admiration and respect on his face like you see on a boy that's
following a champion base-ball team, or the Kaiser William looking
at himself in a glass.
"After Denver goes his rounds he takes me into his private office.
"'What's your report on the dingy I told you to watch?' he asks.
"'Well,' says I, 'if you was as big a man as he takes you to be,
nine rooms and bath in the Hall of Fame, rent free till October 1st,
would be about your size.'
"'You've caught the idea,' says Denver. 'I've given him the wizard
grip and the cabalistic eye. The glamour that emanates from yours
truly has enveloped him like a North River fog. He seems to think
that Señor Galloway is the man who. I guess they don't raise 74-inch
sorrel-tops with romping ways down in his precinct. Now, Sully,'
goes on Denver, 'if you was asked, what would you take the little
man to be?'
"'Why,' says I, 'the barber around the corner; or, if he's royal,
the king of the boot-blacks.'
"'Never judge by looks,' says Denver; 'he's the dark-horse candidate
for president of a South American republic.'
"'Well,' says I, 'he didn't look quite that bad to me.'
"Then Denver draws his chair up close and gives out his scheme.
"'Sully,' says he, with seriousness and levity, 'I've been a manager
of one thing and another for over twenty years. That's what I was
cut out for - to have somebody else to put up the money and look
after the repairs and the police and taxes while I run the business.
I never had a dollar of my own invested in my life. I wouldn't know
how it felt to have the dealer rake in a coin of mine. But I can
handle other people's stuff and manage other people's enterprises.
I've had an ambition to get hold of something big - something higher
than hotels and lumber-yards and local politics. I want to be
manager of something way up - like a railroad or a diamond trust
or an automobile factory. Now here comes this little man from the
tropics with just what I want, and he's offered me the job.'
"'What job?' I asks. 'Is he going to revive the Georgia Minstrels or
open a cigar store?'
"'He's no 'coon,' says Denver. 'He's General Rompiro - General Josey
Alfonso Sapolio Jew-Ann Rompiro - he has his cards printed by a
news-ticker. He's the real thing, Sully, and he wants me to manage
his campaign - he wants Denver C. Galloway for a president-maker.
Think of that, Sully! Old Denver romping down to the tropics,
plucking lotus-flowers and pineapples with one hand and making
presidents with the other! Won't it make Uncle Mark Hanna mad? And I
want you to go too, Sully. You can help me more than any man I know.
I've been herding that brown man for a month in the hotel so he
wouldn't stray down Fourteenth Street and get roped in by that crowd
of refugee tamale-eaters down there. And he's landed, and D. C. G.
is manager of General J. A. S. J. Rompiro's presidential campaign in
the great republic of - what's its name?'
"Denver gets down an atlas from a shelf, and we have a look at the
afflicted country. 'Twas a dark blue one, on the west coast, about
the size of a special delivery stamp.
"'From what the General tells me,' says Denver, 'and from what I
can gather from the encyclopædia and by conversing with the janitor
of the Astor Library, it'll be as easy to handle the vote of that
country as it would be for Tammany to get a man named Geoghan
appointed on the White Wings force.'
"'Why don't General Rumptyro stay at home,' says I, 'and manage his
own canvass?'
"'You don't understand South American politics,' says Denver,
getting out the cigars. 'It's this way. General Rompiro had the
misfortune of becoming a popular idol. He distinguished himself
by leading the army in pursuit of a couple of sailors who had
stolen the plaza - or the carramba, or something belonging to the
government. The people called him a hero and the government got
jealous. The president sends for the chief of the Department of
Public Edifices. "Find me a nice, clean adobe wall," says he, "and
send Señor Rompiro up against it. Then call out a file of soldiers
and - then let him be up against it." Something,' goes on Denver,
'like the way they've treated Hobson and Carrie Nation in our
country. So the General had to flee. But he was thoughtful enough
to bring along his roll. He's got sinews of war enough to buy a
battleship and float her off in the christening fluid.'
"'What chance has he got to be president?'
"'Wasn't I just giving you his rating?' says Denver. 'His country
is one of the few in South America where the presidents are elected
by popular ballot. The General can't go there just now. It hurts
to be shot against a wall. He needs a campaign manager to go down
and whoop things up for him - to get the boys in line and the new
two-dollar bills afloat and the babies kissed and the machine in
running order. Sully, I don't want to brag, but you remember how I
brought Coughlin under the wire for leader of the nineteenth? Ours
was the banner district. Don't you suppose I know how to manage a
little monkey-cage of a country like that? Why, with the dough the
General's willing to turn loose I could put two more coats of Japan
varnish on him and have him elected Governor of Georgia. New York
has got the finest lot of campaign managers in the world, Sully, and
you give me a feeling of hauteur when you cast doubts on my ability
to handle the political situation in a country so small that they
have to print the names of the towns in the appendix and footnotes.'
