The first American King

For a long minute they stood there, facing each other, undecided and perplexed, bewildered by the strangeness of the situation. Kearns spoke first.

“The end of our trouble lies there,” he exclaimed, pointing to the village. “I’m hungry, thirsty and tired. Come!”

“I agree with you,” answered the Professor. “Let us push on, by all means.”

In spite of heat and fatigue another half-hour found them on the outskirts of the village. As they approached they were passed several times by vehicles leaving the village and proceeding along the road at a high rate of speed. The occupants of most of these vehicles scanned the wayfarers with eager curiosity.

Reaching the village, the first thing to attract their attention was the peculiar construction of its streets. The sidewalks on either side of what appeared to be the principal street were moving sidewalks and the roadway, where the vehicles passed up and down, was depressed to a depth some twenty feet below the level of the sidewalks. At all the street crossings were bridges connecting the sidewalks on either side of the way.

“Well, I’m blessed!” exclaimed Kearns. “I had no idea there was such a town as this in these parts, or anywhere else, for that matter!”

“It certainly seems to be a model place,” declared the Professor. “Just look, what a splendid system of separating the vehicles from pedestrians.”

“If such a system could be adopted in the city, it would annually save many lives now lost in street accidents,” remarked Kearns.

The second house before them was a comfortable inn, with a low, wide porch, holding a number of tables where sat men drinking.

“I am really very thirsty,” said the Professor. “Let us refresh ourselves here before going further. Shall we take a table on the porch?”

“No,” suggested Kearns, “let’s go inside. We’ll probably get quicker service.”

They ascended the two steps, crossed the porch and entered what appeared to be the bar-room. It was spacious, with tables and chairs on either side of the entrance and with a long bar facing the door. Behind the bar stood a white-jacketed bartender.

“What will you have?” inquired Kearns, as they reached the bar.

“A long drink of Rhine wine and seltzer,” answered the Professor.

Kearns turned to the bartender.

“A long drink of Rhine wine and seltzer and a high ball.”

“A long drink of Rhine wine and seltzer and a——?”

“High ball.”

“High ball? Never heard of it,” the bartender said thoughtfully.

“What!” exclaimed Kearns. “Never heard of a high ball? It’s the most popular drink in the country.”

“That’s likely, isn’t it?” answered the bartender, with some scorn. “I’ve worked in a good many places in New York and I never heard of it.”

“Never heard of it!” cried Kearns. “Why, man, the head barkeeper of the Waldorf-Astoria told me a couple of weeks—that is—ah—a couple of months ago—that they sold over two hundred high balls a day.”

“The Waldorf-Astoria,” repeated the bartender, shortly; “what’s that?”

Kearns could only gasp in astonishment.

“The Waldorf-Astoria,” repeated the bartender meditatively; “oh, yes! I think I remember now. Isn’t that the big restorang and commercial lodging-house ’way down below Forty-second Street somewhere? Sure, I remember, now. I couldn’t tell you what they may sell in a place like that. I’ve always worked in first-class places. How did you say that drink is made?”

“Simply a little whiskey and a long dash of seltzer,” said Kearns, wearily.

“Oh!” answered the bartender airily; “that’s a Marquanna—called after the famous Marquis Marquanna.”

“Call it what you like,” said Kearns testily, “but serve it up; I’m parched with thirst. Give me Hunter whiskey.”

“What whiskey?”

“Hunter.”

“Never heard of it!”

“Great Scott!” cried Kearns. “What have you, then?”

“What brands? Why, we have both.”

“Both? How do you call them?”

“Imperial Court and Consolidated Trust.”

“Never heard of either of them,” retorted Kearns, maliciously. “However, give me either one; only hurry.”

The bartender produced a long-necked bottle of Rhine wine and a peculiar wicker-covered bottle of seltzer. The whiskey he measured out and poured into a tall glass. Then he added the seltzer.

Both the wayfarers emptied their glasses in one long, greedy draught.

“That really went down well!” remarked the Professor as he laid aside his glass.

“So well,” replied Kearns, “that I think we might venture once again. What say you, Professor?”

“I rarely—” began the Professor.

“Fill them up again,” ordered Kearns of the bartender.

At this moment there was a commotion at the other end of the bar-room which attracted general attention. Ranged against the wall were three strange looking machines, remotely suggestive of barber chairs. There was a man seated in each of two of the machines, which, with a gentle whirr of wheels, were in operation. They were automatic shaving machines, operated by depositing a coin in the slot.

The commotion which had been caused grew out of the fact that one of the machines had apparently become disordered, which resulted in the occupant of its chair receiving a slight gash upon one side of his chin. The person thus mutilated was furious. He sprang from the chair and, seizing his walking stick, began furiously belaboring the machine.

“The Chinese pest seize (whack! whack!) this confounded, infernal machine (whack! whack!) it’s gone and cut me nearly clean through to the teeth (whack! whack! whack!) I’ll——”

“Hi! Hold on there!” yelled the man in the adjoining machine. “You’re shaking this automat of mine, sir, so that it’s trembling all over; just at the moment, too, when the knife’s over my gullet.”

“I don’t care!” howled back the man with the stick. “I’ve been cut and I’ll never stop until I’ve smashed this infernal thing into bits.” And he banged away at the machine.

