DROLL STORIES
OF
ISTHMIAN LIFE

By EVELYN SAXTON

1914

The L. Graham Co., Printers
New Orleans, La.

INDEX OF FIRST PART.

ARRIVAL AT PANAMA NINE YEARS AGO.
(PART I.)

INE years have passed since the ship which brought me from New York to Panama pulled out of its dock at the foot of Twenty-seventh Street. It was a bitter cold day in February and the great “Iron City” appeared very grey and forbidding as I took a last look at it before going below. A glance at my fellow passengers revealed to me a motley crowd. A number of tourists were on board bound for West Indian ports, for at that time none of them would have dreamed of stopping off at Panama, and among them were to be found the young and handsome, the old and ugly, the lame, the halt and the blind. There were more than a hundred artisans and clerks bound for the Panama Canal. There were several trained nurses for the American hospitals on the Canal Zone, several mining engineers who were on their way to New Mexico, to Peru, and a millionaire, also from New Mexico, who, to use his own words, “owned the whole engineering outfit.” There was also a well-known United States Army surgeon, his wife, and the wives of several doctors who were already on the Isthmus. In addition, there were several newspaper men, three San Blas Indians, a general, an admiral, a Panamanian, who subsequently became President of Panama, and lastly myself.

As my readers may imagine, the passengers were more or less divided. The medical ladies felt themselves of such high degree in the profession as to positively refuse to occupy state-rooms in that part of the ship where the nurses had been assigned. They refused to eat at the same table with them, and never, by any chance, would they sit in company. The general and the admiral were the most democratic persons on board, and divided their time equally among us all. It was a delightful trip. Every night we assembled in the waist of the ship and danced to the music of two violins under rhythm of the waves.

The general and the admiral looked on approvingly and forgot their dignity to so great an extent as to keep time to the music with their feet, as on-lookers are apt to do in forgetfulness when they are lifted above their every-day surroundings by strains of sweet music. The poor surgeon looked longingly toward the way we made merry, but he was too hemmed in by conventionalities to join us, and he feared his thin-voiced little wife, who was, as Charles Dickens would say, in an interesting condition, and who ruled him with a rod of iron. The ladies of his atmosphere lowered their eyes in token of disapproval whenever he happened to venture in our midst, and on us they bestowed black looks. But we didn’t care; we had music, good fellowship, laughter, love and tropical moonlight, and, being a mixed assembly, we were carrying out to the letter that spirit of delightful democracy which is the proudest boast of the good old U. S. A.

But I digress. As I said before, we danced, and once the surgeon, his wife being seasick, made a break and danced with us. He was a good dancer, and, tell it not in Gath, he tried to flirt a little, but “we” were as much afraid of the thin voice of his little wife as were the good doctors themselves. “We” started with fear when “we” heard her calling him. Every girl on board was engaged in a delightful flirtation, and one young girl—a nurse—was engaged in good faith to the millionaire. They were to be married at Panama as soon as they landed, and she was going on with him to Peru. She now became a person of consequence, because she had captured the only millionaire on board. Even the medical ladies began to look upon her as a possible person, and the proudest one among them, an F. F. V. deigned to converse with her, remarking that she thought she had met her before somewhere; that she must have come of a good family, etc.

All too soon the delightful trip was about to end. We were in Colon harbor. Already a line of cocoanut palms had burst upon our view, and the captain said that the pretty town in the distance was Cristobal. Every one was shaking hands preparatory to going ashore. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon and the last train had gone to Panama, so we were obliged to spend the night at a Colon hotel.

I shall never forget with what feelings of disgust I went up the dirty stairs to the bedroom which had been assigned to three of the nurses and myself. There were broad verandas, around the hotel, and they were littered with all kind of rubbish. The walls and floor of the bedroom were bare and dingy, but the beds really looked clean. We did not sleep that night because of the noise in the room next to ours. A disreputable character occupied it, and she spent the night in a drunken revel with some friends. In the morning I caught a glimpse of her, and I was amazed to see that she was a notorious character who had been tried for bigamy, she having married two young men, sons of wealthy parents, within the space of a few months.

The New York yellow journals had featured her scandalous behavior, and she finally dropped out of sight. On seeing her, a gloom settled on my very soul, and a feeling of loathing for Colon came into my mind.

I was glad when the train which was to take us to Panama pulled out of the station. As it sped on, we were charmed with the wild beauty of the country. The luxurious tropical verdure was truly delightful, and helped to cheer us after our depressing experience of the night before.

The train was dirty and the service bad. The conductor came and set down beside me with the ease and freedom of a dear brother. He asked me questions about myself and talked freely of his own past as follows:

“I came from the Far West, and I ain’t ever intending to go back. I been a conductor on a railroad for nigh on fifteen years, an’ I tell you what, I been a high flyer. I stole $30,000, killed a man who robbed me of my girl, an’ then just lit out. Panama ain’t got no terrors for me,” he continued, “though I will say that it is the doggondest place for crooks that I ever struck.”

He chewed tobacco vigorously, and he spat through the open window in a noisy sort of a way that was as amusing as it was disgusting.

“I’d like to marry a good, nice girl from the States,” he went on, “but good ones from there is goldarned scarce. Some of the boys is taken up with wenches, but I’m kind of particular about myself. Though I ain’t been no saint, the woman I marry’ll have to be purty free from the dark spots on her soul, an’ her skin’ll be white if I have me eyesight. I’m gittin’ $211 a month, an’ the system is so goldurned bad that a feller could knock down twice as much as that. I do want to be honest, but with a system like this it’s purty hard fer a feller to be strictly on the square.”

I looked into his face as he said this, and I was impressed with its honesty. He had rather a likeable personality, and his kindly blue eyes would have a tendency to inspire one with confidence. He had a strong face, too—a face that might belong to one’s most respected friend—and yet I felt my flesh creep at the thought that he was a self-confessed thief and murderer. After a pause he resumed:

“All the folks that come in on this train’ll be measured for their coffins as soon as they land at Panama. Folks is dyin’ like sheep here now with yellow fever, and the place ain’t fit for Americans to live in.”

“Only a few persons have died from yellow fever,” I corrected.

“Is that so?” he retorted. “Folks that jest land think they know it all.”

At this juncture he was called by a collector, who appeared much perturbed, and I concluded that something had gone wrong.

“Wal, let them rip; ain’t there a policeman out there?” The man looked disgusted and went out grumbling.

