THE REAL THING
Just before midnight on the ninth day of December in the year 1881, Malcolm Joyce, of New Haven, made the acquaintance of the real thing. Prior to that time he had been a sceptic. At the time of his startling experience, he was in San Francisco, visiting friends whose home was charmingly situated near the summit of Nob Hill, that conspicuous eminence on California Street, once the scene of "sand-lot" riots, and famous for its palaces of millionaires.
Joyce, having spent the evening with his host at a theatre party and an hour at whist, had glanced over a packet of London papers, smoked a cigar, and turned off the light preparatory to going to bed. He stepped to the large bay window of his chamber, to enjoy for a moment the impressive panorama spread below him in the sombre silence.
There before him, just across the bay, whose fantastically scattered lights of red and green serve as guiding stars to the mariner passing through the Golden Gate, lay Oakland, the beautiful city of sunny homes. To his left loomed up with awe-inspiring grandeur through the dim shadows the palatial residences of the immediate vicinity, each dark and silent in its solitary majesty. To the right, in the very shadow of this manifestation of Occidental millions, and but a block distant, lay acres of dismal roofs, sheltering never-ending scenes of Oriental contrast—Chinatown—with its fifty thousand souls, its underground opium joints and gambling hells, its temples of wealth and piety and dens of vice and penury.
As Joyce turned from the contemplation of the strange contrast presented by the scene, the silence of which was broken only by the ceaseless buzz of the invisible cables in the street below, he was startled by the signal gongs of two cable cars which passed each other directly in front of the house. Almost unconsciously he returned to his position at the window and paused to watch the one disappear over the summit, while the other as speedily descended the long, steep hill, so steep that its pavement, never trodden by horses' hoofs, is grass-grown in the crevices. He stood but a moment and then, realizing the lateness of the hour, turned abruptly to go to bed. As he did so, his eyes swept once more the hilltop just beyond.
Horror! Was he asleep? Did he dream? No. From the tower half-way down the hill came the first stroke of midnight, assuring him that he was awake. With an icy shudder, chained to the spot, he continued to gaze at a ghastly spectacle, clearly outlined upon the gloomy background by the light of the street lamp a block above.
He saw it moving—a human skeleton with uplifted arm and flowing shroud, all ghastly white, all too real to be mistaken, from the gleaming skull to the fluttering robe. He saw it approaching nearer and nearer—gliding swiftly and noiselessly through the air, above the middle of the street. He tried to move, but could not,—his eyes refused to leave the hideous sight. He saw it coming, closer and closer. It would pass below him, not a hundred feet away.
Determined that will and courage should conquer doubt and fear, summoning all his strength of nerve, he pressed closer to the window, so close that his face fairly touched the glass—and he saw a human skeleton soaring through the air.
Now, Malcolm Joyce was not easily frightened. No one had ever accused him of cowardice, and they who knew him readily believed his statement that he enjoyed solitude. Yet, as he stood there in the darkness, his eyes fixed upon the vanishing figure, he felt somehow that he should welcome company, particularly the company of another not easily frightened. So strong was this impression of the occasional disadvantage of solitude that without delay he relighted the gas and stepped before the mirror. The deathly pallor and agitation that confronted him was bewildering.
As he tried to calm himself and change the current of his thoughts he recalled the "spook test" of an old hunter whom he had met in New South Wales.
This test consisted in asking oneself three questions: "Are you awake, are you sober, are you sane?" By the time these queries are propounded and answered, the ghost on trial will have proved itself an illusion.
Without hesitation Joyce answered the first two questions—he was unquestionably awake and sober. But was he in his right mind? He picked up a paper and read for a moment, but failed to grasp a single idea! He turned the page. He could read, but he could not understand! He jumped up, dazed, frightened, trembling, perspiring. Was his mind giving way under the strain it had undergone? Once more he looked at the first page of the paper before him. It was "London Punch"! He was sane!
Hardly had he satisfied himself of the success of his test, when the familiar signals of two passing cars again sounded in his ears. With the air of a man convinced that the cause of fear and suffering has been groundless, he lighted a fresh cigar, stepped briskly to the window, and, puffing slowly and regularly, calmly watched the course of the diverging cars. As the distance between them increased, he followed the one going down-hill until it had reached a point nearly two blocks distant, and then turned his attention to the summit over which the other had already disappeared.
