The Dreamers: A Club

“But I have found married life far from punishment,” I heard Dolly say. “I fear you’re a sad pessimist, Mr. Dooley,” she added.

“I’m not,” Mr. Dooley replied. “I’m a Jimmycrat out an’ out, if ye refer to me politics; but if your remark is a reflection on me religion, let me tell ye, ma’am, that, like all me countrymen in this beautiful land, I’m a Uni-tarrian, an’ prood iv it.”

I ventured to interpose at this point.

“Dooley,” said I, “your cousin Roop, as you call him, is very glad to meet you, whatever your politics or your religion.”

“Mosht people are,” said he, dryly.

“That shows good taste,” said I. “But how about your book? It has been accepted on the strength of its illustrations, you say. How about them? Can we see them anywhere? Are they on exhibition?”

“You can not only see thim, but you can drink ’em free anny time you come out to Archie Road,” Dooley replied, cordially.

“Drink – a picture?” I asked.

“Yis,” said Dooley. “Didn’t ye iver hear iv dhrinkin’ in a picture, Cousin Roopert? Didn’t ye hear th’ tark about th’ ‘Angelus’ whin ’twas here? Ye cud hear th’ bells ringin’ troo th’ paint iv it. Ye cud almost hear th’ couple in front just back iv th’ varnish quar’lin as t’whether ’twas th’ Angelus er the facthery bell that was goin’ off. ’Twas big an’ little felt th’ inflooance iv Misther Miller’s jaynius, just be lukin’ at ut – though as fer me, th’ fir-rst time I see the t’ing I says, says I, ‘Is ut lukin’ for bait to go fishin’ with they are?’ I says. ‘Can’t ye hear the pealin’ iv the bells?’ says Hennessey, who was with me. ‘That an’ more,’ I says. ‘I can hear the pealin’ o’ th’ petayties,’ I says. ‘Do ye dhrink in th’ feelin’ iv it?’ says Hennessey. ‘Naw, t’ank ye,’ I says. ‘I’m not thirsty,’ I says. ‘Besides, I’ve swore off dhrinkin’ ile-paintin’s,’ I says. ‘Wathercoolers is gud enough fer me,’ I says. An’ wid that we wint back to the Road. But that was th’ fir-rst time I iver heard iv dhrinkin’ a work iv ar-rt.”

“But some of the things you – ah – you Americans drink,” put in Dolly, “are works of art, my dear Mr. Dooley. Your cousin Rupert gave me a cocktail at dinner last night – ”

“Ye’ve hit ut, Miss Dooley,” returned the philosopher, with a beautiful enthusiasm. “Ye’ve hit ut square. I see now y’re a thrue Dooley. An’ wid yer kind permission I’ll dedicate me book to ye. Ut’s cocktails that book’s about, ma’am. Fifty Cocktails I Have Met is th’ na-ame iv ut. An’ whin I submitted th’ mannyscrip’ wid th’ illusthrations to the publisher, he dhrank ’em all, an’ he says, ‘Dooley,’ he says, ‘ut’s a go. I’ll do yer book,’ he says, ‘an’ I’ll pay ye wan hoondred an’ siventy-five per cent.,’ he says. ‘Set ’em up again, Dooley,’ he says; an’ I mixed ’em. ‘I t’ink, Dooley,’ he says, afther goin’ troo th’ illusthrations th’ second toime – ‘I t’ink,’ he says, ‘ye’d ought to get two hoondred an’ wan per cent. on th’ retail price iv th’ book,’ he says. ‘Can’t I take a bottle iv these illusthrations to me office?’ he says. ‘I’d like to look ’em over,’ he says; an’ I mixed ’im up a quar-rt iv th’ illusthrations to th’ chapther on th’ Mar-rtinney, an’ sent him back to his partner in th’ ambylanch.”

“I shall look forward to the publication of your book with much interest, Mr. Dooley,” said Dolly. “Now that I have discovered our cousinship, I am even more interested in you than I was before; and let me tell you that, before I met you, I thought of you as the most vital figure in American humor that has been produced in many years.”

“I know nothin’ iv American humor,” said Dooley, “for I haven’t met anny lately, an’ I know nothin’ iv victuals save what I ate, an’ me appytite is as satisfoid wid itself as Hobson is wid th’ kisses brawt onto him by th’ sinkin’ iv th’ Merrimickinley. But for you an’ Misther Rassendyll, ma’am, I’ve nothin’ but good wishes an’ ah – illusthrations to me book whenever ye give yer orders. Kape your hoosband home, Miss Dooley,” he added. “He’s scrapped wanst too often already wi’ th’ Ruraltarriers, an’ he’s been killed off wanst by Mr. Ant’ny Hawp; but he’ll niver die if ye only kape him home. If he goes out he’ll git fightin’ agin. If he attimpts a sayquil to the sayquil, he’s dead sure enough!”

