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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b02af1b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69667 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69667) diff --git a/old/69667-0.txt b/old/69667-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 71987fe..0000000 --- a/old/69667-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1003 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The giftie gien, by Malcolm Jameson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The giftie gien - -Author: Malcolm Jameson - -Release Date: December 30, 2022 [eBook #69667] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIFTIE GIEN *** - - - - - - THE GIFTIE GIEN - - By Malcolm Jameson - - Illustrated by Kramer - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Unknown Worlds April 1943. - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - -It was five o'clock. The girls were getting ready to go home and the -city salesmen were beginning to come trooping in. Mr. J. C. Chisholm, -sales manager of the Pinnacle Office & Household Appliance Corp., -folded his pudgy hands across his ample middle and sat back in his -chair to watch the daily ritual going on beyond the clear-glass -partition that separated his office from the salesmen's room. A bland -smile was on his pink face and a stranger might have said that he -appeared to be beaming with satisfaction and good will. At any rate, -the smile was there, and, as a matter of fact, Mr. Chisholm was quite -satisfied with himself. There was not the slightest doubt in his -mind--and the incoming orders up to that hour were added proof of -it--that he was the best little old sales manager POHAC had ever had. -Consequently, he viewed the activities beyond the partition with the -utmost amiability. - -Miss Maizie Delmar, his secretary, sat beside him, her notebook on her -knee and her pencil poised in anticipation of any weighty utterance he -might see fit to make. Not that she expected to take any notes for the -next ten minutes, for she knew her boss quite as well as he thought he -knew everybody else. This was the "psychic hour," as she caustically -referred to it when outside the smothering confines of POHAC's. It -amused Mr. Chisholm to display his keen powers of observation and his -uncanny judgment of people. So she waited with a hard, set face for -his first prediction. She knew that he would look at her from time to -time to get her reaction, but she was ready for that. She had a little -frozen smile and a gleam to put into her tired eyes that she could -flash on and off like a light, but she reserved those until they were -demanded. - -"Har-rum," he observed, "Miss Carrick has now finished dabbing her -nose. In exactly forty-three seconds she will fold her typewriter under -and slam the lid. Then she will go to the window and look at the sky. -It is cloudy, so she will put on her galoshes and take an umbrella." - -He started his stop watch. Miss Delmar sighed inaudibly and waited. Of -course he was right. Miss Carrick was an elderly and sour spinster and -decidedly "set in her ways." She was as predictable as sunset and the -tides. - -"Forty-four seconds," he announced, triumphantly, snapping off the -watch at the bang of the desk top. "Don't tell me. I know these people -like a book. Nobody can slip anything over old J.C." - -Miss Trevelyan was the next subject for prophecy. She had a -well-established routine that was almost as rigid as that of Miss -Carrick, though she was of a different type. Miss Trevelyan was a -baby-doll beauty of the Betty Boop variety and with the voice to match. -At the moment she was regarding herself anxiously in a ridiculously -small compact mirror, tilting her head this way and that with quick -birdlike jerks so as to better scrutinize nose, cheeks, eyes and ears. -After that, as J.C. gleefully foretold, would come the powdering, the -lip-sticking, the eyebrow-brushing--in the order named--and eventually -an elaborate tucking-in of imaginary wisps of vagrant hair. J.C. -didn't miss a bet. - -Then three salesmen came in. Jake Sarrat, the big, jovial ace of the -wholesale district, slapped the other two on the back, hurled his -brief case and kit into a desk drawer, made a brief phone call, and -then went out. Old Mr. Firrel wore his usual somber, tired look, and -walked slowly to the bare table they had let him use. He unbent his -lanky and stooped six feet of skin and bones and began dragging copious -sheafs of notes from his brief case. Those he glanced at briefly and -began tearing up, one by one. The third, a saturnine little fellow who -appeared to be perpetually angry, marched straight to his desk and -began scribbling furiously on a pad of report blanks. He was Ellis -Hardy, Chisholm's pet. - -"Jake," said Mr. Chisholm, confidently, "is working up a big case and -wants to surprise me with it. Watch his smoke before the week is over. -Ellis has just brought in a big one--stick around, we may pour a drink -before we call it a day. As for Old Dismal, he's quitting. The poor -dope!" - -He twirled his chair around to face a mahogany cabinet. He opened the -door of it, took out a bottle and glass, and poured himself a stiff -slug of rye. He tossed it off with a grunt and swiveled back. - -"That guy is not a salesman and never will be," he snorted -contemptuously. "Look at him! He looks like a tramp and as mournful as -a pallbearer. When I talk to him about dolling himself up he says he -hasn't the dough; when I tell him to cheer up and wear a smile, he -croaks about his stomach ulcers. What do I care how hard he works if he -never brings the bacon in? Why, if that poor drip ever took a look at -himself in the mirror, he'd go hang himself." - -Maizie gripped her pencil harder and quoted softly: - - "Ah, wad some power the giftie gie us - To see oursels as ithers see us--" - -"That's right," exclaimed Mr. Chisholm. "You get it. Take me. I'm -always on the lookout for that. If I didn't watch myself, I might turn -stout. But no, I'm wise. I don't wait for people to tell me--I go to -the gym three times a week and have a good work-out. The rubber says -there's not a spare ounce on me. There's no crime in being big--people -respect a big man, don't you think?" - -"They do get out of their way," admitted Maizie, flashing her stock -smile, and batting her eyelids appreciatively. After all, he paid her -forty a week and she had a paralyzed mother to support. - -"Exactly," he continued, gratified, "and that's only appearance I'm -talking about. The big thing is personal relations. Look how often -somebody takes me for an easy-mark and tries to slip something over. -I fool 'em, don't I? That's because I keep studying myself. I say to -myself, say I, 'Look here, J.C., this bird thinks he's smart; now -show him you're smarter.' Good system, eh? That's what comes of taking -an objective view of yourself. That's why I keep all those psychology -books around. You have no idea--" - -"It must be grand to be so masterful, to be able to hold down such a -big position ... and ... and all that," she said, hoping the blush it -cost her wouldn't be noticed. - -But there was a diversion at hand. Ellis Hardy was approaching and she -knew without being told what was about to happen. In line of duty she -listened in--with the connivance of Miss Perkins, the PBX operator--on -salesmen's telephone conversations. In fact, she was the modest source -of much of Mr. Chisholm's omniscience. - -Hardy came in without the ceremony of knocking, and promptly sat down -on top of Chisholm's desk. He threw down a sheaf of filled-out orders. -A certified check running to five figures was clipped to the top. - -"Got 'em," announced Hardy with a self-satisfied smirk. "Eight SXV -units, motor-driven, complete with accessories and a year's supply. -That's for the head office. I sold 'em four more for the branches." - -"Attaboy!" responded Chisholm, doing another rightabout-face. This time -he set out three glasses with the bottle. "Moore & Fentress, eh? I -told you they would be push-overs. Don't ever say I don't give you the -breaks--that