The Mammoth Book of New Comic Fantasy Page 14

  “Now, sir!” said the giant, “just take your seat in your chair, take that pen in your hand, and sign your name below that agreement. If you’ve been listening at the door all this time, as I believe you have, you have heard the contents of the schedule, and therefore need not read it over.”

  Stephen thought no more of disobeying than he did of challenging the giant to a battle, and he therefore seated himself in his chair, and taking the pen from the fairy, wrote his name at the bottom of the agreement, although he knew that by that act he was signing away half his wealth. When he had written his signature he laid down his pen and looked around to see if anything more was required of him; but just at that moment something seemed to give way in the back of his neck, his head fell forward so as to nearly strike the table, and he awoke!

  There was no longer a schedule, a fairy, a dwarf, or a giant. In front of him was the mackerel, split open and lying on its back.

  It was all a dream!

  For an hour Stephen Skarridge sat at his table, his face buried in his hands. When, at last, his candle gave signs of spluttering out, he arose, and, with a subdued and quiet air, he went to bed.

  The next morning was bright, cold, and cheering, and Stephen Skarridge arose very early, went down to the large front room where his treasures were kept, got out his checkbook, and for two hours was busily employed in writing. When the old woman who attended to his household affairs arrived at the usual hour, she was surprised at his orders to cook, for his breakfast, the whole of a mackerel which he handed her. When he had finished his meal, at which he ate at least one-half of the fish, he called her up into his room. He then addressed her as follows:

  “Margaret, you have been my servant for seventeen years. During that time I have paid you fifty cents per week for your services. I am now convinced that the sum was insufficient; you should have had, at least, two dollars – considering you only had one meal in the house. As you would probably have spent the money as fast as I gave it to you, I shall pay you no interest upon what I have withheld, but here is a check for the unpaid balance – one thousand three hundred and twenty-six dollars. Invest it carefully, and you will find it quite a help to you.” Handing the paper to the astounded woman, he took up a large wallet, stuffed with checks, and left the house.

  He went down into the lower part of the town, with a countenance full of lively fervor and generous light. When he reached the quarter where his property lay, he spent an hour or two in converse with his tenants, and when he had spoken with the last one, his wallet was nearly empty, and he was followed by a wildly joyful crowd, who would have brought a chair and carried him in triumph through the town, had he not calmly waved them back.

  When the concourse of grateful ones had left him, he repaired to the house of Philip Weaver, the butcher, and hired his pony and spring cart. Then he went to Ambrose Smith, the baker (at whose shop he had stopped on his way down-town), and inquired if his orders had been filled. Although it was Christmas morning, Ambrose and his seven assistants were all as busy as bees, but they had not yet been able to fill said orders. In an hour, however, Ambrose came himself to a candy store, where Stephen was treating a crowd of delighted children, and told him all was ready and the cart loaded. At this, Stephen hurried to the baker’s shop, mounted the cart, took the reins, and drove rapidly in the direction of the cottage of Arthur Tyrrell. When he reached the place it was nearly one o’clock.

  Driving cautiously, as he neared the house, he stopped at a little distance from it, and tied the horse to a tree. Then he stealthily approached a window and looked in.

  Arthur Tyrrell sat upon a chair, in the middle of the room, his arms folded and his head bowed upon his breast. On a stool by his left side sat his wife, her tearful eyes raised to his sombre countenance. Before her father stood the little girl, leaning upon his knees and watching the varied expressions that flashed across his face. By his father’s right side, his arm resting upon his parent’s shoulder, stood the boy, a look of calm resignation far beyond his years lighting up his intelligent face.

  ’Twas a tableau never to be forgotten!

  Able to gaze upon it but a few minutes, Stephen Skarridge pushed open the door and entered the room. His entrance was the signal of consternation. The wife and children fled to the farthest corner of the room, while Arthur Tyrrell arose and sternly confronted the intruder.

  “Ha!” said he. “You have soon returned. You think that we can be yet further despoiled. Proceed, take all we have. There is yet this,” and he pointed to the two cents’ worth of lard, which still lay upon the table.

