The Proem "Fox-in-the-Morning"

НазваниеThe Proem "Fox-in-the-Morning"
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"Have I not tried? Did I not offer them for one-tenth their cost?

Not even one ~peso~ would any one give. There is not one ~real~ in

this town to assist Dickee Malonee."
Dick clenched his teeth grimly. 'That's the ~comandante~," he growled.

"He's responsible for that sentiment. Wait, oh, wait till the cards

are all out."
Pasa lowered her voice to almost a whisper. "And, listen, heart of

my heart," she said, "I have endeavored to be brave, but I cannot

live without thee. Three days now--"
Dicky caught a faint gleam of steel from the folds of her mantilla.

For once she looked in his face and saw it without a smile, stern,

menacing and purposeful. Then he suddenly raised his hand and his

smile came back like a gleam of sunshine. The hoarse signal of an

incoming steamer's siren sounded in the harbor. Dicky called to

the sentry who was pacing before the door: "What steamer comes?"
"The ~Catarina~."
"Of the Vesuvius line?"
"Without doubt, of that line."
"Go you, ~picarilla~, "said Dicky joyously to Pasa, "to the American

consul. Tell him I wish to speak with him. See that he comes

at once. And look you! let me see a different look in those eyes,

for I promise your head shall rest upon this arm tonight.
It was an hour before the consul came. He held his green umbrella

under his arm, and mopped his forehead impatiently.
"Now, see here, Maloney, "he began, captiously, "you fellows seem

to think you can cut up any kind of row, and expect me to pull you out

of it. I'm neither the War Department nor a gold mine. This country

has its laws, you know, and there's one against pounding the senses

out of the regular army. You Irish are forever getting into trouble.

I don't see what I can do. Anything like tobacco, now, to make you

comfortable--or newspapers--"
"Son of Eli," interrupted Dicky, gravely, "you haven't changed

an iota. That is almost a duplicate of the speech you made when old

Koen's donkeys and geese got into the chapel loft, and the culprits

wanted to hide in your room."
"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed the consul, hurriedly adjusting his

spectacles. "Are you a Yale man, too? Were you in that crowd?

I don't seem to remember any one with red--any one named Maloney.

Such a lot of college men seem to have misused their advantages.

One of the best mathematicians of the class of '91 is selling

lottery tickets in Belize. A Cornell man dropped off here last

month. He was second steward on a guano boat. I'll write to

the department if you like, Maloney. Or if there's any tobacco,

or newspa--"
'There's nothing," interrupted Dicky, shortly, "but this. You go

tell the captain of the ~Catarina~ that Dicky Maloney wants to see

him as soon as he can conveniently come. Tell him where I am.

Hurry. That's all."
The consul, glad to be let off so easily, hurried away. The captain

of the ~Catarina~, a stout man, Sicilian born, soon appeared,

shoving, with little ceremony, through the guards to the jail door.

The Vesuvius Fruit Company had a habit of doing things that way

in Anchuria.
"I am exceeding sorry--exceeding sorry," said the captain, "to see

this occur. I place myself at your service, Mr. Maloney. What you

need shall be furnished. Whatever you say shall be done."
Dicky looked at him unsmilingly. His red hair could not detract

from his attitude of severe dignity as he stood, tall and calm, with

his now grim mouth forming a horizontal line.
"Captain De Lucco, I believe I still have funds in the hands of your

company--ample and personal funds. I ordered a remittance last week.

The money has not arrived. You know what is needed in this game.

Money and money and more money. Why has it not been sent?"
"By the ~Cristobal~," replied De Lucco, gesticulating, "it was

despatched. Where is the ~Cristobal~? Off Cape Antonio I spoke

her with a broken shaft. A tramp coaster was towing her back to New

Orleans. I brought money ashore thinking your need for it might not

withstand delay. In this envelope is one thousand dollars. There

is more if you need it, Mr. Maloney."
"For the present it will suffice," said Dicky, softening as he

crinkled the envelope and looked down at the half-inch thickness

of smooth, dingy bills.
"The long green!" he said, gently, with a new reverence in his gaze.

"Is there anything it will not buy, Captain?"
"I had three friends," replied De Lucco, who was a bit of

a philosopher, "who had money. One of them speculated in stocks

and made ten million; another is in heaven, and the third married

a poor girl whom he loved."
"The answer, then," said Dicky, "is held by the Almighty, Wall

Street, and Cupid. So, the question remains."
"This," queried the captain, including Dicky's surroundings in

a significant gesture of his hand, "is it--it is notiit is not

connected with the business of your little shop? There is no

failure in your plans?"
"No, no," said Dicky. "This is merely the result of a little private

affair of mine, a digression from the regular line of business.

They say for a complete life a man must know poverty, love, and war.

