Old Fires and Profitable Ghosts | Page 8

little demi-octavo with the
arms of Saumarez on its book-plate--"The Sixth Volume of Letters writ
by a Turkish Spy, who liv'd Five-and-Forty Years Undiscovered at
Paris: Giving an Impartial Account to the Divan at Constantinople of
the most remarkable Transactions of Europe, And discovering several

Intrigues and Secrets of the Christian Courts (especially of that of
France)," etc., etc. "Written originally in Arabick. Translated into
Italian, and from thence into English by the Translator of the First
Volume. The Eleventh Edition. London: Printed for G. Strahan, S.
Ballard"--and a score of booksellers--"MDCCXLI." Heavens knows
why he read it; since he understood about one-half, and admired less
than one-tenth. The Oriental reflections struck him as mainly
blasphemous. But the Gaffer's religious belief marked down nine-tenths
of mankind for perdition: which perhaps made him tolerant. At any rate,
he read on gravely between the puffs of his short clay--
"On the 19th of this Moon, the King and the whole Court were present
at a Ballet, representing the grandeur of the French monarchy. About
the Middle of the Entertainment, there was an Antique Dance perform
d by twelve Masqueraders, in the suppos'd form of Daemons. But
before they had advanc'd far in their Dance, they found an Interloper
amongst 'em, who by encreasing the Number to thirteen, put them quite
out of their Measure: For they practise every Step and Motion
beforehand, till they are perfect. Being abash'd therefore at the
unavoidable Blunders the thirteenth Antique made them commit, they
stood still like Fools, gazing at one another: None daring to unmask, or
speak a Word; for that would have put all the Spectators into a
Disorder and Confusion. Cardinal Mazarini (who was the chief
Contriver of these Entertainments, to divert the King from more serious
Thoughts) stood close by the young Monarch, with the Scheme of the
Ballet in his Hand. Knowing therefore that this Dance was to consist
but of twelve Antiques, and taking notice that there were actually
thirteen, he at first imputed it to some Mistake. But, afterwards, when
he perceived the Confusion of the Dancers, he made a more narrow
Enquiry into the Cause of this Disorder. To be brief, they convinced the
Cardinal that it could be no Error of theirs, by a kind of Demonstration,
in that they had but twelve Antique Dresses of that sort, which were
made on purpose for this particular Ballet. That which made it seem
the greater Mystery was, that when they came behind the Scenes to
uncase, and examine the Matter, they found but twelve Antiques,
whereas on the Stage there were thirteen . . ."

"Let him say it. Let him say he didn't mean it, the rotten Irishman!"
Cooney flung a leg wearily over the side of his hammock, jerked
himself out, and shuffled across to the sick man's berth.
"Av coorse I didn' mane it. It just took me, ye see, lyin' up yondher and
huggin' me thoughts in this--wilderness. I swear to ye, George: and ye'll
just wet your throat to show there's no bad blood, and that ye belave
me." He took up a pannikin from the floor beside the bunk, pulled a hot
iron from the fire, and stirred the frozen drink. The invalid turned his
shoulder pettishly. "I didn't mane it," Cooney repeated. He set down the
pannikin, and shuffled wearily back to his hammock.
The Gaffer blew a long cloud and stared at the fire; at the smoke
mounting and the grey ash dropping; at David Faed dealing the cards
and licking his thumb between each. Long Ede shifted from one
cramped elbow to another and pushed his Bible nearer the blaze,
murmuring, "Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil our vines."
"Full hand," the Snipe announced.
"Ay." David Faed rolled the quid in his cheek. The cards were so
thumbed and tattered that by the backs of them each player guessed
pretty shrewdly what the other held. Yet they went on playing night
after night; the Snipe shrilly blessing or cursing his luck, the Scotsman
phlegmatic as a bolster.
"Play away, man. What ails ye?" he asked.
The Snipe had dropped both hands to his thighs and sat up, stiff and
listening.
"Whist! Outside the door. . . ."
All listened. "I hear nothing," said David, after ten seconds.
"Hush, man--listen! There, again . . ."
They heard now. Cooney slipped down from his hammock, stole to the

door and listened, crouching, with his ear close to the jamb. The sound
resembled breathing--or so he thought for a moment. Then it seemed
rather as if some creature were softly feeling about the door--fumbling
its coating of ice and frozen snow.
Cooney listened. They all listened. Usually, as soon as they stirred from
the scorching circle of the fire, their breath came