PAGE 5
A Derelict
by
“But they lay broiling there in the heat just as though they were becalmed. They seemed to be asleep on their anchor-chains. It reminded me of a big bull-dog lying in the sun with his head on his paws and his eyes shut. You think he’s asleep, and you try to tiptoe past him, but when you’re in reach of his chain–he’s at your throat, what? It seemed so funny to think of our being really at war. I mean the United States, and with such an old-established firm as Spain. It seems so presumptuous in a young republic, as though we were strutting around, singing, ‘I’m getting a big boy now.’ I felt like saying, ‘Oh, come off, and stop playing you’re a world power, and get back into your red sash and knickerbockers, or you’ll get spanked!’ It seems as though we must be such a lot of amateurs. But when I went over the side of the New York I felt like kneeling down on her deck and begging every jackey to kick me. I felt about as useless as a fly on a locomotive-engine. Amateurs! Why, they might have been in the business since the days of the ark; all of them might have been descended from bloody pirates; they twisted those eight-inch guns around for us just as though they were bicycles, and the whole ship moved and breathed and thought, too, like a human being, and all the captains of the other war-ships about her were watching for her to give the word. All of them stripped and eager and ready–like a lot of jockeys holding in the big race-horses, and each of them with his eyes on the starter. And I liked the way they all talk about Sampson, and the way the ships move over the stations like parts of one machine, just as he had told them to do.
“Scudder introduced me to him, and he listened while we did the talking, but it was easy to see who was the man in the Conning Tower. Keating–my boy!” Channing cried, sitting upright in his enthusiasm, “he’s put a combination-lock on that harbor that can’t be picked–and it’ll work whether Sampson’s asleep in his berth, or fifteen miles away, or killed on the bridge. He doesn’t have to worry, he knows his trap will work–he ought to, he set it.”
Keating shrugged his shoulders, tolerantly.
“Oh, I see that side of it,” he assented. “I see all there is in it for YOU, the sort of stuff you write, Sunday-special stuff, but there’s no NEWS in it. I’m not paid to write mail-letters, and I’m not down here to interview palm-trees either.”
“Why, you old fraud!” laughed Channing. “You know you’re having the time of your life here. You’re the pet of Kingston society–you know you are. I only wish I were half as popular. I don’t seem to belong, do I? I guess it’s my clothes. That English Colonel at Kingston always scowls at me as though he’d like to put me in irons, and whenever I meet our Consul he sees something very peculiar on the horizon-line.”
Keating frowned for a moment in silence, and then coughed, consciously.
“Channing,” he began, uncomfortably, “you ought to brace up.”
“Brace up?” asked Channing.
“Well, it isn’t fair to the rest of us,” protested Keating, launching into his grievance. “There’s only a few of us here, and we–we think you ought to see that and not give the crowd a bad name. All the other correspondents have some regard for–for their position and for the paper, but you loaf around here looking like an old tramp–like any old beach-comber, and it queers the rest of us. Why, those English artillerymen at the Club asked me about you, and when I told them you were a New York correspondent they made all sorts of jokes about American newspapers, and what could I say?”