it or not, I _am_ leaving here to-night, and _you_ can go to
the devil!"
Turning his back David started with great dignity to walk away. It was a
short walk. Something hit him below the ear and he found himself curling
up comfortably on the ties. He had a strong desire to sleep, but was
conscious that a bed on a railroad track, on account of trains wanting
to pass, was unsafe. This doubt did not long disturb him. His head
rolled against the steel rail, his limbs relaxed. From a great distance,
and in a strange sing-song he heard the voice of the barkeeper saying,
"Nine--ten--and _out_!"
When David came to his senses his head was resting on a coil of rope. In
his ears was the steady throb of an engine, and in his eyes the glare of
a lantern. The lantern was held by a pleasant-faced youth in a golf cap
who was smiling sympathetically. David rose on his elbow and gazed
wildly about him. He was in the bow of the ocean-going tug, and he saw
that from where he lay in the bow to her stern her decks were packed
with men. She was steaming swiftly down a broad river. On either side
the gray light that comes before the dawn showed low banks studded with
stunted palmettos. Close ahead David heard the roar of the surf.
"Sorry to disturb you," said the youth in the golf cap, "but we drop the
pilot in a few minutes and you're going with him."
David moved his aching head gingerly, and was conscious of a bump as
large as a tennis ball behind his right ear.
"What happened to me?" he demanded.
"You were sort of kidnapped, I guess," laughed the young man. "It was a
raw deal, but they couldn't take any chances. The pilot will land you at
Okra Point. You can hire a rig there to take you to the railroad."
"But why?" demanded David indignantly. "Why was I kidnapped? What had I
done? Who were those men who----"
From the pilot-house there was a sharp jangle of bells to the
engine-room, and the speed of the tug slackened.
"Come on," commanded the young man briskly. "The pilot's going ashore.
Here's your grip, here's your hat. The ladder's on the port side. Look
where you're stepping. We can't show any lights, and it's dark as----"
But, even as he spoke, like a flash of powder, as swiftly as one throws
an electric switch, as blindingly as a train leaps from the tunnel into
the glaring sun, the darkness vanished and the tug was swept by the
fierce, blatant radiance of a search-light.
It was met by shrieks from two hundred throats, by screams, oaths,
prayers, by the sharp jangling of bells, by the blind rush of many men
scurrying like rats for a hole to hide in, by the ringing orders of one
man. Above the tumult this one voice rose like the warning strokes of a
fire-gong, and looking up to the pilot-house from whence the voice came,
David saw the barkeeper still in his shirt-sleeves and with his derby
hat pushed back behind his ears, with one hand clutching the telegraph
to the engine-room, with the other holding the spoke of the wheel.
David felt the tug, like a hunter taking a fence, rise in a great leap.
Her bow sank and rose, tossing the water from her in black, oily waves,
the smoke poured from her funnel, from below her engines sobbed and
quivered, and like a hound freed from a leash she raced for the open
sea. But swiftly as she fled, as a thief is held in the circle of a
policeman's bull's-eye, the shaft of light followed and exposed her and
held her in its grip. The youth in the golf cap was clutching David by
the arm. With his free hand he pointed down the shaft of light. So great
was the tumult that to be heard he brought his lips close to David's
ear.
"That's the revenue cutter!" he shouted. "She's been laying for us for
three weeks, and now," he shrieked exultingly, "the old man's going to
give her a race for it."
From excitement, from cold, from alarm, David's nerves were getting
beyond his control.
"But how," he demanded, "how do I get ashore?"
"You don't!"
"When he drops the pilot, don't I----"
"How can he drop the pilot?" yelled the youth. "The pilot's got to stick
by the boat. So have you."
David clutched the young man and swung him so that they stood face to
face.
"Stick by what boat?" yelled David. "Who are these men? Who are you?
What boat is this?"
In the glare of the search-light David saw the eyes of the youth staring
at him as though he feared he were in the clutch of a madman. Wrenching
himself free, the youth pointed at the pilot-house. Above it on a blue
board in letters of gold-leaf a foot high was the name of the tug. As
David read it his breath left him, a finger of ice passed slowly down
his spine. The name he read was _The Three Friends_.
"_The Three Friends!_" shrieked David. "She's a filibuster! She's a
pirate! Where're we going?"
"To Cuba!"
David emitted a howl of anguish, rage, and protest.
"What for?" he shrieked.
