Such had come to be the atmosphere of the drawing room.
But what of him in the cellar? What of the husband discarded, and the friend betrayed?
He was busy—tremendously BUSY. He did not even close Saturdays at one o’clock. He was busy every daylight hour he could steal. He was busy far into the hours when just men sleep, and bad ones go a burgling.
Over and again he might have been heard to say in terribly tense tones,—“He’s no illusion. He’s no spook. He’s a fact,—a cold, scientific fact. He lives by natural law as much as I do. Therefore he’s controlled by natural laws. He’s therefore susceptible to chemical changes by the proper application of those laws. If so, he’s subject to these changes whenever and wherever scientific processes are brought to bear against him. Since an astral man is a—Something,—why, something can get at him. Something, somewhere in nature’s laboratory, must have the potency to seize him, to paralyze him.”
And Bill would continue his monologue,—“Though neither brickbat nor billiard cue is efficacious in the matter of astral substance, it doesn’t follow that the proper projectile may not be found and successfully administered. Now,” he would reason, “an astral body, like a physical one, must have certain natural, specific modes of growth, development, rejuvenation, resistance, persistence, disintegration, and dissolution; and I,—ha, ha,—I shall find this secret. Nature must and shall disclose its secret of the reduction of the astral to its original essence.”
Then the Honorable William K. would laugh a high, weird laugh that echoed in hollow cadences among the jars and bottles of his laboratory.
Then, perchance, for the moment elate, he would whistle a few bars of “I’m a lookin’ for dat niggah an’ he mus’ be foun’.”
And the awful merriment of the Mayor was more suggestive than his unpleasant language.
Over the great iatro-chemist, Paracelsus, the old German chemists, and over the discoveries and formulas of Basil Valentine, the druggist of Kankakee continually pored. Deep into the mysteries of chemical philosophy he delved. Not to his wife, but to Tyndall, Maxwell and Daniel he turned for society; not, however, until he had absorbed the “Genesis of the Elements,” by Crooks, did he show the excitement and enthusiasm of the man who gets what he goes after.
There came a day, or rather an evening, when the discarded husband rose up and called himself a “Cracker-Jack.” He shook himself with the abandon of one who finds himself master of a situation.
For days after this Bill Vanderhook was singularly jocular. He was polite to Imogene. He even indulged himself in a bit of joshing with the Mystic.
········
“Good-bye, Mrs. V. S’long, Leff,”—said the Mayor one morning as he appeared equipped for traveling.
“Going east for stock,”—he said briefly, when languidly interrogated by Imogene as to the whys and whences of this sudden trip. “You and Leff can run things a few days without me,”—he said satirically.
“I should remark,”—responded Imogene in her own pretty way.
There was a peculiar grin on Mr. Vanderhook’s face as he put on his hat. He commended his wife to the care of the Mystic with these portentous words,—“Enjoy yourself while you can, for none of us knows what may happen next.”
In a fortnight he had returned, was again in the cellar busier than ever. Presently there came by express a fresh consignment for the laboratory. A heavily wrapped and curiously crated package, not larger than a small tub, which required several men to convey it from the wagon to the underground workshop.
And the guilty pair asked no questions. Chemical experiments, as such, had no interest for them.
“Bet you it’s a music box,”—said Imogene, who had noted its arrival from the parlor window.
“Or a picture machine,”—suggested Lonnie, without taking the trouble to remove his eyes from the face of the “lady-bird.” “And do you know,” he continued listlessly, “that these ordinary humans are doing some very clever work nowadays?”
Mr. Vanderhook vouchsafed no explanation. Next day an extra lock was put on his laboratory door.
Days rolled on, making up the weeks. The weeks expanded into months. The months rounded up a year, and yet there was no change in the Vanderhook home. No change, merely an accentuation of the old condition. No change, merely a closer absorption of the lady and her Llama. Only an increased activity on the part of the man in the cellar.
Mrs. and Mr. V. seldom met, except at meals. From these their guest usually absented himself. Having neither the need nor the desire for food, it wearied him to observe the processes involved. To see his idol feeding grated upon his super-refined senses. This process of reinforcing the fires of physical life is not attractive to astral vision. Even a lady looks rather like an animated hopper than an Intelligent Being.
Between meals, however, the Llama and the Lady-Bird lost no time.
Nor Bill.
DRAWING A CORK.
“My ownest, I must to Hindustan.”
This announcement came unexpectedly, hurriedly, one evening just before tea. The Mystic was evidently excited. Mrs. Vanderhook was startled. She said,—“Great Scott”—in tones of alarmed surprise.
“Be not alarmed, sweetest of mortals. It is nothing very dangerous. Nothing, only a very disagreeable trip. My body has been left unguarded. There are some very large and unpleasant tigers in the vicinity, and should they strike the scent, you know,—I must return and get into my body and have some one kill the beasts. Then I will take some material refreshment, relocate my body more securely and back again to my Goo-Goo Eyes.”
