Again the thoughts of his lawless and wasted life came back to him.
He had never in all his life done one noble or honorable deed; and
should he ever land with that cargo of wealth, he knew that the old
dissipations would be resumed wilder and more dissolute with this new
fortune.
Impelled by some curious fancy, and true to his gambler-like nature, he
suddenly drew a coin from his pocket.
“I leave it to God to decide,” he muttered. “If I spin heads three
times out of five I will try and make for land; if not,--” He did not
finish the sentence, but he looked over the side of the boat into
the blue waters, and shivered slightly as the white belly of a shark
flashed in the sunlight within three feet of him.
He knelt down on the bottom of the boat. It was a most momentous
question for him. He held the little coin for a second, then spun it
nervously. As he lifted his trembling hand he saw that the silver piece
had fallen head up.
“I am not beyond pardon,” he whispered to himself. “God wishes me to
live.”
Once more he spun the coin. Again it came head up. The Man jumped to
his feet joyfully. The burning thirst was for the moment forgotten. He
was like a man whom a priest has just absolved. God must surely wish
him to live; He would not torture him thus. For the first time in his
life a noble thought came to The Man. The fortune which he had stumbled
upon he determined to use in works of charity. He would atone for his
misspent life.
Once more he knelt and confidently spun the coin. To his horror it fell
tails uppermost. He seized it and spun it again. It wobbled to and fro
like a drunken man for a few seconds, then once more fell tails up.
The man raised a haggard face to heaven, and for the first time since
his childhood, prayed. As he lowered his eyes he almost shouted for
joy; for, far on the western horizon, but rapidly approaching, he saw
the outlines of a ship. He had been so intent on the game of life and
death he was playing that he had not seen the ship till now it was
plainly in view.
He sat for a few minutes and watched with unbelieving eyes his
approaching rescue, for the ship was heading directly for him.
Then, suddenly, he felt the piece of metal in his hand. His fate was
not yet decided. He had a question of honor which God and he were to
decide. He spun the coin slowly, but shut his eyes before it had ceased
whirling. Then he groped for the coin, and spread his hand over it not
daring to look at it.
He sat thus for a long time, the cold perspiration standing out on his
face. The ship drew nearer and nearer, and he began to distinguish
forms on board. In a few minutes she would be within hailing distance.
At last he reached down and picked up the coin carefully, and holding
it between both palms, he arose and stepped to the side of the boat,
prepared for the first time in his life to keep his word of honor. He
looked down at the heap of pearls at his feet, then at the rapidly
approaching ship. He saw that the men on board had sighted him, and
were preparing to lower a boat.
Slowly he opened the fingers of the hand covering the coin, and looked
between with scared eyes. Then he raised his right hand, made the sign
of the cross muttering “Thy will be done,” and slipped quietly over the
side of the boat to the waiting mouths below.
THE WINE OF PANTINELLI.
THE WINE OF PANTINELLI.[4]
For an Italian Prince, Fabriano was exceedingly good company for
an American doctor. He rode and shot like a cowboy, kept a stud of
seventeen polo ponies, and had traveled this little world from end to
end. Above all things, he was a connoisseur of wines, and his cellars
were stocked with cask upon cask and tier upon tier of cobwebbed
bottles of rare old vintages. Indeed, it was indirectly through this
passion of Prince Fabriano that Doctor Hardy made his acquaintance.
Hardy was consulting physician at the Protestant Hospital in the Villa
Betania, outside the Porta Romana, and the Prince, on a flying visit
to the Tuscan capital to secure a vinous treasure, and incidentally
witness the annual festival of Santa Croce, brought with him a
touch of Roman fever which caused his commitment to the care of the
American doctor. His illness was short, but long enough to ripen the
acquaintance with the doctor into a warm friendship, resulting in an
invitation to the physician to visit the princely estate of Fabriano.
In this Umbrian fastness, where his ancestors had exercised sovereign
power, Fabriano was regarded as the lord of the soil, by all but a few
adherents of a deposed house under the leadership of Luigi di Folengo.
One evening, as Hardy went to the Prince’s rooms for their usual smoke
and game of cards, he found the Prince sitting by the table, holding a
bottle of amber-colored liquid.
