Читать книгу The Gland Stealers - Bertram Gayton - Страница 7

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After the hastily-arranged purchase of Alfred, the gorilla, we called next day to see Dr. Croft, the surgeon, who had been chosen to bring about the strange union of man and part monkey.

I had expected to see a man of anything from forty-five to sixty, but we were greeted, instead, by a mere youngster of about twenty-five or six.

I introduced myself and Gran'pa and got down to business at once.

"We've procured a gorilla," I said. "A fine, strapping brute of phenomenal strength and activity. If only a tenth of its energy is due to its glands, then we've found a little gold-mine."

"That's good! But I would like to examine Mr. Hadley before actually committing myself to this—undertaking. Ninety-five is a great age. He may not be able to stand the operation."

Dr. Croft became eminently practical. So did Gran'pa.

Without the least trace of mock modesty, the latter quickly divested himself of the whole of his clothes, and stood before us in the same state of nudity as when he had first appeared on earth nearly a century ago. And, when one comes to think of it, such a procedure was quite right and proper, for here was Gran'pa about to start out into the great world again, to be re-born, re-juvenated, re-vitalized, and what could be more fitting than his entering on this new birth in the usual unclad way? The simplicity of his action moved me almost to tears. Before the throne of surgical wisdom he was no longer a dictatorial, obstinate old man, but just an obedient child awaiting the pleasure of its master.

The doctor gazed at him for a while in evident admiration.

"I must congratulate you, sir," he said. "I wouldn't have believed such a physique possible at your age."

Gran'pa lost his head a little. He commenced strutting around the room, erect, and as proud as Punch! His long white beard and grayish hair looked peculiarly unreal, and his hands and face showed the wrinkled signs of age, but the rest of his figure startled one by its quaint boyishness. Certainly, there was no elasticity in his step and no youthful swing in his carriage, but, in spite of that, he gave one the distinct impression of being a boy—dressed up in mask and wig and beard—emulating the antics of an old man!

"I've taken great care of myself," he remarked, as he drew nearer for a more minute examination. "And this is the result. A couple of years' carelessness half-a-century ago, and I mightn't have been here to-day—ready to take advantage of this wonderful discovery. Proceed, doctor!"

Dr. Croft began with the inevitable stethoscope, the tapping of chest and back, the "Say ninety-nine," the "Take a deep breath," "Now hold it!"—and so on. With grim and relentless efficiency, he delved into every nook and cranny of the old man's past and present. He pumped him of confessions which were new even to me. Physiologically and psychologically, poor old Gran'pa was turned inside out and upside down and round about, until we had an almost complete analysis of his life. The examination was thorough, ably-conducted, and a conclusive testimony of his ability to face both the operation and the future without fear.

"I'm willing to undertake this case," said the doctor. "I may say, sir, that I am proud to do so."

"Good!" exclaimed Gran'pa. "When will you be ready?"

"Any time!"

"Make it to-morrow, then!"

"I shall want you under my care for at least twenty-four hours beforehand."

"Very well!"

I may be mistaken, but I have always felt that it must be extremely unnerving to face an operation when one is feeling perfectly fit and well. Even when such a course is necessary the tendency is to postpone the evil day—not to hasten it. But it was not actually necessary in Gran'pa's case; it was more in the nature of an experiment, an attempt to ward off that intangible and distant something which we call Death, a thrusting-back of the great clock-hands of Life. I felt humbled before such courage.

"You've grit, Gran'pa!" I said. "And you'll deserve—everything you get."

"Tut! tut! In a few years' time this will be one of the recognized ordeals in life, like a visit to the dentist!" he chuckled.

"That is certainly the most reasonable attitude to adopt," agreed Dr. Croft.

Gran'pa began clothing himself again, in a leisurely half-hearted fashion, which seemed to suggest that, if he could have had his own way, he would have had the operation there and then.

I drew Dr. Croft a little further away and arranged everything in detail. He appeared to be a very sensible and brainy young man, and I felt that he could be trusted to do his best.

