A Couple More Characters from "Philo the Frog-Boy"

Mr. Joshua Phineas Williams, Undersecretary of the Department of Extranatural Affairs, and Professor Titus T. Wheeler, proprietor of Wheeler's World of Wonders.

 

Philo the Frog-Boy

One of the strange cryptids encountered by Bob Bellamy during his apprenticeship at the Bureau of Shadows.

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 …” 

Philo the Frog-boy (Part Two)

 

We returned from lunch to find a large grey-striped cat perched atop the case, scratching as if it would claw it open. Mr. Williams shooed it off indignantly.

“Pesky beast,” he grumbled.

“How did that get in here?” Rose asked.

“Oh, it roams around the Department and gets in everywhere, it seems. I’m not sure who brought it in. It appears to keep the vermin away, though.”

He unclasped the box and looked in.

“I think it’s unnerved our little friend a bit. Look, he’s shaking.”

Philo had indeed huddled deep into the straw inside, face down. What we could see of his back was shivering under his brown coat.

“Perhaps he’s cold,” Howard suggested. “If he’s like other amphibia, his body heat should be regulated by the ambient temperature.”

Rose smiled.

“Why, Mr. Rank, what lovely five-dollar words for such a simple concept. Perhaps you should be the creature’s new showman. The room’s warm enough. It’s obvious he’s just terrified.”

“Of a cat? Why, he’s big enough to swallow it down in one gulp! If you ask me …”

“That’s enough,” said Mr. Williams. “You need to get him home with you. Protect him from the cold and from animals, if you please. You’re dismissed from my enthralling lectures for time being; Philo is your assignment. Stay home, watch him, and I’ll send word when Doctor Browning gets back. In the meantime, keep him alive.” 

He yawned.

“And now I really must retire into my private office and attend to Departmental business. Just put up the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the outer door when you leave, would you please? Good afternoon.”

As he hoisted the Frog Boy’s case, Howard gave me a look behind Mr. Williams’ turned back and quickly mimed a sleepy head hitting a pillow. Rose tittered, I grinned silently and hung the sign, and then we were headed out of the Bureau and on our way back to Mrs. Haley’s.

When we got to the boardinghouse there was some interest as we hauled the case up to our rooms. The landlady was satisfied when we told her it was an assignment from the Bureau; we didn’t think it necessary to inform her exactly what it was. As Howard said, those in her profession were seldom happy to hear about ‘pets’ coming into their house. Besides, it was only five days.

The debate began immediately the moment we got him upstairs. And the first question was: where would Philo stay?

“I think it’s fairly obvious,” Howard said. “You’ve got the space, Miss Calhoun. We should set him up in your room.”

“You have said the word yourself, Mr. Rank. Him. I’m not sharing a room with a ‘him’. It wouldn’t be decent.”

“Oh, come now. You don’t think of Philo as a person, do you? You wouldn’t object to a large dog or a parrot sharing your lodgings, would you?”

“Probably not, but I wouldn’t share them with a Barbary ape, either. Until we get some official ruling …”

“Look,” I broke in. “The important thing is to keep him warm, right? The sitting room’s the warmest place. Let’s just keep him in here, and that way we can all take our turns watching him without any – er -invading of our private places.”

“That sounds like a good idea, Bob,” Howard conceded.

Rose didn’t look too convinced.

“What if Mrs. Haley comes in?” she asked.

“We’ll just hustle him off into another room for a while or close up his box. Speaking of which, shouldn’t we let him out for some air and let him stretch his legs? It can’t be too comfortable all crammed up in there.”

“I suppose not,” said Rose. “I imagine this is only a traveling case, to carry him from place to place. Surely, he cannot live in here.” She reached out a hand to the latch, then stopped. “You don’t think he … he jumps around like a frog, do you?”

“Whoo-ee,” whistled Howard. “Can you imagine? Bounding up to the roof and all over the place? But he really didn’t seem up to such shenanigans in the office. Go ahead and open it, so we can have a look. It appears to me he’s been pretty quiet. Maybe too quiet.”

“You don’t think he’s … dead already, do you?” I asked fearfully. That would be a poor end to our first assignment, I thought. Rose looked stricken at the thought.

“Just open the case,” Howard said testily.

Rose hesitated for a second, then quickly unclicked the latches and threw the lid open. There was a sudden, sickening burst of stench and we fell back in horror, clutching at our noses and crying in disgust and shock.

“Good lord.” Howard’s face was round-eyed with wonder. “That must be a whole tenth of his body mass!”

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a frog’s excrement before; perhaps you imagine it’s some kind of pixie pellet, like a rabbit’s dropping. It is not. It is surprisingly large, gross and slimy, and you cannot imagine it coming out of that little creature. Philo had somehow managed to kick off his pants to do his business, and lying there in the straw at his feet, like an elongated oily ostrich egg, was a proportionately large donation.

The three of us just stared at it, stunned, as Philo shuffled back away from it on his haunches and watched us with his wary, inhuman eyes. Finally, Howard reached out slowly, grabbed a rustling piece of newspaper from beside the fireplace, and started reaching cautiously inside the case.

Rose seemed almost frantic that he was actually going to touch it.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

“I,” said Howard, fingers curling around the globule with a slight squelch, “Am going to weigh, dissect, and analyze this, then throw it out. I suggest that you, Miss Calhoun, go and find something for Philo to eat. He must surely be feeling depleted after a movement of this size.”

“Where am I supposed to find bugs at this time of year?” she asked angrily. “Even supposing I wanted to?” She looked distracted for a moment, thinking. “I suppose some fish might do,” she suggested. “I’ll run down to the market and see what I can find there. It wouldn’t do to arouse Mrs. Haley’s suspicions.”

