What abominable bounders there are, to be sure! And what shocking
conditions must exist to produce them and to tolerate them. Really, I am
amazed at times, to think that I, a scion of the house of Comstock (the
Surrey Comstocks, my dear lady), should know so many of the blighters.
As you know, my ancestors were great churchmen, and, although we
Comstocks of the present generation are perfect devils, especially my
Uncle Percival, there are times when a little voice within me speaks up
rudely, and I am carried back in fancy to the long-regretted days of my
innocent youth in dear, charming old Chickingham. My word! Fancy the
Bishop of Hounslow seeing his own nephew in the company of such cads.
You cannot imagine how dreadfully difficult it is for a chap to keep in
the straight and narrow path of rectitude; even if he is a bounder he
will find it difficult to resist some of the temptations.
“Every day of my life I am brought into contact with chaps who are
always lamenting their pasts, and making excuses for their present way
of living, but have fallen too low to ever return to the old life, and
will, I have no doubt, come to an end like poor old Beebe’s. Some of
these chaps are a good sort; others are quite likely to be bounders.
“I have just heard something quite distressing. You have heard of
Skilford, no doubt? No? How remarkable! I fancied everybody knew him. At
all events, he is a countryman of yours--a Yankee chap. He came from
Georgia, I believe. Well, the poor fellow is in quod at New Orleans, all
on account of being a bit too good-hearted. Like the rest of us, he was
a bit wild while here on the Isthmus, and was a great favorite with his
boss, who was a married man; also, a great bounder, sly as a red Indian,
and horribly unprincipled. But, just wait until I have finished, and you
will fairly gasp for breath.
“This other Johnnie--the married one--it seems, was liv--er, er--excuse
me, my dear lady; it’s terribly embarrassing--in fact, he had a sort of
semi-detached alliance with a young female from Martinique, an
Afro-Franco, as it were. By Jove! What a bally combination! The young
Afro-Franco, however, was not at all bad-looking, and, as only natural
in those times, (the alliance was formed in the early days,) she was
much ‘sought after,’ as they say in the provincial journals when
describing the marriage of the village belle to the leading grocer’s
son. The chaps, you see, were lonely in those days, and were not to be
blamed so much, you know, for having fancies they would never dream of
at home. Really, now, I must confess, I almost succumbed to her charms
myself. Fancy! I, grandson of the Dean of Oldtop, Shropshire.”
“You are moralizing again, Mr. Comstock.”
“Upon my word, so I am, my dear lady. A thousand pardons. We Comstocks
are all great moralizers. Well, then, as the Afro-Franco would say,
‘revenous le mouton.’ She preferred the beastly married cad to whom I
have already alluded. The blooming ass fancied he had made a conquest,
and flaunted her in our eyes. Spent more money than he could really
afford, to buy finery for her. Things went on so for quite a time, until
he wearied of her, and, as his holiday was about due, he resolved to go
home, when, bless your eyes, the blooming Bacchante cooly announced to
him that he would take a vacation over her dead body. Now, the bounder
was in a quandary--fairly stumped. He really needed a vacation, and
wished to take it to prevent his wife, a very estimable woman, from
communicating with Culebra, which he fancied she might do, which would
be the means of his losing his job. He had a very good job. Fear of
exposure quite upset him, and what do you think the bounder did? The
little brute! He actually came to me, Algernon Comstock, of Comstock
Lodge, Surrey. ‘Algy,’ said he (the infamous vagabond), ‘how would you
like to earn five hundred dollars gold?’ ‘I should like it very much,’ I
replied, quite innocently. ‘Come with me,’ said he. I followed the
blighter, and what do you think? He took me to the lodgings he had
provided for the Afro-Franco, and very hospitably set out some excellent
cognac (the Comstocks are all great chaps for the B. and S.), and after
we had some little conversation the scoundrel had the effrontery to
suggest to me, in an insinuating way, that I make myself agreeable to
the hussy--he, in the meantime, to absent himself, to return at an
opportune moment, create a scene, and then, having ‘something on her,’
as it were, he expected to screw up courage enough to drive the baggage
from him. He was most assuredly afraid of her, and knew that, lacking
friendly moral support, he could never have it out with her in any way
satisfactory to himself. What a serpent! I was struck quite
dumb--speechless with indignation, and for reply I gave the bounder a
blow that sent him sprawling. Then, with a heavy heart--the affair had
given me quite a turn--I went to my quarters and sat down to think. I
marveled at myself for having sunk so low. Fancy me being asked to take
part in such an iniquitous scheme!
“Well, I fully expected to lose my berth over the affair, as the cad was
supposed to have considerable influence. In the event of my dismissal I
would have nothing but my personal effects, as I had lived up to every
penny paid for my services. However, don’t be alarmed, my dear lady; I
was not fired for that. Some other time I’ll tell you how I happened to
be ‘let out.’ Just now I was in one of my periodically penitent moods,
and resolved, on the spot, after earnestly praying, to lead a better
life, a life more worthy of a Comstock. I did, upon my word! I reasoned
that I must have appeared low in the eyes of the bounder, else he would
not have asked me to help him trick such a creature. As I thought thus,
my dear lady, the old Comstock blood fairly boiled in every blooming
vein in my body. Really, I wished to die.”
“But who is Mr. Skilford, Mr. Comstock, and what has he to do with the
case? And who is this old bounder--the married one?” I asked.
