A Short Story.

Matamata Record, Volume II, Issue 113, 30 December 1918, Page 4

A Short Story.

!■ Two P<uraa» t, ’ , n* EWT«i AM THE DEVIL t w Womm*+ By. CHARLES K. STEGGALL. ; Author of “Mrs. Mostyn’s Little Gamble,” “The Golden Garter," Jack’s Guardian,” etc. PAJRT n. , (t Du*no, sir; there’s a pretty good few of ’em upstairs,” proasptly replied the Devil. 't "perhaps I had better go up and look for it myself,” murmured the - Editor, impatiently, and, with the little imp following at his heels, he mounted the >stairs until he reached the top fioor of the lofty nuildj The leer composing room, with Its array of formes and galleys, looked gloomy aad spectral, with but a Single electric light switched on, and ithe search of the Editor among the ifiles of copy and proofs on the desks of the Readers proved ineffectual. ! "i can’t find that article—perhaps it has been left in the linotype machine room,” he said. “Can’t, get it, sir; the cage is locked,” lacoaicatty replied the Devil. The cage was a- door composed of ja description of tresis work in stout twite covering the entrance to the linotype room. Not without good reason were would-be intruders, who might he inexperienced in the latent power aad danger contained in the room, restrained from entering. ■■■ !. “I have a key,” said the Editor, and selecting a small one of peculiar make from those on a hunch, he opened the tage. The long rows of machines in khf semi-darkness somewhat reseabled groups of the old-fashioned Upright pianos of a bygone generaswitch on a light, will you,” he said, groping about among the numerous files of proofs hanging from a shelf. The Devil turned to the wall at his side, and, whether from the original sin with which he was imbued or by mere mistake, he gave a twist to a small knob projecting from a board (which lie had been strongly cautioned * against even approaching. ■ Immediately the midnight silence uras broken by a rush and a Toar. The bcoad leather belts with which the coof was intersected began to revolve, and in an instant the twelve linotype machines were in motion, rattling Er as if anxious to bring out a midt edition of the paper. Inslead of tight, the Devil had switched on jhio hundred and twenty volts of electric power. f “Hero, stop that, you young idiot 1 ISarttch it off again—no; better let me jio it!” shouted the Editor, and in haste and impatience, confused as well by the poor light, incautiously he raised his hand to the switchboard, j Instantly, with a scream resembling hfltat of a woman in agorty—though So was a strong, powerfully-built man U-he was lifted bodily from his feet land ftung across the floor until he ■truck the opposite wall, fifteen feet tiway. Then, dropping heavily on the hoards, he twisted in gyrations like (those of a snake, rolling over and Over and clutching ineffectually at ithe wood with his nails. Then, after rolling across the entire width of the room, he lay on his back, rigid, and rith horribly distended eyes. Inadvertently he had touched a •brass knob on the switchboard containing a current so powerful that an iron bar, accidentally dropped on it some weeks previously, had melted like wax, falling to the floor in a liquid • stream. i - "For the first few moments the Devil ptood as if paralysed, and with his «wn optics staring in a manner not at all unlike those of the stricken man on the floor. Then, for the syace of half-a-minute, he executed a sort of jwar-dance round the prostrate figure, paused, scratched his head, and, after a prolonged stare, fled down the stairs. At the bottom his egress was jbarrod by the door which he had .closed ten minutes previously,- and against which he now kicked and hammered in vain. Again he mounted' the stairs, and half-way up paused as though a thought had struck him. Into the telephone chamber he flew, and rushed to the instrument which he knew fto be that most in use. ! “Hullo, Exchange 1 Put me on to some doctor, wj.ll yer? My Editor's •gone and trollycuted hisself,” he yelled, before the man at the other end had time to get to his instrument. ! “Who are you ?” came the cry a moment later. ' “Fra the Devil.” , “Who?” “The Devil at the ‘Evening Meteor’ -v office.” “ N"Oh, go to your native place,” replied the man at* the exchange, and shut him off, thinking that someone was “guying” him.. Messages in plenty he got all night from the „ “dailies,” "but the “Meteor” was an evening paper with - which the night . staff at the exchange had little to do. The boy rang again and again in an agony of impatience without getting a , reply. “Perhaps I can find the pass key,” he exclaimed, with sudden 'inspiration, and again he dashed upstairs. The Editor stilt lay motionless on the floor, and the Devil approached Jkun cautionsly. The keys were not