The conductor restated himself, took a new chew of tobacco, and said:

“If I had no more brains than a collector I’d go to live in Panama, git measured for me coffin, take yellow fever an’ die.”

This speech sent a shiver through me, as we were nearing Panama, and my husband already lived there.

“The architect of the Canal Zone died yesterday, and the chief of the Panama police died a few days ago,” went on my tormentor. “It ain’t no place for ladies, an’ I wonder that the government lets them land. We’ll be there in five minutes now. I’d be glad to see you again; an’, say! if ever you go broke let me know an’ I’ll be Johnny-on-the-spot with some dinero for you, fer I ain’t the kind of a man that’ud let a lady go broke. Not with the lax system of the Panama railroad,” he concluded, with a crackling sort of laugh that was truly funny.

We were at the station now. The nurses were being helped into omnibuses; the medical ladies were helped into waiting victorias, which were drawn by handsome black horses, and in a few minutes I, of all the new arrivals, stood on the station platform alone. There was no one to meet me. A lump gathered in my throat and my heart beat loudly. There were negroes hurrying to and fro, but not a white person to be seen anywhere. Finally I was approached by a young man, evidently a Panamanian, who took off his hat and respectfully asked me if I would like him to get a coach for me. “I do not know where I am to go,” I said simply. “I expected my husband would meet me.”

“He must be ill,” said the young man, after a pause, “else he would not have had you wait for him. It will be better for you to take a coach and ride to the hospital at Ancon. The doctor at the gatehouse will know whether your husband is sick or not.”

“Perhaps I ought to wait here a little longer,” I replied. “He might have been detained.”

“It is hardly likely that he would have let anything except sickness detain him,” said the young man. “You really must take a coach, because there are rough Americans about who would not hesitate to insult you.”

“I do not fear them,” I said, “I am an American myself.”

“Ah, yes,” he replied, “but the Americans I know about Panama are not of your class. They are here in great numbers, and they are very rough and vulgar.”

I felt resentful, but at the same time grateful to him for his courtesy, and I allowed him to call a coach and help me in. When I got to the gatehouse of Ancon Hospital I was told that my husband had been admitted to the yellow fever ward the night before. There were several men suspected of having yellow fever, and he was among them. I was told that it would be impossible to see him, as he was very ill and would not recognize me.

ARRIVAL AT PANAMA NINE YEARS AGO.
(PART II.)

HAT’S what I call hard luck,” said the doctor in charge. “Where are you going to stop? You’d better go to the Central. There’s American women down there.” He then gave me some quinine and bade me take care of myself, after which I entered the cab and was driven to the Central Hotel in Panama, where I engaged a room. It was up one flight and overlooked the Cathedral Plaza. The furniture consisted of two broken chairs, a broken table, a rickety desk of drawers, with pieces of string attached for handles, and a mirror very dim from age. There was no rug on the dirty floor, and there did not appear to be any means of lighting the place. The walls and ceilings were festooned with cobwebs, and the grime of many years completely covered the paint, which one might guess had once been an unsightly green. There were two small beds in the room, and on examining them I found them to be very clean. They were incongruously draped within white net, such as is used by milliners. The servant told me that the net was used to keep mosquitoes from biting the sleepers. For this disreputable apartment, with two meals and a cup of very bad coffee, I was to pay $5.00 gold per day. There was no bell in the room, and no one looked in to see if I might need anything. When I shut the door and put a chair against it I felt as much alone as if I was on a desert island. There was a little balcony outside the door, which looked out upon the street, and I sat on this the whole afternoon, as the gloom and dampness of the room depressed me terribly. When night came a negro brought me a candle stuck in an old black bottle. He also brought my dinner, although I had intended to go into the dining-room, which was well lighted, as I thought I might meet some American women there.

Day after day I sat on my little balcony and looked upon the plaza. I was too perturbed to read. Sometimes I went downstairs and entered the peaceful Cathedral, where I knelt before graven images and offered up Protestant prayers for my husband’s safe recovery and for my own peace of mind. In the hotel dining-room I noticed some women whom I thought might be Americans. They were bulging-browed, loud-voiced, unsocial to one another, and unfriendly to me. They were well groomed, however, and wore good jewels. Every day they rode horseback astride, and shouted to one another in nasal tones, but all my efforts to get acquainted with them were in vain. They looked at me as if to say: “Gee! but you do represent the gloomy side of Panama.” I subsequently learned that these women were the wives of contracting engineers and railroad men from the Far West. They were the only women in evidence in Panama at that time. I occasionally saw a sad-faced woman, carefully wrapped in a black shawl, on her way to the Cathedral to pray; an occasional Sister of Charity and negro workmen. The Panamanian ladies were in their camps in the country and at Taboga Island, and if there were any in the city they were timid about going into the streets, as Panama was filled to overflowing with adventurers from all over the world, for it was the reconstruction period, and the Isthmus was in a state of chaos. I had never seen such a variety of men. There were men who rode fine horses, looking like cavaliers of olden times. There were men who wore boots a la Meddowbrook, and other toggery not unlike those of the Meddowbrook Hunt Club. There were slick, fat, cheerful looking Chinamen who rode horseback at breakneck speed in the early morning hours and in the late hours of the afternoon. There were negroes of every hue, from shiny-black to that peculiar red-brown shade that denotes the dividing line. There were numbers of coaches drawn hither and thither filled to overflowing with men, black, white and brown. I had been looking at them from my balcony for several days, and at last I made up my mind to go into the street among them. I would sally forth in the late hours of the afternoon, and would usually walk to Ancon to make enquiries about my husband, and, unless I happened to be fortunate enough to find a coach that was not engaged, I walked back, “a foolhardy thing to do in those days,” said the hotel clerk in tones which denoted that he considered me very much under his protection. At first men leered at me, but after a time they passed me with averted gaze. They not infrequently got out of coaches and invited me to get in. They knew that the demand for coaches was greater than the supply, and it became generally known that I was alone and that my husband was ill in the Ancon Hospital. I soon began to learn who were Americans, because, no matter how drunk they appeared to be, whenever I met them on the streets of Panama they showed me some courtesy, which plainly said: “We’re with you, and we feel sorry for you.”

