Algernon Blackwood by The Camp Of The Dog

Author:The Camp Of The Dog [Dog, The Camp Of The]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-11-15T13:25:19+00:00

IV

Although nothing John Silence did ever took me,

properly speaking, by surprise, it was certainly unexpected to find a

letter from Stockholm waiting for me. “I have finished my Hungary

business,” he wrote, “and am here for ten days. Do not hesitate to send

if you need me. If you telephone any morning from Waxholm I can catch

the afternoon steamer.”

My years of intercourse with him were full of

“coincidences” of this description, and although he never sought to

explain them by claiming any magical system of communication with my

mind, I have never doubted that there actually existed some secret

telepathic method by which he knew my circumstances and gauged the

degree of my need. And that this power was independent of time in the

sense that it saw into the future, always seemed to me equally apparent.

Sangree was as much relieved as I was, and within an

hour of sunset that very evening we met him on the arrival of the

little coasting steamer, and carried him off in the dinghy to the camp

we had prepared on a neighbouring island, meaning to start for home

early next morning.

“Now,” he said, when supper was over and we were

smoking round the fire, “let me hear your story.” He glanced from one

to the other, smiling.

“You tell it, Mr. Hubbard,” Sangree interrupted

abruptly, and went off a little way to wash the dishes, yet not so far

as to be out of earshot. And while he splashed with the hot water, and

scraped the tin plates with sand and moss, my voice, unbroken by a

single question from Dr. Silence, ran on for the next half-hour with

the best account I could give of what had happened.

My listener lay on the other side of the fire, his

face half hidden by a big sombrero; sometimes he glanced up

questioningly when a point needed elaboration, but he uttered no single

word till I had reached the end, and his manner all through the recital

was grave and attentive. Overhead, the wash of the wind in the pine

branches filled in the pauses; the darkness settled down over the sea,

and the stars came out in thousands, and by the time I finished the

moon had risen to flood the scene with silver. Yet, by his face and

eyes, I knew quite well that the doctor was listening to something he

had expected to hear, even if he had not actually anticipated all the

details.

“You did well to send for me,” he said very low,

with a significant glance at me when I finished; “very well,”—and for

one swift second his eye took in Sangree,—”for what we have to deal

with here is nothing more than a werewolf—rare enough, I am glad to

say, but often very sad, and sometimes very terrible.”

I jumped as though I had been shot, but the next

second was heartily ashamed of my want of control; for this brief

remark, confirming as it did my own worst suspicions, did more to

convince me of the gravity of the adventure than any number of

questions or explanations. It seemed to draw close the circle about us,

shutting a door somewhere that locked us in with the animal and the

horror, and turning the key.

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