“Iam quite upset, really I am. This is an iniquitous world—a world of beastly sorrow and sin, by Jove!”
“What is the trouble now, Mr. Comstock?” I asked.
“Why, my dear lady, my dear old friend Beebe is lying dead, and I’m trying to have him buried decently; but really I can’t get a soul interested—the beastly cads. Ah, but it is a long story, my dear lady, and I fear I will bore you. At any rate, if you will listen, I will tell you a part of it. I shall be obliged to speak plainly, and, really, I fear that you will not like to hear of such things.
“Beebe is not, or rather was not, an ordinary person. Poor old Beebe! He was a poet, you know, and all that sort of a thing, and a perfect fiend for sport, poor old chap! He came to the Isthmus in the ‘early days’ to get away from his wife, who, I believe, was a perfect Tartar. She made his life miserable, poor chap, by always enjoining economy upon him, and bothering him about practical things. For a chap of his temperament,she was not the right sort, you know. At first, poor old Beebe had a good billet, and made a great deal of money—fifty pounds a month with lodgings and coals. Fancy! Of course, being what you Americans call ‘a good mixer’ (I used to think that a ‘mixer’ was American for barman), he was very popular, and was apparently doing very nicely, until he met a girl with whom he became enamored, and she, seemingly, took quite a fancy to him. She was a fine musician, and, of her sort, rather pretty.”
“White?”
“Oh, dear, no. She was one of those brown-skinned charmers who make chaps of every clime forget their home ties, their country, and, often as not, their God. Well, as I said, poor old Beebe fell in love with her, and right there began his downfall. The creature ruled him with a rod of iron. He gave her all the money he could get. He actually gave her diamonds, by Jove! and the Lord knows what else. Well, the hussy wasn’t satisfied, but wanted more dinero, et cetera, and poor old Beebe was at his wits’ end. Finally, she had the beastly cheek to threaten to leave him for a bounder of a Frenchman who sold sausages, or something of that sort. The wretched creature! In short, she bluffed the poor chap, for he came to me one day and said that he could not bear the thought of givingher up, and that if she wanted more money he would try to get it for her. I advised him to give her up, but he left me, shaking his head sadly.
“Well, Beebe visited all his friends in town, and ‘touched’ each one for more or less, according to his salary. In this way he realized quite a sum, which he gave to the girl, who immediately turned it over to the beastly sausage chap, and began clamoring for more. Now, poor old Beebe wrote to his friends in the States, and, although he hated to tell a lie (truthful chap, Beebe), he, of course, had to say that he was ill. Well, at any rate, he received quite a goodly sum from home. His wife was good enough to send him twenty pounds. I presume she felt sorry for having been so severe with him in the days that were gone. Now, Beebe took to drinking harder (very fond of B. and S., was Beebe), and the girl left him for the bounder. Also, his friends, at about this time, began to dun him for the money he had borrowed. The poor fellow was simply bothered to death, and drank more and more every day; and finally lost his position. What, ill-luck? The poor chap had at last reached the lowest depths of poverty and degradation, and would probably have died long ago had he not fallen in with another girl. This one was a different sort. Good-hearted, and all that, you know. Not a bit mercenary.She was as faithful as a dog. Went out to work every day, and saw that he wanted for nothing—even to several ‘nips’ each day, without which the poor chap could now hardly live. Beebe didn’t take much interest in life, however. I fancy he was grieving for the hussy, who had made such an ass of him. My word! he used to steal off secretly at night to plead with her.
“Well, he’s dead now, poor fellow, and there are none so poor as to do him reverence; but he was a good sort, a very clever chap, and many the Scotch we’ve had together. But I won’t moralize, my dear lady. He drank more and more. Heaven knows where he got it. I believe there must be some special Providence, whose business it is to see that the thirsty never languish too long. Beebe began to neglect his personal appearance, and, his liver being a little congested, his nose became a bit red. It altered his looks horribly. I felt quite sorry for him. He had been warned often enough by the district physicians (very humane chaps), but poor Beebe took no notice, not caring, I presume. At last he got in the habit of drinking some beastly stuff they sell in the Chino shops. Last night he took an overdose of the poison. He died to-day at 12 o’clock. I have been trying to get him an American flag for a winding sheet. Did I get one? No, indeed, my dear lady.I have asked numbers of his former friends, but not one of them seemed to care. They had no sympathy for him, nor could they condone his mode of life, and its squalid ending. But I am different, you know. I’ve been a devil of a fellow in my time, even though I do come from a long line of clergymen. My word! we Comstocks are the very devils. You see, Beebe’s motto is mine also: ‘As we journey through life, let us live by the way,’ and I may add: ‘Never put up the night’s share for the morning.’ I went to one of poor Beebe’s friends, who just laughed, and said. ‘You’d better put the wench’s petticoat on him for a shroud.’ Another one said he had too much respect for the flag to ‘see that mutt’ wrapped in it. The brutes!
“Would you like to come with me and view the remains? Then we’d better go right along, or those bounders will have buried the poor chap. You will buy him a winding sheet? How good of you! Poor old Beebe would have appreciated that.”
Beebe’s kind-hearted friend led me through many winding streets to a most dismal neighborhood in that region of the city which, until lately, had been known as the underworld; and in a dingy tenement above a Chino shop I was shown the remains of “poor Beebe.” In a cheap, rough coffin, laid upon boards stretched between two barrels, he lookedvery handsome in his peacefulness. There was no evidence now of his nose ever having been red. The hand of death had eliminated the disfigurement, which his friend had so deplored. He was clothed in a striped shirt, with a collar and red tie. Something white covered the lower part of his body. After a minute I discerned that it was a woman’s voluminous petticoat. “Why! what iniquity is this?” said Mr. Comstock, tugging at the unseemly garment. “Why, Beebe would turn in his grave if he was buried in this! My word! How he would laugh if he were here looking at some one else. Beebe, old boy, you’re in a better world now—a world where you’ll be understood,” he continued, as he divested the silent Beebe of the objectionable covering.
Meantime, several persons came into the room and stood about as though waiting for something to happen. There were several swagger black men in long black coats, carrying tall hats, and some white men rather shabbily dressed, very seedy and with very red noses—derelicts in this black Sargasso Sea. One of the negroes brought a box and asked me to sit down, but the black women looked upon me with evident displeasure, plainly showing that they regarded me as an intruder, until a boy arrived with the shroud for the dead man. Then theysmiled upon me, and set to work to prepare it. Now, a young man, who might have been Irish, came into the room and asked for Comstock. “Here I am,” said the Englishman, stepping forward, and bowing courteously. “What do you wish?” “ ‘Blinky’ says he ain’t got no American flag, but he sends you this, an’ he says that it will be good enough, an’ too good for the likes o’ him.” So saying, he threw down a green bundle into the lap of one of the women. “My word! It’s an Irish flag!” exclaimed Comstock, “and Beebe had no use whatever for the Irish. It was his only prejudice. What irony?”
Judging from Beebe’s face, there was no doubt but what he had descended from a long line of New England ancestors, all of whom had a fine scorn, doubtless, for everything Irish. The white shroud was now wrapped about “poor Beebe,” and then, ye shades of the Pilgrim Fathers! the coffin was draped in the folds of what once had been Erin’s glory.