Negroes worked slowly in the streets under a broiling sun. They were paving Panama’s streets with brick at this time. It seemed a hopeless task, as viewed through a woman’s eyes. Mr. Durham had begun the work, but made slow progress, because of the restrictions imposed upon him. However, he must have been a man of courage to undertake such a work at that time. Mr. J. G. Holcomb subsequently brought the work to a successful completion. Something more impelling than a desire to earn $6,000 or $7,000 a year must have prompted these men to undertake to remodel the misshapen city of Panama, where the filth of three hundred years had accumulated. When the work was about finished, Mr. Holcomb was coolly discharged. The Panamanian Government, however, retained him, for the Panamanians knew how much they were really indebted to him. Colombia had never done anything for Panama, and most of the city’s streets were mere zigzag mounds of unwholesome red clay. The common people had never formed habits of cleanliness, and it was an interesting sight to see the sanitary squad at work cleaning out their houses. I often paused in my rambles to watch them. Two great wagons, containing barrels filled with oil and disinfectants, were drawn up to the doors of the houses which were to be cleaned. A rubber hose would be attached to the street hydrant and, after the rooms were carefully prepared with disinfectants, the water would be turned on and a number of men would proceed to scrub the ceilings, walls and floors. Then the oil would be sprinkled upon the spots outside which were thought might be breeding-places for mosquitoes. That rubbish, which is so dear to the heart of every housekeeper in the world, and which is to be found in a greater or less degree in the house of the banker and laborer alike, when discovered in the houses of the poor Panamanians, was confiscated by order of the head of the sanitation department and conveyed outside of the city and burned. In this way Panama was converted into the clean, well-ordered city it is to-day, and to Colonel Gorgas is due the credit of having made it so.

One afternoon while on my way to Ancon Hospital I met a man whom I had known in Boston during my schooldays. He was then a manufacturer of rubber goods, and apparently successful. Now he was a member of Colonel Gorgas’ sanitary squad. He told me that two men had been taken from the Central Hotel that morning, and it was found that they were suffering from yellow fever. “You will not be allowed to stay there now,” he said. “But what shall I do?” I exclaimed. “There is no other place to live.” “I know a man named Martin Luther,” replied my informant. “Did you ever hear of him? He’s from Boston. He used to be a labor agent, a milkman, a real estate man, a street car conductor, a preacher, a theatrical manager, and a walking delegate. Now he is superintendent of construction at Ancon. He’ll fix you up all right. How would you like to live in a tent among the boys on Ancon Hill?” “I should like it,” I said, “but it would be a little irregular, wouldn’t it? A lone woman to live in a tent among men?” “Oh, shucks! That’s the best place for you. I’ll see Martin Luther about it this afternoon, and you’ll be moved soon. Martin Luther has a tender heart, even if he does swear a blue streak sometimes.”

Together we walked back to the hotel, to find the sanitary squad at work cleaning out the house. When I entered my room I hardly knew it. It had an odor redolent of disinfectants that delighted me. The walls and the ceilings had been cleaned, and the color of the paint was quite visible. The color had been thoroughly soaked with the disinfecting fluid, and, sad to relate, the mirror was of no further use as a reflector of my freckled beauty, for the last vestige of quicksilver had disappeared, and only the glass remained, with its wooden back showing through it. I began to like the place now, and I decided to go out on the morrow and buy a new looking-glass. I decided, too, to unpack my books and pictures, and I began to speculate on the coziness of my room when I should have it furnished with my own belongings. The thought of it all gave me the first comfortable feeling I had experienced since my arrival at Panama. On the following morning I went out early and bought a pretty tea set at a Chinese store, and I actually forgot my uneasiness of mind in the thought of the pretty tea table I was to set up. On my return to the hotel I was doomed to disappointment, for a communication awaited me suggesting that I prepare to leave the hotel. But where am I to go? I thought. I spent a disquieting afternoon speculating what was to become of me. The hotel had been closed, and, as far as I knew, it was now quite sanitary, so I wondered why I had been ordered to move in such a peremptory manner. Late in the afternoon a cart came from the construction department at Ancon for my trunks, and a negro handed me an envelope, with “I. C. C.” on one of its corners. This startled me, it had such an official appearance, so, with a beating heart and trembling hand, I opened it and read as follows:

“Dear Madam: Give your trunks to this nigger. At eight o’clock to-night a cock-eyed Dutchman, with bowlegs, will call for you. You are to live in your husband’s tent, which has been remodeled for you.

MARTIN LUTHER, Etc.”

On reading this I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. My anxiety had been somewhat relieved, and presuming that the tent was among those on Ancon Hill “among the boys,” I should be near to the hospital. Still it seemed rather irregular for a lone woman to live among men, and in a tent, I reflected. However, I sent the trunks away, and awaited the arrival of the “cock-eyed Dutchman.”

My sense of the aesthetic was somewhat outraged that such a person should be picked out to escort me from the hotel, especially as Panama was filled to overflowing with stalwart Americans. At eight o’clock my escort arrived, and did not present too bad an appearance. He was a clean-looking little fellow with reddish hair, and rather a scholarly type of face. He wore glasses, so that his eyes appeared to be straight, but his legs might have been a little bit straighter. However, he was very gallant, and we were soon on our way to Ancon. The tent was unlike any other that I have seen, as it was hemmed in on all sides by mosquito netting. It had a hardwood floor, and was comfortably furnished. It had a tiny veranda, too, which commanded a fine view of the Pacific. On all sides of me there were tents. The tent of Martin Luther was at the head of the line, and I was quite taken with him, for he brought me a gun and told me that the boys would be ready and willing to protect me with their very lives. This I subsequently found to be quite true. The boys were all Americans, and ranged in age from 29 to 50 years. The most of them were veterans of the Spanish-American War, and had been knocking about in the tropics since that interesting period, so they looked upon a young white woman, clothed in white, as an ethereal being. My presence among them must have imposed a strain, for they talked in lowered voices, and even played poker in rather a silent manner. After a time the strain became so great that the poker playing was done in the tent that was farthest away from mine, and my evenings thereafter were very lonely. I was the first woman that had ever lived on that part of the hill; at least, that is what Maitland said. I made the acquaintance of Maitland on the morning after my arrival on Ancon Hill. I awoke early, feeling very hungry, and, looking out, saw, close to the wire netting, an old black face. Never had there been a more welcome sight, as I had no means of procuring breakfast.

