MONROE AND COBB VISIT PETER DIEMAN'S HOME TOGETHER.
Peter Dieman sat in his high-backed leather-cushioned chair smoking a
black cigar, surrounded with all the ease and sumptuousness of a
successfully domesticated gentleman. As he smoked his favorite weed, the
circumambient gray was as a smudge in the midst of a fruiting orange
grove. And above it all, he smelled like one who had been soused in
aromatic oils.
A pair of satin-embroidered slippers encased his broad flat feet; a red
skull-cap, with a maroon tassel on top of it, bore down upon his rufous
head of hair; a purple-flowered mandarin-like robe enfolded his pudgy
body. The hairsuite appendage that had gone neglected for years, had
been unceremoniously removed from his chin; a yellow stubby moustache,
closely cropped, hung above his lips like clipped porcupine quills, and
a new set of hand-made teeth filled his sprawling mouth. The rubicundity
of his face might have been taken as a danger sign on a dark night, with
his green-gray eyes lighted up as a companion signal. A masseur had
rubbed the scowl of years and the hate of time out of his face, till its
rotundity was equaled only by the full moon recovering from a case of
the dumps. So, all that were necessary to complete his personification
of Old King Cole were the long-stemmed pipe and the serrated crown.
While the latter would not have been essential to the enhancement of his
kingly appearance, it might have been a fitting part toward the
completion of his princely makeup.
Thus he sat and thus he looked in his spectacular pomp of power--a
sub-king of the grafters--since he went into the soul-quieting business
of matrimony. Thus he sat and thus he looked, when Miram Monroe, the
genteel ghost, was let into his presence. Thus he sat and thus he
looked, when Jacob Cobb, the ring-master, was ushered in--one following
the other.
Would the visitors smoke? asked His Majesty. Yes, the visitors would
smoke, as a favor to this potentate. And they smoked, and they smoked
till they filled the air so full of toxic fumes that the fair king was
almost obscured by the baleful haze.
"Before we get down to business, gentlemen," said Peter, in all his
suavity of new refinement, as he slapped his fat right leg with his
heavy right hand, and scratched his head behind the ear with his left,
"I must escort you through my palace. I've got a place--" waving now his
right hand above his head in indication of the building that enclosed
him--"good as any man's; and I want you two old friends to see it before
we get down to business. Pleasure first, gentlemen, you know; pleasure
first, to me, now."
"I'll be glorified to see it," said the ghost.
"I'll be sanctified to see it," said the ring-master.
Peter arose with kingly mien, shaking the rheumatism out of his joints
and the gout out of his toes, and then swelling out his breast to a
boa constrictor size after swallowing a goat, wheezing like a horse with
the heaves. He led the way, with his robe dragging on the carpet, to
circumnavigate the building, the ghost and the ring-master following,
respectively, with the sanctimonious bearing of laymen following a
high-priest.
"The kiddies are out this evening attending a party, and I have all this
great house to myself--" waving his right hand around like a preacher of
the Word. "We will go up the stairs first."
Up the stairs Peter went, the ghost next after him, looking ahead and
considering fearfully what he would feel like should the king lose his
balance, in mounting the steps, which he seemed likely to do constantly
as he elevated himself lift after lift, so clumsily did Peter climb; and
the circus-master took his time, a safe distance behind, with a sweet
air of passivity in his patience over Peter's laughable pomposity.
Peter led the way through brilliant halls and brilliant rooms, without a
dark corner in any of them, nor even a blind closet in which to conceal
the proverbial family ghost; which shadowy being, however, was not
likely to seek a place of concealment in this home, since, as it
happens, he had evaded all these pure pleasures of domesticity for so
many years; so it would be an hazardous presumption to expect the
stalker of family trouble to abide with him.
"Where're you going to keep the family ghost?" asked the real ghost.
"You old batch! Do you think I'd tolerate him round here?" said Peter,
with connubial pride. "Cobb has a cinch on them all; eh, Cobb?" with a
refreshened squint towards Cobb.
