"Want a job, Average?"
Bertram, his elegance undimmed by the first really trying weather ofthe early summer, drifted to the coolest spot in the Ad-Visor'ssanctum and spread his languid length along a wicker settee.
"Give a man breathing space, can't you?" returned Average Jones."This is hotter than Baja California."
"Why, I assumed that your quest of the quack's scion would havetrained you down fit for anything."
"Haven't even caught up with the clippings that Simpson floods mewith, since I came back," confessed the other. "What have you gotup your faultlessly creased sleeve? It's got to be somethingdifferent to rouse me from a well-earned lethargy."
"Because a man buncoes a loving father out of five thousanddollars," Average Jones snorted gently, "is no reason why he shouldunanimously elect himself a life member of the Sons of Idleness,"'murmured Bertram.
He cast an eye around the uniquely decorated walls, upon which hung,here, the shrieking prospectus of a mythical gold-mine; there asmall but venomous political placard, and on all sides examples ofthe uncouth or unusual in paid print; exploitations of grotesquequackeries; appeals, business-like, absurd, or even passionate, inthe form of "Wants;" threats thinly disguised as "Personals;"' dimsuggestions of crime, of fraud, of hope, of tragedy, of mania, alldecorated with the stars of "paid matter" or designated by the Adv.sign, and each representing some case brought to A. Jones,Ad-Visor--to quote his hybrid and expressive doorplate--by some oneof his numerous and incongruous clients.
"Something different?" repeated the visitor, reverting to AverageJones' last observation. "Well, yes; I think so. Where is BellairStreet?"
"Ask a directory. How should I know?" retorted the other lazily."Sounds like old Greenwich Village."
Bertram reached over with a cane of some pale, translucent greenwood, selected to match his pale green tie and the marvelous greenopal which held it in place, and prodded his friend severely in theribs. "Double-up Lucy; the sun is in the sky!" he proclaimed withunwonted energy. "Listen. I cut this out of yesterday's EveningRegister. With my own fair hands I did it, to rouse you from yourshameless sloth. With your kind attention, ladies and gentlemen--"He read:
"WANTED--A young man, unattached, competent to act as assistant in outdoor scientific work. Manual skill as desirable as experience. Emolument for one month's work generous. Man without family insisted upon. Apply after 8:30 P. M. in proper person. Smith, 74 Bellair Street."
Slowly whirling in his chair, Average Jones held out a hand,received the clipping, read it through with attention, laid it onthe desk, and yawned.
"Is that all?" said the indignant Bertram. "Do you notice that'unattached' in the opening sentence? And the specification thatthe applicant must be without family? Doesn't that inspire anynotion above a yawn in your palsied processes of mind?"
"It does; several notions. I yawned," explained Average Joneswith dignity, "because I perceive with pain that I shall have togo to work. What do you make of the thing, yourself?"
"Well, this man Smith--"
"What man Smith?"
"Smith, of 74 Bellair Street, who signs the ad."
Average Jones laughed, "There isn't any Smith," he said.
"What do you know about it?" demanded Bertram, sitting up.
"Only what the advertisement tells me. It was written by aforeigner; that's too obvious for argument. 'Emolument generous.''Apply in proper person.' Did a Smith ever write that? No. ABorgrevsky might have, or a Greiffenhauser, or even aMavronovoupoulos. But never Smith."
"Well, it's nothing to me what his name is. Only I thought youmight be the aspiring young scientist he was yearning for."
"Wouldn't wonder if I were, thank you. Let's see. BellairStreet? Where's the directory? Thanks. Yes, it is GreenwichVillage. Well, I think I'll just stroll down that way and have alook after dinner."
Thus it was that Mr. Adrian Van Reypen Egerton Jones foundhimself on a hot May evening pursuing the Adventure of Life intothe vestibule of a rather dingy old house which had once been theabode of solemn prosperity if not actual aristocracy in the oldendays of New York City. Almost immediately the telegraphic clickof the lock apprised him that he might enter, and as he steppedinto the hallway the door of the right-hand ground-floor apartmentopened to him.