“Good morning, mistress,” said the voice of Maitland; “I hope you slept well.” “Good morning,” I returned, with more cordiality than one would be likely to show under other circumstances. “My name is Maitland, an’ my business is to look after the tents for the boys, see that the niggers don’t steal their clothes, an’ to keep the tents clean.” “Do you ever have any spare time?” I asked. “Oh, yes, mistress, lots of it, an’ I’ll work for you if you will give me something to eat.” “But I am suffering myself for something to eat,” I replied. “Well, that’s too bad,” said Maitland, “but if you have some money, I’ll bring you some beautiful breakfast from Eduardo’s, for they sho’ do cook things fine.” So I gave him some money, and ordered hire, to bring two breakfasts. He soon returned with the food, as disgusting a mess as was ever served to a human being. I was unable to eat it, but Maitland sat on the doorstep and devoured it with relish. He expressed some concern that I did not eat, and made some practical suggestions. One was that I get coffee from the Commission Commissary at Cristobal, and an oil stove in Panama. Later he found a Jamaican woman, who cooked the meals for me. These he would bring to the door, and I really enjoyed them. He helped me to stain the floors and hang my pictures and flags, so, like Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday, I settled down to the life with resignation, and began to feel as much a part of it as if I had always lived this way.

The tent was one of the most picturesque habitations in Panama, and almost every day something new was added to its adornment. It had an old brass lamp which had been brought from France, Second Empire style, very beautiful to look at, but very useless as a bestower of light. I had an old mahogany desk which had been in use in De Lesseps’ own home, in the old French days. Some good engravings, relics of my palmy days in New York, and some real Persian rugs and velvet portiers gave the place the look of an Arab shiek. Every day I sat alone on the tiny veranda and wrote or read. I never saw a woman, and the men passed the tent with averted gaze. Martin Luther usually stopped for a moment to inquire if I was all right, and if Maitland had been sober. If anything unusual occurred he would shout it to me. In this way I kept a line on the world outside of the tent. I seldom went to the city, but whenever I did go Maitland walked behind me at a respectful distance. One morning I awoke feeling faint and sick. I found that I had been bitten on my right foot by some insect. I naturally concluded that it was a tarantula. As the foot was terribly swollen, I called to Maitland, who came in breathless, and declared that I had but a short time to live. “Go for a doctor,” I gasped, and in my fright I began to feel the chill, cold hand of death at my heart.

Maitland vanished, and soon returned with a little old man, who carried a green carpet-bag that appeared to be filled with something heavy. The little old man walked as if he was very tired, and as he knelt down beside my chair he heaved a long, tired sigh. His hands were small, but very much knotted, and his eyes were a pale, sad blue. He sat back upon his heels and looked critically at the swollen foot, pinching it from time to time, and sighing sadly.

“Was the lady bit by a tarantula, Doctor?” asked Maitland anxiously.

“Ah, yes,” sighed the little man, kindly stroking my foot.

“Then I shall not live much longer?” said I, with a choking lump in my throat.

“You’ll live just twenty-four hours, unless you have your foot taken off,” he uttered.

The sincerity of his tone convinced me that I must be near the end of my life. I had always heard that the bite of a tarantula was fatal, so I advised Maitland to go for Martin Luther. He would have me sent to the hospital, and I would have my foot cut off. I wrote a few words of farewell to friends and sat, frightened and still, while the doctor bathed my foot with a concoction of stuff, the ingredients of which were vinegar, ether, pickle and linseed oil.

“That will take the venom out of it,” said the doctor, with another sigh, as he opened the bag and drew forth a number of old, rusty instruments. These he wiped carefully on his old blue overalls.

Now Maitland returned with Martin Luther, who grinned as he beheld the doctor at work on my foot.

“Well, I’ll be goldurned,” said he, throwing his hat upon the floor. “What in thunder are you doing, Moll? For the love of Mike, don’t go to poisoning her foot with that old rusty needle.”

“These instruments cost my father a small fortune.”

“Yes, a hundred years ago,” answered Martin Luther, with a disgusted look.

“Tie up her foot, Moll, and we’ll send her to the hospital,” said Martin Luther; “and you’d better be getting back on the job, or you’ll be fired.”

“All right,” answered the little man, with a weary sigh, as he picked up his green carpet-bag and bade me good morning. Meantime Maitland had discovered that I had been bitten by a young scorpion.

“That ain’t anything,” said Martin Luther. “I get bit every night, and I feel better for it. Moll would have cut your foot off if I hadn’t come.”

“Is he attached to the hospital?” I asked.

“Yes,” replied Martin Luther, with a chuckle, “he works for me in the carpenter shop. He used to be a doctor, but he cut a feller’s toe off in Cuba with one of them old rusty knives, and blood poison set in and the feller died, so the medical society won’t let him doctor any more. He made a mighty good carpenter, but the poor old devil has wheels. Maitland, if you call that old guy again when any one is sick or hurt, I’ll have you fired.”

“He cured me of that evil eye that the girl gave me that time, an’ he’s the best doctor in the world,” said Maitland.

One morning it was announced that a new official had arrived to dwell in one of the three real cottages on the hill. It was a short distance from the line of tents. A barbed wire was the dividing line between the tent ground and the aristocratic residential section. The residents of both sections kept well within their respective bounds. The wife of the official must have caught a glimpse of me in the distance on the day of her arrival, for she wrote a note that night to Martin Luther, which read something like this:

“Sir—You will please send to my house to-morrow morning the woman who lives in the tent beside yours. I have not been used to black servants, and I can’t bear to have them wait upon me. I will give her fifty cents, gold, a day, and her meals, and she can have a room on my back veranda. I shall need her at six o’clock in the morning. I hope her character is good.”

This was kept from me, but a consultation was held, and one of the tent dwellers, who had been a lawyer in the days before the Spanish-American War, dictated a pungent letter to the wife of the official, which enlightened her as to the respective classes to which both she and I belonged. She was told in part that the woman in the tent was a graduate of Wellesley College, and had never been obliged to even wait upon herself.

The official and his lady were invited to come to my tent and to size me up and see for themselves whether the woman in the tent was the sort of a person who would make a fancy laundress or not.

On the morning following Mrs. Official paid me a visit, and not only sized me up to her heart’s content, but asked me questions until I thought myself on a witness stand on trial for my life. Then, after offering to buy from me, at her own price, the pretty furnishings in the tent, she departed, and I have never seen her since.

One morning news was brought to me that the little old doctor was arrested and was sent to Chiriqui prison. Maitland burst out crying when I asked him about it, and declared that, as there was a God, the doctor would soon be again free to cure the evil and all the other ills to which black humanity is heir.

