Mason Queensbury in the Parlour of the Occult, Page 2

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  A Mason Queensbury: White Adventurer Adventure

  “Mason Queensbury in the Parlour of the Occult”

  "Why did I agree to this foolish trip?" Queensbury grunted as he was knocked about in the rumbling carriage. The ongoing torrential downpour had made the country road nearly impassable, which made for slow going in Queensbury's luxury horse-drawn carriage. The cold, wet weather, typical of England in the late fall, always made the great silver-haired man's old injuries ache. That was one of many reasons Queensbury preferred to winter in lands hot and savage.

  But he had been called back to England by her Majesty, and when the Queen called, Sir Mason Queensbury, the Earl of Daring and England's bravest man, would come running. On his trek back from Brazil, he had pondered what crisis made his urgent attention necessary. A threat to the realm? A traitor in Parliament? Perhaps, finally, beautiful, glorious Victoria would be calling Queensbury not for an affair of the state, but for an affair of the heart. Queensbury's cheeks became gently moistened as he thought of the great, unreachable goddess, England personified, finally deigning to fix her attention upon him. Oh, were it so!

  But unfortunately, the perpetually grieving Queen had merely called Mason back to the Isles to glad-hand some important people, in order to help the Queen's political agenda. Queensbury had been annoyed, but he could not refuse Her Majesty in even her silliest request. A man in love is compelled to assent to anything which his Lady demands!

  So here he was, on his way to meet with a group of young men, the scions of several important families. Well-connected men had demanded as a special favour a chance for these lads to meet the great Mason Queensbury, the legendary adventurer, explorer, and killer of both beasts and men. Some sort of Queensbury Appreciation Society, the noble Lord imagined. He had encountered these enthusiast types before. He could not avoid them, now that the tales of his adventures had become best-sellers!

  "My bones ache. I still feel where my arm was broken by the great club of that Mongolian giant Zad-Koo. Why, oh why, did I agree?" Queensbury rubbed his powerful hands together to keep them warm.

  "To make the Queen smile, you said," said Pup-pup, Queensbury's Negro valet. Pup-pup was dressed much like a white man, wearing a black tuxedo, top hat, and overcoat similar to the ones Queensbury was wearing for this society occasion.

  "It seems a great deal of effort to earn a smile that may occur while I am not even in the room to enjoy it," groused the great white lion.

  "You also said you would gladly run clear round the world and wrestle one hundred polar bears to bring her the slightest amusement."

  "Well, yes..." Queensbury said, "But that would be a reward in and of itself! I'd still like to try it, should we ever find the proper number of polar bears all at once. But this? Speaking to a group of spoiled lads? My stomach turns. I should be in the jungles, fighting cannibals and finding great caches of gold!"

  "You were a spoiled lad once yourself, were you not?" Pup-pup arched an eyebrow slyly, as he tended to do when he became overly familiar with his benefactor and master.

  Queensbury guffawed. "Oh, Pup-pup. Sometimes I forget how little you are capable of understanding of the white man's world. These lads are merely wealthy. I am a nobleman."

  "How does that affect the issue of how spoiled you are?"

  "What a ridiculous question! Oh, Pup-pup, you never fail to make me laugh, you innocent savage." Queensbury laughed heartily and slapped Pup-pup on the back. Pup-pup, chastened, laughed along, but quietly, with a sullen look in his great white eyes. 

  Soon they arrived at their destination, a great country estate in the gothic style, all iron and spikes, striving desperately towards the sky at sharp angles. Illuminated momentarily by a lightning strike, a great stone gargoyle caught Queensbury's eye. The gargoyle, hideous as the darkest primitive, rainwater pouring out its throat over its great square teeth like those of the wild hippopotamus, seemed to follow Queensbury with its eyes. Queensbury felt the gargoyle was mocking him for being here, on an errand to entertain some foolish boys like a lowly actor or poet. Queensbury, the Earl of Daring, a knighted hero of the realm, an entertainer? The gargoyle laughed and gurgled in the storm, while Queensbury's mood was as dark as the stormy sky.

  As the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the great gothic mansion, a huge, shadowy figure ran down the steps, a long black coat trailing behind like gigantic batwings and a huge black umbrella held overhead like a storm cloud.