And with this Dolly and Dooley parted.

For myself, Rupert Rassendyll, I think Dooley’s advice was good, and as long as Dolly will keep me home, I’ll stay. For is it not better to be the happy husband of Dolly of the Dialogues, than to be going about like a knight of the Middle Ages clad in the evening dress of the nineteenth century, doing impossible things?

As for Dooley’s impression of Dolly, I can only quote what I heard he had said after meeting her.

“She’s a Dooley sure,” said he, being novel to compliment. And I am glad she is, for despite the charms of Flavia of pleasant memory, there’s nobody like Dolly for me, and if Dolly can only be acknowledged by the Dooleys, her fame, I am absolutely confident, is assured.

IX

IN WHICH YELLOW JOURNALISM CREEPS IN

The applause which followed the reading of the Dooley Dialogue showed very clearly that, among the diners at least, neither Dooley nor Dolly had waned in popularity. If the dilution, the faint echo of the originals, evoked such applause, how potent must have been the genius of the men who first gave life to Dooley and the fair Dolly!

“That’s good stuff, Greenwich,” said Billie Jones. “You must have eaten a particularly digestible meal. Now for the tenth ball. Who has it?”

“I,” said Dick Snobbe, rising majestically from his chair. “And I can tell you what it is; I had a tough time of it in my dream, as you will perceive when I recite to you the story of my experiences at the battle of Manila.”

“Great Scott, Dick!” cried Bedford Parke. “You weren’t in that, were you?”

“Sir,” returned Dick, “I was not only in it, I was the thing itself. I was the war correspondent of the Sunday Whirnal, attached to Dewey’s fleet.”

Whereupon the talented Mr. Snobbe proceeded to read the following cable despatch from the special correspondent of the Whirnal:

MANILA FALLSTHE SPANISH FLEET DESTROYEDTHE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT OF THE WHIRNALAided by Commodore Dewey and his FleetCAPTURES THE PHILIPPINES

Manila, May 1, 1898. – I have glorious news. I have this day destroyed the Spanish fleet and captured the Philippine Islands. According to my instructions from the City Editor of the Whirnal, I boarded the Olympia, the flag-ship of the fleet under Commodore Dewey at Hong-kong, on Wednesday last. Upon reading my credentials the Commodore immediately surrendered the command of the fleet to me, and retired to his state-room, where he has since remained. I deemed it well to keep him there until after the battle was over, fearing lest he should annoy me with suggestions, and not knowing but that he might at any time spread dissension among the officers and men, who, after the habit of seamen, frequently manifest undue affection and sympathy for a deposed commander. I likewise, according to your wishes, concealed from the officers and crew the fact that the Commodore had been deposed, furthering the concealment by myself making up as Dewey. Indeed, it was not until after the battle this morning that any but Dewey and the ship’s barber were aware of the substitution, since my disguise was perfect. The ship’s barber I had to take into my confidence, for unfortunately on leaving Hong-kong I had forgotten to provide myself with a false mustache, so that in concealing the deposition of the Commodore by myself assuming his personality I was compelled to have the gentleman’s mustache removed from his upper lip and transferred to my own. This the barber did with neatness and despatch, I having first chloroformed the Commodore, from whom some resistance might have been expected, owing to his peculiar temperament. Fortunately the fellow was an expert wig-maker, and within an hour of the shaving of Dewey I was provided with a mustache which could not fail to be recognized as the Commodore’s, since it was indeed that very same object. When five hundred miles at sea I dropped the barber overboard, fearing lest he should disturb my plans by talking too much. I hated to do it, but in the interest of the Whirnal I hold life itself as of little consequence, particularly if it is the life of some one else – and who knows but the poor fellow was an expert swimmer, and has by this time reached Borneo or some other bit of dry land? He was alive when I last saw him, and yelling right lustily. If it so happen that he has swum ashore somewhere, kindly let me know at your convenience; for beneath a correspondent’s exterior I have a warm heart, and it sometimes troubles me to think that the poor fellow may have foundered, since the sea was stressful and the nearest dry point was four hundred and sixty knots away to S.E. by N.G., while the wind was blowing N.W. by N.Y.C. & H.R.R. But to my despatch.

