Speaker 1: Mister Twizzleton's typewriter. Several strange things have happened to me
in my life that my friends could never account for.
They could never understand how I got an introduction to
Twizzleton q C. Nor why that learned a gentleman, after
allowing me to double his work for him for ten
years without putting anything in my way, suddenly use every
effort and influence he was capable of to put an
important and valuable junior practice in my hands. Twizzleton q c.
Was a hard, selfish man in person. He was like
a badly dried moth whose long, old fashioned whiskers resembled
the remains of wings. It was of him that it
was originally said that he was the living representative of
a tenant entail after possibility of issue extinct. And there
is consequently great surprise when Twizzleton married Lucy Travers, who,
as you will remember, was the belle of her season.
But the Travers were not so well off as they
pretended to be, and Twizzleton, as we all know, made
his fifteen thousand a year and had, if anything, an
ever increasing practice in the chancery division. Twistleton was undoubtedly
a great lawyer and a man of strong common sense,
but he had two fads. He was a believer in ghosts,
and he wrote everything in his chambers upon a Remington typewriter.
Twizzleton and his wife were staying one June in Norfolk
at Lady Barn Doors. Twizzleton was due in town to
argue the great patent case concerning sewing machines of Buncombe
and another versus Badger in the Court of Appeal on
Wednesday morning. I expected him back in chambers on the
Monday evening, understanding that he intended rejoining his wife at
the end of the week, for this case would last
at least three days, and Twizzleton was in several other
cases on the list. About eight o'clock on Monday evening,
I had dined early at my club and was engaged
noting up Twzzleton's papers when he came in with his
gladstone bag and rug, looking, as I thought, tired and
out of spirits. When Twizzleton was in town by himself,
he always slept at his own chambers, as in the
ol days before he was married, and his breakfast a
chop and two eggs, was sent in from the cock Twizzleton,
having heard what Foss his clerk had to stay on
the subject of retainers, dismissed him. Then he slammed down
the windows, which I had opened to let in what
fresher there was in old square, carefully closed the door,
let himself into the hard chair in front of his
writing table, and idly leaned over the papers which were
before him. At length, the outer door was heard to close,
Foss had departed, and Twizzleton broke silence. Penrose, my dear fellow,
I am uncomfortable. Twizzleton, I may here remark, was always
on the best of terms with me, and treated me
as a friend. For I believe I was useful to him.
I had made great way in his affections by solemnly
advising him to marry Missus Travers when I saw he
was bent on doing so. But since his marriage I
am not sure that this course of conduct of mine
had been altogether to my advantage. I looked to him
for a further explanation, which I saw was coming. Penrose,
my dear fellow, who do you think is at lady
barn Door's I shook my head, being entirely in ignorance.
Charlie Colston replied, Twizzleton trying to carve his whiskers with
a paper knife. Charlie Colston, Poor Charlie Colston. It was
well known that he had paid his addresses to pretty
missus Twizzleton in former days, and reports said she had
encouraged them. No wonder Twizleton was excited. I knew him
to be of an extremely jealous nature. Now mark me, Penrose,
said Twizzleton, shaking his forefinger at me as he would
at Lord Usher in the appeal court. What took place yesterday?
When I was playing tennis? The whole time, sir, he
and she were talking and chatting together and laughing, Yes,
laughing perhaps at my play, For I played abominably. I
know it. I could not bear to see them. Twizzleton's
tennis was never first rate. He had begun to play
too late in life. He was an annoying partner, as
he always insisted on leading, taking all the difficult strokes
and failing at them. He was a still more objectionable opponent,
as he was always taking technical objections on points of practice. Still,
however badly one plays, it is not pleasant to be
laughed at, even by one's wife. I tried to soothe Twizzleton,
but he interrupted me. Now there is another point I
desired to urge. Twiston always spoke as though he was
addressing the court of appeal. When I asked my wife
to come back to day, she point blank refused, what
do you think of that? Nothing whatever? I answered, she
had arranged to stay. And you are going down on
Saturday again. I think you are making mountains out of
mole hills. I hope I am penrose. I hope I am,
replied Twizzleton mournfully. But you didn't see them. I did,
and Twizzleton sighed deeply. Then the subject dropped and we
got to work on a small case. Soon Twizzleton, with
a self complacent smile on his countenance, was playing an
opinion on his typewriter. It was to him, I believe,
as though each note he struck produced a deep, mellow
tone and not a capital or small rooman. I can
remember when Twizzleton first had his typewriter. In those days,
he used to sit at it for hours, practicing hitting
first one note and then the other at intervals, varying
between ten seconds and two or three minutes. Every now
and then, using the most horrible language as you put
a capital for a small rooman or missed his space.
