"Here's a half bottle of that blasted stuff. Take it away where I can't smell it. That ice-water sure is good. Were you ever zippo on gin?"
"No suh. Ah'll git you some mo' ice-water."
The Backslid Baptist, conveying half a bottle of gin, neglected to state that he had never been able to accumulate enough gin at one time to get himself zippo.
He encountered the Wildcat in the smoking room. He handed the Wildcat the half bottle of gin. "Ah'll say I's a mind reader."
"See whut de good Lawd done sent!"
"Afteh de storm comes de quiet waters."
"Comes de gin, you means. Ol' fat boy drink de watehs. Us drinks de gin. Gin, how is you?"
The Wildcat soothed himself with three strenuous gulps. "Whuf! Liquor, how de do!"
The Backslid Baptist departed with the third cargo of ice-water for the gentleman in Lower 7. He returned after a little while. Dangling from his fingers and carried in his arms were a dozen pairs of shoes.
He threw the shoes down on the end seat in the smoking room. "Start to work on de shoes, Wilecat. Don' do nothin' to de new shoes—much—an' hit de ol' ones light. De middle-grade shoes gits a good shinin'. Folks whut weahs middle-grade shoes is ol'-time travellers an' gin'ally comes up strong wid de income tax fo' us boys."
The bell in the passageway sounded its summons.
"Doggone! See who dat is."
The apprenticed Wildcat read the indicator. "Ain't no numbeh. De little hand turned on de letters."
"Whut de letters say?"
"Backslid, you knows I kain't read."
The Backslid Baptist set the nearly empty bottle of gin on the washstand and walked into the passageway.
"'Partment B," he announced upon his return. "Dey's two 'partments, A and B, and a drawin' room. You knows 'B' when you sees it. Knock at de do' an' ask whut is it."
The Wildcat departed on his mission. At the door of Compartment B he encountered a bald-headed gentleman clad in violent pink pajamas. The gentleman's face was festooned with a long, blond mustache. He thrust a coat, a vest, and a pair of trousers through the door at the Wildcat.
"Have these pressed," he ordered. "Here's a brace of shillings for you. Fee the tailor chap."
"Cap'n, yessuh."
The Wildcat returned to the smoking room. "Boy in de 'partment room whut gobbles lak a turkey says, 'Press de clo'es, boy, an' heah's a dollah.' Dollah, how is you? Sho' is easy money."
"English boy. Dey's de clo'es-pressin'est folks in de world, 'ceptin' actors."
"Whah at does I git dese fixed up?"
"No place. Hang de coat up. Sprinkle de pants wid wateh an' lay 'em undeh a pile ob sheets in de linen closet. By mornin' dey's pressed. You charges anotheh dollah."
"Sho' is easy money." The Wildcat hung the Britisher's coat and vest in the smoking room. He walked into the passageway and opened the door of the linen closet. A four-legged cyclone burst from the dark depths of the linen closet. Riding the cyclone was a bedraggled parrot. The parrot showed the wear and tear of travel.
The Wildcat called loudly at the cyclone.
"Lily, halt! 'Tenshun! Whah at's de mil'tary bearin' you got in France? Come heah!"
The mascot walked to the Wildcat's side. From Lily's cringing back the Wildcat lifted the battle-scarred parrot.
The Wildcat boosted Lily back into the solitude of the linen closet. "Lily, 'tenshun. At ease! At res'!"
The goat executed the commands with the military precision which had come from long months of training in the A.E.F.
"'Tenshun! At ease. One mo' false move an' I th'ows you oveh-boa'd off de train."
The Wildcat retrieved a piece of string and turned his attention to the parrot. "You green debbil. Lay off 'at goat. Ah ties you on de top shelf. One mo' move an' us has fricasseed green chicken afteh de dinin' cah man gits you."
"'Tenshun!" mocked the parrot. "At ease!" Lily, prone in the depths of the linen closet, obeyed the commands.
The Wildcat tied the string around the parrot's leg. "Dere, dat holds you, an quit mockin' me befo' I knocks yo' beak down yo' throat."
"At rest!" the parrot gurgled.
The Wildcat closed the door of the linen closet. The parrot lost no time in biting the string loose from about her leg, after which she rejoined her four-legged companion.
"'Tenshun!" she squawked. "At res'! Tenshun! At res'!"
Thereafter until dawn, obeying the perfect counterfeit of her master's voice, Lily the mascot goat came to attention and subsided at rest with the persistent rhythm of a man on a hand-car.