The young man regarded him coldly.
"To pick bananas," he said.
"I won't go to Cuba," shouted David. "I've got to work! I'm paid to sell
machinery. I demand to be put ashore. I'll lose my job if I'm not put
ashore. I'll sue you! I'll have the law----"
David found himself suddenly upon his knees. His first thought was that
the ship had struck a rock, and then that she was bumping herself over a
succession of coral reefs. She dipped, dived, reared, and plunged. Like
a hooked fish, she flung herself in the air, quivering from bow to
stern. No longer was David of a mind to sue the filibusters if they did
not put him ashore. If only they had put him ashore, in gratitude he
would have crawled on his knees. What followed was of no interest to
David, nor to many of the filibusters, nor to any of the Cuban patriots.
Their groans of self-pity, their prayers and curses in eloquent Spanish,
rose high above the crash of broken crockery and the pounding of the
waves. Even when the search-light gave way to a brilliant sunlight the
circumstance was unobserved by David. Nor was he concerned in the
tidings brought forward by the youth in the golf cap, who raced the
slippery decks and vaulted the prostrate forms as sure-footedly as a
hurdler on a cinder track. To David, in whom he seemed to think he had
found a congenial spirit, he shouted joyfully, "She's fired two blanks
at us!" he cried; "now she's firing cannon-balls!"
"Thank God," whispered David; "perhaps she'll sink us!"
But _The Three Friends_ showed her heels to the revenue cutter, and
so far as David knew hours passed into days and days into weeks. It was
like those nightmares in which in a minute one is whirled through
centuries of fear and torment. Sometimes, regardless of nausea, of his
aching head, of the hard deck, of the waves that splashed and smothered
him, David fell into broken slumber. Sometimes he woke to a dull
consciousness of his position. At such moments he added to his misery by
speculating upon the other misfortunes that might have befallen him on
shore. Emily, he decided, had given him up for lost and
married--probably a navy officer in command of a battle-ship. Burdett
and Sons had cast him off forever. Possibly his disappearance had caused
them to suspect him; even now they might be regarding him as a
defaulter, as a fugitive from justice. His accounts, no doubt, were
being carefully overhauled. In actual time, two days and two nights had
passed; to David it seemed many ages.
On the third day he crawled to the stern, where there seemed less
motion, and finding a boat's cushion threw it in the lee scupper and
fell upon it. From time to time the youth in the golf cap had brought
him food and drink, and he now appeared from the cook's galley bearing a
bowl of smoking soup.
David considered it a doubtful attention.
But he said, "You're very kind. How did a fellow like you come to mix up
with these pirates?"
The youth laughed good-naturedly.
"They're not pirates, they're patriots," he said, "and I'm not mixed up
with them. My name is Henry Carr and I'm a guest of Jimmy Doyle, the
captain."
"The barkeeper with the derby hat?" said David.
"He's not a barkeeper, he's a teetotaler," Carr corrected, "and he's the
greatest filibuster alive. He knows these waters as you know Broadway,
and he's the salt of the earth. I did him a favor once; sort of
mouse-helping-the-lion idea. Just through dumb luck I found out about
this expedition. The government agents in New York found out I'd found
out and sent for me to tell. But I didn't, and I didn't write the story
either. Doyle heard about that. So, he asked me to come as his guest,
and he's promised that after he's landed the expedition and the arms I
can write as much about it as I darn please."
"Then you're a reporter?" said David.
"I'm what we call a cub reporter," laughed Carr. "You see, I've always
dreamed of being a war correspondent. The men in the office say I dream
too much. They're always guying me about it. But, haven't you noticed,
it's the ones who dream who find their dreams come true. Now this isn't
real war, but it's a near war, and when the real thing breaks loose, I
can tell the managing editor I served as a war correspondent in the
Cuban-Spanish campaign. And he may give me a real job!"
"And you _like_ this?" groaned David.
"I wouldn't, if I were as sick as you are," said Carr, "but I've a
stomach like a Harlem goat." He stooped and lowered his voice. "Now,
here are two fake filibusters," he whispered. "The men you read about in
the newspapers. If a man's a _real_ filibuster, nobody knows it!"
Coming toward them was the tall man who had knocked David out, and the
little one who had wanted to tie him to a tree.
