Droll Stories Of Isthmian Life - free ebook by Evelyn Saxton

DROLL STORIES OF ISTHMIAN LIFE

By EVELYN SAXTON colophon 1914 The L. Graham Co., Printers New Orleans, La....

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ARRIVAL AT PANAMA NINE YEARS AGO. (PART I.)

N INE years have passed since the ship which brought me from New York to Panama pulled out of its dock at the foot of Twenty-seventh Street. It was a bitter cold day in February and the great “Iron City” appeared very grey and forbidding as I took a last look at it before going below. A glance at my fellow passengers revealed to me a motley crowd. A number of tourists were on board bound for West Indian ports, for at that time none of them would have dreamed of stopping off at Panama, and among

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ARRIVAL AT PANAMA NINE YEARS AGO. (PART II.)

“T HAT’S what I call hard luck,” said the doctor in charge. “Where are you going to stop? You’d better go to the Central. There’s American women down there.” He then gave me some quinine and bade me take care of myself, after which I entered the cab and was driven to the Central Hotel in Panama, where I engaged a room. It was up one flight and overlooked the Cathedral Plaza. The furniture consisted of two broken chairs, a broken table, a rickety desk of drawers, with pieces of string attached fo

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ARRIVAL AT PANAMA NINE YEARS AGO. (PART III.)

T HE new official and his wife, to whom I have already alluded, had both been in Cuba during the war between the United States and the Spaniards. The woman had some years before the war had a manicuring and shampooing establishment at Havana, but when the American troops came pouring in she decided to turn her parlors into a barber shop. So she shaved troops with much success, and married a Rough Rider in T. R.’s famous troops of cavaliers. When T. R. became President of the U. S. A. he gave thi

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MR. COMSTOCK’S ARRIVAL.

M R. Comstock’s arrival at Panama created almost as much stir as did the arrival of the much beloved and respected T. R., for it was rumored among Americans on Ancon Hill that John Drew was in town. “Well, say, the theatrical business must be on the bum,” said the veterans, one to another. “Surely he is not going to play at Edmarrillos.” The subject of their comments—the man who looked like John Drew—had recently come to the Isthmus to work in the timekeeping office at Ancon. “Good morning, Mr.

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THE DERELICT.

“I am quite upset, really I am. This is an iniquitous world—a world of beastly sorrow and sin, by Jove!” “What is the trouble now, Mr. Comstock?” I asked. “Why, my dear lady, my dear old friend Beebe is lying dead, and I’m trying to have him buried decently; but really I can’t get a soul interested—the beastly cads. Ah, but it is a long story, my dear lady, and I fear I will bore you. At any rate, if you will listen, I will tell you a part of it. I shall be obliged to speak plainly, and, really,

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THE BOUNDER.

W HAT abominable bounders there are, to be sure! And what shocking conditions must exist to produce them and to tolerate them. Really, I am amazed at times, to think that I, a scion of the house of Comstock (the Surrey Comstocks, my dear lady), should know so many of the blighters. As you know, my ancestors were great churchmen, and, although we Comstocks of the present generation are perfect devils, especially my Uncle Percival, there are times when a little voice within me speaks up rudely, an

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HIGGINS’ LADY. (PART I.)

“I MIND the day,” said the story-teller, “when Higgins blew into Havana. We was workin’ in the corral then, an’ the troops was nearly all mustered out, an’, say, there was as fine a bunch of guys there as you’d find in a day’s walk. But, anyhow, Higgins was not of their class, we could all see that; and, say, his name wasn’t Higgins any more than mine is Daniel Webster. “He was as good-lookin’ young chap as ever lived, and, say, couldn’t he sing, and play, and act, and recite pieces of poetry to

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HIGGINS’ LADY. (PART II.)

W HEN Bill Wiley again presented himself before his friends he was very much changed as to personal appearance. His face was clean and smooth, his hair carefully brushed, he wore a shining pair of shoes and a new white duck suit. “You’ll make a hit,” said John Hogan, looking him over critically. “If she’s as good looking as you say she is, I’ll marry her right away, if she’ll have me,” said Bill, with a faraway look in his eyes. “She’ll have you,” said several men in chorus. “Well, I think we’d

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HIGGINS’ LADY. (PART III.)

a BOUT a week after Higgins had had his heart-to-heart talk with Bill Wiley a wedding took place, which was attended by the story-teller, the sleuths, young Higgins and John Hogan. It was he who gave the bride away. When the final words were spoken which made Anita Calafain Mrs. William Wiley a sigh of relief went up from the assembled witnesses. Higgins’ face was alight with joy as he handed the bride into a carriage. Bill Wiley was a benedict. The bride wore a white satin gown, trimmed with It

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THE GANG IN NUMBER 10.

