CHAPTER II

"Try Your Luck with Professor Challenger"

I always liked McArdle, the crabbed, old, round-backed,
red-headed news editor, and I rather hoped that he liked me.
Of course, Beaumont was the real boss; but he lived in the
rarefied atmosphere of some Olympian height from which he could
distinguish nothing smaller than an international crisis or a
split in the Cabinet. Sometimes we saw him passing in lonely
majesty to his inner sanctum, with his eyes staring vaguely and
his mind hovering over the Balkans or the Persian Gulf. He was
above and beyond us. But McArdle was his first lieutenant, and
it was he that we knew. The old man nodded as I entered the
room, and he pushed his spectacles far up on his bald forehead.

"Well, Mr. Malone, from all I hear, you seem to be doing very
well," said he in his kindly Scotch accent.

I thanked him.

"The colliery explosion was excellent. So was the Southwark fire.
You have the true descreeptive touch. What did you want to see
me about?"

"To ask a favor."

He looked alarmed, and his eyes shunned mine. "Tut, tut! What is it?"

"Do you think, Sir, that you could possibly send me on some
mission for the paper? I would do my best to put it through and
get you some good copy."

"What sort of meesion had you in your mind, Mr. Malone?"

"Well, Sir, anything that had adventure and danger in it.
I really would do my very best. The more difficult it was, the
better it would suit me."

"You seem very anxious to lose your life."

"To justify my life, Sir."

"Dear me, Mr. Malone, this is very--very exalted. I'm afraid the
day for this sort of thing is rather past. The expense of the
`special meesion' business hardly justifies the result, and, of
course, in any case it would only be an experienced man with a
name that would command public confidence who would get such
an order. The big blank spaces in the map are all being filled in,
and there's no room for romance anywhere. Wait a bit, though!"
he added, with a sudden smile upon his face. "Talking of the
blank spaces of the map gives me an idea. What about exposing a
fraud--a modern Munchausen--and making him rideeculous? You could
show him up as the liar that he is! Eh, man, it would be fine.
How does it appeal to you?"

"Anything--anywhere--I care nothing."

McArdle was plunged in thought for some minutes.

"I wonder whether you could get on friendly--or at least on
talking terms with the fellow," he said, at last. "You seem to
have a sort of genius for establishing relations with
people--seempathy, I suppose, or animal magnetism, or youthful
vitality, or something. I am conscious of it myself."

"You are very good, sir."

"So why should you not try your luck with Professor Challenger,
of Enmore Park?"

I dare say I looked a little startled.

"Challenger!" I cried. "Professor Challenger, the famous zoologist!
Wasn't he the man who broke the skull of Blundell, of the Telegraph?"

The news editor smiled grimly.

"Do you mind? Didn't you say it was adventures you were after?"

"It is all in the way of business, sir," I answered.

"Exactly. I don't suppose he can always be so violent as that.
I'm thinking that Blundell got him at the wrong moment, maybe, or
in the wrong fashion. You may have better luck, or more tact in
handling him. There's something in your line there, I am sure,
and the Gazette should work it."

"I really know nothing about him," said I. I only remember his
name in connection with the police-court proceedings, for
striking Blundell."

"I have a few notes for your guidance, Mr. Malone. I've had my
eye on the Professor for some little time." He took a paper from
a drawer. "Here is a summary of his record. I give it you briefly:--

"`Challenger, George Edward. Born: Largs, N. B., 1863. Educ.:
Largs Academy; Edinburgh University. British Museum Assistant, 1892.
Assistant-Keeper of Comparative Anthropology Department, 1893.
Resigned after acrimonious correspondence same year. Winner of
Crayston Medal for Zoological Research. Foreign Member of'--well,
quite a lot of things, about two inches of small type--`Societe
Belge, American Academy of Sciences, La Plata, etc., etc.
Ex-President Palaeontological Society. Section H, British
Association'--so on, so on!--`Publications: "Some Observations
Upon a Series of Kalmuck Skulls"; "Outlines of Vertebrate
Evolution"; and numerous papers, including "The underlying
fallacy of Weissmannism," which caused heated discussion at
the Zoological Congress of Vienna. Recreations: Walking,
Alpine climbing. Address: Enmore Park, Kensington, W.'

