CHAPTER XIII. The Tribulations of Morris. Part II In a really polite age of literature I would have scorned to cast my eye again on the contortions of Morris, but the study is in the spirit of the day. It presents, besides, features of a high, almost a repulsive morality, and if it should prove the means of preventing any respectable and inexperienced gentleman from plunging light-heartedly into crime, in political crime, this work will not have been penned in vain. He rose on the morrow of his night with Michael, rose from the leaden slumber of distress, to find his hand tremulous, his eyes closed with room, his throat parched, and his digestion obviously paralysed. Lord knows it's not from eating, Morris thought, and as he dressed he reconsidered his position under several heads. Nothing will so well depict the troubled seas in which he was now voyaging as a review of these various anxieties. I have thrown them, for the reader's convenience, into a certain order, but in the mind of one poor human equal they whirl together like the dust of hurricanes. With the same obliging preoccupation I have put a name to each of his distresses, and it will be observed with pity that every individual item would have graced and commended the cover of a railway novel. Anxiety I. Where is the body? or the mystery of Bent Pitman? It was now manifestly plain that Bent Pitman, as was to be looked for from his ominous appellation, belonged to the darker order of the criminal class. An honest man would not have cashed the bill. A humane man would not have accepted in silence the tragic contents of the water-butt. A man, who was not already up to the hilts in Gore, would have lacked the means of secretly disposing them. This process of reasoning left a horrid image of the monster, Pitman. Doubtless he had long ago disposed of the body, dropping it through a trapped door in his back kitchen, Morris supposed, with some hazy recollection of a picture in a penny-dreadful. And doubtless the man now lived in wanton splendour on the proceeds of the bill. And so far all was peace. But with the profligate habits of a man like Bent Pitman, who was no doubt a hunchback into the bargain, eight hundred pounds could be easily melted in a week. When they were gone, what would he be likely to do next? A hell-like voice in Morris's own bosom gave the answer. Blackmail me! Anxiated the second. The fraud of the tontine. Or, is my uncle dead? This, on which all Morris's hopes depended, was yet a question. He had tried to bully Tina. He had tried to bribe her, and nothing came of it. He had his moral conviction still, but you cannot blackmail a sharp lawyer on a moral conviction. And besides, since his interview with Michael, the idea wore a less attractive countenance. Was Michael the man to be blackmailed? And was Morris the man to do it? Grave considerations. It's not that I'm afraid of him. Morris so far can't descend it to reassure himself, but I must be very certain of my ground. And the due some it is, I see no way. How unlike his life to novels. I wouldn't even have begun this business in a novel, but what I'd have met a dark, slouching fellow in the Oxford Road, who'd have become my accomplice, and known all about how to do it, and probably broken into Michael's house at night, and found nothing but a waxwork image, and then blackmailed or murdered me. But here, in real life, I might walk the streets till I drop dead, and none of the criminal classes would look near me. To be sure, there's always Pitman, he added thoughtfully. Anxiety the third. The cottage at Brown Dean, or the underpaid accomplice. For he had an accomplice, and that accomplice was blooming unseen in a damp cottage in Hampshire with empty pockets. What could be done about that? He really ought to have sent him something if it was only a post-office order for five Bob, enough to prove that he was kept in mind, enough to keep him in hope, beer, and tobacco. What would you have? thought Morris, and roofily poured into his hand a half crown, a flooring, an eightpence in small change. For a man in Morris's position, at war with all society, and conducting with the hand of inexperience a widely ramified intrigue, the sum was already a derision. John would have to be doing no mistake of that. But then, asked the hell-like voice, how long is John likely to stand it? Anxiety the fourth. Delay the business, or the shutters at last, a tale of the city. On this head Morris had no news. He had not yet dared to visit the family concern, yet he knew he must delay no longer. And if anything had been wanted to sharpen this conviction, Michael's references of the night before rang ambiguously in his ear. Well and good, to visit the city might be indispensable, but what was he to do when he was there? He had no right to sign in his own name, and with all the will in the world he seemed to lack the art of signing with his uncles. Under these circumstances Morris could do nothing to procrastinate the crash. And when it came, when prying eyes began to be applied to every joint of his behaviour, two questions could not fail to be addressed sooner or later to a speechless and perspiring insolvent. Where is Mr. Joseph Finsbury? And how about your visit to the bank? Questions, how easy to put! God's, how impossible to answer! The man to whom they should be addressed went certainly to jail. And there, what was this, possibly to the gallows? This was trying to shave when this idea struck him, and he laid the razor down. Here, in Michael's words, was the total disappearance of a valuable uncle. Here was a time of inexplicable conduct on the part of a nephew who had been in bad blood with the old man any time these seven years. What a chance for a judicial blunder! But no, thought Morris, they cannot, they dare not make it murder. Not that. But honestly, and speaking as a man to a man, I don't see any other crime in the canon, except arson, that I don't seem somehow to have committed. And yet I'm a perfectly respectable man, and wish nothing but my due. Law is a pretty business. With this conclusion firmly seated in his mind, Morris Finsbury descended to the hall of the house in John Street, still half-shaven. There was a letter in the box. He knew the handwriting. John, at last. Well, I think I might have been spared this, he said bitterly, and tore it open. Dear Morris, what the dickens do you mean by it? I'm in an awful hole down here. I have to go on tick, and the parties on the spot don't cotton to the idea. They couldn't, because it's so plain. I'm in a state of destitution. I've got no bedclothes. Think of that. I must have coins. The whole thing's a mockery. I won't stand it. Nobody would. I would have come away before only I have no money for the railway fare.  