THE MAN WHO THOUGHT
HE WAS DEAD
"AS A MAN thinketh and so forth and so on," exclaimed Ed Wilson irritably, "such rot! How do you get that way, anyhow?"
"Now, Wilson," I remonstrated, "you condemn without a proper knowledge of your subject matter. I will undertake—"
"Oh, hush, Jackson, I know your head is filled with hobgoblins, ghosts and bogies and heaven alone knows what else. I suppose you will be telling me next that if I think often enough and hard enough that I am a blue monkey, then a blue monkey I will be."
"Tut, man," I returned laughingly, "you always take the extreme view of anything which does not happen to fit in with your preconceived ideas, but I can almost answer you in the affirmative, ridiculous as your query is. You remember Plato Goodsmith, I suppose?"
"That solemn old owl with his silly airs and enormous flowing tie a la Byron? Don't say you are going to prove your contention by him."
"But I do say that very thing. Poor Goodsmith is gone now and I will venture to say you knew nothing whatever of the manner of his taking. Very few did. Only his sister, the attending physicians and myself. It can do no harm though to make it public now as it all happened several years ago and Plato's sister has since joined him in "that beautiful land on a far away strand," leaving no connections behind who might be offended at the telling.
"All right, Jackson, shoot! I have another hour I can waste with you."
The above conversation took place one Thanksgiving night in the grill room of the club where Wilson and I had dined together. The weather was extremely cold for the time of year, the wind blew a gale, whirling and falling snow through the icy air, rattling the club house windows as though daring those inside to come out and do battle. Inside all was snug and warm; a great pile of logs blazed in the open fireplace, while overhead sparkled numerous electric lights. The waiter had cleared the table and when I tell you that on finally retiring, he left a tall black bottle and two glasses, together with a siphon of seltzer, you will know that the time was before Mr. Volstead and his crew made themselves famous; or infamous, as you please.
"Well, Wilson," I resumed, "let me say to you first that what I am about to relate null sound wilder than anything you ever dreamed or imagined. I shall undoubtedly be disbelieved and you will probably suspect my sanity, but I tell you now that every word of it will be true. Dr. Hobson and Dr. James, to whom you may go for confirmation of my tale, will vouch for every word of it.
I knew Plato Goodsmith all my life. We made mud pies together, were schoolmates and college chums, afterward maintaining our close relations, though of course, we were not so much to each other as during the earlier year's. Goodsmith was a student and a dreamer, very much in earnest about even the most trivial matters, seldom ever smiling and utterly without a sense of humor; impervious to ridicule and solemnly dignified upon all occasions. In appearance he was tall and thin with a dark cast of countenance, black hair and bushy brows shading almost expressionless gray eyes. A long narrow face, deeply lined with thought, bearing a never changing expression of melancholy speculation. In dress, too, he was eccentric, always appearing in a soft gray hat, very low collar with an enormous flowing tie, prince Albert coat, pin stripe trousers and patent leather shoes.
My newspaper employment kept me very busy and for a time I had been out of touch with Goodsmith. I lived in a downtown boarding house, while he with his maiden sister, Miss Arabella, resided in a west end bungalow. They had a small income, barely sufficient to meet their actual needs and as Plato had a horror of the business world and its rough and tumble struggle for dollars, he was never able to add anything to their small modicum.
ONE day in the early spring, my work for the day finished, I started out in search of another room, the one I had being unsatisfactory for a variety of reasons. I had not proceeded far when I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find Goodsmith gazing solemnly down upon me, his mouth slightly twitching, which was about the nearest he ever came to a smile, "Ah-er-hem, Jackson," he said, "I saw you as I was crossing the street and hastened to overtake you. It has been quite some little time since we last met."
"Well, well!" I replied, "if it isn't old Plato! I certainly am glad to see you. How has the world been treating you? And Miss Arabella? She is the same as ever I hope?"
"Ah, yes, yes, we are much as usual Jackson, but ah-er-hem, I feel highly gratified by this meeting. Yes, I may say that, highly gratified."
"You have nothing on me, old boy, for I am right down happy to see you. I was just commencing a disagreeable task, looking for another boarding house, in fact, but that can be put off to some other time. Let us get in some place where we can talk. I want you to tell me all about yourself."
"Ah, no, Jackson, no, I am engaged you know on er-ah-a little literary work. Er-yes, I may call it that and I have set aside certain hours which I devote to that alone. Now er-ah-hem, you see, or ah, I should say you know Arabella and I occupy the entire house where we are at present and er-ah, there happens to be a spare room, er, yes yes, several spare rooms I might say, and hem-er, if you think you could put up with us, why er, surely you know you would be quite welcome and er-ah, company you know, yes yes. I should enjoy the arrangement immensely."
"Do you mean it. Goodsmith?" I asked, "But yes, I can see you do. Nothing could please me better; it will be like home."
"Hem, then we shall consider that settled. No no, not a word about terms Whatever you and Arabella decide on will be very satisfactory to me. Ah-hem, we must hurry," he exclaimed, consulting a jeweler's clock across the way. "Yes yes, we must hasten or I shall not be able to resume my writing at the stipulated hour."
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