High up on a beam loomed the head of a bull moose. Large spreading antlers extended far out on either side. From the antlers there hung a rope fashioned into a sort of trapeze, and swinging to and fro on that trapeze sat the mandrill ape. He cut all sorts of capers, sometimes hanging by one hand, and then again he would swing by his tail with his head hanging down, all the time shrieking and all the time showing his teeth. The whole proceeding was a most diabolical tableau. As he swung to and fro, his incandescent variegated brilliant snout shot forth sparks of uncanny light. My friend Ivan and myself now fell into an engrossing conversation. Bang! We were interrupted time and again by the rumble I now know so well. "Ah," said Ivan. "The tumbling bump is active. Guess we are going to have a storm. I have a plan to write up a poem all about the Pocket flump of the Tumbling bump. See here, take the paper. That paper contains a list of words that rhyme with the words Tumbling bump. Look!" I read the words "pump, lump, shump, lump, plump, trump, jump, hump, clump." "There now" said Ivan. "Half the work is done when you have the list of proper words." We were now rattled by a yelp, half like a dog and half like a kangaroo. The mandrill ape had dropped down on the floor and went capering about at a great rate. One time as he passed me I held out my wounded hand and said: "Nice monkey, pretty monkey," and amazing to relate, the ugly beast came to me and laid his head down on my lap for me to caress him. Then he continued his dancing about the room. Every time he capered in front of us he grinned. But I noticed that every time Ivan turned his back on the mandrill, the beast would shake his fist at my friend. I mentioned this to Ivan who replied, "Nonsense, the beast loves me, even if I do have to punish him rather severely once in a while. Here Pluto." The mandrill advanced and then stood still. "Open your mouth." The mandrill opened his mouth. "Stick out your tongue." The tongue was forked like a snake. "There! Look!" said the Laird. "I did that. I had been told that if the tongue of a bird is slit that bird can speak. Now this monkey here, this four-legged bird, is so smart, I thought I could make him speak by slitting his tongue, but the scheme did not work. Pluto, begone!" Pluto gave a military salute and departed. Reaching the door, the big devil of a monster turned, threw a kiss to me, showed his teeth to Ivan and made his exit with a very odd wink. "That monkey gets queerer and queerer every day," said Ivan. "It is high time I treated him to a good fat thrashing. But it is getting late, and as we have had a strenuous day we had better retire." Ivan struck the triangle. The Hoff Marshall appeared followed by the ironmonger of the estate. The two men lifted me into an invalid chair on rollers. "Good night," said the Laird. "Breakfast at nine, and be prompt. The buckwheat cakes wait for no man." The attendants rolled me out the door, rolled me along the passage, and then rolled me through an open doorway. Then they bowed and left the room. The room was lighted by one large candle projecting from a tall silver candle stick. The room was a wonder. Talk of decorations. I got up from my chair and crossed to a table, taking up a curious circular plate of chased metal. I had to pick it up very gingerly with my left hand. The plate dropped from my hand and fell on the floor with a clang. I felt startled. I heard footsteps. The door opened. The ironmonger stood before me. "Did you ring, sir?" "No—the gong fell from my hand." "Oh, yes sir. I see, sir. You don't look well. You are as pale as a penguin." The man's presence quite restored me. He was so kindly. I later learned that he was known by the title of the benevolent ironmonger. He was an old codger past ninety. He spake: "Better let me mix you a hot drink, sir." He did so. He placed the steaming mug before me. He entreated: "Drink it down quickly and go to bed. For sir," said he, "don't be so shaky. Don't believe all the yarns you have heard about this room, even though it is true. I mean the murder of the old Countess." "Countess?" says I. "Yes sir, but don't yer mind that sir; all that happened long ago, fifty years this fall, even tho' the blood stain on the floor looks so fresh." As he spoke he pointed to the floor directly in front of him. Sure enough. There were the stains—dark and terrible. The ironmonger continued. "It was a terrible night. Dark and stormy. The retainers were all huddled in the servants' hall below. The room directly beneath, sir. We were frantic with terror. There was a fight going on in the room overhead. We all crowded about the table. The struggle upstairs continued. Furniture was overturned. There were crashes of broken glass. Then all was still. The table in front of us was covered with a white cloth. We heard the sound dropping, dropping, dropping. Dark spots began to appear on the white table cover. Someone lighted the candles. The dark spots began to turn red. There was dripping through the ceiling. Red, red blood dropping on the white table cover. Think of that, sir; think of that. This happened fifty years ago. I found the knife that did it. I still have that knife. But—my poor man, you seem all gone of a heap. Take another drink. Here sir, drink it down." It was brandy this time. "Good night" said the monger. I could only nod, and he left the room. I felt dazed, but managed to stagger over to the bed and lay down. My brain was in a muddle. This lasted an hour. My brain cleared, and I soon took in everything in the room. Two large candles were lighted. I was all perked up to a strange state of mind, but from where I lay I could take in a fair view of everything in the room. The room was one big curiosity shop. My friend Ivan was a great traveller. He collected curios from all parts of the globe. Ivan had one peculiarity. In whatsoever country he happened to be, he bought curios that originally came from some other place. When in Denmark he bought silk from far off India. When in Paris he sought out a pair of dancing grizzly bears from Moscow, and finally, when in Spain, he secured a peanut stand from Yonkers. And there you are. And now as I lay on the four-poster you can easily guess the variety of bric-a-brac I gazed upon. And my bed room was all full of harlequin effects. The ceiling was painted bright crimson. The walls were fiery orange. And the orange walls were all spotted with blue polka dots, and in the middle of each dot was one silver star. Directly overhead on the ceiling there was painted a dragon's head, with wide open mouth grinning down at me. I closed my eyes, perhaps it was the brandy. I went fast asleep. I dreamt I was standing on the banks of the Nile. Egypt's Queen floated in all her glory. The lovely Cleopatra skipping along in her barge, driven by silk sails, whilst beautiful maidens plied the oars. At least, they might have been beautiful, but each maiden had a harelip. Six pages painfully warbled a soft symphony. One extra cute little page struck a false note. I winced; then dozed. And then a change came o'er the menu of my dream. I thought I was in Hell. I think it must have been that hot unmentionable place. I stood looking down into a deep pit. I could see my friend H——. He was all on fire. He was chained to a rock. I felt so painful I awoke. Cold beads stood on my brow. The drops trickled into my eyes. I dried out each eye with the rag tied about my finger, the finger bitten by the vinegerone. My eyes cleared. My brain cleared. What is that looking at me, looking through the window at me? It was the mandrill ape. When he saw I was awake he grinned showing a row of teeth, kissed his hand and disappeared, with a succession of wild yelps. What a pleasant night I was having. I decided there was no sleep for me. I leaped from my bed. The bell in the tower rang out five o'clock and a distant voice said, "All's well, but I'm sorry I lost the broom."

