Part 5 (1/2)
”Irish hooked the _Harvest Moon_” he says, ”and lay outside for the steamer. I jumped overboard.”
”Changed your mind?”
”Well, I'd thought some of enlisting for the Chilian War, but Irish don't like war. Gives him the fidgits. I made a 'Farewell' going out. I thought I'd come round and tell it to you.” He sang hoa.r.s.ely as follows:
”Tommy and Dorcas, now adieu; I drops a briny tear on, Mayor, my memories of you; Stevey that brought the beer on; Farewell across the waters blue, Oh, Jiron.
”Farewell the nights of ba'my smell, Farewell the alligator, Special them little ones that dwell In the muck hole with their mater.
Farewell, Portate, oh, farewell, Equator.”
”You see,” he says, ”the point of going to war is this way, because
”The damage you do Ain't totted to you But explained by the habits of nations.
”Government pays the bills, commissary, sanitary, and them that's sent to G.o.d Almighty. I guess so. But it'd give Irish the fidgits. Then the Transport's got a three-master billed for San Francisco, and she sails to-morrow morning, and we're going on her.” He seemed subdued, and hummed and strummed on his banjo, as if he couldn't get hold of what he wanted to let out. At last he struck up a monotonous thing that had no tune, and sang again: ”One day,” he says,
”One day I struck creation, And I says in admiration, 'What's this here combination?'
Then I done a heap of sin.
I hain't no education, Nor kin.
”There's something I would say, boys, Of the life I throwed away, boys, It cackles, but don't lay, boys, There's a word that won't come out.
The h.e.l.l I raised I'll pay, boys, Just about.
”Tommy,” he says then, ”I'm leaving you. You ain't going to have my sheltering wing no more. Write down these here maxims in your memory, supposing I never see you no more. Any game is good that'll hold up a bet. Any sort of life is good so long as it has a good risk in it. The worth of anything depends on how much you've staked on it. Him that draws most of the potluck in this world is the same that drops most in.
The man that puts up his last coin as keen as when he put up his first, he'll sure win in the end. Lastly, Tommy, if you want a backer inquire for Sadler. So long.”
He got up to leave, and stood a moment looking away into the moonlight.
I says:
”The Mayor's Proclamation's out, Kid.”
”Yep. I got it somewhere about. I just been to see him.”
He had the Proclamation in his hand.
”Durned little runt,” he says. ”He cut me down two hundred dollars on that reward, plump! And he'd gi'n me his word! Why, you heard him! He ought to be ashamed. I told him so. I says, 'You're no lady.' Nor he ain't. Nor sporty, either. Squeals and wriggles.”
”Paid you the reward, did he?”
”Why, of course, he couldn't miss his politics. It took him sudden, though. He had a series of fits that was painful, painful.” Then he moved away, muttering, ”Painful, painful!” climbed over the side, and down the ladder, and went to California.
CHAPTER V.
END OF THE HOTEL HELEN MAR. CONTINUATION OF CAPTAIN BUCKINGHAM'S NARRATIVE.
Sadler and Irish were gone, but Stevey Todd and I stayed on at Portate, running the Hotel Helen Mar. Three years we ran her altogether, and made money. I had a thought that by-and-by I'd go to the Isthmus, and charter some kind of sloop, and dig out Clyde's canvas bags, and so go back to Greenough sticky with glory. Whether it was laziness or ambition kept me so long at Portate I couldn't say. It was a pleasant life. It's a country where you don't notice time. Yet its politics are lively, and the very land has malaria, as you might say; it has periodic shakes, earthquakes, ”tremblors,” they call them, or ”trembloritos,” according to size.