The Crimson Gardenia and Other Tales of Adventure
form, but the youngster puts up a grand race. For three weeks they
seesaw back and forth. First one looks like a winner, then the other.
It's as pretty running as I ever see. Then Pete lets out a wonderful
burst of speed, 'zings' over the last quarter, noses out Manard at the
wire, and brings home the money. He dies at 3 A.M. and wins by four
hours. I cop eighty-four dollars, six pairs of suspenders, a keg of wire
nails, and a frying-pan, which constitutes all the circulating medium of
the camp. I'm the stakeholder for the late deceased also, so I find
myself the administrator of Manard's dog and the ten dollars that Pete
put up.
"Now, seeing that it had been a killing finish, we arrange for a
double-barreled burial and a swell funeral. The ground is froze, of
course, but we dig two holes through the gravel till we break a
pick-point and decide to let it go at that. The 'Bare-headed' Kid is
clergyman because he has a square-cut coat that buttons up the front to
his chin. There ain't any Bible in camp, so he read some recipes out of
a baking-powder cook-book, after which Deaf Mike tries to play 'Taps' on
the cornet. But he's held the horn in his mit during the services, and,
the temperature being forty degrees below freezo, when he wets his lips
to play they stick to the mouthpiece and crab the hymn. As a whole, it
is an enjoyable affair, however, and the best-conducted funeral of the
winter. Everybody has a good time, though nothing rough.
"Now, I've been friendly to young Pete De Foe--him and I bunked
together--and the next night he comes to me, saying that he can't rest.
I see him as plain as I see you.
"'What's wrong?' says I. 'Are you cold?'
"'No. The ground is chilly, but it ain't that. Manard, the old hellion,
won't let me sleep. He's doing a sand jig on my grave. He says I won
that bet crooked and died ahead of time just to get his dog. He's sore
on you, too.'
"'What's he sore on me for?' says I.
"'He says he's an old man, and he'd 'a' died first if you hadn't put in
with me to double-cross him. He's laying for you,' says Pete.
"Well, I'm pretty sick myself, with a four months' diet of pea soup and
oatmeal, and when I wake up I think it's a dream. But the next night
Pete is back again, complaining worse than ever. It seems the ghost of
old man Manard is still buck-and-winging on Pete's coffin, and he begs
me to come down and call the old reprobate off so that he can get some
rest. He comes back the third night, the fourth, and the fifth, and by
and by Manard himself comes up to the cabin and begins to abuse me. He
says he wants his dog back, but naturally I can't give it to him. It
gets so that I can't sleep at all. Finally, when Pete ain't sitting on
my bunk Manard is calling me names and gritting his teeth at me. I begin
to fall off in weight like a jockey in a sweat bath. It gets so I have
to sit up all night in a chair and make the fellers prod me in the
stomach with a stick whenever I doze off. I tell you, stranger, it was
worse than horrible. I don't know how I made it through till spring.
"Well, in the early summer I get a letter from the steamboat agent at
Nome saying Manard's people out in the States have slipped him some
coin, with instructions to send the old man out so they can give him
decent burial. He offers me one-fifty to bring him down to the coast.
Now, this decent-burial talk makes me sore, for I staged the obsequies
myself, and they were in perfect form. It was one of the tastiest
funerals I ever mixed with. However, I'm broke, so I agree to deliver
what is left of Manard at the mouth of the river, and the agent says
he'll have a first-class coffin shipped down to the trader at Chinik,
our landing. When I deliver Manard, ready for shipment, I get my hundred
and fifty.
"I give you my word I ain't tickled pink with this undertaking. I'm not
strong on body-snatching, and I have a hunch that the shade of old
Manard is still hanging around somewhere. However, a bird in the hand is
the noblest work of God, and I need that roll, so I make ready. It takes
me half a day to get drunk enough to want to do the job, and when I get
drunk enough to want to do it I'm so drunk I can't. Then I have to sober
up and begin all over again. The minute I get sober enough to do the
trick I realize I ain't drunk enough to stand the strain. I jockey that
way for quite a spell till I finally strike an average, being
considerable scared and reckless to the same extent.
"I remembered that we planted the old man in the left-hand grave, but
when I get to the graveyard I can't recollect whether I stood at the
foot or at the head of the hole during the services--a pint of that
mining-camp hootch would box the compass for any man--so I think I'll
make sure.
"I have brought along three tools--a pick, a shovel, and a bottle of
rye. The ground is froze, so I use all of them. Naturally I can't afford
to get the wrong Frenchman, so I pry up the lid of the first box I
uncover and take a good rubber. Well, sir, it is a shock! Instead of
rags and bones like I'm expecting, there is old Manard in statuary quo,
so to speak. Froze? Maybe so. Anyhow, he grins at me! That's what I
said! He grins at me, and I take it on the lam. Understand, I have no
intentions of running away--in fact, I don't know I'm doing it until I
fetch up back in the saloon. It seems I just balanced my body on my legs
and they did all the work.
"Well, I'm pretty well rattled, so I blot up another pint of
pain-killer, and finally the bartender goes back with me and helps load
Manard into my Peterboro. I'm pretty wet by this time. We get the box
into the canoe all right, but it's too big to fit under the seat, so we
place the foot of it on the bottom of the boat and rest the other end on
a paddle laid across the gunnels. This sort of gives Manard the
appearance of lounging back on an incline. You see, when I ripped up the
boards to take a look I broke off a piece at a knot-hole, and that
allows him a chance to look out with one eye. He seems to approve of the
position, however, so I get in at the stern, facing him, and ask if he's
ready. He gives me the nod, and I shove off. Just for company I take my
grave-digging tools along--that is, all but the pick and the shovel. It
was pretty near full when I started, but I lose the cork and drink it up
for safety.