“But why should you bother about that old body?” pouted the lady. “Ain’t you all right as you are?”
The mystic laughed. It was a soundless convulsion of mirth.
“Why, my kitten, don’t you see that even though we love, we are not upon the same—same—plane? That is to say, you’re in the physical body, and I’m out of mine.”
“Well, but what difference?”—she began.
“All the difference possible, in this particular world, my queen. Now don’t you see my little scheme? When you succeed in this divorce business I mean to resume my physical body, feed it up, cut its hair, and get it some good clothes, and then—why, then,—I intend to bring it back here in the regular way,—and then—we’ll be regularly married.”
It was now the lady who laughed.
“Well, if you ain’t too cute for anything.”
They had previously consulted a Chicago lawyer who assured them, statutes to the contrary, he not only would work the decree, but would secure alimony in addition. He said he would base the suit upon cruelty and desertion and abandonment without “visible or tangible cause.”
This delighted the Gnani, for though himself self-supporting, the lady would require physical sustenance for some time.
“And you’ll hurry back, Lonnie Llama?” pleaded Imogene.
“But twenty-four hours at most, Sweet Thing, only tonight and tomorrow, and tomorrow I’ll telep every sixteen minutes from sunrise to sunset.”
“Well, if you must—you must,”—sighed Imogene. “I wish you didn’t have to stay but a couple of minutes.”
“Well, it’s good-bye sweetest,—until—until—” and the mystic sighed dismally; “until sunset tomorrow.”
“No, no, I can’t have it so. Linger—longer—Lonnie Llama. I’m all broke up,” and Imogene wept.
“I say, what’s the rush?”
The lovers, startled, sprang to the extreme ends of the divan. It was the unhappy Bill Vanderhook who stood before them.
Unhappy? No. Surely this was not the face of an unhappy man, nor of a vengeful one. He did not even appear to be out of humor. His face was illumined with a benevolent smile. His hat was shoved well back on his head and his hands were in his pockets, after the manner of extreme joviality.
He had entered unobserved and now stood surveying them with the most genial and conciliatory smile.
“What’s this about leaving us?” he demanded of his old chum in the old friendly tone.
Unprepared for such treatment, the seer sheepishly explained the unpleasant predicament of his physical envelope in the caves of Gingalee.
“Well, do you mean to stay there then?”—anxiously, almost hopefully, from Bill.
“I should say not. I’ll be back by tea time tomorrow sure. You know, Mrs. Vanderhook expects me to look after the decorations of her April-Fool tea party. That’s tomorrow, you know, so—”
Bill’s brows contracted wickedly for an instant. Then he laughed.
“Then why in Sam Hill are you going at all?” demanded Bill; which entailed another recital of the danger.
“But what if the beasts do eat up your old hide! It won’t hurt ’em even if it is a tough proposition. And you don’t need your cuticle and cartilage any more, as I can see—and besides, I want you home today specially. I want you home tonight anyway, for, Leff and Genesy, too”—and Bill’s voice dropped,—“suppose we let bygones be bygones. I’ve been a Tom-Fool to monkey with the irrevocable. I concede the superiority of the astral. I acknowledge your primordial claim upon each other. But I’m tired of these strained relations in the house. Let’s have peace and a good time. And now that I’m finding consolation in Science, why not let’s call off the fight? Let’s have a cessation of hostilities and a renewal of confidences.”
“With all my heart,” said Alonzo Leffingwell, which appeared more cordial than the fact really warranted. For in his state of being, “heart” was a very empty space. “I’m reconciled,” he continued languidly.
“Me, too,” sighed Imogene, suspiciously and reluctantly.
“Shake,” said Bill in a loud, glad voice, laying one hand over his wife’s and shaking the other cordially through the wrist of the astral gentleman.
“I say, let’s celebrate. I’m dead tired of this lonesomeness down in the coal bins—and—now, the fact is, Genesy”—and Bill went on gaily,—“I’ve anticipated our reconciliation and I want you both to come down to my workshop. I’ve got a nice little layout for you in the laboratory. Of course, I know Leff isn’t much on vittles—but I do know Genesy likes the pop of a cork. Don’t you, old girl?”
“You better believe,” assented Imogene. “And did you really get some Extra Dry?—I—”
“Well, you just come and see what I’ve got for you. As the French say, this is an ock-kazh-un. We’ll just pop a few corks. Let’s agree to swallow the past in a couple of pints of Mumm’s best, and—come along or the ice will melt.” And he half pulled and half pushed Mrs. Vanderhook toward the inside cellar-way.
The Mystic followed slowly, haltingly, and then hurried on to Imogene’s side.
“I have a presentiment”—he murmured.
“Of what, Lonnie Llama?” tenderly.