Dewey done for, despoiled of his mustache and rifled of his place, with a heavy sea running and a dense fog listing to starboard, I summoned my officers to the flag-ship, and, on the evening of April 30th, the fog-horns of Cavité having indicated the approach of the Philippine coast, gave them, one and all, their final instructions. These were, in brief, never to do anything without consulting with me.

“To facilitate matters, gentlemen,” said I, ordering an extra supply of grog for the captains, and milk punches for the lieutenants, “we must connect the various vessels of the fleet with telephone wires. Who will undertake this perilous duty?”

They rose up as one man, and, with the precision of a grand-opera chorus, replied: “Commodore” – for they had not penetrated my disguise – “call upon us. If you will provide the wires and the ’phones, we will do the rest.” And they followed these patriotic words with cheers for me.

Their heroism so affected me that I had difficulty in frowning upon the head-butler’s suggestion that my glass should be filled again.

“Gentlemen,” said I, huskily – for I was visibly affected – “I have provided for all. I could not do otherwise and remain myself. You will find ten thousand miles of wire and sixty-six telephones in the larder.”

That night every ship in the fleet was provided with telephone service. I appointed the Olympia to be the central office, so that I might myself control all the messages, or at least hear them as they passed to and fro. In the absence of ladies from the fleet, I appointed a somewhat effeminate subaltern to the post of “Hello Officer,” with complete control over the switch-board. And, as it transpired, this was a very wise precaution, because the central office was placed in the hold, and the poor little chap’s courage was so inclined to ooze that in the midst of the fight he was content to sit below the water-line at his post, and not run about the promenade-deck giving orders while under fire. I have cabled the President about him, and have advised his promotion. His heroic devotion to the switch-board ought to make him a naval attaché to some foreign court, at least. I trust his bravery will ultimately result in his being sent to the Paris Exposition as charge d’affaires in the Erie Canal department of the New York State exhibit.

But to return to my despatch – which from this point must disregard space and move quickly. Passing Cape Bolinao, we soon reached Subig Bay, fifty miles from Manila. Recognizing the cape by the crop of hemp on its brow, I rang up the Boston and the Concord.

“Search Subig Bay,” I ordered.

“Who’s this?” came the answer from the other end.

“Never mind who I am,” said I. “Search Subig Bay for Spaniards.”

“Hello!” said the Boston.

“Who the deuce are you?” cried the Concord.

“I’m seventeen-five-six,” I replied, with some sarcasm, for that was not my number.

“I want sixteen-two-one,” retorted the Boston.

“Ring off,” said the Concord. “What do you mean by giving me seventeen-five-six?”

“Hello, Boston and Concord,” I put in in commanding tones. “I’m Dewey.”

This is the only false statement I ever made, but it was in the interests of my country, and my reply was electrical in its effect. The Boston immediately blew off steam, and the Concord sounded all hands to quarters.

“What do you want, Commodore?” they asked simultaneously.

“Search Subig Bay for Spaniards, as I have already ordered you,” I replied, “and woe be unto you if you don’t find any.”

“What do you want ’em for, Commodore?” asked the Boston.

“To engage, you idiot,” I replied, scornfully. “What did you suppose – to teach me Spanish?”

Both vessels immediately piped all hands on deck and set off. Two hours later they returned, and the telephone subaltern reported, “No Spaniards found.”

“Why not?” I demanded.

“All gone to Cuba,” replied the Boston. “Shall we pipe all hands to Cuba?”

“Wires too short to penetrate without a bust,” replied the Concord.

“On to Manila!” was my answer. “Ding the torpedoes – go ahead! Give us Spaniards or give us death!”

These words inspired every ship in the line, and we immediately strained forward, except the McCulloch, which I despatched at once to Hong-kong to cable my last words to you in time for the Adirondack edition of your Sunday issue leaving New York Thursday afternoon.

The rest of us immediately proceeded. In a short while, taking advantage of the darkness for which I had provided by turning the clock back so that the sun by rising at the usual hour should not disclose our presence, we turned Corregidor and headed up the Boca Grande towards Manila. As we were turning Corregidor the telephone-bell rang, and somebody who refused to give his name, but stating that he was aboard the Petrel, called me up.

“Hello!” said I.

“Is this Dewey?” said the Petrel.

“Yes,” said I.

“There are torpedoes ahead,” said the Petrel.

“What of it?” said I.

“How shall we treat ’em?”

“Blow ’em off – to soda water,” I answered, sarcastically.

“Thank you, sir,” the Petrel replied, as she rang off.

Then somebody from the Baltimore rang me up.

