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Read Ebook: Tales of the Wonder Club Volume I by Halidom M Y Jellicoe John Illustrator Prince Val R Illustrator
Font size: Background color: Text color: Add to tbrJar First Page Next PageEbook has 1883 lines and 103140 words, and 38 pagesIllustrator: John Jellicoe Val Prince TALES OF THE WONDER CLUB. BY DRYASDUST LONDON: PRINTED BY A. HUDSON AND CO., 16, WANDSWORTH ROAD, S.W. PAGE FRONTISPIECE -- TITLE PAGE -- THE PHANTOM FLEA 17 THE SPIRIT LOVERS 57 THE GLACIER KING 118 THE MERMAID 129 THE PIGMY QUEEN 202 THE SPIRIT LEG 314 LOST IN THE CATACOMBS 373 INTRODUCTION. A PEEP AT THE WONDER CLUB. Towards the close of the last century there stood in one of the Midland counties of England, in the centre of two cross-roads, a venerable hostelry, built in the reign of Elizabeth, and known by the sign of "Ye Headless Lady." Its ancient gables were shaded by luxuriant elms and beech trees. The woodwork of the building and its weather-stained walls of brick were partially overgrown with thick ivy, while its high, dingy-red roof was tinted with every variety of lichen. The windows were narrow, and the framework heavy, as is usual in houses of that period. The host of this establishment, one Jack Hearty, was one of the old school of landlords--robust, jovial, and never above his business. His fathers had owned the inn before him, and "he never wished to be a better man than his father, nor a worse either, for the matter of that," as he would say. All day long, when not engaged with his customers indoors, he was to be seen at the door of his inn, with his apron girt around him, and a "yard of clay" at his lips, straining his eyes down the long cross-roads for the first glimpse of a customer. Often after gazing long and intently into the distance he would turn back with a sigh, knock the ashes from his pipe, refill it, take a deep draught of his own home-brewed ale, then, if none of his customers required anything, and the affairs of his household permitted it, he would sally out again. This time, perhaps, his eyes would be greeted by the sight of a solitary wayfarer, or, better still, the stage-coach. Then it was that the honest landlord's face would brighten up, as it was certain to bring him some of the "big-wigs" from town. He would rub his hands and chuckle, while Dame Hearty would begin to bustle about to welcome the fresh arrivals. It was not often, however, that the "Headless Lady" was entirely deserted. Imagine, then, a large room with low ceiling and walls of dark oak panel, a large old-fashioned fireplace with dogs, and a Yule log blazing on the hearth. The curtains are old and embroidered, and closely drawn. The room is well lighted, and in the middle is a long table, at which, through a cloud of tobacco smoke, a party of nine--all lords of the creation--may be discovered. A bowl of punch is in the centre of the table, at which every now and then each guest replenishes his glass. Mr. Oldstone, the antiquary, has been elected chairman. Watch with what dignity he fills his post of honour. Look! he rises and thumps the table. He is going to make a speech. The strictest silence reigns; you might hear a pin drop. "Gentlemen," began the worthy chairman, after one or two preliminary "hems," "it is with feelings of mixed pride and pleasure that I feel myself called upon to-night to preside at this most honourable meeting." The chairman resumed, "This is the tenth anniversary of our club of choice spirits , and so shamefully nicknamed by our enemies 'The Morbid Club.' Irritated at our exclusiveness, and envious at the reports of the superior talent that circulates nightly at our table, and which bursts into a halo of genius on our great saturnalias, what wonder, gentlemen, if the worthy members of our select club should make enemies out of their own circle? Only 'birds of a feather flock together,' and perhaps the contempt of our enemies is the best compliment they can pay us." Here the chairman paused to take breath, and then, after a preliminary sip at his glass of punch, proceeded. "Gentlemen, I feel duly sensible of the honour conferred upon me this evening in being selected to preside at our meeting on this very important occasion, an honour which I feel unable to support, and for which I feel my abilities so inadequate. Gentlemen, we are a company of nine this evening, the number of the muses--the omen is auspicious. I see around me faces that were present at the inauguration of our club, ten years ago, though others, alas! have gone to their long rest." Here the speaker was visibly moved, and passed his hand over his eyes to wipe away an incipient tear. Then, recovering himself, "Need I proceed, gentlemen? Need I trespass longer upon the time and patience of guests so illustrious? Then, gentlemen," continued the speaker, "I would but detain you one moment longer, to propose the following toast, to be drunk with three times three. 