Part 32 (1/2)

When we reached the railroad at Portulacca, a thrifty lemon-growing ranch on the Volusia and c.h.i.n.kapin Railway, the first thing I did was to present my dog to the station-agent--but I was obliged to give him five dollars before he consented to accept the dog.

However, Miss Barrison interviewed the station-master's wife, a kindly, pitiful soul, who promised to be a good mistress to the creature. We both felt better after that was off our minds; we felt better still when the north-bound train rolled leisurely into the white glare of Portulacca, and presently rolled out again, quite as leisurely, bound, thank Heaven, for that abused aggregation of sinful boroughs called New York.

Except for one young man whom I encountered in the smoker, we had the train to ourselves, a circ.u.mstance which, curiously enough, appeared to increase Miss Barrison's depression, and my own as a natural sequence. The circ.u.mstances of the taking off of Professor Farrago appeared to engross her thoughts so completely that it made me uneasy during our trip out from Little Sprite--in fact it was growing plainer to me every hour that in her brief acquaintance with that distinguished scientist she had become personally attached to him to an extent that began to worry me. Her personal indignation at the caged Sphyx flared out at unexpected intervals, and there could be no doubt that her unhappiness and resentment were becoming morbid.

I spent an hour or two in the smoking compartment, tenanted only by a single pa.s.senger and myself. He was an agreeable young man, although, in the natural acquaintances.h.i.+p that we struck up, I regretted to learn that he was a writer of popular fiction, returning from Fort Worth, where he had been for the sole purpose of composing a poem on Florida.

I have always, in common with other mentally balanced savants, despised writers of fiction. All scientists harbor a natural antipathy to romance in any form, and that antipathy becomes a deep horror if fiction dares to deal flippantly with the exact sciences, or if some degraded intellect a.s.sumes the warrantless liberty of using natural history as the vehicle for silly tales.

Never but once had I been tempted to romance in any form; never but once had sentiment interfered with a pa.s.sionless transfer of scientific notes to the sanctuary of the unvarnished note-book or the cloister of the juiceless monograph. Nor have I the slightest approach to that superficial and doubtful quality known as literary skill.

Once, however, as I sat alone in the middle of the floor, cla.s.sifying my isopods, I was not only astonished but totally unprepared to find myself repeating aloud a verse that I myself had unconsciously fas.h.i.+oned:

”An isopod Is a work of G.o.d.”

Never before in all my life had I made a rhyme; and it worried me for weeks, ringing in my brain day and night, confusing me, interfering with my thoughts.

I said as much to the young man, who only laughed good-naturedly and replied that it was the Creator's purpose to limit certain intellects, n.o.body knows why, and that it was apparent that mine had not escaped.

”There's one thing, however,” he said, ”that might be of some interest to you and come within the circ.u.mscribed scope of your intelligence.”

”And what is that?” I asked, tartly.

”A scientific experience of mine,” he said, with a careless laugh.

”It's so much stranger than fiction that even Professor Bruce Stoddard, of Columbia, hesitated to credit it.”

I looked at the young fellow suspiciously. His bland smile disarmed me, but I did not invite him to relate his experience, although he apparently needed only that encouragement to begin.

”Now, if I could tell it exactly as it occurred,” he observed, ”and a stenographer could take it down, word for word, exactly as I relate it--”

”It would give me great pleasure to do so,” said a quiet voice at the door. We rose at once, removing the cigars from our lips; but Miss Barrison bade us continue smoking, and at a gesture from her we resumed our seats after she had installed herself by the window.

”Really,” she said, looking coldly at me, ”I couldn't endure the solitude any longer. Isn't there anything to do on this tiresome train?”

”If you had your pad and pencil,” I began, maliciously, ”you might take down a matter of interest--”

She looked frankly at the young man, who laughed in that pleasant, good-tempered manner of his, and offered to tell us of his alleged scientific experience if we thought it might amuse us sufficiently to vary the dull monotony of the journey north.

”Is it fiction?” I asked, point-blank.

”It is absolute truth,” he replied.

I rose and went off to find pad and pencil. When I returned Miss Barrison was laughing at a story which the young man had just finished.

”But,” he ended, gravely, ”I have practically decided to renounce fiction as a means of livelihood and confine myself to simple, uninteresting statistics and facts.”

”I am very glad to hear you say that,” I exclaimed, warmly. He bowed, looked at Miss Barrison, and asked her when he might begin his story.

”Whenever you are ready,” replied Miss Barrison, smiling in a manner which I had not observed since the disappearance of Professor Farrago.

I'll admit that the young fellow was superficially attractive.