"I argued with Denver some. I told him that politics down in that
tropical atmosphere was bound to be different from the nineteenth
district; but I might just as well have been a Congressman from
North Dakota trying to get an appropriation for a lighthouse and a
coast survey. Denver Galloway had ambitions in the manager line, and
what I said didn't amount to as much as a fig-leaf at the National
Dressmakers' Convention. 'I'll give you three days to cogitate about
going,' says Denver; 'and I'll introduce you to General Rompiro
to-morrow, so you can get his ideas drawn right from the rose wood.'
"I put on my best reception-to-Booker-Washington manner the next
day and tapped the distinguished rubber-plant for what he knew.
"General Rompiro wasn't so gloomy inside as he appeared on the
surface. He was polite enough; and he exuded a number of sounds that
made a fair stagger at arranging themselves into language. It was
English he aimed at, and when his system of syntax reached your
mind it wasn't past you to understand it. If you took a college
professor's magazine essay and a Chinese laundryman's explanation
of a lost shirt and jumbled 'em together, you'd have about what the
General handed you out for conversation. He told me all about his
bleeding country, and what they were trying to do for it before the
doctor came. But he mostly talked of Denver C. Galloway.
"'Ah, señor,' says he, 'that is the most fine of mans. Never I have
seen one man so magnifico, so gr-r-rand, so conformable to make done
things so swiftly by other mans. He shall make other mans do the
acts and himself to order and regulate, until we arrive at seeing
accomplishments of a suddenly. Oh, yes, señor. In my countree there
is not such mans of so beegness, so good talk, so compliments, so
strongness of sense and such. Ah, that Señor Galloway!'
"'Yes,' says I, 'old Denver is the boy you want. He's managed every
kind of business here except filibustering, and he might as well
complete the list.'
"Before the three days was up I decided to join Denver in his
campaign. Denver got three months' vacation from his hotel owners.
For a week we lived in a room with the General, and got all the
pointers about his country that we could interpret from the noises
he made. When we got ready to start, Denver had a pocket full of
memorandums, and letters from the General to his friends, and a list
of names and addresses of loyal politicians who would help along
the boom of the exiled popular idol. Besides these liabilities we
carried assets to the amount of $20,000 in assorted United States
currency. General Rompiro looked like a burnt effigy, but he was
Br'er Fox himself when it came to the real science of politics.
"'Here is moneys,' says the General, 'of a small amount. There is
more with me - moocho more. Plentee moneys shall you be supplied,
Señor Galloway. More I shall send you at all times that you need.
I shall desire to pay feefty - one hundred thousand pesos, if
necessario, to be elect. How no? Sacramento! If that I am president
and do not make one meelion dolla in the one year you shall keek me
on that side! - _valgame Dios!_'
"Denver got a Cuban cigar-maker to fix up a little cipher code with
English and Spanish words, and gave the General a copy, so we could
cable him bulletins about the election, or for more money, and then
we were ready to start. General Rompiro escorted us to the steamer.
On the pier he hugged Denver around the waist and sobbed. 'Noble
mans,' says he, 'General Rompiro propels you into his confidence
and trust. Go, in the hands of the saints to do the work for your
friend. _Viva la libertad!_'
"'Sure,' says Denver. 'And viva la liberality an' la soaperino and
hoch der land of the lotus and the vote us. Don't worry, General.
We'll have you elected as sure as bananas grow upside down.'
"'Make pictures on me,' pleads the General - 'make pictures on me for
money as it is needful.'
"'Does he want to be tattooed, would you think?' asks Denver,
wrinkling up his eyes.
"'Stupid!' says I. 'He wants you to draw on him for election
expenses. It'll be worse than tattooing. More like an autopsy.'
"Me and Denver steamed down to Panama, and then hiked across the
Isthmus, and then by steamer again down to the town of Espiritu on
the coast of the General's country.
