Kitabı oku: «Bikey the Skicycle and Other Tales of Jimmieboy», sayfa 3
"Not we!" cried Bikey. "That place is too hot for us. We're not on anything. I'm simply tumbling through the clouds and whirring my wheels for fun. I like to see the wheels go round. Don't bother. We'll land somewhere."
"But," cried Jimmieboy, "where?"
And then there was a crash. Bikey made no reply, but —
"Here," said a well known and affectionate voice.
"Where's here?" asked Jimmieboy, faintly, opening his eyes and gazing up into a very familiar face.
"You interrupted me, my son," remarked the owner of the familiar face. "I was about to say, 'Here now, Jimmieboy, this business of falling out of bed has got to stop.' This is the fifth time in two weeks that I have had to restore you to your comfortable couch. Where have you been this time?"
"Off with Bikey," murmured Jimmieboy, rubbing his eyes and gazing about his nursery.
"Nonsense," said his daddy, the owner of the familiar voice. "With Bikey? Why Bikey has been in the laundry all night." Which fact Bikey never denied, but nowadays when the incident is mentioned he agitates his cyclometer violently, and shakes all over as if he thought it was a good joke on somebody.
In all of which I am inclined to agree with him.
THE IMP OF THE TELEPHONE
I
JIMMIEBOY MAKES HIS ACQUAINTANCE
The telephone was ringing, of that there was no doubt, and yet no one went to see what was wanted, which was rather strange. The cook had a great way of rushing up from the kitchen to where the 'phone stood in the back hall whenever she heard its sounding bells, because a great many of her friends were in the habit of communicating with her over the wire, and she didn't like to lose the opportunity to hear all that was going on in the neighborhood. And then, too, Jimmieboy's papa was at work in the library not twenty feet away, and surely one would hardly suppose that he would let it ring as often as Jimmieboy had heard it this time – I think there were as many as six distinct rings – without going to ask the person at the other end what on earth he was making all that noise about. So it was altogether queer that after sounding six times the bell should fail to summon any one to see what was wanted. Finally it rang loud and strong for a seventh time, and, although he wasn't exactly sure about it, Jimmieboy thought he heard a whisper repeated over and over again, which said, "Hullo, Jimmieboy! Jimmieboy, Hullo! Come to the telephone a moment, for I want to speak to you."
Whether there really was any such whisper as that or not, Jimmieboy did not delay an instant in rushing out into the back hall and climbing upon a chair that stood there to answer whoever it was that was so anxious to speak to somebody.
"Hullo, you!" he said, as he got his little mouth over the receiver.
"Hullo!" came the whisper he thought he had heard before. "Is that you Jimmieboy?"
"Yes. It's me," returned Jimmieboy. "Who are you?"
"I'm me, too," answered the whisper with a chuckle. "Some people call me Hello Hithere Whoareyou, but my real name is Impy. I am the Imp of the Telephone, and I live up here in this little box right over where your mouth is."
"Dear me!" ejaculated Jimmieboy in pleased surprise. "I didn't know anybody ever lived in that funny little closet, though I had noticed it had a door with a key-hole in it."
"Yes, I can see you now through the key-hole, but you can't see me," said the Imp, "and I'm real sorry you can't, for I am ever so pretty. I have beautiful mauve-colored eyes with eyelashes of pink, long and fine as silk. My eyebrows are sort of green like the lawn gets after a sun shower in the late spring. My hair, which is hardly thicker than the fuzzy down or the downy fuzz – as you prefer it – of a peach, is colored like the lilac, and my clothes are a bright red, and I have a pair of gossamer wings to fly with."
"Isn't there any chance of my ever seeing you?" asked Jimmieboy.
"Why, of course," said the Imp. "Just the best chance in all the world. Do you remember the little key your papa uses to lock his new cigar box with?"
"The little silver key he carries on the end of his watch chain?" queried Jimmieboy eagerly.
"The very same," said the Imp. "That key is the only key in this house that will fit this lock. If you can get it and will open the door you can see me, and if you will eat a small apple I give you when we do meet, you will smallen up until you are big enough to get into my room here and see what a wonderful place it is. Do you think you can get the key?"
