Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
SO the final dividend is shared, and the old Chicago Palace flashes no longer in the sunlight! Yes; it was crumbling then, on the day, years and years ago, that I live to forget—the awful day when Loo Vickers made his last great dive from the balloon, and the crowd strained up dazzled eyes at a sight that really spelled the climax of a tragedy and an unparalleled bid for life. Thank Heaven, they never rightly knew!
No, I can never bring myself to say it was just because Claire had come between us, and I had happened to win. I prefer to think that he meant to take his defeat like the big-hearted, big-bodied fellow he was, but that the short, sharp struggle proved too much for him. I had seen it at work; just vaguely, I feared. She was nurse at the Boston Hospital, where, by mere chance, they had taken me after a trifling accident. Loo came every day to see me, and—well, at the end of the fortnight, there was a subtle change in him. Not once would he speak directly of her, perhaps for fear that he might have to realise something; but he often stared at nothing, and went out alone of an evening.
The strained uncertainty lasted for over a month—to within a few days of our starting for the never-forgotten fete away at Chicago. And one night—one night when Claire slipped out to the hospital-gate to whisper that I might keep her in mind if I really meant to give up the dangerous life, I turned away to see Loo Vickers framed in a doorway opposite, with a white, staring face. I know I went back to our rooms and sat dreading to hear his key turn below. If it never turned!—if I had won Claire over at the cost of Loo's peace and partnership!
To this moment I am certain that his finer instincts only swung the balance by a hair's breadth. Half-past twelve—a step on the stairs. He walked in unsteadily, and sat down without looking at me. It had rained; but a minute later I was wishing I had not even dared that remark about changing his clothes.
"Fancy!" He turned with a tense, slow bitterness. "What's that matter? I should never be missed; no one would want to nurse me back to life! Yes, I got wet purposely. Why not?"
"Drop that, Loo," I said, shaking myself. "I refuse to quarrel. You'll want all your nerve for Wednesday."
"Quarrel?" he half sneered. "Over what? You're mad, man!"
"Am I?" I strode across so resolutely that he half sprang up. I never like to think it, but I believe I had to catch his wrist as it swung. "Loo, mate," I said, staring close into his eyes, "this is the first; let it be the last. You saw to-night—what I could not help. You know this minute that, in your place, I should be first to put out my hand. It might as easily have been you. Be a man. If she'll have me, why shouldn't I snatch at my life-chance—a woman like that?"
"And throw up the business, and leave me to find a fresh partner—or drift to the bad!" he breathed back.
"If she wishes it—what sensitive woman would not? But that's not to say that... Loo, you mean it?—you won't shake hands?"
"No." He dropped back. "You can't ask it. There's that between us for ever!" I had got to the door. Stung, incredulous, I meant to take my boxes and cut the five-year partnership on the spot. Just in time his sharp whisper reached me—and yet, I have often thrilled to think since, what a great thing for all if I had had the prescience to let it go.
"Mac!" it said. "I'm the madman; don't you be one. Come here! Stand in my shoes—how would you feel? Like knifing me on the spot! Mac, what I thought, what I felt, as I watched you two to-night—there, give it here! Luck to both—to all of us, Heaven knows!" And the grip on my fingers was something to remember. He turned away. "Don't let me think—not another word till—till it's all settled. Where are those bills they sent? I've never looked at 'em—hardly given a thought to it. Wednesday! And the balloon wants a patch, where that tree caught it; and the vent-valve was stuck, or something. My wooden head!... I see!" he ran on, more to steady his voice than anything; "it's a one-day affair—the manager's benefit. 'Great balloon ascent, at 4 p.m., by the famous aeronauts, Messrs. Vickers and MacArthur; when Louis Vickers will make a parachute dive of 1,500ft...' All right; we'll give 'em a good star turn. You mayn't—you mayn't take me up again. Why, they'll never get through half this programme! And he said nothing about travelling expenses, did he? The fee's handsome, though; and funds are not brimming over, Mac. Bed? Yes, I'm ready."