"You will please come in," said a voice.
The tone was gentle and measured. Also it was, by its accent, aliento any rightful Smith. The visitor stepped into a passageway whichwas dim until he entered it and the door swung behind him. Then itbecame pitch black.
"You will pardon this," said the voice. "A severe affection of theeyes compels me."
"You are Mr. Smith?" asked Average Jones.
"Yes. Your hand if you please."
The visitor, groping, brushed with his fingers the back of a handwhich felt strangely hot and pulpy. Immediately the hand turned andclosed, and he was led forward to an inner room and seated in achair. The gentle, hot clasp relaxed and left his wrist free. Adoor facing him, if his ears could be trusted, opened and shut.
"You will find matches at your elbow," said the voice, comingdulled, from a further apartment. "Doubtless you would be morecomfortable with a light."
"Thank you," returned Average Jones, enormously entertained by thedime-novel setting which his host had provided for him.
He lighted the gas and looked about a sparsely furnished roomwithout a single distinguishing feature, unless a high andodd-shaped traveling-bag which stood on a chair near by could be soregarded. The voice interrupted his survey.
"You have come in answer to my advertisement?"
"Yes, sir."
"You are, then, of scientific pursuit?"
"Of scientific ambition, at least. I hope to meet yourrequirements."
"Your name, if you please."
"Jones; A. Jones, of New York City."
"You live with your family?"
"I have no family or near relatives."
"That is well. I will not conceal from, you that there are risks.But the pay is high. Can you endure exposure? Laboring in allweathers? Subsisting on rough fare and sleeping as you may?"
"I have camped in the northern forests."
"Yes," mused the voice. "You look hardy."
Average Jones arose. "You--er--are spying upon me, then," he drawledquietly. "I might have--er--suspected a peep-hole."
He advanced slowly toward the door whence the voice came. A chairblocked his way. Without lowering his gaze he shoved at theobstacle with his foot.
"Have a care!" warned the voice.
The chair toppled and overturned. From it fell, with a light shock,the strange valise, which, striking the floor, flew open, disclosinga small cardboard cabinet. Across the front of the cabinet was astrip of white paper labeled in handwriting, each letter beingindividual, with what looked to the young man like the word "MERCY."He stooped to replace the bag.
"Do not touch it," ordered the voice peremptorily.
Average Jones straightened up to face the door again.
"I will apologize for my clumsiness," he said slowly, "when youexplain why you have tried to trick me."
There was a pause. Then:
"Presently," said the voice. "Meantime, after what you haveaccidentally seen, you will perhaps appreciate that the employmentis not without its peril!"
Average Jones stared from the door to the floored cabinet and backagain in stupefaction.
"Perhaps I'm stupid," he said, "but a misshapen valise containing acabinet with a girl's name on it doesn't seem calculated to scare anable-bodied man to death. It isn't full of dynamite, is it?"
"What is your branch of scientific work?" counter-questioned theother.
"Botany," replied the young man, at random.
"No other? Physics? Entomology? Astronomy? Chemistry? Biology?"
The applicant shook his head in repeated negation. "None that I'vespecialized on."
"Ah! I fear you will not suit my purpose."
"All right. But you haven't explained, yet, why you've beenstudying me through a peep-hole, when I am not allowed to see you."
After a pause of consideration the voice spoke again.
"You are right. Since I can not employ you, I owe you everycourtesy for having put you to this trouble. You will observe thatI am not very presentable."
The side door swung open. In the dimness of the half-disclosedapartment Average Jones saw a man huddled in a chair. He wore ablack skull cap. So far as identification went he was safe. Hiswhole face was grotesquely blotched and swollen. So, also, were thehands which rested on his knees.
"You will pardon me," said Average Jones, "but I am by naturecautious. You have touched me. Is it contagious?"