"That was a town to send J. Howard Payne to the growler. I'll tell
you how you could make one like it. Take a lot of Filipino huts and
a couple of hundred brick-kilns and arrange 'em in squares in a
cemetery. Cart down all the conservatory plants in the Astor and
Vanderbilt greenhouses, and stick 'em about wherever there's room.
Turn all the Bellevue patients and the barbers' convention and the
Tuskegee school loose in the streets, and run the thermometer up to
120 in the shade. Set a fringe of the Rocky Mountains around the
rear, let it rain, and set the whole business on Rockaway Beach in
the middle of January - and you'd have a good imitation of Espiritu.
"It took me and Denver about a week to get acclimated. Denver sent
out the letters the General had given him, and notified the rest of
the gang that there was something doing at the captain's office. We
set up headquarters in an old 'dobe house on a side street where
the grass was waist high. The election was only four weeks off; but
there wasn't any excitement. The home candidate for president was
named Roadrickeys. This town of Esperitu wasn't the capital any more
than Cleveland, Ohio, is the capital of the United States, but it
was the political centre where they cooked up revolutions, and made
up the slates.
"At the end of the week Denver says the machine is started running.
"'Sully,' says he, 'we've got a walkover. Just because General
Rompiro ain't Don Juan-on-the-spot the other crowd ain't at work.
They're as full of apathy as a territorial delegate during the
chaplain's prayer. Now, we want to introduce a little hot stuff in
the way of campaigning, and we'll surprise 'em at the polls.'
"'How are you going to go about it?' I asks.
"'Why, the usual way,' says Denver, surprised. 'We'll get the
orators on our side out every night to make speeches in the native
lingo, and have torch-light parades under the shade of the palms,
and free drinks, and buy up all the brass bands, of course,
and - well, I'll turn the baby-kissing over to you, Sully - I've seen
a lot of 'em.'
"'What else?' says I.
"'Why, you know,' says Denver. 'We get the heelers out with the
crackly two-spots, and coal-tickets, and orders for groceries, and
have a couple of picnics out under the banyan-trees, and dances in
the Firemen's Hall - and the usual things. But first of all, Sully,
I'm going to have the biggest clam-bake down on the beach that was
ever seen south of the tropic of Capricorn. I figured that out from
the start. We'll stuff the whole town and the jungle folk for miles
around with clams. That's the first thing on the programme. Suppose
you go out now, and make the arrangements for that. I want to look
over the estimates the General made of the vote in the coast
districts.'
"I had learned some Spanish in Mexico, so I goes out, as Denver
says, and in fifteen minutes I come back to headquarters.
"'If there ever was a clam in this country nobody ever saw it,' I
says.
"'Great sky-rockets!' says Denver, with his mouth and eyes open. 'No
clams? How in the - who ever saw a country without clams? What kind
of a - how's an election to be pulled off without a clam-bake, I'd
like to know? Are you sure there's no clams, Sully?'
"'Not even a can,' says I.
"'Then for God's sake go out and try to find what the people here do
eat. We've got to fill 'em up with grub of some kind.'
"I went out again. Denver was manager. In half an hour I gets back.
"'They eat,' says I, 'tortillas, cassava, carne de chivo, arroz con
pollo, aquacates, zapates, yucca, and huevos fritos.'
"'A man that would eat them things,' says Denver, getting a little
mad, 'ought to have his vote challenged.'
"In a few more days the campaign managers from the other towns came
sliding into Esperitu. Our headquarters was a busy place. We had
an interpreter, and ice-water, and drinks, and cigars, and Denver
flashed the General's roll so often that it got so small you
couldn't have bought a Republican vote in Ohio with it.
"And then Denver cabled to General Rompiro for ten thousand dollars
more and got it.
"There were a number of Americans in Esperitu, but they were all
in business or grafts of some kind, and wouldn't take any hand in
politics, which was sensible enough. But they showed me and Denver a
fine time, and fixed us up so we could get decent things to eat and
drink. There was one American, named Hicks, used to come and loaf at
the headquarters. Hicks had had fourteen years of Esperitu. He was
six feet four and weighed in at 135. Cocoa was his line; and coast
fever and the climate had taken all the life out of him. They said
he hadn't smiled in eight years. His face was three feet long, and
it never moved except when he opened it to take quinine. He used to
sit in our headquarters and kill fleas and talk sarcastic.
"'I don't take much interest in politics,' says Hicks, one day, 'but
I'd like you to tell me what you're trying to do down here,
Galloway?'
"'We're boosting General Rompiro, of course,' says Denver. 'We're
going to put him in the presidential chair. I'm his manager.'