You don't seem to understand my dreadful situation. I have to get the stamp on tick, in fact. Ever, you're fictionate, brother, J. Finsbury. Can't even spell, Morris reflected, as he crammed the letter in his pocket, and left the house. What can I do for him? I have to go to the expense of a barber, I'm so shattered. How can I send anybody coins? His odd times are d'essay. But does he think I'm living on hot muffins? One comfort, was his grim reflection. He can't cut and run. He has got to stay. He's as helpless as the dead. And then he broke forth again. Complains, does he? And he's never even heard of Bent Bitman. If he had what I had him on my mind, he might complain with a good grace. But these were not honest arguments. Or not wholly honest. There was a struggle in the mind of Morris. He could not disguise from himself that his brother John was as miserably situated at Brown Dean without news, without money, without bedclothes, without society, or any entertainment. And by the time he had been shaved and picked a hasty breakfast at a coffee-taven, Morris had arrived at compromise. Poor Johnny! he said to himself, he's in an awful box. I can't send him coins, but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll send him the pinken. It'll cheer John up. And besides, it'll do his credit good getting anything by post. Accordingly, on his way to the leather business, whether he proceeded according to his drefty habit on foot, Morris purchased and dispatched a single copy of that enlivening periodical to which in a sudden pang of remorse he added at random the Athenaeum, the revivalist, and the penny pictorial weekly. So there was John set up with literature, and Morris had laid balm upon his conscience. As if to reward him he was received in his place of business with good news. Orders were pouring in. There was a run on some of the back stock, and the figure had gone up. Even the manager appeared elated. As for Morris, who had almost forgotten the meaning of good news, he longed to sob like a little child. He could have caught the manager, a pallid man with startled eyebrows, to his bosom. He could have found it in his generosity to give a check, for a small sum, to every clerk in the counting-house. As he sat and opened his letters, a chorus of airy vocalists sang in his brain to the most exquisite music. This whole concern may be profitable yet, profitable yet, profitable yet. To him, in this sunny moment of relief, enter a Mr. Rodgerson, a creditor, but not one who was expected to be pressing, for his connection with the firm was old and regular. ìLaw, fins, bleh!î said he, not without embarrassment. ìIt's a course only fair to let you know. The fact is, money is a trifle tight. I have some paper out for that matter. Everyone's complaining, and in short...î ìIt has never been our habit, Rodgerson,î said Morris, turning pale. ìBut give me time to turn round, and I'll see what I can do. I dare say we can let you have something to account.î ìWell, that's just where it is!î replied Rodgerson. ìI was tempted. I've let the credit out of my hands.î ìOut of your hands!î repeated Morris. ìIt's playing rather fast and loose with us, Mr. Rodgerson.î ìWell, I got sent for sent for it!î said the other, on the nail, in a certified check. ìSent for sent?î cried Morris. ìOh, that's something like thirty percent bonus. A singular thing. Who's the party?î ìDon't know the man!î was the reply. ìName of Moss!î ìA Jew,î Morris reflected, when his visitor was gone. ìAnd what could a Jew want with the claim of...î he verified the amount in the books. ì...the claim of three five eight, nineteen ten, against the house of Finnsbury. And why should he pay sent for sent?î The figure proved the loyalty of Rodgerson, even Morris admitted that. But it proved, unfortunately, something else. The eagerness of Moss. The claim must have been wanted instantly, for that day, for that morning even. Why? The mystery of Moss promised to be a fit pendant to the mystery of Pittman. And just when he was looking well, too, cried Morris, smiting his hand upon the desk. And almost at the same moment Mr. Moss was announced. Mr. Moss was a radiant Hebrew, brutally handsome and offensively polite. He was acting it appeared for a third party. He understood nothing of the circumstances. His client desired to have his position regularised, but he would accept an anti-dated check, anti-dated by two months, if Mr. Finnsbury chose. ìBut I donít understand thisî said Morris. ìOr made you pay sent for sent for it today?î Mr. Moss had no idea. Only his orders. ìThe whole thing is thoroughly irregularî said Morris. ìIt is not the custom of the trade to settle at this time of the year. What are your instructions if I refuse?î ìI am to see Mr. Joseph Finnsbury, the head of the firmî said Mr. Moss. ìThey was directed to insist on that.î The head was implied. ìYou had no status here. The expressions are not mine. You cannot see Mr. Joseph. He is unwellî said Morris. In that case I was to place the matter in the hands of a lawyer. ìLet me sayî said Mr. Moss, opening a pocket book, with perhaps suspicious care at the right place. ìYes, of Mr. Michael Finnsbury. A relation perhaps?î In that case I presume the matter will be pleasantly arranged. To pass into the hands of Michael was too much for Morris. He struck his colours. A check at two months was nothing, after all. In two months he would probably be dead when to jail at any rate. He bade the manager give Mr. Moss a chair and a paper. ìI am going over to get a check signed by Mr. Finnsburyî said he, who was lying ill at John Street. ìA cab there, a cab back. Here were inroads on his wretched capital.î He counted the cost. When he was done with Mr. Moss he would be left with Twelfthpence Heatney in the world. What was even worse he had now been forced to bring his uncle up to Bloomsbury. ìNo use for poor Johnny and Hampshire nowî he reflected. ìAnd how the farce is to be kept up completely passes me. If Brown Dain he was just possible. In Bloomsbury it seems beyond human ingenuity. Norris opposes what Michael does. But then he has accomplices. That's Scotsman an old gang. ìIf I had accomplices!î Necessity is the mother of the arts. Under a spur so immediate Morris surprised himself by the neatness and dispatch of his new forgery, and within three-fourths of an hour had handed it to Mr. Moss. ìThat is very satisfactory.î Observed that gentleman rising. ìI was to tell you it will not be presented, but you had better take care.î The room swam round Morris. ìWhat, what's that?î He cried, grasping the table. He was miserably conscious the next moment of his shrill tongue and ash and face. ìWhat do you mean it will not be presented? Why am I to take care? What is all this mammary?î ìOh, have no idea, Mr. Finnsbury!î Replied the smiling Hebrew, it was a message I was to deliver. The expressions were put into my mouth. ìWhat is your client's name?î asked Morris. ìIt is a secret for the momentî answered Mr. Moss. ìMorris bent towards him. ìIt's not the bank!î he added hoarsely. ìOh, no authority to say no, Mr. Finnsbury!î returned Mr. Moss. ìI will wish you a good morning, if you please.î ìWish me a good morning!î thought Morris, and the next moment, seizing his hat, he fled from his place of business like a madman. Three streets away he stopped and groaned. ìLord, I should have borrowed from the manager!î He cried, and heís too late now. ìIt would look dicky to go back! Iím penniless! Simply penniless! Like the unemployed!