But they don't go well together, ~capitan mio~. No; there is no

failure in my business. The little shop is doing very well."
When the captain had departed Dicky called the sergeant of the jail

squad and asked:
"Am I ~preso~ by the military or by the civil authority?"
"Surely there is no martial law in effect now, senor."
"~Bueno~. Now go or send to the ~alcalde~, the ~Juez de la Paz~

and the ~Jefe de los Policios~. Tell them I am prepared at once to

satisfy the demands of justice." A folded bill of the "long green"

slid into the sergeant's hand.
Then Dicky's smile came back again, for he knew that the hours of

his captivity were numbered; and he hummed, in time with the sentry's

"They're hanging men and women now,

For lacking of the green."
So, that night Dicky sat by the window of the room over his shop an

his little saint sat close by, working at something silken and dainty.

Dicky was thoughtful and grave. His red hair was in an unusual

state of disorder. Pasa's fingers often ached to smooth and arrange

it, but Dicky would never allow it. He was poring, tonight, over

a great litter of maps and books and papers on his table until that

perpendicular line came between his brows that always distressed Pasa.

Presently she went and brought his hat, and stood with it until he

looked up, inquiringly.
"It is sad for you here," she explained. "Go out and drink ~vino

blanco~. Come back when you get that smile you used to wear.

That is what I wish to see."
Dicky laughed and threw down his papers. "The ~vino blanco~ stage

is past. It has served its turn. Perhaps, after all, there was less

entered my mouth and more my ears than people thought. But, there

will be no more maps or frowns tonight. I promise you that. Come."
They sat upon a reed ~silleta~ at the window and watched the quivering

gleams from the lights of the ~Catarina~ reflected in the harbor.
Presently Pasa rippled out one of her infrequent chirrups of audible

"I was thinking," she began, anticipating Dicky's question, "of

the foolish things girls have in their minds. Because I went to

school in the States I used to have ambitions. Nothing less than

to be the president's wife would satisfy me. And, look, thou red

picaroon, to what obscure fate thou hast stolen me!"
"Don't give up hope," said Dicky, smiling. "More than one Irishman

has been the ruler of a South American country. There was a dictator

of Chili named O'Higgins. Why not a President Maloney, of Anchuria?

Say the word, ~santita mia~, and we'll make the race."
"No, no, no, thou red-haired, reckless one!" sighed Pasa; "I am

content"--she laid her head against his arm--"here."

Rouge et Noir
It has been indicated that disaffection followed the elevation of

Losada to the presidency. This feeling continued to grow. Throughout

the entire republic there seemed to be a spirit of silent, sullen

discontent. Even the old Liberal party to which Goodwin, Zavalla and

other patriots had lent their aid was disappointed. Losada had failed

to become a popular idol. Fresh taxes, fresh import duties and,

more than all, his tolerance of the outrageous oppression of citizens

by the military had rendered him the most obnoxious president since

the despicable Alforan. The majority of his own cabinet were out

of sympathy with him. The army, which he had courted by giving it

license to tyrannize, had been his main, and thus far adequate,

But the most impolitic of the administration's moves had been when

it antagonized the Vesuvius Fruit Company, an organization plying

twelve steamers with a cash capital somewhat larger than Anchuria's

surplus and debt combined.
Reasonably, an established concern like the Vesuvius would become

irritated at having a small, retail republic with no rating at all

attempt to squeeze it. So, when the government proxies applied for

a subsidy they encountered a polite refusal. The president at once

retaliated by clapping an export duty of one ~real~ per bunch on

bananas--a thing unprecedented in fruit-growing countries. The

Vesuvius Company had invested large sums in wharves and plantations

along the Anchurian coast, their agents had erected fine homes in

the towns where they had their headquarters, and heretofore had worked

with the republic in good-will and with advantage to both. It would

lose an immense sum if compelled to move out. The selling price of

bananas from Vera Cruz to Trinidad was three ~reales~ per bunch.

This new duty of one ~real~ would have ruined the fruit growers in

Anchuria and have seriously discommoded the Vesuvius Company had it

declined to pay it. But for some reason, the Vesuvius continued to

buy Anchurian fruit, paying four ~reals~ for it; and not suffering

the growers to bear the loss.
This apparent victory deceived His Excellency; and he began to hunger

for more of it. He sent an emissary to request a conference with a

representative of the fruit company. The Vesuvius sent Mr. Franzoni,

a little, stout, cheerful man, always cool, and whistling airs from

Verdi's operas. Senor Espirition, of the office of the Minister

of Finance, attempted the sandbagging in behalf of Anchuria. The

meeting took place in the cabin of the ~Salvador~, of the Vesuvius

Senor Espirition opened negotiations by announcing that the government

contemplated the building of a railroad to skirt the alluvial coast

lands. After touching upon the benefits such a road would confer upon

the interests of the Vesuvius, he reached the definite suggestion that

a contribution to the road's expenses of, say, fifty thousand ~pesos~

would not be more than an equivalent to benefits received.
Mr. Franzoni denied that his company would receive any benefits

from a contemplated road. As its representative he must decline

to contribute fifty thousand ~pesos~. But he would assume

the responsibility of offering twenty-five.
Did Senor Espirition understand Senor Franzoni to mean twenty-five

thousand ~pesos~?
By no means. Twenty-five ~pesos~. And in silver, not in gold.
"Your offer insults my government," cried Senor Espirition, rising,

with indignation.
"Then," said Mr. Franzoni, in warning tone, "~we will change it.~"
The offer was never changed. Could Mr. Franzoni have meant the

This was the state of affairs in Anchuria when the winter season

opened at Coralio at the end of the second year of Losada's

administration. So, when the government and society made its annual

exodus to the seashore it was evident that the presidential advent

would not be celebrated by unlimited rejoicing. The tenth of November

was the day set for the entrance into Coralio of the gay company

from the capital. A narrow-gauge railroad runs twenty miles into

the interior from Solitas. The government party travels by carriage

from San Mateo to this road's terminal point, and proceeds by train

to Solitas. From here they march in grand procession to Coralio

where, on the day of their coming, festivities and ceremonies abound.