  “No, no,” faltered Stephen Skarridge, seizing the hand of Arthur Tyrrell and warmly pressing it. “Keep it! Keep it! ’Tis not for that I came, but to ask your pardon and to beg your acceptance of a Christmas gift. Pardon, for having increased the weight of your poverty, and a gift to celebrate the advent of a happier feeling between us.”

  Having said this, Stephen paused for a reply. Arthur Tyrrell mused for a moment; then he cast his eyes upon his wife and his children, and, in a low but firm voice, he said:

  “I pardon and accept!”

  “That’s right!” cried Skarridge, his whole being animated by a novel delight; “come out to the cart, you and your son, and help me bring in the things, while Mrs T. and the girl set the table as quickly as possible.” The cart was now brought up before the door, and it was rapidly unloaded by willing hands. From under a half dozen new blankets, which served to keep the other contents from contact with the frosty air, Stephen first handed out a fine linen table-cloth, and then a basket containing a dinner-set of queensware (third class – seventy-eight pieces with soup-tureen and pickle-dishes) and a half-dozen knives and forks (rubber-handled and warranted to stand hot water). When the cloth had been spread and the plates and dishes arranged, Arthur Tyrrell and his son, aided now by the wife and daughter, brought in the remaining contents of the cart and placed them on the table, while, with a bundle of kindling which he had brought, and the fallen limbs which lay all about the cottage, Skarridge made a rousing fire on the hearth.

  When the cart was empty and the table fully spread, it presented indeed a noble sight. At one end a great turkey; at the other, a pair of geese; a duck upon one side and a pigeon-pie upon the other; cranberries, potatoes, white and sweet; onions, parsnips, celery, bread, butter, beets (pickled and buttered), pickled cucumbers, and walnuts, and several kinds of sauces, made up the first course; while upon a side-table stood mincepies, apple-pies, pumpkin-pies, apples, nuts, almonds, raisins, and a huge pitcher of cider, for dessert.

  It was impossible for the Tyrrell family to gaze unmoved upon this bounteously spread table, and after silently clasping each other for a moment, they sat down, with joyful, thankful hearts, to a meal far better than they had seen for years. At their earnest solicitation Mr Skarridge joined them.

  When the meal was over, and there was little left but empty dishes, they all arose, and Skarridge prepared to take his leave.

  “But before I go,” said he, “I would leave with you a further memento of my good feeling and friendship. You know my Hillsdale farm, in the next township?”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Arthur Tyrrell; “is it possible that you will give me a position there?”

  “I make you a present of the whole farm,” said Skarridge. “There are two hundred and forty-two acres, sixty of which are in timber; large mansion-house, two good barns, and cow and chicken houses; a well, covered in; an orchard of young fruit-trees, and a stream of water flowing through the place. The estate is well stocked with blooded cattle, horses, etc., and all necessary farming utensils. Possession immediate.”

  Without waiting for the dumb founded Tyrrell to speak, Skarridge turned quickly to his wife, and said: “Here, madam, is my Christmas-gift to you. In this package you will find shares of the New York Central and Hudson (sixes, of ’eighty-three), of the Fort Wayne (guaranteed), and of the St. Paul’s (preferred); also bonds of the Delaware, Lackawauna, and Western (
second mortgage), and of the Michigan Seven Per Cent. War Loan. In all these amount to nine thousand and eighty-two dollars; but to preclude the necessity of selling at a sacrifice, for immediate wants, I have taken the liberty of placing in the package one thousand dollars in greenbacks. And now, dear friends, adieu!”

  But the grateful family could not allow this noble man to leave them thus. Arthur Tyrrell seized his hand and pressed it to his bosom, and then, as if overcome with emotion, Mrs Tyrrell fell upon her benefactor’s neck, while the children gratefully grasped the skirts of his coat. With one arm around the neck of the still young, once beautiful, and now fast improving Mrs Tyrrell, Stephen Skarridge stood for a few minutes, haunted by memories of the past. Then he spoke:

  “Once,” said he, his voice trembling the while, “once – I, too – loved such a one. But it is all over now – and the grass waves over her grave. Farewell, farewell dear friends!” and dashing away a tear, he tore himself from the fervent family, and swiftly left the house.

