|WEBSTER reached New Orleans at the end of the first leg of his journey,
to discover that in the matter of sailings he was not fortunate. He was
one day late to board the _Atlanta_--a banana boat of the Consolidated
Fruit Company's line plying regularly between New Orleans and that
company's depots at Limon and San Buenaventura--which necessitated a
wait of three days for the steamer _La Estrellita_ of the Caribbean Mail
Line, running to Caracas and way ports.
This delay annoyed him, for he was the kind of man who, once he has made
up his mind to embark upon a venture, is impatient to be up and doing.
Accordingly, he decided to visit the ticket office of the Caribbean
Mail Line immediately and avoid the rush in case the travel should be
heavy--in which event a delay of an hour might be fatal--for should he
be informed that the space on La Estrellita was entirely sold out, the
knowledge would, he knew, set his reason tottering on its throne.
The steamship office was in Canal Street. Webster arrived there during
the luncheon hour, due to which fact he found but one clerk on duty
at the ticket counter when he entered. This clerk was waiting on two
well-dressed and palpably low-bred sons of the tropics, to whom he had
just displayed a passenger list which the two were scanning critically.
Their interest in it was so obvious that unconsciously Webster peeped
over their shoulders (no difficult task for one of his stature) and
discovered it to be the passenger list of the steamer La Estrellita.
They were conversing together in low tones and Webster, who had spent
many years of his life following his profession in Mexico, recognized
their speech as the bastard Spanish of the peon.
The clerk glanced up, caught Webster's eye and nodded to indicate that
he would attend him directly.
“No hurry, old timer,” Webster told him, with the bluff, free-and-easy
democracy of the man of broad, unkenned horizons. “Just save a place
on that passenger list for my John Hancock when our friends here have
finished with it.”
He sat down in the long wall seat and waited until the pair, having
completed their scrutiny of the list, turned to pass out. He glanced at
them casually.
Theirs were faces ordinary enough south of the Rio Grande but not likely
to pass unnoticed in a northern crowd. One was a tall thin man whose
bloodshot eyes were inclined to “pop” a little--infallible evidence in
the Latin-American that he is drinking more hard liquor than is good
for him. He was smooth-shaven, of pronounced Indian type, and wore
considerable expensive jewellery.
His companion was plainly of the same racial stock, although Webster
suspected him of a slight admixture of negro blood. He was short,
stocky, and aggressive looking; like his companion, bejewelled and
possessed of a thin, carefully cultivated mous, tache that seemed to
consist of about nineteen hairs on one side and twenty on the other.
Evidently once upon a time, as the story books have it, he had been
shot. Webster suspected a Mauser bullet, fired at long range. It had
entered his right cheek, just below the malar, ranged downward through
his mouth and out through a fold of flabby flesh under his left jowl. It
must have been a frightful wound, but it had healed well except at the
point of entrance, where it had a tendency to pucker considerably, thus
drawing the man's eyelid down on his cheek and giving to that visual
organ something of the appearance of a bulldog's.
Both men observed Webster's swift but intense appraisal of them, and
he of the puckered eye--perhaps because he was the cynosure of that
scrutiny and morbidly sensitive of his facial disfigurement--replied
with a cool, sullen stare that was almost belligerent.
Webster gazed after them whimsically as he approached the counter.
“I'd hate to wake up some night and find that _hombre_ with the puckered
eye leaning over me. To what branch of the genus Greaser do those two
horse-thieves belong?” he queried.
“Central America, I take it,” the clerk answered. “They appear
interested in the names of passengers bound for Caribbean ports. Looking
for a friend, I suppose.”
“Hardly. I speak their kind of Spanish and a peon doesn't refer to his
friends in the free-and-easy language these fellows employed. By the
way,” he continued, suddenly apprehensive, “do you get much of that
paraqueet travel on your line?”
“About 80 per cent, of it is off colour, sir.” Webster pondered the
80-per-cent, probability of being berthed in the same stateroom with one
of these people and the prospect was as revolting to him as would be an
uninvited negro guest at the dining table of a southern family. He had
all a Westerner's hatred for the breed.
