Part 2

My sense of the aesthetic was somewhat outraged that such a person should be picked out to escort me from the hotel, especially as Panama was filled to overflowing with stalwart Americans. At eight o’clock my escort arrived, and did not present too bad an appearance. He was a clean-looking little fellow with reddish hair, and rather a scholarly type of face. He wore glasses, so that his eyes appeared to be straight, but his legs might have been a little bit straighter. However, he was very gallant, and we were soon on our way to Ancon. The tent was unlike any other that I have seen, as it was hemmed in on all sides by mosquito netting. It had a hardwood floor, and was comfortably furnished. It had a tiny veranda, too, which commanded a fine view of the Pacific. On all sides of me there were tents. The tent of Martin Luther was at the head of the line, and I was quite taken with him, for he brought me a gun and told me that the boys would be ready and willing to protect me with their very lives. This I subsequently found to be quite true. The boys were all Americans, and ranged in age from 29 to 50 years. The most of them were veterans of the Spanish-American War, and had been knocking about in the tropics since that interesting period, so they looked upon a young white woman, clothed in white, as an ethereal being. My presence among them must have imposed a strain, for they talked in lowered voices, and even played poker in rather a silent manner. After a time the strain became so great that the poker playing was done in the tent that was farthest away from mine, and my evenings thereafter were very lonely. I was the first woman that had ever lived on that part of the hill; at least, that is what Maitland said. I made the acquaintance of Maitland on the morning after my arrival on Ancon Hill. I awoke early, feeling very hungry, and, looking out, saw, close to the wire netting, an old black face. Never had there been a more welcome sight, as I had no means of procuring breakfast.

“Good morning, mistress,” said the voice of Maitland; “I hope you slept well.” “Good morning,” I returned, with more cordiality than one would be likely to show under other circumstances. “My name is Maitland, an’ my business is to look after the tents for the boys, see that the niggers don’t steal their clothes, an’ to keep the tents clean.” “Do you ever have any spare time?” I asked. “Oh, yes, mistress, lots of it, an’ I’ll work for you if you will give me something to eat.” “But I am suffering myself for something to eat,” I replied. “Well, that’s too bad,” said Maitland, “but if you have some money, I’ll bring you some beautiful breakfast from Eduardo’s, for they sho’ do cook things fine.” So I gave him some money, and ordered hire, to bring two breakfasts. He soon returned with the food, as disgusting a mess as was ever served to a human being. I was unable to eat it, but Maitland sat on the doorstep and devoured it with relish. He expressed some concern that I did not eat, and made some practical suggestions. One was that I get coffee from the Commission Commissary at Cristobal, and an oil stove in Panama. Later he found a Jamaican woman, who cooked the meals for me. These he would bring to the door, and I really enjoyed them. He helped me to stain the floors and hang my pictures and flags, so, like Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday, I settled down to the life with resignation, and began to feel as much a part of it as if I had always lived this way.

The tent was one of the most picturesque habitations in Panama, and almost every day something new was added to its adornment. It had an old brass lamp which had been brought from France, Second Empire style, very beautiful to look at, but very useless as a bestower of light. I had an old mahogany desk which had been in use in De Lesseps’ own home, in the old French days. Some good engravings, relics of my palmy days in New York, and some real Persian rugs and velvet portiers gave the place the look of an Arab shiek. Every day I sat alone on the tiny veranda and wrote or read. I never saw a woman, and the men passed the tent with averted gaze. Martin Luther usually stopped for a moment to inquire if I was all right, and if Maitland had been sober. If anything unusual occurred he would shout it to me. In this way I kept a line on the world outside of the tent. I seldom went to the city, but whenever I did go Maitland walked behind me at a respectful distance. One morning I awoke feeling faint and sick. I found that I had been bitten on my right foot by some insect. I naturally concluded that it was a tarantula. As the foot was terribly swollen, I called to Maitland, who came in breathless, and declared that I had but a short time to live. “Go for a doctor,” I gasped, and in my fright I began to feel the chill, cold hand of death at my heart.

