“There, creeping out of the darkness, was that hideous thing.” (See page 171.) Welsh Rarebit Tales BY HARLE OREN CUMMINS Illustrated by R. EMMETT OWEN Cover and Decorations by BIRD The Mutual Book Company Boston, Mass. Copyright, by The Mutual Book Company 1902 Plimpton Press PRINTERS AND BINDERS NORWOOD, MASS. To my Mother The author wishes to express his thanks to S. S. McClure & Co., F. A. Munsey, The Shortstory Publishing Company, and others, for their courtesy in allowing him book r

A PREFACE is the place where an author usually apologizes to the public for what he is about to inflict. Such being the case, I hasten to state that I am only jointly responsible for this aggregation of tales, which resemble, more than anything else, the creations of a disordered brain. The origin of the Welsh Rarebit Tales was as follows: A certain literary club, of which I am a member, is accustomed to hold semi-occasional meetings at some of the uptown hotels. At the close of the dinner each

THE MAN WHO MADE A MAN. [1] WHEN Professor Aloysius Holbrok resigned his chair as head of the department of Synthetic Chemistry in one of the famous American colleges his friends wondered; for they well knew that his greatest pleasure in life lay in original investigations. When two weeks later the papers stated that the learned chemist had been taken to the Rathborn Asylum for the Insane, wonder changed to inordinate curiosity. Although nothing definite was published in the papers, there were h

IN THE LOWER PASSAGE. WE were sitting on the deck of the “Empress of India,” homeward bound for Southampton. I was returning on a six months’ leave from hospital duty in Calcutta, and the Colonel was retiring from his post in the northern provinces, where he had served with credit for over fifteen years. He had resigned suddenly a month before. His resignation had been refused, whereupon he immediately gave up everything to his second in command, and took the next steamer home, for a year’s stay

THE FOOL AND HIS JOKE. WILLIAM WATERS was not in any way what you would call a braggart, yet upon two things did he pride himself. These two things were: first, an earnest and sincere contempt for all things supernatural; and, secondly, a marksmanship with a Colt’s No. 4 revolver which bordered on the marvelous. He had on several occasions proved his bravery by such feats as sleeping alone an entire night in a house said to be haunted, and by visiting a country graveyard at midnight, and digging

THE MAN AND THE BEAST. [2] BOBO, the wild man of Borneo, sat in his iron-barred cage reading the morning paper, while he pulled vigorously at a short, black clay pipe. It was nearly time for the show to begin, so he could only glance hurriedly at the stock report; for Bobo was interested in copper. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays there was on exhibition in the side-show connected with Poole Brothers’ Royal Roman Hippodrome and Three-Ring Circus what was widely advertised as the only real wil

AT THE END OF THE ROAD. AT first the road was smooth and level; there were no hills, and The Man had many companions. They laughed with him and made merry, and there was no thought of care. “’Tis a pleasant life,” murmured The Man; but even as he said the words he wondered half fearfully if it could last, if the country through which they passed would always be as pleasant. Gradually the way became harder. Quite often The Man was compelled to pause for breath, for there were difficult places to

THE SPACE ANNIHILATOR. [3] ON the afternoon of Saturday, August 18, 1900, as I was looking over the daily paper after my return from the Blendheim Electric Works, where I am employed, I noticed in the advertising department the following: IMPORTANT NOTICE TO ENGINEERS AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. Ten thousand dollars will be paid to the man or woman duplicating an instrument now in the possession of this company—— That was as far as I read. Some cheap advertising scheme, I thought, and immediately forgot

A QUESTION OF HONOR. THE MAN on the shore stood perfectly motionless watching his companions of a few hours before as they hastened down the beach, launched their boat, and pulled away toward the huge ship some quarter of a mile distant. He saw them clamber on board; a few minutes later the sails were run up, the ship headed off to the south, and soon disappeared around a rocky promontory which ran out into the ocean. Then, overcome with the hopelessness and helplessness of his position, The Man

THE WINE OF PANTINELLI. [4] FOR an Italian Prince, Fabriano was exceedingly good company for an American doctor. He rode and shot like a cowboy, kept a stud of seventeen polo ponies, and had traveled this little world from end to end. Above all things, he was a connoisseur of wines, and his cellars were stocked with cask upon cask and tier upon tier of cobwebbed bottles of rare old vintages. Indeed, it was indirectly through this passion of Prince Fabriano that Doctor Hardy made his acquaintance

THE STRANGEST FREAK. “SNAKES in a den, like bees in a hive, and she eats ’em alive. That’s what she does, ladies and gentlemen. She bites the head off, eats the body, and throws the tail away. And it costs you but ten cents, one dime, the tenth part of a dollar, to see Bosko.” It was just outside the main side-show connected with Poole Brothers’ Royal Roman Hippodrome and Three Ring Circus, and the big tent had not yet opened for the afternoon’s performance. Stetson, manager of the freaks and ch

THE FALSE PROPHET. [5] I MET him the first time in a low cabaret in the Rivola, the cheapest quarter of Paris. How did I come there? Perhaps I am a student of the lower classes, and was pursuing my study there. Perhaps—but never mind, it makes no difference how I came there or who or what I am. This is not my story, it concerns the Prophet only. As I sat watching the changing crowd I heard some men at the next table talking of a man sitting over in a corner who once had a fortune that he had won

A STUDY IN PSYCHOLOGY. IN one corner of his solitary cell, with face buried in his hands, sat Jean Lescaut, wife poisoner, waiting for the morrow on which he would expiate his crimes. Each hour as the sentry made his rounds, he saw the prisoner sitting in that same hopeless attitude of despair. A month before when he first heard his sentence he had raved and fought impotently. Night after night, and day after day he had paced his narrow cell like a caged animal, but now that was over. Already th

THE PAINTED LADY AND THE BOY. “BUD PHILLIPS says The Boy is going to the devil,” announced Stebbins, as he strolled into the smoking room at the Sherwood Club, after beating Perkins three games of billiards. “Well, Bud is certainly in a position to be accurately informed on that subject,” answered the Colonel; and the truth of his reply was so apparent, that everyone smiled. Bud was night clerk at the Algonquin, the hotel where The Boy had a suite. So he had a chance to see at what hour and how

THE PALACE OF SIN. THE following advertisement, even had it ever appeared in any of the great dailies, would probably have occasioned little comment or curiosity:— Those who are weary of the laws and so-called “society restrictions” of the present day can find an immediate and complete relief by applying at once to JENIFER VASS, Lock Box 3265B. Even in 1885, though the business had not then attained the gigantic proportions of the present day, the advertising genius was still at work; and any on

THE MAN WHO WAS NOT AFRAID. FOUR young men sat around a table one winter’s night in an old New England country house. Their host, Richard Churchill, was a civil engineer, who had inherited some property, including this old estate, from an aunt; and he was giving a little winter stag party to three of his old college friends. On the table was a steaming punch bowl, and scattered about were pipes, tobacco and cigars. The conversation touched lightly on various subjects; the struggle in the Islands

THE STORY THE DOCTOR TOLD. TO begin with, let me say that I am not a story-teller, neither can I make fine phrases nor coin strange words which shall delight the ear. I am only a country doctor, getting well along in years, and I write this tale only because I promised Richard Crew so to do, as I held his feverish hand while he lay and tossed in pain, and prayed for a death that would not come. So without further excuse or apology, let me begin. Richard Crew was the only son of Sir Davies Crew,