The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Fantasy Stories from the Pulps

Bertie and the Black Arts

First published in Fantastic Adventures, April 1942.

When the Moss wood college football special rattled to a stop in the sleepy little depot on the outskirts of Mosswood, it disgorged some three hundred pennant-waving, red-faced, drunkenly vociferous alumni. These blithe spirits swarmed over the waiting room, shouting to friends, yelling at cab drivers and in general behaving with the careless abandon that is the stamp of men released from the sober vigilance of their wives.

Among this carnival of happy souls Bertie Crimmins stood out like a beacon on a dark night. Or like a professional pallbearer in the midst of a New Year’s Eve celebration.

He was a tall, slim young man and, except for the pleasantly vacant look on his face he might have been considered handsome. He stood out in the crowd because he was wearing his hat instead of waving it wildly over his head. Also he was sober. On top of all this he carried no pennants and was not pounding someone on the back and shouting at the top of his voice.

There was, however, a certain wistful light in his eyes, as he surveyed the antics of his companions. Once, as the chorus of the Mosswood school song was being chanted by an inebriated and off-key quartet, his lips began to move automatically and the song almost poured forth of its own volition.

As he stood in the center of the depot looking about expectantly, a chubby, red-faced chap holding a bottle in one hand stumbled into him.

“Ssssorry,” he mumbled, swaying slightly. Then his eyes lighted with recognition. “My old pal, Bertie Crimmins!” he cried emotionally. “I didn’t know you were coming down for the ol’ game. Have a drink, pal, have a drink.”

He shoved the bottle toward Bertie.

Bertie looked at it longingly, but shook his head.

“I’m not using the stuff,” he said weakly.

His cock-eyed friend stared at him with incredulous disbelief.

“You don’t say,” he mumbled in astonishment. “You were the best ol’ rum pot in school when I was here. Member the time ol’ Prexy caught the two of us, blind drunk, in the girl’s dressing room at the Senior Prom? That was some time, wasn’t it?”

“Y — yes it was,” Bertie said hastily. He wiped his suddenly damp brow, and glanced nervously about the depot.

“You know sumpn’,” his drunken chum tittered, “I always wondered what ol’ Prexy was doing there, himself.”

In spite of conscience, Bertie found himself warming to the subject.

“Was odd, wasn’t it?” he said. “Do you suppose the old bounder—”

“Hello, Bertrand,” a soft voice beside him said.

Bertie froze in mid-sentence. At his side was a slim, lovely blonde girl with deep blue eyes. There was just a touch of frost in those lovely eyes now.

“Darling,” Bertie cried nervously. “You’re looking wonderful. Positively radiant. Let’s go outside. Out in the clean, fresh air. Away from these — er — gross people.”

He turned to the chubby drunk and said firmly,

“There are no more trains arriving today, my good man. That’s all you wanted to know, is it not?”

Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the lovely blonde girl by the arm and towed her out of the depot into the fresh air.

There he breathed deeply, not for health’s sake, but from sheer relief.

Ann Turner, the lovely blonde girl, regarded him dubiously.

“Bertie, dear,” she said, “you haven’t broken any of your promises have you?”

“Silly girl,” Bertie laughed. “I have been the epitome of respectability these last two months.”

“No drinking?”

“Not a drop.”

“Poker?”

“Certainly not.”

“Horses?”

“My dear little cherub, I haven’t even nodded to a milkman’s horse. That should prove that I can be the steady, reliable type, what?”

Bertie Crimmins’ problem was not a new one. In college he had been a happy, care-free soul and the stigma of his undergraduate days had a nasty way of sticking to him. When he had met The Girl, it turned out that she had heard of his primrosy path and, as a result, was dubious about the double harness idea he had suggested one moonlight night. So he had been put on probation and, to his credit, he had survived the ordeal manfully.

“You do look different,” Ann said thoughtfully. “You have a very respectable look in your eyes.”

Inwardly, Bertie sighed. He had slipped far if his stare at a luscious girl could be described as respectable. But he said:

“Right you are. Babbit Bertie, they call me. Now will you marry me?”

“What will we live on?” Ann asked practically.

Bertie almost swooned with delight at this time-honored question. For it meant that The Girl was practically in his arms for keeps.

“A sensible question,” he said approvingly. “But you may cease worrying on that score. My brother, who is a good enough chap in his way, controls the purse strings of the Crimmins estates. The foolish chap cares nothing for money himself, but he has refused to pass along any of the bonny green stuff to me. You see he hasn’t much confidence in me. But when he sees the remarkable transformation I have undergone, he will give me his blessings and large chunks of lettuce with which we can furnish our nest.”

“Where is your brother?”

“Right here at Mosswood. He’s assistant professor of almost forgotten languages, or something like that. Odd, what?”

“Will you see him today?”

“First thing,” Bertie answered cheerfully. “I’ll drop you home and then speed the body over to his rooms to show him what a sterling chap I’ve turned into.”

He waved for a cab.

A half hour later Bertie stepped from the cab, a feeling of virtuous confidence in his heart. He had dropped Ann off a few minutes before and her farewell had been affectionately tender. It was obvious that she was impressed by the New Bertie.

Bertie paid off the driver with his last remaining change and headed up the elm-lined walk that led to the unpretentiously dignified house where his brother lived and labored.

