Kitabı oku: «The Dreamers: A Club», sayfa 5
IX
IN WHICH YELLOW JOURNALISM CREEPS IN
The applause which followed the reading of the Dooley Dialogue showed very clearly that, among the diners at least, neither Dooley nor Dolly had waned in popularity. If the dilution, the faint echo of the originals, evoked such applause, how potent must have been the genius of the men who first gave life to Dooley and the fair Dolly!
“That’s good stuff, Greenwich,” said Billie Jones. “You must have eaten a particularly digestible meal. Now for the tenth ball. Who has it?”
“I,” said Dick Snobbe, rising majestically from his chair. “And I can tell you what it is; I had a tough time of it in my dream, as you will perceive when I recite to you the story of my experiences at the battle of Manila.”
“Great Scott, Dick!” cried Bedford Parke. “You weren’t in that, were you?”
“Sir,” returned Dick, “I was not only in it, I was the thing itself. I was the war correspondent of the Sunday Whirnal, attached to Dewey’s fleet.”
Whereupon the talented Mr. Snobbe proceeded to read the following cable despatch from the special correspondent of the Whirnal:
MANILA FALLS
THE SPANISH FLEET DESTROYED
THE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT OF THE WHIRNAL
Aided by Commodore Dewey and his Fleet
CAPTURES THE PHILIPPINES
Manila, May 1, 1898. – I have glorious news. I have this day destroyed the Spanish fleet and captured the Philippine Islands. According to my instructions from the City Editor of the Whirnal, I boarded the Olympia, the flag-ship of the fleet under Commodore Dewey at Hong-kong, on Wednesday last. Upon reading my credentials the Commodore immediately surrendered the command of the fleet to me, and retired to his state-room, where he has since remained. I deemed it well to keep him there until after the battle was over, fearing lest he should annoy me with suggestions, and not knowing but that he might at any time spread dissension among the officers and men, who, after the habit of seamen, frequently manifest undue affection and sympathy for a deposed commander. I likewise, according to your wishes, concealed from the officers and crew the fact that the Commodore had been deposed, furthering the concealment by myself making up as Dewey. Indeed, it was not until after the battle this morning that any but Dewey and the ship’s barber were aware of the substitution, since my disguise was perfect. The ship’s barber I had to take into my confidence, for unfortunately on leaving Hong-kong I had forgotten to provide myself with a false mustache, so that in concealing the deposition of the Commodore by myself assuming his personality I was compelled to have the gentleman’s mustache removed from his upper lip and transferred to my own. This the barber did with neatness and despatch, I having first chloroformed the Commodore, from whom some resistance might have been expected, owing to his peculiar temperament. Fortunately the fellow was an expert wig-maker, and within an hour of the shaving of Dewey I was provided with a mustache which could not fail to be recognized as the Commodore’s, since it was indeed that very same object. When five hundred miles at sea I dropped the barber overboard, fearing lest he should disturb my plans by talking too much. I hated to do it, but in the interest of the Whirnal I hold life itself as of little consequence, particularly if it is the life of some one else – and who knows but the poor fellow was an expert swimmer, and has by this time reached Borneo or some other bit of dry land? He was alive when I last saw him, and yelling right lustily. If it so happen that he has swum ashore somewhere, kindly let me know at your convenience; for beneath a correspondent’s exterior I have a warm heart, and it sometimes troubles me to think that the poor fellow may have foundered, since the sea was stressful and the nearest dry point was four hundred and sixty knots away to S.E. by N.G., while the wind was blowing N.W. by N.Y.C. & H.R.R. But to my despatch.
Dewey done for, despoiled of his mustache and rifled of his place, with a heavy sea running and a dense fog listing to starboard, I summoned my officers to the flag-ship, and, on the evening of April 30th, the fog-horns of Cavité having indicated the approach of the Philippine coast, gave them, one and all, their final instructions. These were, in brief, never to do anything without consulting with me.
“To facilitate matters, gentlemen,” said I, ordering an extra supply of grog for the captains, and milk punches for the lieutenants, “we must connect the various vessels of the fleet with telephone wires. Who will undertake this perilous duty?”
