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From Pillar to Post

[290] <h2>XV</h2> <h3>EMERGENCIES</h3> Quick thinking on and off the platform is quite essential to the happiness of the man on the road. The sniping fates are always after him, in small ways as well as in large, and he must keep himself in a state of constant readiness either to dodge their flying shafts, or with some suddenly devised shield of resourcefulness to render himself arrow proof. Sometimes the successful warding off of a flying missile sped from the bow of some malign goddess of mischance becomes the making of the man, as in a case once reported to me by a gentleman in Montana when after my lecture at Billings he and I were laughing over the complete capture of my audience by a big gray tomcat that had entered the lists against me. This privileged creature had leaped into the chair immediately behind me, and begun massaging his face in true feline fashion, to the intense delight of a most amiable gathering. [291]I suppose that if I had known what was going on behind me, I should have tried to rise to the occasion on the spur of the moment; but not knowing it I read on, in blissful unconsciousness of the fact that a series of living pictures was flashing across the vision of my audience directly to the rear. The only sensation experienced at the time by my innocent self was one of supreme pleasure and satisfaction that my audience had at last awakened to the beauty of my discourse, and was manifesting in most gratifying fashion its appreciation of even the subtlest of my points. When at the close of the reading the real truth was revealed to me I merely smiled, and never for a moment let on that until the chairman spoke of the animal I had not suspected its presence. "We admired your composure, Mr. Bangs," said the chairman. "A good many men would have been rattled by such an intrusion as that; but you went right on without a break. In fact, if you don't mind my saying so, you were better after the cat than you were before he came." "Oh, well," said I, "we have to get used to that sort of thing. The trained lecturer really ought[292] to be able to go on even if a young earthquake were to fall upon him. Do you always try your lecturers on a cat?" I added. "Well, I hadn't thought of it that way," he laughed; "but as a matter of fact we most generally do. That cat belongs to our janitor, and he's pretty sure to turn up somewhere during the evening. One year we had a man out here giving some recitations, and I tell you old Tom helped him out considerably. He was rolling along through some funny speech or other, when the cat jumped upon the platform, washed his face two or three times, scratched his ear for a minute, and then with his eye fixed on the audience he walked straight over the electric footlights to the other side of the stage and disappeared. The audience roared and the recitationist stopped, gazed with mock indignation at the people for a second or two, and then addressing me he said, 'Mr. Chairman, I understood that this was to be a monologue—not a catalogue.' Of course it brought down the house, and ever since then that man has been about the most popular number our lecture course has ever had." As a standard of emergency repartee I am inclined[293] to think this incident sets the high-water mark. The intrusion of four-footed creatures on the line of vision at lectures is unfortunately not rare. Lecturers have no terrors for mice and rats, and just as every hall is provided with a janitor, or janitrix, so is every caretaker provided with a cat, as a preventive of rodential troubles. I have got so used to their presence, however, that I no longer bother about them. As long as they leave me alone, and hold their tongues, I am content to have them disport themselves as they please, in the public eye or out of it. But a dog is another proposition altogether. Personally I like dogs better than I like cats; but for platform purposes I prefer the feline to the canine intrusion. One knows pretty well in advance what a cat will do; but a dog is a most uncertain quantity. The cat's attentions are likely to be general, or, if not, centered wholly upon his or her own toilet—washing her face, manicuring her ears, pursuing her tail—but the dog too frequently takes a direct personal interest in the chief performer of the occasion. And while I should never think of attributing critical faculties to any[294] kind of dog, they sometimes have a way of expressing what might pass for opinions, worthy or unworthy, concerning the work in hand, in no uncertain tones. As evidence of this I recall an afternoon devoted not long since to the reading of one of Browning's exceedingly difficult masterpieces, in the presence of a number of ladies and one highly intelligent Irish terrier. The poem was Browning's "Christmas Eve and Easter Day," full of beauty and of inspired thought, but not easy reading, and requiring unusual concentration of mind to get out the full measure of its charm. My small audience was most appreciative, and as I approached