Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 25, September 17, 1870 - Various
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* * * * *
Vol. I No. 25
PUNCHINELLO
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1870.
PUBLISHED BY THE
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,
83 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,
By ORPHEUS C. KERR,
Continued in this Number.
See 15th Page for Extra Premiums.
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THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION.
BY ORPHEUS C. KERR
CHAPTER XVIII
A SUBTLE STRANGER.
The latest transient guest at the Roach House--a hotel kept on the
entomological plan in Bumsteadville--was a gentleman of such lurid
aspect as made every beholder burn to know whom he could possibly be.
His enormous head of curled red hair not only presented a central
parting on top and a very much one-sided parting and puffing-out behind,
but actually covered both his ears; while his ruddy semi-circle of beard
curled inward, instead of out, and greatly surprised, if it did not
positively alarm, the looker-on, by appearing to remain perfectly
motionless, no matter how actively the stranger moved his jaws. This
ball of improbable inflammatory hair and totally independent face rested
in a basin of shirt collar; which, in its turn, was supported by a rusty
black necktie and a very loose suit of gritty alpaca; so that, taking
the gentleman for all in all, such an incredible human being had rarely
been seen outside of literary circles.
"Landlord," said the stranger to the brown linen host of the Roach
House, who was intently gazing at him with the appreciative expression
of one who beholds a comic ghost,--"landlord, after you have finished
looking at my head and involuntarily opening your mouth at some
occasional peculiarity of my whiskers, I should like to have something
to eat. As you tell me that woodcock is not fit to eat this year, and
that broiled chicken is positively prohibited by the Board of Health in
consequence of the sickly season, you may bring me some pork and beans,
and some crackers. Bring plenty of crackers, landlord, for I'm uncommon
fond of crackers. By absorbing the superfluous moisture in the head,
they clear the brain and make it more subtle."
Having been served with the wholesome country fare he had ordered,
together with a glass of the heady native wine called applejack, the
gentleman had but just moved a slice of pork from its bed in the beans,
when, with much interest, he closely inspected the spot of vegetables he
had uncovered, and expressed the belief that there was something alive
in it.
"Landlord," said he, musingly, "there is something amongst these beans
that I should take for a raisin, if it did not move."
Placing upon his nose a pair of vast silver spectacles, which gave him
an aspect of having two attic windows in his countenance, the landlord
bowed his head over the plate until his nose touched the beans, and
thoughtfully scrutinized the living raisin.
"As I thought, sir, it is only a water-bug," he observed, rescuing the
insect upon his thumb-nail. "You need not have been frightened, however,
for they never bite."
Somewhat reassured, the stranger went on eating until his knife
encountered resistance in the secondary layer of beans; when he once
more inspected the dish, with marked agitation.
"Can this be a skewer, down here?" inquired he, prodding at some hard,
springy object with his fork.
The host of the Roach House bore both fork and object to a window, where
the light was less deceptive, and was presently able to announce
confidently that the object was only a hair-pin. Then, observing that
his guest looked curiously at a cracker, which, from the gravelly marks
on one side, seemed to have been dug out of the earth, like a potato, he
hastened to obviate all complaint in that line by carefully wiping every
individual cracker with his pocket handkerchief.
"And now, landlord," said the stranger, at last, pulling a couple of
long, unidentified hairs from his mouth as he hurriedly retired from the
meal, "I suppose you are wondering who I am?"
"Well, sir," was the frank answer, "I can't deny that there are points
about you to make a plain man like myself thoughtful. There's that about
your hair, sir, with the middle-parting on top and the side-parting
behind, to give a plain person the impression that your brain must be
slightly turned, and that, by rights, your face ought to be where your
neck is. Neither can I deny, sir, that the curling of your whiskers the
wrong way, and their peculiarity in remaining entirely still while your
mouth is going, are circumstances calculated to excite the liveliest
apprehensions of those who wish you well."
"The peculiarities you notice," returned the gentleman, "may either
exist solely in your own imagination, or they may be the result of my
own ill-health. My name is TRACEY CLEWS, and I desire to spend a few
weeks in the country for physical recuperation. Have you any idea where
a dead-beat,[1] like myself, could find inexpensive lodgings in
Bumsteadville?"
The host hastily remarked, that his own bill for those pork and beans
was fifty cents; and upon being paid, coldly added that a Mrs. SMYTHE,
wife of the sexton of Saint Cow's Ritualistic Church, took hash-eaters
for the summer. As the gentleman preferred a high-church private
boarding-house to an unsectarian first class hotel, all he had to do was
to go out on the road again, and keep inquiring until he found the
place.
Donning his Panama hat, and carrying a stout cane, Mr. CLEWS was quickly
upon the turnpike; and, his course taking him near the pauper
burial-ground, he presently perceived an extremely disagreeable child
throwing stones at pigeons in a field, and generally hitting the
beholder.
"You young Alderman! what do you mean?" he exclaimed, with marked
feeling, rubbing the place on his knee which had just been struck.
"Then just give me a five-cent stamp to aim at yer, and yer won't ketch
it onc't," replied the boyish trifler. "I couldn't hit what I was to
fire at if it was my own daddy."