They rose up as one man, and, with the precision of a grand-opera chorus, replied: “Commodore” – for they had not penetrated my disguise – “call upon us. If you will provide the wires and the ’phones, we will do the rest.” And they followed these patriotic words with cheers for me.
Their heroism so affected me that I had difficulty in frowning upon the head-butler’s suggestion that my glass should be filled again.
“Gentlemen,” said I, huskily – for I was visibly affected – “I have provided for all. I could not do otherwise and remain myself. You will find ten thousand miles of wire and sixty-six telephones in the larder.”
That night every ship in the fleet was provided with telephone service. I appointed the Olympia to be the central office, so that I might myself control all the messages, or at least hear them as they passed to and fro. In the absence of ladies from the fleet, I appointed a somewhat effeminate subaltern to the post of “Hello Officer,” with complete control over the switch-board. And, as it transpired, this was a very wise precaution, because the central office was placed in the hold, and the poor little chap’s courage was so inclined to ooze that in the midst of the fight he was content to sit below the water-line at his post, and not run about the promenade-deck giving orders while under fire. I have cabled the President about him, and have advised his promotion. His heroic devotion to the switch-board ought to make him a naval attaché to some foreign court, at least. I trust his bravery will ultimately result in his being sent to the Paris Exposition as charge d’affaires in the Erie Canal department of the New York State exhibit.
But to return to my despatch – which from this point must disregard space and move quickly. Passing Cape Bolinao, we soon reached Subig Bay, fifty miles from Manila. Recognizing the cape by the crop of hemp on its brow, I rang up the Boston and the Concord.
“Search Subig Bay,” I ordered.
“Who’s this?” came the answer from the other end.
“Never mind who I am,” said I. “Search Subig Bay for Spaniards.”
“Hello!” said the Boston.
“Who the deuce are you?” cried the Concord.
“I’m seventeen-five-six,” I replied, with some sarcasm, for that was not my number.
“I want sixteen-two-one,” retorted the Boston.
“Ring off,” said the Concord. “What do you mean by giving me seventeen-five-six?”
“Hello, Boston and Concord,” I put in in commanding tones. “I’m Dewey.”
This is the only false statement I ever made, but it was in the interests of my country, and my reply was electrical in its effect. The Boston immediately blew off steam, and the Concord sounded all hands to quarters.
“What do you want, Commodore?” they asked simultaneously.
“Search Subig Bay for Spaniards, as I have already ordered you,” I replied, “and woe be unto you if you don’t find any.”
“What do you want ’em for, Commodore?” asked the Boston.
“To engage, you idiot,” I replied, scornfully. “What did you suppose – to teach me Spanish?”
Both vessels immediately piped all hands on deck and set off. Two hours later they returned, and the telephone subaltern reported, “No Spaniards found.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“All gone to Cuba,” replied the Boston. “Shall we pipe all hands to Cuba?”
“Wires too short to penetrate without a bust,” replied the Concord.
“On to Manila!” was my answer. “Ding the torpedoes – go ahead! Give us Spaniards or give us death!”
These words inspired every ship in the line, and we immediately strained forward, except the McCulloch, which I despatched at once to Hong-kong to cable my last words to you in time for the Adirondack edition of your Sunday issue leaving New York Thursday afternoon.
The rest of us immediately proceeded. In a short while, taking advantage of the darkness for which I had provided by turning the clock back so that the sun by rising at the usual hour should not disclose our presence, we turned Corregidor and headed up the Boca Grande towards Manila. As we were turning Corregidor the telephone-bell rang, and somebody who refused to give his name, but stating that he was aboard the Petrel, called me up.
“Hello!” said I.
“Is this Dewey?” said the Petrel.
“Yes,” said I.
“There are torpedoes ahead,” said the Petrel.
“What of it?” said I.
“How shall we treat ’em?”
“Blow ’em off – to soda water,” I answered, sarcastically.
“Thank you, sir,” the Petrel replied, as she rang off.
Then somebody from the Baltimore rang me up.
“Commodore Dewey,” said the Baltimore, “there are mines in the harbor.”
“Well, what of it?” I replied.
“What shall we do?” asked the Baltimore.
