Spring-heeled Jack and the President's Ring

Chapter 18 ~ Magnetron Parries

"His breathing was labored.  'Hrrrnnt! I haven't the time for more fribbling rhubarb, Magnetron,' he said, and raised his saber for a final thrust."

The General lunged at me with a surprisingly nimble thrust, stopping a mere quarter-inch short of puncturing me, and then commenced a rapid series of slashing maneuvers.  He continued his uncouth verbal assault as well, an assault consisting primarily of vulgar expletives and incomprehensible grunting and gurgling.  After a fashion, I gathered that his anger stemmed from a recent game of chess we had played by mail.  I had repulsed his offensive by a timely "castling," a technique he evidently considered pusillanimous.

Indeed, Southwick had once threatened me with public castration after I had captured his Queen with an en passant move which had also placed his King in check.  He claimed to object to en passant captures on principle.  "Underhanded poltroonery," he had called it.  In both cases, his anger arose first from being caught unawares and sustaining a loss.  It was not until later that he arrived at the judgment that these tactics were in some way less than honorable.

As his diatribe continued (I cannot say it progressed in any way, but it continued nonetheless) I observed upon his finger a West Point ring, an item of jewelry I had never seen him wear in the past.

"West Point?" I asked suddenly.

He wavered, frowning and snorting for oxygen.  "Eh, what's that?"  He was perspiring profusely and his false moustache was beginning to separate from his glistening upper lip.

"I did not know you were a graduate of West Point."

"Why, yes, I, uh, rather, I, I, hrrrnt!"  He paused in his sword-flashing bravado momentarily, and then resumed somewhat half-heartedly.  His moustache soon was dangling vertically from a single spot of spirit gum.

"Tell me about it,"  I continued.  "West Point, that is.  I should very much like to hear of your time there."

His face flushed and he stopped waving his weapon again.  His breathing was labored.  "Hrrrnnt!  I haven't the time for more fribbling rhubarb, Magnetron," he said, and raised his saber for a final thrust.

"On the contrary, General," I said.  "We have all night."  I pulled my Hypno-chronometer from my vest pocket and displayed it with a flourish.  "You see, the night is young."

He had begun to charge me in a great sweeping fleçhe, but upon observing the curious whirling gemstones of the Hypno-chronometer, he slowed and then stopped, dumb and immobile as a memorial statuary.  "The hrrnt night is young," he agreed, and began to sway slightly.

"Now," I said, "you were telling me that you wanted to bestow upon me the gift of that ring."  He nodded.  "Give it to me, General."  He dropped his saber and tugged at the ring.

The spell was broken suddenly by a clangorous shattering din.  Anders had seen General Southwick's swordplay and—fearing for my well-being—broke free of the Hogalums and exploded into the drawing room through a large pane of glass, the second instance in my lifetime I have witnessed such behavior.  Before the General could regain his faculties, Anders had collided with him, toppling the blustering scaramouch and rendering him completely insensate.

Moments later, Satyros and Cerebelli crouched outside the smashed window frame, Cerebelli calling at me in a loud rasping whisper.  "Magnetron, let us vacate the premises at once!" he exclaimed.  "Southwick's troops!  They're coming!"

"No," I said.  "I have an idea!"