If he slept that night, I did not. He was a little too bright-eyed and flushed in the morning, but there was the long journey before us, and the packing and bustle kept something out of his mind. We had reached Chicago, interviewed the cheery Palace manager, and settled down at our hotel before it dawned upon me that Loo had been making a great effort, and was on the brink of some mysterious illness. His head burned, his hands were ice-cold; it struck me as strange that he should suddenly feel drowsy and grope up to his bed.
And the fete on Wednesday! Was he—was his brain going? Twice, when he thought me asleep, his face and heavy breathing came closer; he was peering down, with that thrilling iteration—"You cut me out, Mac! You knew—you let me find out too late!" And then at last—at last the vital morning dawned, and I started up from a brief doze to realise that the parachute descent was to take place that day. I went out with him, half an hour later, like a man in a dream.
TEN past four, by the great Palace clock. Years later, I can shut my eyes and grip every detail of that never-forgotten scene as if it were something of yesterday. Up there, the vast glass dome flashing back a sunshine that had never wavered once since morning; down below, that endless mass of faces craning on all sides over the breast-high enclosure; and a silence only broken by the buzz of expectation. Loo Vickers was to be first man to make a parachute drop in Chicago... I was ready—ready to take him up 1,500ft., and then turn the valve and bring the balloon down after his leap—as I had done scores of times since we left the aerial-wire business. I stood with one hand on the ropes. I remember watching a flag curl slowly, and calculating that I should easily bring her down inside the grounds. And there was big Loo, stepping out of the tent, with that queer set expression still, but looking as handsome and capable as ever in his costume.
A quarter past four, exactly. He vaulted in after me, and gave a mechanical tug at the parachute, hanging by its thin cord from the car-rail. "All ready!" Two of the ropes slipped. "Right—let her go!"—and the wough! of the balloon as it sprang free. "Bye-bye! By-bye!" I remember him waving his cap and shouting that to the crowd like an excited boy, as the gun-fire signalled that we were off. When he turned two brilliant carmine spots had sprung into his cheeks.
But I hardly noticed that; I was gauging the windway and the prospects. Our first bound had sent us up a good 2OOft., with a slight swerve. We had a sort of steering apparatus, but it had long since proved a failure. Another 100ft., however, and we seemed to clear what breeze there was; the balloon strained up slowly with little perceptible veering. Good!
"Slow, but sure," I said. "You'll land near the pavilion at this rate—clear the lake, anyhow. That patch is holding all right. Here, did you tell them about the vent-valve?"
"Eh? No—I forgot," he whispered. Usually the coolest performer, he was standing, both arms drawn up, staring down as with a fascination. "I—I was trying to see her face, but I can't. Vent-valve? What does that matter?" he added, defiantly, as I turned sharply round. "What does anything matter?... No! Just you leave that alone, Mac!"
Maybe it was that a sudden misgiving had taken me—not as to any special danger, but a clinching sense of the fact that he was somehow not fit for the high drop that day. What I had done was to reach up instinctively for the valve-cord—to find his fingers very near my throat, keeping me back.
"Loo, stop it!" I said, warmly. "I say, you sha'n't! There, over five hundred feet by the tester. Make it enough this time—now, do! Here!—reaching for the parachute cord. I was swung back again, like a child in his powerful hands.
"Leave that alone, too," he said, tensely. "I sha'n't need it... Now do you understand? I've lived a week too long. I don't mean to live another. Mac, I'm going the advertised height, and then I'm going to jump—without it!"
That was it, to a word. The tragedy flashed down and hid the sunshine. I was staring into the sombre eyes, into the face that seemed to have changed in five minutes, while the great globe crept skywards. For how long I shall never know; I had looked at the register for the last time. To jump—without it! It sounded the feeblest joke ever a man conceived and uttered, and, yet, though I could never tell why, the words had hardly left his lips before I knew that he meant them that day. That pause! It was all suddenly dreamlike—all a red haze through which I could just see Loo Vickers with one foot on the car-seat and a hand put out stiffly to keep me back. Then—then it passed. I wiped away the sweat that had trickled into my eyes. Unconsciously I had made my life effort—solved the problem, as it seemed, without trying to.
"Loo, old man!" Was that my own voice? "Let me pull that cord, and—you shall have her. Claire, I mean—Claire! Loo, I'll swear to that!"
