Philo the Frog-boy ( Part Three and Last)

 

The next day started no better, with the sun only showing its red head for an hour at dawn. The rest of the day grew darker and darker, as the clouds got black, and a thundery, stuffy feeling brooded in the air. We practically tiptoed around the boardinghouse. Howard refused to go to bed after his shift was over. Every hour or so we opened Philo’s case. It was harder than ever to observe him breathing, but he was. His eyes remained closed, sunk into his skull.

After supper we all settled down in the sitting room again. Howard jotted more notes angrily, almost compulsively. Rose settled down to another one of her projects, crocheting something this time, and winding her wool in a precise but nervous motion. When I started to whistle, a rather doleful tune, I must admit, they looked up at me, and I stopped right away. The night had fallen, and no word of Dr. Browning had come.

The clock struck eight at last, and Rose sighed.

“Mr. Rank, go to bed,” she said. “Don’t worry; I shall keep watch.”

Howard heaved a heavy sigh and got wearily to his feet.

“Very well …” he began, when there was a sudden knock at the parlor door.

We stared at each other for a second in wild surprise, then we all made started a rush for the door. I was closest, and I threw it open eagerly to reveal Mrs. Haley, hand raised to knock again, face startled to have been answered so energetically.

“Oh!” she cried. “Sorry to disturb you folks so late but … Oh, good heavens! What’s that smell?” Now that she mentioned it, I did become aware of a sort of rank scent reminiscent of our first days of hosting Philo hanging in the air. It must have crept up on us so slowly that we hadn’t noticed it.

“Just a little chemical experiment,” Howard lied smoothly. “Don’t worry, it’ll be cleared up soon. What can we do for you?”

“Oh, yes.” She held out a paper she’d been clutching in her right hand. “A message just came by courier from the Bureau. The boy’s waiting outside for an answer.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Haley.” He reached over my shoulder and almost snatched the envelope out of her grasp. “We’ve been expecting this.” She craned her neck and looked like she was about to enter the room. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself, ma’am. We’ll take the answer down. Good night.”

He closed the door on her disappointed face, and turned to Rose and me, tearing the message open and scanning its contents hurriedly. He looked up, his eyes suddenly feverish.

“The doctor is back. He wants to see Philo as soon as possible.”

“At last,” said Rose. “We’ll pack him up and take him there first thing tomorrow morning.”

He stabbed the note with his finger.

“No, no, it says as soon as possible! That means now!” He looked around wildly. “I have to gather my notes! I must pack my specimens! I’ve got to get ready!” He grabbed my shoulder. “Bob, see if Philo will take any water. Check his straw; clean it if you can! Bundle him up. We’ve got to prepare him for the trip to the Bureau!”

Under the impetus of his wild urging, I ran over to the case and started fumbling at the latch. Rose looked at us with wide eyes and didn’t make a move.

“You’re crazy,” she said stolidly. “Philo is sick! There’s no way we can take him safely through the streets at this time of night. I poked my nose out since we ate, I have. Why, the temperature must have dropped twenty degrees since sunset.”

I opened the case and examined Philo.

“We don’t have time to argue, woman,” Howard spat. “Get your boots on and grab your shawl.”

I reached in and touched a paw.

“I think we do have time,” I said flatly. “Philo’s dead.”

“What!” Howard yelped, and in an instant Rose was at my side. She touched the flabby, flaccid arm and let it drop back motionless.

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” the older boy moaned. “Not … not my first assignment!” Then he paused, stood up straight, and literally got hold of himself, grabbing his coat lapels. “All right,” he breathed. “Maybe he’s not dead. This could be … hibernation, yes, or some kind of fit. How would we know? We’re not physicians. All the more reason to get to Dr. Browning. He might be able to revive him … resuscitate … at least confirm if he’s alive or not.”

Rose and I stared at him.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he roared at us. “Get ready!” He stormed out of the room.

I followed in his wake, but without much hope. I’m no doctor, but I know when someone’s dead and when he lives. Something had gone out of Philo, something that had been there before. But Howard’s attitude was overpowering, and I was taken between wind and water, unbalanced by the sudden emergency.

