The Remnants of the Code

by O. Henry

　　

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Breakfast in Coralio was at eleven. Therefore the people did not goto market early. The little wooden market-house stood on a patch ofshort-trimmed grass, under the vivid green foliage of a bread-fruittree.Thither one morning the venders leisurely convened, bringing theirwares with them. A porch or platform six feet wide encircled thebuilding, shaded from the mid-morning sun by the projecting, grass-thatched roof. Upon this platform the venders were wont to displaytheir goods--newly killed beef, fish, crabs, fruit of the country,cassava, eggs, ~dulces~ and high, tottering stacks of native tortillasas large around as the sombrero of a Spanish grandee.But on this morning they whose stations lay on the seaward sideof the market-house, instead of spreading their merchandise formedthemselves into a softly jabbering and gesticulating group. For thereupon their space of the platform was sprawled, asleep, the unbeautifulfigure of "Beelzebub" Blythe. He lay upon a ragged strip of cocoamatting, more than ever a fallen angel in appearance. His suit ofcoarse flax, soiled, bursting at the seams, crumpled into a thousanddiversified wrinkles and creases, inclosed him absurdly, like the garbof some effigy that had been stuffed in sport and thrown there afterindignity had been wrought upon it. But firmly upon the high bridgeof his nose reposed his gold-rimmed glasses, the surviving badge ofhis ancient glory.The sun's rays, reflecting quiveringly from the rippling sea upon hisface, and the voices of the market-men woke "Beelzebub" Blythe. Hesat up, blinking, and leaned his back against the wall of the market.Drawing a blighted silk handkerchief from his pocket, he assiduouslyrubbed and burnished his glasses. And while doing this he becameaware that his bedroom had been invaded, and that polite brown andyellow men were beseeching him to vacate in favor of their marketstuff.If the senor would have the goodness--a thousand pardons for bringingto him molestation--but soon would come the ~compradores~ for theday's provisions--surely they had ten thousand regrets at disturbinghim!In this manner they expanded to him the intimation that he must clearout and cease to clog the wheels of trade.Blythe stepped from the platform with the air of a prince leavinghis canopied couch. He never quite lost that air, even at the lowestpoint of his fall. It is clear that the college of good breeding doesnot necessarily maintain a chair of morals within its walls.Blythe shook out his wry clothing, and moved slowly up the CalleGrande through the hot sand. He moved without a destination inhis mind. The little town was languidly stirring to its daily life.Golden-skinned babies tumbled over one another in the grass. The seabreeze brought him appetite, but nothing to satisfy it. ThroughoutCoralio were its morning odors--those from the heavily fragranttropical flowers and from the bread baking in the outdoor ovens ofclay and the pervading smoke of their fires. Where the smoke cleared,the crystal air, with some of the efficacy of faith, seemed to removethe mountains almost to the sea, bringing them so near that one mightcount the scarred glades on their wooded sides. The light-footedCaribs were swiftly gliding to their tasks at the waterside. Alreadyalong the bosky trails from the banana groves files of horses wereslowly moving, concealed, except for their nodding heads and ploddinglegs, by the bunches of green-golden fruit heaped upon their backs.On doorsills sat women combing their long, black hair and calling, oneto another, across the narrow thoroughfares. Peace reigned in Coralio--arid and bald peace; but still peace.On that bright morning when Nature seemed to be offering the lotuson the Dawn's golden platter "Beelzebub" Blythe had reached rockbottom. Further descent seemed impossible. That last night's slumberin a public place had done for him. As long as he had had a roofto cover him there had remained, unbridged, the space that separatesa gentleman from the beasts of the jungle and the fowls of the air.But now he was little more than a whimpering oyster led to be devouredon the sands of a Southern sea by the artful walrus, Circumstance,and the implacable carpenter, Fate.To Blythe money was now but a memory. He had drained his friendsof all that their good-fellowship had to offer; then he had