The local Astors put me and Fergus up at the Centipede Club, a frame building built on posts sunk in the surf. The tides only nine inches. The Little Big High Low Jack-in-the-game of the town came around and kowtowed. Oh, it wasnt to Herr Mees. They had heard about Judson Tate.
One afternoon me and Fergus McMahan was sitting on the seaward gallery of the Centipede, drinking iced rum and talking.
Judson, says Fergus, theres an angel in Oratama.
So long, says I, as it aint Gabriel, why talk as if you had heard a trump blow?
Its the Señorita Anabela Zamora, says Fergus. Shes shes shes as lovely as as hell!
Bravo! says I, laughing heartily. You have a true lovers eloquence to paint the beauties of your inamorata. You remind me, says I, of Fausts wooing of Marguerite that is, if he wooed her after he went down the trap-door of the stage.
Judson, says Fergus, you know you are as beautiless as a rhinoceros. You cant have any interest in women. Im awfully gone in Miss Anabela. And thats why Im telling you.
Oh, seguramente[193], says I. I know I have a front elevation like an Aztec[194] god that guards a buried treasure that never did exist in Jefferson County, Yucatan[195]. But there are compensations. For instance, I am It in this country as far as the eye can reach, and then a few perches and poles. And again, says I, when I engage people in a set-to of oral, vocal, and laryngeal utterances, I do not usually confine my side of the argument to what may be likened to a cheap phonographic reproduction of the ravings of a jellyfish.
Oh, I know, says Fergus, amiable, that Im not handy at small talk. Or large, either. Thats why Im telling you. I want you to help me.
How can I do it? I asked.
I have subsidized, says Fergus, the services of Señorita Anabelas duenna, whose name is Francesca. You have a reputation in this country, Judson, says Fergus, of being a great man and a hero.
I have, says I. And I deserve it.
And I, says Fergus, am the best-looking man between the Arctic circle and Antarctic ice pack.
With limitations, says I, as to physiognomy and geography, I freely concede you to be.
Between the two of us, says Fergus, we ought to land the Señorita Anabela Zamora. The lady, as you know, is of an old Spanish family, and further than looking at her driving in the family carruaje[196] of afternoons around the plaza, or catching a glimpse of her through a barred window of evenings, she is as unapproachable as a star.
Land her for which one of us? says I.
For me of course, says Fergus. Youve never seen her. Now, Ive had Francesca point me out to her as being you on several occasions. When she sees me on the plaza, she thinks shes looking at Don Judson Tate, the greatest hero, statesman, and romantic figure in the country. With your reputation and my looks combined in one man, how can she resist him? Shes heard all about your thrilling history, of course. And shes seen me. Can any woman want more? asks Fergus McMahan.
Can she do with less? I ask. How can we separate our mutual attractions, and how shall we apportion the proceeds?
Then Fergus tells me his scheme.
The house of the alcalde, Don Luis Zamora, he says, has a patio, of course a kind of inner courtyard opening from the street. In an angle of it is his daughters window as dark a place as you could find. And what do you think he wants me to do? Why, knowing my freedom, charm, and skilfulness of tongue, he proposes that I go into the patio at midnight, when the hobgoblin face of me cannot be seen, and make love to her for him for the pretty man that she has seen on the plaza, thinking him to be Don Judson Tate.
Why shouldnt I do it for him for my friend, Fergus McMahan? For him to ask me was a compliment an acknowledgment of his own shortcomings.
You little, lily white, fine-haired, highly polished piece of dumb sculpture, says I, Ill help you. Make your arrangements and get me in the dark outside her window and my stream of conversation opened up with the moonlight tremolo stop turned on, and shes yours.
Keep your face hid, Jud, says Fergus. For heavens sake, keep your face hid. Im a friend of yours in all kinds of sentiment, but this is a business deal. If I could talk I wouldnt ask you. But seeing me and listening to you I dont see why she cant be landed.
By you? says I.
By me, says Fergus.
Well, Fergus and the duenna, Francesca, attended to the details. And one night they fetched me a long black cloak with a high collar, and led me to the house at midnight. I stood by the window in the patio until I heard a voice as soft and sweet as an angels whisper on the other side of the bars. I could see only a faint, white clad shape inside; and, true to Fergus, I pulled the collar of my cloak high up, for it was July in the wet seasons, and the nights were chilly. And, smothering a laugh as I thought of the tongue-tied Fergus, I began to talk.
Well, sir, I talked an hour at the Señorita Anabela. I say at because it was not with. Now and then she would say: Oh, Señor, or Now, aint you foolin? or I know you dont mean that, and such things as women will when they are being rightly courted. Both of us knew English and Spanish; so in two languages I tried to win the heart of the lady for my friend Fergus. But for the bars to the window I could have done it in one. At the end of the hour she dismissed me and gave me a big, red rose. I handed it over to Fergus when I got home.