î He went home and sat in the dismantled dining-room with his head in his hands. Newton never thought harder than this victim of circumstances, and yet no clearness came. ìIt may be a defect in my intelligenceî he cried, rising to his feet. ìBut I cannot see that Iím fairly used. The bad luck Iíve had is a thing to think about. Itís enough to breed a revolution, and the plain English of the whole thing is that I must have money at once. Iím done with all morality now. Iím long past that stage. Money I must have, and the only chance I see is Bent Pittman. Bent Pittman is a criminal, therefore his position is weak. He must have some of that eight hundred left. If he has, Iíll force him to go shares. And even if he hasnít, Iíll tell him heís a desperate man like Pittman at my back. It will be strange if I donít succeed. Well and good. But how to lay hands upon Bent Pittman, except my advertisement was not so clear. And even so, in what terms do I ask a meeting? On what grounds, and where? Not at John Street, for it would never do to let a man like Bent Pittman know your real address. Nor yet at Pittmanís house, some dreadful place in the kitchen, a house which you might enter in a light summer overcoat and varnished boots, to come forth again piecemeal in a market-basket. That was the drawback of a really efficient accomplice, Maurice Felt, not without a shudder. I never dreamed I should come to actually covet such society, he thought. And then a brilliant idea struck him. Waterloo Station, a public place, yet at certain hours a place besides the very name of which must knock upon the heart of Pittman, and at once suggest a knowledge of the latest of his guilty secrets. Maurice took a piece of paper and sketched his advertisement. ìWilliam Bent Pittman, if this should meet the eye of he will hear of something to his advantage, on the far end of the mainline departure platform, Waterloo Station, two to four on Sunday next.î Maurice re-perused his literary trifle with approvation. ìTurse!î he reflected. Something to his advantage is not strictly true, but itís taking an original and a man is not on oath in an advertisement. All I require now is that ready cash for my own meals and for the advertisement. And now I canít lavish money upon John but Iíll give him some more papers and raise the wind. He approached his cabinet of Signet, and the collector suddenly revolted in his blood. ìOh, will not!î he cried. ìNothing shall induce me to massacre my collection, rather theft!î And dashing upstairs to the drawing-room he helped himself to a few of his uncleís curiosities. A pair of Turkish babooshes, a smurna fan, a water-cooler, a musket guaranteed to have been and a pocketful of curious but incomplete seashells. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of ìThe Wrong Boxî This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org Reading by Andy Mentor The Wrong Box by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne Chapter 14 William Dent Pittman hears of something to his advantage. On the morning of Sunday William Dent Pittman rose at his usual hour, although with something more than the usual reluctance. The day before, which should be explained, an addition had been made to his family in the capital. Michael Finsbury had acted sponsor in the business and guaranteed the weekly bill. On the other hand, no doubt with the spice of his prevailing jocularity, he had drawn a depressing portrait of the lodger's character. Mr. Pittman had been led to understand his guest was not good company. He had approached the gentleman with fear, and had rejoiced to find himself the entertainer of an angel. At tea he had been vastly impressed, till hard on one in the morning he had sat entranced by eloquence, and progressively fortified with information in the studio. And now, as he reviewed over his toilet, the harmless pleasures of the evening, the future smiled upon him with revived attractions. Mr. Finsbury is indeed an acquisition, he remarked to himself. And as he entered the little parlour where the table was already laid for breakfast, the cordiality had befitted an acquaintanceship already old. I am delighted to see you, sir. These were his expressions, and I trust you have slept well. A custom that I have been for so long to a life of almost perpetual change," replied the guest, the disturbance so often complained of by the more sedentary as attending their first night in what is called a new bed, is a complaint from which I am entirely free. I am delighted to hear it," said the drawing master warmly, but I see I have interrupted you over the paper. The Sunday paper is one of the features of the age, said Mr. Finsbury. In America I am told it supersedes all other literature, the bone and sinew of the nation, finding their requirements catered for, hundreds of columns will be occupied with interesting details of the world's doings, such as water spouts, elopements, conflagrations and public entertainments. There is a corner for politics, ladies' work, chess, religion and even literature, and a few spicy editorials serve to direct the course of public thought. It is difficult to estimate the part played by such enormous and miscellaneous repositories in the education of the people, but this, though interesting in itself, part takes of the nature of a digression. And what I was about to ask you was this. Are you yourself a student of the Daily Press? There is not much in the papers to interest an artist, returned Pittman. In that case, resumed Joseph, an advertisement which has appeared the last two days in various journals, and reappears this morning may possibly have failed to catch your eye. The name with a trifling variation bears a strong resemblance to your own. Ah, here it is. If you please, I will read it to you. William Bent Pittman if this should meet the eye of, he will hear of something to his advantage at the far end of the main departure platform Waterloo Station two to four p.m. today. Is that in print? cried Pittman. Let me see it. Bent? It must be dent. Something to my advantage. Mr. Finsbury, excuse me, offering a word of caution. I am aware how strangely this must sound in your ears, but there are domestic reasons why this little circumstance might perhaps be better kept between ourselves. Mrs. Pittman, my dear sir, I assure you there is nothing dishonourable in my secrecy. The reasons are domestic, merely domestic, and I may set your conscience at rest when I assure you all the circumstances are known to our common friend, your excellent nephew, Mr. Michael, who has not withdrawn from me his esteem. A word is enough, Mr. Pittman, said Joseph, with one of his oriental reverences. Half an hour later, the drawing master found Michael in bed and reading a book, the picture of good humour and repose. Hello, Pittman, he said, laying down his book. What brings you here at this inclement hour? ought to be in church, my boy. I have little thought of church today, Mr. Finsbury, said the drawing master. I am on the brink of something new, sir. And he presented the advertisement. Why, what is