squeezedthem to the last drop of their generosity; and at last, Aaron-like,he had smitten the rock of their hardening bosoms for the scattering,ignoble drops of Charity itself.He had exhausted his credit to the last real. With the minutekeenness of the shameless sponger he was aware of every source inCoralio from which a glass of rum, a meal or a piece of silver couldbe wheedled. Marshalling each such source in his mind, he consideredit with all the thoroughness and penetration that hunger and thirstlent him for the task. All his optimism failed to thresh a grain ofhope from the chaff of his postulations. He had played out the game.That one night in the open had shaken his nerves. Until then therehad been left to him at least a few grounds upon which he could basehis unblushing demands upon his neighbors' stores. Now he must beginstead of borrowing. The most brazen sophistry could not dignifyby the name of "loan" the coin contemptuously flung to a beachcomberwho slept on the bare boards of the public market.But on this morning no beggar would have more thankfully receiveda charitable coin, for the demon thirst had him by the throat--thedrunkard's matutinal thirst that requires to be slaked at each morningstation on the road to Tophet.Blythe walked slowly up the street, keeping a watchful eye for anymiracle that might drop manna upon him in his wilderness. As hepassed the popular eating house of Madama Vasquez, Madama's boarderswere just sitting down to freshly baked bread, ~aguacates~, pinesand delicious coffee that sent forth odorous guarantee of its qualityupon the breeze. Madama was serving; she turned her shy, stolid,melancholy gaze for a moment out the window; she saw Blythe, andher expression turned more shy and embarrassed. "Beelzebub" owedher twenty pesos. He bowed as he had once bowed to less embarrasseddames to whom he owed nothing, and passed on.Merchants and their clerks were throwing open the solid wooden doorsof their shops. Polite but cool were the glances they cast uponBlythe as he lounged tentatively by with the remains of his old jauntyair; for they were his creditors almost without exception.At the little fountain in the ~plaza~ he made an apology for a toiletwith his wetted handkerchief. Across the open square filed thedolorous line of friends to the prisoners in the calaboza, bearingthe morning meal of the immured. The food in their hands roused smalllonging in Blythe.It was drink that his soul craved, or money to buy it. In the streetshe met many with whom he had been friends and equals, and whosepatience and liberality he had gradually exhausted. Willard Geddieand Paula cantered past him with the coolest of nods, returning fromtheir daily horseback ride along the old Indian road. Keogh passedhim at another corner, whistling cheerfully and bearing a prize ofnewly laid eggs for the breakfast of himself and Clancy. The jovialscout of Fortune was one of Blythe's victims who had plunged his handoftenest into his pocket to aid him. But now it seemed that Keogh,too, had fortified himself against further invasions. His curtgreeting and the ominous light in his full, gray eye quickened thesteps of "Beelzebub," whom desperation had almost incited to attemptan additional "loan."Three drinking shops the forlorn one next visited in succession.In all of these his money, his credit and his welcome had long sincebeen spent; but Blythe felt that he would have fawned in the dust atthe feet of an enemy that morning for one draught of ~aguardiente~.In two of the ~pulperias~ his courageous petition for drink was metwith a refusal so polite that it stung worse than abuse. The thirdestablishment had acquired something of American methods; and herehe was seized bodily and cast out upon his hands and knees.This physical indignity caused a singular change in the man.As he picked himself up and walked away, an expression of absoluterelief came upon his features. The specious and conciliatorysmile that had been graven there was succeeded by a look of calmand sinister resolve. "Beelzebub" had been floundering in the seaof improbability, holding by a slender life-line to the respectableworld that had cast him overboard. He must have felt that with thisultimate shock the line had snapped, and have experienced the welcomeease of the drowning swimmer who has ceased to struggle.Blythe walked to the next corner and stood there while he brushedthe sand from his garments