St Ignatius College - Ignatian Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

Page 18 text:

16 IGNATIAN before me. His dress of velvet and lace, once the product of studied extravagance, was tattered and stained with blood. His breeches were worn and muddy, and he was in his stocking feet, with toes protruding from the worn silken hose. For only an instant he stood on the littered desk. Then the black eyes glowing in the firelight saw me, and after muttering something to himself, he leaped lightly to the floor, his features swollen with rage, and his handsome face contorted with scorn and wrath. You uncharitable dog, he screamed. You dime novel writer. By the nine gods of Sycorax, I have you where I want you now. Thus speaking my hero wrenched his blade from its scabbard, the steel still dripping with the blood of the villain killed in the last chapter only a few minutes before. I had barely time to put the heavy table between us before he was upon me. Snatching a baseball bat from the decorated walls of my study I determined that he would not force me to yield without a spirited combat. With eyes riveted upon our weapons we lurched from one end of the room to the other, knocking the furniture right and left. Unfortunately, I had created him the best swordsman in the world, and he had the best of me for awhile, wounding me once in the hand by a low thrust. But he was no match against me with his cutting exclama- tions, for I did not put in his head all that I knew. Al- though I am a poor swordsman at best, having only read in my youth a small book containing the Art of Fencing, I could recall from memory his exact mode of fighting, and was able to keep his point -well away from the 57-carat diamond in my shirt front. O shag-ear'd villain, he panted, but you can fight pretty well for a never-shall-be writer. You will try no

Page 17 text:

Big 69112 7.3251 Bunk HE last sheet fluttered from the typewriter. I slipped the cover tenderly over the faith- ' ' 1. l ll a ful machine, filled my pipe, and lounged deep in an easy-chair. On the back of an old envelope I figured my probable royal- ties. The book undoubtedly would be a seller, as I had written it with an eye to please the cranky bookreader. I would have it attractively illustrated in col- ors by Marcus Angelou and Mons, Bouvierf' Of course the first four or live editions would have to go to editors for reviews, and to personal friends. I would have also to spend about a thousand dollars or so to secure special reading space in the best magazines, but nevertheless I couldn' t see how I could fail to make a couple of thousand to put away for a rainy day. As I was thus figuring, the clock in the hall was just booming the hour of twelve. This was unusualg as the sole mission of this clock seemed to be to gather dust as an excuse for stopping. With the dying of the bell I distinctly heard a rustle among the papers upon my desk and a faint smoke issued from the typewrtiten sheets. My heart mounted to my throat. The thought that my masterpiece was going up in smoke overwhelmed me. With superhu- man effort I summoned all my remaining nerve force and was about to rush to the desk to save the story when I was halted by a new horror, for the vapor was taking human shape. With blanched face and protruding eyes I watched the object grow from whirling smoke into the form of a six- foot man. Clearer and clearer grew the phantom. Detail after detail became visible until the colorings of the gar- ments showed and the stalwart hero of my romance stood

Page 19 text:

MY ONE BEST BOOK 17 more of your weak writing, for you will soon feel the sting of death from my sword. I made a lunge at him and just missed his nose with my bat by a narrow margin. I then sorely regretted hav- ing made him such a big, stalwart brute, as I am not above the medium height, but perhaps my very thinness saved my life. Tired and dripping we stopped for breath with overtopped table between us. Now Mr. James Kennedy, I puffed, I would like to know why you beset me so sorely without any apparent cause. 'lWhat cause have I to beset you P he snorted. Why, look at me. You have made me wear the same suit of clothes through the whole story. About the middle of it you made me take off my Shoes without putting them on again, and I have been going around barefooted since. I have had no sleep or anything to eat for about three Weeks, and then you say what cause have I. Well, it's for you to defend yourself, so get ready. So saying he charged me, and soon I weakened under the strain. I could no longer hold up my bat to ward off his thrusts. My weapon fell, he plunged his sword into my heart and everything was sent into oblivion. I awoke as I fell out of the armchair. It had only been a dream and I was perspiring freely from the excitement of it. I stood up and took my book, found a leather bag, rope and a window weight. Putting them all into a satchel, I walked, in the stillness of the night, down to the wharf and cast them into the dark waters of the bay, vowing at the same time that I would never try to write a book again. W. E. Hunt.