But this season saw an ominous dawning of the tenth of November.
Although the rainy season was over, the day seemed to hark back to

reeking June. A fine drizzle of rain fell all during the forenoon.

The procession entered Coralio amid a strange silence.
President Losada was an elderly man, grizzly bearded, with

a considerable ratio of Indian blood revealed in his cinnamon

complexion. His carriage headed the procession, surrounded

and guarded by Captain Cruz and his famous troop of one hundred

light horse "~El Ciento Huilando~." Colonel Rocas followed,

with a regiment of the regular army.
The president's sharp, beady eyes glanced about him for the expected

demonstration of welcome; but he faced a stolid, indifferent array

of citizens. Sightseers the Anchurians are by birth and habit, and

they turned out to their last able-bodied unit to witness the scene;

but they maintained an accusive silence. They crowded the streets

to the very wheel ruts; they covered the red tile roofs to the eaves,

but there was never a "~viva~" from them. No wreaths of palm

and lemon branches or gorgeous strings of paper roses hung from

the windows and balconies as was the custom. There was an apathy,

a dull, dissenting disapprobation, that was the more ominous because

it puzzled. No one feared an outburst, a revolt of the discontents,

for they had no leader. The president and those loyal to him had

never even heard whispered a name among them capable of crystallizing

the dissatisfaction into opposition. No, there could be no danger.

The people always procured a new idol before they destroyed an old

At length, after a prodigious galloping and curvetting of red-sashed

majors, gold-laced colonels and epauletted generals, the procession

formed for its annual progress down the Calle Grande to the Casa

Morena, where the ceremony of welcome to the visiting president

always took place.
The Swiss band led the line of march. After it pranced the local

~comandante~, mounted, and a detachment of his troops. Next came

a carriage with four members of the cabinet, conspicuous among them

the Minister of War, old General Pilar, with his white moustache

and his soldierly bearing. Then the president's vehicle, containing

also the Ministers of Finance and State; and surrounded by

Captain Cruz's light horse formed in a close double file of fours.

Following them, the rest of the officials of state, the judges and

distinguished military and social ornaments of public and private

As the band struck up, and the movement began, like a bird of

ill-omen the ~Valhalla~, the swiftest steamship of the Vesuvius line,

glided into the harbor in plain view of the president and his train.

Of course, there was nothing menacing about its arrival--a business

firm does not go to war with a nation--but it reminded Senor

Espirition and others in those carriages that the Vesuvius Fruit

Company was undoubtedly carrying something up its sleeve for them.
By the time the van of the procession had reached the government

building, Captain Cronin, of the ~Valhalla~, and Mr. Vincenti,

member of the Vesuvius Company, had landed and were pushing their

way, bluff, hearty and nonchalant, through the crowd on the narrow

sidewalk. Clad in white linen, big, debonair, with an air of

good-humored authority, they made conspicuous figures among the dark

mass of unimposing Anchurians, as they penetrated to within a few

yards of the steps of the Casa Morena. Looking easily above

the heads of the crowd, they perceived another that towered above

the undersized natives. It was the fiery poll of Dicky Maloney

against the wall close by the lower step; and his broad, seductive

grin showed that he recognized their presence.
Dicky had attired himself becomingly for the festive occasion in

a well-fitting black suit. Pasa was close by his side, her head

covered with the ubiquitous black mantilla. Mr. Vincenti looked

at her attentively.
"Botticelli's Madonna, he remarked, gravely. "I wonder when she

got into the game. I don't like his getting tangled with the women.

I hoped he would keep away from them."
Captain Cronin's laugh almost drew attention from the parade.
"With that head of hair! Keep away from the women! And a Maloney!

Hasn't he got a license? But, nonsense aside, what do you think of

the prospects? It's a species of filibustering out of my line."
Vincenti glanced again at Dicky's head and smiled. "~Rouge et noir~,"

he said. "There you have it. Make your play, gentlemen. Our money

is on the red."
"The lad's game," said Cronin, with a commending look at the tall,

easy figure by the steps. "But 'tis all like fly-by-night theatricals

to me. The talk's bigger than the stage; there's a smell of gasoline

in the air, and they're their own audience and scene-shifters."
They ceased talking, for General Pilar had descended from the first

carriage and had taken his stand upon the top step of Casa Morena.