Maitland vanished, and soon returned with a little old man, who carried a green carpet-bag that appeared to be filled with something heavy. The little old man walked as if he was very tired, and as he knelt down beside my chair he heaved a long, tired sigh. His hands were small, but very much knotted, and his eyes were a pale, sad blue. He sat back upon his heels and looked critically at the swollen foot, pinching it from time to time, and sighing sadly.

“Was the lady bit by a tarantula, Doctor?” asked Maitland anxiously.

“Ah, yes,” sighed the little man, kindly stroking my foot.

“Then I shall not live much longer?” said I, with a choking lump in my throat.

“You’ll live just twenty-four hours, unless you have your foot taken off,” he uttered.

The sincerity of his tone convinced me that I must be near the end of my life. I had always heard that the bite of a tarantula was fatal, so I advised Maitland to go for Martin Luther. He would have me sent to the hospital, and I would have my foot cut off. I wrote a few words of farewell to friends and sat, frightened and still, while the doctor bathed my foot with a concoction of stuff, the ingredients of which were vinegar, ether, pickle and linseed oil.

“That will take the venom out of it,” said the doctor, with another sigh, as he opened the bag and drew forth a number of old, rusty instruments. These he wiped carefully on his old blue overalls.

Now Maitland returned with Martin Luther, who grinned as he beheld the doctor at work on my foot.

“Well, I’ll be goldurned,” said he, throwing his hat upon the floor. “What in thunder are you doing, Moll? For the love of Mike, don’t go to poisoning her foot with that old rusty needle.”

“These instruments cost my father a small fortune.”

“Yes, a hundred years ago,” answered Martin Luther, with a disgusted look.

“Tie up her foot, Moll, and we’ll send her to the hospital,” said Martin Luther; “and you’d better be getting back on the job, or you’ll be fired.”

“All right,” answered the little man, with a weary sigh, as he picked up his green carpet-bag and bade me good morning. Meantime Maitland had discovered that I had been bitten by a young scorpion.

“That ain’t anything,” said Martin Luther. “I get bit every night, and I feel better for it. Moll would have cut your foot off if I hadn’t come.”

“Is he attached to the hospital?” I asked.

“Yes,” replied Martin Luther, with a chuckle, “he works for me in the carpenter shop. He used to be a doctor, but he cut a feller’s toe off in Cuba with one of them old rusty knives, and blood poison set in and the feller died, so the medical society won’t let him doctor any more. He made a mighty good carpenter, but the poor old devil has wheels. Maitland, if you call that old guy again when any one is sick or hurt, I’ll have you fired.”

“He cured me of that evil eye that the girl gave me that time, an’ he’s the best doctor in the world,” said Maitland.

One morning it was announced that a new official had arrived to dwell in one of the three real cottages on the hill. It was a short distance from the line of tents. A barbed wire was the dividing line between the tent ground and the aristocratic residential section. The residents of both sections kept well within their respective bounds. The wife of the official must have caught a glimpse of me in the distance on the day of her arrival, for she wrote a note that night to Martin Luther, which read something like this:

“Sir--You will please send to my house to-morrow morning the woman who lives in the tent beside yours. I have not been used to black servants, and I can’t bear to have them wait upon me. I will give her fifty cents, gold, a day, and her meals, and she can have a room on my back veranda. I shall need her at six o’clock in the morning. I hope her character is good.”

This was kept from me, but a consultation was held, and one of the tent dwellers, who had been a lawyer in the days before the Spanish-American War, dictated a pungent letter to the wife of the official, which enlightened her as to the respective classes to which both she and I belonged. She was told in part that the woman in the tent was a graduate of Wellesley College, and had never been obliged to even wait upon herself.

The official and his lady were invited to come to my tent and to size me up and see for themselves whether the woman in the tent was the sort of a person who would make a fancy laundress or not.

On the morning following Mrs. Official paid me a visit, and not only sized me up to her heart’s content, but asked me questions until I thought myself on a witness stand on trial for my life. Then, after offering to buy from me, at her own price, the pretty furnishings in the tent, she departed, and I have never seen her since.