was like getting money from home." - -"Uh-huh," admitted Hardy, with a reluctant grin. "Of course that sap -Firrel--" - -"Never mind Firrel," snapped Chisholm, "I'll handle him. The money's -the thing." - -"Oh, sure," said Hardy, "as soon as my check comes through--" - -"Drink up," said Chisholm, waving a deprecating hand. There was no need -of Maizie knowing _too_ much--she was discreet and loyal and all -that, but still-- - -Firrel was at the door, standing hesitantly as if unwilling to -interrupt the conference going on, but fidgeting as if anxious to be on -his way. - -"Scram, Ellis," said Chisholm, seeing the gaunt old man. "Let me hear -what this egg's wail is." - - * * * * * - -Hardy grinned his sour grin and stepped out, giving Mr. Firrel but the -curtest nod in passing. Firrel came in, and not being invited to sit, -stood awkwardly before the desk. Maizie felt sorry for the man. He was -so earnest, so sincere, such a hard worker--yet he had been with them -more than a month and the few commissions he had received could hardly -have done more than pay his carfare. It was pathetic. - -"Well?" asked Chisholm, hard and cross, as if annoyed at the intrusion. - -"I'm quitting," said Firrel. "That's all." - -"Suit yourself," said Chisholm, indifferently. "I never begged a man to -work for me and I can't see myself starting now. Check out with Miss -Delmar. Give her your kit and turn over the list of prospects you have -been working on--not that I think they are any good. It's the rule, you -know." - -"You can go to hell," said Mr. Firrel, very quietly. Maizie noticed -that his knuckles were white and his hands tense. "I called in to -see Mr. Fentress this afternoon. He told me to. That was a week ago. -He said that they had to await the authorization of their Board of -Directors before signing an order. I found out what had happened." - -"So what?" roared Chisholm savagely. "Do you think we could keep -open if we ran on a sometime, if and when basis? Alibis are all -you ever have ... at the end of the quarter ... when they take the -inventory ... when Mr. Goofus gets back from the West Coast. We want -business _now_. That's why I sent Hardy when they called up this -morning and wanted to know why our man hadn't been around. _He_ doesn't -stall and make alibis for himself. He gets 'em on the dotted line. I -couldn't let you muff a big order like this one." - -Chisholm waved the order under his nose, then laid it face down so the -amount on the check would not show. - -"Of course," the sales manager went on, in that -I-lean-over-backward-being-a-good-fellow manner he assumed at times, -"if you really feel that you have anything coming to you for what -preliminary work you did, I'm sure I can make Hardy see it that way. -He'll cut you in. That's a promise. Would a twenty, say, help out?" - -He pulled out his wallet and opened it. Maizie took one glance at the -smoldering hatred and contempt in the weary eyes of the man before the -desk and then hastily dropped her own to the notebook on her knee. If -only someone would sock the porcine jowl of her detested employer! - -"You heard me," said Firrel with a cold distinctness that cut. "You can -go to hell." - -He turned abruptly and walked out. A moment later the outer door -slammed. - -"Never mind trying to piece out his torn prospect cards, Maizie," said -POHAC's eminently successful sales manager. "We have a file of his -daily reports. Hardy can work just as well from those." - -"Yes, sir," said Maizie. Her rent was over-due, and the doctor had -said-- - -She swept out of the office and down the hall to the washroom. Her -nails were biting into her palms and her eyes were brimming. - -"Oh, the louse," she moaned over and over again, "the louse, the dirty, -dirty louse! If I were only a man--" - -Then those lines of Burns came to mind again: - - "O, wad some power the giftie gie us--" - -"That would do," she cried fervently. "Hang himself! If he only saw -himself as I see him, he'd be lucky if he _could_ hang himself." - -Seven o'clock came. Mr. Chisholm took one final snort before putting on -his hat and turning out the lights. He must be in fine form when he met -Mr. Lonigan. Lonigan was an important buyer and he was coming in on the -_Rocket_ at seven thirty. The evening was already planned. He was -to meet the buyer, take him to dinner, then meet the McKittricks in the -lobby of the Palace Theater. Mr. McKittrick was the president of POHAC -and had six box seats for the show. With him would be Mrs. McKittrick, -Mrs. Chisholm, and a certain very personable young woman whom the -company employed from time to time to fill in on just such occasions. -It promised to be a gay evening, and as soon as he had a chance to -whisper to the big boss about the order he had topped the day off with, -even McKittrick would concede that he had the best sales manager ever. - -Chisholm jabbed the elevator button, whistling merrily as he stood back -to watch the oscillations of the telltale above the door. - -"Nice night, Jerry," he said cheerily to the elevator man. - -"A very nice night, sir," agreed Jerry. But he never took his eyes off -the column of blinking ruby lights before his nose. Mr. Chisholm was to -be the most mistrusted when he was in a benign mood. It was usually the -come-on for some probing and tricky questions. Like, "I saw Mr. Naylor -get in your car awhile ago. What a card! He's higher'n a kite tonight. -_Ha, ha._" _Any_ response to a remark of that sort was sure -to mean trouble for somebody. - -Chisholm was in an expansive mood and strode along as if he owned the -earth. He felt fine. It did not matter that ten of his men had quit -that week, and not all of them had been as restrained as old man Firrel -in their good-bys. What did he care for the weak sisters? An ad in -tomorrow's papers would fill up the anteroom with forty more. If they -clicked--weeks from now--so much the better; if not, how could he lose? -POHAC's sales department was strictly a straight commission outfit. - -He turned through the park. It was not only a short cut but pleasanter -walking, except for the beggars. One met him and whined for a cup of -coffee, but Chisholm growled at him and stalked on by. Farther on he -came to a place where the path passed through some heavy shrubbery. -There were deep shadows there and he hesitated a moment. He would have -felt better if a policeman were in sight. Then he reminded himself of -what puny creatures most of the panhandlers were and of his own brawn. -He walked on. - -A man was coming toward him. Just as he supposed, the man was another -beggar. He asked for a dime. Chisholm realized it was dark where he was -and thought perhaps a dime was cheap insurance against an argument. He -stopped and groped in his change pocket for the coin. At that moment -something happened. The beggar suddenly grasped his right arm, while -another man stepped out of the bushes and grabbed his left. At the -same instant someone from the rear locked an arm about his throat and -lifted. He was off his feet and choking--skilled hands were exploring -his pockets--he kicked and squirmed only to feel the viselike grip -on his neck tighten maddeningly. There was an inward _plop_ and -something cracked just under his skull with a sharp detonation and a -blinding flare of light. Mr. Chisholm had been brutally mugged. Mr. -Chisholm was quite dead. - - * * * * * - -Two hours and a quarter later a group of four were still waiting -impatiently in the foyer of the Palace. An angry man from St. Louis -sat in the back of a cafeteria eating his supper. He had not been met -at the station as promised; neither the office phone, nor McKittrick's -or Chisholm's home phones had answered. Not that he minded missing -Chisholm particularly--he had always thought him a phony--but he did -like the McKittricks. The party at the theater were equally angry, -though they showed it less. - -"Well," remarked Mrs. McKittrick acidly to her husband in a moment when -the others were occupied, "how much longer are you going to wait for -that stuffed-shirt of a head salesman of yours?" - -"One minute--no more," said McKittrick, glaring