“Why not pull the cork, Fabriano, and let us have something more than
a sight of this richly-colored fluid?” said the doctor in a bantering
tone.
To his surprise, the Prince answered quite seriously, and with almost a
shudder:
“I would not drink one sip of the wine that comes in that flask--not
even for the polo pony Gustavo that we saw in the Royal stables last
week, and you know how much I coveted that little beast.”
A second look showed Hardy that the bottle was of peculiar shape and
peculiarly stoppered; and he asked the question which he saw the Prince
was ready to answer.
“You remember the trip to Florence to which I owe the pleasure of your
acquaintance? Well, I had another reason beside my interest in the
Santa Croce festival. You have heard of the Monastery of La Certosa,
out on the Galluzzo road, beyond your hospital? The government had
abolished it, and there was a store of valuable wine to be put up at
auction, including a few bottles of Pantinelli. Fate has seemed to be
against my getting any of that wine, until to-day. I have tried for
years to get one small bottle, but never yet have tasted it. Pantinelli
was a rich old banker in Genoa, who owned a vineyard on the sunny
slopes of the Riviera di Ponente. He never sold his wine, but presented
it to his friends; and as he was a cousin of Luigi di Folengo, of whose
hatred for me I have already told you, he, naturally, never included me
in his list of beneficiaries.
“There was nothing peculiar in the appearance of Pantinelli’s wine, but
it was invariably put up in bottles just like this. He was an eccentric
old fellow, and always corked his bottles by means of this peculiar
device, which he claimed to have invented. He gave as a reason for
his oddity the belief that if he used the customary seal his friends
would keep his beverage for years unopened, without discovering its
flavor, and that he meant them to test its superiority at once on
receipt. He seems to have relied on his friends themselves to prevent
the fraudulent substitution of another wine, which would, in his queer
bottles, have brought an enormous price. However, any one lucky enough
to receive a bottle of the famous beverage usually followed the old
man’s request to the letter, and drank it the same day.
“This afternoon, while you slept, a messenger brought this bottle with
a message from Luigi di Folengo, expressing the wish that we might
live in amity hereafter, and begging the acceptance of a gift which he
believed that I, more than any one else in all Italy would appreciate,
a flask of genuine Pantinelli.
“Now I do not absolutely know that the wine he sent is poisoned, but I
think I know Folengo pretty well, and I am going to try an experiment
this evening which I should like to have you witness. I answered him
immediately to the effect that his overtures were gladly welcomed,
and that on my part I should be pleased to give him an important
appointment in my service, and hand him the papers to-night. I ended by
telling him that to-morrow, seeking out a quiet spot, I should enjoy my
Pantinelli to the last drop.”
The Prince put the bottle away in a sideboard and produced from a
desk a folded paper as Count Luigi di Folengo was announced. He was
a swarthy person, with a saber cut across one cheek, and a droop to
the eyelid which, to Dr. Hardy, was singularly unprepossessing. The
physician highly approved his friend’s course in leaving the Pantinelli
untasted.
The conversation was general for a few moments after the guests had
been introduced, and then the Prince, taking out the queer-shaped
flask, silently placed it upon the table as he handed Folengo his
appointment. Dr. Hardy watched the man as he stared at the bottle,
half-guessing what was to come. Folengo mumbled words of thanks for the
paper, but his eyes never left the wine.
“I see you looking longingly at your present of the afternoon,” said
the Prince pleasantly, “and instead of selfishly drinking it all by
myself to-morrow, I will be generous. Of course this wine has not the
novelty of charm to you that it has to others unrelated to its famous
grower, but no one could get enough of such a drink; and, in honor of
our new-formed friendship, you must drink my health in one small glass
of the famed wine of Pantinelli.”
He poured out a brimming glass and set it down in front of Luigi di
Folengo, who sat shaking like a leaf, his drooping eyelid fluttering
with strong excitement.
“I am to play to-night, with my friend the doctor here, a game for very
high stakes, so I must keep my head clear; but to-morrow you may think
of me as steeped in Pantinelli’s generous vine juice.”
As the Prince spoke the last sentence he took from the table-drawer
a handsome gold-mounted revolver, which he held up to the light so
that glittering rays darted from its polished barrel as he said to the
trembling Luigi, “I also wish to present you this pistol, with which
I have never missed a shot, and which has sent more than one of my
enemies down the long road.”