“Pick up some clean straw on the way,” Howard commanded. He was looking abstractedly into his acquisition, as if it were a puzzling crystal ball. “Bob, why don’t you attend to our guest in the meanwhile?”

“Hmph.” Rose flounced away huffily at his tone, and he disappeared into our room, where he already had our dresser set up as a makeshift lab. I turned to Philo, whose only action so far had been to turn his head at every movement we made and puff out his throat now and then. I inched up close to him and slowly extended my hand.

He ducked away in alarm, his eyes nearly disappearing into his head.

“Now, now, little fellow, I’m not going to hurt you,” I said gently, almost in a whisper. “I want us to be friends.” I reached out my hand slowly, just like I had seen Wheeler do. “Shake, Philo? Do you want to shake?”

He stared at me for a moment, then gradually drew closer. At last, he cautiously took my hand and slowly we started to shake.

I reached out my other hand and he flinched. I paused, then carefully brought it down and cautiously, gradually, began to scratch his head.

He looked startled at that, but after a few seconds he leaned into the touch like a dog giving in to a good petting and made a shrill little trilling noise. And after that, we were friends.

I managed to get him out of the case and back into his pants; I thought I’d better get them on, for warmth. Our little room was fairly snug, but every now and then we experienced drafts from doors opening and closing in the building. He didn’t mind the pants; in fact, he seemed eager to get them back on, basically helping me dress him again. I wondered about that. Was it just a trained animal’s habit, or did he really want to cover up his nakedness? I couldn’t quite make up my mind.

By the time Rose and Howard returned to the sitting room from their various tasks (at almost the same time), Philo and I were sitting by the hearth as cozy as could be, I in a chair and Philo toasting on the bricks near the fire. He didn’t seem to mind the flames at all.

“Did you wash your hands?” was Rose’s first pointed question to Howard.

“With carbolic soap,” he assured her sarcastically.

“Fine,” she said. “How’s our assignment been doing?” she asked me.

“Good as gold,” I said. “What’d you get him to eat?”

“Catfish,” she said flatly. “It was the cheapest thing available. But they threw in a dozen crawfish.” She uncovered the basket she was carrying. “They look like bugs, don’t they? Maybe he’ll like them.”

It turned out he did like them, once we nipped off the claws, but he wouldn’t touch the fish until we had split it open and warmed it over the fire a bit. As it turned out over the days, he always preferred the cooked to the raw, except for the bits of cabbage and lettuce we scrounged up for him. In the dead of winter, though, those was pretty scarce.

We got him fed, changed his straw, and tucked him up into his case again before we descended to the dining room for our own supper. We informed Mrs. Haley we’d be on hand for lunch too for the rest of the work week; she seemed a little annoyed, but otherwise accepted it in stride. As I said, she was used to such irregularities from her Bureau boarders. Several of them gave us a knowing look; they seemed to recognize the signs of covert departmental business and weren’t saying a word. In fact, I had bumped into one of them in the hall once as he was carrying an unusually long bundle wrapped in brown paper. I asked him what it was, and he informed me in hushed tones that it was a barometer, possibly haunted, and to mention it to no-one. This same fellow was giving me a commiserating eye as he ate his chowder.

And so we settled into our schedule of watching Philo. We made a chart recording all our observations: what we fed him, his reactions, his moods, his sounds, his movements. We included our own ideas, conjectures, and even feelings that he evoked. By the third day we had fallen into enough of a routine of caring for him that our minds were starting to disengage from our day-to-day attentions and apply themselves to some theoretical speculations.

It started out mildly enough. We had finished giving Philo his supper, cleaned out his nest with new straw, and settled him in for the night. The frog-boy had nestled down immediately and soon was fast asleep, his sides slowly moving in and out like leathery bellows. I softly closed the lid and latched it, then went to sit with the others around the fire.

“Well, he seems to be settling down nicely,” I said. “Hardly a peep out of him all day.”

Rose looked up from her petit point.

“I’m not sure if that’s the best sign, Bob,” she observed. “I don’t know how it is with these frogs, or whatever they are, but when people show such a lack of energy or interest it means that they’re feeling low.”

“I don’t know that an analogy to human behavior is going to be much use in this case.” Rank started to pack a pipe. “Whatever it is, it is an amphibian. And amphibians go into a state of hibernation, or at least estivation, during the winter months.”

“Esti...?” I began.

“Estivation,” he said. He leaned over and lit a spill from the fireplace. “Think of it as a very long nap, with breaks to get a snack.”

Rose lowered her embroidery hoop.

“All I know,” she said, “Is that if I were taking care of a child and he started acting like Philo, I’d suspect something phthisical coming on.”

“But he’s not a human child,” Howard said testily, puffing on the pipe, trying to get it to draw.

“Heck, we don’t even know if he’s a child of any kind,” I put in. “Just because he’s called the Frog Boy, don’t make it so. He might have a lot of growing to do, or he might be old as a grampa now. How could we tell? Frogs look the same from when they’re teeny-tiny until they’re big enough to fry up like a chicken.”

Rose shuddered and screwed her face up.

“Thank you, Bob, for that lovely thought. Now I can’t stop thinking of Mrs. Haley serving up poor Philo for Sunday dinner.”

Howard barked a short, braying laugh. He sat back comfortably. The pipe was drawing well, now. He exhaled a long, thoughtful cloud of smoke.

“I suppose,” he said casually, “That we’ve all got our own ideas about this creature by this point.”

“My notebook is already more than half-full,” Rose said smugly, pulling another satisfied stitch tightly to its end.