the climacteric I was feeling tolerably well satisfied with the results, when this keenly critical terrier suddenly rose from his resting place, stationed himself deliberately before me, stretched himself until it almost seemed that one could hear his bones crack, and sent forth upon the mystery-laden atmosphere about as expressive a whining yawn as one might expect from the Seven Sleepers themselves, all rolled into one, and too early awakened from their slumbers—and there the "climacteric" rests to this day. [295]I never finished the reading, and what had been an hour of highly concentrated mysticism reached its sixtieth second in a wild roar of hilarious relief. A less comfortable moment involving a canine intruder occurred at Binghamton, New York, back in 1898, when I suffered the double intrusion of a secret society initiation going on overhead, which may or may not have been made interesting to the initiates by the presence of the proverbial goat, and the sudden appearance upon the stage of a huge bulldog of terrifying aspect. Above me was every indication, in sound at least, of a wild creature "abounding and abutting" upon the whole length of the superimposed floor, accompanied by muffled yells, presumably from the despairing throats of brothers elect. But this was as nothing in its effect upon my peace of mind to the sudden development of that bulldog in our midst. He came in through the open door of the hall, and walked deliberately down the center aisle, and thence up the steps to the platform whereon I was engaged in the pleasing occupation of "Reading from My Own Works." Bright as I had fondly hoped these works would be thought,[296] they immediately went dark in the face of that undershot jaw with its gleaming white teeth, the drooling lip, and the eager, curious eye on each side of the squat nose, fixed intently upon my quaking self. Whether I continued to read or merely extemporized I do not now recall—in fact, I really never knew—I simply know that I continued to make sounds with my vocal organs, one eye on the pages of my book, the other glued to the lower jaw of the intruder. The latter, after satisfying his visual perceptions as to my superficial virtues and defects, seemed to find it necessary to satisfy also some inward nasal craving to settle certain lingering doubts in his mind as to my right to be where he found me, and to that end he proceeded to place his squat nose hard up against the calf of my leg, and to sniff vigorously. By what strange mercy it was that I did not kick him, then and there, with results that I hesitate even now to dwell upon, I don't know. The supremely important facts are that I did not kick him, but droned quaveringly on through my work, and soon learned happily from a scarcely suppressed snort that he considered me too contemptible[297] for further attention. He departed, going out as he had come, through the open doorway, and left me again in control of the situation, if not wholly of myself. When he had completely faded into the outer darkness I paused and said: "Ladies and Gentlemen, I appreciate deeply your tribute of regard; but let me tell you frankly that I prefer flowers, even vegetables, to bulldogs. If you have any further four-footed tokens of your esteem in store for me, I beg that you will send them by special messenger to my office in New York, or by mail to my residence in Yonkers, the address of which you may secure from the chairman on your way out of the hall at the conclusion of my reading." The ultimate results of this incident were far from happy. I naturally told the story, together with some other amusing details of my visit to Binghamton, to friends at my club later, not any more in confidence than they are related here, and as good-naturedly as their diverting quality rendered appropriate; and the fact that I had done so coming to certain Binghamtonian ears, I was placarded in one of the Binghamton papers as being "no gentleman," "an ungrateful guest,"[298] and so on, ad lib., in consequence of which Binghamton and I no longer speak as we pass by. For this I am sincerely sorry, but none the less must rest content. I do not think I should care to return there even if I were asked, for fear that in pursuance of their system of tribute they might try my courage upon the lineal descendant of that goat above stairs, or possibly upon some actively inclined bull, playfully unleashed in my vicinity as a test of my composure if not of my good manners. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/gs29.jpg" width-obs="340" height-obs="500" alt=""A craving to settle lingering doubts as to my right to be there."" title="" /> "A craving to settle lingering doubts as to my right to be there."</div> The minor matter of dress is frequently the cause of emergency calls for help from embarrassed lyceumites, and to get out of predicaments in which mistakes of packing under the pressure of hurry place us sometimes taxes our resources to the uttermost. