The Under Dog Part 26

Again my companion's voice broke. Then he went on:

"When the carriages formed in line I saw Aleck leaning against the fence, and the undertaker's man was on the hea.r.s.e. I caught Aleck's eye and beckoned to him.

"'What's the matter, Aleck? Why aren't you on the hea.r.s.e?'

"'De undertaker man wouldn't let me, Sammy; an' I didn't like to 'sturb you an' de mistis.'

"The tears stood in his eyes.

"'Go find him and bring him to me,' I said.

"When he came I told him the funeral would stop where it was if he didn't carry out my orders.

"He said there was some mistake, though I didn't believe it, and went off with Aleck. As we turned out of the gate and into the road I caught sight of the hea.r.s.e, Aleck on the box. He sat bolt upright, head erect, the reins in one hand, the whip resting on his knee, as I had seen him do so often when driving my father--grave, dignified, and thoughtful, speaking to the horses in low tones, the hea.r.s.e moving and stopping as each carriage would be filled and driven ah pad.

"He wouldn't drive the hea.r.s.e back; left it standing at the gate of the cemetery. I heard the discussion, but I couldn't leave my mother to settle it.

"'I ain't gwine to do it,' I heard him say to the undertaker. 'It was my marster I was 'tendin' on, not yo' horses. You can drive 'em home yo'-self.'"

My companion settled himself in his chair, rested his head on his hand, and closed his eyes. I remained silent, watching him. His cigar had gone out; so had mine. Once or twice a slight quiver crossed his lips, then his teeth would close tight, and again his face would relapse into calm impa.s.siveness.

At this instant the curtains of the smoking-room parted and the Pullman porter entered.

"Your berth's all ready, Major," said the porter.

My companion rose from his chair, straightened his leg, held out his band, and said:

"You can understand now, sir, how I feel about these continued outrages.

I don't mean to say that every man is like Aleck, but I do mean to say that Aleck would never have been as loyal as he is but for the way my father brought him up. Good-night, sir."

He was gone before I could do more than express my thanks for his confidence. It was just as well--any further word of mine would have been superfluous. Even my thanks seemed out of place.

In a few minutes the porter returned with, "Lower Four's all ready, sir."

"All right, I'm coming. Oh, porter."

"Yes, sir."

"Porter, come closer. Who is that gentleman I've been talking to?"

"That's Major Sam Garnett, sir."

"Was he in the war?"

"Yes, sir, he was, for a fact. He was in de Cavalry, sir, one o'

Morgan's Raiders. Got more'n six bullets in him now. I jes' done helped him off wid his wooden leg. It was cut off below de knee. His old man Aleck most generally takes care of dat leg. He didn't come wid him dis trip. But he'll be on de platform in de mornin' a-waitin' for him."

MARNY'S SHADOW

If you know the St. Nicholas--and if you don't you should make its acquaintance at once--you won't breakfast upstairs in that gorgeous room overlooking the street where immaculate, smilelees waiters move noiselessly about, limp palms droop in the corners, and the tables are lighted with imitation wax candles burning electric wicks hooded by ruby-colored shades, but you will stumble down a dark, crooked staircase to the left of the office-desk, push open a swinging, green baize door studded with bra.s.s tacks, pa.s.s a corner of the bar resplendent in cut gla.s.s, and with lowered head slip into a little box of a place built under the sidewalk.

Here of an afternoon thirsty gentlemen sip their c.o.c.ktails or sit talking by the hour, the smoke from their cigars drifting in long lines out the open door leading to the bar, and into the caffe beyond. Here in the morning hungry habitues take their first meal--those whose life-tickets are punched with much knowledge of the world, and who, therefore, know how much shorter is the distance from where they sit to the chef's charcoal fire.

Marny has one of these same ragged life-tickets bearing punch-marks made the world over, and so whenever I journey his way we always breakfast together in this cool, restful retreat, especially of a Sunday morning.

On one of these mornings, the first course had been brought and eaten, the cuc.u.mbers and a' special mysterious dish served, and I was about to light a cigarette--we were entirely alone--when a well-dressed man pushed open the door, leaned for a moment against the jamb, peered into the room, retreated, appeared again, caught sight of Marny, and settled himself in a chair with his eyes on the painter.

I wondered if he were a friend of Marny's, or whether he had only been attracted by that glow of geniality which seems to radiate from Marny's pores.

The intruder differed but little in his manner of approach from other strangers I had seen hovering about my friend, but to make sure of his ident.i.ty--the painter had not yet noticed the man--I sent Marny a Marconi message of inquiry with my eyebrows, which he answered in the negative with his shoulders.

The stranger must have read its meaning, for he rose quickly, and, with an embarra.s.sed look on his face, left the room.

"Wanted a quarter, perhaps," I suggested, laughing.

"No, guess not. He's just a Diffendorfer. Always some of them round Sunday mornings. That's a new one, never saw him before. In town over night, perhaps."

"What's a Diffendorfer?"

"Did you never meet one?"

"No, never heard of one."

"Oh, yes, you have; you've seen lots of them."

"Do they belong to any sect?"

"No."

"What are they, then?"

"Just Diffendorfers. Thought I'd told you about one whom I knew. No?

Wait till I light my cigar; it's a long story."

"Anything to do with the fellow who's just gone out?"

"Not a thing, though I'm sure he's one of them. You'll find Diffendorfers everywhere. First one I struck was in Venice, some years ago. I can pick them out now at sight." Marny struck a match and lighted his cigar. I drew my cup of coffee toward me and settled myself in my chair to listen.

"You remember that little smoking-room to the right as you enter the Caffe Quadri," he began; "the one off the piazza? Well, a lot of us fellows used to dine there--Whistler, Rico, Old Ziem, Roscoff, Fildes, Blaas, and the rest of the gang.

"Jimmy was making his marvellous pastels that year" (it is in this irreverent way that Marny often speaks of the G.o.ds), "and we used to crowd into the little room every night to look them over. We were an enthusiastic lot of Bohemians, each one with an opinion of his own about any subject he happened to be interested in, and ready to back it up if it took all night. Whistler's pastels, however, took the wind out of some of us who thought we could paint, especially Roscoff, who prided himself on his pastels, and who has never forgiven Jimmy to this day.

"Well, one night, Auguste, the headwaiter--you remember him, he used to get smuggled cigarettes for us; that made him suspicious; always thought everybody was a spy--pointed out a man sitting just outside the room on one of the leather-covered seats. Auguste said he came every evening and got as close as he could to our table without attracting attention; close enough, however, to hear every word that was said. If I knew the man it was all right; if I didn't know him, he suggested that I keep an eye on him.

"I looked around, and saw a heavy-featured, dull-looking man about twenty-five, dressed in a good suit of well-cut clothes, shiny stove-pipe silk hat, high collar with a good deal of necktie, a big pearl pin, and a long gold watch-chain which went all around his neck like an eye-gla.s.s ribbon. He had a smooth-shaven face, two keen eyes, a flat nose, square jaw, and a straight line of a mouth.