The Storyteller.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2136, 11 March 1908, Page 1 (Supplement)

The Storyteller.

the magic of ponsonby SIMPSON.

(By Ward Muir.)

Ponsonby Simpson, bank clerk, was •in love with the most beautiful gill in the world. Plenty of men who are not bank clerks are in love with the most beautiful girls in the world, and —like Ponsonby Simpson—aro far from being in a financial situation to espouse their deities. But to Ponsonby Simpson his position—like his £iii.!—-seemed unique. Fate, ho was positive, was crueller to him than to anyone else on earth, in making him a bank clerk; just as she had been r kinder to him than to anyone else on ■ oar th in having granted him the good hick to be accepted by so incomparable a creature as Clara Briggs. Ponsonby Simpson believed in luck; thus resembling not a few modern individuals who scorn superstition, lie Believed in the luck of the bank manager in having become a manager in stead of .remaining a liiero clerk such as he himself. He did not believe in the luck of the man who has become a clerk instead of a crossing-sweeper, however. For Ponsonby Simpson’s imagination was limited, like his salary. Perhaps it was an instinctive attempt to make up for tho deficiencies in his imagination that Ponsonby Simpson applied his moments of leisure to a study of the more bizarre forms of fiction. As a boy, his favorite fount of refreshment had been the “Arabian Nights.” The passage of years had brought weariness i\ ith these; but now ho devoured, no less fervently, the works of Anstey and H.' G. Wells. Tho former particu- ' Ijirly 'appealed to him. He loved to read of people lipon whom were bestowed extraordinary talismans which, by subtle Eastern alchemy, gave them rule over Western commonplaces. The jewelled eyes of Indian idols, sold for a few pence by ignorant auctioneers of the City and bringing to their purchasers a train of gratifying adventures, were the tit-bits of his especial literary pabulum. Invariably he substituted his own person for that of -the hero of the adventures, and invariably ho saw through the astonishing “accidents” which the said hero experienced, with an astuteness which the latter was not granted by his creator. “If only an esoteric talisman came my way ” breathed Ponsonby Simpson wrathfully; and then rebuked himself for wliat lie call- - ed his “kiddishness.” " It was tlie morning after he had finished..singularly convincing naT“Brative by that ingenious verbal illusionist, Mr Bichard March, that Ponsonby Simpson found the Lucky Stone. In the pocket of his jacket—of all places!—lie found it. And like a flash Ponsonby Simpson realised that an epoch in his career had dawned. His fingers, groping in search of a ' possible vesta,wherewith to light his shaving uniter lamp, encountered something small and hard and round, and drew it forth. Wliat was this? He gazed fit it curiously. A stone — a small round stone, roughly polished, and of a peculiar indefinite dark coibr, changing as the light fell on it from .different angles. Sometimes it looked greenish, sometimes bluish, sometimes dead grey-black. One sidewas slightly flattened, and had two small holes bored in it. - Whence had it come ? How had it found its way into Ponsonby Simpson’s pocket ? -Wliat were the holes for ? ' Ponsonby Simpson had not bought it; that was certain. He had not' stolen it; you cannot say you have stolen a thing you find in your own jacket pocket. It must have been put there by someone. But how—? When The thought was an inspiration. Yes—Ponsonby Simpson peered closer at the stone —yes, there was something mysteriously convincing about it. It had a look of Magic. This was no ordinary stone. It possessed Powers. There could be no doubt of that. Real (life was stranger than fiction after all. An Anstcy-Marsh--Wells hero had taken flesh and blood and shape—-the shape -.of Ponsonby Simpson himself. He glowed, half trembling. Nervously lie bestowed the precious Stone \ in a wash-leather pouch, which had once contained liis watch and the pouch in the innermost recesses of his breast. Discovering that the hour grew late, lie was brought to earth by tlie clamant necessity for leaving his breakfast untastod and running for the train. “No,” lie muttered bravely, “I will not (leave my breakfast. I will eat it at leisure, and wish that the train may be late in starting.” With beating heart lie ate. Never had bacon and eggs tasted thus. While he ate, lie wished. The stone should be tested, and at once. A simple test to start with; but if it worked —! He strolled, positively strolled, to the station. And the train was late. He caught it; caught it easily, triumphantly; sniffling at tho early folks who fumed l on the platform over the delay. Little did they guess that lie —Ponsonby (Simpson—had' delayed them. Little did they guess that the whole South-Eastern suburban service had been disorganised because lie —Ponsonby Simpson—had willed tho train to be late, and hugged to his bosom the Power to will it. Ponsonby Simpson could have laughed. No; on second thoughts, ho could not have laughed. This was no laughing matter. Al’.l that day Ponsonby Simpson willed, cautiously, little things, mere tentative tests of the power o l hi 3 stone,.tffits of which ho alone could gauge the significance. The tests succeeded, every one. At his lu:.,eh bar, pork and apple sauce was on the menu, for the first time that week. He had willed it. Some pig had suffered because lie had willed it. Jones, one of liis bank confreres, bid backed a horse. Ponsonby Simpson asked him: Would ho like to win? and Jones said Ponsonby was an ass; of course he’d like-it to win. Ponsonby Simpson forgave tlie insult and jWill- - cd it to win. Reflecting subsequently that it would be bad for Jones’ morals to win, he,willed the horse to be i , only placed. It was placed. Jones jT (blind, blind Jones: How could lie