T HE highbrows of Number 10 were having an argument as they sat in the dim light of the veranda of the big bachelor house. It was Saturday night, and the less intellectual inmates were in the city seeing the sights. “I guess I’ll play a tune,” said Higgins, who was one of the group. That was just what had happened every Saturday night since fate had brought the men together. Iky Gillstein, who had formerly been a Jew, but who now read Schopenhauer and quoted him on every occasion, and John Hogan

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THE MAN FROM NUMBER 9.

“T he fellows in Number 9 are all upset over that new man,” said Bill Wiley, as he filled his pipe and prepared to settle himself to read “Three Weeks,” a book that very much interested him. “What new man?” asked John Hogan. “A new man that the Colonel sent over. He’s a timekeeper, and is getting only about $75 a month,” answered Bill. “What’s the matter with him?” quickly asked Higgins. “The fellers say that he’s been a jailbird, an’ they don’t want him in the house. Some of ’em telephoned to t

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THE CANAL ZONE ARCHITECT’S WEDDING

I N Germany, before the days of the American occupation at Panama, there lived with her mother a beautiful, golden-haired, blue-eyed girl named Hulda Schneider. The Schneiders were very poor, but they had held their own, for they had been fighters. But of what use are fighters there nowadays, except as bodyguards to the Kaiser’s numerous off-spring? Hulda had tastes inherent in such people, and, having no means of gratifying them, she chafed in her environment. “I’ll tell you what to do,” said a

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THE CANAL ZONE ARCHITECT’S WEDDING. (PART II.)

W HEN the big liner docked which brought Hulda from the port of Hamburg one might have seen three anxious-looking men standing on the pier. Hulda had been the pet of the ship during the trip. She booked a passage second class, but, because of her good looks and varied accomplishments, she was invited to the saloon to play and sing. There was a halo of romance about her, as she was on her way to New York to become a bride, and it was said that a young scion of a wealthy family or board had fallen

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THE CANAL ZONE ARCHITECT’S WEDDING. (PART III.)

I T was a Sunday afternoon when the ship on which this ill-assorted pair took passage reached its dock at Cristobal. “The boys” were out in force to see what “Mickey” Vickins’ bride looked like. There was a murmur of suppressed admiration when she walked down the ladder, and each took a long breath when he saw the “architect” walking behind the fair girl with every appearance of ownership. “The Vickingstadt has put it all over us,” said one man, laughing. “She certainly is a beautiful girl,” exc

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THE CANAL ZONE ARCHITECT’S WEDDING (PART IV.)

A T this point there came an interruption in the person of the doctor who had been called. He was very red in the face, and as he prepared to take Hulda’s temperature he asked of her husband, “What is all this ruction about? How many more times must I witness these scenes? Why don’t you give the girl up? Some day she’ll stick a knife in your back, and then she will be sent to prison for life.” “Glory be to God!” shouted the “architect”. “Ain’t the woman me wife?” “You ought to be ashamed to tell

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GRAFT.

A FEW years ago, on one of the dingy streets of Panama, I occupied a room furnished with a canvas cot, a chair, a very shaky little table for the kerosene lamp, and a dry goods box, which I used for a desk. One day a young widowed friend, who was employed by the Canal Commission, called upon me and invited me to visit her. She lived in a beautiful house, with other female employees, some distance from the city. “I have a large room,” she said, “and if you can succeed in keeping the ‘gumshoe’ men

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THE STORY OF VERE DE VERE.

W E know not in our poor philosophy what hidden chords are touched by unseen hands. More than a hundred years ago there lived in the Sunny South a handsome cavalier, who was noted for his riches, daring and cruelty. It is recorded that, whenever a man opposed him, he coolly ran him through with his broadsword; and whenever a female repulsed him he disgraced her, if he had an opportunity, or else some one who was near and dear to her. The greatest artist of his time painted his portrait, and it h

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AN AWFUL MYSTERY.