“The harp that once through Tara’s halls,The soul of music shed,”
“The harp that once through Tara’s halls,The soul of music shed,”
“The harp that once through Tara’s halls,The soul of music shed,”
quoted Mr. Comstock, as he arranged the folds so that the golden harp would show in bold relief on Beebe’s breast. It was the only touch of respectability in Beebe’s last earthly trappings; and a dropof Irish stirred somewhere within me and burned hot at the thought that the flag was considered of no better use than to cover the remains of an outcast, who had disgraced his own flag.
A black clergyman now arriving, a hush fell upon the little gathering. The black men tiptoed into positions behind the white mourners, who tried their best to look solemn. The minister (“a blooming Dissenter,” whispered Mr. Comstock to me), carrying a prayer-book and a Bible, advanced in a most reverential manner. He opened the Bible and read as follows:
“Malachi, fourth chapter, first verse: ‘For behold, the day cometh that shall burn as an oven, and all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedness, shall be stubble, and the day that cometh shall burn them up, saith the Lord of Hosts; that it shall leave them neither root nor branch.’ ”
He then repeated the regular burial service. As he raised his eyes from the prayer-book they fell upon a woman who hung over the silent form of Beebe. In her arms she held a pretty, golden-haired child, whose wistful blue eyes looked in wonderment at the motley group about her. “Who is this?” asked the minister, closing the book and pointing to the child. “This is the woman and child,” answered Mr. Comstock. “Do you meanhis wife?” “Well—so to speak, sah,” said the woman between her sobs. The minister sighed, and continued with calmness: “I knew that this man had died from drink, but I did not know that he had left this curse behind him. All you white men and black women mark well what I am about to say.” The white men looked uneasily at each other. The black ones retreated to the background, while the women stared at the speaker with mouths wide open. “Do you know,” said he “that the crime which this man has committed cries to God for vengeance? Look at that beautiful, golden-haired, blue-eyed child, who is fated to be an outcast on the face of the earth. Think of what her future must be, with the Caucasian in her veins running riot with the African! Oh, you white men and black women who abide together in sin, and bring these innocent ones into the world—the curse of God is upon you.”
Some of the white men turned pale at this, and several of the women sank upon their knees and cried aloud for mercy. It appeared that “poor Beebe” was not the only one who was married, “so to speak.”
“Let us pray,” said the minister. The men fell upon their knees and echoed the words which fell from the lips of God’s anointed. While they were praying, the black woman cried aloud, and I noticedwith some horror that her tears fell upon the golden head of the child. “May God have mercy upon your soul,” said the minister, as the last of “poor Beebe” was borne from the room. He appeared to be true to his calling and to feel with intensity the enormity of that crime which, if not checked, will eventually result in a widespread corruption of both races. I came away. The last I saw of it was Mr. Comstock trudging behind the hearse, which was now bearing “poor Beebe” to an unnamed pauper’s grave marked only by a number.
* * *
Not long ago, during a conversation with Beebe’s faithful friend, he confided in me that the clergyman’s religious sincerity had not only caused him to alter his own mode of life, but had changed his ethical view of Beebe’s conduct to his wife and friends and to his unfortunate child.
WHAT abominable bounders there are, to be sure! And what shocking conditions must exist to produce them and to tolerate them. Really, I am amazed at times, to think that I, a scion of the house of Comstock (the Surrey Comstocks, my dear lady), should know so many of the blighters. As you know, my ancestors were great churchmen, and, although we Comstocks of the present generation are perfect devils, especially my Uncle Percival, there are times when a little voice within me speaks up rudely, and I am carried back in fancy to the long-regretted days of my innocent youth in dear, charming old Chickingham. My word! Fancy the Bishop of Hounslow seeing his own nephew in the company of such cads. You cannot imagine how dreadfully difficult it is for a chap to keep in the straight and narrow path of rectitude; even if he is a bounder he will find it difficult to resist some of the temptations.
“Every day of my life I am brought into contact with chaps who are always lamenting their pasts,and making excuses for their present way of living, but have fallen too low to ever return to the old life, and will, I have no doubt, come to an end like poor old Beebe’s. Some of these chaps are a good sort; others are quite likely to be bounders.
“I have just heard something quite distressing. You have heard of Skilford, no doubt? No? How remarkable! I fancied everybody knew him. At all events, he is a countryman of yours—a Yankee chap. He came from Georgia, I believe. Well, the poor fellow is in quod at New Orleans, all on account of being a bit too good-hearted. Like the rest of us, he was a bit wild while here on the Isthmus, and was a great favorite with his boss, who was a married man; also, a great bounder, sly as a red Indian, and horribly unprincipled. But, just wait until I have finished, and you will fairly gasp for breath.
“This other Johnnie—the married one—it seems, was liv—er, er—excuse me, my dear lady; it’s terribly embarrassing—in fact, he had a sort of semi-detached alliance with a young female from Martinique, an Afro-Franco, as it were. By Jove! What a bally combination! The young Afro-Franco, however, was not at all bad-looking, and, as only natural in those times, (the alliance was formed in the early days,) she was much ‘sought after,’ as they say inthe provincial journals when describing the marriage of the village belle to the leading grocer’s son. The chaps, you see, were lonely in those days, and were not to be blamed so much, you know, for having fancies they would never dream of at home. Really, now, I must confess, I almost succumbed to her charms myself. Fancy! I, grandson of the Dean of Oldtop, Shropshire.”
“You are moralizing again, Mr. Comstock.”
“Upon my word, so I am, my dear lady. A thousand pardons. We Comstocks are all great moralizers. Well, then, as the Afro-Franco would say, ‘revenous le mouton.’ She preferred the beastly married cad to whom I have already alluded. The blooming ass fancied he had made a conquest, and flaunted her in our eyes. Spent more money than he could really afford, to buy finery for her. Things went on so for quite a time, until he wearied of her, and, as his holiday was about due, he resolved to go home, when, bless your eyes, the blooming Bacchante cooly announced to him that he would take a vacation over her dead body. Now, the bounder was in a quandary—fairly stumped. He really needed a vacation, and wished to take it to prevent his wife, a very estimable woman, from communicating with Culebra, which he fancied she might do, which would be the means of his losinghis job. He had a very good job. Fear of exposure quite upset him, and what do you think the bounder did? The little brute! He actually came to me, Algernon Comstock, of Comstock Lodge, Surrey. ‘Algy,’ said he (the infamous vagabond), ‘how would you like to earn five hundred dollars gold?’ ‘I should like it very much,’ I replied, quite innocently. ‘Come with me,’ said he. I followed the blighter, and what do you think? He took me to the lodgings he had provided for the Afro-Franco, and very hospitably set out some excellent cognac (the Comstocks are all great chaps for the B. and S.), and after we had some little conversation the scoundrel had the effrontery to suggest to me, in an insinuating way, that I make myself agreeable to the hussy—he, in the meantime, to absent himself, to return at an opportune moment, create a scene, and then, having ‘something on her,’ as it were, he expected to screw up courage enough to drive the baggage from him. He was most assuredly afraid of her, and knew that, lacking friendly moral support, he could never have it out with her in any way satisfactory to himself. What a serpent! I was struck quite dumb—speechless with indignation, and for reply I gave the bounder a blow that sent him sprawling. Then, with a heavy heart—the affair had given me quite a turn—I went to myquarters and sat down to think. I marveled at myself for having sunk so low. Fancy me being asked to take part in such an iniquitous scheme!