"Do you think these glands will work all right?" I asked presently.

He began making a speech. I could see it coming. I was even afraid that it might be a lecture. But I made no resistance.

"I won't say, yet," he answered. "It's not merely a question of new glands and new vital essences. At such an age as your grandfather's, a considerable hardening of the tissues and arteries has taken place. The bones are more brittle, the cartilage partly ossified, the skin less elastic, the nerves less sensitive, and, of course, the hair and teeth are going. His heart is very strong, however, and given that, I believe almost anything is possible."

I breathed a sigh of relief, and Dr. Croft proceeded to deliver a fifteen-minute technical dissertation on the cause of old age. He also spoke of the new method of rejuvenation by means of glandular graftings as if he had first learned of it in the nursery—and didn't think very much of it.

In a pessimistic peroration, he said:

"There may be a thousand and one arguments in favor of this new theory, but perhaps in the end there will be just one damning little detail which will circumvent the whole process of repair. Now you can understand why I don't wish to be too dogmatic in this case."

I did! (As a drowning man sees the lights of a distant ship.)

He began again—just as I was hoping that he had finished—and inflicted on me a further lecture, dealing solely with the functions of "ductless glands" in general (whatever they may be).

Through the corner of my eye I saw Gran'pa fastening his braces in a quiet, contemplative manner—apparently oblivious of the fact that his possibilities were being discussed in such astounding detail. I also saw that he was having some little difficulty with his boot-laces and his collar, muttering to himself the while. No doubt the stress of the last half-hour had made him a trifle shaky. But he bore up bravely.

So did I. And then at last, I realized that Dr. Croft had finished.

My poor, numbed brain tried to grapple with this sudden influx of new knowledge. In my supreme ignorance I had hitherto looked on the body as just a fairly simple contrivance of beef, bone, blood and brain, with a digestive apparatus for turning Foods into Human Being. Instead of that, we appeared to be one conglomeration of complicated and mysterious glands. All else was merely subsidiary.

As a little child speaks to its teacher, I said:

"How many of these do you propose grafting into Gran'pa?"

"The thyroids only. We will see how these work first."

"Do you agree, Gran'pa?" I shouted.

"I leave myself entirely in Dr. Croft's hands," replied Gran'pa, doing up the last of his buttons.

"Very well," I said, turning to the doctor again. "We'll have just the two thyroids to begin with; and I'll see that he is round here by ten o'clock in the morning. Good-by!"

We escaped to the open air once more, Gran'pa linking his arm through mine, as if in dire need of comfort.

"Last day of the old life, George," he observed, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "Let's go and have a drink, to . . . celebrate it. Thank God that, for the moment at any rate, we are in England!"

If I needed a stimulant, how much more did he?

We had two whiskies each, partly recovered our composure, and then went home.

There Gran'pa sank into his chair with a sigh and called Molly over to him.

"A little kiss, Mollikins," he said. "That's better. . . ."

And then:

"I'm tired out, George; and I've no appetite for dinner. I think I'll have a basin of bread and milk and go straight to bed. That medical examination has rather unnerved me."

"Oh, you mustn't think about it. You'll be all right after a night's rest."

"It isn't the . . . job itself. It's the thought that perhaps . . ." He pulled himself together. "Molly! A bowl of nice hot bread and milk—made by your own hands."

Molly—who could never be accused of being merely ornamental—adjourned to the kitchen, and presently returned with Gran'pa's last supper under the old régime.

He ate it a trifle sibilantly, and very thoughtfully, Molly insisting on kneeling by his side and holding the bowl as if it were an offering. I admired her tact and motherly concern.

"Night-night!" he said, at last.

"I shall give you ten minutes only," cautioned Molly. "And then I shall come up and tuck you in—and you can tell me a story."

Gran'pa chuckled.

"Neither of us deserves her, George," he whispered, as he went by me. "She's worth half-a-dozen whiskies as a pick-me-up."

He shuffled out of the room in his carpet slippers and Molly glanced at the clock to note the time.

