Read Ebook: The giftie gien by Jameson Malcolm Kramer Frank Illustrator

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Ebook has 106 lines and 8608 words, and 3 pages

"Whatever could have happened to your husband?" she asked sweetly.

"Drunk, I suppose," answered Mrs. Chisholm calmly. "I hope so. I hear this is a good show and I want to enjoy it, even if we have missed half the first act. My husband, you know, fancies himself as a dramatic critic. He is quite unbearable, I assure you."

"Oh, really?" said the fair young thing. It was best to be noncommittal, she thought, though she had been secretly wondering for some time how long Mrs. Chisholm No. 3 was going to stick it out. No other Mrs. Chisholm had ever finished out the first year, despite the Chisholm legend of what a "way" he had with the gals.

"Let's go on in," said Mr. McKittrick, pocketing his watch.

It was about then that the park police stumbled across the defunct sales manager's broken form. It was already a long time after Mr. Chisholm had temporarily forgotten all about Hardy and Firrel and Maizie and Lonigan and the theater party. For in some places a matter of a couple of hours or so seems longer. It was that way where Mr. Chisholm was.

First, there was all that tiresome marching. Chisholm found himself on a vast gray plain under a dull leaden sky, marching, marching, marching. It was odd that it tired him so, for it was effortless and timeless and the distances, though interminable, seemed meaningless. It must have been the monotony of it. And then, also, he found those marching with him strangely disturbing. Some were healthy-looking men like himself, except that most of them were gashed or mangled in some way, as if hurled through plate glass or smashed by bombs. Others were haggard and pallid, as if coming from sickbeds. But it was the soldiers that got him most. He had forgotten about the war. It had touched him but slightly, though his impressions of it had been irritating, but not in a flesh and blood way. The silly business of priorities, price controls and sales taxes had annoyed him exceedingly, and the outrageous income-tax boosts had infuriated him. Now he was getting another slant on the conflict, for hordes--armies--of soldiers were marching along with him. They were of every kind--Russians, Japs, Tommies, Nazis, even American bluejackets and soldiers--and mingled with them were miserable-looking civilians of every race. A pair of wretched-looking Polish Jews walking near him had obviously been hanged but a short time before. Chisholm edged away from them in horrified disgust.

He was beginning to tumble to the fact that he was dead, and was getting restive with the monotonous tramping across the plain. He had never been a devout man, or even a philosophical one, so he had little idea of what to expect, except that certain childhood memories or notions kept intruding themselves upon his consciousness. Wasn't there some sort of trial coming to him? Not that the prospect worried him much. At least, not very much. For he had always dealt justly with people according to his lights, he insisted to himself. He couldn't help it if there were venal people, or weaklings, or would-be tough eggs that had to be pushed around. Nobody could be expected to get through life without handling such types in the most appropriate way. But where, oh where, was the judge that would pass judgment?

After a time the crowd grew thinner. At length the shade of Chisholm noted that he was virtually alone and treading a narrow path that led upward over a shadowy hill. There was no one ahead of him or alongside, but following him at a distance was a considerable multitude of other shades of his own kind. He supposed that shortly after his own unfortunate encounter with the thugs a catastrophe of some sort had developed locally. He could not resist the malicious half hope that it might have been a theater fire. Somehow it irked him that his latest wife should still be alive and fattening on his property while he was tramping these gray wilds. Nor would it have upset him to know that McKittrick had been caught in the same disaster. McKittrick, in his estimation, was a pompous ass whom he would have shown up if he could have lived just a little longer. As far as that went, he could also have viewed with equanimity the decease of the girl that was brought along for Lonigan. He hadn't forgotten the smart of her recent rebuff of him, the little cat!

With such thoughts in mind, he topped the rise and saw a wall with a gate in it before him. The gate was open, so he went on in. He halfway expected to be stopped, or at least greeted by an angel, but things were just the same inside the gate as out--except that there was a voice. The voice cried out in the manner of a train announcer, deep and booming.

"The prototype of Jerome Chester Chisholm!"

Just that. That was all.

Then a demon materialized directly in front of the shade of Chisholm.

"This way, Jerome," he said very politely. He was not bad-looking--for a demon--though he was unmistakably one, having the expected stock properties: a reddish, glistening skin, stubby horns, and shiny jet-black eyes.

"'J.C.' is what people call me," corrected Chisholm. He had never dealt with a demon before, but since the demon appeared to be friendly he thought he might as well respond with a gesture of his own.

Mr. Chisholm sniffed. The demon's words had the faint odor of a dirty crack. He was beginning not to like the demon. Also the import of the unseen a?rial announcement was puzzling him. What did it mean by calling him the "prototype" of himself? It didn't make sense.

The demon was skittering along ahead, paying very little attention to Chisholm, who was following along meekly enough. Presently a large building loomed ahead. As they approached Chisholm could see that it was an auditorium of some kind. He could also see that the mob of shades were close behind and that they had no guiding demon with them. Evidently they were following blindly in his own tracks.

"You must have been a pretty popular fellow," remarked the demon, looking them over, "or the reverse. Notorious, you know."

Chisholm didn't know. He had a reputation, he knew, as a go-getter and a good fellow, but it was a modest one--restricted to his customers, his salesmen, and people he met casually. He hardly expected this turn-out. Moreover, he couldn't recognize anybody in the hall. As he looked them over he was struck with one singularity of the crowd. Many of them bore a family resemblance to him, some rather close, others fantastically distorted. The majority looked like three-dimensional, animated caricatures of him. One especially obnoxious one kept trying to climb up onto the stage. He was far fatter than Chisholm himself had ever been or could ever have been even if he had skipped the gym workouts.