  Springing into the cart, he drove rapidly into the town – a happy man! . . .

  Did you ever before read a story like this?

  SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE

  Robert Loy

  If you are not handsome at twenty

  If you are not strong at thirty

  If you are not rich at forty

  If you are not wise at fifty

  You never will be.

  – Nursery Rhyme

  She was blonde. She was tall. She had smoky-cool green eyes that – although I would have bet all eleven dollars of my life savings it was impossible – were compelling enough to pull my attention away from that plunging-to-paradise neckline of hers.

  She was also a princess – the princess – and the next queen of our country if her mother-in-law, Queen Charismatic, ever gets tired of hogging the throne.

  “Princess Ella,” I said, wishing I had thought to wear that necktie I almost bought a couple years ago, “come on in. ’Scuse the mess; I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “Ever?” she asked, delicately handkerchiefing away the knuckle dust she had accumulated when she knocked on my door.

  My association with majesty was limited to a disbelieving gape at a royal flush that my oversexed friend George Porgie folded cuz he had a hot date to get to. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to bow or curtsy, kiss her hand or tug my forelock, so I stayed where I was, seated behind my desk. I did stub out my cigarette. But that was more of a safety precaution than etiquette. With the hair spray and the perfume she just exuded flammability.

  Not to mention the way she crossed her legs.

  “Mister Nimble?” my guest said.

  “No,” I told her, indicating the broken and dusty but still legible – if you looked at from the right angle – nameplate on the door. “My name is Jack B. Goode. Private investigator. At your service.”

  “Hmm, that’s strange. Somebody told me your name was Jack B. Nimble.”

  My face reddened, but I wasn’t sure if it was because I was blushing or because I put too much bourbon in my morning coffee again.

  “I’m afraid that’s just a nickname a gratified girlfriend gifted me with some years ago.”

  “Well, now I am really confused.” Her hand fluttered up and lit softly on her alabaster cheek. “But I shouldn’t be, I suppose. You probably have lots of names. Now that I think of it, I could swear another friend told me your name was Jack B. Quick.”

  I didn’t see any reason to explain that this moniker was another nickname from the same gossipy no-longer-gratified girlfriend after we broke up, so I asked the princess what it was I could do for her.

  “I’m worried about my husband,” she answered.

  “You mean Prince Charming?”

  She nodded her head and when she spoke again it was in a slower more school-teachery voice.

  “Well, yes, he’s the only husband I have.”

  “Go on,” I told her.

  “I think somebody’s trying to kill him.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He has a terrible sweet tooth, always insists on a slice of blackberry pie before he goes to bed. Lately somebody has been putting blackbirds in his pie.”

  “Putting what in his pie?”

  “Blackbirds.”

  “So what? A lot of politicians have to eat crow. Kinda goes with the territory, doesn’t it?”

  My little joke fluttered over her head and out the window to its death.

  “But the Prince is extremely allergic to anything avian. It’s already happened two dozen times. Robert Shaftoe, the head of the palace guards is completely at sea about this; you’re our only hope. There was an anonymous letter baked in with the last one threatening dire consequences if he didn’t stop doing you know what.”

  “No, I don’t know. What?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what the letter said: You know what.”

  “Oh, well, that’s different.” I excavated through three or four strata of desk junk and emerged with a spiral notebook.

  “Well,” I said, licking the point of my pencil stub, after deciding it wasn’t worth risking rabies to dig down deep enough to where there might be a pencil sharpener, “if he’s doing you know what, he must be doing it with you know who. So who?”

  Princess Ella’s cheeks turned even rosier and she raised her voice maybe five or six decibels. I guess this is what princesses do when they’re angry.

  “Mr Goode, are you implying that my husband might be committing the sin of adultery?”

