Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 99
“He never was normal,” Mrs. Lambert observed gloomily.
A furious chattering sound suddenly broke out somewhere above in the smoke-draped rafters. It was almost animal in its inability to express the full burden of its emotions.
Daphne’s heart skidded round several sharp corners and came up with a thump against her ribs. A triumphant smile lighted up her face as she gazed aloft. Her mother, father, and brother stood looking at one another in guilty desolation. Each was trying to recall exactly what had been said and exactly who had said it. A heavy reluctance now weighted their tongues which only a moment ago had wagged so glibly. With an effort they brought themselves to follow the direction of Daffy’s delighted gaze. A gas cloud drifted away revealing the long, lean, angular body of Hunter Hawk precariously draped on a rafter. It was like the unveiling of a statue of impotent rage. The man’s mouth was opening and shutting without any apparent reason. Every time he endeavored to bring gesticulation to the aid of speech he lost his balance and nearly fell from his perch. The frantic clutching necessary to restore his equilibrium served only to increase the violence of his anger. Exhausted at last by the uselessness of his efforts he fell face forward on the rafter and lay there panting.
His straight black hair fell in a dank shingle over his left eye. He made no effort to remove the obstruction but gazed balefully down at them with his free one. It was big, black, and smoldering. An expression of utter weariness lay across his tanned, deeply lined face. Sweat beaded his forehead. His hollow cheeks were unbecomingly dappled with dark smudges. There was a large rent in the right sleeve of his jacket. It hung down over his hand and interfered with his grip on the rafter. This had added to his irritation. He had now abandoned all effort to keep the sleeve up and was grasping the rafter through it. His large, ungainly nose showed evidence of having recently bled. In his present state of disrepair he looked many years over the thirty-seven that rightfully belonged to him.
“Oh, Hunter,” his sister began with a desperate rush. “You’ve made us all so anxious. We were just — —”
“Yellow drapes,” he gritted.
“Yes, my boy,” Alfred cut in throatily. “Thank God you’re alive and safe. I was beginning to fear — —”
“Billiards! Billiards!” Hawk spluttered. “Ha!”
He fixed Junior with his one clear eye and proceeded to bore into the very marrow of that uneasy youth.
“Go on!” he said in a dead voice. “Go on, you little nit. Make your speech. It’s your turn. Tell me some more about that lucky girl I didn’t marry.”
Junior dropped his gaze and became absorbed in contemplating the extreme tips of his collegiate sport shoes.
“Don’t know what you’re driving at,” he mumbled.
“I’ll drive at you if I ever get down from this rafter,” said his uncle.
Daffy grinned her appreciation. Her uncle darted a one-eyed glance at her, then disconcertingly closed that eye. It immediately snapped open again and came to rest on his sister.
“Now don’t start in on Junior,” she began defensively. “You’ve upset us enough as it is for one day — you and your silly explosions. The whole neighborhood is talking about it. Isn’t it about time you gave up this sort of thing?”
“Yes, Hunter,” spoke up Alfred, emboldened by his wife’s words. “You’re subjecting us all to danger, you know. My boy here says his friends are laughing at him now — the nephew of a mad uncle.”
“Oh-o-o-o-o,” mouthed Mr. Hawk, unable to form words, “Oh-o-o-o — down — down — I wanna — at him.”
His poorly expressed wish was almost granted. Mrs. Lambert uttered a little cry as he swayed perilously on his rafter. Junior placed a hand on his father’s arm and tried to strike an attitude of outraged youth. The room became quiet save for the gasping of its presiding deity on the rafter. He rallied gamely, however, and made an effort to pull himself together.
“Oh, shut up,” he said at last, somewhat inanely inasmuch as no one was saying a thing at the moment. “Shut up and go away somewhere. Go soak your heads. Get the hell out of here, or I’ll blow the whole damn house up. Daffy, you stay with me.”
“Well, I must say this is hardly the treatment one would expect after all our trouble and anxiety,” Mrs. Lambert announced huffily.
