Speaker 1: The parlor car Ghost by W. Bob Holland, all draped
with blue denim, 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 denim 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 the 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 from my bag a pack of cards, seeded 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 sex, 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 seen and not seen 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 four of diamonds. 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 anyone 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 can of his 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 denims 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 of 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 Denim'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 dray
belonging to a great wholesale house backed up to our
door and delivered a case of denims with a receded
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.
Pity me, dear, and credit me, frivolous woman, as I am,
with having saved the soul at the expense of my
own vanity. My story is told, What do you think
about it? And of the parlor car ghost,