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Treasure and Trouble Therewith by Geraldine Bonner

G >> Geraldine Bonner >> Treasure and Trouble Therewith




"The duck shooters have laid planks," he murmured encouragingly.

The man raised his head.

"Planks--where?"

Tito indicated the marsh.

"All along. They lay 'em when they come to shoot and then they let 'em
lay. Nobody don't ever go there 'cept the duck shooters."

"You mean I can get across by the planks?"

Tito forgot his bashfulness and drew nearer. He was emboldened by the
thought that he could help the tramp, give assistance as man to man.

"_You_ couldn't. It's all mud and water, and turns too, like you was
goin' round in rings. But _I_ could--I bin acrost, right over to the
Ariel Club." He pointed to a small white square on the opposite
side. "That's where. The railroad's a ways beyont that, but it ain't
awful far."

The man looked and nodded, then smiled, a slight curling of his lip, a
slight contraction of the skin round his eyes.

"If you show me the way I'll give you a quarter," he said, turning the
smile on Tito.

Tito did not like the smile; it suggested a dog's lifted lip when
contemplating battle. Also he had been forbidden to go into the marsh;
some of the streams were deep, the mud treacherous. But a quarter had
seldom crossed his palm. He saw himself spending it at the crossroads
store, and, tucking his boat up under his arm, said manfully:

"All right--I'll get you over before sundown."

They started, the child running fleet-footed ahead, the man following
with long strides. There was evidently a way and Tito knew it. His black
head bobbed along in front, now a dark sphere glossed by the sunlight,
now an inky silhouette against the white shine of water. There were
creeks to jump and pools to wade--the duck shooters' planks only spanned
the deep places--and the way was hard.

Once the tramp stopped, surly-faced, and measured the distance to the
Ariel Club house. It seemed but little nearer. He told Tito so, and the
child, pausing to look back, cheered him with heartening phrases. But it
was a hard pull, crushing through the dense growth, staggering on the
slippery ooze, and he began to mutter his curses again. Tito, hearing
them, made no reply, a little scared in the sun-swept loneliness with the
swearing in his ears.

Finally the man, floundering on a bank of mud, slipped and fell to his
knees. He groveled, his hands caked, and when he rose a fearful stream of
profanity broke from him. Tito stopped, chilled, peering back between the
rushes. If it had been a rancher or one of the boys he would have
laughed. But he had no inclination to laugh at the staggering figure,
with the haggard, sweat-beaded face and furious eyes.

"I said it was long, but we're gettin' there. We're halfway acrost now,"
his little pipe, mellow-sweet, was in strange contrast with what had
come before.

"You're a liar, a damnable liar. You've led me into the middle of
this--place that you don't know any more of than I do."

His eyes, ranging about in helpless desperation, saw, some distance
beyond, a rise of dry ground. The sight appeared to divert him, and he
stood looking at it. He had the appearance of having forgotten Tito, and
the child, uneasy at this sudden stillness as he was ready to be at
anything the tramp did, said with timid urgence:

"Say, come on. I got to get home for supper or I'll get licked."

For answer the man moved in an opposite direction, to where the stream
widened. He saw there was deep water between him and the dry place, but
he wanted to get there, rest, smoke, unroll his blanket and sleep. Tito's
uneasiness increased.

"You're goin' the wrong way," he pleaded. "You can't get round there,
it's all water."

Suddenly the man turned on him savagely. His brooding eyes widened and
their look, a threatening glare, made the boy's heart quail.

"Get out," he shouted, "get out, I'm done with you. You're a fakir."

Tito retreated, crushing the rushes under his naked feet, his face
extremely fearful.

"But I was takin' you. I sure was--"

"Get out. You don't know anything about it. You're a liar."

"I do. I was takin' you straight--and you promised me a quarter."

"To hell with you and your quarter. Didn't you hear me say get out?"

The thought of the quarter gave Tito a desperate courage; his voice rose
in a protesting wail:

"But I done half already--you're halfway acrost. You'd oughter give me a
dime. I've done more than a dime's worth."