"Don't be so rude, Peter, as to bring me into your argumentations with
Monroe here, whose own reputation needs a little stringing up,"
responded Cobb.
"Never mind your moralizing--show us your house," replied the ghost,
without being the least irritated.
When they came to the bath room, they all stepped within; and the
visitors were charmed. Peter took on a new halo of beamingness as he saw
how delighted his patrons were over this dream of modern bathery, with
its shining fixtures and alabastine walls.
"Do you bathe, Peter?" asked the ghost.
"I guess, yes--every morning at eight," answered Peter, with a swell.
"Humph!" responded the ghost; "and you didn't catch cold the first
time?" with no attempt to be facetious.
"Alcohol is a great preventative," answered Peter.
"Within, or without?" asked the ghost.
"Without; you mummy," retorted Peter.
"You surprise me, Peter," said Cobb, as he was testing one of the
faucets; "the last time I saw you, you looked as if you hadn't touched
water in years."
"Once a year then; once a day now; three hundred and sixty-five days in
the year," said Peter, grinning.
"I always believed you had some redeeming qualities," said Cobb; "but
how does it come you have clean water?" he asked, holding up a glassful
between his eyes and the light.
"Private filter," answered the king.
"That's infernal water to turn into the public trough," remarked Cobb.
"I mean this, before it was filtered," pointing to the glassful still in
his hand.
"It's all they deserve," said the king, snapping his eyes.
"When ought we to work them for a new system?" asked Cobb, emptying the
glass. "Pretty decent water, this--when filtered," he observed, washing
his hands.
"We'll talk about water systems when we get back to business," answered
the king.
"Do you wash your feet in water or alcohol?" asked the ghost.
"Don't get too fresh, Monroe, or I'll loosen up your face with some soap
and water," with a hearty chuckle.
"Oh, sometimes I forget, Peter, seeing you heretofore as a bear," as a
mollifier to his allusions.
"You're a corrugated donkey, Monroe," said the king, with a louder
chuckle than before, rubbing his hands, this time with a towel between
them.
"You're a convoluted mule," returned the ghost, tapping the enameled
wall with his knuckle, as a clincher to his assertion.
"Here, here! You fellows are getting too personal," said Cobb, stepping
forward, as if he expected trouble, so as to be ready as a queller of
what he thought might lead to a melee.
"Hah, ha, ha!" roared Peter, strutting out like a gallinaceous cock.
"Cobb, you must pay no attention to Monroe's foolishness," as he swept
theatrically along the hallway to the stairs; but still presenting the
incongruous habits of a waddling duck.
Monroe followed languidly, puckering his mouth into a low whistle, that
might have meant more than the blowing out of good humor. With most men,
whistling means the venting of a superfluity of joy; but with Monroe, it
might have meant a cooling drop in his cup of anger. Cobb came lolling
after them, in his usual undisturbed forbearance.
Debouching into the parlor, with the stellar lights trailing, the king
touched a button; presto! starlight, moonlight, sunlight, all together,
in one grand aurora borealis, flashed mute darkness into palpitating
day.
"This is my universe," cried the king, throwing up both hands, as if he
were beginning the Sermon on the Mount.
"Grand!" whispered the ghost.
"Grand!" said the ring-master.
"Grand" cried back The Moses, The Napoleon, The Wellington, The
Washington, The Roosevelt, The Pathfinder, The Man With the Hoe, The
Babes in the Woods, The Doves, The Dieman, on the walls.
"Grand!" echoed Mozart, Beethoven, Wagner, Shakespeare, Milton, Poe,
Irving, Longfellow, Emerson, standing about in corners and alcoves in
their statuary dumbness.
"Grand!" pealed the Giant Grand resting on four legs, like an exhibition
slab of mahogany, in a corner.