  “Yes, Yer Highness, that’s exactly what I’m suggestin’ and I’ll need all the usual info – names, addresses, favorite positions. Glossy color 8 × 10 pictures if you can get ’em.”

  “Why on earth do you need all of that?”

  “I’m lonely,” I told her. “Now what can you –”

  Now she stood up and tapped her little size double zero foot on the floor. I thought she might be patting a cockroach on the head, but it turns out this is how princesses throw a temper tantrum.

  “Sir, you are barking up the wrong dog. It’s true that his father the old King was something of a merry old soul, loved a party with lots of wine, women and tobacco, but Prince Charming is nothing like that old reprobate Cole.”

  * * *

  Well, I wasn’t going to argue with a princess. Maybe it becomes second nature to try and protect the family name. Maybe she really didn’t know her husband had a wandering eye and a body that was willing to follow. After all, not everybody reads the same high-class tabloids I do.

  And maybe the Princess was right. Maybe Charming was faithful. Maybe for the first time in the history of mankind “You know what” referred to something asexual.

  One way to find out. I dropped by to see my favorite informant, Bill Winkle. Short and gruffer than a billy goat, Winkle runs a newsstand and he really knows his business. And since he is also a dedicated busybody he knows everybody else’s as well.

  “Hey, Bill,” I said.

  “Hi, Jack, find ya a Jill yet?”

  “Still looking, my friend. I’m thinking she must have found herself one heck of a hiding place.”

  Winkle scowled. “Fah, by the time you find her you’ll be so far over the hill you won’t remember what you’re supposed to do with her.”

  “Say, Bill,” I said, “you got a little time for me?”

  “Sure, Jack, Time, Newsweek, whatever you want.”

  “How about Playboy? As in Prince Charming following the philosophy?”

  Winkle scowled. “How many times have I told you don’t believe everything you read. This stuff about the prince’s philandering is just a little hard to swallow,” He said, straightening up a row of Reader’s Digests. “I happen to know the Prince likes nothing better than staying home and organizing his collection of clodhoppers.”

  “So you’re saying he’s the model husband?”

  “No, the Prince has his faults but he’s not the scoundrel some of your less-respecta
ble publications would have you believe.”

  “So, that’s it? No dirt.”

  “Well, nothing new. Everybody knows he’s got that funny thing about feet. Whaddayacallit? A fetish. That’s how he used to pick all his girlfriends back in his bachelor days; never even looked at their faces, just their dogs. You remember that crazy old woman over in Wellington actually lived in a giant shoe? For a while Charming was dating one of her daughters, even though she was uglier than homemade sin, just so he could hang around that big old brogan building. His brother, Prince Winsome, digs the lower digits too. He had his eye on that same girl – same foot, I should say. For a while there he and Charming were arch enemies.”

  “What was the name of the girl he was dating?” I asked, thinking I might finally have a lead here.

  “I don’t know, there was so many of them. And the house is all boarded up now. Turns out the mother was abusing the kids something awful. Terrible sad story.

  “Say, wait a second,” he interrupted himself. “I do know something about the Prince. Ambassador White took the Prince to dinner one night a month or so ago. I hear she wanted to ask some special favors for that dopey miner coalition she represents. I happen to know that she kept your friend Charming out till way after midnight.”

  My ears perked up.

  “Yeah, where were they?”

  “I toldja, they were having dinner. That’s all – dinner. The point is that the sleep you get before midnight is the best and they got none that night.”

  Winkle is a real believer in the early-to-bed philosophy. In fact he’s a fanatic about it. It’s his whaddayacallit – fetish.

  “The real story is about the Princess.”

  “You got some dirt on her?”

  “There used to be a lot of dirt on her. She’s a guttersnipe, comes from some bourgeois family out in the sticks. Father dead, stepmother mean as hell, same old story. Charming only fell for her cuz she had those tee-tiny feet he’s so crazy about. Course they’ve since discovered that it’s tough to base a relationship on a cute instep. But I’m pretty sure the Prince is still toeing the line. I mean, I really don’t think he’s got a tootsie on the side. He’s not that kind of a heel.”