  "Look at that servant, sir. He must be eight feet tall!" shouted Pup-pup in astonishment. "He's even bigger than you, my Lord!"

  "Harrumph," said the mighty Englishman. "He's no bigger than the mighty warriors of the lost kingdom of Urruk, and many of them fell before my blade. Besides, this man is a mere valet."

  The giant opened the door of the carriage and held out his over-sized umbrella.

  "Come...with...me," he growled, in the slow cadence of a funeral march, in a voice so deep it seemed to Pup-pup that it made the very Earth shake. "Master.... Crowley.... is.... inside.... with...."

  "With his school lad friends? Yes, very well, lead on," said Queensbury as his thick white mustache twitched with impatience above his chiseled, square jaw, a jaw that had withstood more fights than men could count.

  Queensbury and Pup-pup leapt down from the carriage, sinking almost knee-deep in thick black mud. Queensbury nearly lost a galosh as he took one giant stride towards the house. The rain showed no sign of letting up. Queensbury sighed with resignation, recognizing that the roads would soon be completely impassable and that he was likely to be compelled to stay the night at this tiresome gathering of wealthy dilettantes. Hopefully these chaps would at least have good liquor.

  "Ah, our honored guests have arrived!" shouted the skinny young man who approached down the ornately decorated hallway. He was dressed in a long dinner jacket with a preposterously colorful cravat wrapped around his thin, pale neck. "Just in time for dinner. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Aleister Crowley. You’ll like me. I’m very clever." Crowley was thin as a reed, with a high, whiny voice which burst forth from him as though he could not hold it in, like steam escaping a teakettle. Queensbury disliked him instantly.

  Queensbury looked around at his surroundings. The house was similar to what one might find in the estate of any wealthy Englishman - expensive French rugs, exquisite Dutch paintings, stuffed African animals, trophies to the greatness of the generations who had lived in this house. Mixed in among the standard mementos, however, were some crude wooden carvings of unspeakable grotesqueries, many-limbed creatures not like anything seen on God's earth. Pup-pup, normally a remarkably courageous lad, nearly recoiled in terror at the sight of them. Queensbury wondered idly at who had placed these hideous items in the mansion, and by what means the wishes of the mistress of the house had been bypassed.

  "Good to be in from the rain," said Queensbury, "even if I have to meet you to be out of it." Crowley looked shocked for a moment, before laughing as though it were the funniest thing he had ever heard.

  "Ah, the famous Queensbury wit! Nearly as sharp as the man's saber, just as they say in the papers," snickered Crowley, clapping his hands with delight. "You'll have to come meet the chaps!

  "My manservant, Xtotl, you've already met," said Crowley, indicating the giant. "Off with you, Xtotl, fetch us some brandy to warm Sir Mason. We'll take it in the dining room." Xtotl bowed stiffly before lurching away. The floor shook with each step the giant took. "My father hired Xtotl while we were on an expedition to India in my youth, at my insistence. Once I saw the man, I knew I needed his like by my side, although I did not yet know why."

  "Do you know why now?" asked Pup-pup.

  Crowley smiled slyly. "You must be the famous Pup-pup. The resourceful and loyal savage."

  "There is no savage more loyal or more clever than Pup-pup," said Queensbury. "Fierce in battle and skilled as a tracker, he has served me well and faithfully for many years, and I trust him mo
re than I would trust any other Black man. So fond am I of him, sometimes I think of him as nearly White."

  "High praise indeed," said young Crowley. 

  "Thank you, sir," said Pup-pup. “I will retire to the servant's area until I am called for.”

  “Certainly not,” exclaimed Crowley. “My friends are nearly as eager to meet you as your master. You are a guest of my estate this evening. Tonight, you are neither lowly valet nor Negro!”

  “How very kind, sir,” said Pup-pup. “May I ask, then why we have been summoned here?”

  "Don't be rude, Pup-pup," shouted Queensbury. "Though it is a good question."

  "My friends and I are great fans of yours, Sir," said the skinny, effeminate Crowley. "We have a great interest in Darkest Africa, and the Savage Lands of the Middle East, and all the places of the Earth that are still full of mysteries and have not yet been civilized by the White race. We love the tales of your adventures and we wish nothing more than to hear you recount a few. Perhaps even go into some of the details which are left out of the official versions off your exploits. Details that are perhaps...too violent, too dark, or too evil to be published for the general populace?"