 Before I left the room, I paused to look back. Rose was leaning over the open case, and for a moment I thought she was trying some exercises to get his circulation going again. Then I realized the Catholic girl was making the sign of the cross over Philo’s body. I heard a low murmur of words that I didn’t quite catch, until her lips formed the explosive letters of “… baptize thee …”

She may have doubted whether the Frog-Boy had a soul or not, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

I ducked away before she could notice me watching.

We might have started out much quicker, but Howard kept thinking of more things he needed for his report and had to pack and repack his heavy valise. There was his notebook, of course, long ago filled, and voluminous notes he had drawn up, scattered all over the room, and charts he had been making, and heavy glass jars of ‘specimens’ he had collected, mostly of Philo’s leavings. These clanked and rang as he shuffled the contents of the satchel. He accepted my scanty notebook as he gave me hasty directions.

“Make sure the case is wrapped up well. Use a blanket … no, better make it both our blankets … still, we’ve got to leave him some air … but not too much air … if he’s still alive … oh, God …”

“I thought you didn’t believe in God,” I pointed out.

“Now is not the time, Bob.”

There was a tap at our door and Rose stuck her head in.

“Will you two hurry? I don’t know how much longer that messenger from the Bureau will wait!”

“Damn it, I forgot all about him. I hope he’s got a warm coach.” He grabbed his walking stick from the corner. “Let’s pack up Philo and move!”

But when we had finally all bundled down to the front porch there was no coach at all. There was only Saunders and a courier pony, shivering in the snow that had started lightly falling.

“’Bout time,” he said sleepily. He looked up and down at us as we clutched our parcels. “You going to a party, are you? What’s the message?” he asked pointedly.

Howard bowed his head, then steeled himself again.

“Tell Dr. Browning that we’re coming, that we’re on our way,” he said briskly. “Tell him not to leave before we get there, that it might be an emergency. We’re coming on the first cab we can catch.”

Saunders looked around at the dark, deserted street. Overhead the sky was like a cap of black iron.

“You’d best hurry,” he said. “I ain’t seen too many out on a night like this.”

“We’ll get one on a busier street. Right now, we’ll walk until we find one. Go tell Dr. Browning. We’ll be there if we have to tramp every step of the way.”

Saunders shrugged and jumped up on his steed.

“You’re the boss.” He turned the pony’s head and trotted off into the darkness. The hooves were already muffled by the drifting snow.

“Let’s go,” Rank commanded, and began trudging along on his trail.

“You’re mad,” Rose said, but started after him resolutely, shoulders hunched, and head bowed against the wind. I hefted Philo’s case in already freezing fingers and struggled to keep up.

We had walked a few dark blocks before I started to notice we were being followed.

I had been lagging behind but now I scuffled up cautiously in between the other two.

“Hey,” I spoke in a low, even tone. “I think we have some company.”

Howard looked back scowling but didn’t stop.

“Do you think I care about couple of scraggly mutts?” he asked. “Keep your eyes out for a cab.”

“I don’t know,” I cautioned. “Do you think they smell … well …” I hefted the case cautiously.

“Oh, for …” He suddenly stopped suddenly, turned back, and raised his stick. “Hey!” he shouted angrily. “Back off!” The dogs scooted away into the darkness.

He turned back to me in irritation. “There! Feel better? Now let’s get moving.”

But a couple of blocks later when we had reached one of the few lampposts flickering along the street, I looked behind and the dogs were back. And there were a few more with them. This time I took the initiative.

I turned and bellowed as loud as I could, “Hey, you! Scat!” Howard and Rose started and looked behind, just in time to see the pack hesitating before scrambling out into the darkness beyond the light.

“Those are some mighty hungry looking dogs,” Rose observed flatly, staring after them. “A few of them are pretty big, too.”

“So what?” Howard growled. “They’re not getting Philo. We’ll protect him from any attack.”

“And who’ll protect us?”

He snorted and turned away wordlessly, and we marched on through the deepening snow. I noticed he had quickened our pace. Not by much, but enough to make me realize that perhaps he was getting a little concerned.

Every now and then I glanced back as we hurried along. The dogs had come back to follow us, and there were more and more of them every time I looked. I didn’t waste any more time yelling at them but concentrated on keeping up with the older folks’ long strides and holding tighter to the draped case in my hand.

