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Page 9
Then there was a little silence in the castle except for the spluttering
of a venison steak that the Kiowa was cooking.
"Sam," said old man Ellison, stroking his white whiskers with a tremulous
hand, "would you mind getting the guitar and playing that '_Huile, huile,
palomita_' piece once or twice? It always seems to be kind of soothing
and comforting when a man's tired and fagged out."
There is no more to be said, except that the title of the story is wrong.
It should have been called "The Last of the Barons." There never will be
an end to the troubadours; and now and then it does seem that the jingle
of their guitars will drown the sound of the muffled blows of the pickaxes
and trip hammers of all the Workers in the world.
II THE SLEUTHS
In The Big City a man will disappear with the suddenness and completeness
of the flame of a candle that is blown out. All the agencies of
inquisition -- the hounds of the trail, the sleuths of the city's
labyrinths, the closet detectives of theory and induction -- will be
invoked to the search. Most often the man's face will be seen no more.
Sometimes he will reappear in Sheboygan or in the wilds of Terre Haute,
calling himself one of the synonyms of "Smith," and without memory of
events up to a certain time, including his grocer's bill. Sometimes it
will be found, after dragging the rivers, and polling the restaurants to
see if he may be waiting for a well-done sirloin, that he has moved next
door.
This snuffing out of a human being like the erasure of a chalk man from a
blackboard is one of the most impressive themes in dramaturgy.
The case of Mary Snyder, in point, should not be without interest.
A man of middle age, of the name of Meeks, came from the West to New York
to find his sister, Mrs. Mary Snyder, a widow, aged fifty-two, who had
been living for a year in a tenement house in a crowded neighbourhood.
At her address he was told that Mary Snyder had moved away longer than a
month before. No one could tell him her new address.
On coming out Mr. Meeks addressed a policeman who was standing on the
corner, and explained his dilemma.
"My sister is very poor," he said, "and I am anxious to find her. I have
recently made quite a lot of money in a lead mine, and I want her to share
my prosperity. There is no use in advertising her, because she cannot
read."
The policeman pulled his moustache and looked so thoughtful and mighty
that Meeks could almost feel the joyful tears of his sister Mary dropping
upon his bright blue tie.
"You go down in the Canal Street neighbourhood," said the policeman, "and
get a job drivin' the biggest dray you can find. There's old women always
gettin' knocked over by drays down there. You might see 'er among 'em.
If you don't want to do that you better go 'round to headquarters and get
'em to put a fly cop onto the dame."
At police headquarters, Meeks received ready assistance. A general alarm
was sent out, and copies of a photograph of Mary Snyder that her brother
had were distributed among the stations. In Mulberry Street the chief
assigned Detective Mullins to the case.
The detective took Meeks aside and said:
"This is not a very difficult case to unravel. Shave off your whiskers,
fill your pockets with good cigars, and meet me in the cafe of the Waldorf
at three o'clock this afternoon."
Meeks obeyed. He found Mullins there. They had a bottle of wine, while
the detective asked questions concerning the missing woman.
"Now," said Mullins, "New York is a big city, but we've got the detective
business systematized. There are two ways we can go about finding your
sister. We will try one of 'em first. You say she's fifty-two?"
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