at his watch. "If it's -any comfort to you, he's being canned as of coming Monday. The office -turnover since he's been in charge is something scandalous." - -In the other corner of the foyer the smartly gowned creature brought -along for the delectation of Mr. Lonigan was growing restive also. She -turned to Mrs. Chisholm. - -"Whatever could have happened to your husband?" she asked sweetly. - -"Drunk, I suppose," answered Mrs. Chisholm calmly. "I hope so. I hear -this is a good show and I want to enjoy it, even if we have missed half -the first act. My husband, you know, fancies himself as a dramatic -critic. He is quite unbearable, I assure you." - -"Oh, really?" said the fair young thing. It was best to be -noncommittal, she thought, though she had been secretly wondering for -some time how long Mrs. Chisholm No. 3 was going to stick it out. No -other Mrs. Chisholm had ever finished out the first year, despite the -Chisholm legend of what a "way" he had with the gals. - -"Let's go on in," said Mr. McKittrick, pocketing his watch. - -It was about then that the park police stumbled across the defunct -sales manager's broken form. It was already a long time after Mr. -Chisholm had temporarily forgotten all about Hardy and Firrel and -Maizie and Lonigan and the theater party. For in some places a matter -of a couple of hours or so seems longer. It was that way where Mr. -Chisholm was. - - * * * * * - -First, there was all that tiresome marching. Chisholm found himself -on a vast gray plain under a dull leaden sky, marching, marching, -marching. It was odd that it tired him so, for it was effortless and -timeless and the distances, though interminable, seemed meaningless. -It must have been the monotony of it. And then, also, he found those -marching with him strangely disturbing. Some were healthy-looking men -like himself, except that most of them were gashed or mangled in some -way, as if hurled through plate glass or smashed by bombs. Others were -haggard and pallid, as if coming from sickbeds. But it was the soldiers -that got him most. He had forgotten about the war. It had touched -him but slightly, though his impressions of it had been irritating, -but not in a flesh and blood way. The silly business of priorities, -price controls and sales taxes had annoyed him exceedingly, and the -outrageous income-tax boosts had infuriated him. Now he was getting -another slant on the conflict, for hordes--armies--of soldiers were -marching along with him. They were of every kind--Russians, Japs, -Tommies, Nazis, even American bluejackets and soldiers--and mingled -with them were miserable-looking civilians of every race. A pair of -wretched-looking Polish Jews walking near him had obviously been hanged -but a short time before. Chisholm edged away from them in horrified -disgust. - -He was beginning to tumble to the fact that he was dead, and was -getting restive with the monotonous tramping across the plain. He -had never been a devout man, or even a philosophical one, so he had -little idea of what to expect, except that certain childhood memories -or notions kept intruding themselves upon his consciousness. Wasn't -there some sort of trial coming to him? Not that the prospect worried -him much. At least, not very much. For he had always dealt justly with -people according to his lights, he insisted to himself. He couldn't -help it if there were venal people, or weaklings, or would-be tough -eggs that had to be pushed around. Nobody could be expected to get -through life without handling such types in the most appropriate way. -But where, oh where, was the judge that would pass judgment? - -After a time the crowd grew thinner. At length the shade of Chisholm -noted that he was virtually alone and treading a narrow path that led -upward over a shadowy hill. There was no one ahead of him or alongside, -but following him at a distance was a considerable multitude of -other shades of his own kind. He supposed that shortly after his own -unfortunate encounter with the thugs a catastrophe of some sort had -developed locally. He could not resist the malicious half hope that it -might have been a theater fire. Somehow it irked him that his latest -wife should still be alive and fattening on his property while he was -tramping these gray wilds. Nor would it have upset him to know that -McKittrick had been caught in the same disaster. McKittrick, in his -estimation, was a pompous ass whom he would have shown up if he could -have lived just a little longer. As far as that went, he could also -have viewed with equanimity the decease of the girl that was brought -along for Lonigan. He hadn't forgotten the smart of her recent rebuff -of him, the little cat! - -With such thoughts in mind, he topped the rise and saw a wall with a -gate in it before him. The gate was open, so he went on in. He halfway -expected to be stopped, or at least greeted by an angel, but things -were just the same inside the gate as out--except that there was a -voice. The voice cried out in the manner of a train announcer, deep and -booming. - -"The prototype of Jerome Chester Chisholm!" - -Just that. That was all. - -Then a demon materialized directly in front of the shade of Chisholm. - -"This way, Jerome," he said very politely. He was not bad-looking--for -a demon--though he was unmistakably one, having the expected stock -properties: a reddish, glistening skin, stubby horns, and shiny -jet-black eyes. - -"'J.C.' is what people call me," corrected Chisholm. He had never -dealt with a demon before, but since the demon appeared to be friendly -he thought he might as well respond with a gesture of his own. - -"Better stick to Jerome," advised the demon. "I'll admit it's not -pretty, but it's safe. When you start being known by what people -_call_ you--well!" - -Mr. Chisholm sniffed. The demon's words had the faint odor of a dirty -crack. He was beginning not to like the demon. Also the import of -the unseen aërial announcement was puzzling him. What did it mean by -calling him the "prototype" of himself? It didn't make sense. - - * * * * * - -The demon was skittering along ahead, paying very little attention to -Chisholm, who was following along meekly enough. Presently a large -building loomed ahead. As they approached Chisholm could see that it -was an auditorium of some kind. He could also see that the mob of -shades were close behind and that they had no guiding demon with them. -Evidently they were following blindly in his own tracks. - -The demon turned into the door of the building and led the way up to -its stage. It was an auditorium. By the time they had reached the -platform, the crowd of ghosts behind were crowding into the place. They -soon filled it from wall to wall. - -"You must have been a pretty popular fellow," remarked the demon, -looking them over, "or the reverse. Notorious, you know." - -Chisholm didn't know. He had a reputation, he knew, as a go-getter and -a good fellow, but it was a modest one--restricted to his customers, -his salesmen, and people he met casually. He hardly expected this -turn-out. Moreover, he couldn't recognize anybody in the hall. As he -looked them over he was struck with one singularity of the crowd. Many -of them bore a family resemblance to him, some rather close, others -fantastically distorted. The majority looked like three-dimensional, -animated caricatures of him. One especially obnoxious one kept trying -to climb up onto the stage. He was far fatter than Chisholm himself -had ever been or could ever have been even if he had skipped the gym -workouts. - -The demon observed the look of profound distaste on Chisholm's face, -but only grinned a little and picked up a gavel. He rapped sharply on -the table. - -"Come to order, please," he said. "The convention is assembled." - -There was a momentary hush, and then pandemonium broke out. It was a -very disorderly crowd and an opinionated one, from the jeers that were -hurled up at the stage. It was hard to pick out what they were saying, -but the trend of it seemed to be that practically everyone there wanted -to preside or was full of hot ideas that demanded immediate and full -expression. The