“Go ahead then.”
“Well, sor, me an' Sadler an' the docther, we got ashore as soon as we could. 'Twas in the early evenin', an' thim two went off somewhere for somewhat; and me, I went down Bolivar Street to an old haunt of me mimories, to see what was there. An' who should come out of the caffy but Chepa. Sure, he's your foreman now, but onct he was me frind an' dispised acquaintance in this city of sinfulness many a year ago. 'Red hair!' says he wid a shriek. 'Auburrn!' says I, 'ye grizzly Dago.' An' wid that we ombraced. 'Och, Jimmie!' he says, 'you're the man I'm wantin',' he says. 'Where's Sadler?' 'I dunno,' I says, 'not just now. He's around the town.' 'Tis happy he'll be then this night,' he says, 'for society an' politics,' he says, 'an' populations an' powers 'll be playin' discordant chunes,' he says. 'Come on,' he says, 'an' help me ungear thim dynamos.' Wid that we started for the plant, an' me not knowin' at all the divilmint that was goin', an' we come to the plant, and Chepa set the dynamos buzzin' like bees, an' thin sat down an' explained his language wid information. 'At nine o'clock,' he says, 'I shut 'em off and disables the machinery,' an' he did. Then we come back through the town by the back streets. There was wicked rage in the heart of Portate. She wint to bed in the dark, and had bad dreams. But we come down to the docks an' hired a boat out to the Violetta, and we told the missus and the young la-ady about it. After awhile comes out the boys in the gig wid a letther from the docther sayin' him an' Sadler was gone up counthry on a night thrain in pursuit of South-American archylogy. 'Kit,' says the missus, readin' it out to the young la-ady, 'Kit seems to have this city in a barrel, an' he's plugged the shpigot, an' where in the barrel he is I dunno,' he says, 'for we've been to the electric plant and we've banged on the doorway of his house, an' nothin' happened, an' Portate is tumultuous and dark. Wherefore,' he says, 'I argue he ain't expectin' company to-night, an' me an' Sadler is goin' up counthry afther archylogy,' he says, 'to be back to-morry.' 'Goodness!' says the missis, an' she an' the young la-ady went down for the night, an' me an' Chepa passed it cool an' balmy. This mornin' the missis sent us ashore for news. But oh, the sights of the ragin' city! Oh, the throuble an' combustion of it! A crowd of men grabs us at the corner. 'Gintlemen,' says Chepa, 'respected sehores, 'tis the wickedness of the Jefe,' he says, 'a-spindin' on gilt furniture the hard-earned taxes of the people, collected by the tax collector,' he says, 'wid the shweat of his fatness. For Sehor Kirby,' he says, 'to the great sorrow of himself, havin' run out of electricity, is unable to buy more on account of the avarice and theft of the beast of a thief of a Jefe,' he says, and they thought so too. By and by comes the news of yourself arristed and put in jail. 'Jimmie,' says Chepa, 'it will not do.' I says 'It will not.' An' we broke away an' went back to the Violetta. An very interested they were, sor, the missis an' the young la-ady, askin' questions, an' then a-studyin' an' a-lookin' at ache other. 'Well,' says the missis, 'I wish Doctor Ulswater hadn't gone, but it's the Jefe's fault an' not Mr. Kirby's, an' I think you were quite right, Mr. Chepa,' she says, 'to tell the people so. But of coorse you could only tell a few,' she says, 'an' I suppose most of thim think it's Mr. Kirby's to blame, an' I think we ought to stop that,' she says, 'so I think we'd bet-ther have a lot of bills printed to explain.'—'Hooroar!' says the young la-ady, jumpin' up and wavin' herself in the atmosphere. 'I'll write it!' An' wid that she grabs Chepa an' plumps down wid him on the carpet, an' what wid thim two composin' inflaminous proclamations, an' me a shmokin' me poipe wid terror in me bosim an' me face smeared over wid insidjous calm, an' the missis a lookin' off at Portate, wid her knittin' in her hand and statesmanship an' revolution in her eye, 'twas a ould-shtyle Fenian meetin', sor, an' down wid the landlords! 'It's hot,' says Chepa, manin' the proclamation. 'There's no foreign governmint to rescue Chepa wid diplomacy. They'll hang me,' he says, 'an' 'tis no matther. Behold me, senora! I am game.' 'You must stay here,' says the missis. 