As the oldest member of the cabinet, custom had decreed that he should

make the address of welcome, presenting the keys of the official

residence to the president at its close.
General Pilar was one of the most distinguished citizens of the

republic. Hero of three wars and innumerable revolutions, he was

an honored guest at European courts and camps. An eloquent speaker

and a friend to the people, he represented the highest type of

the Anchurians.
Holding in his hand the gilt keys of Casa Morena, he began his address

in a historical form, touching upon each administration and the

advance of civilization and prosperity from the first dim striving

after liberty down to present times. Arriving at the regime of

President Losada, at which point, according to precedent, he should

have delivered a eulogy upon its wise conduct and the happiness of

the people, General Pilar paused. Then he silently held up the bunch

of keys high above his head, with his eyes closely regarding it.

The ribbon with which they were bound fluttered in the breeze.
"It still blows," cried the speaker, exultantly. "Citizens of

Anchuria, give thanks to the saints this night that our air is

still free."
Thus disposing of Losada's administration, he abruptly reverted

to that of Olivarra, Anchuria's most popular ruler. Olivarra had

been assassinated nine years before while in the prime of life and

usefulness. A faction of the Liberal party led by Losada himself

had been accused of the deed. Whether guilty or not, it was eight

years before the ambitious and scheming Losada had gained his goal.
Upon this theme General Pilar's eloquence was loosed. He drew the

picture of the beneficent Olivarra with a loving hand. He reminded

the people of the peace, the security and the happiness they had

enjoyed during that period. He recalled in vivid detail and with

significant contrast the last winter sojourn of President Olivarra

in Coralio, when his appearance at their fiestas was the signal

for thundering vivas of love and approbation.
The first public expression of sentiment from the people that day

followed. A low, sustained murmur went among them like the surf

rolling along the shore.
"Ten dollars to a dinner at the Saint Charles," remarked Mr. Vincenti,

"that rouge wins."
"I never bet against my own interests," said Captain Cronin, lighting

a cigar. "Long-winded old boy for his age. What's he talking about?"
"My Spanish," replied Vincenti, "runs about ten words to the minute;

his is something around two hundred. Whatever he s saying, he's

getting them warmed up."
"Friends and brothers," General Pilar was saying, "could I reach out

my hand this day across the lamentable silence of the grave to

Olivarra the Good, to the ruler who was one of you, whose tears fell

when you sorrowed and whose smile followed your joy--I would bring him

back to you, but--Olivarra is dead--dead at the hands of a craven

The speaker turned and gazed boldly into the carriage of the

president. His arm remained extended aloft as if to sustain his

peroration. The president was listening aghast, at this remarkable

address of welcome. He was sunk back upon his seat, trembling with

rage and dumb surprise, his dark hands tightly gripping the carriage

Half rising, he extended one arm toward the speaker and shouted

a harsh command at Captain Cruz. The leader of the "Flying Hundred"

sat his horse, immovable, with folded arms, giving no sign of having

heard. Losada sank back again, his dark features distinctly paling.
Who says that Olivarra is dead?" suddenly cried the speaker,

his voice, old as he was, sounding like a battle trumpet. His body

lies in the grave, but to the people he loved he has bequeathed

his spirit--yes, more--his learning, his courage, his kindness--yes,

more--his youth, his image--people of Anchuria, have you forgotten

Ramon, the son of Olivarra?"
Cronin and Vincenti, watching closely, saw Dicky Maloney suddenly

raise his hat, tear off his shock of red hair, leap up the steps

and stand at the side of General Pilar. The Minister of War laid

his arm across the young man's shoulders. All who had known President

Olivarra saw again his same lion-like pose, the same frank, undaunted

expression, the same high forehead with the peculiar line of

the clustering, crisp black hair.
General Pilar was an experienced orator. He seized the moment

of breathless silence that preceded the storm.
"Citizens of Anchuria," he trumpeted, holding aloft the keys of Casa

Morena, "I am here to deliver these keys--the keys to your homes and

liberty--to your chosen president. Shall I deliver them to Enrico

Olivarra's assassin, or to his son?"
"Olivarra! Olivarra!" the crowd shrieked and howled. All vociferated

the magic name--men, women, children and the parrots.
And the enthusiasm was not confined to the blood of the plebs.

Colonel Rocas ascended the steps and laid his sword theatrically

at young Ramon Olivarra's feet. Four members of the cabinet embraced

him. Captain Cruz gave a command, and twenty of ~El Ciento Huilando~

dismounted and arranged themselves in a cordon about the steps

of Casa Morena.
But Ramon Olivarra seized that moment to prove himself a born

genius and politician. He waved those soldiers aside, and descended

the steps to the street. There, without losing his dignity or

the distinguished elegance that the loss of his red hair brought

him, betook the proletariat to his bosom--the barefooted, the dirty,

Indians, Caribs, babies, beggars, old, young, saints, soldiers

and sinners--he missed none of them.
While this act of the drama was being presented, the scene shifters

had been busy at the duties that had been assigned to them. Two

of Cruz's dragoons had seized the bridle reins of Losada's horses;

others formed a close guard around the carriage; and they galloped

off with the tyrant and his two unpopular Ministers. No doubt a place

had been prepared for them. There are a number of well-barred stone

apartments in Coralio.
"~Rouge~ wins," said Mr. Vincenti, calmly lighting another cigar.
Captain Cronin had been intently watching the vicinity of the stone

steps for some time.
"Good boy!" he exclaimed suddenly, as if relieved. "I wondered if

he was going to forget his Kathleen Mavourneen."
Young Olivarra had reascended the steps and spoken a few words to

