The Open Boat and Other Stories
The Paseo de la Reforma is the famous drive of the city of Mexico,
leading to the Castle of Chapultepec, which last ought to be well known
in the United States.
It is a fine broad avenue of macadam with a much greater quality of
dignity than anything of the kind we possess in our own land. It seems
of the old world, where to the beauty of the thing itself is added the
solemnity of tradition and history, the knowledge that feet in buskins
trod the same stones, that cavalcades of steel thundered there before
the coming of carriages.
When the Americans tumbled out of their cabs the giant bronzes of Aztec
and Spaniard loomed dimly above them like towers. The four roads of
poplar trees rustled weirdly off there in the darkness. Pop took out
his watch and struck a match. "Well, hurry up this thing. It's almost
midnight."
The other cabs came swarming, the drivers lashing their horses, for
these Americans, who did all manner of strange things, nevertheless
always paid well for it. There was a mighty hubbub then in the
darkness. Five or six men began to pace the distance and quarrel.
Others knotted their handkerchiefs together to make a tape. Men were
swearing over bets, fussing and fuming about the odds. Benson came to
the kids swaggering. "You're a pair of asses." The cabs waited in a
solid block down the avenue. Above the crowd the tall statues hid their
visages in the night.
At last a voice floated through the darkness. "Are you ready there?"
Everybody yelled excitedly. The men at the tape pulled it out straight.
"Hold it higher, Jim, you fool," and silence fell then upon the throng.
Men bended down trying to pierce the deep gloom with their eyes. From
out at the starting point came muffled voices. The crowd swayed and
jostled.
The racers did not come. The crowd began to fret, its nerves burning.
"Oh, hurry up," shrilled some one.
The voice called again--"Ready there?" Everybody replied--"Yes, all
ready. Hurry up!"
There was a more muffled discussion at the starting point. In the crowd
a man began to make a proposition. "I'll bet twenty--" but the crowd
interrupted with a howl. "Here they come!" The thickly-packed body of
men swung as if the ground had moved. The men at the tape shouldered
madly at their fellows, bawling, "Keep back! Keep back!"
From the distance came the noise of feet pattering furiously. Vague
forms flashed into view for an instant. A hoarse roar broke from the
crowd. Men bended and swayed and fought. The kids back near the tape
exchanged another stolid look. A white form shone forth. It grew like a
spectre. Always could be heard the wild patter. A scream broke from the
crowd. "By Gawd, it's Pop! Pop! Pop's ahead!"
The old man spun towards the tape like a madman, his chin thrown back,
his grey hair flying. His legs moved like oiled machinery. And as he
shot forward a howl as from forty cages of wild animals went toward the
imperturbable chieftains in bronze. The crowd flung themselves forward.
"Oh, you old Indian! You savage! Did anybody ever see such running?"
"Ain't he a peach! Well!"
"Where's the kids? H-e-y, kids!"
"Look at him, would you? Did you ever think?" These cries flew in the
air blended in a vast shout of astonishment and laughter.
For an instant the whole tragedy was in view. Freddie, desperate, his
teeth shining, his face contorted, whirling along in deadly effort,
was twenty feet behind the tall form of old Pop, who, dressed only
in his--only in his underclothes--gained with each stride. One grand
insane moment, and then Pop had hurled himself against the tape--victor!
Freddie, fallen into the arms of some men, struggled with his breath,
and at last managed to stammer--
"Say, can't--can't--that old--old--man run!"
Pop, puffing and heaving, could only gasp--"Where's my shoes? Who's got
my shoes?"
Later Freddie scrambled panting through the crowd, and held out his
hand. "Good man, Pop!" And then he looked up and down the tall, stout
form. "Hell! who would think you could run like that?"
The kids were surrounded by a crowd, laughing tempestuously.
"How did you know he could run?"
"Why didn't you give me a line on him?"
"Say--great snakes!--you fellows had a nerve to bet on Pop."
"Why, I was cock-sure he couldn't win."
"Oh, you fellows must have seen him run before."
"Who would ever think it?"
Benson came by, filling the midnight air with curses. They turned to
jibe him.
"What's the matter, Benson?"
"Somebody pinched my handkerchief. I tied it up in that string. Damn
it."
The kids laughed blithely. "Why, hello! Benson," they said.
There was a great rush for cabs. Shouting, laughing, wondering, the
crowd hustled into their conveyances, and the drivers flogged their
horses toward the city again.
"Won't Freddie be crazy! Say, he'll be guyed about this for years."
"But who would ever think that old tank could run so?"
One cab had to wait while Pop and Freddie resumed various parts of
their clothing.
As they drove home, Freddie said--"Well, Pop, you beat me."
Pop said--"That's all right, old man."
The kids, grinning, said--"How much did you lose, Benson?"
Benson said defiantly--"Oh, not so much. How much did you win?"
"Oh, not so much."
Old Colonel Hammigan, squeezed down in a corner, had apparently been
reviewing the event in his mind, for he suddenly remarked, "Well, I'm
damned!"
They were late in reaching the Café Colorado, but when they did, the
bottles were on the bar as thick as pickets on a fence.
