coat, and set his teeth to chattering in spite of the aid he sometimes
drew from a pocket-flask. His clothes were wet and the stern-sheets were
covered with spray. The comforts of fire and shelter continually rose
before his fancy as he gazed wistfully on the rocks. In sheer despair he
finally drew the boat toward the most accessible part of the cliff and
essayed to ascend. This was less difficult than it appeared, and in
a few moments he had gained the hill above. A dark object at a little
distance attracted his attention, and on approaching it proved to be a
deserted cabin. The story goes on to say, that having built a roaring
fire of stakes pulled from the adjoining corral, with the aid of a flask
of excellent brandy, he managed to pass the early part of the evening
with comparative comfort.
There was no door in the cabin, and the windows were simply square
openings, which freely admitted the searching fog. But in spite of these
discomforts,--being a man of cheerful, sanguine temperament,--he amused
himself by poking the fire, and watching the ruddy glow which the flames
threw on the fog from the open door. In this innocent occupation a great
weariness overcame him, and he fell asleep.
He was awakened at midnight by a loud “halloo,” which seemed to proceed
directly from the sea. Thinking it might be the cry of some boatman lost
in the fog, he walked to the edge of the cliff, but the thick veil that
covered sea and land rendered all objects at the distance of a few feet
indistinguishable. He heard, however, the regular strokes of oars rising
and falling on the water. The halloo was repeated. He was clearing his
throat to reply, when to his surprise an answer came apparently from the
very cabin he had quitted. Hastily retracing his steps, he was the more
amazed, on reaching the open door, to find a stranger warming himself by
the fire. Stepping back far enough to conceal his own person, he took a
good look at the intruder.
He was a man of about forty, with a cadaverous face. But the oddity
of his dress attracted the broker's attention more than his lugubrious
physiognomy. His legs were hid in enormously wide trousers descending
to his knee, where they met long boots of sealskin. A pea-jacket with
exaggerated cuffs, almost as large as the breeches, covered his chest,
and around his waist a monstrous belt, with a buckle like a dentist's
sign, supported two trumpet-mouthed pistols and a curved hanger. He wore
a long queue, which depended half-way down his back. As the firelight
fell on his ingenuous countenance the broker observed with some concern
that this queue was formed entirely of a kind of tobacco, known as
pigtail or twist. Its effect, the broker remarked, was much heightened
when in a moment of thoughtful abstraction the apparition bit off a
portion of it, and rolled it as a quid into the cavernous recesses of
his jaws.
Meanwhile, the nearer splash of oars indicated the approach of the
unseen boat. The broker had barely time to conceal himself behind the
cabin before a number of uncouth-looking figures clambered up the hill
toward the ruined rendezvous. They were dressed like the previous comer,
who, as they passed through the open door, exchanged greetings with
each in antique phraseology, bestowing at the same time some
familiar nickname. Flash-in-the-Pan, Spitter-of-Frogs, Malmsey Butt,
Latheyard-Will, and Mark-the-Pinker, were the few sobriquets the broker
remembered. Whether these titles were given to express some peculiarity
of their owner he could not tell, for a silence followed as they slowly
ranged themselves upon the floor of the cabin in a semicircle around
their cadaverous host.
At length Malmsey Butt, a spherical-bodied man-of-war's-man, with
a rubicund nose, got on his legs somewhat unsteadily, and addressed
himself to the company. They had met that evening, said the speaker, in
accordance with a time-honored custom. This was simply to relieve that
one of their number who for fifty years had kept watch and ward over
the locality where certain treasures had been buried. At this point the
broker pricked up his ears. “If so be, camarados and brothers all,”
he continued, “ye are ready to receive the report of our excellent and
well-beloved brother, Master Slit-the-Weazand, touching his search for
this treasure, why, marry, to 't and begin.”
A murmur of assent went around the circle as the speaker resumed his
seat. Master Slit-the-Weazand slowly opened his lantern jaws, and began.
He had spent much of his time in determining the exact location of the
treasure. He believed--nay, he could state positively--that its position
was now settled. It was true he had done some trifling little business
outside. Modesty forbade his mentioning the particulars, but he would
simply state that of the three tenants who had occupied the cabin during
the past ten years, none were now alive. [Applause, and cries of “Go to!
thou wast always a tall fellow!” and the like.]