As he sharply watched the critical spot his anxiety decreased as, after some moments, no signs of the unearthly sight appeared.
Of course, he reasoned, while the object he had beheld some ten or fifteen minutes before might never appear again, it still might have been a ghost. A sensation akin to doubt stole over him.
But, whether or not his eyes had, after all, played him a trick, he was now ready to go to bed.
He drew down the shade of the window to his left and had grasped the cord of the one directly before him, when his arm fell to his side as if paralyzed. With a loud whirr the suddenly released shade rushed upward, and there, not thirty yards in front of and below him, he beheld the shocking spectre gliding up-hill.
He stood in rigid horror, held by the grim monstrosity.
Inclining slightly forward as it soared past, with bony arm upstretched to heaven, its bleached death's head bare and shining, the snowy drapery enshrouding its skeleton form in a silent flutter, it presented to Joyce's view the most horribly revolting and yet fascinating spectacle he had ever beheld, and one that he never forgot. In the face of this further proof all his doubts vanished, and he felt absolutely certain that he had seen what is here described.
But, even before the frightful object had finally passed from his view, he experienced one of those sudden revulsions of feeling by which fear becomes courage, and anxiety is followed by mental calm, and thus reconciled to a new belief, he went to bed.
When he awoke on the following morning, he decided to say nothing to any one of his strange experience until he had taken counsel with an intimate bachelor friend, a lawyer. He felt relieved, therefore, to find the breakfast chat confined to topics entirely foreign to the spirit world. Evidently none of the family had been disturbed by ghostly visions. As he looked across the table into the eyes of a bewitching girl, he almost shuddered at the fleeting thought that the gruesome nocturnal sight he had seen might have been a warning—an omen of some dread calamity that might dash forever the hope he entertained with regard to her. It was to see her again—to be at her side and, if possible, to woo her for his own—that he was in San Francisco.
Two years previous they had first met, on the opposite coast of the continent. While ranging in the Maine woods, Joyce had climbed Mount Royce and Speckle Mountain and visited the tourmaline mines, and on one of his woodland tramps had come across a college student with one foot inextricably caught in a bear trap. Fortunately, a legging buckle and a stout branch of undergrowth, caught at the same time, had prevented the terrible teeth of the trap from crushing the bone, and the young fellow, a brother of Joyce's future idol, was promptly released, nearly exhausted from the shock of his adventure and the fatigue of his fruitless struggles to escape.
The gratitude of the rescued youth and his parents resulted in an invitation to Joyce to visit the family, which he accepted with much alacrity, after having seen the pretty daughter of the house.
Ten o'clock found Malcolm Joyce at the office of his friend, the lawyer. He had expected Lucien Nelson to be sceptical and full of good-natured pleasantry and was therefore prepared for the reception accorded his unusual tale. He paid no attention to his friend's intimation that he had seen the ghost while under spiritual influence, rejected a proposition for a writ of ejectment to be served upon it, and finally aroused Nelson's interest and secured the promise of his co-operation in an armed attempt, to be made that night, to investigate the ghastly mystery.
Accordingly, twelve hours later, the two young men, each with a revolver, were snugly ensconced in a dark corner of the bay window of Joyce's chamber on Nob Hill. For two hours Malcolm was obliged to endure all the thinly veiled ridicule, biting sarcasm and ironical humor that a friend alone dare utter, so that when he at length turned up the light for a moment to make sure of the time, he was glad to find that a few moments more would bring the hour of midnight—the traditional time for ghostly visitations.
The sudden appearance of the cable cars that passed each other on the hill at twelve served as a signal for another outbreak of raillery on the part of Nelson, but Joyce, in no mood for further banter, kept his eyes upon the progress of the cars, searching the steep incline for the unearthly object which he hoped, yet dreaded, to behold. The downward car had not yet passed the cross-walk three blocks below, when, with a feeling of awe which he could not have described, mingled with a sort of lively satisfaction, he saw again the animated skeleton flash before his eyes. Emerging, apparently, from the very earth, in the rear and a little to the left of the departing car, it rose until its full length stood suspended in the air. Then, after a slight, wavering pause, it came gliding up the hill.