We were nearing the outskirts of the federal buildings’ area before we finally came across a cab. We sighted it a way ahead of us, passing under a distant light. We started shouting and waving our hands, breaking into a quick scurry through the snow. The vehicle slackened its’ crawling pace as we approached.

The closer we got the more my spirits sank. It wasn’t the most impressive rig, a rickety looking two-seater with a tiny hood that was not keeping out the weather. The horse was bony and dejected, dragging its hooves and blowing slow clouds of steam in the frozen air. But any port in a storm, as they say.

The driver was one of the fattest men I’d ever seen and looked even bigger wrapped up in cloak and cape. He pushed back the broad brim of his flat hat and looked dubiously at our odd little group. Before we could even begin, he spoke first.

“Sorry, folks, I’m headed home. If you’re going my way, I’ll take you; if not, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Where you headed?”

“558 Franklin Avenue,” Howard gasped, catching his breath as he rested his suitcase in the snow and reached into his coat for his wallet. The coachman shook his head.

“No go,” he gave his whip a little shake. “My advice is for you folks to turn around. I figure I’m the only fool driver to be out this late in this weather, and like I say, I’m going home.”

“Oh, sir, we can’t turn back.” Rose looked at him pleadingly. “It’s just as far to return, and …” she turned in my direction and gestured vaguely at the blanketed bundle in my hand – “… and we must go to see the doctor.”

“That boy looks well enough to me …” the driver started, but Howard interrupted.

“We’ll pay double the fare!” he barked.

The coachman still hesitated.

“Come, come, man,” Howard said reasonably. “You’re already cold and damp. You might as well have some coin in your pocket tonight to show for it.”

“You’ll be doing a real act of charity,” Rose added.

The driver looked heavenward, sighed, and gave up.

“All right, all right, bundle in … if you think you can fit. But mind you, Longshanks,” he said shaking his whip at Howard. “Double fare! Payable right now!”

We quickly pooled our money and started to climb on, and it was a tight squeeze indeed. We ended up lashing Philo’s case to the roof with some rather thin leather straps. At first Howard wanted to ride hanging at the rear to keep a watch on it, but the driver complained about the balance, so he and Rose ended up crowded together, his valise across their knees, and I rode clutching a pair of freezing brass handles in the rear. It wasn’t very comfortable, but what choice did I have?

As the driver cracked his whip and we started to trundle heavily off, I had a very good view behind us. The dogs, who had hung back while we had stopped to negotiate, were moving after us and picking up speed, trotting behind us eagerly now that it seemed we might get away. I swallowed nervously and clung the tighter.

The fat coachman cracked his whip, and the horse went a little faster, both eager, I imagine to be done and out of the cold all the quicker. The pack fell behind a little again, and for a moment, I dared to hope we might leave them behind. But then one of the big dogs in front, a shaggy, lean looking brute, almost half-wolf, let out a howl.

This wasn’t a lonely forlorn howl. It was a full-throated, angry bay, and there was blood in it. And suddenly the whole pack was answering, big and small, with a sound the like of which I had only heard once before in the wilds of the Territories, and I felt colder at that moment on the coach than I ever had from the night and snow.

Rose stuck her head out of the side, then yelled something that was whipped away in the wind. The coachman bellowed something in response and cracked his whip over his boney nag. It was hardly necessary, for the old horse was already putting on speed, obviously spooked.

I clung on desperately. The feral dogs were gaining, and it was obvious to me that if anything were to happen, I would be the first victim of attack. My perch was precarious. As heavily laden as it was, the little coach started lurching from side to side along the slippery stones of the street. Philo’s case rattled on the hood, and I thought that if he wasn’t dead before, this jolting would surely kill him. As I tried to keep my numbed fingers from sliding off the handles – oh, why hadn’t I worn gloves? - I kept looking back in dread. The beasts were now so close that I could hear their snarls and see teeth gleaming through the darkness.

They got closer and closer. Then before I knew it, they were right behind the cab and snapping at my legs. I shouted – well, more like screamed, I must admit – and kicked out at the leader, trying to hit his nose with the hard heel of my boot. It didn’t seem to deter him one bit; he just snarled wider and snapped at my foot like I was dangling a worm on a hook. I drew it back in alarm. The only effect of my shout was that the spooked horse suddenly put on an extra burst of speed. That was when we hit the pothole.