I just nodded and said nothing. I didn’t want to admit that my report so far consisted of a couple of pages of random notes and an amateurish line drawing of Philo in pencil. I’ve always liked to sketch, but I’ve got no training. I’m certainly no Raphael, but I have been told that sometimes my drawing does rise to a kind of caricature that captures a ‘soul likeness’, if not complete accuracy. I thought my little doodle had achieved at least that dignity.

I was guiltily considering erasing it and writing over the space. I was fairly sure it wasn’t what Mr. Williams was expecting in our reports. But it filled a page. Perhaps I could add a few labels and arrows and so on and pass it off as a diagram. But my heart sank at Howard’s next words.

“Maybe,” he said slowly, “Maybe we should put our heads together and compare our notes.”

“Certainly not,” the girl snapped. “I’m not having you crib off my work, Mr. Rank.” Howard looked offended.

“This isn’t schoolwork,” he said. “This is – or should be – science. We should be more worried about finding out the truth than anything personal.”

“And do you think that always happens in your glorified scientific field?” Rose asked sarcastically.

Howard grinned.

“Can’t say as I do, men being human. Especially when there’s a reward at stake, like our little job at the Bureau. However, step by step, we do progress.”

“Why don’t we all just make a note in our journals,” I suggested hastily, to defuse the situation. They turned and stared at me as if the tallboy chest had decided to speak. I stumbled on.

“We can record who said what … and so on … in general terms … and then later if we develop, you know … a new insight … we can always point to who had the … er, the original inspiration in the first place.”

“I suppose,” Howard said slowly, “We might even get credit for working together.” He looked at Rose.

“I don’t mind,” she said, mouth drawn in a prim line. “As long as credit is given where credit is due.”

“And if it helps Philo,” I said brightly, “It will certainly be worth it.”

“You definitely seem very invested in the beast,” Howard said, sitting back indulgently. “Suppose you tell us what your thoughts are.”

I froze for a moment.  

“No, suppose you go first, Mr. Rank.” Rose put aside her embroidery and smiled, straightening her skirt. “Just to show your sincerity, as it were.”

He looked at her, eyes wide.

“You don’t trust me, Miss Calhoun?” He seemed to consider the thought for a moment, then apparently reached a conclusion. “Very well,” he accepted. “I’ll tell you what I think.”

He glanced over at the case.

“Philo is an amphibian of unusual size and of some intelligence and trainability, equivalent to, say, a show dog or an educated pig. He seems sociable, tractable, and peaceable, but there is no telling how much of that is natural or learned from training.” He threw up his hands. “If it weren’t for his occasional upright posture - and we can’t be sure if even that hasn’t been beaten into him – he’s just a big frog. I would love to open him up and see if he’s any different inside. If he wasn’t accustomed to clothing, I don’t think he would project the air of personality that he does.” He rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know why we persist in dressing him.”

“Warmth,” Rose said promptly.

“He likes it,” I said.

“Of course, he likes warmth,” Howard said. “But even so …”

“He came in his clothes, and we’ll give him back in his clothes,” Rose said. “Just in the same condition we received him.”

He waved his hands dismissively.

“Fine, fine, Miss Calhoun. I’ve told you what I think. Now maybe you’ll share your insights with us?”

She drew her head back.

“I think it might surprise you to learn that my conclusions are trending to your own. Philo is neither a monster nor a freak; he is simply an animal unknown to us at present. I’ve noticed nothing … extranatural … about him.” She sniffed. “His smell is certainly very … earthly.”

Howard leaned back, narrowing his eyes in disapproval. His pipe had gone out.

“Well, that doesn’t add much to the conversation.” He tamped the bowl, then reached for another spill.

“But I do disagree with your approach.”

Howard paused.

“What do you mean?”

“Philo is a living creature,” Rose said. “You seem to think of his as if he were just a slab of meat, something to be taken apart and classified. An object to be studied. I think a more fruitful approach would be looking at him in his quiddity.”

“Quiddity?” I asked doubtfully. She looked at me.

“In his essence,” she explained condescendingly. “In what he is, as a whole, not broken down into bits on a chart.”

Rank squinted one eye at her.

“And just what does your study of his ‘essence’ tell you about him?” he asked ironically, applying the spill and puffing hard to get the flame going again.

“Not much, at the moment,” Rose admitted. But she was not giving up the fight. “If we had a month more to watch him …”

“Well, we don’t,” Rank said. “Dr. Browning will be back in a couple of days, and it’ll be out of our hands.”

“If he lasts that long.” Rose sighed and pushed back a lock of red hair. She reached for her sewing again.

“Very cheerful thinking, I must say,” Howard remarked sourly, then brightened up. “Even if Philo doesn’t make it, surely there will be a dissection. Perhaps the doctor will allow me to assist.”

Rose shuddered.

“I wouldn’t, even if they asked me to.”

“More points for me, then,” he said, chuckling. He looked at me. “How about you, Bob? What does your vast ‘field experience’ tell you about our Frog-Boy?”

I blushed. I had been dreading the conversation coming around to me.

“Well,” I began. “What I think about Philo can’t rightly be put into words, or at least I don’t have the right words yet. I guess you’d more rightly call it sort of a feeling or an intuition.”

“I see,” said Howard cryptically. I could tell he was dubious. “And how have you arrived at this insight?” I glanced around at them and lowered my eyes.

“Go on,” Rose prompted.

“I don’t want it to sound like I think your approach is wrong or anything,” I said apologetically. “Or that I think I’m particularly right. But … Howard, you’re looking at Philo like an experiment, and Rose, you treat him like a pet parrot that you’re taking care of. I’ve spent more time sitting with him, getting to know him as it were, even tried to play games with him. He’s getting pretty good at pat-a-cake.”

“Just more training,” Howard said dismissively.

