THE storm had lasted three days. The wind then abated. We rode on a fierce wave. The graceful ripple kicker was driven toward a rocky shore; the noble faithful ripple kicker struck against the rocky rock. Myself and the gink gaze from the upper deck down on the rock beneath. We enter a large basket and by the aid of a rope, a chain and a winch we lower ourselves. At last we stand on the firm rock, Eureka! We behold a cleft in the rock, we enter and find ourselves in a narrow passage, dark and twisting. The rocks on each side are plastered with a thick coating of gorse all soaked with wasium. The air is weighted with wasium tinged with the smell of musk. We twist through the cleft and after many angular turnings we emerge on a beautiful parapet of sandalwood studded with brass tacks. We gaze across the valley of Geddo and there at the nearest edge of the valley of mushrooms, behold our goal. This is the wonder of the ages, the structure of that and thus. This is the house of mystery. There is a barrel of cider in the attic. What a queer place to keep the cider. "Wouldn't you like to drink a glass of cider?" said my friend, the gink. (He is the son of a Moravian sea-cook.) He is a thirsty soul. How extraordinary!

            When he told me about the barrel in the attic, I told him I would greatly enjoy a glass—two glasses of cider, nice hard cider, all kick. My friend, the gink, expressed great joy and proposed we go at once to the attic. The attic—what a strange place to keep cider. But this is a house of mystery and anything is likely to happen in a house of mystery. Everything is topsy-turvy in a house of mystery. That is the reason why they keep the cider in the attic. My friend, the gink, proposed we go at once to the attic. My friend, the gink, takes the key from where it hangs over the faithful Seth Thomas clock. Then we both start for the door. There is a rich Turkey rug in the middle of the floor. In crossing the room we have to cross over the rug. As we step on the rug there is a big explosion. We are both shot up in the air. We hit our heads against the ceiling—we break a hole in the ceiling—we shoot through the hole in the ceiling—myself and the gink shoot through into the room above—we are propelled with such force we continue—we bump through the ceiling above that and so on—up, up we go and still up. Up, up—yet sidewise—now edgewise, yet up, up. At last we are in the cellar. How extraordinary!

            What a nice cellar with a large bay window on one side. A rich velvet carpet covers the cellar floor. This is the first time I ever ran across a velvet carpet on the floor of a cellar. There was no furniture only one washtub and one pendant skep hanging up on the wall. The washtub was full of cider. We grab the pendant skep—we dip the skep deep in the washtub and we drink deep—nice hard cider—we gulp. When myself and the gink have finished with one gulp we cross the cellar to the window. Velvet curtains are over the cellar window. We draw aside the cellar curtains. We look out. We look up—sky—nothing but sky. We look down. What an entrancing view.

            Everything on edge. How extraordinary!

            From the cellar window we look down—down on the summit of the Matterhorn far beneath. There is a small flat plateau on top of the Matterhorn, and on the plateau is seated the Princess Bridget of Madagascar. How stout. She is much stouter than when we last met. She is suffering from fatty degeneration of the heart. She is seated on the southern slope where the mountain descends rapidly—the scene is beautiful. I cannot describe the scene that has already been described, but I could see what I did see, and what I did see is this. Here goes.

            The summit of the Matterhorn is a high cliff. Looking down I could see a valley descending gradually toward the south. In the distance I could see the plains of Lombardy, and beyond that the steeples of Genoa sharply outlined against the hills of far off Yonkers. I was enthralled. When I was able to shift my gaze I took a second look down on top of the Matterhorn where I could see the Princess Bridget. She was playing checkers with our old friend, the Scandinavian, son of a rat catcher. They both gaze intently over the game—for a moment. Then for a moment raise their eyes, glancing up at the cellar window far, far, up above. They now see the gink and myself looking out and down at them. They resent our intrusion. The Princess and the Scandinavian pick up rocks. Glancing up at us with looks all hatred, they fling the stones at me and my friend, the gink. They object to my looking down at them from the cellar window. That is why the Princess Bridget and the Scandinavian son of a rat catcher take up rocks and throw them at me and the gink.

