Good Reading: “Hunger” by Frank Owen (in English)

 

1

All his life Mel Curran had been hungry. He had never known the pleasure of sitting down to a good meal. Hunger is a rat that gnaws at a man's stomach as if it were an empty, untenanted house whose beams were sagging.

Mel Curran was not a credit to humanity, but then neither was humanity a credit to him. He was undersized, underfed, and his mind was not normal. He believed that the dusk-shadows of evening were haunted by all sorts of weird ghosts and wraiths. He was more credulous than a child. He believed everything he heard, everything that was told to him, no matter how fantastic or preposterous. He believed that night was filled with creeping, crawling things, that sleep was a dreadful state. Each night he fought against it. He subjected himself to physical pain to escape the horror of unconsciousness. He held the lids of his eyes open so that the black horror could not creep in. All night long he kept a candle burning beside his bed so that the whirling, plunging, closing net of darkness would not close down upon him. Sometimes he groaned and shrieked in terror, and the sounds of his anguish echoed weirdly throughout the dank, cobweb-draped cellar in which he dwelt. For hours he would fight off the plague of sleep, but eventually, inevitably, from sheer exhaustion he would succumb to it.

Another of his eccentricities was his total vagueness regarding numbers. To him "one", "six", "seven", or any other numeral was merely a word without meaning, and not infrequently his vision also became jumbled. He would see the same man two or three times at once. He never knew how many men were walking toward him. Sometimes it would be only one man and he would appear like four, or, as not infrequently happened, it would be four men and they would appear to him like one. There were times when he walked smack into a person because his distorted vision had taken the person for a group. The same phenomenon was true of buildings, of trees, of automobiles, of stairways. When he walked down a subway stairs he walked as gingerly as if he were walking on eggs, for it was as if he were trying to descend several flights of stairs at once and he was unaware which he was really treading upon.

His life was filled with horrors and tragedies, with fears and desires and dim hopes that never were realized. But greater than all his desires was the supreme wish for a good meal. He was well past sixty, and very thin, like a wisp of straw. He was very tall, and his clothes were greasy and green with age. His eyes always shone fanatically and they bore a searching, hunted, haunted look. Sometimes he would spy a filthy crust of bread by the curbstone. Immediately he would rush forward and devour it as if all the people of New York had perceived it also and were pursuing it. Not infrequently the bit of crust would seem multiplied to four or five pieces, and he would grovel and whine pitifully when he could find only one. He was a familiar sight on the waterfronts, creeping about like an ugly shadow, sinister, ominous, dangerous, as if bent on some uncanny, dreadful mission, and yet his mission was purely an endless search for food to appease the loathsome gnawing rat that was clawing at his stomach—hunger.

 

2

One night he stood before a window in a small restaurant on South Street. The window was a vault containing the most precious of all jewels—food. He licked his dry lips with his doglike tongue. In the moonlight his teeth glistened like fangs: the gums seemed drawn back from them to permit greater ease in chewing. In the window was a cold boiled ham, a huge cake, a box of strawberries and a few garnishings of vegetables. But in his vision all this was multiplied. There was enough food for an army. His mouth watered so that the froth dripped from his lips at the corners. Everything on earth was blotted out. He had found food. He gazed furtively about to see that no one was approaching. Then deliberately he climbed up the side of the door as if he had been a jungle beast. It was quite easy to climb through the huge transom above the door, which, fortunately, was wide open. The next moment he was in the restaurant and the ham had been snatched from the window. In his frenzy he crouched upon the floor chewing at it as if he were a dog. All caution had fled from him. He fairly gloated over his prize, grunting and growling with satisfaction.

The restaurant proprietor dwelt upstairs. He heard the commotion and rose stealthily from his bed. He seized a huge revolver, so large that it appeared like a cannon, and crept downstairs. Mel Curran on his knees was fawning over the ham.

For a moment the restaurant proprietor gazed on him. Every nerve in his body revolted at the sight. He could not help shuddering. Then he pulled himself together.

"Throw up your hands!" he cried angrily.

Mel Curran only whined and chewed at the ham all the more ferociously. Then the revolver went off, whether deliberately or accidentally will never be known. Mel Curran was not touched. But the crash of the shot brought back to him a bit of rationality. He realized that his precious food was about to be taken from him.

With a cry of rage, he sprang to his feet. He seized the first thing his hand fell upon. It was an enormous platter, a platter that must have weighed a dozen pounds. With all his force he brought it down upon the intruder's head. With a groan the restaurant proprietor sank to the floor.

Then Mel Curran returned to his precious food.

He crouched over the huge ham as if it were a child and he were intent on protecting it.

The next moment the doors were burst open and the street mob surged in. It was headed by two burly policemen, who dragged him away from all that was dearest to him on earth.

 

3

Two months later, for the first time in his life, Mel Curran sat down to a feast fit for the gods, a turkey dinner with all the usual Yuletide trimmings. There was cranberry sauce, plum pudding, all sorts of fruits and nuts, and an enormous mince pie. He sat and ate slowly and deliberately. For the moment his vision was normal. First he ate to appease the gnawing of the rat, then he continued eating purely for his own pleasure. At last the appetite of his life was satisfied. When the meal was finished, he drank three cups of coffee and a glass of cider. Then he smoked a huge cigar. He heaved a sigh of satisfaction. He had not lived in vain.

When his meal was finished, he was given a somber black suit. Wonderfully content, he arrayed himself in it. Everybody was trying to outdo everybody else in being nice to him. A chaplain came to see him, a man whose face was truly beautiful—beautiful with a calm and restful peace.

"Have you anything to say, my brother?" the chaplain asked in a voice that was as soft as the wind through the treetops.

"Nothing," replied Mel Curran contentedly. "That was the finest meal I ever ate. I shall never forget it."

The chaplain placed his hand on his shoulder and prayed aloud. It was all very wonderful, Mel thought. It seemed rather fine to have people taking such an interest in him.