“What do you think your time spent proves?” Rose asked curiously.

“I think … I get the impression … well, not to put too fine a point on it, but I think Philo’s got a mind. A real personality. Maybe … maybe even a soul of some kind.”

The sound both made together can best be described as “Pshaw!”

“Only mankind has a soul!” Rose scolded.

“And I don’t know if there’s even any scientific proof of that,” Howard said acidly. “To claim it for a beast …”

“I didn’t say it was a human soul!” I explained quickly. “Something like that though, analogous, not as developed, perhaps …”

“Tell us, what other useful conclusions have you deduced from sitting around playing pat-a-cake with a frog?”

“I can’t say it’s really anything factual,” I confessed. “But taking into account what Mr. Weller told us, and what I know about him personally, and so forth, I do have a theory, a sort of story. I know it’s just my mind telling it to me, and there’s not much evidence, but I just can’t help feeling it.”

Rose looked curious.

“What do you think, Mr. Bellamy?”

Howard yawned.

“Yes, Bob. It is getting late, and we could use a good bedtime story.”

I could feel my ears burning red.

“We know Philo’s from the wilds of South America. The place is huge; any number of odd things can be hiding there. I don’t think Philo is a freak of nature, he’s too social for that. He probably comes a whole race of Frog-People. So, he must have gotten separated from them somehow.”

“That makes sense,” Rose conceded. It sounded like she was throwing me a bone out of pity, trying to shield me from Howard’s obvious scorn.

“Anyways,” I went on. “I don’t imagine he simply got lost and then captured by traders. He must have been pretty far from his folks, or some of them might have got caught, too. I figure he must have left for a reason. I thought at first maybe he was exiled, but then I don’t see Philo as the rogue type, unless his travels have quietened him down some.”

“Flawless logic.” Howard chuckled around the stem of his pipe.

“Look, you asked me what I thought.”

“Oh, please, do go on.”

“So, I got to thinking that maybe he set off himself on an adventure. That makes sense to me. If he’s a young frog feller, he might have wanted to see what’s out there in the big wide world. I think he wandered too far and then got caught. I know that there’s no way to prove his age – no frog’s got gray hair – but he just feels young to me.”

“He doesn’t seem very spry to my thinking,” said Rose.

“But Mr. Weller said he had been,” I pointed out. “This torpor seems to have come on him progressively, but quicker than old age would have.”

“Your story indicates one thing, Bob.” Howard knocked the ashes out of his pipe. “It shows that you’re quite the fabulist.” He yawned. “If you don’t get a job in the Bureau, you can always write fantastic romances for the penny press.”

“You’d better come up with some better ideas, if you want to impress Mr. Williams,” Rose agreed. “Philo’s just an animal. To think of him going on an adventure on purpose is like supposing a baby bird jumps out of the nest because it wants to go to afternoon tea.” She set her sewing aside, stood up, and stretched. “You still have a couple of days to think about it. I, gentlemen, am retiring for the night. I’ll be up by eight o’clock to take my watch. Mr. Rank, no clandestine dissections please, and Bob, don’t fry him up. Let’s try to get him back alive, shall we?”

“No kissing him either, Miss Calhoun,” Howard grinned. “No matter what fairy tales you believe in, you’ll only get warts. And even if it did work, we must get Philo back ‘just in the same condition we received him in’, eh?”

“Hmpf,” Rose sniffed, and withdrew with a sweep of her skirts to her bedchamber.

“’Night, Bob,” Howard said amiably, and slouched yawning to our room.

I was left alone by the dying fire. I mechanically piled a new log on the flames, to keep the heat up during my night watch. I settled down in the big sitting chair, Philo’s case next to me, not too far and not too close to the heat. I opened one of Howard’s books that I had borrowed to occupy me through the night, but I couldn’t bring myself to concentrate on it just yet. Eventually I clapped it shut. I reached down and cautiously opened the case by my side.

Philo lay in the straw, asleep, his sides barely lifting with each slow breath. I reached down and gently stroked his head. It felt damp and sweltering to the touch.

“Probably it is all just a story,” I murmured. “But I can’t help but think there’s a spot of truth in it. Guess I’ll never know. Wish you could talk, Philo old boy.” I sighed. “Then you might tell us what’s wrong before …” I shut up, and opened the book again quickly, leaving the thought unspoken out of a sudden vague dread.

Friday Fiction: Philo the Frog-boy (Part One)

CHAPTER THREE: PHILO THE FROG-BOY

[7/13/2021]

 

     When I returned from lunch that day and reported back to Mr. Williams, I discovered that Pa had already been called away on another case. It was disconcerting to be so suddenly on my own, but the business of my training soon occupied all my thoughts and efforts. I’ll never forget that first talk Mr. Williams gave, mainly because we were all handed a casebook bound in pebbled green covers and told to take notes.

     “We are working on a handbook for the department,” he said, slapping a pile of long, legal-looking papers together. “In the meantime, I will read you a short precis that I have assembled. It is a rough and ready sort of guide to the key types of cases the Bureau covers. I like to call them the Three D’s. Pencils ready? Let’s begin.

“First of all, we have the Dybbuks. That’s with a y and two b’s. That’s a Jewish term, and it means a ghost, most often a ghost haunting and possessing a human person. We have a broader definition here at the Bureau. It is any non-corporeal remnant of humanity surviving death.

“Now, what does this mean? Does the Bureau endorse the existence of, for want of a better word, souls? Not as such. Just as when a man dies he leaves behind bones and rotting flesh, we believe he leaves behind certain, let’s call them energies, that may persist and decay, causing a health hazard just as dangerous as an unburied body. Do we deny, then, that the soul exists?”