"I don't know," Jimmieboy answered. "I've asked papa to let me have it several times already, but he has always said no."
"It looks hopeless, doesn't it?" returned the Imp. "But I'll tell you how I used to do with my dear old father when he wouldn't let me have things I wanted. I'd just ask him the same old question over and over again in thirteen different ways, and if I didn't get a yes in answer to one of 'em, why, I'd know it was useless; but the thirteenth generally brought me the answer I wanted."
"I suppose that would be a good way," said Jimmieboy, "but I really don't see how I could ask for the key in thirteen different ways."
"You don't, eh?" said the Imp, in a tone of disappointment. "Well, I am surprised. You are the first little boy I have had anything to do with who couldn't ask for a thing, no matter what it was, in thirteen different ways. Why, it's as easy as falling up stairs."
"Tell me a few ways," suggested Jimmieboy.
"Well, first there is the direct way," returned the Imp. "You say just as plainly as can be, 'Daddy, I want the key to your cigar box.' He will reply, 'No, you are too young to smoke,' and that will make your mamma laugh, which will be a good thing in case your papa is feeling a little cross when you ask him. There is nothing that puts a man in a good humor so quickly as laughing at his jokes. That's way number one," continued the Imp. "You wait five minutes before you try the second way, which is, briefly, to climb upon your father's knee and say, 'There are two ends to your watch chain, aren't there, papa?' He'll say, 'Yes; everything has two ends except circles, which haven't any;' then you laugh, because he may think that's funny, and then you say, 'You have a watch at one end, haven't you?' His answer will be, 'Yes; it has been there fifteen years, and although it has been going all that time it hasn't gone yet.' You must roar with laughter at that, and then ask him what he has at the other end, and he'll say, 'The key to my cigar box,' to which you must immediately reply, 'Give it to me, won't you?' And so you go on, leading up to that key in everything you do or say for the whole day, if it takes that long to ask for it thirteen times. If he doesn't give it to you then, you might as well give up, for you'll never get it. It always worked when I was little, but it may have been because I put the thirteenth question in rhyme every time. If I wanted a cream cake, I'd ask for it and ask for it, and if at the twelfth time of asking I hadn't got it, I'd put it to the person I was asking finally this way —
"I used to think that you could do
Most everything; but now I see
You can't, for it appears that you
Can't give a creamy cake to me."
"But I can't write poetry," said Jimmieboy.
"Oh, yes you can!" laughed the Imp. "Anybody can. I've written lots of it. I wrote a poem to my papa once which pleased him very much, though he said he was sorry I had discovered what he called his secret."
"Have you got it with you?" asked Jimmieboy, very much interested in what the Imp was saying, because he had often thought, as he reflected about the world, that of all the men in it his papa seemed to him to be the very finest, and it was his great wish to grow up to be as like him as possible; and surely if any little boy could, as the Imp had said, write some kind of poetry, he might, after all, follow in the footsteps of his father, whose every production, Jimmieboy's mamma said, was just as nice as it could be.
"Yes, I have it here, where I keep everything, in my head. Just glue your ear as tightly as you can to the 'phone and I'll recite it for you. This is it:
"I've watched you, papa, many a day,
And think I know you pretty well;
You've been my chum – at work, at play —
You've taught me how to romp and spell.
"You've taught me how to sing sweet songs;
You've taught me how to listen, too;
You've taught me rights; you've shown me wrongs;
You've made me love the good and true.
"Sometimes you've punished me, and I
Sometimes have wept most grievously
That yours should be the hand whereby
The things I wished were kept from me.
"Sometimes I've thought that you were stern;
Sometimes I could not understand
Why you should make my poor heart burn
By scoldings and by reprimand.
"Yet as it all comes back, I see
My sorrows, though indeed most sore
In those dear days they seemed to me,
Grieved you at heart by far the more.
"The frowns that wrinkled up your brow,
That grieved your little son erstwhile,
As I reflect upon them now,
Were always softened by a smile
"That shone, dear father, in your eyes;
A smile that was but ill concealed,
By which the love that in you lies
For me, your boy, was e'er revealed."
Here the Imp stopped.
"Go on," said Jimmieboy, softly.