Then the gate of his cell was thrown open and he was led to the grim, gray chamber in which stood the electric chair. He gazed upon the scene blankly. He wondered what they were going to do with so many chairs. Without a word they led him to the gruesome chair. He sat down comfortably as if it were good to rest after such an enormous meal. He gazed at the little group of spectators who sat grimly in a huddled bunch on one side of the room. Their faces were chalklike in the shadows. To him the score of people seemed a multitude. And their gaze was centered on him as if he were a personage of prominence or an actor in a splendid play.

Someone stepped forward and placed a black cap over his eyes.

That was good. Now he could sleep.

Then other hands began fastening buckles about his legs and other parts of his body. That was very foolish. He was not going away. He was going to sleep.

Then the guards stepped back. There was a moment of utter silence—a silence so intense that it was almost deafening. The next instant the prison lights flickered dim. Then bright again, then dim.

Mel Curran would never be hungry again.

Good Reading: "The Silent Trees" by Frank Owen (in English)

 

With the first breath of night Canton becomes a city of mystery, a place of lurking shadows, of soft-cadenced, subdued voices, of lanterns flickering wistfully "out from the folds of darkness, of a thousand varied odors, some revolting, others that seem to possess all the allure and incense of the East.

That evening as I wandered through the narrow alleys that wind through the city like snakes, I noticed a Chinaman standing in the doorway of a tea-house. He was very tall, like a great reed, and he swayed somewhat, which emphasized the simile. He was dressed in a soft black, shapeless suit, unrelieved by any touch of color, a suit which seemed to have been cut from the velvet blackness of the Oriental night. His face was yellow but so pale that it seemed almost white, and his eyes lay in great pits. They glowed with a strange brilliancy like the eyes of a forest animal or of a man who has crossed the threshold of reason. His nose was a monstrosity crushed flat against his face and his lips were so thin they hardly existed. They made no effort to hide his huge yellow teeth.

As I gazed into his face I paused, for he was smiling hideously and beckoning to me.

"If you will buy me some tea," he said in a soft voice which was beautifully modulated, "I will tell you a tale of adventure and romance that will cause your ennui to slip from you like a cloak."

"How did you know I was in search of adventure?" I demanded.

"That was very simple," said he. "When it grows cloudy, one knows that it will rain. One judges the weather by gazing on the face of nature. One judges a man's mood likewise by gazing into his face."

He led the way into the tea-house as he spoke, and in a few seconds we were seated at a small table in a far corner. The tea-house was dimly lighted and the scattered forms that slunk about the room seemed like wraiths. Overhead several lanterns burned dimly, yellow-blue lanterns that caressed the room with a peaceful shimmering light. A sleek Chinaman brought us tea and then silently withdrew. My companion closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the sweet aroma that rose softly to his nostrils.

"Tea," he said softly, "tea is a beverage of enchantment. It brings happiness and dreams. It brings forgetfulness. It is a medicine to cure all physical and moral ills." He paused for a moment, then he said, "My name is Tuan Tung and I dwell not far from here on an island in the Great River. What the island is called matters little. Where it is matters less. Sufficient it is that there is such an island, for it is an island like unto none that you have ever chanced upon."

Again he paused for a moment and breathed deeply of the tea aroma. I marveled that he made no effort to lift the dainty green-jade cup to his lips.

"On my island," he continued, "no sound is ever heard. Not a bird sings, not a flower laughs in the wind, even the great tree-tops are subdued. It is an island of sorrow. All nature is mourning, mourning for little Lun Pei Lo who used to make our island a floral garden of loveliness by her singing. You who have heard the greatest singers of the Occident, have yet to hear anything comparable to the singing of Lun Pei Lo, for when she sang even the flowers joined in the chorus. They blossomed more beautifully and fragrantly than ever, and the trees like great violins softly joined in the music. They swayed in perfect rhythm, and made music which even the spheres might envy. He only is a great singer who can harmonize with nature, and Lun Pei Lo was even greater, for nature harmonized with her. Life is a peculiar thing. Men wander through the valley toward the shadowy death caves beyond and always they think of attaining wealth, and riches and power. None of these is of the slightest importance. The wealth of the world is contained in sweet incense, the aroma of tea, in beautiful pictures, in music and in the glory of the skies. When we arrive at that station in life where we can estimate values, there will no longer be any necessity for dying. Life will be complete. On our island little Lun Pei Lo sang and all things joined in her songs. But now little Lun Pei Lo has gone and the trees are silent, the flowers are hushed and the birds no longer sing. Nothing but sadness remains. Even the great serpent who sleeps beneath the mountains mourns for her."

"If I would not be presuming," I hazarded, "I should like very much to visit your island."

He looked up quickly and his eyes narrowed until they were little more than slits. "I will take you there this very night," he said emphatically.

After that we sat in silence. I finished my tea and waited for him to do likewise, but he made no effort to raise the cup to his lips. He just inhaled the aroma until the tea had cooled, after which he reluctantly rose to his feet. Together we ambled through the winding crisscross alleys of Canton. He held my arm with fingers of steel, as though he feared I might flee. They bit into my flesh like teeth. At last we arrived at the water's edge. It was pitch-black. Tuan Yung clambered into a small boat from the bow of which hung a lantern, and I followed after him. When we were both seated he extinguished the light. The water was blacker than a river of jet and I could not make out the form of my companion. The sky was overcast and there was no moon. The night air was cold and cheerless and a sharp wind blew fitfully over the waters.

Soon the boat began to move. I assumed that Yuan Yung was rowing although I heard no sound of oars. The boat cut through the water as though it had no more texture than a phantom. The night was lifeless and still. On and on we drifted. As the moments passed I grew drowzy. It was very peaceful. Not a sound, not a sigh. At last I must have fallen into a deep sleep, for the next thing I knew it was morning.