Rank glanced up smirking in expectation and Rose looked very serious indeed.

“No, we don’t,” the secretary went on. Now it was Rank’s turn to frown. “We can’t, as a matter of policy. Our present stance is that that which is termed an immortal soul, the person itself, passes beyond the physical world. Its fate is beyond our provenance. What we do deal with basically are useless and even harmful leftover vestiges of the mind and spirit, clearing them away and putting them out of the path of the public.”

“Like an undertaker,” I said.

“Or a garbageman,” Rank added disgustedly.

“Both very necessary occupations,” Mr. Williams replied. “Dybbuks are the lowest, most common, and, though frightening, least dangerous class of phenomena that we deal with. The next level up are the Daemons.”

“Demons?” Rose asked quickly.

“No, no, Daemons.” Mr. Williams sighed. “This is going to take a little explaining. The ancient Greeks used the word for a special order of being, partly earthly, partly spiritual. Now, there seems to be an analogous order of existence that is … ah … unknown to science at the moment. They appear to be physical, of an animal-like appearance, seem bound to certain areas, and have a mind greater than a beast but utterly puzzling to human intelligence.”

Rose raised her hand.

“You say they are partly spiritual. How has the Bureau reached this conclusion? It seems unlikely from a scientific point of view,” - here she cut her eyes toward Rank - ”and certainly from a religious standpoint.”

“It does indeed, and we are not entirely comfortable with this part of the definition ourselves. But they seem to defy capture in highly unlikely ways, appear and vanish most inexplicably and unexpectedly, and on the whole seem to leave no solid evidence of their passing. Unless we can capture some very canny beasts or discover some hitherto unguessed laws of nature, these genius locorum best fit some very ancient definitions indeed. These creatures are not malicious as such, but their wildness can be a threat to mankind.” He cleared his throat. “We are working on cataloging and nullifying the perils of these phenomenon.”

“And what’s the third D?” I asked. I had been keeping count, and tallying things I had seen myself into the categories. I had a good idea what was coming next.

Mr. Williams shuffled his papers and ran a nervous hand over his chin.

“The third D,” he said. “Is, thankfully, the rarest, though it can be the most dangerous. This D we call the Devils.” He raised a forestalling hand. “And no, I don’t mean horns and hoofs and pitch-forks. I mean the diabolii, the enemies of all mankind, the wycche, the wicked or twisted, the malificarum, the ill-wishers. There may be some dark force behind them; I do not know. In truth, I do not want to know, and the Bureau cannot pretend to know. That is a matter of individual faith.” He sighed. “But they do have these, hm, powers, and they have turned them to evil.”

He looked at Rose sympathetically.

“Yes, my dear, exactly what you and those you’ve known have feared about yourself. But don’t worry about that. These are not ‘wise women’ or so-called ‘white witches’ or ‘cunning men’. The talent doesn’t make these people evil; their choices do. Their anger, their greed, their cruelty does. They, and you, have a temptation not available to most people. And it is a choice you have to make every day of your life.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, in a very small, quiet voice.

“But it is, as I said, thankfully rare. And you three certainly won’t be on such a case right away, and hopefully never.”

“Thank goodness for that,” I piped up. “I wouldn’t care to face anybody like the Deacon again.”

“The Deacon?” Rank wrinkled his brow.

“Well, that was a special case,” Mr. Williams said dismissively. “An undead malificarum is certainly an anomaly in the Bureau records. That you were able to figure out how to destroy him was an astronomically unlikely event.”

     “An undead …” Rank and Rose looked at me appalled. I could see by their expression that they were considering that what had seemed a simple-looking country bumpkin, too young even to shave just yet, was talking calmly about such a horror. I felt what I must confess was a slight, smug twinge of pride.

“It doesn’t matter at the moment,” he went on. He pounded his notes with his forefinger. “What I am telling you, Mr. Bellamy, is that you cannot count on Providence or good luck to bail you out of every situation. You must be prepared. And that goes for all of you.”

“The Three D’s.” Rose quickly checked her notes. “Dybbuks and Daemons and Devils.”

Rank summed it up.

“So, ghosts and monsters and witches,” he said. He leaned back.  “Is that all the DEA deals with?”

“Oh, my, no. Mr. Rank. On a case-by-case basis, most of our work is clearing up misidentification, fraud, and just plain stupidity. There are some strange cases that don’t fall into any apparent category. I estimate that ninety-nine out of a hundred cases are tidied up without any extranatural explanation whatsoever. But that hundredth case? You could say that is the core of why the Bureau exists at all.”

“To help folks who have no one to help otherwise,” Rose said in conviction.

“Yes, there’s that, too,” Mr. Williams said vaguely. He pulled out his watch. “It’s almost four. I think that concludes the business for today. We must see to getting you established in your boarding house, if you’re to be there in time for supper.”

We headed out behind him like a line of ducks. I picked up my luggage from the desk and smiled at Mr. Demullins, who bowed deferentially to the Secretary and sent a runner to fetch his carriage around front. As we bundled in, the Secretary gained the addresses of the other apprentices’ lodgings and sent for their belongings. Neither was far to go; Rank had checked into a local inn, and Rose actually came from an Irish neighborhood in Washington called, oddly enough, the Swampoodle.

We arrived at an area made up mostly of boardinghouses that catered to the rather transient population of the City, and there we stopped at a modest building that Mr. Williams explained was particularly devoted to employees of the Bureau. As such, the proprietor, a Mrs. Haley, was quite used to the coming and going of agents and their rather odd habits. She greeted him warmly and welcomed us young folks with almost motherly attention.