"Daddy," she asked, "when's he going to the doctor?"

"To-morrow, dear."

"Is it . . . very dangerous?"

"No! Not a bit! You mustn't worry. He'll soon be home again."

She took my hand, and looked at his empty chair by the fireside. It seemed as if some dread shadow had fallen on us. I realized how much poor old Gran'pa had become part of the house, the furniture, and even of ourselves—how keenly we should miss him during his absence in the nursing home.

The thought of the one-in-a-hundred chance of his dying was intolerable. I refused to dwell on it. Neither would I let Molly.

"You'll have great times when he does return," I said.

"I know! He's been telling me simply heaps of things he's going to do."

She grew more cheerful at the thought of this—but still kept a watchful eye on the clock.

"Time's up!" she exclaimed at last.

A moment or two later I could hear creaking movements upstairs and the faint rumble of Gran'pa's voice as he began telling her a story.

I listened for several minutes; and then silence descended—and so did Molly.

"He's gone to sleep," she half-whispered. "He often does that when he's story-telling."

"Just as well, my child. . . . Now for dinner!"

The meal passed quietly and a little sadly. Try as I would, it seemed impossible to shake off the air of anxiety which had settled on us.

But the next morning everyone was bright and cheerful again. It may have been due to the bustle and excitement—and the really excellent breakfast which Nanny had prepared for us.

Gran'pa and I went to Dr. Croft's in a taxi, and Alfred arrived an hour or so later in a Ford van—after which I bade the old man good-bye and good luck.

"Don't let Molly worry over me, George," he said. "Everything will turn out all right in the end. I can feel it. 'Phone up Dr. Croft to-morrow and drop in to see me the day after. You won't know me! . . . Au revoir!"

I returned home. The day dragged slowly by; so did the morning of the next.

At one o'clock I rang up Dr. Croft.

"Well?" I asked, as soon as I heard his voice. "How is the old chap?"

"Excellent! He refused at first to believe that the operation had been performed. I never met such a man. Now he's actually asking for his pipe."

"That sounds healthy! No danger of a relapse, I suppose?"

"Practically none. The anæsthetic was the only risk at his age."

"Give him my love—and Molly's—and tell him I'll be round for a chat to-morrow."

A minute later, Molly and Nanny heard the good news. The former received it joyfully, but the latter a little sceptically—as if convinced that no good could possibly come of such irreverent tamperings with Nature's laws of growth and decay.

"I do hope he'll recover," said the poor old soul. "I've missed him a good deal."

"We all have, Nanny. But we've suffered in a good cause. So has Gran'pa. It requires some courage to strike out afresh at his age. He's an example to the old men of his generation."

A reaction set in at once. I felt not only a sense of great relief, but also one of exhilaration. My curiosity was intense.

How soon (if ever) would Gran'pa begin to show signs of approaching youth? Would he rejuvenate mentally or only physically? Would he show merely less tendency to doze and mumble, or would he become the alert and energetic man he was fifty years ago? Supposing the whole affair simply resulted in a mere prolongation of life—stripped of all its zest—what then? Would he, or any of us, be the happier for it? Wouldn't it be rather pointless?

I must admit that (quite apart from the monetary reward for my industry) I was in favor of complete rejuvenation—something which would reduce his age to about forty, say. There were big possibilities if this happened; and I wanted to share in them.

But, as I had expected, he progressed very slowly at first.

When I saw him the day after the operation he was still Gran'pa—as old as ever, and just as deaf. He talked a great deal, and pretended to feel much better already. He even asserted that his appetite had improved—a sure sign of youthfulness!

As time went on, however, I noted the coming of a distinct glow in his cheeks, a brightness in his eyes, a clearness in his voice, and an improvement in his hearing. But all these I put down to the few weeks he had spent under the care of a trained nurse, and to the tablets of thyroid extract which he had also been taking. It seemed absurd to attribute any change yet to Alfred's glandular influence.

