The Narrative of Mr. James Rigby

The Narrative of Mr. James Rigby
by Arthur Morrison
Copyright 1897, by Arthur Morrison

THE NARRATIVE OF MR. JAMES RIGBY
I shall here set down in language as simple and straightforward as I can
command, the events which followed my recent return to England; and
I shall leave it to others to judge whether or not my conduct has been
characterised by foolish fear and ill-considered credulity. At the same
time I have my own opinion as to what would have been the behaviour
of any other man of average intelligence and courage in the same
circumstances; more especially a man of my exceptional upbringing
and retired habits.
I was born in Australia, and I have lived there all my life till quite
recently, save for a single trip to Europe as a boy, in company with my
father and mother. It was then that I lost my father. I was less than nine
years old at the time, but my memory of the events of that European
trip is singularly vivid.
My father had emigrated to Australia at the time of his marriage, and
had become a rich man by singularly fortunate speculations in land in
and about Sydney. As a family we were most uncommonly self-centred
and isolated. From my parents I never heard a word as to their relatives
in England; indeed to this day I do not as much as know what was the
Christian name of my grandfather. I have often supposed that some
serious family quarrel or great misfortune must have preceded or
accompanied my father's marriage. Be that as it may, I was never able
to learn anything of my relatives, either on my mother's or my father's
side. Both parents, however, were educated people, and indeed I fancy
that their habit of seclusion must first have arisen from this

circumstance, since the colonists about them in the early days, excellent
people as they were, were not as a class distinguished for extreme
intellectual culture. My father had his library stocked from England,
and added to by fresh arrivals from time to time; and among his books
he would pass most of his days, taking, however, now and again an
excursion with a gun in search of some new specimen to add to his
museum of natural history, which occupied three long rooms in our
house by the Lane Cove river.
I was, as I have said, eight years of age when I started with my parents
on a European tour, and it was in the year 1873. We stayed but a short
while in England at first arrival, intending to make a longer stay on our
return from the Continent. We made our tour, taking Italy last, and it
was here that my father encountered a dangerous adventure.
We were at Naples, and my father had taken an odd fancy for a
picturesque-looking ruffian who had attracted his attention by a
complexion unusually fair for an Italian, and in whom he professed to
recognise a likeness to Tasso the poet. This man became his guide in
excursions about the neighbourhood of Naples, though he was not one
of the regular corps of guides, and indeed seemed to have no regular
occupation of a definite sort. "Tasso," as my father always called him,
seemed a civil fellow enough, and was fairly intelligent: but my mother
disliked him extremely from the first, without being able to offer any
very distinct reason for her aversion. In the event her instinct was
proved true.
"Tasso" -- his correct name, by the way, was Tommaso Marino --
persuaded my father that something interesting was to be seen at the
Astroni crater, four miles west of the city, or thereabout: persuaded him,
moreover, to make the journey on foot: and the two accordingly set out.
All went well enough till the crater was reached, and then, in a lonely
and broken part of the hill, the guide suddenly turned and attacked my
father with a knife, his intention, without a doubt, being murder and the
acquisition of the Englishman's valuables. Fortunately my father had a
hip-pocket with a revolver in it, for he had been warned of the danger a
stranger might at that time run wandering in the country about Naples.

He received a wound in the flesh of his left arm in an attempt to ward
off a stab, and fired, at wrestling distance, with the result that his
assailant fell dead on the spot. He left the place with all speed, tying up
his arm as he went, sought the British consul at Naples, and informed
him of the whole circumstances. From the authorities there was no
great difficulty. An examination or two, a few signatures, some
particular exertions on the part of the consul, and