# Tom Beauling/Chapter 16

ON a space of level green lawn, roped off from a rainbow crowd,—Hindus, Malays, Burmese, Parsees, Jews, Chinamen, and white men, civilians and soldiers,—teams representing the "Black" McKenzies and the Cawnpore "Larrups" were fairly busy playing a match of football. Great excitement prevailed for the tropics, because in half an hour's play one of the Larrups had been butted in the stomach by one of the McKenzies and knocked down. People spoke in awed whispers of that "fiend incarnate, Burdock" of the McKenzies. His supporters gave him a regular ovation. One man, who in his time had seen Yale play Princeton, was not particularly impressed. Indeed, he paid no attention to the game whatever, but went shouldering through the crowd in search of a weak ​individual whom his intimates called Tibbs.
Beauling was in a bad temper. He had had the misfortune to sprain his wrist while crossing to Port Said, and it was not yet whole. In the canal, a tramp from Australia way had broken a hawser, swung out of her siding, grounded fore and aft across the channel, and held up navigation for two days. The run down the Red Sea had been a record-breaker—for heat. The wind had blown in such a way as to neutralize the draft from the steamer's speed and create a motionless blast-furnace atmosphere for her passengers. To make matters still more trying, he ran out of collars, and there was no starch on board. To Beauling, who was in the habit of saying, "When in doubt, change your clothes," this state of affairs was simply ghastly. Furthermore, an English lady whom he had met steamer-wise—she was going out to join her husband in Ceylon—had had the bad taste to fall in love with him and make a scene. The passage along the line be​tween Colombo and Singapore was made in a small ship, fairly groaning with passengers—Beauling said they were packed like bananas in the bunch—and threatened to end on a mud-bank off the dismal city of Penang. At Singapore his first inquiry after the delinquent Tibbs had met with an enraging reply. "Tibbs? Oh, yes, he's here—heard of him the other night at the Lascelles'; wasn't there myself; don't go out much, you know; heard he got it up the nose—hurt some young lady's feelings."
"Where will I find him?"
"Most likely at the foot-ball—McKenzies and Larrups, y' know—playin' off a tie or somethin'."
"All right—and much obliged."
Beauling looked this way and that over the heads of the crowd.
"If I'd run across a case of penitence and contrition," he said, "I'd know what to do; but to find he isn't penitent and contrite, but as cocky as if he had done something to be proud of, getting drunk at a mixed liarty and playing the ​fool—I—I—I believe I'll pick him tip by the neck and kick him till I feel better."
Almost immediately he came on the object of his search—a little, stout man in white flannels, smoking a long, thick cheroot. The little, stout man held himself importantly, and blew out the smoke by way of a little crooked nose that turned up at the end. The scarf around his helmet was positively garish, likewise his flowing cravat. A broad leathern belt held up his trousers snugly, and made you distinctly aware that the girth of what he was pleased to call his waist was greater than that of his chest Beauling's anger melted at the sight of the good-natured and odious little man.
"Hallo there!" he said.
"Why, it's you!" said Tibbs. "Well met! Boys, here's Beauling—Tom Beauling."
He extended a pudgy little hand, which Beauling squeezed to some purpose.
"Ouch—ouch!" said Tibbs. "My dear boy—my dear boy—" and he looked sadly at the afficted member, which had ​suddenly become deep red and bloodless white in irregular splotches.
"Did you get my cable?" said Beauling.
Tibbs wriggled.
"Well, you know," he began—"you see, didn't think it called for 'n answer. Was going to come, anyway."
"What!" said Beauling, in amazement.
"All a mistake," said Tibbs; "funniest thing in the world; but here—can't talk here; too much crowd—tired of standing up, very. Come to my rooms; got comfortable quarters; give you a good drink."
They went to Tibbs's rooms. He had a whole second floor and two servants.
"You're pretty comfortable for an absconder," said Beauling, severely.
"Ugly word, that," said Tibbs; "but funny that you should use it under the circumstances, very funny—all a mistake, you know. Oh, by the way, cable from Ellen this morning—Jack out of danger—all well."
​"Then I will take a drink," said Beauling.
Tibbs called a servant, and spoke to him impressively.
"To Ellen and Jack," said Beauling.
"I'll drink that toast," said Tibbs, warmly.
"Well?" said Beauling.
Tibbs set down his glass, empty.
