CHAPTER XVIII
LOVE AND A ZULU
Mrs. Livingstone, who had become accepted, by this time, to theColonel's great delight, as a sort of lovingly hesitant chaperon andhostess of the accidental House Party, was now, doubtless to her ownsurprise, the one to take the initiative:
"Did I understand you to say, Mr. Poet, that what you just related wasstrictly true?"
"Yes, Madam, certainly," was the calm and unabashed reply of the personaddressed.
"Thank you," was the gentle answer, "it was beautiful," and then sheturned to her husband, "Colonel, won't you please request one of thestern business men here to tell something, something reliable, and ofthe present time?"
The Colonel's quizzical eye had, for some moments rested upon theBroker, to the evident disquietude of that gentleman, though it wasclear that he would not seek to avoid the issue when his time for effortcame. He had not listened to the tale which had been told as intentlyas he might and there was a look upon his face as of a man recallingmemories. He was mentally preparing himself for the Colonel'sonslaught--and it came.
"Mr. Broker," said the genial tyrant, "gentlemen of your type in thebusiness world are about the best fellows going, and, as I know, fromlistening interestedly a thousand times, are always telling goodstories, when not going crazy 'on 'change.' Your turn has come and yourfate is sealed beyond all peradventure. Sir, we await you."
The Broker "accepted the situation:" "I've been anticipating thisemergency and have been preparing for it as much as possible. I don'tknow that it is what might be called a strictly business story, but itis that of how a friend of mine--an admirable man--made a lot of moneyand gained one of the prettiest wives in the world. I think we mightcall it
LOVE AND A ZULU
In every drop of the blue blood of St. Louis there is a bubble ofsporting blood. This is a love story of St. Louis, with filaments offact entwining themselves with the lighter filaments of fancy. The St.Louis lover--of course, there are exceptions--loves with his wholeheart, and in his constant heart, with every pulsation, throbs the ideaof chance. So, the great city on the banks of the Father of Waters is acity of honorable betting.
John Driscoll was in trouble. John Driscoll, aged twenty-seven, was alone scion of one of the best families of St. Louis, a city where theyhave good families, certainly. Driscoll's trouble was of the sort whichtries a man. He was desperately in love with a fair young woman, butconsent to the marriage was absolutely refused by the young woman'sfather until Driscoll should be worth at least twenty thousand dollars;and a very obstinate old gentleman was Mr. Cameron, who owned much realestate and was looked upon as one of the solid men of a solid city. Itwas not altogether a harsh impulse which had brought this decree fromhim. He wanted Driscoll to show that he had business ability, forDriscoll had been something of a figure socially and not much of afigure otherwise. Mr. Cameron was very fond of his daughter Jessie. JohnDriscoll had been left, on the death of his mother, with a fortune ofonly eighteen thousand dollars; two thousand dollars were already goneand he had earned nothing. In order, therefore, to meet the requirementof his prospective father-in-law, he must, somehow, make four thousanddollars. It may be said to his credit that he lacked neither earnestnessnor courage. He devoted himself at once to a vigorous endeavor to gainthe required sum. He worked with feverish earnestness. He becamesolicitor for an insurance company, and, with his wide acquaintance,made a moderate success of the business from the beginning. It was hardto endure--for love is impatient--but the man did not flinch. At the endof a year he had a little over eighteen thousand dollars in bank andadmirable prospects. But, as above wisely remarked, love is exceedinglyimpatient. He was offered a chance in a speculation which promised togain for him two thousand dollars at once, and yielded to thetemptation--though persuaded against it by the girl he loved and wholoved him. Instead of gaining two thousand dollars, he lost twothousand, and was back at the sixteen thousand dollar notch again. Ayear had been wasted.
At the northeast corner of Elm Street and Broadway is a famousplace--half restaurant, half summer garden--where theatre parties go,and where the gilded youth of the city eat, drink and are merry.Nonsensical propositions arise among these young gentlemen with moneyand, in many instances, with brains as well. One evening at one of thetables there arose a discussion over the old problem of whether or notthe ordinary man could eat thirty quail in thirty days. The discussionbecame warm. "It is absurd," said a young man named Graham--"the wholeidea of it. Why, after a hard day's shooting in Texas, I once ate sixquail at a single meal. That means that even a man of my size can eatthirty quail in five days, doesn't it?"
