TWO KINDS OF BLOCKADE.
About 9:30 of the morning following the French ball Phillip Van Zandt
drops into his favorite seat in the dining-room of the St. James hotel
and picks up the morning paper.
Scarcely had he unfolded it when his attention was attracted by two
persons seated at the table beyond him. They are Cyrus Felton and Louise
Hathaway, and the latter never looked fairer than on this bright March
morning.
“Ah, my divinity of the ball,” he murmurs. “By Eros! She is superb.
Hair, a mass of gold and the sunlight gives it just the right effect.
Purity and innocence are in those blue eyes and in every line of the
face. Knowing no evil and fearing none, and yet with the self-poise of a
queen. It almost restores one’s confidence in humanity to look upon such
a face.
“I would be glad indeed to know her, but the opportunity for an
introduction is not likely to arise. I could scarcely presume on last
night’s meeting, and besides, she would hold me to my word. What impulse
possessed her to remove her mask at my request? I’ll wager she regretted
it an instant later. Well, she did not see my face, so I may devour her
visually in perfect safety.
“And her companion?” Van Zandt goes on meditatively. “Not her husband,
assuredly. Too old for that. More likely her father, or perhaps her
guardian. They are going to Cuba, so she told me. Well, I am going to
Cuba, too. I may meet her there. Friendships are easily cultivated in a
foreign land. My dear Van Zandt, is it possible that you are becoming
interested in a woman? Careful; you forget who you are,” he concludes
bitterly, and stares moodily out upon the crowded street.
Mr. Felton and Miss Hathaway are breakfasting leisurely, unconscious of
the interest they have aroused in the gentleman at the next table. Mr.
Felton is scanning the columns of the Hemisphere, with particular
reference to the full dispatches from Cuba and Madrid. Suddenly he drops
the paper with the exclamation: “This is very unfortunate!”
“What is unfortunate?” inquires Miss Hathaway, sipping her coffee.
“Here is a dispatch from Havana, stating that the government has ordered
a complete blockade of the island and that all steamship engagements to
and from Cuba have been canceled for an indefinite period.”
Miss Hathaway looks up in mild dismay. “Then we cannot leave Saturday,”
she says.
“It would seem not. Ah, here is something more. The newspaper has looked
up the report at the New York end and finds it to be true. The steamer
City of Havana of the Red Star line, this paper says, will probably be
the last passenger vessel to leave New York for Cuba until the blockade
is raised.”
“But can we not go on that?”
Mr. Felton reads on: “The City of Havana sails to-day at 11 o’clock.”
Then he glances at his watch. “It is now nearly 10. Perhaps we can make
it. Wait, I will ascertain from the clerk.”
Mr. Felton rises, and as he turns to leave the dining-room Van Zandt
gets a view of his face, and he starts as if from a nightmare.
“That face again!” he breathes. “That face, which has haunted my dreams
and has been before me in my waking hours! And her father! Merciful
heaven, it cannot be. There is a limit to fate’s grotesquerie.”
Miss Hathaway glances in Van Zandt’s direction and their eyes meet. It
is only an instant, but it leaves the girl somewhat confused and
accentuates the young man’s disorder.
At this juncture Mr. Felton returns with the information that they have
little more than an hour to reach Barclay Street and the North River,
from which point the steamer leaves.
“Then let us go at once. I am ready,” Louise says, “after I have
scribbled a note of explanation to Mr. Ashley. He was to have lunched
with us at 1 o’clock, you know.”
After they have gone Van Zandt drops his head upon his hand, and for the
space of ten minutes remains plunged in thought. Then, to the waiter’s
surprise, he leaves his breakfast untouched and quits the dining-room.
In the office he sees Mr. Felton settling his bill. Outside the hotel a
line of “cabbies” are drawn up and these Van Zandt looks over
critically, finally signaling to one of them, a jovial, red visaged
Irishman.
“Riley, a lady and gentleman are going from this hotel to Barclay Street
and North River within a few minutes. I want you to have the job of
carrying them,” says Van Zandt.
“I’m agreeable, sor.”
“After you have secured the job, I want you to miss the steamer which
sails for Cuba at 11 o’clock. Understand?”
Riley puckers up his mouth for a whistle which he decides to suppress.
“Sure that would not be hard, sor. It’s tin o’clock now.”
“Here they come now. Look to your job,” says Van Zandt.
Mr. Felton and Miss Hathaway emerge from the hotel, followed by a porter
with their trunks. Amid a chorus of “Keb, sir!” “Keb!” “Keb!” in which
Riley sings a heavy bass, Mr. Felton looks about him in perplexity, and
finally, as though annoyed by the importunities of Riley, who is rather
overdoing his part, he selects a rival “cabbie.”
Riley turns somewhat sheepishly to Van Zandt, who looks after the
disappearing carriage in vexation.