A contortion of the features, probably indicating a smile, made thechangeling face more hideous than before.
"Be at peace," he said. "It is not. You can find your way out? Ibid you good evening, sir."
"Now I wonder," mused Average Jones, as he jolted on the rearplatform of an Eighth Avenue car, "by what lead I could have landedthat job. I rather think I've missed something."
All that night, and recurrently on many nights thereafter, thepoisoned and contorted face and the scrawled "MERCY" on the cabinetlurked troublously in his mind. Nor did Bertram cease to scoff himfor his maladroitness until both of them temporarily forgot thestrange "Smith" and his advertisement in the entrancement of a chasewhich led them for a time far back through the centuries to a climaxthat might well have cost Average Jones his life. They had returnedfrom Baltimore and the society of the Man who spoke Latin a few dayswhen Bertram, at the club, called up Average Jones' office.
"I'm sending Professor Paul Gehren to you," was his message. "He'llcall to-day or to-morrow."
Average Jones knew Professor Gehren by sight, knew of him further byrepute as an impulsive, violent, warm-hearted and learned punditwho, for a typically meager recompense, furnished sundry classes ofyoung gentlemen with amusement, alarm and instruction, in aboutequal parts, through the medium of lectures at the MetropolitanUniversity. During vacations the professor pursued, with somedegree of passion, experiments which added luster and selectedportions of the alphabet to his name. Twice a week he walkeddown-town to the Cosmic Club, where he was wont to dine and expressdestructive and anarchistic views upon the nature, conduct, motivesand personality of the organization's governing committees.
On the day following Bertram's telephone, Professor Gehren enteredAstor Court Temple, took the elevator to the ninth floor, and,following directions, found himself scanning a ground-glass windowflaunting the capitalized and, gilded legend,
A. JONES, AD-VISOR
"Ad-Visor," commented the professor, rancorously. "A vicious verbalmonstrosity!" He read on:
ADVICE UPON ADVERTISING IN ALL FORMS Consultation Free. Step In
"Consultation free!" repeated the educator with virulence. "A trap!A manifest pitfall! I don't know why Mr. Bertram should have sentme hither. The enterprise is patently quack," he asseverated in arising voice.
Upon the word a young man opened the door and, emerging, receivedthe accusation full in the face. The young man smiled.
"Quack, I said," repeated the exasperated mentor, "and I repeat it.Quack!"
"If you're suffering from the delusion that you're a duck," observedthe young man mildly, "you'll find a taxidermist on the top floor."
The caller turned purple. "If you are Mr. Jones, of the CosmicClub--"
"I am."
"--there are certain things which Mr. Bertram must explain."
"Yes; Bertram said that you were coming, but I'd almost given youup. Come in."
"Into a--a den where free advice is offered? Of all the patent andinfernal rascalities, sir, the offer of free advice--"
"There, there," soothed the younger man. "I know all about the freeswindles. This isn't one of them. It's just a fad of mine."
He led the perturbed scholar inside and got him settled in a chair."Now, go ahead. Show me the advertisement and tell me how much youlost."
"I've lost my assistant. There is no advertisement about it. WhatI came for is advice. But upon seeing your tricky door-plate--"
"Oh, that's merely to encourage the timorous. Who is thisassistant?"
"Harvey Craig, a youth, hardly more than a boy, for whom I feel acertain responsibility, as his deceased parents left him in mycare."
"Yes," said Jones as the professor paused.
"He has disappeared."
"When?"
"Permanently, since ten days ago."
"Permanently?"
"Up to that time he had absented himself without reporting to me foronly three or four days at a time."
"He lived with you?"
"No. He had been aiding me in certain investigations at mylaboratory."
"In what line?"
"Metallurgy."
"When did he stop?"
"About four weeks ago."
"Did he give any reason?"
"He requested indefinite leave. Work had been offered him, hehinted, at a very high rate of remuneration."
"You don't know by whom?"