One morning news was brought to me that the little old doctor was arrested and was sent to Chiriqui prison. Maitland burst out crying when I asked him about it, and declared that, as there was a God, the doctor would soon be again free to cure the evil and all the other ills to which black humanity is heir.

ARRIVAL AT PANAMA NINE YEARS AGO.

(PART III.)

The new official and his wife, to whom I have already alluded, had both been in Cuba during the war between the United States and the Spaniards. The woman had some years before the war had a manicuring and shampooing establishment at Havana, but when the American troops came pouring in she decided to turn her parlors into a barber shop. So she shaved troops with much success, and married a Rough Rider in T. R.’s famous troops of cavaliers.

When T. R. became President of the U. S. A. he gave this particular Rough Rider the only position that he could fill. He was an illiterate man, but he was imbued with a social bug, and he had a dream of becoming a prominent social lion on the Isthmus. The fair barberess was good-looking, vivacious, a good dancer, and a lady of good style. Judge of the surprise of the official pair upon their arrival on Ancon Hill to find that virgin spot was dotted with tents in which lived the soldiers of fortune whom the lady had shaved in the dreaming old war days.

“We sure are in bad,” said the official. “Here’s the whole bunch of chumps that used to be in Havana.”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the lady; “what shall we do? Even old Dr. Moll is here. Now he’ll tell every one that I was a barber and that he lovingly called me the little shaver.”

“If he does I’ll have the old devil put in jail,” said the official.

The presence of the old-time acquaintances had been made known to the official pair by Martin Luther, upon their request to have me sent to them as a servant.

“What--what do you suppose?” said the little old doctor to Martin Luther. “Mike is here, and is now an official. We were all awfully fond of her when she used to shave us. I wonder will she notice us now.”

“Not on your life,” answered Martin L.

The lawyer, who occupied one of the tents, and who was regularly employed as a timekeeper in one of the nearby offices, gave the doctor some good advice, as follows: “If you pretend that you ever knew Mike and the little shaver in the old war days, you’ll find yourself floating around at high tide in Chiriqui prison, for you know that Mike was a snob, and now that he has this official position, he’ll put it all over us, even though we all fared alike in the corral in Havana.”

“She was always good and nice to me, and when I told her once that I loved her she was real sorry that she was in love with Mike instead of me.”

“So you told her you loved her, did you? Well, I see your finish. Mike will never allow a man to live that once was a suitor for the hand of the little shaver, especially a man who is working in the carpenter shop.”

“She’ll be glad to see us all,” said the little doctor, with the conviction that every one on earth had a nature as simple and noble as his own.

Two days later he was arrested for stealing one thousand dollars from his room mate, who had the money tied up in the sleeve of an old coat, which was kept in a trunk in one corner of the tent in which the two men lived. The official measured carefully the ground on which the tent stood, and found that the part of the trunk in which the coat lay was on Panamanian territory. He therefore turned the poor little old doctor over to the Panamanian authorities, and the gentle little old man was handcuffed to a negro murderer, and, while the crowds looked on and jeered, he was led through the streets of Panama to Chiriqui prison, where he was kept for five months, until a kind-hearted Panamanian lawyer investigated the matter and learned that the money had been found three days after the little old man had been committed.

Then the little old doctor was liberated from Chiriqui prison and resumed his occupation in the carpenter shop, with bowed head and broken spirit. His old comrades endeavored to cheer him, but, in spite of the gentleness of his nature, he nursed the terrible wrong until it became a nightmare. He had a fear that the official called Mike was plotting against his life, and he began to have dreams that he thought came true. Each evening he sought his best friends and told them that he had not long to live. He would conjure up a picture for them of his mother and father, who were dead about twenty years, and of an old sweetheart called Betty, whose father, away back in old Virginia, was not only a colonel, but a judge as well. He would stand in the center of a group of his friends and tell them that he could close his eyes and see his dead loved one. “There they are now,” he would say. “There’s little Betty, like a pink and white carnation, and there’s the judge and colonel sitting beside Betty and looking lovingly at her like he used to when I used to go to court her. Ah, see, she loves me still, and I’ll soon be with her, boys.” At first the men tried to soothe him, but after a time they decided to agree with him that his end was at hand, and this, as Martin L. put it, “made the wheels go round faster,” and the little old man became quite ill in anticipation of his coming demise. Then he was sent to Taboga to recuperate, and there he fell madly in love with a young nurse, and became, as a result, quite restored to his normal frame of mind.

