Part 5 (1/2)
_Mr. Edwards._ ”I have; and if I'm to die respected and honored, if my family is to have any regard for my memory, I've got to get out of farcing. That's all. Did you sew the b.u.t.ton on my overcoat?”
_Mrs. Edwards._ ”I did. I'll go get it.”
She goes out. Mrs. Billis throws herself sobbing on sofa. Billis dances a jig. Forty minutes elapse, during which Billis's dance may be encored.
Enter Mrs. Edwards, triumphantly, with overcoat.
_Mrs. Edwards._ ”There's your overcoat.”
_Mr. Edwards._ ”But--but the b.u.t.ton isn't sewed on. I can't go out in this.”
_Mrs. Edwards._ ”I knew it, Robert. I sewed the b.u.t.ton on the wrong coat.”
Billis and Robert fall in a faint. Mrs. Billis rises and smiles, grasping Mrs. Edwards's hand fervently.
_Mrs. Billis._ ”n.o.ble woman!”
_Mrs. Edwards._ ”Yes; I've saved the farce.”
_Mrs. Billis._ ”You have. For, in spite of these--these strikers--these theatric Debses, you--you got in the point! _The b.u.t.ton was sewed on the wrong overcoat!_”
CURTAIN.
”When the farce was finished,” said Mr. Parke, ”and the applause which greeted the fall of the curtain had subsided, I dreamed also the following author's note: 'The elapses' in this farce may seem rather long, but the reader must remember that it is the author's intention that his farce, if acted, should last throughout a whole evening. If it were not for the elapses the acting time would be scarcely longer than twenty minutes, instead of two hours and a half.”
”I mention this,” Mr. Parke added, ”not only in justification of myself, but also as a possible explanation of certain shortcomings in the work of the original master. Sometimes the action may seem to drag a trifle, but that is not the fault of the author, but of life itself. To be real one must be true, and truth is not to be governed by him who holds the pen.”
Mr. Parke's explanation having been received in a proper and appreciative spirit by his fellow-Dreamers, Mr. Jones announced that Mr.
Monty St. Vincent was the holder of the sixth ball, whereupon Mr. St.
Vincent arose and delivered himself as follows:
V
THE SALVATION OF FINDLAYSON
_Being the story told by the holder of the sixth ball, Mr. Monty St. Vincent._
A donkey engine, next to a Soph.o.m.ore at a football match that is going his way, is the noisiest thing man ever made, and No. 4-11-44, who travelled first-cla.s.s on the American liner _New York_, was not inclined to let anybody forget the fact. He held a commanding position on the roof of the deck state-room No. 10, just aft of the forecastle stringer No. 3, and over the main jib-stay boom No. 6-7/8, that held the rudder-chains in place. All the little Taffrails and Swashbucklers looked up to him, and the Capstan loved him like a brother, for he very often helped the Capstan to bring the Anchor aboard, when otherwise that dissipated bit of iron would have staid out all night. The Port Tarpaulins insisted that the Donkey Engine was the greatest humorist that ever lived, although the Life Preservers hanging by the rail did not like him at all, because he once said they were Irish--”Cork all through,” said he. Even the Rivets that held the Top Gallant Bilges together used to strain their eyes to see the points of the Donkey Engine's jokes, and the third Deputy-a.s.sistant Piston Rod, No. 683, in the hatchway stoke-hole, used to pound the cylinders almost to pieces trying to encore the Donkey Engine's comic songs.
The Main Mast used to say that the Donkey Engine was as bright as the Starboard Lights, and the Smoke Stack is said to have told the Safety Valve that he'd rather give up smoking than lose the constant flow of wit the Donkey Engine was always giving forth.
Findlayson discovered all this. After his Bridge had gone safely through that terrible ordeal when the Ganges rose and struck for higher tides, Findlayson collapsed. The Bridge--But that is another story. This is this one, and there is little profit in telling two stories at once, especially in a day when one can get the two stories printed separately in the several magazines for which one writes exclusively.
After the ordeal of the Kas.h.i.+ Bridge, Findlayson, as I have said, collapsed, and it is no wonder, as you will see for yourself when you read that other story. As the Main Girder of the Bridge itself wrote later to the Suspension Cables of the Brooklyn Bridge, ”It's a wonder to me that the Sahib didn't have the _Bas.h.i.+-bazouks_ earlier in the game.
He suffered a terrible strain that night.”
To which the Cables of the Brooklyn Bridge wittily replied that while they sympathized with Findlayson, they didn't believe he really knew what strain was. ”Wait until he has five lines of trolley-cars running over him all day and night. That _is_ a strain! He'd be worse cut up than ever if he had that. And yet we thrive under it. After all, for solid health, it's better to be a Bridge than a Man. When are you coming across?”