The Cask of Skettis
THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge.
“Dummeh daddy Montwessow! Fowtunato nee nummies! Hab tummy huwties”
You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face.
He had a weak point – this Fortunato – He prided himself on his connoisseurship of spaghetti.
It was dusk, on the evening of Mardi Gras. Fortunato accosted me with excessive warmth. He had a red coat with a blue mane, giving the vaguest appearance of a jester’s motley.
I said to him --“My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received a can of what passes for Chef Boyardee, but I have my doubts.”
“Skettis!”
“I think so”
“Skettis!”
“But I have my doubts”
“Skettis!”
“And I must satisfy them”
“Fowtunato twy skettis!?”
“Come, let us go.”
“Wheww go?”
“In the basement”
“Skettis in basement”
I took Fortunato through several rooms to the archway that led into the basement. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground.
“Skettis!”
“It is farther on,” said I
We passed through a range of low arches and at the remote end of the basement we perceived a pile of junk that had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the floor, forming at one point a mound of some size. Beside it was a recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven, housing a long since disconnected bathroom.
“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Chef Boyardee”
“Skettis!!!” shouted my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
True," I replied; “the spaghetti.”
I opened the can and emptied it raw upon the floor. Having done this I busied myself among the pile of junk of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely half-finished laying the masonry when I discovered that Fortunato had in great measure finished the spaghetti. I laid another tier and another and then i heard the furious pounding of Fortunato’s tiny hooves against the wall. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the junk. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said–
“Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! Good joke daddeh! Vewwy funny, and vewwy good skettis he! he! he!”
“The Chef Boyardee” I said
“But it too wate fow fwuffies. Nee to go to bed”
“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”
“Fow wub of God, Daddeh!”
“Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud –
“Fortunato!”
No answer, save for a gentle "huu huu…"ing. I called again –
“Fortunato!”
No answer still. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of junk. Since that time no mortal has disturbed it. In pace requiescat!