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once told[299] me of an amusing complication along these lines by which he was confronted in a New Jersey community, whither he had gone to dine with and address the students of a famous school. On his arrival at the scene of action Dr. Doyle, as he was then known, discovered to his dismay that in the hurried packing of his suitcase he had forgotten to put in his evening coat. Everything else was there; but his swallowtail was missing. Now Sir Arthur is not only a distinguished novelist and story writer, but is a particularly punctilious and tactfully courteous gentleman as well; and, having heard stories of other Britons coming to this country and attending functions given in their honor in tweeds, as if we Americans knew nothing of the niceties of dress, was careful always to avoid giving offense himself by similar vagaries. So, rather than seem contemptuous of the conventionalities on this occasion, the doctor pleaded a headache as his excuse for not appearing at dinner, and in the interval of time thus gained transformed his blue serge traveling coat into a perfectly good dinner jacket, or Tuxedo, as some do call it, with properly rolling lapels, by cutting off the buttons and rolling the front of his coat back[300] into a broad lapel effect; pressing the resulting garment into stayable shape by putting it between the mattresses of his bed, and lying on them for an hour. I cannot say that I have ever found myself master of any such wonderful ingenuity when face to face with a similar predicament; but in Austin, Texas, two years ago I suffered from a condition that for the time being seemed quite as poignantly distressing. My trunk had been despatched from San Antonio to Houston, and I was "living in my suitcase." With only twenty-five minutes to spare before I was due upon the platform, I found myself without shirt studs, and at the moment without anything at hand to use as an acceptable substitute. A hurried visit to the main street and some of its tributaries divulged nothing in the nature of a haberdashery or a jeweler's shop that had not been closed for the night. I was in a terrific quandary; but the Only Muse, always a resourceful person, reminded me of Oliver Herford's expedient many years before in using in a similar emergency a set of brass-headed manuscript fasteners. Fortunately I had with[301] me several bits of manuscript that were held together by these useful little contrivances—small pieces of metal with shining brass caps, backed by flexible flanges to hold the caps in place. These were inserted in the buttonholes of my shirt in most satisfactory fashion, and in a few moments as far as externals were concerned I presented as goodly an appearance as any man rejoicing in the effulgent glory of three lustrously golden studs. With a sigh of relief I then turned to put on my white waistcoat, only to discover, alas! that that too was missing, nor was there any sign anywhere of any other kind of vest that could do duty convincingly, or even acceptably, with a claw-hammer coat. Again I flew precipitately down the stairs, this time to the kindly room clerk in the hotel office. I explained my predicament to him in a few well chosen words, ending up with: "Haven't you a white vest you can lend me?" "Certainly I have," said he, and together we repaired to his room in quest of the needed garment. He soon found it, and I returned rejoicing to my room, the treasure hugged tightly to my breast; but when I came to try it on I discovered, what I had overlooked in the agitation of the moment,[302] that as eight is to thirty-two, so was the room clerk's façade to mine! I could get into the vest; but no compressor ever yet invented could so adjust my physical proportions to the garment that it would come within four inches of meeting in front. "What the deuce am I going to do?" I cried, sinking into a chair in despair. "Slit it up the back, and I'll pin it on you," suggested the ever-ready Muse. "But it isn't mine," said I. "Buy it," said she. In an instant I had the room clerk on the telephone. "Will you sell me that vest?" I asked. "Why—no," he said. "I don't want to sell it." "But I need it in my business," I pleaded. "Well, you've got it, haven't you?" "Yes, I've got it all right," I replied; "but I can't get into it without putting a yard of extra width in the back. Come on—be a good fellow and sell it to me," I added with all the pathos that I could summon. "No," he answered with a chuckle, "no—I[303] couldn't sell it to you; but I'll give it to you with all the pleasure in the world!" In this fashion was the emergency met, and I went out before my audience that night on time in improvised raiment pinned on to my person, "a thing of shreds and patches," and blazoning as to my shirt-front with all the resplendent gilt of three brass tacks, all of which brought vividly to my mind the words of Antonio in "The Merchant of Venice": O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath! It may seem to the casual observer that such matters as shirt studs and white waistcoats are of too slight importance to worry a speaker; but a "whole date" was