"I don't remember much about the first part of the trip except that I
get awful lonesome. By and by I begin to sing:
"'Oh, the French are in the bay!' said the Shaun Van Vocht.
'The French are in the bay,' said the Shaun Van Vocht.
'The French are in the bay. They'll be here without delay.
'But their colors will decay,' said the Shaun Van Vocht."
"I've got a mean singing-voice when I'm sober, but when I'm kippered
it's positively insulting. It makes my passenger sore, and he shows it.
Now, I'm not saying that Manard wasn't as dead as a dried herring. He
was past and gone, and he'd made his exit all right. He'd moved out, and
his lease had expired. But I saw that box move. It shifted from side to
side. I quit singing. My song-fountain ran dry. Says I to myself: 'I
just neglected to lash you down, Mr. Manard; you didn't really turn
over. It was the motion of the boat.' Then, just to make sure, I break
forth into 'Johnny Crapaud,' keeping my eye on the right lens of the old
man where it showed through the broken board. This time there ain't a
doubt of it. He lurches, box and all, clean out of plumb and nearly
capsizes me. His one lamp blazes. Yes, sir, blazes! I tries to get out
of range of it, but it follers me like a searchlight. I creeps forward
to cover it up with my coat, but the old frog-eater leans to starboard
so far that I have to balance on the port gunnel to keep from going
over. We begin to spin in the current. Manard sees he has me buffaloed,
and it pleases him. He wags his head at me and grins like he did when he
came to me in my sleep.
"Well, sir, that eye enthralls me. It destroys my chain of thought. I
feel the chills stealing into my marrow, and that one hundred and fifty
dollars looks mighty small and insignificant. By and by I begin to
figure it out this way: says I, 'I've outrun him once to-day, and if I
can get ashore I'll try it again.' But when I turn the canoe toward
shore Manard heels over till we take water.
"'Lie still, you blame fool!' says I. 'If you feel that way about it
I'll stay with the ship, of course.' I can see the corner of his mouth
curl up at that, and he slides back into position. Then I know that
he'll let me stick as long as I don't try to pull out and leave him
flat. You really can't blame a corpse much under the circumstances.
However, I can't swim, so I try to square myself. I make conversation of
a polite and friendly nature, and the old boy settles back to enjoy
himself.
"Well, this one-sided talkfest gets tiresome after a while. I run out of
topics, so I tell him funny stories. Sometimes he likes them, and
sometimes he 'most jumps out of the box. Sore? Say, when I pull a wheeze
that he don't like he makes it known quick, and I sit clutching the
gunnels, with my hair on end while he rocks the boat like a demon.
"When I get to the mouth of the river it's night. I find a stiff breeze
blowing and the bay covered with whitecaps, so I try to convince Manard
that we'd better camp. But I no more than suggest it till I have to bail
for dear life. Seeing that he's dead set to keep going, I kiss myself
good-by and paddle out across the bay. How we ever made it I don't know,
but along about midnight we blow into Chinik, with me singing songs to
my passenger and cracking 'Joe Millers' that came over in seventy-six.
I'm still pretty drunk.
"The trader tells me that the coffin hasn't come from Nome yet. But the
steamer is due before morning, so I ask him to cache Manard somewhere
and wake me up when the boat comes. Then I go to the hay. I'm tuckered
out. It seems that the coaster comes in a few hours later, but the
trader is dealing a stud game and tells the purser to dump his freight
on the beach. They do as ordered, then pull out. About daylight the wind
shifts, the tide rises and begins to wash the merchandise away. Two
'rough-necks' get busy saving their outfit, when what comes bobbing past
on the waves but a handsome zink-lined casket--the one from Nome.
"'Hey, Bill, cop that box; it'll make a swell bath-tub,' says one. So
the other pulls up his rubber boots, wades out, and brings it in. The
trader, hearing that his goods are in danger, adjourns the game long
enough to see about it. He hurries down to the beach, looks over his
stuff, then inquires:
"'Where's my coffin?'
"'You 'ain't got no more coffin than a rabbit,' says one of the miners.
"'Oh, yes, I have. That's it right there.'
"'I guess not. That's my coffin. I copped it on the high seas--flotsam
and jetsam,' says the 'roughneck.' 'What's more, I'm going to use it for
a cupboard or a cozy corner. If you want it bad pay me fifty dollars
salvage and it's yours.' Naturally the trader belched.
"'All right. If you don't want it I'll use it myself,' says the miner.
'It's the first one I ever had, and I like it fine. There's no telling
when I'll get another.'
"'Said time ain't but a minute,' observes the trader, 'unless you gimme
that freight.'
"There is some further dispute till the miner, being a quick-tempered
party, reaches for his Gat. After the smoke clears away it is found that
he has made an error of judgment, that the storekeeper is gifted as a
prophet, and that the 'roughneck' is ready for his coffin.
"Now, inasmuch as this had been a purely personal affair and the boys
was anxious to reopen the stud game, they exonerated the trader from all
blame complete, and he, being ever anxious to maintain a reputation for