Part 2

Between these two extremes of impatience and excitement was a small proportion of passengers who remained calm, even endeavoring to while away the time by exchanging pleasantries and making wagers as to the time of their deliverance. Among these was a group of men in the cabin who, after having read and re-read the morning papers, were casting about for some other method of killing time. One suggested a game of cards.

"Cards!" laughed one of his companions in misery. "Who'd carry cards on a ferry-boat? Who, outside of a lunatic asylum, would start on a ten minutes' voyage provided with games to pass away the time?"

"Here is a euchre deck which is at your service."

The speaker, evidently a globe-trotter, drew from under the bench a traveling-bag, so much worn and embellished by tags, labels, and hieroglyphics that it resembled some old veteran just returned from the wars and still covered with surgeons' plasters. From this he produced a pack of cards and tendered it to the man who had suggested a game.

"Certainly, if you will join us; but what shall we do for a table?"

"Here is a camp-stool," said the man of the world. And in a moment four men were sitting around it, cutting for deal, which chanced to fall to the stranger.

The cards were distributed rapidly, and the dealer was about to turn the trump when a loud shriek pierced the air and a woman opposite suddenly sank fainting to the floor.

The tension among the passengers had become so great that a panic seemed imminent.

"Don't be alarmed, gentlemen; it is nothing serious," said the dealer calmly. "The lady simply caught sight of her own frightened face in the mirror, and the shock caused her to faint. It reminds me of a thrilling experience an American traveler had while bumping through Syria. But, pardon me, the game!"

Once more he made a movement to turn the trump, when one of the party exclaimed:--

"There can't be a better time or place than this for telling a thrilling experience."

"Yes," said another; "do give us some other kind of bumping than we are having here. Let's have the story before we begin the game."

The stranger leaned back, passed his cigar case, and, having lighted one himself, began:--

"It is an unwritten law among the wild Bedouins east of the Red Sea that if an infidel traveler is attended on his journey by one of the faithful he is safe from the attacks of Mohammedan robbers. As long as the 'Frank,' as all foreigners are called, is under the protection of the Star and Crescent, the rascal's hand is stayed, and as they meet, the villain, who would otherwise show no quarter, salutes with the grave suavity of a courtier. But let that same traveler become separated from the Arab guard that he has bribed to give him safe conduct through his own bandit-infested country, and he becomes legitimate prey. He will be plundered and perhaps killed, or, worse, if the robber thinks that cruelty will extort any secrets of hidden spoil, tortured or held for ransom, with each day's delay losing a few fingers, which are forwarded to the captive's friends to signify that the rascals mean business.

"The party in which this American was traveling had been entering Syria from the south, and were progressed some twelve days from the sacred base of old Sinai. At a place called Bir-es-Sheba, on the regular caravan route to and from Mecca from the north, they heard of some interesting archeological treasures just unearthed some two days' journey to the east, and, having made the detour, the party snugly encamped by the side of a beautiful stream under the shadow of the Tubal chain of mountains.

"The treasures were vastly exaggerated, as is the custom with everything Oriental, and they soon determined to turn back to the caravan route and 'bump' on up into Syria--'bumping' being the familiar term for camel riding, and a very expressive word at that. But on the afternoon of the first resting-day some one suggested a jaunt to a famous old well, where it was said were some very ancient tumuli. But, knowing the Bedouins to be conscientious liars, and sick of this unrewarded chase for phantom treasures, the American begged to be left behind in charge of two tents, which were pitched side by side on the bank of the stream.

"This was at last agreed upon, the whole party except himself going off on their three days' trip, leaving their comrade stretched at full length on a rug, his _narghili_, or water pipe, lighted for company.

"This Oriental atmosphere, gentlemen, is a powerful drug. Do what you will to fight against it, its subtle charm holds you captive. The man succumbed to its influences and went fast asleep.

"Out of this sweet, trance-like repose he suddenly bounded into the horrible consciousness of a torturing pain in one of his hands, as though some wild beast was crunching the bones. But, as he writhed to his knees to grapple with the foe, he saw instead three swarthy, evil-faced Bedouins bending over him with ghoulish glee. One had just cut off, with a hideous dirk-knife, the first three fingers of his left hand. In an instant it flashed upon him that these were to be sent to his friends with a demand for ransom. He was correct in this supposition, for no sooner had the bleeding hand been rudely bandaged than two of his captors set out upon this mission, leaving him in care of the third, who was heavily armed.

"No one knew better than the prisoner how impossible such a ransom would be. His fellow-travelers had brought as little money into Syria as would meet their actual necessities while there. He therefore began to cast desperately about in his mind for a loophole of escape before the fellows should return with these unsatisfactory tidings, which would result, no doubt, in further mutilations.