“Alas, I know not what; but I am seldom left on these impressions. Let’s not go into the cellar.”
“Why, what can he do to an astral man? He couldn’t hurt you if he tried.”
In her eagerness Imogene spoke loud enough for her husband to hear.
Bill Vanderhook appeared to be smoking a cigar. In reality he was gnashing his teeth. Alonzo said no more, but laid his hand apprehensively over the region formerly occupied by a heart.
They were now in the cellar, and in another moment the trio had passed through the laundry—past the fruit closets and the coal bins, and were now ushered into the partitioned corner which had been converted into a library and laboratory. They entered the library, which was comfortably furnished, brilliantly lighted, well ventilated and altogether a Cosy Corner for—a studious man.
Book-shelves encircled the walls, and many and musty were the ancient volumes which jostled the modern authorities thereon. The further room, connecting the laboratory, was now in total darkness. But through the black open doorway came a soft musical burr-r-r-r-ing, whirr-r-r-r-r-ing. Now and then little sparkles of light crossed the black aperture.
Bill beamed upon his guests. He tilted his hat back a bit further, then he took off his coat, his cuffs. He began to look like Business.
Out of the big, wooden pail he lifted a long, slim, dark bottle. From his pocket he drew forth a corkscrew. The bottle he set on the table. The corkscrew he laid beside the bottle. Then he ranged three-wide-mouthed, slim-necked glasses side by side.
“And here’s to us—later,”—he lightly remarked.
But to such as Alonzo Leffingwell “Extra Dry” does not appeal. The Seer viewed the spread with something like scorn. Then he turned his attention to the connecting door. He riveted his gaze upon the open doorway of the darkened inner chamber.
“I feel strangely drawn to that room,” he murmured to Imogene.
“Well, I don’t,” she answered with emphasis. “Let’s go straight back—after the Mumm.”
“Well, I should say—NIT”—and Bill playfully pushed her toward the room where the little sparkles flew across the blackness. “Come along Leff, we’re now ready to draw the first cork.” And reaching up, Bill Vanderhook pressed a button in the door-jamb.
On the instant, in a flash, quicker than thought, without one word of apology or glance of farewell, the Illuminat of Illinois shot from the side of his Soul Mate, straight into that yawning doorway and was swallowed up in a sudden, blinding glare of light.
A PRIVATE EXHIBIT.
“Oh, Bill! Bill! Bill! What have you done?”—and a woman’s wild scream rent the atmosphere.
And no wonder our heroine, standing there in the doorway, was upset. No wonder she clutched at her pompadour in frenzy. No wonder she shook like several leaves. The suddenness of her admirer’s departure was so very—in fact—sudden.
After she had shrieked she leaned against the door-jamb, gazing incoherently at that which she saw.
It was now Bill’s turn to laugh, and this he did, long, loud and uproariously. Then he shouted in a triumphant crescendo,—“Hi, there, my lady—catch onto the display. And well you may squeal at the sight of your old familiar pig-wheel. Dollars to doughnuts you never shackled as slim a one as this at the yard. Say, watch him. He’s in the swim sure, ain’t he? See him swing—round toward the sticker. That’s me. D’ye hear, madam? I’m the sticker in this yard. And he’s coming to the knife in fine style. Now watch me close, for he’s going to land against the point this time, and then—Aha! ha! ha!—and then—the last hot water plunge, and—”
“Monster! monster!” sobbed the lady.
Bill laughed again.
“Oh, my Lonnie, my Llama!” wailed Mrs. V.
And again Bill Vanderhook laughed.
“Aha!—your Astral Mate got a move on him that time. Go ask him if he has any fresh data on affinities. Ask him how he likes this newest attraction.”
“Brute!”—and, dashing past her husband, the distracted lady rushed to the rescue of her primordial mate. She flung herself wildly into the workshop from which she had been so long excluded.
The picture presented to her gaze as she crossed the threshold struck terror to her soul. All at once Mrs. Vanderhook felt weak as boiled water. She clasped her hands in frantic protest.
“Get onto his curves” bawled Bill. “What d’ye think of your Lonnie Bird now? He’s off his perch, ain’t he? Never miss a Mystic when he moults. And here’s your Lonnie Lammie—at shearing time. Here’s your little piggy-wiggy on a hook. Here’s your-r-r-r”—and the angry husband wound himself up in a knot of words and spluttered off into monosyllabic ravings.
Angry and frightened and bewildered by the very unusual scene, Mrs. Vanderhook staggered, moaned a couple of times, and crumpled up over against a big empty packing case.
It would have been a braver woman who could look unmoved upon the revenge of the Kankakee druggist.
In the center of a long, narrow room strewn with jugs, jars, bottles and chemical apparatus, whirled a small and curious cylinder, a little black machine that gave off a trail of glittering sparks upon the brilliant atmosphere, a tiny monster that sang and purred and whizzed in its dizzy revolutions.