and repolished his glasses."I've got to do it--oh, I've got to do it," he told himself, aloud."If I had a quart of rum I believe I could stave it off yet--for alittle while. But there's no more rum for--'Beelzebub,' as they callme. By the flames of Tartarus! if I'm to sit at the right hand ofSatan somebody has got to pay the court expenses. You'll have to ponyup, Mr. Frank Goodwin. You're a good fellow; but a gentleman mustdraw the line at being kicked into the gutter. Blackmail isn't apretty word, but it's the next station on the road I'm travelling."With purpose in his steps Blythe now moved rapidly through the townby way of its landward environs. He passed through the squalidquarters of the improvident negroes and on beyond the picturesqueshacks of the poorer mestizos. From many points along his course hecould see, through the umbrageous glades, the house of Frank Goodwinon its wooded hill. And as he crossed the little bridge over thelagoon he saw the old Indian, Galvez, scrubbing at the wooden slabthat bore the name of Miraflores. Beyond the lagoon the lands ofGoodwin began to slope gently upward. A grassy road, shaded bya munificent and diverse array of tropical flora wound from the edgeof an outlying banana grove to the dwelling. Blythe took this roadwith long and purposeful strides.Goodwin was seated on his coolest gallery, dictating letters to hissecretary, a sallow and capable native youth. The household adheredto the American plan of breakfast; and that meal had been a thing ofthe past for the better part of an hour.The castaway walked to the steps, and flourished a hand."Good morning, Blythe, said Goodwin, looking up. "Come in and havea chair. Anything I can do for you?""I want to speak to you in private."Goodwin nodded at his secretary, who strolled out under a mango treeand lit a cigarette. Blythe took the chair that he had left vacant."I want some money," he began, doggedly."I'm sorry," said Goodwin, with equal directness, "but you can't haveany. You're drinking yourself to death, Blythe. Your friends havedone all they could to help you to brace up. You won't help yourself.There's no use furnishing you with money to ruin yourself with anylonger.""Dear man," said Blythe, tilting back his chair, "it isn't a questionof social economy now. It's past that. I like you, Goodwin; and I'vecome to stick a knife between your ribs. I was kicked out of Espada'ssaloon this morning; and Society owes me reparation for my woundedfeelings.""I didn't kick you out.""No--but in a general way you represent Society; and in a particularway you represent my last chance. I've had to come down to it, oldman--I tried to do it a month ago when Losada's man was here turningthings over; but I couldn't do it then. Now it's different. I wanta thousand dollars, Goodwin; and you'll have to give it to me.""Only last week," said Goodwin, with a smile, "a silver dollar wasall you were asking for.""An evidence," said Blythe, flippantly, "that I was still virtuous--though under heavy pressure. The wages of sin should be somethinghigher than a peso worth forty-eight cents. Let's talk business.I am the villain in the third act; and I must have my merited,if only temporary, triumph. I saw you collar the late president'svaliseful of boodle. Oh, I know it's blackmail; but I'm liberalabout the price. I know I'm a cheap villain--one of the regularsawmill-drama kind--but you're one of my particular friends, andI don't want to stick you hard.""Suppose you go into the details," suggested Goodwin, calmlyarranging his letters on the table."All right," said "Beelzebub." "I like the way you take it.I despise histrionics; so you will please prepare yourself forthe facts without any red fire, calcium or grace notes onthe saxophone."On the night that His Fly-by-night Excellency arrived in town I wasvery drunk. You will excuse the pride with which I state that fact;but it was quite a feat for me to attain that desirable state.Somebody had left a cot out under the orange trees in the yard ofMadama Ortiz's hotel. I stepped over the wall, laid down upon it,and fell asleep. I was awakened by an orange that dropped fromthe tree upon my nose; and I laid there for a while cursing Sir IsaacNewton, or whoever it was that invented gravitation, for not confininghis theory to apples."And then along came Mr. Miraflores and his true-love with thetreasury in a valise, and went into the hotel. Next you