demon was unperturbed. He was an old hand. At intervals -he would bang with the gavel. At last he got a tiny bit of silence. - -"Fellow heels," he commenced, unblushingly, then paused to see what -uproar would follow. There was none. His insult had quieted the tumult -like oil on ruffled waters. He cleared his throat and went on. - -"We are gathered here to form the ghost of Jerome Chester Chisholm, -deceased, erstwhile sales manager of the Pinnacle Office & Household -Appliance Corp. We have all eternity, to be sure, but why waste it? -Coalesce, please, as rapidly as possible. For purposes of comparison, -your prototype is standing here beside me. Take it or leave it. That's -your affair." - -There were howls of "Chuck him out," "chiseler," "heel," "stuffed -shirt," and many, many less elegant epithets. Then an ominous silence -descended. The demon quietly pointed to a spot on the stage and the -procession started. One by one the specters mounted the stage, marched -to the spot and stood on it. Succeeding ones came on, each melting -imperceptibly into the one that had been there before. Gradually the -resultant figure took on more definite shape and looked far more solid -than any single shade in the hall. For many of them were so tenuous as -to be hardly visible. - -"Would you mind, sir," asked Mr. Chisholm, not knowing any better way -to address a demon, "telling me what this is all about? And after this -monkey business is over, when do I get my trial?" - -"Trial?" The demon laughed. "In one sense you have had your trial. This -is the result. In another sense, this is your trial. In either case, -the verdict is already found and the sentence fixed." - -"I don't get you," said Mr. Chisholm. "Who are all these ... er ... -spooks? And what have they got to do with me? They look like a flock of -comic Valentines." - -"They have plenty to do with you. They _are_ you." - -"Me! You're crazy. I'm me." He struck himself on the chest. - -"No. You are only one aspect of you," corrected the demon. "You are -a ghost now, and nothing more. Ghosts are intangible, immaterial -things--made of dream stuff, as your poets say. What you call you is -your own estimate of you. These creatures flocking up onto the stage -are other people's estimates of you. _You_--the you that we -recognize--is the composite of them all. Stick around. You are going to -learn something." - - * * * * * - -Chisholm turned his gaze back at the oncoming file of shades. They were -ghastly cartoons of himself, and malicious ones at that. Many of them -were unintelligible. - -"Hey," he said, "what's that thing coming up--that slender wisp of -smoke with the lumpy feet? If that is a conception of me, the guy that -thought it up has gone surrealistic." - -The demon looked. - -"Oh, that. Yes, it's weak. It is offered by a fellow named Percy -Hilyer. He roomed with you at school and has almost forgotten you. He -does remember that you were lean and lanky then and used to swipe his -socks and wear holes in them." - -"That's a hell of a thing to hold against a guy," complained Chisholm. - -The demon shrugged. - -"That is the way reputations are made. How do you like this one?" - -"This one" was the rambunctious shade who had tried to take charge of -the meeting at the outset. He was egregiously repulsive. - -"That," announced the demon blandly, "is the contribution of one Maizie -Delmar. Judging from its robustness and solidity, she knew you recently -and well." - -Chisholm's jaw had dropped and his eyes bulged. The thing was -incredible. Not Maizie's. Maizie was regular; dumb, maybe, but they got -along. - -"I take it Maizie was the tactful sort," remarked the demon with a sly -drawl, noting the amazement on Chisholm's loose face. Then, "Here comes -one that might suit you better." - -It was a fat, squally baby, drooling and flapping its pudgy arms. - -"One of your mother's contributions. Her favorite of many. You might -admire some, but they are all on the helpless side--not at all in -keeping with your hardboiled idea of the way to do things." - -Chisholm stood aghast and watched the endless procession. On they came, -one vile caricature after another. Nobody seemed to have forgotten him. -He expected the specter furnished by Firrel to be bad. It was. Malice -was not its creator, but sheer contempt. Chisholm had to turn his -face when it clambered up onto the stage. The office girls' offering -differed little from Maizie's except in intensity. The one held by -Hardy was a cruel surprise. He had done so much for Hardy. But he had -forgotten how he had made Hardy pay through the nose for favors. - -The greatest shocks were to follow. He steeled himself for whatever -opinions those first two wives held, but the current one had done a -devastating job of analysis. Even the demon whistled. Interspersed -between the major blows were minor ones, and not always shadowy. -Bootblacks, waiters, taxi drivers--on almost every casual contact he -had left a mark. Out of the lot there was only one that was glowingly -heroic. He could not refrain from asking the demon about it. The demon -bent his insight onto the wraith and pronounced: - -"A girl you met once--a pick-up. You kissed her on the Drive that -night, and then lost her phone number, you lucky dog." - -"Lucky?" - -"Yes. She never had a chance to know you better." - -Mr. Chisholm was glum. It wasn't right to be pilloried that way. They -simply couldn't do that to him. To hell with what all those people -thought. Who were they, anyhow? A lot of nitwit salesmen and office -help, gold-diggers and climbers! He knew he was all right. He had got -along. They were jealous and envious, that's what. He nudged the demon. - -"Hey," he called, "this is a democracy, ain't it? If these soreheads -have a vote, so do I. Don't _I_ come in?" - -"Sure, sure. It ought to help a lot, too. All these figures are -weighted, you have noticed, by degree of intimacy and one thing or -another. Since you have probably thought more about yourself than -anybody else has, even if you've been wrong most of the time, your -opinion counts." - -Chisholm looked down at himself confidently, and then his confidence -began to ooze. His own personality, it appeared, even when viewed from -his own standpoint, was more nebulous than he thought. He had never -taken himself apart with the critical fury employed by such persons as -Maizie, his wives and some others. It looked as if the almost-finished -monstrosity standing in the center of the stage was going to be the -image handed down to posterity. - -"It's not fair," he wailed. "What do all those yapping people really -know about me--motives, and all that? I never did anything I didn't -think was right, I never--" - -"Neither did Nero," said the demon calmly, "nor Torquemada, nor your -estimable contemporary, Hitler. Nevertheless, we cannot take an Ego at -its own valuation. Not where others are involved." - -Chisholm took a shuddering look at the hideous thing that was the -summation of all his world thought of him. It was intolerable. That, -then, was the verdict the demon had spoken of. - -"Your sentence," said the demon, as if he knew the thought, "is to -contemplate it from now on. It is all yours--your life's work. At least -it's definite, if that is any consolation." - -"I can't, I can't," moaned Mr. Chisholm. - -"Don't make things worse," warned the demon. - -The composite spook had just turned a bright, lemon yellow. - - - THE END. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIFTIE GIEN *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The giftie gien</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Malcolm Jameson</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 30, 2022 [eBook #69667]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIFTIE GIEN ***</div> - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<h1>THE GIFTIE GIEN</h1> - -<h2>By Malcolm Jameson</h2> - -<p>Illustrated by Kramer</p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br> -Unknown Worlds April 1943.