It was not, however, this curious machine that attracted the attention of Mrs. Vanderhook. It was neither the brightness, nor energy, nor speed, nor the whizziness of the things in the room that spellbound her. It was the novel attachment of that satanic cylinder which riveted her gaze and temporarily paralyzed her vocal organs.
The ethereal despoiler of the Vanderhook home had, indeed, gotten a move on himself. He was “in the air,” and no mistake.
At a distance of perhaps ten feet from the revolving cylinder swung the gay Gnani of Gingalee. He was suspended in the air without visible sign of support, and was following the rotary motion of the machine; which meant that he was appearing and disappearing through the floor and ceiling of the room with a rate of motion akin to that Bill Vanderhook was giving the machine. Even the woman, though unfamiliar with theories of electro-dynamics, realized at once that this whirling cylinder possessed electro-magnetic attraction for astral substance.
All at once she realized that the Mystic had been captured by the Mayor; that the wise man was in the toils of the druggist.
Alas, and alas, the mystical lover was in the clutches of the scientific husband.
“You nasty thing!” sobbed Mrs. Vanderhook wildly. And as the awfulness of the situation grew upon her, love lent her courage. She darted past her husband’s outstretched hand and flung herself forward to the rescue of her Mate.
Mr. Vanderhook, however, was a true scientist. He was given to detail. He had provided for just that emergency. A fine wire, strung several feet from the floor immediately over a circular copper track which was laid in the floor and around the cylinder, was to serve a very practical purpose. The impulsive creature who would have plucked her “Lonnie Bird” from his unpleasant predicament, was instead, flung violently backward into her husband’s arms.
“Soul communion temporarily suspended, you will observe,” grinned the master of ceremonies as he seated his wife upon the packing case. “His hunkey highness from Hindustan is now taking a whirl at physical science. He’ll be able now to prove, as I have said, that all matter isn’t illusion. Ah, there, Lonnie Lammie, how’s this from an astral point of view?”
“Extremely unpleasant,” admitted that gentleman, trying to smile. “But I say, Bill, explain this cruel joke. I don’t understand why you should do this. I’m awfully anxious to know how you—that is—one not illuminated could—thus—thus—”
“Get the drop on you?” queried Bill pleasantly. “Glad you asked. Dee-lighted to explain. You’ll appreciate the importance of the discovery. It’s a great addition to scientific knowledge”—and the experimenter warmed to scientific enthusiasm, lessened the current which was driving its prisoner relentlessly through floor and ceiling.
“I shall undoubtedly appreciate this particular process”—and Mr. Leffingwell appeared to be catching his breath, as he felt himself released from the terrific force generated from somewhere. “But pray go on. I’m deeply interested.”
“Very good,” responded Bill, holding his rival suspended that he might converse with him. “You are, of course, aware that, as an astral being, you’ve had enormous advantages over the man encased in the physical.”
“True, and yet, you—”
“Pardon me,” interrupted the druggist dryly when the Mystic would have chipped in. “This advantage you’ve used remorselessly, to break up my home. You broke the spirit, if not the letter, of occult law. You know you did. You ignored our agreement made before you left Kankakee. You knew and you acknowledged my claim upon Mrs. V., for at least this present dispensation. I told you then that I was perfectly willing to take a back seat in a century or so. Apparently this didn’t satisfy you. You took advantage of your superior learning to sneak into my house like a thief. Oh, yes, of course, you came astrally. Of course you didn’t use skeleton keys. But,—you got there just the same, and you got in your work.”
“But,—but,—” pleaded the man from Gingalee—“I never agreed not to seek her enlightenment, at such times and places as might be convenient. I merely returned here to instruct her in the Fifty-Seven-Fold-Path, and to discourse to her upon those several and sundry sheaths which do clothe her higher principles. And—”
“Oh, Bosh!” growled Bill. “All that sounds very fine, in your measly old Sanscrit; but you stole her just the same, and that’s plain United States. And now, Mr. Mystic,”—and the angry husband shut his teeth with a savage click—“you must know that outraged confidence will seek revenge. That’s your karma, ain’t it, Mr. Alonzo Leffingwell, Gnani of Gingalee, and Grand High Muckymuck of the Order of Nowhere? I’ve got you, and I’ve got you in your own trap. You’re hoist by your own petard. You went in for Science, and so did I. Science is going to settle this dispute, and you’re about to learn that nature has several laws. Oh, pusillanimous pirate of the air, you are about to realize that invention is the hand-maid of justice, and that science is—the—mother-in-law—of—doom.”
“How,—what,—Bill,—I do not comprehend,” murmured Mr. Leffingwell perplexedly, as he disappeared slowly through the ceiling in response to the faint current with which Bill was now holding him.
