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Moon Face and Other Stories

J >> Jack London >> Moon Face and Other Stories



This etext was prepared by Espen Ore, Espen.Ore@hd.uib.no
Norwegian Computing Centre for the Humanities





MOON-FACE AND OTHER STORIES
BY JACK LONDON



CONTENTS

MOON-FACE
THE LEOPARD MAN'S STORY
LOCAL COLOR
AMATEUR NIGHT
THE MINIONS OF MIDAS
THE SHADOW AND THE FLASH
ALL GOLD CANYON
PLANCHETTE




MOON-FACE

John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You know the kind, cheek-bones wide
apart, chin and forehead melting into the cheeks to complete the perfect
round, and the nose, broad and pudgy, equidistant from the circumference,
flattened against the very centre of the face like a dough-ball upon the
ceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for truly he had become an offense
to my eyes, and I believed the earth to be cumbered with his presence. Perhaps
my mother may have been superstitious of the moon and looked upon it over the
wrong shoulder at the wrong time.

Be that as it may, I hated John Claverhouse. Not that he had done me what
society would consider a wrong or an ill turn. Far from it. The evil was of a
deeper, subtler sort; so elusive, so intangible, as to defy clear, definite
analysis in words. We all experience such things at some period in our lives.
For the first time we see a certain individual, one who the very instant
before we did not dream existed; and yet, at the first moment of meeting, we
say: "I do not like that man." Why do we not like him? Ah, we do not know why;
we know only that we do not. We have taken a dislike, that is all. And so I
with John Claverhouse.

What right had such a man to be happy? Yet he was an optimist. He was always
gleeful and laughing. All things were always all right, curse him! Ah I how it
grated on my soul that he should be so happy! Other men could laugh, and it
did not bother me. I even used to laugh myself--before I met John Claverhouse.

But his laugh! It irritated me, maddened me, as nothing else under the sun
could irritate or madden me. It haunted me, gripped hold of me, and would not
let me go. It was a huge, Gargantuan laugh. Waking or sleeping it was always
with me, whirring and jarring across my heart-strings like an enormous rasp.
At break of day it came whooping across the fields to spoil my pleasant
morning revery. Under the aching noonday glare, when the green things drooped
and the birds withdrew to the depths of the forest, and all nature drowsed,
his great "Ha! ha!" and "Ho! ho!" rose up to the sky and challenged the sun.
And at black midnight, from the lonely cross-roads where he turned from town
into his own place, came his plaguey cachinnations to rouse me from my sleep
and make me writhe and clench my nails into my palms.

I went forth privily in the night-time, and turned his cattle into his fields,
and in the morning heard his whooping laugh as he drove them out again. "It is
nothing," he said; "the poor, dumb beasties are not to be blamed for straying
into fatter pastures."

He had a dog he called "Mars," a big, splendid brute, part deer-hound and part
blood-hound, and resembling both. Mars was a great delight to him, and they
were always together. But I bided my time, and one day, when opportunity was
ripe, lured the animal away and settled for him with strychnine and beefsteak.
It made positively no impression on John Claverhouse. His laugh was as hearty
and frequent as ever, and his face as much like the full moon as it always had
been.

Then I set fire to his haystacks and his barn. But the next morning, being
Sunday, he went forth blithe and cheerful.

"Where are you going?" I asked him, as he went by the cross-roads.

"Trout," he said, and his face beamed like a full moon. "I just dote on
trout."

Was there ever such an impossible man! His whole harvest had gone up in his
haystacks and barn. It was uninsured, I knew. And yet, in the face of famine
and the rigorous winter, he went out gayly in quest of a mess of trout,
forsooth, because he "doted" on them! Had gloom but rested, no matter how
lightly, on his brow, or had his bovine countenance grown long and serious and
less like the moon, or had he removed that smile but once from off his face, I
am sure I could have forgiven him for existing. But no. he grew only more
cheerful under misfortune.

I insulted him. He looked at me in slow and smiling surprise.

"I fight you? Why?" he asked slowly. And then he laughed. "You are so funny!
Ho! ho! You'll be the death of me! He! he! he! Oh! Ho! ho! ho!

What would you? It was past endurance. By the blood of Judas, how I hated him!
Then there was that name--Claverhouse! What a name! Wasn't it absurd?
Claverhouse! Merciful heaven, WHY Claverhouse? Again and again I asked myself
that question. I should not have minded Smith, or Brown, or Jones--but
CLAVERHOUSE! I leave it to you. Repeat it to yourself--Claverhouse. Just
listen to the ridiculous sound of it--Claverhouse! Should a man live with such
a name? I ask of you. "No," you say. And "No" said I.

