Argosy, Vol. 123, No. 2 — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

BONDS OF “ Charlot is more than marvelous. He is superb. Two horses, four, six—it makes no difference. His mastery of the reins is magnificent. Only let me warn you, my dear Alphonse, for so I may call you as a comrade, his talents must be rewarded mu- nificently if he is called upon to forsake art for the cart.” “You hear,” exclaimed Charlot. “ Might I ask if you have some plan which will put money in my pocket? Any other is out of my consideration.” “I perceive,” said the undertaker with a wry smile, ‘ that when it comes to driv- ing a hard bargain, you are an expert driv- er. Well, [am ina hole. I have a funeral to-morrow morning at six o’clock. One of my drivers has gone off on a spree, and I have found no one to fill his place. If you care to make five francs and your break- fast—”’ “ Breakfast!” cried Charlot. “ Say no more. I accept. Only six o’clock; that is a devil of an hour to be up at. Still I can do it for once. And you want me to drive a coach?” ' “ And pair. Yes. Only a short distance to. Montparnasse Cemetery. A first-class funeral, too. I would not think of asking you to make your début in the profession on any other occasion. I have the honor of superintending the interment of M. Anatole Souvestre.”’ “Why, I knew him,” ejaculated Char- lot. ‘I have been to his house several times. So the old boy is gone. What a pity! He was always kind to artists. He will be missed by his friends. Heaven! His house was always full of people eating his sandwiches, and guzzling down his wine. And not an heir to inherit his money. Too bad!”’ ‘Well, it is agreed, then, that you will come to the stable,” said M. Croquemort as he scribbled the address on his card. “* Here is where we shall meet at five-thirty. And now to part. Az revoir, M. Caparolle —pleased to be of service ay time. Az revoir, my friend.” When he had gone Caparolle whistled. ‘Well, you are fixed now, old boy.” ‘“ Not a word of this to Marcelle,” Char- lot begged. “There is quite a difference BOHEMIA. 207 between Pegasus and a funeral nag, and the less said about the matter the better. Five francs, eh. Well, at least we shall eat to-morrow, Caparolle.”’ They rose. M. Apollinaire took his dues, and the waiter the rest of their five francs, and penniless the brothers in mis- fortune returned to their lodging. Charlot spent a wretched night. He dreamed that he was required to blacken himself from head to foot and clad only in a plume of black feathers as headgear drive slowly up the Boul’ Mich’ amidst the jeers of his friends. Caparolle was sleeping like a blameless infant when the poet with many a groan dressed himself and stole forth to his ap- pointment. M. Croquemort was at hand at the sta- ble and invested him in an enormous great- coat and cocked hat before leading him to a near-by wine shop where the amateur coachman fortified himself against the raw morning air. set out, led by the well-dressed director. Very few of M. Souvestre’s friends were on hand, which was not surprising, consid- ering the hour, and Charlot was spared the shame of having to reveal himself to any one he knew. In fact, the coach which he drove had but one occupant, a sour-faced little man who carried a large portfolio and was half asleep. The cortége drove into the cemetery and the mourners descended, shivering. Charlot had just settled down to a snooze on the box of the coach when a raucous voice hailed him. “Hi, there. Rabbit face.” And looking down from his perch he saw a large and ferocious giant shaking an enormous fist at him. It occurred to Char- lot suddenly that contact with that ham- bone would be extremely fatal to his beauty, and he addressed a polite inquiry to the new arrival. “What’s the trouble, comrade?” “The trouble is that you are sitting on my seat, driving my coach. Don’t think T am going to let any grasshopper do me out of my job.” “You are drunk, my lad,” said Charlot reproachfully. NOOK A little later the procession - C@