Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume III

  Produced by Greg Weeks and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  THE ABDUCTION]

  THE FIRE]

  TALES OF THE WONDER CLUB.

  BY DRYASDUST.

  VOL. III.

  ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN JELLICOE and VAL PRINCE, AFTER DESIGNS BY THE AUTHOR.

  HARRISON & SONS, 59, PALL MALL, _Booksellers to the Queen and H.R.H. the Prince of Wales._

  _All rights reserved._

  LONDON: PRINTED BY A. HUDSON AND CO., 160 WANDSWORTH ROAD, S.W.

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

  PAGE THE ABDUCTION _Frontispiece_ THE FIRE _Title Page_ THE CURIOSITY SHOP _Preface_ THE GIPSY QUEEN 389 THE DUEL 603 THE QUAKER 658

  THE CURIOSITY SHOP]

  PREFACE TO VOL. III.

  Before taking leave of his readers, the author would inform them that atthe commencement of these "Tales," the earlier ones dating some thirtyyears back, nothing was further from his intentions than rushing intoprint, although repeatedly persuaded to do so by certain well-meaningfriends, who from time to time were permitted to peruse the hidden MSS.The tales, nearly all of them, were written when the author was livingabroad, and to beguile a period of enforced idleness, which otherwisewould have been intolerable.

  Never in his wildest dreams did he meditate inflicting them on thepublic mind. Partly, it may be, that he thought with Lord Tennyson, that"fame is half disfame," and that "in making many books there is no end,"as Solomon teaches. Or it may be that he didn't care to augment thatalready numerous class who are said "to rush on where angels fear totread." However this might be, time passed and the tales began toaccumulate, when the author conceived the idea of stringing themtogether in a decameron, and later still of illustrating them with hisown designs. Still years rolled on, and the tales, long abandoned, wereconsigned to the limbo of a mysterious black box, where they remainedall but forgotten till many years later.

  "Why on earth don't you publish them?" was the constant cry of those fewwho were taken into the writer's confidence.

  The author answered by a modest shrug of self-depreciation, and stillthe unfinished MSS. lay at the bottom of the black box. The fact wasthat a weight of inertia oppressed him, added to a total lack ofexperience in business matters of this kind, which prevented him fromtaking the first step. He recoiled from the thought of calling on apublisher and presenting his own MSS., and being occupied in other waysbesides writing, he begrudged the time lost in hunting up printers,publishers, and engravers, together with all the delays _contretemps_,and disappointments attendant on red tape.

  What he wanted was a factotum, "an all round man," who would take, so tospeak, the dirty work off his hands. Where was such a man to be found?He knew of none. The author is a man of unusually retired habits, andassociates with but few of his kind. By proclaiming his want openly,doubtless, many would have presented themselves for the task, but inmatters of this sort a certain amount of intimacy with the personemployed seems to be necessary; at least, so the author thought, andthus time rolled on, and the "Tales" were no nearer publication thanthey were years ago, and might still have remained in this state foryears longer but for an unforeseen incident. One morning, whilst takinga constitutional in a neighbouring suburb, the author's attention wasattracted by a strange-looking stringed instrument of undoubtedantiquity, in the window of an old curiosity shop. He would enquire theprice of it. The proprietor, a weasel-faced little man, with a polishedbald head, foxy beard streaked with grey, and a nose rather red at thetip, stood at the door of his shop. His ferret eyes spotted a customer.

  "What is the price of that instrument?"

  "One guinea."

  "I'll take it. Wrap it up in paper."

  "Right you are, sir. Good morning, sir. Thank you."

  And off trudged the author with this new acquisition to his collectionof curios.

  Little did he imagine at the time what an important part this sameweasely little man was destined to play in the drama of his every daylife. Soon after this a second visit was paid to the shop. It was astrange place, choked with odd lumber, where any curio might beobtained, from a mermaid to a mummy. A stuffed crocodile hung in thewindow. There were cases of stuffed birds and animals, dummies incostume, old pictures, antique furniture, armour, weapons, coins, andpostage stamps. A third and fourth visit succeeded, and after almostevery visit the author's collection was enriched by some new curio. Atlength, so frequent became these visits to the curio shop, that hardly aday passed without the author putting in an appearance. Some two yearsmay thus have passed away, during which time the author had ampleopportunity of studying this human weasel. He learned that he was abum-bailiff, a commission agent, etc., ready to undertake any odd jobfor money.

  Here, then, at last, was the very man. The author accordingly propoundedhis plan of publishing the "Tales." That weasel nose sniffed business.With alacrity he seized the MSS., and donning a new top hat, which hedid whenever he desired to create an impression of respectability, heclimbed to the top of a 'bus, and was soon landed in the thick of ourmetropolis. From that time all has been comparatively plain sailing."_Ce n' est que le premier pas qui coute_," and cost it did, readers,you may be certain of that.

  THE AUTHOR.