Morris--"if she don't get her mind poor thing! there's a fine insane
asylum just out of Pineville, an' I'd like the best in the world to look
out for her. It would make an excuse for me to go in. They say they have
high old times there. Some days they let the inmates do 'most any old
thing that's harmless. They even give 'em unpoisonous paints an' let 'em
paint each other up. One man insisted he was a barber-pole an' ringed
himself accordingly, an' then another chased him around for a stick of
peppermint candy. Think of all that inside a close fence, an' a town so
dull an' news-hungry----
"Yes, they say Thursdays is paint days, an', of course, Fridays, they
are scrub days. They pass around turpentine an' hide the matches. But,
of course, Mis' Morris may get the better of it. 'Tain' every woman that
can stand widowin', an' sometimes them that has got the least out of
marriage will seem the most deprived to lose it--so they say."
The blonde was a person of words.
* * * * *
When Mrs. Morris had fully revived and, after a restoring "night's
sleep" had got her bearings, and when she realized clearly that her
supposed rival had actually shown up in the flesh, she visibly braced
up. Her neighbors understood that it must have been a shock "to be
suddenly confronted with any souvenir of the hotel fire"--so one had
expressed it--and the incident soon passed out of the village mind.
It was not long after this incident that the widow confided to a friend
that she was coming to depend upon Morris for advice in her business.
"Standing as he does, in that hotel door--between two worlds, as you
might say--why, he sees both ways, and oftentimes he'll detect an event
_on the way to happening_, an' if it don't move too fast, why, I can
hustle an' get the better of things." It was as if she had a private
wire for advance information--and she declared herself happy.
Indeed, a certain ineffable light such as we sometimes see in the eyes
of those newly in love came to shine from the face of the widow, who did
not hesitate to affirm, looking into space as she said it:
"Takin' all things into consideration, I can truly say that I have never
been so truly and ideely married as since my widowhood." And she smiled
as she added:
"Marriage, the earthly way, is vicissitudinous, for everybody knows that
anything is liable to happen to a man at large."
There had been a time when she lamented that her picture was not
"life-sized" as it would seem so much more natural, but she immediately
reflected that that hotel would never have gotten into her little house,
and that, after all, the main thing was having "him" under her own roof.
As the months passed Mrs. Morris, albeit she seemed serene and of
peaceful mind, grew very white and still. Fire is white in its ultimate
intensity. The top, spinning its fastest, is said to "sleep"--and the
dancing dervish is "still." So, misleading signs sometimes mark the
danger-line.
"Under-eating and over-thinking" was what the doctor said while he felt
her translucent wrist and prescribed nails in her drinking-water. If he
secretly knew that kind nature was gently letting down the bars so that
a waiting spirit might easily pass--well, he was a doctor, not a
minister. His business was with the body, and he ordered repairs.
She was only thirty-seven and "well" when she passed painlessly out of
life. It seemed to be simply a case of going.
There were several friends at her bedside the night she went, and to
them she turned, feeling the time come:
"I just wanted to give out that the first thing I intend to do when I'm
relieved is to call by there for Morris"--she lifted her weary eyes to
the picture as she spoke--"for Morris--and I want it understood that
it'll be a vacant house from the minute I depart. So, if there's any
other woman that's calculatin' to have any carryin's-on from them
windows--why, she'll be disappointed--she or they. The one obnoxious
person I thought was in it _wasn't_. My imagination was tempted of Satan
an' I was misled. So it must be sold for just what it is--just a
photographer's photograph. If it's a picture with a past, why, everybody
knows what that past is, and will respect it. I have tried to conquer
myself enough to bequeath it to the young lady I suspicioned, but human
nature is frail, an' I can't quite do it, although doubtless she would
like it as a souvenir. Maybe she'd find it a little too souvenirish to
suit my wifely taste, and yet--if a person is going to die----
"I suppose I might legate it to her, partly to recompense her for her
discretion in leaving that hotel when she did--an' partly for undue
suspicion----
"There's a few debts to be paid, but there's eggs an' things that'll pay
them, an' there's no need to have the hen settin' in the window showcase
any longer. It was a good advertisement, but I've often thought it
might be embarrassin' to her." She was growing weaker, but she roused
herself to amend:
"Better raffle the picture for a dollar a chance an' let the proceeds go
to my funeral--an' I want to be buried in the hotel-fire general grave,
commingled with him--an' what's left over after the debts are paid, I
bequeath to _her_--to make amends--an' if she don't care to come for it,
let every widow in town draw for it. But she'll come. 'Most any woman'll
take any trip, if it's paid for--But look!" she raised her eyes
excitedly toward the mantel, "Look! What's that he's wavin'? It
looks--oh yes, it is--it's our wings--two pairs--mine a little smaller.