While Fabriano spoke the man’s eyes anxiously searched the room for a
means of escape, and finally came back to the calm face of the Prince.
He glanced from the heavy amber liquor before him to the shining weapon
with which Fabriano lovingly toyed, and then with a quiet heroism which
Hardy could not help but admire, he raised the glass to his lips and
drained it.
He sat there for a minute or two, gazing stupidly at the empty glass.
Then, of a sudden, he began to tremble violently; his teeth chattered,
and great beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead. On his lips
there came a yellowish foam, and he started to his feet, clawing at his
breast as if it were on fire, while a hoarse, cackling noise came from
his throat. Dr. Hardy knew that the man must be suffering terribly,
and, guilty as he believed him to be, could only pity.
Rocking to and fro, Folengo threw himself upon the floor, where he lay
writhing and twisting in his death agony. His face turned black, and
his eyes started from his head, like those of a strangled man. After
that he lay quite still.
[Illustration: “And, raising the glass to his lips, he drained it.”
(See page 86.)]
Dr. Hardy stooped and felt for the man’s heart. There was not the trace
of a beat. He turned to the Prince, who had sat through the whole
scene with a smiling face, and said, “You are amply avenged, Prince
Fabriano. That man died the most terrible death I have witnessed in
twenty years of practice.”
Fabriano, still smiling strangely, poured out two more glasses of the
wine which the dead man had just drunk. “So be it with all assassins!”
he said. “Drink to the downfall of my enemy!”
“No, thank you,” answered Hardy drily, thinking the ghastly joke was
being carried too far; “life has still a few attractions.”
“Oh, as you will,” replied the Prince carelessly. “Then I must drink
alone,” and he emptied the glass.
“But you are missing something choice,” he continued, wiping his
lips. “That wine has been in my cellars for fifty years. The stuff
our late friend sent is safely locked away for analysis, together with
a poisoned dagger and an infernal machine, both of which, I believe,
I owe to him or his followers. If you were coroner in this case, what
would your verdict be--death from a guilty conscience, supplemented by
a vivid imagination? Come, I believe it’s my first deal this evening.”
THE STRANGEST FREAK.
THE STRANGEST FREAK.
“Snakes in a den, like bees in a hive, and she eats ’em alive. That’s
what she does, ladies and gentlemen. She bites the head off, eats the
body, and throws the tail away. And it costs you but ten cents, one
dime, the tenth part of a dollar, to see Bosko.”
It was just outside the main side-show connected with Poole Brothers’
Royal Roman Hippodrome and Three Ring Circus, and the big tent had not
yet opened for the afternoon’s performance.
Stetson, manager of the freaks and chief announcer for all the special
shows, had just succeeded, by beating on a large iron triangle, in
attracting a majority of the people standing about the grounds. Behind
him on a raised platform was a huge box-like pen which rose to about
the height of a man’s shoulder.
Gaudy placards and pictures adorning the upper part of this platform
stated that within could be seen Bosko--the Strangest Freak Ever
Born to Live--a human snake-eater. One of the pictures represented
a creature clothed principally in long black hair and a ferocious
expression squatting at the entrance of a large cave. In one hand, or
paw, was a decapitated giant rattlesnake which she was in the act of
devouring.
“Esau, that’s her first name; Bosko, that’s her last name; and she
eats live snakes,--rattlesnakes, copperheads, yellow backs, and Gila
monsters. That’s what she eats, that’s what she lives on,” shouted the
manager.
The country people, anxious as ever to throw away the money so hardly
wrung from their stubborn hill farms, crowded each other in their
eagerness to be first on the platform. The box-like pen was about ten
feet long by four feet wide, and soon between thirty and forty people
had crowded about the rail, and were peering open-mouthed over the edge.
On the bottom of the pen was crouched a dark-skinned Something lazily
rolling its head from side to side. This Something wore a brown canvas
skirt which came to the knees, and a sort of loose coat or jacket over
the shoulder. On her head, and hanging down over her eyes, was a long,
black mane of hair, which but few of the yokels about recognized as a
wig.