“Treat them coldly, as they do in the Klondike,” said I.
“But they aren’t gold-mines,” replied the Baltimore.
“Then salt ’em,” said I, dryly. “Apply for a certificate of incorporation, water your stock, sell out, and retire.”
“Thank you, Commodore,” the Baltimore answered. “How many shares shall we put you down for?”
“None,” said I. “But if you’ll use your surplus to start a life-insurance company, I’ll take out a policy for forty-eight hours, and send you my demand note to pay for the first premium.”
I mention this merely to indicate to your readers that I felt myself in a position of extreme peril, and did not forget my obligations to my family. It is a small matter, but if you will search the pages of history you will see that in the midst of the greatest dangers the greatest heroes have thought of apparently insignificant details.
At this precise moment we came in sight of the fortresses of Manila. Signalling the Raleigh to heave to, I left the flag-ship and jumped aboard the cruiser, where I discharged with my own hand the after-forecastle four-inch gun. The shot struck Corregidor, and, glancing off, as I had designed, caromed on the smoke-stack of the Reina Cristina, the flag-ship of Admiral Montojo. The Admiral, unaccustomed to such treatment, immediately got out of bed, and, putting on his pajamas, appeared on the bridge.
“Who smoked our struck-stack?” he demanded, in broken English.
“The enemy,” cried his crew, with some nervousness. I was listening to their words through the megaphone.
“Then let her sink,” said he, clutching his brow sadly with his clinched fist. “Far be it from me to stay afloat in Manila Bay on the 1st of May, and so cast discredit on history!”
The Reina Cristina immediately sank, according to the orders of the Admiral, and I turned my attention to the Don Juan de Austria. Rowing across the raging channel to the Baltimore, I boarded her and pulled the lanyard of the port boom forty-two. The discharge was terrific.
“What has happened?” I asked, coolly, as the explosion exploded. “Did we hit her?”
“We did, your honor,” said the Bo’s’n’s mate, “square in the eye; only, Commodore, it ain’t a her this time – it’s a him. It’s the Don Juan de– ”
“Never mind the sex,” I cried. “Has she sank?”
“No, sir,” replied the Bo’s’n’s mate, “she ’ain’t sank yet. She’s a-waiting orders.”
“Fly signals to sink,” said I, sternly, for I had resolved that she should go down.
They did so, and the Don Juan de Austria immediately disappeared beneath the waves. Her commander evidently realized that I meant what I signalled.
“Are there any more of the enemy afloat?” I demanded, jumping from the deck of the Baltimore to that of the Concord.
“No, Commodore,” replied the captain of the latter.
“Then signal the enemy to charter two more gunboats and have ’em sent out. I can’t be put off with two boats when I’m ready to sink four,” I replied.
The Concord immediately telephoned to the Spanish commandant at the Manila Café de la Paix, who as quickly chartered the Castilla and the Velasco– two very good boats that had recently come in in ballast with the idea of loading up with bananas and tobacco.
While waiting for these vessels to come out and be sunk, I ordered all hands to breakfast, thus reviving their falling courage. It was a very good breakfast, too. We had mush and hominy and potatoes in every style, beefsteak, chops, liver and bacon, chicken hash, buckwheat cakes and fish-balls, coffee, tea, rolls, toast, and brown bread.
Just as we were eating the latter the Castilla and Velasco came out. I fired my revolver at the Castilla and threw a fish-ball at the Velasco. Both immediately burst into flames.
Manila was conquered.
The fleet gone, the city fell. It not only fell, but slid, and by nightfall Old Glory waved over the citadel.
The foe was licked.
To-morrow I am to see Dewey again.
I think I shall resign to-night.
P.S. – Please send word to the magazines that all articles by Dewey must be written by Me. Terms, $500 per word. The strain has been worth it.
X
THE MYSTERY OF PINKHAM’S DIAMOND STUD
Being the tale told by the holder of the eleventh ball, Mr. Fulton Streete
“It is the little things that tell in detective work, my dear Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat over our walnuts and coffee one bitter winter night shortly before his unfortunate departure to Switzerland, whence he never returned.