"All they ask," whispered Carr, "is money and advertisement. If they
knew I was a reporter, they'd eat out of my hand. The tall man calls
himself Lighthouse Harry. He once kept a lighthouse on the Florida
coast, and that's as near to the sea as he ever got. The other one is a
daredevil calling himself Colonel Beamish. He says he's an English
officer, and a soldier of fortune, and that he's been in eighteen
battles. Jimmy says he's never been near enough to a battle to see the
red-cross flags on the base hospital. But they've fooled these Cubans.
The Junta thinks they're great fighters, and it's sent them down here to
work the machine guns. But I'm afraid the only fighting they will do
will be in the sporting columns, and not in the ring."
A half dozen sea-sick Cubans were carrying a heavy, oblong box. They
dropped it not two yards from where David lay, and with a screw-driver
Lighthouse Harry proceeded to open the lid.
Carr explained to David that _The Three Friends_ was approaching
that part of the coast of Cuba on which she had arranged to land her
expedition, and that in case she was surprised by one of the Spanish
patrol boats she was preparing to defend herself.
"They've got an automatic gun in that crate," said Carr, "and they're
going to assemble it. You'd better move; they'll be tramping all over
you."
David shook his head feebly.
"I can't move!" he protested. "I wouldn't move if it would free Cuba."
For several hours with very languid interest David watched Lighthouse
Harry and Colonel Beamish screw a heavy tripod to the deck and balance
above it a quick-firing one-pounder. They worked very slowly, and to
David, watching them from the lee scupper, they appeared extremely
unintelligent.
"I don't believe either of those thugs put an automatic gun together in
his life," he whispered to Carr. "I never did, either, but I've put
hundreds of automatic punches together, and I bet that gun won't work."
"What's wrong with it?" said Carr.
Before David could summon sufficient energy to answer, the attention of
all on board was diverted, and by a single word.
Whether the word is whispered apologetically by the smoking-room steward
to those deep in bridge, or shrieked from the tops of a sinking ship it
never quite fails of its effect. A sweating stoker from the engine-room
saw it first.
"Land!" he hailed.
The sea-sick Cubans raised themselves and swung their hats; their voices
rose in a fierce chorus.
"Cuba libre!" they yelled.
The sun piercing the morning mists had uncovered a coast-line broken
with bays and inlets. Above it towered green hills, the peak of each
topped by a squat block-house; in the valleys and water courses like
columns of marble rose the royal palms.
"You _must_ look!" Carr entreated David. "It's just as it is in the
pictures!"
"Then I don't have to look," groaned David.
_The Three Friends_ was making for a point of land that curved like
a sickle. On the inside of the sickle was Nipe Bay. On the opposite
shore of that broad harbor at the place of rendezvous a little band of
Cubans waited to receive the filibusters. The goal was in sight. The
dreadful voyage was done. Joy and excitement thrilled the ship's
company. Cuban patriots appeared in uniforms with Cuban flags pinned in
the brims of their straw sombreros. From the hold came boxes of
small-arm ammunition, of Mausers, rifles, machetes, and saddles. To
protect the landing a box of shells was placed in readiness beside the
one-pounder.
"In two hours, if we have smooth water," shouted Lighthouse Harry, "we
ought to get all of this on shore. And then, all I ask," he cried
mightily, "is for some one to kindly show me a Spaniard!"
His heart's desire was instantly granted. He was shown not only one
Spaniard, but several Spaniards. They were on the deck of one of the
fastest gun-boats of the Spanish navy. Not a mile from _The Three
Friends_ she sprang from the cover of a narrow inlet. She did not
signal questions or extend courtesies. For her the name of the
ocean-going tug was sufficient introduction. Throwing ahead of her a
solid shell, she raced in pursuit, and as _The Three Friends_
leaped to full speed there came from the gun-boat the sharp dry crackle
of Mausers.
With an explosion of terrifying oaths Lighthouse Harry thrust a shell
into the breech of the quick-firing gun. Without waiting to aim it, he
tugged at the trigger. Nothing happened! He threw open the breech and
gazed impotently at the base of the shell. It was untouched. The ship
was ringing with cries of anger, of hate, with rat-like squeaks of fear.
Above the heads of the filibusters a shell screamed and within a hundred
feet splashed into a wave.
From his mat in the lee scupper David groaned miserably. He was far
removed from any of the greater emotions.
"It's no use!" he protested. "They can't do! It's not connected!"
"_What's_ not connected?" yelled Carr. He fell upon David. He
half-lifted, half-dragged him to his feet.