"'Well,' says Hicks, 'if I was you I'd be a little slower about it.
You've got a long time ahead of you, you know.'
"'Not any longer than I need,' says Denver.
"Denver went ahead and worked things smooth. He dealt out money on
the quiet to his lieutenants, and they were always coming after it.
There was free drinks for everybody in town, and bands playing every
night, and fireworks, and there was a lot of heelers going around
buying up votes day and night for the new style of politics in
Espiritu, and everybody liked it.
"The day set for the election was November 4th. On the night before
Denver and me were smoking our pipes in headquarters, and in comes
Hicks and unjoints himself, and sits in a chair, mournful. Denver
is cheerful and confident. 'Rompiro will win in a romp,' says he.
'We'll carry the country by 10,000. It's all over but the vivas.
To-morrow will tell the tale.'
"'What's going to happen to-morrow?' asks Hicks.
"'Why, the presidential election, of course,' says Denver.
"'Say,' says Hicks, looking kind of funny, 'didn't anybody tell you
fellows that the election was held a week before you came? Congress
changed the date to July 27th. Roadrickeys was elected by 17,000.
I thought you was booming old Rompiro for next term, two years
from now. Wondered if you was going to keep up such a hot lick that
long.'
"I dropped my pipe on the floor. Denver bit the stem off of his.
Neither of us said anything.
"And then I heard a sound like somebody ripping a clapboard off of a
barn-roof. 'Twas Hicks laughing for the first time in eight years."
Sully Magoon paused while the waiter poured us a black coffee.
"Your friend was, indeed, something of a manager," I said.
"Wait a minute," said Sully, "I haven't given you any idea of what
he could do yet. That's all to come.
"When we got back to New York there was General Rompiro waiting for
us on the pier. He was dancing like a cinnamon bear, all impatient
for the news, for Denver had just cabled him when we would arrive
and nothing more.
"'Am I elect?' he shouts. 'Am I elect, friend of mine? Is that mine
country have demand General Rompiro for the president? The last
dollar of mine have I sent you that last time. It is necessario that
I am elect. I have not more money. Am I elect, Señor Galloway?'
"Denver turns to me.
"'Leave me with old Rompey, Sully,' he says. 'I've got to break it
to him gently. 'Twould be indecent for other eyes to witness the
operation. This is the time, Sully,' says he, 'when old Denver has
got to make good as a jollier and a silver-tongued sorcerer, or else
give up all the medals he's earned.'
"A couple of days later I went around to the hotel. There was Denver
in his old place, looking like the hero of two historical novels,
and telling 'em what a fine time he'd had down on his orange
plantation in Florida.
"'Did you fix things up with the General?' I asks him.
"'Did I?' says Denver. 'Come and see.'
"He takes me by the arm and walks me to the dining-room door. There
was a little chocolate-brown fat man in a dress suit, with his face
shining with joy as he swelled himself and skipped about the floor.
Danged if Denver hadn't made General Rompiro head waiter of the
Hotel Brunswick!"
"Is Mr. Galloway still in the managing business?" I asked, as Mr.
Magoon ceased.
Sully shook his head.
"Denver married an auburn-haired widow that owns a big hotel in
Harlem. He just helps around the place."
XIX
WHISTLING DICK'S CHRISTMAS STOCKING
It was with much caution that Whistling Dick slid back the door of
the box-car, for Article 5716, City Ordinances, authorized (perhaps
unconstitutionally) arrest on suspicion, and he was familiar of old
with this ordinance. So, before climbing out, he surveyed the field
with all the care of a good general.
He saw no change since his last visit to this big, alms-giving,
long-suffering city of the South, the cold weather paradise of the
tramps. The levee where his freight-car stood was pimpled with dark
bulks of merchandise. The breeze reeked with the well-remembered,
sickening smell of the old tarpaulins that covered bales and
barrels. The dun river slipped along among the shipping with an oily
gurgle. Far down toward Chalmette he could see the great bend in the
stream, outlined by the row of electric lights. Across the river
Algiers lay, a long, irregular blot, made darker by the dawn which
lightened the sky beyond. An industrious tug or two, coming for
some early sailing ship, gave a few appalling toots, that seemed to
be the signal for breaking day. The Italian luggers were creeping
nearer their landing, laden with early vegetables and shellfish. A
vague roar, subterranean in quality, from dray wheels and street
cars, began to make itself heard and felt; and the ferryboats, the
Mary Anns of water craft, stirred sullenly to their menial morning
tasks.