His experience of the previous night thus confirmed, he was able to control his voice and nerves as he said, coolly, to his companion, while dreading what the reply might be:
"Nelson, here's a friend of yours coming up street; better step out and speak to him."
To his immense relief, the trembling voice of his friend exclaimed at his ear:
"Great God! A ghost for sure!"
Nelson's horrified tone and perceptible shudder left no doubt of his state of mind, and it was with much satisfaction that Joyce seized the opportunity to turn several of the lawyer's gibes against him.
Ignoring these sarcasms, Nelson exclaimed again, emphatically:
"That was a ghost, as sure as I live—and I should like to see more of him."
"He'll very likely be back in ten or fifteen minutes, same as last night."
"Well, then, let's tackle him, on his way down."
They shook hands, and neither spoke again until they had reached the sidewalk, where, three blocks farther down, they concealed themselves in the deep shadows of a spacious doorway and awaited the expected return of the midnight visitant.
No one who has not had a similar experience can fully comprehend the thrill of suspense at such a time. He may have sought a human foe, in the open or in ambush, have stood guard at a solitary camp fire in the silent night, or passed a weary vigil in the jungle, prepared to meet any form of savage beast, but he is still a stranger to the sensation that comes to him who, in firm belief, awaits the coming of a midnight ghost.
As the passage of the cable cars on their trip next after midnight had heralded the return of the spectre on the previous night, Joyce warned his friend to be prepared for that event.
"After the car has gone and the coast is clear and quiet, go for it," he commanded.
"You bet!" was the answer, "and don't forget to be quick on the trigger."
At that instant a sharp tapping on a window, apparently a block above them, met their ears, and at the same time they saw the downward car mounting the hillside. As it approached, the noise increased to a loud rattle and then suddenly stopped. The car had no sooner passed and the hill become bare than the ghost appeared at the summit, gliding swiftly in mid-air, as on the previous occasions.
"There he comes!" the watchers exclaimed together, in excited whispers. "Remember now," whispered Nelson, "the moment he gets close enough we'll rush out, and when I say, 'Shoot!' you pump lead into that snowy skull, while I ladle some pellets between his ribs. Let him have it six times in succession. And don't forget, it's got to be all accidental,—we were frenzied with fear and shot in self-defence. Don't forget that, for we may have to swear to it."
By this time the skeleton was flying toward the block in which they were concealed.
"Now, then, rush for the middle of the street!"
They rushed, experiencing an awful moment, but when still within some feet of the apparition, a dark figure, armed with a long club, darted suddenly from a doorway on the opposite side of the street, and in another moment the spectre lay prostrate on the ground. Before the ghost hunters fully realized what had happened, they stood, breathless, behind the newcomer, as he, unconscious of their presence, stooped over his fallen quarry.
"What are you doing here?" sternly demanded Nelson, grasping the ghost-destroyer by the arm. Starting at the touch, the latter sprang forward in a frantic attempt to escape, but finding himself hopelessly detained, he stood staring wildly at his captors. "Speak. What are you doing here?" repeated the lawyer.
"Him not my glost," was the meek reply, in the trembling tones of a frightened Chinaman.
"Oh, very well. Pick him up and come with us; you are our prisoner."
Without further words, the terrified Chinaman, carrying his prize, was placed between his captors and marched quickly to Kearney Street, near by, where, behind locked doors, the two friends proceeded to investigate an affair that had excited and agitated them as nothing had ever done before.
Prostrate upon the floor, flat and motionless, their previously formidable foe was no longer impressive. True, the skull and skeleton arm, chalked to a ghastly whiteness, were still suggestive of horror, but when the drapery was lifted the anatomy disclosed was of such ludicrous simplicity and harmlessness that the astonishment of the inquisitors brought a faint smile even to the pale yellow face of the frightened heathen.
