The Project Gutenberg eBook of The giftie gien

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Title: The giftie gien

Author: Malcolm Jameson

Illustrator: Frank Kramer

Release date: December 30, 2022 [eBook #69667]

Most recently updated: October 19, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Street & Smith Publications, Inc, 1943

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69667

Credits: 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.

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THE GIFTIE GIEN

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