LOVE AND A ZULU
Mrs. Livingstone, who had become accepted, by this time, to the
Colonel's great delight, as a sort of lovingly hesitant chaperon and
hostess of the accidental House Party, was now, doubtless to her own
surprise, the one to take the initiative:
"Did I understand you to say, Mr. Poet, that what you just related was
strictly true?"
"Yes, Madam, certainly," was the calm and unabashed reply of the person
addressed.
"Thank you," was the gentle answer, "it was beautiful," and then she
turned to her husband, "Colonel, won't you please request one of the
stern business men here to tell something, something reliable, and of
the present time?"
The Colonel's quizzical eye had, for some moments rested upon the
Broker, to the evident disquietude of that gentleman, though it was
clear that he would not seek to avoid the issue when his time for effort
came. He had not listened to the tale which had been told as intently
as he might and there was a look upon his face as of a man recalling
memories. He was mentally preparing himself for the Colonel's
onslaught--and it came.
"Mr. Broker," said the genial tyrant, "gentlemen of your type in the
business world are about the best fellows going, and, as I know, from
listening interestedly a thousand times, are always telling good
stories, when not going crazy 'on 'change.' Your turn has come and your
fate is sealed beyond all peradventure. Sir, we await you."
The Broker "accepted the situation:" "I've been anticipating this
emergency and have been preparing for it as much as possible. I don't
know that it is what might be called a strictly business story, but it
is that of how a friend of mine--an admirable man--made a lot of money
and gained one of the prettiest wives in the world. I think we might
call it
LOVE AND A ZULU
In every drop of the blue blood of St. Louis there is a bubble of
sporting blood. This is a love story of St. Louis, with filaments of
fact entwining themselves with the lighter filaments of fancy. The St.
Louis lover--of course, there are exceptions--loves with his whole
heart, and in his constant heart, with every pulsation, throbs the idea
of chance. So, the great city on the banks of the Father of Waters is a
city of honorable betting.
John Driscoll was in trouble. John Driscoll, aged twenty-seven, was a
lone scion of one of the best families of St. Louis, a city where they
have good families, certainly. Driscoll's trouble was of the sort which
tries a man. He was desperately in love with a fair young woman, but
consent to the marriage was absolutely refused by the young woman's
father until Driscoll should be worth at least twenty thousand dollars;
and a very obstinate old gentleman was Mr. Cameron, who owned much real
estate and was looked upon as one of the solid men of a solid city. It
was not altogether a harsh impulse which had brought this decree from
him. He wanted Driscoll to show that he had business ability, for
Driscoll had been something of a figure socially and not much of a
figure otherwise. Mr. Cameron was very fond of his daughter Jessie. John
Driscoll had been left, on the death of his mother, with a fortune of
only eighteen thousand dollars; two thousand dollars were already gone
and he had earned nothing. In order, therefore, to meet the requirement
of his prospective father-in-law, he must, somehow, make four thousand
dollars. It may be said to his credit that he lacked neither earnestness
nor courage. He devoted himself at once to a vigorous endeavor to gain
the required sum. He worked with feverish earnestness. He became
solicitor for an insurance company, and, with his wide acquaintance,
made a moderate success of the business from the beginning. It was hard
to endure--for love is impatient--but the man did not flinch. At the end
of a year he had a little over eighteen thousand dollars in bank and
admirable prospects. But, as above wisely remarked, love is exceedingly
impatient. He was offered a chance in a speculation which promised to
gain for him two thousand dollars at once, and yielded to the
temptation--though persuaded against it by the girl he loved and who
loved him. Instead of gaining two thousand dollars, he lost two
thousand, and was back at the sixteen thousand dollar notch again. A
year had been wasted.
At the northeast corner of Elm Street and Broadway is a famous
place--half restaurant, half summer garden--where theatre parties go,
and where the gilded youth of the city eat, drink and are merry.
Nonsensical propositions arise among these young gentlemen with money
and, in many instances, with brains as well. One evening at one of the
tables there arose a discussion over the old problem of whether or not
the ordinary man could eat thirty quail in thirty days. The discussion
became warm. "It is absurd," said a young man named Graham--"the whole
idea of it. Why, after a hard day's shooting in Texas, I once ate six
quail at a single meal. That means that even a man of my size can eat
thirty quail in five days, doesn't it?"
