NOT many days ago my old friend from the tropics, J.P.Bridger, United States consul on the island of Ratona, was in the city.We had wassail and jubilee and saw the Flatiron building, and missed seeing the Bronxless menagerie by about a couple of nights.And then, at the ebb tide, we were walking up a street that parallels and parodies Broadway.
A woman with a comely and mundane countenance passed us, holding in leash a wheezing, vicious, waddling, brute of a yellow pug.The dog entangled himself with Bridger's legs and mumbled his ankles in a snarling, peevish, sulky bite.Bridger, with a happy smile, kicked the breath out of the brute; the woman showered us with a quick rain of well-conceived adjectives that left us in no doubt as to our place in her opinion, and we passed on.Ten yards farther an old woman with dis-ordered white hair and her bankbook tucked well hidden beneath her tattered shawl begged.Bridger stopped and disinterred for her a quarter from his holiday waist-coat.
On the next corner a quarter of a ton of well-clothed man with a rice-powdered, fat, white jowl, stood holding the chain of a devil-born bulldog whose forelegs were strangers by the length of a dachshund.A little woman in a last-season's hat confronted him and wept, which was plainly all she could do, while he cursed her in low sweet, practised tones.
Bridger smiled again -- strictly to himself -- and this time he took out a little memorandum book and made a note of it.This he had no right to do without due explanation, and I said so.
"It's a new theory," said Bridger, "that I picked up down in Ratona.I've been gathering support for it as Iknock about.The world isn't ripe for it yet, but -- well I'll tell you; and then you run your mind back along the people you've known and see what you make of it."And so I cornered Bridger in a place where they have artificial palms and wine; and he told me the story which is here in my words and on his responsibility.
One afternoon at three o'clock, on the island of Ratona, a boy raced alongthe beach screaming, "Pajaro, ahoy!"Thus he made known the keenness of his hearing and the justice of his discrimination in pitch.
He who first heard and made oral proclamation con-cerning the toot of an approaching steamer's whistle, and correctly named the steamer, was a small hero in Ratona -until the' next steamer came.Wherefore, there was rivalry among the barefoot youth of Ratona, and many fell victims to the softly blown conch shells of sloops which, as they enter harbour, sound surprisingly like a distant steamer's signal.And some could name you the vessel when its call, in your duller ears, sounded no louder than the sigh of the wind through the branches of the cocoa-nut palms.
But to-day he who proclaimed the Pajaro gained his honours.Ratona bent its ear to listen; and soon the deep-tongued blast grew louder and nearer, and at length Ratona saw above the line of palms on the low "joint"the two black funnels of the fruiter slowly creeping toward the mouth of the harbour.
You must know that Ratona is an island twenty miles off the south of a South American republic.It is a port of that republic; and it sleeps sweetly in a smiling sea, toiling not nor spinning; fed by the abundant tropics where all things "ripen, cease and fall toward the grave."Eight hundred people dream life away in a green-embowered village that follows the horseshoe curve of its bijou harbour.They are mostly Spanish and Indian mestizos, with a shading of San Domingo Negroes, a lightening of pure-blood Spanish officials and a slight leavening of the froth of three or four pioneering white races.No steamers touch at Ratona save the fruit steamers which take on their banana inspectors there on their way to the coast.They leave Sunday newspapers, ice, quinine, bacon, watermelons and vaccine matter at the island and that is about all the touch Ratona gets with the world.
The Pajaro paused at the mouth of the harbour, roll ing heavily in the swell that sent the whitecaps racing beyond the smooth water inside.Already two dories from the village -- one conveying fruit inspectors, the other going for what it could get -- were halfway out to the steamer.
The inspectors' dory was taken on board with them, and the Pajaro steamed away for the mainland for its load of fruit.
The other boat returned to Ratona bearing a contri-bution from the Pajaro's store of ice, the usual roll of newspapers and one passenger -- Taylor Plunkett, sheriff of Chatham County, Kentucky.
Bridger, the United States consul at Ratona, was clean-ing his rifle in the official shanty under a bread-fruit tree twenty yards from the water of the harbour.The consul occupied a place somewhat near the tail of his political party's procession.The music of the band wagon sounded very faintly to him in the distance.The plums of office went to others.Bridger's share of the spoils --the consulship at Ratona -- was little more than a prune -- a dried prune from the boarding-house department of the public crib.But $900 yearly was opulence in Ratona.Besides, Bridger had contracted a passion for shooting alligators in the lagoons near his consulate, and was not unhappy.
He looked up from a careful inspection of his rifle lock a broad man filling his doorway.A broad, noiseless, slow-moving man, sunburned almost to the Vandyke.A man of forty-five, neatly clothed in homespun, with scanty light hair, a close-clipped brown-and-gray beard and pale-blue eyes expressing mildness implicity.
"You are Mr.Bridger, the consul," said the broad man."They directed me here.Can you tell me what those big bunches of things like gourds are in those trees that look like feather dusters along the edge of the water?""Take that chair," said the consul, reoiling his clean-ing rag."No, the other one -- that bamboo thing won't hold you.Why, they're cocoanuts -- green cocoanuts.