General Pilar. Then that distinguished veteran descended to the

ground and approached Pasa, who still stood, wonder-eyed, where Dicky

had left her. With his plumed hat in his hand, and his medals and

decorations shining on his breast, the general spoke to her and gave

her his arm, and they went up the stone steps of the Casa Morena

together. And then Ramon Olivarra stepped forward and took both

her hands before all the people.
And while the cheering was breaking out afresh everywhere, Captain

Cronin and Mr. Vincenti turned and walked back toward the shore where

the gig was waiting for them.
"There'll be another '~presidente proclamada~' in the morning," said

Mr. Vincenti, musingly. "As a rule they are not as reliable as the

elected ones, but this youngster seems to have some good stuff in him.

He planned and maneuvered the entire campaign. Olivarra's widow,

you know, was wealthy. After her husband was assassinated she went

to the States, and educated her son at Yale. The Vesuvius Company

hunted him up, and backed him in the little game."
"It's a glorious thing," said Cronin, half jestingly, "to be able

to discharge a government, and insert one of your own choosing, in

these days."
"Oh, it is only amatter of business," said Vincenti, stopping and

offering the stump of his cigar to a monkey that swung down from

a lime tree; "and that is what moves the world of today. That extra

real on the price of bananas had to go. We took the shortest way

of removing it."

Two Recalls
There remains three duties to be performed before the curtain falls

upon the patched comedy. Two have been promised: the third is no

less obligatory.
It was set forth in the program of this tropic vaudeville that

it would be made known why Shorty 0'Day, of the Columbia Detective

Agency, lost his position. Also that Smith should come again to tell

us what mystery he followed that night on the shores of Anchuria when

he strewed so many cigar stumps around the coconut palm during his

lonely night vigil on the beach. These things were promised; but

a bigger thing yet remains to be accomplished--the clearing up of a

seeming wrong that has been done according to the array of chronicled

facts (truthfully set forth) that have been presented. And one voice,

speaking, shall do these three things.
Two men sat on a stringer of a North River pier in the City of New

York. A steamer from the tropics had begun to unload bananas and

oranges on the pier. Now and then a banana or two would fall from

an overripe bunch, and one of the two men would shamble forward,

seize the fruit and return to share it with his companion.
One of the men was in the ultimate stage of deterioration. As far as

rain and wind and sun could wreck the garments he wore, it had been

done. In his person the ravages of drink were as plainly visible.

And yet, upon his high-bridged, rubicund nose was jauntily perched

a pair of shining and flawless gold-rimmed glasses.
The other man was not so far gone upon the descending Highway of the

Incompetents. Truly, the flower of his manhood had gone to seed--seed

that, perhaps, no soil might sprout. But there were still cross-cuts

along where he travelled through which he might yet regain the pathway

of usefulness without disturbing the slumbering Miracles. This man

was short and compactly built. He had an oblique, dead eye, like

that of a sting-ray, and the moustache of a cocktail mixer. We know

the eye and the moustache; we know that Smith of the luxurious yacht,

the gorgeous raiment, the mysterious mission, the magic disappearance,

has come again, though shorn of the accessories of his former state.
At his third banana, the man with the nose glasses spat it from him

with a shudder.
"Deuce take all fruit!" he remarked, in a patrician tone of disgust.

"I lived for two years where these things grow. The memory of their

taste lingers with you. The oranges are not so bad. Just see if you

can gather a couple of them, O'Day, when the next broken crate comes

Did you live down with the monkeys?" asked the other, made tepidly

garrulous by the sunshine and the alleviating meal of juicy fruit.

"I was down there, once myself. But only for a few hours. That was

when I was with the Columbia Detective Agency. The monkey people

did me up. I'd have my job yet if it hadn't been for them. I'll

tell you about it.
"One day the chief sent a note around to the office that read: 'Send

O'Day here at once for a big piece of business.' I was the crack

detective of the agency at that time. They always handed me the big

jobs. The address the chief wrote from was down in the Wall Street

"When I got there I found him in a private office with a lot of

directors who were looking pretty fuzzy. They stated the case.

The president of the Republic Insurance Company had skipped with

about a tenth of a million dollars in cash. The directors wanted

him back pretty bad, but they wanted the money worse. They said

they needed it. They had traced the old gent's movements to where

he boarded a tramp fruit steamer bound for South America that same

morning with his daughter and a big gripsack--all the family

he had.
"One of the directors had his steam yacht coaled and with steam up,

ready for a trip; and he turned her over to me, cart blongsh. In

four hours I was on board of her, and hot on the trail of the fruit

tub. I had a pretty good idea where old Wahrfield--that was his name,

J. Churchill Wahrfield--would head for. At that time we had a treaty

with about every foreign country except Belgium and that banana

republic, Anchuria. There wasn't a photo of old Wahrfield to be

had in New York--he had been foxy there--but I had his description.