It wasn’t long before we were established on the third floor, in adjoining apartments that shared a sitting room between them. After setting an appointment for the next day, Mr. Williams bid us good night and left us to our own devices. Rose had it rather better than us boys as she had her bedroom to herself. I started to unpack at once, and it wasn’t long before the others’ things arrived. Rose had one large cedar box, rather like a hope chest, but Rank’s luggage turned out to be nine rough, heavy packing crates that nearly filled up our little chamber to the ceiling.

“What in the world?” I asked. “It can’t all be clothes, Mr. Rank.”

“Certainly not,” he said happily. “It is something even more essential.”  He started prying the wooden boxes open with a peculiar little flange on his cane – an embellishment that seemed specially designed for just such a purpose. “And you can call me Howard, Mr. Bellamy, and, if you don’t mind, I shall call you Bob.”

“Suits me,” I said. “But what – “

I paused as I was interrupted as he gave a loud grunt, and with a squawk of tortured nails and wood the box flew open.

“There! Now isn’t that pretty!” he said with proud satisfaction. I drew nearer and looked inside cautiously.

It was books, rows upon rows of books, more books in that one crate than I’d ever seen in public life outside a library or a bookshop. They weren’t in any great shape, but their sheer number was impressive. I looked up at him bewildered, and then at the other boxes.

“Are they all books?”

“Most of them,” he said, turning to the next crate and inserting his wedge. “But quite a few of them are journals and periodicals and such. There’s one half-full of just clippings from the papers.”

“But didn’t you bring along any clothes or a shaving kit or anything like that?”

“This fine ensemble you see on my back is the best of a poor lot; the rest I left behind for the ragman. Oh, yes.” He patted the front pocket of his rather shabby overcoat. “I do have a razor. The rest I’ll have to borrow. Do you ...?” He looked at my face. “No, I suppose not. Ah, well.”

“Where do you propose to put all this?” I indicated the rather spartan room. “There’s not a super-abundance of shelving available here.”

“That’s fine with me, I really don’t need to unpack it all. I know where everything is, believe it or not. There is a method, ha ha, to all this madness. I say,” he turned on me suddenly. “You don’t mind me taking up so much room, do you?”

“Oh, no,” I said hurriedly. “I’ve got by on much worse. But what – “

“Excellent,” he said promptly, turning back to his task, banishing me from his thoughts. Or so I thought. I watched him dumbly for a while until he suddenly spoke up.

“So, the son of the agent has some experience himself, eh? That was quite an eye-opener. Did your father help you through that?”

“Sort of, but not really. He’d given me some rather oblique advice over the years, but I didn’t know he was an agent at the time, or that the Bureau of Shadows even existed.”

He whistled.

“That must have been quite a nasty experience. You were certainly lucky.” He ran a finger over the backs of his books and started to draw one out.

“Worst night of my life,” I admitted. “Even without the Lake Monster or the Wood-ape, the Deacon would have been bad enough.”

He went still.

“You know, Bob, you were doing so well. You didn’t have to embellish it any more.” He shook his head and went back to his work. “I almost believed you.”

“But it did happen!” I objected. “You heard Mr. Williams. You can ask him …”

He smiled. “That’s okay, Bob. You can spin yarns for the old man, but don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes. But I do appreciate a good tale. You’ll have to tell me all about it one day.”

“I tell you, it really truly …”

There was a sudden knock on the door, and Howard ignored me to cheerfully call out, “Come in!” Rose stuck her head inside the door.

“Mrs. Haley says supper is ready,” she said, looking askance at the shambling pile of half-unpacked volumes. “Apparently it’s stewed mutton tonight, and we’ll have to hurry if we want a good cut.”

It’s a peculiar rule that no matter how good a cook is, nor how good a dish, that the more people it’s made for the worse it will be. The same meal made for two will be fine but make it for thirty and it will be as bland as can be, if not inedible. Maybe it’s the proportion of attention and fine-tuning available. Lucky for us there were only about a dozen at the table that night, so it was fairly satisfactory.

After we ate, the three of us gathered around the fireplace in our common sitting room, which had grown quite toasty against the chill November weather. Rose settled down with her sewing box, and, after a wrangle with Howard, started mending the seam of his coat, which she had noticed was coming undone. Howard sat back loftily in his chair as if disdaining such niceties, opened one of his books, and lit a small cigar. Rose wrinkled her nose but said nothing. I sat down to write a letter to Ma and Daisy. After a while, into the silence, I asked the question that was on all our minds.

“I wonder,” I said, “Which of the three D’s we’ll have to deal with first?”

 

So, what was our first case? It’s hard to say, really. All I can tell you is that it was Philo the Frog-Boy.

That initial week or so was an uncomfortable combination of dullness and bustle as we learned our way around the Bureau. Part of this consisted in a quick, cursory tour of the building itself, given by a brisk young colored page named Sanders, which left me almost more muddled than when he began. Besides telling us where the cloakroom and all the water closets were, he rushed us pass a bewildering multitude of offices, rattling off the names of the people who worked there and what their functions were. Quite a few of these were ‘best not to be disturbed’, and there were some corridors that he informed us, with a roll of his eyes to heaven and a shudder, were absolutely forbidden.

The other part consisted of rather dry preparatory lectures on procedures and policies, given by Mr. Williams in the hour before lunch. It was in the course of one of these talks – it was on compensation for personal damages while in the pursuit of a case – that Philo came bursting into our lives.

Mr. Williams had concluded his talk and we were finishing up our notes with an occasional question to clear up a point or two when we were all startled by a knock on the door. It was immediately followed by its opening a crack and the head of a harried clerk stuck through the gap.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Williams,” he said hurriedly. “I told him you were busy, but there’s a Mr. Wheeler here to see you, and he was most insistent that he … hey!”