“Well, I fully expected to lose my berth over the affair, as the cad was supposed to have considerable influence. In the event of my dismissal I would have nothing but my personal effects, as I had lived up to every penny paid for my services. However, don’t be alarmed, my dear lady; I was not fired for that. Some other time I’ll tell you how I happened to be ‘let out.’ Just now I was in one of my periodically penitent moods, and resolved, on the spot, after earnestly praying, to lead a better life, a life more worthy of a Comstock. I did, upon my word! I reasoned that I must have appeared low in the eyes of the bounder, else he would not have asked me to help him trick such a creature. As I thought thus, my dear lady, the old Comstock blood fairly boiled in every blooming vein in my body. Really, I wished to die.”
“But who is Mr. Skilford, Mr. Comstock, and what has he to do with the case? And who is this old bounder—the married one?” I asked.
“Wait, I am coming to that presently,” replied Mr. Comstock, as he lighted his pipe, which went out a great many times when he grew excited. “Skilford is a good chap—nothing but a boy, extremelygood-natured, honest, and all that—well liked, you know—but utterly without that fine discrimination which should always prevent a Comstock from doing anything off-color. He worked under the other one. The bounder was an elderly cad, a noisy brute when in his cups, which was very often, I can assure you. Very common sort. Loves to sit in a tap-room, pounding the table, telling every one who will listen what a clever chap he is—Poor old Beebe knew him well. I remember one night we were carousing at the ‘Oriole,’ Beebe and I at one table and the bounder with his audience at another nearby. He was a bit squiffy, as usual, and seemed in rare form. Beebe was quite vexed at the brute, and what do you suppose he did? Blessed, if he didn’t call for pad and pencil and scratch off some doggerel which, I fancy, pretty well describes the bounder. Poor Beebe was clever at that sort of thing. The first verse went something like this:
“ ‘At every midnight session,Or surreptitious spree,Wherever Gringoes gatherFor discussion loud and free;Where eloquence is measuredBy capacity for sound—A raucous voice insistent,Is heard for blocks around.’
“ ‘At every midnight session,Or surreptitious spree,Wherever Gringoes gatherFor discussion loud and free;Where eloquence is measuredBy capacity for sound—A raucous voice insistent,Is heard for blocks around.’
“ ‘At every midnight session,Or surreptitious spree,Wherever Gringoes gatherFor discussion loud and free;Where eloquence is measuredBy capacity for sound—A raucous voice insistent,Is heard for blocks around.’
“Then, old Beebe had a lot more verses describing the bounder’s antics. Really, I’m getting very forgetful. It’s the beastly climate, I fancy; but one other verse went on thus:
“ ‘Then he fiercely pounds the tableAnd glares around the room,In his eye a waiting challenge,Which none there dare presumeTo accept, for they are thirsty—These gents are always dry.To neglect the fellow’s ego,Might cut off their supply.’
“ ‘Then he fiercely pounds the tableAnd glares around the room,In his eye a waiting challenge,Which none there dare presumeTo accept, for they are thirsty—These gents are always dry.To neglect the fellow’s ego,Might cut off their supply.’
“ ‘Then he fiercely pounds the tableAnd glares around the room,In his eye a waiting challenge,Which none there dare presumeTo accept, for they are thirsty—These gents are always dry.To neglect the fellow’s ego,Might cut off their supply.’
“I cannot remember any more, but some day I will let you have a copy of the thing.
“Well, at any rate, my beating the brute did not deter him from making the same proposition to others, as is well known, but all refused, until he approached young Skilford. He fell. Not for the money. Oh, dear no! He’s too decent a sort for that. As you may have already surmised, Skilford was a rather weak, complacent sort of a chap; and then, perhaps, the bounder, being his boss, influenced him in a way. At any rate, Charley agreed to his proposal, and the scene was set as before, with a new villain in place of your humble servant. This time, however, everything came off as prearranged. Charley went through his part beautifully. Yousee, he didn’t have to act very hard; in fact, the situation quite pleased the silly fellow, and he played up to the bounder’s leads marvelously. The bounder, being pretty well primed up when he burst upon the scene, did not have to strain for effect, either. As to the Afro-Franco, she, strangely enough, did not seem a bit upset. My word, what a farce! The bounder got shut of her and departed on his holiday with a light heart, unmolested, save for a few patois curses, which he didn’t understand, and poor Skilford, victim of his own good nature, stayed on to carry out in earnest the part he had essayed to act for a few minutes only, in order to oblige his boss.
“The bounder never returned. His wife saw to that, I fancy. Charley seemed quite infatuated with the little brown parley-vouz, and she thought a great deal more of him than she had of the bounder. My word! She used to swear ferociously that she would cut his heart out if he ever tried to leave her. What a savage! But it’s laughable, too, if it were not so sad. Mind you, all of this time Charley was engaged to a fine young woman in the States. Before long, the infatuation wearing off, and wishing to leave the Isthmus for good, anyway, he began to cast about for ways and means (like the bounder) of getting away alive. He was mindful of the hussy’s threats, and dared take no chances. However,with the connivance of friends, he was enabled (as he fancied) to make his plans for departure without the hussy’s knowledge. When everything was ready, transportation procured, etc., and she all the while happily unconscious (as he fancied), he told her he was being sent down the line for a few days to do a little job. She said nothing, and Charley started off, as usual, in his working clothes. He took no luggage, of course. The poor chap sacrificed everything—everything but his Canal medal, which she allowed him to carry attached to his dollar watch.
“I went to Colon to see him off, and we had a few nips on board in the smoking-room. I breathed a great sigh of relief as the ship pulled out from the wharf, and on Charley’s face was a most beatific expression. The old chap waved his hand to me, when—oh, horrors! What did I see? The girl. I grew sick at heart as I beheld her. She laid one of her hands upon Charley’s shoulder. I saw him turn quietly, and then they passed out of sight. It made me quite ill. As it now appears, she had ‘beaten Charley to it,’ as it were, and had booked a passage for herself to New Orleans. Poor Charley, to avoid a scene, had quieted her, by the Lord knows what promises. At any rate, they say that there was no disturbance on the trip up. The denouement camewhen the ship berthed at New Orleans. There, waiting to welcome him home, were his parents and the young lady to whom I alluded. Imagine the poor chap’s position. Well, to make a long story short, while Charley was being fondly welcomed by his intended, the brown girl rushed into the midst of the little group, flourishing a revolver and screaming at the top of her voice that she was Charley’s wife. Charley grabbed her, they say, to wrest away the revolver. During the scuffle the gun went off, and the creature was shot through the lungs. Poor Charley’s locked up, temporarily, of course; the Afro-Franco’s in the hospital, going to recover, I believe. And the poor young lady. Ah, my dear lady, it is indeed shocking. I wonder how many poor young ladies there are at home? Iniquitous!
“Well, good-day. I must really go and have a B. and S.”
“IMIND the day,” said the story-teller, “when Higgins blew into Havana. We was workin’ in the corral then, an’ the troops was nearly all mustered out, an’, say, there was as fine a bunch of guys there as you’d find in a day’s walk. But, anyhow, Higgins was not of their class, we could all see that; and, say, his name wasn’t Higgins any more than mine is Daniel Webster.
