Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) by Richard Harding Davis (best black authors .TXT) 📖

And Threw Himself Back Against The Trunk Of The

Palm,  With His Hands Clasped Behind His Head.

 

"Oh,  I Wasn't Thinking Of You At All,  Keating," He Said. "I Don't

Consider You In The Least." He Stretched Himself And Yawned Wearily.

"I've Got Troubles Of My Own." He Sat Up Suddenly And Adjusted The

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Objectionable Hat To His Head.

 

"Why Don't You Wire The C. P.," He Asked,  Briskly,  "And See If They

Don't Want An Extra Man? It Won't Cost You Anything To Wire,  And I

Need The Job,  And I Haven't The Money To Cable."

 

"The Consolidated Press," Began Keating,  Jealously. "Why--Well,  You

Know What The Consolidated Press Is? They Don't Want Descriptive

Writers--And I've Got All The Men I Need."

 

Keating Rose And Stood Hesitating In Some Embarrassment. "I'll Tell

You What I Could Do,  Channing," He Said,  "I Could Take You On As A

Stoker,  Or Steward,  Say. They're Always Deserting And Mutinying; I

Have To Carry A Gun On Me To Make Them Mind. How Would You Like That?

Forty Dollars A Month,  And Eat With The Crew?"

 

For A Moment Channing Stood In Silence,  Smoothing The Sand With The

Sole Of His Shoe. When He Raised His Head His Face Was Flushing.

 

"Oh,  Thank You," He Said. "I Think I'll Keep On Trying For A Paper--

I'll Try A Little Longer. I Want To See Something Of This War,  Of

Course,  And If I'm Not Too Lazy I'd Like To Write Something About It,

But--Well--I'm Much Obliged To You,  Anyway."

 

"Of Course,  If It Were My Money,  I'd Take You On At Once," Said

Keating,  Hurriedly.

 

Channing Smiled And Nodded. "You're Very Kind," He Answered. "Well,

Good-By."

 

A Half-Hour Later,  In The Smoking-Room Of The Hotel,  Keating

Addressed Himself To A Group Of Correspondents.

 

"There Is No Doing Anything With That Man Channing," He Said,  In A

Tone Of Offended Pride. "I Offered Him A Good Job And He Wouldn't

Take It. Because He Got A Story In The International Magazine,  He's

Stuck On Himself,  And He Won't Hustle For News--He Wants To Write

Pipe-Dreams. What The Public Wants Just Now Is News."

 

"That's It," Said One Of The Group,  "And We Must Give It To Them--

Even If We Have To Fake It."

 

Great Events Followed Each Other With Great Rapidity. The Army Ceased

Beating Time,  Shook Itself Together,  Adjusted Its Armor And Moved,

And,  To The Delight Of The Flotilla Of Press-Boats At Port Antonio,

Moved,  Not As It Had At First Intended,  To The North Coast Of Cuba,

But To Santiago,  Where Its Transports Were Within Reach Of Their

Megaphones.

 

"Why,  Everything's Coming Our Way Now!" Exclaimed The World Manager

In Ecstasy. "We've Got The Transports To Starboard At Siboney,  And

The War-Ships To Port At Santiago,  And All We'll Need To Do Is To Sit

On The Deck With A Field-Glass,  And Take Down The News With Both

Hands."

Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 81

 

Channing Followed These Events With Envy. Once Or Twice,  As A Special

Favor,  The Press-Boats Carried Him Across To Siboney And Daiquiri,

And He Was Able To Write Stories Of What He Saw There; Of The Landing

Of The Army,  Of The Wounded After The Guasimas Fight,  And Of The

Fever-Camp At Siboney. His Friends On The Press-Boats Sent This Work

Home By Mail On The Chance That The Sunday Editor Might Take It At

Space Rates. But Mail Matter Moved Slowly And The Army Moved Quickly,

And Events Crowded So Closely Upon Each Other That Channing's

Stories,  When They Reached New York,  Were Ancient History And Were

Unpublished,  And,  What Was Of More Importance To Him,  Unpaid For. He

Had No Money Now,  And He Had Become A Beach-Comber In The Real Sense

Of The Word. He Slept The Warm Nights Away Among The Bananas And

Cocoanuts On The Fruit Company's Wharf,  And By Calling Alternately On

His Cuban Exiles And The Different Press-Boats,  He Was Able To Obtain

A Meal A Day Without Arousing Any Suspicions In The Minds Of His

Hosts That It Was His Only One.

 

He Was Sitting On The Stringer Of The Pier-Head One Morning,  Waiting

For A Press-Boat From The "Front," When The Three Friends Ran In And

Lowered Her Dingy,  And The "World" Manager Came Ashore,  Clasping A

Precious Bundle Of Closely Written Cable-Forms. Channing Scrambled To

His Feet And Hailed Him.

 

"Have You Heard From The Chief About Me Yet?" He Asked. The "World"

Man Frowned And Stammered,  And Then,  Taking Channing By The Arm,

Hurried With Him Toward The Cable-Office.

 

"Charlie,  I Think They're Crazy Up There," He Began,  "They Think They

Know It All. Here I Am On The Spot,  But They Think--"

 

"You Mean They Won't Have Me," Said Channing. "But Why?" He Asked,

Patiently. "They Used To Give Me All The Space I Wanted."