magnanimous. He would scorn to use liis power at others’ expense. In the evening, lie walked abroad with Clara, tho incomparable. Ho told her that ho failed to see why they should not be married in two mouths. Clara agreed, wondering; but her dear Ponsonby. declined to explain. Concerning the Stone lie was mute. Possibly some notion oi Clara’s mundane views sealed liis mouth. He would wait. When they were settled in their mansion in Park Lane, perhaps lie would share his secret with her. He might even lend her tho stone —sometimes —and (look bn grandly while she, woman-like, willed useless things. For himself, ho intended to t relit it. respectfully, sanely. No nonsense about gold walking-sticks aiul diamond cigarettecases for him. Ho was a man. He realised his responsibilities. Whatever fate hid precipitated tlie Lucky iStone in liis pocket would soon perceive that he dill not intend to abuse the gift. He would, above all things, “go allow,” The phrase was liis own. He took a pride in repeating it, audibly.

Time passed, and Ponsonby Simpson continued to will. Once or twice tho Stone rebuked him for childish frivolity in his willing by refusing to bring his desire to pass—as when lie willed that the need for daily shaving should, cease. But whenever liis will! was not unreasonable, or insulting to the Stone’s intelligence (if we may use the term), it succeeded admirably, sometimes staggeringly. Often Ponsonby Simpson had to rebuke himself for lack of faith. On occasions, the invincibility of his willpower seemed too good to bo possible. Consistently he was late for his train in the morning; consistently he commanded it to delay; consistently it obeyed. Once when lie was in time, by a miracle, it hid got so into the way of being late for liis benefit- that it was late again, and kept him waiting. But ho coufd afford to laugh at that. It amused him.

His confidence increased, and he ended by willing for a rise in his salary. That very afternoon, the manager called him into his private room, and, complimenting him upon •his application to business, offered him an improved position. Ponsonby Simpson thanked him 1 , as in duty bound (one must remember one’s manners, even, when one is tlie owner of a Lucky .Stone—nay, then even more so than Ordinarily); but lie knew that his real benefactor was not the manager. He told Clara of the rise, and she was enthusiastic. This visible evidence of the possibility of the marriage appealed more to her practical nature than Ponsonby’s vague assurances, however confident. Dear Ponsonby communed with liis soul, and hardly listened to her projects for a tiventy-ponnd-a-year villa. Ho was maturing a great scheme. Ho hugged himself; and almost forgot to perform the same operation with Clara, on parting. Clara brooded. Was dear Ponsonby ill? Those city offices are so unhealthy! And somevof the typist women there are'such minxes!

“A thousand pounds for a postcard.” Tho words—blazoned from every bookstall in the land—had set Ponsonby Simpson ruminating. Here was something tangible; something the Stone would, so to speak, appreciate; something to set its teeth into. The thousand pounds was offered by a certain popular journal, in return for the supplying of a “missing word.” The missing word was obvious. There were not half a dozen alternatives. But “this codossal prize” (the Editor informed mankind) “will not be divided. In the event of more than one. competitor guessing accurately, the first postcard examined, which gives the correct solution of our problem, will be awarded tho thousand pounds.” Ponsonby Simpson entered for the competition. This was not gambling; it was not dishonest; it was not insultingly frivolous. Now or never the Lucky tStone could prove its worth.

