Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3), Richard Harding Davis [best novel books to read TXT] 📗

The Cruiser's Gig Carried Keating To The Wharf,  The Crew Tossed Their

Oars And The Boatswain Touched His Cap And Asked,  Mechanically,

"Shall I Return To The Ship,  Sir?"

 

Channing,  Stretched On The Beach,  With His Back To A Palm-Tree,

Observed The Approach Of Keating With Cheerful Approbation.

 

"It Is Gratifying To Me," He Said,  "To See The Press Treated With

Such Consideration. You Came In Just Like Cleopatra In Her Barge. If

The Flag Had Been Flying,  And You Hadn't Steered So Badly,  I Should

Have Thought You Were At Least An Admiral. How Many Guns Does The

British Navy Give A Consolidated Press Reporter When He Comes Over

The Side?"

 

Keating Dropped To The Sand And,  Crossing His Legs Under Him,  Began

Tossing Shells At The Water.

 

"They Gave This One A Damned Good Breakfast," He Said,  "And Some Very

Excellent White Wine. Of Course,  The Ice-Machine Was Broken,  It

Always Is,  But Then Chablis Never Should Be Iced,  If It's The Real

Thing."

 

"Chablis! Ice! Hah!" Snorted Channing. "Listen To Him! Do You Know

What I Had For Breakfast?"

 

Keating Turned Away Uncomfortably And Looked Toward The Ships In The

Harbor.

 

"Well,  Never Mind," Said Channing,  Yawning Luxuriously. "The Sun Is

Bright,  The Sea Is Blue,  And The Confidences Of This Old Palm Are

Soothing. He's A Great Old Gossip,  This Palm." He Looked Up Into The

Rustling Fronds And Smiled. "He Whispers Me To Sleep," He Went On,

"Or He Talks Me Awake--Talks About All Sorts Of Things--Things He Has

Seen--Cyclones,  Wrecks,  And Strange Ships And Cuban Refugees And

Spanish Spies And Lovers That Meet Here On Moonlight Nights. It's

Always Moonlight In Port Antonio,  Isn't It?"

 

"You Ought To Know,  You've Been Here Longer Than I," Said Keating.

 

"And How Do You Like It,  Now That You Have Got To Know It Better?

Pretty Heavenly? Eh?"

 

"Pretty Heavenly!" Snorted Keating. "Pretty Much The Other Place!

What Good Am I Doing? What's The Sense Of Keeping Me Here? Cervera

Isn't Going To Come Out,  And The People At Washington Won't Let

Sampson Go In. Why,  Those Ships Have Been There A Month Now,  And

They'll Be There Just Where They Are Now When You And I Are Bald. I'm

No Use Here. All I Do Is To Thrash Across There Every Day And Eat Up

More Coal Than The Whole Squadron Burns In A Month. Why,  That Tug Of

Mine's Costing The C. P. Six Hundred Dollars A Day,  And I'm Not

Sending Them News Enough To Pay For Setting It Up. Have You Seen 'Em

Yet?"

 

"Seen What? Your Stories?"

Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 77

 

"No,  The Ships!"

 

"Yes,  Scudder Took Me Across Once In The Iduna. I Haven't Got A Paper

Yet,  So I Couldn't Write Anything,  But--"

 

"Well,  You've Seen All There Is To It,  Then; You Wouldn't See Any

More If You Went Over Every Day. It's Just The Same Old Harbor-Mouth,

And The Same Old Morro Castle,  And Same Old Ships,  Drifting Up And

Down; The Brooklyn,  Full Of Smoke-Stacks,  And The New York,  With Her

Two Bridges,  And All The Rest Of Them Looking Just As They've Looked

For The Last Four Weeks. There's Nothing In That. Why Don't They Send

Me To Tampa With The Army And Shafter--That's Where The Story Is."

 

"Oh,  I Don't Know," Said Channing,  Shaking His Head. "I Thought It

Was Bully!"

 

"Bully,  What Was Bully?"