"No, I know nothing whatever about it."
"Have you any definite suspicions as to his absence?"
"I gravely fear that the boy has made away with himself."
"Why so?"
"After his first absence I called to see him at his room. He hadobviously undergone a violent paroxysm of grief or shame."
"He told you this?"
"No. But his eyes, and, indeed, his whole face, were abnormallyswollen, as with weeping."
"Ah, yes." Average Jones' voice had suddenly taken on a boredindifference. "Were--er--his hands, also?"
"His hands? Why should they?"
"Of course, why, indeed? You noted them?"
"I did not, sir."
"Did he seem depressed or morose?"
"I can not say that be did."
"Professor Gehren, what, newspaper do you take?"
The scholar stared. "The Citizen in the morning, The Register inthe evening."
"Are either of them delivered to your laboratory?"
"Yes; the Register."
"Do you keep it on file?"
"No."
"Ah! That's a pity. Then you wouldn't know if one were missing?"
The professor reflected. "Yes, there was a copy containing a letterupon Von Studeborg's recent experiments--"
"Can you recall the date?"
"After the middle of June, I think."
Average Jones sent for a file and handed it to Professor Gehren.
"Is this it?" he asked, indicating the copy of June 18.
"That is the letter!" said that gentleman.
Average Jones turned the paper and found, upon an inside page, thestrange advertisement from 74 Bellair Street.
"One more question, Professor," said he. "When did you last see Mr.Craig?"
"Nine or ten days ago. I think it was July 2."
"How did he impress you?"
"As being somewhat preoccupied. Otherwise normal."
"Was his face swollen then?"
"No."
"Where did you see him?"
"The first time at my laboratory, about eleven o'clock."
"You saw him again that day, then?"
"Yes. We met by accident at a little before two P.M. onTwenty-third Street. I was surprised, because he had told me he hadto catch a noon train and return to his work."
"Then he hadn't done so?"
"Yes. He explained that he had, but that he had been sent back tobuy some supplies."
"You believe he was telling the truth?"
"In an extensive experience with young men I have never known a moretruthful one than he."
"Between the first day of his coming back to New York and the last,had you seen him?"
"I had talked with him over the telephone. He called up two orthree times to say that he was well and working hard and that hehoped to be back in a few weeks."
"Where did he call up from?"
"As he did not volunteer the information, I am unable to say."
"Unfortunate again. Well, I think you may drop the notion ofsuicide. If anything of importance occurs, please notify me atonce. Otherwise, I'll send you word when I have made progress."
Having dismissed the anxious pundit, Average Jones, so immersed inthought as to be oblivious to outer things, made his way to theCosmic Club in a series of caroms from indignant pedestrian toindignant pedestrian. There, as he had foreseen, he found RobertBertram.
"Can I detach you from your usual bridge game this evening?" hedemanded of that languid gentleman.
"Very possibly. What's the inducement?"
"Chapter Second of the Bellair Street advertisement. I've told youthe first chapter. You've been the god-outside-the-machine so far.Now, come on in."
Together they went to the Greenwich Village house. The name "Smith"had disappeared from the vestibule.
"As I expected," said Jones. "Our hope be in the landlord!"
The landlord turned out to be a German landlady, who knew littleconcerning her late ground-floor tenant and evinced no interest inthe subject. The "perfessor," as she termed "Smith," had taken theflat by the month, was prompt in payment, quiet in habit, given tolong and frequent absences; had been there hardly at all in the lastfew weeks. Where had he moved to? Hummel only knew! He had leftno address. Where did his furniture go? Nowhere; he'd left itbehind. Was any one in the house acquainted with him? Mrs. Marronin the other ground-floor flat had tried to be. Not much luck, shethought.
Mrs. Marron was voluble, ignorant, and a willing source ofinformation.
