THE SOUL of a SCHOOLBOY
The Third in the Series of Mystery Stories, “The Man Who Knew Too Much"
GILBERT K. CHESTERTON
A LARGE map of London would be needed to display the wild and zigzag course of one day’s journey undertaken by an uncle and his nephew; or, to speak more truly, of a nephew and his uncle. For the nephew, a schoolboy on a holiday, was in theory the god in the car, or in the cab, tram, tube and so on; while his uncle was at most a priest dancing before him and offering sacrifices. To put it more soberly, the schoolboy had something of the stolid air of a young düke doing the Grand Tour; while his elderly relative was reduced to the position of a courier, who nevertheless had to pay for everything like a patron. The schoolboy was officially known as Summers Minor, and in a more social manner as Stinks, the only public tribute to his career as an amateur photographer and electrician. The uncle was the Rev. Thomas Twyford, a lean
and lively old gentleman with a red, eager face and white hair. He was in the ordinary way a country clergyman; but he was one of those who achieve the paradox of being famous in an obscure way because they are famous-in an obscure world. In a small circle of ecclesiastical archeologists, who were the only people who could even understand each other’s discoveries, he occupied a recognized and respectable place. And a critic might have found even in that day’s journey at least as much of the uncle’s hobby as of the nephew’s holiday. His original purpose had been wholly paternal and festive. But like many other intelligent people, he was not above the weakness of playing with a toy to amuse himself, on the theory that it would amuse a child. His toys were crowns and mitres and croziers and swords of state; and he had lingered over them, telling himself that the boy ought to see all the sights of London. And at the end of the day, after a tremendous tea, he rather gave the game away by winding up with a visit in which hardly any human boy could be conceived as taking an interest; an underground chamber supposed to have been a chapel, recently excavated on the north bank of the Thames; and containing literally nothing whatever but one old silver coin. But the coin, to those who knew, was more solitary and splendid than the Koh-i-noor. It was Roman and was said to bear the head of St. Paul; and round it raged the most vital controversies about the ancient British Church. It could hardly be denied, however, that the controversies left Summers Minor comparatively cold.
TNDEED the things that interested Summers Minor, and A the things that did not interest him, had mystified and amused his uncle for several hours. He exhibited the English schoolboy’s startling ignorance and startling know ledge; knowledge of some special classification in which he can generally correct and confound his elders. He considered himself entitled at Hampton Court, on a holiday, to forget the very names of Cardinal Wolsey or William of Orange; but he could hardly be dragged away from some details about the arrangement of the electric bells in the neighboring hotel. He was solidly dazed by Westminster Abbey, which is not so unnatural since that church became the lumber-room of the larger and less successful statuary of the eighteenth century. But he had a magic and minute knowledge of the Westminster omnibuses, and indeed of the whole omnibus system of London, the colors and numbers of which he knew as a herald knows heraldry. He would cry out against a momentary confusion between
a light green Paddington and a dark green Bayswater vehicle, as his uncle would at the identification of a Greek ikon and a Roman image.
"Do you collect omnibuses, like stamps?” asked his uncle. “They must need a rather large album. Or do you keep them in your locker?”
“I keep them in my head,” replied the nephew, with legitimate firmness.
“It dees you credit, I admit,” replied the clergyman. “I suppose it were vain to ask for what purpose you have learr.t that out of a thousand things. There hardly seems to be a career in it; unless you could be permanently on the pavement, to advise old ladies getting into the wrong bus. Well, we must get out of this one, for this is our place. I want to show you what they call St. Paul’s Penny.” “Is it like St. Paul’s Cathedral?” asked the youth with resignation, as they alighted.
A T THE entrance their eyes were arrested by a singular figure evidently hovering there with a similar anxiety to enter.
It was that of a dark thin man in a long black robe rather like a cassock; but the black cap on his head was cf too strange a shape to be a biretta. It suggested rather some archaic head-dress of Persia or Babylon. He had a curious black beard appearing only at the corners of his chin; and his large eyes were oddly set in his face like the flat decorative eyes painted in old Egyptian profiles. Before they had gathered more than a general impression of him, he had dived into the doorway that was their own destination.