CHAPTER VI
The Wildcat returned to his shoe-shining. "When does us boys sleep, Backslid?" "When de chance comes," the Backslid Baptist returned. "You sleeps between stations an' 'twixt jobs of work. Gin'ally when de bell rings at night you pay no 'tenshun to it. Folks is finicky. Dey gits along just de same does you answer de bell or don't you. Hurry up wid de shoes. When you gits 'em done come on up th'ee cahs ahead. Dey's some res'less ivory on dat cah, an' mebbe us collects some money whut's lonesome to change managers."
The Backslid Baptist departed for the third car ahead, where in the smoking room the galloping ivory was clicking strong on the linoleum.
The Wildcat finished his work on the shoes of the passengers on the Mazeppa. He carried the shoes forward with him until he came upon the crap game.
"Heah's de shoes, Backslid," he said. "Men, howdy."
"Whut fo' you bring dem shoes all de way up heah?"
"Ah kain't read yo' numbehs whah at to distribute 'em."
"Lay 'em down. Ah'll take 'em back afteh while. Gimme dem bones. Shoots five dollahs." The Backslid Baptist launched himself into an energetic arm-swinging struggle, wherein presently he lost after his third pass.
"Take a ra'r, Wilecat. See is you still 'fested wid luck like you wuz in de A.E.F."
The Wildcat was a stranger to everybody present except the Backslid Baptist.
"Who dat boy?" one of the group of porters asked.
"Learnin' boy f'm Memphis. Ah knows him." With this endorsement the Wildcat was plunged into the game.
"Gimme dem bones. Hind laigs at res'." The Wildcat subsided to the floor. "Fingehs, lemme see kin you play de pickpocket jazz. Shoots five dollahs. Wham! Ah reads a feeble five. Five stay alive. Five Ah craves. Lady Luck, boon me. P'odigal five, come home whah de fat calf waits. Bam! Th'ee an' a deuce. Ah lets it lay. Shoots ten dollahs. Shower down ten dollahs an' see de train robbeh perform. Shower down, brothers. Bam! Seven! 'At's twins, but mah luck comes triple. Shoots de twenty. Shoots twenty dollahs. Heah de bloodhoun' bay. An' Ah reads ten miles. Chicago bound! Pay day, whah at is you? Lady Luck, don' git feeble. Angil leanin' on a cloud. De cloud busts! Angil, heah you is—readin' de five an' five. Five twins, how is you? Shoots fo'ty dollahs."
One of the group spoke to the Backslid. "Mebbe 'at boy's learnin' de porter business, but he sho' got old in de bone school a long time back."
The Backslid Baptist grunted his reply.
The Wildcat raked down all of his winnings except a five-dollar bill. "Shoots five dollahs. Shower down. Windy talk don't shake no possums loose. Come an' git me on de top limb. Shoots five dollahs. Dynamite dice, bust de ol' safe do'. Ah craves action. Shoots ten dollahs. Fifty dollahs."
"How much you got?" A cinnamon-coloured Crœsus in the group spoke softly into the clamour.
The Wildcat turned to him. "Shoots a hund'ed does you crave speed. Shoots five hund'ed dollahs."
The cinnamon-faced porter produced a roll of bills and stripped a handful of greenbacks therefrom.
"'At's five hund'ed dollahs. Roll 'em."
"Gallopers, git right."
The Wildcat gave the dice a Turkish bath, a manicure, and a careful massaging between the perspiring palms of his hands.
He cast a handful of prepared ivory from him. The dice were festooned with equal parts of luck and technical skill, but their precise trajectory was interrupted by a string of high joints and low centres in the track over which rambled the Panama Limited.
"An' I reads—ace and deuce."
The cinnamon-coloured boy picked up the money on the floor.
"'At'll learn you."
The Wildcat was silent. The Backslid Baptist, sharing the shadow of his associate's sudden cloud of black luck, spoke slowly to him.
"C'm on heah, Wilecat. Us is nex' do' to bein' busted."
In the wake of the Backslid Baptist the Wildcat ambled back through the swaying cars to the Mazeppa. He carried on his bowed shoulders a load of misery big enough to bust a bottle of dynamite gin.
The Backslid Baptist stretched himself full length on the long leather seat of the smoking room.
"Baptist, how come it I don' know. De baby gallopehs wuz spinnin' fo' seven."
"Rough track an' de rocky road swerved 'em. Git to sleep. Us is due at Champaign at 8:10. Money come, money go. Whuteveh sleep you gits is that much to de good."
The Wildcat flopped down on the floor of the smoking room, but sleep would not come to him.
At half past seven the Backslid Baptist on the leather seat began mumbling to himself. A little later he awakened.
"Wilecat, whut dat noise?"
"Ain't heard no noise." All the Wildcat had heard was the accents of his bank-roll bidding him a last farewell.