“Wait, I am coming to that presently,” replied Mr. Comstock, as he
lighted his pipe, which went out a great many times when he grew
excited. “Skilford is a good chap--nothing but a boy, extremely
good-natured, honest, and all that--well liked, you know--but utterly
without that fine discrimination which should always prevent a Comstock
from doing anything off-color. He worked under the other one. The
bounder was an elderly cad, a noisy brute when in his cups, which was
very often, I can assure you. Very common sort. Loves to sit in a
tap-room, pounding the table, telling every one who will listen what a
clever chap he is--Poor old Beebe knew him well. I remember one night we
were carousing at the ‘Oriole,’ Beebe and I at one table and the bounder
with his audience at another nearby. He was a bit squiffy, as usual, and
seemed in rare form. Beebe was quite vexed at the brute, and what do you
suppose he did? Blessed, if he didn’t call for pad and pencil and
scratch off some doggerel which, I fancy, pretty well describes the
bounder. Poor Beebe was clever at that sort of thing. The first verse
went something like this:
“‘At every midnight session,
Or surreptitious spree,
Wherever Gringoes gather
For discussion loud and free;
Where eloquence is measured
By capacity for sound--
A raucous voice insistent,
Is heard for blocks around.’
“Then, old Beebe had a lot more verses describing the bounder’s antics.
Really, I’m getting very forgetful. It’s the beastly climate, I fancy;
but one other verse went on thus:
“‘Then he fiercely pounds the table
And glares around the room,
In his eye a waiting challenge,
Which none there dare presume
To accept, for they are thirsty--
These gents are always dry.
To neglect the fellow’s ego,
Might cut off their supply.’
“I cannot remember any more, but some day I will let you have a copy of
the thing.
“Well, at any rate, my beating the brute did not deter him from making
the same proposition to others, as is well known, but all refused, until
he approached young Skilford. He fell. Not for the money. Oh, dear no!
He’s too decent a sort for that. As you may have already surmised,
Skilford was a rather weak, complacent sort of a chap; and then,
perhaps, the bounder, being his boss, influenced him in a way. At any
rate, Charley agreed to his proposal, and the scene was set as before,
with a new villain in place of your humble servant. This time, however,
everything came off as prearranged. Charley went through his part
beautifully. You see, he didn’t have to act very hard; in fact, the
situation quite pleased the silly fellow, and he played up to the
bounder’s leads marvelously. The bounder, being pretty well primed up
when he burst upon the scene, did not have to strain for effect, either.
As to the Afro-Franco, she, strangely enough, did not seem a bit upset.
My word, what a farce! The bounder got shut of her and departed on his
holiday with a light heart, unmolested, save for a few patois curses,
which he didn’t understand, and poor Skilford, victim of his own good
nature, stayed on to carry out in earnest the part he had essayed to act
for a few minutes only, in order to oblige his boss.
“The bounder never returned. His wife saw to that, I fancy. Charley
seemed quite infatuated with the little brown parley-vouz, and she
thought a great deal more of him than she had of the bounder. My word!
She used to swear ferociously that she would cut his heart out if he
ever tried to leave her. What a savage! But it’s laughable, too, if it
were not so sad. Mind you, all of this time Charley was engaged to a
fine young woman in the States. Before long, the infatuation wearing
off, and wishing to leave the Isthmus for good, anyway, he began to cast
about for ways and means (like the bounder) of getting away alive. He
was mindful of the hussy’s threats, and dared take no chances. However,
with the connivance of friends, he was enabled (as he fancied) to make
his plans for departure without the hussy’s knowledge. When everything
was ready, transportation procured, etc., and she all the while happily
unconscious (as he fancied), he told her he was being sent down the line
for a few days to do a little job. She said nothing, and Charley started
off, as usual, in his working clothes. He took no luggage, of course.
The poor chap sacrificed everything--everything but his Canal medal,
which she allowed him to carry attached to his dollar watch.
“I went to Colon to see him off, and we had a few nips on board in the
smoking-room. I breathed a great sigh of relief as the ship pulled out
from the wharf, and on Charley’s face was a most beatific expression.
The old chap waved his hand to me, when--oh, horrors! What did I see?
The girl. I grew sick at heart as I beheld her. She laid one of her
hands upon Charley’s shoulder. I saw him turn quietly, and then they
passed out of sight. It made me quite ill. As it now appears, she had
‘beaten Charley to it,’ as it were, and had booked a passage for herself
to New Orleans. Poor Charley, to avoid a scene, had quieted her, by the
Lord knows what promises. At any rate, they say that there was no
disturbance on the trip up. The denouement came when the ship berthed
at New Orleans. There, waiting to welcome him home, were his parents and
the young lady to whom I alluded. Imagine the poor chap’s position.
Well, to make a long story short, while Charley was being fondly
welcomed by his intended, the brown girl rushed into the midst of the
little group, flourishing a revolver and screaming at the top of her
voice that she was Charley’s wife. Charley grabbed her, they say, to
wrest away the revolver. During the scuffle the gun went off, and the
creature was shot through the lungs. Poor Charley’s locked up,
temporarily, of course; the Afro-Franco’s in the hospital, going to
recover, I believe. And the poor young lady. Ah, my dear lady, it is
indeed shocking. I wonder how many poor young ladies there are at home?
Iniquitous!
“Well, good-day. I must really go and have a B. and S.”