  "I do not like to brag," said Queensbury, as Pup-pup rolled his eyes behind him. "That's why my publishers send writers to accompany my expeditions."

  "Most disappointing," said Crowley, smoothing his cravat with his long-fingered, pale, boney hands. Despite Crowley's youth, his hands looked almost like those of a sun-bleached skeleton.

  "But I suppose if the brandy your Brobdingnagian manservant is fetching is of a high enough quality," winked the Great White Man, "then this stormy evening may prove a good one for the telling of tales."

  "Excellent, excellent, just as I'd hoped," purred Crowley, the gush of his voice slowing momentarily to a gentle stream, before bursting forth again. "Come, follow me to the dining room and meet my friends!

  Seated at the table were three more lads of about Crowley's age, and one gentleman of about thirty. All were skinny, and it was apparent to Queensbury immediately that for all their "love of adventure," that love did not extend to actually having adventures. Rather, they preferred to hear and read of adventures from the comfort of their parents' estates. Indoor cats, all of them. Well, perhaps not the older young man, the only real adult among them - he had the ruddy complexion of a world traveler who has traveled many hours beneath the heat of the wild sun, even if he still had the soft build of a man who has never done real physical labor in his life.

  "Allow me to introduce my friends," said Crowley. He indicated the older man first. "This is Rudyard Kipling. You may know him as a writer of adventure tales and poetry."

  "I haven't heard of you, sir," said Queensbury, "but I do not read overmuch, other than maps, and even most of those prove quite inaccurate. What manner of adventure do you write?"

  Kipling cleared his throat. "Tales of India, mostly, where I was raised. Perhaps, even if you know not my own humble name, you have heard of my books? The Jungle Book, perhaps? The Man Who Would Be King? Or of my poetry? Gunga Din?"

  "You wrote Gunga Din?" asked Pup-pup. "That poem spoke to me as few others have." 

  "Your valet is able to read and write? Xtotl certainly can't!" cried Aleister. "And I shan't be teaching him. A literate savage is a dangerous one."

  "Ah, but Pup-pup is not your average savage." said Mason Queensbury. "I would trust him with my life, and have, many times."

  "One must be careful not to underestimate the worth of the native peoples of the world, my dear Edward," said Kipling. "That is the very point of Gunga Din, the poem which Pup-pup here so enjoyed. It's the tale of a brave Indian water-carrier for the Foreign Legion."

  And Pup-pup began to recite:

  "'E would dot an' carry one

  Till the longest day was done;

  An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.

  If we charged or broke or cut,

  You could bet your bloomin' nut,

  'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.

  With 'is mussick on 'is back,

  'E would skip with our attack,

  An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",

  An' for all 'is dirty 'ide

  'E was white, clear white, inside

  When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!

  Queensbury laughed and bellowed. "Not bad! You say you wrote that, eh, Kipling?"

  "I did, Sir Mason." 

  "I shall speak to my publisher about you. How would you like to come along on my next expedition and see some real action? Perhaps you can write a poem about Pup-pup next?"

  "Perhaps," said Kipling, his eyes shifting uncomfortably. "But I'm not sure I can attend this expedition."

  "But I haven't even told you of when the expedition is!"

  "Ah, yes." said Kipling, swallowing. "I am just a very busy man. Perhaps my schedule will allow..."

  "Come now," blurted Crowley. "No need to discuss business when you haven't even met the rest of the blokes! This next fellow here is an old school chum of mine named Nigel Bottomfellow. He, along with the fellow to his right, Charles Marchant, were founding members of a little club we had at school called the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn."

  "What manner of club was that?" asked Queensbury. "I've never heard of it."

  “Oh, just a little gathering place for those us interested in the unusual and the esoteric," said Nigel, in a lowing, mellifluous voice. He placed a hand on Charles Marchant's hand and looked into his womanish eyes. "It was all quite silly, of course, but if not for our gatherings I would never have met Charles."

  "It wasn't silly," said Crowley. "And I should say, we were merely founders of our little chapter of the Order. The Order itself goes back to the building of Stonehenge itself."

