whom he could borrow money. He found that by asking for it in
homoeopathic doses he was able to shame the foreign colony into loaning
him all of one hundred dollars. This, with what he had in hand, would
take Claire and himself to New York and for a week keep them alive.
After that he must find work or they must starve.
In the garden of the Café Ducrot Billy placed his guard at a table with
bottles of beer between them, and at an adjoining table with Claire
plotted the elopement for that night. The garden was in the rear of the
hotel and a door in the lower wall opened into the rue Cambon, that led
directly to the water-front.
Billy proposed that at eight o'clock Claire should be waiting in the rue
Cambon outside this door. They would then make their way to one of the
less frequented wharfs, where Claire would arrange to have a rowboat in
readiness, and in it they would take refuge on the steamer. An hour
later, before the flight of Claire could be discovered, they would have
started on their voyage to the mainland.
"I warn you," said Billy, "that after we reach New York I have only
enough to keep us for a week. It will be a brief honeymoon. After that
we will probably starve. I'm not telling you this to discourage you," he
explained; "only trying to be honest."
"I would rather starve with you in New York," said Claire, "than die
here without you."
At these words Billy desired greatly to kiss Claire, but the guards were
scowling at him. It was not until Claire had gone to her room to pack
her bag and the chance to kiss her had passed that Billy recognized that
the scowls were intended to convey the fact that the beer bottles were
empty. He remedied this and remained alone at his table considering the
outlook. The horizon was, indeed, gloomy, and the only light upon it,
the loyalty and love of the girl, only added to his bitterness. Above
all things he desired to make her content, to protect her from disquiet,
to convince her that in the sacrifice she was making she also was
plotting her own happiness. Had he been able to collect his ten thousand
francs his world would have danced in sunshine. As it was, the heavens
were gray and for the future the skies promised only rainy days. In
these depressing reflections Billy was interrupted by the approach of
the young man in the Panama hat. Billy would have avoided him, but the
young man and his two friends would not be denied. For the service Billy
had rendered them they wished to express their gratitude. It found
expression in the form of Planter's punch. As they consumed this Billy
explained to the strangers why the customs men had detained them.
"You told them you were leaving to-night for Santo Domingo," said Billy;
"but they knew that was impossible, for there is no steamer down the
coast for two weeks."
The one whose features seemed familiar replied:
"Still, we _are_ leaving to-night," he said; "not on a steamer, but on a
war-ship."
"A war-ship?" cried Billy. His heart beat at high speed. "Then," he
exclaimed, "you are a naval officer?"
The young man shook his head and, as though challenging Billy to make
another guess, smiled.
"Then," Billy complied eagerly, "you are a diplomat! Are you our new
minister?"
One of the other young men exclaimed reproachfully:
"You know him perfectly well!" he protested. "You've seen his picture
thousands of times."
With awe and pride he placed his hand on Billy's arm and with the other
pointed at the one in the Panama hat.
"It's Harry St. Clair," he announced. "Harry St. Clair, the King of the
Movies!"
"The King of the Movies," repeated Billy. His disappointment was so keen
as to be embarrassing.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "I thought you--" Then he remembered his manners.
"Glad to meet you," he said. "Seen you on the screen."
Again his own troubles took precedence. "Did you say," he demanded, "one
of our war-ships is coming here _to-day_?"
"Coming to take me to Santo Domingo," explained Mr. St. Clair. He spoke
airily, as though to him as a means of locomotion battle-ships were as
trolley-cars. The Planter's punch, which was something he had never
before encountered, encouraged the great young man to unbend. He
explained further and fully, and Billy, his mind intent upon his own
affair, pretended to listen.
The United States Government, Mr. St. Clair explained, was assisting him
and the Apollo Film Company in producing the eight-reel film entitled
"The Man Behind the Gun."
With it the Navy Department plotted to advertise the navy and encourage
recruiting. In moving pictures, in the form of a story, with love
interest, villain, comic relief, and thrills, it would show the life of
American bluejackets afloat and ashore, at home and abroad. They would
be seen at Yokohama playing baseball with Tokio University; in the
courtyard of the Vatican receiving the blessing of the Pope; at Waikiki
riding the breakers on a scrubbing-board; in the Philippines eating
cocoanuts in the shade of the sheltering palm, and in Brooklyn in the
Y.M.C.A. club, in the shadow of the New York sky-scrapers, playing
billiards and reading the sporting extras.