"As his gaze swept the tent for something suggesting a plan for deliverance, he saw it had been gutted of everything except two articles,--his light silk coat, which hung upon the partition between the two tents, and the tourist's shaving mirror which it concealed. The coat had been overlooked because it was as grimy as the tent wall itself.

"In moments like this one grasps at straws. As it is said a drowning person reviews his past experiences perfectly in a brief moment, so to this man, facing desperate odds, came a desperate suggestion.

"He called loudly on a supposed protector in the adjoining tent to come to the 'window,' and prove to his captor that he was under protection of a Moslem. As he spoke he slowly drew the coat from before the mirror in front of which the sheik was standing.

"No words can express the unutterable consternation pictured upon that blazing face, livid with fright and wonder, as for the first time it saw its own awful reflection, not knowing it was its own. One instant he stood stock-still, fascinated, horrified, overwhelmed; then collapsed, just as that lady did but a moment ago, and the American quickly possessed himself of his captor's arms and was master of the situation.

"And now, gentlemen," concluded the story teller, "we will have our game."

As he spoke he again reached forward to turn the trump. There was a quickly drawn breath of horror from those who observed him, for the first three fingers of his left hand were missing.

Before he could turn the card, a savage lurch of the boat, accompanied by the creaking of timbers, announced the arrival of the "Rappahannock" at her New York slip--and the trump was never turned.

THE REAL THING

Just before midnight on the ninth day of December in the year 1881, Malcolm Joyce, of New Haven, made the acquaintance of the real thing. Prior to that time he had been a sceptic. At the time of his startling experience, he was in San Francisco, visiting friends whose home was charmingly situated near the summit of Nob Hill, that conspicuous eminence on California Street, once the scene of "sand-lot" riots, and famous for its palaces of millionaires.

Joyce, having spent the evening with his host at a theatre party and an hour at whist, had glanced over a packet of London papers, smoked a cigar, and turned off the light preparatory to going to bed. He stepped to the large bay window of his chamber, to enjoy for a moment the impressive panorama spread below him in the sombre silence.

There before him, just across the bay, whose fantastically scattered lights of red and green serve as guiding stars to the mariner passing through the Golden Gate, lay Oakland, the beautiful city of sunny homes. To his left loomed up with awe-inspiring grandeur through the dim shadows the palatial residences of the immediate vicinity, each dark and silent in its solitary majesty. To the right, in the very shadow of this manifestation of Occidental millions, and but a block distant, lay acres of dismal roofs, sheltering never-ending scenes of Oriental contrast--Chinatown--with its fifty thousand souls, its underground opium joints and gambling hells, its temples of wealth and piety and dens of vice and penury.

As Joyce turned from the contemplation of the strange contrast presented by the scene, the silence of which was broken only by the ceaseless buzz of the invisible cables in the street below, he was startled by the signal gongs of two cable cars which passed each other directly in front of the house. Almost unconsciously he returned to his position at the window and paused to watch the one disappear over the summit, while the other as speedily descended the long, steep hill, so steep that its pavement, never trodden by horses' hoofs, is grass-grown in the crevices. He stood but a moment and then, realizing the lateness of the hour, turned abruptly to go to bed. As he did so, his eyes swept once more the hilltop just beyond.

Horror! Was he asleep? Did he dream? No. From the tower half-way down the hill came the first stroke of midnight, assuring him that he was awake. With an icy shudder, chained to the spot, he continued to gaze at a ghastly spectacle, clearly outlined upon the gloomy background by the light of the street lamp a block above.

He saw it moving--a human skeleton with uplifted arm and flowing shroud, all ghastly white, all too real to be mistaken, from the gleaming skull to the fluttering robe. He saw it approaching nearer and nearer--gliding swiftly and noiselessly through the air, above the middle of the street. He tried to move, but could not,--his eyes refused to leave the hideous sight. He saw it coming, closer and closer. It would pass below him, not a hundred feet away.

Determined that will and courage should conquer doubt and fear, summoning all his strength of nerve, he pressed closer to the window, so close that his face fairly touched the glass--and he saw a human skeleton soaring through the air.

Now, Malcolm Joyce was not easily frightened. No one had ever accused him of cowardice, and they who knew him readily believed his statement that he enjoyed solitude. Yet, as he stood there in the darkness, his eyes fixed upon the vanishing figure, he felt somehow that he should welcome company, particularly the company of another not easily frightened. So strong was this impression of the occasional disadvantage of solitude that without delay he relighted the gas and stepped before the mirror. The deathly pallor and agitation that confronted him was bewildering.