"All be grateful to me some day," he said. "Must tell you, Beauling—in confidence, you understand—funniest thing ever. Margins did it—held some damned American securities, God bless 'em—more 'n I could carry—small margin, very. Went down and down—only point to go—half a point—ruin staring me in the face. Broker 'phoned for instructions. Should he hold on? Could I put up more margin? I couldn't—hadn't a cent in the world. But what did I do—flunk? No. I said, 'What goes down must go up.' 'Phoned my brokers, 'Hold on till hell freezes over!' Awful thing to do—ruined, anyway—thought might 's well be disgraced too. Securities down ​another point—broker demanding margin—awful moment—flunked and ran—couldn't face Ellen—thought of suicide—came out here. Awful state of mind—distracted—lay awake nights! Hu! funniest thing ever! Said to a man at the club one day, 'Got hard hit when So-and-so went to 39.' Man looked at me 's if he thought I was lying. 'So-and-so never did go to 39,' says he. 'Never went below 39½—had a lot myself—know what I'm talking about—and it only stayed there a minute,' says he. 'What!' I said, 'what?' ''Way up now,' says he. I hadn't followed market at all—hadn't looked at the papers—hadn't felt like it. 'How high?' said I. 'About 107,' says he. Made me feel creepy all over. Seemed some damned American millionaire—God bless him—named Dunbar— What's the matter?" Beauling had jumped at the name.
"Nothing," he said.
"And another one," Tibbs continued, "named Wareing"—Beauling laughed aloud—"got hold of the damned thing ​an' said, 'Hey diddle-diddle,' an' up she went."
Tibbs positively smirked.
"Had one chance left—cabled the brokers, 'Sell So-and-so at market'; was all right if hadn't sold out on me at 39½. Answer came next day, 'Sold so many shares So-and-so at 112.' Felt little 'shamed at first, Beauling—you can understand that, can't you? Then felt better—big drunk, three days—all right now; booked passage Monday on Leda—off to Ellen—glorious reunion—wife made happy—boy all right—devoted father, rich's hell. Awful rich now, Beauling."
Beauling lay back in his chair like a frigate in a calm. All the wind had been taken out of all his sails.
"Tibbs," he said at length, "I've a great mind to give you a thrashing. I think it would do us both a world of good. Just because you were a dishonest little coward and ran away, your wife nearly died of heart-break and your boy of typhoid. Just because you were too foot​less to answer a cable, I've come sixteen thousand miles out of my way, and I had something a lot better to do than hunting up miserable little hounds of husbands for people—sprained my wrist, been without clean collars for ten days, crowded like a pig in a hot ship, and only to be told that I needn't have come, that you were going back anyway, and—and—"
"Awf'ly glad to see you, you know," said Tibbs.
Beauling arose.
"Tibbs," he said, "that remark was unfortunate. And I'm going to make you remember it as long as you live. I'm glad that your dishonest speculation has turned out well—I'm ashamed to say that I am glad. But it is for Ellen's sake and for Jack's—not yours. I'm glad that you are going back too, because, God knows why, they seem to love you and want you. And right there my gladness stops. If you had been a decent man when you married, and not a worthless, good-natured little drunkard, you would have given your son, who has got ​a mind like an express-train, a healthy body and a chance to set the world on fire. That's the chief score I've got against you. He's the dearest, winningest, cleverest, bravest little man in the world; and just because his father was a drunken, self—pampered little sot, he's got to suffer all his short life, and go out like a candle. I forgive you for bringing me out here. I forgive you for deserting your wife. I forgive you for being a coward and running away, and for being dishonest and making a fortune. But I can't forgive you for Jack."
"Awf'ly severe," said Tibbs, with downcast eyes—"awf'ly."
"Stand up," said Beauling.
Tibbs arose. Beauling took him by the shoulders and turned him around.
"I'm very much bigger and stronger than you," said Beauling, "and I shall never take much pride in what I am going to do—hold still!"
"What you going do, Beauling?" said Tibbs, uneasily.
"Tibbs," said Beauling, "I'm going ​to give myself the personal satisfaction of kicking you just once as hard as I can."
Tibbs rose, not ungracefully, a few inches from the floor and sailed rapidly into the wall at the further end of the room.
"There!" said Beauling.
"Oh, my nose—my nose!" wailed Tibbs. It had been smashed against the wall, and was bleeding swiftly.
"Put a brass door-key down the back of your neck," said Beauling, "and I dare say it will stop."
Tibbs choked down a sob.
"And then," said Beauling, sweetly, "we can go around to the club and get some tea."