"If you know what's wrong with that gun, you fix it! Fix it," he
shouted, "or I'll----"
David was not concerned with the vengeance Carr threatened. For, on the
instant a miracle had taken place. With the swift insidiousness of
morphine, peace ran through his veins, soothed his racked body, his
jangled nerves. _The Three Friends_ had made the harbor, and was
gliding through water flat as a pond. But David did not know why the
change had come. He knew only that his soul and body were at rest, that
the sun was shining, that he had passed through the valley of the
shadow, and once more was a sane, sound young man.
With a savage thrust of the shoulder he sent Lighthouse Harry sprawling
from the gun. With swift, practised fingers he fell upon its mechanism.
He wrenched it apart. He lifted it, reset, readjusted it.
Ignorant themselves, those about him saw that he understood, saw that
his work was good.
They raised a joyous, defiant cheer. But a shower of bullets drove them
to cover, bullets that ripped the deck, splintered the superstructure,
smashed the glass in the air ports, like angry wasps sang in a
continuous whining chorus. Intent only on the gun, David worked
feverishly. He swung to the breech, locked it, and dragged it open,
pulled on the trigger and found it gave before his forefinger.
He shouted with delight.
"I've got it working," he yelled.
He turned to his audience, but his audience had fled. From beneath one
of the life-boats protruded the riding-boots of Colonel Beamish, the
tall form of Lighthouse Harry was doubled behind a water butt. A shell
splashed to port, a shell splashed to starboard. For an instant David
stood staring wide-eyed at the greyhound of a boat that ate up the
distance between them, at the jets of smoke and stabs of flame that
sprang from her bow, at the figures crouched behind her gunwale, firing
in volleys.
To David it came suddenly, convincingly, that in a dream he had lived it
all before, and something like raw poison stirred in David, something
leaped to his throat and choked him, something rose in his brain and
made him see scarlet. He felt rather than saw young Carr kneeling at the
box of ammunition, and holding a shell toward him. He heard the click as
the breech shut, felt the rubber tire of the brace give against the
weight of his shoulder, down a long shining tube saw the pursuing
gun-boat, saw her again and many times disappear behind a flash of
flame. A bullet gashed his forehead, a bullet passed deftly through his
forearm, but he did not heed them. Confused with the thrashing of the
engines, with the roar of the gun he heard a strange voice shrieking
unceasingly:
"Cuba libre!" it yelled. "To hell with Spain!" and he found that the
voice was his own.
The story lost nothing in the way Carr wrote it.
"And the best of it is," he exclaimed joyfully, "it's true!"
For a Spanish gun-boat _had_ been crippled and forced to run
herself aground by a tug-boat manned by Cuban patriots, and by a single
gun served by one man, and that man an American. It was the first
sea-fight of the war. Over night a Cuban navy had been born, and into
the limelight a cub reporter had projected a new "hero," a ready-made,
warranted-not-to-run, popular idol.
They were seated in the pilot-house, "Jimmy" Doyle, Carr, and David, the
patriots and their arms had been safely dumped upon the coast of Cuba,
and _The_ _Three Friends_ was gliding swiftly and, having
caught the Florida straits napping, smoothly toward Key West. Carr had
just finished reading aloud his account of the engagement.
"You will tell the story just as I have written it," commanded the proud
author. "Your being South as a travelling salesman was only a blind. You
came to volunteer for this expedition. Before you could explain your
wish you were mistaken for a secret-service man, and hustled on board.
That was just where you wanted to be, and when the moment arrived you
took command of the ship and single-handed won the naval battle of Nipe
Bay."
Jimmy Doyle nodded his head approvingly. "You certainly did, Dave,"
protested the great man, "I seen you when you done it!"
At Key West Carr filed his story and while the hospital surgeons kept
David there over one steamer, to dress his wounds, his fame and features
spread across the map of the United States.
Burdett and Sons basked in reflected glory. Reporters besieged their
office. At the Merchants Down-Town Club the business men of lower
Broadway tendered congratulations.
"Of course, it's a great surprise to us," Burdett and Sons would protest
and wink heavily. "Of course, when the boy asked to be sent South we'd
no idea he was planning to fight for Cuba! Or we wouldn't have let him
go, would we?" Then again they would wink heavily. "I suppose you know,"
they would say, "that he's a direct descendant of General Hiram Greene,
who won the battle of Trenton. What I say is, 'Blood will tell!'" And
then in a body every one in the club would move against the bar and
exclaim: "Here's to Cuba libre!"