"Grand!" laughed the settees, the tete-a-tetes, the rockers, the
cushions, the chairs, as if they were ready to jump up and slap the
visitors on the back and seat them down.
"Grand!" shouted the king. "Well, I should eat a bedbug, if you can
surpass it in this old town for dazzle." And everything hung its head in
mortification.
"Grand!" they all said, as the king entered the dining room, with its
glitter and its glimmer and its splendor and its grandeur. "Here is
where I eat," he remarked, after seeing his friends dumfounded and
speechless.
Dumfounded? Why, of course!
Speechless? Why, to be sure!
Shucks! Who said the average man isn't a pompous idiot?
"To business, now, gentlemen; to business," said Peter, waving his hand
toward his private den, where first he was greeted in his royal robes by
the genteel ghost and the ring-master.
"Well?" said Peter, after seating himself in his chair of state,
directing his question to Cobb.
"Let Monroe speak," said Cobb.
"Let Cobb speak," said Monroe.
"Gentlemen, my proposition is the proposed new water system," said Cobb,
venturing forth. "What about it?"
"Well, what about it?" asked Peter.
"Can we pull it off?" asked Cobb.
"How much is there in it?" asked the generous Peter.
"Couple hundred thousand," said Cobb.
"Pull her off, then," decided Peter.
"How much do I get out of it?" asked Monroe.
"Aren't you working your little stunt for bigger game, Monroe?" asked
Peter.
"What new stunt you up to now?" asked Cobb, suspiciously.
"That's a private matter," replied Monroe.
"What is it, Peter?" asked Cobb. Then to Monroe: "Not scheming behind my
back, Monroe?"
"No such intention," answered Monroe.
"What is it, Peter?" asked Cobb, feelingly.
"Monroe, I told you to keep no secrets from Cobb," said Peter.
"What is it. Peter?" asked Cobb.
"Shall I tell, Monroe?" said Peter.
"Dogged if I care," said the unimpressionable Monroe.
"He's after Jarney's daughter and her money," said Peter, rubbing his
hands on his legs, and pulling hard on a freshly lighted cigar.
"Ho, that's why young Winthrope was sent to the New York office, was
it?" said Cobb, carelessly.
"Yes; it looked too serious seeing him going to her home every day,"
replied Monroe. "While I also went, sometimes, I never got a squint at
her."
Cobb became serious at this piece of intelligence. He thought of young
Jasper Cobb, his son, as being entitled to a share of the spoils that
might be obtained by an alliance with the Jarneys. He thought all plans
had been laid for this catch, and all that were needed was to draw in
the net and sort the fishes. He thought that, as a matter of course,
there could be no failure. He never thought that his son was unfit for a
young lady of the graces of Miss Jarney. He never thought children had a
right to be heard in making their choice of a life partner. He never
thought that Jarney should be consulted. Men of Cobb's stripe never
think of the ethical side of a question. They never think of anything
but money--how to get it, and how to spend it. They never think of
anything, aside from getting money, but of the voluptuous side of life.
And this astounding statement of Peter's, relative to Monroe's plotting,
came as a cross-complaint to him. Baseless wretch is Mr. Monroe!
"What're your prospects, Monroe?" asked Cobb, leaning his head far back
in his chair, and blowing smoke upwards, indolently meditating over
something that did not go down very well.
"Good," said Monroe.
"Explain?" said Cobb.
"Oh; why, that's a private matter, Mr. Cobb," said Monroe, looking more
uncommunicable than ever.
"I must know," insisted Cobb, fidgeting in his chair, with a fine
interrogative smile of assertive power.
"Tell him, Monroe; tell him," said Peter, rubbing his hands, and blowing
smoke like a whale spouting water.
"There's nothing tangible yet," said the yielding Monroe.
"Tell it, Monroe!" commanded Peter.
"What is it?" asked Cobb, sarcastically.