I gazed slowly about me. To my surprize I lay beside a marvelous blue lake, a lake bluer than an April sky. Yuan Yung was nowhere in sight. Gone also was the boat in which we had come to the island. For awhile I waited for him to return, drinking in the beauty of the panorama that unfolded all about me. Hills covered with verdant trees etched sharply against a coral-blue sky. The grass was greener than any grass I had ever seen. And there were wild flowers in profusion growing on every side, flowers of every color and hue, a perfect riot of beauty! The air was so clear that I could see for miles about, and because of the immensity of the canvas on which I gazed everything seemed dwarfed by comparison. I was in a miniature world of loveliness. It was also a soundless world. Not the faintest murmuring rent the solitude. The trees were so still they might have been painted on a white sheet. Even the flowers did not move. No bird sang, nor could I detect the faintest suggestion of a breeze. It was so calm and lifeless that it made me shiver. I called aloud for Yuan Yung but my voice died out almost instantly without echo. I called again but it was useless. The air refused to take up my voice. I began to perspire as though some awful menace were at my heels. I was afraid to look back. It was ridiculous to succumb to nerves on such a perfect day. The sky was clear and on every hand I was enveloped in beauty. It was so beautiful that it was nauseating. I felt as though the very perfectness of the picture were stifling me, stealing my breath, binding me with chains. For awhile I waited by the roadside, then I commenced to walk. Even my footfalls made no sound. It was an island of dreadful silence.

On and on I wandered. The road wound over a slight hill and then dipped into a forest and I passed along it as though I were lost in a dream. All nature was soundless as though it had paused for some great event, perhaps to listen to the singing of Lun Pei Lo. My mind at that moment was as clear as crystal. All the worthless dross of life had been washed out. Had life stopped on the island when Lun Pei Lo vanished? Would the current of existence cease to flow onward until her return? These were mad thoughts but at the moment they seemed logical enough. Sanity at best is but a relative condition. A man slightly mad seems normal as compared to a maniac. Pew persons of earth are mentally in absolute balance. Superstitions are slight forms of insanity and often one is declared insane simply because he has views which one can not understand.

There was something awesome about that soundless road. I was terrified. Many things there were as mysterious as the blue lake. I noticed that the few coral clouds in the sky did not move. Stationary also was the sun. It did not even seem to cast off heat as it blazed down. Neither was the air cold. The climate was neutral. I marveled at this but not nearly as much as at the fact that I cast no shadow. I had read that only the dead east no shadows. It was an old belief. Ancient also was the saying that a man's shadow is really his soul. When one casts no shadow one has lost one's soul. I had never given credence to such fantasies, yet now that I cast no shadow I shuddered. Was I dead? Was I a ghost? I laughed mirthlessly at the bare thought, but no sound came from my lips. I, too, was voiceless, as soundless as the silent trees. Now I quickened my pace. I sped down the road as though pursued by the wrath of the gods. My blood froze in my veins. My heart almost Stopped beating. My lips grew cold. The whole island seemed to be a seething menace, yet it was more beautiful than a landscape by Corot.

Soon I came to a gray city, a deserted city, the weirdest place in which I had ever walked. It was as though some horrible plague had driven the inhabitants from their homes. I roamed through street after street of gray houses, all deserted and dead. They stood somberly malignant like bleached bones from which all flesh had been torn by vultures. All were of peculiar design, built like shelves, each floor with a stone balcony, opening into rooms of yawning blackness. I, who had always hated noise and clamor, who had yearned for solitude, was now crushed by the weight of that velvet silence. It enmeshed me as it lay about me in folds. My tongue was parched and dry, my lips blistered and cracked. I drew my blackened tongue across my lips, but it was without moisture. The rasping feel of it made me shudder.

 

How long I wandered helplessly about I do not know, but the next thing I remember I was standing in front of a house. It was a gray house, a forbidding house, not one bit different from the others. Yet it arrested my attention. Something with-in me, I know not what, urged me to enter that house. It was a command more subtle than the perfume of poppies, but I acceded to it without question. It was an onward urge that could not be disputed. I paused for a moment to get my courage somewhat into shape, then I entered the house. At first the halls seemed as gloomy as a night fog, an effect heightened by my sudden transition from the glaring sunlight to the subdued shadows, but as my vision gradually cleared I gasped at the vast splendor that lay before me. It was as though the city had been drained of all its grandeur until it was a drab thing in order that all the color and beauty might be concentrated into this one house. I knew instinctively that all the other houses would be as gray and colorless within as their drab exteriors.

All about were rich rugs and tapestries, rugs and draperies of every material and color. There were lamps and lanterns of all shapes and sizes, magnificent vases and small idols of solid gold, set with diamonds and pearls and precious stones. On the floor was a jade-green carpet more luxurious than grass.

In awe I passed through the rooms. Even though everything was as silent as death I walked slowly. It was hard to realize that I could not make a sound. All the furnishings of the rooms were in excellent condition so it was strange that I should associate the grim building with great age. Still the suggestion of age persisted.

At last I came to a room larger and higher-vaulted than any of the others. The wealth of the house now dimmed, by comparison to the wealth I found here. Only Gautier could do justice in description. It was so gorgeous that it stunned. There is more intoxication in a truly beautiful picture than in rare wine. Here the colors were more of one tone, blues of exquisite harmony, soft velvets and silks more fragile than cobwebs. Through a great window the sun splashed into the room in wondrous glory, drenching everything with a soft yellow light. Nothing, I thought, could be more beautiful than this. And yet almost immediately I changed my mind, for in a far corner I beheld the form of a lovely girl. Softly I bent over her, and just as the loveliness of the other rooms had been dwarfed by comparison to the wealth of this one, so was the beauty of the great room dwarfed by comparison to the loveliness of Lun Pei Lo, for I knew that it was she. The same voice that urged me to enter the house now acquainted me with the name of the sleeping girl. Her eyes were closed but the lids were blue, canopied by lashes of wondrous length which caressed her cheeks. Like ivory was her skin, ivory which though pale seemed to glow with an inward pink coral light. Her lips were very red, softer and more fragrant than any flower. Lying there she seemed very young, little more than a child. Her body, though perfectly formed, was small and fragile, and I longed to crush her in my arms as though she were indeed a flower.