“I suppose that is so,” said I, pulling away upon the very excellent stogie which mine host had provided – one made in Pittsburg in 1885, and purchased by Holmes, whose fine taste in tobacco had induced him to lay a thousand of these down in his cigar-cellar for three years, and then keep them in a refrigerator, overlaid with a cloth soaked in Château Yquem wine for ten. The result may be better imagined than described. Suffice it to say that my head did not recover for three days, and the ash had to be cut off the stogie with a knife. “I suppose so, my dear Holmes,” I repeated, taking my knife and cutting three inches of the stogie off and casting it aside, furtively, lest he should think I did not appreciate the excellence of the tobacco, “but it is not given to all of us to see the little things. Is it, now?”
“Yes,” he said, rising and picking up the rejected portion of the stogie. “We all see everything that goes on, but we don’t all know it. We all hear everything that goes on, but we are not conscious of the fact. For instance, at this present moment there is somewhere in this world a man being set upon by assassins and yelling lustily for help. Now his yells create a certain atmospheric disturbance. Sound is merely vibration, and, once set going, these vibrations will run on and on and on in ripples into the infinite – that is, they will never stop, and sooner or later these vibrations must reach our ears. We may not know it when they do, but they will do so none the less. If the man is in the next room, we will hear the yells almost simultaneously – not quite, but almost – with their utterance. If the man is in Timbuctoo, the vibrations may not reach us for a little time, according to the speed with which they travel. So with sight. Sight seems limited, but in reality it is not. Vox populi, vox Dei. If vox, why not oculus? It is a simple proposition, then, that the eye of the people being the eye of God, the eye of God being all-seeing, therefore the eye of the people is all-seeing – Q. E. D.”
I gasped, and Holmes, cracking a walnut, gazed into the fire for a moment.
“It all comes down, then,” I said, “to the question, who are the people?”
Holmes smiled grimly. “All men,” he replied, shortly; “and when I say all men, I mean all creatures who can reason.”
“Does that include women?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he said. “Indubitably. The fact that women don’t reason does not prove that they can’t. I can go up in a balloon if I wish to, but I don’t. I can read an American newspaper comic supplement, but I don’t. So it is with women. Women can reason, and therefore they have a right to be included in the classification whether they do or don’t.”
“Quite so,” was all I could think of to say at the moment. The extraordinary logic of the man staggered me, and I again began to believe that the famous mathematician who said that if Sherlock Holmes attempted to prove that five apples plus three peaches made four pears, he would not venture to dispute his conclusions, was wise. (This was the famous Professor Zoggenhoffer, of the Leipsic School of Moral Philosophy and Stenography. – Ed.)
“Now you agree, my dear Watson,” he said, “that I have proved that we see everything?”
“Well – ” I began.
“Whether we are conscious of it or not?” he added, lighting the gas-log, for the cold was becoming intense.
“From that point of view, I suppose so – yes,” I replied, desperately.
“Well, then, this being granted, consciousness is all that is needed to make us fully informed on any point.”
“No,” I said, with some positiveness. “The American people are very conscious, but I can’t say that generally they are well-informed.”
I had an idea this would knock him out, as the Bostonians say, but counted without my host. He merely laughed.
“The American is only self-conscious. Therefore he is well-informed only as to self,” he said.
“You’ve proved your point, Sherlock,” I said. “Go on. What else have you proved?”
“That it is the little things that tell,” he replied. “Which all men would realize in a moment if they could see the little things – and when I say ‘if they could see,’ I of course mean if they could be conscious of them.”
“Very true,” said I.
“And I have the gift of consciousness,” he added.
I thought he had, and I said so. “But,” I added, “give me a concrete example.” It had been some weeks since I had listened to any of his detective stories, and I was athirst for another.
He rose up and walked over to his pigeon-holes, each labelled with a letter, in alphabetical sequence.
“I have only to refer to any of these to do so,” he said. “Choose your letter.”
“Really, Holmes,” said I, “I don’t need to do that. I’ll believe all you say. In fact, I’ll write it up and sign my name to any statement you choose to make.”
“Choose your letter, Watson,” he retorted. “You and I are on terms that make flattery impossible. Is it F, J, P, Q, or Z?”