this? cried Michael, sitting suddenly up. He studied it for half a minute with a frown. Pittman, I don't care about this document or particle, said he. It will have to be attended to, however, said Pittman. I thought you'd had enough of Waterloo, returned the lawyer. Have you started a morbid craving? You've never been yourself anyway since you lost that beard. I believe now it was where you kept your senses. Mr. Finsbury, said the drawing master, I have tried to reason this matter out, and with your permission I should like to lay before you the results. Far away, said Michael. But please, Pittman, remember it Sunday and let's have no bad language. There are three views open to us, began Pittman. First, this may be connected with the barrel. Second, it may be connected with Mr. Sematopolis's statue. And third, it may be from who went to Australia. In the first case, which is of course possible, I confess the matter would be best allowed to draw. The court is with you there, brother Pittman, said Michael. In the second, continued the other, it is plainly my duty to leave no stone unturned for the recovery of the lost antique. My dear fellow, Sematopolis has come down like a trump. He's pocketed the loss and left you the profit. What more would you have? inquired the lawyer. I concede, sir, under correction that Mr. Sematopolis's generosity binds me to even greater exertion, said the drawing-master. The whole business was unfortunate. It was—I need not disguise it from you. It was illegal from the first. The more reason that I should try to behave like a gentleman, concluded Pittman, flushing. I have nothing to say to that, returned the lawyer.  Then in the third, resumed the drawing-master, if it's Uncle Tim, of course our fortunes made.  Have you observed that very remarkable expression, something to his advantage? Enquired Pittman shrewdly.  Let me demolish your house of cards for you at once. Would Uncle Tim make that blunder in your name? In itself the blunder is delicious, a huge improvement on the gross reality, and I mean to adopt it in the future. But is it like Uncle Tim? No, it's not like him," Pittman admitted, but his mind may have become unhinged at Ballarat. If you come to that, Pittman, said Michael, the advertiser may be Queen Victoria, fired with the desire to make a duke of you. I put it to yourself, if that's probable, and yet it's not against the laws of nature. But we sit here to consider probabilities, and with your genteel permission I eliminate Her Majesty Uncle Tim on the threshold. To proceed, we have your second idea that this has some connection with the statue. Possible, but in that case who is the advertiser? Not Riccardi, for he knows your address, nor the person who got the box, for he doesn't know your name. The vanman, I hear you suggest in a lucid interval, he might have got your name and got it incorrectly at the station and might have failed to get your address, I grant the vanman. But a question, do you really wish to meet the vanman? Why should I not? asked Pittman. If he wants to meet you, replied Michael, observe this, it is because he has found his address book has been to the house that got the statue, and mark my words, is moving at the instigation of the murderer. Oh, said Pittman, but I still consider it my duty to Mr. Cernitopoulos. Pittman, interrupted Michael this, will not do. Don't seem to impose on your legal advisor, don't try to pass yourself off for the Duke of Wellington, for that's not your line. Come, I wager a dinner, I can read your thoughts, you still believe it's Uncle Tim. Mr. Fittensbury, said the drawing master colouring, not a man in narrow circumstances and you have no family, Gwendolyn is growing up a very promising girl, she was confirmed this year, and I think you will be able to enter into my feelings as a parent, when I tell you she is quite ignorant of dancing. The boys are at the board school, which is all very well in its way, at least I am the last man in the world to criticise the institutions of my native land, but I had fondly hoped that the world might become a professional musician, and Little Otto shares a quite remarkable vocation for the church. I am not exactly an ambitious man. Well, well, interrupted Michael, be explicit, you think it's Uncle Tim? It might be Uncle Tim, insisted Pittman, and if it were, and I neglected the occasion, how could I ever look my children in the face? I do not refer to Mrs. Pittman. You never do, said Michael, but in the case of her own brother returning from Ballarat, continued Pittman, with his mind unhinged, put in the lawyer, returning from Ballarat with a large fortune, her impatience may be more easily imagined than described, concluded Pittman. All right, said Michael, be it so, and what do you propose to do? I am going to Waterloo, said Pittman, in disguise. All by your little self, inquired the lawyer, well, I hope you think it's safe. Mind and send me word from the police cells. No, Mr. Finsbury, I adventure to hope perhaps you might be induced to make one of us, faulted Pittman. Disguise myself on Sunday, cried Michael, how little you understand my principles. Mr. Finsbury, I have no means of showing you my gratitude, but let me ask you one question, said Pittman. If I were a very rich client, would you not take the risk? Diamond, diamond, you know not what you do, cried Michael, why, man, do you suppose I make a practice of cutting about London with my clients in disguise? Do you suppose money would induce me to touch this business with a stick? I give you my word of honour. It would not. But I own, I have a real curiosity to see how you conduct this interview. That tempts me. It tempts me, Pittman, more than gold. It should be exquisitely rich. And suddenly Michael laughed, well, Pittman, said he, have all the truck ready in the studio. I'll go. About twenty minutes after two on this eventful day, the vast and gloomy shed of Waterloo lay like the temple of a dead religion silent and deserted. Here and there, at one of the platforms, a train lay becalmed. Here and there a wandering footfall echoed, the cab-horses outside, stamped with startling reverberations on the stones, or from the neighbouring wilderness of railway, an engine snorted forth a whistle. The mainline departure platform slumbered like the rest. The booking hatches closed, the backs of Mr. Haggard's novels, with which, upon a weekday, the bookstore shines emblazoned, discreetly hidden behind dingy shutters. The rare officials undisguisedly some nimbulent, and the customary loiters, even to the middle-aged woman with the Ulster and the handbag, fled to more congenial scenes. As in the inmost dels of some small tropic island, the throbbing of the ocean lingers, so here a faint pervading hum and trepidation told in every corner of surrounding London. And they are already named persons acquainted with John Dixon of Ballarat and Ezra Thomas of the United States of America would have been cheered to behold them enter through the booking office. What names are we to take? inquired the latter, anxiously adjusting the window-glass spectacles which