Whistling Dick's red head popped suddenly back into the car. A sight
too imposing and magnificent for his gaze had been added to the
scene. A vast, incomparable policeman rounded a pile of rice sacks
and stood within twenty yards of the car. The daily miracle of the
dawn, now being performed above Algiers, received the flattering
attention of this specimen of municipal official splendour. He
gazed with unbiased dignity at the faintly glowing colours until,
at last, he turned to them his broad back, as if convinced that
legal interference was not needed, and the sunrise might proceed
unchecked. So he turned his face to the rice bags, and, drawing
a flat flask from an inside pocket, he placed it to his lips and
regarded the firmament.
Whistling Dick, professional tramp, possessed a half-friendly
acquaintance with this officer. They had met several times before on
the levee at night, for the officer, himself a lover of music, had
been attracted by the exquisite whistling of the shiftless vagabond.
Still, he did not care, under the present circumstances, to renew
the acquaintance. There is a difference between meeting a policeman
on a lonely wharf and whistling a few operatic airs with him, and
being caught by him crawling out of a freight-car. So Dick waited,
as even a New Orleans policeman must move on some time - perhaps
it is a retributive law of nature - and before long "Big Fritz"
majestically disappeared between the trains of cars.
Whistling Dick waited as long as his judgment advised, and then
slid swiftly to the ground. Assuming as far as possible the air of
an honest labourer who seeks his daily toil, he moved across the
network of railway lines, with the intention of making his way by
quiet Girod Street to a certain bench in Lafayette Square, where,
according to appointment, he hoped to rejoin a pal known as "Slick,"
this adventurous pilgrim having preceded him by one day in a
cattle-car into which a loose slat had enticed him.
As Whistling Dick picked his way where night still lingered among
the big, reeking, musty warehouses, he gave way to the habit that
had won for him his title. Subdued, yet clear, with each note as
true and liquid as a bobolink's, his whistle tinkled about the dim,
cold mountains of brick like drops of rain falling into a hidden
pool. He followed an air, but it swam mistily into a swirling
current of improvisation. You could cull out the trill of mountain
brooks, the staccato of green rushes shivering above chilly lagoons,
the pipe of sleepy birds.
Rounding a corner, the whistler collided with a mountain of blue and
brass.
"So," observed the mountain calmly, "You are already pack. Und dere
vill not pe frost before two veeks yet! Und you haf forgotten how to
vistle. Dere was a valse note in dot last bar."
"Watcher know about it?" said Whistling Dick, with tentative
familiarity; "you wit yer little Gherman-band nixcumrous chunes.
Watcher know about music? Pick yer ears, and listen agin. Here's de
way I whistled it - see?"
He puckered his lips, but the big policeman held up his hand.
"Shtop," he said, "und learn der right way. Und learn also dot a
rolling shtone can't vistle for a cent."
Big Fritz's heavy moustache rounded into a circle, and from its
depths came a sound deep and mellow as that from a flute. He
repeated a few bars of the air the tramp had been whistling. The
rendition was cold, but correct, and he emphasized the note he had
taken exception to.
"Dot p is p natural, und not p vlat. Py der vay, you petter pe glad
I meet you. Von hour later, und I vould half to put you in a gage
to vistle mit der chail pirds. Der orders are to bull all der pums
after sunrise."
"To which?"
"To bull der pums - eferybody mitout fisible means. Dirty days is der
price, or fifteen tollars."
"Is dat straight, or a game you givin' me?"
"It's der pest tip you efer had. I gif it to you pecause I pelief
you are not so bad as der rest. Und pecause you gan visl 'Der
Freischütz' bezzer dan I myself gan. Don't run against any more
bolicemans aroundt der corners, but go away from town a few tays.
Good-pye."
So Madame Orleans had at last grown weary of the strange and ruffled
brood that came yearly to nestle beneath her charitable pinions.
After the big policeman had departed, Whistling Dick stood for
an irresolute minute, feeling all the outraged indignation of a
delinquent tenant who is ordered to vacate his premises. He had
pictured to himself a day of dreamful ease when he should have
joined his pal; a day of lounging on the wharf, munching the bananas
and cocoanuts scattered in unloading the fruit steamers; and then
a feast along the free-lunch counters from which the easy-going
owners were too good-natured or too generous to drive him away, and
afterward a pipe in one of the little flowery parks and a snooze
in some shady corner of the wharf. But here was a stern order to
exile, and one that he knew must be obeyed. So, with a wary eye
open for the gleam of brass buttons, he began his retreat toward a
rural refuge. A few days in the country need not necessarily prove
disastrous. Beyond the possibility of a slight nip of frost, there
was no formidable evil to be looked for.
