Stories with a Vengeance — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

THE STORY OF JACK THE PAINTER. 17 in the least terrified. His head and limbs came in contact with innumerable objects; but none of them hurt him. Yet he was falling feet foremost and face upward, and. he must have descended to a very consider- able depth; since the amount of sky visible to him was reduced to a patch of blue no bigger than a man’s hand, in which patch, although it could scarcely be later than two in the afternoon, he could plainly see the stars. “Tf it were not,” thought Jack, “for the slight uncertainty as to the’ precise spot where I am to have my brains dashed out, this continuous tumble would be rather a lark than otherwise. They say Truth lies at the bottom of a well. I wonder whether I shall find Truth at the bottom here, if it be a well and if it have a bottom? Per- nays I am falling right through the earth, and shall come out at Wagga-Wagga. Now, what, in the name of all that’s phe- nomenal, is here P”’ All at once he ceased to fall, and found himself sitting with his legs stretched out very widely indeed on what in the imper- fect light appeared to be a bed of small shells. “Is this an aquarium, or the bed of the ocean P” Jack asked himself. ‘“ Have I reached the Periwinkle Formation ogy sunk into the Whelk StrataP Im sure I don’t know; I was never strong in geology. I only know that I’m deuced hungry. Who's that laughing? Who’s that crying ‘Golly! golly’ I’m blessed if it isn’t that con- founded little imp of a nigger who picked my pocket. Where’s my money, you young limb!” . As he spoke he started to his feet; for he saw glimmering in the semi-obscurity the face of a little negro boy, whose mouth was distended from ear to ear, and who was rolling his eyeballs in an alarmingly comic: manner, the while he laughed consumedly, varying his cachinnations by spasmodic exclamations of “ Golly !” | ‘Tl ‘ golly’ you,” cried the exasperated painter. ‘Give me back my money, you depraved scion of African royalty. But the converted son of the defunct King of All the Congoes only laughed more shrilly, and rolled his eyeballs more pro- vokingly. Fairly out of patience, Jack dashed forward to seize the impudent Ethiop; but the urchin, witha yell of deri- give defiance, ran away. Jack gave chase, and followed the flying Jumbo through a mumber of dark and tortuous corridors. Suddenly it grew quite dark, and Jumbo disappeared altogether. veils appeared to be lifted from before Jack’s eyes, and he found himself sur- rounded by a soft but brilliant ight. He found himself in a kind of rocky cave, ceiled by fantastic pendants of sta- lactite, and carpeted with seaweed and mosses of bright and variegated hues. all sides were marine plants and beautifully- shaped and coloured shells, many of which were translucent, and seemed to serve as lamps. And, in the distance, there was a delicious murmur of falling waters. “Tt is the bottom of the sea!” cried Jack. “It is not the bottom of the sea!” re- sponded some unseen person, in a clear, calm, silvery, but very decided voice. ‘Well, then, ma’am, whomsoever I have the honour to address—it’s the Grotto of Adelsberg.” | “Tt is not the Grotto of Adelsberg! Quite the reverse!” answered another in- visible respondent, whose voice wag very low, and sweet, and gentle, but whose accent was one no less of firm decision. “Try again,” resumed, with a low bow, the unabashed artist. ‘Shall we say that it’s the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, or Cremorne Gardens, or a Transtormation Scene in a Pantomime P” “It is nothing whatever of the kind!” retorted a third voice, a very rich contralto, seemingly well exercised in tones of autho- rity and command. “Itis the Home of the Three Sisters; and Here They Are.” There had entered noiselessly—if they had entered at all—three youthful and beautiful ladies. The tallest and most matronly-looking of the trio wore a rich velvet robe confined at the waist by a golden zone. Her white fingers and neck sparkled with jewels. Her hair and eyes were very dark and lustrous. Her ruby lips were full and pouting; but on her upper lip there was the faintest indication possible of a dark and silky moustache. So classically modelled, however, were her features, that the slight hirsute addition at which I have hinted rather enhanced than detracted from her magnificent beauty. “My name is Philocoma,” graciously remarked the superb dame with the mous- tache. “My husband is up on that stupid earth, engaged on what he calls serious business. 1 merely mention this little fact in order that you may not try to flirt with me.” “ Never flirted with any lady in my life,” protested the painter; “especially with married women. I’d break the head of the scoundrel who dared to flirt with my wife, The darkness, however, did not last many | if I had one.” moments. By slow degrees a succession of B Google “Profession is one thing and practice is On. > a JOO S CO)