The entire vehicle jolted as it passed over the depression, then jumped as it came out again at full speed. I felt myself slip, desperately clinging to the brass handles, and then my legs were dangling off the back end of the carriage, my boots skipping on the cobblestones as I was dragged along.

But believe it or not, I scarcely noticed that, for my eyes were transfixed in horror. At the same moment I fell, there was a terrible tearing sound as the cab’s hood ripped apart and Philo’s case, unbound, went sailing through the air. The blankets flew apart first, the wicker case snapped open, and then for an instant I saw the limp dark body of the frog-boy imprinted against the snowy sky, before it landed in the middle of a sea of snarling curs. They immediately stopped chasing us and converged in a snapping heap on that single point.

It was a hundred yards before the driver could get his plunging cab under control. I was finally able find my feet and get down. I snatched up one of the coach lamps. The driver threw the reins to Rose, and he and Howard and followed me back to scene of the accident.

The pack was thinner now, still nosing around the spot. We tried to dispel them with shouts, cracks of the whip, and blows from Howard’s cane, but they only ran off when the coachman pulled a pistol out and let off a shot into their midst. He didn’t hit anything, but they scattered into the night, and were gone, leaving a quiet and stillness in the gently falling snow as if they had never been there.

We searched around by lamplight. Except for an oily red stain that was quickly being covered under a sheet of white, there was not a scrap of Philo to be found.

 

We went on to the Bureau and parted with the driver, who was still grumbling and complaining about the damage to his cab as he drove out of sight. We had gathered up our blankets and were wearing them like cloaks against the cold, and I still clutched Philo’s case futilely, like a mute witness, empty now even of straw. A sleepy Saunders let us in and through the building, cold and quiet as a tomb, to the one lit room in its empty halls, where Dr. Browning awaited us.

He was a slight man with thinning hair and a small, severe mustache. In a few fumbling words we explained what had happened and handed over our reports and relics as if offering inadequate sacrifices before a god of wrath. His laconic “I see” and icy dismissal was somehow worse than any discipline that I had expected.

We were sent back to the boarding house in a proper coach from the Department’s stables and passed a miserable rest of the night. Sometime around one o’clock, I guess, I fell asleep. The three of us had hardly spoken.

Sunday was no better. Rose snuck off early for church and didn’t return until evening. Howard spent the day in a quiet fury of cleaning and rearranging all his belongings. I moped in the sitting room, gazing into the fireplace, thinking about Philo, and wondering what Mr. Williams would say.

We all found out Monday. We had waited uneasily for half an hour before he came in, our notebooks in hand. He sat down and quietly laid them down in a row on his desk. Then he cradled his hands and looked at us with hooded eyes for a moment.

“A week ago,” he said sternly, “I paid ten dollars of the Bureau’s money for a Frog-Boy. And today, what do I have to show for it? Three jars of exquisitely preserved excrement, and a rather amateurish sketch that might have been made by an eight-year-old. I told you people to keep it alive, but you couldn’t even bring me back a body.”

He pushed the notebooks forward.

“Dr. Browning told me what you told him. Today, when you return home, I want you to finish your reports in your own words. Your allowances will be docked five cents until our expenditure is covered. That ends the matter.”

“But Mr. Williams …” Howard started.

“Yes?”

“Didn’t some good come out of it, sir? All my notes …”

“Impressive, Mr. Rank, but in the absence of the specimen, as useless as Miss Calhoun’s somewhat religious speculation or Mr. Bellamy’s … intuitive recreation, shall we say. Perhaps in the future we may find some clue to Philo’s origin, but for now, well, South America’s a very large place, and an expedition is not in the budget.”

“So, it was all just a waste,” Rose said gloomily. “We learned nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Miss Calhoun,” he said briskly. I raised my head.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “What did we learn? What good came out of poor Philo’s death?”

“There are lessons here to be learned Mr. Bellamy,” he said sympathetically. “No-one starts out perfect, and not every case ends perfectly, not even with the best of agents. There are heartbreaks that accompany this job. Perhaps it’s just as well you all realize that from the beginning. It’s not selling drapes at the dry goods store.”

He shook his head as if to clear his mind.

“As I said, that is all. Today, before your assignments, I want to talk to you some more about so-called lycanthropy, and its misdiagnoses. Get out your pens …”