<br> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<p>It was five o'clock. The girls were getting ready to go home and the -city salesmen were beginning to come trooping in. Mr. J. C. Chisholm, -sales manager of the Pinnacle Office & Household Appliance Corp., -folded his pudgy hands across his ample middle and sat back in his -chair to watch the daily ritual going on beyond the clear-glass -partition that separated his office from the salesmen's room. A bland -smile was on his pink face and a stranger might have said that he -appeared to be beaming with satisfaction and good will. At any rate, -the smile was there, and, as a matter of fact, Mr. Chisholm was quite -satisfied with himself. There was not the slightest doubt in his -mind—and the incoming orders up to that hour were added proof of -it—that he was the best little old sales manager POHAC had ever had. -Consequently, he viewed the activities beyond the partition with the -utmost amiability.</p> - -<p>Miss Maizie Delmar, his secretary, sat beside him, her notebook on her -knee and her pencil poised in anticipation of any weighty utterance he -might see fit to make. Not that she expected to take any notes for the -next ten minutes, for she knew her boss quite as well as he thought he -knew everybody else. This was the "psychic hour," as she caustically -referred to it when outside the smothering confines of POHAC's. It -amused Mr. Chisholm to display his keen powers of observation and his -uncanny judgment of people. So she waited with a hard, set face for -his first prediction. She knew that he would look at her from time to -time to get her reaction, but she was ready for that. She had a little -frozen smile and a gleam to put into her tired eyes that she could -flash on and off like a light, but she reserved those until they were -demanded.</p> - -<p>"Har-rum," he observed, "Miss Carrick has now finished dabbing her -nose. In exactly forty-three seconds she will fold her typewriter under -and slam the lid. Then she will go to the window and look at the sky. -It is cloudy, so she will put on her galoshes and take an umbrella."</p> - -<p>He started his stop watch. Miss Delmar sighed inaudibly and waited. Of -course he was right. Miss Carrick was an elderly and sour spinster and -decidedly "set in her ways." She was as predictable as sunset and the -tides.</p> - -<p>"Forty-four seconds," he announced, triumphantly, snapping off the -watch at the bang of the desk top. "Don't tell me. I know these people -like a book. Nobody can slip anything over old J.C."</p> - -<p>Miss Trevelyan was the next subject for prophecy. She had a -well-established routine that was almost as rigid as that of Miss -Carrick, though she was of a different type. Miss Trevelyan was a -baby-doll beauty of the Betty Boop variety and with the voice to match. -At the moment she was regarding herself anxiously in a ridiculously -small compact mirror, tilting her head this way and that with quick -birdlike jerks so as to better scrutinize nose, cheeks, eyes and ears. -After that, as J.C. gleefully foretold, would come the powdering, the -lip-sticking, the eyebrow-brushing—in the order named—and eventually -an elaborate tucking-in of imaginary wisps of vagrant hair. J.C. -didn't miss a bet.</p> - -<p>Then three salesmen came in. Jake Sarrat, the big, jovial ace of the -wholesale district, slapped the other two on the back, hurled his -brief case and kit into a desk drawer, made a brief phone call, and -then went out. Old Mr. Firrel wore his usual somber, tired look, and -walked slowly to the bare table they had let him use. He unbent his -lanky and stooped six feet of skin and bones and began dragging copious -sheafs of notes from his brief case. Those he glanced at briefly and -began tearing up, one by one. The third, a saturnine little fellow who -appeared to be perpetually angry, marched straight to his desk and -began scribbling furiously on a pad of report blanks. He was Ellis -Hardy, Chisholm's pet.</p> - -<p>"Jake," said Mr. Chisholm, confidently, "is working up a big case and -wants to surprise me with it. Watch his smoke before the week is over. -Ellis has just brought in a big one—stick around, we may pour a drink -before we call it a day. As for Old Dismal, he's quitting. The poor -dope!"</p> - -<p>He twirled his chair around to face a mahogany cabinet. He opened the -door of it, took out a bottle and glass, and poured himself a stiff -slug of rye. He tossed it off with a grunt and swiveled back.</p> - -<p>"That guy is not a salesman and never will be," he snorted -contemptuously. "Look at him! He looks like a tramp and as mournful as -a pallbearer. When I talk to him about dolling himself up he says he -hasn't the dough; when I tell him to cheer up and wear a smile, he -croaks about his stomach ulcers. What do I care how hard he works if he -never brings the bacon in? Why, if that poor drip ever took a look at -himself in the mirror, he'd go hang himself."</p> - -<p>Maizie gripped her pencil harder and quoted softly:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">"Ah, wad some power the giftie gie us</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To see oursels as ithers see us—"</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>"That's right," exclaimed Mr. Chisholm. "You get it. Take me. I'm -always on the lookout for that. If I didn't watch myself, I might turn -stout. But no, I'm wise. I don't wait for people to tell me—I go to -the gym three times a week and have a good work-out. The rubber says -there's not a spare ounce on me. There's no crime in being big—people -respect a big man, don't you think?"</p> - -<p>"They do get out of their way," admitted Maizie, flashing her stock -smile, and batting her eyelids appreciatively. After all, he paid her -forty a week and she had a paralyzed mother to support.</p> - -<p>"Exactly," he continued, gratified, "and that's only appearance I'm -talking about. The big thing is personal relations. Look how often -somebody takes me for an easy-mark and tries to slip something over. -I fool 'em, don't I? That's because I keep studying myself. I say to -myself, say I, 'Look here, J.C., this bird thinks he's smart; now -show him you're smarter.' Good system, eh? That's what comes of taking -an objective view of yourself. That's why I keep all those psychology -books around. You have no idea—"</p> - -<p>"It must be grand to be so masterful, to be able to hold down such a -big position ... and ... and all that," she said, hoping the blush it -cost her wouldn't be noticed.</p> - -<p>But there was a diversion at hand. Ellis Hardy was approaching and she -knew without being told what was about to happen. In line of duty she -listened in—with the connivance of Miss Perkins, the PBX operator—on -salesmen's telephone conversations. In fact, she was the modest source -of much of Mr. Chisholm's omniscience.</p> - -<p>Hardy came in without the ceremony of knocking, and promptly sat down -on top of Chisholm's desk. He threw down a sheaf of filled-out orders. -A certified check running to five figures was clipped to the top.</p> - -<p>"Got 'em," announced Hardy with a self-satisfied smirk. "Eight SXV -units, motor-driven, complete with accessories and a year's supply. -That's for the head office. I sold 'em four more for the branches."</p> - -<p>"Attaboy!" responded Chisholm, doing another rightabout-face. This time -he set out three glasses with the bottle. "Moore & Fentress, eh? I -told you they would be push-overs. Don't ever say I don't give you the -breaks—that was like getting money from home."</p> - -<p>"Uh-huh," admitted Hardy, with a reluctant grin. "Of course that sap -Firrel—"</p> - -<p>"Never mind Firrel," snapped Chisholm, "I'll handle him. The money's -the thing."</p> - -<p>"Oh, sure," said Hardy, "as soon as my check comes through—"</p> - -<p>"Drink up," said Chisholm, waving a deprecating hand. There was no need -of Maizie knowing <i>too</i> much—she was discreet and loyal and all -that, but still—</p> - -<p>Firrel was at the door, standing hesitantly as if unwilling to -interrupt the conference going on, but fidgeting as if anxious to be on -his way.</p> - -<p>"Scram, Ellis," said Chisholm, seeing the gaunt old man. "Let me hear -what this egg's wail is."