“He was as good-lookin’ young chap as ever lived, and, say, couldn’t he sing, and play, and act, and recite pieces of poetry to beat the band! Well, sir, he went to board with a young, so to speak, married couple, an’ that was the end of his peace of mind. The woman was a darn fool and the man was a darn brute. He was a French Haitian, and she was the daughter of a Cuban woman, who was then married to an American man. Well, the husband used to get drunk and beat her up, to beatsense into her head, but it didn’t do much good. All she cared about was clothes and flattery.
“Several of the fellers kind a took a shine to her, but she always tricked ’em in some way; if she didn’t get money out of ’em she’d frame up some story about ’em to her man, and he’d come around with a shotgun and ’ud scare the wits out of ’em. So, after a while, they let the baggage alone. Young Higgins, however, kep’ her at arms’ length, but he used to take her part whenever she was bein’ badly used by the man she was livin’ with. Well, once Higgins rolled up his sleeves and gave the brute a beating such as he never got before. His face looked like a jellyfish when Higgins got through with him. We all stood around in a ring and watched to see fair play. The bully was big enough to eat Higgins, but he sure got the worst of it. When ’twas all over he was removed to the hospital, and the woman’s father came forward and told Higgins that the man was goin’ back to Hayti and never intended to live with his daughter again; that she would have to go on the town, etc. Well, anyway, it fell upon Higgins to take care of her, and he did it like a man. But there was no love business. Higgins signed an agreement that he would take care of the woman until such time as she would get a man who wouldmarry her, because she wasn’t really married to the Haitian, anyway.
“Soon after this Higgins left Havana and came here to the Isthmus. He sent her a check every month, and she lived with her mother and father, and was respectable; but I’m doggoned if she didn’t come to the Isthmus last week, and she’s now living in Panama, while Higgins is gone to the other end of the line to live. She’s a fine lookin’ woman, but she ain’t got a grain of sense, and she’s stuck on herself, an’ I come around to ye fellers to see if ye couldn’t do somethin’ to get her took off of Higgins’ hands.”
“I know Higgins, an’, with his fine notions of right and wrong, he’d never stand for any scheme against a woman,” said one of the listeners. “Why, Higgins wouldn’t let us fellers talk about a woman. When we’d start to talk, he’d start to play the fiddle, an’ then, of course, we’d shut up.”
“But why not get a line on her and send some soft guy around who’ll fall for her, an’ that’ll let Higgins out?” asked the story-teller. “And, if she don’t fall, why, there would be no harm done.”
“Two sleuths were sent out to sound Higgins and two were sent out to get a line on the lady, and, after a week, the four made a report as follows: Higgins is morose and peevish; refused to talk ofthe lady. Lady is a good-looker, but is lonesome and needs a home. Never sees Higgins, and says that if it was not for him she’d still be in with her husband.”
“Well, doggone her!” exclaimed Higgins’ friends in chorus.
“I’ll tell ye, boys,” said one of the oldest men present. “I know a man that’ll take her for better or worse on sight if she’s a good-looker, and I’ll bring him around in a few minutes, and we’ll get to talkin’ her up to him—kind of advertisin’ her.”
“The friends, very much interested, agreed, and the man departed in search of Bill Wiley, for that was the name of the unsuspecting man who was so soon to be made a victim on the altar of the Higgins. Bill Wiley’s sentiments were well known to the men in that bachelor house. If he had a weakness in the world it was for ladies that were, from his stand-point, good-lookers, large, florid, beefy, ladies that showed their keep. Bill made two hundred and twenty-five dollars a month, and was lonesome for a mate and a home. He was not handsome nor elegant, but he had a taking way with him, a bank account of ten thousand dollars and a house and twenty acres of land in Florida. A note was made of this for the lady’s benefit, and when Bill came to the house that night, being led there by John Hogan,each man made a mental note that Higgins would be soon a free man.
“ ‘What do you think of the Goethal’s gateway?’ asked John Hogan, as he handed Bill a cigar.
“ ‘It’s a good idea.’
“ ‘The finest lookin’ woman that ever came to the Isthmus,’ floated to Bill’s ears, ‘an’, as for style, she beats any one you ever saw.’
“ ‘I guess I’ll go over there an’ hear about that girl the fellers are talkin’ about,’ said Bill. ‘Who is she?’
“ ‘She’s a widow lady that lives in Panama an’ complains of being lonely.’
“ ‘Poor thing,’ said Bill, ‘I know what that means. I’m lonely myself most of the time.’
“ ‘She’s a fine woman,’ said John Hogan, in a musing tone. ‘I wish to gawd she’d care for me. She’s pink an’ white, with black hair and black eyes, and is nice and plump.’
“ ‘Maybe she’d care for you,’ said Bill.
“ ‘Not likely; she said she wouldn’t marry the best man that ever lived unless she loved him, and even then he’d have to have ten thousand dollars.’
“ ‘You might give a fellow an introduction to her,’ said Bill Wiley at the mention of this sum, which he possessed.”
WHEN Bill Wiley again presented himself before his friends he was very much changed as to personal appearance. His face was clean and smooth, his hair carefully brushed, he wore a shining pair of shoes and a new white duck suit.
“You’ll make a hit,” said John Hogan, looking him over critically.
“If she’s as good looking as you say she is, I’ll marry her right away, if she’ll have me,” said Bill, with a faraway look in his eyes.
“She’ll have you,” said several men in chorus.
“Well, I think we’d better be goin’,” said Bill. “I’d like to get the meeting over.”
One of the sleuths was detailed to conduct Bill to the house of the fair lady, and there was much speculation as to whether the lady would take to Bill, or whether Bill would take to the lady. About midnight the sleuth and Bill returned. They wereboth overjoyed at the reception which they received from Higgins’ lady.
“She certainly is a sweet lady,” said Bill, with fervor, “so round and plump and rosy. It must be an awful thing for a man to have to die and leave a woman as sweet as that alone in the world.”
The listeners coughed in a meaning way, but said nothing.
“Well, I guess I’ll be goin’. I sure do thank ye for puttin’ me next to the lady.”
“Don’t mention it,” said John Hogan. “We feel sorry for people that are lonely. I know. I meself believe that every one should have a mate in this world. I want some one to love me, meself, but I haven’t ten thousand dollars, like you, Bill.”
“Well, I guess I’ll be goin’ home to go to bed,” said Bill. “I’ll take a little run over to-morrow night, and I’ll have to get some rest to-night. Good-night, boys.”
“Good-night, Bill,” said the boys in chorus.
Bill ran down the steps, whistling, and until his footsteps died away in the distance no one spoke. Finally the sleuth said:
“Poor Bill; the poor devil.”
“He fell,” said the story-teller.
“Fell worse than Adam did,” answered the sleuth. “I first got her ear and told her about Bill’s job, andthe ten thousand dollars, an’, say, you’d ought to see the way she fawned upon him. Bill swallowed it all, and gave away that he was stuck on her, the blamed fool. Say, a man is a funny animal. He can be as sensible as the colonel himself in everything; as hard as nails when dealin’ with men, but be as mushy as a tallow candle with some darned woman that ain’t got more character than a mosquito. That woman’ll have Bill inside of a month, an’ when she bleeds him good an’ proper she’ll light out with some other guy that she’ll love, an’ leave poor Bill in the lurch.”
“Now, boys,” said the story-teller, “I want to give ye a tip. Ye all know Higgins’ fine, high feelings about honor, an’ if he hears that Bill Wiley is goin’ around to see his lady he’ll come to Bill an’ tell him the truth about her, an’ it’ll be all off. Bill ain’t goin’ to marry a woman that lived with a man that she wasn’t married to. I know Bill.”
