Produced by Veronika Redfern, Suzanne Shell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
_The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon_
AND
_Other Humorous Tales_
_Richard Connell_
_The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon_
AND
_Other Humorous Tales_
BY
_Richard Connell_
_New York_ _Copyright, 1922, By George H. Doran Company_
_Copyright, 1922, by P. F. Collier & Son Co._ _Copyright, 1921, by The Century Co._ _Copyright, 1920, by Street and Smith Corporation_ _Copyright, 1921, by The McCall Company_ _Copyright, 1920, 1921, 1922, By the Curtis Publishing Company_
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO LOUISE FOX CONNELL
_My Wife Who Helped Me With These Stories_
CONTENTS
PAGE
I _The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon_ 11
II _Mr. Pottle and the South-Sea Cannibals_ 31
III _Mr. Pottle and Culture_ 51
IV _Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog_ 69
V _Mr. Pottle and Pageantry_ 101
VI _The Cage Man_ 127
VII _Where is the Tropic of Capricorn?_ 145
VIII _Mr. Braddy's Bottle_ 165
IX _Gretna Greenhorns_ 187
X _Terrible Epps_ 207
XI _Honor Among Sportsmen_ 239
XII _The $25,000 Jaw_ 263
I: _The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon_
Moistening the tip of his immaculate handkerchief, M. Alphonse MarieLouis Camille Pettipon deftly and daintily rubbed an almostimperceptible speck of dust from the mirror in Stateroom C 341 of theliner _Voltaire_ of the Paris-New York Steamship Company, and a littlesigh of happiness fluttered his double chins.
He set about his task of making up the berths in the stateroom with theair of a high priest performing a sacerdotal ritual. His big pink handsgently smoothed the crinkles from the linen pillow cases; the woolenblankets he arranged in neat, folded triangles and stood off to surveythe effect as an artist might. And, indeed, Monsieur Pettipon consideredhimself an artist.
To him the art of being a steward was just as estimable as the art ofbeing a poet; he was a Shelley of the dustpan; a Keats of the sheets. Tohim the making up of a berth in one of the cabins he tended was asonnet; an orange pip or burnt match on the floor was as intolerable asa false quantity. Few poets took as much pains with their pens as he didwith his whisk. He loved his work with a zeal almost fanatical.
Lowering himself to his plump knees, Monsieur Pettipon swept the floorwith a busy brush, humming the while a little Provence song:
_"My mama's at Paris, My papa's at Versailles, But me, I am here, Sleeping in the straw._
CHORUS:
_"Oo la la, Oo la la, Oo la, oo la, Oo la la."_
As he sang the series of "Oo la las" he kept time with strokes of hisbrush, one stroke to each "la," until a microscope could not havedetected the smallest crumb of foreign matter on the red carpet.
Then he hoisted himself wheezily to his feet and with critical eyeexamined the cabin. It was perfection. Once more he sighed the happylittle sigh of work well done; then he gathered up his brush, hisdustpan and his collection of little cleaning rags and entered thestateroom next door, where he expertly set about making things tidy toan accompaniment of "Oo la las."
Suddenly in the midst of a "la la," he broke off, and his wide browpuckered as an outward sign that some disquieting thought was stirringbeneath it. He was not going to be able to buy his little son Napoleon aviolin this trip either.
The look of contentment he usually wore while doing the work he lovedgave way to small furrows of worry. He was saying silently to himself:"Ah, Alphonse, old boy, this violin situation is getting serious. Yourlittle Napoleon is thirteen, and it is at that tender age that virtuososbegin to find themselves. And what is a virtuoso without a violin? Youshould be a steward of the first class, old turnip, where each trip youwould be tipped the price of a violin; on second-class tips one cannotbuy even mouth organs. Alas!"
Each trip now, for months, Monsieur Pettipon had said to his wife as heleft his tiny flat in the Rue Dauphine, "This time, Therese, I will havea millionaire. He will see with what care I smooth his sheets and pickthe banana skins from the floor, and he will say, 'This Pettipon is notsuch a bad lot. I will give him twenty dollars.' Or he will write to M.Victor Ronssoy about me, and Monsieur Ronssoy will order the captain toorder the chief steward to make me a steward of the first class, andthen, my dear, I will buy a violin the most wonderful for our littlecabbage."
To which the practical Therese would reply, "Millionaires do not travelsecond class."
And Monsieur Pettipon would smile hopefully and say "Who can tell?"although he knew perfectly well that she was right.
And Therese would pick a nonexistent hair from the worn collar of hiscoat and remark, "Oh, if you were only a steward of the first class, myAlphonse!"
"Patience, my dear Therese, patience," he would say, secretly glowing asmen do when their life ambition is touched on.
"Patience? Patience, indeed!" she would exclaim. "Have you not crossedon the _Voltaire_ a hundred and twenty-seven times? Has a speck of dustever been found in one of your cabins? You should have been promotedlong ago. You are being done a dirtiness, Monsieur Pettipon."
And he would march off to his ship, wagging his big head.