Nothing could be seen above ground of the sunken sanctuary except a strong wooden hut, of the sort recently run up for many military and official purposes, the wooden floor of. which was indeed a mere platform over the excavated cavity below. A soldier stood as a sentry outside, and a superior soldier, an Anglo-Indian officer of distinction, sat writing at the desk inside. Indeed the sightseers soon found that this particular sight was surrounded with the most extraordinary precautions. I have compared the silver coin to the Koh-i-noor, and. in one sense it was even conventionally comparable; since by a historical accident it was at one time almost counted among the Crown jewels, or at least the Crown relics;
until one of the royal princes publicly rtij stored it to the shrine to which it was supñ posed to belong. Other causes combined!; to concentrate official vigilance upon itg there had been a scare about spies carrying^ explosives i n¡ small objects;; and one of those» experimental orders that pass like waves over bureaucracyhad decreed first that all visitors, should change their clothes for asort of official sackcloth, and then (when thi» method caused some murmurs) that they should at least turn out their pockets. Colonel Morris, the officer in. charge, was a short, active man. with a grim and leathery face but a lively and humorous eye;a contradiction borne out by his conduct; for he at once derided the safeguards and yet insisted on them.
"I don’t care a button myself for Paul’s Penny or such things,” he admitted in answer to some antiquarian openings from the clergyman, who was slightly acquainted with him, “but I wear the King’s coat, you know, and it’s a serious thing when the King’s uncle leaves a thing here with his own hands under my charge. But as for saints and relics and things, I fear I’m a bit of a V oltairian ; what you would cadi a skeptic."
“I’m not sure it’s even skeptical to believe in the Royal Family and not in the Holy Family,” replied Mr. Twyford. “But of course I can easily empty my pockets, toshow I don’t carry a bomb.”
THE little heap of the parson’s possessions, which he left;
on the table, consisted chiefly of papers, over and above a pipe and a tobacco pouch and some Roman and Saxon coins. The rest were catalogues of old books, and pamphlets like one entitled “The Use of Sarum”; one glance at which was sufficient both for the colonel and the schoolboy. They could not see the use of Sarum at all. The contents of the boy’s pockets naturally made a larger heap, and included marbles, a ball of string, an electric torch, a magnet, a small catapult and of course a large pocketknife, almost to be described as a small tool-box; a complex apparatus on which he seemed disposed to linger; pointing out that it included a pair of nippers, a tool for punching holes in wood, and above all an instrument for taking stones out of a horse’s hoof. The comparativeabsence of any horse he appeared to regard as irrelevant; as if it were a mere appendage easily supplied. But when, the turn came of the gentleman in the black gown, he did not turn out his pockets, but merely spread out his hands. “I have no possessions,” he said.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to empty your pockets and make sure,” observed the Colonel gruffly.
“I have no pockets,” said the stranger.
Mr. Twyford was looking at the long black gown with a learned eye.
“Are you a monk?” he asked, in a puzzled fashion.
“I am a magus,” replied the stranger. “You have heard of the Magi, perhaps? I are a magician.”
“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Summers Minor, with prominent eyes.
“T)UT I was once a monk,” went on the other. T am JD what you would call an escaped monk. Yes, I have escaped into eternity. But the monks held on« truth at least, that the highest life'should be without possessions. I have no pocket money and no pockets;, and all the stars are my trinkets.”
“They are out of reach anyhow,” observed Colonel orris, in a tone that suggested that it was well for them. ’ve known a good many magicians myself in India; ango-plant and all. But the Indian ones are all frauds, 11 swear. In fact I had a good deal of fun showing them ). More fun than I have over this dreary job, anyhow, ut here comes Mr. Symon, who will show you over the d cellar downstairs.”
