"Yes," he replied, wearily. "Very--but somehow or other I'm
depressed to-night."
"Too bad," I said, lightly, "but there are others. There's
that poor Nizam of Jigamaree, for instance--poor devil, he
must be the bluest brown man that ever lived."
Wilkins started nervously as I mentioned the prince by name.
"Wh-why do you think that?" he asked, nervously fingering
his butter-knife.
"It's tough luck to have to give away a diamond that's worth
three or four times as much as the Koh-i-noor," I said. "Suppose
you owned a stone like that. Would you care to give it away?"
"Not by a damn sight!" cried Wilkins, forcibly, and I noticed
great tears gathering in his eyes.
"Still, he can't help himself, I suppose," I said, gazing
abruptly at his scarf-pin. "That is, he doesn't KNOW that he
can. The Queen expects it. It's been announced, and now the
poor devil can't get out of it--though I'll tell you, Mr.
Wilkins, if I were the Nizam of Jigamaree, I'd get out of it
in ten seconds."
I winked at him significantly. He looked at me blankly.
"Yes, sir," I added, merely to arouse him, "in just ten
seconds! Ten short, beautiful seconds."
"Mr. Postlethwaite," said the Nizam--Postlethwaite was the
name I was travelling under--"Mr. Postlethwaite," said the
Nizam--otherwise Wilkins--"your remarks interest me greatly."
His face wreathed with a smile that I had never before seen
there. "I have thought as you do in regard to this poor Indian
prince, but I must confess I don't see how he can get out of
giving the Queen that diamond. Have a cigar, Mr. Postlethwaite,
and, waiter, bring us a triple magnum of champagne. Do you
really think, Mr. Postlethwaite, that there is a way out of
it? If you would like a ticket to Westminster for the ceremony,
there are a half-dozen."
He tossed six tickets for seats among the crowned heads
across the table to me. His eagerness was almost too painful
to witness.
"Thank you," said I, calmly pocketing the tickets, for they were
of rare value at that time. "The way out of it is very simple."
"Indeed, Mr. Postlethwaite," said he, trying to keep cool.
"Ah--are you interested in rubies, sir? There are a few which
I should be pleased to have you accept"--and with that over
came a handful of precious stones each worth a fortune. These
also I pocketed as I replied:
"Why, certainly; if I were the Nizam," said I, "I'd lose
that diamond."
A shade of disappointment came over Mr. Wilkins's face.
"Lose it? How? Where?" he asked, with a frown.
"Yes. Lose it. Any way I could. As for the place where it
should be lost, any old place will do as long as it is where
he can find it again when he gets back home. He might leave
it in his other clothes, or--"
"Make that two triple magnums, waiter," cried Mr. Wilkins,
excitedly, interrupting me. "Postlethwaite, you're a genius,
and if you ever want a house and lot in Calcutta, just let me
know and they're yours."
You never saw such a change come over a man in all your life.
Where he had been all gloom before, he was now all smiles
and jollity, and from that time on to his return to India
Mr. Wilkins was as happy as a school-boy at the beginning of
vacation. The next day the diamond was lost, and whoever may
have it at this moment, the British Crown is not in possession
of the Jigamaree gem.
But, as my friend Terence Mulvaney says, that is another
story. It is of the mystery immediately following this
concerning which I have set out to write.
I was sitting one day in my office on Apollyon Square opposite
the Alexandrian library, smoking an absinthe cigarette, which
I had rolled myself from my special mixture consisting of two
parts tobacco, one part hasheesh, one part of opium dampened
with a liqueur glass of absinthe, when an excited knock sounded
upon my door.
"Come in," I cried, adopting the usual formula.
The door opened and a beautiful woman stood before me clad in
most regal garments, robust of figure, yet extremely pale. It
seemed to me that I had seen her somewhere before, yet for a
time I could not place her.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" said she, in deliciously musical tones,
which, singular to relate, she emitted in a fashion suggestive
of a recitative passage in an opera.
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