I always liked McArdle, the
crabbed, old, round-backed, red-headed
news editor, and I rather hoped
that he liked me.
Of course, Beaumont was the real boss; but he lived in the
rarefied atmosphere of some Olympian height from which he could
distinguish nothing smaller than an international crisis or a
split in the Cabinet. Sometimes we saw him passing in lonely
majesty to his inner sanctum, with his eyes staring vaguely and
his mind hovering over the Balkans or the Persian Gulf. He was
above and beyond us. But McArdle was his first lieutenant, and
it was he that we knew. The old man nodded as I entered the
room, and he pushed his spectacles far up on his bald forehead.
"Well, Mr. Malone, from all
I hear, you seem to be doing
very well," said he in his kindly
Scotch accent.
I thanked him.
"The
colliery explosion
was excellent.
So was the
Southwark
fire. You have the true descreeptive
touch. What did you want to see
me about?"
"To
ask a favor."
He
looked alarmed,
and his eyes
shunned mine. "Tut,
tut! What is
it?"
"Do
you think,
Sir, that you
could possibly send me on some
mission for the paper? I would
do my best to put it through
and get you some good copy."
"What
sort of meesion
had you in
your mind,
Mr. Malone?"
"Well,
Sir, anything
that had adventure
and danger
in it. I
really would do my very best.
The more difficult it was, the
better it would suit me."
"You
seem very anxious
to lose your
life."
"To
justify my
life, Sir."
"Dear me, Mr. Malone, this
is very--very exalted. I'm afraid
the day for this sort of thing
is rather past. The expense of
the `special meesion' business
hardly justifies the result,
and, of course, in any case it
would only be an experienced
man with a name that would command
public confidence who would get
such an order. The big blank
spaces in the map are all being
filled in, and there's no room
for romance anywhere. Wait a
bit, though!" he added, with
a sudden smile upon his face. "Talking
of the blank spaces of the map
gives me an idea. What about
exposing a fraud--a modern Munchausen--and
making him rideeculous? You could
show him up as the liar that
he is! Eh, man, it would be fine.
How does it appeal to you?"
"Anything--anywhere--I
care nothing."
McArdle was plunged in thought
for some minutes.
"I wonder whether you could
get on friendly--or at least
on talking terms with the fellow," he
said, at last. "You seem to have
a sort of genius for establishing
relations with people--seempathy,
I suppose, or animal magnetism,
or youthful vitality, or something.
I am conscious of it myself."
"You
are very good,
sir."
"So
why should
you not try
your luck with Professor Challenger,
of Enmore Park?"
I dare say I looked a little
startled.
"Challenger!" I cried. "Professor
Challenger, the famous zoologist!
Wasn't he the man who broke the
skull of Blundell, of the Telegraph?"
The news editor smiled grimly.
"Do
you mind? Didn't
you say it
was adventures
you were after?"
"It is all in the way of business,
sir," I answered.
"Exactly.
I don't suppose
he can always
be so violent
as that.
I'm thinking that Blundell got
him at the wrong moment, maybe,
or in the wrong fashion. You
may have better luck, or more
tact in handling him. There's
something in your line there,
I am sure, and the Gazette should
work it."
"I really know nothing about
him," said I. I only remember
his name in connection with the
police-court proceedings, for
striking Blundell."
"I have a few notes for your
guidance, Mr. Malone. I've had
my eye on the Professor for some
little time." He took a paper
from a drawer. "Here is a summary
of his record. I give it you
briefly:--
"`Challenger, George Edward.
Born: Largs, N. B., 1863. Educ.:
Largs Academy; Edinburgh University.
British Museum Assistant, 1892.
Assistant-Keeper of Comparative
Anthropology Department, 1893.
Resigned after acrimonious correspondence
same year. Winner of Crayston
Medal for Zoological Research.
Foreign Member of'--well, quite
a lot of things, about two inches
of small type--`Societe Belge,
American Academy of Sciences,
La Plata, etc., etc. Ex-President
Palaeontological Society. Section
H, British Association'--so on,
so on!--`Publications: "Some
Observations Upon a Series of
Kalmuck Skulls"; "Outlines of
Vertebrate Evolution"; and numerous
papers, including "The underlying
fallacy of Weissmannism," which
caused heated discussion at the
Zoological Congress of Vienna.
