Lewis Alfred Henry
Sandburrs and Others

ARABELLA WELD

(By the Office Boy)

I

It was a chill Harlem evening. The Undertaker sat in his easy chair smoking his pipe of clay. About him were ranged the tools and trappings of his gruesome art. On trestles, over in the corner’s gliding shadows, lay the remains he had just been monkeying with.

At last, as one who reviews his work, the Undertaker arose, and scanned the wan map of the Departed.

“He makes a great front,” mused the Undertaker. “He looks out of sight, and it ought to fetch her.”

Back to his chair roamed the Undertaker. As he seated himself he touched a bell. The Poet of the establishment glided dreamily in. The Undertaker, not only straightened the kinks out of corpses to the Queen’s taste, but he furnished epitaphs, and as well, verses for those grief-bitten. These latter were to run in the papers with the funeral notice.

“Have youse torn off that epitaph for his jiblets?” asked the Undertaker, nodding towards Deceased.

“What was it you listed for?” asked the Poet.

“D’ epitaph for William Henry Weld,” replied the Undertaker. The Poet passed over the desired epitaph.

 
William Henry Weld.
(Aged 26 years.)
 
 
His race he win with pain and sin,
At Satan he did mock;
St. Peter said as he let him in:
“It’s Willie, in a walk!”
 

“You’re a wonder!” cried the Undertaker, when he had finished the perusal, and he gave the Poet the glad hand. “Here’s d’ price. Go and fill your tank.”

“That should win her,” reflected the Undertaker, when the poet had wended his way; “that ought to leave her on both sides of d’ road. What I’ve done for Deceased, and that epitaph should knock her silly. She shall be mine!”

II

PUBLIC interest having been aroused in the corpse, it may be well to tell how it became that way.

Deceased was William Henry Weld. Five days before the opening of our story, William donned his skates and lined out on one of his periodicals. For four days he debauched to beat four kings and an ace.

And William had adventures. He paid a fine; he fell down a coal hole; he invaded a laundry and administered the hot wallops to the presiding Chinaman. On the fourth day he declared himself in on a ball not far from Sixth Avenue.

“Ah, there!” quoth William, archly, to a beautiful being to whom he had not been introduced. “Ah, there! Tricksey; I choose youse for d’ next waltz.”

“Nit; not on your life!” murmured the beautiful one.

As William Henry Weld was about to make fitting response, a coarse, vulgar person approached.

“What for be youse jimmin’ ‘round me pick?” asked this person.

“That’s d’ stuff, Barney!” said the beautiful one. “Don’t do a t’ing to him!”

The next instant William Henry Weld was cast into outer darkness.

“It’s all right, Old Man!” said the friend who rescued William Henry Weld, “I’m goin’ to take youse home. Your wife ain’t on to me, an’ I’ll fake it I’m a off’cer, see! I’ll give her d’ razzle dazzle of her existence, an’ square youse wit’ her.”

“It’s Willie!” said the friend to Arabella Weld, as he supported her husband into the sitting-room. “It’s Willie, an’ he’s feelin’ O. K. but weedy. Me name, madam, is Jackson – Jackson, of d’ secret p’lice. Willie puts himse’f in me hands as a sacred trust to bring him home.”

“Is he sick?” moaned Arabella Weld, as she began to let her hair down, preparatory to a yell.

“Never touched him!” assured the friend. “Naw; Willie’s off his feed a bit. You sees, madam, Willie hired out to a hypnotist purely in d’ interest of science, an’ he’s been in a trance four days, see! That’s why he ain’t home. Bein’ in a trance, he couldn’t send woid. Now all he needs is a rest for, say, a week. Oughtn’t to let him get out of his crib for a week.”

At 4 o’clock the next morning William Henry Weld began to see blue-winged goats. Arabella Weld “sprung” a glass of water on him.

“Give it a chase!” shrieked William Henry Weld, wildly waving the false beverage aside.