But I bethought me of his mortgage. What of his crops and barn destroyed, I
knew he would be unable to meet it. So I got a shrewd, close-mouthed,
tight-fisted money-lender to get the mortgage transferred to him. I did not
appear but through this agent I forced the foreclosure, and but few days (no
more, believe me, than the law allowed) were given John Claverhouse to remove
his goods and chattels from the premises. Then I strolled down to see how he
took it, for he had lived there upward of twenty years. But he met me with his
saucer-eyes twinkling, and the light glowing and spreading in his face till it
was as a full-risen moon.

"Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed. "The funniest tike, that youngster of mine! Did you
ever hear the like? Let me tell you. He was down playing by the edge of the
river when a piece of the bank caved in and splashed him. 'O papa!' he cried;
'a great big puddle flewed up and hit me.'"

He stopped and waited for me to join him in his infernal glee.

"I don't see any laugh in it," I said shortly, and I know my face went sour.

He regarded me with wonderment, and then came the damnable light, glowing and
spreading, as I have described it, till his face shone soft and warm, like the
summer moon, and then the laugh--"Ha! ha! That's funny! You don't see it, eh?
He! he! Ho! ho! ho! He doesn't see it! Why, look here. You know a puddle--"

But I turned on my heel and left him. That was the last. I could stand it no
longer. The thing must end right there, I thought, curse him! The earth should
be quit of him. And as I went over the hill, I could hear his monstrous laugh
reverberating against the sky.

Now, I pride myself on doing things neatly, and when I resolved to kill John
Claverhouse I had it in mind to do so in such fashion that I should not look
back upon it and feel ashamed. I hate bungling, and I hate brutality. To me
there is something repugnant in merely striking a man with one's naked
fist--faugh! it is sickening! So, to shoot, or stab, or club John Claverhouse
(oh, that name!) did not appeal to me. And not only was I impelled to do it
neatly and artistically, but also in such manner that not the slightest
possible suspicion could be directed against me.

To this end I bent my intellect, and, after a week of profound incubation, I
hatched the scheme. Then I set to work. I bought a water spaniel bitch, five
months old, and devoted my whole attention to her training. Had any one spied
upon me, they would have remarked that this training consisted entirely of one
thing--RETRIEVING. I taught the dog, which I called "Bellona," to fetch sticks
I threw into the water, and not only to fetch, but to fetch at once, without
mouthing or playing with them. The point was that she was to stop for nothing,
but to deliver the stick in all haste. I made a practice of running away and
leaving her to chase me, with the stick in her mouth, till she caught me. She
was a bright animal, and took to the game with such eagerness that I was soon
content.

After that, at the first casual opportunity, I presented Bellona to John
Claverhouse. I knew what I was about, for I was aware of a little weakness of
his, and of a little private sinning of which he was regularly and
inveterately guilty.

"No," he said, when I placed the end of the rope in his hand. "No, you don't
mean it." And his mouth opened wide and he grinned all over his damnable
moon-face.

"I--I kind of thought, somehow, you didn't like me," he explained. "Wasn't it
funny for me to make such a mistake?" And at the thought he held his sides
with laughter.

"What is her name?" he managed to ask between paroxysms.

"Bellona," I said.

"He! he!" he tittered. "What a funny name."

I gritted my teeth, for his mirth put them on edge, and snapped out between
them, "She was the wife of Mars, you know."

Then the light of the full moon began to suffuse his face, until he exploded
with: "That was my other dog. Well, I guess she's a widow now. Oh! Ho! ho! E!
he! he! Ho!" he whooped after me, and I turned and fled swiftly over the hill.

The week passed by, and on Saturday evening I said to him, "You go away
Monday, don't you?"

He nodded his head and grinned.

"Then you won't have another chance to get a mess of those trout you just
'dote' on."

But he did not notice the sneer. "Oh, I don't know," he chuckled. "I'm going
up to-morrow to try pretty hard."

Thus was assurance made doubly sure, and I went back to my house hugging
myself with rapture.

Early next morning I saw him go by with a dip-net and gunnysack, and Bellona
trotting at his heels. I knew where he was bound, and cut out by the back
pasture and climbed through the underbrush to the top of the mountain. Keeping
carefully out of sight, I followed the crest along for a couple of miles to a
natural amphitheatre in the hills, where the little river raced down out of a
gorge and stopped for breath in a large and placid rock-bound pool. That was
the spot! I sat down on the croup of the mountain, where I could see all that
occurred, and lighted my pipe.

