Alexander C. Irvine by A Scattering of Jades Read Free Book Online

into. Squatting in front of it, Stephen shone the lamp in. The ghosts, who had been muted since he came out of the chimney, began shrieking and gibbering again, their noise nearly loud enough to drown his thoughts.
    It goes, he thought. I know it goes.
     
    John Croghan took in a deep lungful of the sharp, rich September air. Fall was a beautiful season in Kentucky, all the better when the people touring the cave were as effusive as Professor Tattersfield had been at supper that night. The Englishman had talked incessantly, paying scant attention to his meal, telling Croghan repeatedly what a marvel the cave was and how excellently Stephen performed his function. Croghan had paid ten thousand dollars for the cave, the hotel, the slaves, everything. In three years he’d made it back five times over.
    He tamped tobacco into his pipe and stood at the railing of the hotel porch, thinking of all he had done to make Mammoth Cave the attraction it was. The hotel itself had been little more than a blockhouse when he’d purchased it; now it had been improved and refined into a facility that, if not luxurious, was— notwithstanding the reputation of Bell’s Tavern—certainly the best between Louisville and Bowling Green. A fine dining hall, private rooms, a covered wraparound porch, all had been added at his expense. He’d even hired a seasonal orchestra.
    Croghan struck a match, careful to avoid singeing his drooping musrache, and savored the smell of good tobacco mingling with the forest air.
    The clop and creak of a horse-drawn wagon came from around the corner of the hotel, where the road (another thing Croghan had built himself) led out to the state highway. Croghan checked his watch, replaced it in his vest pocket. It was after nine; where was Stephen? Gone straight home and to bed after his excursion, Croghan decided. He wouldn’t have had to pass the hotel to reach the slave quarters overlooking the cave trail.
    The wagon clattered into view, and Croghan cocked an eyebrow in mild surprise. He’d seen itinerant tinkers and traveling salesmen, country doctors, carnival wagons, and even wandering dentists, but never had he seen a drummer-wagon that proclaimed its driver to be all of those, riley steen, read the banners draped along the sideboards, extra ordinary elixirs for every mal ady, painless dentistry . Below this ran puppet shows—
household goods bought, sold, repaired, and a third line said medicines for life, l ove, prosperity. other services available — inquire!
    Croghan squinted at a line of smaller script running along the bottom of the banner nearest him, but the oil lamps hung from the posts of the porch flickered, distracting him as the wagon creaked to a stop. The driver appeared to be peering in the direction of the cave mouth, one hand coveting the tight side of his face. He i ;runted in satisfaction, dropped the reins, and faced Croghan. And ibis must be Mr. Steen, Croghan thought. He was glad he didn’t have a toothache.
    Steen wore a broad-brimmed black hat of indeterminate fabric, pulled down nearly to the bridge of his nose. In the failing light of the lamps, Croghan decided he looked like a man with a toadstool for a head. His topcoat was black as well, and bore a single rose in its left lapel. Croghan caught the odor of myrth on the breeze, dimly remembered from childhood funerals. He glanced at his pipe. It had gone out.
    Steen dropped the reins and pushed his hat up an inch. Croghan noted a squashed cauliflower of a nose and three silver finger rings, set with stones of bright blue and smoky green. For no reason at all, the rings disconcerted Croghan. Nervously he rumaged for a match.
    “Dr. John Croghan, if I am not mistaken?” Steen’s voice carried the depth and richness one would expect of a salesman, the self-assurance of a actor or medical man, but something else was there i, as well, a quiet smirk that went well beyond self-assurance. It was the unnspoken assertion that if I am not