Recreations: Walking, Alpine
climbing. Address: Enmore Park,
Kensington, W.'
"There,
take it with
you. I've nothing
more for you
to-night."
I pocketed the slip of paper.
"One moment, sir," I said,
as I realized that it was a pink
bald head, and not a red face,
which was fronting me. "I am
not very clear yet why I am to
interview this gentleman. What
has he done?"
The face flashed back again.
"Went
to South America
on a solitary
expedeetion
two years
ago. Came back last year. Had
undoubtedly been to South America,
but refused to say exactly where.
Began to tell his adventures
in a vague way, but somebody
started to pick holes, and he
just shut up like an oyster.
Something wonderful happened--or
the man's a champion liar, which
is the more probable supposeetion.
Had some damaged photographs,
said to be fakes. Got so touchy
that he assaults anyone who asks
questions, and heaves reporters
doun the stairs. In my opinion
he's just a homicidal megalomaniac
with a turn for science. That's
your man, Mr. Malone. Now, off
you run, and see what you can
make of him. You're big enough
to look after yourself. Anyway,
you are all safe. Employers'
Liability Act, you know."
A grinning red face turned
once more into a pink oval, fringed
with gingery fluff; the interview
was at an end.
I walked across to the Savage
Club, but instead of turning
into it I leaned upon the railings
of Adelphi Terrace and gazed
thoughtfully for a long time
at the brown, oily river. I can
always think most sanely and
clearly in the open air. I took
out the list of Professor Challenger's
exploits, and I read it over
under the electric lamp. Then
I had what I can only regard
as an inspiration. As a Pressman,
I felt sure from what I had been
told that I could never hope
to get into touch with this cantankerous
Professor. But these recriminations,
twice mentioned in his skeleton
biography, could only mean that
he was a fanatic in science.
Was there not an exposed margin
there upon which he might be
accessible? I would try.
I entered the club. It was
just after eleven, and the big
room was fairly full, though
the rush had not yet set in.
I noticed a tall, thin, angular
man seated in an arm-chair by
the fire. He turned as I drew
my chair up to him. It was the
man of all others whom I should
have chosen--Tarp Henry, of the
staff of Nature, a thin, dry,
leathery creature, who was full,
to those who knew him, of kindly
humanity. I plunged instantly
into my subject.
"What
do you know
of Professor
Challenger?"
"Challenger?" He gathered his
brows in scientific disapproval. "Challenger
was the man who came with some
cock-and-bull story from South
America."
"What
story?"
"Oh,
it was rank
nonsense about
some queer animals he had discovered.
I believe he has retracted since.
Anyhow, he has suppressed it
all. He gave an interview to
Reuter's, and there was such
a howl that he saw it wouldn't
do. It was a discreditable business.
There were one or two folk who
were inclined to take him seriously,
but he soon choked them off."
"How?"
"Well,
by his insufferable
rudeness and impossible behavior.
There was poor old Wadley, of
the Zoological Institute. Wadley
sent a message: `The President
of the Zoological Institute presents
his compliments to Professor
Challenger, and would take it
as a personal favor if he would
do them the honor to come to
their next meeting.' The answer
was unprintable."
"You
don't say?"
"Well,
a bowdlerized
version of
it would run:
`Professor
Challenger
presents his compliments to the
President of the Zoological Institute,
and would take it as a personal
favor if he would go to the devil.'"
"Good
Lord!"
"Yes,
I expect that's
what old Wadley
said. I remember
his
wail at the meeting, which began:
`In fifty years experience of
scientific intercourse----' It
quite broke the old man up."
"Anything
more about
Challenger?"
"Well,
I'm a bacteriologist,
you know. I live in a nine-hundred-diameter
microscope. I can hardly claim
to take serious notice of anything
that I can see with my naked
eye. I'm a frontiersman from
the extreme edge of the Knowable,
and I feel quite out of place
when I leave my study and come
into touch with all you great,
rough, hulking creatures. I'm
too detached to talk scandal,
and yet at scientific conversaziones
I HAVE heard something of Challenger,
for he is one of those men whom
nobody can ignore. He's as clever
as they make 'em--a full-charged
battery of force and vitality,
but a quarrelsome, ill-conditioned
faddist, and unscrupulous at
that. He had gone the length
of faking some photographs over
the South American business."