 

"Oh,  The Picture," Said Channing,  Doubtfully,  "And--And What It

Meant. What Struck Me About It Was That It Was So Hot,  And Lazy,  And

Peaceful,  That They Seemed To Be Just Drifting About,  Just What You

Complain Of. I Don't Know What I Expected To See; I Think I Expected

They'd Be Racing Around In Circles,  Tearing Up The Water And Throwing

Broadsides At Morro Castle As Fast As Fire-Crackers.

 

"But They Lay Broiling There In The Heat Just As Though They Were

Becalmed. They Seemed To Be Asleep On Their Anchor-Chains. It

Reminded Me Of A Big Bull-Dog Lying In The Sun With His Head On His

Paws And His Eyes Shut. You Think He's Asleep,  And You Try To Tiptoe

Past Him,  But When You're In Reach Of His Chain--He's At Your Throat,

What? It Seemed So Funny To Think Of Our Being Really At War. I Mean

The United States,  And With Such An Old-Established Firm As Spain. It

Seems So Presumptuous In A Young Republic,  As Though We Were

Strutting Around,  Singing,  'I'm Getting A Big Boy Now.' I Felt Like

Saying,  'Oh,  Come Off,  And Stop Playing You're A World Power,  And Get

Back Into Your Red Sash And Knickerbockers,  Or You'll Get Spanked!'

It Seems As Though We Must Be Such A Lot Of Amateurs. But When I Went

Over The Side Of The New York I Felt Like Kneeling Down On Her Deck

And Begging Every Jackey To Kick Me. I Felt About As Useless As A Fly

On A Locomotive-Engine. Amateurs! Why,  They Might Have Been In The

Business Since The Days Of The Ark; All Of Them Might Have Been

Descended From Bloody Pirates; They Twisted Those Eight-Inch Guns

Around For Us Just As Though They Were Bicycles,  And The Whole Ship

Moved And Breathed And Thought,  Too,  Like A Human Being,  And All The

Captains Of The Other War-Ships About Her Were Watching For Her To

Give The Word. All Of Them Stripped And Eager And Ready--Like A Lot

Of Jockeys Holding In The Big Race-Horses,  And Each Of Them With His

Eyes On The Starter. And I Liked The Way They All Talk About Sampson,

And The Way The Ships Move Over The Stations Like Parts Of One

Machine,  Just As He Had Told Them To Do.

 

"Scudder Introduced Me To Him,  And He Listened While We Did The

Talking,  But It Was Easy To See Who Was The Man In The Conning Tower.

Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 78

Keating--My Boy!" Channing Cried,  Sitting Upright In His Enthusiasm,

"He's Put A Combination-Lock On That Harbor That Can't Be Picked--And

It'll Work Whether Sampson's Asleep In His Berth,  Or Fifteen Miles

Away,  Or Killed On The Bridge. He Doesn't Have To Worry,  He Knows His

Trap Will Work--He Ought To,  He Set It."

 

Keating Shrugged His Shoulders,  Tolerantly.

 

"Oh,  I See That Side Of It," He Assented. "I See All There Is In It

For You,  The Sort Of Stuff You Write,  Sunday-Special Stuff,  But

There's No News In It. I'm Not Paid To Write Mail-Letters,  And I'm

Not Down Here To Interview Palm-Trees Either."

 

"Why,  You Old Fraud!" Laughed Channing. "You Know You're Having The

Time Of Your Life Here. You're The Pet Of Kingston Society--You Know

You Are. I Only Wish I Were Half As Popular. I Don't Seem To Belong,

Do I? I Guess It's My Clothes. That English Colonel At Kingston

Always Scowls At Me As Though He'd Like To Put Me In Irons,  And

Whenever I Meet Our Consul He Sees Something Very Peculiar On The

Horizon-Line."

 

Keating Frowned For A Moment In Silence,  And Then Coughed,

Consciously.

 

"Channing," He Began,  Uncomfortably,  "You Ought To Brace Up."