And besides, the lady with him would be a dead-give-away anywhere.

She was one of the high-flyers in Society--not the kind that have

their pictures in the Sunday papers--but the real sort that open

chrysanthemum shows and christen battleships.
"Well, sir, we never got a sight of that fruit tub on the road.

The ocean is a pretty big place; and I guess we took different

paths across it. But we kept going toward this Anchuria, where

the fruiter was bound for.
"We struck the monkey coast one afternoon about four. There was a

ratty-looking steamer off shore taking on bananas. The monkeys were

loading her up with big barges. It might be the one the old man had

taken, and it might not. I went ashore to look around. The scenery

was pretty good. I never saw any finer on the New York stage.

I struck an American on shore, a big, cool chap, standing around

with the monkeys. He showed me the consul's office. The consul was

a nice young fellow. He said the fruiter was the ~Karlsefin~, running

generally to New Orleans, but took her last cargo to New York. Then

I was sure my people were on board, although everybody told me that

no passengers had landed. I didn't think they would land until after

dark, for they might have been shy about it on account of seeing that

yacht of mine hanging around. So, all I had to do was to wait and nab

'em when they came ashore. I couldn't arrest old Wahrfield without

extradition papers, but my play was to get the cash. They generally

give up if you strike 'em when they're tired and rattled and short

on nerve.
"After dark I sat under a coconut tree on the beach for a while,

and then I walked around and investigated that town some, and it was

enough to give you the lions. If a man could stay in New York and be

honest, he'd better do it than to hit that monkey town with a million.
"Dinky little mud houses; grass over your shoe tops in the streets;

ladies in low-neck-and-short-sleeves walking around smoking cigars;

tree-frogs rattling like a hose cart going to a ten blow; big

mountains dropping gravel in the back yards, and the sea licking

the paint off in front--no, sir--a man had better be in God's country

living on free lunch than there.
"The main street ran along the beach, and I walked down it, and

then turned up a kind of lane where the houses were made of poles

and straw. I wanted to see what the monkeys did when they weren't

climbing coconut trees. The very first shack I looked in I saw my

people. They must have come ashore while I was promenading. A man

about fifty, smooth face, heavy eyebrows, dressed in black broadcloth,

looking like he was just about to say, "Can any little boy in the

Sunday school answer that?' He was freezing on to a grip that weighed

like a dozen gold bricks, and a swell girl--a regular peach, with

a Fifth Avenue cut--was sitting on a wooden chair. An old black woman

was fixing some coffee and beans on a table. The light they had come

from a lantern hung on a nail. I went and stood in the door, and they

looked at me, and I said:
"Mr. Wahrfield, you are my prisoner. I hope, for the lady's sake,

you will take the matter sensibly. You know why I want you.'
"'Who are you?' says the old gent.
"'O'Day,' says I, 'of the Columbia Detective Agency. And now, sir,

let me give you a piece of good advice. You go back and take your

medicine like a man. Hand 'em back the boodle; and maybe they'll let

you off light. Go back easy, and I'll put in a word for you. I'll

give you five minutes to decide." I pulled out my watch and waited.
"Then the young lady chipped in. She was one of the genuine

high-steppers. You could tell by the way her clothes fit and

the style she had that Fifth Avenue was made for her.
"'Come inside,' she says. 'Don't stand in the door and disturb the

whole street with that suit of clothes. Now, what is it you want?'
"'Three minutes gone,' I said. 'I'll tell you again while the other

two tick off.'
"'You'll admit being the president of the Republic, won't you?'
"'I am,' says he.

'Well, then,' says I, 'it ought to be plain to you. Wanted, in

New York, J. Churchill Wahrfield, president of the Republic Insurance

"'Also the funds belonging to said company, now in that grip, in

the unlawful possession of said J. Churchill Wahrfield.'
"'Oh-h-h-h!' says the young lady, as if she was thinking, 'you want

to take us back to New York?'
"'To take Mr. Wahrfield. There's no charge against you, miss.

There'll be no objection, of course, to your returning with your

"Of a sudden the girl gave a tiny scream and grabbed the old boy

around the neck. 'Oh, father, father!' she says, kind of contralto,

'can this be true? Have you taken money that is not yours? Speak,

father!' It made you shiver to hear the tremolo stop she put on her

"The old boy looked pretty bughouse when she first grappled him,

but she went on, whispering in his ear and patting his offshoulder

till he stood still, but sweating a little.
"She got him to one side and they talked together a minute, and then

he put on some gold eyeglasses and walked up and handed me the grip.
"'Mr. Detective,' he says, talking a little broken, 'I conclude

to return with you. I have finished to discover that life on this

desolate and displeased coast would be worse than to die, itself.

I will go back and hurl myself upon the mercy of the Republic Company.