"The perfessor? Sure! I knew'm. 'Twas me give'm the name. He wasa Mejum. Naw! Not for money. Too swell for that. But a real-thingMejum. A big one; one of the kind it comes to, nacheral.Spirit-rappin's! Somethin' fierce! My kitchen window is on theair-shaft. So's his. Many's the time in the still evenin's I'veheard the rap-rap-rappin' on his window an' on the wall, but mostlyon the window. Blip! out of the dark. It'd make you just hop! Andhim sittin' quiet and peaceful in the front room all the time. Yep;my little girl seen him there while I was hearin' the raps."
"Did you ask him about them?" inquired Jones.
"Sure! He wouldn't have it at first. Then he kinder smiled andhalf owned up. And once I seen him with his materializin' wand,sittin' in the room almost dark."
"His what?"
"Materializin' wand. Spirit-rod, you know. As tall as himself andall shiny and slick. It was slim and sort o' knobby like this wood--what's the name of it, now?--they make fish poles out of. Only thereal big-bugs in spiritualism use 'em. They're dangerous. Youwouldn't caich me touchin' it or goin' in there even now. I says toMrs. Kraus, I says--"
And so the stream of high-pitched, eager talk flowed until the twomen escaped from it into the vacant apartment. This was much asAverage Jones had seen on his former visit. Only the strange valisewas missing. Going to the kitchen, which he opened throughintermediate doors on a straight line with the front room, AverageJones inspected the window. The glass was thickly marked withfaint, bluish blurs, being, indeed, almost opaque from them in themiddle of the upper pane. There was nothing indicative below thewindow, unless it were a considerable amount of crumbled putty,which he fingered with puzzled curiosity.
In the front room a mass of papers had been half burned. Some ofthem were local journals, mostly the Evening Register. A few werepublications in the Arabic text.
"Oriental newspapers," remarked Bertram.
Average Jones picked them up and began to fold them. From betweentwo sheets fluttered a very small bit of paper, narrow and halfcurled, as if from the drying of mucilage. He lifted and read it.
"Here we are again, Bert," he remarked in his most casual tone."The quality of this Mercy is strained, all right."
The two men bent over the slip, studying it. The word was, asAverage Jones had said, in a strained, effortful handwriting, andeach letter stood distinct. These were the characters:
MERCY
"Is it mathematical, do you think, possibly?" asked Average Jones.
"All alone by itself like that? Rather not! More like a label, ifyou ask me."
"The little sister of the label on the cabinet, then."
"Cherchez la femme," observed Bertram. "It sounds like perfectfoolishness to me; a swollen faced outlander who rules familiarspirits with a wand, and, between investigations in the realms ofscience, writes a girl's name all over the place like a lovesickschool-boy! Is Mercy his spirit-control, do you suppose?"
"Oh, let's get out of here," said Average Jones. "I'm getting dizzywith it all. The next step," he observed, as they walked slowly upthe street, "is by train. Want to take a short trip to-morrow,Bert? Or, perhaps, several short trips?"
"Whither away, fair youth?"
"To the place where the fake 'Smith' and the lost Craig have beendoing their little stunts."
"I thought you said Professor Gehren couldn't tell you where Craighad gone."
"No more he could. So I've got to find out for myself. Here's theway I figure it out: The two men have been engaged in someout-of-door work that is extra hazardous. So much we know. HarveyCraig has, I'm afraid, succumbed to it. Otherwise he'd have sentsome word to Professor Gehren. He may be dead or he may only bedisabled by the dangerous character of the work, whatever it was.In any case our mysterious foreign friend has probably skipped outhastily. Now, I propose to find the railroad station they passedthrough, coming and going, and interview the ticket agent."
"You've got a fine large contract on your hands to find it."
"Not so large, either. All we have to do is to look for a placethat is very isolated and yet quite near New York."
"How do you know it is quite near New York?"
"Because Harvey Craig went there and back between noon and twoo'clock, Professor Gehren says. Now, we've got to find such a placewhich is near a stretch of deserted, swampy ground, very badlyinfested with mosquitoes. I'd thought of the Hackensack Meadows,just across the river in Jersey."
