Moon-Face
John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You know the kind, cheek-bones wideapart, chin and forehead melting into the cheeks to complete the perfectround, and the nose, broad and pudgy, equidistant from the circumference,flattened against the very centre of the face like a dough-ball upon theceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for truly he had become an offenseto my eyes, and I believed the earth to be cumbered with his presence. Perhapsmy mother may have been superstitious of the moon and looked upon it over thewrong shoulder at the wrong time.Be that as it may, I hated John Claverhouse. Not that he had done me whatsociety would consider a wrong or an ill turn. Far from it. The evil was of adeeper, subtler sort; so elusive, so intangible, as to defy clear, definiteanalysis in words. We all experience such things at some period in our lives.For the first time we see a certain individual, one who the very instantbefore we did not dream existed; and yet, at the first moment of meeting, wesay: "I do not like that man." Why do we not like him? Ah, we do not know why;we know only that we do not. We have taken a dislike, that is all. And so Iwith John Claverhouse.What right had such a man to be happy? Yet he was an optimist. He was alwaysgleeful and laughing. All things were always all right, curse him! Ah I how itgrated on my soul that he should be so happy! Other men could laugh, and itdid not bother me. I even used to laugh myself--before I met John Claverhouse.But his laugh! It irritated me, maddened me, as nothing else under the suncould irritate or madden me. It haunted me, gripped hold of me, and would notlet me go. It was a huge, Gargantuan laugh. Waking or sleeping it was alwayswith me, whirring and jarring across my heart-strings like an enormous rasp.At break of day it came whooping across the fields to spoil my pleasantmorning revery. Under the aching noonday glare, when the green things droopedand the birds withdrew to the depths of the forest, and all nature drowsed,his great "Ha! ha!" and "Ho! ho!" rose up to the sky and challenged the sun.And at black midnight, from the lonely cross-roads where he turned from towninto his own place, came his plaguey cachinnations to rouse me from my sleepand make me writhe and clench my nails into my palms.I went forth privily in the night-time, and turned his cattle into his fields,and in the morning heard his whooping laugh as he drove them out again. "It isnothing," he said; "the poor, dumb beasties are not to be blamed for strayinginto fatter pastures."He had a dog he called "Mars," a big, splendid brute, part deer-hound and partblood-hound, and resembling both. Mars was a great delight to him, and theywere always together. But I bided my time, and one day, when opportunity wasripe, lured the animal away and settled for him with strychnine and beefsteak.It made positively no impression on John Claverhouse. His laugh was as heartyand frequent as ever, and his face as much like the full moon as it always hadbeen.Then I set fire to his haystacks and his barn. But the next morning, beingSunday, he went forth blithe and cheerful."Where are you going?" I asked him, as he went by the cross-roads."Trout," he said, and his face beamed like a full moon. "I just dote ontrout."Was there ever such an impossible man! His whole harvest had gone up in hishaystacks and barn. It was uninsured, I knew. And yet, in the face of famineand the rigorous winter, he went out gayly in quest of a mess of trout,forsooth, because he "doted" on them! Had gloom but rested, no matter howlightly, on his brow, or had his bovine countenance grown long and serious andless like the moon, or had he removed that smile but once from off his face, Iam sure I could have forgiven him for existing. But no. he grew only morecheerful under misfortune.I insulted him. He looked at me in slow and smiling surprise."I fight you? Why?" he asked slowly. And then he laughed. "You are so funny!Ho! ho! You'll be the death of me! He! he! he! Oh! Ho! ho! ho!What would you? It was past endurance. By the blood of Judas, how I hated him!Then there was that name--Claverhouse! What a name! Wasn't it absurd?Claverhouse! Merciful heaven, why Claverhouse? Again and again I asked myselfthat question. I should not have minded Smith, or Brown, or Jones--butClaverhouse! I leave it to you. Repeat it to yourself--Claverhouse. Justlisten to the ridiculous sound of it--Claverhouse! Should a man live with sucha name? I ask of you. "No," you say. And "No" said I.But I bethought me of his mortgage. What of his crops and barn destroyed, Iknew he would be unable to meet it. So I got a shrewd, close-mouthed,tight-fisted money-lender to get the mortgage transferred to him. I did notappear but through this agent I forced the foreclosure, and but few days (nomore, believe me, than the law allowed) were given John Claverhouse to removehis goods and chattels from the premises. Then I strolled down to see how hetook it, for he had lived there upward of twenty years. But he met me with hissaucer-eyes twinkling, and the light glowing and spreading in his face till itwas as a full-risen moon."Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed. "The funniest tike, that youngster of mine! Did youever hear the like? Let me tell you. He was down playing by the edge of theriver when a piece of the bank caved in and splashed him. 