“Yes, you know Bill, but you don’t know human nature,” said John Hogan. “If Higgins goes to Bill an’ tells him about that woman’s past, Bill’ll think that Higgins wants the woman himself, an’ it’ll make him, more keen to marry her. He knows that he isn’t a circumstance to Higgins on looks, an’ he knows that Higgins is a real lady’s man; so, anyway, you take it, poor Bill is doomed.”
Bill was doomed. In less than a week he had showered presents of silk garments, necklaces, diamond rings, bracelets and other articles of adornment to the value of a thousand dollars upon Higgins’ lady. He refurnished her rooms in fine style and gave her five hundred dollars for pocket money. It was at this juncture that Higgins called upon Bill Wiley and asked him all about it.
“I love the lady; I adore her,” said Bill, in ecstacy.
It was then that Higgins told him of the woman’s past. They sat together on the veranda of the bachelor house, while John Hogan, the sleuths, the story-teller and some other bachelors sat huddled together awaiting the outcome. All believed that Bill would give the woman up, except John Hogan. He knew men, and, as he predicted, Higgins’ revelation made Bill more determined than ever to become attached to the lady by the bonds of holy wedlock. So, when the boys heard Bill say to Higgins, “Man, you’re only sore,” they coughed in unison.
“It’s none of your business. You’re a liar. You’re jealous,” etc.
“Poor Higgins is gettin’ it in the neck,” said the story-teller, “and it serves him darn well right.”
“Yes, here are us fellers, trying to get her took off his hands, an’, because of his fine notion ofhonor, he can’t keep his mouth shut. ’Tis goin’ to hurry things up, an’ in a week the lady will be tied up to Bill. Bill’ll be as happy as a big sunflower, an’ we’ll have young Higgins back with his fiddle and banjo to make things a bit lively for us.”
aBOUT a week after Higgins had had his heart-to-heart talk with Bill Wiley a wedding took place, which was attended by the story-teller, the sleuths, young Higgins and John Hogan. It was he who gave the bride away. When the final words were spoken which made Anita Calafain Mrs. William Wiley a sigh of relief went up from the assembled witnesses. Higgins’ face was alight with joy as he handed the bride into a carriage. Bill Wiley was a benedict. The bride wore a white satin gown, trimmed with Italian lace, and a very beautiful white hat that had been imported at much cost for the occasion of the wedding. They were whirled away to the strains of a full string band, and then Higgins said something that was strange for him to say. “Boys,” said he, “there is a God, after all, and he has heard my prayers. I have paid dearly for one hour’s frolic in my life, but I am glad to-night that I have done the right thing, according tomy code, for that vain, miserable, wretched woman. I tried to save Bill, but he wouldn’t listen, so I have done everything according to the dictates of my conscience.”
“Bill is the happiest man alive, so what matter what will turn up later?” said John Hogan.
“Something will surely turn up,” said Higgins, “for that woman was born to torment her fellow-beings.”
“She’ll lead Bill around by the nose, poor devil, and he won’t know a thing about what will be going on when his back is turned,” said one of the sleuths.
“What the eyes can’t see, the heart can’t feel,” said the story-teller.
“Come, boys,” said Higgins, with sudden hilarity, “let us get drunk. I have never been drunk in my life, so I want to feel what the sensation is like.”
So young Higgins got drunk for the first time in his life, and Bill Wiley, on wings of love, went on his honeymoon. Six weeks later the big bachelor house was in a blaze of light. Every one was happy. It was Saturday night, and pay-night. The village ladies and their husbands wandered through the quiet streets, especially near to the house where the bachelors dwelt, for Higgins was playing the violin, and that meant something to that village.
“My! What a change there has been in the ladsince that baggage got married,” whispered the story-teller to one of the sleuths.
“Looks like a different man,” put in John Hogan.
“I wonder how poor Bill is making out with her?” asked the story-teller.
“Gawd to tell,” said the sleuth.
“I bet she’s leadin’ him a devil of a race,” said the other sleuth.
“They ought to be here now. They went away six weeks ago to-day,” said John Hogan.
Just now Bill Wiley entered that bachelor quarter and walked slowly and painfully toward the group of men that were talking about him.
“Speak of the devil, and he’ll appear,” said John Hogan.
“Why, you’re looking all in, Bill,” said the story-teller.
“All in?” echoed Bill. “I’m worse than that, boys.”
“How is the lady?” asked one of the sleuths.
“I don’t know how she is now, and I don’t care.”
“You don’t care? You don’t?” said the group, in chorus.
“Why, Bill, what’s happened?”
“Why, that lady is a she-devil. She and her brother fleeced me of five thousand dollars. I ain’t had a night’s rest since I left the Isthmus with her.She never give me a lovin’ word nor a lovin’ look, nor a minute’s peace of mind.”
“And where is she now, Bill?” asked John Hogan.
“Gawd knows. I lit out and left her with the man that she said was her brother in Havana.”
“What sort of a looking man was he?” asked Higgins, becoming interested.
“He was the goldurndest lookin-pirate that I ever seen in all my life,” answered Bill, becoming very red in the face.
“Tell us all about it, Bill,” said Higgins, drawing his chair very near, and speaking in a kindly tone.
“Well, the night we left ye fellers and went to Colon, the pirate showed up for the first time, an’ he come with us to the hotel; so the lady said that she wanted a room all to herself, an’ I took a room for myself. In the morning I went and paid the bills, but I didn’t pay his, and he pulled a gun on me; he carried four all ready for use. Then I went an’ bought our ticket an’ she said she wouldn’t go unless I took her dear brother; so, for peace sake, I bought a ticket for him. Then she said she wanted her dear brother to have a stateroom next ours, an’ for peace sake I had to let him have it. Well, sir, they treated me like a nigger waiter during the trip, an’, for peace sake, I couldn’t say nothin’. All the men on the ship was in love with her, but theysaid that the pirate wan’t her brother at all; that he was a guy that she was in love with, an’ I had to stand for it. They said I was a fool for puttin’ up with things the way I did, an’, say, I sure was; but what could I do, when that guy had a gun in every pocket an’ didn’t think it was any more harm to use one on me than if I was a rat? Well, to make a long story short, they got me in a room in the hotel in Havana the night before I left, an’ they cleaned me out of every cent I had, then he pointed a gun at me an’ told me to leave the hotel without sayin’ anythin’, or he’d riddle me with bullets. I pretended to swaller the diamond ring, an’ they fell for that bluff, so I pawned it the next day to pay my passage down here; an’ here I am. Five thousand of me money is gone, an’ all me clothes, me gold watch and chain, an’ I’m feelin’ like a damn fool. My stomach ain’t workin’ any more, an’ the first thing I’ll have to do will be to see Dr. Deeks, for I’m feelin’ bum.”
During this narration the group exchanged meaning glances. Higgins looked like a man dazed, and beads of perspiration fell from his forehead. For five minutes there was silence, and then the story-teller said, with calmness: “No good ever yet come out of a man bein’ as honorable as Higgins. It ain’t right. If he hadn’t been so darned honorable aboutthat lady he’d a sent her about her business, an’ poor Bill wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“My life is spoiled,” said Bill, with a sob. “I never could trust another lady in this world, an’ besides, I’m married to her now, anyway. Here’s the situation: I’m a ruined an’ broken man, an’ it’s all on account of Higgins.”