As he tried to calm himself and change the current of his thoughts he recalled the "spook test" of an old hunter whom he had met in New South Wales.

This test consisted in asking oneself three questions: "Are you awake, are you sober, are you sane?" By the time these queries are propounded and answered, the ghost on trial will have proved itself an illusion.

Without hesitation Joyce answered the first two questions--he was unquestionably awake and sober. But was he in his right mind? He picked up a paper and read for a moment, but failed to grasp a single idea! He turned the page. He could read, but he could not understand! He jumped up, dazed, frightened, trembling, perspiring. Was his mind giving way under the strain it had undergone? Once more he looked at the first page of the paper before him. It was "London Punch"! He was sane!

Hardly had he satisfied himself of the success of his test, when the familiar signals of two passing cars again sounded in his ears. With the air of a man convinced that the cause of fear and suffering has been groundless, he lighted a fresh cigar, stepped briskly to the window, and, puffing slowly and regularly, calmly watched the course of the diverging cars. As the distance between them increased, he followed the one going down-hill until it had reached a point nearly two blocks distant, and then turned his attention to the summit over which the other had already disappeared.

As he sharply watched the critical spot his anxiety decreased as, after some moments, no signs of the unearthly sight appeared.

Of course, he reasoned, while the object he had beheld some ten or fifteen minutes before might never appear again, it still might have been a ghost. A sensation akin to doubt stole over him.

But, whether or not his eyes had, after all, played him a trick, he was now ready to go to bed.

He drew down the shade of the window to his left and had grasped the cord of the one directly before him, when his arm fell to his side as if paralyzed. With a loud whirr the suddenly released shade rushed upward, and there, not thirty yards in front of and below him, he beheld the shocking spectre gliding up-hill.

He stood in rigid horror, held by the grim monstrosity.

Inclining slightly forward as it soared past, with bony arm upstretched to heaven, its bleached death's head bare and shining, the snowy drapery enshrouding its skeleton form in a silent flutter, it presented to Joyce's view the most horribly revolting and yet fascinating spectacle he had ever beheld, and one that he never forgot. In the face of this further proof all his doubts vanished, and he felt absolutely certain that he had seen what is here described.

But, even before the frightful object had finally passed from his view, he experienced one of those sudden revulsions of feeling by which fear becomes courage, and anxiety is followed by mental calm, and thus reconciled to a new belief, he went to bed.

When he awoke on the following morning, he decided to say nothing to any one of his strange experience until he had taken counsel with an intimate bachelor friend, a lawyer. He felt relieved, therefore, to find the breakfast chat confined to topics entirely foreign to the spirit world. Evidently none of the family had been disturbed by ghostly visions. As he looked across the table into the eyes of a bewitching girl, he almost shuddered at the fleeting thought that the gruesome nocturnal sight he had seen might have been a warning--an omen of some dread calamity that might dash forever the hope he entertained with regard to her. It was to see her again--to be at her side and, if possible, to woo her for his own--that he was in San Francisco.

Two years previous they had first met, on the opposite coast of the continent. While ranging in the Maine woods, Joyce had climbed Mount Royce and Speckle Mountain and visited the tourmaline mines, and on one of his woodland tramps had come across a college student with one foot inextricably caught in a bear trap. Fortunately, a legging buckle and a stout branch of undergrowth, caught at the same time, had prevented the terrible teeth of the trap from crushing the bone, and the young fellow, a brother of Joyce's future idol, was promptly released, nearly exhausted from the shock of his adventure and the fatigue of his fruitless struggles to escape.

The gratitude of the rescued youth and his parents resulted in an invitation to Joyce to visit the family, which he accepted with much alacrity, after having seen the pretty daughter of the house.

Ten o'clock found Malcolm Joyce at the office of his friend, the lawyer. He had expected Lucien Nelson to be sceptical and full of good-natured pleasantry and was therefore prepared for the reception accorded his unusual tale. He paid no attention to his friend's intimation that he had seen the ghost while under spiritual influence, rejected a proposition for a writ of ejectment to be served upon it, and finally aroused Nelson's interest and secured the promise of his co-operation in an armed attempt, to be made that night, to investigate the ghastly mystery.

Accordingly, twelve hours later, the two young men, each with a revolver, were snugly ensconced in a dark corner of the bay window of Joyce's chamber on Nob Hill. For two hours Malcolm was obliged to endure all the thinly veiled ridicule, biting sarcasm and ironical humor that a friend alone dare utter, so that when he at length turned up the light for a moment to make sure of the time, he was glad to find that a few moments more would bring the hour of midnight--the traditional time for ghostly visitations.