"Well, it may or may not," was the response of a youth named Malvern,
one of the group; "but eating six quail in one day, or thirty quail in
six days, is not the matter under discussion. One of the most exquisite
forms of torture known to the Chinese, is to bind a prisoner so that he
cannot move his head, and then, from a reservoir above, allow drop after
drop of water to fall upon his head. At first it is nothing, but,
finally, there comes an uncomfortable sensation, then pain, and, in the
end, an exquisite agony. The victim dies or goes insane. A barrel of
water poured upon him at once would not have affected him at all. So it
is with eating thirty quail in thirty days. It is the monotony for all
those days--the thing that cannot be avoided--that tells."
"Bah!" said Graham. "I don't take your view of the case. I've the
courage of my convictions, and I'll bet you five hundred dollars that I
will eat thirty quail in thirty days, breakfasting here at nine o'clock
each morning and eating my quail then."
"Done!" was the prompt reply. "You're not the only fellow who has the
courage of his convictions. We'll appoint a committee of observation,
and breakfast here together regularly. There'll be fun in the thing,
whatever the outcome."
The committee was appointed, and the next morning saw a hilarious group
seated about the table. Graham was full of confidence and jest. He
ordered his quail broiled, and his companions, out of compliment,
ordered the same thing. It was a breakfast enjoyed by all. Here follows
a summary of what happened on succeeding mornings:
Breakfast Second.--Graham came in, still confident, and had a good
appetite, as appeared when he ordered broiled quail again and ate it
with much gusto. Of the five men at table two ate quail as well; the
others ordered beefsteak.
Breakfast Third.--Graham's serenity was still unruffled. He ate his
quail broiled, as usual, and seemed to enjoy it, but he noticed that
none of his friends took quail. "I must have variety," said one of them.
Breakfast Fourth--Graham said he must have indulged in too much
champagne the night before. He ordered his quail roasted for a change,
and ate it slowly--the committee of three watching him like hawks, to
see that he picked the bones clean.
Breakfast Fifth.--The events of the meal were almost identical with
those of the day before, save that Graham required a little more time in
which to consume his bird.
Breakfast Sixth.--Graham declared that, after all, we were behind the
English in our manner of cooking birds. They boiled two fowls to our
one. He ordered his quail boiled and picked away at it with some energy.
He certainly cleaned the bones with more ease than before.
Breakfast Seventh.--Graham came in, looking bilious. He hesitated before
ordering, but finally decided that he would take his quail chopped up
into stew. There was some debate over this, and the committee finally
went into the restaurant kitchen, to see that nothing got away. The stew
seemed to please Graham and he made numerous jests at the expense of the
men, "who," he said, "had no stomachs."
Breakfast Eighth.--Graham ordered quail stew again, but did not get
along so well as he had on the previous morning. He declared the bird to
be stale and said that it smelled "quailly." As a matter of fact, it was
a plump young bird, shot only the day before.
Breakfast Ninth.--To the astonishment of everybody, Graham, who looked
more bilious than ever, ordered quail hash. The committee was indignant,
but there was no recourse, and so they were compelled to visit the
kitchen again and watch the career of the quail from plucking to plate.
Graham became furious. He said it was a shame to doubt the honesty of
the establishment. He ate the quail.
It is unnecessary to continue in detail the story of the breakfasts in
the great restaurant. Each day Graham became more petulant and
unreasonable. All ways of cooking quail were at last exhausted, and
there was a compelled return to some of those already employed. Graham
by the fifteenth day had become haggard and the very odor of the
delicate bird, as it came in, brought to him a feeling of utmost nausea.
He was brusque with the faithful waiter, and took no interest in the
conversation of his friends. He was plucky, though, and managed, by
sheer force of will, to consume the distasteful ration. Meanwhile, the
wager had become the comment of the town, especially among the wealthy
youth, and thousands of dollars were staked upon the issue. The
restaurant was thronged each morning, and the proprietor wished he had
some such attraction to such a class throughout all the rotund year.
This notoriety but made the case of poor Graham worse; it made him more
anxious to succeed, but it unnerved him.
On the twentieth day the odds, which had at first been in favor of
Graham, dropped to no odds at all, and on the twenty-second they were
against him. He came in with a pallid look upon his face and sat down
before his dainty fare. He took up his knife and fork; then suddenly
laid them down and left the place. Within ten minutes he returned with a
set face and resolutely performed his task. Where he had been was not
known at the time, but it was rumored, later, in the Southern Hotel
(which was in the same block) that there had been sold a half-pint
bottle of champagne that morning to a gentleman in a hurry.