Then his efforts looked as though they were the productions
of six drunken printers who had each taken an absent
comrade's work for the day, and they were always copied
before they went to clients. Now the machine went click, click, click,
even lee and merrily. Twistleton was a perfect master of it.
I had seen him work it with his eyes shut.
I have no doubt that if he could have stood
on his head, and if it had been consonant with
the dignity of a Queen's counsul to do so, he
could have played his instrument in that posture. The opinion finished. Twizzleton,
who was a very methodical man, put a fresh sheet
of paper in readiness to commence again, folded and signed
what he had written, and bade me good night. His
last words to me were, I hope you are right
about Charlie Colston. I am sure of it, I said,
I wish I were. Tomorrow we were to have a
long day at Buncombe versus Badger. When I arrived in
the morning, Twizzleton was at breakfast. I no longer entered
than he set down his egg spoon, and, rushing at
me with a piece of paper, thrust it into my hands.
Read that he cried excitedly. Read that I noticed that
Twizzleton seemed done well. There was a wild look in
his eyes. His chop was untouched, A reversal of Twizzleton's
procedure at breakfast, which was more extraordinary to me than
his strange appearance. The egg he was eating was, to
anyone with a sense of smell, manifestly a bad one.
A most portentous fact to me, who remember hearing Twizzleton,
who never knew any criminal law, seriously tell the boy
from the cock that he believed the bill a tainer
would lie against him for bringing him a bad egg.
What did it all mean? I looked at the paper
in my hands. On it were two words, neatly printed,
Charlie Colston. I stared blankly at Twizzleton. What did it mean?
Twizzleton was shaking visibly. Do you believe in ghosts? He
asked anxiously. Certainly not, I replied, Ah, sighed Twizzleton, and
added sententiously, there are more things in heaven and Earth
than are dreamed of in your philosophy. This was the
only quotation I ever heard him utter that did not
come from the law reports. I believe he fancied it.
It was afraid he had invented in his early youth,
when he first began to believe in ghosts. If you
don't believe in ghosts? Who wrote that message on my typewriter?
Twizzleton's manner was very impressive. I felt like a witness
committing perjury. I tell you I found it this morning
when I want to write a letter just before breakfast.
Who wrote it? He shouted? Who wrote it? I will know?
Perhaps Foss, I suggested he has not been here and
can't use the typewriter. I had heard him say so,
but did not believe it. Foss was afraid of overworking
himself and so did not choose to learn it. But
any fool could use it if he liked to learn.
My opinion was that Foss could use it. He was
like the monkeys, who, as the negro said, could talk
if they would, but knew if they did, they would
be made to work. How about the laundress, I suggested, Ah,
the laundress, repeated Twizzleton, thoughtfully, the laundress, so, missus. Butcheck
the laundress was sent for when Foss came in, but
she denied all knowledge of the typewriter or the writing.
Making a new suggestion which did not to our thinking
much advanced the solution of the mystery, and that was
that the culprit was the cat. It is a message,
said Twizzleton, mysteriously. A message. Nonsense, I said, some fellow
has strolled in and written the name for fun. Fun,
cried Twistleton, indignantly fun, and then more quietly, No, I
am sure of it. It is a message. Very little
of Buncombe versus Badger could I get into Twizzleton's head
that day? Plans and specifications. He seemed not to understand
the seductive literary style of the Affidavit had no charm
for him. He could only gaze at the paper in
his hand and murmur, ever and anon a message. I
saw it was best to humor him, and at my suggestion,
the typewriter was locked up that night, and he took
the key with him into his bedroom. We had had
a rattling good dinner together, and when I left Twizzleton
he was in much better spirits. If the ghost comes tonight,
he won't be able to get at the typewriter anyhow,
I said, laughing, hush, I don't know, replied Twizzleton solemnly,
it is no jesting subject. I went my way, wondering
how a man with Twizleton's practice could believe in ghosts,
and who the deuce had written Charlie Colston's name on
the typewriter. The next morning I walked down the Twizzletons
directly after breakfast. I found him in the wildest imaginable condition.
He had taken every precaution, locking up the typewriter, placing
the key under his pillow, And yet here was the message,
as he called it, printed in clear, faultless style, Charlie Colston.
He is with your wife, Charlie Colston. I must go,
I must go, Oh Penrose, what shall I do? He
cried in agony as I entered the room, Go, I said,
And who was to lead in Buncombe versus Badger? He
was silent and buried all his face except his whiskers
in his hands. Even his hands, large and uncouth as
they were, could not contain his whiskers. Think of Ritzon
and claim, what will they say? I urged, Seeing the
effect that my words had on him. They rely on
you on this case. The name of this eminent firm
seemed to call Twizlton to some extent, my dear Penrose.