            I decided to take an early walk. I opened the door. I went out. The passage way was dark. I poked away as best I might. There were several turns and several ups and downs, and several bumps. At last I spied in the distance an opening from which shone a light. I followed up the cue and found myself in the study of my host, the Laird of Nax. Ivan lay back in his armchair fast asleep. I stood enthralled! Directly in front of and facing my old friend stood the mandrill ape. The monster flourished a knife. He was chattering, showing his fangs, and thrusting out his forked tongue. The ape hated his master. No doubt of it. But what could I do? I had already warned Ivan and he had disregarded my warning. When the mandrill saw me, he placed the knife on the table, went to the door, saluted me with military precision, turned away from the door, sprang out the window and was gone. Heaving a sigh of relief I turned away and now found myself confronted with the Hoff Marshall. He was a sight to behold, all dressed up like a drunken shoemaker. He was in full regalia. He wears a toupee and plays the accordion. He carried the instrument under his arm. He looked at the sleeping Ivan, and then invited me with a gesture to follow him. When we got outside the Hoff Marshall spoke, "Sir, if you will follow me to the sunken garden you will be rewarded. But we shall have to go by way of the kitchen." We passed into the kitchen. The cook had evidently been preparing apple dumplings. There had been some kind of a spill, for the hashed-up apples and uncooked pastry were strewn all about in confusion. "Someone has been raising hell in the kitchen," said the Hoff Marshall. We picked out our way over the dumpling-laden floor, slid back a panel and emerged into the sunken garden. It was a beautiful place, sunk about six feet below the surrounding level. There were flower beds a-plenty and many cabbages were cultivated for the pet rabbits. Then there were six nanny-goats, one named Valentine, another Neptune. Most extraordinary! And the cats! There were seventeen cats, all black and bobtailed—that is, with almost no tails. The Hoff Marshall, looking at the sundial, let out a yell and ran away screaming: "It's after milking time!" I sat down on a stone bench, lit my pipe, and contemplated the cats. I love cats. One particularly cute kitty, jumping up on my right shoulder started in to caress my left ear with its teeth. The cats seemed to know that I loved cats. The cats crawled over me purring away to beat the band. I felt a nudge. I turned in the direction of the nudge. It was the benevolent ironmonger.

            "I see, sir, that you like cats."

            "Yes," says I.