hanging in the cage, so they must be! in his pockets. - . Suddenly, just as he was leaning, over him, the boy remembered having read in one of his “penny dreadfuls” that to touch an electrocuted person is likely to result in being electrocuted yourself. He paused irresolutely for a moment, and then rushed to one of the windows giving on the street Throwing it open, he shouted for help. He shouted in vain. The streets, so busy and thronged in the day time were now absolutely dfeserted. Not even a policeman seemed to be withi’ hearing distance. All at once the boy’s eyes fell on a water pipe leading from the roof to the ground, and situated in an angle of the wall just within reach of the window. He craned his dirty little neck out of the window, gave a prolonged gaze at the pavement sixty feet below, and then, unconsciously perhaps, but quietly, expressively, and with perfect intonation, began to whistle the solo in Mendelssohn’s “Hear, My Prayer.” With all reverence it may be askc«,. who knows whether an appeal for aid in extremity, even though madt through the medium of the whistle of a printer's poor little devil, may no! be understood and responded to? The boy raised himself to the win dow-sitl leaned over, and grasped the water-pipe firmly. He was just able to clutch it with his grimy little paws. Then, hand over hand, with the aid of active feet and knees, and with the agility of a monkey, mingled with the pluck of a youthful Bayard, he began to descend. The training he had received in the gymnasium of the choir school came in useful. Slowly, but safely, he reached another window-sill twenty feet below. By this time his poor little knuckles were raw and bleedingf from scraping against the rough bricks, but after a pause for breath he started again on his perilous descent. The a dove” were not indeed granted him, but a firm clutch, the pluck to bear what had now become excruciating pain, and nerves which set fear at defiance, were freely bestowed, and he reached the next window-sill again in safety. The remainder of the descent was comparatively easy owing to projections in the facade, and three minutes later the Devil was tearing along the street in the direction of the nearest police-station. Half-way thither, however, he met a policeman. “I want a doctor, quick 1” he gasped. “Who do you want a doctor for, little nigger?” asked the “bobby,” jocularly. “I’m no bloomin’ nigger—l only blacked myself for a lark,” breathlessly replied the boy. “But my bos- is dyin’; and no kid; he’s trollycuted hisself, and I’m afraid he’s dead and I’ve killed ’im.”

Then, for the first time, the brave little chap began to cry. The effect of his tears on- his ink-stained face was something too awful to be described in mere words.

The astonished policeman quickly drew from him a more intelligible account of the matter, and together they went in ' search of a medical man. Fortunately they found one in' and near at hand, and in a very short space of time, the watchman having by now returned to his post, the Editor was having the best of \ medical skill bestowed upon him. He was still unconscious, but soon revived under the remedies applied, and was conveyed home. It was some time, however, before he could resume his duties, and for weeks he was in a state of nervous prostration. “You may congratulate yourself that things are no worse,” said the doctor consolingly- “If it had not been for that boy’s w.onderful climb down the water-pipe somebody woulo have written your obituary notice by now. Five minutes’ longer unconscious, and I doubt if I could have pulled you through.” “Was the boy hurt?” asked the invalid anxiously. “His hands and knees were simply raw; scraped to the very bone by the bricks. It seems almost a miracle that he held on.” . The Editor registered a mental vow. The Devil should not remain a mere imp of the composing-room much longer. Given the chance, the boy doubtless would rise to something infinitely better—and he phould bare that chance. 1 At the office, However, it is not quite settled whether the boy should be regarded in the light of a hero or as a would-be murderer. TO this day. Indeed, events are redeemed, among the staff of the “Evening Meteor,'* frona the date “when the Devil (M to m the Editor.’* I (Tbo M|