At noon on the following day she was standing on the ship’s deck on her way to Colon, and as New Orleans receded from view her lips moved in prayer; she was asking God to give her strength to lead a better life.
The man who had engaged her had complimented her upon her skill at playing. “You may not like Panama,” said he, “for the life down there is rough, and I see you are a lady.”
In a few days she was walking the streets of Colon in glorious freedom. Men eyed her furtively from some safe retreat, but no one ventured to accost her. There was no one to lift an eyebrow or to give a scornful glance. “Safe, thank God!” she said. “I shall not be the victim of that curse.” She was thinking of what she should wear that night. A simple white muslin dress; a white rose in her hair. No paint, no jewelry, no more bright colors. “I shall save my money and buy a little home,” she thought.
“It is time to dress,” said one of her girl friends, breaking in upon her reverie. “We are to go to the hotel at seven.” But it was not an hotel—it was a barroom where employes of the Canal Commission and the riff-raff of God’s great universe assembled nightly to drink to excess and discuss the slanderous gossip of the Isthmus.
When Vere de Vere arrived at the entrance she faltered and refused to go in. “It is a low barroom,” said she to her companions, “and there are drunkards inside who will say vile things to us.”
“But we must play there, or else we won’t be able to live,” said one of the girls.
So they walked in, single file, through the rows of leering men, leaving the frightened girl on the sidewalk.
“Aw, come on in, kid,” said the manager, whose name was “Blinkey.” “This is an all-right place; the best in town. There ain’t no first-class hotels in this God-forsaken place. What ’ud support ’em? Not the I. C. C. roughnecks an’ P. R. R. pen-pushers. Not on your life, kid. Why did I say that the place was a first-class hotel? Because I’m a liar, of course. Come on in.”
“I want to live a good life,” replied the girl, with the calmness of despair in her voice.
“Well, that’s up to you, my girl. I ain’t askin’ you not to lead a good life. You can be as good as Saint Cecelia an’ play here every night. The better you are, the greater attraction you’ll be for this joint, for good ladies are doggoned scarce on the Isthmus. I’ll tell the boys all about you, an’ when I get through I bet you they’ll respect you. You must play that ‘Good Night’ solo when you see that they’re about half-shot. Come on in; I’ll lead you. My! you are shiverin’ an’ your hand is as cold as ice. You bet the boys’ll know when they see a real lady. You look like a little girl in that simple white dress.”