            Then we sat down. Lots of cat talk. The monger made a learned speech. "Look, sir. Please observe that all these cats have bobbed tails. Do you know the reason why all these cats have short tails? I will tell you why. They all have short tails because we cut off their long tails. Cruel? No, not at all. The cats are much happier without their tails. The Laird has a guillotine upstairs. Look there, sir." The monger pointed up to a window on the second floor. "There, sir. That's where the master keeps his guillotine. Up there. That's where we marched the cats the day we cut off their tails. And the whole thing has been a paying investment. The seventeen tails. We saved every one of those amputated tails. We fitted those seventeen cats' tails with seventeen ivory handles. We shall never want for dusters for glass lamp chimneys."

            The gate opened. The Hoff Marshall entered with a bucket of milk. When he saw us he frowned. He spoke reprovingly to the monger. "Say you, can't you find something better to do than to talk twaddle about a lot of cats? Take this bucket to the cook and be quick about it." The benevolent monger meekly took the bucket and carried it to the kitchen door. The door opened and he disappeared within. The Hoff Marshall turning to me, remarked: "I suppose that old dodder has been boasting to you about those tailless cats. The truth of the matter is, he was so broken up he sneaked away and left me to shoulder all the responsibility. I attended to all that cat cutting personally. I rejoice in cruelty. I am a sadist." Just then we heard a sort of giggling. A rustic face peered over the gate. "Please sir, some of the village children are here. They want to play here in the garden." The Hoff Marshall drew himself up. He yelled, "Kick the children down the stairs and shut the gate." The gate was shut. More giggling. The rustic reappeared. Again he pleaded: "Please, sir, the children. Let them—cute childish ways—"

            The Hoff Marshall yelled: "Shut up! All their little childish ways inspire but one thought, one wish, the desire to beat them." That settled the matter. The Hoff Marshall, puffing like a cobra, made a dive through the kitchen door. I could hear him beating up the cook. By this time I needed a change. I made a bolt for the grated gate. Peering through the bars, I could see the benevolent ironmonger. He was standing on his head. He was surrounded by a flock of geese. They were flapping away and hissing away with wild delight. The benevolent ironmonger looked at me whilst remaining standing on his head. He delivered this remarkable speech: "Say, Mister, can you twist? I can't twist, but I have a nephew, and he can twist." I turned away, muttering "Poor guy; poor old dodderer." I heard a stir, and looking about I beheld a most remarkable figure in the act of jumping over the gate. He was a lad of about fifteen. He had a shock of yellow hair so arranged that a big bunch stood out on each side and another bunch protruded from the top of his head. He was dressed in the uniform of a Bavarian colour sergeant. He immediately began to cut capers. He jumped handsprings. He turned all kinds of funny twists. I thought he would turn himself inside out. He finally gave a leap over the grated gate. He disappeared. There was a rattle sound in the corner. The benevolent ironmonger's head popped out, nothing but his head. The ironmonger spoke, actually hissed: "Didn't I tell yer so? I told you I had a nephew who could twist." The ironmonger disappeared. Says I to myself, says I: "Whatever kind of people am I travelling with?"

            I could hear the tinkling of bells. Four rustics appeared bearing a sedan chair. They were come to conduct me to the breakfast room. I took the chair, and in a few moments found myself seated at table with my friend Ivan. The breakfast consisted of buckwheat cakes, pork chops and iced mead. During the meal Ivan seemed wrapped in deep melancholy. As he swallowed the last sip of his mead Ivan brightened up sufficiently to remark, "We will spend the forenoon in the museum." Then he struck the triangle. Immediately the page entered bearing a large brass key. "Alfonso," said the Laird, "you will attend us to the museum, and kindly remain. You will serve us with drinks. Come, proceed." We passed through many corridors and by way of a large anteroom we found ourselves in the museum. The walls were ornamented with heads of horned animals, skins of huge wild cats, shells of small turtles and quills of large porcupines. One side of the room was devoted to portraits in oil. The witch of Endor looked down, hostess of the entire scene. One large tier of shelves displayed arms of all kinds, swords, daggers, guns, arquebus stocks, arrows, bows, and last, yet best of all, the veritable cross gun that caused the tragic end of that glorious hero, the lion-hearted King of England. Then there was the skin of the eel that caused the fatal sickness of the first Henry, not to mention the pillow that smothered the two little princes in the Tower.

            My friend led me from curio to curio. The page enters. We are served with a drink. Ivan speaks: "I am about to show you my greatest treasure, but first—we drink to that great man, Cagliostro." Ivan leads the way to an alcove. We are followed by page, holding a tray. On a table stands a half size model of a French guillotine. "There," said Ivan. "The guillotine. It has many names—the maiden, the red widow, and I know not what. All I know is that it works true, no mistakes, no trouble, none at all; no dust, short hours, and very amusing. This model here is only half size, but you can get as much comfort out of a small guillotine—as much as from a full size model." Ivan beckoned to the page. We took another drink. Then Ivan resumed the same old subject. "This guillotine, though small in size, is firm in action, and true, true blue steel. Though small in size, this guillotine could easily take off the head of a goat, or a child or a dog. Feel the edge of that knife, true and blue; keen as a blade from Damascus." This kind of talk must have disturbed me. Ivan noticed it. "You look upset," said he. "Have another drink." The page again approached with the tray, and again we drank.

