“To-morrow is Christmas Day!” replied the shrill voice; “To-morrow will be here in half-an-hour! But I shall be with you before then! My business won’t wait! It can’t! Don’t worry about getting supper for me,—I never take any! Ta!”
Utterly mystified, McNason fell back from the telephone affected by that strange and disagreeable sensation commonly called “nerves.” He was not, constitutionally, a nervous man,—his mental and moral fibres were exceptionally tough and sinewy, and though he was distinctly snarley and irritable on the rare occasions when he could not altogether get his own way, his temperament was neither “highly strung” nor over-sensitive. Nevertheless, he was just now conscious of a vague uneasiness,—the sort of physical discomfort which usually precedes a severe chill.
“I’ve caught cold in the motor,—that’s what it is,”—he said, with a slight shudder, “Such a beastly night as this is enough to freeze a man’s blood! And I’m not so young as I was”—here the ugly frown deepened on his brow—“not so young—no!—but young enough—young enough! I’ll get into the blankets as quickly as possible.” He glanced furtively at the telephone. “Some impudent idiot has been tampering with my wire, that’s pretty certain! I’ll find out who it is to-morrow! And I’ll make him pay for his fooling!”
He turned his eyes towards the fire. It was brighter than ever. Slowly returning to the deep easy chair placed so cosily opposite the sparkling flames, he sat down again.
“I’ll get myself thoroughly warmed through before going to bed,”—he decided, spreading out his hands to the red glow—“I’m actually shivering! There must be snow in the air as well as rain!”
His teeth chattered, and though the blaze from the fire was already so strong and vivid, he used the poker again to break asunder a half-consumed lump of coal, which on being split emitted a leaping tongue of gaseous blue flame.
“That’s better!” he remarked approvingly, half aloud, “That looks cheerful!”
“So it does!” said a shrill voice at his ear,—the same voice precisely that had just called to him along his “private wire”—“Quite cheerful! And Christmassy! As cheerful and Christmassy as yourself, McNason!”
With a violent start Josiah looked sharply round—and looking, uttered an involuntary cry of terror. On the cushioned arm of his elbow-chair sat, or rather squatted, an Object—a Creature—a kind of nondescript semi-human thing such as drunkards might possibly see in delirious dreams. It was small as regarded its Head, but large as regarded its Paunch. It had tiny legs, thin as a chicken’s wish-bone. It had long spidery arms with which it reached down and embraced its turned-up toes. At a first glance it appeared to have a smooth doll-like countenance, but with the least movement such a variety of odd expressions came into play as to make each feature seem a different face. Its eyes were large, and abnormally brilliant. Its hair, jet black and very oily, was rolled back from its narrow brows in the “all-round frame” style of the present-day coiffeur’s art, while on the top of this inverted nest, or soup plate, it wore a conical red cap adorned at the extreme point with a glittering fiery tassel. Its attire—or rather that part of its body which seemed to be clothed—was red; its attenuated arms and legs were naked, yellow, and extremely hairy. It was more like an unpleasantly huge spider with a human head than anything else, and though small enough to curl itself up on the arm of an easy chair, it was yet large enough to create fear and repulsion in the mind of even so important and powerful a personage as a multi-millionaire. Josiah McNason was distinctly afraid of it. And that he was so, is no discredit to him. He had never seen anything like it before. And he had no particular wish to see anything like it again. Yet he could not take his eyes off it. Its eyes were fixed on him with equal pertinacity. With a mighty effort at rallying his wits he stealthily sought for the poker,—if he could get hold of that useful instrument with his right hand, he thought, and give that queer Shape squatting so close at his left a heavy WHACK!—why then it would surely break to pieces,—crumble—smash—disappear—!
“Cheerful and Christmassy like yourself, McNason!” repeated the Creature, at this juncture—“Don’t try hitting me with the poker, that’s a good fellow! You’ll hurt yourself if you do!—you really will! A blow on this”—and it touched its protuberant Paunch significantly—“would send you,—not ME!—into the middle of Next-World’s week! And you’re not ready for Next-World’s Week yet, McNason! There are a few little business matters concerning it which you don’t quite understand! Live and learn, you know! And how are you? You’re looking a bit lantern-jawed,—not very well preserved! I’ve seen finer men than you at your age!”