At the end of the third week I arranged to fetch Gran'pa home the following Wednesday and, immediately I announced the news, the house was upside down with excitement and anticipation.

Molly, whom I had taken with me twice to see the invalid, was like a little wild thing. Every hour of the day she was bursting out with fresh ideas of how she could best welcome Gran'pa back to the fold.

For myself, I looked forward to his return not only with curiosity but with pleasure. The house had not been the same since he left it. We all felt that. Time and time again Nanny confessed that there was "something missing. . . ."

On the Monday afternoon I was standing at the window, thinking that, within forty-eight hours, we should all be happily united again, when suddenly I heard a shriek from Molly in the garden. A moment later I saw her dash towards the gate and, following the direction of her gaze, an astounding vision greeted me. Gran'pa was coming down the street by himself!

When I say "coming," I say it reservedly. It is a weak and inadequate word with which to describe his method of arrival.

Gran'pa—the horrible truth must out!—was scooting! He was not doing it with one foot standing on a strip of board and the other knocking against the pavement, as is the wont of small children, but with both feet firmly placed on a platform of spacious dimensions and both hands gripping a pair of elaborately-fitted handlebars. He was seated, too! In other words, he had reached that acme of modern locomotion—the motor scooter!

He came down our sedate and peaceful Avenue at a good, steady ten miles an hour, with his long beard parted by the playful breeze and his hat pulled down over his eyes—a mad caricature of an old man of ninety-five, a dream, a nightmare!

I saw some little children come running round the corner of the road, like a pack of hounds after a fox. And I saw startled faces appear at windows and doors, the most startled and shocked of all being Mrs. Tarrant, the wife of the Baptist minister. I even saw the dim, blue outline of a policeman slowly approaching from the opposite direction.

It was a terrible situation for a man like myself—a respectable and trusted Servant of the Public—to know that in a moment or two Gran'pa would pull up at my front door and bring eternal shame and ridicule on the family.

In spite of this, however, I could not refrain from dashing bareheaded into the street and adding myself to that scandalized string of spectators which now dotted both sides of the Avenue.

Molly was laughing, and clapping her hands joyfully.

"I knew it was Gran'pa!" she cried. "And—he's got a motor scooter!"

Even to her childlike and finite intelligence the painful truth was obvious.

"Restrain yourself!" I admonished. "Do think of the neighbors!"

And then Gran'pa drew his machine up at the side of the pavement. There was a sharp explosion, a puff of smoke issued from the rear of the platform, and strange quivers shook the framework.

The next moment Gran'pa toppled over into the gutter, where he began struggling with levers, handlebars and revolving wheels. The motor scooter seemed to be trying either to escape from or run over its passenger; but thanks to Gran'pa's extraordinary presence of mind, he managed to touch the right button, and the thing at last became silent and lifeless.

I helped him to his feet.

"Thank you, George!" he said, with an air of breezy politeness.

"Don't mention it," I replied beneath my breath. "Anything I can do to hasten the termination of this insane exhibition of childish enthusiasm . . ." I lost myself in the attempt to express my precise emotions.

"A mere side-slip," he murmured, using his hand as a species of carpet-beater. "I had a little trouble in starting, but didn't expect this." He again struck dust from his coat and trousers.

Molly's self-control gave way and she broke into an unmusical "run" of explosive giggles.

I looked at Gran'pa, smacking himself; at Molly, trying to stuff a handkerchief into her mouth; at the ugly, motionless machine in the gutter; at the sprawling patch of grease on the pavement; and, lastly, at the inevitable "gathering of clans"—that convergence of fellow creatures on any scene which is rich in "possibilities."

"Molly! Take that wretched contrivance 'round to the back," I commanded, at the same time seizing Gran'pa by the arm.

But, with a sudden twist, the old man freed himself, and behaved like a schoolboy with a new bicycle.

"No!" he said, firmly. "I'll look after that, thank you!"

"I don't care who looks after it," I snapped, "so long as we get the beastly thing away before the crowd arrives."

