Rain began to fall early that afternoon, a steady persistent downpour
that held no immediate promise of abatement. A melancholy grayness
enveloped Jollyland, converting it into a bleak and dismal habitation
wherein dwelt people who seemed to have drunk of the chalice of
desolation. Rain at the seaside is depressing enough, but rain in a
summer park in the height of the season, rain that comes up just after
the gates are opened and that looks as if it would last for twenty-four
hours, produces an effect of gloom that almost defies description.
Thousands of once gay flags twisted themselves limply around their
poles; dozens of lady cashiers who hadn’t taken in a cent for hours and
who were tired of their novels and incessant gum-chewing gazed
listlessly into the leaden sky and wished they were home in Flatbush or
Astoria; low-spirited concessionaires figured up their losses with
pencil and paper and would have cursed the Fates if they had known of
the existence of those divinities; performers, literally sick with
ennui, clustered in little groups under cover and querulously argued
with each other about trivialities; the waiters in the “Trianon”
restaurant at the end of what was called the Street of a Thousand
Delights, foreseeing that there would be no largesse forthcoming until
the dawn of another day, rolled dice for the previous night’s pickings
or aimlessly discussed Flying Scud’s chances in the fifth race at
Belmont Park; the South Sea Islanders crooned weird chants under the
shelter of their grass huts and McClintock smoked thick, black cigars
and called up his friend in the weather bureau every fifteen minutes in
a vain search for cheerful tidings. At seven o’clock in the evening—not
a single patron having crossed the threshold of the park for four hours
and the weather man’s report still being “continued rain”––he ordered
Jollyland officially closed for the night, shut his desk with a vicious
slam and stepped over to Jimmy Martin’s office for a chat.
“Well,” remarked the press agent, glancing up from his typewriter, “it
looks as if we were in for a nice quiet evening at home. Has there been
any squawk lately from my Italian friend?”
“There’s hasn’t been a peep out of him since yesterday,” replied the
manager. “This rain has given him something else to worry about. He
loves money as the flowers love the dew, and I’ll bet he hasn’t taken in
$8.25 all day.”
McClintock dropped into a chair, swung one foot on Jimmy’s desk and
lazily puffed at his cigar while the press agent ground out on the
clicking machine a romantic tale concerning a lady rejoicing in the
cognomen of Montana Maggie, who rode a cow pony in Laramie Ike’s Wild
West Show and who totally annihilated dozens of glass balls with her
trusty rifle at every exhibition given in that concession. Outside the
rain poured incessantly. A mist-laden breeze found its way through the
open windows, but it didn’t seem to dampen the pristine enthusiasm of
Jimmy Martin who was working with all the fervor of a reporter trying to
catch an edition with a big murder story and the “dead line” only ten
minutes away.
Presently there came to the ears of both men the echo of a far-off sound
that penetrated through the monotonous murmur of the dripping rain. It
seemed like the blended babble of many voices and yet it was vaguely
indistinct. McClintock jerked his foot off the desk and straightened up
in his chair.
“If it wasn’t raining so-dog-goned hard,” he remarked “I’d say someone
was staging a doughboy’s ‘welcome home’ parade or a young riot. What is
it, I wonder?”
“There’s doings somewhere close at hand,” was Jimmy’s comment as he
stood up, walked towards one of the windows, and peered out. “Here’s
little old Paul Revere now, coming to tell us the news.”
The next instant a dripping park attendant, white-faced and trembling
with excitement, burst through the door.
“Mr. McClintock,” he stammered, “there’s particular hell to pay down in
the South Sea village. That bunch of wild-eyed nuts is all soused and
they look as if they was gettin’ ready to go on the warpath. They’re
crazy drunk—where they got the stuff beats me,——and they’re dancin’
around and singing’ songs fierce and when Patsy Burke tried to go in and
argue with ’em they threw spears at him. He got cut in the shoulder—it
ain’t anything bad—but you can’t tell what’ll happen and the rest of us
is kinda upset. You’d better come along right away. We’ve got guards
posted all around the fence, but I’m afraid if they start to come out
something pretty rough’ll happen.”
“The end of a perfect day,” murmured the manager as he jammed his hat on
his head and plunged out into the driving rain, closely followed by
Jimmy and the attendant.
The events of the next hour were as full of exciting incident as the
entire fifteen reels of a movie “serial.” The attendant had spoken truly
when he stated that the forty-odd savages in the village were drunk.
They were roaring, raving drunk. When McClintock and Jimmy reached their
habitat they were filling the air with wild cries and maniacal shrieks.
They were brandishing spears and vicious looking war clubs, and were
dancing about the grass hut of Chief Mumbo Tom with all the fierce
abandon of whirling dervishes. That ancient dignitary was sitting in
front of the royal palace on his throne chair in a state of maudlin
stupor, draining the last dregs of a bottle which he held to his lips
and directing the festivities with encouraging waves of his free hand.
The steady downpour of rain seemed to have no effect whatever on the
celebration.
Finally the chief dropped the bottle and clapped his hands. There was
silence for a moment and he made a brief speech, liberally punctuated by
hiccoughs. When he had finished the others gave a concerted cheer and
turned towards the stockade which surrounded the village.
“They’re coming out,” shouted McClintock, who was peering through an
opening, “get your clubs ready, boys. Don’t anybody shoot. We’ll get
into all kinds of a mix-up if you do.”
The battle royal which followed lasted for several minutes. The special
policeman and other attendants gathered outside the enclosure won out
after a desperate struggle and drove all but three of the rioters back.
These three managed to worm their way through the press and went
shrieking up the main street of Jollyland in emulation of their brother
whose adventures of the day before have already been duly chronicled.
The net damage which they wrought before capture was appraised on the
following day at several thousand dollars. When the partially sobered
villagers renewed their effort to get out of the stockade fifteen
minutes later they were met with decided opposition from the park’s fire
company, which had been called out by McClintock. A well directed
high-pressure stream of water from a fire hose sent them tumbling over
one another in disordered array and brought about a final cessation of
hostilities.
In the excitement attendant upon the suppression of the incipient
revolution no one observed a spectator who watched the proceedings from
a sheltered position directly opposite the main entrance of the village.
No one overheard his chuckles or saw him twirl the ends of his waxed
moustache with a little gesture expressive of pleased satisfaction with
himself. For that matter no one had seen one of his assistants unload
three cases of Chianti from a push-cart in the rear of Mumbo Tom’s
dwelling late in the afternoon during a particularly heavy downpour of
rain or had overheard the announcement that the villagers were requested
to drink to Signor Antonio Amato’s health. And there was no one to
overhear the signor murmur as he stole back to his office through the
gathering darkness.
“I tella dem I putta de park on de bum.”
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