He said, in a trembling voice, this is a message.
I am sure of it. But I will do my duty.
I will stay by my clients. Twizzleton, you speak like
a queen's counsel and a man of honor, I said,
seizing him by the hand, proud to shake it. If
it is a message, I added, to humor him, it
will come again tonight. I will tell you what we
will do. We will watch the typewriter all night. Twizzleton
wrung my hand with gratitude at this suggestion of mine,
and called them. I made him eat some of his
cold chop, and sent for some brandy and water for
him instead of the tea, which had already stood in
the teapot for more than an hour. Then I endeavored
to coach him in Buncombe versus Badger, but with small success.
Then we went over to the appeal court, in which
I took my seat, for though I was not briefed
in the case, I had nothing else to do and
was interested in seeing how Twizzleton got on with it.
He was very able at picking up a case as
he went along, and the Court of Appeals stood greatly
in awe of him. I had never seen him as
nervous as he was to day, not even on his
wedding day, and I was quite frightened for him. Lord
Usher m R, supported by Smug l J and Summerbasch
l J, formed the court. Twizzleton came in late. He
had been at a consultation. As he entered, I heard
two solicitors clerks say to each other, who is that
with the whiskers? Twizzleton keys, he has the biggest practice
at the bar. He looks like a boiled owl, suggested
his companion Drinks, I believe was the reply. This was horrible,
for Twizzleton was a follower of Prebendary Faluten the great teetotaler.
But certainly Twizzleton had a dissipated look this morning. His
eyes were red, and the lines under his eyes were
very dark and hollow. His cheeks were pale and yellow.
Something of this kind I fancy, the master of the rolls,
remarked to Lord Justice Smug, who nodded a sent. Twizzleton
rose to open the case, which was a very intricate one,
and Lord Usher, according to his constant practice, interrupted him
with the regularity of a piece of clockwork every two
and a half minutes, and then wondered why he did
not understand the case, and shook himself impatiently. Much to
Lord Usher's astonishment, Twizzleton did not deliver any of those
stinging retorts by which he was wont to keep the
Court of Appeal in order and frighten their lordships into
deciding in his favor. On noticing this, the Lord Usher
began to chaff and rally Twizzleton in a manner that
was the admiration of the junior bar, the two lords Justices,
and not least of all, of the Master of the
Rolls himself. At length, Twizzleton, in expatiating on the merits
of Buncombe's sewing machine, alluded to it as a typewriter,
whereupon Lord Usher said with a humorous leer, that if
it had been a question of typewriters, no doubt mister
Twiztleton would have been called as a specialist to give evidence,
and would not have been arguing the case before them,
at which those in the court who kneeled Twizzleton's fad tittered,
and his lordship's namesakes, who stand about the court, put
their hands before their faces and shook visibly for a
moment or two, and then called out hush, and looked angry.
But Twizzleton lost his temper over this and asked his
lordship if his lordship meant to hint that the court
did not want to hear him, and intimated his intention
if such was a case of sitting down. And then
the whole court was really quite silent for a minute
or two in anticipation of a row, and everyone ceased
to fidget and paid close attention to Lord Usher to
hear him with his blandest and most urbano smiles, explaining,
how was the great privilege of that court to listen
to mister Twizzleton, and what a high value they said
upon that privilege, and how it was quite inconceivable to him,
Lord Usher, that he, mister Twizzleton, could imagine for a
moment that this court or any other court, should wish
him to sit down. Whereupon Twizzleton murmured that his lordship
was very good, meaning thereby that he should like to
be with his Lordship in a small room where he
could give him a bit of his mind. Then the
case proceeded quite regularly until Twizzleton handed Lord Usher a
lot of papers to explain his case. Lord Usher, coming
to one, said with a knowing aside glance at smug
lj that from the handwriting it must be a note
of mister Twistleton's in another case, as he did not
know that anyone of the name of Charles Colston was
a party to this case. And what would have happened then,
I don't know. Only the court rose for lunch. I
heard two or three people say that day that Twizzleton,
poor fellow, was doing more work than he ought to,
that Twizzleton was a clever fellow, but he could not
afford to burn the cannel at both ends. Indeed, Twizzleton's
strange conduct in Buncombe versus Badger was a general topic
of conversation in the robing room. When Twizzleton came out
of court, I had the greatest difficulty to prevent him
from rushing down the Norfolk by the night train. He
was sure it was true, he believed in the message.
