“Well the wife went, and I have not seen her since. She got a divorce from me, and then I married my queen, who is gone astray now.”
The listeners coughed, and Gillstein, who had listened attentively during the whole of the recital, said: “But you didn’t tell us how you got back here.”
“I never went away,” said Percy. “I resigned from the Commission, but after a time I went to the Colonel again and told him I was hard up and my wife was sick in the States, and he gave me, for her sake, the dump foreman’s job. It was after that that I married again.”
“Where did you meet your second wife?” asked John Hogan.
“Suppose we change the subject,” said Higgins quickly.
Gillstein winked at Hogan, and there was a pause, which was finally broken by Percy, who said calmly: “I met her in a resort on Cash Street, Colon, and I’m afraid she’ll go back there now, and that’s what’s eatin’ my heart out.... Well, I must go out to Panama now. It’s nearly ten o’clock. I spend my nights watching her. Good night, fellows. Thanks for talking to me and trying to cheer me up.”
“Good night,” said the Highbrows in chorus.
Percy tiptoed out softly, and his stealthy footsteps had died away in the distance before the silence was broken, again by Gillstein, who said: “It can’t be true, after all, that all men are just dead, and that there’s no more about ’em. There’s a special little Hell somewhere for Percy Beckle.”
“Now you’re talking like a Christian,” said John Hogan. “Play us ‘The Wearing of the Green,’ Higgins.”