Chapter 6

Before I proceed any further, common decency requires me to reassure my readers concerning my intentions, which, Heaven knows, are far from flippant.

To separate fact from fancy has always been difficult for me, but now that I have had the honor to be chosen secretary of the Zoological Gardens in Bronx Park, I realize keenly that unless I give up writing fiction nobody will believe what I write about science. Therefore it is to a serious and unimaginative public that I shall hereafter address myself; and I do it in the modest confidence that I shall neither be distrusted nor doubted, although unfortunately I still write in that irrational style which suggests covert frivolity, and for which I am undergoing a course of treatment in English literature at Columbia College. Now, having promised to avoid originality and confine myself to facts, I shall tell what I have to tell concerning the dingue, the mammoth, and—something else.

For some weeks it had been rumored that Professor Farrago, president of the Bronx Park Zoological Society, would resign, to accept an enormous salary as manager of Barnum & Bailey’s circus. He was now with the circus in London, and had promised to cable his decision before the day was over.

I hoped he would decide to remain with us. I was his secretary and particular favorite, and I viewed, without enthusiasm, the advent of a new president, who might shake us all out of our congenial and carefully excavated ruts. However, it was plain that the trustees of the society expected the resignation of Professor Farrago, for they had been in secret session all day, considering the names of possible candidates to fill Professor Farrago’s large, old-fashioned shoes. These preparations worried me, for I could scarcely expect another chief as kind and considerate as Professor Leonidas Farrago.

That afternoon in June I left my office in the Administration Building in Bronx Park and strolled out under the trees for a breath of air. But the heat of the sun soon drove me to seek shelter under a little square arbor, a shady retreat covered with purple wistaria and honeysuckle. As I entered the arbor I noticed that there were three other people seated there—an elderly lady with masculine features and short hair, a younger lady sitting beside her, and, farther away, a rough-looking young man reading a book.

For a moment I had an indistinct impression of having met the elder lady somewhere, and under circumstances not entirely agreeable, but beyond a stony and indifferent glance she paid no attention to me. As for the younger lady, she did not look at me at all. She was very young, with pretty eyes, a mass of silky brown hair, and a skin as fresh as a rose which had just been rained on.

With that delicacy peculiar to lonely scientific bachelors, I modestly sat down beside the rough young man, although there was more room beside the younger lady. “Some lazy loafer reading a penny dreadful,” I thought, glancing at him, then at the title of his book. Hearing me beside him, he turned around and blinked over his shabby shoulder, and the movement uncovered the page he had been silently conning. The volume in his hands was Darwin’s famous monograph on the monodactyl.

He noticed the astonishment on my face and smiled uneasily, shifting the short clay pipe in his mouth.

“I guess,” he observed, “that this here book is too much for me, mister.”

“It’s rather technical,” I replied, smiling.

“Yes,” he said, in vague admiration; “it’s fierce, ain’t it?”

After a silence I asked him if he would tell me why he had chosen Darwin as a literary pastime.

“Well,” he said, placidly, “I was tryin’ to read about annermals, but I’m up against a word-slinger this time all right. Now here’s a gum-twister,” and he painfully spelled out m-o-n-o-d-a-c-t-y-l, breathing hard all the while.

“Monodactyl,” I said, “means a single-toed creature.”

He turned the page with alacrity. “Is that the beast he’s talkin’ about?” he asked.

The illustration he pointed out was a wood-cut representing Darwin’s reconstruction of the dingue from the fossil bones in the British Museum. It was a well-executed wood-cut, showing a dingue in the foreground and, to give scale, a mammoth in the middle distance.

“Yes,” I replied, “that is the dingue.”

“I’ve seen one,” he observed, calmly.

I smiled and explained that the dingue had been extinct for some thousands of years.

“Oh, I guess not,” he replied, with cool optimism. Then he placed a grimy forefinger on the mammoth.

“I’ve seen them things, too,” he remarked.

Again I patiently pointed out his error, and suggested that he referred to the elephant.

“Elephant be blowed!” he replied, scornfully. “I guess I know what I seen. An’ I seen that there thing you call a dingue, too.”