The tramp, with a smothered ejaculation, bent and picked up a bit of
iron, relic of some sportsman's passage. Tito saw the raised hand and
ducked, hearing the missile hurtle over his head and plop into the water
behind him. It frightened him, but not so much as the man's face. Like a
small, terrified animal he bent and fled. The breaths came quick from
his laboring breast, and as he ran, his head low, the rushes swaying
together over his wake, sobs burst from him, not alone for fear, but for
his lost quarter.

The sun was the dazzling core of a golden glow when he crept on to the
dry ground, mud-soaked, tear-streaked, his wooden boat still in his hand.
His terror was over and he padded home in deep thought, inventing a lie.
For if his parents knew of his wanderings he would be beaten and sent to
bed without supper.

The tramp picked his way round to the stream that separated him from the
desired ground, slipped out of his clothes and, putting them in the
basket, plunged in the current. On the opposite bank he stood up, a lean,
shining shape, the sunlight gilding his wet body, till it looked like a
statue of brass. The bath refreshed him; he would eat some fruit he had
in his basket, take a smoke, and rest there for the night.

Still wet, he pulled on his clothes, stretched out, and drawing a pear
from the basket began to eat it. As he did so his glance explored the
place and brought up on a mark at the water's edge. It interested him,
and still gnawing the pear, he crawled down to it--a footprint, large and
as clearly impressed as if cast in plaster. Not far from it was a
triangular indentation, its point driven deep--the mark of a boat's prow.

Both looked fresh, the uppressed outlines of mud crisp and flakey, which
would happen quickly under such a sun. Among his fellow vagrants he had
learned a good deal about the tules, one fact, corroborated by the child,
that at this season no one ever disturbed their loneliness. Still
squatting he glanced about--at the foot of the rush wall behind him were
two burnt matches. Men had recently been there, come in a boat, and
smoked; there were no traces of a fire.

To perceptions used to the open dealings of an unobservant honesty, it
would have signified nothing. But to his, trained for duplicity, learned
in the ways of a world where concealments were a part of life, it carried
a meaning. His face took on an animal look of cunning, his movements
became alert and stealthy. Rising to his feet, he moved about, staring,
studying, saw other footprints and then a break in the rushes at the
back. He went there, parted the broken spears and came on a space where
some were cut away, the ground disturbed, and still moist.

Half an hour later, the sun, sending its last long shafts across the
marsh, played on a strange picture--a tramp, white-faced, with trembling
hands, and round him, on the ground, about his sprawled legs, falling
from his shaking fingers, yellow in the yellow light, gold, gold, gold!




CHAPTER V

THE MARKED PARAGRAPH


The first half of the night he spent moving the money to the marshes'
edge. Its weight was like the weight of millstones but disposed about
him, in the basket, in the gunny sacks slung from his shoulders, in the
newspaper carried in his hands, he dragged it across. When he reached the
bank he fell like one dead. Outstretched beside his treasure he lay on
his back and looked with half-closed eyes at the black vault and the cold
satiric stars.

Before the dawn came he wrapped part of it in the paper and buried it
among the sedge; the rest he put in his basket and his pockets. Early
morning saw him, an inconspicuous, frowsy figure, slouching up to a way
station on the line to Sacramento.

In the train he found a newspaper left by a departed traveler, and on its
front page, featured with black headlines, the latest news of the Knapp
and Garland holdup. After he had read it he sat very still. He knew what
he had found and was relieved. It cleared the situation if it added to
its danger. But he was intrigued by the difficulty of disposing of the
money. To bank it was out of the question; he must rouse no curiosity and
he could give no references. To leave it on the marshes' edge was
impracticable. He had heard of men who kept their loot buried, but he
feared the perils of a cache, to be dug and redug, ungettable, in a
solitary place, hard to find and dangerous to visit. He must put it
somewhere not too remote, secure against discovery, where he could come
and go unnoticed and free from question. By the time the train reached
Sacramento he had formulated a plan.

He knew the city well, had footed the streets of its slums before he went
South. In a men's lodging house, kept by a Chinese, he engaged a room,
left what gold he had there--he had to take his chance against theft--and
in the afternoon took a down train to the marsh. He was back with the
rest of the money that night, buying a secondhand suitcase on his way
from the depot. In this he packed it, still in the canvas sacks, the
newspaper folded over it. He saw to it that the suitcase had a lock, and
lead-heavy he laid it flat under the bed.