THE FIVE WHITE MICE
Freddie was mixing a cock-tail. His hand with the long spoon was
whirling swiftly, and the ice in the glass hummed and rattled like a
cheap watch. Over by the window, a gambler, a millionaire, a railway
conductor, and the agent of a vast American syndicate were playing
seven-up. Freddie surveyed them with the ironical glance of a man who
is mixing a cock-tail.
From time to time a swarthy Mexican waiter came with his tray from the
rooms at the rear, and called his orders across the bar. The sounds
of the indolent stir of the city, awakening from its siesta, floated
over the screens which barred the sun and the inquisitive eye. From
the far-away kitchen could be heard the roar of the old French _chef_,
driving, herding, and abusing his Mexican helpers.
A string of men came suddenly in from the street. They stormed up to
the bar. There were impatient shouts. "Come now, Freddie, don't stand
there like a portrait of yourself. Wiggle!" Drinks of many kinds and
colours, amber, green, mahogany, strong and mild, began to swarm
upon the bar with all the attendants of lemon, sugar, mint and ice.
Freddie, with Mexican support, worked like a sailor in the provision
of them, sometimes talking with that scorn for drink and admiration for
those who drink which is the attribute of a good bar-keeper.
At last a man was afflicted with a stroke of dice-shaking. A herculean
discussion was waging, and he was deeply engaged in it, but at the
same time he lazily flirted the dice. Occasionally he made great
combinations. "Look at that, would you?" he cried proudly. The others
paid little heed. Then violently the craving took them. It went along
the line like an epidemic, and involved them all. In a moment they had
arranged a carnival of dice-shaking with money penalties and liquid
prizes. They clamorously made it a point of honour with Freddie that
he should play and take his chance of sometimes providing this large
group with free refreshment. With bended heads like football players,
they surged over the tinkling dice, jostling, cheering, and bitterly
arguing. One of the quiet company playing seven-up at the corner table
said profanely that the row reminded him of a bowling contest at a
picnic.
After the regular shower, many carriages rolled over the smooth calle,
and sent a musical thunder through the Casa Verde. The shop-windows
became aglow with light, and the walks were crowded with youths, callow
and ogling, dressed vainly according to superstitious fashions. The
policemen had muffled themselves in their gnome-like cloaks, and placed
their lanterns as obstacles for the carriages in the middle of the
street. The city of Mexico gave forth the deep organ-mellow tones of
its evening resurrection.
But still the group at the bar of the Casa Verde were shaking dice.
They had passed beyond shaking for drinks for the crowd, for Mexican
dollars, for dinners, for the wine at dinner. They had even gone to
the trouble of separating the cigars and cigarettes from the dinner's
bill, and causing a distinct man to be responsible for them. Finally
they were aghast. Nothing remained in sight of their minds which
even remotely suggested further gambling. There was a pause for deep
consideration.
"Well----"
"Well----"
A man called out in the exuberance of creation. "I know! Let's shake
for a box to-night at the circus! A box at the circus!" The group was
profoundly edified. "That's it! That's it! Come on now! Box at the
circus!" A dominating voice cried--"Three dashes--high man out!" An
American, tall, and with a face of copper red from the rays that flash
among the Sierra Madres and burn on the cactus deserts, took the little
leathern cup and spun the dice out upon the polished wood. A fascinated
assemblage hung upon the bar-rail. Three kings turned their pink faces
upward. The tall man flourished the cup, burlesquing, and flung the
two other dice. From them he ultimately extracted one more pink king.
"There," he said. "Now, let's see! Four kings!" He began to swagger in
a sort of provisional way.
The next man took the cup, and blew softly in the top of it. Poising
it in his hand, he then surveyed the company with a stony eye and
paused. They knew perfectly well that he was applying the magic of
deliberation and ostentatious indifference, but they could not wait in
tranquillity during the performance of all these rites. They began to
call out impatiently. "Come now--hurry up." At last the man, with a
gesture that was singularly impressive, threw the dice. The others set
up a howl of joy. "Not a pair!" There was another solemn pause. The men
moved restlessly. "Come, now, go ahead!" In the end, the man, induced
and abused, achieved something that was nothing in the presence of four
kings. The tall man climbed on the foot-rail and leaned hazardously
forward. "Four kings! My four kings are good to go out," he bellowed
into the middle of the mob, and although in a moment he did pass into
the radiant region of exemption, he continued to bawl advice and scorn.
The mirrors and oiled woods of the Casa Verde were now dancing with
blue flashes from a great buzzing electric lamp. A host of quiet
members of the Anglo-Saxon colony had come in for their pre-dinner
cock-tails. An amiable person was exhibiting to some tourists this
popular American saloon. It was a very sober and respectable time of
day. Freddie reproved courageously the dice-shaking brawlers, and, in
return, he received the choicest advice in a tumult of seven combined
vocabularies. He laughed; he had been compelled to retire from the
game, but he was keeping an interested, if furtive, eye upon it.
Down at the end of the line there was a youth at whom everybody railed
for his flaming ill-luck. At each disaster, Freddie swore from behind
the bar in a sort of affectionate contempt. "Why, this kid has had no
luck for two days. Did you ever see such throwin'?"
The contest narrowed eventually to the New York kid and an individual
who swung about placidly on legs that moved in nefarious circles. He
had a grin that resembled a bit of carving. He was obliged to lean
down and blink rapidly to ascertain the facts of his venture, but fate
presented him with five queens. His smile did not change, but he puffed