Last Words Part 29

Detectives? What are detectives? Oh, yes, I have read of them and their deeds, when I come to think of it. The prehistoric races must have been remarkable. I have never been able to understand how the detective navigated in stone boats. Still, specimens of their pottery excavated in Taumalipas show a remarkable knowledge of mechanics. I remember the little hydraulic--what's that? Well, what you say may be true, my friend, but I think you dream.

The little stained tiles. My friend, I stopped in an inn at the ends of the earth, and in the morning they were there flying like little birds and pecking at my window.

I should have escaped. Heavens, I should have escaped. What was more simple? I murdered and then walked into the world, which is wide and intricate.

Do you know that my own clock a.s.sisted in the hunting of me? They asked what time I left my home that morning, and it replied at once, "Half-after eight." The watch of a man I had chanced to pa.s.s near the house of the crime told the people "Seven minutes after nine." And, of course, the tall, old clock in the drawing-room went about day after day repeating, "Eighteen minutes after nine."

Do you say that the man who caught me was very clever? My friend, I have lived long, and he was the most incredible blockhead of my experience.

An enslaved, dust-eating Mexican vaquero wouldn't hitch his pony to such a man. Do you think he deserves credit for my capture? If he had been as pervading as the atmosphere, he would never have caught me. If he was a detective, as you say, I could carve a better one from an old table-leg.

But the tiles. That is another matter. At night I think they flew in long high flock, like pigeons. In the day, little mad things, they murmured on my trail like frothy-mouthed weasels.

I see that you note these great, round, vividly orange spots on my coat.

Of course, even if the detective were really carved from an old table-leg, he could hardly fail to apprehend a man thus badged. As sores come upon one in the plague so came these spots upon my coat. When I discovered them, I made effort to free myself of this coat. I tore, tugged, wrenched at it, but around my shoulders it was like a grip of a dead man's arms. Do you know that I have plunged into a thousand lakes?

I have smeared this coat with a thousand paints. But day and night the spots burn like lights. I might walk from this jail to-day if I could rid myself of this coat, but it clings--clings--clings.

At any rate, the person you call a detective was not so clever to discover a man in a coat of spotted orange, followed by shrieking, blood-stained tiles. Yes, that noise from the corridor is most peculiar.

But they are always there, muttering and watching, clashing and jostling. It sounds as if the dishes of Hades were being washed. Yet I have become used to it. Once, indeed, in the night, I cried out to them, "In G.o.d's name, go away, little blood-stained tiles." But they doggedly answered, "It is the law."

AT CLANCY'S WAKE.

SCENE--_Room in the house of the lamented Clancy. The curtains are pulled down. A perfume of old roses and whisky hangs in the air. A weeping woman in black it seated at a table in the centre. A group of wide-eyed children are sobbing in a corner. Down the side of the room is a row of mourning friends of the family. Through an open door can be seen, half hidden in shadows, the silver and black of a coffin._

WIDOW--Oh, wirra, wirra, wirra!

CHILDREN--B-b boo-hoo-hoo!

FRIENDS (_conversing in low tones_)--Yis, Moike Clancy was a foine mahn, sure! None betther! No, I don't t'ink so. Did he? Sure, all th'

elictions! He was th' bist in the warrud! He licked 'im widin an inch of his loife, aisy, an' th' other wan a big, shtrappin' buck of a mahn, an'

him jes' free of th' pneumonia! Yis, he did! They carried th' warrud by six hunder! Yis, he was a foine mahn. None betther. Gawd sav' 'im!

(_Enter_ Mr. SLICK, _of the "Daily Blanket," shown in by a maid-servant, whose hair has become disarranged through much tear-shedding. He is attired in a suit of grey check, and wears a red rose in his b.u.t.tonhole._)

Mr. SLICK--Good afternoon, Mrs. Clancy. This is a sad misfortune for you, isn't it?

WIDOW--Oh, indade, indade, young mahn, me poor heart is bruk.

Mr. SLICK--Very sad, Mrs. Clancy. A great misfortune, I'm sure. Now, Mrs. Clancy, I've called to--

WIDOW--Little did I t'ink, young mahn, win they brought poor Moike in that it was th' lasht!

Mr. SLICK (_with conviction_)--True! True! Very true, indeed. It was a great grief to you, Mrs. Clancy. I've called this morning, Mrs. Clancy, to see if I could get from you a short obituary notice for the _Blanket_ if you could--

WIDOW--An' his hid was done up in a rag, an' he was cursin' frightful. A d.a.m.ned Oytalian lit fall th' hod as Moike was walkin' pasht as dacint as you plaze. Win they carried 'im in, him all b.l.o.o.d.y, an' ravin' tur'ble 'bout Oytalians, me heart was near bruk, but I niver tawt--I niver tawt--I--I niver--(_Breaks forth into a long, forlorn cry. The children join in, and the chorus echoes wailfully through the rooms._)

Mr. SLICK (_as the yell, in a measure, ceases_)--Yes, indeed, a sad, sad affair. A terrible misfortune. Now, Mrs. Clancy--

WIDOW (_turning suddenly_)--Mary Ann. Where's thot lazy divil of a Mary Ann? (_As the servant appears._) Mary Ann, bring th' bottle! Give th'

gintlemin a dhrink!... Here's to Hiven savin' yez, young mahn.