</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>Hardy grinned his sour grin and stepped out, giving Mr. Firrel but the -curtest nod in passing. Firrel came in, and not being invited to sit, -stood awkwardly before the desk. Maizie felt sorry for the man. He was -so earnest, so sincere, such a hard worker—yet he had been with them -more than a month and the few commissions he had received could hardly -have done more than pay his carfare. It was pathetic.</p> - -<p>"Well?" asked Chisholm, hard and cross, as if annoyed at the intrusion.</p> - -<p>"I'm quitting," said Firrel. "That's all."</p> - -<p>"Suit yourself," said Chisholm, indifferently. "I never begged a man to -work for me and I can't see myself starting now. Check out with Miss -Delmar. Give her your kit and turn over the list of prospects you have -been working on—not that I think they are any good. It's the rule, you -know."</p> - -<p>"You can go to hell," said Mr. Firrel, very quietly. Maizie noticed -that his knuckles were white and his hands tense. "I called in to -see Mr. Fentress this afternoon. He told me to. That was a week ago. -He said that they had to await the authorization of their Board of -Directors before signing an order. I found out what had happened."</p> - -<p>"So what?" roared Chisholm savagely. "Do you think we could keep -open if we ran on a sometime, if and when basis? Alibis are all -you ever have ... at the end of the quarter ... when they take the -inventory ... when Mr. Goofus gets back from the West Coast. We want -business <i>now</i>. That's why I sent Hardy when they called up this -morning and wanted to know why our man hadn't been around. <i>He</i> doesn't -stall and make alibis for himself. He gets 'em on the dotted line. I -couldn't let you muff a big order like this one."</p> - -<p>Chisholm waved the order under his nose, then laid it face down so the -amount on the check would not show.</p> - -<p>"Of course," the sales manager went on, in that -I-lean-over-backward-being-a-good-fellow manner he assumed at times, -"if you really feel that you have anything coming to you for what -preliminary work you did, I'm sure I can make Hardy see it that way. -He'll cut you in. That's a promise. Would a twenty, say, help out?"</p> - -<p>He pulled out his wallet and opened it. Maizie took one glance at the -smoldering hatred and contempt in the weary eyes of the man before the -desk and then hastily dropped her own to the notebook on her knee. If -only someone would sock the porcine jowl of her detested employer!</p> - -<p>"You heard me," said Firrel with a cold distinctness that cut. "You can -go to hell."</p> - -<p>He turned abruptly and walked out. A moment later the outer door -slammed.</p> - -<p>"Never mind trying to piece out his torn prospect cards, Maizie," said -POHAC's eminently successful sales manager. "We have a file of his -daily reports. Hardy can work just as well from those."</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir," said Maizie. Her rent was over-due, and the doctor had -said—</p> - -<p>She swept out of the office and down the hall to the washroom. Her -nails were biting into her palms and her eyes were brimming.</p> - -<p>"Oh, the louse," she moaned over and over again, "the louse, the dirty, -dirty louse! If I were only a man—"</p> - -<p>Then those lines of Burns came to mind again:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">"O, wad some power the giftie gie us—"</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>"That would do," she cried fervently. "Hang himself! If he only saw -himself as I see him, he'd be lucky if he <i>could</i> hang himself."</p> - -<p>Seven o'clock came. Mr. Chisholm took one final snort before putting on -his hat and turning out the lights. He must be in fine form when he met -Mr. Lonigan. Lonigan was an important buyer and he was coming in on the -<i>Rocket</i> at seven thirty. The evening was already planned. He was -to meet the buyer, take him to dinner, then meet the McKittricks in the -lobby of the Palace Theater. Mr. McKittrick was the president of POHAC -and had six box seats for the show. With him would be Mrs. McKittrick, -Mrs. Chisholm, and a certain very personable young woman whom the -company employed from time to time to fill in on just such occasions. -It promised to be a gay evening, and as soon as he had a chance to -whisper to the big boss about the order he had topped the day off with, -even McKittrick would concede that he had the best sales manager ever.</p> - -<p>Chisholm jabbed the elevator button, whistling merrily as he stood back -to watch the oscillations of the telltale above the door.</p> - -<p>"Nice night, Jerry," he said cheerily to the elevator man.</p> - -<p>"A very nice night, sir," agreed Jerry. But he never took his eyes off -the column of blinking ruby lights before his nose. Mr. Chisholm was to -be the most mistrusted when he was in a benign mood. It was usually the -come-on for some probing and tricky questions. Like, "I saw Mr. Naylor -get in your car awhile ago. What a card! He's higher'n a kite tonight. -<i>Ha, ha.</i>" <i>Any</i> response to a remark of that sort was sure -to mean trouble for somebody.</p> - -<p>Chisholm was in an expansive mood and strode along as if he owned the -earth. He felt fine. It did not matter that ten of his men had quit -that week, and not all of them had been as restrained as old man Firrel -in their good-bys. What did he care for the weak sisters? An ad in -tomorrow's papers would fill up the anteroom with forty more. If they -clicked—weeks from now—so much the better; if not, how could he lose? -POHAC's sales department was strictly a straight commission outfit.</p> - -<p>He turned through the park. It was not only a short cut but pleasanter -walking, except for the beggars. One met him and whined for a cup of -coffee, but Chisholm growled at him and stalked on by. Farther on he -came to a place where the path passed through some heavy shrubbery. -There were deep shadows there and he hesitated a moment. He would have -felt better if a policeman were in sight. Then he reminded himself of -what puny creatures most of the panhandlers were and of his own brawn. -He walked on.</p> - -<p>A man was coming toward him. Just as he supposed, the man was another -beggar. He asked for a dime. Chisholm realized it was dark where he was -and thought perhaps a dime was cheap insurance against an argument. He -stopped and groped in his change pocket for the coin. At that moment -something happened. The beggar suddenly grasped his right arm, while -another man stepped out of the bushes and grabbed his left. At the -same instant someone from the rear locked an arm about his throat and -lifted. He was off his feet and choking—skilled hands were exploring -his pockets—he kicked and squirmed only to feel the viselike grip -on his neck tighten maddeningly. There was an inward <i>plop</i> and -something cracked just under his skull with a sharp detonation and a -blinding flare of light. Mr. Chisholm had been brutally mugged. Mr. -Chisholm was quite dead.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>Two hours and a quarter later a group of four were still waiting -impatiently in the foyer of the Palace. An angry man from St. Louis -sat in the back of a cafeteria eating his supper. He had not been met -at the station as promised; neither the office phone, nor McKittrick's -or Chisholm's home phones had answered. Not that he minded missing -Chisholm particularly—he had always thought him a phony—but he did -like the McKittricks. The party at the theater were equally angry, -though they showed it less.</p> - -<p>"Well," remarked Mrs. McKittrick acidly to her husband in a moment when -the others were occupied, "how much longer are you going to wait for -that stuffed-shirt of a head salesman of yours?"</p> - -<p>"One minute—no more," said McKittrick, glaring at his watch. "If it's -any comfort to you, he's being canned as of coming Monday. The office -turnover since he's been in charge is something scandalous."</p> - -<p>In the other corner of the foyer the smartly gowned creature brought -along for the delectation of Mr. Lonigan was growing restive also. She -turned to Mrs. Chisholm.