There was a song in his heart and a bounce in his stride as he trotted up the steps and punched the doorbell. His brother’s housekeeper opened the door and after murmuring “speak of the devil” or something equally cheery, admitted him.

She led the way to his brother’s study in a grim silence. She did not approve of Bertie Crimmins interrupting his brother in the middle of his work. She paused before an oak-paneled door.

“Mister Arthur is very busy these days,” she said coldly. “I hope you will not disturb him too much.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Bertie said warmly. “I’ll only be here for the weekend.”

“Only? Couldn’t you manage to stay a full week?”

Sarcasm was lost on Bertie.

“Nice of you,” he said brightly, “but it just can’t be done. Sorry and all that.”

With a warm feeling of being in demand, he opened the oak-paneled door and strode into his brother’s study.

“What ho!” he cried.

His brother, a lean scholarly looking chap, with graying temples and hornrimmed glasses, looked up from his desk where he had been intently examining a faded piece of parchment.

There was a distinct trace of annoyance in his tired blue eyes.

“Must you bellow?” he said impatiently.

“Sorry,” Bertie said. “Didn’t realize the old vocal chords had that much vim and vigor. Must be the old brotherly affection cropping out.”

“Stop babbling,” his brother said. “Come in and close the door. I’m busy here. Be through in a moment. Sit down.”

“Right ho!” Bertie said. “Don’t let me disturb the great brain. Let it ramble on. I’ll sit and watch.”

“In silence,” his brother qualified.

Bertie found a comfortable chair and threw his lean body over it in a position that a professional contortionist might have envied. His brother had turned back to his desk, his head bent close to the ancient parchment. He only changed his position to turn the pages of a huge leather bound book resting on the desk beside him.

Bertie gazed about at the book lined walls and sighed. It didn’t hardly seem decent to give a million dollars to a buzzard who spent his waking hours digging into the remains of obscure authors.

He was disturbed by an exultant exclamation from his brother.

“Got a nibble?” he asked companionably.

His brother’s thin frame was trembling with excitement.

“If,” he muttered tensely, “I can prove a relationship between the recurrence of this symbol and the recurrence of the letter V in the Phoenician alphabet, I may have something.”

“Probably alphabet soup,” Bertie said brightly. “Get it! Letter ‘e’ mixed up with something else and you get alphabet soup. It’s a joke, what?”

His brother turned to him, the scientific zeal in his eyes fading slowly.

“Bertie,” he said slowly, “you are a blithering moron. On top of that—”

“Tut! Tut!” Bertie said hastily. “Mustn’t forget the old brotherly affection.”

“You make it easy to,” his brother said sadly.

“It’s nice of you to say so,” Bertie beamed. “Now I’ve a surprise for you. I’m getting married. Congratulate me.”

“Married?” his brother said sharply.

“Right ho! It’s a blow, but you must be strong. You’re not losing a brother, you know, you’re gaining a sister.”

His brother lighted a pipe carefully and peered over the flame at Bertie as one might at an amiable nitwit.

“What are you going to live on?” he asked.

“Glad you brought that up, old bean,” Bertie said. “We’ll be needing a spot of assistance and I thought that you might bless the union with a hearty hunk of the old necessary.”

“Translated, that means I am to finance your marriage?”

“Crudely put, but accurate,” Bertie admitted.

“I shall do no such thing. In my opinion you are about as competent to handle money as a two-months-old baby. The bulk of the family estate will revert to you when I think you are capable of handling it intelligently. That date, I regret to say, does not seem imminent.”

“You mean,” Bertie said glumly, “that it’s no soap.”

“I mean precisely that.”

“But I’m a new man,” Bertie said frantically. “Old salt of the earth, backbone of the Nation. No more of the cup that cheers, no more of the gay race tracks. All over, all done with.”

His brother looked at him skeptically.

“In the vernacular, I am from the state of Missouri. If you are actually the paragon of masculine virtue that you claim, I might reconsider.”

“A chance is all I ask,” Bertie said dramatically. “Tell me,” he said in a more conventional tone, “does the family estate mount up to a tidy bit?”

“Very tidy,” his brother answered. “Several millions at least.”

Bertie had no conception of amounts over ten, but he knew a million to be a hefty lot of money. He wondered if it would be enough to pay off his debts and set him and Ann up in a cozy fiat?

His brother disrupted his thoughts by rising to his feet and picking up the parchment from the desk with a gesture of disgust.

“Money is the most helpless thing in the world,” he said scathingly. “It is nothing in itself. Men’s cupidity lends it value. The real and lasting things of this world are the things that can be locked away in the vaults of the mind. I would trade all the riches of the world for the translation of this parchment I hold in my hand.”

Bertie looked at the parchment with new respect.

“What is it?” he asked. “A new system on the ponies?”

His brother sighed and placed the parchment carefully in the drawer of the desk. There was a despairing gleam in his eye.

“Make yourself at home,” he said. “I am going out. In the park the birds are chattering and the loons are on the lake, so I will be thinking of you, Bertrand.”

After his brother left, Bertie prowled about the library, glancing vaguely at the grimly titled books on the shelves, and musing darkly on his own troubles.

Things did look pretty blackish, he decided with a sigh. It was apparent that his brother’s opinion concerning him had not undergone any changes for the better in the past months. And if his brother didn’t change his mind, Lohengrin was a long way off.