            I got a thump in the eye—the gink got a thump in the kisser. Myself and the gink found ourselves staggering back from the window. Staggering back. That trap door, that open trap in the floor of the cellar. It invites us. It compels us. We stagger—we fall down, down through the trap door, that trap door in the middle of the cellar floor. We fall still lower down, straight down sidewise—yet on edge—down, still further down, down. At last we are in the attic. How extraordinary!

            We go down to get to the attic. Such a nice attic. The attic, the windows open, all the windows open. Wind blowing. Wind everywhere, wind in all directions. Myself and the gink try to steady ourselves—no use. The wind gets the best of us. Out the window we go. We land in a tree. We slide down. We look about. We find ourselves in a beautiful garden. I sink down on a grassy bank all dazed. My head swims comfortably—all is dark before my eyes—black darkness with yellow clouds flitting here and there. Now all is darkness. I sleep. Deep undreaming sleep. How long the sleep lasts I know not. When sense returned I thought I heard the murmuring of many waters—then voices—then curses—then blows—then curses mingled with blows. Then all was still. Soon I heard a madrigal of sweet voices. I opened my eyes. My friend, the gink, was standing close by, looking at me with a sad smile. He was a sight—he was all covered with honey. He told me he had overturned an abandoned bee-hive. How lucky the beehive had been abandoned. Had the hive been inhabited, the bees certainly would have given us merry Hell. The honey. We both of us are sticky with honey. How uncomfortable—how very uncomfortable. We look around for cleansing accommodations. Ah there! My old friend the pump. We both tackle the pump—the pump answers the purpose. We both rapidly clean up. Then we light our pipes and sit down to rest. We hear faint jingling sounds. Music, faint at first, then louder, a regular Turkish patrol, drums, fifes, banjos, trombones, accordions, etc. At the further side of the green enclosure we see advancing seventeen Macedonian horsemen, richly caparisoned and drawn up in battle array. They are led by an officer who rides proudly in advance. Who do you think it is? No less a personage than that great character, Philip of Macedon, the conqueror of Greece. He is all dressed up like a drunken shoe-maker. That handsome young officer at his side is his son, Alexander. Next in the parade march seventeen vestal virgins, dressed in plain white cheesecloth. Each and every one of them swing along with thumbs down. They carry lighted candles. Then follow the steel clad mass of soldiers, all brisk and eager. There is a sound from the other direction. We rubber our necks to the left, and behold another army is charging up the slopes of the Matterhorn. Banners waving, drums beating, mingled with the battle cry of anticipation mixed with apathy.

            This second army is led by the Princess Bridget and her able Captain, the Scandinavian, son of a rat catcher. The two armies meet in a deadly clash. Drums rattle. Trumpets blare. Accordions wail. Shouts of triumph. Howls from the wounded. Groans from the dying. The sounds of battle echo from cliff to cliff. The sounds reverberate from the summit of Mount Rosa to the tall bleak walls of an abandoned brewery. I feel something at my throat. I am seized, grappled with, drawn down, down now sidewise, yet on edge. We are drawn into a cavern. Myself and the gink find ourselves in a cave, a large grotto. Two big dimpled dodos sit on their haunches, glaring at us with hungry eyes. The hungry looks are interwoven with benevolent gleams. The gink is all smiles. He knows the dodos well and the dodos know the gink. They are old chums. The dodos remember many donations of peanuts. The two dodos now arose, went to a dark corner and presently returned with two plates of poached chipmunks and a bottle of brandy. After covering the table with a cloth white as snow, the dodos placed the refreshments thereon and bid us eat. We did. As the last mouthful disappeared down our gullets we suddenly heard distant sounds. Sound of battle. Yells of triumph. Howls of despair. Quiet soon reigned once more. Then we fell off into a deep slumber. What a wonderful thing is a long dreamless sleep. I awoke refreshed. I know not how long I had slept. My Ingersoll had run down. The lngersoll that made the dollar famous. As I awoke I must have started. The gink grabbed me. The gink said "Hush." The gink held a bottle of household ammonia in one hand and a rolling pin in the other. We were still in the cave. The two dimpled dodos had retired and were sleeping in a dark corner. They were snoring away to beat the band. The bottle of brandy is on the shelf. We take down the bottle and each of us take a swig—two swigs. The gink and myself feel like a couple of four year olds on a Jewish holiday. The gink spoke saying "The battle is over. Let's take time by the forelock. The field outside is strewn with dead and wounded. I propose we rob the dead. The dead are nit—the wounded helpless. Their pockets are full. We will empty those pockets." I always thought the gink was an energetic man. He proposed that we go outside, pilfer to our hearts' content, and then seek the seclusion of the nearest fence, sell our spoil and with full pockets become useful members of society. I consent to his plan. We sally forth, the gink leading the way. We found the night well advanced, clear and beautiful. The moon well up. The silver light made everything look beautiful. Seventeen spavined hyenas skulk away leaving their unholy feast untasted. The slain lay about in all kinds of quaint postures. My sad soul sickened at the utter folly of it all, ambition, greed, race hatred, spite, revenge. My meditations were broken by the gink, the foxy gink, the prudent far seeing gink. "Get to work," said the gink. "Make the work thorough. Our silent benefactors are ready. We ourselves are ready. So hustle." We get busy. We work. We move silently, yet swiftly. We turn each pocket inside out—we rifle each purse, we annex every finger ring, and place the hand of greed on the various wrist watches, gold chains, link buttons, etc. As we look about for still more plunder, our ears are greeted by faint blowing murmurs. The blowing grows louder. The sound now resembles the whiz of a buzz saw, seventeen buzz saws added to the clarion notes of seventeen Portuguese magpies and as many chirping nightingales. Now comes a wind, first gentle, then ungentle, then fierce and still fiercer. The wind becomes a whirlwind, a typhoon, a cyclone. We are caught, in the vortex, lifted up whirled round and round. Our pockets open, the watches and rings fall out. As we whirl about, every twist causes more exit of property. As we whirl high up and round about we feel ourselves becoming lighter and lighter as watches, purses, loose gold coin, bracelets, etc. fly from our pockets and descend in shower to the fields of Lombardy far below.

