Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (164 page)

"Yes,
to Furdurstrandi," he pronounced the word in a new fashion.
"And I too saw"
---------
The
voice failed.

"Do you know what you have said?" I shouted, incautiously.

He lifted his eyes, fully roused now. "No!" he snapped.
"I wish you'd let a chap go on reading. Hark to this:

" 'But Othere, the old sea captain, He
neither paused nor stirred

Till the king listened, and
then

Once more took up his pen
And wrote down every word.

" 'And to the King of the Saxons In
witness of the truth, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand and
said, "Behold this walrus tooth." '

By
Jove, what chaps those must have been, to go sailing all over the shop never
knowing where they'd fetch the land! Hah!"

"Charlie," I pleaded, "if
you'll only be sensible for a minute or two I'll make our hero in our tale
every inch as good as Othere."

"Umph! Longfellow wrote that poem. I
don't care about writing things any more. I want to read." He was
thoroughly out of tune now, and raging over my own ill-luck, I left him.

Conceive yourself at the door of the world's treasure-house guarded by a
child—an idle irresponsible child playing knuckle-bones—on whose favor depends
the gift of the key, and you will imagine one half my torment. Till that
evening Charlie had spoken nothing that might not lie within the experiences of
a Greek galley-slave. But now, or there was no virtue in books, he had talked
of some desperate adventure of the Vikings, of Thorfin Karlsefne's sailing to
Wineland, which is America, in the ninth or tenth century. The battle in the
harbor he had seen; and his own death he had described. But this
was
a
much
more
startling
plunge
into
the
past.
Was
it
possible
that he
had
skipped
half
a
dozen
lives
and
was
then
dimly
remembering some
episode
of
a
thousand
years
later?
It
was
a
maddening
jumble, and
the
worst
of
it
was
that
Charlie
Mears
in
his
normal
condition was
the
last
person
in
the
world
to
clear
it
up.
I
could
only
wait
and watch,
but
I
went
to
bed
that
night
full
of
the
wildest
imaginings. There
was
nothing
that
was
not
possible
if
Charlie's
detestable
memory
only
held
good.

I
might
rewrite
the
Saga
of
Thorfin
Karlsefne
as
it
had
never
been written
before,
might
tell
the
story
of
the
first
discovery
of
America, myself
the
discoverer.
But
I
was
entirely
at
Charlie's
mercy,
and
so long
as
there
was
a
three-and-six-penny
Bohn
volume
within
his
reach Charlie
would
not
tell.
I
dared
not
curse
him
openly;
I
hardly
dared jog
his
memory,
for
I
was
dealing
with
the
experiences
of
a
thousand years
ago,
told
through
the
mouth
of
a
boy
of
to-day;
and
a
boy
of to-day
is
affected
by
every
change
of
tone
and
gust
of
opinion,
so
that he
lies
even
when
he
desires
to
speak
the
truth.

I
saw
no
more
of
him
for
nearly
a
week.
When
next
I
met
him
it was
in
Gracechurch
Street
with
a
billbook
chained
to
his
waist.
Business
took
him
over
London
Bridge
and
I
accompanied
him.
He
was very
full
of
the
importance
of
that
book
and
magnified
it.
As
we passed
over
the
Thames
we
paused
to
look
at
a
steamer
unloading great
slabs
of
white
and
brown
marble.
A
barge
drifted
under
the steamer's
stem
and
a
lonely
cow
in
that
barge
bellowed.
Charlie's
face changed
from
the
face
of
the
bank-clerk
to
that
of
an
unknown
and— though
he
would
not
have
believed
this—a
much
shrewder
man.
He flung
out
his
arm
across
the
parapet
of
the
bridge
and,
laughing
very loudly,
said:

"When
they
heard
our
bulls
bellow
the
Skrcelings
ran
away!"

I
waited
only
for
an
instant,
but
the
barge
and
the
cow
had
disappeared
under
the
bows
of
the
steamer
before
I
answered.

"Charlie,
what
do
you
suppose
are
Skrcelings?"

"Never
heard
of
'em
before.
They
sound
like
a
new
kind
of
seagull. What
a
chap
you
are
for
asking
questions!"
he
replied.
"I
have
to
go to
the
cashier
of
the
Omnibus
Company
yonder.
Will
you
wait
for mc
and
we
can
lunch
somewhere
together?
I've
a
notion
for
a
poem."