And yet, dash it, I knew they reminded me of something, you know; I knew they must.
"They remind me – " I began, and had to pause – idea balked, you know. "They remind me of – of – Jenkins, what do they remind me of?"
"Of him, sir," replied Jenkins promptly.
"Eh?"
"Old Memphis Tuffles, sir," explained Jenkins darkly. "I saw him once in a opera, and he was that red."
"By Jove!" I said thoughtfully, and fell to watching the little spider. It was dropping a life-line or something down to the pajamas.
"But they say he ain't always red," Jenkins continued mysteriously. "A lady as is in the palmistry and card-reading line in Forty-second Street told me he turned black whenever he got down to business. Do you suppose that's where they get the idea of what they call black magic, sir?"
I answered absently, for I was wondering whether the little spider was curious about the jolly red color there below him. And just then Jenkins' hand went out and swept at the little thread. The spider dropped and shot into a fold of the pajamas.
"I say! Look out!" I exclaimed as Jenkins made another clutch. "Don't mash the beast on the silk; you'll ruin it – the silk, I mean!"
"There it goes, sir!" said Jenkins eagerly. "Over by your hand."
"No; by Jove; he's gone into a leg of the pajamas! Here, shake him out – gently now!"
Jenkins lifted the garment gingerly and lightly shook it. But nothing came forth.
"Why don't you look in the leg," I said, "and see if you can see it?"
Jenkins peered down one of the silken tubes and forthwith dropped it with a yell. He jumped back.
"Look out, sir," he cried excitedly; "don't touch 'em! There's a tarantula in there big as a sand crab, and it's alive."
"A tarantula? Nonsense! We don't have tarantulas in New York," I protested.
Jenkins gestured violently. "One's there, sir, anyhow! I saw one once on a bunch of bananas down in South Street. If they jump on you and bite, you might as well just walk around to the undertaker. A dago told me so."
I backed nervously from the crumpled crimson pile on the floor.
Crimson?
Of course, I knew it was crimson; it must be the shadow of the table there that made the things so dark —black, in fact. But my mind was on the tarantula; and I was thinking that it must have been wrapped with the pajamas. Yet I could not understand how this could be, considering how tightly the things had been rolled.
Anyhow, it was there; and Jenkins pointed excitedly.
"Look, sir! You can see it moving under the silk!"
By Jove, so you could! And the thing seemed nearly as big as a rat. It was making for the end of the leg. I climbed upon a chair.
"Get a club," I exclaimed, "and smash the thing as it comes out!"
Jenkins rushed out and returned with a brassie.
"Careful now," I warned from the chair. "Don't go and hit the dashed thing before it gets out, and make a devil of a mess on the silk! There it is – it's out! No, no – not yet! Wait, until it gets its whole body out! There now; he's drawing out his last beastly leg. Now —now let drive!"
And he did, and seemed to hit the thing squarely.
I knelt on the chair and craned over, while Jenkins still held the stick tightly at the point where the thing had struck.
"Get him?" I queried. "Where is it?"
"That's it, sir," said Jenkins in an odd voice. "It ain't here."
"Why, dash it, I saw you strike the beast, right where you're holding that club."
"Mr. Lightnut, sir" – Jenkins spoke a little huskily and glanced around at me queerly – "will you look under the end of this stick and see if you see what I see?"
I climbed down and examined cautiously.
"Why, by Jove, it's the little spider!" I exclaimed, surprised.
"Exactly, sir; what's left." Jenkins took a deep breath.
"Thank you, sir – it's a great relief," he sighed.
"Eh?"
"I mean, sir, I'm glad I ain't the only one who thought he saw that other. It's some comfort."
Jenkins spoke gloomily.
"Thought you saw?" I repeated.
But Jenkins only shook his head as he gathered up the remains of the spider and consigned them to a cuspidor.
"You mean – say, what the devil do you mean?" I asked sharply.
Jenkins straightened with air respectful but solemn.
"Mr. Lightnut, sir," he began gravely, "there's a party lectures on the street corner every night at nine on the fearful consequences of the drink habit, and passes around blank pledges to be signed. I'm going to get one first chance; and if you will accept it, sir – meaning no offense – I would be proud to get you one, too."
I stared at him aghast.
"Oh, I say, now," I murmured faintly, "you don't think it was that, do you?"
Jenkins' face was eloquent enough.
"I'm through, sir," he said sadly. "When it comes to seeing things like that – " He lifted his eyes. "No more for me, sir; my belief is, it's a warning – yes, sir, that's what, a warning."
I collapsed into a chair.
"By Jove!" I gasped uneasily.
I was awfully put out – annoyed, you know. It was the first time anything of the kind had ever happened to me. If I started in with tarantulas, what would I be seeing next?
Jenkins gulped nervously. "Why, sir," he whispered, leaning toward me, "these pajamas – you see for yourself how red they are – they actually seemed to lose color when that bug was in 'em."
"Oh, pshaw!" I said contemptuously. "I saw that, too." And I explained to him about the shadow of the table. He nodded.
"But that only makes it worse, sir," he commented dubiously. "It shows the 'mental condition,' as they say. You know, we were talking about the black art – remember, sir?"
I did remember; and also I remembered then we saw the spider. I recalled that spiders and tarantulas belonged to the same family. Of course Jenkins' suspicions hit the nail – it must be that – there was no getting around it – but still —
"By Jove, Jenkins!" I said, trying to go a feeble smile. "I never felt so fit for a corking stiff highball in my life – never!"
I took a screw on my glass and studied him curiously.
"And I say, you know – better take one yourself!" I added.
CHAPTER III
I DON THE PAJAMAS
"By Jove, Jenkins, they fit like a dream!"
I twisted before the glass and surveyed the pajamas with much satisfaction. They looked jolly right from every point. Moreover, with all their easy looseness, there was not an inch too much. They had a comfortable, personal feel.
"Lucky thing they weren't made originally for some whale like Jack Billings – eh, Jenkins?" I commented musingly.
Behind his hand Jenkins indulged in what is vulgarly known as a snicker.
"Mr. Billings, sir, he couldn't get one shoulder in 'em, much less a – h'm – leg," he chuckled. "They'd be in ribbons, sir!"
I yawned sleepily, and Jenkins instantly sobered to attention. He held his finger over the light switch