Ghosts I Have Met and Some Others

Three weeks later he turned up once more.  “Great Heavens!” I cried; “you back again?”

“Yes,” he answered; “and I’ve come to tell you I’m mighty sorry about those ruined MSS. of yours.  It is too bad that your whole day’s work had to go for nothing.”

[Illustration:  “HE WAS AMPLY PROTECTED”]

“I think so myself,” I retorted, coldly.  “It’s rather late in the day for you to be sorry, though.  If you’ll show your sincerity by going away and never crossing my path again, I may believe in you.”

“Ah!” he said, “I’ve shown it in another way.  Indeed I have.  You know I have some conscience, though, to tell the truth, I haven’t made much use of it.  This time, however, as I considered the situation, a little voice rose up within me and said:  ’It’s all right, old chap, to be rough on this person; make him mad and shove him every which way; but don’t destroy his work.  His work is what he lives by—­’”

“Yes,” I interrupted, “and after what I told you on the steamer about what I would do to you when we got on even terms, you are not anxious to have me die.  I know just how you feel.  No thing likes to contemplate that paralysis that will surely fall upon you when my ghost begins to get in its fine work.  I’m putting it in training now.”

“You poor droll mortal!” laughed the cockney.  “You poor droll mortal!  As if I could ever be afraid of that!  What is the matter with my going into training myself?  Two can train, you know—­even three.  You almost make me feel sorry I tried to remedy the loss of those MSS.”

Somehow or other a sense of some new misfortune came upon me.

“What?” I said, nervously.

“I say I’m almost sorry I tried to remedy the loss of those manuscripts.  Composition, particularly poetry, is devilish hard for me—­I admit it—­and when I think of how I toiled over my substitutes for your ruined stuff, and see how very ungrateful you are, I grudge the effort.”

“I don’t understand you,” I said, anxiously.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I have written and sent out to the editors of the papers you write for a half a dozen poems and short stories.”

“What has all that got to do with me?” I demanded.

“A great deal,” he said.  “You’ll get the pay. I signed your name to ’em.”

“Y—­you—­you—­you—­did what?” I cried.

“Signed your name to ’em.  There was a sonnet to ’A Coal Grab’—­that was the longest of the lot.  I think it will cover at least six magazine pages—­”

“But,” I cried, “a sonnet never contains more than fourteen lines—­ you—­fool!”

“Oh yes, it does,” he replied, calmly.  “This one of yours had over four hundred.  And then I wrote a three-page quatrain on ‘Immortality,’ which, if I do say it, is the funniest thing I ever read.  I sent that to the Weekly Methodist.”

“Good Lord, good Lord, good Lord!” I moaned.  “A three-page quatrain!”

“Yes,” he observed, calmly lighting one of his accursed cigars.  “And you’ll get all the credit.”

A ray of hope entered my soul, and it enabled me to laugh hysterically.  “They’ll know it isn’t mine,” said I.  “They know my handwriting at the office of the Weekly Methodist.”

“No doubt,” said he, dashing all my hopes to the ground.  “But—­ah—­ to remedy that drawback I took pains to find out what type-writer you used, and I had my quatrain copied on one of the same make.”

“But the letter—­the note with the manuscript?” I put in.

“Oh, I got over that very easily,” he said.  “I had that written also on the machine, on thin paper, and traced your signature at the bottom.  It will be all right, my dear fellow.  They’ll never suspect.”

And then, looking at the spirit-watch which he carried in his spectral fob-pocket, he vanished, leaving me immersed in the deepest misery of my life.  Not content with ruining me socially, and as a lecturer; not satisfied with destroying me mentally on the seas, he had now attacked me on my most vulnerable point, my literary aspirations.  I could not rest until I had read his “three-page quatrain” on “Immortality.”  Vulgar as I knew him to be, I felt confident that over my name something had gone out which even in my least self-respecting moods I could not tolerate.  The only comfort that came to me was that his verses and his type-writing and his tracings of my autograph would be as spectral to others as to the eye not attuned to the seeing of ghosts.  I was soon to be undeceived, however, for the next morning’s mail brought to my home a dozen packages from my best “consumers,” containing the maudlin frivolings of this—­this—­this—­well, there is no polite word to describe him in any known tongue.  I shall have to study the Aryan language—­or Kipling—­to find an epithet strong enough to apply to this especial case.  Every point, every single detail, about these packages was convincing evidence of their contents having been of my own production.  The return envelopes were marked at the upper corner with my name and address.  The handwriting upon them was manifestly mine, although I never in my life penned those particular superscriptions.  Within these envelopes were, I might say, pounds of MSS., apparently from my own typewriting machine, and signed in an autograph which would have deceived even myself.

And the stuff!

Stuff is not the word—­in fact, there is no word in any language, however primitive and impolite, that will describe accurately the substance of those pages.  And with each came a letter from the editor of the periodical to which the tale or poem had been sent advising me to stop work for a while, and one suggested the Keeley cure!

Immediately I sat down and wrote to the various editors to whom these productions had been submitted, explaining all—­and every one of them came back to me unopened, with the average statement that until I had rested a year they really hadn’t the time to read what I wrote; and my best friend among them, the editor of the Weekly Methodist, took the trouble to telegraph to my brother the recommendation that I should be looked after.  And out of the mistaken kindness of his heart, he printed a personal in his next issue to the effect that his “valued contributor, Mr. Me, the public would regret to hear, was confined to his house by a sudden and severe attack of nervous prostration,” following it up with an estimate of my career, which bore every mark of having been saved up to that time for use as an obituary.

And as I read the latter—­the obituary—­over, with tears in my eyes, what should I hear but the words, spoken at my back, clearly, but in unmistakable cockney accents,

“Shove the fifth!” followed by uproarious laughter.  I grabbed up the ink-bottle and threw it with all my strength back of me, and succeeded only in destroying the wall-paper.