He fixed his eye penetratingly upon me. It seemed for the moment as if I were hypnotized, and as his gaze fairly stabbed me with its intensity, through my mind there ran the suggestion “Choose J, choose J, choose J.” To choose J became an obsession. To relieve my mind, I turned my eye from his and looked at the fire. Each flame took on the form of the letter J. I left my chair and walked to the window and looked out. The lamp-posts were twisted into the shape of the letter J. I returned, sat down, gulped down my brandy-and-soda, and looked up at the portraits of Holmes’s ancestors on the wall. They were all J’s. But I was resolved never to yield, and I gasped out, desperately,
“Z!”
“Thanks,” he said, calmly. “Z be it. I thought you would. Reflex hypnotism, my dear Watson, is my forte. If I wish a man to choose Q, B takes hold upon him. If I wish him to choose K, A fills his mind. Have you ever observed how the mind of man repels a suggestion and flees to something else, merely that it may demonstrate its independence of another mind? Now I have been suggesting J to you, and you have chosen Z – ”
“You misunderstood me,” I cried, desperately. “I did not say Z; I said P.”
“Quite so,” said he, with an inward chuckle. “P was the letter I wished you to choose. If you had insisted upon Z, I should really have been embarrassed. See!” he added. He removed the green-ended box that rested in the pigeon-hole marked Z, and, opening it, disclosed an emptiness.
“I’ve never had a Z case. But P,” he observed, quietly, “is another thing altogether.”
Here he took out the box marked P from the pigeon-hole, and, opening it, removed the contents – a single paper which was carefully endorsed, in his own handwriting, “The Mystery of Pinkham’s Diamond Stud.”
“You could not have selected a better case, Watson,” he said, as he unfolded the paper and scanned it closely. “One would almost think you had some prevision of the fact.”
“I am not aware,” said I, “that you ever told the story of Pinkham’s diamond stud. Who was Pinkham, and what kind of a diamond stud was it – first-water or Rhine?”
“Pinkham,” Holmes rejoined, “was an American millionaire, living during business hours at Allegheny City, Pennsylvania, where he had to wear a brilliant stud to light him on his way through the streets, which are so dark and sooty that an ordinary search-light would not suffice. In his leisure hours, however, he lived at the Hotel Walledup-Hysteria, in New York, where he likewise had to wear the same diamond stud to keep him from being a marked man. Have you ever visited New York, Watson?”
“No,” said I.
“Well, when you do, spend a little of your time at the Walledup-Hysteria. It is a hotel with a population larger than that of most cities, with streets running to and from all points of the compass; where men and women eat under conditions that Lucullus knew nothing of; where there is a carpeted boulevard on which walk all sorts and conditions of men; where one pays one’s bill to the dulcet strains of a string orchestra that woo him into a blissful forgetfulness of its size; and where, by pressing a button in the wall, you may summon a grand opera, or a porter who on request will lend you enough money to enable you and your family to live the balance of your days in comfort. In America men have been known to toil for years to amass a fortune for the one cherished object of spending a week in this Olympian spot, and then to be content to return to their toil and begin life anew, rich only in the memory of its luxuries. It was here that I spent my time when, some years ago, I went to the United States to solve the now famous Piano Case. You will remember how sneak thieves stole a grand piano from the residence of one of New York’s first families, while the family was dining in the adjoining room. While in the city, and indeed at the very hotel in which I stopped, and which I have described, Pinkham’s diamond stud disappeared, and, hearing that I was a guest at the Walledup-Hysteria, the owner appealed to me to recover it for him. I immediately took the case in hand. Drastic questioning of Pinkham showed that beyond all question he had lost the stud in his own apartment. He had gone down to dinner, leaving it on the centre-table, following the usual course of most millionaires, to whom diamonds are of no particular importance. Pinkham wanted this one only because of its associations. Its value, $80,000, was a mere bagatelle in his eyes.