"'At thumpin' noise." The Backslid Baptist's ears, keenly attuned to the turmoil of travel, distinguished in the sounds about him some unfamiliar puncture of the normal din.
"Sounded lak beatin' a board wid a stick."
"Kain't heah nothin'."
The Backslid Baptist yawned. "Some ob dem early risers f'm de tall sticks sure to be up by now. When Ah starts makin' up de berths you kin sweep out de cah an' 'cumulate de sheets an' pillow cases. Stick 'em in de canvas bag in de linen closet an' take back de boy's clo'es he gin you to press."
The Wildcat traversed the length of the aisle back of a swinging broom. On the return trip he encountered the Backslid Baptist busily engaged in making up Lower 1.
"Backslid, who dem two boys half way down de cah wid de red hats?"
"You means de boys wid de red fezants? Dem's a couple ob Potent Nobles ob de Mysterious Mecca. All de Mysterious Mecca boys in de world is havin' a gran' ruckus next month on de Pacific Coast."
"How come dey start so early?"
"Dey falls by de wayside heah an' dere, an' dey starts early so as to git picked up by some worthy Brother wid steady laigs. 'At fat boy wid de red fezant is de one whut had de gin hiccoughs."
"Kain't see did he."
"Gin'ally dey carries it noble. Dere's de little lady whut owns de parrot bird."
The owner of the parrot bird was a left-over soubrette who had bust in Havana with a road production of The Sillies of 1492. The little lady had completed her spring drinking and was now en route to a big-time meal-ticket scheduled to start from Chicago.
She saw the Wildcat.
"Porter, where is little Polly?"
"Yessum. I secluded 'at green chicken in de linen closet. Does you crave him now?"
"Yes. I want to have her with me for breakfast—the poor lonesome darling."
"Accordin' to de words 'at varmint used last night, he's too tough to make much of a brekfus'."
The Wildcat went to the end of the car and opened the linen closet wherein he had cached the parrot.
With the opening of the door the mystery of the thumping noise which he and the Backslid Baptist had heard was explained. In a low falsetto the parrot was repeating the two military commands which she had learned.
"'Tenshun! At res'! 'Tenshun! At res'!"
Lily, the mascot goat, was contributing the last fragment of muscular energy to the business of obeying orders. In response to the parrot's commands the goat languidly flopped at rest on the floor of the linen closet and came to her feet at attention.
"Lawd Gawd, Lily! At res' an' stay 'at way!"
Gratitude rang in the answering "Blaa" of Lily the goat.
The Wildcat reached for the parrot. "You green debbil! Whut you mean, exercisin' mah mascot all night?"
"Quawk!" The parrot made a vicious swing at the Wildcat's reaching hand.
"Leggo, you debbil!"
The green parrot, fuming in a rage compared to which nitric acid was a cream puff, was restored to its Spring-drinking owner.
"Lady, heah's de green demon."
"Pretty Polly. What made her little feathers all mussed up?"
The Wildcat returned to his exhausted mascot.
"'At green chicken's lucky does he git by widout gittin' his health an' stren'th mussed up befo' dis trip ends. At res', Lily, till I brings you some nutriment. Doggone ol' bird must have near wore you out. 'At's de way wid dem mil'tary commands. Res' yo'se'f, Lily, till Ah brings yo' brekfust."
"Blaa!" answered Lily, weakly.
The Wildcat detected a tone of hypocrisy,—something of false gratitude—in the mascot's reply. He returned from the dining car carrying two heads of lettuce for the mascot. He placed the lettuce under the nose of the recumbent goat, but Lily refused to eat.
"Fust time Ah eveh seed you slow up when de mess call blowed. How come?"
An instant later his roving eye discovered the "how come" of Lily's loss of appetite. In a dark corner of the linen closet he saw a dozen fragments of white cloth. He hauled them out, and the light revealed the hems of a covey of sheets and a half dozen pillow cases. Then the web of a home-spun disaster met his eye. From the lower shelf of the linen closet dangled the shredded legs of the trousers which the occupant of Compartment B had given him to be pressed.
"Goat, doggone you, come to 'tenshun! No wondeh you kain't eat lettuce, wid yo' insides crammed wid a ton ob linen an' half a pair ob pants fo' dessert. Me sympathizin' wid you, an' you an' de green chicken banquetin' all night on 'spensive raiment! 'Ceptin' foh havin' to scrub de flo', I'd barbecue de blood outen yo' veins heah an' now."
The sudden necessity of hiding the evidence confronted the Wildcat.
"By rights I ought to ram de rest ob de pants down yo' neck." The Wildcat picked up the ragged and frazzled trousers. A moment later he opened the door of the car platform and cast the remnants of Lily's banquet into the fleeting right-of-way.
