Novel Notes | Page 6

came in hordes, and tried
to rob our blackbeetles of it. By the end of a week we had lured into our
kitchen every beetle that wasn't lame for miles round.
MacShaughnassy said it was a good thing. We should clear the suburb
at one swoop. The beetles had now been eating this poison steadily for
ten days, and he said that the end could not be far off. I was glad to hear
it, because I was beginning to find this unlimited hospitality expensive.
It was a dear poison that we were giving them, and they were hearty
eaters.
We went downstairs to see how they were getting on. MacShaughnassy
thought they seemed queer, and was of opinion that they were breaking
up. Speaking for myself, I can only say that a healthier-looking lot of
beetles I never wish to see.
One, it is true, did die that very evening. He was detected in the act of
trying to make off with an unfairly large portion of the poison, and
three or four of the others set upon him savagely and killed him.
But he was the only one, so far as I could ever discover, to whom
MacShaughnassy's recipe proved fatal. As for the others, they grew fat
and sleek upon it. Some of them, indeed, began to acquire quite a figure.
We lessened their numbers eventually by the help of some common
oil-shop stuff. But such vast numbers, attracted by MacShaughnassy's

poison, had settled in the house, that to finally exterminate them now
was hopeless.
I have not heard of MacShaughnassy's aunt lately. Possibly, one of
MacShaughnassy's bosom friends has found out her address and has
gone down and murdered her. If so, I should like to thank him.
I tried a little while ago to cure MacShaughnassy of his fatal passion
for advice-giving, by repeating to him a very sad story that was told to
me by a gentleman I met in an American railway car. I was travelling
from Buffalo to New York, and, during the day, it suddenly occurred to
me that I might make the journey more interesting by leaving the cars
at Albany and completing the distance by water. But I did not know
how the boats ran, and I had no guide-book with me. I glanced about
for some one to question. A mild-looking, elderly gentleman sat by the
next window reading a book, the cover of which was familiar to me. I
deemed him to be intelligent, and approached him.
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you," I said, sitting down opposite
to him, "but could you give me any information about the boats
between Albany and New York?"
"Well," he answered, looking up with a pleasant smile, "there are three
lines of boats altogether. There is the Heggarty line, but they only go as
far as Catskill. Then there are the Poughkeepsie boats, which go every
other day. Or there is what we call the canal boat."
"Oh," I said. "Well now, which would you advise me to--"
He jumped to his feet with a cry, and stood glaring down at me with a
gleam in his eyes which was positively murderous.
"You villain!" he hissed in low tones of concentrated fury, "so that's
your game, is it? I'll give you something that you'll want advice about,"
and he whipped out a six-chambered revolver.
I felt hurt. I also felt that if the interview were prolonged I might feel
even more hurt. So I left him without a word, and drifted over to the

other end of the car, where I took up a position between a stout lady
and the door.
I was still musing upon the incident, when, looking up, I observed my
elderly friend making towards me. I rose and laid my hand upon the
door- knob. He should not find me unprepared. He smiled, reassuringly,
however, and held out his hand.
"I've been thinking," he said, "that maybe I was a little rude just now. I
should like, if you will let me, to explain. I think, when you have heard
my story, you will understand, and forgive me."
There was that about him which made me trust him. We found a quiet
corner in the smoking-car. I had a "whiskey sour," and he prescribed
for himself a strange thing of his own invention. Then we lighted our
cigars, and he talked.
"Thirty years ago," said he, "I was a young man with a healthy belief in
myself, and a desire to do good to others. I did not imagine myself a
genius. I did not even consider myself exceptionally brilliant or
talented. But it did seem to me, and the more I noted the doings of my
fellow-men and women, the more assured did I become