Meantime Mike and the little shaver were leading society by the nose, as the tent lawyer tritely put it. They had moved into a more palatial dwelling house and were entertaining foreign ministers and their ladies, while their old-time friends of the dreamy old war days spent their waking hours of leisure playing poker.

I had lived in the tent five months, and the time for me to depart to the United States was drawing to a close. Every day for five months I had sat on the piazza and gazed upon the lovely Pacific in all its splendor. Every night during that time I listened to the quiet games of poker that were being played about me, and I heard the exultant shouts of the revellers as they cheered the performers in the cantina of Edmardillo, as they bounded to the fandango and wriggled to the bolero. In all the five months no woman ever called upon me, and I can safely say that never in my life have I had so long a period of perfect peace. Finally the day came when I was to sail away to the U. S. A., and I impartially distributed the furnishings of the tent among the other tent residents. The little doctor declined to accept anything of commercial value, but he begged to be allowed to take as a souvenir a lock of my hair. He finally consented taking a photograph which some one of the tent dwellers had taken of me as I sat reading on the tent piazza. On the ninth of July, with a sad heart, I left the hill to go to New York. The tent dwellers accompanied me to Colon and stood in a group, waving their handkerchiefs until the ship was out of sight. With the exception of three, I have never seen them since. When I returned two years later I found that they were scattered far and wide. Many are now in California, in Ecuador, in Brazil, in Peru, in Alaska, and many of them are dead. But the most pleasant experience of my life was the months in the tent on Ancon Hill, and I shall always remember with gratitude the chivalry and kindness with which I was treated by the poor soldiers of fortune when I was alone, friendless and a stranger in Panama.

Two years later I alighted from a train at Panama and was driven to the Tivoli Hotel. There was to be a ball there that night, and I sat in the lobby and watched the smiling throng passing from the dining-room to the ballroom and balconies.

Men and women in correct evening dress stood about in groups and chatted with an expectant air, as if some one of consequence was yet to arrive. Soft lights glowed in the ballroom, and there was good music.

The revellers were beginning to consult their programs, and in less than five minutes I would be alone in the lobby. I felt a sadness steal upon me, and I began to wonder where I was, when, lo! who should come downstairs but Martin Luther.

My heart leaped. He was clad in khaki and leather leggins, and carried his cowboy hat in his hand.

“Well, so you’re back again. What do you think of this?” said he, by way of greeting.

“It is like a scene in fairyland,” I replied. “What does it mean, and who are all these people? What hotel is this?”

“Don’t you know any of ’em?” he asked.

“No, not one,” I replied.

“Well, some of them are the main guys, an’ many of ’em are just carpenters, plumbers, steam-fitters, steam-shovel men and powder men, and the washed-out, conceited-looking guys are $125 doctors and clerks. They were all here in your time, but they didn’t buck up to this gait then.”

“But what hotel is this?” I asked.

“Why, it’s the Tivoli, and this is the Tivoli Club that’s dancing. They were just going to start this building when you were here two years ago.”

“It is all very wonderful,” I replied.

“Well, wait till you hear all about it. Bates, he’s a carpenter; and Barrett, a policeman; and Norman, a guy that shins up electric light poles and is a cousin of Shanklin, the American Consul--he’s here to-night. Awhile ago they got their heads together, an’ they thought ’twould be a good idea to get their best girls an’ have a dance here every Saturday night. They are all getting good pay, so they sent to the States for swallowtail suits an’ they started. Well, they hired musicians in Panama, and the girls looked so swell that some other guys got in.