In his ratty condition he didn’t tumble to the pure element’s identity, but thought it was one of those Things.

At 5 o’clock A. M. William Henry Weld didn’t do a thing but perish. When the glorious sun again poured down its golden mellow beams, the Undertaker had his hooks on him and Arabella Weld was a widow.

III

BUT to return to the Undertaker, the real hero of our tale. We left him in his studio poring over the epitaph of William Henry Weld, while Departed rehearsed his dumb and silent turn for eternity in the corner’s lurking shadow. At last the Undertaker roused himself from his reveries.

“I must to bed!” he said; “it waxeth late, and tomorrow I propose for her in wedlock.”

Next morning the Undertaker arose refreshed. He had smote his ear for full eight hours. He felt fit to propose for his life, let alone the delicate duke of Arabella Weld.

The Undertaker’s adored one was to come at noon. She wanted to size up Departed prior to the obsequies.

Although it was but 9 o’clock, the Undertaker had to get a curve on himself to keep his date with Arabella Weld at midday. He had an invalid to measure for a coffin – it was a riveted cinch the party would die – and then there was a corpse to shave in the next block. These duties were giving him the crowd.

But our hero made it; played every inning without an error, and was organised for Arabella Weld when she arrived.

As they stood together – Arabella and the man who, all unknown to her, loved her so madly – looking down at Deceased, she could not repress her admiration.

“On d’ dead! I never saw Willie look so well,” she said. “He’s very much improved. You must have taken a woild of pains wit’ Willie.”

The Undertaker was silent.

Struck by this, Arabella Weld turned her full lustrous lamps on the Undertaker and saw it all. It was for her, the loving heart beside her had toiled over Deceased like an artist over a picture.

Swift is Love, and the Undertaker, quivering with his great passion, twigged in an instant that Arabella was onto him. A vast joy swept his heart like a torrent.

“I wanted him to make a hit for your sake,” he whispered, stealing his arm about her.

Arabella softly put his arm away.

“Not now,” she sighed. “It would be too soon a play. We must wait until we’ve got Willie off our hands – we must wait a year.”

“Wait a year!” and the pain of it bent the Undertaker like a willow. “Wait a year, dearest! Now, what’s d’ fun of that? You must take me for a farmer!” and his tones showed that the Undertaker was hurt.

“But in Herkimer County they wait a year,” faltered Arabella, wistfully.

“Sure! in Herkimer!” consented the Undertaker; “but that’s Up-the-state. A week in Harlem is equal to a year in Herkimer. Let it be a week, love!”

“This isn’t a game for Willie’s life insurance?” and great crystals of pain and doubt swam in Arabella’s glorious eyes.

“Oh, me love!” cried the Undertaker, fondly, yet desperately, “plant d’ policy wit’ Willie! Send it back to d’ company if youse doubts me, an’ tell ‘em to call d’ whole bluff a draw.”

The bit of paper, containing the epitaph, fluttered to the floor from her nerveless mits, her beautiful head sank on the broad shoulder of the Undertaker, and her tears flowed unrestrained.

IV

One week had passed since William Henry Weld was solemnly pigeon-holed for eternal reference.

The preacher received the couple in his study.

“Shall I marry you with the prayer-book, or would youse prefer the short cut?” he asked.

“Marry us on a deck of cards, if you choose!” faltered Arabella. Her eyes sought the floor, while the tell-tale blushes painted her lovely prospectus. “Only cinch the play, an’ do it quick!”

THE WEDDING

(Annals of The Bend)

Naw; I’m on I’m late all right, all right; but I couldn’t help it, see!”

Chucky was thirty minutes behind our hour. I’d been sitting in the little bar in sickening controversy with one of the vile cigars of the place waiting for Chucky. For which cause I was moved to mention his dereliction sharply.