"There isn't any more," replied the Imp. "When I got that far I couldn't write any more, because I kind of got running over. I didn't seem to fit myself exactly. Myself was too big for myself, and so I had to stop and sort of settle down again."
"Your papa must have been very much pleased," suggested Jimmieboy.
"Yes, he was," said the Imp; "although I noticed a big tear in his eye when I read it to him; but he gave me a great big hug for the poem, and I was glad I'd written it. But you must run along and get that key, for my time is very short, and if we are to see Magnetville and all the wire country we must be off."
"Perhaps if the rhyme always brings about the answer you want, it would be better for me to ask the question that way first, and not bother him with the other twelve ways," suggested Jimmieboy.
"That's very thoughtful of you," said the Imp. "I think very likely it would be better to do it that way. Just you tiptoe softly up to him and say,
"If you loved me as I love you,
And I were you and you were me,
What you asked me I'd surely do,
And let you have that silver key."
"I think that's just the way," said Jimmieboy, repeating the verse over and over again so as not to forget it. "I'll go to him at once."
And he did go. He tiptoed into the library, at one end of which his papa was sitting writing; he kissed him on his cheek, and whispered the verse softly in his ear.
"Why, certainly," said his papa, when he had finished. "Here it is," taking the key from the end of his chain. "Don't lose it, Jimmieboy."
"No, I'll not lose it. I've got too much use for it to lose it," replied Jimmieboy, gleefully, and then, sliding down from his papa's lap, he ran headlong into the back hall to where the telephone stood, inserted the key in the key-hole of the little door over the receiver and turned it. The door flew open, and before him stood the Imp.
II
IN THE IMP'S ROOM
"Dear me!" ejaculated Jimmieboy, as his eye first rested upon the Imp. "That's you, eh?"
"I believe so," replied the Imp, standing on his left leg, and twirling around and around until Jimmieboy got dizzy looking at him. "I was me when I got up this morning, and I haven't heard of any change since. Do I look like what I told you I looked like?"
"Not exactly," said Jimmieboy. "You said you had lilac-colored hair, and it's more like a green than a lilac."
"You are just like everybody else naming your colors. People are very queer about things of that sort, I think. For instance," said the Imp, to illustrate his point, "you go walking in the garden with one of your friends, and you come to a rose-bush, and your friend says, 'Isn't that a pretty rose-bush?' 'Yes,' say you; 'very.' Then he says, 'And what a lovely lilac-bush that is over there.' 'Extremely lovely,' say you. 'Let's sit down under this raspberry-bush,' says he. Well, now you think lilac is a delicate lavender, rose a pink, and raspberry a red – eh?"
"Yes," said Jimmieboy. "That's the way they are."
"Well, maybe so; but that lilac-bush and rose-bush and raspberry-bush are all the same color, and that color is green, just like my hair; you must have thought I looked like a rainbow or a paint shop when I told you about myself?"
"No," said Jimmieboy. "I didn't think that, exactly. I thought, perhaps, you were like the pictures in my Mother Goose book. They have lots of colors to 'em, and they are not bad looking, either."
"Well, if they are not bad looking," said the Imp, with a pleased smile, "they must be very much like me. But don't you want to come in?"
"I'm not small enough," said Jimmieboy; "but I'll eat that apple you spoke about, and maybe it'll make me shrink, though I don't see how it can."
"Easy enough. Haven't you seen a boy doubled up after eating an apple? Of course you have; perhaps you were the boy. At any rate there is no reason why, if an apple can work that way, it can't work the other. It's a poor rule that won't work both ways, and an apple is pretty good, as a rule, and so you have it proved without trying that what I say is true. Here's the apple; eat it as quickly as you can and give me the core."
Jimmieboy took the dainty piece of fruit in his hand and ate it with much relish, for it was a very sweet apple, and he was fond of that sort of thing. Unfortunately, he liked it so well that he forgot to give the core to the Imp, and, when in a moment he felt himself shrinking up, and the Imp asked for the core, he was forced blushingly to confess that he had been very piggish about it, and had swallowed the whole thing.
"I've half a mind not to let you in at all!" cried the Imp, stamping his foot angrily upon the floor, so angrily that the bells rang out softly as if in remonstrance. "In fact, I don't see how I can let you in, because you have disobeyed me about that core."