here had been suffered on this occasion to assume. There's no choice for you, my boy. Return, Michael, bent Pittman or nothing. As for me, I think I look as if I might be called Applebee, something agreeably old world about Applebee. Wreaths of Devonshire Cider. Talking of which, suppose you wet your whistle. The interviewer is likely to be trying. I think I'll wait till afterwards. Return, Pittman. On the whole, I think I'll wait till the thing's over. I don't know if it strikes you as it does me, but the place is deserted and silent, Mr. Finnsbury, and filled with very singular echoes. Kind of jack-in-the-box feeling, inquired Michael, as if all these empty trains might be filled with policemen waiting for a signal, and Sir Charles Warren perched among the girders with a silver whistle to his lips. It's guilt, Pittman. In this uneasy frame of mind they walked nearly the whole length of the departure platform, and an extremity became aware of a slender figure standing back against a pillar. The figure was plainly sunk in a deep abstraction. He was not aware of their approach, but gazed far abroad over the sunlit station. Michael stopped. Hello! said he. Can that be your advertiser? If so, I'm done with it. And then, on second thoughts, not so either, he resumed more cheerfully. Here, turn your back and so give me the specs. But you agreed I was to have them? protested Pittman. Ah, but that man knows me, said Michael. Does he? What's his name? cried Pittman. Oh, he took me into his confidence, returned the lawyer, but I may say one thing. If he's your advertiser, and he may be, for he seems to have been seized with criminal lunacy, you can go ahead with a clear conscience, for I hold him in the hollow of my hand. The change affected, and Pittman comforted with this good news, the pair drew near to Morris. Are you looking for Mr. William Bent Pittman? inquired the drawing master. I am he. Morris raised his head. He saw before him, in the speaker, a person of almost indescribable insignificance, in white spats and a shirt cut indecently low. A little behind, a second and more burly figure offered little to criticism, except Ulster, whiskers, spectacles, and a dear stalker hat. Since he had decided to call up devils from the underworld of London, Morris had pondered deeply on the probabilities of their appearance. His first emotion, like that of Caroba, when she beheld the sea, was one of disappointment. His second did more justice to the case. Never before had he seen a couple dressed like these. He had struck a new stratum. I must speak with you alone, said he. You needn't bane to Mr. Ababy. Return Pittman, he knows all. All? Do you know what I am here to speak of? inquired Morris. The barrel. Pittman turned pale, but it was with manly indignation. You are the man? He cried you very wicked person. Am I to speak before him? asked Morris, disregarding these severe expressions. He has been present throughout, said Pittman. He opened the barrel. Your guilty secret is already known to him as well as to your maker and myself. Well then, said Morris, what have you done with the money? I know nothing about any money, said Pittman. You needn't try that on, said Morris. I have tracked you down. You came to the station sacrilegiously disguised as a clergyman, procured my barrel, opened it, rifled the body and cashed the bill.  Come, come Morris, keep your temper, said Mr. Ababy. Michael cried Morris, Michael, here too. Here too, echoed the lawyer, everywhere, my good fellow, every step you take is counted. Trained detectives follow you like your shadow. They report to me every three-quarters of an hour. No expense is spared.  Well, I don't care. I have the less reserved to keep, he cried. That man cashed my bill. It's a theft and I want the money back. Do you think I would lie to you, Morris? asked Michael. I don't know, said his cousin. I want my money. It was I alone who touched the body, began Michael. You, Michael! cried Morris, starting back. Then why haven't you declared the death? What the devil do you mean? asked Michael. My man, or are you? cried Morris. I think it must be Bitman, said Michael. The three men stared at each other, cried. This is dreadful, said Morris. I do not understand one word that is addressed to me. I give you my word of honour, no more do I, said Michael. In God's name, why whiskers, cried Morris, pointing in the ghastly manner at his cousin, and as my brain real, how whiskers! Oh, that's a matter of detail, said Michael. There was another silence during which Morris appeared to himself to be shot in a trapeze as high as St. Paul's and as low as Baker Street Station. Let us recapitulate, said Michael, unless it's really a dream, in which case I wish Tina would call me for breakfast. My friend Bitman here received a barrel, which it now appears was meant for you. The barrel contained the body of a man. How or why you killed him? I never laid a hand on him! protested Morris. I've traded all along. But think, Michael, I'm not that kind of man with all my faults. I wouldn't touch a hair of anybody's head and it was all dead lost to me. He got killed in that vile accident. Suddenly Michael was seized by Merth so prolonged and excessive that his companions supposed beyond a doubt his reason had deserted him. Again and again he struggled to compose himself, and again and again laughter at him like a tide. In all his maddening interview there had been no more spectral feature than this of Michael's merriment. And Bitman and Morris, drawn together by the common fear, exchanged glances of anxiety. Morris! gasped the lawyer when he was at last able to articulate. Hold on. I see it all now. I can make it clear in one word. Here's the key. It was Uncle Joseph till this moment. The remark produced an instant lightning of the tension for Morris. For Bitman it quenched the last ray of hope and daylight. Uncle Joseph, who he had left an hour ago in Norfolk Street, pasting newspaper cuttings, the dead body. Then who was he, Bitman, and was this Waterloo Station or Coney Hatch? To be sure, cried Morris, sadly smashed I know.  Why, then, all's clear. And my dear Michael, I tell you what, we're saved, both saved. You get the taunting. I don't grudge at you the least. And I get the leather business, which is really beginning to look up. Declare the death at once and don't mind me in the smallest. Don't consider me. Declare the death and we're all right. Ah, but I can't declare it, cried Morris. I can't produce the corpus, Morris. I've lost it, said the lawyer. Stop of it, ejaculated the leather merchant. How is this? It's not possible. I lost it. Well, I've lost it, too, my son, said Michael, with extreme serenity. Not recognising it, you see, and suspecting something irregular in its origin, I got rid of, what shall we say, got rid of the proceeds at once. You got rid of the body. What made you do that? Well, Morris. But you can get it again. You know where it is. I wish I did, Morris, and you may believe me there, for it would be a small sum in my pocket. But the fact is I don't, said Michael. Good Lord! Said Morris, addressing heaven and earth, good Lord, I've lost the leather business. Michael was once more shaken with laughter. Well, how do you laugh, you fool? cried his cousin. You lose more than I. You've bungled it worse than even I did. If you had a spark of feeling, you would be shaking in your boots with vexation. But I'll tell you one thing. I'll have that eight hundred pounds. I'll have that and go to Swan River. That's mine, anyway. And your friend must have forged to cash it. Give me the eight hundred here upon this platform or I go straight to Scotland Yard with this reputable story inside out. Morris, said Michael, laying his hand upon his shoulder, hear reason. It wasn't us. It was the other man. We never even searched the body. The other man repeated Morris. Yes, the other man.  