"You would?" He laughed outright—or I have dreamed it since. "I'd like her to hear that. But you're out this time, Mac; I don't want her—not now. I've had enough of it! Another hundred feet, and I'm going. Just sit down there, and look away—and pray for me, if you like... There's fifty. Mac, give me your hand—no, sit still—I won't trust you! The last time; I said it. That night—that night, Mac, I meant to shoot myself; but this will be an accident, and upset no one... If you move!" The fast voice, coming as from another world, broke; I can never realise that it was the voice of a madman. "Mac, old man. I'm off—I'm off! Loo's last leap—and good-bye!"
And then—the blind chaos. I must have leaped just as he threw up his arms for the spring, and dragged him back. He twisted convulsively; locked in each other's arms, we were grinding and bumping on the floor of the car, with its sickening heaves and jerks. Uppermost, I was fighting to keep him down and catch at that salvation-cord above. For just a second! Then, with a strength and passion simply not human, he had swung me under—gripped me between his knees—mastered me. He had snatched up a length of rope, lashed it round and round my arms, and strained at the knot till the veins bulged out of his forehead. He was mad—Loo was mad! I knew it, as he swayed up, with a choking laugh—as I saw a knife flash. He had cut the valve-cord.
"Now, who'll stop me? I'm going—going—going!"
The unearthly screech rang back from space, and faded in an instant, leaving stony silence. What next? I hardly know. I had closed my eyes in a nameless faint, knowing that all was over, but too thrilled to grasp half the horror of the thing. Alone—helpless—abandoned to death in space or at sea. His suicide involved my murder. I was going up—up! Claire, the precious world—they were slipping away from me inch by inch. I must have forgotten Loo absolutely; every nerve like a tense wire. I was only conscious of the overwhelming determination to cheat death, if I had to do something that man had never done before.
Dear life!... High above me dangled the cut valve-cord. I could never reach it now; the balloon would mount and mount however slowly—perhaps never be heard of again. Free my arms I could not; already they were numbed. But gradually, never knowing how, I had worked myself into a sitting posture, then on to my knees, and then up—and was staring over through the oblivion.
Away to the right—miles below, as it seemed at such a moment—that Palace dome flashed like a silver disc; near it, the lake reflected like a broken bit of mirror; the crowd, the landscape—all were a confused blur...
Loo Vickers, perhaps, with all his experience, had seldom dropped from such a height; and yet—there by its silken string hung the parachute, and into my head it had floated that once, away at the Toronto Exhibition, Loo, for a wager, had taken that rubber loop between his teeth and dropped a thousand feet with his arms clasped behind him.
The only way! Often since I have shuddered at the hardihood of even the thought—the daring of the almost certain descent to death. But to reach firm ground—to leap from that awful solitude! One vain, superhuman effort I did make to snap that rope; then I never hesitated. I had bent my head, locked the rubber ring—Loo's own invention-—desperately between my teeth, shut my eyes, and dragged myself over the car-rail.
The rest—I could never hope to describe it. I just knew that the silk fastening had snapped at once, and that I was spinning and whirling down through space, all the blood rushing to my head, my eyes starting from their sockets. And then, just as the ghastliest suffocation seemed a fact, that tug at my jaws, and what seemed a dead, sickening pull-up midway 'twixt sky and earth. But words seem colourless. Days later, of course, I knew it was the crucial moment when the parachute spread—or when Providence put out a hand to save me. I knew nothing more; but from that point I must have drifted down gently as a feather, and into the clover-meadow, a full mile away from the Palace. The farmer who found me there, and carried me to his house, told me afterwards how that my clenched teeth had all but cut through the thick rubber ring, and that I only reached ground in the nick of time. But that was the end of the long illness that followed, when I could learn, too, how poor Loo's body had been found and buried days since; and by that time the papers and the public had grown tired of conjecturing as to the mystery of the great parachute romance.
And, as I took my first chance of leaving the neighbourhood and the haunting memories behind, for them a part mystery it may always remain. Only Claire, my wife, knows—and perhaps Claire will never know quite all.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.