I s'pose it'll be the same old story--I'll never be able to keep up--to
keep up with him--an' I've been so hap----
"Yes, Morris--I'm comin'----"
And she was gone--into a peaceful sleep from which she easily passed
just before dawn.
When all was well over, the sitting women rose with one accord and went
to the mantel, where one even lighted an extra candle more clearly to
scan the mysterious picture.
Finally one said:
"You may think I'm queer, but it does look different to me already!"
"So it does," said another, taking the candle. "Like a house for rent. I
declare, it gives me the cold shivers."
"I'll pay my dollar gladly, and take a chance for it," whispered a
third, "but I wouldn't let such a thing as that enter my happy home----"
"Neither would I!"
"Nor me, neither. I've had trouble enough. My husband's first wife's
portrait has brought me discord enough--an' it was a straight likeness.
I don't want any more pictures to put in the hen-house loft."
So the feeling ran among the wives.
"Well," said she who was blowing out the candle, "I'll draw for it--an'
take it if I win it, an' consider it a sort of inheritance. I never
inherited anything but indigestion."
The last speaker was a maiden lady, and so was she who answered,
chuckling:
"That's what I say! Anything for a change. There'd be some excitement in
a picture where a man was liable to show up. It's more than I've got
now. I do declare it's just scandalous the way we're gigglin', an' the
poor soul hardly out o' hearin'. She had a kind heart, Mis' Morris had,
an' she made herself happy with a mighty slim chance----"
"Yes, she did--and I only wish there'd been a better man waitin' for her
in that hotel."
THE GHOST THAT GOT THE BUTTON
BY WILL ADAMS
From _Collier's Weekly_, May 24, 1913. By permission of _Collier's
Weekly_ and Will Adams.
The Ghost that Got the Button
BY WILL ADAMS
One autumn evening, when the days were shortening and the darkness fell
early on Hotchkiss and the frost was beginning to adorn with its fine
glistening lace the carbine barrels of the night sentries as they walked
post, Sergeants Hansen and Whitney and Corporal Whitehall had come to
Stone's room after supper, feeling the need common to all men in the
first cold nights of the year for a cozy room, a good smoke, and
congenial companionship.
The steam heat, newly turned on, wheezed and whined through the
radiator: the air was blue and dense with tobacco smoke; the three
sergeants reposed in restful, if inelegant attitudes, and Whitehall, his
feet on the window sill and his wooden chair tilted back, was holding
forth between puffs at a very battered pipe about an old colored woman
who kept a little saloon in town.
"So she got mad at those K troop men," he said. "An' nex' day when
Turner stopped there for a drink she says: 'You git outer yere! You men
fum de Arsenic wid de crossbones on you caps, I ain't lettin' you in;
but de Medical Corpses an' de Non-efficient Officers, dey may come.'"
The laugh that followed was interrupted by the approach of a raucous,
shrieking noise that rose and fell in lugubrious cadence. "What the
deuce!" exclaimed Whitehall, starting up.
"That's Bill," explained Stone. "Bill Sullivan. He thinks he's singin'.
Funny you never heard him before, Kid, but then he's not often taken
that way, thank the Lord."
"Come in, Bill," he called, "an' tell us what's the matter. Feel sick?
Where's the pain?" he asked as big Bill appeared in the doorway.