I calmed him down and we had dinner together at
my club. He had to continue his speech in the
morning I tried to coach him a Buncombe versus Badger,
but it was of no avail. I do not think
he even knew for which side he was appearing. We
agreed that we would sit up and watches, and so
keep our eye on the typewriter all night. There was
a sofa in the recess of the window, and Twizzleton
sent me to bed and placed himself on this. I
bat him good night and took his bed for the
first half of the night. About two o'clock in the morning,
I awoke and went to Twizzleton. He was wide awake,
reading some papers on the sofa. Have you seen anything,
I asked, nothing whatever, He replied, nor heard anything, not
a sound. We took the lamp to the typewriter and
opened it. There was a sheet of papers. He always
left it untouched. Twizzleton locked it up again and took
the key. Put it under your pillow, I will, he replied.
It's very good of you to sit up like this.
It's nothing at all. Assure you, I answered, keep strict watched,
won't you? I promised you, I said. Twizzleton shook me
by the hand with emotion and went out. He looked
very ill and wretched, I thought, and was sorry for him.
Was it a ghost message or what that was making
his life a burden to him? Should I solve the mystery? Tonight?
I waited about an hour and a half. The dawn
came peeping through the painted shutters and made the lamp
look dim. I was almost dozing. In fact, I had
shut my eyes and lost consciousness for perhaps a minute,
perhaps more. A sharp clicking sound awoke me. It was
a typewriter. There seated on a chair in front of it,
playing nimbly on the queer instrument, was a white, misty figure.
It had finished. It, closed the cover down and turned
the key. It wheeled round to the door, and I
saw the face and whiskers. I knew so well it
was twizzledom himself. My first impulse was to wake him,
but I had heard that it was dangerous to wake
persons walking in their sleep. He wanted all the sleep
he could get, so I decided to let him alone,
walk down to my own chambers and get some rest myself.
When I got out into Old Square, I could not
help roaring with laughter. It was too funny. The idea
of old Twizzleton writing messages to himself on the typewriter
and being frightened out of his wits by them. With
a story to tell against him. No one would believe it.
It was too good to be true. I awoke a
little late the next morning, but went straight down to
Old Square before breakfast. Alas I was too late. There
was Foss in misery over a hasty scrawl of Twizzleton's.
He had gone to barn door by the early train.
Foss was to make any excuse he thought fit to
Ritson and Claim. There was the typewriter shattered into a
thousand pieces, its intricate machinery, a shapeless chaos. I shuddered
to think what would happen if there was anything between
Charlie Colston and missus Twizzleton. In town, everyone was asking
what had become of Twizzleton. The rumor went round the
lock course that he was insane. I maintained a discreet silence.
Mister Claim was almost crying, a slow coach murmuring something
about bad news, and his learned leader rose to continue
Twizolton's opening. Lord Usher, unrestrained by the presence of Twizzleton,
made the Court of Appeal a place of fiery torment
to that eminent elderly junior mister slow Coach. Bustle QC
for Badger was not even called upon to reply. Bun
Coom and another were dismissed with costs the early train stop.
As I knew at every station forty in number, I
could imagine poor Twizzleton's state of mind as he potted
along in a slow train to barn Door. He arrived
at the US about breakfast time. I have the story
from Grimbleton, who was there. He came into the breakfast
room and his appearance elicited a shout of surprise. What
has become a Buncombe versus Badger, cried Lord barn Door said, old, eh,
not that I know of, muttered Twizzleton sulkily, and then,
looking round fiercely, asked, where's my wife? Not down yet,
replied Lord barn Door. Twizzleton looked hastily round, as though
in search of some one else, and then tore upstairs
to his wife's room. The whole company looked at each
other in silence. There was some explanation about bad news,
but the Twizzletons never went into morning, and missus Twizzletein
seemed very merry, all that day. It was true that
Twizzleton was moody and shut himself up a good deal.
Grimbleton told me that he never understood the whole business
in the least in fact, in Twizzleton's circle. It was
a nine days wonder. By the bye, I almost forgot
to mention that Charlie Colston left Barn Door to be
married in Scotland the day after Twizzleton came to town.
When Twizzleton returned to Old Square, he was a sadder
and wiser man. He gave up believing in ghosts and
did not buy another typewriter. I told Twizzleton that I
would not let the matter go any farther, and I
mentioned at the time that he might get me the
junior brief in Buncombert's Badger, which went to the House
of Lords, where, through Twizzleton's clear arguments, nors Justices Smug
and summer Bosh were overruled that year, mostly through Twizzleton's influence.
My Phoebe credited me with two thousand pounds. I have
kept my secret well, but since Twizzleton succeeded Lord Usher
as Master of the rolls, Lady Twizzleton has not called
on missus Penrose. And although my wife assures me that
she is rather glad of it, she is always telling
me now that she does not think so good a
story should be lost to the world as that of
Twizzleton's typewriter