You what? You palmed him off? Surely a singular expression, said Morris. Yes, palmed him off for a piano, said Michael, with perfect simplicity. Remarkably full, rich tone, he added. Morris carried his hand to his brow and looked at it. It was wet with sweat. Fever, said he. No, it was a broadwood grand, said Michael. Pitman here will tell you if it was genuine or not. Oh, yes, I believe it was a genuine broadwood. I have played upon it several times myself, said Pitman. The three letter E was broken. Don't say anything more about pianos, said Morris with a strong shudder. I'm not the man I used to be. This other man, let's come to him. If I can only manage to follow, who is he? Where can I get hold of him? Ah, that's the rub, said Michael. I've been in possession of the desired article. Let me see. Since Wednesday, about four o'clock, and is now, I should imagine, on his way to the Isles of Javen and Gadar. Now, Michael, said Morris, pleadingly, I am in a very weak state and I beg your consideration for a kinsman. Say it slowly again and be sure you are correct. When did he get it? Michael repeated his statement. Yeah, that's the worst thing yet. said Morris, drawing in his breath. What is? asked the lawyer. Even the dates are here, nonsense, said the leather merchant. The bill was cashed on Tuesday. There's not a gleam of reason in the whole transaction. A young gentleman who had passed the trio and suddenly started and turned back at this moment laid a heavy hand on Michael's shoulder. Aha! So this is Mr. Dixon, said he. The trump of judgment could scarce her rung with a more dreadful note in the ears of Pittman and the lawyer. To Morris this erroneous name seemed a legitimate enough continuation of the nightmare in which he had been so long wandering. And when Michael, with his brand new bushy whiskers, broke from the grasp of the stranger and turned to run, and the weird little shaven creature in the low-necked shirt followed his example with a bird-like screech and the stranger, finding the rest of his prey escape him, pounced with a rude grasp on Morris himself, that gentleman's frame of mind might be very nearly expressed in the colloquial praise. I told you so. I have one of the gang, said Gideon Forsythe. I do not understand, said Morris duly. Oh, I will make you understand, returned Gideon grimly. You will be a good friend to me if you can make me understand anything, cried Morris, with a sudden energy of conviction. I don't know you personally, do I? continued Gideon, examining his unresisting prisoner. Never mind. I know your friends. They are your friends, are they not? Oh, I do not understand you, said Morris. You had possibly something to do with a piano, suggested Gideon. A piano? cried Morris, being Gideon by the arm. Then you're the other man. Where is it? Where is the body? And did you cash the draft? Where is the body? This is very strange. Mused Gideon, do you want the body? Want it? cried Morris. My old fortune depends upon it. I lost it. Where is it? Take me to it. No, you want it, do you? And the other man, Dixon, does he want it? Dixon. Oh, Michael Finsbury. Why, of course he does. He lost it, too. If he had it, he'd have won the taunting tomorrow. Michael Finsbury, not the solicitor, cried Gideon. Yes, the solicitor, said Morris. But where is the body? Ah, then that's why he sent the brief. What is Mr. Finsbury's private address? asked Gideon. 233 Kings Road. What brief? Where are you going? Where is the body? cried Morris, clinging to Gideon's arm. I have lost it myself, returned Gideon, and ran out of the station. End of Chapter 14. Chapter 15 of The Wrong Box This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org Reading by Andy Minter The Wrong Box by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. Chapter 15 The Return of the Great Vance Morris returned from Waterloo in a frame of mind that baffles description. He was a modest man. He had never conceived an overweening notion of his own powers. He knew himself unfit to write a book, turn a table, napkin-ring, entertain a Christmas party with Lejeune Amin, grapple, in short, with any of those conspicuous accomplishments that are usually classed under the head of genius. He knew he admitted his parts to be pedestrian, but he had considered them until quite lately, fully equal to the demands of life. And today he owned himself defeated. Life had the upper hand. If there had been any means of flight or a place to flee to, if the world had been so ordered that a man could leave it like a place of entertainment, Morris would have instantly resigned all further claim on its rewards and pleasures, and with inexpressible contentment ceased to be. As it was, one aim shone before him. He could get home.  The dusk was falling when he drew near this place of refuge, and the first thing that met his eyes was the figure of a man upon the step, alternately plucking at the bell-handle and pounding on the panels. The man had no hat, his clothes were hideous with filth, he had the air of a hot picker, yet Morris knew him. It was John. The first impulse of flight was succeeded in the elder brother's bosom by the empty quiescence of despair. What does it matter now? he thought, and drawing forth his latchkey ascended the steps. John turned about.  That door, he said, standing back. I'm going to, said Morris, and added mentally, he looks like murder. The brothers passed into the hall, the door closed behind them, and suddenly John seized Morris by the shoulders and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat.  He said, I'd serve you right to smash your skull!  Don't be violent, Johnny! said Morris, it can't do any good now.  He strode into the dining-room and fell into the easy chair, and taking off one of his burst walking shoes nursed for a while his foot like one in agony. I blame for life! he said. What is the for dinner? Nothing, Johnny, said Morris. Nothing? What do you mean by that? inquired the great Vance. Don't set up your chat to me. I mean simply nothing, said his brother. I have nothing to eat and nothing to buy it with. I've only had a cup of tea and a sandwich all this day myself. Only a sandwich? sneered Vance. I suppose you're going to complain next, but you had better take care. I've had all I mean to take and I can tell you what it is. I mean to dine and to dine well. Take your signets and sell them. I can't today. Objected Morris, it's Sunday. I tell you I'm going to dine, cried the younger brother. But it's not possible, Johnny, pleaded the other. You nink and poop! cried Vance. Ain't we householders? Don't they know us at that hotel where Uncle Parker used to come?  