THE MAN FROM CALIFORNIA
JULIAN BARCLAY scanned the total of a column of figures with a wry
face; his card game of the night before had been costly, and with an
inward resolve to forego another, he looked out of the smoking-car
window. But the flying landscape did not hold his attention, and his
eyes wandered back to his fellow passengers, the majority of whom
were well-to-do tourists, several commercial travelers, and a few
professional men. Not far from him sat Professor Norcross in animated
conversation with Dr. Shively who, with Barclay, had boarded the fast
California express at New Orleans. Barclay’s glance traveled on until
it reached the man who had made the fourth at the card game. He had
taken a dislike to Dwight Tilghman, for during the game he had received
the impression that he was being quietly watched. The belief had grown
upon him as the play progressed, and the quiet espionage had bred
resentment. Tilghman’s indolent slowness of movement had been in direct
contrast to his intent watchfulness, and Barclay had wondered if Dr.
Shively and Professor Norcross had thought Tilghman’s manner peculiar.
Richard Norcross, known to Barclay by his fame as a naturalist but met
for the first time in the train the night before, had been Tilghman’s
traveling companion for some days.
Barclay, sitting back in his chair studying Tilghman, saw him start,
lean forward, and look down the car. A newcomer stood just within the
entrance surveying the car and its occupants, then moved up the aisle.
With a smothered ejaculation, Tilghman sprang into the aisle, hand
upraised, only to stumble forward, swaying like a drunken man.
The sound of the scuffle echoed down the car above the noise of the
rapidly moving train. In an instant the passengers were on their feet,
some intent on reaching the struggling men and others only desirous of
obtaining a closer view. But the intervention of the more venturesome
was not required, and a second later Barclay was bending over Tilghman,
who measured his length in the aisle, while the conductor and several
passengers collared his small opponent. A pull at Barclay’s hastily
offered flask, and Tilghman somewhat shakily regained his feet, as the
Japanese passenger strove to explain the situation to the indignant
conductor.
“A meeting, honorable sir, in this just too small space and a loss
of balance.” The Japanese with some difficulty kept his footing as
the train rounded a sharp curve. Clicking his heels together, with
shoulders and elbows drawn back, finger-tips touching, he drew a long
hissing breath as he bowed in salutation to the men grouped about him.
“Pardon, honorable sirs.”
“How about it, Mr. Tilghman?” demanded the conductor, and all eyes
turned toward the disheveled American.
“A little congestion and, eh, hasty action,” he drawled. “The
train took a curve on the high, and as I fell I saw our friend
here”--indicating the Japanese--“mistook him for a yellow nigger
standing in my way and lashed out----”
Barclay looked sharply at the Japanese. Did he understand the insult
implied in the apology, or was his knowledge of English too limited?
But he learned nothing by his scrutiny, for the parchment-like face
was as inscrutable as the Sphinx, and Barclay turned his attention to
Tilghman. He had distinctly seen a paper pass between the two men; why
then had Tilghman and the Japanese staged the opéra bouffe affair?
The conductor, much perturbed, scratched his head as he gazed at first
one man and then another.
“Well, seeing as how you both call it an accident, I reckon there’s
nothing more to be said,” he grumbled. “But recollect, gentlemen, this
railroad does not permit quarreling.”
The Japanese, bowing gravely to the silent men, departed into the
forward Pullman, and the group about Tilghman dispersed. Julian Barclay
having resumed his seat and his contemplation of the scenery through
the car window, was in the act of lighting a cigarette when he became
aware that Dwight Tilghman was standing at his elbow.
“Can I share that flask you offered me when I was lying on the floor?”
he inquired. “The fall shook me up more than I realized.”
A look at Tilghman’s white face convinced Barclay that he was telling
the truth, and his interest quickened; the scuffle had not been
entirely opéra bouffe after all. Drawing out his flask he passed it to
Tilghman.
“It hurts my pride,” went on Tilghman, seating himself in the next
chair, “to be licked by a little slip of a man in such a rough and
tumble encounter.”
“Muscle doesn’t stand much show against jiu-jutsu.” Barclay declined
the other’s offer of a cigarette. “Better think a second time before
tackling a Jap,” he cautioned.
“A Jap!” echoed Tilghman, and he smiled queerly as he selected a
cigarette. “The color line is so closely drawn in this section of the
world I’m surprised the railroad officials permit a yellow man to
travel on the San Francisco, New Orleans, and Washington Express except
in the ‘Jim Crow’ car.”
“That sounds like insular prejudice,” smiled Barclay. “Except for your
name and accent, which proclaim you a Marylander, I should hail you
as----”
“A Californian?” Tilghman nodded. “It’s the state of my adoption. We
manage everything better out there.”
