We're glad the reading public have discovered archive.org during the pandemic lockdown. We'll even put up with slower searches. While looking for something else entirely (isn't that always the way?), we ran across this charming Canadian literary magazine from 1904, called The Blue Jay. We don't make fun of the Canadians nearly enough, we think: they might feel left out. So here's a short story with snarky footnotes.

A Mere Incident, by Julia Truitt Bishop¹

Officer O'Flynn, whose beat took in the park and too many outlying squares, found his soul troubled within him because of the submerged tenth² who came and sat on the park benches when his back was turned, in full view of the palaces of the rich.

'The town's that full o' dirty hoboes³ ,' he grumbled in bitterness of spirit, that they sets down in de park like lords, an' de grass is wore off all roun' the benches wid de big feet o' them. An' when they see me comin' they take a walk, an' the minute I'm gone there they are back ag'in, settin' there like Jay Gould⁴ hisself. If I had my way they'd be run out o' town to-night, bad luck to 'em – an' me gettin' raked over de coals all de time for not keepin' de tramps out o' de park⁵.'

And, then, going with a reserved and dignified gait along his beat, and glancing back as he went, he had the mortification to see the Jay Goulds of the park benches lounging aimlessly in from the adjacent streets as though it had just occurred to them that here was a park where one might spend a pleasant half-hour away from the noon heat. For no matter what means might be used by the powers that were, the hoboes were never run out of town.

Different parts of the park were under the tacit control of different groups. Wandering Bill Wiggins held his crew spellbound on and about the bench near the fountain, where he told
them stories of the road and of men and women; for he had seen manv lands. Farther down, toward the end of the park, were Dave and his coterie, who smoked and talked and watched the gay world⁶ riding or driving by, and made sage reflections on life and prosperity, and the people who had temporarily managed to
get 'on top.'

'This ain't a good seat, Dave – it's too sunny,' one of the contingent remarked one day when the sun was at its best. 'Let's go an' rout Bill's gang away from that fountain. They didn't
have no call to rush in there an' git the bes' place, before we foun' out what we wanted – blame pigs⁷!'

'This place suits me,' said Dave, lying back on the bench and staring at the network of blue through the leaves overhead. 'You don't know when you're well off. If this ain't good enough
for any hobo on earth, he ought' to go to the pen⁸. Carpe diem, Roadsy – which is Latin for 'Take the goods the gods provide.'⁹ '

After that his name was changed to ' Latin.'

'You don't appreciate your privileges,' he moralized, gravely, one day, as he trimmed the fringes from his coat sleeve with his knife. ''Here we are facing a row of houses where live the truly elegant. Out in the world they wouldn't recognize our existence, Roadsy – except perhaps to stare at us haughtily and ask the policeman why he didn't make those people move on. Here, we have orchestra seats for every performance. They come to the window, and we look at them, and see how they are dressed, and note the easy elegance of their white hands on the curtain. They come out for a drive, and we mentally appraise the value of their horses and carriages and estimate about what they pay the coachman. Next to being rich oneself this is perhaps the greatest pleasure life gives. The world, Roadsy, is made up of two classes; those who are rich, and those who acquire brain fag¹⁰ computing how much the rich spend on foolishness. And when these people come out for a walk, we are the privileged class who sit here at our ease and see them trip lightly down the steps, and itemize their frocks and shoes and gloves and parasols, as though we were a Sunday paper. In the evening they sit in the porch, with all of us in our orchestra chairs looking on; or perhaps they entertain, and we see the halls – the halls of festal joy, and fond memory brings the light of other days around us. You are ignorant, Roadsy. You don't know when you are in Paradise.'

''Is that what you set here the whole bloomin day fur?' asked Roadsy in deep disgust. ' Just set here to watch blokes wid money havin' a good time! You're gittin' awful tony all to onct, Latin.''

'The result of association,' said Latin, with a smile. 'When I am on the park bench, opposite Rome, I instinctively do as Rome does. And when I am out on the road with you, Roadsy, and with Tike and Sam, there, I do as you all do – which is why the officer who is just coming around that corner regards me as a hobo.'

They arose with great promptness and strolled casually away in different directions; and Officer O'Flynn swore to himself at the mark of the feet that were wearing off the park grass.

When they strolled back again, a few minutes later, Roadsy had matured a grievance; and proclaimed it grumblingly.