"All right, George! You needn't lose your temper!"

He caught hold of the handlebars and I picked up his hat from the pavement. Much to the spectators' amusement (and sorrow), we hastily withdrew to the security of the back garden, where Gran'pa again began to make himself objectionable.

"I'm afraid it may have been damaged," he said, peering round and about it. "I'll just try it down the path here."

"If you run into my celery bed I'll murder you!" I growled in the sotto voce I so often adopted with the old man.

But this time he had actually heard!

"Don't be irritable, George! And don't mumble under your breath. Speak up!"

He placed his right foot on board, pulled a lever, pushed off with his left foot, and away he went, with a quick little "chug-chug-chug." Where the gooseberry bushes bordered the narrow path, he swerved a little, and again where the celery beds lay on each side of him like newly-dug graves, but, save for these two temporary diversions, he kept a straight and steady course until he reached the fowl-run at the extreme end of the garden. There he suddenly turned at right angles and disappeared.

I looked at Molly, who had been standing spellbound and inarticulate by my side. To me, Gran'pa's antics had been an annoying revelation of puerile activity, but to Molly they had been a sheer miracle of delight. A motor scooter alone would have entranced her; so would a rejuvenated great-great-grandfather. The combination of the two, however, had simply paralyzed her. She was in a wonderful present, but at the same time, the little minx evidently had her mind's eye on a still more wonderful and fruitful future.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed breathlessly.

I turned a sad and disillusioned face to her.

"Isn't it simply scrumptious!" she continued with unabated enthusiasm.

"It's very undignified for a man of his age and respectability—bringing shame on his relations like this."

"You aren't really angry, Daddy?"

"I'm more than angry. I can see red—scarlet!"

"Chug-chug-chug," I heard in the distance.

Then a single, clear-cut: "Bang!"

Then silence.

"If he's run into those Buff Orpington's," I cried, "there'll be a murder committed!"

But no! Gran'pa had evidently stopped his machine merely to turn round and start on the homeward journey again.

"Pop-pop-pop!"

Then that quiet, steady "Chug-chug-chug" once more, and the ungodly contrivance came spinning round the corner and up the garden path at a good ten to twelve miles an hour.

"It—goes—fine!" panted Gran'pa as he alighted by our side.

"Suppose we garage it in the coal-house," I suggested, dully. "Then we might go indoors and leave the neighbors in peace."

I motioned in the direction of five or six back bedroom windows, behind whose curtains we saw the dim outlines of a score of curious faces peering down on us.

"The scullery or kitchen would be much cleaner and better," said Gran'pa.

I glared at him with awful severity.

"Do you want Nanny to give notice?" I inquired.

"Not at all! Not at all! A very capable woman. A bit fractious at times, perhaps. . . . But I don't see how she can object to a little thing like this. . . ."

"Oh! Don't you? Very well! Try her! I wash my hands of the whole affair."

Then Molly joined in. She wanted to scoot! Naturally, she did! It was excusable at her immature age. But I was adamant.

"No!" I said. "Go indoors, Molly, at once!"

"But—Daddy. . . ."

"No 'buts'! Do as I tell you. We've had quite enough excitement for one day."

"A little run down the garden wouldn't hurt her, George," pleaded Gran'pa.

I could see at once that if I didn't treat them both as a couple of unruly children there was going to be still worse trouble in the future. So I wrested the machine from Gran'pa, overcame my own desire to test it, and wheeled it quickly towards the coal-house, while Molly and the old man followed ruefully and protestingly behind.

Only when the thing was safely garaged and under lock and key did I once more feel at ease.

"You're acting in a very high-handed manner, George," said Gran'pa.

"It is necessary!"

"Tut—tut!"

"It's not 'tut-tut'!" I snapped, completely losing my temper. "This is my house and my garden—and my child. I won't have them publicly disgraced and demoralized by such clownish antics. Do try and be a reasonable person and think of your dignity—even if you won't think of mine."

He grew calmer and more docile at that. He even performed the unnerving ceremony of apologizing.