"Well, it may or may not," was the response of a youth named Malvern,one of the group; "but eating six quail in one day, or thirty quail insix days, is not the matter under discussion. One of the most exquisiteforms of torture known to the Chinese, is to bind a prisoner so that hecannot move his head, and then, from a reservoir above, allow drop afterdrop of water to fall upon his head. At first it is nothing, but,finally, there comes an uncomfortable sensation, then pain, and, in theend, an exquisite agony. The victim dies or goes insane. A barrel ofwater poured upon him at once would not have affected him at all. So itis with eating thirty quail in thirty days. It is the monotony for allthose days--the thing that cannot be avoided--that tells."
"Bah!" said Graham. "I don't take your view of the case. I've thecourage of my convictions, and I'll bet you five hundred dollars that Iwill eat thirty quail in thirty days, breakfasting here at nine o'clockeach morning and eating my quail then."
"Done!" was the prompt reply. "You're not the only fellow who has thecourage of his convictions. We'll appoint a committee of observation,and breakfast here together regularly. There'll be fun in the thing,whatever the outcome."
The committee was appointed, and the next morning saw a hilarious groupseated about the table. Graham was full of confidence and jest. Heordered his quail broiled, and his companions, out of compliment,ordered the same thing. It was a breakfast enjoyed by all. Here followsa summary of what happened on succeeding mornings:
Breakfast Second.--Graham came in, still confident, and had a goodappetite, as appeared when he ordered broiled quail again and ate itwith much gusto. Of the five men at table two ate quail as well; theothers ordered beefsteak.
Breakfast Third.--Graham's serenity was still unruffled. He ate hisquail broiled, as usual, and seemed to enjoy it, but he noticed thatnone of his friends took quail. "I must have variety," said one of them.
Breakfast Fourth--Graham said he must have indulged in too muchchampagne the night before. He ordered his quail roasted for a change,and ate it slowly--the committee of three watching him like hawks, tosee that he picked the bones clean.
Breakfast Fifth.--The events of the meal were almost identical withthose of the day before, save that Graham required a little more time inwhich to consume his bird.
Breakfast Sixth.--Graham declared that, after all, we were behind theEnglish in our manner of cooking birds. They boiled two fowls to ourone. He ordered his quail boiled and picked away at it with some energy.He certainly cleaned the bones with more ease than before.
Breakfast Seventh.--Graham came in, looking bilious. He hesitated beforeordering, but finally decided that he would take his quail chopped upinto stew. There was some debate over this, and the committee finallywent into the restaurant kitchen, to see that nothing got away. The stewseemed to please Graham and he made numerous jests at the expense of themen, "who," he said, "had no stomachs."
Breakfast Eighth.--Graham ordered quail stew again, but did not getalong so well as he had on the previous morning. He declared the bird tobe stale and said that it smelled "quailly." As a matter of fact, it wasa plump young bird, shot only the day before.
Breakfast Ninth.--To the astonishment of everybody, Graham, who lookedmore bilious than ever, ordered quail hash. The committee was indignant,but there was no recourse, and so they were compelled to visit thekitchen again and watch the caree
r of the quail from plucking to plate.Graham became furious. He said it was a shame to doubt the honesty ofthe establishment. He ate the quail.
It is unnecessary to continue in detail the story of the breakfasts inthe great restaurant. Each day Graham became more petulant andunreasonable. All ways of cooking quail were at last exhausted, andthere was a compelled return to some of those already employed. Grahamby the fifteenth day had become haggard and the very odor of thedelicate bird, as it came in, brought to him a feeling of utmost nausea.He was brusque with the faithful waiter, and took no interest in theconversation of his friends. He was plucky, though, and managed, bysheer force of will, to consume the distasteful ration. Meanwhile, thewager had become the comment of the town, especially among the wealthyyouth, and thousands of dollars were staked upon the issue. Therestaurant was thronged each morning, and the proprietor wished he hadsome such attraction to such a class throughout all the rotund year.This notoriety but made the case of poor Graham worse; it made him moreanxious to succeed, but it unnerved him.
On the twentieth day the odds, which had at first been in favor ofGraham, dropped to no odds at all, and on the twenty-second they wereagainst him. He came in with a pallid look upon his face and sat downbefore his dainty fare. He took up his knife and fork; then suddenlylaid them down and left the place. Within ten minutes he returned with aset face and resolutely performed his task. Where he had been was notknown at the time, but it was rumored, later, in the Southern Hotel(which was in the same block) that there had been sold a half-pintbottle of champagne that morning to a gentleman in a hurry.