'Talk about we all makin' hoboes o' you,' he said; ''you wa'n't any bloomin' gentleman when we fust seen ye, as I knows on. It wasn't us that made ye drink like a fish, was it? You'd larned that 'fore ever we seen ye. Well, then! What ye got to say about that?'

'Not a word, Roadsy,' said Latin, placidly, staring absently at the house across the way. ''Not a word. You are a philosopher, Roadsy – besides having a good memory. Be sure to make that consoling statement when you write my obituary: 'He was his own worst enemy.' is a gentler way of putting it than 'He drank like a fish.' – and is more soothing to the survivors.'

'Blame!'' was the sole remark of Roadsy.

'Now, for instance,' murmured Latin, without taking his eyes from the door of the house across the way, 'it is the hour for the afternoon drive. The coachman is at the door with the
neat and unpretentious surrey – a very modest equipage, I have noticed – and in a little while the lady will come forth and go for her daily drive.'

Latin was holding a match to the cigarette between his teeth, but as his eyes were still fastened on the opposite house, and as his hand trembled with the nervousness of the road and of that which had brought him there, the match was nowhere near the cigarette.

'Them folks is real swell nabobs¹¹,'' said Roadsy, appreciatively. ' When them winders is open you can see marble statoos an' things – an' books to burn. One night I seen that woman' cryin' or prayin' or somethin', wuth her face ag'in a little marble statoo wuth wings an' a bow 'n' arrer.'

'Oh, Cupid, Cupid – that it should come to this!'' said Latin, absently. The match had burned out, and he threw it away.

'There she comes,' said Roadsy, idly. 'Fust time I ever seen 'er face good. Gee whiz!'

The woman stepped into the surrey. and then remembered something, and sent the coachman after it. While he was gone she sat holding the reins and looking away down the street. Even at the distance of the park bench one could note that she did not see the street, nor anything within the line of physical vision. She was looking at something very, very far away.

Perhaps it was the look on her face that made Latin take off his hat. With a hurried glance, Roadsy followed his example. It was so distinctly foolish that he feigned to be looking for something in the crown of it, which he failed to find. And thus it was that for the moment he missed what was coming.

Around the curve of the park came an automobile, its bell clanging, and swept close by the side of the surrey. The startled horses made a spring to one side in terror. and the reins held so
loosely were snatched from the woman's hands.

The surrey ran on two wheels as the horses turned and fled; but it righted itself and shot within a hair's breadth of a city cart maundering around the roadway. The woman sat still, holding to the stanchions, but making no outcry, and with no added whiteness in the face that was already white.

'This is the end,' she whispered to herself, and smiled.

Looking neither to the right nor to the left, she could not see the flying figure taking a short-cut across the curve, and just catching to the back of the surrey. She was sensible, presently, that
someone was climbing in. over the back of the seat, and over the driver's seat, and out on to the pole, with a hand on the horse's back on either side. At the end of the pole he did something – she did not know what – but the horses were checked. And then she saw him go down.

Other people were there, then – crowds and crowds of them, snatching at the bits and jerking the trembling horses to a stand-still, but they had been there soon enough to prevent the last few starts and plunges. Everybody knew beforehand how it must be with the man they dragged out from under the horses' feet.

'Ring for the ambulance!' shouted half a dozen at once, and dispersed hither and thither, sickened and pallid. But the woman in the surrey was down in the crowd, pushing them aside.

'Wait!' she cried. 'Wait! This man will be taken to my home.'

And then they paused, while she bent over him and lifted the coat someone had thrown over his face.

Those who heard it will never forget. It was like the hurt cry of a child, except that a woman's heartbreak had crept into it. She was on her knees, for a moment, down in the dust of the road.

'Paul!' she cried. 'Paul!'

That was all. Then she stood up, and looked into the faces around her – workmen, boys, millionaires and hoboes unutterable.

'Gentlemen,' she said, quietly, 'will some of you take – my husband – home to my house?'

The face she had uncovered had one eye left, and it glittered upon them with expression.

'Strange !' he said, with rattling utterance, 'how getting frightened plays people out. Never saw her before, give you my word. Just a tramp, gentlemen – nothing but a tramp.'

And as they lifted him tenderly, even while he waved a jovial hand at Roadsy, agonizing on the outskirts of the crowd, the tramp went out on the long trail – the out trail – the trail that is always new.

And that, folks, is how you wrote thrilling fiction in 1904. Not a dry eye in the house.

For extra credit, count the number of stereotypes you found.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

13.04.20 Front Page

Back Issue Page