ARRIVAL AT PANAMA NINE YEARS AGO.
(PART III.)

HE new official and his wife, to whom I have already alluded, had both been in Cuba during the war between the United States and the Spaniards. The woman had some years before the war had a manicuring and shampooing establishment at Havana, but when the American troops came pouring in she decided to turn her parlors into a barber shop. So she shaved troops with much success, and married a Rough Rider in T. R.’s famous troops of cavaliers.

When T. R. became President of the U. S. A. he gave this particular Rough Rider the only position that he could fill. He was an illiterate man, but he was imbued with a social bug, and he had a dream of becoming a prominent social lion on the Isthmus. The fair barberess was good-looking, vivacious, a good dancer, and a lady of good style. Judge of the surprise of the official pair upon their arrival on Ancon Hill to find that virgin spot was dotted with tents in which lived the soldiers of fortune whom the lady had shaved in the dreaming old war days.

“We sure are in bad,” said the official. “Here’s the whole bunch of chumps that used to be in Havana.”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the lady; “what shall we do? Even old Dr. Moll is here. Now he’ll tell every one that I was a barber and that he lovingly called me the little shaver.”

“If he does I’ll have the old devil put in jail,” said the official.

The presence of the old-time acquaintances had been made known to the official pair by Martin Luther, upon their request to have me sent to them as a servant.

“What—what do you suppose?” said the little old doctor to Martin Luther. “Mike is here, and is now an official. We were all awfully fond of her when she used to shave us. I wonder will she notice us now.”

“Not on your life,” answered Martin L.

The lawyer, who occupied one of the tents, and who was regularly employed as a timekeeper in one of the nearby offices, gave the doctor some good advice, as follows: “If you pretend that you ever knew Mike and the little shaver in the old war days, you’ll find yourself floating around at high tide in Chiriqui prison, for you know that Mike was a snob, and now that he has this official position, he’ll put it all over us, even though we all fared alike in the corral in Havana.”

“She was always good and nice to me, and when I told her once that I loved her she was real sorry that she was in love with Mike instead of me.”

“So you told her you loved her, did you? Well, I see your finish. Mike will never allow a man to live that once was a suitor for the hand of the little shaver, especially a man who is working in the carpenter shop.”

“She’ll be glad to see us all,” said the little doctor, with the conviction that every one on earth had a nature as simple and noble as his own.

Two days later he was arrested for stealing one thousand dollars from his room mate, who had the money tied up in the sleeve of an old coat, which was kept in a trunk in one corner of the tent in which the two men lived. The official measured carefully the ground on which the tent stood, and found that the part of the trunk in which the coat lay was on Panamanian territory. He therefore turned the poor little old doctor over to the Panamanian authorities, and the gentle little old man was handcuffed to a negro murderer, and, while the crowds looked on and jeered, he was led through the streets of Panama to Chiriqui prison, where he was kept for five months, until a kind-hearted Panamanian lawyer investigated the matter and learned that the money had been found three days after the little old man had been committed.

Then the little old doctor was liberated from Chiriqui prison and resumed his occupation in the carpenter shop, with bowed head and broken spirit. His old comrades endeavored to cheer him, but, in spite of the gentleness of his nature, he nursed the terrible wrong until it became a nightmare. He had a fear that the official called Mike was plotting against his life, and he began to have dreams that he thought came true. Each evening he sought his best friends and told them that he had not long to live. He would conjure up a picture for them of his mother and father, who were dead about twenty years, and of an old sweetheart called Betty, whose father, away back in old Virginia, was not only a colonel, but a judge as well. He would stand in the center of a group of his friends and tell them that he could close his eyes and see his dead loved one. “There they are now,” he would say. “There’s little Betty, like a pink and white carnation, and there’s the judge and colonel sitting beside Betty and looking lovingly at her like he used to when I used to go to court her. Ah, see, she loves me still, and I’ll soon be with her, boys.” At first the men tried to soothe him, but after a time they decided to agree with him that his end was at hand, and this, as Martin L. put it, “made the wheels go round faster,” and the little old man became quite ill in anticipation of his coming demise. Then he was sent to Taboga to recuperate, and there he fell madly in love with a young nurse, and became, as a result, quite restored to his normal frame of mind.

Meantime Mike and the little shaver were leading society by the nose, as the tent lawyer tritely put it. They had moved into a more palatial dwelling house and were entertaining foreign ministers and their ladies, while their old-time friends of the dreamy old war days spent their waking hours of leisure playing poker.

I had lived in the tent five months, and the time for me to depart to the United States was drawing to a close. Every day for five months I had sat on the piazza and gazed upon the lovely Pacific in all its splendor. Every night during that time I listened to the quiet games of poker that were being played about me, and I heard the exultant shouts of the revellers as they cheered the performers in the cantina of Edmardillo, as they bounded to the fandango and wriggled to the bolero. In all the five months no woman ever called upon me, and I can safely say that never in my life have I had so long a period of perfect peace. Finally the day came when I was to sail away to the U. S. A., and I impartially distributed the furnishings of the tent among the other tent residents. The little doctor declined to accept anything of commercial value, but he begged to be allowed to take as a souvenir a lock of my hair. He finally consented taking a photograph which some one of the tent dwellers had taken of me as I sat reading on the tent piazza. On the ninth of July, with a sad heart, I left the hill to go to New York. The tent dwellers accompanied me to Colon and stood in a group, waving their handkerchiefs until the ship was out of sight. With the exception of three, I have never seen them since. When I returned two years later I found that they were scattered far and wide. Many are now in California, in Ecuador, in Brazil, in Peru, in Alaska, and many of them are dead. But the most pleasant experience of my life was the months in the tent on Ancon Hill, and I shall always remember with gratitude the chivalry and kindness with which I was treated by the poor soldiers of fortune when I was alone, friendless and a stranger in Panama.

Two years later I alighted from a train at Panama and was driven to the Tivoli Hotel. There was to be a ball there that night, and I sat in the lobby and watched the smiling throng passing from the dining-room to the ballroom and balconies.

Men and women in correct evening dress stood about in groups and chatted with an expectant air, as if some one of consequence was yet to arrive. Soft lights glowed in the ballroom, and there was good music.

The revellers were beginning to consult their programs, and in less than five minutes I would be alone in the lobby. I felt a sadness steal upon me, and I began to wonder where I was, when, lo! who should come downstairs but Martin Luther.