“Yes, you’re right, Bill,” said Higgins. “I’m the cause of all your troubles. The lady put it all over us for fair. She got about three thousand dollars out of me, and her bluff prevented me from marrying the best little girl in the U. S. A.”
“ ‘Tis no use talkin’, a woman can make a monkey of a man,” said John Hogan.
“But life is no good without ’em,” said the story-teller.
“I don’t see how I’m goin’ to live without her,” said Bill. “I can’t forget her.”
“You will have to, I’m afraid,” said Higgins, “for that man whom she called her brother was the fellow she used to call husband in the old war days.”
Some months later Bill Wiley was called to the great tribunal at Culebra. When he arrived there he was requested to support his wife, whom he had wilfully abandoned in Havana. Complaint had been made by the American Consul that the wife ofBill Wiley, of the Canal Zone, was suffering for the necessities of life.
“Well, here’s where I’ll take a hand,” said Higgins. “Gawd bless you,” said Bill Wiley, “for I sure am in bad.”
So Higgins took passage for Havana, and, some few days after, Bill Wiley received the following cablegram:
“Our lady and the pirate are in the penitentiary.
“HIGGINS.”
THE highbrows of Number 10 were having an argument as they sat in the dim light of the veranda of the big bachelor house.
It was Saturday night, and the less intellectual inmates were in the city seeing the sights.
“I guess I’ll play a tune,” said Higgins, who was one of the group.
That was just what had happened every Saturday night since fate had brought the men together.
Iky Gillstein, who had formerly been a Jew, but who now read Schopenhauer and quoted him on every occasion, and John Hogan, who read such books as A. Kempis’ “Life of Christ,” and who quoted him whenever Iky quoted his favorite philosopher, had the argument, as was their custom, and when Higgins found that it had gone far enough he played his violin until the Celtic and Semetic tempers had cooled down to normal.
In the gang were Bill Wiley, who had been disappointed in love, and, later, in marriage, and had taken to reading deep books as an antidote for thepoison of love, and George Toby, who read the books that John Hogan read, in order to criticize and argue about them; then there was Fuller, who stepped in with a final word that always put an end to the argument.
Fuller was, according to John Hogan, the “most knowledgable” man on the Isthmus of Panama, except, of course, the Colonel himself.
The men of Number 10 were nicknamed “The Highbrows” because of their studious habits and intellectual conversation. Higgins had reorganized that bachelor house and brought peace and harmony out of chaos. The clerks, or penpushers, he had segregated to one end of the building, and the men who were engaged in work of a more strenuous nature he placed farthest from the dude clerks, and because of this there was less ill-feeling than in most other habitations of the kind on the Isthmus.
As I said before, the highbrows were smoking on the dimly lit veranda, and Higgins had just started to play the violin.
“I’m glad to see you all, boys,” said a voice from somewhere outside. “Who’s that?” asked John Hogan, peering through the wire netting.
“ ‘Tis only me, boys,” answered the voice.
“It’s that damm fool Percy again,” said Iky, under his breath.
“Come in, Percy,” said Higgins, in a cordial tone.
“Well, she’s gone for good this time, boys, and I’m all in.” The listeners groaned.
“Have you tried to get her back?” asked Higgins.
“I’ve tried in every way, but she hides from me, and says she hates me. Oh, God! What shall I do? I can’t get along without my queen. I love her, boys. I love her more than my soul, and God knows I treated her well,” said Percy, dropping into a chair and mopping his brow; “but I won’t live long, boys. I feel the last string of my heart giving way. I’m a goner. I don’t want to live. I have a little bottle of poison in my pocket right now, and if my heart don’t break soon, I’ll take it and shuffle off.”
“How long have you been married to the lady?” asked John Hogan.
“Three years,” said Percy, with a long-drawn sigh.
“You ought to be pretty tired of her by this time,” said Iky Gillstein. “If I had a woman around the house with me for three years I’d be darned glad to get rid of her.”
“You’re a brute, Iky,” said Bill Wiley, “and you ain’t got no more heart than a woman. I kin put myself in your place, Percy; I’ve been through it, boy. Why, when that lady that I married throwedme down, two years ago, I couldn’t eat, sleep, nor think. If it hadn’t been for Higgins an’ Hogan, I’d ‘a’ gone mad, an’ took poison, an’ God knows I had poison enough in my system. What’s love but poison?”
“Love is a loco germ, Bill,” said Percy dramatically, “an’ when it enters a fellow’s system it ain’t any use squirmin’. He might as well take his medicine.”
“Love left many a man in a darned bad stew,” said John Hogan, “an’ a guy that ’ud fall in love twice ought to be put in the bughouse.”
“I’ve been there many a time,” said Percy. “That time I was in the Jameson raid in South Africa. I wouldn’t have been in it if I hadn’t been bad stuck on a girl that threw me down.” The listeners coughed and exchanged glances. They had heard many times of the Jameson raiders from Percy, and they had even seen the marks on his feet where he had been tied up by his heels.
“Schopenhauer says that women are—” “Shut up about that old Dutch heathen, for God’s sake,” said John Hogan, testily.
“There is a good deal of truth in what he says about women,” put in Toby.
“How in God’s name could a heathen tell the truth?” asked Hogan, as he refilled his pipe.
“Do you know,” said Fuller, “that I’ve been reading A. Kempis’ ‘Life of Christ,’ and it is the best life of Him that I ever read. He was a humorist, wasn’t He?”
“He was that, as well as every other thing,” said John Hogan, approvingly.
“I have never heard Him spoken of as a humorist before,” put in Higgins. Iky Gillstein grunted.
“Wasn’t it humorous of Him that time the Sheenies were going to stone that Merry Widow to death, when He said, ‘Prepare,’ and they all got ready with their little pile of rocks, and they stood scratching their heads, waiting for Christ to speak, and when He spoke He said, as the Merry Widow knelt at His feet, ‘Let ye that are without fault throw the first stone,’ and the devil a rock they threw, and the Merry Widow went her way in peace and behaved herself ever after?”
“The Merry Widow gave the gang the wink,” said Iky, cynically.
“That’s like something the Colonel would do,” said Percy. “In fact, he done something slick like that to me once. It was when I was living at Empire with my first wife, before she got the divorce and I married my darling that has just left me.
“I was an inspector then, and my job was tolook after women that were supposed to be a little bit shady. My wife was jealous of me, and I had to pretend that I didn’t like the work.
“Well, anyway, there was one particular woman who was a little beauty, and I got kind of stuck on her, but there was nothing doing with me. She loved the guy that her husband was suspicious of, but she gave me an introduction to a woman who was almost as good-looking, but who didn’t have her charms.
“About this time her husband went on night duty, and he sent in to Culebra to have his wife watched, so I was sent out to do the watching. I prolonged the case all I could, and reported that I couldn’t find any clew, while all the time I was havin’ a howling time at her house nights. She used to have stuff to drink, and she and the guy I was supposed to shadow and the woman that she introduced me to would eat and drink, play cards and love.
“Finally the neighbors began to catch on, and I was afraid that they might come around with some other gumshoe man who’d report, and then the jig would be up, so I sent in a report that there was nothing wrong in the conduct of the woman.