When the _Olivette_ from Key West reached Tampa Bay every Cuban in
the Tampa cigar factories was at the dock. There were thousands of them
and all of the Junta, in high hats, to read David an address of welcome.
[Illustration: She dug the shapeless hat into David's shoulder.]
And, when they saw him at the top of the gang-plank with his head in a
bandage and his arm in a sling, like a mob of maniacs they howled and
surged toward him. But before they could reach their hero the courteous
Junta forced them back, and cleared a pathway for a young girl. She was
travel-worn and pale, her shirt-waist was disgracefully wrinkled, her
best hat was a wreck. No one on Broadway would have recognized her as
Burdett and Sons' most immaculate and beautiful stenographer.
She dug the shapeless hat into David's shoulder, and clung to him.
"David!" she sobbed, "promise me you'll never, never do it again!"
THE BAR SINISTER
PREFACE
When this story first appeared, the writer received letters of two
kinds, one asking a question and the other making a statement. The
question was, whether there was any foundation of truth in the story;
the statement challenged him to say that there was. The letters seemed
to show that a large proportion of readers prefer their dose of fiction
with a sweetening of fact. This is written to furnish that condiment,
and to answer the question and the statement.
In the dog world, the original of the bull-terrier in the story is known
as Edgewood Cold Steel and to his intimates as "Kid." His father was
Lord Minto, a thoroughbred bull-terrier, well known in Canada, but the
story of Kid's life is that his mother was a black-and-tan named Vic.
She was a lady of doubtful pedigree. Among her offspring by Lord Minto,
so I have been often informed by many Canadian dog-fanciers, breeders,
and exhibitors, was the only white puppy, Kid, in a litter of
black-and-tans. He made his first appearance in the show world in 1900
in Toronto, where, under the judging of Mr. Charles H. Mason, he was
easily first. During that year, when he came to our kennels, and in the
two years following, he carried off many blue ribbons and cups at nearly
every first-class show in the country. The other dog, "Jimmy Jocks," who
in the book was his friend and mentor, was in real life his friend and
companion, Woodcote Jumbo, or "Jaggers," an aristocratic son of a long
line of English champions. He has gone to that place where some day all
good dogs must go.
In this autobiography I have tried to describe Kid as he really is, and
this year, when he again strives for blue ribbons, I trust, should the
gentle reader see him at any of the bench-shows, he will give him a
friendly pat and make his acquaintance. He will find his advances met
with a polite and gentle courtesy.
The Author.
PART I
The Master was walking most unsteady, his legs tripping each other.
After the fifth or sixth round, my legs often go the same way.
But even when the Master's legs bend and twist a bit, you mustn't think
he can't reach you. Indeed, that is the time he kicks most frequent. So
I kept behind him in the shadow, or ran in the middle of the street. He
stopped at many public houses with swinging doors, those doors that are
cut so high from the sidewalk that you can look in under them, and see
if the Master is inside. At night, when I peep beneath them, the man at
the counter will see me first and say, "Here's the Kid, Jerry, come to
take you home. Get a move on you"; and the Master will stumble out and
follow me. It's lucky for us I'm so white, for, no matter how dark the
night, he can always see me ahead, just out of reach of his boot. At
night the Master certainly does see most amazing. Sometimes he sees two
or four of me, and walks in a circle, so that I have to take him by the
leg of his trousers and lead him into the right road. One night, when he
was very nasty-tempered and I was coaxing him along, two men passed us,
and one of them says, "Look at that brute!" and the other asks, "Which?"
and they both laugh. The Master he cursed them good and proper.
But this night, whenever we stopped at a public house, the Master's pals
left it and went on with us to the next. They spoke quite civil to me,
and when the Master tried a flying kick, they gives him a shove. "Do you
want us to lose our money?" says the pals.
I had had nothing to eat for a day and a night, and just before we set
out the Master gives me a wash under the hydrant. Whenever I am locked
up until all the slop-pans in our alley are empty, and made to take a
bath, and the Master's pals speak civil and feel my ribs, I know
something is going to happen. And that night, when every time they see a
policeman under a lamp-post, they dodged across the street, and when at
the last one of them picked me up and hid me under his jacket, I began
to tremble; for I knew what it meant. It meant that I was to fight again
for the Master.