Have you brought a sheep?'
"'Sheep!' says I; 'I haven't a single--'
"'Ship,' cut in the young lady. 'Don't get funny. Father is of

German birth, and doesn't speak perfect English. How did you come

"The girl was all broke up. She had a handkerchief to her face,

and kept saying every little bit, '0h, father, father!' She walked

up to me and laid her lily-white hand on the clothes that had pained

her at first. I smelt a million violets. She was a lulu. I told

her I came in a private yacht.
"'Mr. O'Day,' she says. 'Oh, take us away from this horrid country

at once. Can you! Will you! Say you will.'
"'I'll try,' I said, concealing the fact that I was dying to get them

on salt water before they could change their mind.
"One thing they both kicked against was going through the town to

the boat landing. Said they dreaded publicity, and now that they

were going to return, they had a hope that the thing might yet be

kept out of the papers. They swore they wouldn't go unless I got

them out to the yacht without any one knowing it, so I agreed

to humor them.
"The sailors who rowed me ashore were playing billiards in a bar-room

near the water, waiting for orders, and I proposed to have them take

the boat down the beach half a mile or so, and take us up there.

How to get them word was the question, for I couldn't leave the grip

with the prisoner, and I couldn't take it with me, not knowing but

what the monkeys might stick me up.
"The young lady says the old colored woman would take them a note.

I sat down and wrote it, and gave it to the dame with plain directions

what to do, and she grins like a baboon and shakes her head.
"Then Mr. Wahrfield handed her a string of foreign dialect, and she

nods her head and says, 'See, senor' maybe fifty times, and lights

out with the note.
"'0ld Augusta only understands German,' said Miss Wahrfield, smiling

at me. 'We stopped in her house to ask where we could find lodging,

and she insisted upon our having coffee. She tells us she was raised

in a German family in San Domingo.'
"'Very likely,' I said. 'But you can search me for German words,

except ~nix verstay~ and ~noch einst~, I would have called that

"See, senor" French, though, on a gamble.'
"Well, we three made a sneak around the edge of town so as not to

be seen. We got tangled in vines and ferns and the banana bushes

and tropical scenery a good deal. The monkey suburbs was as wild

as places in Central Park. We came out on the beach a good half

mile below. A brown chap was lying asleep under a coconut tree,

with a ten-foot musket beside him. Mr. Wahrfield takes up the gun

and pitches it into the sea. 'The coast is guarded,' he says.

'Rebellion and plots ripen like fruit.' He pointed to the sleeping

man, who never stirred. 'Thus,' he says, 'they perform trusts.

"I saw our boat coming, and I struck a match and lit a piece of

newspaper to show them where we were. In thirty minutes we were

on board the yacht.
"The first thing, Mr. Wahrfield and his daughter and I took the grip

into the owner's cabin, opened it up, and took an inventory. There

was one hundred and five thousand dollars. United States treasury

notes in it, besides a lot of diamond jewelry and a couple of hundred

Havana cigars. I gave the old man the cigars and a receipt for the

rest of the lot, as agent for the company, and locked the stuff up

in my private quarters.
"I never had a pleasanter trip than that one. After we got to sea

the young lady turned out to be the jolliest ever. The very first

time we sat down to dinner, and the steward filled her glass with

champagne--that director's yacht was a regular floating Waldorf-

Astoria--she winks at me and says, 'What's the use to borrow trouble,

Mr. Fly Cop? Here's hoping you may live to eat the hen that scratches

on your grave.' There was a piano on board, and she sat down to it

and sung better than you give up two cases to hear plenty times. She

knew about nine operas clean through. She was sure enough ~bon ton~

and swell. She wasn't one of the 'among others present' kind; she

belonged on the special mention list!
"The old man, too, perked up amazingly on the way. He passed the

cigars, and says to me once, quite chipper, out of a cloud of smoke,

'Mr. O'Day, somehow I think the Republic Company will not give me

the much trouble. Guard well the gripvalise of the money, Mr. O'Day,

for that it must be returned to them that it belongs when we finish

to arrive.'
"When we landed in New York I 'phoned to the chief to meet us in

that director's office. We got in a cab and went there. I carried

the grip, and we walked in, and I was pleased to see that the chief

had got together that same old crowd of moneybugs with pink faces

and white vests to see us march in. I set the grip on the table.

'There's the money,' I said.
"'And your prisoner?' said the chief.
"I pointed to Mr. Wahrfield, and he stepped forward and says:
"'The honor of a word with you, sir, to explain.'
"He and the chief went into another room and stayed ten minutes.

When they came back the chief looked as black as a ton of coal.
"'Did this gentleman,' he says to me, 'have this valise in

his possession when you first saw him?'
"'He did,' said I.
"The chief took up the grip and handed it to the prisoner with

a bow, and says to the director crowd: 'Do any of you recognize

this gentleman?'
"They all shook their pink faces.
"'Allow me to present,' he goes on, 'Senor Miraflores, president

of the republic of Anchuria. The senor has generously consented

to overlook this outrageous blunder, on condition that we undertake

to secure him against the annoyance of public comment. It is a

concession on his part to overlook an insult for which he might

claim international redress. I think we can gratefully promise him

secrecy in the matter.'
"They gave him a pink nod all round.
"'O'Day,' he says to me. 'As a private detective you're wasted.

In a war, where kidnapping governments is in the rules, you'd be

invaluable. Come down to the office at eleven.'
"I knew what that meant.
"'So that's the president of the monkeys,' says I. 'Well,

why couldn't he have said so?'
"Wouldn't it jar you?"