The next morning he rose, nerved to a day of action. He was out early,
his objective the small, mean stores of the poorer quarter. In these he
bought shoes, the coarse brogans of the workman, and a hat, a rusty,
sweat-stained Stetson. A barber's shop in a basement was his next point
of call. Here he was shaved and his hair cut. When he emerged into the
light of day the tramp had disappeared. The ragged growth gone, the proud
almost patrician character of his face was strikingly apparent. It
matched so illy with his wretched clothes that passersby looked at him.
He saw it and slunk along the walls, his hat on his brows, uneasily aware
of the glances of women which usually warmed him like wine. At a
secondhand dealer's, a dark den with coats and trousers hanging in layers
about the entrance, he bought a suit of clothes and an overcoat. Carrying
these in a bundle he went back to his room and put them on.

The transformation was now complete. He studied himself in the blotched
and wavy mirror and nodded in grave approval. He might have been an
artisan, a small clerk, or a traveling salesman routed through the
country towns.

Half an hour later saw him at the desk of the Whatcheer House. This was a
third-rate men's hotel, a decent enough place where the transient male
population from the interior met the restless influx from the coast. Here
floated in, lodged a space, then drifted out a tide of men, seekers of
work, of pleasure, of change, of nothing at all. The majority were of the
world's rovers impelled by an unquenchable wanderlust, but among them
were the industrious and steady, quartered in the city or shifting to a
new center of activity. He registered as Harry Romaine of Vancouver and
described himself as a traveling man who would use Sacramento as a base
of operations. He took a room in the back--No. 19--said he would probably
keep it all winter and paid a month's rent in advance.

By afternoon he had the money there and with it a chisel and hammer. It
was intensely hot, the sun beating on the wall and sloping in through the
one window. Complete silence from the rooms on either side reassured him,
and in the scorching stillness he worked with a noiseless, capable speed.
In one corner under the bed he pulled up the carpet and pried loose the
boards. Some of the money went there, some below the pipes in the
cupboard under the stationary washstand, the rest behind a piece of the
baseboard.

Before he replaced the boards in the corner cache--the largest and least
difficult to disturb--he glanced about for anything overlooked or
forgotten for which the hole would be a convenient hiding-place. On the
floor, outspread and crumpled, lay the newspaper. The outer sheets were
brown and disintegrated from contact with the mud, but the two inner ones
were whole and clean. Probably it would be better to take no chances and
hide it; someone might notice it and wonder how it came to be in such a
state. He picked it up, looked it over, and saw it was the _Sacramento
Courier_ of August 25. That would make it only three days old, the issue
of the day before the holdup. If anything was needed to convince him that
the cache was Knapp and Garland's this was it. He opened it on the table
to fold, brushing out the creases, when suddenly his hand dropped and his
glance became fixed. A marked paragraph had caught his attention.

The light was growing dim and he took the paper to the window. The
paragraph was at the end of a column, was encircled by two curved
pencil strokes, and on the edge of clean paper below it was written,
also in pencil, "Hello, Panchita. Ain't you the wonder. Your best
beau's proud of you."

He pulled a chair to the window, folded back the page and read the
marked item. The column was headed "C. C.'s San Francisco Letter," was
dated August 21, and was mainly concerned with social and business news
of the coast city. That part of it outlined by the pencil strokes ran
as follows:

As to matters theatrical there's nothing new in sight, except that Pancha
Lopez--our Pancha--made a hit this week in "The Zingara," the gypsy
operetta produced on Sunday night at the Albion. I can't tell much about
"The Zingara"--maybe it was good and maybe it wasn't. I couldn't reckon
with anything but Pancha; she was the whole show. She's never done
anything so well, was as dainty as a pink, as brilliant as a humming
bird, danced like a fairy, and sang--well, she sang way beyond what she's
led us to expect of her. Can I say more? The public evidently agrees with
me. The S.R.O. sign has been out at the cozy little home of comic opera
ever since Sunday. C.C., who can't keep away from the place, has seen so
many dress shirt fronts and plush cloaks that he's rubbed his eyes and
wondered if he hasn't made a mistake and it's the grand opera season come
early with a change of dates. But he hasn't. Pacific and Van Ness avenues
are beginning to understand that we've got a little song bird right here
in our midst that they can hear for half a dollar and who gives them more
for that than the Metropolitans do for a V. Saluda, Pancha! Here's
looking at you. Some day the East is going to call you and you're going
to make a little line of footsteps across the continent. But for our
sakes postpone it as long as you can. Remember that you belong to us,
that we discovered you and that we can't get on without you.