“Well, why not stay in California?” Barclay rapped out the abrupt
question, never taking his eyes from his good-looking companion, whose
white cheeks were regaining a more healthy hue from the stimulant he
was slowly sipping.
“I had to come east to protest against government ownership of oil
lands in California. I’m one of the unfortunate devils who invested
money there before the public land was withdrawn from entry by
executive order. Congress is to legislate on the question shortly.
I believe Navy Department officials are chiefly responsible for the
deadlock.”
“I take it your sympathies are for a little navy?”
“That doesn’t necessarily follow,” protested Tilghman, with more warmth
than the occasion seemed to justify. “Just because I don’t believe in
government ownership of oil lands.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” argued Barclay. “Oil is the fuel for future
battleships; we are exporting thousands of gallons of oil; it’s time we
conserved our resources.”
“But not by government ownership,” retorted Tilghman. “Let the
government get oil concessions in Mexico and _keep_ them. What’s our
Monroe Doctrine for but to make us a protectorate over most of the
western hemisphere? We can drive out the other Johnnies when they try
and tap our foreign resources.”
“With an adequate navy, yes,” laughed Barclay. “But you have a curious
conception of the meaning of the Monroe Doctrine.”
“Not at all!” Tilghman warmed to the subject. “The Monroe Doctrine is
just another definition of ‘dog in the manger’--we won’t let other
nations have what _we_ won’t take. It’s a shameful waste of opportunity
for territorial advancement.”
“At the expense of smaller nations?” dryly.
“Ah, well, the battle goes to the strong.” Tilghman turned languidly
and beckoned to the porter. “Is this Atlanta we are approaching?” he
asked the negro.
“Yessir, an’ ’pears like we’ll be hyar mos’ two hours, ’cause there’s
a washout ahead. De conductor says as how de passengers can go off an’
see de city, but dey mus’ be back hyar widdin an hour an’ a half.”
Barclay rose and stretched himself. “Think I’ll go and take a run
around the block,” he announced, smothering a yawn. “Come along?”
But Tilghman shook his head, and watched Barclay’s tall, erect figure
pass down the aisle with a touch of envy. The other men in the smoker,
pausing to exchange a word with him, filed out of the car, and
Tilghman, left to his own resources, placed his tickets in the band
of his hat, pulled the brim over his face; lowered the window shade,
braced his legs on a convenient ledge, poured out a liberal portion of
raw spirits in the silver cup of Barclay’s flask, and holding the cup
in his hand, settled back in his chair and, closing his eyes, sipped
the brandy at intervals.
Julian Barclay, whistling cheerily, was making his way out of the
station at Atlanta when the crowd ahead of him parted, and he caught
a glimpse of a familiar face. Wheeling about with an abruptness that
brought him into violent collision with the Japanese whose behavior in
the train had so excited his interest, Barclay, never glancing at him,
raced back to the train.
Two hours later Barclay stood in the vestibule of his Pullman as the
train pulled out on its long trip northward, and debated whether to
enter the smoker or return to his section. The stronger inclination won
and, nodding in a friendly fashion to the Japanese who stood on the
opposite side of the vestibule, Barclay entered the car on his way to
the smoker.
Except for Dwight Tilghman sitting at the further end, Barclay found
the smoker deserted, and dropped into the nearest chair, lighted a
cigar, opened a newspaper and soon became immersed in its contents.
Some time later the conductor paused before Tilghman, removed the
tickets from his hatband and, refraining from waking him, passed on up
the car collecting fares.
The shadows of the winter day were lengthening when the dining car
steward’s announcement: “First call for dinner,” aroused the half dozen
men in the smoker.
Professor Norcross, who had been chatting with Julian Barclay, broke
off to ask: “Where’s my dinner partner? Here, porter, go tell Mr.
Tilghman it’s time for dinner. Won’t you sit at our table tonight?” he
added, addressing Barclay. “Dr. Shively will make the fourth.”
“Thanks, I’ll be very glad to do so,” and Barclay rose with alacrity;
he had not lunched at Atlanta, and his appetite was sharpened by the
fast. Further speech was cut short by a shout from the porter.
“I can’t wake Mister Tilghman,” he called, his eyes rolling in fright.
“He musta had a stroke.”
“Nonsense!” Dr. Shively dropped the book he was reading, and hastened
down the aisle. But his air of skepticism disappeared as he bent over
Tilghman who, owing to the vigorous shaking administered by the porter,
was sprawling half out of his chair. The physician lifted the hat which
had slipped over Tilghman’s face, and pulled down an eyelid. One glance
at the glazing eyeball, a touch of the pulse, and Shively faced toward
Julian Barclay and Professor Norcross who had followed him down the
aisle.
“Dead,” he announced. “Stone dead.”