The Vitagraphoscope
Vaudeville is intrinsically episodic and discontinuous. Its audiences

do not demand denouements. Sufficient unto each "turn" is the evil

thereof. No one cares how many romances the singing comedienne may

have had if she can capably sustain the limelight and a high note or

two. The audiences reck not if the performing dogs get to the pound

the moment they have jumped through their last hoop. They do not

desire bulletins about the possible injuries received by the comic

cyclist who retires head-first from the stage in a crash of (property)

china-ware. Neither do they consider that their seat coupons entitle

them to be instructed whether or no there is a sentiment between the

lady solo banjoist and the Irish monologist.
Therefore let us have no lifting of the curtain upon a tableau of

the united lovers, backgrounded by defeated villainy and derogated

by the comic, osculating maid and butler, thrown in as a sop to

the Cerberi of the fifty-cent seats.
But our program ends with a brief "turn" or two; and then to the

exits. Whoever sits the show out may find, if he will, the slender

thread that binds together, though ever so slightly, the story that,

perhaps, only the Walrus will understand.

~Extracts from a letter from the first vice-president of the Republic

Insurance Company, of New York City, to Frank Goodwin, of Coralio,

Republic of Anchuria.~
~My Dear Mr. Goodwin:~--Your communication per Messrs. Howland and

Fourchet, of New Orleans, has reached us. Also their draft on N.Y.

for $100,000, the amount abstracted from the funds of this company

by the late J. Churchill Wahrfield, its former president.... The

officers and directors unite in requesting me to express to you their

sincere esteem and thanks for your prompt and much appreciated return

of the entire missing sum within two weeks from the time of its

disappearance.... Can assure you that the matter will not be allowed

to receive the least publicity.... Regret exceedingly the distressing

death of Mr. Wahrfield by his own hand, but... Congratulations on your

marriage to Miss Wahrfield... many charms, winning manners, noble and

womanly nature and envied position in the best metropolitan

~Cordially yours,

Lucius E. Applegate,~



~The Vitagraphoscope~

(Moving Pictures)

~The Last Sausage~
SCENE--An Artist's Studio. The artist, a young man of prepossessing

appearance, sits in a dejected attitude, amid a litter of sketches,

with his head resting upon his hand. An oil stove stands on a pine

box in the center of the studio. The artist rises, tightens his waist

belt to another hole, and lights the stove. He goes to a tin bread

box, half-hidden by a screen, takes out a solitary link of sausage,

turns the box upside-down to show that there is no more, and chucks

the sausage into a frying-pan, which he sets upon the stove.

The flame of the stove goes out, showing that there is no more oil.

The artist, in evident despair, seizes the sausage, in a sudden access

of rage, and hurls it violently from him. At the same time a door

opens, and a man who enters receives the sausage forcibly against

his nose. He seems to cry out; and is observed to make a dance step

or two, vigorously. The newcomer is a ruddy-faced, active, keen-

looking man, apparently of Irish ancestry. Next he is observed

to laugh immoderately; he kicks over the stove; he claps the artist

(who is vainly striving to grasp his hand) vehemently upon the back.

Then he goes through a pantomime which to the sufficiently intelligent

spectator reveals that he has acquired large sums of money by trading

pot-metal hatchets and razors to the Indians of the Cordillera

Mountains for gold dust. He draws a roll of money as large as

a small loaf of bread from his pocket, and waves it above his head,

while at the same time he makes pantomime of drinking from a glass.

The artist hurriedly secures his hat, and the two leave the studio


~The Writing on the Sands~
SCENE--The Beach at Nice. A woman, beautiful, still young,

exquisitely clothed, complacent, poised, reclines near the water,

idly scrawling letters in the sand with the staff of her silken

parasol. The beauty of her face is audacious; her languid pose

is one that you feel to be impermanent--you wait, expectant, for her

to spring or glide or crawl, like a panther that has unaccountably

become stock-still. She idly scrawls in the sand; and the word that

she always writes is "Isabel." A man sits a few yards away. You can

see that they are companions, ever if no longer comrades. His face

is dark and smooth, and almost inscrutable--but not quite. The two

speak little together. The man also scratches on the sand with his

cane. And the word that he writes is "Anchuria." And then he looks

out where the Mediterranean and the sky intermingle with death in

his gaze.

~The Wilderness and Thou~
SCENE--~The Borders of a Gentleman's Estate in a Tropical Land.~

An old Indian, with a mahogany-colored face, is trimming the grass

on a grave by a mangrove swamp. Presently he rises to his feet and

walks slowly toward a grove that is shaded by the gathering, brief

twilight. In the edge of the grove stands a man who is stalwart,

with a kind and courteous air, and a woman of a serene and clear-cut

loveliness. When the old Indian comes up to them the man drops money

in his hand. The grave-tender, with the stolid pride of his race,

takes it as his due, and goes his way. The two in the edge of

the grove turn back along the dim pathway, and walk close, close--

for, after all, what is the world at its best but a little round

field of the moving pictures with two walking together in it?

1   ...   15   16   17   18   19   20   21   22   23


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