“Yellow drapes,” shouted her brother. “Modern furniture. Bah! Nothing goes to you. Not a plugged nickel.”
His sister hastily swallowed a projected retort and, closely accompanied by her son and husband, sailed majestically from the room. They were altogether too wise in the ways of life to attempt to enroll the sympathies of Daphne or to coerce her to join the ranks of the insulted and injured. After all, Hunter Hawk was tremendously wealthy in his own name, and he did seem to be rather fond of his niece, the least lovable member of the family. It was just like him. Now, if only it had been Junior . . .
“Hello, aloft,” called Daffy as soon as the door was closed, “do you want me to get you a ladder? I know where one lives. A long one. Betts could help.”
“A ladder,” repeated Mr. Hawk, blinking down at her. “I don’t like ladders. I don’t trust ladders. And if Betts gets a look at this room he’ll make remarks. I can stand no more remarks. No. No ladder. Don’t need one.”
“Would you care to have some dinner flung up at you and a couple of sheets for to-night?”
“I’m coming down directly.”
“How, down?”
“Listen,” said the scientist ingratiatingly. “It’s all very simple. There’s no occasion for any excitement or rushing about. I hate excitement and rushing about.”
“I suppose being blown about is an entirely different matter?”
“It is. I don’t choose to be blown about, you know. In spite of what the rest of your family says, I really have no fondness for explosions. They are merely the less agreeable results of scientific research.”
“Don’t be an old hypocrite. You know perfectly well you couldn’t get along without your explosions.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to get along very much longer with them. But, listen. I’ve figured it all out. It’s simplicity itself. All you have to do is to come over here and stand directly beneath this rafter. Then I’ll drop my feet down to your shoulders . . .”
“And then?” inquired Daffy.
“And then?” here a rather vague, covering note crept into his voice. “And then we’ll manage to get down the rest of the way without the aid of the ladder.”
“What do you mean by ‘we’? You’re the one on a rafter, not I.”
“I realize that,” said her uncle amicably. “And I’m depending on you to do something constructive about it. Come on over here, Daffy. You’re a great, strong, strapping young girl. You can get me down somehow. Come on over.”
Daffy, with the resignation of one accustomed to temporize with inebriates, children, and maniacs, placed herself beneath the rafter occupied by her uncle.
“I hope to God your divine confidence isn’t misplaced,” she remarked.
“Everything will be all right,” Mr. Hawk assured her as, with the reckless abandon of a man who has little left to live for, he heavily dropped his large feet upon Daphne’s shrinking shoulders and released his hold on the rafter. The celerity with which this maneuver was performed took the girl entirely by surprise.
“What goes on? What goes on?” she managed to get out as she strove to keep her knees from buckling beneath her.
“Stop prancing about like that,” the man of science complained. “This is no time for larking.”
“Larking,” came painfully from between the girl’s clenched teeth. “Lolling about, why don’t you say?”
After this there was no more conversation for some moments, packed with intense anxiety for the fluctuating Mr. Hawk. The silence of the room was broken only by the sound of unsteadily shuffling feet, a flight of staccato grunts, and several long, tremulous sighs.
“Well,” gasped Daffy bitterly. “What are you going to do, live there?”
“Damn it all, what can I do? You’ve got a strangle hold on both my ankles.” Hawk’s voice was equally bitter. “Can’t you crouch down gradually?”
“Oh, God, what a man,” groaned his niece and collapsed unconditionally to the wreck-strewn floor of the laboratory beneath yard after yard of unupholstered uncle.
“Didn’t hurt me at all,” he announced triumphantly as he uncoiled great lengths of himself from the small of Daffy’s back. “How did you make out?”
“Not at all well,” replied Daffy. “Rather poorly, if you must know. But I’m glad it didn’t hurt you. Would you like to try it again?”
“It saved all the bother of getting the ladder, anyway.”
“You certainly must loathe ladders to subject another human being to such brutal punishment,” replied the girl. “Did you ever get into any trouble with a ladder?”
