Indian Tales | Page 4

about it."
"You certainly seem to have a grip of the sea. Have you ever seen it?"
"When I was a little chap I went to Brighton once; we used to live in
Coventry, though, before we came to London. I never saw it,
"'When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the
Equinox.'"
He shook me by the shoulder to make me understand the passion that
was shaking himself.
"When that storm comes," he continued, "I think that all the oars in the
ship that I was talking about get broken, and the rowers have their
chests smashed in by the bucking oar-heads. By the way, have you
done anything with that notion of mine yet?"
"No. I was waiting to hear more of it from you. Tell me how in the
world you're so certain about the fittings of the ship. You know nothing
of ships."
"I don't know. It's as real as anything to me until I try to write it down. I
was thinking about it only last night in bed, after you had loaned me
'Treasure Island'; and I made up a whole lot of new things to go into the
story."
"What sort of things?"
"About the food the men ate; rotten figs and black beans and wine in a
skin bag, passed from bench to bench."
"Was the ship built so long ago as _that_?"
"As what? I don't know whether it was long ago or not. It's only a
notion, but sometimes it seems just as real as if it was true. Do I bother
you with talking about it?"

"Not in the least. Did you make up anything else?"
"Yes, but it's nonsense." Charlie flushed a little.
"Never mind; let's hear about it."
"Well, I was thinking over the story, and after awhile I got out of bed
and wrote down on a piece of paper the sort of stuff the men might be
supposed to scratch on their oars with the edges of their handcuffs. It
seemed to make the thing more lifelike. It is so real to me, y'know."
"Have you the paper on you?"
"Ye-es, but what's the use of showing it? It's only a lot of scratches. All
the same, we might have 'em reproduced in the book on the front page."
"I'll attend to those details. Show me what your men wrote."
He pulled out of his pocket a sheet of note-paper, with a single line of
scratches upon it, and I put this carefully away.
"What is it supposed to mean in English?" I said.
"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it means 'I'm beastly tired.' It's great
nonsense," he repeated, "but all those men in the ship seem as real as
people to me. Do do something to the notion soon; I should like to see
it written and printed."
"But all you've told me would make a long book."
"Make it then. You've only to sit down and write it out."
"Give me a little time. Have you any more notions?"
"Not just now. I'm reading all the books I've bought. They're splendid."
When he had left I looked at the sheet of note-paper with the inscription
upon it. Then I took my head tenderly between both hands, to make
certain that it was not coming off or turning round. Then ... but there
seemed to be no interval between quitting my rooms and finding
myself arguing with a policeman outside a door marked Private in a
corridor of the British Museum. All I demanded, as politely as possible,
was "the Greek antiquity man." The policeman knew nothing except
the rules of the Museum, and it became necessary to forage through all
the houses and offices inside the gates. An elderly gentleman called
away from his lunch put an end to my search by holding the note-paper
between finger and thumb and sniffing at it scornfully.
"What does this mean? H'mm," said he. "So far as I can ascertain it is
an attempt to write extremely corrupt Greek on the part"--here he
glared at me with intention--"of an extremely illiterate--ah--person." He
read slowly from the paper, "_Pollock, Erckmann, Tauchnitz,

Henniker_"-four names familiar to me.
"Can you tell me what the corruption is supposed to mean--the gist of
the thing?" I asked.
"I have been--many times--overcome with weariness in this particular
employment. That is the meaning." He returned me the paper, and I
fled without a word of thanks, explanation, or apology.
I might have been excused for forgetting much. To me of all men had
been given the chance to write the most marvelous tale in the world,
nothing less than the story of a Greek galley-slave, as told by himself.
Small wonder that his dreaming had seemed real to Charlie. The Fates
that are