Mr. Symon, the official guardian and guide, was a young an, prematurely grey, with a grave mouth which conasted curiously with a very small dark moustache with wed points, that seemed, somehow, separate from it, as if black fly had settled on his face. He spoke with the cent of Oxford and the permanent official; but in as dead fashion as the most indifferent hired guide. They,deended a dark stone staircase, at the foot of which Symon essed a button and a door opened on a dark room; or fter a room which had an instant before been dark. For Bjibst as the heavy iron door swung open an almost hiding blaze of electric lights filled the whole interior. ¡íe fitful enthusiasm of Stinks at once caught fire, and he gerly asked if the lights and the door worked together. "Yes, it’s all one system,” replied Symon. “It was all ted up for the day His Royal Highness deposited the ing here. You see it’s locked up behind a glass case actly as he left it.”
1 GLANCE showed that the arrangements for guarding * the treasure were indeed as strong as they were simple, single pane of glass cut off one corner of the room, in an >n frame-work let into the rock waHs and the wooden roof love; there was now no possibility of re-opening the case thout elaborate labor, except by breaking the glass, lieh would probably arouse the night watchman, who was ways within a few feet of it, even if he had fallen asleep, [dose examination would have showed many more innious safeguards; but the eye of the Reverend Thomas wyford at least was already riveted on what interested in much more; the dull silver disc lieh shone in the white light against ilain background of black velvet.
‘ISt. Paul’s Penny, said to commemate the visit of St. Paul to Britain, was obably preserved in this chapel until e eighth century,” Symon was saying jhis clear but colorless voice. “In the nth century it is supposed to have been fried away by the barbarians, and it ippears, after the conversion of the rthern Goths, in the possession of the >yal Family of Gothland. His Royal ighness the Duke of Gothland retained always in his own private custody, and len he decided to exhibit it to the pub, placed it here with his own hand. It is immediately sealed up in such a inner—”
Unluckily at this point Summers inor, whose attention had somewhat ■ayed from the religious wars of the ith century, caught sight of a short igth of wire appearing in a broken tch in the wall. He precipitated himi at it, calling out, “I say, does that nnect—”
rWAS evident that-it did connect.
For no sooner had the boy givenit a itch than the whole room went black «il they had all been struck blind; and instant afterwards they heard the ill crash of the closing door.
"Well, you’ve done it now,” said mon in his tranquil fashion. Then ter a pause he added, “I suppose they’ll isa us sooner or later, and no doubt ey can get it open; but it may take me little time.”
There was a silence; and then the unnquerable Stinks observed:
"Rotten that I had to leave my elecctorch.”
"I think,” said his uncle, with retint, “that we are sufficiently conneed of your interest in electricity.”
Then after a pause he remarked more oiably: “I suppose if I regretted any my own impedimenta, it would be the pe. Though as a matter of fact, it’s lit much fun smoking in the dark, jirerything seems different in the dark.”
¡ “Everything is different in the dark,” fid a third voice, that of the man who tiled himself a magician. It was a jry musical voice, and rather in çonlast with his sinister and swarthy visje» which was now invisible. “Perhaps iu don’t know how terrible a truth that 1 All you see are pictures made by the in, faces and furniture and flowers and
trees. The things themselves may be quite strange to you. Something else may be standing now where you saw a table or a chair. The face of your friend may be quite different in the dark.”
A short, indescribable noise broke the stillness. Twyford started for a second, and then said sharply: “Really, I don’t think it’s a suitable occasion for trying to frighten a child.”
“Who’s a child?” cried the indignant Summers, with a voice that had a crow but also something of a crack in it. “And who’s a funk either? Not me.”
“I will be silent then,” said the other voice out of the darkness. “But silence also makes and unmakes.”
THE required silence remained unbroken for a long time until at last the clergyman said to Symon in a low voice, “I suppose it’s all right about air?”
“Oh yes,” replied the other aloud, “there’s a fireplace and a chimney in the office just by the door.”
A bound and the noise of a falling chair told them that the irrepressible rising generation had once more thrown itself across the room. They heard the ejaculation, “A chimney! Why I’ll be—” and the rest was lost in muffled but exultant cries.
The uncle called repeatedly and vainly; groped his way at last to the opening, and peering up it caught a glimpse of a disc of daylight, which seemed to suggest that the fugitive had vanished in safety. Making his way back to the group by the glass case, he fell over the fallen chair, and took a moment to collect himself again. He had opened his mouth to speak to Symon, when he stopped, and suddenly found himself blinking in the full shock of the white light. And looking over the other man’s shoulder, he saw that the door was standing open.
