CHAPTER XI.

UP AGAINST IT. “But, Bill, Bill, old chum,”--and the Mystic shook like a mold of jelly. “I _must_ away. My body, don’t you know? My body that I am going to need very shortly--is in danger. Even at this great distance I sense the approach of those wild beasts. Pray let me return for a brief time to my studies of the abstract. I’m already away behind in Yog. Release me old boy, release me, I must hence!” “I say, Leff, if I’d let up on you would you swear by the One-Horned-Hair-of-the-Sacred-Rabbit never to show yourself again in Kankakee?” “But, the law--the law”--groaned the erring lover, and he gazed upon his Lady-Bird in an unutterable fashion. “How--are--we--to--get--around--Chemistry? I--we--are not to blame--” “Enough,” snorted Bill Vanderhook. “No more fooling,” and it was now the baseball captain to the front. “But my body,” pleaded Lonnie. “It will be eaten. Do you hear me? It will be eaten, chewed up, and destroyed.” “Well,” said Bill impatiently, “what if it is? What then?” “What then?” cried the Seer excitedly. “Why, don’t you see that I’ll be regularly dead? Just dead, and my body no good to me? Why, don’t you know that I’ll be nothing then but a mere angel? Don’t you know that I’ll be altogether confined to another world? I’ll be a Mystic no longer? Nor be able thus to materialize, and to travel at will--to--” “Aha! That hadn’t occurred to me,” chuckled Bill. “I see. I see. And in that case you can’t crawl back into your terrestrial jacket and come back to marry Mrs. V. when she succeeds in getting that divorce? Aha! good! I see, and wouldn’t that be one on you? But”--and the injured husband once more became the scientist. “I say, Leff,--suppose you telep to some old Yogy to go and get that body of yours and ship it to me. I give you my word that you’ll not need it again; and I’d like it more’n anything for chemical analysis. Have it sent C. O. D. of course.” “Monster!” again sobbed Imogene. The Mystic was speechless with horror. “How selfish you people are. Can’t you see of what enormous scientific value that cadaver would be? You’d even block this experiment right now when it’s on the verge of success. You have no sort of gratitude nor interest in the welfare of posterity. I arranged this whole exhibit quietly. And even yet I am willing to conceal your depravity, but the advancement of science ought to mean something to you, and you should be glad to make a few small sacrifices yourself. Think of the time and money I’ve squandered in experimenting while you were sitting on my Bagdad entertaining yourself with my wife. In order that this demonstration might do credit to us all I went down east, down to Jersey to consult Edison personally, and at his suggestion I bought this plant, which was constructed under his orders. “And I tell you,” continued Bill, “that there’s a wizard what is a wizard. He can give you cards and spades any time in the moon. Just let me call your attention to the machine itself. In other words, get onto it.” “And that I seem unwittingly to have done,” said Mr. Leffingwell mournfully. “And it’s a daisy dynamo, I tell you. It produces, for its size, electricity at a higher pressure than any other machine in the world. Why, the output of this little power is sufficient to keep five thousand incandescent lamps burning at the same time. It can knock an ordinary man silly in the fraction of a second. And with its two thousand volts I can lay you out in a minute”--said Bill, nodding enthusiastically toward the cylinder. “Understand, this is an improved machine which in detail, of course, you couldn’t understand. The increase of power here isn’t through the size of the dynamo, but by a new armature and the field-magnets. This produces in the current what we call the Three-Phase-Alternating-System which you will observe to be a corker. Edison gave me points and I tell you I’ve got a machine to fit--to fit--the crime. See?” Mr. Leffingwell “saw,” but he made no attempt to “pass.” He only bowed his head sorrowfully. “But look here, good people; we’re wasting a lot of time,” said Bill presently. “And I think it is about time this mill was pulled off”--and he now bent eagerly forward, his hand upon the lever and his eyes riveted upon the “Exhibit,” reminding Alonzo of the position he used to assume when set to bat a ball. “Notice, please,” said Bill, “that I am able at will to increase or decrease this current which prevents your escape from the sphere of attraction. You will see that I am thus able nicely to regulate your speed from the slow and comfortable to the dizzy and dangerous.” “Dangerous? Dangerous, did you say? I hardly understand you”--faltered the Mystic, paling as he spoke. “Let me illustrate,”--and the hand of the avenger sought the lever. The little monster whirled fiercely, increasing with each revolution both the speed and the terror of its victim. Faster and faster whirled the cylinder. Faster and faster flew the lately fascinating Seer. “Hold,--hold,--I--I--I--must ask--one--question,” shrilled brokenly upon the sparkling air. “Certainly,” responded Bill, lessening the current as he spoke. “I say, Bill--upon what prin--principle do--you--op--operate?” gasped the suddenly released gentleman. “I must know if it agrees with--with our sch--ool.” The man at the machine bowed graciously, and jauntily saluted his old chum. Bill was flattered. To be thus interrogated by one whose profession was wisdom, was a distinct compliment. He straightened himself and lifted his chin. “Helium,”--he said, in a loud, cheerful voice,--“that of which you are composed, I discover to be nothing more than a dephlogisticated