"'Spect some boy find dese an' say, 'Whah at's de man whut de train cut de laigs off of?' 'At's his trouble. Me—Ah's Chicago bound wid a cahload ob trouble ob mah own. Main thing to do is to git off de train widout lettin' 'at boy in 'partment B know we's landed."
He discussed the disaster of the trousers with the Backslid Baptist.
"'At's de on'y way," the porter conceded. "When us gits in we fo'gits 'bout de boy widout de pants. Dey wuz his pants, Wilecat. Havin' no pants is his grief. He kin borrow some overalls f'm de cah cleaners, o' else he kin play he's a Injun an' roam nekked till de police gits him. Does us meet up wid de ol' Pullman 'spector Ah says 'No suh, Ah dunno how come.' 'At's 'at."
"Sho' don't crave words wid no 'spector," the Wildcat returned. "Dis porter business de best job in de world. Ridin' all de time, seem' de country—eatin' heavy, free ice wateh, gran' raiment, talkin' to folks—No suh! Main thing Ah craves is to git hired by de Pullman boss. 'Spect Ah makes it all right, Baptis'?"
"You makes it easy. You's done learned de business dis mawnin', ain't you? Well, I gits you five recommendin' letters f'm a boy whut writes 'em on Prairie Avenue, an' you gits hired.
"Fust letter says, 'Ah knowed Wilecat goin' on ten yeahs, an' he don't drink.' Nex' letter say, 'Wilecat jined de church when he wuz four yeahs old an' bin a soldier ob de Lawd eveh since.' Nex' letter say, 'Boy got to take keer ob his wife, mother an' father, an' six small chillen.' Nex' letter say, 'Wilecat sho' beats de worl' fo' readin', writin', an' 'rithmetic.'"
"Backslid, you knows Ah kain't read."
"'At don't make no difference. Letter says so, don't it? Last letter says you's honest, industrious, an reli'ble."
"How come you so friendly wid dat Democrat letter-writin' boy?"
"How come 'Democrat'?"
"F'm whut you says he's champion liar ob de world. Sounds Democrat to me. Don' make no difference, though—just so's I gits de job."
CHAPTER VII
Zing!
The owner of the red fez and the night-blooming hiccoughs craved another pillow and a table. The Wildcat delivered the table and fixed it into place. He returned to the linen closet to retrieve a pillow case therefrom. When the door opened, Lily the mascot goat, tired of the dark confines of her retreat, burst forth and galloped down the aisle of the car.
The Wildcat abandoned his pillow case industry and spent the next two minutes in rounding up his protégé.
"You ramblin' wreck, come back heah befo' Ah makes a rug out ob yo' skin."
He returned Lily to her jail and proceeded to deliver the second pillow to the owner of the alcohol snorts. In common with the rest of the occupants of the car, that individual voiced his curiosity concerning the animated mascot.
"Son, who owns the goat?"
"Cap'n, suh, Ah owns him now, but some slaughter house man gwine to git him 'less he ca'ms down."
"What'll you take for him?"
The Wildcat suddenly remembered his financial status. Hard money at the moment made a strong appeal.
"Cap'n, suh, you means you craves to buy 'at goat?"
In the mind of the Potent Noble of the Mysterious Mecca had bloomed a Great Idea, wherein the galloping Lily would provide entertainment in carload lots for the Convention-bound brethren of the Conclave.
"Some days Ah'd sell 'at goat fo' a thin dime. Otheh days Ah'd give a boy a hund'ed dollahs for killin' him."
"What'll you take for him cash down, f.o.b. Lower 7, car Mazeppa?"
The Wildcat studied for a moment, and then long months of association clinched the tie which Lady Luck had woven between him and the prodigal Lily.
"Cap'n, suh, Ah spec' Ah wouldn't sell 'at goat fo' mo'n a million dollahs. Me an' Lily fit so many battles togetheh in France and on boa'd de ol' iron boat comin' home 'at Ah kain't see no money big enough to 'suage mah grief is we divo'ced. Bible says, 'Whither the goat goes, me too.' 'Spec Ah kain't sell him."
The companion Noble across the table from the hiccoughing gentleman offered a suggestion. "Round 'em both up for the trip. The Pullman gang'll fix it for us."
"Good scheme, Jim. The old bean isn't any too clear this morning or I'd thought of that myself." The owner of the red fezant turned to the Wildcat.
"What's your name, son?"
"Dey named me Marsden, suh—Vitus Marsden—but folks calls me Wilecat."
"If I can't buy the goat, I guess we'll have to negotiate the custody of your feline corpus from the Pullman organization for the duration of the Big Show."
