 | The fiend's delight |  |
The Late Dowling, Senior.
My friend, Jacob Dowling, Esq., had been
spending the day very agreeably in his counting-room
with some companions, and at night retired
to the domestic circle to ravel out some intricate
accounts. Seated at his parlour table he ordered
his wife and children out of the room and addressed
himself to business. While clambering
wearily up a column of figures he felt upon his
cheek the touch of something that seemed to cling
oyster. Thoughtfully setting down the result of
his addition so far as he had proceeded with it, he
turned about and looked up.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, “but you
have not the advantage of my acquaintance.”
“Why, Jake,” replied the apparition—whom I
have thought it useless to describe—“don't you
know me?”
“I confess that your countenance is familiar,”
returned my friend, “but I cannot at this moment
recall your name. I never forget a face, but names
I cannot remember.”
“Jake!” rumbled the spectre with sepulchral
dignity, a look of displeasure crawling across his
pallid features, “you're foolin'.”
“I give you my word I am quite serious.
Oblige me with your name, and favour me with a
statement of your business with me at this hour.”
The disembodied party sank uninvited into a
chair, spread out his knees and stared blankly at a
Dutch clock with an air of weariness and profound
discouragement. Perceiving that his guest was
making himself tolerably comfortable my friend
turned again to his figures, and silence reigned
supreme. The fire in the grate burned noiselessly
with a mysterious blue light, as if it could
do more if it wished; the Dutch clock looked
like one who is determined to do his precise
duty and shun responsibility; the cat assumed an
attitude of intelligent neutrality. Finally the
spectre trained his pale eyes upon his host, pulled in
a long breath and remarked:
“Jake, I'm yur dead father. I come back to have
a talk with ye 'bout the way things is agoin' on.
I want to know 'f you think it's right notter recog
nise yur dead parent?”
“It is a little rough on you, dear,” replied the
son without looking up, “but the fact is that
[7 and 3 are IO, and 2 are I2, and 6 are I8] it is
so long since you have been about [and 3 off are
I5] that I had kind of forgotten, and [2 into 4 goes
twice, and 7 into 6 you can't] you know how it is
yourself. May I be permitted to again inquire the
precise nature of your present business?”
“Well, yes—if you wont talk anything but
shop I s'pose I must come to the p'int. Isay!
you don't keep any thing to drink 'bout yer, do
ye—Jake?”
“I4 from 23 are 9—I'll get you something
when we get done. Please explain how we can
serve one another.”
“Jake, I done everything for you, and you ain't
done nothin' for me since I died. I want a monument
bigger'n Dave Broderick's, with an eppytaph
any kind o' society till I have 'em. You've no
idee how exclusive they are where I am.”
This dutiful son laid down his pencil and effected
a stiffly vertical attitude. He was all attention:
“Anything else to-day?” he asked—rather
sneeringly, I grieve to state.
“No-o-o, I don't think of anything special,”
drawled the ghost reflectively; “I'd like to have
an iron fence around it to keep the cows off, but I
s'pose that's included.”
“Of course! And a gravel walk, and a lot of
abalone shells, and fresh posies daily; a marble
angel or two for company, and anything else that
will add to your comfort. Have you any other
extremely reasonable request to make of me?”
“Yes—since you mention it. I want you to
contest my will. Horace Hawes is having his'n
contested.”
“My fine friend, you did not make any will.”
“That ain't o' no consequence. You forge me a
good 'un and contest that.”
“With pleasure, sir; but that will be extra.
Now indulge me in one question. You spoke of the
society where you reside. Where do you reside?”
The Dutch clock pounded clamorously upon its
brazen gong a countless multitude of hours; the
glowing coals fell like an avalanche through the
voice in a squawk like the deathwail of a stuck
pig, and dashed affrighted through the window.
A smell of scorching fur pervaded the place, and
under cover of it the aged spectre walked into the
mirror, vanishing like a dream.
| The fiend's delight | |