However, it was with a depressed spirit that Whistling Dick passed
the old French market on his chosen route down the river. For
safety's sake he still presented to the world his portrayal of the
part of the worthy artisan on his way to labour. A stall-keeper in
the market, undeceived, hailed him by the generic name of his ilk,
and "Jack" halted, taken by surprise. The vender, melted by this
proof of his own acuteness, bestowed a foot of Frankfurter and half
a loaf, and thus the problem of breakfast was solved.
When the streets, from topographical reasons, began to shun the
river bank the exile mounted to the top of the levee, and on its
well-trodden path pursued his way. The suburban eye regarded him
with cold suspicion, individuals reflected the stern spirit of the
city's heartless edict. He missed the seclusion of the crowded town
and the safety he could always find in the multitude.
At Chalmette, six miles upon his desultory way, there suddenly
menaced him a vast and bewildering industry. A new port was being
established; the dock was being built, compresses were going up;
picks and shovels and barrows struck at him like serpents from every
side. An arrogant foreman bore down upon him, estimating his muscles
with the eye of a recruiting-sergeant. Brown men and black men all
about him were toiling away. He fled in terror.
By noon he had reached the country of the plantations, the great,
sad, silent levels bordering the mighty river. He overlooked fields
of sugar-cane so vast that their farthest limits melted into the
sky. The sugar-making season was well advanced, and the cutters
were at work; the waggons creaked drearily after them; the Negro
teamsters inspired the mules to greater speed with mellow and
sonorous imprecations. Dark-green groves, blurred by the blue
of distance, showed where the plantation-houses stood. The tall
chimneys of the sugar-mills caught the eye miles distant, like
lighthouses at sea.
At a certain point Whistling Dick's unerring nose caught the scent
of frying fish. Like a pointer to a quail, he made his way down
the levee side straight to the camp of a credulous and ancient
fisherman, whom he charmed with song and story, so that he dined
like an admiral, and then like a philosopher annihilated the worst
three hours of the day by a nap under the trees.
When he awoke and again continued his hegira, a frosty sparkle in
the air had succeeded the drowsy warmth of the day, and as this
portent of a chilly night translated itself to the brain of Sir
Peregrine, he lengthened his stride and bethought him of shelter. He
travelled a road that faithfully followed the convolutions of the
levee, running along its base, but whither he knew not. Bushes and
rank grass crowded it to the wheel ruts, and out of this ambuscade
the pests of the lowlands swarmed after him, humming a keen, vicious
soprano. And as the night grew nearer, although colder, the whine
of the mosquitoes became a greedy, petulant snarl that shut out all
other sounds. To his right, against the heavens, he saw a green
light moving, and, accompanying it, the masts and funnels of a big
incoming steamer, moving as upon a screen at a magic-lantern show.
And there were mysterious marshes at his left, out of which came
queer gurgling cries and a choked croaking. The whistling vagrant
struck up a merry warble to offset these melancholy influences, and
it is likely that never before, since Pan himself jigged it on his
reeds, had such sounds been heard in those depressing solitudes.
A distant clatter in the rear quickly developed into the swift beat
of horses' hoofs, and Whistling Dick stepped aside into the dew-wet
grass to clear the track. Turning his head, he saw approaching a
fine team of stylish grays drawing a double surrey. A stout man
with a white moustache occupied the front seat, giving all his
attention to the rigid lines in his hands. Behind him sat a placid,
middle-aged lady and a brilliant-looking girl hardly arrived at
young ladyhood. The lap-robe had slipped partly from the knees of
the gentleman driving, and Whistling Dick saw two stout canvas bags
between his feet - bags such as, while loafing in cities, he had
seen warily transferred between express waggons and bank doors. The
remaining space in the vehicle was filled with parcels of various
sizes and shapes.
As the surrey swept even with the sidetracked tramp, the bright-eyed
girl, seized by some merry, madcap impulse, leaned out toward him
with a sweet, dazzling smile, and cried, "Mer-ry Christ-mas!" in a
shrill, plaintive treble.