"Yessuh." The Wildcat did not understand the big words, but whenever he did not understand it was his principle to smile and agree to anything that white gentlemen said.
"Yessuh. Ain't it de truf'?" He returned to the smoking compartment, where the Backslid Baptist was auditing his tips.
The Backslid Baptist was busy at the moment excavating a busted cork out of the neck of a queer looking square bottle.
"Baptis', whut you got?"
"Smells lak equalizer. Wait till Ah gits dis cork out, an' us sees."
"Whut dat sign say on de bottle?"
The Backslid Baptist inspected the label affixed to the flat side of the bottle. "Ol' sign reads 'Acrobatic Spirits of Pneumonia.' Bam! Un-konkered de ol' cork. Smell dat. 'At learns you not to believe in signs. When yo' eyes sees one thing an' yo' nose sees another you betteh believe yo' nose." He took a long drag at the bottle and passed it over to the Wildcat.
"Whuf! Ol' lady in Lower 6 felt poo'ly dis mawnin', but she 'sorbed th'ee drams f'm dis heah bottle, an' so far she's et twelve dollahs' wuth ob grub up ahaid in de dinin' cah."
The Wildcat swung on to the "Acrobatic Spirits of Pneumonia," lingering at the spout for several disappointing seconds after the contents of the bottle had gurgled down his neck.
"Whuf! Ah missed de pneumonia, Backslid, but Ah sho' feels acrobatic. How come de lady lose de bottle?"
"She done got careless when de spirits come. You better th'o 'at glassware away now an' git ready fo' tellin' de boss how you craves a porter's job."
Half an hour later, leading his mascot goat and closely convoyed by the Backslid Baptist, the Wildcat walked down the platform in the dark trainshed of the station in Chicago. Throughout the long ride down Prairie Avenue to the habitation of the forger from whom the recommending letters were to be obtained the Wildcat's woolly bean spun with the momentum which he had drained from the bottle abandoned by the careless lady in Lower 6.
An hour later, armed with five ironclad letters, he returned along the route, arriving finally at the portals of the office building on West Adams Street wherein Pullman porters are created from select brunet humanity.
Presently, across a wide desk he confronted Authority. A kindly gentleman questioned him, and to the questions he replied with an assortment of impromptu lies whose range and ingenuity busted every previous record for careless language.
Ten minutes later he was a hired man.
"C'm on heah. 'At's all." The Backslid Baptist at his elbow sensed the successful conclusion of the interview.
"You mean Ah's a porter?" the bewildered Wildcat asked when the pair had gained the street level.
"Ah'll say you is."
"An' all de tips I gits is mine to keep?"
"Dey is previdin' you gits outen yo' trance an' takes yo' cah on de 4:10."
"Hot dam, Lily! C'm on heah. Us weahs a blue coat all de time an' don't do nuthin' but spend de money whut de white folks showers down."
"You betteh make arrangements at some livery stable to p'vide board an' room fo' Lily whilst you is A.W.O.L."
"How come? Whah at I goes de goat goes."
"Not on de Pullman run. Ah dead-heads you once, an' de goat lak to ruined eve'ybody in de cah. No suh! Kain't run no trains an' no mascot at de same time. De rule book leaves out goats, but does you lug Lily wid you, yo' fust run sho' is yo' last."
The Wildcat faced the moment of a great decision. "Den dey won't be no fust trip. Cm on heah, Lily. Much 'bliged, Baptis'. Me an' Lily looks fo' a job whah at dey ain't no rules again' mascots."
The Wildcat headed south along Michigan Avenue, and in a little while he and Lily were adrift in a sea of humanity.
The Backslid Baptist grunted his disgust and went about his own affairs.
CHAPTER VIII
At midnight the Wildcat and Lily pitched their lonely camp behind a billboard in South Chicago.
"Sho' craves mah rations. You done noble wid de grass, Lily, but Ah kain't eat grass. Seems lak you kin nutrify yo'se'f wid whuteveh vittles is laying 'round."
In the dawn the Wildcat realized that his appetite had sprung up like a mushroom over night.
"Wisht us wuz back wid ol' Cap'n Jack in Memphis, whah at de ham-tree blooms th'ee times a day."
At noon his stomach was the residence of a hunger panic. With his mascot trailing behind him, he headed toward the heart of the city.
"Doggone 'at crap-shootin' hound. How come he clean me to mah last nickel, Ah don' know. Lady Luck, whah at is you?"
An instant later, wearing a policeman's uniform and speaking a wild Irish language, Lady Luck descended upon the Wildcat. The Michigan Avenue traffic cop abandoned his post long enough to pounce upon his prey.
"What th' hell do yez mean prowlin' round th' Loop in broad daylight wid ivery man on th' force goin' crazy lookin' f'r yez? Come along wid me."