At that moment time ceased to be for me, even as it had ceased to be for the other things upon the island. I just stood and gazed down on the sleeping girl in open adoration. Never had I been as intense in my religious worship as I was in my worship of that girl.

I tried to picture how gorgeous she must be when those soft eyes were open. My forehead throbbed. I was as much a slave as any of the heroes told about in Greek legend. I longed to rouse Lun Pei Lo from her sleep, to hear her sing, to behold her smile. For the moment I forgot that the island was more silent than the heart of the Great Desert. That moment was the turning point in my life. I knew that having once seen the loveliness of Lun Pei Lo, everything would be changed thereafter.

 

My reveries were interrupted by a sudden dull murmur. It came like a shock. The house trembled as though it were about to awake from a long sleep. It sounded more frightful to me than if it had been at drum-pitch. At last the menace which I had felt was about to confront me. I wished to flee, but I could not leave little Lun Pei Lo to the mercies of unknown, invisible terrors. I hesitated for a moment only, then I seized her in my arms. At once the most awful thing happened that man could dream of. Her form was as light as air, as light as though it were but a shell, and as I drew her to me, she crumpled into dust even as mummies ofttimes crumble that have been hidden for centuries in Egyptian tombs. One moment she had lain before me as lovely as any flower, the next she was but dust at my feet. Dully I stood and gazed down upon the spot where she had vanished. The lovely face was gone, never to return. Mechanically I stooped and picked up a large blue-purple amethyst which had hung from a golden chain about her neck.

And now the murmurings increased to a mighty roar, a roar that shattered the crystal silence into a thousand tinkling fragments. It was the last thing that cut the thread of my rationality. Stark, raving mad I rushed from the house. The spell of the canopy of silence was broken. Echo ran rampant throughout the island. The trees began to sway. They seemed to be moaning. Pell-mell I rushed up a white winding road, until I emerged on a shelf of rock overhanging the deep blue lake. Not for a moment did I hesitate, but leaped into space. Death itself was preferable to the unseen horrors of that island. As I plunged into the lake it was like plunging into the sky.

Mercifully at that moment unconciousness closed in about me. It was the end, I thought, and I was glad. Perhaps in death I could join the lovely little Lun Pei Lo.

 

When I again opened my eyes all was blackness about me. I could not see a foot in any direction. My head throbbed' dully and a nauseating sweet fragrance floated to my nostrils. For one wild moment I reflected that I must be at the bottom of the blue lake. But I dismissed that thought almost instantly. My brain was somewhat in balance and I was beginning to think sanely again. I felt about me until my hand encountered that which was evidently a curtain. I pushed it slowly aside and beheld an old Chinaman seated beside a table on which a feeble lamp burned. He was rolling some black gummy pellets. I watched him intently for awhile, then I arose and walked over to his side. My knees were stiff, my legs were as wobbly as though I were a hundred.

"Can you tell me," I asked, "how I happen to be here?"

He shook his head. "How can I?" said he slowly. "Though undoubtedly you are here for the same thing that all others come for—opium."

I was in a quandary. "How long have I been here?" I asked.

"Who knows?" he droned, shrugging his shoulders. "Perhaps two days, perhaps three. What does it matter, anyway? Since that which has gone belongs to the past, why ponder over it?"

I drew two gold pieces from my pocket. He eyed them greedily as I jingled them in my palm. "Who brought me here?" I persisted.

He twisted his shrunken lips with his fingers. His eyes narrowed with the great effort of thinking, then he said, "A man who was tall and thin, so thin that he might have been the shadow of a pestilence."

I slid one of the gold pieces across the table to him and without preliminaries I told him of my adventures on the island of the blue lake.

When I had finished, he eyed me queerly. "Of course you have been steeped in opium for days," he said, "and your story can not be given credence; but at least it is odd, for we of China have an old legend about Lun Pei Lo, who lived over two thousand years ago. She was a great singer. It was she who introduced melody into China. According to the legend a wizard fell in love with her and carried her away. He was captivated by her. He brought her flowers and jewels and wrought gold in profusion but failed to make her happy. He worshiped her as the earth worships the sun, but to no avail. She pined for the lover of her childhood. Daily she grew thinner and thinner until her life was almost extinct. In despair the wizard changed her lover into a reed which ever after grew beside the Blue Lake. Such is the legend. Ton must have been thinking of it when you came to this house and it became entwined in your dreams."

"Perhaps you are right," I said slowly, but I did not tell him that at that very moment I held in my hand a gorgeous blue-purple amethyst which little Lun Pei Lo had once worn upon her breast.

Good Reading: “The Dream Peddler” by Frank Owen (in English)

 

1

It was long past midnight. At Giacomo's Restaurant two loiterers still lingered despite the fact that it was an imposition on the solitary waiter who impatiently remained to lock up. Giacomo prides himself on never turning out a guest no matter how unearthly the hour; but the hospitality of the restaurateur was not reflected in the bleary-eyed, drowsy appearance of the waiter. He considered the presence of the silent two a rank imposition, aggravated by the fact that he expected but scant tips, for usually men so ultra-taciturn were too preoccupied with their own thoughts to remember such mundane things.

The younger man was well dressed and rather good-looking, not the sort of "good-looking" which is pictured in collar "ads" and other atrocious posters, but there was an air of strength and energy about him. His face reflected a rather keen mentality, although it must be admitted, his expression at the moment was one of extreme disgust and boredom.

He motioned to the waiter.

"Another cup of coffee."

"Black coffee?" yawned the waiter a trifle irritably.

"The usual color," was the reply. "I have heard of pink teas but was unaware that coffee had become esthetic."

The waiter had already slouched off to the kitchen, so the sarcasm was wasted. But the young man failed to notice this breach of manners, for his eyes for the first time met those of the man who occupied the other table, and stayed. There was nothing distinctive about the elderly stranger. He was just a tiny bit of a man about sixty years of age, such as one meets a dozen times a day in New York City. He did not appear to be poor even though he was extremely thin, almost emaciated-looking, evidently a chronic dieter, prone to Fletcherism. Had it not been for the chance meeting of their eyes, the young man would never have been cognizant of the other's existence. Now, however, since their eyes had met, everything else on earth was forgotten. For perhaps a moment they sat and stared at one another. Then abruptly the stranger rose, and crossing the room, he seated himself at the table opposite the young man.