So, worse and worse became the man's condition, greater and greater his
abhorrence of what is counted a delicate bit of eating. On the
twenty-sixth morning he came in with a more closely hovering look of
apprehension than had yet been noticed. He sat down before the bird,
picked at it for a moment, rose from the table walked about for a while;
then came back, again and again, and considered what was before him. He
gasped, and, as he arose to his feet and started from the room,
exclaimed huskily: "It's no use, boys. I was mistaken. I can't do it. I
give up!"
There was pity for him, especially among the minors, for he had done his
best. Many cheques were drawn that morning.
Driscoll always breakfasted at this restaurant and had, naturally,
become interested in this droll struggle between man and quail. For a
day or two after his own loss he had been dazed and discouraged haunting
the lobbies of the Planter's, the Southern or the Lindell, and pitying
himself amazingly. All at once he braced up, to an extent, through the
influence of plucky little Jessie Cameron. "We must begin again--that's
all," said she, resolutely and cheerily. "Surely, you love me as much as
Jacob, who served twice seven years, for Rachel, and I admire you more
than I do Jacob--though I never liked his device concerning Esau. Begin
again, dear, and all will come right."
And Driscoll did begin again with a vigor, though henceforth he referred
to Mr. Cameron as Laban to the indignation of the fair and filial
Jessie.
The lover settled down to earnest work, did well and was becoming
contented and hopeful. This condition of mind enabled him to speculate
in his hours of ease upon something outside of his personal affairs. The
quail-eating contest had interested him, because he was an educated man,
and something of a student of the body. Why had Graham failed in the
eating of thirty quail in thirty days? Men eat thirty breakfasts in
thirty days and do not know they have done it. Hunters and miners eat
bacon alone--that is, as far as their meat goes--for months at a time
and think nothing of it. Why had Graham failed?
Just as a matter of amusement, Driscoll tried to study the thing out:
"Man is omnivorous," he thought; "not a flesh-eater alone, and his range
of consumption is wide. He must have variety, even in flesh, as a
requirement of his stomach. Furthermore, man alone, among all creatures,
is imaginative, and, when forced to eat a certain thing, develops a
thousand fancies against it until it becomes revolting. It might be so,
very likely would be so, in the case of the beefsteak or the bacon. The
only animal which can live easily and uncomplainingly upon one kind of
flesh alone, live cheerfully and healthfully, like the lion or the tiger
or others of the carnivora, must be one accustomed to such purely flesh
diet and one without imagination." And Driscoll was right in his
conclusions.
There existed at this time on Fourth Street, near Walnut, a dime museum
of the better sort. Among the attractions for the season were five Zulus
from Barnum's Circus--Zulus, most graceful of all savages, with their
incurved backs, broad chests, and the step of him of Kipling, who
"Trod the ling
Like a buck in spring."
and who, daily, for the edification of the populace, gave a great
exhibition of the throwing of the assegai. One of them was a woman and
she could speak English.
"A human being accustomed to a flesh diet and without imagination,
wouldn't he be a wonder to these joyous bettors?" thought Driscoll. Then
he almost gasped as he leaned back. He had dropped into the dime museum
on Fourth Street that morning, having business with the proprietor, and
had noted the performance of the Zulus admiringly. "A human being living
on flesh exclusively and without imagination almost concerning food."
Here were a group, all of whom had throughout their lives, until
imported, lived, practically, upon flesh alone--the half-cooked flesh of
the herds. Flesh alone was what their stomachs craved. Additionally,
they had no imagination concerning food--no morbid fancies. They only
wanted meat and plenty of it--and the rest be hanged! Driscoll saw it
all. He thought for an hour and then there came upon his face the look
of a man who is going to break a jam of pine logs in some Northern river
or drown beneath the timber. He called at the dime museum.
"Gregory," said he, "I want to borrow your best Zulu."
"_Borrow what?_" said Gregory.
"A Zulu."
"What do you mean? Tell me about it."
"I'll explain. You know all about the quail-eating contest, where Graham
failed. You've got a man who won't fail." Then he explained all he had
thought out. The museum proprietor--acute man--became excited: "I'll do
anything you say," he promised.
The next morning, Driscoll was breakfasting as usual in the swell
restaurant with the usual group--Graham, somewhat recovered, among them.
They were still talking of the recent eating exploit, when, in the midst
of the debate, Driscoll spoke, calmly: "I'll wager that I can produce a
man who can eat thirty quail in thirty days. The committee who served in
Graham's case shall serve in this. The only thing that I ask is that the
eating be done upon the stage in the dime museum near the corner of
Fourth and Walnut Streets, and just after we have had breakfast here
each morning. I'll provide tickets for all those directly interested in
the result."