(_Drinks._)

Mr. SLICK (_drinks_)--A n.o.ble whisky, Mrs. Clancy. Many thanks. Now, Mrs. Clancy--

WIDOW--Take anodder wan! Take anodder wan! (_Fills his gla.s.s._)

Mr. SLICK (_impatiently_)--Yes, certainly, Mrs. Clancy, certainly. (_He drinks._) Now, could you tell me, Mrs. Clancy, where your late husband was--

WIDOW--Who--Moike? Oh, young mahn, yez can just say thot he was the foinest mahn livin' an' breathin', an' niver a wan in th' warrud was betther. Oh, but he had th' tindther heart for 'is fambly, he did. Don't I remimber win he clipped little Patsey wid th' bottle, an' didn't he buy th' big rockin'-horse th' minit he got sober? Sure he did. Pa.s.s th'

bottle, Mary Ann! (_Pours a beer-gla.s.s about half-full for her guest._)

Mr. SLICK (_taking a seat_)--True, Mr. Clancy was a fine man, Mrs.

Clancy--a _very_ fine man. Now, I--

WIDOW (_plaintively_)--An' don't yez loike th' rum? Dhrink th' rum, mahn! It was me own Moike's fav'rite bran'. Well I remimber win he fotched it home, an' half th' demijohn gone a'ready, an' him a-cursin'

up th' stairs as dhrunk as Gawd plazed. It was a--Dhrink th' rum, young mahn, dhrink th' rum! If he cud see yez now, Moike Clancy wud git up from 'is--

Mr. SLICK (_desperately_)--Very well, very well, Mrs. Clancy. Here's your good health. Now, can you tell me, Mrs. Clancy, when was Mr. Clancy born?

WIDOW--Win was he borrun. Sure, divil a bit do I care win he was borrun.

He was th' good mahn to me an' his childher; an' Gawd knows I don't care win he was borrun. Mary Ann, pa.s.s th' bottle! Wud yez kape th' gintlemin starvin' for a dhrink here in Moike Clancy's own house? Gawd save yez.

(_When the bottle appears she pours a huge quant.i.ty out for her guest_.)

Mr. SLICK--Well, then, Mrs. Clancy, _where_ was he born?

WIDOW (_staring_)--In Oirland, mahn, in Oirland! Where did yez t'ink?

(_Then, in sudden, wheedling tones._) An' ain't yez goin' to dhrink th'

rum? Are yez goin' to shirk th' good whisky what was th' pride of Moike's life, an' him gettin' full on it an' breakin' th' furnitir t'ree nights a week hard-runnin'? Shame an yez, an' Gawd save yer soul. Dhrink it oop now, there's a dear, dhrink it oop now, an' say: "Moike Clancy, be all th' powers in th' shky, Hiven sind yez rist!"

Mr. SLICK--(_to himself_)--Holy smoke! (_He drinks, then regards the gla.s.s for a long time._) ... Well, now, Mrs. Clancy, give me your attention for a moment, please. When did--

WIDOW--An' oh, but he was a power in th' warrud! Divil a mahn cud vote right widout Moike Clancy at 'is elbow. An' in th' calkus, sure didn't Mulrooney git th' nominashun jes' by raison of Moike's atthackin' th'

opposashun wid th' shtove-poker. Mulrooney got it as aisy as dhirt, wid Moike rowlin' under th' tayble wid th' other candeedate. He was a good sit'zen, was Moike--divil a wan betther.

Mr. SLICK _spends some minutes in collecting his faculties_.

Mr. SLICK (_after he decides that he has them collected_)--Yes, yes, Mrs. Clancy, your husband's h-highly successful pol-pol-political career was w-well known to the public; but what I want to know is--what I want to know--(_Pauses to consider._)

WIDOW (_finally_)--Pa.s.s th' gla.s.ses, Mary Ann, yez lazy divil; give th'

gintlemin a dhrink! Here (_tendering him a gla.s.s_), take anodder wan to Moike Clancy, an' Gawd save yez for yer koindness to a poor widee woman!

Mr. SLICK (_after solemnly regarding the gla.s.s_)--Certainly, I--I'll take a drink. Certainly, M--Mish Clanshy. Yes, certainly, Mish Clanshy.

Now, Mish Clanshy, w-w-wash was Mr. Clanshy's n-name before he married you, Mish Clanshy?