"Since you have invited me," said he, "I have come. After all, there is much to be commended in companionship. My name is Randall Crane."

"And mine," was the reply, "is Hugh Bannerton."

Hugh did not deny the invitation, despite the fact that he had not given one. Nor did he hesitate for a moment to tell his name.. He had felt the implied question, although Randall Crane had asked nothing. But what was stranger still, although as a rule lie was one of the most unapproachable of men, he did not resent the intrusion.

"You appear," remarked Randall Crane, "to be distinctly out of sorts, or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say, out of focus."

"I am disgusted with life," replied Hugh petulantly. "I'm sick of realities. I'm pining for adventure. By profession I am a detective. It is my lot in life to be continuously mixed up in other people's affairs, their mysteries and adventures. I work hours unraveling knots for them. But I never have any adventure of my own, I mean a personal adventure of which I am the central figure, an adventure which would appeal to ray yearning for romance. Most of the cases I handle are those of robbery and forgery. Each is almost a repetition of the preceding one. They lack individuality. At times my work bores me to death, I yearn for something new, to get away from the sordid realities of life."

"Did I not say," broke in Randall Crane, "that your vision was out of focus? I can not understand why you should bother with realities when dreams are so close at hand. A man should select a dream with as much care as lie selects a garment. It is of far more value. Yet it is surprizing how little thought we give to it. Psycho-analysts are beginning to attach a great scientific significance to dreams, thanks to the experiments of Freud, Ernest Jones, and a few other pioneers who do not fear the ridicule of the multitudes who can not at once grasp any new fact. Are you aware that seven-eighths of a man's mind is subconscious and until recently no one knew of its existence? The subconscious mind is really a great vault in which every past record of your life is filed; no picture that ever has or ever will pass before your eyes is last entirely. You may forget it in your conscious mind, but still it is within you, buried in your great subconscious filing system. As a rule your mind enters this vault only when you are asleep, or in other words, dreaming, despite the fact that usually when you awake you immediately forget your dreams. In the face of such unescapable facts, a person must indeed be brave who contends that dreams are utterly worthless. Surely if seven-eighths of one's consciousness is given over to dreams, they must be far more worthwhile than the one-eighth reality."

All this time Hugh's eyes had never once left those of Randall Crane. The waiter, unnoticed, had brought the coffee, but Hugh could not for the life of him have told whether it was black or pink. In fact, he was totally unaware of its existence.

Randall Crane paused for a moment and leaned toward him. His eyes burned with a fire that seemed to penetrate to Hugh's very soul. Of course it was a ridiculous impression and yet, at the time, to Hugh it seemed sane enough.

"Supposing," said Crane tensely, "there were dreams for sale, and you could do your own choosing, what would you buy? Would you crave diamonds and pearls, rubies and sapphires, gold, silver and carved jade—things as valueless in themselves as the stones on which we tread heedlessly every day?"

"No," was the fervent reply, "I would buy adventure, a romance such as poets sing about but which is in truth as intangible as vapor."

"You are wrong," cried Randall Crane. "Absolutely wrong! Romance is within your grasp if you but hold out your hand."

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that I am a peddler of dreams. Among my wares are dreams such as even you might treasure. If you would find romance, come with me."

To the delight of the lone waiter, now fully awake at last, Hugh rose to his feet. Randall Crane paid the bill but Hugh was not even aware that he did so. His boredom had slipped from him like a cloak, his ennui was forgotten. He did not for a single moment believe Crane, and yet there was something about his absorbed expression which left the slightest, thread of hope. Often barest possibilities are far more attractive in appearance than the most vivid actualities.

The rooms of Randall Crane were just around the comer in one of a row of old-fashioned red-brick buildings with white stoops. They totally lacked personality. In fact they were just replicas of all other boarding house rooms. One look at the drab furniture was sufficient to convince Hugh that Randall Crane rented the rooms as they were and did not own a single stick in them.

Randall Crane noticed Hugh's expression.

"When one lives in dreams," he explained, "one cares very little for material things. The only thing I desire in my room is quietude to sleep." As he spoke he lighted a small pipe which lay on a table in the center of the room, and motioning Hugh toward an old couch in the comer, he continued, "Smoke this, and as you drift off into a land of delightful dreams you will forget your uninviting environment."

Hugh took the pipe, and throwing himself on the couch, he uttered a sigh of contentment. Here was an adventure sufficiently interesting to appeal. Perhaps he was unwise to accede so readily to Randall Crane's suggestion, but he did not care. Usually he was the most careful of men. Although still young, he had been an active detective for almost ten years. So ardently had he pursued his studies, he discovered the defect in everything long before he acknowledged its merit. But now all caution was thrown to the winds. For once he had decided to let himself go adventuring. As he drew on the pipe he tried to guess what it contained. It was sweet-scented as though made of flowers. And then abruptly he looked into Crane's eyes, which seemed oddly bright in the semi-darkness of the room, and instantly all reflections and problems vanished.

"You have just crossed the silent stream where the slumber shadows go," said Crane softly. "Care, worry and the material things of life are forgotten, for you are in the 'Hills of Dream' and it is spring. The flowers are blooming everywhere in the gorgeous sunlight. From the forest come pungent scents of birch and pine and fir. The forest, trails, cool and shadowy, are very attractive to you. Heeding their call you enter the woods."

Randall Crane's voice seemed to grow farther and farther away as Hugh slipped softly into sleep. And now he had a dream, and the dream was like a continuation of the voice of Randall Crane, for he was in a forest from which came "pungent scents of birch and pine and fir" and it was spring. He walked through the dim-lit paths singing a nonsense song which he had learned as a child:

 

"The cow is in the bathtub.