Ere many minutes had passed, John Claverhouse came plodding up the bed of the
stream. Bellona was ambling about him, and they were in high feather, her
short, snappy barks mingling with his deeper chest-notes. Arrived at the pool,
he threw down the dip-net and sack, and drew from his hip-pocket what looked
like a large, fat candle. But I knew it to be a stick of "giant"; for such was
his method of catching trout. He dynamited them. He attached the fuse by
wrapping the "giant" tightly in a piece of cotton. Then he ignited the fuse
and tossed the explosive into the pool.

Like a flash, Bellona was into the pool after it. I could have shrieked aloud
for joy. Claverhouse yelled at her, but without avail. He pelted her with
clods and rocks, but she swam steadily on till she got the stick of "giant" in
her mouth, when she whirled about and headed for shore. Then, for the first
time, he realized his danger, and started to run. As foreseen and planned by
me, she made the bank and took out after him. Oh, I tell you, it was great! As
I have said, the pool lay in a sort of amphitheatre. Above and below, the
stream could be crossed on stepping-stones. And around and around, up and down
and across the stones, raced Claverhouse and Bellona. I could never have
believed that such an ungainly man could run so fast. But run he did, Bellona
hot-footed after him, and gaining. And then, just as she caught up, he in full
stride, and she leaping with nose at his knee, there was a sudden flash, a
burst of smoke, a terrific detonation, and where man and dog had been the
instant before there was naught to be seen but a big hole in the ground.

"Death from accident while engaged in illegal fishing." That was the verdict
of the coroner's jury; and that is why I pride myself on the neat and artistic
way in which I finished off John Claverhouse. There was no bungling, no
brutality; nothing of which to be ashamed in the whole transaction, as I am
sure you will agree. No more does his infernal laugh go echoing among the
hills, and no more does his fat moon-face rise up to vex me. My days are
peaceful now, and my night's sleep deep.



THE LEOPARD MAN'S STORY

HE had a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, and his sad, insistent voice,
gentle-spoken as a maid's, seemed the placid embodiment of some deep-seated
melancholy. He was the Leopard Man, but he did not look it. His business in
life, whereby he lived, was to appear in a cage of performing leopards before
vast audiences, and to thrill those audiences by certain exhibitions of nerve
for which his employers rewarded him on a scale commensurate with the thrills
he produced.

As I say, he did not look it. He was narrow-hipped, narrow-shouldered, and
anaemic, while he seemed not so much oppressed by gloom as by a sweet and
gentle sadness, the weight of which was as sweetly and gently borne. For an
hour I had been trying to get a story out of him, but he appeared to lack
imagination. To him there was no romance in his gorgeous career, no deeds of
daring, no thrills--nothing but a gray sameness and infinite boredom.

Lions? Oh, yes! he had fought with them. It was nothing. All you had to do was
to stay sober. Anybody could whip a lion to a standstill with an ordinary
stick. He had fought one for half an hour once. Just hit him on the nose every
time he rushed, and when he got artful and rushed with his head down, why, the
thing to do was to stick out your leg. When he grabbed at the leg you drew it
back and hit hint on the nose again. That was all.

With the far-away look in his eyes and his soft flow of words he showed me his
scars. There were many of them, and one recent one where a tigress had reached
for his shoulder and gone down to the bone. I could see the neatly mended
rents in the coat he had on. His right arm, from the elbow down, looked as
though it had gone through a threshing machine, what of the ravage wrought by
claws and fangs. But it was nothing, he said, only the old wounds bothered him
somewhat when rainy weather came on.

Suddenly his face brightened with a recollection, for he was really as anxious
to give me a story as I was to get it.

"I suppose you've heard of the lion-tamer who was hated by another man?" he
asked.

He paused and looked pensively at a sick lion in the cage opposite.

"Got the toothache," he explained. "Well, the lion-tamer's big play to the
audience was putting his head in a lion's mouth. The man who hated him
attended every performance in the hope sometime of seeing that lion crunch
down. He followed the show about all over the country. The years went by and
he grew old, and the lion-tamer grew old, and the lion grew old. And at last
one day, sitting in a front seat, he saw what he had waited for. The lion
crunched down, and there wasn't any need to call a doctor."

The Leopard Man glanced casually over his finger nails in a manner which would
have been critical had it not been so sad.