Mark-the-Pinker next arose. Before proceeding to business he had a duty
to perform in the sacred name of Friendship. It ill became him to pass
an eulogy upon the qualities of the speaker who had preceded him, for
he had known him from “boyhood's hour.” Side by side they had wrought
together in the Spanish war. For a neat hand with a toledo he challenged
his equal, while how nobly and beautifully he had won his present title
of Slit-the-Weazand, all could testify. The speaker, with some show
of emotion, asked to be pardoned if he dwelt too freely on passages of
their early companionship; he then detailed, with a fine touch of
humor, his comrade's peculiar manner of slitting the ears and lips of a
refractory Jew, who had been captured in one of their previous voyages.
He would not weary the patience of his hearers, but would briefly
propose that the report of Slit-the-Weazand be accepted, and that the
thanks of the company be tendered him.
A beaker of strong spirits was then rolled into the hut, and cans
of grog were circulated freely from hand to hand. The health of
Slit-the-Weazand was proposed in a neat speech by Mark-the-Pinker, and
responded to by the former gentleman in a manner that drew tears to the
eyes of all present. To the broker, in his concealment, this momentary
diversion from the real business of the meeting occasioned much anxiety.
As yet nothing had been said to indicate the exact locality of the
treasure to which they had mysteriously alluded. Fear restrained him
from open inquiry, and curiosity kept him from making good his escape
during the orgies which followed.
But his situation was beginning to become critical. Flash-in-the-Pan,
who seemed to have been a man of choleric humor, taking fire during some
hotly contested argument, discharged both his pistols at the breast of
his opponent. The balls passed through on each side immediately below
his arm-pits, making a clean hole, through which the horrified broker
could see the firelight behind him. The wounded man, without betraying
any concern, excited the laughter of the company, by jocosely putting
his arms akimbo, and inserting his thumbs into the orifices of the
wounds, as if they had been arm-holes. This having in a measure restored
good-humor, the party joined hands and formed a circle preparatory to
dancing. The dance was commenced by some monotonous stanzas hummed in
a very high key by one of the party, the rest joining in the following
chorus, which seemed to present a familiar sound to the broker's ear.
“Her Majestie is very sicke,
Lord Essex hath ye measles,
Our Admiral hath licked ye French--
Poppe! saith ye weasel!”
At the regular recurrence of the last line, the party discharged their
loaded pistols in all directions, rendering the position of the unhappy
broker one of extreme peril and perplexity.
When the tumult had partially subsided, Flash-in-the-Pan called the
meeting to order, and most of the revellers returned to their places,
Malmsey Butt, however, insisting upon another chorus, and singing at the
top of his voice:--
“I am ycleped J. Keyser--I was born at Spring, hys Garden,
My father toe make me ane clerke erst did essaye,
But a fico for ye offis--I spurn ye losels offeire;
For I fain would be ane butcher by'r ladykin alwaye.”
Flash-in-the-Pan drew a pistol from his belt, and bidding some one gag
Malmsey Butt with the stock of it, proceeded to read from a portentous
roll of parchment that he held in his hand. It was a semi-legal
document, clothed in the quaint phraseology of a bygone period. After a
long preamble, asserting their loyalty as lieges of Her most bountiful
Majesty and Sovereign Lady the Queen, the document declared that they
then and there took possession of the promontory, and all the treasure
trove therein contained, formerly buried by Her Majesty's most faithful
and devoted Admiral Sir Francis Drake, with the right to search,
discover, and appropriate the same; and for the purpose thereof they did
then and there form a guild or corporation to so discover, search
for, and disclose said treasures, and by virtue thereof they solemnly
subscribed their names. But at this moment the reading of the parchment
was arrested by an exclamation from the assembly, and the broker
was seen frantically struggling at the door in the strong arms of
Mark-the-Pinker.
“Let me go!” he cried, as he made a desperate attempt to reach the side
of Master Flash-in-the Pan. “Let me go! I tell you, gentlemen, that
document is not worth the parchment it is written on. The laws of
the State, the customs of the country, the mining ordinances, are all
against it. Don't, by all that's sacred, throw away such a capital
investment through ignorance and informality. Let me go! I assure you,
gentlemen, professionally, that you have a big thing,--a remarkably big
thing, and even if I ain't in it, I'm not going to see it fall through.