Saddened, Bertie slumped into the chair before his brother’s desk. But Bertie’s mind, such as it was, was incapable of dwelling for more than two consecutive minutes on any problem. Even his own feeling of frustration and disappointment faded away, leaving him again his vacantly cheerful self.

Whistling, he picked up the massive, black leather bound book from his brother’s desk. In the back of his mind was the vague idea that since his brother practically burned incense before these crypts of entombed learning, it would do him no harm to dip into their musty depths and see what was what.

The first yellowed page of the book bore, in archaic lettering, the ominous inscription:

Interested, Bertie turned another page. There, he learned after glancing down a few paragraphs, the proper technique for summoning forth the demons from the sixth pit of the fourth lower world.

“Well, well,” muttered Bertie. “It’s darned simple at that. If anybody wanted a demon it shouldn’t be hard to arrange things.”

Thoroughly entranced, he browsed on, until he came to a tattered page which was headed in solid black letters,

There he paused. As nearly as he could figure it out one had simply to mutter a bit of mumbo-jumbo and — presto! Everything became as clear as crystal. He thought wistfully of the excellent use he could have put this device in his college days.

It was typical of Bertie that a book of mysterious incantations, designed to call up demons and impart superhuman knowledge, would cause him no surprise. He had a naive confidence in the printed word; to the extent that anything on paper was automatically true.

As he was about to turn the page a wonderful thought popped into his head. It was so beautifully simple that it took his breath away.

Quickly he re-read the directions on the Mystic Clarification page. They weren’t difficult. In fact it only took him a few minutes to repeat aloud the incantation that was part of the ritual. He waited a moment then, expecting something in the way of a blazing ball to explode in his head, but nothing happened.

Undaunted he pulled open the drawer of his brother’s desk and removed the heavy parchment which his brother had been vainly attempting to translate.

After a quick glance over the symbols inscribed on its ancient surface he chuckled heartily.

“It works,” he cried gleefully.

Picking up a pencil from the desk he scribbled down the translation on the back of a piece of scratch paper. This would certainly set him in solid with his brother. It was wonderfully simple. Why, it was just as easy as reading something written in English.

This idea had hardly grazed his mind, when a dampening thought occurred to him. Glancing at the writing on the parchment paper again was enough to clinch his suspicions. The thing was written in English. Even Bertie possessed sufficient intelligence to realize that it was this that made the translation so simple.

The pencil slipped from his disappointed fingers. He obviously had the wrong parchment. A hurried search of the desk drawer and the shelves over the desk disclosed no other untranslatable parchments, so he assumed, with one of his unusual flashes of brilliance, that his brother must have put the document somewhere else.

“Oh well,” he sighed, “his loss after all.”

With a shrug he turned back to the fascinating book. For the rest of the afternoon he amused himself by reciting aloud a number of the euphonious incantations, all of which applied to various types of goblins, witches and demons. He had reached voodooism when the sport began to pall on him. After all even the creatures of the Nether Cosmos grow tiresome if taken in too large doses.

With a yawn he tossed the heavy book back to the desk and sauntered from the library. The house was dark. No cheery bustling from the region of the kitchen indicated that toothsome meals were being prepared for him, so, with a martyred sigh, he ascended the stairs to the guest bed room.

He wasn’t really hungry, for he had eaten on the train, so he decided to hit the hay and thus convince his brother that he was really the soul of virtuous respectability. Ordinarily the eve of the traditional game between State and Mosswood college would find Bertie carousing about the bright spots of the town, wassailing with boon and beery companions until the wee sma’. When his brother returned and found him tucked peacefully away in bed and sleeping the sleep of the innocent and the just, perhaps it would soften his heart a bit.

So with these cheerful speculations buzzing about in his head Bertie turned off the dark hallway and groped his way into the bed room he intended to occupy.

Possibly it was because of this preoccupation that he did not notice the acrid odor of sulphurous smoke which was drifting through the room. That is, he didn’t notice it right away.

It wasn’t until he was in the middle of the room that he paused and sniffed the air.

“What ho!” he said, startled. “Something burning I’ll bet.”

Bertie was generally not so swift with his deductions. Now, possibly as a result of his studious afternoon, he was unusually sharp.

“Where there’s smoke there’s fire,” he reasoned shrewdly.

He was just moving to the window to let in a little fresh air when he noticed a peculiar thing.

Circling him on all sides and silhouetted against the blackness of the room were several dozen pairs of gleaming white eyes.

Bertie glanced carefully about to be sure he was not imagining things. His scrutiny convinced him that he was not imagining anything at all. The eyes were there, round and white, and they all seemed to be staring directly at him.

Now the average young man stumbling into a room full of staring white eyes would probably do his thinking with his legs and dash from the room at top speed.

This would have been the sensible thing to do, which is probably why Bertie did nothing of the sort.

He peered at the circle of eyes with interest.

As his eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness of the room he made out several dark shapes perched about. They appeared only as vague outlines and their shadowy forms were unlike anything Bertie had ever seen. Of their faces he could see nothing. Only the white staring eyes and the lumpy black shapes were visible. There must have been at least eight or ten of them, perched on the furniture of the room. “Well, well,” Bertie muttered.

He was not frightened, but he had the strange feeling that he should have been. The situation was rapidly developing into an impasse. After all he couldn’t just stand there and stare at these strange things which had chosen his bedroom as a roosting place.

He cleared his throat, while he tried to think of something that would more or less break the ice.

“Well, well,” he said finally. “Warm for May, isn’t it?”