As it would be illustrated on the film the life of "The Man Behind the
Gun" was one of luxurious ease. In it coal-passing, standing watch in a
blizzard, and washing down decks, cold and unsympathetic, held no part.
But to prove that the life of Jack was not all play he would be seen
fighting for the flag. That was where, as "Lieutenant Hardy, U.S.A.,"
the King of the Movies entered.
"Our company arrived in Santo Domingo last week," he explained. "And
they're waiting for me now. I'm to lead the attack on the fortress. We
land in shore boats under the guns of the ship and I take the fortress.
First, we show the ship clearing for action and the men lowering the
boats and pulling for shore. Then we cut back to show the gun-crews
serving the guns. Then we jump to the landing-party wading through the
breakers. I lead them. The man who is carrying the flag gets shot and
drops in the surf. I pick him up, put him on my shoulder, and carry him
_and_ the flag to the beach, where I--"
Billy suddenly awoke. His tone was one of excited interest.
"You got a uniform?" he demanded.
"Three," said St. Clair impressively, "made to order according to
regulations on file in the Quartermaster's Department. Each absolutely
correct." Without too great a show of eagerness he inquired: "Like to
see them?"
Without too great a show of eagerness Billy assured him that he would.
"I got to telephone first," he added, "but by the time you get your
trunk open I'll join you in your room."
In the café, over the telephone, Billy addressed himself to the
field-marshal in charge of the cable office. When Billy gave his name,
the voice of that dignitary became violently agitated.
"Monsieur Barlow," he demanded, "do you know that the warship for which
you cabled your Secretary of State makes herself to arrive?"
At the other end of the 'phone, although restrained by the confines of
the booth, Billy danced joyously. But his voice was stern.
"Naturally," he replied. "Where is she now?"
An hour before, so the field-marshal informed him, the battleship
_Louisiana_ had been sighted and by telegraph reported. She was
approaching under forced draught. At any moment she might anchor in the
outer harbor. Of this President Ham had been informed. He was grieved,
indignant; he was also at a loss to understand.
"It is very simple," explained Billy. "She probably was somewhere in the
Windward Passage. When the Secretary got my message he cabled
Guantanamo, and Guantanamo wirelessed the warship nearest
Port-au-Prince."
"President Poussevain," warned the field-marshal, "is greatly
disturbed."
"Tell him not to worry," said Billy. "Tell him when the bombardment
begins I will see that the palace is outside the zone of fire."
As Billy entered the room of St. Clair his eyes shone with a strange
light. His manner, which toward a man of his repute St. Clair had
considered a little too casual, was now enthusiastic, almost
affectionate.
"My dear St. Clair," cried Billy, "_I've fixed it_! But, until I was
_sure_, I didn't want to raise your hopes!"
"Hopes of what?" demanded the actor.
"An audience with the president!" cried Billy. "I've just called him up
and he says I'm to bring you to the palace at once. He's heard of you,
of course, and he's very pleased to meet you. I told him about 'The Man
Behind the Gun,' and he says you must come in your make-up as
'Lieutenant Hardy, U. S. A.,' just as he'll see you on the screen."
Mr. St. Clair stammered delightedly.
"In uniform," he protested; "won't that be--"
"White, special full dress," insisted Billy. "Medals, side-arms,
full-dress belt, _and_ gloves. What a press story! 'The King of the
Movies meets the President of Hayti!' Of course, he's only an ignorant
negro, but on Broadway they don't know that; and it will sound fine!"
St. Clair coughed nervously.
"_Don't_ forget," he stammered, "I can't speak French, or understand it,
either."
The eyes of Billy became as innocent as those of a china doll.
"Then I'll interpret," he said. "And, oh, yes," he added, "he's sending
two of the palace soldiers to act as an escort--sort of guard of honor!"
The King of the Movies chuckled excitedly.
"Fine!" he exclaimed. "You _are_ a brick!"
With trembling fingers he began to shed his outer garments.
To hide his own agitation Billy walked to the window and turned his
back. Night had fallen and the electric lights, that once had been his
care, sprang into life. Billy looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock.
The window gave upon the harbor, and a mile from shore he saw the cargo
lights of the _Prinz der Nederlanden_, and slowly approaching, as though
feeling for her berth, a great battleship. When Billy turned from the
window his voice was apparently undisturbed.
"We've got to hurry," he said. "The _Louisiana_ is standing in. She'll
soon be sending a launch for you. We've just time to drive to the palace
and back before the launch gets here."
