|BEFORE Don Juan could even utter a matutinal greeting, Mother Jenks
laid finger to lip and silenced him. “Go back to Leber's and return in
an hour,” she whispered. “I 'ave my reasons for wantin' that bloomin'
cablegram delivered later.”
Don Juan hadn't the least idea what Mother Jenks's reasons might be, but
he presumed she was up to some chicanery, and so he winked his bloodshot
eye very knowingly and nodded his acquiescence in the program; whereupon
Mother Jenks started to close the door. Instantly Don Juan's foot was in
the jamb; in a hoarse whisper he said:
“Whilst ye're askin' favours, woman dear, ye might have the kindness to
ask me if I have a mouth.”
“Bloomin' well I knows yer 'ave a mouth, for bloomin' well I smell yer
blawsted breath,” Mother Jenks retorted. However, the present was no
time to raise an issue with Don Juan, and so she slipped behind the bar
of her _cantina_, poured five fingers of _aguardiente_, the local brand
of disturbance, and handed it to Don Juan through the crack in the door.
“Here's all the hair off your head,” Don Juan Cafetéro saluted her
amiably. He tossed it off at a gulp, handed Mother Jenks the glass, and
departed with a whispered promise to return in an hour.
When he had gone, Mother Jenks went behind the bar and fortified herself
with her morning's morning--which rite having been performed, her
sleep-benumbed brain livened up immediately.
“Gord's truth!” the lady murmured. “An' me about to turn him adrift for
the lawst fortnight! Well for 'im 'e allers hadmired the picture o'
my sainted 'Enery, as was the spittin' image of his own fawther.
'Evings! 'Ell's bells! But that was a bit of a tight squeak! Just as I'm
fully conwinced 'e's beat it an' I'm left 'oldin' the sack, all along o'
my kindness of 'eart, 'e gets the cablegram 'e's been lookin' for this
two months past; an' 'e allers claimed as 'ow any time'e got a cablegram
it'd be an answer to 'is letter, with money to foller! My word, but that
was touch an' go! An' yet Willie's got such a tykin' w'y about him, I
might 'ave knowed 'e was a gentleman!”
Still congratulating herself upon her good fortune in intercepting Don
Juan Cafetéro, Mother Jenks proceeded upstairs to her chamber, clothed
herself, and adjourned to the kitchen, where Carmelita was already
engaged in the preparation of the morning meal. After giving orders
for an extra special breakfast for two, Mother Jenks returned to her
_cantina_, and formally opened the same for the business of that day
and night; while a lank Jamaica negro swept out the room and cleaned the
cuspidors, she washed and polished her glassware and set her back bar in
order. To her here came presently, via the tiled hallway, the object of
her solicitude, a young man on the sunny side of thirty. At the first
glance one suspected this individual to be a member of the Caucasian
race; at the second glance one verified this suspicion. He was thin
for one of his height and breadth of chest; in colour his countenance
resembled that of a sick Chinaman. His hair was thick and wavy but
lustreless; his dark blue eyes carried a hint of jaundice; and a
generous mouth, beneath an equally generous upper lip, gave ample ground
for the suspicion that while Mr. William Geary's speech denoted him an
American citizen, at least one of his maternal ancestors had been wooed
and won by an Irishman. An old panama hat, sad relic of a prosperous
past, a pair of soiled buckskin pumps, a suit of unbleached linen
equally befouled, and last but not least, the remnants of a smile that
much hard luck could never quite obliterate, completed his attire--and
to one a stranger in the tropics would appear to constitute a complete
inventory of Mr. Geary's possessions. An experienced person, however,
would have observed immediately that Mother Jenks's seedy guest had
been bitten deeply and often by mosquitoes and was, in consequence, the
proprietor of a low malarial fever, with its concomitant chills.
“_Dulce corazon mio_, I extend a greeting,” he called at the entrance.
“I trust you rested well last night, Mother Jenks, and that no evil
dreams were born of your midnight repast of _frijoles refritos_,
marmalade, and arf-an'-arf!”
“Chop yer spoofin', Willie,” Mother Jenks simpered. “My heye! So I'm yer
sweet'eart, eh? Yer wheedlin' blighter, makin' love to a girl as is old
enough to be yer mother!”
“A woman,” Mr. Geary retorted sagely and not a whit abashed, “is at the
apex of her feminine charms at thirty-seven.”