“Stop, I say!” yelled the other man, with bulging eyes, “I can feel the knife entering my skin. If I’m cut, I’m liable to get the erysipelas. By heaven, sir, if you make this automat cut me, I’ll have your blood!”

The bartender, scenting a tragedy, ran from behind the bar and succeeded finally in pacifying the man with the stick.

“It isn’t often those machines get out of order,” said the bartender as he returned to his post, “but when they do, it’s apt to make customers mad.”

“They are automatic shaving machines, I see,” remarked Kearns.

“Yes; and a mighty handy and ingenious invention they are,” answered the bartender. “You drop a dime in the slot and you get a light or close shave, as you may desire, and your photograph thrown in at the end of the operation. Did you ever try them?”

“No.”

“Then you ought to,” urged the bartender.

“Never!” said Kearns with decision. “I find it bad enough to have my nose tweaked and my face bedaubed by a human, but never will I trust my life to any confounded machine of this character. By the way, you may serve up those drinks I ordered.”

“Same?” inquired the bartender.

“Yes; that was pretty good whiskey,” said Kearns. “What did you say was the brand?”

“Imperial Court.”

“And the other brand you have?”

“Consolidated Trust.”

“Well,” exclaimed Kearns, “I must say I don’t like your names. I am equally opposed to Imperialism and to Trusts. Between the two evils, I don’t know which to choose. However, as I have tried the Imperial brand, this time I’ll go in for the Trust.”

The bartender gave the speaker a quick, sharp glance. Then he winked warningly and rolled his eyes in the direction of one of the tables at which two men were seated. These two men were intently watching Kearns and his companion, and as the former turned, following the direction of the bartender’s glance, both men hastily looked away and assumed an air of listless indifference. One of the men was small, with a blond mustache, blue eyes and a squint. His companion was tall, thin and dark. In the meantime, the bartender was preparing the drinks ordered.

He served these and, their first thirst somewhat appeased, the travelers this time put down the glasses only half emptied. Kearns laid a fifty-cent piece on the counter in payment. The bartender picked it up and eyed it curiously. Then he laid it carefully away, not in the cash drawer, but among some small glasses on one of the shelves of the bar.

“Let us have some cigars,” suggested the Professor.

“Good idea!” exclaimed Kearns, turning to the bartender; “cigars, if you please.”

His voice was pitched somewhat higher than usual and his face was slightly flushed. It was as if the two drinks he had taken had gone a bit to his head. Curious that a six weeks’ abstinence should make a man so susceptible!

“What kind of a town is this, anyway,” said he to the barkeeper, in a tone of banter, “where you don’t keep any of the popular brands of whiskey and where I don’t see a campaign banner, though the election is coming!”

“Election!” repeated the barkeeper blankly.

“Election is what I said,” repeated Kearns with emphasis. “Which way does this town go—Democratic or Republican?”

The bartender stared first at the speaker and then turned an uneasy eye toward the two men at the table.

“We are loyal here—loyal!” he stammered at last.

“Loyal!” cried Kearns, flushing, “loyal to what? The existing administration, I suppose you mean?”

“Yes; to the—to the—existing administration,” stammered the barkeeper confusedly.

At this point Dean interposed, with some show of warmth.

“Then,” he cried, “I feel sorry for your intelligence, for there was never a bigger nest of corruptionists and oppressors of the people than the existing administration!”

As these words were uttered there was a murmur and a strange commotion in the place. The man with the squint left the table and quickly passed out. His companion rose and placed himself at the door, as if to check any attempt at exit. The bartender turned pale as one of his clouts behind the bar.

“Hush,” he whispered, apprehensively; “hush! You will get yourselves into trouble and the house will lose its license.”

“A pretty state of things,” retorted the Professor, “when a free American citizen cannot speak his mind openly. I say it, and I don’t care who hears me, that I am opposed to Corruption, Imperialism and Trusts!”

“GO!” cried the barkeeper, with the air of a man wrought by his fears to a pitch of rage. “Out you go, I say! You can’t talk that way in here!”

“All right!” interposed Kearns, apparently much amused at the warmth displayed; “this gentleman has told you his views and we’ll now take our cigars, and go.”

“No! no!” cried the bartender, hastily removing the cigar boxes; “go now—quick!”

But at this instant there was a sound of feet at the entrance and the little man with the squint reappeared, accompanied by a gorgeous creature in uniform and cocked hat. The two stepped up to Kearns and the Professor, while the dark man still maintained his position at the door.

“Come!” said the man in uniform curtly.

“Why—what do you mean?” exclaimed Kearns.

“You are under arrest—both!” said the man with the squint.

“Arrest!” exclaimed the Professor excitedly.

“Arrest!” cried Kearns angrily. “Why, what the devil do you mean, sir? I am Thomas Kearns, of New York, and I’ll make it precious hot for you if you attempt any pleasantries with me!”

The little man regarded the speaker with an evil and contemptuous leer.

“I don’t care who you be,” he said. “I arrest you both.”

“For what?” interposed the Professor.

“Sedition,” said the little man.

“Sedition!” cried Kearns, with a guffaw; “sedition, eh? And by what authority, pray?”

The squint in the man’s eyes became more pronounced. He made a signal to his companion at the door. The man in uniform laid his hand upon the Professor’s arm.

“By what authority?” again demanded Kearns.

The man threw back his coat and displayed a resplendent badge. Then came the answer to Kearns’ question:

“In the name of the King!”