Speaker 1: The Terrible Old Man by H. P. Lovecraft. It was
the design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Zanik and Manuel
Silva to call on the Terrible Old Man. This old
man dwells all alone in a very ancient house on
Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be
both exceedingly rich and exceedingly feeble, which forms a situation
very attractive to man of the professions of Messrs Ricci,
Zanak and Silver, for that profession was nothing less dignified
than a robbery. The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think
many things about the Terrible old Man, which generally keep
him safe from the attention of gentlemen like mister Ricci
and his colleagues, despite the almost certain fact that he
hides a fortune of indefinite magnitudes somewhere about his musty
and venerable abode. He is, in truth a very strange person,
believed to have been a captain of East India clipper
ships in his day, so old that no one can
remember when he was young, and so taciturn that few
know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the
front yard of his aged and neglected place, he maintains
a strange collection of large stones, oddly crouped and painted
so that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple.
This collection frightens away most of the small boys, who
love to taunt the terrible old man about his long
white hair and beard, or to break the small paned
windows of his dwelling with wicked missiles. But there are
other things which frighten the older and more curious folk,
who sometimes steal upon the house to peer in through
the dusty panes. These folks say that on a table
in a bare room on the ground floor are many
peculiar bottles, in each a small piece of lead suspended
pendulum wise from a string. And they say that the
terrible old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by
such names as Jack Scarface, Long Tom, Spanish, Joe Peters,
and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle,
the little lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations, as
if in answer. Those who have watched the tall, lean,
terrible old man in these peculiar conversations do not watch
him again. But Angelo Ricci, and Joe Zanak and Manuel
Silver were not of Kingsport blood. They were of that
new and heterogeneous alien stalk which lies outside the charmed
circle of New England life and traditions. And they saw
in the terrible old man, merely at tottering, almost helpless
gray beard, who could not walk without the aid of
his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully.
They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely,
unpopular old fellow whom everybody shunned, and at whom all
the dogs barked singularly. But business is business, and to
a robber whose soul is in his profession, there is
a lure and a challenge about a very old and
very feeble man who has no account at the bank,
and who pays for his few necessities at the village
store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.
Messrs Richies Zannack and Silver selected the night of April
eleventh for their call. Mister Ricchie and mister Silver were
to interview the poor old gentleman, whilst mister Zanik waited
for them and their presumable metallic burden with a covered
water car in Ship Street by the gate in the
tall rear wall of their host's grounds. Desire to avoid
needless explanations in case of unexpected police intrusions prompted these
plans for a quiet and unostentatious departure. As pre arranged,
the three adventurers started out separately in order to prevent
any evil minded suspicions. Afterward, Messrs Ricci and Silver met
in Water Street by the old man's front gate, and
although they did not like the way the moon shone
down upon the painted stones through the budding branches of
the gnarled trees, they had more important things to think
about than mere idle superstition. They feared it might be
unpleasant work making the terrible old man loquacious concerning his
hoarded gold and silver. For aged sea captains are notably
stubborn and perverse. Still, he was very old, old and
very feeble, and there were two visitors. Messrs Ricci and
Silver were experienced in the art of making unwilling persons voluble,
and the screams of a weak and exceptionally venerable man
can be easily muffled. So they moved up to the
one lighted window and heard the terrible old man talking
childishly to his bottles with pendulums. Then they donned masks
and knocked politely at the weather stained oaken door. Waiting
seemed very long to mister Xanik as he fidgeted restlessly
in the covered motor car by the terrible old man's
back gate in Ship Street. He was more than ordinarily
tender hearted, and he did not like the hideous screams
he had heard in the ancient house just after the
hour appointed for the deed. Had he not told his
colleagues to be as gentle as possible with the pathetic
old sin captain. Very nervously, he watched that narrow oaken
gate in the high and ivy clad stone wall frequently.
He consulted his watch and wondered at the delay. Had
the old man died before revealing where his treasure was
hidden and a thorough search become necessary. Mister Xanik did
not like to wait so long in the dark in
such a place. Then he sensed a soft tread or
tapping on the walk inside the gate, heard a gentle
fumbling at the rusty latch, and saw the narrow, heavy
door swing inward and in the pallid glow of the
single dim street lamp. He strained his eyes to see
what his colleagues had brought out of that sinister house,
which loomed so close behind. But when he looked, he
did not see what he had expected, for his colleagues
were not there at all, but only the terrible law
old man, leaning quietly on his knotted cane and smiling hideously.
Mister Xanik had never before noticed the color of that
man's eyes. Now he saw that they were yellow. Little
things make considerable excitement in little towns, which is the
reason that Kingsport people talked all that spring and summer
about the three unidentifiable bodies, horribly slashed as with many cutlasses,
and horribly mangled, as by the tread of many cruel
boot heels which the tide washed in. And some people
even spoke of things as trivial as the deserted motor
car found in Ship Street, or certain especially in human cries,
probably of a stray animal or migratory bird, heard in
the night by wakeful citizens. But in this idle village gossip,
the terrible old man took no interest at all. He was,
by nature reserved, and when one is aged and feeble,
one's reserve is doubly strong. Besides, so ancient a sea
captain must have witnessed scores of things much more stirring
in the far off days of his unremembered youth. End
of the terrible old Man.