The sudden appearance of the cable cars that passed each other on the hill at twelve served as a signal for another outbreak of raillery on the part of Nelson, but Joyce, in no mood for further banter, kept his eyes upon the progress of the cars, searching the steep incline for the unearthly object which he hoped, yet dreaded, to behold. The downward car had not yet passed the cross-walk three blocks below, when, with a feeling of awe which he could not have described, mingled with a sort of lively satisfaction, he saw again the animated skeleton flash before his eyes. Emerging, apparently, from the very earth, in the rear and a little to the left of the departing car, it rose until its full length stood suspended in the air. Then, after a slight, wavering pause, it came gliding up the hill.

His experience of the previous night thus confirmed, he was able to control his voice and nerves as he said, coolly, to his companion, while dreading what the reply might be:

"Nelson, here's a friend of yours coming up street; better step out and speak to him."

To his immense relief, the trembling voice of his friend exclaimed at his ear:

"Great God! A ghost for sure!"

Nelson's horrified tone and perceptible shudder left no doubt of his state of mind, and it was with much satisfaction that Joyce seized the opportunity to turn several of the lawyer's gibes against him.

Ignoring these sarcasms, Nelson exclaimed again, emphatically:

"That was a ghost, as sure as I live--and I should like to see more of him."

"He'll very likely be back in ten or fifteen minutes, same as last night."

"Well, then, let's tackle him, on his way down."

They shook hands, and neither spoke again until they had reached the sidewalk, where, three blocks farther down, they concealed themselves in the deep shadows of a spacious doorway and awaited the expected return of the midnight visitant.

No one who has not had a similar experience can fully comprehend the thrill of suspense at such a time. He may have sought a human foe, in the open or in ambush, have stood guard at a solitary camp fire in the silent night, or passed a weary vigil in the jungle, prepared to meet any form of savage beast, but he is still a stranger to the sensation that comes to him who, in firm belief, awaits the coming of a midnight ghost.

As the passage of the cable cars on their trip next after midnight had heralded the return of the spectre on the previous night, Joyce warned his friend to be prepared for that event.

"After the car has gone and the coast is clear and quiet, go for it," he commanded.

"You bet!" was the answer, "and don't forget to be quick on the trigger."

At that instant a sharp tapping on a window, apparently a block above them, met their ears, and at the same time they saw the downward car mounting the hillside. As it approached, the noise increased to a loud rattle and then suddenly stopped. The car had no sooner passed and the hill become bare than the ghost appeared at the summit, gliding swiftly in mid-air, as on the previous occasions.

"There he comes!" the watchers exclaimed together, in excited whispers. "Remember now," whispered Nelson, "the moment he gets close enough we'll rush out, and when I say, 'Shoot!' you pump lead into that snowy skull, while I ladle some pellets between his ribs. Let him have it six times in succession. And don't forget, it's got to be all accidental,--we were frenzied with fear and shot in self-defence. Don't forget that, for we may have to swear to it."

By this time the skeleton was flying toward the block in which they were concealed.

"Now, then, rush for the middle of the street!"

They rushed, experiencing an awful moment, but when still within some feet of the apparition, a dark figure, armed with a long club, darted suddenly from a doorway on the opposite side of the street, and in another moment the spectre lay prostrate on the ground. Before the ghost hunters fully realized what had happened, they stood, breathless, behind the newcomer, as he, unconscious of their presence, stooped over his fallen quarry.

"What are you doing here?" sternly demanded Nelson, grasping the ghost-destroyer by the arm. Starting at the touch, the latter sprang forward in a frantic attempt to escape, but finding himself hopelessly detained, he stood staring wildly at his captors. "Speak. What are you doing here?" repeated the lawyer.

"Him not my glost," was the meek reply, in the trembling tones of a frightened Chinaman.

"Oh, very well. Pick him up and come with us; you are our prisoner."

Without further words, the terrified Chinaman, carrying his prize, was placed between his captors and marched quickly to Kearney Street, near by, where, behind locked doors, the two friends proceeded to investigate an affair that had excited and agitated them as nothing had ever done before.

Prostrate upon the floor, flat and motionless, their previously formidable foe was no longer impressive. True, the skull and skeleton arm, chalked to a ghastly whiteness, were still suggestive of horror, but when the drapery was lifted the anatomy disclosed was of such ludicrous simplicity and harmlessness that the astonishment of the inquisitors brought a faint smile even to the pale yellow face of the frightened heathen.