The parlor Carr Ghost by W. Bob Holland, all drape with blue Denham,
the seaside cottage of my friend Sarah Pine. She asked me to go
there with her when she opened it, to have it set in order for
the summer. She confessed that she felt a trifle nervous at the idea of
entering it alone. And I am always ready for an excursion so much.
Blue Denham rather surprised me, because blue is not complimentary to Sarah's complexion.
She always wears some shade of red by preference, she perceived, my wonder
she is very near sighted and therefore sees everything by some sort of sixth cents.
You do not like my poor tears and curtains and table covers, said
she. Neither do I. But I did it to accommodate. And now
he rests well in his grave. I hope whose grave, for pity's sake,
mister J. Billington prices? And who is he? He doesn't sound
interesting, then I will tell you about him, said Sarah, taking a
seat directly in front of one of those curtains. Last autumn, I was
leaving this place for New York, traveling on the fast express train known as
the Flying Yankee. Of course, I thought of the Flying Dutchman and Wagner's
musical setting of the Uncanny Legend, and how different things are in these days
of steam, et cetera. Then I looked out of the window at the
landscape, the horizon that seemed to wheel in a great curve as the train
sped on. Every now and then I had an impression at the tail of
the eye that a man was sitting in a chair three or four numbers in
front of me, on the opposite side of the car. Each time that
I saw this shape, I looked at the chair and ascertained that it was
unoccupied. But it was an odd trick of vision. I raised my lorgnette,
and the chair showed emptier than before. There was nobody in it,
certainly, But the more I knew that it was vacant, the more plainly
I saw the man always with a corner of my eye. It made me
nervous. When passengers entered the car, I dreaded lest they might take that
seat. What would happen if they should? A bag was put in the
chair that made me uncomfortable. The bag was removed at the next station.
Then a baby was placed in the seat. It began to laugh, as
though someone had gently tickled it. There was something odd about that chair.
Thirteen was its number. When I looked away from it, the impression was
strong upon me that some person sitting there was watching me. Really, it
would not do to humor such fancies, so I touched the electric button,
asked the porter to bring me a table, and taking for my bag a
pack of cards seated to divert myself with a game of patience. I was
puzzling where to put a seven of spades? Where can it go? I
murmured to myself. A voice behind me prompted, play the four of diamonds
on the five and you can do it. I started. The only occupants
of the car besides me were a bridal couple, a mother with three little
children, and a typical preacher of one of the straightest sects, who had
spoken play up the form. Madam repeated this voice. I looked fearfully over
my shoulder. At first I saw a bluish cloud, like cigar smoke,
but inodorous. Then the vision cleared and I saw a young man whom I
knew by a subtle intuition to be the occupant scene and not scene of chair
number thirteen. Evidently he was a traveling salesman and a ghost. Of course,
a drummer's ghost sounds ridiculous they're so extremely alive, or else you would
expect a dead drummer to be particularly dead and not walk. This was a
most commonplace looking ghost, cordial, pushing business like. At the same time,
his face had an expression of utter despair and horror, which made him
still more preposterous. Of course, it is not nice to let a stranger
speak the one, even on so impersonal a topic as a FOREI of di'monds,
but a ghost. There can't be any rule of etiquette about talking with
a ghost, My dear. It was dreadful that forward creature showed me how
to play all the cards, and then begged me to lay them out again
in order that he might give me some clever points. I was too much
amazed and disturbed to speak. I could only place the cards at his suggestion.