“No?”—queried Bill sarcastically as the gentleman reappeared. “Then there are, after all, some few things you don’t comprehend. Well, then—” and the druggist drew himself up with calm ferocity—“I will enlighten you. Hear then my pronunciamento. You’ve been weighed in the balance and found wanting—everything that didn’t rightfully belong to you; and because of that I, your self-appointed judge and executioner, have resolved—upon—your—complete—annihilation.”
“A-n-n-i-h-i-l-a-t-i-o-n-!”
“A-n-n-i-h-i-l-a-t-i-o-n-!”
The mournful tenor of the Mystic mingled with the high C of his primordial Mate.
“Yes, just that”—burst forth the druggist savagely. “When I discovered that you were not only dead to the proprieties and deaf to appeals, but that you were impervious to boot-jacks and bullets, I set to thinking as to the best manner of dealing with the situation. When I saw you chipper as a lark when impaled on a carving knife, I realized the insufficiency of brute force. It was then that I turned to science and planned for this my long sought and well earned R-E-V-E-N-G-E.”
This last word came out in a long hissing whisper, the which is so effective upon the stage.
The Seer was now staring at the druggist in open faced dismay. Imogene was whimpering softly.
“To this end,” continued Mr. Vanderhook, “I practically gave up my business. I constructed this laboratory. I gave up Mrs. V.’s society. I permitted you to entertain her while I buried myself to work out my revenge. During the past five months I’ve acquainted myself with all the great authorities on chemistry, electricity, alchemy, astrology, theosophy, and occultism generally. I’ve studied Darwin and Haeckel and Huxley and Tyndall. I’ve familiarized myself with all of the facts of all of the sciences. I’ve saturated myself with the theories of all the philosophers, prophets and cranks. I’ve studied the body from monkey to man. I’ve chased the elusive soul down through the unintelligible symbolism of Buddha, on down to the ultimate atom of Huxley—and I’ve made a Great Discovery. Your school of mysticism’s a fake. I’ve smashed your occultism to smithereens, and I can bear witness to the wisdom of that eminent materialist who said,—‘I have tried the soul in the crucible and found it Protoplasm.’”
“You—you—deny the soul?” broke out the Mystic in astonishment.
“Quite the contrary,” said Mr. Vanderhook. “I’m convinced that there is a soul, or more scientifically speaking, an astral man. But this astral man is nothing but a duplicate of the physical man, consisting of highly attenuated substance. This soul man, or astral man, under certain conditions, can separate himself from the coarser body and cut up just such didos as you have. But”—and Bill’s voice assumed the patronizing intonation of the pedagogue—“now the fact is, confidentially, this astral man is nothing but a mere emanation of the physical, and is governed—that is, ultimately—by the same physical laws. Now, for instance, you talk of a soul, and a spirit, because you don’t know any better. In reality these phenomena of the astral plane are only material phenomena of a higher grade or quality than we can ordinarily get at through our physical senses. But, and again,”—and Bill Vanderhook sniffed disdainfully—“you’re no more immortal (because you can’t be seen by everybody) than a wiggle-tail is. Now we can’t see nor feel the millions of baby tadpoles nor wigglers in water. But that ain’t saying they’re spirits, nor that they have immortal souls. Now, Mr. Mystic, a soul or an astral man is just as natural as flesh and bone. He is in no sense independent of the finer physical forces, and he is subject to natural law just as much as if he were going around wearing his body.”
“You have certainly studied to some purpose,” admitted Mr. Leffingwell.
“More than this,” continued the materialist enthusiastically, “I have studied and completely mastered this principle of soul mating.”
The Mystic started—but he did not get very far.
Mrs. Vanderhook looked up eagerly, hopefully.
“Yes, I admit,” continued Bill genially, “that I find your old Oriental fakirs were mainly right. I, however, have been able to prove that your soul affinity is just plain chemical affinity—just plain chemical affinity without any frills. It’s an affinity that depends upon whether you’re made up of the kind of chemical substances that naturally combine. F’r instance,—I can take any two people and feed ’em both on pie or pig or potatoes, and produce the same kind of affinity you talk about.”
Alonzo Leffingwell shuddered. Mrs. V. looked at him questioningly. Bill’s unexpected wisdom was making an impression upon his wife.
“Fact,” continued Bill, delighted with the impression he was making—“now I don’t deny”—turning to Alonzo exclusively—“that by a proper course of diet and an ultimate arrangement of particles, my wife might coördinate with you; but I do say, and you hear me, that she has been, and is, and is likely to remain, much nearer to me than to you. Chemically speaking she has not attained to you. She quite lacks the refinement, attenuation and imponderability you have achieved. In short, she is not yet quite as swift as you are, and therefore much better suited to my condition than to yours.”
