Adventure, January 20, 1922 — page 183: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Camp-Fire a saintly stick until at a certain stage the sounds cease, when the gang falls to and devours it. HE second movement then begins. |The motif is more humble but more deadly, for during a long, slow, monotonous dirge the undertones of the drums carry the suggestion of concentration. With their eyes glued to the spot where the food was, the worshipers begin to move—a slow solemn shrugging. Soon this movement grows into spasmodic hops, which then develop into a serpentine dance. The ritual is now sung. ’ By that time, I suppose, the eaten food begins to ferment the spirits and supernatural qualities so fondly imagined, because an added luster and vigor come to all. The drummers bend mad efforts to their instruments while perspiration streams from them. The old hag lifts her voice to a diabolical screeching. ‘The dancers assimilate the excitement and lend themselves to autosuggestion. Then, when they have aroused themselves to the proper dergee of hypersensitiveness, they begin to see the little tin gods numbered among those present. Some one extinguishes the morgue lights and the fight is on. The rhythm of the dancers breaks; they jump, hop, lunge, roll about, fall headlong into fits, stamp through the fire-brands, rub the burning embers over their bodies. They scream and rave. They groan with the madness of seven devils. Then when the flesh can stand no more, the remaining conscious ones fall exhausted, and the dance i is voted a huge success. A real dance, high up in the mountains and un- witnessed by unbelievers, partakes of human sacri- fices. They still do it. AY-DAY is one of festivities here. All are be- decked. Feasts, dog-fights, and _ board-bill collecting are the main events. Unheralded, a real man-scrap often breaks out. But the old boarding- house mistress trying to collect a past debt fur- nishes the constant sport. She, on the whole, is quite a real person and an expert at throwing the club. A man will retreat before her onslaught like the mist before the morning—he simply fades away, to the amusement of the villagers. At night the modern game of craps is introduced. And the uproar is terrible. Dogs get underfoot, strange women wander about, spicy smells of sweets and putrid food befog the air. High laughter and bantering are flung to all corners. Then the jazz band begins to tune up for the 48-hour dance. The band consists of five instruments—a goat-hide tom-tom, a tambour, a three-note bamboo flute, a groaning ‘machine and a gourd notched and grooved é like a file. (Over those creasings is passed a bit of steel, and the resulting sound is like sandpaper vamping. It’s a real jazz instrument.) The flutist, by the aid of the three notes, produces “Tipperary” in quite excellent style, as you may imagine. And other technic displayed is superb. To the strains of the exquisite music the bullies desert the gamblers and wend their way to shuffle, shamble and shimmy. By the whites of their eyes, the width of their smiles, their swaying and swingings you may witness their joy as the delicious tones grate upon the bedlam of dog howls. The fluter will flute, the tommer will tom, and the groaner will burst forth at unexpected intervals with a curdling groan, while the rasping gourd puts the jazz into the air. 18! And the dancing. Heavens bless us! What a movement of rapture, what ecstasy of motion! Folks, truly, we are still in the dark ages of the terpsichorean art, for while we are dallying on the verge of the naughty shimmy and other promising steps, here are those motions and wiggles. me FEW days ago I was doing some estimating about six kilometers from the camp. At noon as I was lunching upon a box of crackers, word was brought to me that my presence was required a short distance on, where the Dominicans and Haitians were fighting. When I learned that a real scrap was going on, I grew interested and so, tucking my machete under one arm and munching the crackers, I proceeded to the scene of action. A sudden turn brought me slam into the neatest scrimmage this side of no man’s land. And believe me when I say that a fool rushes in where an angel fears to tread, because I strolled into a mélée of rocks, whirling clubs and slashing machetes, raging men and women, clawing and scratching, clubbing and slashing, and flying about like a swarm of mad hornets, crazy mad with hate. One of my assistants clinched with a Haitian and tried to secure his enemy’s weapon. That woke me to the fact that as my body-guard was into the fight and I was a stranger in their midst I was liable. I aroused me to action, still eating the crackers. Stepping grandly upon a stump and arranging my garments of dignity, I gave vent, several vents, to loud and crackling words of !!?—!!—. The box of crackers was too much for them. One valiant child saw, and ceased his strivings for mur- der. To witness, in midst of their fighting, a cer- tain amount of crackers being calmly consumed was beyond their grasp. Thus, at the psychological moment, my box of crackers became the cynosure of the combatants. And instantly, as I realized the value of my strategical position, I assumed command and waved the heroes to opposite side. Between them I flung my machete point down into the earth as a moral deadline. With this royal scepter before me and munching the dry bits of flour, I held court of appeals. Kaiser Bill was not more regal, Woodrow was not more eloquent, and Blackstone not more legal. My comments upon their equal bravery was tactful to a degree. My logic that to kill one another when there was work to be done and that some one else would collect their wages was a point of distinction. And thus in a moment I bade them bind up their wounds, pick up the fallen and peace be unto them. Can you imagine my feeling of importance when I learned that the cause of this brawl was but a little minnow not over two inches in length that had been stolen? And further, can not you sense my indignation when but a few moments ago word was brought into camp that at the other and upper camp the same bullies and a few chosen friends were settling scores? It seems that my remedy was not a cure, because Cecilia, the queen of the camp, has just been brought i in, unconscious. -And as each new courier comes in for medical treatment the tale is added to. They are having a glorious, gory time. The maimed and vanquished that dribble in are met and con- soled by their friends, who wish that they also had been invited. But Cecilia, that Amazon, that bully and beater- up of man, has met her Waterloo, COMMICLOOOkKS Her fatal beauty (C@