The Bromley Gibberts Story Page #2

"The Bromley Gibberts Story" by Robert Barr is a fictional narrative that intertwines humor and social commentary, exploring the lives of the quirky Gibberts family in the suburban town of Bromley. Through a series of engaging and comedic events, the book delves into themes of family dynamics, community interactions, and the absurdities of everyday life. Barr's witty prose and imaginative storytelling invite readers to reflect on the idiosyncrasies of modern living, making it a delightful read for fans of lighthearted literary humor.

• Short story

								


Shorely stretched out his legs and thrust his hands far down in his
trousers' pockets.

"It may have been written as you say, although I thought you called my
attention a moment ago to its type-written character."

"Don't be flippant, Shorely," said Gibberts, relapsing again into
melancholy. "You don't like the story, then? You didn't see anything
unusual in it--purpose, force, passion, life, death, nothing?"

"There is death enough at the end. My objection is that there is too
much blood and thunder in it. Such a tragedy could never happen. No man
could go to a country house and slaughter every one in it. It's
absurd."

Gibberts sprang from his seat and began to pace the room excitedly.
Suddenly he stopped before his friend, towering over him, his long
ulster making him look taller than he really was.

"Did I ever tell you the tragedy of my life? How the property that
would have kept me from want has----"

"Of course you have, Gibberts. Sit down. You've told it to everybody.
To me several times."

"How my cousin cheated me out of----"

"Certainly. Out of land and the woman you loved."

"Oh! I told you that, did I?" said Gibberts, apparently abashed at the
other's familiarity with the circumstances. He sat down, and rested his
head in his hands. There was a long silence between the two, which was
finally broken by Gibberts saying--

"So you don't care about the story?"

"Oh, I don't say that. I can see it is the story of your own life, with
an imaginary and sanguinary ending."

"Oh, you saw that, did you?"

"Yes. How much do you want for it?"

"£50."

"What?"

"£50, I tell you. Are you deaf? And I want the money now."

"Bless your innocent heart, I can buy a longer story than that from the
greatest author living for less than £50. Gibberts, you're crazy."

Gibberts looked up suddenly and inquiringly, as if that thought had
never occurred to him before. He seemed rather taken with the idea. It
would explain many things which had puzzled both himself and his
friends. He meditated upon the matter for a few moments, but at last
shook his head.

"No, Shorely," he said, with a sigh. "I'm not insane, though, goodness
knows, I've had enough to drive me mad. I don't seem to have the luck
of some people. I haven't the talent for going crazy. But to return to
the story. You think £50 too much for it. It will make the fortune of
the paper that publishes it. Let me see. I had it a moment ago, but the
point has escaped my memory. What was it you objected to as unnatural?"

"The tragedy. There is too much wholesale murder at the end."

"Ah! now I have it! Now I recollect!"

Gibberts began energetically to pace the room again, smiting his hands
together. His face was in a glow of excitement.

"Yes, I have it now. The tragedy. Granting a murder like that, one man
a dead shot, killing all the people in a country house; imagine it
actually taking place. Wouldn't all England ring with it?"

"Naturally."

"Of course it would. Now, you listen to me. I'm going to commit that
so-called crime. One week after you publish the story, I'm going down
to that country house, Channor Chase. It is my house, if there was
justice and right in England, and I'm going to slaughter every one in
it. I will leave a letter, saying the story in the Sponge is the
true story of what led to the tragedy. Your paper in a week will be the
most-talked-of journal in England--in the world. It will leap
instantaneously into a circulation such as no weekly on earth ever
before attained. Look here, Shorely, that story is worth £50,000 rather
than £50, and if you don't buy it at once, some one else will. Now,
what do you say?"

"I say you are joking, or else, as I said just now, you are as mad as a
hatter."

"Admitting I am mad, will you take the story?"

"No, but I'll prevent you committing the crime."

"How?"

"By giving you in charge. By informing on you."

"You can't do it. Until such a crime is committed, no one would believe
it could be committed. You have no witnesses to our conversation here,
and I will deny every assertion you make. My word, at present, is as
good as yours. All you can do is to ruin your chance of fortune, which
knocks at every man's door. When I came in, you were wondering what you
could do to put the Sponge on its feet. I saw it in your
attitude. Now, what do you say?"

"I'll give you £25 for the story on its own merits, although it is a
big price, and you need not commit the crime."

"Done! That is the sum I wanted, but I knew if I asked it, you would
offer me £12 10s. Will you publish it within the month?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Write out the cheque. Don't cross it. I've no bank
account."

When the cheque was handed to him, Gibberts thrust it into the ticket-
pocket of his ulster, turned abruptly, and unlocked the door. "Good-
bye," he said.

As he disappeared, Shorely noticed how long his ulster was, and how it
flapped about his heels. The next time he saw the novelist was under
circumstances that could never be effaced from his memory.

The Sponge was a sixteen-page paper, with a blue cover, and the
week Gibberts' story appeared, it occupied the first seven pages. As
Shorely ran it over in the paper, it impressed him more than it had
done in manuscript. A story always seems more convincing in type.

Shorely met several men at the Club, who spoke highly of the story, and
at last he began to believe it was a good one himself. Johnson was
particularly enthusiastic, and every one in the Club knew Johnson's
opinion was infallible.

"How did you come to get hold of it?" he said to Shorely, with
unnecessary emphasis on the personal pronoun.

"Don't you think I know a good story when I see it?" asked the editor,
indignantly.

"It isn't the general belief of the Club," replied Johnson, airily;
"but then, all the members have sent you contributions, so perhaps that
accounts for it. By the way, have you seen Gibberts lately?"

"No; why do you ask?"

"Well, it strikes me he is acting rather queerly. If you asked me, I
don't think he is quite sane. He has something on his mind."

"He told me," said the new member, with some hesitation--"but really I
don't think I'm justified in mentioning it, although he did not tell it
in confidence--that he was the rightful heir to a property in----"

"Oh, we all know that story!" cried the Club, unanimously.

"I think it's the Club whiskey," said one of the oldest members. "I
say, it's the worst in London."

"Verbal complaints not received. Write to the Committee," put in
Johnson. "If Gibberts has a friend in the Club, which I doubt, that
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