From his mind President Ham had dismissed all thoughts of the warship
that had been sighted and that now had come to anchor. For the moment he
was otherwise concerned. Fate could not harm him; he was about to dine.
But, for the first time in the history of his administration, that
solemn ceremony was rudely halted. An excited aide, trembling at his own
temerity, burst upon the president's solitary state.
In the anteroom, he announced, an officer from the battleship
_Louisiana_ demanded instant audience.
For a moment, transfixed in amazement, anger, and alarm President Ham
remained seated. Such a visit, uninvited, was against all tradition; it
was an affront, an insult. But that it was against all precedent argued
some serious necessity. He decided it would be best to receive the
officer. Besides, to continue his dinner was now out of the question.
Both appetite and digestion had fled from him.
In the anteroom Billy was whispering final instructions to St. Clair.
"Whatever happens," he begged, "don't _laugh_! Don't even smile
politely! He's very ignorant, you see, and he's sensitive. When he meets
foreigners and can't understand their language, he's always afraid if
they laugh that he's made a break and that they're laughing at _him_.
So, be solemn; look grave; look haughty!"
"I got you," assented St. Clair. "I'm to 'register' pride."
"Exactly!" said Billy. "The more pride you register, the better for
us."
Inwardly cold with alarm, outwardly frigidly polite, Billy presented
"Lieutenant Hardy." He had come, Billy explained, in answer to the call
for help sent by himself to the Secretary of State, which by wireless
had been communicated to the _Louisiana_. Lieutenant Hardy begged him to
say to the president that he was desolate at having to approach His
Excellency so unceremoniously. But His Excellency, having threatened the
life of an American citizen, the captain of the _Louisiana_ was forced
to act quickly.
"And this officer?" demanded President Ham; "what does he want?"
"He says," Billy translated to St. Clair, "that he is very glad to meet
you, and he wants to know how much you earn a week."
The actor suppressed his surprise and with pardonable pride said that
his salary was six hundred dollars a week and royalties on each film.
Billy bowed to the president.
"He says," translated Billy, "he is here to see that I get my ten
thousand francs, and that if I don't get them in ten minutes he will
return to the ship and land marines."
To St. Clair it seemed as though the president received his statement
as to the amount of his salary with a disapproval that was hardly
flattering. With the heel of his giant fist the president beat upon the
table, his curls shook, his gorilla-like shoulders heaved.
In an explanatory aside Billy made this clear.
"He says," he interpreted, "that you get more as an actor than he gets
as president, and it makes him mad."
"I can see it does myself," whispered St. Clair. "And I don't understand
French, either."
President Ham was protesting violently. It was outrageous, he exclaimed;
it was inconceivable that a great republic should shake the Big Stick
over the head of a small republic, and for a contemptible ten thousand
francs.
"I will not believe," he growled, "that this officer has authority to
threaten me. You have deceived him. If he knew the truth, he would
apologize. Tell him," he roared suddenly, "that I _demand_ that he
apologize!"
Billy felt like the man who, after jauntily forcing the fighting,
unexpectedly gets a jolt on the chin that drops him to the canvas.
While the referee might have counted three Billy remained upon the
canvas.
Then again he forced the fighting. Eagerly he turned to St. Clair.
"He says," he translated, "you must recite something."
St. Clair exclaimed incredulously:
"Recite!" he gasped.
Than his indignant protest nothing could have been more appropriate.
"Wants to see you act out," insisted Billy. "Go on," he begged; "humor
him. Do what he wants or he'll put us in jail!"
"But what shall I--"
"He wants the curse of Rome from Richelieu," explained Billy. "He knows
it in French and he wants you to recite it in English. Do you know it?"
The actor smiled haughtily.
"I _wrote_ it!" he protested. "Richelieu's my middle name. I've done it
in stock."
"Then do it now!" commanded Billy. "Give it to him hot. I'm Julie de
Mortemar. He's the villain Barabas. Begin where Barabas hands you the
cue, 'The country is the king! '"
In embarrassment St. Clair coughed tentatively.
"Whoever heard of Cardinal Richelieu," he protested, "in a navy
uniform?"
"Begin!" begged Billy.
"What'll I do with my cap?" whispered St. Clair.
In an ecstasy of alarm Billy danced from foot to foot.
"I'll hold your cap," he cried. "Go on!"
St. Clair gave his cap of gold braid to Billy and shifted his
"full-dress" sword-belt. Not without concern did President Ham observe
these preparations. For the fraction of a second, in alarm, his eyes
glanced to the exits. He found that the officers of his staff completely
filled them. Their presence gave him confidence and his eyes returned to
Lieutenant Hardy.