  Charles laughed, a girlish titter. "So Edward says. Don't get him started on the Order's illustrious history, we'll be here all night hearing unverifiable information. The club was fun, though, certainly, and we all got to do things we would never have done in a regular dinner club. All manner of things." Charles winked at Nigel, and the two nearly shook the room with their immodest laughter. Queensbury scowled.

  "Who is this Edward you refer to?" asked Pup-pup.

  "They refer to me, Aleister Crowley."

  "So where does the Edward fit into it?" Pup-pup pressed on.

  "I changed my name," said Crowley, his face darkening. "Edward simply did not suit me. And I'll thank you all to desist in using it immediately.”

  "The way he described it to me," said Nigel, smirking, "was that Edward was a plain, ordinary name, not one suitable for a man who would eventually grow to have the stature that our dear Eddy envisioned for himself. But how did he decide on Aleister? Do you remember, Charles?"

  "Some notion he had about the ideal name to make one famous. Something to do with dipthongs?" laughed Charles.

  "A dactyl, you fool," said Crowley, his mouth smiling but his eyes boiling with sudden rage. "The ideal name to become famous is a dactyl followed by a spondee. Aleister Crowley meets these conditions."

  "A desire to be famous," said Queensbury, "seems hardly a pursuit fitting to a gentleman."

  "And yet you, yourself, Sir Mason," said Crowley, "are among the most famous Britons alive today, are you not?"

  "He does have you there, Sir," said Kipling, laughing.

  "Ah, but through no desire of my own," said Queensbury. "I merely set out to serve England and the Queen in any way I could. And if I happened to find remarkable beasts to hunt and villains to kill along the way, all the better. The accompanying fame, which forces me to occasionally attend dinner parties like this, was acquired quite accidentally and I often regret it."

  At this moment, the giant Xtotl returned with a bottle of brandy and a tray of snifters, which he began to mechanically pour. The giant's hands were so large the snifters looked like a child's teacups by comparison. Pup-pup cringed at each touch, so certain was he that Xtotl was bound to shatter t
he delicate crystal quite accidentally at any moment.

  "Perhaps we had better continue with introductions, then,' said Crowley. "Our final guest, you'll be very interested to know, is a visitor from America. His name is Erik Weisz, and he is a magician and escape artist."

  The young man, compact and athletic but near as pale as Crowley himself, rose from his seat. "Please, Edward. I'd rather be introduced to such company by my professional name, Handcuff Harry Houdini. I am no magician, though I am an escape artist. The greatest escape artist on Earth, I would dare say. But I do not perform magic at all. Rather, However, I do perform illusions. There is, of course, no such thing as magic."

  "No such thing as magic?" scoffed Queensbury, his gray, full mustache twitching with suppressed laughter. "I'm sorry to hear that you suffer under so great a misapprehension about the field in which you purport to be expert."

  "Exactly!" said Crowley. "You see, Sir Mason, Erik and I - or rather, Harry and I have been engaging in this very argument since the day we first met, years ago on one of my visits to America."

  "All supposed magic is mere illusion," said Houdini, "given more terrifying aspect by superstition, fear and weakness of mind."

  "I see our honored guest shaking his head," said Crowley, delighted.

  "My dear boy," said the Great White Hunter. "I have seen more than my fair share of magical creatures, and have slain more than my fair share as well. I have seen shadow monsters in darkest Africa, undead men made zombie slaves in the Americas, and dark, demonic magics in mysterious India. All these things and more, seen with my own blue eagle eyes, which never deceive. Why, I even had one adventure wherein I encountered a great beast of clay given life by an old wise man of your people, the Jews. You are a Hebrew, are you not?"

  "You guess correctly as to my heritage," said Houdini, "but I do not believe you when you say you encountered the legendary Golem. Surely it was simply a large man, perhaps even a giant like Crowley's manservant Xtotl?"

  Xtotl, startled to hear his name, looked up from his serving tray, eyes wide like an animal caught grazing in the Savannah by a pride of lions. 

  "It's all right, Xtotl, keep doing what you're doing," said Crowley.

  "Twas no giant, I'll tell you that," said Queensbury. "For I cut off its head with my saber and it bled no blood, but kept coming after me, though it could not see where it struck. Ultimately I slew the thing by luring it over a precipice into a live volcano."

  "If it truly was the Golem, why destroy it?" asked Houdini. "According to the tales, the Golem was given life on Earth by God himself to protect the Jewish people."