T HE Fairfaxes were married at Trinity Church, Boston, and the Bishop of Boston performed the ceremony. The Governor of Massachusetts gave the bride away, and there was no one present at the affair but Mayflower descendants and a few noblemen from Europe, who came by way of Washington to grace the affair. The Boston newspapers were filled to overflowing with accounts of the wedding, a description of the presents and the life history of the contracting parties. They told in detail the genealogy o

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A NIGHT OFF.

I SEE by the papers that the government of the ‘Land of the free and home of the brave’ has made another law. It is that no contract be given for government work to any firm that compels its employes to work more than eight hours a day, an’ the government has turned down a shipbuildin’ firm’s bid on the two new battleships because the firm didn’t have the eight-hour law in force in its shipyard. Now, wouldn’t that jar you, when right here on this government job there’s five hundred men that work

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THE DISTRICT QUARTERMASTERS.

I F the vast number of men employed on the Isthmus in an official way, no men have quite as much to endure as the District Quartermasters. They are the men who keep their hands on the pulse of things. They know what’s what and who’s who, regardless of the fact that the grandson of a Chief Justice of the United States takes second place in precedence to some horny-handed immigrant who, a few years ago, landed at Ellis Island. If you want to see human nature in its most primitive and unadorned vul

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OLD PANAMA’S RENAISSANCE.

O LD Panama is again becoming a scene of romance. Nothing can be more delightful than an automobile trip by moonlight to the scene of Morgan’s piratical invasion. When your machine rounds the corner on the road to the ocean a warm wave is wafted to you on the breezes from the seawall. You take your fan and you fan and you fan yourself vigorously, but, as you draw nearer, the air becomes still warmer. The ruins stare you in the face, and your mind wanders back to the days when black-eyed senorita

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ABE LINCOLN’S FOUNDLING.

S OME months ago some American prospectors, while traveling in the interior of Panama, found, at some distance from human habitation, a pretty Indian boy. He appeared to be about three and a half years of age. The gentlemen asked him questions, but it appeared that he was unable to speak. Upon arriving in Panama they bought a goodly supply of clothing for the little lad, and before taking their departure for some other part of the interior they found a home for him with a native woman in the Chi

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STRANGER THAN FICTION.

T HIRTY-five years ago a whaling ship dropped anchor in the Bay of Panama and the captain and crew came ashore to see the sights. The mate of the ship, one Cyrus Pratt, a native of New Bedford, Mass., fell in love with a beautiful senorita named Marie Bennares. They were married, and soon after this Cyrus was obliged to sail away. With many tears and much love, the couple parted, with vows to become reunited in the near future. Cyrus intended to leave the ship at San Francisco and come back in h

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FACTION FIGHTS.

I T is proverbial that the Irish and Scotch will quarrel whenever they happen to cross the path of each other, just as they quarreled at the battle of the Boyne. There is less bloodshed, of course, but a fierce fire of antagonism burns in the breast of each, and words are exchanged that mean nothing beyond the out-pouring of that temperamental lava for which both races are justly renowned. There has been friction many times between the Irish and Scotch on the Isthmus, especially at Balboa, where

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THE TANGO SKIRT AND THE WOMAN.

W E had a jolly holdup in the Central house last night, and the way that Tango skirt was hung put the women in a fright. A preacher took a snapshot of that violent expose, and sent it off to Comstock, to New York, U. S. A. ’Twas fun to see the women steer their husbands out the door, and Murtha said, “We’ll be doggoned if we’ll dance here any more.” ---- bowed his head and blushed, and wore a look of shame, and the management felt awful, and said we’re not to blame. The captains and lieutenants

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AN EPIC OF THE ZONE.

P ERCY BECKLE went out walking in the silent hours of night; the neighbors all were talking, and his wife was filled with fright. She would sit beside the window, her lone watch to keep, and would tell her friends and children he was walking in his sleep. She married him in Pottsville, for better or for worse; he was a hard-shell Baptist, and didn’t smoke or curse; but he entered in the service of the U. S. Government, passed examination and to Panama was sent. When the doctors looked him over i

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THE VULTURES ON THE ZONE.

T O all the jolly roughnecks and pushers of the pen, a short and pungent lecture I will give. Just take this bit of doggerel, and read it if you’re men, and use it as a lesson while you live. If you go to Sam’s on Sunday, and you meet a smirking guy with commissary silk hose on his feet, if he smiles from ear to ear, make up your mind to hear a story that is anything but sweet. He will say I met last night Bill Smith’s wife, that’s right, an’, say, that woman, she just follers me around, while p

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A FAKER’S FAREWELL.