The door was pushed open behind him and a most gaudy figure came striding in, thrusting his way through with an enormous wicker case used like a battering ram to shove the incensed clerk aside. We watched him as he strode up to Mr. Williams desk, parked his case, and swept off his battered hat with an impressive bow.

The man was over six feet tall, wiry, and dressed in a lemon-yellow coat (somewhat smudged), a red vest, and olive-green pants. His tie was bright orange and pinned with what must surely have been a huge glass bauble, cut like a diamond. Yellow gloves on his spatulate hands and shiny black boots on his boat-like feet completed his ensemble.

But his most notable feature was his head. Completely hairless except for a large mobile pair of eyebrows, the sallow skin stretched tightly over protruding cheekbones, it looked like a someone had taken a polished skull and affixed a pointed wax nose to it and added a couple of wide translucent pink shells on either side to complete the illusion.

The skull smiled engagingly.

“How do you do, Mr. Williams, sir,” he said, sticking out a hand to be shaken. “My name is Professor Titus T. Wheeler, of Wheeler’s World of Wonders, and it is a pleasure to meet you. You are just the man I want to see, and if I may make so bold, I think I am a man you will be glad to meet.”

Mr. Williams sat staring motionless for just a beat too long for comfort, his hands twined together. Then he raised a finger to the flummoxed clerk at the door.

“You may go, Lyman.” The clerk bowed himself out, pulling the latch closed with a clack. We out our notes aside and watched curiously. Williams turned a polite but distant eye back to the visitor. He accepted the still outstretched hand for the briefest of moments, barely a shake, then laced his fingers again.

“Mr. Wheeler,” he said sedately. “How may your government serve you today?”

“Well, now,” Wheeler began jovially, with just a hint of unease at the other’s attitude. He tapped his leather case with a nervous finger. “What I’m hoping is that my government and I may help each other.”

“I see.” Mr. Williams looked a little bored as he opened a drawer in his desk and briskly, mechanically, took out a form and dipped a pen. “A showman, I take it?”

“An exhibitor of curiosities, sir, a displayer of rare talents, designed to amuse and educate. Demonstrations both scientific and artistic, garnered from the wide world over, and all presented to young and old for mere pennies a show!”

Mr. Williams smiled a little bleakly.

“And a Professor, eh? What do you profess?”

The brash attitude suddenly dropped from the colorful skeleton’s manner.

“Well, to tell you the truth, mister, right now I profess to being worried about my friend Philo’s health.”

The Director’s eyebrows shot up.

“Philo?”

“One of my exhibits, sir. Philo the Frog Boy.”

Mr. Williams leaned back dismissively and waved him away.

“I must tell you, Mr. Wheeler, that this department is not interested in what are termed ‘freaks.’ The proper place for such unfortunate people is in a hospital …”

“Ah, but that’s the point, you see, Mr. Williams. Is he a people? I’ve had a doctor look at him, a proper doctor … well, a horse doctor, to be sure, but he’s very good … and he tells me he’s never seen the like of Philo in twenty years of pulling teeth and setting bones on the side, and he’d seen some queer things, indeed. He’d heard of this place, somehow, and informed me that here is where I needed to go.”

Mr. Williams looked intrigued despite himself.

“Oh, very well, Mr. Wheeler. You can bring this ‘Frog Boy’ in.” He checked his watch. “Perhaps after lunch?”

Wheeler grinned and laid a hand on his case.

“Why wait?” he said dramatically. “He’s here now!”

With a flourish he unlatched the case and flung it open. Inside, curled up in a bed of straw and blinking in the sudden light, was Philo the Frog Boy.

Mr. Williams pulled out his glasses and slowly stood up, putting them on as he did. Rank and Rose and I rose as he did and drew near, overcome with curiosity.

“Astonishing,” the Secretary murmured.

The figure in the case was only about three feet long, with its spindly legs curled back up onto the body, knees almost as high as the chin, in a manner that certainly wasn’t human. He uncrossed his webbed hands tentatively, leaned forward, and unbent himself until he stood looking around at the circle of unfamiliar faces. He stepped out of the case, thin legs rocking on unsteady feet. He was dressed in what looked like ordinary toddler’s clothes; except for that, he did indeed appear to be nothing more than an enormous frog.

On close examination, though, I noticed some odd distinctions. The skull was oddly bulging behind, not flat, and the eyes seemed a bit more set forward, almost binocular, though as they peered around at us, they moved virtually independently of each other. And if you’ve ever seen a real frog held up until it stands on its hind legs, you know that it isn’t designed for it. But this odd figure stood there quite naturally erect.

“Philo, say hello to the folks,” Wheeler said, tapping him on the shoulder.

The creature’s eyes disappeared in a blink that seemed the swallow the liquid black orbs into his bobbing head, his neck puffed out, and he belched out a squeaking oink that seemed to come from the bottom of his belly.

“Most fascinating,” Mr. Williams said slowly. He reached out a gentle finger and touched the thing’s hand. Its skin was wrinkly and dark brown, like the fruit of a palm-date. It looked up at him warily.

“Dry,” the Director observed. “Is that normal?”

“Yes, well, that’s part of why I’ve brought him here, you see. Normally he’s a little oily – plays the devil with the costume sometimes, but nothing a good laundress can’t get out. But lately he has dried out, and along with other symptoms, I don’t think it augurs well. Drooping spirits, lack of appetite – you should have seen him in his heyday, sir; merry as a cricket. Which, I may say, he enjoyed by the buckets-full.”

“You actually spent your time collecting bugs for the beast?” Rank asked, wrinkling his nose.