 

"Yes,  I Know,  Confound Them,  And So They Should Now," Said The

"World" Man,  With Sympathetic Indignation. "But Here's Their Cable;

You Can See It's Not My Fault." He Read The Message Aloud. "Channing,

No. Not Safe,  Take Reliable Man From Siboney." He Folded The

Cablegram Around A Dozen Others And Stuck It Back In His Hip-Pocket.

 

"What Queered You,  Charlie," He Explained,  Importantly,  "Was That

Last Break Of Yours,  New Year's,  When You Didn't Turn Up For A Week.

It Was Once Too Often,  And The Chief's Had It In For You Ever Since.

You Remember?"

 

Channing Screwed Up His Lips In An Effort Of Recollection.

 

"Yes,  I Remember," He Answered,  Slowly. "It Began On New Year's Eve

In Perry's Drug-Store,  And I Woke Up A Week Later In A Hack In

Boston. So I Didn't Have Such A Run For My Money,  Did I? Not Good

Enough To Have To Pay For It Like This. I Tell You," He Burst Out

Suddenly,  "I Feel Like Hell Being Left Out Of This War,  With All The

Rest Of The Boys Working So Hard. If It Weren't Playing It Low Down

On The Fellows That Have Been In It From The Start,  I'd Like To

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Enlist. But They Enlisted For Glory,  And I'd Only Do It Because I

Can't See The War Any Other Way,  And It Doesn't Seem Fair To Them.

What Do You Think?"

 

"Oh,  Don't Do That," Protested The World Manager. "You Stick To Your

Own Trade. We'll Get You Something To Do. Have You Tried The

Consolidated Press Yet?"

 

Channing Smiled Grimly At The Recollection.

 

"Yes,  I Tried It First."

 

"It Would Be Throwing Pearls To Swine To Have You Write For Them,  I

Know,  But They're Using So Many Men Now. I Should Think You Could Get

On Their Boat."

 

"No,  I Saw Keating," Channing Explained. "He Said I Could Come Along

As A Stoker,  And I Guess I'll Take Him Up,  It Seems--"

 

"Keating Said--What?" Exclaimed The "World" Man. "Keating? Why,  He

Stands To Lose His Own Job,  If He Isn't Careful. If It Wasn't That

He's Just Married,  The C. P. Boys Would Have Reported Him A Dozen

Times."

 

"Reported Him,  What For?"

 

"Why--You Know. His Old Complaint."

 

"Oh,  That," Said Channing. "My Old Complaint?" He Added.

 

"Well,  Yes,  But Keating Hasn't Been Sober For Two Weeks,  And He'd

Have Fallen Down On The Guasimas Story If Those Men Hadn't Pulled Him

Through. They Had To,  Because They're In The Syndicate. He Ought To

Go Shoot Himself; He's Only Been Married Three Months And He's

Handling The Biggest Piece Of News The Country's Had In Thirty Years,

And He Can't Talk Straight. There's A Time For Everything,  I Say,"

Growled The "World" Man.

 

"It Takes It Out Of A Man,  This Boat-Work," Channing Ventured,  In

Extenuation. "It's Very Hard On Him."

 

"You Bet It Is," Agreed The "World" Manager,  With Enthusiasm.

"Sloshing About In Those Waves,  Sea-Sick Mostly,  And Wet All The

Time,  And With A Mutinous Crew,  And So Afraid You'll Miss Something

That You Can't Write What You Have Got." Then He Added,  As An After-

Thought,  "And Our Cruisers Thinking You're A Spanish Torpedo-Boat And

Chucking Shells At You."

 

"No Wonder Keating Drinks," Channing Said,  Gravely. "You Make It Seem

Almost Necessary."

 

Many Thousand American Soldiers Had Lost Themselves In A Jungle,  And

Had Broken Out Of It At The Foot Of San Juan Hill. Not Wishing To

Return Into The Jungle,  They Took The Hill. On The Day They Did This

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Channing Had The Good Fortune To Be In Siboney. The "World" Man Had

Carried Him There And Asked Him To Wait Around The Waterfront While

He Went Up To The Real Front,  Thirteen Miles Inland. Channing's Duty

Was To Signal The Press-Boat When The First Despatch-Rider Rode In

With Word That The Battle Was On. The World Man Would Have Liked To

Ask Channing To Act As His Despatch-Rider,  But He Did Not Do So,

Because The Despatch-Riders Were Either Jamaica Negroes Or Newsboys

From Park Row--And He Remembered That Keating Had Asked Channing To

Be His Stoker.

 

Channing Tramped Through The Damp,  Ill-Smelling Sand Of The Beach,

Sick With Self-Pity. On The Other Side Of Those Glaring,  Inscrutable

Mountains,  A Battle,  Glorious,  Dramatic,  And Terrible,  Was Going

Forward,  And He Was Thirteen Miles Away. He Was At The Base,  With The

Supplies,  The Sick,  And The Skulkers.

 

It Was Cruelly Hot. The Heat-Waves Flashed Over The Sea Until The

Transports In The Harbor Quivered Like Pictures On A Biograph. From

The Refuse Of Company Kitchens,  From Reeking Huts,  From Thousands Of

Empty Cans,  Rose Foul,  Enervating Odors,  Which Deadened The Senses

Like A Drug. The Atmosphere Steamed With A Heavy,  Moist Humidity.

Channing Staggered And Sank Down Suddenly On A Pile Of Railroad-Ties

In Front Of The Commissary's Depot. There Were Some Cubans Seated

Near Him,