That gentleman heaved a deep sigh. Dejectedly, his head fell forward
until his chin rested upon his chest. Much to the relief of the
president, it appeared evident that Lieutenant Hardy was about to accede
to his command and apologize.
St. Clair groaned heavily.
"Ay, is it so?" he muttered. His voice was deep, resonant, vibrating
like a bell. His eyes no longer suggested apology. They were strange,
flashing; the eyes of a religious fanatic; and balefully they were fixed
upon President Ham.
"Then wakes the power," the deep voice rumbled, "that in the age of iron
burst forth to curb the great and raise the low." He flung out his left
arm and pointed it at Billy.
"Mark where she stands!" he commanded.
With a sweeping, protecting gesture he drew a round Billy an imaginary
circle. The pantomime was only too clear. To the aged negro, who feared
neither God nor man, but only voodoo, there was in the voice and gesture
that which caused his blood to chill.
"Around her form," shrieked St. Clair, "I draw the awful circle of our
solemn church! Set but one foot within that holy ground and on thy
head--" Like a semaphore the left arm dropped, and the right arm, with
the forefinger pointed, shot out at President Ham. "Yea, though it wore
a CROWN--I launch the CURSE OF ROME!"
No one moved. No one spoke. What terrible threat had hit him President
Ham could not guess. He did not ask. Stiffly, like a man in a trance, he
turned to the rusty iron safe behind his chair and spun the handle. When
again he faced them he held a long envelope which he presented to Hilly.
"There are the ten thousand francs," he said. "Ask him if he is
satisfied, and demand that he go at once!"
Billy turned to St. Clair.
"He says," translated Billy, "he's very much obliged and hopes we will
come again. Now," commanded Billy, "bow low and go out facing him. We
don't want him to shoot us in the back!"
Bowing to the president, the actor threw at Billy a glance full of
indignation.
"Was I as bad as _that_?" he demanded.
On schedule time Billy drove up to the Hotel Ducrot and relinquished St.
Clair to the ensign in charge of the launch from the _Louisiana_. At
sight of St. Clair in the regalia of a superior officer, that young
gentleman showed his surprise.
"I've been giving a 'command' performance for the president," explained
the actor modestly. "I recited for him, and, though I spoke in English,
I think I made quite a hit."
"You certainly," Billy assured him gratefully, "made a terrible hit with
me."
As the moving-picture actors, escorted by the ensign, followed their
trunks to the launch, Billy looked after them with a feeling of great
loneliness. He was aware that from the palace his carriage had been
followed; that drawn in a cordon around the hotel negro policemen
covertly observed him. That President Ham still hoped to recover his
lost prestige and his lost money was only too evident.
It was just five minutes to eight.
Billy ran to his room, and with his suitcase in his hand slipped down
the back stairs and into the garden. Cautiously he made his way to the
gate in the wall, and in the street outside found Claire awaiting him.
With a cry of relief she clasped his arm.
"You are safe!" she cried. "I was so frightened for you. That President
Ham, he is a beast, an ogre!" Her voice sank to a whisper. "And for
myself also I have been frightened. The police, they are at each corner.
They watch the hotel. They watch _me_! Why? What do they want?"
"They want something of mine," said Billy. "But I can't tell you what it
is until I'm sure it _is_ mine. Is the boat at the wharf?"
"All is arranged," Claire assured him. "The boatmen are our friends;
they will take us safely to the steamer."
With a sigh of relief Billy lifted her valise and his own, but he did
not move forward.
Anxiously Claire pulled at his sleeve.
"Come!" she begged. "For what it is that you wait?"
It was just eight o'clock.
Billy was looking up at the single electric-light bulb that lit the
narrow street, and following the direction of his eyes, Claire saw the
light grow dim, saw the tiny wires grow red, and disappear. From over
all the city came shouts, and cries of consternation, oaths, and
laughter, and then darkness.
"I was waiting for _this_!" cried Billy.
With the delight of a mischievous child Claire laughed aloud.
"_You_--you did it!" she accused.
"I did!" said Billy. "And now--we must run like the devil!"
The _Prinz der Nederlanden_ was drawing slowly out of the harbor.
Shoulder to shoulder Claire and Billy leaned upon the rail. On the
wharfs of Port-au-Prince they saw lanterns tossing and candles
twinkling; saw the _Louisiana_, blazing like a Christmas-tree, steaming
majestically south; in each other's eyes saw that all was well.