⁠The cat is in. the lake,

Baby's in the garbage pail—

⁠What difference does it make?"

 

He was as carefree as a lad. The youth and joy of spring possessed him. He wanted somebody to talk to, somebody to laugh with him, and then abruptly he came to the fringe of the woods to behold a tiny white road winding off into the hills like a strip of silver.

"There must be romance hidden somewhere on that road," he cried.

As he spoke he noticed a little lop-eared white bull-terrier sitting in the center of the road, with one ear sticking up and one hanging down in the most droll little way imaginable. At Hugh's approach the dog gave a series of yelps which, without stretching the imagination too much, certainly resembled a series of chuckles.

"Good afternoon," said Hugh, bowing in mock gravity. "You seem to be having a doggone good time. I prithee, will you tell me your name?"

"Grr, Grr," barked the dog.

"Rather an odd name," chuckled Hugh. "Foreign, isn't it? Russian, I should imagine, with a dash of Chinese. . . Well Mr. Grr Grr, something tells me that if I followed you, you would lead me to a charming adventure. A dignitary with such a distinctive name as yours must have had a very adventurous career. Lead on, Mr. Grr Grr, and I will follow. Throw in a dash of romance to give the adventure piquancy."

Even as Hugh spoke, the little dog turned and trotted down the road. He seemed as pleased with himself as Punch, oi', if you prefer, Judy. Soon he rounded a bend in the road, and Hugh, whistling a merry tune, followed after him. And now he noticed that they had arrived at a tiny cottage from the chimney of which issued a thin, lazy haze of smoke. Mechanically Hugh repeated to himself the verse of a poem which he had read somewhere and which had remained hidden away in his memory to recur to him now:

 

"I knew by the way the smoke gracefully curled

⁠Above the green elms that a cottage was near.

And I knew that if peace could be found in this world,

⁠A heart that was humble might look for it here."

 

He stopped abruptly in his quoting as he noticed the figure of a girl standing by the entrance gate to the garden, and what was most odd about it was that she was speaking to him as though she had known him all her life.

"You have been long in coming," die said softly. "I have waited for you many weeks. But come, it is lunchtime and I will serve tea for two, with toast, marmalade and waffles."

As she spoke, the girl turned and entered the cottage. Much interested, Hugh followed after her.

She led him into a decidedly attractive room in the house. It was furnished in English walnut, and the paneled walls were of the same wood. The carpet also was in harmony and, save for a single tea-rose in a slender glass vase in the center of the table, there was no other bit of color in the room.

When the girl noticed Hugh looking curiously at the table, she smiled.

"It is in the style of William and Mary," she told him roguishly, "but don't ask me what William and don't ask me what Mary. Some of my friends do not like the idea of furnishing a room in a single tone. They say, although this is a dining room, it looks like a 'brown study.' Tell me, do you think there is sufficient color in the room?"

"Since yon are here," he said impulsively, "any additional color would be wasted."

She blushed slightly but did not seem ill-pleased.

"Come, let us drink our tea."

As she spoke, she seated herself at the table, and taking a teapot as fragile as a wild-flower, she poured the jade-colored tea into two iridescent cups.

"Are you aware," she asked, that tea never is as palatable when sipped from a cup that is not in harmony with its own alluring shade? For instance, could you enjoy tea out of a pink or yellow cup?"

"Immensely," he declared, "if you served it to me."

"I am serious," she pouted.

"How can one be serious," he asked, "when one is so supremely happy?"

"One should always be at least dignified when drinking tea," she said. "Of all beverages it is by far the most cultured and refined. Can you name another single drink which holds so lofty a position? The Japanese realize that drinking tea is a fine art. and they try to keep it so. In the best tea-houses of 'The Land of Cherry Blossoms' no word is ever spoken, no discordant note is ever heard. There philosophers for ages have worked out lofty problems. Hence they have made Teaism a science. At first tea was used as a medicine to cure bodily ills, now It has become an elixir to cure moral ills."

Hugh looked at her in awe. Here was a girl as beautiful as the sun glimmering through the early mists of morning, yet she was talking as sagely as though she had lived in the marts of Eastern Asia for a hundred years.

He held out his cup. "A little more," he said, "not because I adore tea but for the sheer joy of watching you pour it, knowing that you are doing it for me." And then he added impulsively, "Do tell me more about tea. From now on I shall devote my life to it. I'll make Teaism my religion and listen to you always."

For a moment die seemed lost in thought. Then die said, "There is no more definite way of expressing a delightful compliment than to ask a friend to take tea with you. Over the teacups, souls seem very close together, friendship at that moment is more intimate than at any other point. It is the moment for the exchange of confidences. It is the time when peace steals into one's soul. Even now are you not conscious of a strange attraction that is drawing us together?"

"Yes," said Hugh softly.

She leaned toward him and her voice, almost inaudible, was like a caress. "It is the Spirit of the Tea," she murmured.

And so they sat and talked as though they had known each other always.

"Do you know," said she, "for ever so long I have made tea for two each day and yet I have always had to drink it alone."

"You were then expecting me?" said Hugh, greatly interested.

"Oh, yes," she answered quickly. "Even though you were long in coming, I knew that you would come. But this is our first meeting, so you must not stay too long. Good-bye for a while, but I shall wait patiently until you come back to me."

As she spoke, everything seemed to grow hazy and very far away. The next moment, Hugh awoke. He still lay upon the couch in the little atrociously furnished room, and the old Dream Peddler was bending over him.

"Come," he cried, "it is morning, and I have fried a steak for breakfast."

"But I have just had marmalade and tea," murmured Hugh.

It was very hard for him to come back to the material things of life from the dream-world in which he had been roaming.

"That," chuckled Randall Crane, "must have been a dream or two ago. If the stuff that dreams are made of is finer than mist, then without a doubt, dream-food doesn't contain many calories. So I suggest that you eat again. Dreams are ample food for the soul, but the stomach is a far more vulgar fellow."

When they had finished breakfast, Hugh said, "Now with your permission I should like to buy another dream."