</p> - -<p>"Whatever could have happened to your husband?" she asked sweetly.</p> - -<p>"Drunk, I suppose," answered Mrs. Chisholm calmly. "I hope so. I hear -this is a good show and I want to enjoy it, even if we have missed half -the first act. My husband, you know, fancies himself as a dramatic -critic. He is quite unbearable, I assure you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, really?" said the fair young thing. It was best to be -noncommittal, she thought, though she had been secretly wondering for -some time how long Mrs. Chisholm No. 3 was going to stick it out. No -other Mrs. Chisholm had ever finished out the first year, despite the -Chisholm legend of what a "way" he had with the gals.</p> - -<p>"Let's go on in," said Mr. McKittrick, pocketing his watch.</p> - -<p>It was about then that the park police stumbled across the defunct -sales manager's broken form. It was already a long time after Mr. -Chisholm had temporarily forgotten all about Hardy and Firrel and -Maizie and Lonigan and the theater party. For in some places a matter -of a couple of hours or so seems longer. It was that way where Mr. -Chisholm was.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>First, there was all that tiresome marching. Chisholm found himself -on a vast gray plain under a dull leaden sky, marching, marching, -marching. It was odd that it tired him so, for it was effortless and -timeless and the distances, though interminable, seemed meaningless. -It must have been the monotony of it. And then, also, he found those -marching with him strangely disturbing. Some were healthy-looking men -like himself, except that most of them were gashed or mangled in some -way, as if hurled through plate glass or smashed by bombs. Others were -haggard and pallid, as if coming from sickbeds. But it was the soldiers -that got him most. He had forgotten about the war. It had touched -him but slightly, though his impressions of it had been irritating, -but not in a flesh and blood way. The silly business of priorities, -price controls and sales taxes had annoyed him exceedingly, and the -outrageous income-tax boosts had infuriated him. Now he was getting -another slant on the conflict, for hordes—armies—of soldiers were -marching along with him. They were of every kind—Russians, Japs, -Tommies, Nazis, even American bluejackets and soldiers—and mingled -with them were miserable-looking civilians of every race. A pair of -wretched-looking Polish Jews walking near him had obviously been hanged -but a short time before. Chisholm edged away from them in horrified -disgust.</p> - -<p>He was beginning to tumble to the fact that he was dead, and was -getting restive with the monotonous tramping across the plain. He -had never been a devout man, or even a philosophical one, so he had -little idea of what to expect, except that certain childhood memories -or notions kept intruding themselves upon his consciousness. Wasn't -there some sort of trial coming to him? Not that the prospect worried -him much. At least, not very much. For he had always dealt justly with -people according to his lights, he insisted to himself. He couldn't -help it if there were venal people, or weaklings, or would-be tough -eggs that had to be pushed around. Nobody could be expected to get -through life without handling such types in the most appropriate way. -But where, oh where, was the judge that would pass judgment?</p> - -<p>After a time the crowd grew thinner. At length the shade of Chisholm -noted that he was virtually alone and treading a narrow path that led -upward over a shadowy hill. There was no one ahead of him or alongside, -but following him at a distance was a considerable multitude of -other shades of his own kind. He supposed that shortly after his own -unfortunate encounter with the thugs a catastrophe of some sort had -developed locally. He could not resist the malicious half hope that it -might have been a theater fire. Somehow it irked him that his latest -wife should still be alive and fattening on his property while he was -tramping these gray wilds. Nor would it have upset him to know that -McKittrick had been caught in the same disaster. McKittrick, in his -estimation, was a pompous ass whom he would have shown up if he could -have lived just a little longer. As far as that went, he could also -have viewed with equanimity the decease of the girl that was brought -along for Lonigan. He hadn't forgotten the smart of her recent rebuff -of him, the little cat!</p> - -<p>With such thoughts in mind, he topped the rise and saw a wall with a -gate in it before him. The gate was open, so he went on in. He halfway -expected to be stopped, or at least greeted by an angel, but things -were just the same inside the gate as out—except that there was a -voice. The voice cried out in the manner of a train announcer, deep and -booming.</p> - -<p>"The prototype of Jerome Chester Chisholm!"</p> - -<p>Just that. That was all.</p> - -<p>Then a demon materialized directly in front of the shade of Chisholm.</p> - -<p>"This way, Jerome," he said very politely. He was not bad-looking—for -a demon—though he was unmistakably one, having the expected stock -properties: a reddish, glistening skin, stubby horns, and shiny -jet-black eyes.</p> - -<p>"'J.C.' is what people call me," corrected Chisholm. He had never -dealt with a demon before, but since the demon appeared to be friendly -he thought he might as well respond with a gesture of his own.</p> - -<p>"Better stick to Jerome," advised the demon. "I'll admit it's not -pretty, but it's safe. When you start being known by what people -<i>call</i> you—well!"</p> - -<p>Mr. Chisholm sniffed. The demon's words had the faint odor of a dirty -crack. He was beginning not to like the demon. Also the import of -the unseen aërial announcement was puzzling him. What did it mean by -calling him the "prototype" of himself? It didn't make sense.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>The demon was skittering along ahead, paying very little attention to -Chisholm, who was following along meekly enough. Presently a large -building loomed ahead. As they approached Chisholm could see that it -was an auditorium of some kind. He could also see that the mob of -shades were close behind and that they had no guiding demon with them. -Evidently they were following blindly in his own tracks.</p> - -<p>The demon turned into the door of the building and led the way up to -its stage. It was an auditorium. By the time they had reached the -platform, the crowd of ghosts behind were crowding into the place. They -soon filled it from wall to wall.</p> - -<p>"You must have been a pretty popular fellow," remarked the demon, -looking them over, "or the reverse. Notorious, you know."</p> - -<p>Chisholm didn't know. He had a reputation, he knew, as a go-getter and -a good fellow, but it was a modest one—restricted to his customers, -his salesmen, and people he met casually. He hardly expected this -turn-out. Moreover, he couldn't recognize anybody in the hall. As he -looked them over he was struck with one singularity of the crowd. Many -of them bore a family resemblance to him, some rather close, others -fantastically distorted. The majority looked like three-dimensional, -animated caricatures of him. One especially obnoxious one kept trying -to climb up onto the stage. He was far fatter than Chisholm himself -had ever been or could ever have been even if he had skipped the gym -workouts.</p> - -<p>The demon observed the look of profound distaste on Chisholm's face, -but only grinned a little and picked up a gavel. He rapped sharply on -the table.</p> - -<p>"Come to order, please," he said. "The convention is assembled."</p> - -<p>There was a momentary hush, and then pandemonium broke out. It was a -very disorderly crowd and an opinionated one, from the jeers that were -hurled up at the stage. It was hard to pick out what they were saying, -but the trend of it seemed to be that practically everyone there wanted -to preside or was full of hot ideas that demanded immediate and full -expression. The demon was unperturbed. He was an old hand. At intervals -he would bang with the gavel. At last he got a tiny bit of silence.