“Notices got in the papers in Panama, and the highbrows began to get interested, so they tried to get the ballroom away from the fellows that started the thing, and when that didn’t work they came right along to the dances without saying ‘By your leave,’ and here they are, dancing to beat the band, and as bold as brass.”

“Where are the men who used to live in the tents?” I asked.

“They’ve gone away to Brazil, to Peru, to Ecuador and to Alaska. They didn’t like this civilized business; they’d rather be in some new country, where there ain’t no style. Them fellows were men of the world.

“Catch on to that little man with the whiskers on his chin? He’s the guy that has the soft snap. He’s running a little paper about the size of a postage stamp, and he has seven other guys, probably relatives, assisting in the editing of it. He has the finest house on Ancon Hill, a pair of horses, two carriages, two saddle horses, one for himself and one for his daughter, and twelve thousand a year. Looks like a slick guy, don’t he? He’s got his first dollar, an’, what do you think? His house stands right where your tent used to stand. The hill is covered with beautiful houses now.”

So Martin Luther chatted on as I watched, fascinated, the late comers.

“Suppose we go to the ballroom and watch ’em caper--see the snobs an’ the two-cent nobodies, eh? I ain’t in a swallowtail coat, but every one knows me, and they know that I’ve been up in the roof tryin’ to stop a leak.”

I followed him into the ballroom, and he gallantly offered me his arm and led me to a seat.

Each man danced with his wife, daughter or sweetheart, and if he happened to be without either he sat and looked on with arms folded upon his breast. Elderly ladies sat straight against the wall, their hands folded, and a patient smile upon their faded faces. An iciness clutched my very soul as I sat mute while Luther talked.

“There’s Bates, the best carpenter I have, and he’s rigged up like a scarecrow. Look at the white shoes and red stockings and red necktie--things that no one but a fool would wear with a swallowtail suit. There’s Mike Lyman, wearing a yellow soft shirt, when he ought to wear a boiled one, and, doggone it, look at Dodson. He’s got on a blue tie, russet shoes and a watch chain with a shark’s tooth mounted on it that would moor a ship. Wait till to-morrow when I see them guys. I’ll have some fun with them. Catch on to Red Mike and the little shaver. And there’s Garabaldi and Major Brooks. They are the real thing, but Garabaldi can’t get any one to dance with him, because he don’t put on lugs; he’s just a simple chap, but he’s good-looking, ain’t he? He’s a grandson of that old general who put the Pope in prison, or something like that.

“Some fellows tried to tell me that Garabaldi was only the name of a race horse on Long Island. Well, anyway, no one has anything to do with him but Major Brooks.

“Do you see that old guy over there with the glassy bald head that looks like a cross between a barn door and a wooden leg? Well, he’s another guy that’s got a soft snap. He lives on the hill, and his house stands right where my tent used to be. He got in trouble here in the Tivoli once because he was fresh with the black chambermaids.”

While all this gossip was being poured into my ear I sized up the ensemble, which was a pleasant picture. When supper was served there was a grand rush for the dining-room that seemed like the sort of stampede one might see at a bargain sale on Sixth Avenue, New York. A more motley crew never blended together at any function. Every craft and profession had a representative, and there were at the Tivoli that night one or more persons from every nation in the world.

MR. COMSTOCK’S ARRIVAL.

Mr. Comstock’s arrival at Panama created almost as much stir as did the arrival of the much beloved and respected T. R., for it was rumored among Americans on Ancon Hill that John Drew was in town. “Well, say, the theatrical business must be on the bum,” said the veterans, one to another. “Surely he is not going to play at Edmarrillos.” The subject of their comments--the man who looked like John Drew--had recently come to the Isthmus to work in the timekeeping office at Ancon. “Good morning, Mr. Drew,” said a young clerk, as Mr. Comstock appeared, ready for induction into the mysteries of his new position. “My dear young man,” he replied, “my name is not Drew. I am Arthur Algernon Comstock, of London, of the Surrey Comstocks, grandson of Lord Algernon Percival Fillbois, and nephew of Percival Gibbon Comstock, Lord Bishop of Hounslow.”