'Jimmie will have the bills printed and posted.' 'Oh, senora!' says Chepa, lookin' hurt. 'Of coorse you're not afraid,' she says—an' I wished she knew that I was—'but it'd be bad for you to be arristed,' she says, 'an' besides there's another reason.' It lies in the nature of things, sor, to do what the missis says. There's no help for it. I came into Portate alone, wid myself, an' gold in me trousers pocket which I changes to the barbarious paper money of the counthry an' scuttles off to a printer. 'Set it up!' I says, showin' barbarious money. 'Print it!' An' he did so, wid the fear of consequences an' the lust of avarice. But, sor, ye should have seen the amazin' innocence an' wrath of the populace, a-jumpin' all over the Plaza, a-howlin', a-wavin' proclamations an' blackguardin' the Mayor for arristin' the lights. Prisintly comes a line of soldiers wrigglin' through the crowd, an' one of 'em raps me over the head with the butt of his gun, out of the mistherable shpite of him, an' they takes me red-handed in the disthribution of proclamations, an' up we goes, up the steps of the City Hall, before the public was onto the insult to its liberties. An' oh, the terrible language of the Mayor, a-kickin' over chairs in the corridor! 'To prisin,' says he, tearin' his hair tremendjous. 'Ye'll be shot in the mornin',' says he. Then they took me out the back alley, an' down here sudden, bein' punched in the back wid the butt ends of the rifles of a misfit soldiery, an' thim's the facts.”
CHAPTER XXVI—THE TRUCE
SO spoke Jimmie Hagan. We sat looking at each other, and smoking silently for a moment. I got up and shooed the motley collection of human things around us back to a pleasanter distance, and sat down again to think. But still I didn't see altogether what Mrs. Ulswater thought she was going to do with her insurrection. It was a good idea of hers to keep Chepa aboard the Violetta. But a mob is like dynamite, and a person ought to have a considerable idea before he takes it on himself to explode one. A Portate mob is a maniac that cuts throats in the name of the saints, and forgets what started him, and he scatters destruction in all directions. For a man said to be without sand, I thought Hagan had done pretty well.
“Sor,” he said, “it's this way. I knew the Mayor long ago, an' Sadler knew him well, an' I know the Mayor's the same man wid the tempestchus bowels of him, for he's a nice man when he's cheerful, but he's not a wise man when there's trouble comin'. Well, sor, Sadler nor the docther ain't here, an' what one of them doesn't know the other does. An' some men was born to order and others to take orders, an' I dunno. But, if the Kid was here things'd be doin'. Well, sor, the docther is filled up wid handy knowledge more'n a bushel of pertaties wid perta-ties, but when it comes to makin' up his mind, it's the missis does it. The Violetta carries more contagious brains than's native in South America, an' you're askin' what the missis had in mind, an' I dunno. But Chepa says there's only two men in Por-tate can start them disabled machines for to-night's lightin', to say nothin' there's not a trolley runnin' in the city this day. An' where's those two men? One of 'em's here. The other's on the Violetta, but the Mayor don't know where he is. Well, sor, what can he do? It's not for me to say, but there's the populace shlingin' stones at the City Hall this blissid minute in persuasion of the Mayor's wickedness. An' who persuaded 'em of the Mayor's wickedness? Trolleys they don't so much care for, but there'll be lights or shootin', an' the Mayor'd needn't be foolish, an if ye ask me, I'll say it's the missis has got the soople intilligence, an' no throuble at all. Hark to 'em now!”
The roar of the crowd had grown to be tremendous, and they were probably throwing stones. What, indeed, could the Mayor do? The peons about us were chattering in excited groups, and the guards at the gate were distinctly uneasy. If the mob came there, I could make a fair guess what the guards would do.
There was a sudden clatter in the streets, of hoofs and wheels on bad pavement. Again the great wooden door flew open with a bang. Entered the paymaster, another agitated official, and an officer in pink and white, who bowed and smiled at me affectionately.
“You are released, senor,” said the officer.