The Three Traveling Bags
There were three of them, all of shining black, one on top of the pile of trunks, one on the ground and one in the owner’s hand, all going to Philadelphia, all waiting to be checked.
The last bell rang. The baggage man bustled, fuming from one pile of baggage to another, dispensing chalk to trunks, checks to passengers, and curses to porters in approved railway style.
“Mine—Philadelphia,” cried a stout military looking man with enormous whiskers and a red face, crowding forward as the baggage man laid his hand on the traveling bag.
“Won’t you please give me a check for this, now!” entreated a pale, slender, carefully dressed young man for the ninth time, holding out bag No. 2; “I have a lady to look after.”
“Say! Be you going to give me a check for this, now!” growled the proprietor of bag No. 3, a short, pock-marked fellow in a shabby overcoat.
“All right, gentlemen. Here you are,” says the functionary, rapidly distributing the checks.
“Philadelphia, this?”
“Yes, sir—1097—1740—1020. All right.”
“All aboard!” shouted the conductor. And the train went moving slowly out of the station.
The baggage man meditatively watched it as it sped away in the distance, and then, as if a thought suddenly struck him, slapped his thigh and exclaimed:
“Blest if I don’t believe—”
“What?” inquired the switchman.
“That I’ve gone and gave the three last fellows the wrong checks. The cussed little black fellows were all alike and they bothered me.”
“Telegraph!”
“Never you mind,” said the baggage man. “They was all going to Philadelphia. They will find it out when they get there.”
And they did.
The scene shifts to the Continental hotel, Philadelphia. Front parlor upstairs. Occupants, the young man alluded to as No. 2, and a young lady. In accordance with the fast usages of time, the two had been made one in matrimony at 7.20 a.m., duly kissed and congratulated till 8.15, put aboard the express at 8.45, and deposited, bag and baggage, at the continental, at 11:58.
They were seated on the sofa, the black broadcloth coat sleeve encircled the slender waist of the gray traveling dress, and the jetty moustache in equally affectionate proximity to the glossy curls.
“Are you tired, dearest?”
“No, love, not much. But you are, aren’t you?”
“No, darling.”
Kiss, and a pause.
“Don’t it seem funny?” said the lady.
“What, love?”
“That we should be married.”
“Yes, darling.”
“Won’t they be glad to see us at George’s?”
“Of course they will.”
“I’m sure I shall enjoy it so much. Shall we get there to-night?”
“Yes, love, if—”
Rap, rap, rap, at the door.
A hasty separation took place between the man and his wife to opposite ends of the sofa; then, “Come in.”
“And ye please, sur, it’s an M. P. is waiting to see yez.”
“To see me—a policeman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There must be some mistake.”
“No, sure, it’s yourself, and he’s waiting in the hall beyant.”
“Well, I’ll go—no, tell him to come here.”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” said the M. P., with a large brass star on his breast, appearing with great alacrity at the waiter’s elbow. “I believe this is your black valise?”
“Yes, it is ours, certainly. It is Julia’s; the lady’s things are in it.”
“Suspicious circumstances about that valise, sir. Telegraph came this morning that a burglar started on the 8.45 Philadelphia train with a lot of silver spoons in a black valise. Spoons marked T. B. Watched at the ferry. Follow it up here. Took a peep inside. Sure enough there were spoons marked T. B. too. Said it was yours. Shall have to take you in charge.”
“Take me in charge!” echoed the bridegroom. “But I assure you, dear sir, there is some mistake—it’s all a mistake.”
“S’pose you’ll be able to account for the spoons in your valise, then?”
“Why—I—it isn’t mine; it must be somebody else’s; somebody has put them in here; it is some villainous conspiracy.”
“Hope you’ll be able to tell a straighter story before the magistrate, young man; because if you don’t you stand a smart chance of being sent up for six months.”
“O, Charles! this is horrid. Do send him away! O, dear! I wish I was home,” sobbed the little bride.
“I tell you, sir,” said the bridegroom, bristling up with indignation, “this is a vile plot. What would I be doing with your paltry spoons? I was married this morning in Fifth Avenue, and I am on my wedding tour. I have high relations in New York. You’ll repent if you dare arrest me.”
“O come now,” said the incredulous official. “I’ve heard stories like that before. This ain’t the first time swindlers have traveled in couples. Do you s’pose that I don’t know nothin’? T’aint no use: you have just got to come to the station house. Might as well go peaceably, ’cause you have to go.”
“Charles, this is perfectly dreadful! Our wedding night in the station house! Do send for some one. Send for the landlord to explain it.”
The landlord was sent for and came; the waiters and chambermaids and barroom loungers came without being sent for, and filled the room and adjoining hall—some to laugh, and some to say they wouldn’t have believed it, but nearly all to exult that the pair had been “found out.” No explanation could be given, and the upshot was, in spite of tears, threats, rage and expostulations, the unfortunate newly-wed pair were taken in charge by the relentless police and marched down stairs en route to the police station.
And here let the curtain drop on the melancholy scene, while we follow the fortunes of the black valise No. 2.
When the train stopped at Camden, four gentlemen got off and walked arm-in-arm, rapidly and silently, up one of the by-streets, and struck off into a footpath leading into a secluded grove outside of the town. Of the first two one was our military friend in a blue coat, apparently the leader of the party. Of the second two, one was carrying a black valise. Their respective companions walked with hasty irregular strides, were abstracted, and apparently ill at ease.
The party stopped.
“This is the place,” said Captain Jones.
“Yes,” said Doctor Smith.
The captain and the doctor conferred together. The other two studiously kept apart.
“Very well. I’ll measure the ground, and do you place your man.”
It was done.