  "It was trying to kill me," said Queensbury. "Am I not right to protect myself, as any beast would? Besides, no magic was sent by God. All the magic I have ever seen was in service of the Devil, to be sure."

  Crowley laughed. "For a room of such learned people, the ignorance on display here is simply astonishing. Houdini, you of all people should know that Hebrews do not truly even worship a God. They are black magicians, who use the blood of Christian babies in their sacrifices to their demon-God..."

  "That is not true!" shouted Houdini. "I will not stand by and have the Jews maligned like this."

  "Oh, I certainly believe that not all Jews participate in these foul goings-on," said Crowley. "Especially American Jews, so removed are you from the crimes of your ancestors you are almost like innocents, if not for the sins you carry with you in your very blood. But I also must disagree with our honored guest Sir Queensbury. Magic is not against God. Rather, Magic was given to man by God so that we may rise above our physical natures and change the very nature of the universe to our whims. Mr. Queensbury acknowledges that Magic is real and possible, and I hope to prove to all of you very soon that it can be controlled by Man and set to purpose to improve our world."

  Houdini crossed his arms, looking like it took all measure of his self-control not to unleash his short but powerful limbs in an act of brutality. He closed his mouth and looked around the table with hostility.

  "Yes," giggled Charles, "I can't wait to see this magic."

  "I, as well," said Kipling, "am anxious to see some real magic. I've written so much of the mysterious parts of the world but have seen nothing that cannot be explained by science or nature. But I also know that if anyone can capture the very wonder of existence and put it on display, it is young Mr. Crowley here."

  Queensbury and Pup-pup exchanged glances. What manner of dinner party had they stumbled into? Sir Mason finished his brandy and set the snifter down.

  "You lads should not fool with things you do not understand." The words squeezed their way out through the Great White Lion's clenched jaw. "Should you attempt some manner of black magic, things will not end well for you."

  "Oh, I think we shall be fine, Lord Mason Queensbury," retorted a smirking Crowley.

  "You can't say I haven't warned you, you damn fool spoiled brat. Pup-pup and I shall be far away when you make your attempt, however."

  "No you shall not," said Crowley. "You see, in order for the demonic summoning to work, we need the blood of a very specific sort of man. The ceremony calls for the blood of a great man. A nobleman by birth, and a slayer of beasts and men by trade."

  Pup-pup rose suddenly, throwing his chair back across the room, his great curved knife in his hand.

  "You don't touch Lord Queensbury!" shouted the noble Negro, protecting his master.

  Crowley merely smirked, while the other men at the table looked very nervous at the sight of the wild black man wielding his savage weapon at the dinner table.

  "Surely we can negotiate," said Crowley. "I am a very wealthy man, as you know..."

  Sir Mason himself rose very deliberately. "You think I would sell my blood to so that a fop can consort with devils? If you mean to use my blood for the purposes of black magic, you'll have to come and take it.

  Pup-pup took up position by Queensbury's side, knife held out, ready to kill, prepared for a fight to the death, bouncing gently in his strange African fighting stance. Queensbury merely stood, shoulders back, still as a stone, watching Crowley carefully with eyes sharp as Pup-pup's blade.

  Crowley smiled, seemingly delighted. He clapped his hands. "I would expect no less from the Hero of England. Xtotl?”

  With that, Xtotl, who had moved as silently as a shadow to a position behind Queensbury and Pup-pup, swung his great club of a fist, knocking both Pup-pup and Queensbury to the ground. Pup-pup's knife slid across the marble floor, coming to a rest at the feet of Rudyard Kipling.

  Queensbury, dazed and on his back, looked up to see Crowley at the other end of the table, standing and clapping his hands with glee. “The legendary Queensbury. Look at him, lads, he shrugs off a blow that would’ve killed most men.”

  A shadow appeared over Queensbury. As the great man’s senses returned, he looked up to see a great stone grotesquery, shaped like a lizard’s head, rushing down at him, propelled by the ebony giant Xtotl.

  Queensbury struck out with his right arm, absorbing some of the impact and redirecting the statue to strike the marble floor. The noise was tremendous, as both the stone lizard and the marble broke, sending shards of stone in all directions.

  Xtotl, shocked that his attack had been diverted, looked even more stunned when Queensbury slithered away, quick as a mongoose. In an eyeblink, Queensbury flipped himself up into a standing position.