            As we look downward we see the country all filled with a vast multitude, men, women and children. They are all holding baskets, boxes, etc. and all trying to catch the valuables as they drop from the sky. We even see several quartets holding on to the four corners of sheets. The sheets are piled up with valuables. The multitude grab everything absolutely regardless of the knowledge that the goods are not theirs. I am shocked at such dishonesty. Now something happens—something ends all this rush, all this push and pull. The wind ceases, that's all. The wind puts the kibosh on the whole business. No more wind—no typhoon—no cyclone to keep us up. Result—down we go, down we flop. Quick as the flashing lightning myself and the gink fall—fall with a thump. We glide, we sink down, down, now sideways, yet edgewise. Down and still down. We reach the ground—bump—thump.

            We fall into an abandoned pigsty. The pigsty is in a meadow on the outskirts of Hoboken. We sink into oblivion. Myself and the gink sink into oblivion. The oblivion lasts only a very few moments and then both the gink and myself wake up to the tune of soft fiddling. No blare of trumpets, no fanfare, no thrilling flutes, only fiddling. Can it be that we are in Fiddler's Green? The fiddling is so entrancing it separates my brain from my cosmos and casts a shadow over my brilliancy. I sleep, yet conjecture while I float through oblivion. How long in oblivion? How can I tell? All I know is that when I awake I find myself back in the pigsty. The pigsty has been long abandoned. It is all overgrown with beautiful flowers. I am reclining on a bed of American beauty roses. The gink is sitting, sitting close by, smoking his pipe. We hear a familiar voice. I look in the direction of the familiar voice, then I see a familiar face. Handsome, Grecian, hooked nose, crooked mouth all on the bias, ugly yet benevolently wise. He was dressed up like a drunken shoemaker.

            My old employer. The head of the cigar factory. He speaks. He speaks to the gink and myself. He speaks, says he "Say you two boobs, it's time you both got to work again. I now have the agency for two night lunch wagons. I'll put you both to work. You can take charge of my extra wagon. You can run the business very nicely. Divide up your time to suit yourselves. When you are at work the gink sleeps. When you sleep, then the gink works. Of course, you will both have to be on hand during the rush hour. Now look sharp and be around by five o'clock sharp." The toast and tea, waffles and hot dogs wait for no man.

            Then he turned on his heel and left. I could hear him grumbling to himself like a wolf with a sore nose. He certainly made a mistake in his calling. He would have made a fine piano tuner. He ought to receive a good fat spanking. I intend to give him one myself. When I get through with him he won't have a headache.

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