This I did so as not to appear to be listening to the empty
air and be supposed to be a crazy woman. Presently, the ghost spoke
again and told me his story, Madam. He said, I have been
riding back and forth on this car ever since February twenty two, eighteen ninety
seven months and eleven days. All this time I have not exchanged a word
with any one for a drummer. That is pretty hard. You may believe
you know the story of the Flying Dutchman. Well, that is very nearly
my case. A curse is upon me and will not be removed until some
kind soul. But I am getting ahead of my text. That day there
were four of us traveling for different houses. One of the boys was in
wool, one in baking powder, one in boots and shoes, and myself
in cotton goods. We met on the road, took seats together, and
fell into talking shop. Those fellows told big lies about their sails. Washington's
birthday, though it was. The baking powder man raised the amount of the
bills of goods, which he had sold better than a whole cannabis stuff could
have done. I admitted the straight truth that I had not yet been able
to make a sail. And then I swore, not in a light minded
chipper style of verbal trimmings, but a great round heaven, defying oath,
that I would sell a case of blue denims on that trip, if it
took me forever. He became dry with talk, and when the train stopped
at Rivermouth, we went out to have some beer. It is good there,
you know. Pardon me, I forgot that I was speaking to a
lady. Well, we had to run to get aboard. I missed my
footing, fell under the wheels, and the next thing that I knew,
they were holding an inquest over my remains. While I disemboweled, was sitting
on a corner of the undertaker's table, wondering which of the coroner's jury was
likely to want a case of blue denims. Then I remembered my wicked oath
and understood that I was a soul doomed to wander until I could succeed in
selling that bill of goods. I spoke once or twice, offering the denim's
under value, but nobody noticed me. Verdict accidental death, negligence of deceased,
Railroad Corporation not to blame deceased got out for beer at his own risk.
The other drummers took charge of the remains and wrote a beautiful letter to
my relatives about my social qualities and my impressive conversation. I wish it had
been less impressive that time. I might have lied about my sales, or
I might have said that I hoped for better luck. But after that oath
there was nothing for it. Back and forth, back and forth on this
road in chair number thirteen. To all eternity. Nobody suspects my presence.
They sit on my knees. I'm playing in luck when it is a nice
baby, as it was this afternoon. They pile raps, bags, even
railway literature on me. They play cards under my nose, and what duffers
some of them? Are? You, madam? Are the first person who
has perceived me, and therefore I ventured to speak to you, meaning no
offense. I can see that you are sorry for me. Now, if
you recall the store in the Flying Dutchman, he was saved by the charity
of a good woman. In fact, Santa married him. Now, I'm
not asking anything of that size. I see that you wear a wedding ring,
and no doubt you make some man's happiness. I wasn't a marrying man
myself, and naturally am not a marrying ghost, and that has nothing to
do with the matter anyway. But if you could I don't suppose you would
have any use for them, but if you were disposed to do a turn
of good, solid Christian charity, I should be everlastingly grateful. And you
may have that case of Denham's at seventy two dollars and fifty cents, and
that quality is quoted to day at eighty dollars. Does it go, madam?
The speech of the poor ghost was not very eloquent, but his eyes
had an intense, eager glare, which was terrible something pity fear. I
do not know what compelled me. I decided to do without that white and
gold evening cloak. Instead. I gave seventy two dollars and fifty cents to
the ghost and took from him a receipt for the sum, signed J.
Billington Price. Then he smiled contentedly, thanking me with emotion, and returned
to chair number thirteen several times on the journey, although I did not perceive
him again. I felt dazed when the train arrived at New York, and
I, with the other passengers dismounted. It seemed to me that a strong
hand passed under my elbow, steadying me down the steps. As I walked
the length of the station. My bag, not heavy at any time,
appeared to become weightless. I believed that the parlor car ghost walked beside me,
carrying the bag, whose handles still remained in my other hand. Indeed,
once or twice I thought I felt a touch of cold fingers against mine.
Since then, I have no reason to suppose that the poor ghost is
not at rest. I hope he is. But I never expected nor wished
for the blue denims. The next day, however, a drey belonging to
a great wholesale house backed up to our door and delivered a case of denims
with a receipted bill for the same. What was I to do? I
could not go about selling blue denims. I could not give them away without
exciting comment. So I furnished the cottage with them. And you know the
effect on my complexion. Paiting me, dear and credit me, frivolous woman,
as I am, with having saved a soul at the expense of my
own vanity. My story is told, What do you think about it?
And of the parlor Carr ghost,