once saved to me by the fact that I wore a high silk hat, which caused a kindly livery-stable keeper to drive me eighteen miles from a stranded railway train through a blizzard to the town of my destination, because he judged from my hat that I was a member of a favorite minstrel troupe that was to perform there the same night. When he discovered that I was only one of "them lecture fellers," for whose free tickets he had no use, he was terribly disappointed. [304]Anyhow, an audience likes a man to be wholly himself, and cares little for a speaker who modifies his dress according to his ideas of how they wish him to look. A popular and prominent candidate for Governor of New York once lost a large number of votes that might have elected him because in addressing a gathering of workingmen at an East Side rally, the night being insufferably hot, he took off his coat and collar, and spoke to them in his shirt sleeves. The men were deeply offended. They significantly asked if he would have taken off his coat in the presence of a fashionable uptown audience, and would have none of his presumed assumption that they were any less worthy of his respect, or careful of their own dignity, than his so-called smarter, better-class people. I have always found the full evening dress and high collar of an effete civilization wholly comfortable, and wear them accordingly wherever I lecture, whether it be in the rarefied social atmosphere of high academic circles, or in a mining camp where there dwell possibly rougher, but none the less genuine, human folk. I think that in the latter environment indeed it is a positive aid to success to do so; for there can be no doubt that[305] reduced to its essentials the evening dress of the modern male creature is really a funny thing, and in an evening devoted somewhat to humor any element that is in even the least degree mirth-provoking does not come amiss. Perhaps the most overpowering sense of being confronted by an emergency came to me again back in 1898 out of an experience that turned out to be critical only in my own imaginings. Most of our troubles are, I fancy, imaginary—purely psychological, as the modern phrase has it—but while they are on they are none the less acute for all that. On the occasion of which I write, at a more than feverish moment in our relations with Spain and Cuba, I was summoned to lecture at the attractive little port of Brunswick, Georgia. It was here, by the way, that I first had the pleasure of seeing my name on a hotel bill of fare, which in the platform world is the height of fame, just as in the theatrical world it is the acme of distinction for a star to see his name pasted on an ash barrel, or spread across the hoardings of a ten-acre lot full of tin cans and other undesirable bric-à-brac. They had me down on the supper bill among the hot breads, somewhat like this:[306] HOT BREAD Tea Biscuit. Corn Muffins. Graham Gems. Popovers. John Kendrick Bangs, Casino, To-night. But that was not the Emergent Moment of which I would speak. This came later, at the conclusion of my lecture, when a young man who in the dim light of the street was scarcely perceptible, intercepted me as I left the hall. "Mr. Bangs," said he, "I have come here from Captain Maguffy of the Samuel J. Taylor, to present his compliments to the skipper of the 'House-Boat on the Styx.' The captain was detained from your lecture to-night, to his very great regret; but he wishes you would drop all formality and join him at supper." Knowing neither Captain Maguffy (the name is a substitute for the real one) nor his ambassador, I thanked the latter, saying that while I was grateful for his courtesy I was really very tired, had much work ahead of me, and begged to be excused. "The captain never takes no for an answer," persisted the young man. "He will be terribly disappointed if you don't come, and as a matter[307] of fact, counting surely upon your good fellowship, he has made special preparations for you." Unfortunately—or fortunately, as it later turned out—among other serious defects in my education I have never been taught the firmer uses of the negative. I have never been able to say no to anybody as if I really meant it, and it has involved me in more difficulties than I care to record here or elsewhere. In any event, my regrets growing fainter and fainter, and Captain Maguffy's ambassador's insistence more and more marked, the sum total of some thirty-two negatives soon developed into one positive affirmative. "All right," I said finally, "I'll run in on the captain; but only for a moment, just long enough to shake hands, say howdido, and get back to bed. I must be in bed by midnight as a matter of principle." The ambassador thereupon assisted me into one of those indescribable one-horse "shays" that seem to sprout in the vicinity of Southern railway stations and hotels about as lushly as mint in the patches of the Carolinas. I used to think when I was a resident of Yonkers that the Hudson River Valley was a sort of hack heaven, whither all sorts[308] of deceased vehicles went