A thousand pounds was a thousand pounds —a trifling sum, of course, compared with those ho would eventually amass—but still quite worth his attention: The firm which published the journal! was sound. There was no question of the offer’s genuineness. It was an advertisement costing a thousand pounds—that was all. Ponsonby Simpson ivilled that he should get that- thousand pounds; that his postcard- should be the first to be scrutinised. For a round week he gave the Lucky Stone no other work but just this one thing. He fixed his eye on the thousand pounds, and on his postcard (now doubtless reposing amongst a myriad others in the editorial sanctum). He willed and willed and willed. Further, to show his faith —this was only fair to.the genius of the Lucky Stone—lie' fixed his wedding date to synchronise with that of the competition’s 'announcement.

And in due course came tile thousand pounds. A cheque—a lovely green-and-white cheque made out to “Ponsonby Simpson, Esq.”—emerged from the envelope which that gentleman opened on the first day of bis honeymoon. He had won. His postcard, a polite and congratulatory missive, informed him, had been l the first correct solution discovered by the judges. “We Lave much pleasure in handing you the prize herewith.” • He had won. Of course -lie had won. It was a foregone conclusion, and yet— Somehow it was harder to tell Clara of that thousand pounds that he had expected. On a sudden, his new secrctiveness developed unconquerable strength, lie dared not tell her —not yet. He would postpone the revelation a day—a week —until they returned from their honey moon. lie sent the precious cheque fo i a bank. It was duly acknowledged and paid into his account, never so swolieii before. The same mail brougut ail envious line from Jones. He Jind read the news in the paper. Everybody had read it. Ponsonby Simpson, it appeared, had become famous. The manager had been overheard to refer to him as a “lucky dog.”

Clara was not a reader of the ;apers, or at any rate on her honeymoon. She remained in blissful ignorance. ATI she noticed was (as ’flu afterwards confessed) “something queer” about her dear Ponsonby.

tlio most bountiful girl in the worldhad to bo enlightened, and at once. It was a roundabout tale, and dear Ponsonby stumbled oddly at some ol its details. Under the incomparable Clara’s gaze, ho found himself strangely perspiring when he reached the point of introducing the Lucky Stone to her limp intelligence. The thousand pounds was unanswerable, however; and he cunningly mentioned it first. The result having been divulged to rejoicing Clara, the cause was hesitatingly, yet revorentlyly, produced. From his breast Ponsonby. Simpson drew the wnsh-lcatlior bag, and prepared to reveal its trouse Ic. Simultaneously, a postcard fluttered from his pocket book to the ground, Mr and Mrs Ponsonby Simpson were too busy to heed it. The wash-leather bag was opened. The Lucky Stone lay in the palm of Ponsonby Simpson’s trembling hand. “Look,” he commanded. Clara looked. “The button from my liberty blouse! Such an odd shape it was, I couldn’t match it when I lost it. It must have come off that day I sat on your knee at the Crystal .Palace, and dropped into your pocket—” thus Clara. Ponsonby’s Simpson’s senses reeled. Dully, lie. let the sacrilegious Clara take the Lucky Stonc—no, the liberty art button—from him. He was dumb. His eyes widely roamed the room. They caught the fallen postcard. Mechanically, ho bent down and picked it up. lie scanned it. “My competition postcard. I never posted it! It has been in my pocket •all the time! Then how—liow- ? That thousand pounds—?” Ponsonby Simpson, bank clerk, felt the universe totter. . . “The missing word competition 1 Clara found tongue again. “I forgot. I entered for it. I enter for so many competitions, and never win. I put your name on my postcard. I thought perhaps you were luckier than I. My postcard must have won—” Mr and Mrs Ponsonby Simpson spent a talkative night. It took hours for Ponsonby Simpson to be persuaded that the most beautiful o-irl in the world did not “think him a silly old fool.” It took hours lor the most beautiful girl .in the wor < to sketch all the delights of spending a thousand pounds. It took hours to stop laughing when the Lucky Stone, in all its aspects, had hlteietl thoroughly into the consciousness of both.' Hours and hours and hours. Ponsonby Simpson went back to his bank, some day lie will be manager. He still has a sneaking regald foi peunds-and liis Clara-proois • the Lucky Stone , That thousand Well, not exactly proofs, of course. That is absurd. A mere blouse button! But still—.