hove insight, and held a pow-wow with the tonsorial artist who insistedupon talking shop after hours. I tried to slumber again; but oncemore my rest was disturbed--this time by the noise of the popgunthat went off upstairs. Then that valise came crashing down intoan orange tree just above my head; and I arose from my couch, notknowing when it might begin to rain Saratoga trunks. When the armyand the constabulary began to arrive, with their medals anddecorations hastily pinned to their pajamas, and their snickersneesdrawn, I crawled into the welcome shadow of a banana plant. Iremained there for an hour, by which time the excitement and thepeople had cleared away. And then, my dear Goodwin--excuse me--I sawyou sneak back and pluck that ripe and juicy valise from the orangetree. I followed you, and saw you take it to your own house. Ahundred-thousand-dollar crop from one orange tree in a season aboutbreaks the record of the fruit-growing industry."Being a gentleman at that time, of course I never mentioned theincident to any one. But this morning I was kicked out of a saloon,my code of honor is all out at the elbows, and I'd sell my mother'sprayer-book for three fingers of ~aguardiente~. I'm not puttingon the screws hard. It ought to be worth a thousand to you for meto have slept on that cot through the whole business without wakingup and seeing anything."Goodwin opened two more letters, and made memoranda in pencil on them.Then he called "Manuel!" to his secretary, who came, spryly."The ~Ariel~--when does she sail?" asked Goodwin. "Senor," answeredthe youth, "at three this afternoon. She drops down-coast to PuntaSoledad to complete her cargo of fruit. From there she sails for NewOrleans without delay.""~Bueno!~" said Goodwin. "These letters may wait yet awhile."The secretary returned to his cigarette under the mango tree.In round numbers," said Goodwin, facing Blythe squarely, "how muchmoney do you owe in this town, not including the sums you have'borrowed' from me?""Five hundred--at a rough guess," answered Blythe, lightly."Go somewhere in the town and draw up a schedule of your debts," saidGoodwin. "Come back here in two hours, and I will send Manuel withthe money to pay them. I will also have a decent outfit of clothingready for you. You will sail on the ~Ariel~ at three. Manuel willaccompany you as far as the deck of the steamer. There he will handyou one thousand dollars in cash. I suppose that we needn't discusswhat you will be expected to do in return?""Oh, I understand," piped Blythe, cheerily. "I was asleep all thetime on the cot under Madama Ortiz's orange trees; and I shake offthe dust of Coralio forever. I'll play fair. No more of the lotusfor me. Your proposition is 0. K. Youre a good fellow, Goodwin; andI let you off light. I'll agree to everything. But in the meantime--I've a devil of a thirst on, old man--""Not a ~centavo~," said Goodwin, firmly, "until you are on board the~Ariel~. You would be drunk in thirty minutes if you had money now."But he noticed the blood-streaked eyeballs, the relaxed form andthe shaking hands of "Beelzebub"; and he stepped into the diningroom through the low window, and brought out a glass and a decanterof brandy."Take a bracer, anyway, before you go," he proposed, even as a manto the friend whom he entertains."Beelzebub" Blythe's eyes glistened at the sight of the solace forwhich his soul burned. Today for the first time his poisoned nerveshad been denied their steadying dose; and their retort was a mountingtorment. He grasped the decanter and rattled its crystal mouthagainst the glass in his trembling hand. He flushed the glass,and then stood erect, holding it aloft for an instant. For onefleeting moment he held his head above the drowning waves ofhis abyss. He nodded easily at Goodwin, raised his brimming glassand murmured a "health" that men had used in his ancient ParadiseLost. And then so suddenly that he spilled the brandy over his hand,he set down his glass, untasted."In two hours," his dry lips muttered to Goodwin, as he marched downthe steps and turned his face toward the town.In the edge of the cool banana grove "Beelzebub" halted, and snappedthe tongue of his belt buckle into another hole."I couldn't do it," he explained, feverishly, to the waving bananafronds. "I wanted to, but I couldn't. A gentleman can't drink withthe man that he blackmails."

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