Ten minutes later, with the echoes of the patrol gong still ringing in his ears, the Wildcat and Lily were hazed through the black portals of an unfriendly looking police station. They faced the desk sergeant.
"Boy, is your name Vitus Marsden?"
"Cap'n, yessuh. Folks gin'ally calls me Wilecat."
The desk sergeant busied himself with the telephone at his elbow. Two minutes later he turned to the Wildcat.
"Sit on that bench over there," he said.
The Wildcat sat down, and a black cloud of surmise floated across his immediate horizon.
"Lily, Ah 'spect us is 'rested mebbe on 'count ob dem pants you et offen de man in old 'partment B. Mebbe I'se took fo' 'sorbin' dem Acrobatic Spirits whut Backslid consecrated to me. Mebbe de lady wid de green chicken whut you et de feathers off ob done craved revenge. Mebbe de ol' Pullman car man aims to make you work out de price of 'at laundry you et in de linen closet."
The Wildcat had no difficulty finding a dozen good reasons for his present embarrassment. He addressed a police officer near by.
"Cap'n suh, whut fo' is me an' Lily sequestered heah in de jail?"
Before the policeman could answer, the march of events made reply. Through the swinging doors of the station filed a dozen strange looking men. These men wore baggy red trousers, and on each man's head was the red fez which marked him as being a Potent Noble of the Mysterious Mecca.
They descended upon the Wildcat. "Come on here, boy. Bring that goat. You and the mascot are due out on our special train twenty minutes from now. Here's your orders from the Pullman Company. You're on the payroll, and so is the mascot goat."
"Cap'n, suh, you means me an' Lily is headed west wid de red fezant gen'men?"
"That's it."
"Hot dam! Lily, 'tenshun! Lady Luck, how come I doubt you?"
CHAPTER IX
The Wildcat expanded in the sunlight of Lady Luck's smile.
"Lady Luck, how come I doubt you? Police folks, good-bye. Lily, 'tenshun! Come on heah. Us is a Pullman poteh. Ah craves mah rest. Le's go."
Surrounded by an escort of Potent Nobles of the Mysterious Mecca, the Wildcat marched from the portals of the Chicago police station, headed for a west-bound train wherein he aimed to do the best he could in the rôle of porter for his carload of nobles.
At the train gates the party was delayed five minutes to permit the entrance of a motley crew of manacled aliens.
"How come them boys festooned with so much jinglin' hardware?"
One of the Potent Nobles made reply.
"Bad actors."
"Cap'n, suh, who's dat black boy wid de straight hair and his head tied up in de white rag?"
"Hindoo."
"Some boy sho' must ob busted his head open, to need tyin' up so bad."
Following the line of undesirables headed away from the land of the free, Lily, the Wildcat, and the Potent Nobles filtered through the gates into the train shed. They made their way down a long string of coaches, arriving finally at the Mazeppa.
"Here's the car."
"Car, howdy. Lily, git aboa'd."
"Slip out and get me a box of cigars before we leave."
A Potent Noble shoved a banknote at the Wildcat.
"Cap'n, yessuh. Would you mind tyin' Lily on de front vegetable ob de car till I gits back?"
Twelve minutes later, carrying in his hand a box of cigars, the Wildcat's second entrance was blocked by a ticket chopper who had a square jaw and a sense of duty.
"Where's your ticket?"
"Ain't got no ticket. I's de poteh wid de Mysterious Mecca gen'men. Le' me by."
"Don't try to pull none o' that stuff around me."
"Man, leave me by!"
Armed with the conviction of authority and clad in a parade-leading Prince Albert whose brass buttons reassured him, the Wildcat violated one of the first principles of his life, which was never to oppose a white man. He slid past the ticket chopper, ducked into the gate, and boarded the train wherein rolled the Mazeppa. He caught a tourist Pullman three cars apart from the rolling residence of the Mysterious Mecca delegation and landed breathless in the open vestibule.
"Fust thing old Backslid, what learned me de po'teh bizness, said to do was to close up de vegetable."
This he proceeded to do. He turned and entered the car. For a second time he slid past blue-coated authority, in the form of a United States Deputy Marshal who was temporarily chaperoning the departing aliens.
"Hold on, there: where you headed for?"
"I's de poteh what takes care ob de Noble Fezant boys in de blue pants."
The deputy marshal temporarily on guard had a fixed official rule of conduct: never take a chance. The Wildcat's words sounded crazy enough to entitle him to a membership card in the Traveling Nut Club.
"Git in that car and sit down before I blow your head off! Where's your handcuffs?"
"Cap'n, how come? Handcuffs seems so confidential."