“Shall I run them down, sor?” asks the Irishman, with a wink which means
volumes.
“Can you prevent them reaching the pier?”
“Sure, I think so, your honor.”
“I’ll give you $50 if you do it.”
“Be hivens! I’d murdther thim for that,” exclaims Riley, as he leaps to
his box.
The two cabs proceeded at a smart pace down Fifth Avenue, but as the
congested trucking district is reached progress becomes slower.
“Can you make the pier in time?” Mr. Felton asks the driver anxiously,
consulting his watch for the dozenth time.
“Sure thing,” is the confident response.
Neither the driver nor his passengers see the cab behind them. Riley has
his reins grasped tightly in one hand, his whip in the other, and the
expression on his round red face indicates that he is preparing for
something out of the ordinary.
They have now reached lower West Broadway, and before Mr. Felton’s
driver knows it he has become entangled in a rapidly created blockade.
Progress now is snail-like. Mr. Felton becomes nervous, while Miss
Hathaway finds much to interest her in the seemingly inextricable tangle
of trucks, drays, horse cars, cabs, etc. Suddenly a space of a dozen
feet or so opens before them, and the driver is about to take advantage
of it when Riley gives his horse a cut with the whip and bumps by,
nearly taking a wheel off the other cab.
Then ensues a duel of that picturesque profanity without which no truck
blockade could possibly be disentangled.
Riley, who is ordinarily one of the most good-natured of mortals,
becomes suddenly sensitive under the abuse heaped upon him and dragging
the rival cabman from his box he proceeds to handle him in a manner that
affords keen delight to the onlookers.
It is a snappy morning and Riley rather enjoys the exercise he is
taking. But it is suddenly ended by a brace of policemen, who struggle
upon the scene and pounce upon the combatants. Explanations are then in
order and peace is restored. No one is arrested.
Riley is willing to break away, for as he looks around he notes with
satisfaction that the blockade has increased to unusual proportions and
he awaits serenely its slow unraveling.
Meanwhile Mr. Felton is invoking the vials of wrath upon all cabmen,
past, present and to come. It is nearly 11:30 when they reach the pier
and, as they expect, the steamer has gone.
“’Tain’t my fault, mum,” the “cabbie” explains apologetically. “Him’s
the chap what done it,” indicating Riley, who has driven up to the pier
with the triumphant flourish of a winner in a great race.
Mr. Felton casts a withering look upon the jolly Irishman. “We may as
well return to the hotel,” he tells Louise.
At this moment Van Zandt steps from his cab, and, raising his hat,
remarks:
“I trust that the carelessness of my driver has not caused you serious
annoyance.”
“He has prevented our catching the last steamer that will sail for Cuba
in probably some months,” replies Mr. Felton, tartly.
“You blockhead!” cries Van Zandt sternly, turning to Riley, who averts
his face.
“My dear sir, it is needless for me to assure you of my profound regret.
It will not help matters. The mischief is done—and yet I think I can
repair it.”
“Repair it?” repeats Mr. Felton. “In what possible way, sir?”
“Very easily, if you desire. You were going to Havana, I presume?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My yacht sails for Santiago this afternoon at 1 o’clock. I shall be
happy to land you at that port, and you may thence proceed by rail to
Havana.”
Mr. Felton and Louise look at each other in surprise. “Really, sir,”
says the former, “you are very good, but I do not see how we can put you
to such trouble.”
“I assure you that you will not inconvenience me in the slightest. The
yacht is large and you will be the only passengers, with one exception.”
Mr. Felton hesitates. “How badly does he want to go to Cuba?” wonders
Van Zandt and he remarks: “This will probably be your only chance to
reach Havana in some little time, if, as you say, there are no more
steamers. Really, I almost feel like insisting on your accepting my
offer, as some sort of reparation for the annoyance to which you have
been put and for which I feel partly responsible.”
“But a blockade has been declared about the island. Your yacht—”
“My yacht will land you at Santiago,” supplies Van Zandt, with a
peculiar smile. “We sail in about an hour, and we may as well proceed to
the yacht at once. For I assume that you have decided to permit me to
atone for the blackguardly behavior of my driver.”
Mr. Felton consults Miss Hathaway and the matter is decided in the
affirmative, and as Van Zandt hands them into their coupe, he tells the
driver: “North River, foot of Twenty-third Street.”
An hour later Miss Hathaway is expressing her admiration for the
beautiful yacht that is soon to bear her to the tropics, and Capt. Beals
is giving the last orders preparatory to getting under way.
As Van Zandt watches Mr. Felton cross from the pier to the deck of the
Semiramis into his dark eyes comes a glitter of almost savage
satisfaction, and he murmurs:
“I have you safe now, and by George! You will not soon escape me!”
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