But crawling over this swarthy, thick-lipped creature were the things
which caused the exclamations on the part of the bystanders. Over the
body of Bosko, under, beside and behind her, twined and wriggled dozen
upon dozen of twisting, writhing snakes. They coiled and uncoiled over
her black legs, running out their little forked tongues spitefully. The
sun beat down fiercely overhead, and swarms of flies settled down on
every part of the evil smelling pen.
Stetson made way for himself at one end of the rail, and began a more
detailed description. “Before you, ladies and gentlemen, you see, as
I just told you, the strangest freak ever born to live, Bosko, Esau
Bosko, the human snake eater. The medical fraternity declare that she
is part snake, part woman. Part snake because she has to kill her own
food before she eats it. When first captured in Australia, Bosko was
living in a cave like you see in the pictures outside, subsisting
entirely on the most poisonous kinds of snakes. It is about the time
she usually feeds, and if you watch carefully you may see how this
strangest of all freaks obtains its food.”
As if taking its cue from the manager’s last remark, the Thing in the
pen ceased rolling its head, and began running about on all fours,
making low guttural noises in its throat, and feeling first one then
another of the reptiles.
Suddenly it seized a small rattler, and taking it firmly in both hands
just below the head gave a quick twisting movement. There was a sound
of rending flesh and the head was flung to the floor. Then taking the
remaining stump, Bosko drew back the skin as if peeling a banana, and
buried her teeth in the still quivering flesh.
Most of the spectators turned away at this point and left the platform.
Several looked rather white and seemed not to feel particularly
well. Others, however, of a stronger constitution, or of lesser
sensibilities, stayed on, anxious to see if the show was a “fake,” and
if the mouthful would be spit out.
Meanwhile Stetson at the foot of the platform, was shouting, “Go where
they all go, see what they all see. Bosko, the human snake eater,
that’s what they’re all looking at. That’s what they’re all interested
in. Yellow backed rattlers, that’s what Bosko is eating to-day.”
There was something so disgusting about the show, and since each man
who saw the freak advised his neighbors not to do likewise, those same
neighbors, being human, immediately purchased tickets, and the railing
about the pen of Bosko was lined with wide-eyed, fascinated spectators
till the show in the main tent was over for the afternoon.
Then Murphy, one of the attendants, came to the pen and threw a cover
over the top. Almost instantly a small trap door in the bottom of
the box opened, and Bosko disappeared from the den of snakes. Twenty
minutes later a short, thickset negro of a remarkably unpleasant
cast of features was walking unsteadily about the grounds consuming
cigarettes without number.
It cost the manager of the Royal Roman Hippodrome one dollar and
seventy cents a day in money, a few inexpensive snakes, and an
unlimited amount of cheap whiskey to present to the gullible public
Bosko, the “Strangest Freak Ever Born to Live.”
It had been put on by Poole Brothers as an experiment three months
before, when the show split up at Boston. The best part of the side
show, including Bobo, the Wild Man from Borneo, Herman the Ossified
Boy, and the Sacred White Elephant, had followed the best part of
the circus and gone through Rhode Island and Connecticut, while the
remainder was sent up through Northern New England.
The side show was thus left a little short of first-class freaks. So
Stetson, with his customary ingenuity, had arranged for an entirely new
sensation,--Bosko, a human snake-eater,--and the attraction, which was
only an experiment at first, was now one of the best drawing cards.
Like all other good things in this world, however, it had its
disadvantages. Bosko had to be watched constantly. Twice he had
smuggled the little black bottle which was his constant companion, when
not before the public, into the pen with him. Fortunately, no one had
seen him taking surreptitious pulls at it either time, but there was
always the possibility.
Stetson had also been alarmed, during his preliminary harangue to the
crowd one day, to see smoke issuing from the top of the pen, and, on
looking in, found Bosko stealthily puffing away on a cigarette. Murphy
was quickly dispatched to the little trap-door in the bottom of the
cage, and the smoking immediately ceased.
To be sure, it took more and more whiskey every day to get Bosko “keyed
up” to that state when he would consent to go on with the part; but
whiskey was cheap, especially the brand furnished by Poole Brothers,
so there was no kick from the powers above. They realized that this
particular impersonator of Bosko couldn’t last very long--a quart of
raw whiskey a day is a terrible strain for any man’s nerves, even a
negro’s; so they “indulged” the snake-eater.