condition of matter. Now this highly attenuated substance is (as you may, but probably do not know) highly susceptible to electrical forces. I further discover that by virtue of electro-dynamics we are able to convert this highly refined substance into hydrogen, a highly volatile metal. This, under increased pressure, is finally raised to the point of ignition. D’ye hear, my gay Gnani? For here’s where I get in my fine work. Let me repeat,--this highly volatile hydrogen is, or will presently be--raised to the point of ignition--Phlogiston is Restored and--_pish_--_you_ go.” “Horrible! horrible! but true, alas, too true,”--and the Mystic and his Mate bowed their heads in unison. “And, hear me still further, Mr. Psycho-Bunko-Hiero-Phanto,” continued Mr. Vanderhook remorselessly. “I’d have you know that the curriculum of your musty old schools in Hindustan never counted on a tussle with physical science. They go no further than the application of certain metaphysical forces to nonresistant physical substance, or noncompos gray matter of certain fool people I know. They never equip their alleged pupils to meet nor to resist an active and rational campaign on the lower planes. With all your tricks you Oriental fakirs aren’t in it with an Edison plant. You’re not in it with the twentieth century scientist, when he has a real ax to grind,”--and by way of illustration Bill increased the current and ground his teeth. Moved by his enemy’s science, rather than by his satire, Alonzo Leffingwell passed on his way--lamenting. But he returned again, and hung suspended at his tormentor’s pleasure. The man of science continued: “You forget, my Alonzo the brave, that physical science hasn’t been asleep the past five years. No, my boy, modern science has got a cinch on you--and the modern scientist has wiped out your musty old magic. And the rude every-day porter-house-Budweiser scientist has likewise been studying nature’s finer forces. Now we don’t levitate, to speak of, but we’re making pretty good time, just the same. Your scientific brethren out there in Gingalee will discover in a couple of centuries that we’ve got the drop on them--that the occult isn’t occult, a little bit, and that the Plain Citizen of this great, western republic is after them.” To this the miserable Mystic made no reply. He saw that he was discovered and lost at one and the same time. Nothing but the scarcity of water in his organism restrained the now hopeless gentleman from tears. He made one more attempt, one more appeal. “Is there nothing, Oh, William K. Vanderhook,--is there nothing in our past friendship,--nothing of the past,--in memory that will melt or soften you?” “Anything in _memory_ to _soften_ me? Well,--I--should--say--NIT. Every revolution of the second-hand on the dial plate of my memory drives another spike into the lid of your--figuratively speaking--coffin.” “There was a time when I was soft. Oh, yes, I was _soft_! Five years ago I was softer than putty, softer than a bread-and-milk poultice or a batch of dough. But my friend, I’ve been baked since. Hard baked. It took a lot of kneading and a mighty hot oven, but I got myself baked, hard-brown, and I’ve got a cast-iron crust on me,--and don’t you forget it.” “Yes, I admit I _was_ soft, but that was long ago, before you made a profession of bamboozling silly women.” “Memory--well I should say. D’ye think I’ve forgotten that inspired old Manhattan Mystic? Not much. I’ve been studying that same old muddle myself. Yes, sir, and I’ve got the volume right over there in my scientific library, in the section marked CRANKS,”--and Bill Vanderhook jerked his thumb disdainfully in the direction of the library. “And hear me further, Lonnie boy. It was just my reading of your own High Joss, and it was out of his profound profundity that I dug your condemnation. And it is he, and not Bill Vanderhook, who has settled your eternal--hash. “Now you hear me a minute. I’m going to do a little quoting myself. I spent days and nights wading through that illuminated slush to see if I could find any excuse for you. But instead of that I picked out the biggest spike in the lid. “But, Gee, wasn’t it a job? My nerve nearly brought on paresis. I did have congestive chill, ticdouloureux, meningitis, lock-jaw and curvature of the spine. But I read it just the same, and here’s what your old misfit says. Listen, and when you strike that eternal oblivion take a day off and go back through your disintegrated, dissolved and scattered gray matter and see if _you_ can remember anything like _this_,-- “‘Mechanism does not escape this trope and rhapsody, being indeed their most conspicuous illustration, since its fundamental principle is that of leverage, whereby there is libration or oscillation, as of a scale or a pendulum, or circular motion as of a wheel. In celestial mechanism the material fulcrum disappears, and there is the invisible centre of motion, of light and return, through tendencies which seem to balance each other, giving the motion the orbital form.’” “And here’s your old Manhattan Mummy come home to roost.” “Henrymillsalden, second chapter and fifth verse.” “Congregation sing.” Alonzo Leffingwell bowed his head. He pressed his hand to his solar plexus and then faintly did he murmur--“Then there is nothing that will melt or soften you--nothing?” “Oh, ring off. D’ye take me for the ice man? Well, I’m not. I’m pig-iron, pipe-clay and steel filings; and what’s worse, the more I _remember_ the madder I _get_.” “And then--and then--there is nothing that I can do--or can say?