  “Try that again, you blasted primitive,” said Queensbury as he raised his fists in perfect boxing style. “I’ve fought apes twice as big as you, and smarter too.” Queensbury had blood running down the left side of his face. A shard of marble still protruded from his forehead.

  Pup Pup stumbled back to his feet as well. “Kipling! Kick me my knife!”

  Kipling merely stood still, raising his palms to the ceiling. “I am merely here to observe,” said the poet. Houdini stood, looking unsure but not rushing to anyone’s aid.

  Pup-pup spat upon the ground. “Coward!” Only then did he reali
ze that Charles Marchant had produced a small woman’s revolver and was aiming it at Pup-pup’s face.

  “Why don’t you sit this one out, you silly little pickaninny” tittered the effeminate white man.

  “I hate to be a poor host, Lord Mason” said Crowley. “But I am afraid that I have made certain promises. It must be tonight. Xtotl....”

  Xtotl charged Queensbury. Queensbury stepped to the side quickly and struck Xtotl in the ribs with tremendous force. Xtotl staggered back only an inch, so powerful was the massive Negro. But an inch is all a master of the sweet science like Queensbury requires. Mason stepped in towards the great beast-man and unleashed a furious combination of blows on Xtotl’s midsection. With each blow came a tremendous audible crunch from Mason’s knuckles on the huge man’s ribs.

  So wrapped up in his punches was Queensbury that the black giant, quick as the panther that wears his colour, caught the white man unawares, quite suddenly, in a mighty bear hug.

  Now Xtotl began to squeeze, crushing the wind out of the Knight’s lungs like a great constrictor snake.

  Crowley absolutely squealed with delight. “I love it when Xtotl does this. I’ve never seen a man escape his grip. Can the legend do it? Or is the old man merely full of tales?”

  Charles and Nigel gripped one other and watched ravenously. Their brush with danger excited their sissied loins.

  Houdini’s face displayed great shock at the barbarism, but when he looked over at Kipling, the older man’s face was that of a calm observer. Perhaps to Kipling, thought Houdini, this fight to the death was similar to seeing big game taken down by a group of hunters. But in this case, the game was a man!

  “You must stop this, Crowley,” shouted Houdini. “Xtotl will kill him! And then where will you be? You'll have proven nothing but you'll have murdered your greatest countryman!”

  Queensbury was beginning to struggle with less energy than before, as his body slowly used up all the air stored in his mighty lungs, made strong by his daily pipe-smoking habit. His blue eyes, normally so keen with his native English intelligence, began to go out of focus.

  “You let him go,” shouted Pup-pup. “Or else...”

  “Or else what?” asked Crowley. “You are hardly in a position to be making threats.”

  Queensbury suddenly sprang back to life. He brought his legs up and pushed off the wall at the same time as he made one desperate twist, slithering free from Xtotl’s grip.

  As the black giant stumbled, Lord Mason ripped free of his grasp. England's most powerful pugilist, bent his knees, leapt into the air and struck Xtotl square in the throat with a right-handed blow so powerful the sound of impact filled the parlour like thunderclap.

  “Oh dear.” said Crowley as Xtotl fell to his knees, clutching his throat. The giant gagged and coughed, a sound like rolling thunder, then eventually fell to the ground and ceased to move.

  “I dare say, that was a rude way to treat a guest, you blithering child,” said Queensbury. “Not gentlemanly at all.”

  “Have you killed him?” asked Crowley.

  “Not entirely. But I doubt he shall ever speak again. Now what am I to do with you lot, who would kidnap a Knight of the Crown for use in diabolical rituals? You’ve offended me, you’ve offended God in heaven, and most importantly, you’ve betrayed the Queen’s trust!”

  “No, Sir Mason,” said Crowley. “It isn’t what you will do with us, but rather what we will do with you?” Crowley looked at the grandfather clock along the wall and smiled.

  At that moment, Pup-pup’s eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed to the ground.

  “Pup-pup?” Queensbury took a step towards his valet, but stumbled himself. “Poison! You poisoned the brandy! You’re not a gentleman at all...”

  “I never said I was a gentleman. But I did tell you that I’m very clever.”

  Queensbury heard nothing else before he plunged into darkness.