The only thing that worried Stetson was the fear that perhaps Bosko
wouldn’t be able to keep up the part till the Amalgamated Shows came
together in the fall. He had watched the “nigger” a good deal of late,
and saw certain unmistakable signs. He was the only man in the show who
knew the exact amount of the poison that Bosko drank every day before
assuming his part, so he was in a position to read those signs very
correctly.
The first trouble came just after the circus struck Vermont. In the
interval between the close of the afternoon and the beginning of the
evening performance, Bosko went up street at a small town called
Montpelier, and stayed till after time for the evening show to begin.
Murphy and the camp doctor, Foley, were sent for him, and finally
located him in the town jail. He had bought some alcohol at the local
agency, prepared some “splits,” and drunk about a pint of the stuff.
A few minutes later he had developed an acute attack of something so
terrifying to some street urchins, who found him in a back street, that
they had run to the only officer in town, and informed him that there
was a mad man loose.
After a certain amount of “fixing” with the high sheriff, who was also
constable, health officer, and game warden, the doctor was finally
allowed to take Bosko back to the circus grounds. But the “Strangest
Freak” was not on exhibition that evening, being too busily engaged
with snakes of his own, not furnished by the management of the Royal
Roman Hippodrome.
During the next week several changes were tried in regard to Bosko. He
was given a decrease in pay and a decrease in liquor, as a punishment
for his misdemeanor. This not being exactly what you might call a
success, he was given a raise in pay, the decrease in whiskey still
being continued.
Fluctuations in salary proved, however, to have no effect on Bosko, so
long as he was not allowed to spend the money according to his own
lights. The arrangement which was finally settled upon was, therefore,
a total discontinuance of pay and an increase in whiskey.
Three days after the first trouble, even while an instalment of the
afternoon’s crowd was eagerly watching the snake-eater and listening to
Stetson’s description of him, Bosko was suddenly visited by his other
collection of snakes.
Carried away by the violence of the attack, but apparently from force
of habit remembering his part, he gave an exhibition that day in
the destruction of his companions of the pen, which, though rather
expensive to Messrs. Poole Brothers, nevertheless made Bosko’s lifelong
reputation as a snake-eater.
Stetson, with true managerial instinct, made the most of the attack,
and the receipts at Bosko’s platform on that day rivalled those of the
main show. Admissions were put up to a quarter, but still the crowd
which blocked the railing refused to diminish.
Such was the success of that day’s terrible performance that Bosko’s
fame quickly spread throughout the entire state, and for the next month
he proved one of the brightest and most remunerative “stars” that Poole
Brothers had exhibited since the old days of the Hindoo Leper.
Nor did he have to live on the reputation of that one performance
alone, for towards the last of the month the attacks were of almost
daily occurrence. But that state of affairs could not continue long.
The last public appearance of the “Strangest Freak” was in Concord, N.
H., and those who witnessed the ravings of the Australian snake-eater
on that day saw something which they did not forget for many a year.
The next day Bosko was too ill to leave his bed, and a week later he
died, still fighting his foes, and wailing piteously, “Take ’em away;
I can’t eat ’em all. There’s too many of ’em, and they’re too big.
There’s hundreds of ’em. Take ’em away, I say. They’re in my hair,
they’re choking me.”
The snake-eating attraction had to be discontinued after that, for
though Stetson made some very flattering offers to several of the
colored cooks, hostlers, and helpers connected with the show, no one
seemed to aspire to the position. Some few had seen the negro the last
night, and news of that kind travels fast.
The public, however, clamored for a snake-eater. They had heard such
blood-curdling reports of the freak which had passed through Vermont
and New Hampshire, that many were the complaints made to the management
for not bringing out their whole show.
The circus, being, above all things, an institution catering to the
public’s wishes, made heroic efforts. Stetson was sent on a special
trip to New York, and spent most of the time slumming. He returned
soon after with a negro well past middle age and almost blind, but with
a strong affinity for gin.
It wasn’t much of a sight for anyone who had ever seen the creator
of the part of Bosko, this stupid, muttering old man, who sometimes
went to sleep during performances; but his predecessor had made the
reputation, and he simply lived on it, staying gloriously drunk six
days out of the week.