“Well, I want a ticket to San Buenaventura,” he informed the clerk, “but
I don't relish the idea of a Greaser in the same stateroom with Me.
I wonder if you couldn't manage to fix me up with a stateroom all to
myself, or at least arrange it so that in the event of company I'll draw
a white man. I can stand a slovenly white man where a clean peon would
be unbearable, although--peon or Caballero--these people are apt to be
tarred with the same stick. I don't care for any of them in mine.”
“I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot guarantee you absolute privacy nor any
kind of white man. It's pretty mixed travel to all Central American
ports.”
“How many berths in your first-class staterooms?”
“Two.”
Webster smiled brightly. He had found a way out of the difficulty. “I'll
buy 'em both, son,” he announced.
“I cannot sell you an entire stateroom, sir. It's against the orders of
the company to sell two berths to one man. The travel is pretty brisk
and it's hardly fair to the public, you know.”
“Well, suppose I buy one ticket for myself and the other for--well, for
my valet, let us say. Of course,” he added brightly, “I haven't engaged
the valet yet and even should I do so I wouldn't be at all surprised if
the rascal missed the boat!”
The clerk glanced at him with a slow smile, and pondered. “Well,” he
said presently, “it's a poor rule that hasn't its exception, and when it
comes to killing cats, strangulation with a butter-ball isn't the only
method. If you care to buy a ticket for your valet, I'm sure I shouldn't
worry whether or not he catches the boat. If my records show that the
space is sold of two men and the purser collects two tickets, I think
you'll be pretty safe from intrusion.”
“To the harassed traveller,” said Mr. Webster, “a meeting with a
gentleman of your penetration is as refreshing as a canteen of cool
water in the desert. Shoot!” and he produced a handful of gold.
“I will--provided I have one empty cabin,” and the clerk turned from the
counter to consult his record of berths already sold and others reserved
but not paid for. Presently he faced Webster at the counter.
“The outlook is very blue,” he announced. “Every name on the passenger
list has a preponderance of vowels in it. However, I have one berth in
No. 34 reserved by a gentleman who was to call for it by two o'clock
to-day.” He looked at his watch. “It is now a quarter of one. If the
reservation isn't claimed promptly at two o'clock I shall cancel it and
reserve for you both berths in that room. If you will be good enough to
leave me your name and address I will telephone you after that hour. In
the meantime, you may make reservation of the other berth in the same
stateroom. I feel very confident that the reservation in No. 34 will not
be called for, Mr.--er----”
“Webster--John S. Webster. You are very kind, indeed. I'm at the St.
Charles.”
“Be there at a quarter after two, Mr. Webster, and you will hear from me
promptly on the minute,” the clerk assured him; whereupon Webster paid
for one berth and departed for his hotel with a feeling that the clerk's
report would be favourable.
True to his promise, at precisely a quarter after two, the ticket
clerk telephoned Webster at his hotel that the berth in No. 34 had been
cancelled and the entire stateroom was now at his disposal.
“If you will be good enough to give me the name of your valet,” he
concluded, “it will not be necessary for you to come down for your
tickets, Mr. Webster. I will fill in both names on my passenger manifest
and send the tickets to your hotel by messenger immediately. You can
then sign the tickets--I have already signed them as witness--and pay
the messenger.”
“Well, I haven't engaged that valet as yet,” Webster began, but the
other interrupted cheerfully: “What's the odds? He's going to miss the
boat, anyhow. All I require is a name.”
“That ought to be a simple request to comply with. Let me see! If I had
a valet I think I should want him to be called Andrew or Martin.”
“I read a book once, Mr. Webster, and the valet in that book was called
Andrew Bowers.”
“Bowers is a fine old English name. Let us seek no further. Andrew
Bowers it is.”
“Thank you. All you have to do then is to remember to sign the name,
Andrew Bowers, to one ticket. Don't forget your valet's name now, and
ball everything up,” and the clerk hung up, laughing.
Half an hour later a boy from the steamship office arrived with the
tickets, collected for them, and departed, leaving John Stuart Webster
singularly pleased with himself and at peace with the entire world.