He read it twice and then studied the penciled words, "Hello, Panchita!
Ain't you the wonder. Your best beau's proud of you." In the dying light
he murmured them over as if their sound delighted him and as he murmured
a slight, sardonic smile broke out on his face.

His sense of humor, grim and cynical, was tickled. He, the picaroon,
companion of rogues and small marauders, had seen many and diverse love
affairs. On the shady bypaths he had followed, edging along the rim of
the law, he had met all sorts of couples, men and women incomprehensibly
attracted, ill-assorted, mysterious, picturesque. This seemed to him one
of the most piquant combinations he had ever encountered--a bandit and a
comic opera singer. It amused him vastly and he crooned over the paper,
grinning in the dusk. The fellow had evidently marked the item and
written his congratulations, intending to send it to her, then needed it
to wrap round the money, and confident in the security of his cache, left
it there against his return. That thought increased his amusement, and he
laughed, a low, smothered chuckle.

It was dark and he rose and lit the lamp. Then he tore out the piece of
the paper and put it in the pocket of his suitcase. The rest he folded
and placed in the hole under the money. As he knelt, fitting the boards
back, he thought of the singing woman, Pancha Lopez. The beloved of a
highwayman, with a Spanish name, he pictured her as a dark, flashing
creature, coarsely opulent and mature. It was evident that she too
belonged to the world of rogues and social pirates, and he laughed again
as he saw himself, swept back by a turn of fate, into the lives of the
outlawed. He must see Pancha Lopez; she promised to be interesting.




CHAPTER VI

PANCHA


A week later, at eleven at night, a large audience was crowding out of
the Albion Opera House. If you know San Francisco--the San Francisco of
before the fire--you will remember the Albion. It stood on one of those
thoroughfares that slant from the main stem of Market Street near Lotta's
Fountain. That part of the city is of dubious repute; questionable back
walls look down on the alley that leads to the stage door, and after
midnight there is much light of electricity and gas and much unholy noise
round its darkened bulk.

But that is not the Albion's fault. It did not plant itself in the
Tenderloin; it was the Tenderloin that grew. Since it first opened its
doors as a temple of light opera--fifty cents a seat and a constant
change of bill--its patrons have been, if not fashionable, always
respectable. Smoking was permitted, also the serving of drinks--the seat
in front had a convenient shelf for the ladies' lemonade and the
gentleman's beer--but even so, no one could say that a strict decorum did
not prevail in the Albion's audiences even as it did in the Albion's
productions.

A young man with a cheerful, ugly face stood in a side aisle, watching
the crowd file out. He had a kindly blue eye, a merry thick-lipped mouth,
and blonde hair sleeked back across his crown, one lock, detached from
the rest, falling over his forehead. He had a way of smoothing back this
lock with his palm but it always fell down again and he never seemed to
resent it. Of all that pertained to his outward appearance, he was
indifferent. Not only his patience with the recalcitrant lock, but his
clothes showed it--dusty, carelessly fitting, his collar too large for
his neck, his cravat squeezed up into a tight sailor's knot and shifted
to one side. He was Charlie Crowder, not long graduated from Stanford and
now a reporter on the _Despatch_, where he was regarded with interest as
a promising young man.

His eye, exploring the crowd, was the journalist's, picking salient
points. It noted fur collars and velvet wraps, the white gloss of shirt
bosoms, women's hair, ridged with artificial ripples--more of that kind
in the audience than he'd seen yet. "The Zingara" had made a hit; he'd
just heard at the box office that they would extend the run through the
autumn. It pleased him for it verified his prophecy on the first night
and it was a bully good thing for Pancha.

