[Illustration: "'Quiscanto vascamo mirajjar,' which is Yunzano for 'I
am satisfied, I can now die happy.'"]
"But young Henry and his bride," said Wallie--"what happened them
later?"
"Them?" says old Bill. "Well, it was on'y the other day I met a nold
friend o' mine who used to report prize-fights an' jail matters, but is
now writin' about society matters for one of our great metropolitan
journals, an' he shows me in the Sunday supplement a full-page
picksher, in brown ink, of a solid granite buildin' that looked like a
jail but wasn't. It was the Hennery Spiggs Home for Inebriates, an'
built strong like that so no one could escape from it 'n' the good that
was to be done 'em. An' there was another two-page picksher, in brown
ink, of Hennery Spiggs, our same young hero of other days, but now a
noldish gentleman with whiskers under his ears an' his child an'
grandchild gamblin' on the green lawn of his million-dollar Newport
cottage. A great philanthropist he is now, an' a leader of society,
with wealth beyond the dreams of a movin'-picksher actor--all made
outer Yunzano. Before he dies he's hopin' to see erected a fittin'
monument for that world-famous chemist, that great benefactor to the
cause o' humanity an' medicine, the Honorable Nathaniel Spiggs, his
father. Already his best-paid foremen an' employees was bein' invited
to contribute. Sometimes I think o' goin' to see him."
"You should go, of course," says Wallie. "He will be glad to see you."
"Mebby so, mebby so, lad, but why should I thrust my wuthless carcass
onter him? Besides, the round-trip fare to Newport is four dollars an'
more." An' Bill gazes mournful-like across East River to Brooklyn, an'
Wallie's too polite to bust in on him, but I c'n see in his eyes where
he's goin' to get four dollars some way for old Bill some day to pay a
visit to Newport.
An' then it comes time for Wallie to hike off to school, an' he kisses
his father good-by, an' says "So long, Hiker!" to me, an' thanks old
Bill for his story.
"It always gives me pleasure to instruct an' edify growin' youth," says
old Bill, lookin' after Wallie goin' up South Street, an' whilst he's
lookin' a policeman an' a common nordinary citizen heaves into sight.
An' the man looks to be excited, with a coat over one arm.
"You take some o' these young fuhlers," says Bill, "that's been drivin'
a dray all his life an' invest him with a yunniform an' authority an' a
club in his hand, an' two or three times more pay than ever he got
before--you do that, an' I tell you there's nobody safe from 'em." An'
old Bill slips the pipe back into the coat-tail pocket of the coat an'
leaves it on the steps, an' scoots lightly to behind barrels o' flour
three high in the back o' the store.
Mr. Whelan has a peek over his paper at Bill passin'; but he don't say
anything on'y to step to the door when the policeman an' the man come
along.
"Look!" the man hollers, an' dives for the coat Bill 'd left behind
him. "An' look at--the pipe!" He'd hauled it out of the coat-tail
pocket. "My pipe!"
An' then the policeman says: "This gentleman this morning, Mr. Whelan,
dropped into Spiegel's after a little bat for a little nip and a----"
"If you please," interrupts the man, "I will tell it. A short while
ago"--he faces Mr. Whelan--"I was yunnanimously elected outer sentinel
o' my lodge o' Fantail Pigeons. And last night a few friends, wishin'
to commemorate the honor, presented me with this pipe--a fine pipe, as
you can see--of ebony. And my initials, see--HRC--Henry R. Cotton--on
the gold band. And a picture of a fantail--see--engraved on the bowl.
You don't happen to be"--the man steps up to Mr. Whelan an' grabs an'
squeezes his hand, all the while lookin' him hard in the eye--"a
Fantail?" When Mr. Whelan don't say anything, the man gives him
another grip, 'most jumpin' off his feet this time to make sure it was
a good one.
"No," says Mr. Whelan, wrigglin' his fingers apart after the man let go
of 'em--"I'm no Fantail."
"Oh, well, it's all right--there are some good men who are not.
However, I leave the chaps this morning and step into a place down the
street for a cup of coffee before I go to the office, and possibly I
laid my head down on the table for a minute's nap. However, when I get
up to take my coat off the hook where I'd left it, the coat is gone.
And in place of it is this disreputable garment--see?" an' he throws
down the old coat an' wipes his feet on it.
"Spiegel's bartender, Herman," puts in the policeman, "says there was a
nold bum came in an' hung his coat next to this gentleman's, an' when
he went the coat went; and he must 'a' went pretty quiet, Herman says,
for he didn't notice him goin'. An' his description fits an old loafer
who hits the free-lunch trail pretty reg'lar 'round here, an' I think I
seen him loafin' around here once or twice."
"He meant to steal that coat an' pipe," says the man.
"If he meant to steal it," says Mr. Whelan, "why d' y' s'pose he left
it here?"
"Why, I dunno," says the man.
"O' course he didn't," says Mr. Whelan. "An', look here"--he sticks
the mornin' paper under the man's nose an' says: "What do you think o'
Marquard holdin' the Phillies down to two hits yesterday?"
"No!" says the man; "two hits? Well, say, he's _some_ boy, hah?"
"Is he? Listen to me," says the policeman, shovin' his club between
them. "Listen. All I gotter say is, with Mattie an' Jeff an' the Rube
goin' right, where'll them Red Sox fit with the Giants in the world's
series next month? God help 'em--that's all I gotter say."
"The Giants look like a good bet to me, too," says the man, an' soon up
the street toward Spiegel's the pair of 'em go, fannin' about the
Giants with Mr. Whelan.
An' when Mr. Whelan is soon back alone, Bill comes out from behind his
flour-barrels an' with his plug o' Comanche Chief in his hand. "I
don't s'pose yuh could swap this for chewin' o' the same brand, could
yuh, Mr. Whelan?" he says.
"Why--you given up smokin'?" says Mr. Whelan.
"How'm I goin' to smoke without a pipe?" says Bill.
"That's so," says Mr. Whelan, an' goes behind the counter an' pulls
down a couple o' boxes of brier pipes.
"With a middlin' good hook to the stem, if you don't mind," says Bill.
Mr. Whelan passes over the best make of French brier. Bill held it up.
"She looks all right." He put it between his teeth. "An' she feels
all right." He sticks it into his shirt. "An' I guess she'll smoke
all right." He steps to the door an' picks up the old coat. "What
good it done him to wipe his feet on my coat, I dunno," he says. Then
he turns back.
"About Wallie, Mr. Whelan?"
"Why, Bill," says Mr. Whelan, "when he gets back from school of course
he'll get down the chart to look up all those countries you passed on
the way back from Yunzano, and o' course we'll have to make a
correction or two in your jography."
"O' course," says Bill. "I useder have a good mem'ry once, but"--he
taps his head--"gettin' old, gettin' old, Mr. Whelan. That coat
now--it sure did look like the cut o' the coat I used to wear on the
_Tropic Zone_. And the pipe!" an' old Bill gazes mournful-like across
East River to Brooklyn, an' turns again an' says: "A good boy, your
boy, Mr. Whelan--no evil suspicions o' people in his heart. An', as my
old capt'n o' the _Tropic Zone_ useder quote fr'm the Bible to me:
'It's they shall inherit all there is that's wuth inheritin'.'"
An' then Bill heaved another sigh, and put on his old coat, an' went
shufflin' up South Street, on the side away from Spiegel's.