He knew his landlady to be not a day under fifty, but such is the ease
with which the Irish scatter their blarney, and such the vanity of
the gentler sex (for despite Mother Jenks's assault upon Carmelita, we
include the lady in that pleasing category), that neither Billy
Geary nor Mother Jenks regarded this pretty speech in the light of an
observation immaterial, inconsequential and not germane to the matter
at issue. For Mother Jenks was the eternal feminine, and it warmed the
cockles of her heart to be told she was only thirty-seven, even though
reason warned her that the compliment was not garnished with the sauce
of sincerity. As for Billy, the sight of Mother Jenks swallowing this
specious bait, together with hook, line, and sinker, always amused him
and for the nonce took his mind off his own troubles. Nevertheless,
there was a deeper reason for his blarney. This morning, watching the
tell tale tinge of pleasure underlying the alcohol-begotten hue of
the good creature's face, he felt almost ashamed of his own
heartlessness--almost, but not quite.
Let us take Billy's view of his own case and view his mendacity with a
kindly and tolerant eye. For two months he had existed entirely because
of the leniency of Mother Jenks in the matter of credit.
He could not pay her cash, devoutly as he hoped to do some day, and he
considered it of the most vital importance that in the interim he should
somehow survive. Therefore, in lieu of cash he paid her compliments,
which she snapped up greedily.
In the cold gray dawn of the morning after Mother Jenks always detected
the bug in Billy's amber and vowed to rout him bag and baggage that very
day; but when one is fond of blarney, it is hard indeed to destroy the
source of it; and while Mother Jenks's courage had mounted to the point
of action many a time, in the language of the sporting extra, Billy
had always “beaten her to the punch”; for when instinct warned him that
Mother Jenks was about to talk business, he could always rout her by
declaring she was pencilling her eyebrows or rouging her cheeks.
An inventive genius was Billy. He never employed the same defensive
tactics two days in succession, and when personal flattery threatened
to fail him, a large crayon reproduction of the late Henry Jenks, which
hung over the back bar, was a never-failing source of inspiration.
This was the “sainted'Enery” previously referred to by Mother Jenks. He
had been a sergeant in Her Brittanic Majesty's Royal Horse Artillery,
and upon retiring to the Reserve had harkened to a proposition to
emigrate to Sobrante and accept a commission as colonel of artillery
with the Government forces then in the throes of a revolutionary attack.
The rebels had triumphed, and as a result 'Enery had been sainted via the
customary expeditious route; whereupon his wife had had recourse to her
early profession of barmaid, and El Buen Amigo had resulted.
However, let us return to our sheeps, as Mr. Geary would have expressed
it. Seemingly the effect of Billy's compliment was instantly evident,
for Mother Jenks set out two glasses and a bottle.
“I know yer a trifler, Willy Geary,” she simpered, “but if I do s'y it
as shouldn't, I was accounted as 'andsome a barmaid as you'd find in
Bristol town. I've lost my good looks, what with grief an' worritin'
since losin' my sainted 'Enery, but I was 'andsome oncet.”
“I can well believe it, Mother--since you are handsome still! For my
part,” he continued confidentially, as with shaking hand he filled his
brandy-glass, “you'll excuse this drunkard's drink, Mother, but I
need it; I had the shakes again last night--for my part, I prefer the
full-blown rose to the bud.”
Mother Jenks fluttered like a _debutante_ as she poured her drink. They
touched glasses, calloused worldlings that they were.
“'Ow,” said Mother Jenks, toasting the philandering wretch.
“How!” He tossed off his drink. It warmed and strengthened him, after
his night of chills and fever, and brazenly he returned to the attack.
“Changing the subject from feminine grace and charm to manly strength
and virtue, I've been marking lately the resolute poise of your martyred
husband's head on his fine military shoulders. There was a man, if I may
judge from his photograph, that would fight a wildcat.”
“Oh, m'ybe 'e wouldn't!” Mother Jenks hastened to declare. “You know,
Willie, I was present w'en they shot 'im, a-waitin' to claim 'is body.
'E kisses me good-bye, an' says 'e: 'Brace up, ol' girl. Remember your
'usband's been a sergeant in 'Er Majesty's Royal 'Orse Artillery, an'
don't let the bloody blighters see yer cry.' Then 'e walks out front,
with 'is fine straight back to the wall, draws a circle on 'is blue
tunic with white chalk an' says: 'Shoot at that, yer yeller-bellied
bounders, an' be damned to yer!'”