"That is all very well," said Bertram; "but why mosquitoes?"
"Why, the poisoned and swollen face and hands both of them sufferedfrom," explained Average Jones. "What else could it be?"
"I'd thought of poison-ivy or some kind of plant they'd beengrubbing at."
"So had I. But I happened to think that anything of that sort, ifit had poisoned them once, would keep on poisoning them, whilemosquitoes they could protect themselves against, if they didn'tbecome immune, as they most likely would. As there must have been alot of 'skeeters' to do the kind of job that 'Smith's' face showed,I naturally figured on a swamp."
"Average," said Bertram solemnly, "there are times when I conceive asort of respect for your commonplace and plodding intellect. Now,let me have my little inning. I used to commute--on the Jersey andDelaware Short Line. There's a station on that line, Pearlington byname, that's a combination of Mosquitoville, Lonesomehurst andNutting Doon. It's in the mathematical center of the ghastliestmarsh anywhere between Here and Somewhere else. I think that's ourlittle summer resort, and I'm yours for the nine A. M. trainto-morrow."
Dismounting from that rather casual accommodation on the followingday, the two friends found Pearlington to consist of a windowedpacking-box inhabited by a hermit in a brass-buttoned blue. Thislonely official readily identified the subjects of Average Jones'inquiry.
"I guess I know your friends, all right. The dago was tall and thinand had white hair; almost snow-white. No, he wasn't old, neither.He talked very soft and slow. Used to stay off in the reeds threeand four days at a time. No, ain't seen him for near a week; himnor his boat nor the young fellow that was with him. Sort ofbugologists, or something, wasn't they."
"Have you any idea where we could find their camp?"
The railroad man laughed.
"Fine chance you got of finding anything in that swamp. There's tensquare miles of it, every square just like every other square, and ahundred little islands, and a thousand creeks and rivers windingthrough."
"You're right," agreed Average Jones. "It would take a month tosearch it. You spoke of a boat."
"It's my notion they must have had a houseboat. They could a-rowedit up on the tide from the Kills--a little one. I never saw no tentwith 'em. And they had to have something over their heads. Theboat I seen 'em have was a rowboat. I s'pose they used it to goback and forth in."
"Thanks," said Average Jones. "That's a good idea about thehouseboat."
On the following day this advertisement appeared in the newspapersof several shore towns along the New Jersey and Staten Island coast.
A DRIFT--A small houseboat lost several days ago from the Hackensack Meadows. Fifty dollars reward paid for information leading to recovery. Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple, New York.
Two days later came a reply, locating the lost craft at Bayonne.Average Jones went thither and identified it. Within its singleroom was uttermost confusion, testifying to the simplest kind ofhousekeeping sharply terminated. Attempt had been made to burn theboat before it was given to wind and current, but certain evidencesof charred wood, and the fact of a succession of furiousthunder-showers in the week past, suggested the reason for failure.In a heap of rubbish, where the fire had apparently started, AverageJones found, first, a Washington newspaper, which he pocketed; next,with a swelling heart, the wreck of the pasteboard cabinet, but nosign of the strange valise which had held it. The "Mercy" sign wasgone from the cabinet, its place being supplied by a placard,larger, in a different handwriting, and startlingly more specific:
"DANGER! IF FOUND DESTROY AT ONCE.Do Not Touch With Bare Hands."
There was nothing else. Gingerly, Average Jones detached the sign.The cabinet proved to be empty. He pushed a rock into it, lifted iton the end of a stick and dropped it overboard. One after anothereight little fishes glinted up through the water, turned their whitebellies to the sunlight and bobbed, motionless. The investigatorhastily threw away the label and cast his gloves after it. But onhis return to the city he was able to give a reproduction of thewriting to Professor Gehren which convinced that anxious scholarthat Harvey Craig had been alive and able to write not long beforethe time when the houseboat was set adrift.