With another unladylike grunt she rolled over and struggled to a sitting position beside her uncle.
“Well,” she observed, surveying him critically, “you must be a tough son of a gun to have come through that alive.”
“Do I look all mussed?” asked Mr. Hawk.
“You’re not quite at your best,” she replied.
“I’d like to see you after an explosion,” said Hawk.
“You see enough of me as it is,” answered Daffy. “After a thing like that you’d see too much.”
Hunter Hawk gazed about the laboratory with professional interest.
“This is about the best yet,” he remarked philosophically.
“It is, Hunter. It is. You should feel greatly encouraged. This is about the biggest thing you’ve done so far in the way of explosions.”
“Thanks, Daffy. Wonder what became of Blotto? The poor beast was here when the thing happened.”
“If it blew you up to the rafters, Blotto must be well on his way to Mars.”
“Hate to have anything happen to Blotto,” said Hunter. “Here, boy, where are you? Blotto, you dumb clown!”
From a corner of the room came the sound of diligent scraping. Presently the head of an animal not totally unlike a dog, yet far from being the living image of one, cautiously appeared above the rim of a table. With deep suspicion two black beady eyes studied the pair on the floor. A moist nose quivered delicately as it sniffed the malodorous air. One tan ear pointed starchily aloft. The other, a soiled white, was not doing nearly so well. The farthest north it was able to achieve was a rakishly tilted flop. As the dog shifted his gaze and looked about the laboratory something like an expression of dismay came into its eyes.
“He doesn’t like it at all,” commented Hunter. “Come here, Blotto, for a minute.”
Blotto placed two putty-like paws on the edge of the table, let go of them, and allowed their weight to drag his rump into view. It was a most disreputable-looking rump, shaggy, unenterprising, and hurriedly patched here and there with odd scraps of black and tan. There was a large tail on the extreme end of it, a willowy object composed chiefly of hair and burrs. Originally it had been white.
When Blotto had finally surmounted the obstruction he undulated across the room and stood looking inquiringly into his master’s face. Hunter took the dog in his arms and felt him carefully, while Blotto, with his tongue sprawling out, gazed from his inverted position at Daffy, the whites of his eyes unpleasantly displayed. Releasing the low-geared, supine creature, Hawk arose and stretched his long legs.
“No bones broken,” he announced.
“All bones broken,” said Daffy, “and flesh bruised.”
She followed his example.
Blotto, as if trying to satisfy himself as to exactly what had happened, ranged busily about the room. His tour of inspection completed, he stood at the far end of the laboratory and wagged his tail in appreciation of the fact that he was still alive. Suddenly and most disconcertingly for everybody concerned, but much more so for Blotto, of course, the mop-like appendage refused to wag. For one brief moment it had dipped its extreme tip into the rays of the white light on its blinding passage to the little silver ball.
“Look!” exclaimed Daffy, pointing at the dog. “Something has happened to Blotto.”
Something had happened to Blotto. To be exact, something had happened to Blotto’s tail, but just what it was the astounded dog was unable to figure out. Concentrating what little power he had on this recalcitrant member, he strove desperately to make it perform its proper functions. Not a wag. Not even a quiver. An expression of sharp anxiety sprang into Blotto’s eyes. He cocked his head over his shoulder and thoughtfully scrutinized his tail. Yes. He could tell at a glance that there was something radically wrong with it. It neither looked the same nor felt the same. Instead of the white, fluffy brush in which he was wont to take so much pride, the tail was now a formidable, implacable looking club. Not one hair that contributed its quota of glory to the tout ensemble even so much as stirred. It might as well have been a thing of stone, bereft of life and purpose. And the affair was heavy, decidedly heavier than could be conveniently managed. Obviously it was no sort of tail to go carrying about with one. Apart from the ill conceived merriment it would evoke, there was the question of fatigue. Would he be forced to remain in one place because of an abnormal tail? Were his amorous excursions at an end? Competition, God knows, was close enough, but with such a tail — impossible!