Continued Bill—“When once I had established the ‘Immortal Soul’ of the occultist and the ‘Atomic Energy’ of Science as identical, I had a reasonable basis, a sound hypothesis upon which to proceed. You, Mr. Gnani, representing this ‘Soul’ became the material for a rare experiment. And you are now, at this hour, as it were, my working capital.”
“And now, having satisfied yourself that certain scientific methods may be applied to certain astral phenomena, what more would you have?”—ventured Mr. Leffingwell nervously. “Now that you have made your point, I implore you, Bill, to let me out of this.”
The Honorable William K. Vanderhook (with his hand still on the lever) cocked his head to one side. He gave the Mystic one long look out of one eye. The other one he closed.
“As you must know,” he continued serenely, “primordial matter, which is astral matter, results from a condensation of ether substance into helium, or biogen. It is of this attenuated, gaseous matter that you are composed. This being true, it is easily possible to convert or reduce you back into a semi-material state of hydrogen. Catch on?”
“I do,” admitted the Seer sorrowfully as he passed slowly downward still swaying along the circle of attraction. “But now”—he implored—“as you have no further use for me, can’t we take a spell off for further discussion? I’m getting pretty tired, Bill.”
“I never did see such a kicker,” said Bill. “When I’ve been so considerate, too. Why, you see, Leff, that the chrysalis of attraction in which you move is so cunningly tempered as to swing you in a perfect circle about twenty feet in diameter. So, you see, you are in no sense exposed, as it were, publicly. You are so adjusted as not to be dragged through the roof, over the damp grass, through the sewer pipes nor yet across the clothes-line in the back yard. In thus making you a strictly Private Exhibit I’ve paid the deference due to your profession which you yourself have so disgraced. I wonder, now, Leff, if you haven’t guessed what I’ve been up to all this time?”
Alonzo shook his head dejectedly.
“No?”—interrogatively. “Well, then,” said Bill—“I’ve just reached the delicate point of practically solving the problem of astral substance; or, of reducing astral substance to visible, tangible, physical substance. And the proof which is necessary depends now only upon the nicety of modern mechanical construction. In short, I believe that I am about to demonstrate that in electro-dynamics lurks the secret of the ‘Soul.’”
“But, Bill, I say,—Bill, old fellow. Surely you are not going to experiment on ME? Surely you are going to release me from this uncomfortable situation?”
“Why, my dear boy,” said Bill Vanderhook good humoredly, “would you balk such an experiment on the very threshold of success? Permit me to assure you that the performance is only half over and the best of the features are yet to come.”
UP AGAINST IT.
“But, Bill, Bill, old chum,”—and the Mystic shook like a mold of jelly. “I must away. My body, don’t you know? My body that I am going to need very shortly—is in danger. Even at this great distance I sense the approach of those wild beasts. Pray let me return for a brief time to my studies of the abstract. I’m already away behind in Yog. Release me old boy, release me, I must hence!”
“I say, Leff, if I’d let up on you would you swear by the One-Horned-Hair-of-the-Sacred-Rabbit never to show yourself again in Kankakee?”
“But, the law—the law”—groaned the erring lover, and he gazed upon his Lady-Bird in an unutterable fashion. “How—are—we—to—get—around—Chemistry? I—we—are not to blame—”
“Enough,” snorted Bill Vanderhook. “No more fooling,” and it was now the baseball captain to the front.
“But my body,” pleaded Lonnie. “It will be eaten. Do you hear me? It will be eaten, chewed up, and destroyed.”
“Well,” said Bill impatiently, “what if it is? What then?”
“What then?” cried the Seer excitedly. “Why, don’t you see that I’ll be regularly dead? Just dead, and my body no good to me? Why, don’t you know that I’ll be nothing then but a mere angel? Don’t you know that I’ll be altogether confined to another world? I’ll be a Mystic no longer? Nor be able thus to materialize, and to travel at will—to—”
“Aha! That hadn’t occurred to me,” chuckled Bill. “I see. I see. And in that case you can’t crawl back into your terrestrial jacket and come back to marry Mrs. V. when she succeeds in getting that divorce? Aha! good! I see, and wouldn’t that be one on you? But”—and the injured husband once more became the scientist. “I say, Leff,—suppose you telep to some old Yogy to go and get that body of yours and ship it to me. I give you my word that you’ll not need it again; and I’d like it more’n anything for chemical analysis. Have it sent C. O. D. of course.”
“Monster!” again sobbed Imogene.
The Mystic was speechless with horror.
“How selfish you people are. Can’t you see of what enormous scientific value that cadaver would be? You’d even block this experiment right now when it’s on the verge of success. You have no sort of gratitude nor interest in the welfare of posterity. I arranged this whole exhibit quietly. And even yet I am willing to conceal your depravity, but the advancement of science ought to mean something to you, and you should be glad to make a few small sacrifices yourself. Think of the time and money I’ve squandered in experimenting while you were sitting on my Bagdad entertaining yourself with my wife. In order that this demonstration might do credit to us all I went down east, down to Jersey to consult Edison personally, and at his suggestion I bought this plant, which was constructed under his orders.