'O papa!' he cried;'a great big puddle flewed up and hit me.'"He stopped and waited for me to join him in his infernal glee."I don't see any laugh in it," I said shortly, and I know my face went sour.He regarded me with wonderment, and then came the damnable light, glowing andspreading, as I have described it, till his face shone soft and warm, like thesummer moon, and then the laugh--"Ha! ha! That's funny! You don't see it, eh?He! he! Ho! ho! ho! He doesn't see it! Why, look here. You know a puddle--"But I turned on my heel and left him. That was the last. I could stand it nolonger. The thing must end right there, I thought, curse him! The earth shouldbe quit of him. And as I went over the hill, I could hear his monstrous laughreverberating against the sky.Now, I pride myself on doing things neatly, and when I resolved to kill JohnClaverhouse I had it in mind to do so in such fashion that I should not lookback upon it and feel ashamed. I hate bungling, and I hate brutality. To methere is something repugnant in merely striking a man with one's nakedfist--faugh! it is sickening! So, to shoot, or stab, or club John Claverhouse(oh, that name!) did not appeal to me. And not only was I impelled to do itneatly and artistically, but also in such manner that not the slightestpossible suspicion could be directed against me.To this end I bent my intellect, and, after a week of profound incubation, Ihatched the scheme. Then I set to work. I bought a water spaniel bitch, fivemonths old, and devoted my whole attention to her training. Had any one spiedupon me, they would have remarked that this training consisted entirely of onething--retrieving. I taught the dog, which I called "Bellona," to fetch sticksI threw into the water, and not only to fetch, but to fetch at once, withoutmouthing or playing with them. The point was that she was to stop for nothing,but to deliver the stick in all haste. I made a practice of running away andleaving her to chase me, with the stick in her mouth, till she caught me. Shewas a bright animal, and took to the game with such eagerness that I was sooncontent.After that, at the first casual opportunity, I presented Bellona to JohnClaverhouse. I knew what I was about, for I was aware of a little weakness ofhis, and of a little private sinning of which he was regularly andinveterately guilty."No," he said, when I placed the end of the rope in his hand. "No, you don'tmean it." And his mouth opened wide and he grinned all over his damnablemoon-face."I--I kind of thought, somehow, you didn't like me," he explained. "Wasn't itfunny for me to make such a mistake?" And at the thought he held his sideswith laughter."What is her name?" he managed to ask between paroxysms."Bellona," I said."He! he!" he tittered. "What a funny name."I gritted my teeth, for his mirth put them on edge, and snapped out betweenthem, "She was the wife of Mars, you know."Then the light of the full moon began to suffuse his face, until he explodedwith: "That was my other dog. Well, I guess she's a widow now. Oh! Ho! ho! E!he! he! Ho!" he whooped after me, and I turned and fled swiftly over the hill.The week passed by, and on Saturday evening I said to him, "You go awayMonday, don't you?"He nodded his head and grinned."Then you won't have another chance to get a mess of those trout you just'dote' on."But he did not notice the sneer. "Oh, I don't know," he chuckled. "I'm goingup to-morrow to try pretty hard."Thus was assurance made doubly sure, and I went back to my house huggingmyself with rapture.Early next morning I saw him go by with a dip-net and gunnysack, and Bellonatrotting at his heels. I knew where he was bound, and cut out by the backpasture and climbed through the underbrush to the top of the mountain. Keepingcarefully out of sight, I followed the crest along for a couple of miles to anatural amphitheatre in the hills, where the little river raced down out of agorge and stopped for breath in a large and placid rock-bound pool. That wasthe spot! I sat down on the croup of the mountain, where I could see all thatoccurred, and lighted my pipe.Ere many minutes had passed, John Claverhouse came plodding up the bed of thestream. Bellona was ambling about him, and they were in high feather, hershort, snappy barks mingling with his deeper chest-notes. Arrived at the pool,he threw down the dip-net and sack, and drew from his hip-pocket what lookedlike a large, fat candle. But I knew it to be a stick of "giant"; for such washis method of catching trout. He dynamited them. He attached the fuse bywrapping the "giant" tightly in a piece of cotton. Then he ignited the fuseand tossed the explosive into the pool.Like a flash, Bellona was into the pool after it. I could have shrieked aloudfor joy. Claverhouse yelled at her, but without avail. He pelted her withclods and rocks, but she swam steadily on till she got the stick of "giant" inher mouth, when she whirled about and headed for shore. Then, for the firsttime, he realized his danger, and started to run. As foreseen and planned byme, she made the bank and took out after him. Oh, I tell you, it was great! AsI have said, the pool lay in a sort of amphitheatre. Above and below, thestream could be crossed on stepping-stones. And around and around, up and downand across the stones, raced Claverhouse and Bellona. I could never havebelieved that such an ungainly man could run so fast. But run he did, Bellonahot-footed after him, and gaining. And then, just as she caught up, he in fullstride, and she leaping with nose at his knee, there was a sudden flash, aburst of smoke, a terrific detonation, and where man and dog had been theinstant before there was naught to be seen but a big hole in the ground."Death from accident while engaged in illegal fishing." That was the verdictof the coroner's jury; and that is why I pride myself on the neat and artisticway in which I finished off John Claverhouse. There was no bungling, nobrutality; nothing of which to be ashamed in the whole transaction, as I amsure you will agree. No more does his infernal laugh go echoing among thehills, and no more does his fat moon-face rise up to vex me. My days arepeaceful now, and my night's sleep deep.
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