“So they’ve got at us at last,” he observed to Symon. The man in the black robe was leaning against the wall some yards away, with a smile carved on his face.
“Here comes Colonel Morris,” went on Twyford, still
speaking to Symon. “One of us will have to tell him how the light went out. Will you?”
But Symon still said nothing. He was standing as still as a statue, and looking steadily at the black velvet behind the glass screen. He was looking at the black velvet because there was nothing else to look at. St. Paul’s Penny was gone.
/"'OLONEL MORRIS entered the room with two new visitors; presumably two new sightseers delayed by the accident. The foremost was a tall, fair, rather languid looking man with a bald brow and a high-bridged nose; his companion was a young man with light curly hair and frank and even innocent eyes. Symon scarcely seemed to hear the newcomers; it seemed almost as if he had not realized that the return of the light revealed his brooding attitude. Then he started in a guilty fashion, and when he saw the elder of the two strangers, his pale face seemed to turn a shade paler.
“Why, it’s Horne Fisher,” and then after a pause he said in a low voice: “I’m in the devil of a hole, Fisher.”
“There does seem a bit of a mystery to be cleared up,” observed the gentleman so addressed.
“It will never be cleared up,” said the pale Symon. “If anybody could clear it up, you could. But nobody could.”
“I rather think I could,” said another voice from outside the group; and they turned in surprise to realize that the man in the black robe had spoken again.
“You?” said the Colonel sharply, “and how do you propose to play the detective?”
“I do not propose to play the detective,” answered the other, in a clear voice like a bell. “I propose to play the magician. One of the magicians you show up in India, Colonel.”
No one spoke for a moment; and then Horne Fisher surprised everybody by saying, “Well, let’s go upstairs, and this gentleman can have a try.”
He stopped Sjftnon, who had an automatic finger on the button, saying: “No, leave all the lights on. It’s a sort of safeguard.”
“The thing can’t be taken away now,” said Symon bitterly.
“It can be put back,” replied Fisher. Twyford had already run upstairs for news of his vanishing nephew, and he received news of him in a way that at once puzzled and reassured him. On the floor above lay one of those large paper darts, which boys throw at each other when the schoolmaster is out of the room. It had evidently been thrown in the window; and on being unfolded displayed a scrawl of bad handwriting which ran: “Dear Uncle, I am all right. Meet you at the hotel later on,” and then the signature.
Insensibly comforted by this, the clergyman found his thoughts reverting voluntarily to his favorite relic, which came a good second in his sympathies to his favorite nephew. And before he knew where he was he found himself encircled by the group discussing its loss and more or less carried away on the current of their excitement. But an undercurrent of query continued to run in his mind, as to what had really happened to the boy, and what was the boy’s exact definition of being all right.
Meanwhile Horne Fisher had considerably puzzled everybody with his new tone and attitude. He had talked to the Colonel about the military and mechanical arrangements, and displayed a remarkable knowledge both of the details of discipline and the technicalities of electricity. He had talked to the clergyman, and shown an equally surprising knowledge of the religious and historical interests involved in the rplic. He had talked to the man who called himself a magician: and not only surprised hut scandalized Hie company by an equally sympathetic familiarity with the most fantastic forms of Oriental occultism and psychic experiment. And in this last and least respectable line of enquiry he was evidently prepared to go furthest; he openly encouraged the magician, and was plainly preps red to follow the wildest ways of investigation in which that magus might lead him.
“How would you begin now?” he enquired, with an anxious politeness that reduced the Colonel to a congestion of rage.
“It is all a question of a force; of estab-
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Continued from page 17
j fishing communications for a force,” ! replied that adept affably, ignoring some ' military rmitterings about the police force.
“it is what you in the West used to call j animai magnetism; but it is much more than I that. I had better not say how much more. As to setting about it, the usual 1 method is to throw some susceptible person I into a trance; which serves as a sort _ of j bridge or cord of communication, by which I the force beyond can give him, as it were,
1 an electric shock, and awaken his higher j senses. It opens the sleeping eye of the mind.”
