OF A PRONOUNCED CHANGE OF SCENE—OF A DARING GAME OF CHANCE AMID TROPICAL SCENTS—AND OF THE GLOATING OF CHARLES WALNUT AND HERMAN BLISTER
SCENE II of this emotional cross-section of national life is laid on the outskirts of the thriving town of Porgy Inlet, Florida. One year has elapsed between Scenes I and II. The month is January. A soft breeze rustles the palm-fronds and sets the waters of the near-by inlet to lapping soothingly against the shore. Electric lights are hung at intervals between the palms and the moss-hung live oaks; and beneath them are parked automobiles of all sizes and shapes. Some of the automobiles are bloated and swollen out of all semblance to an automobile; while others are obviously automobiles, but have spouted great tent-like wens at the side or rear. The license plates on these automobiles show that they come all the way from Maine, from Ohio, from Dakota, from Massachusetts. Indiana is heavily represented, as are Michigan and Illinois, to say nothing of Minnesota, Rhode Island, New Jersey, New York, Oregon, Connecticut, Washington, Vermont and a number of other states.
Around a folding camp-table beneath one of the largest and mossiest live oaks sit Mr. and Mrs. Charles Walnut of East Rockpile and Mr. and Mrs. Herman Blister of Tackhammer, Michigan. Mr. Walnut, as has been stated, is a contractor and builder. Mr. Blister’s business or calling is that of corn-farmer. The Walnuts and the Blisters are in the act of finishing up an exciting game of hearts. “My gorry,” declares Mr. Walnut as he slaps down his last card with great violence on Mr. Blister’s lead, “my gorry, I certainly thought I was going to get stuck with that queen of spades!” He figures hastily on the back of an envelope. “You folks owe us seven cents,” he announces eventually. Mr. Blister sighs deeply, removes a shiny black wallet from his trousers pocket and wrenches seven cents from it reluctantly.
Mrs. Walnut waves a wisp of Spanish moss reprovingly at a mosquito that is dancing gaily in front of her nose. “Now, Charles,” says she dreamily, “if you’re going up the inlet after yellowtails at sun-up to-morrow, we’ve got to be getting to bed. You know the last time you sat up late, it made you nervous and you lost forty cents pitching horseshoes.”
From the water’s edge sounds the tinkle of a mandolin; a distant quartet toys successfully with Mandy Lee in spite of the fact that the tenor is decidedly sour; a baby in a near-by automobile awakes to the woes of its new life with a series of shrill and wheezy bleats; the balmy air is rich with the mingled scent of jasmine, orange peel, salt water and talcum powder.
“All right, Emma,” says Mr. Walnut, pocketing his seven cents and stretching his arms comfortably. “I think mebbe if I get a good sleep, I might catch me enough red snappers for a mess.”
Mrs. Walnut precedes him into the khaki tent which is attached to the side of their small automobile like a giant fungus, and as Mr. Walnut raises the flap to follow her, he looks back at Mr. and Mrs. Blister and bursts into hoarse laughter. “Say, Herm!” he bawls pleasantly. Mr. Blister halts expectantly. “Back home,” says Mr. Walnut, jerking his head over his left shoulder, “back home they’re fixing the furnace and hoping the pipes won’t freeze.”
“Haw, haw, haw!” replies Mr. Blister with evident enjoyment.
“My gorry!” ejaculates Mr. Walnut by way of expressing combined disgust for and despair of the human race. And the tent-flap falls behind him as he joins Mrs. Walnut.