“A copy of this letter was sent to her husband, and he was so tickled and so sorry that he had suspected her that he told her that she might have avacation for three months, and he gave her five hundred dollars, and she went away to her home in the South; and the petted gink who didn’t have a cent to his name went on the next boat, met her in Kansas City, and they went to Quebec and stayed there till the five hundred was used up. Then she wrote to her husband that she couldn’t live any longer away from him, so he sent her a couple of hundred more to bring her back to the Isthmus.
“Meantime my affair was hot stuff with the other one, and I used to meet her in town three times a week. I was kept pretty busy, because the women were cutting up scandalously all along the line, and we deported a lot of them.
“To make a long story shorter, I had made a date to meet my loving kid in town one Saturday, but my wife said that she wanted to come in with me. I telephoned a guy who knew everything about me, a friend he was, and he sent me a telegram and signed it with the name of the Captain of Police. When my wife saw that she said she’d wait and go some other day, because she didn’t want to interfere with my duty.
“Right then a message came from the Colonel stating that he wanted to see me. I suspected that it was another case for me to go out on, so I hurried down to the station, jumped on to a hand-carand got to Culebra in time to have the interview over and catch the 1 p. m. train for Panama.
“I’ll never forget the look in the Colonel’s eyes when I went in and stood before him.
“ ‘What cases have you on hand now?’ says he, looking me over, from the crown of my head to the tops of my shoes.
“ ‘Women cases, Colonel,’ says I.
“ ‘That’s well,’ says he, kind of mild, and he gave me that funny look again. ‘You like to hunt them down?’
“I didn’t like his voice, but he turned away and began to sign some papers. He had said it, however, in that calm, even tone of his, and I thought he meant it, so I said, ‘I try to do my duty, Colonel.’
“Then he gave me a very funny look, and, says he, with awful calmness, as he picked up a big, fat envelope from the desk, ‘Take this and report to me Monday afternoon.’
“He turned again to his papers, and I tiptoed out. There was something strange about the atmosphere of that office that affected me, but I put the envelope in my inside pocket, and as I had to run like mad to catch the train, I forgot all about it.
“It wouldn’t be fair to the woman to tell about the good time I had in town that afternoon, and Ididn’t get back home that night till the last train. The wife was waiting up for me, and she had some good grub ready for me to eat, a club sandwich, some salad and a bottle of cold beer. She chatted and laughed and said she was getting a new dress made and she wanted a couple of dollars to buy some lace for the sleeves and neck, but I told her I couldn’t give her any more money until after next pay day. When I told her that she gave me a funny look that made me feel like I felt when the Colonel looked at me in such a queer way that forenoon. She didn’t say another word, but went off to bed, and I took the envelope from my pocket and tore it open. I was going to read what was inside that night, but the lights went out and didn’t come on again, so I laid it on the sideboard in the dining-room, and turned in myself.
“In the morning I got up to eat my breakfast, but there was no breakfast ready, no wife in sight, and no fire. Thinks I, I’ll go to the mess hall an’ get my breakfast, so I went to put on my coat, and I found the big envelope pinned to the sleeve. When I opened it my wife’s wedding ring fell out. Tied to this was a bit of paper, and on this was written, in my wife’s handwriting, ‘If you had been honorable about the secrets of others, your own secrets would not have been betrayed to me.’
“I sat down then and read the papers. Everything that I had ever done on the Isthmus since I came was known to the Colonel.
“ ‘My God!’ says I to myself, ‘what am I going to do? There’s going to be about ten husbands around with shotguns, so I’d better get away.’
“I went to Culebra on Monday, though I hated to do it. I saw it was all over with me, so I put on a bold front when I went into the Colonel’s office. ‘Well,’ I says, when I was inside the door, ‘I guess I’m through.’
“ ‘Yes,’ says the Colonel calmly, ‘your wife will go to-morrow afternoon. Better prepare to follow her soon.’
“Well the wife went, and I have not seen her since. She got a divorce from me, and then I married my queen, who is gone astray now.”
The listeners coughed, and Gillstein, who had listened attentively during the whole of the recital, said: “But you didn’t tell us how you got back here.”
“I never went away,” said Percy. “I resigned from the Commission, but after a time I went to the Colonel again and told him I was hard up and my wife was sick in the States, and he gave me, for her sake, the dump foreman’s job. It was after that that I married again.”
“Where did you meet your second wife?” asked John Hogan.
“Suppose we change the subject,” said Higgins quickly.
Gillstein winked at Hogan, and there was a pause, which was finally broken by Percy, who said calmly: “I met her in a resort on Cash Street, Colon, and I’m afraid she’ll go back there now, and that’s what’s eatin’ my heart out.... Well, I must go out to Panama now. It’s nearly ten o’clock. I spend my nights watching her. Good night, fellows. Thanks for talking to me and trying to cheer me up.”
“Good night,” said the Highbrows in chorus.
Percy tiptoed out softly, and his stealthy footsteps had died away in the distance before the silence was broken, again by Gillstein, who said: “It can’t be true, after all, that all men are just dead, and that there’s no more about ’em. There’s a special little Hell somewhere for Percy Beckle.”
“Now you’re talking like a Christian,” said John Hogan. “Play us ‘The Wearing of the Green,’ Higgins.”
“The fellows in Number 9 are all upset over that new man,” said Bill Wiley, as he filled his pipe and prepared to settle himself to read “Three Weeks,” a book that very much interested him.
“What new man?” asked John Hogan.
“A new man that the Colonel sent over. He’s a timekeeper, and is getting only about $75 a month,” answered Bill.
“What’s the matter with him?” quickly asked Higgins.
“The fellers say that he’s been a jailbird, an’ they don’t want him in the house. Some of ’em telephoned to the Colonel, but he did not give ’em any satisfaction, only said that he desired the man to stay in Number 9; that he sent him to Balboa, and that if any of the men complained about living with him they could get out themselves.”
“That’s just like the Colonel,” said Higgins. “What business is it of that bunch of mutts if the poor devil has been in jail, if he’s behaving himself now?”
“Schopenhauer says that all men are—” began Ikey.
“For the love of Mike, don’t spring him on us again,” said Wiley. “I thought you had given up reading his book, anyway,” he continued.
“He says some darn good things,” said Ikey.
“But not about his fellow-creatures, an’ the person under discussion is a man, an’ not a dawg,” said Hogan, tersely.
“Let’s hear more about this new man, Bill,” said Higgins.
“He’s a sickly-looking guy that drags one leg after him when he walks, an’ he’s got a funny habit of looking over his shoulder whenever he goes to speak about anything. He’s got a dry sort of cough that gives me the creeps, and the boys say he’s always a prayin’ when he’s in his room.”
“Poor devil, he’s got all the marks of the jailbird about him. I wonder what he was in for,” mused Hogan, more to himself than to the others. “I’ll send ‘A. Kempis’ down to him; it might give him some consolation.”
“I don’t believe he’ll get a chance to read it,” said Bill, “because the fellers say that there’s a gang goin’ in town to-night to get drunk, an’ they’re goin’ to put him out, bag and baggage, when they come back. In the morning no one will know whodone it, an’ the Colonel can’t fire them all, for there’s about ninety of them in the house.”
There was silence now, but Hogan looked at Ikey, Ikey looked at Higgins, and a glance full of meaning passed between the three men.
“What’s the man’s name?” asked Higgins, breaking the silence at last.
“I didn’t ask his name,” answered Bill. “I only know what the boys have been telling me. I’m glad the mutt ain’t in this house.”