My heart leaped. He was clad in khaki and leather leggins, and carried his cowboy hat in his hand.

“Well, so you’re back again. What do you think of this?” said he, by way of greeting.

“It is like a scene in fairyland,” I replied. “What does it mean, and who are all these people? What hotel is this?”

“Don’t you know any of ’em?” he asked.

“No, not one,” I replied.

“Well, some of them are the main guys, an’ many of ’em are just carpenters, plumbers, steam-fitters, steam-shovel men and powder men, and the washed-out, conceited-looking guys are $125 doctors and clerks. They were all here in your time, but they didn’t buck up to this gait then.”

“But what hotel is this?” I asked.

“Why, it’s the Tivoli, and this is the Tivoli Club that’s dancing. They were just going to start this building when you were here two years ago.”

“It is all very wonderful,” I replied.

“Well, wait till you hear all about it. Bates, he’s a carpenter; and Barrett, a policeman; and Norman, a guy that shins up electric light poles and is a cousin of Shanklin, the American Consul—he’s here to-night. Awhile ago they got their heads together, an’ they thought ’twould be a good idea to get their best girls an’ have a dance here every Saturday night. They are all getting good pay, so they sent to the States for swallowtail suits an’ they started. Well, they hired musicians in Panama, and the girls looked so swell that some other guys got in.

“Notices got in the papers in Panama, and the highbrows began to get interested, so they tried to get the ballroom away from the fellows that started the thing, and when that didn’t work they came right along to the dances without saying ‘By your leave,’ and here they are, dancing to beat the band, and as bold as brass.”

“Where are the men who used to live in the tents?” I asked.

“They’ve gone away to Brazil, to Peru, to Ecuador and to Alaska. They didn’t like this civilized business; they’d rather be in some new country, where there ain’t no style. Them fellows were men of the world.

“Catch on to that little man with the whiskers on his chin? He’s the guy that has the soft snap. He’s running a little paper about the size of a postage stamp, and he has seven other guys, probably relatives, assisting in the editing of it. He has the finest house on Ancon Hill, a pair of horses, two carriages, two saddle horses, one for himself and one for his daughter, and twelve thousand a year. Looks like a slick guy, don’t he? He’s got his first dollar, an’, what do you think? His house stands right where your tent used to stand. The hill is covered with beautiful houses now.”

So Martin Luther chatted on as I watched, fascinated, the late comers.

“Suppose we go to the ballroom and watch ’em caper—see the snobs an’ the two-cent nobodies, eh? I ain’t in a swallowtail coat, but every one knows me, and they know that I’ve been up in the roof tryin’ to stop a leak.”

I followed him into the ballroom, and he gallantly offered me his arm and led me to a seat.

Each man danced with his wife, daughter or sweetheart, and if he happened to be without either he sat and looked on with arms folded upon his breast. Elderly ladies sat straight against the wall, their hands folded, and a patient smile upon their faded faces. An iciness clutched my very soul as I sat mute while Luther talked.

“There’s Bates, the best carpenter I have, and he’s rigged up like a scarecrow. Look at the white shoes and red stockings and red necktie—things that no one but a fool would wear with a swallowtail suit. There’s Mike Lyman, wearing a yellow soft shirt, when he ought to wear a boiled one, and, doggone it, look at Dodson. He’s got on a blue tie, russet shoes and a watch chain with a shark’s tooth mounted on it that would moor a ship. Wait till to-morrow when I see them guys. I’ll have some fun with them. Catch on to Red Mike and the little shaver. And there’s Garabaldi and Major Brooks. They are the real thing, but Garabaldi can’t get any one to dance with him, because he don’t put on lugs; he’s just a simple chap, but he’s good-looking, ain’t he? He’s a grandson of that old general who put the Pope in prison, or something like that.

“Some fellows tried to tell me that Garabaldi was only the name of a race horse on Long Island. Well, anyway, no one has anything to do with him but Major Brooks.

“Do you see that old guy over there with the glassy bald head that looks like a cross between a barn door and a wooden leg? Well, he’s another guy that’s got a soft snap. He lives on the hill, and his house stands right where my tent used to be. He got in trouble here in the Tivoli once because he was fresh with the black chambermaids.”

While all this gossip was being poured into my ear I sized up the ensemble, which was a pleasant picture. When supper was served there was a grand rush for the dining-room that seemed like the sort of stampede one might see at a bargain sale on Sixth Avenue, New York. A more motley crew never blended together at any function. Every craft and profession had a representative, and there were at the Tivoli that night one or more persons from every nation in the world.

MR. COMSTOCK’S ARRIVAL.

R. Comstock’s arrival at Panama created almost as much stir as did the arrival of the much beloved and respected T. R., for it was rumored among Americans on Ancon Hill that John Drew was in town. “Well, say, the theatrical business must be on the bum,” said the veterans, one to another. “Surely he is not going to play at Edmarrillos.” The subject of their comments—the man who looked like John Drew—had recently come to the Isthmus to work in the timekeeping office at Ancon. “Good morning, Mr. Drew,” said a young clerk, as Mr. Comstock appeared, ready for induction into the mysteries of his new position. “My dear young man,” he replied, “my name is not Drew. I am Arthur Algernon Comstock, of London, of the Surrey Comstocks, grandson of Lord Algernon Percival Fillbois, and nephew of Percival Gibbon Comstock, Lord Bishop of Hounslow.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Comstock,” said the clerk humbly. “We thought you were John Drew, because you look exactly like him.” “Dear me! How very singular,” replied Mr. Comstock. “Why, it is nothing short of libel to compare a brute like myself to such a well-behaved chap as John Drew, and it is iniquitous and unnatural that a Comstock, of Comstock Lodge, Surrey, should even resemble an actor. I am quite amazed, really I am. Dear! dear! how my aunt, the Lady Maria Derald Fillbois, would laugh if she were to know that these Yankee chaps were calling me Mr. Drew. Fastidious chap, John Drew. Here, my dear fellow, have a smoke,” handing the young man his ivory cigar case, lined with gold. It was well filled with cigars of a better quality than were to be found at that time at Panama, and it bore the Comstock coat of arms.

