A fat Italian came by in a heavily-tired wagon. The wagon was loaded
with green bananas. The fruit-vendor stopped and looked me over. He
most demonstratively offered me a seat beside him. He had a Benvenuto
Cellini leer. He wore one gold earring. He looked like the social
secretary of the Black Hand.
He was apparently driving on into the country. Therefore I suffered
myself to be pulled up on to the seat. Around the corner we came to
green fields and bushes, and I thanked the good St. Francis and all his
holy company.
I said to my charioteer: “As soon as you get a mile out, let me down. I
do not want to get near any more towns for awhile.”
“Allaright,” he said. On his wrist was tattooed a blue dagger. The
first thing he did was unmerciful. He went a yard out of his way to
drive over the lame cat which had stopped in despair, just ahead of us.
Pussy died without a shriek. Then the cruel one, gathering by my manner
that I was not pleased with this incident, created a diversion. He
reproved his horse for not hurrying. It was not so much a curse as an
Italian oration. The poor animal tried to respond, but hobbled so, his
master surprised me by checking the gait to a walk. Then he cooed to
the horse like a two hundred pound turtledove.
In a previous incarnation this driver must have been one of the lower
animals, he had so many dealings with such. Some rocks half the size
of base-balls were piled at his feet. A ferocious dog shot out from a
cottage doorway. With lightning action he hurled the ammunition at the
offender. The beast retreated weeping aloud from pain. And Mr. Cellini
showed his teeth with delight.
And now, after passing several pleasant farm-houses, where I ran a
chance for a free lodging for the asking, I was vexed to be suddenly
driven into a town. We hobbled, rattled on, into a wilderness thicker
every minute with fire-spouting smoke-stacks.
“This ees Franklin,” said my charioteer. “Nice-a-town. _MY_ town,” he
added earnestly. “I getta reech (rich) to-morrow.”
He began to cross-examine the writer of this tale. I counselled myself
not to give my name and address, lest I be held for ransom.
After many harmless inquiries, he asked in a would-be ingratiating
manner, “Poppa reech?”
“No. Poor.”
“Poppa verra reech?”
“No. Awfully poor. But happy and contented.”
“Where your Poppa leeve?”
“My father is the Man in the Moon.”
That answer changed him completely. I seemed to have given the
password. I had joined whatever it was he belonged to. He gave me three
oranges as a sign.
I had hoped we would drive past the smoke and fire. But he turned at
right angles, into the midst of it, and drove into a big black barn. He
waved me good-by in the courtliest manner, as though he were somebody
important, and I were somebody important.
Pretty soon I asked a passer-by the nearest way to the suburbs. I
had to walk on the edges of my feet they were so tired. The street
he pointed out to me was nothing but a continuation of tar-black,
coughing, out-of-door ovens, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, on to
the crack of doom. I presume, in the language of this vain world, they
were coke ovens.
I opened my eyes as little as possible and breathed hardly at all.
Then, by way of diversion, I nibbled animal crackers, first a dog, then
a giraffe, then a hippopotamus, then an elephant.
Those ovens looked queerer as the street led on. There were subtle
essences abroad when the smoke cleared away, and when the great roar
ceased there were vague sounds that struck awe into the heart. I may be
mistaken, but I think I know the odor of a burning ghost on the late
afternoon wind, and the puffing noise he makes.
As the cinders crunched, crunched, underfoot, the conviction deepened:
“These ovens are not mere works of man. Dying sinners snared and
corrupted by Oil City are carried here when the city has done its
work--carried in the wagon of Apollyon, under bunches of green bananas.
Body and soul they are disintegrated by the venomous oil; they crumble
away in the town of oil, and here in the town of ovens, the fragments
are burned with unquenchable fire.”
Now it was seven o’clock. The street led south past the aristocratic
suburbs of Franklin, and on to the fields and dandelion-starred
roadside.