The Poison Belt by Arthur Conan Doyle (each kindness read aloud .txt) 📕

“It’s all right,” said I. “Only—only it IS such a pity!”

“You’re ill, young fellah, that’s what’s amiss with you,” said Lord John. “I thought you were queer from the first.”

“Your habits, sir, have not mended in these three years,” said Summerlee, shaking his head. “I also did not fail to observe your strange manner the moment we met. You need not waste your sympathy, Lord John. These tears are purely alcoholic. The man has been drinking. By the way, Lord John, I called you a coxcomb just now, which was perhaps unduly severe. But the word reminds me of a small accomplishment, trivial but amusing, which I used to possess. You know me as the austere man of science. Can you believe that I once had a well-deserved reputation in several nurseries as a farmyard imitator? Perhaps I can help you to pass the time in a pleasant way. Would it amuse you to hear me crow like a cock?”

“No, sir,” said Lord John, who was still greatly offended, “it would NOT amuse me.”

“My imitation of the clucking hen who had just laid an egg was also considered rather above the average. Might I venture?”

“No, sir, no—certainly not.”

But in spite of this earnest prohibition, Professor Summerlee laid down his pipe and for the rest of our journey he entertained—or failed to entertain—us by a succession of bird and animal cries which seemed so absurd that my tears were suddenly changed into boisterous laughter, which must have become quite hysterical as I sat opposite this grave Professor and saw him—or rather heard him—in the character of the uproarious rooster or the puppy whose tail had been trodden upon. Once Lord John passed across his newspaper, upon the margin of which he had written in pencil, “Poor devil! Mad as a hatter.” No doubt it was very eccentric, and yet the performance struck me as extraordinarily clever and amusing.

Whilst this was going on, Lord John leaned forward and told me some interminable story about a buffalo and an Indian rajah which seemed to me to have neither beginning nor end. Professor Summerlee had just begun to chirrup like a canary, and Lord John to get to the climax of his story, when the train drew up at Jarvis Brook, which had been given us as the station for Rotherfield.

And there was Challenger to meet us. His appearance was glorious. Not all the turkey-cocks in creation could match the slow, high-stepping dignity with which he paraded his own railway station and the benignant smile of condescending encouragement with which he regarded everybody around him. If he had changed in anything since the days of old, it was that his points had become accentuated. The huge head and broad sweep of forehead, with its plastered lock of black hair, seemed even greater than before. His black beard poured forward in a more impressive cascade, and his clear grey eyes, with their insolent and sardonic eyelids, were even more masterful than of yore.

He gave me the amused hand-shake and encouraging smile which the head master bestows upon the small boy, and, having greeted the others and helped to collect their bags and their cylinders of oxygen, he stowed us and them away in a large motor-car which was driven by the same impassive Austin, the man of few words, whom I had seen in the character of butler upon the occasion of my first eventful visit to the Professor. Our journey led us up a winding hill through beautiful country. I sat in front with the chauffeur, but behind me my three comrades seemed to me to be all talking together. Lord John was still struggling with his buffalo story, so far as I could make out, while once again I heard, as of old, the deep rumble of Challenger and the insistent accents of Summerlee as their brains locked in high and fierce scientific debate. Suddenly Austin slanted his mahogany face toward me without taking his eyes from his steering-wheel.

“I’m under notice,” said he.

“Dear me!” said I.

Everything seemed strange to-day. Everyone said queer, unexpected things. It was like a dream.

“It’s forty-seven times,” said Austin reflectively.

“When do you go?” I asked, for want of some better observation. “I don’t go,” said Austin.

The conversation seemed to have ended there, but presently he came back to it.

“If I was to go, who would look after ‘im?” He jerked his head toward his master. “Who would ‘e get to serve ‘im?”

“Someone else,” I suggested lamely.

“Not ‘e. No one would stay a week. If I was to go, that ‘ouse would run down like a watch with the mainspring out. I’m telling you because you’re ‘is friend, and you ought to know. If I was to take ‘im at ‘is word—but there, I wouldn’t have the ‘eart. ‘E and the missus would be like two babes left out in a bundle. I’m just everything. And then ‘e goes and gives me notice.”

“Why would no one stay?” I asked.

“Well, they wouldn’t make allowances, same as I do. ‘E’s a very clever man, the master—so clever that ‘e’s clean balmy sometimes. I’ve seen ‘im right off ‘is onion, and no error. Well, look what ‘e did this morning.”

“What did he do?”

Austin bent over to me.

“‘E bit the ‘ousekeeper,” said he in a hoarse whisper.

“Bit her?”

“Yes, sir. Bit ‘er on the leg. I saw ‘er with my own eyes startin’ a marathon from the ‘all-door.”

“Good gracious!” “So you’d say, sir, if you could see some of the goings on. ‘E don’t make friends with the neighbors. There’s some of them thinks that when ‘e was up among those monsters you wrote about, it was just `‘Ome, Sweet ‘Ome’ for the master, and ‘e was never in fitter company. That’s what THEY say. But I’ve served ‘im ten years, and I’m fond of ‘im, and, mind you, ‘e’s a great man, when all’s said an’ done, and it’s an honor to serve ‘im. But ‘e does try one cruel at times. Now look at that, sir. That ain’t what you might call old-fashioned ‘ospitality, is it now? Just you read it for yourself.”

The car on its lowest speed had ground its way up a steep, curving ascent. At the corner a notice-board peered over a well-clipped hedge. As Austin said, it was not difficult to read, for the words were few and arresting:—

|–––––––––––––| | WARNING. | | –- | | Visitors, Pressmen, and Mendicants | | are not encouraged. | | | | G. E. CHALLENGER. | |_______________________________________|

“No, it’s not what you might call ‘earty,” said Austin, shaking his head and glancing up at the deplorable placard. “It wouldn’t look well in a Christmas card. I beg your pardon, sir, for I haven’t spoke as much as this for many a long year, but to-day my feelings seem to ‘ave got the better of me. ‘E can sack me till ‘e’s blue in the face, but I ain’t going, and that’s flat. I’m ‘is man and ‘e’s my master, and so it will be, I expect, to the end of the chapter.”

We had passed between the white posts of a gate and up a curving drive, lined with rhododendron bushes. Beyond stood a low brick house, picked out with white woodwork, very comfortable and pretty. Mrs. Challenger, a small, dainty, smiling figure, stood in the open doorway to welcome us.

“Well, my dear,” said Challenger, bustling out of the car, “here are our visitors. It is something new for us to have visitors, is it not? No love lost between us and our neighbors, is there? If they could get rat poison into our baker’s cart, I expect it would be there.”

“It’s dreadful—dreadful!” cried the lady, between laughter and tears. “George is always quarreling with everyone. We haven’t a friend on the countryside.”

“It enables me to concentrate my attention upon my incomparable wife,” said Challenger, passing his short, thick arm round her waist. Picture a gorilla and a gazelle, and you have the pair of them. “Come, come, these gentlemen are tired from the journey, and luncheon should be ready. Has Sarah returned?”

The lady shook her head ruefully, and the Professor laughed loudly and stroked his beard in his masterful fashion.

“Austin,” he cried, “when you have put up the car you will kindly help your mistress to lay the lunch. Now, gentlemen, will you please step into my study, for there are one or two very urgent things which I am anxious to say to you.”