"Now, that's what I call patience," he continued, "and it's my style. But it
was not the style of a fellow I knew. He was a little, thin, sawed-off,
sword-swallowing and juggling Frenchman. De Ville, he called himself, and he
had a nice wife. She did trapeze work and used to dive from under the roof
into a net, turning over once on the way as nice as you please.

"De Ville had a quick temper, as quick as his hand, and his hand was as quick
as the paw of a tiger. One day, because the ring-master called him a
frog-eater, or something like that and maybe a little worse, he shoved him
against the soft pine background he used in his knife-throwing act, so quick
the ring-master didn't have time to think, and there, before the audience, De
Ville kept the air on fire with his knives, sinking them into the wood all
around the ring-master so close that they passed through his clothes and most
of them bit into his skin.

"The clowns had to pull the knives out to get him loose, for he was pinned
fast. So the word went around to watch out for De Ville, and no one dared be
more than barely civil to his wife. And she was a sly bit of baggage, too,
only all hands were afraid of De Ville.

"But there was one man, Wallace, who was afraid of nothing. He was the
lion-tamer, and he had the self-same trick of putting his head into the lion's
mouth. He'd put it into the mouths of any of them, though he preferred
Augustus, a big, good-natured beast who could always be depended upon.

"As I was saying, Wallace--'King' Wallace we called him--was afraid of nothing
alive or dead. He was a king and no mistake. I've seen him drunk, and on a
wager go into the cage of a lion that'd turned nasty, and without a stick beat
him to a finish. Just did it with his fist on the nose.

"Madame de Ville--"

At an uproar behind us the Leopard Man turned quietly around. It was a divided
cage, and a monkey, poking through the bars and around the partition, had had
its paw seized by a big gray wolf who was trying to pull it off by main
strength. The arm seemed stretching out longer end longer like a thick
elastic, and the unfortunate monkey's mates were raising a terrible din. No
keeper was at hand, so the Leopard Man stepped over a couple of paces, dealt
the wolf a sharp blow on the nose with the light cane he carried, and returned
with a sadly apologetic smile to take up his unfinished sentence as though
there had been no interruption.

"--looked at King Wallace and King Wallace looked at her, while De Ville
looked black. We warned Wallace, but it was no use. He laughed at us, as he
laughed at De Ville one day when he shoved De Ville's head into a bucket of
paste because he wanted to fight.

"De Ville was in a pretty mess--I helped to scrape him off; but he was cool as
a cucumber and made no threats at all. But I saw a glitter in his eyes which I
had seen often in the eyes of wild beasts, and I went out of my way to give
Wallace a final warning. He laughed, but he did not look so much in Madame de
Ville's direction after that.

"Several months passed by. Nothing had happened and I was beginning to think
it all a scare over nothing. We were West by that time, showing in 'Frisco. It
was during the afternoon performance, and the big tent was filled with women
and children, when I went looking for Red Denny, the head canvas-man, who had
walked off with my pocket-knife.

"Passing by one of the dressing tents I glanced in through a hole in the
canvas to see if I could locate him. He wasn't there, but directly in front of
me was King Wallace, in tights, waiting for his turn to go on with his cage of
performing lions. He was watching with much amusement a quarrel between a
couple of trapeze artists. All the rest of the people in the dressing tent
were watching the same thing, with the exception of De Ville whom I noticed
staring at Wallace with undisguised hatred. Wallace and the rest were all too
busy following the quarrel to notice this or what followed.

"But I saw it through the hole in the canvas. De Ville drew his handkerchief
from his pocket, made as though to mop the sweat from his face with it (it was
a hot day), and at the same time walked past Wallace's back. The look troubled
me at the time, for not only did I see hatred in it, but I saw triumph as
well.

"'De Ville will bear watching,' I said to myself, and I really breathed easier
when I saw him go out the entrance to the circus grounds and board an electric
car for down town. A few minutes later I was in the big tent, where I had
overhauled Red Denny. King Wallace was doing his turn and holding the audience
spellbound. He was in a particularly vicious mood, and he kept the lions
stirred up till they were all snarling, that is, all of them except old
Augustus, and he was just too fat and lazy and old to get stirred up over
anything.

"Finally Wallace cracked the old lion's knees with his whip and got him into
position. Old Augustus, blinking good-naturedly, opened his mouth and in
popped Wallace's head. Then the jaws came together, CRUNCH, just like that."

The Leopard Man smiled in a sweetly wistful fashion, and the far-away look
came into his eyes.