"There, take it with you. I've nothing more for you to-night."

I pocketed the slip of paper.

"One moment, sir," I said, as I realized that it was a pink bald
head, and not a red face, which was fronting me. "I am not very
clear yet why I am to interview this gentleman. What has he done?"

The face flashed back again.

"Went to South America on a solitary expedeetion two years ago.
Came back last year. Had undoubtedly been to South America, but
refused to say exactly where. Began to tell his adventures in a
vague way, but somebody started to pick holes, and he just shut
up like an oyster. Something wonderful happened--or the man's a
champion liar, which is the more probable supposeetion. Had some
damaged photographs, said to be fakes. Got so touchy that he
assaults anyone who asks questions, and heaves reporters doun
the stairs. In my opinion he's just a homicidal megalomaniac with
a turn for science. That's your man, Mr. Malone. Now, off you
run, and see what you can make of him. You're big enough to look
after yourself. Anyway, you are all safe. Employers' Liability
Act, you know."

A grinning red face turned once more into a pink oval, fringed
with gingery fluff; the interview was at an end.

I walked across to the Savage Club, but instead of turning into
it I leaned upon the railings of Adelphi Terrace and gazed
thoughtfully for a long time at the brown, oily river. I can
always think most sanely and clearly in the open air. I took out
the list of Professor Challenger's exploits, and I read it over
under the electric lamp. Then I had what I can only regard as
an inspiration. As a Pressman, I felt sure from what I had been
told that I could never hope to get into touch with this
cantankerous Professor. But these recriminations, twice
mentioned in his skeleton biography, could only mean that he was
a fanatic in science. Was there not an exposed margin there upon
which he might be accessible? I would try.

I entered the club. It was just after eleven, and the big room
was fairly full, though the rush had not yet set in. I noticed
a tall, thin, angular man seated in an arm-chair by the fire.
He turned as I drew my chair up to him. It was the man of all
others whom I should have chosen--Tarp Henry, of the staff of
Nature, a thin, dry, leathery creature, who was full, to those who
knew him, of kindly humanity. I plunged instantly into my subject.

"What do you know of Professor Challenger?"

"Challenger?" He gathered his brows in scientific disapproval.
"Challenger was the man who came with some cock-and-bull story
from South America."

"What story?"

"Oh, it was rank nonsense about some queer animals he had discovered.
I believe he has retracted since. Anyhow, he has suppressed it all.
He gave an interview to Reuter's, and there was such a howl that he
saw it wouldn't do. It was a discreditable business. There were
one or two folk who were inclined to take him seriously, but he soon
choked them off."

"How?"

"Well, by his insufferable rudeness and impossible behavior.
There was poor old Wadley, of the Zoological Institute. Wadley sent
a message: `The President of the Zoological Institute presents
his compliments to Professor Challenger, and would take it as a
personal favor if he would do them the honor to come to their
next meeting.' The answer was unprintable."

"You don't say?"

"Well, a bowdlerized version of it would run: `Professor
Challenger presents his compliments to the President of the
Zoological Institute, and would take it as a personal favor if he
would go to the devil.'"

"Good Lord!"

"Yes, I expect that's what old Wadley said. I remember his wail
at the meeting, which began: `In fifty years experience of
scientific intercourse----' It quite broke the old man up."

"Anything more about Challenger?"

"Well, I'm a bacteriologist, you know. I live in a
nine-hundred-diameter microscope. I can hardly claim to take
serious notice of anything that I can see with my naked eye.
I'm a frontiersman from the extreme edge of the Knowable, and I feel
quite out of place when I leave my study and come into touch with
all you great, rough, hulking creatures. I'm too detached to
talk scandal, and yet at scientific conversaziones I HAVE heard
something of Challenger, for he is one of those men whom nobody
can ignore. He's as clever as they make 'em--a full-charged
battery of force and vitality, but a quarrelsome, ill-conditioned
faddist, and unscrupulous at that. He had gone the length of
faking some photographs over the South American business."