'Long live the "Wonder Club," and all its choice members.'" Here the president, at the conclusion of his speech, held a bumper above his head, and repeated the toast with the rest of the company, with a "Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!" "May their brains be as fertile as the plains of Elysium, and may the fame of the 'Wonder Club' spread to the ends of the earth." This sentiment was followed by a burst of applause. In the midst of the stamping, cheering, and rattling of glasses that ensued a knock was heard at the door. Who could it be? The landlord? It was not his wont to disturb the club for a trifle. He only made his appearance when called for. What was it? Was the inn on fire? Who could venture to disturb the solemn meeting of the "Wonder Club" on their tenth anniversary? One of the members rose from his seat and opened the door ajar, still holding the handle in his hand. "Who is it? What do you want at this hour?" he asked. The letter was delivered to Mr. Oldstone. He glanced at the card. "What, a visitor!" he said; "and at this time of night. Let me tell you, landlord--ahem--that this is a most unwarrantable infringement of--er--er--of the rules laid down by--er--eh? Stay, what have we here? Excuse me, gentlemen, while I break the seal. Ha! from my old friend Rustcoin. You remember him, gentlemen--my brother antiquary, formerly a member of our club. He writes from Rome: "'MY DEAR FRIEND,--I dare say you are surprised to hear from me again, after my long silence. The fact is that I had put off writing to you, having some time ago formed a resolution of returning to England, when I hoped to surprise you by suddenly appearing unexpectedly in time for the tenth anniversary of the inauguration of our club. Certain affairs, however, have prevented me from being present myself in the flesh, but I beg to introduce to your notice my young friend, Mr. Vandyke McGuilp, an artist who has for some time past been prosecuting his studies here in Rome. He is a young man of talent and genius, possessing a great fund of stories of the marvellous and supernatural order, such as your club particularly prides itself on. He is quite one of our sort, and you would be doing me a great favour to introduce him to the rest of the members. If he could arrive in time for your grand saturnalia, I should be doubly pleased.--Your old friend, "'CHARLES RUSTCOIN.'" "Well, gentlemen," said the president, "what do you say to that? Shall the neophyte be admitted? You see, he is not a commercial traveller, nor a business man, but an artist; one of those restless strivers after the ideal. A traveller, too--a man full of stories, like one of us. What do you say--shall he be admitted?" The guests gave an unanimous consent, and the next moment our host ushered the stranger into the club-room. All eyes were directed towards the stranger. He was a young man, bordering on thirty, about the middle height, who, contrary to the custom of the period, wore his own hair, which at that time was considered extremely vulgar. He wore a slouch hat instead of the usual three-cornered shape, and an Italian cloak thrown over the left shoulder. He doffed his hat with dignity and courtesy as he entered the apartment, and after shaking the snow from his cloak , he handed cloak and hat to the landlord and accepted the offer of a chair that Mr. Oldstone had placed for him near the fire. "Here! mine host," shouted Mr. Oldstone, "bring another log, and see that you make this gentleman comfortable to-night, for I see without asking him any questions that he is one of our set." "Ay, ay, sir," said the landlord, who was just leaving the room. "Never fear, sir, I'll see to the gentleman's wants, and my old woman will warm the bed, for it's a nasty night to be out in. My blessed eyes, how it snows! The gentleman must have had pressing business with you, sir, to bring him out here such a night as this." "No, my good host," replied the artist; "nothing more than a desire to be present at the tenth anniversary of the club that I have heard so much about." The host looked astonished, and the guests felt flattered. The landlord's respect for the members of the club was augmented considerably. "The same, sir; Jack Hearty, at your service, sir." "Well, then, Jack Hearty, I have just come from foreign parts, where I have left an old customer of yours; one Mr. Rustcoin, a great friend of Mr. Oldstone's. Do you recollect him?" "In excellent health, thank you, Jack," said the stranger. "He desired to be remembered to you." "Thank you, sir," said the host. "Yes; those slippers will do," said the new guest. "Draw near to the table, my friend," said Mr. Oldstone, "for I must introduce you to the other members and guests here to-night." The new visitor bowed to each guest at the table with urbanity, and the guests returned the salute cordially. "Well, gentlemen," began the president, "what do you say to a bumper to the health of our new guest?" "Hear, hear!" cried the guests, unanimously. Each filled up his glass from the punch-bowl, and our artist's health was drunk with cheers, to which he responded in a short and modest speech. "And now, Mr. Hardcase," said the chairman, after the formalities were gone through, "I think it was arranged that you should tell the first story. I hope you have one ready. I am anxious for my young friend to hear a specimen of our far-famed recitals. In this club," said Mr. Oldstone, addressing the artist, "we always esteem those stories the highest that are true, and especially if they are facts coming under the experience of the relater. What sort of story may we expect from you to-night, Mr. Hardcase?" "The story I intended to start the club with to-night is one that I myself took part in in my younger days, and which, although I never related to any of the club before, I have been upon the point of relating a hundred times, when I have been invariably interrupted by someone else who had some other tale to relate. The story I have in store for you this evening, gentlemen, I propose to entitle 'The Phantom Flea.'" "Ha, Bravo!" laughed the guests. "The Phantom Flea! Ha! ha! ha!" "Exactly so," said the doctor. "And each particular hair to stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine," quoted Mr. Blackdeed, the tragedian. "Belay that," roared Captain Toughyarn, from the depths of his stentorian lungs, "and make room on board for the 'Phantom Flea.'" Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page |
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