There was a sound like the rustle of dead leaves as one of the vague, formless shapes seemed to stir slightly. A soft, strangely toneless voice said, “We have come to do your bidding, Oh Master. From the haunts of the nether cosmos we have traveled. By the unseen powers that bind us, what Is your wish?”

Bertie listened to the sepulchral voice with mingled emotions. He was touched by the fact that these things — whatever they were — seemed to be anxious to help him. That, however, did not alter the fact that there was something deuced peculiar about the whole matter.

“Well,” he said uncertainly, “it’s nice of you to — to stop in like this. But just who are you, anyway?”

“I am Xanthos,” the toneless voice replied softly.

Peering about Bertie couldn’t tell which of the shadowy beings was speaking. Not that it made a great deal of difference.

“I’m Crimmins, Bertie Crimmins,” Bertie said companionably, “Class of ’39. Are you boys here for the game tomorrow?”

“We are here,” the toneless voice replied, “to do your bidding.”

“Very nice of you,” Bertie said warmly, “but I don’t need anything just now. If I do I’ll be glad to throw the business your way.”

There was no answer from the darkness. Peering about Bertie saw that the circle of eyes had disappeared and that the formless dark shapes had likewise vanished. He also noticed that the annoying odor of brimstone and sulphur had faded away.

“Well, well,” he said. “Neat trick, what?”

He stepped over and flicked on the light switch. Everything in the room seemed quite normal. It was unoccupied and the covers of the bed were turned down invitingly.

So Bertie undressed and went to bed.

He was just dozing off when a hazy fragment of thought brushed his mind, driving sleep away. Where had those strange dark creatures come from? Who and what were they?

These were the thoughts that buzzed about in his head like gadflies. They obviously weren’t college students or star boarders. The more he toyed with the problem the more interesting it became.

He tossed from one side to the other, tangling the covers about his neck. It must have been fully five minutes before the light dawned on Bertie.

When it did he almost chuckled out loud in relief.

The things — the vague black shapes — were obviously creatures such as described in the ancient leather bound book he had found on his brother’s desk. That was the first step of his reasoning. The second was simplicity itself. In his reading from the leather-bound book he had apparently called these creatures to his side. One of the mysterious incantations must have done the trick.

“Kind of a nasty stunt to pull on them,” he said thoughtfully. “But,” he decided philosophically, “it can’t be helped now. Whatever they are — demons, ghosts or ghouls — they’re here and they’ll just have to make the best of it.”

With a relieved sigh he snuggled down into the covers. Now he could sleep. With his little mystery logically explained he could close his eyes peacefully. He even felt somewhat superior about the matter. It wasn’t everyone who could whistle up a roomful of demons. No sir!

He slept like a babe.

The next morning he awoke, cheerful and refreshed and after a brisk shower trotted downstairs whistling enthusiastically.

His brother’s housekeeper met him at the foot of the stairs.

“Morning,” Bertie said brightly. “What’s sizzling for breakfast?”

“Breakfast was over two hours ago,” the housekeeper answered. It was apparent that this fact gave her a good deal of satisfaction.

“Oh,” Bertie said, his spirit wilting at the prospect of a breakfastless morning. “Well, is the big brain up yet?”

“If you are referring to your brother, he left some time ago. I believe he intended to meet the president of the college on a very important matter.”

“Oh,” Bertie said again.

Looking at his brother’s housekeeper’s grim jaw he decided that the prospects of wangling a spot of breakfast from her were extremely slim.

So, he decided to take his famished frame off to the local hotel, where he could also arrange for tickets for the day’s game between Mosswood and State and phone Ann.

With a stiff bow to the housekeeper he wrapped his injured dignity about him like a cloak and left the house.

The hotel lobby was a swarming mass of pennant-waving alumni and sharp looking bookmakers who were taking and giving bets on the game.

Bertie made for the hotel dining room and he was halfway through a plate of bacon and eggs when a disquieting thought struck him.

He signaled a waiter.

“I say,” he said, “I just remembered that I haven’t got tickets for today’s game yet. Can’t imagine how it slipped my mind. Will you pick me up a couple and bring them here like a fine fellow.” The waiter looked at him in slight astonishment.

“You can’t be serious, sir. Surely you must know that this game has been sold out for weeks. Why yesterday the scalpers were getting sixty dollars a pair for tickets. But now there are none available at any price.”

“Hmmmmm,” Bertie said thoughtfully. This was a pretty kettle of fish. Ann had her heart set on seeing the game. So, as a matter of fact, had Bertie. It would be more than tragic to miss it.

“Nothing you can do at all?” he asked the waiter.

“Not a thing, sir.”

“Very good. Thank you.”

“Yes sir.” The waiter moved away, leaving Bertie to his solitary gloom.

He speared a piece of bacon with unwonted savagery.

“I wish I had a ticket,” he muttered. “No, I wish I had two. There’s Ann to think of. I wish I had a hundred, a thousand of them.”

There was a faint rustle beside him. It was a sound like dry leaves scraping over hard, cold earth. Bertie hardly noticed it. He was so engrossed in his own misery that he didn’t hear the soft, toneless voice whisper,

“As you wish, Master!”

He went on eating, wondering what he could possibly use as an explanation to Ann. At last he was forced to the realization that nothing he could tell her would help things. She would consider this just another cotton-headed lapse on his part.