"And that was the end of King Wallace," he went on in his sad, low voice.
"After the excitement cooled down I watched my chance and bent over and
smelled Wallace's head. Then I sneezed."

"It . . . it was . . .?" I queried with halting eagerness.

"Snuff--that De Ville dropped on his hair in the dressing tent. Old Augustus
never meant to do it. He only sneezed."



LOCAL COLOR

"I DO not see why you should not turn this immense amount of unusual
information to account," I told him. "Unlike most men equipped with similar
knowledge, YOU have expression. Your style is--"

"Is sufficiently--er--journalese?" he interrupted suavely.

"Precisely! You could turn a pretty penny."

But he interlocked his fingers meditatively, shrugged his shoulders, and
dismissed the subject.

"I trave tried it. It does not pay."

"It was paid for and published," he added, after a pause. "And I was also
honored with sixty days in the Hobo."

"The Hobo?" I ventured.

"The Hobo--" He fixed his eyes on my Spencer and ran along the titles while he
cast his definition. "The Hobo, my dear fellow, is the name for that
particular place of detention in city and county jails wherein are assembled
tramps, drunks, beggars, and the riff-raff of petty offenders. The word itself
is a pretty one, and it has a history. Hautbois--there's the French of it.
haut, meaning high, and bois, wood. In English it becomes hautboy, a wooden
musical instrument of two-foot tone, I believe, played with a double reed, an
oboe, in fact. You remember in 'Henry IV'--

"'The case of a treble hautboy
Was a mansion for him, a court.'

From this to ho-boy is but a step, and for that matter the English used the
terms interchangeably. But--and mark you, the leap paralyzes one--crossing the
Western Ocean, in New York City, hautboy, or ho-boy, becomes the name by which
the night-scavenger is known. In a way one understands its being born of the
contempt for wandering players and musical fellows. But see the beauty of it!
the burn and the brand! The night-scavenger, the pariah, the miserable, the
despised, the man without caste! And in its next incarnation, consistently and
logically, it attaches itself to the American outcast, namely, the tramp.
Then, as others have mutilated its sense, the tramp mutilates its form, and
ho-boy becomes exultantly hobo. Wherefore, the large stone and brick cells,
lined with double and triple-tiered bunks, in which the Law is wont to
incarcerate him, he calls the Hobo. Interesting, isn't it?"

And I sat back and marvelled secretly at this encyclopaedic-minded man, this
Leith Clay-Randolph, this common tramp who made himself at home in my den,
charmed such friends as gathered at my small table, outshone me with his
brilliance and his manners, spent my spending money, smoked my best cigars,
and selected from my ties and studs with a cultivated and discriminating eye.

He absently walked over to the shelves and looked into Loria's "Economic
Foundation of Society."

"I like to talk with you," he remarked. "You are not indifferently schooled.
You've read the books, and your economic interpretation of history, as you
choose to call it" (this with a sneer), "eminently fits you for an
intellectual outlook on life. But your sociologic judgments are vitiated by
your lack of practical knowledge. Now I, who know the books, pardon me,
somewhat better than you, know life, too. I have lived it, naked, taken it up
in both my hands and looked at it, and tasted it, the flesh and the blood of
it, and, being purely an intellectual, I have been biased by neither passion
nor prejudice. All of which is necessary for clear concepts, and all of which
you lack. Ah! a really clever passage. Listen!"

And he read aloud to me in his remarkable style, paralleling the text with a
running criticism and commentary, lucidly wording involved and lumbering
periods, casting side and cross lights upon the subject, introducing points
the author had blundered past and objections he had ignored, catching up lost
ends, flinging a contrast into a paradox and reducing it to a coherent and
succinctly stated truth--in short, flashing his luminous genius in a blaze of
fire over pages erstwhile dull and heavy and lifeless.

It is long since that Leith Clay-Randolph (note the hyphenated surname)
knocked at the back door of Idlewild and melted the heart of Gunda. Now Gunda
was cold as her Norway hills, though in her least frigid moods she was capable
of permitting especially nice-looking tramps to sit on the back stoop and
devour lone crusts and forlorn and forsaken chops. But that a tatterdemalion
out of the night should invade the sanctity of her kitchen-kingdom and delay
dinner while she set a place for him in the warmest corner, was a matter of
such moment that the Sunflower went to see. Ah, the Sunflower, of the soft
heart and swift sympathy! Leith Clay-Randolph threw his glamour over her for
fifteen long minutes, whilst I brooded with my cigar, and then she fluttered
back with vague words and the suggestion of a cast-off suit I would never
miss.

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