“And I tell you,” continued Bill, “that there’s a wizard what is a wizard. He can give you cards and spades any time in the moon. Just let me call your attention to the machine itself. In other words, get onto it.”
“And that I seem unwittingly to have done,” said Mr. Leffingwell mournfully.
“And it’s a daisy dynamo, I tell you. It produces, for its size, electricity at a higher pressure than any other machine in the world. Why, the output of this little power is sufficient to keep five thousand incandescent lamps burning at the same time. It can knock an ordinary man silly in the fraction of a second. And with its two thousand volts I can lay you out in a minute”—said Bill, nodding enthusiastically toward the cylinder. “Understand, this is an improved machine which in detail, of course, you couldn’t understand. The increase of power here isn’t through the size of the dynamo, but by a new armature and the field-magnets. This produces in the current what we call the Three-Phase-Alternating-System which you will observe to be a corker. Edison gave me points and I tell you I’ve got a machine to fit—to fit—the crime. See?”
Mr. Leffingwell “saw,” but he made no attempt to “pass.” He only bowed his head sorrowfully.
“But look here, good people; we’re wasting a lot of time,” said Bill presently. “And I think it is about time this mill was pulled off”—and he now bent eagerly forward, his hand upon the lever and his eyes riveted upon the “Exhibit,” reminding Alonzo of the position he used to assume when set to bat a ball.
“Notice, please,” said Bill, “that I am able at will to increase or decrease this current which prevents your escape from the sphere of attraction. You will see that I am thus able nicely to regulate your speed from the slow and comfortable to the dizzy and dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Dangerous, did you say? I hardly understand you”—faltered the Mystic, paling as he spoke.
“Let me illustrate,”—and the hand of the avenger sought the lever.
The little monster whirled fiercely, increasing with each revolution both the speed and the terror of its victim. Faster and faster whirled the cylinder. Faster and faster flew the lately fascinating Seer.
“Hold,—hold,—I—I—I—must ask—one—question,” shrilled brokenly upon the sparkling air.
“Certainly,” responded Bill, lessening the current as he spoke.
“I say, Bill—upon what prin—principle do—you—op—operate?” gasped the suddenly released gentleman. “I must know if it agrees with—with our sch—ool.”
The man at the machine bowed graciously, and jauntily saluted his old chum. Bill was flattered. To be thus interrogated by one whose profession was wisdom, was a distinct compliment. He straightened himself and lifted his chin.
“Helium,”—he said, in a loud, cheerful voice,—“that of which you are composed, I discover to be nothing more than a dephlogisticated condition of matter. Now this highly attenuated substance is (as you may, but probably do not know) highly susceptible to electrical forces. I further discover that by virtue of electro-dynamics we are able to convert this highly refined substance into hydrogen, a highly volatile metal. This, under increased pressure, is finally raised to the point of ignition. D’ye hear, my gay Gnani? For here’s where I get in my fine work. Let me repeat,—this highly volatile hydrogen is, or will presently be—raised to the point of ignition—Phlogiston is Restored and—pish—you go.”
“Horrible! horrible! but true, alas, too true,”—and the Mystic and his Mate bowed their heads in unison.
“And, hear me still further, Mr. Psycho-Bunko-Hiero-Phanto,” continued Mr. Vanderhook remorselessly. “I’d have you know that the curriculum of your musty old schools in Hindustan never counted on a tussle with physical science. They go no further than the application of certain metaphysical forces to nonresistant physical substance, or noncompos gray matter of certain fool people I know. They never equip their alleged pupils to meet nor to resist an active and rational campaign on the lower planes. With all your tricks you Oriental fakirs aren’t in it with an Edison plant. You’re not in it with the twentieth century scientist, when he has a real ax to grind,”—and by way of illustration Bill increased the current and ground his teeth.
Moved by his enemy’s science, rather than by his satire, Alonzo Leffingwell passed on his way—lamenting.
But he returned again, and hung suspended at his tormentor’s pleasure.
The man of science continued: “You forget, my Alonzo the brave, that physical science hasn’t been asleep the past five years. No, my boy, modern science has got a cinch on you—and the modern scientist has wiped out your musty old magic. And the rude every-day porter-house-Budweiser scientist has likewise been studying nature’s finer forces. Now we don’t levitate, to speak of, but we’re making pretty good time, just the same. Your scientific brethren out there in Gingalee will discover in a couple of centuries that we’ve got the drop on them—that the occult isn’t occult, a little bit, and that the Plain Citizen of this great, western republic is after them.”
To this the miserable Mystic made no reply. He saw that he was discovered and lost at one and the same time. Nothing but the scarcity of water in his organism restrained the now hopeless gentleman from tears.