He was walking away from the table when the waiter’s voice called after him.

“Just a moment, sir. You’re forgetting your package.”

Bertie turned and saw that the waiter was lifting a small package from the table he had just left. The package was wrapped in brown paper and was about eight inches square.

“Is that mine?” he asked blankly.

“It must be,” the waiter said. “I know it wasn’t here when you arrived. I had just cleared the table and I remember distinctly.”

Bertie took the package in his hand. It wasn’t very heavy. He tried to remember whether or not he had had a package with him when he entered the hotel. The effort was a failure. He couldn’t. It might be his at that.”

“Thanks,” he said, “silly of me to forget it.”

He sauntered toward the lobby carelessly removing the outside wrappings from the package. After all if it belonged to him he had a right to know what it was, didn’t he?

As he reached the entrance of the lobby he had finished ripping the paper from the object. Only then did he glance down to see what it was he had been carrying about with him.

His knees almost failed him at the sight.

For the package contained three neat stacks of tickets to the game between Mosswood and State. There must have been at least a thousand tickets and all of them were for locations from the forty to the forty yard line.

He was still standing, staring dumbly at the stacks of ducats when a heavy set, florid faced man bumped into him.

“Watch where you’re going,” the man growled. He started to pass on, but then his eye dropped to the bundle of tickets Bertie was holding in his hands. His eyes lighted excitedly.

“Are those for today’s game?” he demanded tensely.

“Why, yes,” Bertie said. “I guess they are.”

“For sale?” the man snapped.

The idea hadn’t occurred to Bertie, but now he examined it and found it an excellent one.

“All but two,” he answered.

The florid-faced man pulled out a well-padded wallet.

“I’ll give you fifty for a pair,” he said. “Okay?”

“That seems a fair price,” Bertie said thoughtfully.

The man paid him, and Bertie gave him two tickets on the fifty yard line.

“Tell your friends,” Bertie said genially. “Plenty left.”

He pocketed the money with a pleased smile and strolled on. This was excellent. Very fine, indeed.

Before he reached the center of the lobby he was receiving quite a bit of attention. Men stared unbelievingly at the thick stacks of tickets in his hands, then edged closer to him.

In no time at all Bertie made two more sales and now he had one hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket.

As the word flashed about the lobby that tickets were being sold, something in the nature of a mild stampede resulted.

“Don’t crowd, don’t crowd,” Bertie said affably. “There’s plenty here for everybody.”

To facilitate things he climbed onto a table in the center of the lobby. There he was able to pass out the tickets to the crowd below him with little difficulty. From their extended hands he plucked the green bills and the feeling of happiness within him grew deeper with each additional purchase.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said. “It’s really dirt cheap, you know. It’s practically a steal. Thank you, and you too. Who else? There you are. Fifty dollars to see Mosswood beat State is practically a robbery.”

Bertie became aware of a sharp featured, nattily dressed chap standing directly in front of the table, glancing up at him with unwinking gray eyes.

“Yes sir,” he said genially, “how many?”

“I got tickets,” the sharp featured little man answered, “I just heard you say Mosswood’s goin’ to beat State. Would you care to back that up With a little cash?”

“My dear fellow,” Bertie said in a kind voice, “do you actually mean to tell me that you have money to throw away? State does not have a chance, that’s all there is to it. Save your lettuce, my good chap. Invest it in annuities or life insurance, but don’t bet on State.”

The nattily dressed fellow pulled a roll of bills from his pocket.

“I’m not worrying. If you’re on Mosswood, put up or shut up.”

Bertie’s pride was touched to the quick.

“Sir,” he said, “name the amount and make it light on yourself.”

It took only a few moments to arrange the bet. The money was held by the hotel desk clerk. Bertie bet every cent he had made on the tickets and felt stoutly virtuous about it. After all, it wasn’t really gambling. It was just a quick pleasant manner of doubling his stakes.

The bet made, the sharp-featured little gambler smirked unpleasantly at him and swaggered away.

“Who is he?” Bertie asked the clerk “Him? Oh he’s one of the bookmakers who comes down to this game every year. They call him Sure Thing Lindsay.”

“Hmmmm,” Bertie said.

“That’s because he never bets on anything but a sure thing.”

“Hmmmm,” Bertie said again. “Sure Thing Lindsay, eh?”

It was while he was musing upon the unpleasant things that Mr. Lindsay’s nickname suggested that he felt a firm tap on his shoulder.

Turning, he was confronted by two solidly built gentlemen, dressed in gray overcoats and gray fedoras and wearing large black shoes.

“You the guy who’s scalping the tickets?” one of them asked.

Bertie’s spirits rose. Here was fresh fish.

“I’m the one, boys,” he said cheerfully. “Better get ’em now before the price goes up. How many?”

“Probably one to ten,” one of the gray overcoated men said grimly. He pulled a badge from his pocket and shoved it under Bertie’s nose. “We’ve been warning you scalpers all week and now I think we’re goin’ to make an example out of you. We didn’t think we’d find any of you dumb enough to scalp tickets right in the lobby of the leading hotel.”

“Now just a minute, gentlemen,” Bertie said feebly. “This is all some terrible mistake.”

“You said it. And you’re the one that made it. Come on.”