He stepped out of a side entrance, edged through the throngs on the
pavement, dove up an alley and reached the stage door. A single round
lamp burned over it and already dark shapes were issuing forth, mostly
women, Cinderellas returned to their dingy habiliments. There was a great
chatter of feminine voices as they skirmished off, some in groups, some
alone, some on the arms of men who emerged from the darkness with
muttered greetings.

Crowder crossed the back of the large stage where supers were pulling
scenery about; weights and ropes, forest edges, bits of sky and parlor
ceilings, hanging in layers from the flies. The brick wall at the back
was whitewashed and against it a line of men and girls passed scurrying
to the exit, throwing remarks back and forth, laughing, pulling on their
coats. Some of them hailed him and got a cheery word in reply. Then,
skirting the wings, he turned down a passage and brought up at a door on
which a small star was drawn in chalk. He knocked, and a woman's voice
called from inside:

"Who is it?"

"Your faithful press agent."

The woman's voice answered:

"Enter Charlie, rear, smiling."

He opened the door, went in. The place was the Albion's best dressing
room. It was small, with white-washed walls, and lighted by a gas jet
inclosed in a wire shield. A mirror, its frame dotted with artificial
flowers, bits of ribbon, notes and favors, surmounted the dressing table.
This was a litter of paint pots, hair pins, toilet articles, powder rags,
across which, like a pair of strayed snakes, lay two long braids of black
hair. A powerful scent of cosmetics and stale perfumery mingled with the
faint, thrilling breath of roses.

Seated in front of the glass in a soiled red satin kimono embroidered in
storks, was Pancha Lopez, leading woman of the Albion. She was wiping off
her make-up, a large jar of cold cream on the table before her, a grease
rag in her hand. The kimono, falling richly, outlined a thin, lithe body,
flat-backed, muscular and supple. The make-up still on her face turned
her brown skin to a meerschaum pallor and the dusky brick-red of her
cheeks to an unnatural rose. A long neck upheld a small, finely shaped
head, the hair now drawn back and twisted in a tight knot to which the
two long braids had been pinned. The Indian strain in her revealed itself
in the flattened cheek-bones, the wide-cut, delicate nostrils and the
small, high-set eyes as clearly black and white as if made of enamel.
They were now outlined and elongated with lamp black which still clung to
her lashes in flakes. She was twenty-two years old, and had been on the
stage for six years.

After a glance over her shoulder and a flashing smile she returned to her
work, pushing her hair still further off her forehead with one hand, and
sweeping the greasy cloth over her face with the other.

"Well," said Crowder, standing beside her and looking at her reflection,
"how's the baby-grand Patti tonight?"

"Fine!" She drew down her upper lip and slowly rubbed round her mouth,
Crowder, as if fascinated, watching the process in the mirror. "Just sit
down on something. Hang up my costume and take that chair if there isn't
any other. I got to get this thing off before I can talk comfortably."

Her costume, a glittering heap of red and orange, lay across a chair,
the pile surmounted by an open cardboard box whence the heads of roses
protruded from tissue paper. He feared to touch that, and finding
another chair against the wall, drew it to the side of the dressing
table and sat down.

"Have you been in front?" she asked, rubbing along her jaw.

"Yes, it's packed. But I only came in just before the curtain. How was
the house?"

She threw a radiant look at him.

"Ate it up, dearie. Couldn't get enough. Six encores for my Castanet
song. Oh, Charlie," she dropped the hand with its rag to the edge of the
table and looked at him, solemnly earnest, "you don't know how I
feel--you don't know. It's hard to believe and yet it's true. I can see
the future stretching up like a ladder, and me mounting, step by step, on
rungs made of gold."

Pancha Lopez, unlettered, almost illiterate, child of the mountains and
the ditches, wandering vagabond of the stage, would sometimes indulge in
unexpected felicities of phrase. Her admirers said it was another
expression of that "temperament" with which she was endowed. Crowder, who
knew her better than most, set it down to the Indian blood. From that
wild blend had come all that lifted her above her fellows, her flashes of
deep intelligence, her instinct for beauty, her high-mettled, invincible
spirit. He even maintained to his friend Mark Burrage--Mark was the only
person he ever talked her over with--that it was the squaw in her which
had kept her pure, made her something more than "a good girl," a proud
virgin, self-sufficing, untamable, jealous of her honor as a vestal.