Here, for some reason unknown to the Wildcat, was the hand of the law. Inside of his parade-leading Prince Albert the Wildcat shivered and shrunk three sizes. His brow wrinkled in perplexity beneath the velvet hat, and the bright yellow plumes thereon dropped in sudden melancholy.
"Lady Luck, whah at is you?"
"Mumblin' to himself and wearing the craziest rig in the car—good thing I rounded up that bird."
The deputy marshal added another star to his crown. "Plumb bughouse."
He cast his eye over the occupants of the car. "Back to Russia. Try some of your ideas on them Bullshevik birds."
He again addressed the Wildcat.
"Cut out that mumblin'. All you got to do is keep still."
"Cap'n, yessuh." The Wildcat removed his velvet hat and subsided in a seat beside the Hindoo agitator.
"How come you got your head all tied up, boy?" he asked the Hindoo.
The Anarchist didn't see fit to reply.
At Omaha the guards from the western division relieved their homesick eastern brothers.
"Twenty-three of them," announced the man who had captured the Wildcat. "Watch that rag-head Hindoo and that nigger in the fourth seat. He's gittin' bad, all the time mumblin' to himself about Lady Luck and Lily; he believes he's a porter."
Over the miles official carelessness rode in the carload of bad actors. Only when the train stopped were the guards vigilant.
Sagged down in his seat beside the Hindoo, the Wildcat reviewed a tolerably measly past.
"How come?"
There was no accounting for what white men would do to a boy, but somewhere in the jumble the Wildcat sensed that he had been the victim of a mistake.
"Mebbe I's headed fo' jail 'count o' runnin' past de man at de gates."
After a thirty-minute delay at Granger the Wildcat saw a train leave the yards. On the platform of the observation car, surrounded by half a dozen Blue Fezant Nobles of the Mysterious Mecca, he saw Lily speeding away into an isolated future.
"Lily, you hoodoo, good-bye. Lady Luck, here I is."
CHAPTER X
1.
In the early days of detachable cuffs and ten-cent whisky there had been a difference of opinion manifest in the railroad surveying party at Granger.
Part of the gang headed northward to the salmon country; the rest of them blazed a trail to the southwest, where the sand fleas live on artichokes.
Lily and her escort were headed southwest towards San Francisco. Presently the Wildcat's car was cut into a train whose trail led northward through Idaho and Oregon.
Lady Luck meanwhile had a hard time keeping up. Exhausted finally with her efforts, she set the stage a few hundred miles ahead and lay down and went to sleep. While she was sleeping a pair of hard boiled actors in the drama rummaged around in the woodshed back of a log house near the banks of the Columbia river.
Pete, a skinny character with ears like a loving cup, raked three wheat sacks out of a pile of lumber.
Into two of these sacks he cut a pair of holes two inches in diameter and about four inches apart. The third sack he left intact. He handed one of the sacks to his partner.
"Here she is; see if it fits you."
A fat bad actor by the name of Bill slipped the sack over his head. "Little narrow between the eyes."
Three hours later these two agents of Lady Luck engaged in a little hard work in their search for easy money. The product of their energy took shape in the form of a pyramid of old ties piled between the rails of the line over which the Wildcat was approaching in his twelve-wheeled cage.
Ten minutes before the train was due and while her crossing whistles could be heard in the dusk five miles up-stream, the two bad actors scrambled up the south bank of the Columbia. The skinny one poured a quart bottle of coal oil on the pile of ties and lighted it. The fat man lighted a cigarette.
Both of them drew the wheat sacks over their heads. The fat man carried the third wheat sack slung at his waist on a string which went around his shoulder.
The stillness of evening was broken by the roar of a locomotive whistle, and an instant later the wheels of the train smoked and screeched against the chattering brake shoes. In the cab ahead the handle of the air valve was slammed into the big notch.
The flagman swung down from the rear end of the train and ambled back along the track for half the regulation distance. He set his lantern in the middle of the track and rolled a cigarette. Three lanterns flashed along the train, where the train countered a locked door. Inside the car, on a seat to see what was going on.
Presently they found out and took their places beside the fireman and engineer, hands raised.
With his wheat sack dangling more heavily on his hip as he progressed through the train, the fat bad actor skimmed the Pullman cream on his way forward to the plated jewelry in the day coach.
On the vestibule of the Wildcat's car he encountered a locked door. Inside the car, on a seat beside the rag-head Hindoo, the Wildcat curled himself up as a preface to twelve long chapters of easy sleep.
"Sho's noble when de train stops; boy can sleep peaceful 'thout gittin' his insides scrambled."
"Bam!"
The fat bad actor shot the lock off the door of the Wildcat's car.