"Another dream?" asked Randall Crane with surprized inflection.

"I mean the same dream," Hugh hastened to explain. And then, realizing that he had not paid for it, he took out his wallet.

But Randall Crane waved him aside. "Put your money away," he said. "You can't pay for dreams with material things. Some day I will tell you the price of a dream,"

"When you do," declared Hugh, "I shall be delighted to pay whatever you ask."

"Evidently you liked your dream," drawled Crane.

"Liked it!" cried Hugh. "Why, just the remembrance of it is worth living for. Did I not prove my utter satisfaction by wishing to have it over again at once?"

Randall Crane shook his head. "I do not deal in day-dreams," he said slowly. "One can't have a beautiful dream until one's day's work is done. Perhaps I am assuming when I say you can not spare the golden hours of sunlight for day-dreaming. Perhaps you belong to the rich, idle, useless class, although I seriously doubt it, the men who just knock about town doing nothing, thinking nothing, producing nothing."

"Whether I belong to that class depends on one's point of view," declared Hugh. "Usually the things I produce are stolen bonds, jewels or money. I am a detective. I am seldom idle, sometimes useless, but never rich. In the last few years I have solved some intricate problems, but never has one proven such an enigma as this. I can hardly credit the happenings of the last dozen hours."

"Do they seem like a dream?" chuckled Randall Crane.

"I'd say a miracle," replied Hugh fervently.

The horn's of that day to Hugh seemed leaden. The minutes dragged past as though they were feeble with age. He went to his office, but all he could think of was the dream girl. She was a delicious mystery. The day seemed endless. He made no effort to work. He recalled Mason's story of The Clock, wherein is related how a man lived fourteen minutes in a single second. Each second now seemed just that long to him. He was in love with a girl whom he had met in a dream. Now only sleep mattered. His waking hours were useless.

 

2

Promptly at 6 o'clock Hugh was in the rooms of the Dream Peddler. "Bring on your dreams," he cried. He made no effort to hide his jubilant spirits.

"But we must eat first," said Randall Crane prosaically.

"I've had my supper," replied Hugh irritably. "Can't you eat while I sleep?"

"Since I am but a peddler," drawled Randall Crane, "it would not be polite of me to insist." As he spoke he lighted a pipe.

In silence Hugh stretched himself out upon the couch and looked steadily into his eyes.

"You are on a hilltop," said Randall Crane softly. "But you are not alone. She is with you. Together you can go on with the dream."

As the Dream Peddler's voice faded off into nothing, Hugh realized that he was standing on a hilltop, but more glorious still, she was there also. She sat on a rock and smiled up into his face.

"Are you looking for someone?" she asked demurely.

"I was," he chuckled as he threw himself on the ground beside her, "but I am not now."

"You mean you grew tired of looking?"

"You are partly right," he said.

"I grew tired, went to sleep and then I found her."

"Well, you have come at a most opportune moment," she cried gayly, "for it is nearly noon and I have brought a lunch with me fit for the gods."

"And prepared by a goddess," he finished.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"It depends on one's point of view," she murmured roguishly. "The hamper was packed by Corinne, our colored cook who is so black she claims she never has to wash because her face never soils. She would, I fear, look rather out of place on high Olympus, besides being a terrible weight for Atlas to carry, for she weighs three hundred pounds."

Hugh smiled. "Atlas didn't hold up Olympus," he corrected, "he held up the world."

"Worse than Jesse James," she broke in.

"Don't change the subject in order that you need not admit your error," he said. "You* must acknowledge that if Atlas held up the world it would make very little difference to him in what particular locality Corinne wished to be."

She pouted deliciously.

Thus the meal progressed. Gradually conversation drifted into more serious channels, and they discussed literature, especially poetry.

"My favorite poem," she said, "is by Bourdillon:

 

"Wide must the poet wander

⁠To garnish his golden cells.

For in yesterday and in yonder

⁠The secret of poesy dwells.

 

"It is where the rainbow resteth,

⁠And the Gates of the Sunset be,

And the star in the still pool nesteth.

⁠And the moon-road lies on the sea."

 

He rose to his feet. "And mine also is about a road," he said tensely. "It is by Marie Van Vorst:

 

"A town road and a down road.

⁠And the King's road broad and free—

There's but one road in all the world.

⁠The way that leads to thee."

 

As he uttered the last word, he seized her in his arms.

"You are mine!" he cried softly, "all mine!"

But even as he drew her unresisting to him, everything began to grow blurred and hazy. The next moment he opened his eyes. Randall Crane was bending over him.

"Breakfast," he said laconically.

"Hang it!" muttered Hugh irritably. "You've awakened me at the most beautiful moment of my dream. Serves me right for dealing with a peddler." In spite of everything, he tried to keep in good spirits, but his effort at humor was rather half-hearted.

"I am sorry I had to disturb you," said Crane whimsically, "but I'm going away for a few days, out to the country to show a few of my samples to a prospective customer."

At Randall Crane's words, Hugh's heart turned to ice. That meant he wouldn't be able to see the Dream-Girl for several days. He was very miserable. How was he to live? And then an even greater worry gripped him. Suppose Randall Crane were to die. What, would happen then? He would lose his Dream-Girl forever. He wondered how old Crane really was.

"I say," he said finally, "can't I go out to the country with you?"

"To help carry my samples?" asked Randall Crane.

"No, to see that you do not run any unnecessary risks," explained Hugh. "Don't you know I'm terribly worried for fear something may happen to you?"

"Rubbish," laughed Crane. "But I'll take you with me. It'll do your nerves good."

An hour later they were on a train speeding out into the country and at noon they arrived at their destination—Avondale.

As they alighted from the train they were greeted by a little old colored gentleman who was so aged that he might easily have once been a schoolmate of Diogenes. Despite the fact that the day was somewhat warm, he had a great green scarf around his neck as though it were midwinter. This, with his vivid brown suit and orange waistcoat, gave him a rather grand and glorious appearance. But his horse, which apparently was held up by the shafts of the rickety carriage, presented a strong contrast to him. If the little colored gentleman had been a schoolmate of Diogenes, then without a doubt the horse had once been attached to the chariot of the mighty Cæsar—a very apropos remark, for the little colored hackman went by the illustrious name of John Cæsar. Evidently the horse had always been owned by the same family.