"That's what you ought to see," he said in answer to her serious eyes.
"Haven't I always said it? Didn't I tell you so up there in Portland when
we first met and you were doing a turn between six saxaphone players and
a bunch of trained cockatoos?"

She nodded, laughing, and returned to her rubbing.

"You surely did, and fanned up the flame that was just a tiny spark
then. Dear old press agent, I guess I'll have to change your name to
the Bellows."

"A. 1. Have you read the last blast I've given out?" She shook her head
and he thrust his hand into his overcoat pocket. "I've brought it along,
though I thought your father might have sent it to you."

"Pa's in the mountains." Drawing down her upper lip she pressed on her
cheeks with painted finger tips, scrutinizing her face in the mirror. "I
haven't heard from him for weeks. He's off on the lode somewhere."

"Then he hasn't seen it. It's the best I've done yet, and it's true,
every word."

He had drawn from his pocket a paper which he now opened. As he folded it
back, Pancha took out her hairpins and shook down her hair. It extended
to her shoulders, a thick, curly bush, through which she pulled the comb
with short, quick sweeps.

Scottish book of the year goes to Kieron Smith, Boy by James Kelman

The barrister Constance Briscoe has won the libel case brought against her by her mother, Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, over her bestselling misery memoir Ugly, in which she accused Briscoe-Mitchell of childhood cruelty and neglect.

Briscoe-Mitchell claimed the allegations were "a piece of fiction", and sued Briscoe and her publishers Hodder & Stoughton for libel.

A 10-day hearing at the high court in London concluded earlier today with a unanimous verdict from the jury after more than a day's deliberation. Speaking outside the court, Briscoe, a part-time judge, said she was "very happy" with the verdict.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me. Now I just want to get on with my career," she said. "I can quite understand why my family went into collective denial, but whilst child abuse may be committed behind closed doors, it should never be swept under the carpet."

The hearing saw Briscoe tell Mr Justice Tugendhat and a jury how her mother beat her with a stick for wetting the bed, called her a "dirty little whore" and drove her to attempt suicide by drinking bleach.

Briscoe's account of her upbringing was published in 2006 and has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK.

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Would you have your ashes scattered in Jane Austen's garden?
American film producer to publish version of the Bible in which God says it is better to be gay than straight

The royal family doesn't need a poet

The power of Jane Austen never ceases to amaze: the myriad film and TV adaptations, the biopics, the spin-off self-help books, the novels about Austen book clubs and Austen obsessives and even, next spring, the publication of a book about "how Jane Austen conquered the world" (Jane's Fame, by Clare Harman). And now comes the just-too-weird story that deceased fans of Jane Austen have been banned from having their ashes scattered in her garden. In a letter to the Jane Austen Society, Louise West, the collections manager of Jane Austen's House Museum, wrote: "While we understand many admirers of Jane Austen would love to have ashes laid here, it is something we do not allow. It is distressing for visitors to see mounds of human ash, particularly so for our gardener. Also, it is of no benefit to the garden!" (Or is it? Surely a small quantity of fresh ashes judiciously placed beneath a hydrangea bush is just the ticket?)

Anyway, leaving aside the Gardeners' Question Time minutiae, what on earth is going on here? I like an Austen novel as much as the next person – I probably reread my way through the complete works every couple of years – but I am baffled as to why one would want to be laid to rest among the flowerbeds of Chawton. The only explanation is the currently unstoppable power of the Austen cult, fuelled by Colin Firth in a wet blouse, by Andrew Davies's adaptations, and by Hollywood. I'm all for enjoying books, but the cult of Austen has reached ridiculous proportions. In a post-feminist world that should know better, she seems to be adored as the comforting provider of romantic, happy-endings nonsense instead of the sharp and acerbic social satirist she deserves to be seen as.

(Does anyone actually believe her, by the way, when she foretells a happy marriage for Darcey and Elizabeth? I fear a woman as interesting as Elizabeth would be sorely disappointed with this standard-issue British Repressed Public-school Man - hopeless emotionally, and probably hopeless in bed.)

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