“No, no, that was just an amusement I advertised for the little children, and believe me, sir, they delighted in bringing a pail and watching him feast, a delight salted with happy disgust. But Philo didn’t care; he cheerfully crunched them down.” A tear came to the skeleton’s eye. “Alas, no more. He’s taken a sad turn this winter.”

“Where and when did you get this … er … Philo?”

“I bought him from a sailor off a ship in New Orleans, Mr. Williams,” he explained. “That would have been five years ago. The man said he had taken him in trade at a port along the South American coastline. The trip over the saltwater hadn’t done the poor lad any good, however, and he looked on the point of expiring then and there. I bargained the sailor down to a good price – three dollars and a new waistcoat, as I remember – and set about nursing him back to health.” He reached down and scratched the thing’s head. It arched its’ neck up and made an odd weak thrumming sound, almost like the purr of a cat. “Named him Philo, because he’s got the kind of face only a mother could love.”

“I see,” said Mr. Williams sadly. “And is that why you’re here today? To pass the ailing thing along? I’m sorry, Mr. Wheeler, but I myself don’t have a spare waistcoat to offer.”

“Now, now, don’t be like that, sir,” the showman said. “I really care about the little fellow.” He knelt down and put his arm around its shoulders and turned its head to face Mr. Williams. “No hospital would accept him, and I won’t give him to no university. They’d just cut him up out of nosiness. I know that he’d be much better for you to keep alive, and I’ve done all I can for him.” He gave the frog-boy’s shoulder a sad hug. “If you can’t or won’t give me a just compensation, well, …” There was a catch in his throat; he stiffened himself. “Well, I’d just as soon rather leave him with you here for free, to see what you can do for him.”

I looked over at Rose as she sniffed, and I saw a few drops standing in her eyes. Mr. Williams looked over at her sternly, and I was surprised when I saw what I thought a hint of compassion quivering in his eyes too. He cleared his throat and reached over to ring the bell on his desk.

The clerk popped his head in again and looked inquisitively at his superior.

“Is Doctor Browning back yet?”

The clerk shook his head.

“No sir, and isn’t expected for five days, at the least.”

“Ah. You may go.” He turned to Mr. Wheeler. “Dr. Browning is our house physiologist and I would like him to examine Philo first, before we take any definite action. But you heard: he won’t return for five days. Can you wait that long?”

“I’m afraid not. We have to move out tomorrow, if we’re to meet our ship on time; we’re headed south for the season.” He removed his hat and turned it fretfully in his hands. “I blame myself. I delayed too long in coming here; I kept hoping he’d get better. But now I fear that with the shape he’s in he wouldn’t survive the rigors of the journey.”

Mr. Williams sighed and sat back behind his desk. He started gently beating his balding forehead in thought, then looked up, having reached a decision.

“Very well then, Mr. Wheeler, I will accept, uh, Philo, in the name of the Bureau. You must sign away all ownership and rights, and I will even pay you recompense to the amount of, hm, ten American dollars.” He pulled yet another form from his desk. “Gentlemen – and lady – draw near to witness how this sort of thing is done, please.”

We crowded around him and watched his nimble hand as it filled in spaces and he murmured as he worked.

“Party of the first part … representing the Department … in consideration of monies received … the date, and Mr. Wheeler if you will sign, and Mr. Rank if you will witness … thank you.” He stamped the document with his seal, then wrote out another note. “If you will present this at the desk on the first floor, you will get your ten dollars.”

The colorful showman accepted the paper with alacrity and clapped his battered hat on his gleaming head.

“I thank you, sir, on behalf of Wheeler’s World of Wonders, and on behalf of dear Philo here.”  He stuck his hand out again, but this time to the squat, gangling creature as it stood there blinking morosely at him. “Take care of yourself, son.”

To our surprise, the Frog Boy reached out a paw and, with the most natural human gesture, shook hands with the showman. Mr. Wheeler turned to go.

“One moment, sir,” Mr. Williams said, arresting his departure. “Is this creature, well, intelligent? How much does it know of what goes on around it?”

Wheeler paused thoughtfully, hand to his hat.

“I couldn’t really tell you what he knows,” he said. “But sometimes I’ve thought he understands quite a lot.” He tipped his hat. “You may keep the case, sir.”

And with that, he was gone.

Philo gazed after him forlornly, feebly moving his limbs as if not knowing quite what to do. Mr. Williams looked at him with something like abstract pity, then shook himself.

“Ah, well. So now the Bureau has a Frog Boy. Put him back in his box, Bob. He’ll do well enough locked up here in the office until after lunch.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “And then what’ll happen to him?”

He grinned mirthlessly.

“Then you three will have your first assignment. There’s no place for him at the Department right now, so you will take him to your boarding house and care for him until Dr Browning returns. Feed him, water him, keep him clean and warm, and most of all ALIVE. You will make notes and observations and record any impressions or ideas that may occur to you. This includes you, Miss Calhoun. This will be an around the clock watch, mind. I don’t want to have spent ten dollars of Bureau money for nothing.”

“You’d still have the corpse for dissection,” Howard put in helpfully.

Mr. Williams hooded his eyes.

“Not an optimal outcome,” he said flatly. “If that happens, you can be sure that the person on whose watch it occurs will earn demerits on their record if it is shown to be their fault. Now let’s go to lunch. I understand it is beef stew today, and this delay has made me exceptionally hungry.”

Notes

As I've noted elsewhere, after A Grave on Deacon's Peak I started on a sequel, provisionally called Bob's Book, which followed the start of Bob Bellamy's career in the Bureau of Shadows. This is the first part of the third chapter; I have elsewhere published the first chapter on this blog. There was to be an introduction to the Bureau, several individual cases, and an over-arching throughline that led to a grand finale. It stalled somewhere in the fourth chapter.