"Come in, hombre, an' rest yo'self," invited Whitney, and hospitably
handed over his tobacco-pouch. "What was that tune yo'all were singin'
out yonder?"
"Thanks," responded Bill, settling down. "That there tune was 'I Wonder
Where You Are To-night, My Love.'"
"Sounded like 'Sister's Teeth Are Plugged with Zinc,'" commented
Whitney.
"Or 'Lookin' Through the Knot Hole in Papa's Wooden Leg,'" said
Whitehall.
"Or 'He Won't Buy the Ashman a Manicure Set,'" added Stone.
"No," reiterated Bill solemnly. "It was like I told yer; 'I Wonder Where
You Are To-night, My Love,' and it's a corker, too! I seen a feller an'
a goil sing it in Kelly's Voddyville Palace out ter Cheyenne onct. Foist
he'd sing one voise an' then she'd sing the nex'. He was dressed like a
soldier, an' while he sang they was showin' tabloids o' what the goil
was a-doin' behind him; an' then when she sang her voise he'd be in the
tabloid, an' when it got ter the last voise, an' he was dyin' on a
stretcher in a ambulance, everybody in the house was a-cryin' so yer
could hardly hear her. It was great! My!" continued Bill, spreading out
his great paws over the radiator, "ain't this the snappy evenin'? Real
cold. Somehow it 'minds me of the cold we had in China that time of the
Boxers, after we'd got ter the Legations; the nights was cold just like
this is."
"Why, Bill," said Whitney, "I never knew yo'all were there then. Why did
yo' never tell us befo'? What were yo' with?"
"Fourteenth Infantry," responded Bill proudly. "It's a great ol'
regiment--don't care if they _are_ doughboys."
"What company was you in?" inquired Hansen, ponderously taking his pipe
from his mouth and breaking silence for the first time.
"J Company, same as this."
At this reply Stone opened his mouth abruptly to say something, but
thought better of it and shut up again.
"It was blame cold them nights a week or so after we was camped in the
Temple of Agriculture (that's what they called it--I dunno why), but
say! the heat comin' up from Tientsin was fryin'! It was jus' boilin',
bakin', an' bubblin'--worse a heap than anythin' we'd had in the
islands. We chucked away mos' every last thing on that hike but canteens
an' rifles. It was a darn fool thing ter do--the chuckin' was, o'
course--but it come out all right, 'cause extree supplies follered us up
on the Pie-ho in junks. Ain't that a funny name fer a river? Pie-ho?
Every time I got homesick I'd say that river, an' then I'd see Hogan's
Dairy Lunch fer Ladies an' Gents on the ol' Bowery an' hear the kid Mick
Hogan yellin': 'Draw one in the dark! White wings--let her flop!
Pie-ho!' an' it helped me a heap." Bill settled himself and stretched.
"But what I really wanted to tell youse about," said he, "was somepin'
that happened one o' these here cold nights. It gits almighty cold there
in September, an' it was sure the spookiest show I ever seen. Even Marm
Haggerty's table rappin's in Hester Street never come up to it.
"There was three of us fellers who ran in a bunch them days: me an' Buck
Dugan, my bunkie, from the Bowery like me (he was a corporal), an' Ranch
Fields--we called him that 'cause he always woiked on a ranch before he
come into the Fourteenth. They was great fellers, Buck an' Ranch was.
Buck, now--yer couldn't phase him, yer couldn't never phase him, no
matter what sort o' job yer put him up against he'd slide through slick
as a greased rat. The Cap'n, he knew it, too. Onct when we was fightin'
an' hadn't no men to spare, he lef' Buck on guard over about
twenty-five Boxer prisoners in a courtyard an' tells him he dassent let
one escape. But Buck wants ter git into the fight with the rest of the
boys, an' when he finds that if he leaves them Chinos loose in the yard
alone they'll git out plenty quick, what does he do but tie 'em tight up
by their pigtails to some posts. He knows they can't undo them tight
knots backwards, an' no Chink would cut his pigtail if he _did_ have a
knife--he'd die foist--an' so Buck skidoos off to the fight, an', sure
enough, when the Cap'n wants them Boxers, they're ready, tied up an'
waitin'. That was his sort, an', gee, but he was smart!