"I'm surprised at you," returned Jimmieboy, slightly injured in feeling by the Imp's behavior. "I wouldn't make such a fuss about an old apple-core. If you feel as badly about it as all that, I'll run down into the kitchen and get you a whole apple – one as big as you are."
"That isn't the point at all," said the Imp. "I didn't want the core for myself at all. I wanted it for you."
"Well, I've got it," said Jimmieboy, who had now shrunk until he was no taller than the Imp himself, not more than two inches high.
"Of course you have, and if you will notice it is making you grow right back again to the size you were before. That's where the trouble comes in with those trick apples. The outside makes you shrink, and the core makes you grow. When I said I wanted the core I meant that I wanted it to keep until we had had our trip together, so that when we got back you could eat it, and return to your papa and mamma just as you were in the beginning. Just run to the parlor mirror now and watch yourself."
Jimmieboy hastened into the parlor, and climbing upon the mantel-piece gazed into the mirror, and, much to his surprise, noticed that he was growing fast. He was four inches high when he got there, and then as the minutes passed he lengthened inch by inch, until finally he found himself just as he had been before he ate the apple.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he asked, when he returned to the telephone.
"I don't know," said the Imp. "It's really too bad, for that's the last apple of that sort I had. The trick-apple trees only bear one apple a year, and I have been saving that one for you ever since last summer, and here, just because you were greedy, it has all gone for nothing."
"I'm very sorry, and very much ashamed," said Jimmieboy, ruefully. "It was really so awfully good, I didn't think."
"Well, it's very thoughtless of you not to think," said the Imp. "I should think you'd feel very small."
"I do!" sobbed Jimmieboy.
"Do you, really?" cried the Imp, gleefully. "Real weeny, teeny small."
"Yes," said Jimmieboy, a tear trickling down his cheek.
"Then it's all right," sang the Imp, dancing a lovely jig to show how glad he felt. "Because we are always the way we feel. If you feel sick, you are sick. If you feel good, you are good, and if you feel sorry, you are sorry, and so, don't you see, if you feel small you are small. The only point is, now, do you feel small enough to get into this room?"
"I think I do," returned Jimmieboy, brightening up considerably, because his one great desire now was not to be a big grown-up man, like his papa, who could sharpen lead-pencils, and go out of doors in snow-storms, but to visit the Imp in his own quarters. "Yes," he repeated, "I think I do feel small enough to get in there."
"You've got to know," returned the Imp. "The trouble with you, I believe, is that you think in the wrong places. This isn't a matter of thinking; it's a matter of knowing."
"Well, then, I know I'm small enough," said Jimmieboy. "The only thing is, how am I to get up there?"
"I'll fix that," replied the Imp, with a happy smile. "I'll let down the wires, and you can come up on them."
Here he began to unwind two thin green silk-covered wires that Jimmieboy had not before noticed, and which were coiled about two small spools fastened on the back of the door.
"I can't climb," said Jimmieboy, watching the operation with interest.
"Nobody asked you to," returned the Imp. "When these have reached the floor I want you to fasten them to the newel-post of the stairs."
"All right," said Jimmieboy, grasping the wires, and fastening them as he was told. "What now?"
"Now I'll send down the elevator," said the Imp, as he loosened a huge magnet from the wall, and fastening it securely upon the two wires, sent it sliding down to where Jimmieboy stood. "There," he added, as it reached the end of the wire. "Step on that; I'll turn on the electricity, and up you'll come."
"I won't fall, will I?" asked Jimmieboy, timidly.
"That depends on the way you feel," the Imp answered. "If you feel safe, you are safe. Do you feel safe?"
"Not very," said Jimmieboy, as he stepped aboard the magnetic elevator.
"Then we'll have to wait until you do," returned the Imp, impatiently. "It seems to me that a boy who has spent weeks and weeks and weeks jumping off plush sofas onto waxed hard-wood floors ought to be less timid than you are."
"That's true," said Jimmieboy. "I guess I feel safe."
"All aboard, then," said the Imp, pressing a small button at the back of his room.