            As we emptied our glasses, there was a big rumble that seemed to come in from the window. "Ah, ha! The Pocket of the Tumbling Bump." We arrived at the window just as the last rumble stopped rumbling. From the window where we stood we had a good view of a big tree with a spreading branch. At the very tip end of the branch sat the big ape Pluto, the mandrill. The branch swung up and down carrying the great ape up and down to his rapture and joy. He yelped with delight, and his yelps mingling with the rumbling of the tumbling bump, reverberated back from the far off cliff of the Mull of Galloway in the far distance. Leaving the window, I tried to lead my friend to another part of the room. Ivan grabbed me by the arm saying, "Not yet, my friend." He then led me back toward the alcove of the guillotine. We passed an open doorway. We stopped. What a vision of contorted monstrosity! The Hoff Marshall in a bathing suit. The man is troubled with hives. His arms and legs are covered with blotches. Many red hairs vegetate over legs and arms. He is without his toupee. The dome of his bald head is studded with four miniature wens, and he carries his accordion under one arm and a cheese sandwich under the other. He is on the way to the swimming pool. He nods and passes on. Cupid on stilts. We pass on to the alcove. We have to pass the window. We have a view of the Hoff Marshall crossing the lawn. He stops a minute to throw stones at the mandrill ape. One stone hits the mandrill full on the forehead. He howls and shakes his fist at the Hoff Marshall. The Hoff Marshall laughs and proceeds on his way, taking the path that leads down the hill to the river. The mandrill looks steadily after him, then leaps to the ground and slowly, steadily follows him.

            "Well, well, well," said Ivan, "we are wasting too much time. All this nonsense is taking us away from our old friend the guillotine." Crash, crack, bang! "Ah," said Ivan. "One more flump flopping rock. But don't neglect the guillotine." He dragged, actually dragged me to the guillotine. Ivan threw his arms about the guillotine, actually embraced it. Ivan waxed enthusiastic. Ivan spoke. Said he, "Listen, and give me your full attention. I am seventy years old. When I was eight years old I knew a very old man who had lived in Paris during the first French revolution. He told me how he witnessed the execution of seventeen little girls. Every one of those little girls had red hair. Seventeen little red heads, and all those heads cut off. And when all those red heads were set up in a row there were seventeen little red necks. Think of that." Ivan laughed. Ivan shouted with glee. He actually fell over on the floor and shouted in ecstasy. He was in a beastly state of intoxication. A sudden gust of wind caused all the doors to bang. Ivan cursed the doors, cursed the wind, cursed himself. The page entered with more wine. Ivan took another drink. There came a clap of thunder. Ivan staggered back against the wall with both arms outstretched. His eyes glared wildly. His teeth chattered. Ivan began to howl like a wild beast. We had all risen—we stood confounded. Ivan still stamping and frothing pointed at us screeching, "You whitened sepulchres. The old Countess indeed, that hag witch of a countess—fifty years—I was there, you were there—you cursed backbiters." Another flash of lightning. One terrible crack of thunder. The outer doors blew open, the wind blew in, the lightning played about Ivan's head. We could see his eyes bulging, his teeth gnashing. He continued raving, "Fifty years ago this very night. I was there, you, you! You saw the blood—I saw the blood—dropping—dropping from that ceiling—up there—you know—you curs—you cowards! You saw the blood, the red, red blood, oozing—oozing through that ceiling and dropping down—down on that very table, and now—what do you want and why do you stare? Are you scared? Am I scared? Ha ha! you cowards. Do your worst—get to Hell and the devil, the whole bunch of you. I defy you all—I defy the devil your master, not mine—he he, hi hi, hell hell. I love the blood, the dark red blood—the blood—the blood—oozing through that ceiling. The blood—the blood—dropping—down on that table. Oh, horror! Oh, Manasses Ephraim! Ephraim Manasses!" Another clap of thunder. Another flash of lightning. Ivan flops through the open door—out on to the lawn. Ivan stands alone. The lightning flashes all about him; he curses fiercely. Another peal of thunder. All is black darkness. Then comes the blue lightning. Ivan's form is visible. He shakes his fist at the heavens, then another flash of lightning. Ivan utters one piercing curse—throws up both arms, and sinks down through the earth out of sight.

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