Chapter II: Part 2

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.

“I 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.

What abominable bounders there are, to be sure! And what shocking conditions must exist to produce them and to tolerate them. Really, I am amazed at times, to think that I, a scion of the house of Comstock (the Surrey Comstocks, my dear lady), should know so many of the blighters. As you know, my ancestors were great churchmen, and, although we Comstocks of the present generation are perfect devils, especially my Uncle Percival, there are times when a little voice within me speaks up rudely, and I am carried back in fancy to the long-regretted days of my innocent youth in dear, charming old Chickingham. My word! Fancy the Bishop of Hounslow seeing his own nephew in the company of such cads. You cannot imagine how dreadfully difficult it is for a chap to keep in the straight and narrow path of rectitude; even if he is a bounder he will find it difficult to resist some of the temptations.

“Every day of my life I am brought into contact with chaps who are always lamenting their pasts, and making excuses for their present way of living, but have fallen too low to ever return to the old life, and will, I have no doubt, come to an end like poor old Beebe’s. Some of these chaps are a good sort; others are quite likely to be bounders.

“I have just heard something quite distressing. You have heard of Skilford, no doubt? No? How remarkable! I fancied everybody knew him. At all events, he is a countryman of yours--a Yankee chap. He came from Georgia, I believe. Well, the poor fellow is in quod at New Orleans, all on account of being a bit too good-hearted. Like the rest of us, he was a bit wild while here on the Isthmus, and was a great favorite with his boss, who was a married man; also, a great bounder, sly as a red Indian, and horribly unprincipled. But, just wait until I have finished, and you will fairly gasp for breath.

“This other Johnnie--the married one--it seems, was liv--er, er--excuse me, my dear lady; it’s terribly embarrassing--in fact, he had a sort of semi-detached alliance with a young female from Martinique, an Afro-Franco, as it were. By Jove! What a bally combination! The young Afro-Franco, however, was not at all bad-looking, and, as only natural in those times, (the alliance was formed in the early days,) she was much ‘sought after,’ as they say 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.)

“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.)

When Bill Wiley again presented himself before his friends he was very much changed as to personal appearance. His face was clean and smooth, his hair carefully brushed, he wore a shining pair of shoes and a new white duck suit.

“You’ll make a hit,” said John Hogan, looking him over critically.

“If she’s as good looking as you say she is, I’ll marry her right away, if she’ll have me,” said Bill, with a faraway look in his eyes.

“She’ll have you,” said several men in chorus.

“Well, I think we’d better be goin’,” said Bill. “I’d like to get the meeting over.”

One of the sleuths was detailed to conduct Bill to the house of the fair lady, and there was much speculation as to whether the lady would take to Bill, or whether Bill would take to the lady. About midnight the sleuth and Bill returned. They 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.)