When the porter came snooping about as if desiring to make up my berth, I went into the smoking compartment. I do not smoke; but it was the only place to go. I found there a person of striking appearance who told me the most remarkable story I ever heard in my life, and one which I feel it my duty to make public.
He had before him a bottle of ready-mixed cocktails, a glass, and a newspaper. With his bags and the little card table on which he rested his elbows, he was occupying most of the compartment. I sidled in hesitatingly, in that unobtrusive way which I believe to be the unfailing mark of the retiring and artistic mind, and for want of a place to sit down, I leaned upon the lavatory. He was gazing fixedly at the half-empty bottle, his sweeping black moustaches curling back past his ears, his huge grizzled eyebrows shot through with the gleam of his eyes. He looked so formidable that I confess I was daunted, and should have escaped to the vestibule; but he saw me, rose, and with extreme politeness began tossing aside baggage to make room.
“I trust, Sir,” said he with a capital S, “that you will pardon my occupancy of so much of a room in which your right is equal to mine! Be seated, I beg of you, Sir!”
I sat down; partly because, when not aroused, I am of a submissive temperament; and partly because he had thrown the table and grips across the door.
“Don't mention it,” said I. “Thank you.”
“Permit me, Sir,” said he, “to offer you a drink.”
“I hope you will excuse me,” I replied, now slightly roused, for I abhor alcohol and its use. “I never drink!”
“It is creditable to any man, Sir,” said he, “to carry around with him a correct estimate of his weaknesses.”
This really aroused in me that indignation which sometimes renders me almost terrible; but his fixed and glittering gaze seemed to hold me back from making the protest which rose to my lips.
“Permit me, Sir,” said he, “to offer you a cigar.”
It was a strong looking weed; but although I am not a smoker, I took and lighted it. He resumed his attention to his bottle and paper.
“Will you be so kind,” said he, breaking silence, “as to read that item as it appears to your”
“'Federal Improvement Company,'” I read. “'Organized under the laws of New Jersey, on January 4th, with a capital of $1,000,000. Charter powers very broad, taking in almost every field of business. The incorporators are understood to be New York men.'”
“'Imp',” said he, “isn't it? 'Imp', not 'Improvement.'”
“I take it, sir,” said I, “'that the omission of the period is a printer's error, and that i-m-p means 'Improvement.'”
He leaned forward, grasped my wrist and peered like a hypnotist into my face.
“Just as badly mistaken,” said he, ”as if you had lost—! It means 'Imp' just as it says 'Imp.' Have another drink!”
This time I really did not feel free to refuse him. He seemed greatly pleased at my tasting.
“Sit still,” said he, “and I'll tell you the condemdest story you ever heard. That corporation means that we are now entering a governmental and sociological area of low pressure that will make the French Revolution look like a cipher with the rim rubbed out. In the end you'll be apt to have clearer views as to whether or not 'i-m-p' spells 'improvement'!”
This he seemed to consider a very clever play upon words, and he sat for some time, laughing in the manner adopted by the stage villain in his moments of solitude. His Mephistophelean behavior, or something, made me giddy. His manner was quite calm, however, and after a while we lapsed back into the common-place.
“Ever read a story,” said he, “named 'The Bottle Imp'?”
“Stevenson's' 'Bottle Imp'?” I exclaimed, glad to find a topic of common interest, and feeling that it could not be a dangerous thing to be shut into the same smoking compartment with any man who loved such things, no matter how Captain-Kiddish he might appear. “Why yes, I have often read it. I am a teacher of literature, and an admirer of Stevenson. He possesses”
“Who? Adlai?” he said. “Did he ever have it?”
“I mean Robert Louis,” said I. “He wrote it.”
“Oh!” said my companion meditatively, “he did, did he? Wrote it, eh? It's as likely as not he did—. I know Adlai. Met him once, when I was putting a bill through down at Springfield: nice man! Well about this 'Bottle Imp.' You know the story tells how he was shut up in a bottle—the Imp was—and whoever owned it could have anything he ordered, just like the fellow with the lamp—”
“Except long life!” said I, venturing to interrupt.