id="page_041"/>

“They’ve gone away to Brazil, to Peru, to Ecuador and to Alaska. They didn’t like this civilized business; they’d rather be in some new country, where there ain’t no style. Them fellows were men of the world.

“Catch on to that little man with the whiskers on his chin? He’s the guy that has the soft snap. He’s running a little paper about the size of a postage stamp, and he has seven other guys, probably relatives, assisting in the editing of it. He has the finest house on Ancon Hill, a pair of horses, two carriages, two saddle horses, one for himself and one for his daughter, and twelve thousand a year. Looks like a slick guy, don’t he? He’s got his first dollar, an’, what do you think? His house stands right where your tent used to stand. The hill is covered with beautiful houses now.”

So Martin Luther chatted on as I watched, fascinated, the late comers.

“Suppose we go to the ballroom and watch ’em caper—see the snobs an’ the two-cent nobodies, eh? I ain’t in a swallowtail coat, but every one knows me, and they know that I’ve been up in the roof tryin’ to stop a leak.”

I followed him into the ballroom, and he gallantly offered me his arm and led me to a seat.

Each man danced with his wife, daughter or sweetheart, and if he happened to be without either he sat and looked on with arms folded upon his breast. Elderly ladies sat straight against the wall, their hands folded, and a patient smile upon their faded faces. An iciness clutched my very soul as I sat mute while Luther talked.

“There’s Bates, the best carpenter I have, and he’s rigged up like a scarecrow. Look at the white shoes and red stockings and red necktie—things that no one but a fool would wear with a swallowtail suit. There’s Mike Lyman, wearing a yellow soft shirt, when he ought to wear a boiled one, and, doggone it, look at Dodson. He’s got on a blue tie, russet shoes and a watch chain with a shark’s tooth mounted on it that would moor a ship. Wait till to-morrow when I see them guys. I’ll have some fun with them. Catch on to Red Mike and the little shaver. And there’s Garabaldi and Major Brooks. They are the real thing, but Garabaldi can’t get any one to dance with him, because he don’t put on lugs; he’s just a simple chap, but he’s good-looking, ain’t he? He’s a grandson of that old general who put the Pope in prison, or something like that.

“Some fellows tried to tell me that Garabaldi was only the name of a race horse on Long Island. Well, anyway, no one has anything to do with him but Major Brooks.

“Do you see that old guy over there with the glassy bald head that looks like a cross between a barn door and a wooden leg? Well, he’s another guy that’s got a soft snap. He lives on the hill, and his house stands right where my tent used to be. He got in trouble here in the Tivoli once because he was fresh with the black chambermaids.”

While all this gossip was being poured into my ear I sized up the ensemble, which was a pleasant picture. When supper was served there was a grand rush for the dining-room that seemed like the sort of stampede one might see at a bargain sale on Sixth Avenue, New York. A more motley crew never blended together at any function. Every craft and profession had a representative, and there were at the Tivoli that night one or more persons from every nation in the world.

MR. COMSTOCK’S ARRIVAL.

R. Comstock’s arrival at Panama created almost as much stir as did the arrival of the much beloved and respected T. R., for it was rumored among Americans on Ancon Hill that John Drew was in town. “Well, say, the theatrical business must be on the bum,” said the veterans, one to another. “Surely he is not going to play at Edmarrillos.” The subject of their comments—the man who looked like John Drew—had recently come to the Isthmus to work in the timekeeping office at Ancon. “Good morning, Mr. Drew,” said a young clerk, as Mr. Comstock appeared, ready for induction into the mysteries of his new position. “My dear young man,” he replied, “my name is not Drew. I am Arthur Algernon Comstock, of London, of the Surrey Comstocks, grandson of Lord Algernon Percival Fillbois, and nephew of Percival Gibbon Comstock, Lord Bishop of Hounslow.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Comstock,” said the clerk humbly. “We thought you were John Drew, because you look exactly like him.” “Dear me! How very singular,” replied Mr. Comstock. “Why, it is nothing short of libel to compare a brute like myself to such a well-behaved chap as John Drew, and it is iniquitous and unnatural that a Comstock, of Comstock Lodge, Surrey, should even resemble an actor. I am quite amazed, really I am. Dear! dear! how my aunt, the Lady Maria Derald Fillbois, would laugh if she were to know that these Yankee chaps were calling me Mr. Drew. Fastidious chap, John Drew. Here, my dear fellow, have a smoke,” handing the young man his ivory cigar case, lined with gold. It was well filled with cigars of a better quality than were to be found at that time at Panama, and it bore the Comstock coat of arms.

It soon became generally known that there was a lord, or duke, or something of the sort, working in the office of the chief timekeeper, who was a good old sport, likeable, and democratic in his ways, just like an American, only his expressions of speech were a bit queer. From time to time fragments of anecdote were related to me as having come from the well-stored mind of Mr. Comstock. This plainly told me that he was a man of some erudition. There was a very clever toast which he was in the habit of giving when in his cups. It appears to have been written by one Sir Fitzhugh Clavering Comstock, and was said to be both brilliant and mirth-provoking. The most humble of the Americans on Ancon Hill had a copy of it, but, strange to say, I was never permitted to hear the words, and am, therefore, unable to give them to my readers.

It became a popular diversion to listen to the story of Mr. Comstock’s life, as told by himself, and it ran about as follows: “My mother was the Lady Elizabeth Howard Derald Fillbois, a beautiful but delicate woman, and my father was James Percival Comstock, brother of the present Lord Bishop of Hounslow. My father was a perfect devil for sport, poor chap. He, it seems, neglected to cherish my mother, and soon after my birth she died, her family said, of a broken heart. Then my father went to travel on the Continent, and never returned to England again. He died a few years ago, poor old chap. He had many affaires d’amour, poor chap. It quite saddens me to think of them. Really, I wonder how he ever came out of some of them without losing his honor. I became acquainted with him when I myself traveled on the Continent, and I became quite fond of his society. His family and friends got on his nerves, and he abominated his own country people, the English. My brother and myself were taken at the time of my mother’s death by my aunt, the Lady Maria Howard Derald Fillbois, my mother’s only sister, who was a very strong-minded but fascinating woman, and who took a notion to forsake her lover at the altar in the presence of half of the aristocracy of England.

“She was a kindly woman, with a strong sense of humor, but was horribly stingy with us boys. The village folk loved her.

“Well, she had kennels filled with the finest dogs in the United Kingdom, and, oh, horrors! she obliged my brother and myself to pick the fleas from the brutes in order to earn spending money. An old Irishman named Tim Burden stood over us and counted the fleas, for each one of which we received a