Bertie heard a metallic click and felt cold steel on his wrists. Handcuffed, and with a burly plainclothes man on either side of him, he was led across the lobby, protesting weakly and vainly-

Things looked very black. Gloomy thoughts bobbed through his head. What kind of a country was this turning into, anyway? A man tried to pick up an honest penny and he found himself bundled off to the bastille for possessing a little initiative.

He would certainly miss the game now. And so would Ann. Worse, he couldn’t get in touch with her and tell her he was in jail. That definitely would not be wise.

It was a terrible mess. He didn’t see how things could possibly be worse.

In this dark mood he was hustled across the lobby to the revolving doors that led to the street. There, to his intense humiliation, he was forced to stand like a culprit in the dock, while a steady flow of morbidly curious people surged past him.

Feeling as hounded and persecuted as Jean Valjean in Les Miserables, he nevertheless affected a blandly nonchalant pose. He even hummed a popular ditty and kept time with his feet. He’d show ’em. Let them try and break his spirit. So absorbed was he in this role that he didn’t notice the last two people to enter the revolving door.

He had no idea that disaster was practically nipping at his heels until a smooth, icily cold voice inquired,

“Is this your rehabilitated self?”

Bertie jerked himself around, the breath left his lungs in a gust as he recognized the cold, stern features of his brother.

With his brother was a short, thin, scholarly looking gentleman whom Bertie also recognized. This was Professor Overton, president of Mosswood college.

He was peering near-sightedly at Bertie through his horn-rimmed spectacles.

“I say, Professor,” he said to Bertie’s brother, “this chap with the handcuffs on reminds me of your brother.”

“He is my brother,” Bertie’s brother said bitterly. “What’s the charge, officer?” he asked, turning to one of the plain-clothes men.

“Scalping football tickets, peddling without a license, disturbing the peace and probably grand larceny.”

“Grand larceny!” Bertie gasped in outraged indignation. “I haven’t stolen anything.”

“Where’d you get them tickets?”

“I found them,” Bertie said stoutly. Bertie’s brother shook his head grimly.

“This,” he said, “is only a concrete example of what I told you yesterday. You are still mentally and physically incompetent. Anything which I can do to prevent your marrying some unsuspecting girl I most certainly will do. You have disgraced me completely, Bertrand. Continue with your duty, officers.”

Bertie was shoved through the revolving door, his protests and promises flowing back over his shoulder. Outside, one more calamitous experience was awaiting him.

Alighting from a cab at the entrance of the hotel was a slim, lovely blonde girl. As she turned to enter the hotel, Bertie staggered through the revolving door, his handcuffed hands extended before him to keep his balance.

The lovely blonde girl paused for an instant, then with a sob she turned and stepped back into the cab.

Only then did Bertie recognize her.

“Ann!” he cried frantically. “Ann! Things aren’t as bad as they look. This is all a joke. I lost a bet. Ann! Come back.”

But his words were practically smothered in the roar of the cab as it shot away from the curb and into the traffic.

Bertie was left quite alone. Not quite, because the two gray-overcoated officers were still with him. But in spirit he was bleakly and desolately alone.

“Madame Guillotine,” he said blackly, “I embrace you.”

“He’s nuts,” one copper said.

The other nodded.

The American jailing system, in Bertie’s opinion, had not been noticeably improved since last he had favored the institution with his presence.

The cell was small, the doors and windows barred. This last was the worst feature. It gave everything such a definite look.

He had been pacing the floor for five hours and now he gave up and slumped down on the cell’s narrow cot. With a touch of Yogi fatalism he had stopped worrying about Ann and his brother. For all practical purposes they were out of his life forever from henceforth onward. In later years when time had mellowed them, they might begin speaking to him again, but as for the present, he was a dead duck.

It was late afternoon, he decided by glancing up at the window. The Homeric struggle between Mosswood and State was probably in its final period by now. Soon it would be history.

He began pacing again. Of course losing the esteem and affection of his girl and his brother was a disastrous blow, but missing the annual game with State was no light matter in itself.

The fact that almost a thousand dollars of his money was on Mosswood only increased his feeling of frustration.

Overcome by anxiety he grabbed the bars and jerked at them foolishly.

“I want to get out of here,” he shouted. “Let me out, do you hear?” There was a rustle behind him.

“I hear you, Master!” a soft, toneless voice whispered.

“What’s that?” Bertie said, startled. He peered through the bars into the empty corridor. “Who said that?”

“I, Xanthos, have heard you and am here to do your bidding, Master.”

This time Bertie turned around and saw a vague crouching shape in one dark corner of the cell. At the same time he remembered his experience with the demons the night before. Another thing dawned on him. He suddenly realized from where the football tickets had come. Xanthos, or one of his ghoul apprentices, had obviously been responsible for that. He was surprised that he hadn’t thought of this before.

“Well, Xanthos,” he said sternly. “It seems that everything you do gets me into trouble. I can’t say as I like it either.”

“I am sorry,” the cold lifeless voice said, “but I cannot help that. I must obey your commands.”

“Supposing I give you a command right now,” Bertie asked cautiously. “What then?”

“I would obey.”

“Supposing I would tell you to get me out of this blasted jail?”

“It would be accomplished.”

“Then,” Bertie said contentedly, “your days of unemployment are over. Get to work.”

“As you wish, Master.”

The dark shape in the corner flitted out of the range of his vision and the next instant he felt a pair of sharp claws resting on his shoulder.