Not wishing to prolong a futile discussion, I remained silent. After a moment he wheeled around, removing his pipe from his hard mouth.

“Did you ever hear tell of Graham’s Glacier?” he demanded.

“Certainly,” I replied, astonished; “it’s the southernmost glacier in British America.”

“Right,” he said. “And did you ever hear tell of the Hudson Mountings, mister?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“What’s behind ‘em?” he snapped out.

“Nobody knows,” I answered. “They are considered impassable.”

“They ain’t, though,” he said, doggedly; “I’ve been behind ‘em.”

“Really!” I replied, tiring of his yarn.

“Ya-as, reely,” he repeated, sullenly. Then he began to fumble and search through the pages of his book until he found what he wanted. “Mister,” he said, “jest read that out loud, please.”

The passage he indicated was the famous chapter beginning:

“Is the mammoth extinct? Is the dingue extinct? Probably. And yet the aborigines of British America maintain the contrary. Probably both the mammoth and the dingue are extinct; but until expeditions have penetrated and explored not only the unknown region in Alaska but also that hidden table-land beyond the Graham Glacier and the Hudson Mountains, it will not be possible to definitely announce the total extinction of either the mammoth or the dingue.”

When I had read it, slowly, for his benefit, he brought his hand down smartly on one knee and nodded rapidly.

“Mister,” he said, “that gent knows a thing or two, and don’t you forgit it!” Then he demanded, abruptly, how I knew he hadn’t been behind the Graham Glacier.

I explained.

“Shucks!” he said; “there’s a road five miles wide inter that there table-land. Mister, I ain’t been in New York long; I come inter port a week ago on the Arctic Belle, whaler. I was in the Hudson range when that there Graham Glacier bust up—”

“What!” I exclaimed.

“Didn’t you know it?” he asked. “Well, mebbe it ain’t in the papers, but it busted all right—blowed up by a earthquake an’ volcano combine. An’, mister, it was oreful. My, how I did run!”

“Do you mean to tell me that some convulsion of the earth has shattered the Graham Glacier?” I asked.

“Convulsions? Ya-as, an’ fits, too,” he said, sulkily. “The hull blame thing dropped inter a hole. An’ say, mister, home an’ mother is good enough fur me now.”

I stared at him stupidly.

“Once,” he said, “I ketched pelts fur them sharps at Hudson Bay, like any yaller husky, but the things I seen arter that convulsion-fit—the things I seen behind the Hudson Mountings—don’t make me hanker arter no life on the pe-rarie wild, lemme tell yer. I may be a Mother Carey chicken, but this chicken has got enough.”

After a long silence I picked up his book again and pointed at the picture of the mammoth.

“What color is it?” I asked.

“Kinder red an’ brown,” he answered, promptly. “It’s woolly, too.”

Astounded, I pointed to the dingue.

“One-toed,” he said, quickly; “makes a noise like a bell when scutterin’ about.”

Intensely excited, I laid my hand on his arm. “My society will give you a thousand dollars,” I said, “if you pilot me inside the Hudson table-land and show me either a mammoth or a dingue!”

He looked me calmly in the eye.

“Mister,” he said, slowly, “have you got a million for to squander on me?”

“No,” I said, suspiciously.

“Because,” he went on, “it wouldn’t be enough. Home an’ mother suits me now.”

He picked up his book and rose. In vain I asked his name and address; in vain I begged him to dine with me—to become my honored guest.

“Nit,” he said, shortly, and shambled off down the path.

But I was not going to lose him like that. I rose and deliberately started to stalk him. It was easy. He shuffled along, pulling on his pipe, and I after him.

It was growing a little dark, although the sun still reddened the tops of the maples. Afraid of losing him in the falling dusk, I once more approached him and laid my hand upon his ragged sleeve.

“Look here,” he cried, wheeling about, “I want you to quit follerin’ me. Don’t I tell you money can’t make me go back to them mountings!” And as I attempted to speak, he suddenly tore off his cap and pointed to his head. His hair was white as snow.

“That’s what come of monkeyin’ inter your cursed mountings,” he shouted, fiercely. “There’s things in there what no Christian oughter see. Lemme alone er I’ll bust yer.”