“Sorry to keep an old pal playin’ sol’taire, wit’ nothin’ better to amuse him than d’ len’th of rope youse is puffin’,” continued Chucky in furtive excuse, “but I was to a weddin’ an’ couldn’t breakaway. That’s w’y I’ve got on me dress soote.

“Say! on d’ dead! of course I ain’t in on many nuptials; but all d’ same I likes to go. I always comes away feelin’ so wise an* flossy an* cooney. Why, I don’t know, unless it’s ‘cause d’ guys gettin’ hitched looks so much like a couple of come-ons – so dead sure life is such a cinch, such a sight of confidence like one sees at a weddin’, be d’ parts of d’ two suckers who’s bein’ starred, never omits to make me feel too cunnin’ to live for d’ whole week after.

“Sure! this weddin’ was a good t’ing; what youse might call d’ real t’ing; an’ it’s a spark to a rhinestone it toins out all hunk for d’ folks involved. Who’s d’ two gezebos who gets nex’ to each other? D’ groom is d’ boss gunner of one of our war boats, an ‘d’ skirt is d’ cash goil in d’ anti-Chink laundry on Great Jones street.

“An’ say! that little skirt’s a wonder, an’ don’t youse forget it! She’s good any day for any old t’ing I’ve got; an’ all she’s got to do is just rap, an’ she takes it, see! It was me Rag sees d’ goil foist one time when she’s down be d’ laundry puttin’ in me t’ree-sheets for their weekly dose of suds.

“Is me Rag an’ me married? Say! I likes that, I don’t t’ink! Youse is gettin’ fanciful in your cupolo. 4 Be me little Bundle an’ me married?’ says you. Well, I should kiss a pig! Youse can take me tip for it, if we ain’t man an’ wife be d’ longest system d’ Cat’lic Choich could play – for me Rag told d’ father who ‘fficiates that we’re out for d’ limit – then all I got to stutter is there ain’t a mug who’s married in d’ entire city of Noo York.

“Cert! we’re married!” Chucky went on after cheering himself with the tankard which the barkeeper placed before him. “If youse had let your lamps repose on this horseshoe scar over d’ bridge of me smeller, youse would have tumbled to d’ fac wit’out astin’.

“How do I win it? I’m comin’ up d’ stairs like a sucker, just followin’ a difference of opinion between me an’ me loidy (I soaked her a little one, an’ that’s for fair! to show her she’s off her trolley about d’ subject in dispoote), when she cuts loose d’ coal bucket at me. Say! she spoiled me map for a mont’.

“But to get back to d’ little laundry goil. Me Rag, as I says, was in this tub-joint where d’ goil woikswit’ me linen one day; an’ just as she chases in, a fresh stiff who’s standin’ there t’run some raw bluff at d’ little laundry goil she couldn’t stand for, see! an’ she puts up a damp eye an’ does d’ weep act.

“This little laundry goil is one of them meek, harmless people – rabbits is bull-terriers to ‘em – an’ so when me onliest own beholds d’ tears come chasin down her nose at d’ remarks of this fly guy, she chucks me shirts in d’ corner an’ mounts him in a hully secont.

“An’ say! me Rag can scrap, an’ that’s no dream! I don’t want none of it. When she an’ me has carried d’ conversation to d’ point where she takes out her hairpins, an’ gives her mane to d’ breeze, that’s me cue to cork. Youse can’t get another rise out of me after that: I knows her.

“Well! me Rag lights into this hobo who’s got gay wit ‘d’ little goil, an’ when she takes her hooks out of his make-up, an’ he goes surgin’ into d’ street, honest! he looks like he’s been fightin’ a dog. Some lovers of true sport who’s there an’ payin’ attention to d’ mill, says this galoot wasn’t in it wit’ me Rag. She has him on d’ blink from d’ jump; she win in a loiter.