Do you understand that, Morris Finnsbury? Because if you do, you'd better jump.  He spared upon his errand and returned to find John still nursing his foot in the armchair. What would you like to drink, Johnny? He inquired soothingly. Fizz, said John, some of that poppy stuff from the end bin, a bottle of the old port that Michael liked to follow, and see and don't shake the port.  It's cold and it's getting dark. Then you can lay the cloth and I say, here, you bring me down some clothes. The room looked comparatively habitable by the time the dinner came and the dinner itself was good. Strong gravy soup, fillets of soul, mutton chops and tomato sauce, roast beef, done rare with roast potatoes, cabinet pudding, a piece of chester cheese and some early celery, a meal uncompromisingly British but supporting. Thank God! said John, his nostrils sniffing wide, surprised by joy into the unwanted formality of grace. Now, I'm going to take this chair with my back to the fire. There's been a strong frost these two last nights and I can't get it out of my bones. The celery will be just the ticket.  But, Johnny, I'm so hungry myself, pleaded Morris. You can have what I leave, said Vance.  I owe you one pound ten. Don't you rouse the British lion? There was something indescribably menacing in the face and voice of the great Vance as he uttered these words at which the soul of Morris withered. There, resumed the fester, give us a glass of the fizz to start with. Gravy soup! And I thought I didn't like gravy soup. Do you know how I got asked with another explosion of wroth? No, Johnny, how could I? said the obsequious Morris. I walked on my ten toes, cried John Tramp, the whole way from Brown Dean and begged. I would like to see you beg. It's not so easy as you might suppose. I played it on being a shipwrecked mariner from Blythe. I don't know where Blythe is, do you, but I thought it sounded natural. I begged from a little beast of a schoolboy and he forked out a bit of twine and asked me to make a clove itch. I did, too. I know I did but he said it wasn't. He said it was a granny's knot and I was a what do you call them and he would give me in charge. Then I begged from a naval officer. He never bothered me with knots but he only gave me a tract. There's a nice account of the British Navy. And then from a widow woman that sold lollipops and I got from her. Another party I fell in with said you could generally always get bread and the thing to do was to break a plate glass window and get into jail. Seemed rather a brilliant scheme. Pass the beef. Why didn't you stay at Brown Dean? Morris ventured to inquire. Skittles! said John. On what? The pinken and a measly religious paper. I had to leave Brown Dean. I had to, I tell you. Work at a public and set up to be the great Vance. So would you if you were leading such a beastly existence and a card stood me a lot of ale and stuff and we got swipy talking about music halls and the powers of tin I got for singing and then they got me on to sing around her splendid form I weaved the magic circle and he said I couldn't be Vance and I stuck to it like grim death I was. It was rot of me to sing, of course but I thought I could brazen it out with a set of yokels. Settled my hash at the public said John with a sigh and then the last thing was the carpenter. Oh, Landlord! inquired Morris. That's the party. He came nosing about the place and then wanted to know where the water-butt was and the bed clothes and told him to go to the devil so would you too when there was no possible thing to say and then he said I'd pawned them with a felony. Then I made a pretty neat stroke I remembered he was deaf and talked a whole lot of rot very politely, just so low he couldn't hear a word. I don't hear you. Says he.  Oh, Maud of Earing! he roars. I'd be in a pretty hot corner if you weren't, says I it was tip-top as long as it lasted. Well, he said I'm deaf worth luck but I bet the customer can hear you. And off he started one way and I the other. They got a spirit lamp and a pinken and that old religious paper and another periodical you sent me. I think you must have been drunk. It had a name like one of those spots Uncle Joseph used to hold forth at and it was all full of the most awful swipes poetry and the use of the globes. It was the kind of thing that nobody could read out of a lunatic asylum. The Athenium, that was the name golly, what a paper. Athenium, you mean said Morris. I don't care what you call it, said John so as I don't require to take it in. Oh, there I feel better. Now I'm going to sit by the fire in the easy chair. Pass me the cheese and the celery and the port. No, a champagne glass, it holds more. And now you can pitch in the sum of the fish left and a chop and some fizz. Ah, sighed the refreshed pedestrian. Michael was right about that port. There's old and vetted for you. Michael's a man I like. He's clever and reads books and the Athenium and all that but he's not so dreary to me. He don't talk Athenium to the other parties why the most of them would throw a blight over a skittle alley. Talking of Michael I ain't bored myself to put the question because of course I knew it from the first. You've made a hash of it, eh? Michael made a hash of it said Morris, flushing dark. What have we got to do with that? inquired John. He has lost the body, that's what we've got to do with it. And the death can't be established. Hold on. Said John, I thought you didn't want to. Oh, we're far, far snad. Said his brother. He's not the taunting now. It's the leather business, Johnny. It's the clothes upon our back. Toe the slow music. Said John and tell your story from beginning to end. Morris did as he was bid. Well now, what did I tell you? cried the great Vance when the other had done. But I know one thing. I'm not going to be humbugged out of my property. I should like to know what you mean to do. Said Morris. I'll tell you that. Responded John with extreme decision. I'm going to put my interest in the hand of the smartest lawyer in London. And whether you go to quad or not is a matter of indifference to me. Why, Johnny, we're in the same boat. Expostulated Morris. Are we? cried his brother. I bet we're not. Have I committed forgery? Have I lied about Uncle Joseph?  Have I smashed other people's statues? I like your cheek, Morris Finsbury. No, I've let you run my affairs too long. Now they shall go to Michael. I like Michael anyway. This time I understood my situation. At this moment the brethren were interrupted by a ring at the bell and Morris, going timorously to the door, received from the hands of a commissioner a letter addressed in the hand of Michael. Its contents ran as follows. Morris Finsbury. If this should meet the eye of he will hear of something to his advantage at my office in Chancery Lane at ten a.m. tomorrow. Michael Finsbury. So utter was Morris's subjection. That he did not wait to be asked. But handed the note to John as soon as he had glanced at it himself. That's the way to write a letter. Cryed John, nobody but Michael could have written that. And Morris did not even claim the credit of priority. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 OF THE WRONG BOX This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are written by all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer please go to LibriVox.org reading by Andy Mentor The Wrong Box by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne Chapter 16 Final Adjustment of the Leather Business The Finsbury brothers were ushered at ten the next morning into a large apartment in Michael's office. The great vance somewhat restored from yesterday's exhaustion but with one foot in the slipper. Morris, not positively damaged but a man ten years older than he who had left Bournemouth eight days before his face plowed full of anxious wrinkles his dark hair liberally grizzled at the temples. Three persons were seated at a table to receive them. Michael in the midst Gideon Forsythe on the right hand on his left an ancient gentleman with spectacles and silver hair. By Gingo it's Uncle Joe! cried John. But Morris approached his uncle with a pale countenance and glittering eyes. Oh, tell me what you did! he cried. You absconded. Good morning, Morris Finsbury. Returned Joseph with no less asperity.  No use making trouble now, remarked Michael. Look the facts in the face. Your uncle, as you see, was not so much as shaken in the accident.  Then if that's so, Morris broke forth, how about the body? You don't mean to insinuate that the thing I schemed and sweated for and cold-potted with my own hands was the body of a total stranger. No, no, we can't go as far as that, said Michael soothingly. You may have met him at the club. Morris fell into a chair. I would have found it out if he had come to the house, he complained. And why didn't it? Why did it go to Bitman? What right had Bitman to open it? If you come to that, Morris, what have you done with the colossal Hercules? asked Michael. He went through it with the meat-axe, said John, it's all in Spillikins and back garden. Well, there's one thing, snapped Morris. There's my uncle again, my fraudulent trustee. He's mine, anyway. And the tontine too, I claim the tontine, I claim it now. I believe Uncle Masterman's dead. I must put a stop to this nonsense, said Michael, and that forever. You say too near the truth. In one sense your uncle is dead and has been so long, but not in the sense of the tontine, which it is even on the cards he may yet live to win. Uncle Joseph saw him this morning. He will tell you that he still lives, but his mind is in abeyance. He did not know me, said Joseph, to do him justice, not without emotion.  That was why you wouldn't compromise, said Morris. As for the absurd position in which you and Uncle Joseph have been making yourselves an exhibition, resumed Michael, it is more than time it came to an end. I have prepared a proper discharge in full, which you shall sign as a preliminary. What? cried Morris, and lose my seven thousand eight hundred pounds and the lesser business and the contingent interest and yet nothing? Thank you. It's like you to feel gratitude, Morris, began Michael. Oh, I know it's no good appealing to you, you sneering devil, cried Morris, but there's a stranger present. I can't think why, and I appealed to him. I was robbed of that money when I was an orphan, a mere child as a commercial academy. Since then I have never had a wish but to get back my own. Not me, and there's no doubt at times I have been ill-advised, but it's the pathos of my situation. That's what I want to show you. Morris, interrupted Michael, I do wish you would let me add one point, for I think it will affect your judgment.  Well, what is it? said Morris. It's only the name of one of the persons who's to witness your signature, Morris, replied Michael. His name's Moss, my dear. It was a long silence. I might have been sure it was you, cried Morris. You'll sign, won't you? said Michael. Do you know what you're doing, cried Morris? You're compounding a felony. Very well, then. We won't compound it, Morris, returned Michael. See how little I understood the subjector. I thought you would prefer it so. Look here, Michael, said John, this is all very fine and large, but how about me? Morris has gone up, I see that. But I'm not, and I was robbed too, mind you, and just as much an orphan, and at the blessed same academy as himself. Johnny, said Michael, don't you think you'd better leave it to me? I'm your man, said John. You wouldn't deceive a poor orphan. Take my oath. Morris, you say in that document or I'll start in an astonishing weak mind. With sudden alacrity Morris profited his willingness. Clerks were brought in, the discharge was executed, and there was Joseph, a free man once more. And now, said Michael, hear what I propose to do. Here, John and Morris, is the leather business made over to the pair of you in partnership. I have valued it at the lowest possible figure, Pogrum and Jarrus' and here is a check for the balance of your fortune. Now, you see Morris, you start fresh from the commercial academy, and as you said yourself, the leather business was looking up. I suppose you'll probably marry before long. Here's your marriage present from a Mr. Moss. Morris bounded on his check with the crimson countenance. I don't understand the performance," remarked John. It seems too good to be true. It's simply a readjustment," Michael explained. I take up Uncle Joseph's liabilities and if he gets the tontine it's to be mine. If my father gets it, it's to be mine anyway, you see, so that I'm rather advantageously placed. Morris, my unconverted friend, you've got left," was John's comment. And now, Mr. Forson, resume Michael, turning to his silent guest. Here are all the criminals before you except Pittman. I rarely didn't like to interrupt his scholastic career, but you can have him arrested at the seminary. I know his hours. Here we are then. We're not pretty to look out. What do you propose to do with us? Nothing in the world, Mr. Finsbury," returned Gideon. I seem to understand that this gentleman, indicating Morris, is the fond Zetorigo of the trouble, and for what I gather he has already paid through the nose. And really, to be quite frank, I do not see who is to gain by any scandal, not me at least. And besides, I have to thank you for that brief. Michael blushed. It was the least I could do to let you have some business, he said. But there's one thing more.  I wish you would dine with me tonight, and see the creature on his native hearth. Say it varies. I have no engagement, Mr. Finsbury," replied Gideon. I shall be delighted. But subject to your judgment, can we do nothing for the man in the cart? I have qualms of conscience. Nothing but sympathise," said Michael. End of Chapter 16 and of The Wrong Box by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne Read by Andy Minter