Such a thing had not often happened to Whistling Dick, and he felt
handicapped in devising the correct response. But lacking time
for reflection, he let his instinct decide, and snatching off his
battered derby, he rapidly extended it at arm's length, and drew it
back with a continuous motion, and shouted a loud, but ceremonious,
"Ah, there!" after the flying surrey.
The sudden movement of the girl had caused one of the parcels to
become unwrapped, and something limp and black fell from it into the
road. The tramp picked it up, and found it to be a new black silk
stocking, long and fine and slender. It crunched crisply, and yet
with a luxurious softness, between his fingers.
"Ther bloomin' little skeezicks!" said Whistling Dick, with a broad
grin bisecting his freckled face. "W'ot d' yer think of dat, now!
Mer-ry Chris-mus! Sounded like a cuckoo clock, da'ts what she did.
Dem guys is swells, too, bet yer life, an' der old 'un stacks dem
sacks of dough down under his trotters like dey was common as dried
apples. Been shoppin' for Chrismus, and de kid's lost one of her new
socks w'ot she was goin' to hold up Santy wid. De bloomin' little
skeezicks! Wit' her 'Mer-ry Chris-mus!' W'ot d' yer t'ink! Same as
to say, 'Hello, Jack, how goes it?' and as swell as Fift' Av'noo,
and as easy as a blowout in Cincinnat."
Whistling Dick folded the stocking carefully, and stuffed it into
his pocket.
It was nearly two hours later when he came upon signs of habitation.
The buildings of an extensive plantation were brought into view by
a turn in the road. He easily selected the planter's residence in
a large square building with two wings, with numerous good-sized,
well-lighted windows, and broad verandas running around its full
extent. It was set upon a smooth lawn, which was faintly lit by the
far-reaching rays of the lamps within. A noble grove surrounded it,
and old-fashioned shrubbery grew thickly about the walks and fences.
The quarters of the hands and the mill buildings were situated at a
distance in the rear.
The road was now enclosed on each side by a fence, and presently,
as Whistling Dick drew nearer the house, he suddenly stopped and
sniffed the air.
"If dere ain't a hobo stew cookin' somewhere in dis immediate
precinct," he said to himself, "me nose has quit tellin' de trut'."
Without hesitation he climbed the fence to windward. He found
himself in an apparently disused lot, where piles of old bricks were
stacked, and rejected, decaying lumber. In a corner he saw the faint
glow of a fire that had become little more than a bed of living
coals, and he thought he could see some dim human forms sitting or
lying about it. He drew nearer, and by the light of a little blaze
that suddenly flared up he saw plainly the fat figure of a ragged
man in an old brown sweater and cap.
"Dat man," said Whistling Dick to himself softly, "is a dead ringer
for Boston Harry. I'll try him wit de high sign."
He whistled one or two bars of a rag-time melody, and the air was
immediately taken up, and then quickly ended with a peculiar run.
The first whistler walked confidently up to the fire. The fat man
looked up, and spake in a loud, asthmatic wheeze:
"Gents, the unexpected but welcome addition to our circle is Mr.
Whistling Dick, an old friend of mine for whom I fully vouches. The
waiter will lay another cover at once. Mr. W. D. will join us at
supper, during which function he will enlighten us in regard to the
circumstances that gave us the pleasure of his company."
"Chewin' de stuffin' out 'n de dictionary, as usual, Boston," said
Whistling Dick; "but t'anks all de same for de invitashun. I guess I
finds meself here about de same way as yous guys. A cop gimme de tip
dis mornin'. Yous workin' on dis farm?"
"A guest," said Boston, sternly, "shouldn't never insult his
entertainers until he's filled up wid grub. 'Tain't good business
sense. Workin'! - but I will restrain myself. We five - me, Deaf Pete,
Blinky, Goggles, and Indiana Tom - got put on to this scheme of Noo
Orleans to work visiting gentlemen upon her dirty streets, and we
hit the road last evening just as the tender hues of twilight had
flopped down upon the daisies and things. Blinky, pass the empty
oyster-can at your left to the empty gentleman at your right."
For the next ten minutes the gang of roadsters paid their undivided
attention to the supper. In an old five-gallon kerosene can they had
cooked a stew of potatoes, meat, and onions, which they partook of
from smaller cans they had found scattered about the vacant lot.