So, worse and worse became the man's condition, greater and greater hisabhorrence of what is counted a delicate bit of eating. On thetwenty-sixth morning he came in with a more closely hovering look ofapprehension than had yet been noticed. He sat down before the bird,picked at it for a moment, rose from the table walked about for a while;then came back, again and again, and considered what was before him. Hegasped, and, as he arose to his feet and started from the room,exclaimed huskily: "It's no use, boys. I was mistaken. I can't do it. Igive up!"
There was pity for him, especially among the minors, for he had done hisbest. Many cheques were drawn that morning.
Driscoll always breakfasted at this restaurant and had, naturally,become interested in this droll struggle between man and quail. For aday or two after his own loss he had been dazed and discouraged hauntingthe lobbies of the Planter's, the Southern or the Lindell, and pityinghimself amazingly. All at once he braced up, to an extent, through theinfluence of plucky little Jessie Cameron. "We must begin again--that'sall," said she, resolutely and cheerily. "Surely, you love me as much asJacob, who served twice seven years, for Rachel, and I admire you morethan I do Jacob--though I never liked his device concerning Esau. Beginagain, dear, and all will come right."
And Driscoll did begin again with a vigor, though henceforth he referredto Mr. Cameron as Laban to the indignation of the fair and filialJessie.
The lover settled down to earnest work, did well and was becomingcontented and hopeful. This condition of mind enabled him to speculatein his hours of ease upon something outside of his personal affairs. Thequail-eating contest had interested him, because he was an educated man,and something of a student of the body. Why had Graham failed in theeating of thirty quail in thirty days? Men eat thirty breakfasts inthirty days and do not know they have done it. Hunters and miners eatbacon alone--that is, as far as their meat goes--for months at a timeand think nothing of it. Why had Graham failed?
Just as a matter of amusement, Driscoll tried to study the thing out:"Man is omnivorous," he thought; "not a flesh-eater alone, and his rangeof consumption is wide. He must have variety, even in flesh, as arequirement of his stomach. Furthermore, man alone, among all creatures,is imaginative, and, when forced to eat a certain thing, develops athousand fancies against it until it becomes revolting. It might be so,very likely would be so, in the case of the beefsteak or the bacon. Theonly animal which can live easily and uncomplainingly upon one kind offlesh alone, live cheerfully and healthfully, like the lion or the tigeror others of the carnivora, must be one accustomed to such purely fleshdiet and one without imagination." And Driscoll was right in hisconclusions.
There existed at this time on Fourth Street, near Walnut, a dime museumof the better sort. Among the attractions for the season were five Zulusfrom Barnum's Circus--Zulus, most graceful of all savages, with theirincurved backs, broad chests, and the step of him of Kipling, who
"Trod the ling Like a buck in spring."
and who, daily, for the edification of the populace, gave a greatexhibition of the throwing of the assegai. One of them was a woman andshe could speak English.
"A human being accustomed to a flesh diet and without imagination,wouldn't he be a wonder to these joyous bettors?" thought Driscoll. Thenhe almost gasped as he leaned back. He had dropped into the dime museumon Fourth Street that morning, having business with the proprietor, andhad noted the performance of the Zulus admiringly. "A human being livingon flesh exclusively and without imagination almost concerning food."Here were a group, all of whom had throughout their lives, untilimported, lived, practically, upon flesh alone--the half-cooked flesh ofthe herds. Flesh alone was what their stomachs craved. Additionally,they had no imagination concerning food--no morbid fancies. They onlywanted meat and plenty of it--and the rest be hanged! Driscoll saw itall. He thought for an hour and then there came upon his face the lookof a man who is going to break a jam of pine logs in some Northern riveror drown beneath the timber. He called at the dime museum.
"Gregory," said he, "I want to borrow your best Zulu."
"_Borrow what?_" said Gregory.
"A Zulu."
"What do you mean? Tell me about it."
"I'll explain. You know all about the quail-eating contest, where Grahamfailed. You've got a man who won't fail." Then he explained all he hadthought out. The museum proprietor--acute man--became excited: "I'll doanything you say," he promised.
The next morning, Driscoll was breakfasting as usual in the swellrestaurant with the usual group--Graham, somewhat recovered, among them.They were still talking of the recent eating exploit, when, in the midstof the debate, Driscoll spoke, calmly: "I'll wager that I can produce aman who can eat thirty quail in thirty days. The committee who served inGraham's case shall serve in this. The only thing that I ask is that theeating be done upon the stage in the dime museum near the corner ofFourth and Walnut Streets, and just after we have had breakfast hereeach morning. I'll provide tickets for all those directly interested inthe result."