From his pocket Billy drew a long envelope.
"I can now with certainty," said Billy, "state that this is
mine--_ours_."
He opened the envelope, and while Claire gazed upon many mille franc
notes Billy told how he had retrieved them.
"But what danger!" cried Claire. "In time Ham would have paid. Your
president at Washington would have _made_ him pay. Why take such risks?
You had but to wait!"
Billy smiled contentedly.
"Dear one!" he exclaimed, "the policy of watchful waiting is safer, but
the Big Stick acts quicker and gets results!"
THE BOY SCOUT
A rule of the Boy Scouts is every day to do some one a good turn. Not
because the copy-books tell you it deserves another, but in spite of
that pleasing possibility. If you are a true scout, until you have
performed your act of kindness your day is dark. You are as unhappy as
is the grown-up who has begun his day without shaving or reading the New
York _Sun_. But as soon as you have proved yourself you may, with a dear
conscience, look the world in the face and untie the knot in your
kerchief.
Jimmie Reeder untied the accusing knot in his scarf at just ten minutes
past eight on a hot August morning after he had given one dime to his
sister Sadie. With that she could either witness the first-run films at
the Palace, or by dividing her fortune patronize two of the nickel shows
on Lenox Avenue. The choice Jimmie left to her. He was setting out for
the annual encampment of the Boy Scouts at Hunter's Island, and in the
excitement of that adventure even the movies ceased to thrill. But Sadie
also could be unselfish. With a heroism of a camp-fire maiden she made
a gesture which might have been interpreted to mean she was returning
the money.
"I can't, Jimmie!" she gasped. "I can't take it off you. You saved it,
and you ought to get the fun of it."
"I haven't saved it yet," said Jimmie. "I'm going to cut it out of the
railroad fare. I'm going to get off at City Island instead of at Pelham
Manor and walk the difference. That's ten cents cheaper."
Sadie exclaimed with admiration:
"An' you carryin' that heavy grip!"
"Aw, that's nothin'," said the man of the family.
"Good-by, mother. So long, Sadie."
To ward off further expressions of gratitude he hurriedly advised Sadie
to take in "The Curse of Cain" rather than "The Mohawk's Last Stand,"
and fled down the front steps.
He wore his khaki uniform. On his shoulders was his knapsack, from his
hands swung his suitcase, and between his heavy stockings and his
"shorts" his kneecaps, unkissed by the sun, as yet unscathed by
blackberry vines, showed as white and fragile as the wrists of a girl.
As he moved toward the "L" station at the corner, Sadie and his mother
waved to him; in the street, boys too small to be Scouts hailed him
enviously; even the policeman glancing over the newspapers on the
news-stand nodded approval.
"You a Scout, Jimmie?" he asked.
"No," retorted Jimmie, for was not he also in uniform? "I'm Santa Claus
out filling Christmas stockings."
The patrolman also possessed a ready wit.
"Then get yourself a pair," he advised. "If a dog was to see your
legs--"
Jimmie escaped the insult by fleeing up the steps of the Elevated.
* * * * *
An hour later, with his valise in one hand and staff in the other, he
was tramping up the Boston Post Road and breathing heavily. The day was
cruelly hot. Before his eyes, over an interminable stretch of asphalt,
the heat waves danced and flickered. Already the knapsack on his
shoulders pressed upon him like an Old Man of the Sea; the linen in the
valise had turned to pig iron, his pipe-stem legs were wabbling, his
eyes smarted with salt sweat, and the fingers supporting the valise
belonged to some other boy, and were giving that boy much pain. But as
the motor-cars flashed past with raucous warnings, or, that those who
rode might better see the boy with bare knees, passed at "half speed,"
Jimmie stiffened his shoulders and stepped jauntily forward. Even when
the joy-riders mocked with "Oh, you Scout!" he smiled at them. He was
willing to admit to those who rode that the laugh was on the one who
walked. And he regretted--oh, so bitterly--having left the train. He was
indignant that for his "one good turn a day" he had not selected one
less strenuous--that, for instance, he had not assisted a frightened old
lady through the traffic. To refuse the dime she might have offered, as
all true scouts refuse all tips, would have been easier than to earn it
by walking five miles, with the sun at ninety-nine degrees, and carrying
excess baggage. Twenty times James shifted the valise to the other hand,
twenty times he let it drop and sat upon it.