Don't, for God's sake, gentlemen, I implore you, put your names to such
a ridiculous paper. There isn't a notary--”
He ceased. The figures around him, which were beginning to grow fainter
and more indistinct, as he went on, swam before his eyes, flickered,
reappeared again, and finally went out. He rubbed his eyes and gazed
around him. The cabin was deserted. On the hearth the red embers of
his fire were fading away in the bright beams of the morning sun, that
looked aslant through the open window. He ran out to the cliff. The
sturdy sea-breeze fanned his feverish cheeks, and tossed the white
caps of waves that beat in pleasant music on the beach below. A stately
merchantman with snowy canvas was entering the Gate. The voices of
sailors came cheerfully from a bark at anchor below the point. The
muskets of the sentries gleamed brightly on Alcatraz, and the rolling
of drums swelled on the breeze. Farther on, the hills of San Francisco,
cottage-crowned and bordered with wharves and warehouses, met his
longing eye.
Such is the Legend of Devil's Point. Any objections to its reliability
may be met with the statement, that the broker who tells the story has
since incorporated a company under the title of “Flash-in-the-Pan Gold
and Silver Treasure Mining Company,” and that its shares are already
held at a stiff figure. A copy of the original document is said to be on
record in the office of the company, and on any clear day the locality
of the claim may be distinctly seen from the hills of San Francisco.
THE DEVIL AND THE BROKER
A MEDIAEVAL LEGEND
The church clocks in San Francisco were striking ten. The Devil, who had
been flying over the city that evening, just then alighted on the roof
of a church near the corner of Bush and Montgomery Streets. It will be
perceived that the popular belief that the Devil avoids holy edifices,
and vanishes at the sound of a Credo or Pater-noster, is long since
exploded. Indeed, modern scepticism asserts that he is not averse to
these orthodox discourses, which particularly bear reference to himself,
and in a measure recognize his power and importance.
I am inclined to think, however, that his choice of a resting-place was
a good deal influenced by its contiguity to a populous thoroughfare.
When he was comfortably seated, he began pulling out the joints of a
small rod which he held in his hand, and which presently proved to be an
extraordinary fishing-pole, with a telescopic adjustment that permitted
its protraction to a marvellous extent. Affixing a line thereto, he
selected a fly of a particular pattern from a small box which he carried
with him, and, making a skilful cast, threw his line into the very
centre of that living stream which ebbed and flowed through Montgomery
Street.
Either the people were very virtuous that evening or the bait was not a
taking one. In vain the Devil whipped the stream at an eddy in front
of the Occidental, or trolled his line into the shadows of the
Cosmopolitan; five minutes passed without even a nibble. “Dear me!”
quoth the Devil, “that's very singular; one of my most popular flies,
too! Why, they'd have risen by shoals in Broadway or Beacon Street
for that. Well, here goes another.” And, fitting a new fly from his
well-filled box, he gracefully recast his line.
For a few moments there was every prospect of sport. The line was
continually bobbing and the nibbles were distinct and gratifying. Once
or twice the bait was apparently gorged and carried off in the upper
stories of the hotels to be digested at leisure. At such times the
professional manner in which the Devil played out his line would have
thrilled the heart of Izaak Walton. But his efforts were unsuccessful;
the bait was invariably carried off without hooking the victim, and
the Devil finally lost his temper. “I've heard of these San Franciscans
before,” he muttered; “wait till I get hold of one,--that's all!” he
added malevolently, as he rebaited his hook. A sharp tug and a wriggle
foiled his next trial, and finally, with considerable effort, he landed
a portly two-hundred-pound broker upon the church roof.
As the victim lay there gasping, it was evident that the Devil was in
no hurry to remove the hook from his gills; nor did he exhibit in this
delicate operation that courtesy of manner and graceful manipulation
which usually distinguished him.
“Come,” he said, gruffly, as he grasped the broker by the waistband,
“quit that whining and grunting. Don't flatter yourself that you're a
prize either. I was certain to have had you. It was only a question of
time.”
