Life — January 6, 1887 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

434 HOSTS!” said Henry Arthur Smith, ‘who be- lieves in ghosts? I don't, | and there's an end on’t!" Saying which, Henry Arthur Smith asphyxiated the light, and laid himself down for a long winter's nap. But Henry Arthur Smith’s long winter’s nap was neither so long, nor so wintry, nor so nappy as it set out to be. Whether it was due to his having eaten too copious a Christmas dinner, or whether his nerve-quieting concoction produced an opposite effect or not— Henry Arthur Smith was unable to say —the hero of this romance was foiled in his attempt to bury himself in what Byron gravely termed Night’s Sepulchre. Suddenly Henry Arthur Smith started from his bed, and tried to exclaim ‘‘ Who's there ?”” We say tried to exclaim, for it was simply an effort. Only this and nothing more. The ‘‘ Who's there ?” never got any further than Henry Arthur Smith’s tonsils, dying away in a weird gurgle that but added to the intensity of Henry Arthur Smith’s feelings. Whatever became of the lost exclamation, no one knows; Henry Arthur Smith may have swallowed it. At any rate—not to delay theaction of our tale— the missing words were originally framed in our hero's word-framer to greet, whoever it was that caused the white knob on Henry Arthur Smith’s bedroom | door to turn —for turn it did. It may be necessary to explain that a love of wandering forth from the haunts of his wardrobe into the refulgent halls of gilded night fre- quently seized upon Henry Arthur Smith, and to prevent any errors | on his part, which might lead him into complication with a stern parent in the next room, Henry Arthur Smith had applied a sulphurous coat- ing to the hall door knob, so that on the darkest of dark wintry nights its rotund face shone out upon the sable cloak in which all else was en- shrouded, like the red-inked ‘‘ Please Remit” on an unpaid tailor’s bill. This was how Henry Arthur Smith came to perceive the turning of the knob after having asphyxiated the glim, and may’ be set down as an indirect cause of his having made an ineffectual attempt to hurl an apposite ‘ Who's there ?” upon a supposititious midnight marauder —for that it was midnight was conclusively shown by the fact that the clock in the neighboring church steeple was at that moment chiming half-past eleven. The sudden advance of the knob in Henry Arthur Smith’s direction convinced him that the knob was moving toward him, and knowing that no well-bred knob ever moves toward any person without some exterior encouragement, Henry Arthur Smith divined that the door too was approaching. SHE TRIUMPHANT SKEPTIC. 4 A blast of cold air from below stairs, laden with the odor of Xmas pudding that once had graced the festive board, also convinced him that there was a draft from somewhere. With that courtesy which invariably attaches to the cashier of a bank— for Henry Arthur Smith followed that highly lucrative profession — our hero decided to honor the draft with some attention. ‘“What’s wanted?” he cried, not being able even at this late date to trace the misplaced ‘* Who's there.” ‘‘Me,” replied whatever was there. ‘Well, come in, Me, and shut the door,” said Henry Arthur Smith, by way of repartee. Then, as if in response to this brusque, but sincere invitation, a ghost loomed up before Henry Arthur Smith —a real, eighteen-karat, neatly-brushed, clean, evidently washed spook. “Do you know whoI am ?” asked the ghost. ‘Well, its a poor light to recognize people by, but you look like my friend, Mr. Fog, from London.” ‘Don’t trifle with me, Henry Arthur Smith,” said the ghost. “Indeed I won't, Mr. Fog, or the whatever your name may be. You're too damp looking and I am unarmed. My umbrella is down “If you knew who and what I am you would shudder, Mr. Henry Arthur : mith.” “Well, as my chief delight in life is not shuddering, my dear Mr. Damp, I hope you won't tell me what you am. Do you am very often 2” “Mr. Smith, you are trif_ing with the child of the Elements.” “Indeed, am I! Well, this is an unexpected pleasure. Does your mother know you are out, sweet child 2” “There is an unseen power, Henry that is prepared to over- whelm you if you continue thus to indulge in persiflage and insult its representative.” “So! Water power, I suppose, to judge from your make-up. How long has this power you speak of been Raining”, “Sir, if you knew the consequences of your rash behavior you'd tremble as sure as I'm born.” “Well, that’s not very certain, Mr. Fog. born, There’s just a little too much nebu- lousness about you to pass for a really up and down born person. What kettle were you born in, anyhow? Was it that born from whence no traveler e’er returns ?” “Tt was not !” “Well, I might have known it, because you'd have evaporated long before this if it had been.” “Henry A. Smith, I have been com- missioned by the Wraith-in-Chief of Spook-land to visit you and force you to believe in Ghosts.” I don't believe you are ‘THE KNOB WAS TURNING. “Thainks, Gentle Spirit! Carry my respectful salutations to the ° In Spectre General and tell him to call upon me during business hours. If you can sit in the sun for an hour without a sizz, my dear sir, 1 may make an effort to believe in you, but at present you are too malarious in your general appearance to do more than compel me to ask you to pass me that box of quinine there — but no. Don’t gotoo those pills. They'd break you all up, Mr. Spook.” *: Beware!” said the Ghost, advancing with a threatening gesture. ‘Yes, I will,” replied Mr. Smith. ‘I expeet'to be where I am now ‘or the next four hours, and really sir, if you'll excuse me, I wish you'd comicbooks.com