“Takin’ her part that way makes d’ little laundry goil confidenshul wit’ me Rag. It’s about two weeks later when she sprints over an’ tells Missus Chuck (she makes her promise to lay dead about it, too, but still she passes d’ woid to me) – she tells me Rag, as I’m sayin’, that she’s in trouble. Her steady, she says, is one of d’ top notch gunners of one of our big boats; he’s d’ main squeeze in histurrent, see! an’ way up in d’ paint. His boat’s been layin’ at d’ Navy Yard, an’ now he’s ordered to sail for Cuba in a week an’ help straighten up d’ Dagoes we’re havin’ d’ recent run in wit’. Meanwhiles, she says, dey won’t let her beloved have shore leave; an’ neither dey won’t stand for her to come aboard an’ see him. There youse be! a case of dead sep’ration between two lovin’ hearts.

“D’ little laundry goil gives it out cold, she’ll croak if she don’t get to see her Billy before he skates off for d’ wars. She says she knows he’s out to be killed anyhow. D’ question wit’ her is – what’s she goin’ to do? Dey won’t let her aboard d’ boat, an’ dey won’t let him aboard d’ land; now, what’s d’ soon move for her to make?

“Well, me Rag – who’s got a nut on her for cert – says for her to skip down to Washin’ton an’ go ag’inst d’ Sec’tary himself.

“‘Make him a strong talk,’ says me Rag; ‘give him a reg’lar razzle-dazzle, an’ he’ll write youse a poiper to them blokes aboard d’ boat to let youse see your Billy.’

“‘Do youse t’ink for sure he will?’ says d’ little laundry goil.

“‘Why, it’s a walkover!’ says me Rag. ‘If he toins out a hard game, give him d’ tearful eye, see! an’ cough a sob or two, an’ he’ll weaken! You can’t miss it,’ says me ownliest; ‘it’s easy money.’

“But d’ little goil was awful leary of d’ play.

“’ Washin’ton is so far away,’ she says.

“’ It’s like goin’ to Harlem,’ says me Rag. ‘All youse has to do to go, is to take some sandwidges an’ apples to sort o’ jolly d’ trip, an’ then climb onto d’ cars an’ go. When d’ Con. comes t’rough, pass him your pasteboard, see! an’ if any of them smooth marks try to make a mash, t’run ‘em down an’ t’run ‘em hard. I’ll go over an’ do your stunt at d’ laundry, so that needn’t give youse a scare. An’ be d’ way! if that lobster I win from d’ other day shows up, I’ll make a monkey of him ag’in. I didn’t spend enough time wit’ him on d’ occasion of our mix-up, anyway.’

“At last d’ little laundry goil makes d’ brace of her life. She’s so bashful an’ timid she can’t live; but she’s dead stuck on seein’ her Billy before he sails away, an’ it gives her nerve. As I says, she takes me Rag’s steer an’ skins out for d’ Cap’tal.

“An’ what do youse t’ink? D’ old mut who’s Sec’tary won’t chin wit’ her. Toins her down cold, he does; gives her d’ grand rinky-dink wit’out so much as findin’ out what’s her racket at all.

“At d’ finish, however, d’ little goil lands one of d’ push – he’s a cloik in d’ office, I figgers – an’ he hears her yarn between weeps, an’ ups an’ makes a pass or two, an’ she gets d’ writin’. It says to toin Billy loose every afternoon till d’ boat pulls out.

“Say! him an ‘d’ little goil, when she gets back, was as happy as a couple of kids; dey has more fun than a box of monkeys. On d’ level! I was proud of me Rag for floor managin’ d’ play. She wasn’t solid wit’ Billy an ‘d’ little goil! Oh, no!

“That’s how me an’ me loidy was in on this weddin’ to-day wit’ bot’ trilbys. Me Rag’s ‘It’ wit’ d’ little goil; youse can gamble on that!

“Of course d’ war’s over now, an’ two weeks ago d’ little goil’s Billy comes home. An’ what wit’ pay, an’ what wit’ prize money, he hits d’ Bend wit’ a bundle of d’ long green big enough to make youse t’row a fit, an’ he ain’t done a t’ing but boin money ever since.