“It is not that, my lord, which troubles me,” whined the unfortunate
wretch, as he painfully wriggled his head, “but that I should have been
fooled by such a paltry bait. What will they say of me down there? To
have let 'bigger things' go by, and to be taken in by this cheap trick,”
he added, as he groaned and glanced at the fly which the Devil was
carefully rearranging, “is what,--pardon me, my lord,--is what gets me!”
“Yes,” said the Devil, philosophically, “I never caught anybody yet who
didn't say that; but tell me, ain't you getting somewhat fastidious
down there? Here is one of my most popular flies, the greenback,” he
continued, exhibiting an emerald-looking insect, which he drew from his
box. “This, so generally considered excellent in election season, has
not even been nibbled at. Perhaps your sagacity, which, in spite of
this unfortunate contretemps, no one can doubt,” added the Devil, with
a graceful return to his usual courtesy, “may explain the reason or
suggest a substitute.”
The broker glanced at the contents of the box with a supercilious smile.
“Too old-fashioned, my lord,--long ago played out. Yet,” he added,
with a gleam of interest, “for a consideration I might offer
something--ahem!--that would make a taking substitute for these trifles.
Give me,” he continued, in a brisk, business-like way, “a slight
percentage and a bonus down, and I'm your man.”
“Name your terms,” said the Devil, earnestly.
“My liberty and a percentage on all you take, and the thing's done.”
The Devil caressed his tail thoughtfully, for a few moments. He was
certain of the broker any way, and the risk was slight. “Done!” he said.
“Stay a moment,” said the artful broker. “There are certain
contingencies. Give me your fishing-rod and let me apply the bait
myself. It requires a skilful hand, my lord; even your well-known
experience might fail. Leave me alone for half an hour, and if you have
reason to complain of my success I will forfeit my deposit,--I mean my
liberty.”
The Devil acceded to his request, bowed, and withdrew. Alighting
gracefully in Montgomery Street, he dropped into Meade & Co.'s clothing
store, where, having completely equipped himself a la mode, he sallied
forth intent on his personal enjoyment. Determining to sink his
professional character, he mingled with the current of human life,
and enjoyed, with that immense capacity for excitement peculiar to his
nature, the whirl, bustle, and feverishness of the people, as a purely
aesthetic gratification unalloyed by the cares of business. What he did
that evening does not belong to our story. We return to the broker, whom
we left on the roof.
When he made sure that the Devil had retired, he carefully drew from
his pocket-book a slip of paper and affixed it on the hook. The line
had scarcely reached the current before he felt a bite. The hook was
swallowed. To bring up his victim rapidly, disengage him from the hook,
and reset his line, was the work of a moment. Another bite and the same
result. Another, and another. In a very few minutes the roof was covered
with his panting spoil. The broker could himself distinguish that
many of them were personal friends; nay, some of them were familiar
frequenters of the building on which they were now miserably stranded.
That the broker felt a certain satisfaction in being instrumental in
thus misleading his fellow-brokers no one acquainted with human nature
will for a moment doubt. But a stronger pull on his line caused him
to put forth all his strength and skill. The magic pole bent like a
coach-whip. The broker held firm, assisted by the battlements of the
church. Again and again it was almost wrested from his hand, and again
and again he slowly reeled in a portion of the tightening line. At last,
with one mighty effort, he lifted to the level of the roof a struggling
object. A howl like Pandemonium rang through the air as the broker
successfully landed at his feet--the Devil himself!
The two glared fiercely at each other. The broker, perhaps mindful
of his former treatment, evinced no haste to remove the hook from his
antagonist's jaw. When it was finally accomplished, he asked quietly
if the Devil was satisfied. That gentleman seemed absorbed in the
contemplation of the bait which he had just taken from his mouth. “I
am,” he said, finally, “and forgive you; but what do you call this?”
“Bend low,” replied the broker, as he buttoned up his coat ready to
depart. The Devil inclined his ear. “I call it WILD CAT!”
THE OGRESS OF SILVER LAND;
OR,
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF PRINCE BADFELLAH AND PRINCE BULLEBOYE.
In the second year of the reign of the renowned Caliph Lo there dwelt
in SILVER LAND, adjoining his territory, a certain terrible ogress. She
lived in the bowels of a dismal mountain, where she was in the habit of
confining such unfortunate travellers as ventured within her domain. The
country for miles around was sterile and barren. In some places it was
covered with a white powder, which was called in the language of the
country AL KA LI, and was supposed to be the pulverized bones of those
who had perished miserably in her service.