Unwilling to entertain this tragic thought, the overwrought Blotto made a final effort. This time he completely reversed the familiar order of the operation. Instead of wagging his tail he violently wagged himself. Behind him the tail swung ponderously, so ponderously in fact, that Blotto was thrown off his balance and was forced to do some pretty clever footwork to keep from falling over. This was just a little too much for the dog. He sat down heavily and washed his hands of the tail. But Blotto was to discover that no dog can completely wash its hands of its tail. His, for example, clattered noisily on the floor behind him. The dog looked seriously disturbed. He stealthily curved his head back over his shoulder and approached his shrinking nose to the tail. Then with a great effort he touched it with the extreme tip of his tongue. To his horror he discovered that it was as cold and unresponsive as a stone. He suspected it was a stone.
It speaks well for the dog’s strength of character that in spite of his obvious disinclination to have anything further to do with that tail he pursued his investigations to the end. With a tentative paw he reached back and gently pushed the unnatural manifestation. The noise it made as it scraped across the floor caused him hurriedly to avert his eyes. Blotto was sweating. His gaze sought his master. If he wanted a dog with a stone tail it was up to him to do something about it — put it on wheels or something. Blotto could do no more.
“By all the gods,” said Hawk in a hushed voice, “I believe I’ve done it at last, Daffy.”
“What have you done now?”
“Turned that dog’s tail into a statue, or at least, a part of a statue.”
“I never knew that turning the tails of dogs into statues was one of your aims in life.”
“You don’t quite understand. I have succeeded in achieving complete cellular petrification through atomic disintegration.”
“You mean Blotto has.”
“Observe,” continued Hawk, seizing the outraged dog and holding him upside down. “Isn’t it a beauty? Regard that tail. As if carved by a sculptor’s hand. The white ray turns it to stone. The green one changes it back to its normal state. I can now make both rays invisible and retain the same action.”
“I think Blotto would appreciate a slight dash of green,” said Daffy. “I know I would, under the circumstances.”
“I’ll fix him up in a minute,” said Hawk enthusiastically.
He turned and dipped the dog’s tail into the green ray. Instantly, and to Blotto’s intense relief, the tail returned to its former unlovely state. Hawk then set the dog on its legs. For a moment Blotto regarded his restored member reproachfully. What had the damn thing been doing with itself anyway — trying to make its owner look foolish? Then Blotto did a very silly thing. He viciously bit his tail. The sudden yelp of pain and indignation arising from this shortsighted attempt at retaliation eloquently testified to the complete success of the restoration. Then, with a sudden revulsion of spirit for which he was noted, Blotto bounded to his feet and performed hitherto unachieved altitudes in the line of wagging. It would be just as well, he decided, to register his satisfaction with his tail as it was, or else the same misfortune might overtake it again.
Thus did Blotto, a dog of low and irregular birth, contribute to one of the most spectacular discoveries of modern science.
“I hate to seem to fly so unceremoniously into your ointment,” remarked Daffy, “but now that you’ve got it what are you going to do with it?”
For a moment Hunter Hawk’s face went perfectly blank.
“What am I going to do with it?” he repeated slowly. “Why, I hadn’t thought about that.”
“Well, you’d better begin to think about it.”
“Right off, for one thing,” he said, his face clearing and a malicious light gleaming in his dark eyes, “we can have a bit of fun with it.”
“Nice man,” remarked Daffy, for the first time permitting herself to smile. “Lovely character. And just for a bit of fun you’ve been cheerfully blowing yourself to pieces for God knows how many years.”
Mr. Hawk looked at her broodingly.
“You know what happened to Blotto’s tail?” he asked her.
“I’ll never quite forget,” replied Daffy. “Neither will Blotto.”
“Well,” continued Hawk, looking warningly at what he was thinking about, “if you don’t want to chip when you sit down you’d better keep a respectful tongue in your head, or I’ll splash yours with a dash of white.”
“Sweet scientist,” said Daffy. “Lofty mind.”
CHAPTER III
Reluctant Statues
“FINISHED?” ASKED DAFFY.
