Puck — April 9, 1879 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

PUCK. and all Michael Grame'seloquenceand earnest- ness are necessary to keep the delegates up to the necessary degree of firmness and resolu- tion. The fact is, contradictory rumors are afloat about an opposition demonstration. As yet these rumors seem no more than idle talk of the timid; still, they indicate a want of unan- imity among the classes concerned. At half-past five, Michael Grame having dis- missed the delegates, and feeling faint, goes down Farringdon Street, turns up Fleet Street, and enters a tavern. Here he orders a chop and a pint of stout. “Globe, sir," says the waiter, handing him the paper. “Globe, sir, special. We're going to have something queer on to-night, sir, if the Globe is right. Look there, sir.” The man puts his finger on a paragraph as he hands the paper to Michael Grame. ‘The paragraph runs as follows: “We understand that, owing to discontent among some branches of the industrial classes, they have resolved to take quite a novel way of appealing not only to their employers but to the general public as well, Weare given to believe the scheme of the agitators will be put in operation this night, and that its effects will be the most astonishing ever experienced at a time of peace in any great modern city. About this design peculiar secrecy isobserved. Should we be able to obtain any further information, it will appear in our later editions.” With a complacent smile Michael Grame puts down the paper and begins his dinner. ‘The hour of his triumph and his fame is nigh athand. He feels his blood swell in his veins. His heart beats lightly, the lamp of his imag- ination blazes up in the garden of his dreams, and he sees visions of his own triumphal pro- gress, and hears echoes of shouts of acclaim. The chop and the pint of stout are gone. Such an evening as this deserves a deeper hon- oring, it is now half-past six, A deeper honor- ing, yes—‘ Waiter, a pint of pale sherry and a cigar; a later edition of the G/ode, if it is out.” “Yes, sir, here’s the G/obe. Half-crown sherry, yes, sir. Further particulars.” ‘The waiter puts down the sherry and goes away. Michael Grame’s hand trembles with excitement as he pours out a glass of the wine and raises it to his lips before looking at the paper. Usually he is a water-drinker: the stout has made him feel warm and comfortable. The biting heat of the sherry diffuses a quick thrill of delight through his frame. He swal- lows the contents of the glass and then takes up the paper. His eyes light on two words, and everything else on the sheet is nothing. The two words are “ Michael Grame!” This is the crowning moment of his life. He feels the bays of fame upon his forehead, All London is talking of him now; all the world shall talk of him by and by. And all London shall not only talk of him, but shall talk well of him, shall rend the clouds with his name! Oh! consummation of all his hopes, supreme deliv- erance of the conception of a lifetime! Oh! gladness of a holy triumph! He drinks another glass of the sherry before reading the new paragraph. ‘The latest intelli- gence in the Gide is contained in a few words, but the words are full of grave significance: “We have gathered a little additional news of the coming protest. So far as we are able to judge, the demonstration will take more the form of a coup than we first indicated. Mr. Michael Grame, Secretary of the Independent Metropolitan Engine-Drivers’ Association, has organized the scheme. ‘The police are already adopting precautions.” “The police!” mutters Michael Grame in bland condescension; “the police! they are about as powerful against my plan as the smoke of this cigar against a whirlwind!” He drinks the sherry quickly. His face is now becoming flushed and his eye excited; red lines frame the scar upon his cheek, the centre of the scar grows deadly white. At ordinary times the blackened glass covering the cavity under the eyebrow looks dark and cold, now it catches and reflects the glowing hues beneath and around it, and shines like iron at a dull red heat, Michael Grame sits drinking the unaccus- tomed sherry and smoking unaccustomed cigars until half-past seven. When he rises to go he feels a slight sense of dissatisfaction with him- self for having tarried so long, and added the sherry to the stout. No doubt he required the stout to strengthen him and take the ragged edges off his nerves so that they might not jar at every contact, but now he experiences a dis- satisfying suspicion that he has been guilty of an excess, an excess too in the supreme passage of his life, and when any moment may bring him grave news of his wife's condition. But when he reaches the keen exterior air, and feels it cool and freshen him, he loses all sense of uneasiness, and walks swiftly and eagerly back to the office in Farringdon Street, there to await the maturing of his great plan, and to see and talk to such men as may