It soon became generally known that there was a lord, or duke, or something of the sort, working in the office of the chief timekeeper, who was a good old sport, likeable, and democratic in his ways, just like an American, only his expressions of speech were a bit queer. From time to time fragments of anecdote were related to me as having come from the well-stored mind of Mr. Comstock. This plainly told me that he was a man of some erudition. There was a very clever toast which he was in the habit of giving when in his cups. It appears to have been written by one Sir Fitzhugh Clavering Comstock, and was said to be both brilliant and mirth-provoking. The most humble of the Americans on Ancon Hill had a copy of it, but, strange to say, I was never permitted to hear the words, and am, therefore, unable to give them to my readers.

It became a popular diversion to listen to the story of Mr. Comstock’s life, as told by himself, and it ran about as follows: “My mother was the Lady Elizabeth Howard Derald Fillbois, a beautiful but delicate woman, and my father was James Percival Comstock, brother of the present Lord Bishop of Hounslow. My father was a perfect devil for sport, poor chap. He, it seems, neglected to cherish my mother, and soon after my birth she died, her family said, of a broken heart. Then my father went to travel on the Continent, and never returned to England again. He died a few years ago, poor old chap. He had many affaires d’amour, poor chap. It quite saddens me to think of them. Really, I wonder how he ever came out of some of them without losing his honor. I became acquainted with him when I myself traveled on the Continent, and I became quite fond of his society. His family and friends got on his nerves, and he abominated his own country people, the English. My brother and myself were taken at the time of my mother’s death by my aunt, the Lady Maria Howard Derald Fillbois, my mother’s only sister, who was a very strong-minded but fascinating woman, and who took a notion to forsake her lover at the altar in the presence of half of the aristocracy of England.

“She was a kindly woman, with a strong sense of humor, but was horribly stingy with us boys. The village folk loved her.

“Well, she had kennels filled with the finest dogs in the United Kingdom, and, oh, horrors! she obliged my brother and myself to pick the fleas from the brutes in order to earn spending money. An old Irishman named Tim Burden stood over us and counted the fleas, for each one of which we received a ha’penny.

“At one time we became so outraged at the indignity that we wrote to our father and complained to him. He, bounder that he was, treacherously sent our letter, with a very complimentary one inclosed, to the Lady Maria. ‘If it were not for the Deceased Wife’s Sister Prohibitive Marriage Law,’ wrote he, ‘I should ask you for your hand and heart in marriage, for your way of managing my sons, the Comstock boys, not only proves you to be a woman of deep penetration, but one with a most logical mind and most practical sense of humor. It is no wonder that you have always been considered to be a female far above the other silly members of your sex.”

“The dogs were named after my aunt’s favorite characters in history, viz., Abraham Lincoln, Lord Byron, Napoleon, Beau Brummel, Nell Gynn, Martha Washington and George Washington, respectively. There were, too, many others whose names I forget.

“We were so keen about earning half-pennies that we spent the greater part of each day hunting fleas, and the dogs, thinking us unselfish in ridding them of such torment, grew to be inordinately fond of us, and it looked at times, indeed, as if the pests were becoming extinct, for we often hunted for them for hours in vain. This last was a discouraging development for us, and we induced old Tim Burden to report for us and complain to our aunt, in the hope that she would give us a few pennies as a token of gratitude, but she would merely look solemn and say:$1‘Is it not good to know that a Comstock has really earned some money by the sweat of his brow, and, in addition, relieved a fellow-being of torment?’ ‘Then you compare us to brutes,’ said my brother on one occasion, he having observed the comparison. ‘No! no!’ replied she, ‘a Comstock could never be compared with nobility to my magnificent, well-bred dogs. Abraham Lincoln is the most noble animal in England. I named him after Lincoln because he saved a little negro child from drowning at Brighton Beach.’

“I subsequently learned that the Comstocks were devils for all kinds of sport. The fire was in my blood at an early age, too, and the Lady Maria knew the symptoms. As we became expert at flea-catching it became less repugnant to us, and in the end we developed an interest in the little pests that quite pleased my aunt. We began to discern the difference in their social and physical habits to a degree which threatened to affect our future. Our aunt now hinted at our becoming naturalists, and, strange to say, my brother actually became one, and to-day is considered an authority not only on the flea, but every variety of insect as well. What a disgusting occupation!

“At the age of 16 I was placed in the counting-house of an American banking firm in London. The banker was a decent fellow, fastidious and all that, not a bit crude, and he had the greatest admiration for the Lady Maria. At 18 I had an affair with a village girl named Anna Shakespeare. She was a very good-looking girl, of a magnetic temperament, and my aunt was rather fond of her. Though of tender years, my young ideas had been shooting rather promiscuously for some time. The girl had taken to the affair ad libitum, and I was making plans to have her come to lodgings in London, as there had been quite some talk in the village at home, which had upset my aunt terribly. Anna was to leave the village secretly, after which we were to repair to our future home. I was delighted with the prospect of having the girl with me, and I went to the meeting place with my heart filled with delightful emotions, when, what do you think? I was met by the bounder of a banker, the Lady Maria, and my uncle, the then Rev. Percival Gibbon Comstock. I was astounded, and stood rooted to the spot, as the novelists say. The perspiration rolled from my forehead in the most disgusting profusion, and I was unable to speak. Lady Maria advanced and held out her hand, upon which I bestowed a clammy kiss. There was a light in her eyes as they met mine. At this moment Anna entered, flushed and excited, but, on finding that my relatives were with me, started to withdraw, when my aunt caught her and held her firmly. ‘You will kiss your sweetheart, Arthur,’ said she, in a bantering tone. I hung my head and looked furtively at Anna. ‘We have come to witness your marriage to Anna,’ said my uncle. ‘Upon my word, you have not,’ said I, waking up. ‘Oh, yes, we have,’ put in my aunt. ‘You have hurt Anna’s character, and, in consequence, she has been made to feel very unhappy. She has lost her young man, and the village folk have slandered her.’ ‘Your under gardener, William,’ I put in, ‘is very anxious to marry Anna.’ ‘That will be better,’ said my Uncle Percival. ‘The time has gone by,’ said my aunt, ‘when under gardeners feel it incumbent upon them to shoulder the responsibilities of their masters.’ The situation was becoming intolerable, when the American laughingly said: ‘Perhaps the young lady has something to say about the matter.’ As he spoke he eyed Anna’s trim form approvingly, and, by Jove! I felt jealous. ‘Arthur sent for me to come up to London, and I came just to see things, and to have a good time. He didn’t say anything about getting married,’ added Anna. ‘What did he say?’ asked the Lady Maria, with calmness. ‘He said he’d always be a friend to me, and that he’d love me almost to death,’ replied Anna. ‘The boy is not unlike any other English boy of his class,’ declared my Uncle Percival. ‘It is hopeful and wholesome in him to develop a fondness for the opposite sex at his age. I was not a saint myself,’ he confessed, with a slight cough. ‘The Comstocks,’ he continued, ‘were always a hot-blooded set of men, and terrific wine-drinkers for centuries, but we have been ever careful to marry with females of our own degree.’ ‘The Shakespeares came from Adam, or whatever other sort of animal was responsible for our being, and so did the brutal and licentious Comstocks,’ said the Lady Maria, with flashing eyes, ‘and what is most needed in the family is blood that has been toned down by buttermilk and water.’ ‘Why, Maria—er—my dear girl, I am astonished at such an outburst from you,’ quoth my uncle. ‘Anna will not have many years to live if she marries Arthur,’ continued my aunt, and as she said this she laid her hand affectionately upon Anna’s arm. ‘Are you willing to marry Arthur, and die while you are still young, Anna?’ ‘Yes, ma’am,’ answered the girl in a low tone. ‘Do you not see that Arthur is horribly ugly; that his nose is out of all proportion to the rest of his face; that his chin denotes innate selfishness, and that his one eye is deformed as a result of the unsightly monocle?’ asked my aunt, with a bubbling sort of a laugh. ‘Arthur is all right,’ said Anna. ‘I think he is very handsome, and I love him very much, and so does your Ladyship.’ ‘Now, Arthur, it is up to you,’ laughed the banker. ‘Marry Anna, and I’ll give you a better job, with more pay.’