He made one more attempt, one more appeal.
“Is there nothing, Oh, William K. Vanderhook,—is there nothing in our past friendship,—nothing of the past,—in memory that will melt or soften you?”
“Anything in memory to soften me? Well,—I—should—say—NIT. Every revolution of the second-hand on the dial plate of my memory drives another spike into the lid of your—figuratively speaking—coffin.”
“There was a time when I was soft. Oh, yes, I was soft! Five years ago I was softer than putty, softer than a bread-and-milk poultice or a batch of dough. But my friend, I’ve been baked since. Hard baked. It took a lot of kneading and a mighty hot oven, but I got myself baked, hard-brown, and I’ve got a cast-iron crust on me,—and don’t you forget it.”
“Yes, I admit I was soft, but that was long ago, before you made a profession of bamboozling silly women.”
“Memory—well I should say. D’ye think I’ve forgotten that inspired old Manhattan Mystic? Not much. I’ve been studying that same old muddle myself. Yes, sir, and I’ve got the volume right over there in my scientific library, in the section marked CRANKS,”—and Bill Vanderhook jerked his thumb disdainfully in the direction of the library.
“And hear me further, Lonnie boy. It was just my reading of your own High Joss, and it was out of his profound profundity that I dug your condemnation. And it is he, and not Bill Vanderhook, who has settled your eternal—hash.
“Now you hear me a minute. I’m going to do a little quoting myself. I spent days and nights wading through that illuminated slush to see if I could find any excuse for you. But instead of that I picked out the biggest spike in the lid.
“But, Gee, wasn’t it a job? My nerve nearly brought on paresis. I did have congestive chill, ticdouloureux, meningitis, lock-jaw and curvature of the spine. But I read it just the same, and here’s what your old misfit says. Listen, and when you strike that eternal oblivion take a day off and go back through your disintegrated, dissolved and scattered gray matter and see if you can remember anything like this,—
“‘Mechanism does not escape this trope and rhapsody, being indeed their most conspicuous illustration, since its fundamental principle is that of leverage, whereby there is libration or oscillation, as of a scale or a pendulum, or circular motion as of a wheel. In celestial mechanism the material fulcrum disappears, and there is the invisible centre of motion, of light and return, through tendencies which seem to balance each other, giving the motion the orbital form.’”
“And here’s your old Manhattan Mummy come home to roost.”
“Henrymillsalden, second chapter and fifth verse.”
“Congregation sing.”
Alonzo Leffingwell bowed his head. He pressed his hand to his solar plexus and then faintly did he murmur—“Then there is nothing that will melt or soften you—nothing?”
“Oh, ring off. D’ye take me for the ice man? Well, I’m not. I’m pig-iron, pipe-clay and steel filings; and what’s worse, the more I remember the madder I get.”
“And then—and then—there is nothing that I can do—or can say?—”
“Once—and—for—all,—NOPE, my gay Gnani of Gingalee, for the last time, you’re up against it.”
········
And there was silence in the cellar for the space of about eight minutes.
········
And then,—“It is not, O William, simply for myself I plead. I am thinking also of you, and of the Karmic consequences of this Act. Had you,—had you—been illuminated—”
“I’d a hoisted you out of my house a year ago,”—interrupted Bill fiercely. “But I wasn’t illuminated. My aura wasn’t anything but fuzz. Wasn’t lit up. I was in the gloaming. But I’m not there now. I’m out of the woods. And I’ve got a pink halo of forty-four horse power. D’ye hear me?” and the materialist grinned away his scowl. Waving his hand outward in the glaring atmosphere, he continued,—“I’m getting there. If this ain’t illumination I don’t know light when I see it. Oh, yes, I’m a small incandescent myself. But see here”—and Bill suddenly closed the conversation and his jaws with a snap.
“What are you up to anyway? You’re trying to josh me out of this experiment. I don’t mean to let you buzz the vitality out of this dynamo. You’re slick enough to weaken the coils of any old machine if you’re not watched. Anyway, we’ve had enough monkeying, and I’ve got other fish to fry. The Board meets at eight and I’m punctual.”
Bill Vanderhook now consulted his watch. “Holy Mother of Mud!”—he shouted. “It’s seven o’clock, and no dinner, and this is Saturday night, and the barber shops crowded. Now, see here”—to the silent, despairing culprits,—“I don’t want any more back talk. I’m going to wind up this business instanter. For this whole mess has to be out of the way in just fif—teen—minutes.”
“No—no more talk. You just get ready for your last sprint. This farce is played out. The last act is over. The curtain’s rung down. Alonzo Leffingwell, the wise man of Kankakee flats is no more. Bring on the—flowers—your ‘Gates Ajar’ and the other pin-wheels. The pallbearers are without. The baked meats are on the sideboard—mourners in line, and hark you to the funeral march,—