--” “Once--and--for--all,--NOPE, my gay Gnani of Gingalee, for the last time, you’re up against it.” * * * * * And there was silence in the cellar for the space of about eight minutes. * * * * * And then,--“It is not, O William, simply for myself I plead. I am thinking also of you, and of the Karmic consequences of this Act. Had you,--had you--been illuminated--” “I’d a hoisted you out of my house a year ago,”--interrupted Bill fiercely. “But I wasn’t illuminated. My aura wasn’t anything but fuzz. Wasn’t lit up. I was in the gloaming. But I’m not there now. I’m out of the woods. And I’ve got a pink halo of forty-four horse power. D’ye hear me?” and the materialist grinned away his scowl. Waving his hand outward in the glaring atmosphere, he continued,--“I’m getting there. If this ain’t illumination I don’t know light when I see it. Oh, yes, I’m a small incandescent myself. But see here”--and Bill suddenly closed the conversation and his jaws with a snap. “What are you up to anyway? You’re trying to josh me out of this experiment. I don’t mean to let you buzz the vitality out of this dynamo. You’re slick enough to weaken the coils of any old machine if you’re not watched. Anyway, we’ve had enough monkeying, and I’ve got other fish to fry. The Board meets at eight and I’m punctual.” Bill Vanderhook now consulted his watch. “Holy Mother of Mud!”--he shouted. “It’s seven o’clock, and no dinner, and this is Saturday night, and the barber shops crowded. Now, see here”--to the silent, despairing culprits,--“I don’t want any more back talk. I’m going to wind up this business instanter. For this whole mess has to be out of the way in just fif--teen--minutes.” “No--no more talk. You just get ready for your last sprint. This farce is played out. The last act is over. The curtain’s rung down. Alonzo Leffingwell, the wise man of Kankakee flats is no more. Bring on the--flowers--your ‘Gates Ajar’ and the other pin-wheels. The pallbearers are without. The baked meats are on the sideboard--mourners in line, and hark you to the funeral march,-- “Fare-well for-ev-er to old Kan-ka-kee, Fare-well, my Lonnie-Bird, don’t wait for me.” As the hand of the avenger had touched the lever he had burst forth into impassioned song. And there was more truth than either poetry or music in his improvisation. For the cruel energy of this modern executioner was beginning to tell upon its ethereal victim. Never in his varied career had that polished and elegant gentleman been so completely “in the whirl.” There were now subtle but certain changes and transformations taking place in his attenuated substance. The gay, gallant and fascinating sojourner from the Orient was slowly but surely undergoing some character of transmutation. “Now, once for all, and finally,”--resumed Bill, bending forward to readjust some part of the machinery,--“Once again and for the last time I say to you, that you must make up your mind,--no, rather your everlasting substance--to your fearful and final experiences as an individual, as an astral man, as a NEE--go. You have proclaimed that all is spirit. I contend that--ALL--IS--MATTER, and HERE SHE GOES.” But she didn’t go. As these last fierce words of Bill Vanderhook cut the air like whip strokes, the unhappy prisoner trembled with fear. With one mighty effort of will he gathered his forces into one last effort to break his bonds. But in vain. He writhed, struggled, twisted and swayed in the unequal contest. But he was bound, as securely bound by the invisible chain of electricity, as was ever the manacled criminal in the strong, barred dungeon. He was rooted to the rim of that fearful aura of his mechanical captor. Lifting his eyes and his hands toward the ceiling, the despairing captive raised all that remained of his voice in one last wild, weird cry of supplication:-- “Master, Master, why hast thou forsaken me?” And what had stayed the avenger’s hand as it reached again to press the fatal button? Was it that wild cry, or the wild _words_ that stayed the bloodless executioner in that torture chamber? Or,--was it the sudden infusion of another element, of another force, of another individuality superior to the little learning and the little arts of both the modern mystic and the modern scientist? For, at that instant, in a flash of time, occurred a curious thing. The echoes of the Mystic’s wail were still resounding among the jars and jugs when Mr. Vanderhook might have been seen to stagger, to relax, to waver as he stood, to reach blindly for a chair, and then, to crumple up and drop gently upon the floor, to close his eyes, to sleep. And Imogene, who sat upon the cask of copper wire, whose interest had not flagged for an instant, now changed expression suddenly. She yawned, leaned backward to the wall for support, dropped her pretty head to one side, closed her tearful eyes, and she, too, slept. INTERLUDE. And then unsensed by the sleepers, but clear to the vision of the miserable Mystic a sudden, luminous cloud appeared, grew and gathered in intensity. It appeared a few feet from the floor, close to the dynamo, within the radius of its attraction. Steadily the brightness increased until the electric lights were as candles burning at noonday. From the midst of this increasing splendor was gradually shaped a majestic figure, the face and form of an unearthly being, a man, yet a man so transcendent in presence, so lofty in pose, so dazzling in vestments, so celestial in expression as to separate him--almost wholly--from the little beings who run to and fro upon the earth, calling themselves men. The wise man--late of India--looked, shuddered, moaned, closed his eyes and bent his head. The Radiant One paused an instant, and then spoke,--saying:--