"You
say he is a
faddist. What
is his particular fad?"
"He
has a thousand,
but the latest
is something
about Weissmann
and Evolution. He had a fearful
row about it in Vienna, I believe."
"Can't
you tell me
the point?"
"Not
at the moment,
but a translation
of the proceedings exists. We
have it filed at the office.
Would you care to come?"
"It's
just what I
want. I have
to interview the fellow, and
I need some lead up to him. It's
really awfully good of you to
give me a lift. I'll go with
you now, if it is not too late."
Half an hour
later I was seated in the newspaper
office with
a huge tome in front of me, which
had been opened at the article "Weissmann
versus Darwin," with the sub
heading, "Spirited Protest at
Vienna. Lively Proceedings." My
scientific education having been
somewhat neglected, I was unable
to follow the whole argument,
but it was evident that the English
Professor had handled his subject
in a very aggressive fashion,
and had thoroughly annoyed his
Continental colleagues. "Protests," "Uproar," and "General
appeal to the Chairman" were
three of the first brackets which
caught my eye. Most of the matter
might have been written in Chinese
for any definite meaning that
it conveyed to my brain.
"I wish you could translate
it into English for me," I said,
pathetically, to my help-mate.
"Well, it is
a translation."
"Then I'd better
try my luck with the original."
"It is certainly
rather deep for a layman."
"If I could
only get a single good, meaty
sentence which seemed
to convey some sort of definite
human idea, it would serve my
turn. Ah, yes, this one will
do. I seem in a vague way almost
to understand it. I'll copy it
out. This shall be my link with
the terrible Professor."
"Nothing else
I can do?"
"Well, yes;
I propose to write to him.
If I could frame the
letter here, and use your address
it would give atmosphere."
"We'll have
the fellow round here making
a row and breaking
the furniture."
"No, no; you'll
see the letter--nothing contentious,
I assure you."
"Well, that's
my chair and desk. You'll find
paper there.
I'd like to censor it before
it goes."
It took some doing, but I flatter
myself that it wasn't such a
bad job when it was finished.
I read it aloud to the critical
bacteriologist with some pride
in my handiwork.
"DEAR PROFESSOR CHALLENGER," it
said, "As a humble student of
Nature, I have always taken the
most profound interest in your
speculations as to the differences
between Darwin and Weissmann.
I have recently had occasion
to refresh my memory by re-reading----"
"You infernal liar!" murmured
Tarp Henry.
--"by re-reading
your masterly address at Vienna.
That lucid
and admirable statement seems
to be the last word in the matter.
There is one sentence in it,
however--namely: `I protest strongly
against the insufferable and
entirely dogmatic assertion that
each separate id is a microcosm
possessed of an historical architecture
elaborated slowly through the
series of generations.' Have
you no desire, in view of later
research, to modify this statement?
Do you not think that it is over-accentuated?
With your permission, I would
ask the favor of an interview,
as I feel strongly upon the subject,
and have certain suggestions
which I could only elaborate
in a personal conversation. With
your consent, I trust to have
the honor of calling at eleven
o'clock the day after to-morrow
(Wednesday) morning.
"I remain,
Sir, with assurances of profound
respect, yours very
truly, EDWARD D. MALONE."
"How's that?" I
asked, triumphantly.
"Well if your
conscience can stand it----"
"It has never
failed me yet."
"But what do
you mean to do?"
"To get there.
Once I am in his room I may
see some opening.
I may even go the length of open
confession. If he is a sportsman
he will be tickled."
"Tickled, indeed!
He's much more likely to do
the tickling.
Chain mail, or an American football
suit--that's what you'll want.
Well, good-bye. I'll have the
answer for you here on Wednesday
morning--if he ever deigns to
answer you. He is a violent,
dangerous, cantankerous character,
hated by everyone who comes across
him, and the butt of the students,
so far as they dare take a liberty
with him. Perhaps it would be
best for you if you never heard
from the fellow at all."
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