There arose a clamor. Not a man among all the gilded young men present
believed now that any man could eat thirty quail in thirty days.
Driscoll had deliberated and had dared. He had brought with him two
thousand dollars of his remaining fortune. He got odds at first of four
to one; then three to one; then two to one. He stood to lose two
thousand dollars, or win between five and six thousand.
There was among the Zulus a stalwart young man whose assegai sank
deepest into the wooden target, who was a model of strength and wild,
unknowing lustiness, and who had but lately left his tribe in Southern
Africa. Little but flesh had ever passed his mouth as food. He was told,
through the English-speaking woman, that there was a little bird--the
sweetest in the country--one of which would be given him each morning
because he had thrown the assegai so well for the white man's
edification. He smacked his lips, strutted and became excited.
Next morning occurred a scene heretofore unknown to the dime museum. In
the front seats was the cream of society, so far as young men were
concerned, and all the other seats were filled, because the wise
proprietor of the place had seen to it that news so important had gone
abroad. No theatre in all the town drew such a fashionable audience as
did this dime museum. It was a scene most edifying and altogether
blithesome and lighthearted, and one having a special interest.
There was not much of a pause. The Zulu, accompanied by the committee,
came upon the stage--the gentleman from South Africa with glittering
eyes and a look of hungry expectancy upon his face. Then, a moment
later, came in a waiter with a quail--roasted whole and temptingly
displayed upon a tray. The Zulu gazed at it for a minute; then suddenly
picked it up by the legs; thrust the head and breast of the bird into
his mouth and crunched savagely. He was delighted. A moment later, he
tossed the legs away and looked for more. He had simply chewed the bird
and swallowed bones and all!
And so, each day, for twenty-nine days the absurd performance was
repeated. It was quite unnecessary to change the style of cooking,
though the breast bones were removed by order of the committee, out of a
probably unnecessary regard for the digestion of this human personage
brought up on meat half raw. He but clamored for more on each occasion
and was pacified only through the intervention of the woman who
promised that soon he was to have a feast. She was telling him the
truth. Driscoll and Gregory had arranged upon a spectacular termination
of the contest--a contest which already, as everybody saw, was
determined as to its issue. Through the interpreter, the Zulu was
informed that on the thirtieth day he was to have, not only the quail,
but a large bird--one worthy the appetite of a warrior--a bird known in
this strange country as turkey and very good to eat. The strong thrower
of the assegai could hardly restrain himself. He was to have a feast at
last!
The thirtieth morning came, and the quail disappeared as usual. Then, in
a stately procession, came waiters--the first bearing a huge roast
turkey. Behind him came others with the American accompaniments to the
roast turkey, and all was set before the Zulu. There followed a sight
worth seeing. The turkey was utterly demolished; the contents of the
side dishes were consumed and the dishes themselves licked to a
housewifely cleanness. For the first time in thirty days the Zulu gave a
grunt of satisfaction. When all accounts were settled, the fortune of
John Driscoll amounted to just twenty-two thousand one hundred and
eighty dollars and twenty-seven cents.
And so ended the second of the great quail-eating contests in St. Louis.
Perhaps it was wrong, perhaps Driscoll shouldn't have won his money in
the way he did; but in St. Louis there remains, as said in the
beginning, much of the venturesome but always clean and honorable
sporting spirit of the South, and in this case nobody was hurt, to speak
of. They could afford it, and all, winners and losers, had enjoyed
themselves.
But facing Driscoll were still two appalling situations. There were
Jessie and Mr. Cameron. Here the young man conducted himself with a
diplomacy which was vastly to his credit. He went to Jessie, threw
himself on her mercy and confessed all in detail--confessed everything.
She was confused and maybe shocked; but a woman in love is kindly, and a
woman in love with a man of force wants to become his wife.
"How will you explain to Father?" said the thoughtful maiden.
"I'll arrange it, somehow," said the now confident and buoyant Driscoll.
He visited Mr. Cameron and gave satisfactory proof to the old gentleman
that he was now the possessor of over twenty thousand dollars.
"But how did you gain the money so soon, boy?" said Mr. Cameron. "I
heard that you lost a thousand or two."
Driscoll's face sobered. "I should think that no one better than you,
Mr. Cameron, would understand the necessity on the part of a business
man of keeping secret his methods and the relations of his business
affairs. Pardon me--I am not yet your son-in-law."
"Right you are, Driscoll!" was the immediate response. "You're a
business man, after all!"
It was not long before Driscoll became the son-in-law in fact. Then he
told the whole story to his father-in-law.
"Hum! ha!" said the old gentleman, musingly.