“Now of course, if he positively left it on the table, it must have been taken by some one who had entered the room. Investigation proved that the maid, a valet, a fellow-millionaire from Chicago, and Pinkham’s children had been the only ones to do this. The maid and the valet were above suspicion. Their fees from guests were large enough to place them beyond the reach of temptation. I questioned them closely, and they convinced me at once of their innocence by conducting me through the apartments of other guests wherein tiaras of diamonds and necklaces of pearls – ropes in very truth – rubies, turquoise, and emerald ornaments of priceless value, were scattered about in reckless profusion.
“‘D’ yez t’ink oi’d waste me toime on an eighty-t’ousand-dollar shtood, wid all dhis in soight and moine for the thrubble uv swipin’ ut?” said the French maid.
“I acquitted her at once, and the valet similarly proved his innocence, only with less of an accent, for he was supposed to be English, and not French, as was the maid, although they both came from Dublin. This narrowed the suspects down to Mr. Jedediah Wattles, of Chicago, and the children. Naturally I turned my attention to Wattles. A six-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl could hardly be suspected of stealing a diamond stud. So drawing on Pinkham for five thousand dollars to pay expenses, I hired a room in a tenement-house in Rivington Street – a squalid place it was – disguised myself with an oily, black, burglarious mustache, and dressed like a comic-paper gambler. Then I wrote a note to Wattles, asking him to call, saying that I could tell him something to his advantage. He came, and I greeted him like a pal. ‘Wattles,’ said I, ‘you’ve been working this game for a long time, and I know all about you. You are an ornament to the profession, but we diamond-thieves have got to combine. Understand?’ ‘No, I don’t’ said he. ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said I. ‘You’re a man of good appearance, and I ain’t, but I know where the diamonds are. If we work together, there’s millions in it. I’ll spot the diamonds, and you lift ’em, eh? You can do it,’ I added, as he began to get mad. ‘The ease with which you got away with old Pinky’s stud, that I’ve been trying to pull for myself for years, shows me that.’
“I was not allowed to go further. Wattles’s indignation was great enough to prove that it was not he who had done the deed, and after he had thrashed me out of my disguise, I pulled myself together and said, ‘Mr. Wattles, I am convinced that you are innocent.’ As soon as he recognized me and realized my object in sending for him, he forgave me, and, I must say, treated me with great consideration.
“But my last clew was gone. The maid, the valet, and Wattles were proved innocent. The children alone remained, but I could not suspect them. Nevertheless, on my way back to the hotel I bought some rock-candy, and, after reporting to Pinkham, I asked casually after the children.
“‘They’re pretty well,’ said Pinkham. ‘Billie’s complaining a little, and the doctor fears appendicitis, but Polly’s all right. I guess Billie’s all right too. The seventeen-course dinners they serve in the children’s dining-room here aren’t calculated to agree with Billie’s digestion, I reckon.’
“‘I’d like to see ’em,’ said I. ‘I’m very fond of children.’
“Pinkham immediately called the youngsters in from the nursery. ‘Guess what I’ve got,’ I said, opening the package of rock-candy. ‘Gee!’ cried Billie, as it caught his eye. ‘Gimme some!’ ‘Who gets first piece?’ said I. ‘Me!’ cried both. ‘Anybody ever had any before?’ I asked. ‘He has,’ said Polly, pointing to Billie. The boy immediately flushed up. ‘’Ain’t, neither!’ he retorted. ‘Yes you did, too,’ said Polly. ‘You swallered that piece pop left on the centre-table the other night!’ ‘Well, anyhow, it was only a little piece,’ said Billie. ‘An’ it tasted like glass,’ he added. Handing the candy to Polly, I picked Billie up and carried him to his father.
“‘Mr. Pinkham,’ said I, handing the boy over, ‘here is your diamond. It has not been stolen; it has merely been swallowed.’ ‘What?’ he cried. And I explained. The stud mystery was explained. Mr. Pinkham’s boy had eaten it.”
Holmes paused.
“Well, I don’t see how that proves your point,” said I. “You said that it was the little things that told – ”
“So it was,” said Holmes. “If Polly hadn’t told – ”
“Enough,” I cried; “it’s on me, old man. We will go down to Willis’s and have some Russian caviare and a bottle of Burgundy.”
Holmes put on his hat and we went out together. It is to get the money to pay Willis’s bill that I have written this story of “The Mystery of Pinkham’s Diamond Stud.”