Whistling Dick had known Boston Harry of old, and knew him to be one
of the shrewdest and most successful of his brotherhood. He looked
like a prosperous stock-drover or solid merchant from some country
village. He was stout and hale, with a ruddy, always smoothly
shaven face. His clothes were strong and neat, and he gave special
attention to his decent-appearing shoes. During the past ten
years he had acquired a reputation for working a larger number of
successfully managed confidence games than any of his acquaintances,
and he had not a day's work to be counted against him. It was
rumoured among his associates that he had saved a considerable
amount of money. The four other men were fair specimens of the
slinking, ill-clad, noisome genus who carried their labels of
"suspicious" in plain view.
After the bottom of the large can had been scraped, and pipes lit
at the coals, two of the men called Boston aside and spake with him
lowly and mysteriously. He nodded decisively, and then said aloud to
Whistling Dick:
"Listen, sonny, to some plain talky-talk. We five are on a lay. I've
guaranteed you to be square, and you're to come in on the profits
equal with the boys, and you've got to help. Two hundred hands on
this plantation are expecting to be paid a week's wages to-morrow
morning. To-morrow's Christmas, and they want to lay off. Says the
boss: 'Work from five to nine in the morning to get a train load of
sugar off, and I'll pay every man cash down for the week and a day
extra.' They say: 'Hooray for the boss! It goes.' He drives to Noo
Orleans to-day, and fetches back the cold dollars. Two thousand and
seventy-four fifty is the amount. I got the figures from a man who
talks too much, who got 'em from the bookkeeper. The boss of this
plantation thinks he's going to pay this wealth to the hands. He's
got it down wrong; he's going to pay it to us. It's going to stay
in the leisure class, where it belongs. Now, half of this haul
goes to me, and the other half the rest of you may divide. Why the
difference? I represent the brains. It's my scheme. Here's the way
we're going to get it. There's some company at supper in the house,
but they'll leave about nine. They've just happened in for an hour
or so. If they don't go pretty soon, we'll work the scheme anyhow.
We want all night to get away good with the dollars. They're heavy.
About nine o'clock Deaf Pete and Blinky'll go down the road about a
quarter beyond the house, and set fire to a big cane-field there
that the cutters haven't touched yet. The wind's just right to have
it roaring in two minutes. The alarm'll be given, and every man Jack
about the place will be down there in ten minutes, fighting fire.
That'll leave the money sacks and the women alone in the house for
us to handle. You've heard cane burn? Well, there's mighty few women
can screech loud enough to be heard above its crackling. The thing's
dead safe. The only danger is in being caught before we can get far
enough away with the money. Now, if you - "
"Boston," interrupted Whistling Dick, rising to his feet, "T'anks
for the grub yous fellers has given me, but I'll be movin' on now."
"What do you mean?" asked Boston, also rising.
"W'y, you can count me outer dis deal. You oughter know that. I'm
on de bum all right enough, but dat other t'ing don't go wit' me.
Burglary is no good. I'll say good night and many t'anks fer - "
Whistling Dick had moved away a few steps as he spoke, but he
stopped very suddenly. Boston had covered him with a short revolver
of roomy calibre.
"Take your seat," said the tramp leader. "I'd feel mighty proud of
myself if I let you go and spoil the game. You'll stick right in
this camp until we finish the job. The end of that brick pile is
your limit. You go two inches beyond that, and I'll have to shoot.
Better take it easy, now."
"It's my way of doin'," said Whistling Dick. "Easy goes. You can
depress de muzzle of dat twelve-incher, and run 'er back on de
trucks. I remains, as de newspapers says, 'in yer midst.'"
"All right," said Boston, lowering his piece, as the other returned
and took his seat again on a projecting plank in a pile of timber.
"Don't try to leave; that's all. I wouldn't miss this chance even if
I had to shoot an old acquaintance to make it go. I don't want to
hurt anybody specially, but this thousand dollars I'm going to get
will fix me for fair. I'm going to drop the road, and start a saloon
in a little town I know about. I'm tired of being kicked around."
Boston Harry took from his pocket a cheap silver watch, and held it
near the fire.
"It's a quarter to nine," he said. "Pete, you and Blinky start. Go
down the road past the house, and fire the cane in a dozen places.
Then strike for the levee, and come back on it, instead of the road,
so you won't meet anybody. By the time you get back the men will
all be striking out for the fire, and we'll break for the house and
collar the dollars. Everybody cough up what matches he's got."
The two surly tramps made a collection of all the matches in the
party, Whistling Dick contributing his quota with propitiatory
alacrity, and then they departed in the dim starlight in the
direction of the road.