'Tm susceptible,” said Fisher, either with simplicity or with a baffling irony. "Why not open my mind’s eye for me? My friend Harold March here will tell you I sometimes see things, even in the dark.”
“Nobody sees anything except in the dark,” said the magician.
Heavy clouds of sunset were closing round the wooden hut; enormous clouds of which only the corners could be seen in the little window like purple horns and tails, almost as if some huge monsters were prowling round the place. But the purple was already deepening to dark grey ; it would soon be night.
“Do not light the lamp,” said the magus with quiet authority arresting a movement in that direction. “I told you before that things only happen in the dark.’’
HOW such a topsyturvy scene ever came to be tolerated in the Colonel’s office, of all places, was afterwards a puzzle in the memory of many, including the Colonel. They recalled it like a sort' of nightmare, like something they could not control. Perhaps there was really a magnetism about the mesmerism; perhaps there was even more magnetism about the man mesmerized. Anyhow the man was being mesmerized, for Home Fisher had collapsed into a chair with his long limbs loose and sprawling and his eyes staring at vacancy; and the other man was mesmerizing him; making sweeping movements with his darkly draped arms as if with black wings. The Colonel had passed the point of explosion; and he dimly realized that eccentric aristocrats are allowed their fling. He comforted himself with the knowledge that he had already sent for the police who would break up any such masquerade; and with lighting a cigar the red end of which, in the gathering darkness, glowed with protest.
“Yes, I see pockets,” the man in the trance was saying. “I see many pockets, but they are all empty. No; I see one pocket that is not empty.”
There was a faint stir in the stillness and the magician said: “Can you see what is in the pocket?”
“Yes,” answered the other, “there are two bright things. I think they are two bits of steel. One of the pieces of steel is bent or crooked.”
“Have they been used in the removal of the relic from downstairs?”
There was another pause and the enquirer added. “Do you see anything of the relic itself?”
“I see something shining on the floor; like the shadow or the ghost of it. It is over there in the corner beyond the desk.” There was a movement of men turning anfl then a sudden stillness as of their stiffening. For over in the corner on the wooden floor there was really a round spot of pale light. It was the only spot of light in the room. The cigar had gone out.
“It points the way,” came the voice of the oracle. “The spirits are pointing the way to penitence, and urging the thief to restitution-—I can see nothing more.” His voice trailed off into a silence that lasted solidly for many minutes, like the long silence below when the theft had been committed. Then it was broken by the ring of metal on the floor, and the sound of something spinning and falling like a tossed halfpenny.
“Light the lamp,” cried Fisher in a loud and even jovial voice, leaping to his feet with far less languor than usual. “I must be going now, but I should like to see it before I go. Why, I came on purpose to see it.”
THE lamp was lit, and he did see it;
for St. Paul’s Penny was lying on the floor at his feet.
“Oh as for that,” explained Fisher,
when he was entertaining March and1 Twyford at lunch about a month later, “I merely wanted to play with the magician at his own game.”
“I thought you meant to catch him in his own trap,” said Twyford. “I can’t make head or tail of anything yet; but to my mind he was always the suspect. I don’t think he was necessarily a thief in the vulgar sense. The police always seem to think that silver is stolen for the sake of silver; but a thing like that might well be stolen out of some religious mania. A runaway monk turned mystic might well want it for some mystical purpose.”
“No,” replied Fisher. “The runaway monk is not a thief. At any rate he is not the thief. And he’s not altogether a liar either. He said one true thing at least that night.”
“And what was that?” enquired March.
"He said it was all magnetism. As a matter of fact, it was done by means of a magnet.”
Then, seeing they still looked puzzled,
he added. “It was that toy magnet be!, Mr. Twyford.” “But I don’t understand,” objected
longing to your nephew,
March. “If it was done with the schoolboy’s magnet, I suppose it was done by the schoolboy.”