"That's all right," I answered, hurriedly. "Let's get in the house and hide. I feel that every eye in the Avenue is on this place. We're visible even from here."

He glanced up at the bedroom windows of the two neighboring houses, and at last retreated through the kitchen door.

In the sheltered security of my own dining-room I sought further information on this strange outbreak of second childhood. With a look of the utmost parental severity, I checked Molly's excited flow of questions and ordered her either to leave the room or to be quiet. Seeing that I was roused and angry, she tactfully obeyed, and sat down on the edge of a chair, staring at Gran'pa in wide-eyed admiration and amazement. I turned and faced him.

"I think you'll admit . . ." I began, sternly.

"I won't admit anything, George, if you're going to adopt that lecturing attitude. Give it up! It irritates me. Is it a lifelong habit or have you acquired it only since I came to live with you?"

With a thoughtful and ominous precision, I filled my pipe and lit it.

"Thank you!" said Gran'pa, extending his hand.

"I beg your pardon!" I replied, frigidly giving him my pouch.

"Now, George!"

For five or six more awful seconds I kept my face straight and dignified. Then I gave way. I couldn't help it. I laughed—and laughed—and laughed. That vision of Gran'pa, coming down the Avenue on his scooter, reminded me of a performing ape, I had once seen, careering round the Coliseum stage on a tiny motor cycle. I thought of the face of the Baptist minister's wife, three doors further down the street. I thought of the patch of oily messiness on the pavement outside. And I thought of all the serious nonsense we had gone through to bring about this sudden spurt of venturesomeness in poor old Gran'pa.

"Why—did you—do it?" I gurgled.

"Come, come, George! Do pull yourself together."

I quietened down a little and wiped my eyes.

"Have you been properly discharged?" I asked. "Or is it an escape?"

Gran'pa didn't like the last word. He lit his pipe and puffed at it, furiously.

"I left Dr. Croft's because I've practically recovered and because I never did like hospitals."

"But why did the doctor arrange for me to come and fetch you next Wednesday?"

"I haven't the least idea. I felt extremely well this morning and I thought I would return home. That's all!"

"Couldn't you get a taxi?" I asked.

"Perhaps I'd better explain. After lunch I went out for a stroll and noticed one of these motor scooters in a shop-window. It looked very enticing, George. So I entered the shop and inquired. The man got me to try it down the backyard once or twice."

"Ah! That's the modern enterprising salesman all over. He didn't care whether you broke your neck or not so long as he got your money."

"Nothing of the sort. He thought I wanted it for someone else and even offered to send it."

"How perfectly charming of him!"

Gran'pa ignored the comment and continued:

"It was only after I'd tried it once or twice that I suddenly realized how enjoyable it would be to get one. So I bought it, with the intention of returning to the hospital. On the way back, however, I altered my mind. I don't like that nurse, George. She would only have carried on to me about it if I'd returned on that scooter. So I changed my mind—and came home instead. . . ."

"Then neither the doctor nor the nurse knows where you are?" I gasped.

"No! You might ring up after dinner and tell them."

"You might!"

"Very well, George!" he answered, affably. "Don't let us quarrel over trifles."

I gazed at him, pensively.

"Do you attribute all this superabundance of energy to the—glands?" I asked.

"I think they've helped. I feel fitter than I've done for years."

He certainly looked it.

The following morning I handed him my copy of The Daily Sketch, on the front page of which was a large photograph of Gran'pa speeding down Regent Street on his scooter.

"You'll be pleased to find yourself in the papers already," I remarked, dryly.

"You don't say so!"

"Yes, I do. But it's nothing to what I think!"

"Mollikins!" he cried with the enthusiasm of a twelve-year-old schoolboy. "Come and look at this!"

She darted to his side and together they pored over the pictorial journalist's idea of "news."

Before I left for town that morning, I took Nanny aside.

"For Heaven's sake," I warned her, "keep an eye on those two and see that they don't get into mischief while I'm away."