E. F. Benson
Sheaves
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4057664127396
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
THE long and ferocious battle between those desperate wild Indians, Chopimalive and his squaw Sitonim (otherwise known as Jim and Daisy Rye) and the intrepid trader, Hugh Grainger, had come to an end, and the intrepid trader lay dead on the hayfield. He had still (which was a good deal to ask of a dead man) to carry on and direct the Indians’ subsequent movements, and with praiseworthy disregard of self and scorn of consequence, he had said that it was necessary to bury him with musical honours in the arid sands of the American desert, and “Rule Britannia” would do. He had, however, hinted that if his body and legs were buried, that would be quite sufficient in the way of ritual; but the Indians had thought otherwise, and had covered his head also. Then the Indians, being inconveniently hot, had sat down close to his tomb, with threats that unless he lay really dead they would bury him much deeper.
“Dead traders always have their faces uncovered,” said Hugh.
“This one didn’t,” remarked Chopimalive.
“But the squaw always came and uncovered his face afterward, immediately afterward,” said Hugh, “otherwise his ghost haunted them and woke them up about midnight with the touch of an icy hand.”
“Well, your hand wasn’t at all icy,” said Sitonim scornfully. “It was very hot—as hot as me. Besides, you’re dead, and you can’t talk.”
Hugh coughed away some bits of clover that had got into his mouth.
“I’m not talking,” he said; “it’s the voice from the tomb. And if you don’t take the tomb off my face, my ghost will let itself down to-night from the ceiling like a purple spider and eat your nose.”
Shrieks from Sitonim; and she clawed the hay away from his face, nearly putting out his eye.
“Promise you won’t!” she said.
“O Daisy, you funk!” said Chopimalive.
“Well, I don’t want my nose eaten,” said she.
The corpse continued:
“And then to make sure that the trader wouldn’t drop down from the ceiling, Chopimalive felt in the left-hand pocket of his coat, and put a cigarette which he found in a case there into his mouth. Yes. And there was a box of matches—— Oh, I forgot, they pulled his left-hand trouser down, so that the sand of the American desert didn’t get up above his sock and tickle his leg, because the Tickle-ghost is far the worst.”
Chopimalive had memories of the Tickle-ghost.
“Oh, which is your left leg?” he cried. “You’re upside down.”
“So’s the Tickle-ghost,” said Hugh.
“Oh, do tell me!” screamed Chopimalive.
“Well, it’s the other leg,” said Hugh.
“And who’s a funk now?” asked Sitonim.
Daisy was applying the match to the end of the cigarette, and after setting a little hay on fire and burning the trader’s nose, she succeeded in making sure that the spider would not drop down from the ceiling.
“Do ghosts always want such a lot of things?” she asked.
“The worst sort do,” said Hugh. “I’m the worst sort. You are only ten, you see. You haven’t seen all the ghosts yet. The worst come last.”
The minds of the Indians, however, were now relieved. The ritual demanded by the voice from the tomb had been performed, and they grew aggressive again.
“You musn’t talk,” said Chopimalive. “You’re dead.”
“Very well, then, it will all happen,” said Hugh mystically. “It happens most if one doesn’t talk.”
“The worst things? Oh, there’s mother on the lawn! She’s calling to us. Must we go, Hugh?”
Dead silence.
“Hugh, you may talk just this once, to say ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’”
“Yes or no,” said the corpse.
“It means bedtime for Jim,” said Daisy, “because he’s only nine. Yes, mummy, we’re here,” she shrieked.
“And is Hugh there?” called a distant voice.
“Yes, he’s dead. But he’s a voice from the tomb, and he’s telling us a story.”
“Well, five minutes more,” called the distant voice.
“Thank you, darling mummy!” shrieked Daisy.
“Oh, you little liar!” said Hugh.
“Well, but I said you were telling us a story because you were just going to. Weren’t