“Well,” replied Fisher reflectively, “it rather depends which schoolboy.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“The soul of a schoolboy is a curious thing,” Fisher continued in a meditative manner. “It can survive a great many things, besides climbing out of a chimney. A man can grow grey in great campaigns, and still have the soul of a schoolboy. A man can return with a great reputation from India and be put in charge of a great public treasure, and still have the soul of a schoolboy, waiting to be awakened by an accident. And it is ten times more so when to the schoolboy you add the skeptic, who is generally a sort of stunted schoolboy. Y ou said just now that things might be done by religious mania. Have you ever heard of irreligious mania? I assure you it exists very violently; especially in men who like showing up magicians in India. But here the sceptic had the temptation of showing up a much more tremendous sham nearer home.”
ALIGHT came into Harold March’s eyes as he suddenly saw, as if afar off, the wider implication of the suggestion. But Twyford was still wrestling with one problem at a time.
“Do you really mean,” he said, “that Colonel Morris took the relic?”
“He was the only person who could use the magnet,” replied Fisher. “In fact your obliging nephew left him a number of things he could use. He had a ball of string, and an instrument for making a hole in the wooden floor—I made a little play with that hole in the floor in my trance, by the way: with the lights left on below, it shone like a new shilling.”
Twyford suddenly bounded on his chair. “But in that case,” he cried, in a new and altered voice, “why then of course— you said a piece of steel—”
“I said there were two pieces of steel,” said Fisher. “The bent piece of steel was the boy’s magnet. The other was' the relic in the glass case.”
“But that is silver,” answered the archeologist, in a Voice now almost unrecognizable.
“Oh,” replied Fisher soothingly, “I daresay it was painted with silver a little.” There was a heavy silence, and at last Harold March said, “But where is the real relic?”
“Where it has been for five years,” replied Home Fisher. “In the possession of a mad millionaire named Vandam, in Nebraska. There was a playful little paragraph about him in a society paper the other day, mentioning his delusion, and saying he was always being taken in about relics.”
HAROLD MARCH frowned at the tablecloth; then after an interval he said: “I think I understand your notion of how the thing was actually done; according to that Morris just made a hole and fished it up with a magnet at the end of a string. Such a monkey trick looks like mere madness; but I suppose he was mad, partly with the boredom of watching over what he felt was a fraud. But it’s just the whole thing that knocks me.”
. Fisher was looking at him with level lids and an immovable manner.
“Every precaution was taken,” he said. “The Duke carried the relic on his own person, and locked it up in the case with his own hands.”
March was silent; but Twyford stammered. “I don’t understand you. You give me the creeps. Why don’t you speak plainer?”
“If I spoke plainer you would understand me less,” said Home Fisher.
“All the same I should try,” said March, still without lifting his head.
“Oh very well, replied Fisher with a sigh, “the plain truth is, of course, that it’s abad business. Everybody knows it’s a bad business, who knows anything about It. But it’s always happening and in one way one can hardly blame them. They get stuck on a foreign princess that’s as Stiff as a Dutch doll, and they have their fling. In this case it was a pretty big fling.”
FpHE face of the Rev. Thomas Twyford 11 certainly suggested that he was a little flut of his depth in the seas of truth; but as the other went on speaking vaguely, the »Id gentleman’s features sharpened and pet.
( “If it were some decent morganatic Affair I wouldn’t say: but he must have been a fool to throw away thousands on a Woman like that. At the end it was sheer blackmail; but it’s something that the old Ass didn’t get it out of the tax-payers. He could only get it out of the Yank, and there you are.”
V The Rev. Thomas Twyford had risen to Ais feet.
“Well, I’m glad my nephew had nothing to do with it,” he said. “And if that’s What the world is like, I hope he will never bave anything to do with it.”
“I hope not," answered Home Fisher. “No one knows so well as I do that one can have far too much to do with it.”
For Summers Minor had indeed nothing to do with it; and it is part of his higher significance that he has really nothing to do with the story, or with any such stories. The boy . went like a bullet through the tangle of this tale of crooked politics and crazy mockery and came out on the other side, pursuing his own unspoilt purposes. From the top of the chimney he climbed he had caught sight of a new omnibus, whose color and name he had never known ; as a naturalist might see a new bird or a botanist a new flower. And he had been sufficiently enraptured in rushing after it, and riding away upon that fairy ship.