 

"Brace Up?" Asked Channing.

 

"Well,  It Isn't Fair To The Rest Of Us," Protested Keating,  Launching

Into His Grievance. "There's Only A Few Of Us Here,  And We--We Think

You Ought To See That And Not Give The Crowd A Bad Name. All The

Other Correspondents Have Some Regard For--For Their Position And For

The Paper,  But You Loaf Around Here Looking Like An Old Tramp--Like

Any Old Beach-Comber,  And It Queers The Rest Of Us. Why,  Those

English Artillerymen At The Club Asked Me About You,  And When I Told

Them You Were A New York Correspondent They Made All Sorts Of Jokes

About American Newspapers,  And What Could I Say?"

 

Channing Eyed The Other Man With Keen Delight.

 

"I See,  By Jove! I'm Sorry," He Said. But The Next Moment He Laughed,

And Then Apologized,  Remorsefully.

 

"Indeed,  I Beg Your Pardon," He Begged,  "But It Struck Me As A Sort

Of--I Had No Idea You Fellows Were Such Swells--I Knew I Was A Social

Outcast,  But I Didn't Know My Being A Social Outcast Was Hurting

Anyone Else. Tell Me Some More."

 

"Well,  That's All," Said Keating,  Suspiciously. "The Fellows Asked Me

To Speak To You About It And To Tell You To Take A Brace. Now,  For

Instance,  We Have A Sort Of Mess-Table At The Hotels And We'd Like To

Ask You To Belong,  But--Well--You See How It Is--We Have The Officers

To Lunch Whenever They're On Shore,  And You're So Disreputable"--

Keating Scowled At Channing,  And Concluded,  Impotently,  "Why Don't

Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 79

You Get Yourself Some Decent Clothes And--And A New Hat?"

 

Channing Removed His Hat To His Knee And Stroked It With Affectionate

Pity.

 

"It Is A Shocking Bad Hat," He Said. "Well,  Go On."

 

"Oh,  It's None Of My Business," Exclaimed Keating,  Impatiently. "I'm

Just Telling You What They're Saying. Now,  There's The Cuban

Refugees,  For Instance. No One Knows What They're Doing Here,  Or

Whether They're Real Cubans Or Spaniards."

 

"Well,  What Of It?"

 

"Why,  The Way You Go Round With Them And Visit Them,  It's No Wonder

They Say You're A Spy."

 

Channing Stared Incredulously,  And Then Threw Back His Head And

Laughed With A Shout Of Delight.

 

"They Don't,  Do They?" He Asked.

 

"Yes,  They Do,  Since You Think It's So Funny. If It Hadn't Been For

Us The Day You Went Over To Guantanamo The Marines Would Have Had You

Arrested And Court-Martialed."

 

Channing's Face Clouded With A Quick Frown,  "Oh," He Exclaimed,  In A

Hurt Voice,  "They Couldn't Have Thought That."

 

"Well,  No," Keating Admitted Grudgingly,  "Not After The Fight,

Perhaps,  But Before That,  When You Were Snooping Around The Camp Like

A Cuban After Rations." Channing Recognized The Picture With A Laugh.

 

"I Do," He Said,  "I Do. But You Should Have Had Me Court-Martialed

And Shot; It Would Have Made A Good Story. 'Our Reporter Shot As A

Spy,  His Last Words Were--' What Were My Last Words,  Keating?"

 

Keating Turned Upon Him With Impatience,  "But Why Do You Do It?" He

Demanded. "Why Don't You Act Like The Rest Of Us? Why Do You Hang Out

With All Those Filibusters And Runaway Cubans?"

 

"They Have Been Very Kind To Me," Said Channing,  Soberly. "They Are A

Very Courteous Race,  And They Have Ideas Of Hospitality Which Make

The Average New Yorker Look Like A Dog Hiding A Bone."

 

"Oh,  I Suppose You Mean That For Us," Demanded Keating. "That's A

Slap At Me,  Eh?"

 

Channing Gave A Sigh