“Commodore Dewey,” said the Baltimore, “there are mines in the harbor.”

“Well, what of it?” I replied.

“What shall we do?” asked the Baltimore.

“Treat them coldly, as they do in the Klondike,” said I.

“But they aren’t gold-mines,” replied the Baltimore.

“Then salt ’em,” said I, dryly. “Apply for a certificate of incorporation, water your stock, sell out, and retire.”

“Thank you, Commodore,” the Baltimore answered. “How many shares shall we put you down for?”

“None,” said I. “But if you’ll use your surplus to start a life-insurance company, I’ll take out a policy for forty-eight hours, and send you my demand note to pay for the first premium.”

I mention this merely to indicate to your readers that I felt myself in a position of extreme peril, and did not forget my obligations to my family. It is a small matter, but if you will search the pages of history you will see that in the midst of the greatest dangers the greatest heroes have thought of apparently insignificant details.

At this precise moment we came in sight of the fortresses of Manila. Signalling the Raleigh to heave to, I left the flag-ship and jumped aboard the cruiser, where I discharged with my own hand the after-forecastle four-inch gun. The shot struck Corregidor, and, glancing off, as I had designed, caromed on the smoke-stack of the Reina Cristina, the flag-ship of Admiral Montojo. The Admiral, unaccustomed to such treatment, immediately got out of bed, and, putting on his pajamas, appeared on the bridge.

“Who smoked our struck-stack?” he demanded, in broken English.

“The enemy,” cried his crew, with some nervousness. I was listening to their words through the megaphone.

“Then let her sink,” said he, clutching his brow sadly with his clinched fist. “Far be it from me to stay afloat in Manila Bay on the 1st of May, and so cast discredit on history!”

The Reina Cristina immediately sank, according to the orders of the Admiral, and I turned my attention to the Don Juan de Austria. Rowing across the raging channel to the Baltimore, I boarded her and pulled the lanyard of the port boom forty-two. The discharge was terrific.

“What has happened?” I asked, coolly, as the explosion exploded. “Did we hit her?”

“We did, your honor,” said the Bo’s’n’s mate, “square in the eye; only, Commodore, it ain’t a her this time – it’s a him. It’s the Don Juan de– ”

“Never mind the sex,” I cried. “Has she sank?”

“No, sir,” replied the Bo’s’n’s mate, “she ’ain’t sank yet. She’s a-waiting orders.”

“Fly signals to sink,” said I, sternly, for I had resolved that she should go down.

They did so, and the Don Juan de Austria immediately disappeared beneath the waves. Her commander evidently realized that I meant what I signalled.

“Are there any more of the enemy afloat?” I demanded, jumping from the deck of the Baltimore to that of the Concord.

“No, Commodore,” replied the captain of the latter.

“Then signal the enemy to charter two more gunboats and have ’em sent out. I can’t be put off with two boats when I’m ready to sink four,” I replied.

The Concord immediately telephoned to the Spanish commandant at the Manila Café de la Paix, who as quickly chartered the Castilla and the Velasco– two very good boats that had recently come in in ballast with the idea of loading up with bananas and tobacco.

While waiting for these vessels to come out and be sunk, I ordered all hands to breakfast, thus reviving their falling courage. It was a very good breakfast, too. We had mush and hominy and potatoes in every style, beefsteak, chops, liver and bacon, chicken hash, buckwheat cakes and fish-balls, coffee, tea, rolls, toast, and brown bread.

Just as we were eating the latter the Castilla and Velasco came out. I fired my revolver at the Castilla and threw a fish-ball at the Velasco. Both immediately burst into flames.

Manila was conquered.

The fleet gone, the city fell. It not only fell, but slid, and by nightfall Old Glory waved over the citadel.

The foe was licked.

To-morrow I am to see Dewey again.

I think I shall resign to-night.

P.S. – Please send word to the magazines that all articles by Dewey must be written by Me. Terms, $500 per word. The strain has been worth it.

X

THE MYSTERY OF PINKHAM’S DIAMOND STUD

Being the tale told by the holder of the eleventh ball, Mr. Fulton Streete

“It is the little things that tell in detective work, my dear Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat over our walnuts and coffee one bitter winter night shortly before his unfortunate departure to Switzerland, whence he never returned.

