They watched and saw him revolve himself, one, two, three, four times atop of the stand, and then down the steps and on to his head in the plaza area. But he was of unquenchable spirit; without letting on that that wasn't part of it, he climbed back on to the band-stand and questioned the leader further. Did he know any American music, and would he for a peso—or two pesos, say—play some? Did he sabe Americano musico?
The leader of the band did sabe, and, the two pesos being passed, out rolled "Marching Through Georgia." Which pleased our dancing blue-jacket. "Fine!" he says. "My old man was with Sherman's outfit on that hike. Roll her out again!"
And once more was "Marching Through Georgia" rolling nobly out, and as it was so rolling, a young American marine—but looking too slim and melancholy to so much as give back talk to a scuttle-butt—detached himself from a file of his comrades, and, marching stiffly up onto the band-stand, said: "What d'you-uns mean tellin' this yer nigger to play that-a-one for? I was bawn 'n' raised in Jaw-juh. In Jaw-juh, and my daddy fit with Lee," and he whaled our dancing bluejacket under the ear.
The band-leader was playing an instrument that sounded like a currycomb rubbing across a battle-hatch. Swishy-swishy, it was going, with a loud r-r-rump-umph every few bars, and it was shaped like a long-necked pumpkin. This the young native of Jaw-juh grabbed by its long neck and bent in several places over the leader's skull. There was a platoon of native policemen standing by and another platoon within easy signal distance. With the first shriek of the band for help that first platoon came limbering up, not forgetting to pass the word for their watchmates as they came.
But waiting in line for their tickets, or sampling in their strollings the wares above and beneath the piled-up tables, were a few files and boatloads of our own marines and bluejackets, and these now came steaming up to the battle line, meaning harm to nobody in particular, but curious to know what all the ballyhooing was about and so as to be handy in case anything was doing.
The native police came galloping up and captured the outraged Georgian in the first rush, and as they did so up charged in one thin khaki wave his marine comrades to his rescue. And 'twas a gallant charge, even if all that came of it was to bury the band-stand under the falling bodies.
The mind of my young friend—it pleased me to know him for being so thoughtful—was running in much the same groove as my own. "Down under that pile that poor band-leader is still wondering what he did to get hit. That marine shouldn't have bothered him," says he.
"You're right," I said. "And this everlasting looking for trouble on shore liberty—it gives me the needles."
'Twas just then a tall policeman, with a sword and his chin stuck out belligerently before him gave signs for me to vamose from the plaza. "And what board of examiners," I says, "gave you a rating to be ordering me around?" and I relieved him of his sword and drove his chin back to front dress.
Says the young fellow with me then: "Once in New York I tried to keep some policemen from taking a couple of friends of mine into a patrol-wagon, and they took me along too, and my picture was in the paper next morning—that's what got me in wrong with Marguerite's mother, and this will probably get me in wrong again. But where a fellow's people are there's where he must be too, I suppose."