“To be the widow of such a gallant son of Mars,” Billy declared, “is a
greater honour than being the wife of a duke.”
For the sake of 'Enery's memory Mother Jenks squeezed out a tear. Billy
would have egged her on to a lachrymal flood, for he knew she would
enjoy it, but at that moment entered Carmelita, to announce breakfast.
Mother Jenks, recalling her husband's last advice, declined to let even
a Sobrantean girl see her weep. She composed herself instantly, filled
her glass again, and pushed the bottle to Billy.
“'Ave another peg with Mother, Willie.”
“I'll go you, Mother, although it's really my turn to set 'em up. I would
if I had the price. However, I'm expecting action on that concession of
mine pretty soon, Mother, and when I get straightened out, they'll date
time in the Calle de Concordia from the spending toot I'll inaugurate.
Ah, Mother,” he added with a note of genuine gratitude and sincerity,
“you've been awfully good to me. I don't know what I'd have done without
you.” He laid his hand on her fat arm. “Mother, one of these days I'll
get mine, and when I do I'm going to stake you to a nice little pub back
in Bristol.”
She smiled at him with motherly tenderness and shook her head. In a
concrete niche in the mortuary of the Catedrâl de la Vera Cruz the bones
of her sainted 'Enery reposed, and when her hour came she would lie
beside him. Moreover, she was a tropical tramp. She had grown to like
Sobrante, for all her railing against it, and she knew she would never
see the chalk cliffs of Albion again.
“Yer a sweet boy, Willie,” she told him, “an' I'd trust yer for double
the score, s'help me. 'Eving knows I 'aven't much, but wot I 'ave I
shares freely with them I likes. I 'ave a brace o' duck heggs, 'am an'
'ot cakes, Willie, an' yer 'll breakfuss with Mother. Duck heggs, 'am an'
'ot cakes, Willie. 'Ow's that? Eh, yer precious byby.”
Billy's glistening eyes testified to the profundity of his feelings
at the prospect of this Lucullan feast. It had been long since Mother
Jenks's larder had yielded him anything more stable than brown beans,
tortillas, fried onions, and an occasional dab of marmalade, and the
task of filling in the corners of his appetite with free tropical fruit
had long since grown irksome.
Mother Jenks preceded him into the shady side of the veranda, where
ordinarily she was wont to breakfast in solitary state. Her table was
set for two this morning, however, but this extraordinary circumstance
was lost sight of by the shameless Billy in the prospect of one more
real meal before the chills and fever claimed their own. He flipped an
adventurous cockroach off the table and fell to with fine appetite.
He was dallying with a special brew of coffee, with condensed milk in
it, when the Jamaica negro entered from the _cantina_ to announce Don
Juan Cafe-téro with a cablegram.
“A cablegram!” Mother Jenks cried. “Gord's truth! I'll wager the pub
it's for you, Willie.”
“I wonder! Can it be possible it's come at last?” Billy cried
incredulously.
“I'd not be surprised,” Mother Jenks replied. “Bob”--turning to the
negro, and addressing him in her own private brand of Spanish--“give Don
Juan a drink, if 'e 'asn't helped 'imself while yer back is turned, an'
bring the cablegram 'ere.”
Within the minute Bob returned with a long yellow envelope, which he
handed Mother Jenks. Without so much as a glance at the superscription,
she handed it to Billy Geary, who tore it open and read:
Los Angeles, Calif., U. S. A., August 16, 1913.
Henrietta Wilkins,
Calle de Concordia, No. 19,
Buenaventura,
Sobrante, C. A.
Leaving to-day to visit you. Will cable from New Orleans exact date
arrival.
Dolores.
The shadow of deep disappointment settled over Billy's face as he read.
Mother Jenks noted it instantly.
“Wot's 'e got to s'y, Willie?” she demanded.
“It isn't a he. It's a she,” Billy replied. “Besides, the cablegram
isn't for me at all. It's for one Henrietta Wilkins, Calle de Concordia,
Number Nineteen, and who the devil Henrietta Wilkins may be is a mystery
to me. Ever have any boarder by that name, Mother?”
Mother Jenks's red face had gone white. “'Enrietta Wilkins was my
maiden nyme, Willie,” she confessed soberly, “an' there's only one human
as 'ud cable me or write me by that nyme. Gord, Willie, wot's 'appened?”
“I'll read it to you, Mother.”
Billy read the message aloud; and when he had finished, to his
amazement, Mother Jenks laid her head on the table and began to weep.