when they died; but several tours of the South since have convinced me that that idea was mere presumption on my part. The South, as well as the Hudson River Valley, fairly burgeons with vehicular antiques that would delight the soul of an archæologist anxious to find the connecting link between the carriages of the Cæsars and those of Andrew Jackson and his successors up to the merry days of Hayes. The particular rattledy-bang old combination of wabbling wheels and hair-erupting cushions into which I was ushered was drawn by a white horse, and driven by a colored man. The horse was so very white that it could hardly be seen on the white coquina roads, and the negro was so black that he was equally imperceptible against the background of the night; so that I seemed to be floating through the night enjoying sensations similar to those of a man on his first journey in an aëroplane. The whole effect was eery in the extreme, especially as we drove and drove and drove, and floated and floated and floated, without apparently getting anywhere. Then, of a sudden, I became terribly uneasy. The thought flashed through my mind, "Why,[309] here you are, all alone, after ten o'clock at night, in a strange country, going to see a man you never heard of before, in company of an individual whose name you haven't asked, and whose face you have seen only dimly in the dark! You are known to have several hundred dollars in your pocket, and nobody under Heaven but yourself and your companion knows where you are, or in what kind of company." It really seemed time for a diplomatic "hedge." "Where is Captain Maguffy's house?" I inquired as a starter, after we had driven for an overlong time. "Newark, New Jersey," was the consoling reply, but soberly made. "Well—I don't feel equal to a drive that far," I said dryly. "I supposed when I accepted this invitation that your captain was living around the corner somewhere." "No," said my companion. "He's aboard his boat—the Samuel J. Taylor." "His boat?" I cried. "Oh, come now, my friend—if I'd known that—well, really, I think we'd better turn back." "Not now," said he. "We're almost there." [310]"But why doesn't the captain keep his boat closer to civilization?" I queried. "Isn't there room for him closer to town?" "Yes, there's plenty of room closer to town," replied my strange acquaintance, "but the captain prefers to be closer to the sea in case he needs to make a quick get-away. He and the government aren't on the best of terms. Between you and me, he's doing a little stunt in filibustering, and the folks up at Washington are getting suspicious." My heart sank into my boots and then rebounded to my throat. "You should have told me all this before we started," said I. "Well, I should have," said he; "but—well, I was afraid if I did you wouldn't come, and the captain told me not to come back without you. What he says goes with me." I could think of only one word. The simple term kidnapped flashed across my mind, and then the pleasing little phrase, so nice for a headline, Held for Ransom, burned itself into my nerve. The beating of my heart sounded like the muffled tread of that invisible steed ahead on the coquina road. I glanced out of the chaise to see what my[311] chances of escape might be in case I made a break for liberty, and saw off to the right of me the lines of a rotting pierhead, and the towering masts of a huge schooner that was moored to its decaying piling. At the inner end of the pier was a white-washed shed. Everything in sight except the driver, the chaise, and my future looked white—a ghastly, ghostly white that made me think of all the tales of horrid spooks I had ever heard. Here the carriage came to a sudden halt, and a tall black figure loomed up from behind the shed. "Did you get him?" came a deep bass voice out of the night. "You betcha!" was the reply from my companion. I descended from the carriage, and my conductor led the way along the rotting stringpiece of the pier, a little more than a foot wide, the chill waters of St. Simon's Sound lapping about six feet below on each side, and the dark figure from behind the shed immediately to the rear. I was completely a captive. A moment later we came to a narrow gangplank leading to the broad, holy-stoned deck of the schooner, in the fore part of[312] which was an open hatchway, out of which there streamed a steady shaft of yellow light. "Down this way, please," said my companion as we reached the hatchway. Tremulously I followed him down the steps, and in a moment found myself—in the prettiest, daintiest, little, white and gold parlor one could have hoped to find anywhere outside of a mansion designed for a Marie Antoinette, or a Madame de Maintenon! Everywhere was gold and white—chairs, walls, table—and set in the panels of the walls (built in) were a half-dozen exquisite little water-color paintings, all in most perfect keeping with the general color scheme of the room; and on each side of a door leading to an adjoining apartment, impassive as two bits of sculpture, stood two negroes of gigantic size, not an