"Boy sure can sleep noble. Good mawnin—"
The rest of the sentence was action and not words. On the echo of the shot from the fat bad actor's gun the Wildcat leaped automatically. He ran fast enough to sidestep two more shots that crashed into the night after him. The Hindoo passed him in the darkness.
Down along the track the Wildcat's feet tore up great gobs of right-of-way. He passed the flagman, going like a brunet typhoon ten days overdue. After the first mile he began putting his feet down a little slower before he stepped on them. At the second mile his hind legs were dragging, and then suddenly, instead of the hard ground beneath his feet, there was nothing but a black void.
He rolled a few times like a 'possum falling off a limb. He landed on the hard sand of the river bank. Night had fallen.
"Lady Luck, here us is. Whah at is we?"
The Wildcat curled up and went to sleep.
He woke up five minutes later. "Sho' is peaceful. How come I's so thirsty?"
Beside him the river offered him a solution to his thirst problems. On all fours he crawled to the river edge. He shoved his bow under the water and nearly sank himself absorbing as much of the Columbia river as could flow into his wide mouth.
"Whuff! Sho' is noble water."
The black rippling water before him was suddenly shot with silver. Then it became a solid glistening black. A school of smelt, seeking the quiet water of the bank, fought their way upstream. The Wildcat reached a tentative exploring paw into the stream of fish.
"Fish, howdy. De table sho' is set. Come out heah."
With his bare hands he snatched ashore a breakfast four sizes too big for his optimistic estimate of his stomach's capacity.
"Quit floppin'. Ole Wilecat's done caught you." He felt for the box of Pullman matches in the pocket of his shirt, beneath the folds of the parade-leading Prince Albert. Here was food and a chance to sleep. With the Wildcat, all was well.
He accumulated a pile of firewood from the river bank, and presently a great fire was blazing. For an hour he gorged himself on smelt.
"Whuff! Sho's noble fish. Now I sees kin I sleep me."
The twinkling stars rattled in their orbits in cadence to the Wildcat's snores. Sufficient unto the night was the evil thereof. Here, except for a few sand fleas, was peace. The Wildcat snuggled deeper into the intimate environment of the sand about him. His lower jaw dropped, and his tongue lolled out less than a foot. Three or four mosquitoes landed on him and did a little boring, but the Wildcat slept on. Presently the halo of fish about him quit flopping. In the dark waters of the river's margin their myriad brethren fought their way upstream. The Wildcat mumbled in his sleep,
"Lady Luck sure done noble.I sleeps mos' all de time.I don' give a dog-goneIf de sun don't nevah shine."
"Lady Luck sure done noble.I sleeps mos' all de time.I don' give a dog-goneIf de sun don't nevah shine."
"Lady Luck sure done noble.
I sleeps mos' all de time.
I don' give a dog-gone
If de sun don't nevah shine."
2.
In the Cascades there had been berries enough for the bears and for the Indians. Now that the salmon run was heralded in the Columbia by the little fish scouts, all of the scattered members of the Flathead tribe not otherwise engaged coagulated from their several loafing grounds and headed for Memloose Island to pay their annual respects to the ghost of the King Salmon.
Included in the tribe were a few solid citizens. Some of these were college graduates. John Running Bear, better known to the business men of The Dalles as John Franklin, left his tailored clothes at home and painted his brown body with yellow ochre. He stained his arms and face with the tribal marks of his people. He drove in his twelve-cylinder car to a point near the upstream tip of Memloose Island, whereon the Flathead salmon dance was to be held. He parked his car in a thicket of willows.
"Safe enough," he said to his companion. "If some bundle-stiff or some drifter from a sheep camp up the line needs the old wagon more than I do, he's welcome to it. Let's go."
At dawn Running Bear and his companions encountered a hundred of their fellows. From the camp the smoke of the cooking fires lifted in the still air. Running Bear opened a tin of chicken. He sighed.
"This is the last civilized meal for the next six days."
He breakfasted slowly, lingering over his coffee, and then half reluctantly the last trace of civilization's veneer was cast aside.
"Clee Hy Yah Skookum Kum chuck. Waugh!"
3.
Half a mile upstream from the Indian camp the Wildcat greeted the dawn. Building a quick fire, he looked about him at the wrinkled little fish, drying in the early morning sunlight. Slithering past him in the water still persisted the mad rush of racing myriads. He threw the dead fish back into the stream and raked out a fresher breakfast.
He poulticed a dozen fish with maple leaves and threw them in the glowing coals of his fire. Ten minutes later he again began the business of gorging himself on free fish.
"Don't cost me nuthin'." He clawed the water for another dozen handfuls. "Free fish, howdy doo.