"We was all right int'rested in them Allies, o' course, an' watched 'em
clost; but, 'Bill,' says Buck ter me one night, 'its been woikin in me
nut that these here fellers ain't so different from what we know
a'ready. Excep' fer their uniform an' outfits, we've met 'em all before
but the Japs. Why, look a-here,' says he, 'foist, there's the white
men--the English--ain't they jus' like us excep' that they're thicker
an' we're longer? An' their Injun niggers--ain't we seen their clothes
in the comic op'ras an' them without their clothes in the monkey cage at
Central Park? An' their Hong-kong China Regiment an' all the other
Chinos is jus' the same as yer meet in the pipe joints in Mott Street.
Then,' says he, 'come all the Dagos. These leather necks of Macaroni
Dagos we've seen a swarmin' all over Mulberry Bend an' Five Points; the
Sauerkraut Dagos looks fer all the woild like they was goin' ter a
Schuetzenfest up by High Bridge; the Froggie Dagos you'll find packed in
them Frenchy restaraws in the Thirties--where yer git blue wine--and
them Vodki Dagos only needs a pushcart ter make yer think yer in Baxter
Street.'
"Buck, he could sure talk, but Ranch, he wasn't much on chin-chin.
Little an' dark an' quiet he was, an' jus' crazy fer dogs. Any old
mutt'd do fer him--jus' so's it was in the shape of a pup. He was fair
wild fer 'em. He picked up a yeller cur out there the day after the
Yangtsin fight, an' that there no-account, mangy, flea-bitten mutt had
ter stay with us the whole time. If the pup didn't stand in me an' Buck
an' Ranch, he swore he'd quit too, so we had to let him come, an' he
messed an' bunked with our outfit right along. Ranch named him Daggett,
after the Colonel, which was right hard on the C. O., but I bet Ranch
thought he was complimentin' him. Why, Ranch considered himself honored
if any of the pup's fleas hopped off on him. The pup he kep' along with
us right through everything; Ranch watchin' him like the apple of his
eye, an' he hardly ever was out of our sight, till one night about a
week after we quartered in the temple he didn't turn up fer supper. He
was always so reg'lar at his chow that Ranch he begin ter git the
squirms an' when come taps an' Daggett hadn't reported, Ranch had the
razzle-dazzles.
"Nex' mornin' the foist thing he must go hunt that pup, an' went a
scoutin' all day, me an' Buck helpin' him--but nary pup; an' come
another supper without that miser'ble mutt, an' Ranch was up an alley
all right, all right. He was all wore out, an' I made him hit the bunk
early an' try ter sleep; but, Lord! No sooner he'd drop off 'n he git
ter twitchin' an' hitchin' an' wake up a-yelpin' fer Daggett. Long about
taps, Buck, who's been out on a private reconnoissance, comes back an'
whispers ter me: 'Ssst, Bill! The cur's found! Don't tell Ranch; the
bloke'd die of heart failure. I struck his trail an' follered it--an'
say, Bill, what'n thunder do yer think? Them heathen Chinos has _et
him_!' Lord, now, wouldn't that jolt youse? Them Chinos a-eatin'
Daggett! It give me an awful jar, an' Buck he felt it, too. That there
mutt had acted right decent, an' we knew Ranch would have bats in the
belfry fer fair if he hoid tell o' the pup's finish; so says Buck;
'Let's not tell him, 'cause he's takin' on now like he'd lost mother an'
father an' best goil an' all, an' if he knew Daggett was providin' chow
fer Chinos he'd go clean bug house an' we'd have ter ship him home ter
St. Elizabeth.'
"I says O. K. ter that, an' we made it up not ter let on ter Ranch; an'
now here comes the spook part yer been a-waitin' fer.