"Well; here goes. First, I am working into the good graces of the
father first," said he. "When I accomplish that feat, having Winthrope
out of my way, I shall press my suit for the young lady's hand. I have
been to the Jarney home a great many times for dinner this winter"--he
looked as if he wanted to keep the matter a secret--"and I have always
found young Winthrope there. He was permitted to see her, as Mr. Jarney
explained, as the result of an hallucination caused by an auto accident,
and her illness following it. I never got an opportunity to see her. Of
course--" he seemed to be unconcerned about her illness, so listlessly
did he talk--"it would have been a delicate matter for me to have
attempted to have seen her while ill; so I concluded to abide my time.
Getting him away was my first scheme. This accomplished, and, she
recovering as I am told, I shall take the first opportunity presented to
ask her."
During the recital of the above. Monroe acted more like an automatic
talking machine, than a human, so inanimate was his facial expression.
"Would she throw herself away on you?" asked Cobb, drawing one eyelid
down as an accompaniment to a mental sneer.
"Am I not as worthy as anybody else, especially Winthrope, who is poor,
and has no ancestry?" said Monroe, without a rising or falling
inflection in his voice.
"Bully, Monroe; well said!" roared Peter, rubbing and smoking. "But you
fellows forget that a woman is usually made a party to such little
affairs of the heart. I've had experience, gentlemen; experience; and
look at this grand house," waving his hand, with a flourish, around the
maroon tassel.
"That's true," assented Monroe, without a tremor.
Cobb assented too, as it suited him to assent. Peter assented to his own
theory, looking through his own mirror of experience. They all assented,
and reassented, acquiesced, agreed, yielded--to this assertion, time
after time.
"Still, I have a fighting chance, like all dogs," soliloquized Monroe.
"Ah, you must win," said Peter, not yet discouraged, like Monroe
appeared to be; "I never lost hope."
"But what did you get, Peter?" said Monroe, without a glint that would
indicate that he meant a jest; "a woman and ten kids!"
"That's all I wanted," replied Peter, grinning. "Why, you old poltroon,
I don't pretend to have ancestry; but I do pretend to have money and
gratitude."
"Don't get personal, Peter," said the admonitory Monroe.
"Don't, don't get personal," said the pacifying Cobb.
"Oh, no, Cobb; I do not mean to be personal; but how is the money coming
from the dives?" answered Peter, rubbing his hands first, then
scratching his ear, then pulling an extra pull on his pipe, then
spitting, then squinting, then sneezing as if to give three cheers for
his observations on the various subjects up for discussion, in all of
which he seemed to have the best of the results.
"Fine!" exclaimed Cobb, with his eyes lighting up. "The police are just
rolling it into our coffers."
"I need ten thousand more for Jim Dalls," said Peter, looking gloomy,
and ceasing to rub his hands.
"It would be cheaper to send a man over there to kill him," answered
Cobb.
"Maybe it would; maybe it wouldn't," said Peter; "but he will be back,
if he don't get it."
"Well, send it, then," said Cobb, relenting of his grim suggestion as to
the best means of disposing of Dalls.
The door bell rang. A servant answered it. Into the house filed ten
children, in all stages of wildness, accompanied by the mother. Seeing
them rushing in like an invading army of young Turks, the visitors
retreated with as little loss to their dignity as they could spare. And
Peter was happy again in the bosom of his family--a Prince at home; a
King at the office of Graft.
Mrs. Dieman was now the acme of reincarnation. The jaundice of a
sorrowed life had been burned out of her face by the new brand of
cosmetics, and she now stood before the world a justly deserving woman.
But such is the passage of poverty when embellished by a little of the
olive oil of good treatment, fairer living, and a chance. Instead of the
downcast woman, with a heart laden with lead, as she once was, she was
now an upcast personage, with a heart that was a jardiniere of roses,
doing her duty, and bearing her old sorrows silently as the mistress of
a mansion. Chance was all that were needed. But still she loved Billy
Barton, the drunkard. And this is the way of woman, sometimes.