There was a rattle and a buzz, and then the magnet began to move upward, slowly at first, and then with all the rapidity of the lightning, so that before Jimmieboy had an opportunity to change his mind about his safety he was in the Imp's room, and, much to his delight, discovered that he was small enough to walk about therein without having to stoop, and in every way comfortable.
"At last!" ejaculated the Imp, grasping his hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "At last you are here. And now we'll close the door, and I'll show you my treasures."
With this the door was closed, and for a moment all was dark as pitch; but only for a moment, for hardly had Jimmieboy turned around when a flood of soft light burst forth from every corner of the room, and the little visitor saw upon every side of him the most wonderful books, toys, and musical instruments he had ever seen, each and all worked by electricity, and apparently subject to the will of the Imp, who was the genius of the place.
III
ELECTRIC COOKING
"Hurrah!" cried Jimmieboy, in ecstasy. "This is great, isn't it?"
"Pretty great," assented the Imp, proudly. "That is, unless you mean large. If you mean it that way it isn't great at all; but if you mean great like me, who, though very, very small, am simply tremendous as a success, I agree with you. I like it here very much. The room is extremely comfortable, and I do everything by electricity – cooking, reading, writing – everything."
"I don't see how," said Jimmieboy.
"Oh, it's simply a matter of buttons and batteries. The battery makes the electricity, I press the buttons, and there you are. You know what a battery is, don't you?"
"Not exactly," said Jimmieboy. "You might explain it to me."
"Yes, I might if I hadn't a better way," replied the Imp. "I won't explain it to you, because I can have it explained to you in another way entirely, though I won't promise that either of us will understand the explanation. Let's see," he added, rising from his chair and inspecting a huge button-board that hung from the wall at the left of the room. "Where's the Dictionary button? Ah, here – "
"The what?" queried the visitor, his face alive with wonderment.
"The Dictionary button. I press the Dictionary button, and the Dictionary tells me whatever I want to know. Just listen to this."
The Imp pressed a button as he spoke, and Jimmieboy listened. In an instant there was a loud buzzing sound, and then an invisible something began to speak, or rather to sing:
"She's my Annie,
I'm her Joe.
Little Annie Rooney – "
"Dear me!" cried the Imp, his face flushing to a deep crimson. "Dear me, I got the wrong button. That's my Music-room button. It's right next the Dictionary button, and my finger must have slipped. I'll just turn 'Annie Rooney' off and try again. Now listen."
Again the Imp touched a button, and Jimmieboy once more heard the buzzing sound, followed by a squeaking voice, which said:
"Battery is a noun – plural, batteries. In baseball the pitcher and catcher is the battery; in electricity a battery is a number of Leyden jars, usually arranged with their inner coatings connected, and their outer coatings also connected, so that they may be all charged and discharged at the same time."
"Understand that, Jimmieboy?" queried the Imp, with a smile, turning the Dictionary button off.
"No, I don't," said Jimmieboy. "But I suppose it is all right."
"Perhaps you'd like an explanation of the explanation?" suggested the Imp.
"If it's one I can understand, I would," returned Jimmieboy. "But I don't see the use of explanations that don't explain."
"They aren't much good," observed the Imp, touching another button. "This will make it clear, I think."
"The Dictionary doesn't say it," said another squeaking voice, in response to the touch of the Imp on the third button; "but a battery is a thing that looks like a row of jars full of preserves, but isn't, and when properly cared for and not allowed to freeze up, it makes electricity, which is a sort of red-hot invisible fluid that pricks your hands when you touch it, and makes them feel as if they were asleep if you keep hold of it for any length of time, and which carries messages over wires, makes horse-cars go without horses, lights a room better than gas, and is so like lightning that no man who has tried both can tell the difference between them."
Here the squeaking voice turned into a buzz again, and then stopped altogether.
"Now do you understand?" asked the Imp, anxiously.
"I think I do," replied Jimmieboy. "A battery is nothing but a lot of big glass jars in which 'lectricity is made, just as pie is made in a tin plate and custard is made in cups."
"Exactly," said the Imp. "But, of course, electricity is a great deal more useful than pie or custard. The best custard in the world wouldn't move a horse-car, and I don't believe anybody ever saw a pie that could light up a room the way this is. It's a pretty wonderful thing, electricity is, but not particularly good eating, and sometimes I don't think it's as good for cooking as the good old-fashioned fire. I've had pie that was too hot, and I've had pie that was too electric, and between the two I think the too-hot pie was the pleasanter, though really nothing can make pie positively unpleasant."
