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Page 28
Trotter paused. I looked at his tattered clothes and at his deeply
sunburnt, hard, thoughtful face.
"Didn't Cartright ever offer to do anything for you?" I asked.
"Wainwright," corrected Trotter. "Yes, he offered me some pretty good
jobs. But I'd have bad to leave Aguas Frescas; so I didn't take any of
'em up. Say, I didn't tell you much about that girl--Timotea. We rather
hit it off together. She was as good as you find 'em anywhere--Spanish,
mostly, with just a twist of lemon-peel on top. What if they did live in
a grass hut and went bare-armed?
"A month ago," went on Trotter, "she went away. I don't know where to.
But--"
"You'd better come back to the States," I insisted. "I can promise you
positively that my brother will give you a position in cotton, sugar, or
sheetings--I am not certain which."
"I think she went back with her mother," said Trotter, "to the village
in the mountains that they come from. Tell me, what would this job you
speak of pay?"
"Why," said I, hesitating over commerce, "I should say fifty or a
hundred dollars a month--maybe two hundred."
"Ain't it funny," said Trotter, digging his toes in the sand, "what a
chump a man is when it comes to paddling his own canoe? I don't know. Of
course, I'm not making a living here. I'm on the bum. But--well, I wish
you could have seen that Timotea. Every man has his own weak spot."
The gig from the Andador was coming ashore to take out the captain,
purser, and myself, the lone passenger.
"I'll guarantee," said I confidently, "that my brother will pay you
seventy-five dollars a month."
"All right, then," said William Trotter. "I'll--"
But a soft voice called across the blazing sands. A girl, faintly
lemon-tinted, stood in the Calle Real and called. She was
bare-armed--but what of that?
"It's her!" said William Trotter, looking. "She's come back! I'm
obliged; but I can't take the job. Thanks, just the same. Ain't it funny
how we can't do nothing for ourselves, but we can do wonders for the
other fellow? You was about to get me with your financial proposition;
but we've all got our weak points. Timotea's mine. And, say!" Trotter
had turned to leave, but he retraced the step or two that he had taken.
"I like to have left you without saying good-bye," said he. "It kind of
rattles you when they go away unexpected for a month and come back the
same way. Shake hands. So long! Say, do you remember them gunshots we
heard a while ago up at the cuartel? Well, I knew what they was, but I
didn't mention it. It was Clifford Wainwright being shot by a squad of
soldiers against a stone wall for giving away secrets of state to that
Nicamala republic Oh, yes, it was rum that did it. He backslided and got
his. I guess we all have our weak points, and can't do much toward
helping ourselves. Mine's waiting for me. I'd have liked to have that
job with your brother, but--we've all got our weak points. So long!"
IV
A big black Carib carried me on his back through the surf to the ship's
boat. On the way the purser handed me a letter that he had brought for
me at the last moment from the post-office in Aguas Frescas. It was from
my brother. He requested me to meet him at the St. Charles Hotel in New
Orleans and accept a position with his house--in either cotton, sugar,
or sheetings, and with five thousand dollars a year as my salary.
When I arrived at the Crescent City I hurried away--far away from the
St. Charles to a dim chambre garnie in Bienville Street. And there,
looking down from my attic window from time to time at the old, yellow,
absinthe house across the street, I wrote this story to buy my bread and
butter.
"Can thim that helps others help thimselves?"
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