“Do not be alarmed,” Xanthos’ voice was almost in his ear. “I am on your shoulder. We will leave together.” Bertie started to turn his head but Xanthos’ voice, suddenly as chilling as ice, stopped him.

“Do not look as you value your sanity!”

“Why?” Bertie asked stubbornly. “Do not look,” Xanthos repeated. “You would not — like what you would see. I am not — pleasing to the eye.”

“Sorry, old chap,” Bertie said, touched. “I know just how you feel. I was self-conscious when I had pimples on my face. All in the mind, though, all in the mind. Just forget about how you look and people won’t notice you.”

“Let us leave,” Xanthos said.

“Sure thing,” Bertie said eagerly. “Just how do we go about it? Ride away on a broom?”

“Certainly not,” Xanthos answered. “My method is less involved.”

Bertie heard a sharp metallic click, then the barred door of the cell swung open.

“Well, well,” he exclaimed delightedly. “That is simple.”

He stepped jauntily from the cell. With the confidence that Xanthos could handle any situation that might arise, he strode cheerfully down the corridor. The heavy steel door that separated the cell block from the jailer’s office looked impregnable. But before he reached it, it swung ponderously open.

The warden was dozing comfortably before a pot-bellied stove when he heard the hinges of the massive door creak warningly. He opened his eyes and struggled to his feet just as Bertie sauntered nonchalantly into his office.

His hand speared for the gun at his hip.

Bertie felt an uncomfortable sensation at the pit of his stomach.

“Now don’t do anything rash,” he said nervously.

His admonition was unnecessary. For the warden’s bulging, incredulous gaze was riveted in horror at a point about five inches above Bertie’s left shoulder.

His lips twisted and the gun slid from his limp fingers. Then with a soft moan he pitched forward to the floor.

“That is fortunate,” Xanthos said drily. “When he comes to he will think this was just a nightmare. Had he remained conscious any longer he would spend the rest of his life in a strait jacket.”

“You can’t be that bad,” Bertie scoffed. “You’ve got a touch of an inferiority complex, that’s all. You ought to read Dale Carnegie. He’d straighten you out.”

“Nevertheless,” Xanthos said, “I shall make myself invisible for the rest of our trip. You may look now with safety.”

Bertie turned his head and saw nothing. But he could still feel the grip of the claws on his shoulder.

“What is your wish now?” Xanthos inquired.

“I’ll let you know when we get to the game,” Bertie said, glancing through the window at the setting sun. “That is if we get there on time.”

When they arrived at the jam-packed stadium the minutes of the fourth quarter were ticking away and Mosswood College was trailing by six points.

Bertie squirmed his way through the crowd to the middle of the field. One anguished glance told him that State was threatening to score again.

They had the ball on the Mosswood’s thirty yard line. And on their first play from scrimmage a fleet-footed State back broke loose and streaked for the Mosswood goal.

“Xanthos!” Bertie cried. “Do something!”

“This seems beyond my ken,” Xanthos answered. There was a bewildered note in the demon’s voice. “Everything is so confused and upset. What is it you want me to do?”

“Stop that man!” Bertie shrieked. “That man that the others are chasing. “Don’t let him get away.”

“As you wish,” Xanthos muttered.

Bertie felt the claws on his shoulders tighten. But his eyes were riveted on the sprinting State back. He was racing down the field, yards ahead of the nearest Mosswood player... Past the fifteen... the ten... the five...

“Xanthos!” Bertie screamed. “You’re a washout. You’re fired. You—”

The words froze on his lips. For an incredible, unimaginable thing had happened on the field. Along the end of the gridiron, just before the goal line, a huge yawning pit had miraculously opened.

From this black pit flames shot forth, forking their way through the belching waves of sulphur laden smoke which poured out with them.

The touchdown-bound State back wheeled from this trench of hideous fire and brimstone and, with a wild bellow of fright, raced in the opposite direction.

A solid roar of incredulous sound burst from the throats of the spectators. On the field the two teams milled about in hopeless confusion and bewilderment. All, that is, except the State back who was still legging it in the opposite direction, the ball held tightly under one arm.

In the wild, screaming crowd there was only one person who had any idea of what had happened. And that was Bertie Crimmins. He knew that Xanthos had been the agency behind this miraculous demonstration-The knowledge brought him a warm glow of contentment. How could he lose with such forces backing him?

Listening to the excited comments about him he realized that no one had an accurate idea of what had happened. There was a different and conflicting story on every pair of lips.

Then a new roar broke from the crowd.

The frantically fleeing State back was racing for the Mosswood College goal line! Those of his teammates who had recovered their senses started after him, shouting desperately.

But the roar of the crowd drowned out their voices, and amid a deafening volume of noise, the State back galloped over the wrong goal line, giving Mosswood six points and tying up the game.

Bertie relaxed, sighing happily.

The game was tied up now, and with a bit of assistance from Xanthos, it would soon be in the bag. At least from the wreckage of his life he could salvage his bets and start anew.

“Well done, Xanthos,” he said complacently. “Now just arrange things for a Mosswood touchdown and everything will be jake.”

There was no answer.

“Xanthos!” he said sharply. “Do you hear me?”

Silence.

A bead of perspiration stood out on Bertie’s forehead. There was a cold empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Xanthos!” he said pleadingly. “Don’t get in a sulk now. I really need you.”

There was no answer. And when the game ended a few moments later, a tie twelve to twelve, there was still no evidence of Xanthos.