There arose a clamor. Not a man among all the gilded young men presentbelieved now that any man could eat thirty quail in thirty days.Driscoll had deliberated and had dared. He had brought with him twothousand dollars of his remaining fortune. He got odds at first of fourto one; then three to one; then two to one. He stood to lose twothousand dollars, or win between five and six thousand.
There was among the Zulus a stalwart young man whose assegai sankdeepest into the wooden target, who was a model of strength and wild,unknowing lustiness, and who had but lately left his tribe in SouthernAfrica. Little but flesh had ever passed his mouth as food. He was told,through the English-speaking woman, that there was a little bird--thesweetest in the country--one of which would be given him each morningbecause he had thrown the assegai so well for the white man'sedification. He smacked his lips, strutted and became excited.
Next morning occurred a scene heretofore unknown to the dime museum. Inthe front seats was the cream of society, so far as young men wereconcerned, and all the other seats were filled, because the wiseproprietor of the place had seen to it that news so important had goneabroad. No theatre in all the town drew such a fashionable audience asdid this dime museum. It was a scene most edifying and altogetherblithesome and lighthearted, and one having a special interest.
There was not much of a pause. The Zulu, accompanied by the committee,came upon the stage--the gentleman
from South Africa with glitteringeyes and a look of hungry expectancy upon his face. Then, a momentlater, came in a waiter with a quail--roasted whole and temptinglydisplayed upon a tray. The Zulu gazed at it for a minute; then suddenlypicked it up by the legs; thrust the head and breast of the bird intohis mouth and crunched savagely. He was delighted. A moment later, hetossed the legs away and looked for more. He had simply chewed the birdand swallowed bones and all!
And so, each day, for twenty-nine days the absurd performance wasrepeated. It was quite unnecessary to change the style of cooking,though the breast bones were removed by order of the committee, out of aprobably unnecessary regard for the digestion of this human personagebrought up on meat half raw. He but clamored for more on each occasionand was pacified only through the intervention of the woman whopromised that soon he was to have a feast. She was telling him thetruth. Driscoll and Gregory had arranged upon a spectacular terminationof the contest--a contest which already, as everybody saw, wasdetermined as to its issue. Through the interpreter, the Zulu wasinformed that on the thirtieth day he was to have, not only the quail,but a large bird--one worthy the appetite of a warrior--a bird known inthis strange country as turkey and very good to eat. The strong throwerof the assegai could hardly restrain himself. He was to have a feast atlast!
The thirtieth morning came, and the quail disappeared as usual. Then, ina stately procession, came waiters--the first bearing a huge roastturkey. Behind him came others with the American accompaniments to theroast turkey, and all was set before the Zulu. There followed a sightworth seeing. The turkey was utterly demolished; the contents of theside dishes were consumed and the dishes themselves licked to ahousewifely cleanness. For the first time in thirty days the Zulu gave agrunt of satisfaction. When all accounts were settled, the fortune ofJohn Driscoll amounted to just twenty-two thousand one hundred andeighty dollars and twenty-seven cents.
And so ended the second of the great quail-eating contests in St. Louis.Perhaps it was wrong, perhaps Driscoll shouldn't have won his money inthe way he did; but in St. Louis there remains, as said in thebeginning, much of the venturesome but always clean and honorablesporting spirit of the South, and in this case nobody was hurt, to speakof. They could afford it, and all, winners and losers, had enjoyedthemselves.
But facing Driscoll were still two appalling situations. There wereJessie and Mr. Cameron. Here the young man conducted himself with adiplomacy which was vastly to his credit. He went to Jessie, threwhimself on her mercy and confessed all in detail--confessed everything.She was confused and maybe shocked; but a woman in love is kindly, and awoman in love with a man of force wants to become his wife.
"How will you explain to Father?" said the thoughtful maiden.
"I'll arrange it, somehow," said the now confident and buoyant Driscoll.
He visited Mr. Cameron and gave satisfactory proof to the old gentlemanthat he was now the possessor of over twenty thousand dollars.
"But how did you gain the money so soon, boy?" said Mr. Cameron. "Iheard that you lost a thousand or two."
Driscoll's face sobered. "I should think that no one better than you,Mr. Cameron, would understand the necessity on the part of a businessman of keeping secret his methods and the relations of his businessaffairs. Pardon me--I am not yet your son-in-law."
"Right you are, Driscoll!" was the immediate response. "You're abusiness man, after all!"
It was not long before Driscoll became the son-in-law in fact. Then hetold the whole story to his father-in-law.
"Hum! ha!" said the old gentleman, musingly.
The Cassowary; What Chanced in the Cleft Mountains Page 18