In spite of this, every year, great numbers of young men devoted
themselves to the service of the ogress, hoping to become her godsons,
and to enjoy the good fortune which belonged to that privileged class.
For these godsons had no work to perform, neither at the mountain
nor elsewhere, but roamed about the world with credentials of their
relationship in their pockets, which they called STOKH, which was
stamped with the stamp and sealed with the seal of the ogress, and which
enabled them at the end of each moon to draw large quantities of gold
and silver from her treasury. And the wisest and most favored of those
godsons were the Princes BADFELLAH and BULLEBOYE. They knew all the
secrets of the ogress, and how to wheedle and coax her. They were also
the favorites of SOOPAH INTENDENT, who was her Lord High Chamberlain and
Prime Minister, and who dwelt in SILVER LAND.
One day, SOOPAH INTENDENT said to his servants, “What is that which
travels the most surely, the most secretly, and the most swiftly?”
And they all answered as one man, “LIGHTNING, my lord, travels the most
surely, the most swiftly, and the most secretly!”
Then said SOOPAH INTENDENT, “Let Lightning carry this message secretly,
swiftly, and surely to my beloved friends the Princes BADFELLAH and
BULLEBOYE, and tell them that their godmother is dying, and bid
them seek some other godmother or sell their STOKH ere it becomes
badjee,--worthless.”
“Bekhesm! On our heads be it!” answered the servants; and they ran to
Lightning with the message, who flew with it to the City by the Sea,
and delivered it, even at that moment, into the hands of the Princes
BADFELLAH and BULLEBOYE.
Now the Prince BADFELLAH was a wicked young man; and when he had
received this message he tore his beard and rent his garment and reviled
his godmother, and his friend SOOPAH INTENDENT. But presently he arose,
and dressed himself in his finest stuffs, and went forth into the
bazaars and among the merchants, capering and dancing as he walked, and
crying in a loud voice, “O, happy day! O, day worthy to be marked with a
white stone!”
This he said cunningly, thinking the merchants and men of the bazaars
would gather about him, which they presently did, and began to question
him: “What news, O most worthy and serene Highness? Tell us, that we
make merry too!”
Then replied the cunning prince, “Good news, O my brothers, for I have
heard this day that my godmother in SILVER LAND is well.” The merchants,
who were not aware of the substance of the real message, envied him
greatly, and said one to another: “Surely our brother the Prince
BADFELLAH is favored by Allah above all men;” and they were about to
retire, when the prince checked them, saying: “Tarry for a moment.
Here are my credentials, or STOKH. The same I will sell you for fifty
thousand sequins, for I have to give a feast to-day, and need much
gold. Who will give fifty thousand?” And he again fell to capering and
dancing. But this time the merchants drew a little apart, and some of
the oldest and wisest said: “What dirt is this which the prince would
have us swallow? If his godmother were well, why should he sell his
STOKH? Bismillah! The olives are old and the jar is broken!” When Prince
BADFELLAH perceived them whispering, his countenance fell, and his knees
smote against each other through fear; but, dissembling again, he said:
“Well, so be it! Lo, I have much more than shall abide with me, for my
days are many and my wants are few. Say forty thousand sequins for my
STOKH and let me depart in Allah's name. Who will give forty thousand
sequins to become the godson of such a healthy mother?” And he again
fell to capering and dancing, but not as gayly as before, for his heart
was troubled. The merchants, however, only moved farther away. “Thirty
thousand sequins,” cried Prince BADFELLAH; but even as he spoke they
fled before his face, crying: “His godmother is dead. Lo, the jackals
are defiling her grave. Mashalla! he has no godmother.” And they sought
out PANIK, the swift-footed messenger, and bade him shout through the
bazaars that the godmother of Prince BADFELLAH was dead. When he heard
this, the prince fell upon his face, and rent his garments, and covered
himself with the dust of the market-place. As he was sitting thus, a
porter passed him with jars of wine on his shoulders, and the prince
begged him to give him a jar, for he was exceeding thirsty and faint.
But the porter said, “What will my lord give me first?” And the prince,
in very bitterness of spirit, said, “Take this,” and handed him his
STOKH, and so exchanged it for a jar of wine.