“I suppose that is so,” said I, pulling away upon the very excellent stogie which mine host had provided – one made in Pittsburg in 1885, and purchased by Holmes, whose fine taste in tobacco had induced him to lay a thousand of these down in his cigar-cellar for three years, and then keep them in a refrigerator, overlaid with a cloth soaked in Château Yquem wine for ten. The result may be better imagined than described. Suffice it to say that my head did not recover for three days, and the ash had to be cut off the stogie with a knife. “I suppose so, my dear Holmes,” I repeated, taking my knife and cutting three inches of the stogie off and casting it aside, furtively, lest he should think I did not appreciate the excellence of the tobacco, “but it is not given to all of us to see the little things. Is it, now?”

“Yes,” he said, rising and picking up the rejected portion of the stogie. “We all see everything that goes on, but we don’t all know it. We all hear everything that goes on, but we are not conscious of the fact. For instance, at this present moment there is somewhere in this world a man being set upon by assassins and yelling lustily for help. Now his yells create a certain atmospheric disturbance. Sound is merely vibration, and, once set going, these vibrations will run on and on and on in ripples into the infinite – that is, they will never stop, and sooner or later these vibrations must reach our ears. We may not know it when they do, but they will do so none the less. If the man is in the next room, we will hear the yells almost simultaneously – not quite, but almost – with their utterance. If the man is in Timbuctoo, the vibrations may not reach us for a little time, according to the speed with which they travel. So with sight. Sight seems limited, but in reality it is not. Vox populi, vox Dei. If vox, why not oculus? It is a simple proposition, then, that the eye of the people being the eye of God, the eye of God being all-seeing, therefore the eye of the people is all-seeing – Q. E. D.”

I gasped, and Holmes, cracking a walnut, gazed into the fire for a moment.

“It all comes down, then,” I said, “to the question, who are the people?”

Holmes smiled grimly. “All men,” he replied, shortly; “and when I say all men, I mean all creatures who can reason.”

“Does that include women?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he said. “Indubitably. The fact that women don’t reason does not prove that they can’t. I can go up in a balloon if I wish to, but I don’t. I can read an American newspaper comic supplement, but I don’t. So it is with women. Women can reason, and therefore they have a right to be included in the classification whether they do or don’t.”

“Quite so,” was all I could think of to say at the moment. The extraordinary logic of the man staggered me, and I again began to believe that the famous mathematician who said that if Sherlock Holmes attempted to prove that five apples plus three peaches made four pears, he would not venture to dispute his conclusions, was wise. (This was the famous Professor Zoggenhoffer, of the Leipsic School of Moral Philosophy and Stenography. – Ed.)

“Now you agree, my dear Watson,” he said, “that I have proved that we see everything?”

“Well – ” I began.

“Whether we are conscious of it or not?” he added, lighting the gas-log, for the cold was becoming intense.

“From that point of view, I suppose so – yes,” I replied, desperately.

“Well, then, this being granted, consciousness is all that is needed to make us fully informed on any point.”

“No,” I said, with some positiveness. “The American people are very conscious, but I can’t say that generally they are well-informed.”

I had an idea this would knock him out, as the Bostonians say, but counted without my host. He merely laughed.

“The American is only self-conscious. Therefore he is well-informed only as to self,” he said.

“You’ve proved your point, Sherlock,” I said. “Go on. What else have you proved?”

“That it is the little things that tell,” he replied. “Which all men would realize in a moment if they could see the little things – and when I say ‘if they could see,’ I of course mean if they could be conscious of them.”

“Very true,” said I.

“And I have the gift of consciousness,” he added.

I thought he had, and I said so. “But,” I added, “give me a concrete example.” It had been some weeks since I had listened to any of his detective stories, and I was athirst for another.

He rose up and walked over to his pigeon-holes, each labelled with a letter, in alphabetical sequence.

“I have only to refer to any of these to do so,” he said. “Choose your letter.”

“Really, Holmes,” said I, “I don’t need to do that. I’ll believe all you say. In fact, I’ll write it up and sign my name to any statement you choose to make.”

“Choose your letter, Watson,” he retorted. “You and I are on terms that make flattery impossible. Is it F, J, P, Q, or Z?”

He fixed his eye penetratingly upon me. It seemed for the moment as if I were hypnotized, and as his gaze fairly stabbed me with its intensity, through my mind there ran the suggestion “Choose J, choose J, choose J.” To choose J became an obsession. To relieve my mind, I turned my eye from his and looked at the fire. Each flame took on the form of the letter J. I left my chair and walked to the window and looked out. The lamp-posts were twisted into the shape of the letter J. I returned, sat down, gulped down my brandy-and-soda, and looked up at the portraits of Holmes’s ancestors on the wall. They were all J’s. But I was resolved never to yield, and I gasped out, desperately,