seck him for instruction or counsel. A number of men are in his office; many have grave, earnest faces, many like himself are a little flushed and excited. At half-past eleven most of the men have left. Some have departed to their alloted posts, some to their homes, several into the streets to see the effect of the titanic blow. At half-past eleven on this same night, Mrs. Ilford sends in all haste a messenger into town for Michael Grame. There is no unexpected alarm at the house in Shakspere Road, but the long-anticipated event is at hand, and it is most desirable that the master of the house should be at home. The messenger is the little maid-of-all-work, and she goes with speed to the Brixton Station, and there takes the train to Ludgate Hill. ‘It is close upon midnight before she reaches Farringdon Street. She passes under the Viaduct on her way to the of- fice; where Michael Grame now sits all by him- self. At two minutes past twelve Michael Grame stands up and lights four candles that stand on the writing-table. Then he sits down in his elbow-chair smoking a cigar and staring into the gas-lamp on the table. At five minutes past twelve the flame of the gas changes from pale yellow to faint blue. Soon the flames grow shorter and thinner. He smiles at it a smile of comprehension and satis- faction. In three minutes more the flame flic- kers, jumps, flickers, and—goes out! With a wild shout of triumph he springs to his feet and rushes to the window. His gait is not quite steady. He must have been drink- ing since he left Fleet Street. He catches hold of the sash, steadies himself, draws up the blind, and looks out. All over London at this moment has fallen a sudden pall of darkness. Not a gas-jet burns in chamber or street. ‘The gas stokers all over London have struck, and at the same instant turned off the gas! At this moment, pale and trembling with terror, the little maid messenger from Shak- spere Road opens the door of Michael Grame’s office and enters the room. Seeing no one in the room but him, she is a little reassured; she hastens to him and puts her hand on his shoul- der. Hegjurns round, swaying unsteadily to | and fro, recognizes her, and seizing her by the shoulder calls out in a hoarse thick voice: “Do you see that black darkness ?—I made it! Do you remark that silence ? —that is mine too. But these are only parts of my work. That darkness and that silence are designed by me to compel justice, to make the driver of white slaves feel the power of the white slaves, and to show those who use the handiwork of white slaves that the slaves have power over their own handiwork, that they can withhold their own handiwork if they choose!” (To be concluded.) Ber SOME BLANK CARTRIDGE VERSE, A LA CRISWELL, (Chas. C. Fohnson, Wheeling Sunday Leader.) Why do we laugh? Aye, that’s the question! Darwin, who hath mounted the ladder of science, Holds forth in books, at two dollars each, Sold only by subscription, that man is but The descendant of an animal, and yet Barnum Would give half his kingdom for any four- legged Beast that could “ haw-haw " even as badly As a circus clown. - The truth is, for statistics of which please ad- ress Eli Perkins, that laughter is heaven-born— But to the conundrum hinted at in the first line! No prizes given for successful answers, as This paper is not Puck nor the New York World, We laugh because about fifty paragraphers Of the American press, hold a concave mirror Up to nature, and make current matters as pleasing As a big insurance policy to the widow of a dead husband. ‘Their quirks, their puns and queer conceits Are to a newspaper what the sparkle is to cham- pagne, Without which, we would hold it cheaper Than a poor article of St. Louis whisky. «Let me write the paragraphs of a paper, And I care not who writes the editorials,” Said one of ‘these happy philosophers whose eat Is as level as the composing-stone Of a first-class job office. Therefore, it is decided that a man Who makes a nation laugh is entitled to About $100 a week damages. Yet the fact is That he can only recover about $15; But he is bound to get justice in ‘The Higher Court above, and Don’t you forget it. —Enlarged Cincinnati Saturday Night, “ALL the nice men are married,” exclaimed a bright-eyed beauty the other day, with a toss of her little head. She probably meant to say that all married men were nice. Of course they are. It is marriage that makes them so, and the thing for that same little beauty to do is to take compassion on some miserable bache- lor and make him both happy and “nice.” — Causeur in Boston Transcript. “T pon’r deny that we have bugs,” said a Leadville landlord ; “ but you will not find them the same wild western animals they have at the other hotels in town. My bugs never ask more than half the bed, and no guest has ever com- plained that they kicked, snored, talked in their sleep or spit on the carpet. I sent clear to New York for this breed of bugs.” — Cincin- nati Enquirer.