"Four or five nights later I was on guard, an' my post was the farthest
out we had on the north. There was an ol' road out over that way, an'
I'd hoid tell it led ter a ol' graveyard, but I hadn't never been there
myself an' hadn't thought much about it till 'long between two an'
three o'clock, as I was a-hikin' up an down, when somepin' comes
a-zizzin' down the road hell-fer-leather on to me, a-yellin' somepin'
fierce. Gee, but I was skeered! I made sure it was a spook, an' there
wasn't a bit o' breath left in me. I was all to the bad that time fer
sure. Before I had time ter think even, that screamin', streakin' thing
was on me an a-grabbin' roun' my knees; an' then I see it was one o'
them near-Christian Chinos, an' he's skeered more'n me even. His eyes
had popped clean out'n their slits, an' his tongue was hangin' out by
the roots, he was that locoed. I raised the long yell fer corporal of
the guard, which happened, by good luck, ter be Buck, an' when he come
a-runnin', thinkin' from the whoops I give we was bein' rushed by the
hole push of Boxers, the two of us began proddin' at the Chink ter find
out what was doin'. Took us some time, too, with him bein' in such a
flutter an' hardly able ter even hand out his darn ol' pigeon English,
that sounds like language comin' out of a sausage machine. When we did
savvy his line of chop-suey talk, we found out he'd seen a ghost in the
graveyard, an' not only seen it but he knew who the spook was an' all
about him. We was gittin' some serious ourselves an' made him tell us.
"Seems it was a mandarin--that's a sort o' Chink police-court judge
(till I got ter Tientsin I always thought they was little oranges), an'
this tangerine's--I mean mandarin's--name was Wu Ti Ming, an' he'd been
a high mucky-muckraker in his day, which was two or three hundred years
back. But the Emprer caught him deep in some sort o' graft an' _took
away his button_ an' all o' his dough.
"'Lord!' says Buck when we come ter this, 'don't that prove what
heathens Chinks is? Only one button ter keep on their clothes with, an'
the Emprer he kin take it away! What did this here Judge Ming do then,
John? Use string or pins?' This here John didn't seem ter savvy, but he
said that the mandarin took on so fer his button an' his loss of pull in
the ward that it was sure sad ter see, an' by an' by the Emprer got busy
again with him an' had him finished up fer keeps; had him die the 'death
of a thousand cuts,' says John. It sounded fierce ter me, but Buck he
says:
"'Pshaw! Anybody who's been shaved reg'lar by them lady barbers on
Fourth Avenyer would 'a' give the Emprer the merry ha-ha----'
"After Ming was cut up they took the remains of his corpse an' planted
him in this here graveyard up the road; but he wouldn't stay planted an'
began doin' stunts at night, 'topside walkee-walkee' an' a-huntin' fer
his lost button. He'd used ter have the whole country scared up, but fer
the last twenty years he'd kep' right quiet an' had hardly ever come
out; but now sence the foreign devils come (ain't that a sweet name fer
us?) he's up an' at it again worse than ever, an' the heathens is on
their ear. Fer four nights now they'd seen him, wrapped in a blue robe,
waitin' an' a-huntin' behind tombstones an' walkin' round an' round the
graveyard lie a six days' race fer the belt at Madison Square. John had
jus' seen him on the wall, an' that was why he come chargin' down the
road like forty cats.
"'Will Mr. Ming's sperrit walk till he gits that button back?' Buck
asts. John says: 'Sure.'
"'Well,' says Buck, 'why don't yer give him one?'
"'No can give. Only Emplor, only Son of Heaven give.'
"'Well, look here,' says Buck, 'we sand rabbits ain't no sons of Heaven,
but I'll be darned if we couldn't spare a button ter lay the ghost of a
pore busted police-court judge, who's lost his job an' his tin, if
_that's_ all he wants back. What time does he come out at, John? Could
we see him ter-morrer night?' 'Sure could we,' says John; 'he'll show us
the way, but he won't wait with us; he's bad enough fer his.'