“Now for the pistols,” whispered the captain to his fellow second.
“They are all ready in the valise,” replied the doctor.
The principals were placed ten paces apart and wore that decidedly uncomfortable air of a man has who is in momentary expectation of being shot dead.
“You will fire, gentlemen, simultaneously, when I give the word,” said the captain. Then in an undertone to the doctor:
“Quick, the pistols.”
The doctor stooping over and fumbling at the valise, appearing to discover something which surprised him.
“Why, what the devil—”
“What’s the matter?” asked the captain, striding up. “Can’t you find the caps?”
“Deuce a pistol or cap but this.”
He held up—a lady’s nightcap.
“Look here—and here!” holding up, successively, a hair brush, a long white nightgown, a cologne bottle and a hair comb.
They were greeted with a long, loud whistle by the captain, and a black stare by the principals.
“Confound the luck,” ejaculated the captain; “if we haven’t made a mistake, and brought the wrong valise.”
The principals looked at the seconds. The seconds looked at the principals. Nobody volunteered a suggestion.
At last the doctor inquired: “Well what is to be done?”
“D—d unlucky!” again ejaculated the captain; “the duel can’t go on.”
“Evidently not,” responded the doctor, “unless they brain each other with the hair brush, or take a pop at each other with the cologne bottle.”
“You are quite sure there are no pistols in the valise?” said one of the principals with a suppressed eagerness, and drawing a long breath of evident relief.
“We must go over to the city and get the pistols,” proposed the captain.
“And by that time it will be dark,” said the captain.
“Very unlucky.”
“We shall be the laughing stock of the town,” consolingly remarked the doctor, “if this gets wind.”
“One word with you, doctor,” here interposed the principal.
They conferred.
At the end of the conference with his principal the doctor advanced to the captain and conferred with him. Then the captain conferred with the principal. Then the seconds conferred with each other.
Finally, it was formally agreed between the contending parties that a statement would be drawn up in writing, whereby principal No.1 tendered the assurance that the offensive words—“You are a liar”—were not used by him in any personal sense, but solely in an abstract proposition, in a general way, in regard to the matter of fact under dispute. To which principal No. 2 appended his statement of his high gratification at this candid and honorable explanation and unqualifiedly withdrew the offensive words—“You are a scoundrel”—they having been used by him under misapprehension of the intent and purpose of the remark with which he had preceded them. There being no longer a cause for a quarrel, the duel was of course ended. The principals shook hands, first with each other, then with the seconds, and were evidently very glad to get out of it.
“And now that it’s so happily settled,” said the doctor, chuckling and rubbing his hands, “it proves to have been a lucky mistake after all, that we brought the wrong valise. Wonder what the lady who owns it will say when she opens it and sees the pistols.”
“Very well for you to laugh about,” growled the captain, “but it’s no joke for me to lose my pistols. Hair triggers—best English make, and gold-mounted. There ain’t a finer pair of shooters in America.”
“Oh, we’ll find them! We will go on a pilgrimage from house to house, asking if any lady there has lost her nightcap and found a pair of dueling pistols.”
In very good spirits the party crossed the river, and inquired at the baggage-room in reference to each and all black leather traveling bags that arrived that day—took notes of where they were sent, and set out to follow them up. In due time they reached the Continental, and, as luck would have it, met the unhappy bridal pair just coming down stairs in charge of the detective.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” inquired the captain.
“Oh, a couple of burglars caught with a valise of stolen property.”
“A valise!—what kind of valise?”
“A black leather valise. That is there.”
“Here! Stop! Halloo! Police! Landlord! It’s all right! You are all wrong. It’s all a mistake. The lady and gentleman are innocent. Here is their valise, with her nightcap in it.”
Great was the laughter, multifarious the comments, and deep the interest of the crowd in all this dialogue, which they appeared to regard as a delightful entertainment got up expressly for their amusement.
“Then you say this here thing is yours?” said the detective, relaxing his hold upon the bridegroom and confronting the captain.
“Yes, it is mine.”
“And how did you come by these spoons?”
“Spoons, you jackanapes!” said the captain, “dueling pistols.”
“Do you call these dueling pistols?” said the policeman, holding up to view one of the silver spoons marked T. B.
The captain, astonished, gasped, “It is the wrong valise again, after all.”
“Stop, not so fast,” said the police functionary, now invested with great dignity by the importance of the affair he found himself engaged in. “If so be how you’ve got the lady’s valise, she is all right, and can go. But in that case this is yours and it comes on you to account for them as stolen spoons. Have to take you in charge, all four of ye.”
“Why, you impudent scoundrel,” roared the captain; “I wish I had my pistols here; I’d teach you to insult a gentleman!” shaking his fist.
This dispute waxed fast and furious. The outsiders began to take part in it, and there is no telling how it would have ended, had not an explosion, followed by a heavy fall and a scream of pain, been heard in the adjoining room. The crowd rushed to the scene of the new attraction.
The door was fast. It was soon burst open and the mystery explained. The thief who had carried off the captain’s valise by mistake for his own, had taken it up to his room and opened it to gloat over the contents he supposed it to contain, thrusting his hand in after the spoons. In doing so, the pistol had gone off making a round hole in the side of the valise, and a corresponding wound in the calf of his leg.
The wounded rascal was taken in charge first by the detective and then by the doctor; and the duelists and the wedding pair struck up a friendship on the ground of their mutual mishap, which culminated n a special supper where the fun was abundant, and where it would be hard to say which was in the best spirits—the captain, for recovering his pistols, the bride for getting her nightcap, the bridegroom for escaping the station house, or the duelists foe escaping each other. All resolved to mark that day with a white stone, and henceforth to mark their names on those traveling bags of black in white letters.