Peeps at People. Bangs John Kendrick
take your cricket-bat and give the patient a bastinado on his right foot."
"It is a pitiless shame!" I cried.
"It is in the interest of art, madame," said the novelist, shrugging his shoulders. "Just as our surgeons have to vivisect for
the advancement of science, so must I conduct experiments here in the interest of letters. My new novel has a stirring episode in it based upon the capture and torture of a newspaper correspondent in Thibet. I might, I suppose, have imagined the whole thing, but this so far surpasses the imagination that I am convinced it is the better way of getting my color."
"There isn't any doubt about that," said I; "but consider this man here, whose limbs you are stretching beyond all endurance – "
"He should regard it as a splendid sacrifice," vouchsafed the novelist, lighting a cigarette and winking pleasantly at his victim.
"Is his a voluntary sacrifice?" I demanded.
"Rather good joke that, eh, Rogers?" laughed Mr. Caine, addressing the sufferer. "This simple-minded little American girl asks if you are there because you like it. Ha! ha! What a droll idea! Thinks you do this for pleasure, Rogers. Has an idea you tied yourself on there and racked yourself at first, so she has. Thinks you shriek so as to smother your laughter, which would be very inappropriate to the occasion."
The sufferer groaned deeply, and the novelist, turning to me, observed:
"No, madame. My poor unhappy friend Rogers is here against his will, I regret to say. It would be far pleasanter for me when I hear him bastinadoed to know that he derived a certain amount of personal satisfaction from it in spite of the pain, but it must be otherwise. Furthermore, in the story the newspaper man who is tortured is not supposed to like it, so that accuracy requires that I should have a man, like Rogers, who dislikes it intensely."
"And do you mean to say, sir, that you deliberately went out into the street and seized hold of this poor fellow, carried him in here, and subjected him to all this? Why, it's a crime!"
"Not at all," replied Mr. Caine, nonchalantly. "I am no common kidnapper. I do not belong to a literary press-gang. I have simply exercised my rights as the owner of this castle. This man came here on his own responsibility, just as you have come. I never asked him any more than I asked you, and he has had to take the consequences, just as you will have to abide by whatever may result from your temerity. Rogers is a newspaper man, and he tried to get a free interview out of me by deceit, knowing that I no longer do a gratis business. It so happened that I was at that moment in need of just such a person for my experiment. I gave him the interview, and now he is paying for it."
The novelist paused, and after eying me somewhat closely for a moment, turned to his notes, lying on his desk alongside the rack, while a tremor of fear passed over me.
"Curious coincidence," he remarked, looking up from an abstract of his story. "In my very next chapter I take up the sufferings in captivity of a young and beautiful American girl who is languishing and starving in a loathsome cell, full of reptiles and poisonous beasts, like Gila monsters and centipedes. She is to be just your height and coloring and age."
I grew rigid with horror.
"You wouldn't – " I began.
"Oh yes, I would," replied the author, pleasantly. "Would you like to see the cell?"
"I would like to see the outside of your castle!" I cried, turning to the stairs.
The novelist laughed hollowly at the expression of hopelessness that came over my face as I observed that a huge iron grating had slid down from above and cut off my retreat.
"I am sorry, Miss Witherup, but I haven't got the outside of my castle in here. If I had I'd show it to you at once," he said.
"I beg of you, sir," I cried, going down on my knees before him. "Do let me go. I – "
"Don't be emotional, my dear," he replied, in a nice, fatherly way. "You will have an alternative. When I have receipted this," he added, writing out a bill and tossing it to me – "when I have receipted this, you can go."
I glanced at the paper. It called for £1500 for an interview of an hour and a half, at £1000 an hour.
"If you will give me your check for that amount, you may go. Otherwise I am afraid I shall have to use you for a model."
"I have only £1200 in the bank," I replied, bursting into tears.
"It will suffice," said he. "Your terror will be worth £300 to me in a short story I am writing for the Manx Sunday Whirald."
Whereupon I wrote him a check for £1200 and made my escape.
"I'll expose you to the world!" I roared back at him in my wrath as I walked down the path to the road.
"Do," he cried. "I never object to a free advertisement. By-bye."
With that I left him, and hastened back to London to stop payment on the check; but in some fashion he got the better of me, for it happened to be on a bank holiday that I arrived, and ere I could give notice to the cashier to refuse to honor my draft it had been cashed.
EMPEROR WILLIAM
After recovering from the attack of nervous prostration which was the natural result of my short visit to Gloomster Abbey, acting on my physician's advice I left England for a time. Finding myself, some weeks later, in Berlin, I resolved to call upon his Imperial Highness William the Second, better known as the Yellow Kid of Potsdam.
I experienced some difficulty at first in reaching the Emperor. Royalty is so hedged about by etiquette that it seemed almost impossible that I should get an audience with him at all. He was most charming about the matter, but, as he said in his note to me, he could not forget the difference in our respective stations in life. For an Emperor to consent to receive a plain American newspaper woman was out of the question. He could be interviewed incog., however, as Mr. William Hohenzollern, if that would suit my wishes.
I replied instantly that it was not Mr. William Hohenzollern that I wished to interview, but the German Emperor, and unless I could see him as Emperor I did not wish to see him at all. I added that I might come incog. myself if all that was necessary to make the whole thing regular was that I should appear to be on a social level with him, and instead of calling as Miss Witherup I could call as the Marchioness of Spuyten Duyville, or, if he preferred, Princess of Haarlem Heights, to both of which titles, I assured him, I had as valid a claim as any other lady journalist in the world – in fact, more so, since they were both of my own invention.
Whether it was the independence of my action or the novelty of the situation that brought it about I do not know, but the return mail brought a command from the Emperor to the Princess of Haarlem Heights to attend a royal fête given in her honor at the Potsdam Palace the next morning at twenty minutes after eleven.
I was there on the stroke of the hour, and found his Imperial Highness sitting on a small gilt throne surrounded by mirrors, having his tintype taken. This is one of the Emperor's daily duties, and one which he has never neglected from the day of his birth. He has a complete set of these tintypes ranged about the walls of his private sanctum in the form of a frieze, and he frequently spends hours at a time seated on a step-ladder examining himself as he looked on certain days in the past.
He smiled affably as the Grand High Chamberlain announced "The Princess of Haarlem Heights," and on my entrance threw me one of his imperial gloves to shake.
"Hoch!" he cried as he did so.
"Ditto hic," I answered, with my most charming smile. "I hope I do not disturb you, my dear Emperor?"
"Not in the least," he replied. "Nothing disturbs us. We are the very centre of equanimity. We are a sort of human Gibraltar which nothing can move. It is a nice day out," he added.
"Most charming," said I. "Indeed, a nicer day out than this no one could wish for."
"We are glad you find it so, madame."
"Excuse me, sire," I said, firmly – "Princess."
"Indeed yes. We had forgotten," he replied, with a courteous wave of his hand. "It could