"So I have heard," said Jimmieboy, with an approving nod. "I haven't had any sperience with pie, you know. That and red pepper are two things I am not allowed to eat at dinner."
"You wouldn't like to taste some of my electric custard, would you?" asked the Imp, his sympathies aroused by Jimmieboy's statement that as yet he and pie were strangers.
"Indeed I would!" cried Jimmieboy, with a gleeful smile. "I'd like it more than anything else!"
"Very well," said the Imp, turning to the button-board, and scratching his head as if perplexed for a moment. "Let's see," he added. "What is custard made of?"
"Custard?" said Jimmieboy, who thought there never could be any question on that point. "It's made of custard. I know, because I eat it all up when I get it, and there's nothing but custard in it from beginning to end."
The Imp smiled. He knew better than that. "You are right partially," he said. "But there aren't custard-mines or custard-trees or custard-wells in the world, so it has to be made of something. I guess I'll ask my cookery-book."
Here he touched a pink button in the left-hand upper corner of the board.
"Milk – sugar – and – egg," came the squeaking voice. "Three-quarters of a pint of milk, two table-spoonfuls of sugar, and one whole egg."
"Don't you flavor it with anything?" asked the Imp, pressing the button a second time.
"If you want to," squeaked the voice. "Vanilla, strawberry, huckleberry, sarsaparilla, or anything else, just as you want it."
Jimmieboy's mouth watered. A strawberry custard! "Dear me!" he thought. "Wouldn't that be just the dish of dishes to live on all one's days!"
"Two teaspoonfuls of whatever flavor you want will be enough for one cup of custard," said the squeaky voice, lapsing back immediately into the curious buzz.
"Thanks," said the Imp, returning to the table and putting down the receipt on a piece of paper.
"You're welcome," said the buzz.
"Now, Jimmieboy, we'll have two cup custards in two minutes," said the Imp. "What flavor will you have?"
"Strawberry cream, please," said Jimmieboy, as if he were ordering soda-water.
"All right. I guess I'll take sarsaparilla," said the Imp, walking to the board again. "Now see me get the eggs."
He pressed a blue button this time. The squeaky voice began to cackle, and in a second two beautiful white eggs appeared on the table. In the same manner the milk, flavoring, and sugar were obtained; only when the Imp signalled for the milk the invisible voice mooed so like a cow that Jimmieboy looked anxiously about him, half expecting to see a soft-eyed Jersey enter the room.
"Now," said the Imp, opening the eggs into a bowl, and pouring the milk and flavoring and sugar in with them, and mixing them all up together, "we'll pour this into that funnel over there, turn on the electricity, and get our custard in a jiffy. Just watch that small hole at the end of the funnel, and you'll see the custard come out."
"Are the cups inside? Or do we have to catch the custards in 'em as they come out?" asked Jimmieboy.
"Oh, my!" cried the Imp. "I'm glad you spoke of that. I had forgotten the cups. We've got to put them in with the other things."
The Imp rushed to the button-board, and soon had two handsome little cups in response to his summons; and then casting them into the funnel he turned on the electric current, while Jimmieboy watched carefully for the resulting custards. In two minutes by the clock they appeared below, both at the same time, one a creamy strawberry in hue, and the other brown.
"It's wonderful!" said Jimmieboy, in breathless astonishment. "I wish I had a stove like that in my room."
"It wouldn't be good for you. You'd be using it all day and eating what you got. But how is the custard?"
"Lovely," said Jimmieboy, smacking his lips as he ate the soft creamy sweet. "I could eat a thousand of them."
"I rather doubt it," said the Imp. "But you needn't try to prove it. I don't want to wear out the stove on custard when it has my dinner still to prepare. What do you say to listening to my library a little while? I've got a splendid library in the next room. It has everything in it that has ever been written, and a great many things that haven't. That's a great thing about this electric-button business. Nothing is impossible for it to do, and if you want to hear a story some man is going to tell next year or next century you can get it just as well as something that was written last year or last century. Come along."