inch under six feet in height—two veritable genii out of the pages of the Arabian Nights, but clad in blue flannel coats with brass buttons, white duck trousers, and glazed white hats with black vizors. It was really a wonderful picture; but I had hardly had time to take it in when from behind me again the bass voice of the figure behind the shed broke upon my hearing. [313]"Welcome, O Skipper of the Stygian House Boat, to the Samuel J. Taylor!" it said, and quickly turning I found myself gazing into the dark, flashing eyes of my host. If the white and gold cabin had amazed me, the captain completely took my breath away. He looked as if he had just come in from a five o'clock tea on Fifth avenue—frock coat, dark gray trousers, all of perfect fit, white waistcoat, lavender tie with an exquisite pearl pin stuck carelessly into its soft folds, and in his hand the very latest thing in imported high silk hats! He was the beau ideal of your conventional gentleman of society. As I have said, I was breathless, and consequently speechless, for a moment; but I did manage at the end of a few seconds to blurt out: "Am I—am I awake, Captain?" "Well—if you're not, we've plenty of room and time for you to sleep it out," he replied. "But this cabin—this saloon—these—these water colors!" I went on. "A little fancy of my wife's," said mine host. "She fitted it all up herself. The water colors, by the way, are all her own work. Rather nice, I think. She was a pupil of a fellow Centurion of[314] yours, Mr. ----." Here he mentioned one of our famous artists, a member of my club, and a painter of rare distinction. My desire to get away had become less keen; but I deemed it wise nevertheless to make the effort. I still needed some reassurance as to my safety. "Well, Captain," said I, "it has been a pleasure to meet you, and I hate to run; but I have had a hard day of it, and I'm very tired. I have come just to shake hands with you and say howdido, before turning in for the night." "Oh, you mustn't go until you have broken bread with me," said he. "I told him he could be in bed by twelve if he wanted to," interposed my conductor. "All right," said the captain. "We'll live up to your promise. You may serve the supper at once," he added, turning to the two genii at the door, who had not stirred a muscle through the whole conversation. Then began the service of a supper in which for the first time I tasted the joys of alligator pears, the sweets of real grapefruit made into salad, the full possibilities of Moro crabs à la Newburg, alongside of which even my beloved Maine lobsters[315] are dull and dreary reptiles, and of many other delightful edibles as well, with my choice of a liquid refreshment as if from the cellar of a Lucullus—and through it all the captain talked. He told me of his interest in the Cuban struggle for independence; how he had gone first to Havana as correspondent for an American newspaper with a decided leaning toward Spanish interests; how he had resigned rather than write the kind of material his chiefs demanded. He told me then how he had at last decided to help the Cuban cause with arms, and with what money he had; how he had chartered this lumber schooner and gone ostensibly into the lumber business to cover his real activities; and how every time he set out from Brunswick laden with lumber consigned to some other port he always took time to run over to Cuban waters, and carry weapons and ammunition to the insurgents. "And what has Uncle Sam had to say to all these activities?" I asked. "He's getting a little suspicious," laughed the captain. "Once I thought he'd got me, too. I had a thousand rifles and ten thousand rounds of ammunition in hand for the boys, the other day[316] and while I was being towed out to sea by a tug the Vesuvius, which had been watching me for several days, fired a shot across my bows and stopped me. They sent a search party aboard—and I tell you, sir, they were a mighty thorough lot! There wasn't a nook or cranny of the Samuel J. Taylor those fellows didn't turn inside out. Not an inch from topmast to keel escaped the official eye; but they found nothing, and I was allowed to go on." "But how," said I, "did you manage to conceal the stuff?" "Oh, that was simple," laughed the captain. "They went through the Samuel J. Taylor with a fine-tooth comb; but they forgot to search the tug. We transferred the guns later, and forty-eight hours afterward they were in the hands of the Cubans." It was five o'clock in the morning when Captain Maguffy delivered me at my hotel. "Good-by, Captain," said I. "For a few moments I was afraid you were going to kidnap me—and now, by George! my only regret is that you didn't!" He laughed heartily. "Well," he said, "if you[317] really mean that, come back on board. I think it can be arranged." But freedom was too sweet, and besides I had to make my living; so I reluctantly bade the captain good morning, and have thought of him affectionately ever since. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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