</p> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="figcenter illowp68" id="illus" style="max-width: 28.6875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus.jpg" alt=""> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<p>"Fellow heels," he commenced, unblushingly, then paused to see what -uproar would follow. There was none. His insult had quieted the tumult -like oil on ruffled waters. He cleared his throat and went on.</p> - -<p>"We are gathered here to form the ghost of Jerome Chester Chisholm, -deceased, erstwhile sales manager of the Pinnacle Office & Household -Appliance Corp. We have all eternity, to be sure, but why waste it? -Coalesce, please, as rapidly as possible. For purposes of comparison, -your prototype is standing here beside me. Take it or leave it. That's -your affair."</p> - -<p>There were howls of "Chuck him out," "chiseler," "heel," "stuffed -shirt," and many, many less elegant epithets. Then an ominous silence -descended. The demon quietly pointed to a spot on the stage and the -procession started. One by one the specters mounted the stage, marched -to the spot and stood on it. Succeeding ones came on, each melting -imperceptibly into the one that had been there before. Gradually the -resultant figure took on more definite shape and looked far more solid -than any single shade in the hall. For many of them were so tenuous as -to be hardly visible.</p> - -<p>"Would you mind, sir," asked Mr. Chisholm, not knowing any better way -to address a demon, "telling me what this is all about? And after this -monkey business is over, when do I get my trial?"</p> - -<p>"Trial?" The demon laughed. "In one sense you have had your trial. This -is the result. In another sense, this is your trial. In either case, -the verdict is already found and the sentence fixed."</p> - -<p>"I don't get you," said Mr. Chisholm. "Who are all these ... er ... -spooks? And what have they got to do with me? They look like a flock of -comic Valentines."</p> - -<p>"They have plenty to do with you. They <i>are</i> you."</p> - -<p>"Me! You're crazy. I'm me." He struck himself on the chest.</p> - -<p>"No. You are only one aspect of you," corrected the demon. "You are -a ghost now, and nothing more. Ghosts are intangible, immaterial -things—made of dream stuff, as your poets say. What you call you is -your own estimate of you. These creatures flocking up onto the stage -are other people's estimates of you. <i>You</i>—the you that we -recognize—is the composite of them all. Stick around. You are going to -learn something."</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>Chisholm turned his gaze back at the oncoming file of shades. They were -ghastly cartoons of himself, and malicious ones at that. Many of them -were unintelligible.</p> - -<p>"Hey," he said, "what's that thing coming up—that slender wisp of -smoke with the lumpy feet? If that is a conception of me, the guy that -thought it up has gone surrealistic."</p> - -<p>The demon looked.</p> - -<p>"Oh, that. Yes, it's weak. It is offered by a fellow named Percy -Hilyer. He roomed with you at school and has almost forgotten you. He -does remember that you were lean and lanky then and used to swipe his -socks and wear holes in them."</p> - -<p>"That's a hell of a thing to hold against a guy," complained Chisholm.</p> - -<p>The demon shrugged.</p> - -<p>"That is the way reputations are made. How do you like this one?"</p> - -<p>"This one" was the rambunctious shade who had tried to take charge of -the meeting at the outset. He was egregiously repulsive.</p> - -<p>"That," announced the demon blandly, "is the contribution of one Maizie -Delmar. Judging from its robustness and solidity, she knew you recently -and well."</p> - -<p>Chisholm's jaw had dropped and his eyes bulged. The thing was -incredible. Not Maizie's. Maizie was regular; dumb, maybe, but they got -along.</p> - -<p>"I take it Maizie was the tactful sort," remarked the demon with a sly -drawl, noting the amazement on Chisholm's loose face. Then, "Here comes -one that might suit you better."</p> - -<p>It was a fat, squally baby, drooling and flapping its pudgy arms.</p> - -<p>"One of your mother's contributions. Her favorite of many. You might -admire some, but they are all on the helpless side—not at all in -keeping with your hardboiled idea of the way to do things."</p> - -<p>Chisholm stood aghast and watched the endless procession. On they came, -one vile caricature after another. Nobody seemed to have forgotten him. -He expected the specter furnished by Firrel to be bad. It was. Malice -was not its creator, but sheer contempt. Chisholm had to turn his -face when it clambered up onto the stage. The office girls' offering -differed little from Maizie's except in intensity. The one held by -Hardy was a cruel surprise. He had done so much for Hardy. But he had -forgotten how he had made Hardy pay through the nose for favors.</p> - -<p>The greatest shocks were to follow. He steeled himself for whatever -opinions those first two wives held, but the current one had done a -devastating job of analysis. Even the demon whistled. Interspersed -between the major blows were minor ones, and not always shadowy. -Bootblacks, waiters, taxi drivers—on almost every casual contact he -had left a mark. Out of the lot there was only one that was glowingly -heroic. He could not refrain from asking the demon about it. The demon -bent his insight onto the wraith and pronounced:</p> - -<p>"A girl you met once—a pick-up. You kissed her on the Drive that -night, and then lost her phone number, you lucky dog."</p> - -<p>"Lucky?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. She never had a chance to know you better."</p> - -<p>Mr. Chisholm was glum. It wasn't right to be pilloried that way. They -simply couldn't do that to him. To hell with what all those people -thought. Who were they, anyhow? A lot of nitwit salesmen and office -help, gold-diggers and climbers! He knew he was all right. He had got -along. They were jealous and envious, that's what. He nudged the demon.</p> - -<p>"Hey," he called, "this is a democracy, ain't it? If these soreheads -have a vote, so do I. Don't <i>I</i> come in?"</p> - -<p>"Sure, sure. It ought to help a lot, too. All these figures are -weighted, you have noticed, by degree of intimacy and one thing or -another. Since you have probably thought more about yourself than -anybody else has, even if you've been wrong most of the time, your -opinion counts."</p> - -<p>Chisholm looked down at himself confidently, and then his confidence -began to ooze. His own personality, it appeared, even when viewed from -his own standpoint, was more nebulous than he thought. He had never -taken himself apart with the critical fury employed by such persons as -Maizie, his wives and some others. It looked as if the almost-finished -monstrosity standing in the center of the stage was going to be the -image handed down to posterity.</p> - -<p>"It's not fair," he wailed. "What do all those yapping people really -know about me—motives, and all that? I never did anything I didn't -think was right, I never—"</p> - -<p>"Neither did Nero," said the demon calmly, "nor Torquemada, nor your -estimable contemporary, Hitler. Nevertheless, we cannot take an Ego at -its own valuation. Not where others are involved."</p> - -<p>Chisholm took a shuddering look at the hideous thing that was the -summation of all his world thought of him. It was intolerable. That, -then, was the verdict the demon had spoken of.</p> - -<p>"Your sentence," said the demon, as if he knew the thought, "is to -contemplate it from now on. It is all yours—your life's work. At least -it's definite, if that is any consolation."</p> - -<p>"I can't, I can't," moaned Mr. Chisholm.</p> - -<p>"Don't make things worse," warned the demon.</p> - -<p>The composite spook had just turned a bright, lemon yellow.</p> - - -<p class="ph1">THE END.</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIFTIE GIEN ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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