“Nit; it ain’t much of a story, but d’ whole racket pleases me out o’ sight, see! Considerin’ d’ hand me Rag plays, when I’m at that weddin’ to-day I feels like a daddy to Billy an ‘d’ little goil. On d’ level! I feels that chesty about it, that when d’ priest is goin’ to bat an says, ‘Is there any duck here to give d’ bride away?’ I cuts in on d’ game wit ‘d’ remark, ‘I donates d’ bride meself.’ I s’pose I was struck dopey, or nutty, or somethin’.

“But me Rag fetches me to all c’rrect. She clinches her mit an’ whispers:

“Let me catch youse makin’ another funny break like that an’ I’ll cop a sneak on your neck.’ An’ then she stands there chewin’ d’ quiet rag an’ pipin’ me off wit’ an eye of fire. ‘Such an old bum as youse,’ she says, ‘is a disgrace to d’ Bend.’”

POINSETTE’S CAPTIVITY

This is a tale of last August. Poinsette was to be left alone for four weeks. Mrs. Poinsette had settled on Cape May as a good thing for the hot spell. She would hie her thither and leave Poinsette to do his worst without her.

Poinsette did not care. He bravely told Mrs. P. she needed an outing. The ozone and the salty, ocean breeze would do her good. So he encouraged Cape May, and bid Mrs. P. go there by all means.

It was decided by the Poinsettes discussing Cape May to have Poinsette room up town while Mrs. P. was thus Cape Maying. The Poinsette house in the suburbs might better be locked up during Mrs. P.‘s absence from the city. It would be more economical; indeed, it was not esteemed safe to leave the Poinsette lares and penates to the unwatched ministrations of the Congo who performed in the Poinsette kitchen. It would be wiser to dismiss the servant, bolt and bar the house, obtain Poinsette apartments, and let him browse for food among the bounteous restaurants of the city.

Poinsette found a room to suit in a house on West 87th Street. It was one of a long row of houses. Poinsette reported his victory in room-hunting to Mrs. P. Poinsette was now all right, and ready for what might come. Mrs. P. might bend her course to Cape May without further hesitation.

Mrs. P. was glad to learn of Poinsette’s apartment success. She went out and looked at his find to make sure that Poinsette would be comfortable. Incidentally, Mrs. P. kept her eye about her, to note whether the boarding-house books carried any pretty girls. Mrs. P. did not care to have Poinsette too comfortable.

There were no pretty girls. Mrs. P. approved the selection. The very next day she kissed Poinsette good-bye and rumbled and ferried to the station, from which arena of smoke and noise a train leaped forth like a greyhound and bore her away to Cape May.

Poinsette did not accompany his spouse to the station. Ten years before he would have done this, but experience had taught him that Mrs. P. could care for herself. Therefore he remained behind to fasten up the house. Soberly he went about locking doors, and fastening windows, and thinking rather sadly, – as all husbands so deserted do, – of the long, lonely months before him. At last all was secure, and Poinsette turned the key in the big front door and came away.

Poinsette did not feel like work that afternoon, or the trifling fragment of it that was left after Mrs. P. had wended and he had locked up the house. He bought a few good books and several of the more solid periodicals. They would serve during the weary nights while Mrs. P. was away at the Cape. These Poinsette sent to his rooms, and, as it was growing six o’clock now, he turned into Sherry’s for his dinner.

Just where Poinsette went that evening following Sherry’s, and what he saw and did, and who assisted at such enterprises as he embarked in, would be nothing to the present point and may be skipped. They are the private affairs of Poinsette, and not properly the subjects of a morbid curiosity. However, lest Mrs. P. see this and argue aught herefrom to feed distrust, it should be said that Poinsette saw nobody, did nothing, went no place unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.