The demon observed the look of profound distaste on Chisholm's face, but only grinned a little and picked up a gavel. He rapped sharply on the table.

"Come to order, please," he said. "The convention is assembled."

There was a momentary hush, and then pandemonium broke out. It was a very disorderly crowd and an opinionated one, from the jeers that were hurled up at the stage. It was hard to pick out what they were saying, but the trend of it seemed to be that practically everyone there wanted to preside or was full of hot ideas that demanded immediate and full expression. The demon was unperturbed. He was an old hand. At intervals he would bang with the gavel. At last he got a tiny bit of silence.

"Fellow heels," he commenced, unblushingly, then paused to see what uproar would follow. There was none. His insult had quieted the tumult like oil on ruffled waters. He cleared his throat and went on.

"We are gathered here to form the ghost of Jerome Chester Chisholm, deceased, erstwhile sales manager of the Pinnacle Office & Household Appliance Corp. We have all eternity, to be sure, but why waste it? Coalesce, please, as rapidly as possible. For purposes of comparison, your prototype is standing here beside me. Take it or leave it. That's your affair."

There were howls of "Chuck him out," "chiseler," "heel," "stuffed shirt," and many, many less elegant epithets. Then an ominous silence descended. The demon quietly pointed to a spot on the stage and the procession started. One by one the specters mounted the stage, marched to the spot and stood on it. Succeeding ones came on, each melting imperceptibly into the one that had been there before. Gradually the resultant figure took on more definite shape and looked far more solid than any single shade in the hall. For many of them were so tenuous as to be hardly visible.

"Would you mind, sir," asked Mr. Chisholm, not knowing any better way to address a demon, "telling me what this is all about? And after this monkey business is over, when do I get my trial?"

"Trial?" The demon laughed. "In one sense you have had your trial. This is the result. In another sense, this is your trial. In either case, the verdict is already found and the sentence fixed."

"I don't get you," said Mr. Chisholm. "Who are all these ... er ... spooks? And what have they got to do with me? They look like a flock of comic Valentines."

"Me! You're crazy. I'm me." He struck himself on the chest.

Chisholm turned his gaze back at the oncoming file of shades. They were ghastly cartoons of himself, and malicious ones at that. Many of them were unintelligible.

"Hey," he said, "what's that thing coming up--that slender wisp of smoke with the lumpy feet? If that is a conception of me, the guy that thought it up has gone surrealistic."

The demon looked.

"Oh, that. Yes, it's weak. It is offered by a fellow named Percy Hilyer. He roomed with you at school and has almost forgotten you. He does remember that you were lean and lanky then and used to swipe his socks and wear holes in them."

"That's a hell of a thing to hold against a guy," complained Chisholm.

The demon shrugged.

"That is the way reputations are made. How do you like this one?"

"This one" was the rambunctious shade who had tried to take charge of the meeting at the outset. He was egregiously repulsive.

"That," announced the demon blandly, "is the contribution of one Maizie Delmar. Judging from its robustness and solidity, she knew you recently and well."

Chisholm's jaw had dropped and his eyes bulged. The thing was incredible. Not Maizie's. Maizie was regular; dumb, maybe, but they got along.

"I take it Maizie was the tactful sort," remarked the demon with a sly drawl, noting the amazement on Chisholm's loose face. Then, "Here comes one that might suit you better."

It was a fat, squally baby, drooling and flapping its pudgy arms.

"One of your mother's contributions. Her favorite of many. You might admire some, but they are all on the helpless side--not at all in keeping with your hardboiled idea of the way to do things."

Chisholm stood aghast and watched the endless procession. On they came, one vile caricature after another. Nobody seemed to have forgotten him. He expected the specter furnished by Firrel to be bad. It was. Malice was not its creator, but sheer contempt. Chisholm had to turn his face when it clambered up onto the stage. The office girls' offering differed little from Maizie's except in intensity. The one held by Hardy was a cruel surprise. He had done so much for Hardy. But he had forgotten how he had made Hardy pay through the nose for favors.

The greatest shocks were to follow. He steeled himself for whatever opinions those first two wives held, but the current one had done a devastating job of analysis. Even the demon whistled. Interspersed between the major blows were minor ones, and not always shadowy. Bootblacks, waiters, taxi drivers--on almost every casual contact he had left a mark. Out of the lot there was only one that was glowingly heroic. He could not refrain from asking the demon about it. The demon bent his insight onto the wraith and pronounced:

"A girl you met once--a pick-up. You kissed her on the Drive that night, and then lost her phone number, you lucky dog."

"Lucky?"

"Yes. She never had a chance to know you better."

Mr. Chisholm was glum. It wasn't right to be pilloried that way. They simply couldn't do that to him. To hell with what all those people thought. Who were they, anyhow? A lot of nitwit salesmen and office help, gold-diggers and climbers! He knew he was all right. He had got along. They were jealous and envious, that's what. He nudged the demon.

"Sure, sure. It ought to help a lot, too. All these figures are weighted, you have noticed, by degree of intimacy and one thing or another. Since you have probably thought more about yourself than anybody else has, even if you've been wrong most of the time, your opinion counts."

Chisholm looked down at himself confidently, and then his confidence began to ooze. His own personality, it appeared, even when viewed from his own standpoint, was more nebulous than he thought. He had never taken himself apart with the critical fury employed by such persons as Maizie, his wives and some others. It looked as if the almost-finished monstrosity standing in the center of the stage was going to be the image handed down to posterity.

"It's not fair," he wailed. "What do all those yapping people really know about me--motives, and all that? I never did anything I didn't think was right, I never--"

"Neither did Nero," said the demon calmly, "nor Torquemada, nor your estimable contemporary, Hitler. Nevertheless, we cannot take an Ego at its own valuation. Not where others are involved."

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