“I was silent. The girl’s words had a strange effect upon me. I looked at my aunt, and observed that her eyes were filled with tears. ‘I want to marry Anna,’ I finally said. ‘I love Anna.’ Well, we were married and went to lodgings. My Uncle Percival tied the knot with much reluctance, but he was too much afraid of my aunt’s tongue to seriously object. Lady Maria bought and furnished for us a beautiful little house in a most exclusive quarter, and we lived happily for three years, but at that time Anna died, leaving a boy baby three weeks old. I had just then inherited my mother’s fortune of forty thousand pounds, and I went the way of all the Comstocks. I was intoxicated with the joy and freedom that forty thousand pounds can give a man. I lived on the Continent, spent some time with King Edward, when he traveled as the Earl of Chester, and spent money like water on actresses, and all that sort of thing. For twenty years I was drunk with the freedom that money gives a dissolute man. I courted the beauties of foreign courts, and of course, I was flattered and fooled accordingly.

“About a year ago, while traveling through India, I received a communication from my lawyers to the effect that I was a bankrupt. I hastened back to London, to find myself indeed a beggar. The Lady Maria met me, with Hugh, my son. I had not seen him since he was eight weeks old. My heart went out to him, he looked so much like his mother, my poor, unselfish Anna. He showed his dislike for me, but what could I expect from the child whom I had abandoned when a tiny infant? Ah! my fellows, a licentious youth brings a sad old age, as the saying is. I began to think how to come in touch with my surroundings, as it were, for the first time in twenty years. I wondered what I should do with myself, with old age creeping on, for, on account of having lived a devil of a life for twenty-two years, I felt prematurely old. ‘You have nothing left,’ said my aunt to me one day. ‘Nothing but a few paltry hundred pounds and my clothing and trinkets,’ I replied. ‘You will have to roll up your sleeves and go to work at something,’ she said. ‘Remember, you will have to support yourself for the remainder of your life.’ ‘How, in the name of God, shall I do it?’ I asked. ‘I’m sure I cannot tell,’ answered she. ‘I shall have to take some time to think about it,’ I said, whereupon my aunt only laughed.

“A month later she came to me with a letter which she had just received from her old admirer, the American banker, for whom I had worked when a boy. He advised my aunt that he had procured a billet for me at Panama with the Isthmian Canal Commission. ‘Where is that?’ I asked. ‘Somewhere in South America,’ she replied. ‘How shall I go about getting there?’ I queried, with some exasperation. Then who should happen in but my Uncle Percival, whom I had not seen since the day of my marriage. He had, in the meantime, become Lord Bishop of Hounslow, and had become fat and horribly ugly. Nevertheless, I was glad to see him. ‘What does this Isthmian Canal Company do over at Panama?’ asked my aunt, handing him the letter. ‘Why,’ replied his Lordship, ‘it is an iniquitous company organized by the iniquitous Yankee government to continue to dig that infamous canal, which was commenced by the thieving French, and left unfinished by them.’ ‘Panama is in South America,’ said my aunt. ‘Central America,’ corrected my uncle. ‘What is the object of the canal?’ I asked. ‘Why,’ said my uncle fiercely, ‘its object is to permanently hurt the shipping interests of Great Britain. It is the greatest piece of iniquity that the Yankees have ever been guilty of, and no Comstock should lend himself to the work in any capacity.’ ‘It is Arthur’s last chance to earn an honest living,’ said the Lady Maria calmly, ‘and if it is, as you say, such a piece of iniquity, it may have the effect of holding him, since iniquity is as necessary to a Comstock as is food and drink. You will sail in two days, Arthur,’ she said.

“Well, here I am in this beastly Panama, unloved, unhonored, and seedy, endeavoring to exist on the paltry sum of thirty-five pounds a month. The only gratifying recollection of my whole career is the look of understanding and gratitude which I saw in the eyes of the poor dogs, as I labored to rid them of the horrible and tormenting flea for the paltry pennies of my stingy aunt, the Lady Maria.”

THE DERELICT.

am 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 giving her 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 looked very 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 they smiled 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,”

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 drop of 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 mean his 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 noticed with 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.

THE BOUNDER.

HAT 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 in the 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 losing his 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 my quarters 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, extremely good-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 gather
For discussion loud and free;
Where eloquence is measured
By 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 table
And glares around the room,
In his eye a waiting challenge,
Which none there dare presume
To 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. You see, 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 came when 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.”

HIGGINS’ LADY.
(PART I.)

MIND 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 beat sense 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 would marry 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 of the 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.”

HIGGINS’ LADY.
(PART II.)

HEN 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 were both 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, and the 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 of honor, 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.”

HIGGINS’ LADY.
(PART III.)

BOUT 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 to my 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 lad since 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 they said 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 about that 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 of Bill 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 GANG IN NUMBER 10.

HE 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 the poison 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 throwed me 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.