"Hello, Mistuh Crane," said John Cæsar. "Yassuh, it sure is a fine day. Yassuh. Climb in. Yassuh. The Oaks? Yassuh. Feels like summer. Yassuh." Thus the little old colored fellow kept up a train of conversation which could easily have run from New York to Philadelphia.

As Hugh and Randall Crane climbed into the carriage, John Cæsar tried to coax his horse to start. "Giddap there, you lazy, good-fur-nothin' bag o' bones. Yassuh, you sure am a bag of bones. Yassuh, lazy bones. Yassuh, you sure am some horse. Yassuh."

Eventually the horse shook off its lethargy and sauntered down the country road. The gait at which he went would have been very irritating to Hugh if he had not been so extremely interested in the pompous way in which John Caesar sat upon the driver's seat.

"Surely," he chuckled, "Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed more splendidly."

At last the horse stopped and Randall Crane said, "Well, here we are, and once more that trusty charger has completed a trip without dying en route."

Hugh climbed out of the rickety carriage. As he did so he noticed the figure of a girl standing by the entrance gate to the garden, and what was most odd was that she was speaking to him as though she had known him all her life.

"You have been long in coming," she said softly. "I have been waiting for you. But come, it is lunchtime and I will serve tea for three, with toast, marmalade and waffles."

As Hugh heard her speak, he rushed forward and seized her in his arms. He drew her unresisting to him. "You are mine, all mine," he cried tensely. And thus his dream came true.

 

3

Late that afternoon Hugh said to Randall Crane, "I have two questions to ask you. How did you ever contrive to be such a perfect peddler of dreams?"

Randall Crane smiled slightly. "I have been expecting that question," he said slowly. "Without a doubt you think me somewhat of a conjuror, and yet I assure you that there is nothing in the slightest degree supernatural in what T have done. Psychoanalysts at last have begun to realize the importance of dreams. Many doctors of medicine are devoting half their time to the diagnosis of illness through the interpretation of dreams. I have taken the experiment a step farther. Realizing the importance of dreams and the dream function, I have endeavored to control them. Now I knew to begin with that dreams are ofttimes the product of suggestion. I took this as a starting point and annexed it to a fact which is also quite well-known by psychologists. It is quite easy to implant into a person's mind, either the conscious or subconscious, a suggestion which the subject is desirous of absorbing. The third fact which I made use of was that when the will of the suggester is stronger than that of the subject, the problem of implanting the desired dream is almost trifling. When I met you, you were bored to death, in the grip of melancholia. Therefore you were an excellent subject for experiment. The only rift in the lute was this: if you had never met my daughter by chance as you walked through Washington Square, I knew I should fail in my attempt. Understand, I merely mean that I had to assume that you two had passed each other. If you had not seen her face once at least, I knew that I could not have infused her presence into your dreams. Some day what I have done will be as simple as hypnotism is at present. Hypnotism is the science of controlling a person's will. You can appreciate that the control of dreams is not a much greater step forward.

"The pipe which you smoked contained nothing but scented tobacco. It had no power to provoke even the faintest glimmer of a dream. I used it because by so doing I could more readily and quickly get control over your consciousness. Having once gotten control of your conscious mind, the task of gaining control of your subconscious mind was simplified greatly.' You believed that the pipe contained the stuff that dreams are made of, and when you had once absorbed the suggestion, auto-suggestion helped me materially to implant the ensuing dreams. Physicians are well aware of the phenomenon which I have mentioned. Were a doctor to suggest to a patient that he were dying, even though the statement were groundless, the chances are ten to one the patient would die. A case in point was reported in the newspapers recently. A man in England decided to commit suicide. He locked himself in a small room, sealed up all the cracks in the doors with newspapers and then turned on the gas-jets. Unknown to him the gas in the house had been turned off that day to permit the company to fix the mains in the street. But he imagined that the gas was pouring into the room and so he died from heart-failure, one of the most peculiar cases of suicide ever recorded. . .

"At first it had been my intention to permit you to believe that the girl existed in your dream only. I had no idea of ever making known her actual existence. This subsequent development was the natural result of your attitude toward the dream. Psychoanalysts now know that a man dreams constantly when he is sleeping, but that due to the careful guarding of the Gateway to the Unconscious by what Freud has termed the 'censor' we seldom remember our dreams. There are many proofs that this is so, as for instance when one is awakened suddenly in the middle of the night, it often happens that one is conscious of a nameless fear as if an unknown presence or horror is in the room. At the same time one doesn't remember having dreamed a thing. The dream is forgotten, but the fear gets by the 'censor.' I am not going to bore you with unnecessary detail, but you can verify my assertions very easily by referring to Fielding, Barbara Low, Tridon, or any of the writers who have written books on this subject. However, even though one does not always remember a dream, it is possible by continued concentration to recall the incidents which the 'censor' guards so carefully. Of course in many persons the 'censor' is not so alert, and these people dream all the time. There are two extremes of this class of people—the genius and the maniac. The difference between the two is that the first controls his dreams, while the second is controlled by his dream. . . But I am wandering away from my subject. Always when speaking of psycho-analysis I say too much, and I fear in a great many instances I make of myself a dreadful bore. But I know you will pardon my digressing, especially since I am returning at once to my real subject.

"When I found that you remembered the dream in every detail and that your whole outlook on life had changed, I thought what a pity it would be not to let you meet the real girl of your dreams. So I did, and you know the result."

Randall Crane paused for a moment, then he said, "And now I am ready for your other question."

"I want to know how much I owe you," said Hugh whimsically. "Even yet you have not told me the price of my dreams."

It was a while before Randall Crane spoke, then he said fervently. "Just make my little girl happy. That will be pay enough."