Bertie’s head sagged forward against his chest. The crowd surged past his lonely figure but he hardly noticed. Time passed. It was almost dark before Bertie stood up and left the stadium.

He realized with bitter clarity that his thoughtless dismissal of Xanthos had been final and definite. He had fired Xanthos. And Xanthos evidently meant to stay fired.

There was only one bright spot in the otherwise gray scheme of things. He hadn’t lost all of his money. In the case of a tie all bets were off, but this was somehow negative compensation in the face of all he had lost.

He hailed a cab dispiritedly and gave his brother’s address. With a moody sigh he decided to leave town and lose himself to society. Years later he might emerge from the Australian bush, calm and kindly, forgetting the slings and arrows that had driven him there. Now they pressed on his soul like a drab pall. Life was very sad.

In this same cheerless state of mind, he entered his brother’s home. The light was on in the library and he could hear the low murmur of voices from the room. His hopes of slipping by unnoticed were blasted sky high as his brother suddenly appeared in the doorway, his face flaming with excitement.

“Bertie!” he shouted in a most unscholarly voice. “Come in here.”

With a fatalistic sigh Bertie entered the library. What devil’s brew was being hatched for him now he had no idea. Nor did he care. Nothing could ever bother him again.

Professor Overton, president of Mosswood, was standing beside his brother’s desk.

“It is absolutely incredible,” Bertie heard him murmur.

“What is, sir?” Bertie asked blankly.

“Bertie,” his brother said imploringly, “for once in your life think carefully. Did you write this?”

He thrust an envelope before Bertie, on which was scrawled — in Bertie’s handwriting — the words he had copied from the parchment.

“Why, I guess I did,” Bertie said.

“You guess?” his brother shouted. “Don’t you know?”

“Why yes,” Bertie said, a little startled by his brother’s vehemence, “I did write it. I copied it from the parchment that I found in the drawer of your desk.”

“This parchment?” his brother asked, extending the ancient papyrus toward him.

Bertie looked at it closely. Yes, it was the same one. Same paper, same ink — No! It wasn’t written in English as the other had been. It couldn’t be the same paper. The hieroglyphic scrawls on this parchment looked like the tracks of an inebriated chicken.

“Bertie,” his brother said weakly, “This writing on the back of the envelope which you claim to have written is a perfect translation of this parchment document which the entire university has been working on for two years. How did you do it?”

Bertie blinked as his brother’s words seeped into his brain. It didn’t really make sense even then. As far as he could gather he was being accused of having done something rather clever. This was so surprising that it rendered him speechless.

He was sure he hadn’t translated the abstruse and unintelligible document. The parchment from which he had copied had been as easy to read as English. He was opening his mouth to deny any connection with the translation when a staggering thought struck him.

Maybe he had actually translated it. At the time he had been under the influence of the Mystic Clarification formula and maybe the hieroglyphic symbols had only seemed to be English. That, undoubtedly, was it!

He paused and lighted a cigarette nonchalantly.

“How did I do it?” he repeated his brother’s question casually. “Well I hardly see how I can explain it to you. The principle involved is rather intricate. Tell me: Have you ever heard of the reverse double wing system?” His brother and Professor Overton shook their heads humbly.

Bertie smiled patronizingly.

“You see?” he said. “We just don’t have any common basis for discussion.”

“Bertie,” his brother said in a strangled voice, “when did you take up the study of philology?”

“Always liked the stuff,” Bertie said genially. “Sort of a hobby. Fine way to spend winter evenings.”

The front door bell rang then, saving Bertie from more embarrassing and penetrating questions.

A second later and Ann walked into the room, looking more blonde and more lovely than he had ever seen her. She stopped abruptly when she saw him.

“I didn’t come to see you,” she said stiffly. “I only came to leave a message for you that I was leaving.”

“Can’t all this wait a moment,” Professor Overton broke in testily. “Young man,” he said to Bertie, “I would be honored if you would consider joining the faculty staff of Mosswood College. Men of your erudition and intelligence are all too few in this troubled world. Mosswood needs you.”

Bertie’s brother laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve wronged you, Bertie. I can see that now. It makes me feel ashamed of myself. You can expect my blessing on anything you intend doing. Particularly if you are figuring on setting up a partnership.”

Bertie turned toward Ann, and in three seconds flat she was in his arms.

“Darling,” she murmured against his coat, “I don’t understand any of it, but you seem like a new person. I’m sure that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for your having been arrested and everything.”

“There certainly is,” Bertie said happily. “Fact is, they caught me with the goods. No! I mean it was all a case of mistaken identity.”

He put his arms about the girl of his dreams and sighed happily. One minute he had been hopelessly crushed and the next thing he’d been transported to the clouds.

He was conscious that his brother was beaming fondly upon him and that even Professor Overton was bestowing admiring glances in his direction. Everything was excellent. Except — “By the way,” he said casually, “there’s a leather bound book on your desk that kind of interested me. All about — demons and such. Anything to that stuff, you suppose?”

His brother laughed heartily.

“I know the book,” he said. “It would take someone with the mind of a child to believe in the existence of such creatures. Demons. The very idea is ridiculous.”

“So it is,” Bertie said. “So it is.” He laughed at the absurdity of it all and then he kissed Ann very soundly. Later, however, he couldn’t get the idea out of his head that as he was kissing her a toneless voice whispered, “Very excellent effort, Master.”