It was four o’clock in the morning when Poinsette, the sole passenger aboard a foaming night-liner, toiled through the Park and bore away for his new abode. Poinsette stopped the faithful night-liner two blocks from the door and went forward on foot. Poinsette did not care to clatter ostentatiously to his rooms at four in the morning the first day he inhabited them.

Poinsette found the house without trouble, and stepped lightly to the door. He put the pass-key his landlady had bestowed upon him in the lock, but it would not turn. The bolt would not yield to his wooing. Do all he might, and work he never so wisely, there had sprung up a misunderstanding between key and lock which would not be reconciled. Poinsette could not get “action;” the sullen door still barred him from his bed.

At last Poinsette gave up in despair. He might ring the bell and arouse the house; but he hesitated. It was his first day; the hour needed apology. Poinsette thought it would be better to walk gently to a hotel and abide for the remainder of the night. He would solve this incompatibility of key and lock the next afternoon.

Poinsette turned away and started softly for the street. As he did so a policeman stepped from behind a tree and stopped him. The policeman had been watching Poinsette for five minutes.

“Wot was you a-doin’ at the door?” he asked.

Poinsette, in a low, hurried voice, explained. He didn’t care to awaken his landlady by a tumult of talk, and have that excellent woman discover him in the hands of the law.

“If your key don’t work,” said the policeman, “why don’t you ring the bell?”

Poinsette cleared up that mystery. The officer was not satisfied.

“To be free with you, my man,” he said, seizing Poinsette’s collar, “I think you’re a burglar. If that’s your boarding-house you’re goin’ in. If it isn’t, you’re goin’ to the station.”

Then the policeman, with one hand wound about in Poinsette’s neckwear, made trial of the key with the other hand. The effort was futile. The lock was obdurate; the key was stranger to it. Then the blue guardian of the city’s slumbers stepped back a pace and took a mighty pull at the door-bell. It was a yank which brought forth a wealth of jingle and ring.

Poinsette was glad of it. He had grown desperate and wanted the thing to end. Bad as it was, it would be better to face his landlady than be locked up in a burglar’s cell. Poinsette was resigned, therefore, when a second-story window lifted and a night-capped head was made to overhang the sill and blot its silhouette against the star-lit sky.

“Be you the landlady?” asked the policeman.

“Yes, I am!” quoth the night-cap in a snappy, snarly way. “What do you want?” This with added sourness.

“This party says his name is Poinsette and that he rooms here,” replied the officer.

“No such thing!” retorted the night-cap. “No such man rooms here. Don’t even know the name!”

Then the window came down with a grievous bang. It was as if it descended on Poinsette’s heart.

“You’re a crook!” said the policeman, “and now you come with me.”

Poinsette essayed to explain that the night-cap was not his landlady; that he had made a mistake in the house. The policeman laughed in hoarse scorn at this.

“D’ye think I’m goin’ all along the row, yankin’ door-bells out by the roots on such a stiff as you’re givin’ me?”

That was the reply of the policeman to Poinsette’s pleadings to try next door.

Poinsette was led sadly off, with the grip of the law on his collar. At the station he was searched and booked and bolted in. On the hard plank, which made the sole furnishings of his narrow cell, Poinsette threw himself down; not to sleep, but to give himself to bitter consideration of his fate.

As Poinsette sat there waiting for the sun to rise and friends to come to his rescue, the station clock struck five. It rang dismally in the cell of Poinsette.

At Cape May, clocks of correct habits were also telling the hour of five. Mrs. P. was not yet asleep. The vigorous aroma of the ocean swept the room. The half-morning was beautiful; Mrs. P., loosely garbed, sat in an easy-chair at the window and enjoyed it.

“I wonder what Poinsette’s been doing,” said Mrs. P. to herself; and there was a colour of jealousy in the tone. Then Mrs. P. snorted as in contempt. “I’ll warrant he’s been having a good time,” she continued. “This idea that married men when their wives are away for the summer have a dull time, never imposed on me.”