Briefly described, the plan and specifications of the ghost were as follows: A human skull was securely attached to one end of a piece of inch gas pipe twelve feet long. The other end of the pipe was flattened out, to permit its passing readily through the grip slot of the cable road, and was provided with a pair of self-acting spring nippers, ingeniously constructed of nickel, and so affixed as to act in the capacity of a grip. Front and rear guards held the structure upright. Just below the skull the pipe passed through a strip of board, two feet long by three inches wide, which served as shoulders. Over this the white shroud, which fell to within two feet of the ground, was loosely draped, while to one end of the strip the skeleton arm was fastened. Lower down, at right angles with the first, was a second board, with rounded ends, which served to give the drapery a natural spread, as well as to prevent a fracture of the skull when the figure was suddenly felled by its operators, as the two friends had seen it.
"John," said Joyce, after the examination had been made, "look at these two revolvers, and then tell us what you've got to say for yourself."
"Him not my glost," repeated the Chinaman, sullenly.
"Whose is it, then?"
"Him Wun Lung glost."
"Who is Wun Lung, and where does he live?"
"Him no livee—him dead."
"Oh! So this is his ghost. Why did you knock it down?"
"Wun Lung say, 'go catchee glost.'"
"Here!" interrupted Nelson, "you just said Wun Lung was dead."
Joyce waved his hand with some impatience. "What's your name?" he continued.
"My name Sing Lo—me velly good cook—me—"
"Hold on, Lo. Nelson, I'll match you pennies to see which of us is to give Sing Lo a dollar to tell us the whole story about the ghost."
"I'll go you," grumbled the lawyer, "but it isn't good law."
"Here you are, Sing Lo. Here's your dollar—now tell us everything, and we'll let you go."
"You givee me back Wun Lung glost?"
"Yes—go ahead."
This assurance, with the sight of the broad coin and the disappearance of the pistols, worked wonders with the hitherto quaking and evasive laundryman, and in his best English and most straightforward manner—circumlocutory as it was—he related the particulars of an interesting tale.
It appeared that Wun Lung—whose mortal remains the ingenious contrivance captured had been meant to simulate—had been the proprietor of a laundry on Dupont Street, a profitable spot, the site of which appealed to Michael O'Brien, a local politician, as very desirable for the location of a saloon, but his offer to purchase was declined and his threats disregarded. The disappointed Irishman therefore proceeded to extreme measures, broke up the laundry and shot the owner, who was Sing Lo's employer, but was promptly released with a five-dollar fine by a compatriot on the bench, on the ground of self-defence. When O'Brien established his residence and saloon on the dead Chinaman's premises, a junior Wun Lung conceived the ingenious idea of frightening the murderer away with the "ghost" of his victim. The ghastly dummy was constructed and sent flying up and down the hill at midnight, being attached to and removed from the cable by Sing Lo and his fellow-laundryman, Ah Wing, while Wun Lung himself roused the saloon keeper from drunken slumber by a sharp tapping on his window by means of a "tick-tack," as boys call an ingenious combination of string, pin, and nail. The appeal to the fears of O'Brien and the identity of the spectre were emphasized by the solitary bleached hand of the apparition, the departed Wun having had but a single arm during the latter years of his life.
"Why did your friend make this contrivance of nickel?" asked Nelson, with the instinctive inquisitiveness of his legal training.
Sing Lo grinned as he replied:
"Wun Lung say, 'Put-um nickel in slot, Ilishman see-um glost.'"
With an additional dollar, designated by Nelson as "witness fees," and with his late employer's ghost under his arm, the Chinaman was released and drifted out into the darkness of Chinatown.
Half an hour later, Joyce was on his way to the home of his friends. He paused a moment at Dupont Street, and there, near the corner, read the following sign:
Some few months afterwards, on returning from his honeymoon, which was passed among the grand scenery of Washington and Oregon, he found himself again near the corner of Dupont Street, with his bride. With a start of remembrance and recognition, he looked up. The imposing black and gold of the liquor sign had disappeared, and in its place, in gold and red, a smaller board bore the significant inscription:
It was evident to Malcolm Joyce that on the night of his memorable adventure Mr. Michael O'Brien had taken the bony semblance of his Celestial victim for The Real Thing.