"So Buck takes John an' goes back ter the guard shack, as it's most time
fer relief, an' after I got back we told John ter git the hook, an' we
talked things over, an' Buck he was just wild ter see if he couldn't lay
that Chino ghost. His talents was achin' ter git action on him; anythin'
like that got up his spunk. Says I:
"'Maybe Ranch kin help. We'll tell him ter-morrer after guard mount.
It'll take his mind off Daggett.'
"'No, yer don't,' says Buck. 'Don't yer dare tell him. He's nervous as a
cat over the pup as it is, an' this spook business is awful skeery; I'm
feelin' woozy over it meself. I'm all off when it comes ter ghosts--that
is, if it's a real ghost. And things here in Pekin' is so funny the odds
is all in favor of its bein' the sure thing. I ain't afeard o' no kinds
o' people, but I sure git cold feet when I'm up against a ghost.
Wouldn't that jar youse? An' me a soldier; when it's a soldier's whole
business not ter _git_ cold feet. But I'm bound I'll have a show at that
ol' spook even if it _does_ skeer me out o' my growth. Only don't yer
dare tell Ranch.'
"Nex' night, right after eleven o'clock rounds, me an' Buck slipped
outer our blankets, sneaked out past the guard, an' met John, who was
waitin' fer us in the road jus' beyond where the last sentry woulder
seen him. It was cold as git out. Jus' the same kind o' early cold as
to-night, an' John's teeth was chatterin' like peas in a box--he was
some loco with skeer, too, you bet.
"'Which way?' says Buck, an' John spouts a lot o' dope-joint lingo an'
takes us up a side alley, where there's a whole bunch o' Chinos waitin'
fer us, an' they begun a kowtowin' an' goin' on like we was the whole
cheese. Turned out that John had jollied 'em that the Melican soldier
mans was big medicine an' would make Judge Ming quit the midnight hike
an' cut out scarin' 'em blue. That jus' suited Buck; he was all there
when it come ter play commander in chief. He swelled up an' give 'em a
bundle o' talk that John put in Chino fer 'em, an' then finished up by
showin' 'em a button--a ol' United States Army brass button he'd cut off
his blue blouse--an' tol' 'em he was goin' ter bury it in Ming's grave
so as ter keep him bedded down.
"An' them simple idiots was pleased ter death, an' the whole outfit
escorted us over ter the graveyard, but they shied at the gate (Lord, I
hated ter see 'em go--even if they _was_ heathens!), an' let John take
us in an' show us where ter wait. He put us in behind a pile o' little
rocks in about the middle o' the place near where Judge Ming hung out,
an' then retired on the main body at the double, leavin' us two in
outpost alone there together. I hadn't never been ter a Chino buryin'
ground before, an' night time wasn't extree pleasant fer a foist
introduce. There was a new moon that night--a little shavin' of a thing
that hardly gave no light, an' from where we was there was a twisty pine
tree branch that struck out right acrost it like a picture card--two fer
five. The graveyard was all dark an' quiet, with little piles o' rocks
an' stone tables ter mark the graves, an' a four- or five-foot wall
runnin' all round it; an' somehow, without nothin' stirrin' at all, the
whole blame place seemed chock full o' movin' shadders. There wasn't a
sound neither; not the least little thing; jus' them shadders; an' the
harder yous'd look at 'em the more they seemed ter move. It was cold,
too, like I told yer--bitin' cold--an' me an' Buck squatted there tight
together an' mos' friz. We waited, an' we waited, an' _we waited_, an'
we got skeerder, an' skeerder, an' _skeerder_, an', gee! how we
shivered! Every minute we thought we'd see Judge Ming, but a long time
went by an' he didn't come an' he _didn't_ come. There we set, strung up
tight an' ready ter snap like a banjo string, but nothin' ter see but
the shakin' shadders an' nothin' ter hear--nothin' but jus' dead, dead
silence.
"All of a suddent Buck (he kin hear a pin drop a mile away) nearly nips
a piece out'n my arm as he grips me. 'Listen!' says he.
"I listened an' listened, but I didn't hear nothin', an' I told him so.
"'Yes, yer do, yer bloke yer,' he whispers, 'Listen. Strain your years.'