Life, 1929-02-22 · page 9 of 36
Life — February 22, 1929 — page 9: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a short story rather than a political cartoon. The illustration shows two men in colonial dress listening to a third man's account of tropical misadventure. The narrative concerns a man named Pentwhisile who, while stationed in the tropical colonies, became an alcoholic ("the Tropics get a man, Canthrop"). The story traces his degradation through drink and involvement with native women, culminating in his suicide by gunshot in a swamp. The tale appears to satirize British colonial life—particularly the dangers of alcoholism, racial attitudes toward indigenous populations (referred to by period-appropriate slurs), and the moral corruption supposedly inherent to tropical postings. It's a cautionary narrative about colonial excess and its consequences.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Life Short Stories of Life Little Fan-Tail, A Tragedy of the Tropics By Heman Fay, Jr. E sat on the dark verandah of \ \ ) Bumshaw’s bungalow, listening to the sinister plop of alligators in the tropic blackness beyond 5 “Filthy country!” Bumshaw remarked. “Lousy,” I agreed, taking a brandy stuggle. “The Tropics,” Bumshaw murmured, “they get a man, Canthrop! The langor- ous nights, the brandy stuggle, the fever, the native women.....” He pulled himself together with an audible swish. “Hi—boy!” he called, in the native tongue, “1 wee doche an doris!” Obediently, O'Kelly, his native servant, glided in bringing fresh liquor... A tiger came around the end of the go-down and carried off a native woman. “That sort of thing happens every night,” Bumshaw told me. “Queer—the women don’t seem to mind... .” “Women have no moral sense,” I agreed. Bumshaw mixed up a double whiskey | snaffle; he pulled himself together, then let himself go again and I could hear buttons falling on the verandah. . Did I ever tell you,” he said at last, why I stay in this Hell? It’s an amusing tale. Ha-ha-hal” He laughed terribly, Swallowing brandy baggles with great rapidity. “I came out in ’24 to take the Place of poor old Pentwhistle who was going Home. He was in bad shape; the Tropics, you know. They get a man, Can- throp—the fungus, the black goo of the marshes, the tsetse flies, the native women. They got poor old Pentwhistle.... He shot himself in the end... .Went into the go-down, taking an air-rifle and mutter- ing something about a Aippo that had been nosing about the notions counter. Filthy brutes, Aippos. 1, fool that I was, didn’t follow him. I was new to the Tropics—I sat soaking in their poisonous lure: the hot darkness, the brandy sozzle, the bong-bong of the tom-toms, the native women—” Bumshaw swallowed a rum sniffle. “Next morning, Canthrop, a native woman told me Pentwhistle had shot himself. ‘Sahib stick um gun in um ear,’ she cooed, ‘He fa-down and go BOOM!’ Of course I knew right away what had happened....Poor chap! I re- member thinking he'd have made a fourth at bridge if we had had two other chaps; but there were no white men nearer than Bung-Tap, forty miles away, so of course—. But this native woman, Canthrop—she was beautiful! Pass me the gin woggle, there’s a good chap. I called her Little Fan-Tail; if you'd seen the way she walked you'd have under- stood. She looked at me with her wonder- ful eyes; then she said, ‘Sahib like um lil native gel?’...Canthrop, I hope you may never suffer as I did—my indiges- tion, you know—” He reached for a bottle of usquebaugh (native liquor) and diluted it with a little kerosene. Bum- shaw was disintegrating before my very eyes and I shuddered with pity; he had always sung such an appealing tenor. Out in the fever-ridden swamp, a bull- elephant chirped. “It was about that time,” he continued, “that old Fatti-Tooma, chief of the Hill Tribes, ate the missonary—name was Jenkinson, frightfully snooty beggar. If a chap’s a swine, Canthrop, it comes out, in the Tropics. The cruel sun, you know, the insects, the native women—. .. Pass me the rum fizzle, there’s a good fellow. Well, old Fatti-Tooma took a liking to Jenkinson; said he was a nice chap, but a trifle stringy—.. Well. . that’s life out here in the Tropics. “What about Little Fan-Tail?” I asked. Bumshaw regarded me dully. “Oh, her. ..! Canthrop, that night she got a 'phone call from her aunt in Syra- cuse.. she left me, Canthrop. I... never saw Little Fan-Tail...again.. :..” He sobbed aloud. A cobra crawled out of his watch-pocket “That's the whole story,” he muttered sadly, flinging aside the filthy brute, “The Tropics.. get a man...in the end....!” He emptied all the bottles, mumbling: “I fa-down and go BOOM!” Somewhere in the thick tropic night a bull-alligator was whistling the chorus of “You're The Cream In My Coffee!”.... comicbooks.com