"You say he is a faddist. What is his particular fad?"

"He has a thousand, but the latest is something about Weissmann
and Evolution. He had a fearful row about it in Vienna, I believe."

"Can't you tell me the point?"

"Not at the moment, but a translation of the proceedings exists.
We have it filed at the office. Would you care to come?"

"It's just what I want. I have to interview the fellow, and I
need some lead up to him. It's really awfully good of you to
give me a lift. I'll go with you now, if it is not too late."


Half an hour later I was seated in the newspaper office with a
huge tome in front of me, which had been opened at the article
"Weissmann versus Darwin," with the sub heading, "Spirited
Protest at Vienna. Lively Proceedings." My scientific education
having been somewhat neglected, I was unable to follow the whole
argument, but it was evident that the English Professor had
handled his subject in a very aggressive fashion, and had
thoroughly annoyed his Continental colleagues. "Protests,"
"Uproar," and "General appeal to the Chairman" were three of the
first brackets which caught my eye. Most of the matter might
have been written in Chinese for any definite meaning that it
conveyed to my brain.

"I wish you could translate it into English for me," I said,
pathetically, to my help-mate.

"Well, it is a translation."

"Then I'd better try my luck with the original."

"It is certainly rather deep for a layman."

"If I could only get a single good, meaty sentence which seemed
to convey some sort of definite human idea, it would serve my turn.
Ah, yes, this one will do. I seem in a vague way almost to
understand it. I'll copy it out. This shall be my link with
the terrible Professor."

"Nothing else I can do?"

"Well, yes; I propose to write to him. If I could frame the
letter here, and use your address it would give atmosphere."

"We'll have the fellow round here making a row and breaking
the furniture."

"No, no; you'll see the letter--nothing contentious, I assure you."

"Well, that's my chair and desk. You'll find paper there. I'd like
to censor it before it goes."

It took some doing, but I flatter myself that it wasn't such a
bad job when it was finished. I read it aloud to the critical
bacteriologist with some pride in my handiwork.


"DEAR PROFESSOR CHALLENGER," it said, "As a humble student of
Nature, I have always taken the most profound interest in your
speculations as to the differences between Darwin and Weissmann.
I have recently had occasion to refresh my memory by re-reading----"


"You infernal liar!" murmured Tarp Henry.


--"by re-reading your masterly address at Vienna. That lucid and
admirable statement seems to be the last word in the matter.
There is one sentence in it, however--namely: `I protest strongly
against the insufferable and entirely dogmatic assertion that
each separate id is a microcosm possessed of an historical
architecture elaborated slowly through the series of generations.'
Have you no desire, in view of later research, to modify
this statement? Do you not think that it is over-accentuated?
With your permission, I would ask the favor of an interview,
as I feel strongly upon the subject, and have certain suggestions
which I could only elaborate in a personal conversation. With your
consent, I trust to have the honor of calling at eleven o'clock
the day after to-morrow (Wednesday) morning.

"I remain, Sir, with assurances of profound respect,
yours very truly,
EDWARD D. MALONE."


"How's that?" I asked, triumphantly.

"Well if your conscience can stand it----"

"It has never failed me yet."

"But what do you mean to do?"

"To get there. Once I am in his room I may see some opening.
I may even go the length of open confession. If he is a sportsman
he will be tickled."

"Tickled, indeed! He's much more likely to do the tickling.
Chain mail, or an American football suit--that's what you'll want.
Well, good-bye. I'll have the answer for you here on Wednesday
morning--if he ever deigns to answer you. He is a violent,
dangerous, cantankerous character, hated by everyone who comes
across him, and the butt of the students, so far as they dare
take a liberty with him. Perhaps it would be best for you if
you never heard from the fellow at all."

****

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