“Why?” asked Hogan. “What would a roughneck like you be afraid of?”
“Well, I have some good clothes an’ a fine gold watch, some few trinkets an’ little things that I’d like to keep,” he replied.
“Who’d take ’em?” asked Hogan.
“Ignorance is an awful thing,” put in Ikey. “ ‘Twould do you good to read Schopenhauer.”
“’Pon me soul, it would,” agreed Hogan, with spirit.
“I’m going out for a few minutes,” suddenly exclaimed Higgins, and he glanced meaningly at Ikey.
“I’ll move that trunk out,” said Ikey, “and put up that other bedstead, an’ then I’ll only have one mattress to sleep on, but that’s more than many people have.”
“True enough,” said Hogan. “Why don’t theColonel put a guy like that off in a place by himself, and build a little house for him? It wouldn’t cost the Commission much, an’ it would save the men a lot of trouble,” put in Bill.
“If the Colonel was to build a house for all the jailbirds on the Isthmus,” said Ikey, “it would cost the Commission more than the diggin’ of the canal.”
At this point in the conversation Higgins put on his hat and went out, and Ikey went to his room. Hogan walked restlessly to and fro, while Wiley, stretching himself luxuriously, once more picked up “Three Weeks” and became deeply interested. More than an hour passed, during which time not a word was spoken by the men on the veranda.
Finally Ikey came back and sat down, with the air of a man who has been working, and in a few minutes Higgins came in, whistling. Accompanying Higgins was a tall, gaunt man, who had wild, staring eyes, a pale, refined face, and white hair.
“Mr. Frayer, meet Mr. Hogan, Mr. Wiley and Mr. Gillstein,” said Higgins, leading the man forward.
Bill Wiley nodded his head coldly and grunted, but Hogan and Ikey extended their hands, and then they pushed forward toward the stranger a rocking-chair.
“Mr. Frayer is tired,” said Higgins, as he himselfsat down. “He has been on the Isthmus only two weeks, and he has had very little sleep since he came.”
“I have the bed all ready for him,” said Ikey. “It’s got clean sheets on it, and he can turn in whenever he likes.”
“Thank you,” said the man, quietly, “but I’d rather sit here and smoke a little before turning in.”
“Help yourself,” said Hogan, pushing a box of tobacco toward him; “and here’s matches.”
For some moments the men smoked in silence, Bill Wiley eyeing the stranger meanwhile.
“You men are mighty civil to me,” suddenly spoke up the stranger. “I did not think there was any one on the Isthmus that had any heart. I’ll take that back, though, for there is one man who has been pretty nice to me. He had trouble himself once, poor fellow.”
“They used you purty rough over in 9, didn’t they?” asked Bill Wiley, speaking for the first time.
“They surely did. They didn’t let me sleep nights. My roommate would not let me stay in the room nights with him. When I’d manage to doze off for a few minutes he would throw things at me and wake me up.
“I’ve seen some rough men in the course of twenty-five years in Sing Sing, but none of themcould beat that crowd for viciousness and general all-around cussedness.
“For a while I lived on the stuff I could get from the Chinese shops, because they said that I would not be allowed to go into the mess hall, but when my little hoard of money was used up I went hungry.”
“Poor devil,” muttered Hogan, under his breath.
“How did you happen to get into Sing Sing?” asked Bill Wiley, suspiciously.
“I was convicted of killing a girl,” said the man from Number 9, with a shudder.
“But you didn’t do it, I know,” said Ikey, who had been an interested listener to the conversation which had gone on before.
“Since you men are so kind as to take me in, I will tell you about it if you will listen,” said the new man, hesitatingly.
“Go ahead,” said Wiley. “I’m anxious to hear about it. I came near killing a lady myself once.”
The men filled their pipes, drew their chairs close to the man from Number 9, and waited expectantly.
“I was sentenced to be hanged twenty-five years ago for murdering a girl who is to-day alive and happy,” he began. As he spoke, he dropped his voice to a low, intense whisper, and looked over his shoulder in such a horrified way as to makeHiggins and Hogan each grasp one of his hands and hold it firmly.
“Why didn’t they hang you?” asked Ikey, childishly.
“While I was in the death house,” went on the man, as though he had not heard the question, but answering it, nevertheless, “some women got interested in me, and they engaged one of the best criminal lawyers in New York State to take up my case, and he finally had the sentence commuted to life imprisonment.
“To go back,” he went on, “I was a printer by trade, and when my father died he left me enough money to buy a little printing plant that would have made me independently rich. It was in one of the biggest towns in the western part of New York State, and I was making money.
“I had a fine saddle horse, and in summer I used to ride out about twenty miles to a cottage that my father bought before he died. It was in a very lonely place, with nothing about it but woods.
“About three miles away from the cottage was the summer home of some people from New York City, and five miles away the Sheriff lived. My habit was to ride out to the house, sleep there all night on a cot bed, and ride back to town in the morning about sunrise.
“I used to meet a girl on horseback sometimes when riding in the early mornings, and she would ride along with me to a branch road, where she would turn and leave me.
“I met her every morning that was fine for about three months, and at times she would chat and laugh pleasantly, but she never allowed me to become very well acquainted with her. I told her all about myself, but when I would ask her her name and something about herself, she would frown and turn the conversation.
“Finally I found myself in love with her, and one morning I told her so. Then she looked very serious, and said she was sorry, but she loved another man, and that her love for the man had brought nothing but trouble into her life. When we came to the cross-roads she reached out her hand to me and said, ‘Goodbye.’
“I felt something like a shot in my side, right under my heart, as I turned away from her, and the touch of her hand thrilled me, so I stopped the horse and looked after her.
“She had a peculiar, mysterious face that appealed strangely to me that morning, and although I felt hurt and resentful, I galloped after her, overtook her, and said: ‘Girl, if you ever need a friend, call on me,’ and I handed her a card, which had mytown address on it. The only answer she made was to rein in her horse and look searchingly into my face.
“I could see that something was moving her strangely, and I said: ‘What is the matter? I feel that you are in some trouble. What can I do to help you now?’
“ ‘Give me the keys to your cottage,’ she said finally, ‘and don’t ride out here for a few days. I want to hide there until my husband comes for me.’
“ ‘You have a husband?’ I blurted out in surprise.
“ ‘Yes,’ said she, ‘I was married a year ago, but no one must know it now. I live with my father and stepmother.’
“While she was speaking the tears were running down her cheeks, and I was too hurt to speak, but I handed her the key, and rode away as quickly as I could. I never saw her again until three months ago.
“Two weeks later I was arrested for having murdered her. I was in my office one morning, when the sheriff came and took me to view the spot where the deed was supposed to have been committed. She was supposed to have been killed by me while in her bed. The cottage door was locked, and the key to it was in my vest pocket. I had had twokeys to the front door of the place, the one I gave her and the one which helped to convict me.
“Her trinkets were found in a bedroom, some clothing, a pair of slippers, and my business card. There was blood on the straw matting in the bedroom which the girl had occupied; there was blood on the chairs, on the dresser, and on the stairs; in the front hall as far as the front door, and on the front porch, as if some one bleeding had walked or had been carried down the stairs and out upon the front veranda. Every door and window was carefully bolted, so it was evident that the murderer had entered through the door with the help of a key, and had carefully locked the door behind him in going out. A sheet had been torn to shreds, and some of it was missing.