F AREWELL, O thou land of sweet sunshine, where I walked with non-sweatable pace; I was fed, I was clothed, and I humbugged; my lady I decked out with grace. From the cake with sugary frosting all covered with raisins I go, to the land where the natives are often addicted to shoveling snow, where I shan’t have a coon right before me to run when I bid for a thing, I go from the land of sweet loafing, where our Uncle George is the king. Farewell, thou dear land of the Aztec, O, pulga, farewell, to

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IT’S GOT ’EM.

I T’S got ’em, yes, it’s got ’em; they’re loco, one and all. There has never been as many since the time of Adam’s fall. The man that lives across the way, the loved one of your soul; the guy who owes you money, all are loco on the whole. Yes, it’s got ’em. Some are off on trotting, and some on love and wine; some are off on politics, and some are off on coin. It’s got ’em; yes, it’s got ’em, in many different ways; the women’s skirts like trousers are, the men are wearing stays. It’s got ’em. W

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IT’S HELL.

I NGERSOLL said that hell would be where men played tag and harps all day, but just a few lines here will tell about some miseries that made a hell. When you work like a brute from morning to night, the result but another man’s joy and delight; when your wife growls late and early, too, and never speaks well of what you do: That’s hell! When she runs away with another man, though she knows you are doing the best you can, you know it’s because your pay ain’t high, but you make up your mind that i

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THE LOCO GERM.

W HEN it enters your system, don’t try to squirm; just take your medicine, it’s a loco germ. It may not come till you’re old and gray, but every guy takes it on some day. It cuts no ice if her feet are big, and if in your heart you don’t like her rig; if her hands are coarse and a little bit red, and horse-hair rats are in her head. You will see the defects and will says, “By Jove! She’s the one for me.” You’re in love. She’ll be indifferent, it’s just their way; a little bit selfish, a little b

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AN ISTHMIAN WOOER.

S AY, girl, I admire your shape, an’ I want to take you to ride. I’m goin’ to get a coach closed in, so they won’t know who’s inside. An’, say, I wish you lived down the line, but you live like a speakitty. Wouldn’t you like a little time with a lovin’ guy like me? Straight goods, I like your style; I told a feller so; I admired you for quite a while, an’ I bet you didn’t know. I said to a guy, “I’m goin’ around an’ I’ll bet I’ll make a hit.” I won’t never breathe a dog gone sound—let me love yo

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PRESERVED PEACHES.

T HE chumps in Panama were glad to do the turkey trot, and other stunts not quite so bad that folks call tommy rot. When Morton with his peaches came, the cavaliers made bids, preserved them up in dry champagne, and acted just like kids. A banker now is bankrupt, and the guy in the Elite is selling out his socks and pants to put him on his feet. Raul E. has a broken limb, he capered so each night. The peaches all looked up to him because his heart was light. We hoary heads came from the Zone, in

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EUGENICS.

C ATCH on to the girl with a dog on a string—a dog that was bred for the eye of a king—and she a pathetic figure to see, is proud that the mut has a pedigree. She studied eugenics for many a year, and lectured on institutions queer, but she was poor, and she feared to get old, so she sold herself for a pot of gold. Ain’t that life? She married a guy whose toes turn in, when he opens his mouth he has no chin, no lobes to his ears and he stutters some, and chews on opium as if ’twas gum. But she s

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TABOGA.

T HE latest order given out has made the chumps feel blue; they don’t know what it’s all about, but let me tell you, they’ve lost their graft, for when they go to the Isle across the bay they have to take their wallets, because they have to pay. Some blame it all on Uncle Sam, and some on Uncle George, and others say he’s not to blame, because his heart is large; but a guy told me, in confidence, who seldom ever speaks, that he isn’t blaming any one but poor old baldhead Meeks. Before that guy c

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OUR UNCLE GEORGE.

O UR Uncle George is wide awake to things that are not so; he’s weeding out for pity’s sake the guys that ought to go. The vultures all are talking, they say he’s acting queer, because he’s on to faking ones that passed for highbrows here. Our little faker daddy, with the whiskers on his chin, has gone to get a better job; now, isn’t that a sin? He was the king of fakers, all whiskers and no soul; he didn’t fake a single day when Uncle got control. We hear that in Nebraska some folks are sawing

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