This trip, clearly, there was no millionaire. In C 341 was a youngpainter and his bride; his tip would be two dollars, and that would beenough, for was he not a fellow artist? In C 342 were two lingeriebuyers from New York; they would exact much service, give hints of muchreward and, unless Monsieur Pettipon looked sharp, would slip awaywithout tipping him at all. In C 343 were school-teachers, two to aberth; Monsieur Pettipon appraised them at five dollars for the party; C344 contained two fat ladies--very sick; and C 345 contained two thinladies--both sick. Say a dollar each. In C 346 was a shaggy-beardedindividual--male--of unknown derivation, who spoke an explosive brand ofEnglish, which burst out in a series of grunts, and who had economicalhabits in the use of soap. It was doubtful, reasoned Monsieur Pettipon,if the principle of tipping had ever penetrated the wild regions fromwhich this being unquestionably hailed. Years of experience had taughtMonsieur Pettipon to appraise with a quite uncanny accuracy the amountof tips he would get from his clients, as he called them.
Still troubled in his mind over his inability to provide a new violinfor the promising Napoleon, Monsieur Pettipon went about his work, andin the course of time reached Stater
oom C 346 and tapped with softknuckles.
"Come," grunted the shaggy occupant.
Monsieur Pettipon, with an apologetic flood of "pardons," entered. Hestopped in some alarm. The shaggy one, in violently striped pajamas, wasstanding in the center of the cabin, plainly very indignant aboutsomething. He fixed upon Monsieur Pettipon a pair of accusing eyes. Withthe air of a conjurer doing a trick he thrust his hand, palm upward,beneath the surprised nose of Monsieur Pettipon.
"Behold!" cried the shaggy one in a voice of thunder.
Monsieur Pettipon peered into the outstretched hand. In the cupped palmwas a small dark object. It was alive.
Monsieur Pettipon, speechless with horror, regarded the thing with roundunbelieving eyes. He felt as if he had been struck a heavy, stunningblow.
At last with a great effort he asked weakly, "You found him here,monsieur?"
"I found him here," declared the shaggy one, nodding his bushy headtoward his berth.
The world of Monsieur Pettipon seemed to come crashing down around hisears.
"Impossible!" panted Monsieur Pettipon. "It could not be."
"It could be," said the shaggy one sternly, "because it was."
He continued to hold the damnatory evidence within a foot of MonsieurPettipon's staring incredulous eyes.
"But, monsieur," protested the steward, "I tell you the thing could notbe. One hundred and twenty-seven times have I crossed on this_Voltaire_, and such a thing has not been. Never, never, never."
"I did not make him," put in the passenger, with a show of irony.
"No, no! Of course monsieur did not make him. That is true. But perhapsmonsieur----"
The gesture of the overwhelmed Pettipon was delicate but pregnant.
The shaggy passenger glared ferociously at the steward.
"Do you mean I brought him with me?" he demanded in a terrible voice.
Monsieur Pettipon shrugged his shoulders.
"Such things happen," he said soothingly. "When one travels----"
The shaggy one interrupted him.
"He is not mine!" he exploded bellicosely. "He never was mine. I foundhim here, I tell you. Here! Something shall be done about this."
Monsieur Pettipon had begun to tremble; tiny moist drops bedewed hisexpanse of brow; to lose his job would be tragedy enough; but this--thiswould be worse than tragedy; it would be disgrace. His artisticreputation was at stake. His career was tottering on a hideous brink.All Paris, all France would know, and would laugh at him.
"Give me the little devil," he said humbly. "I, myself, personally, willsee to it that he troubles you no more. He shall perish at once,monsieur; he shall die the death. You will have fresh bedding, freshcarpet, fresh everything. There will be fumigations. I beg that monsieurwill think no more of it."
Savagely he took the thing between plump thumb and forefinger and boreit from the stateroom, holding it at arm's length. In the corridor, withthe door shut on the shaggy one, Monsieur Pettipon, feverishly agitated,muttered again and again, "He did bring it with him. He did bring itwith him."
All that night Monsieur Pettipon lay in his berth, stark awake, andbrooded. The material side of the affair was bad enough. The shaggy onewould report the matter to the head steward of the second class;Monsieur Pettipon would be ignominiously discharged; the sin, he had toadmit, merited the extremest penalty. Jobs are hard to get, particularlywhen one is fat and past forty. He saw the Pettipons ejected from theirflat; he saw his little Napoleon a cafe waiter instead of a virtuoso.All this was misery enough. But it was the spiritual side that torturedhim most poignantly, that made him toss and moan as the waves swishedagainst the liner's sides and an ocean dawn stole foggily through theporthole. He was a failure at the work he loved.
Consider the emotions of an artist who suddenly realizes that hismasterpiece is a tawdry smear; consider the shock to a gentleman, proudof his name, who finds a blot black as midnight on the escutcheon he hadfor many prideful years thought stainless. To the mind of the crushedPettipon came the thought that even though his job was irretrievablylost he still might be able to save his honor.
As early as it was possible he went to the head steward of the secondclass, his immediate superior.
There were tears in Monsieur Pettipon's eyes and voice as he said,"Monsieur Deveau, a great misfortune, as you have doubtless beeninformed, has overtaken me."
The head steward of the second class looked up sharply. He was in abearish mood, for he had lost eleven francs at cards the night before.
"Well, Monsieur Pettipon?" he asked brusquely.
"Oh, he has heard about it, he has heard about it," thought MonsieurPettipon; and his voice trembled as he said aloud, "I have done faithfulwork on the _Voltaire_ for twenty-two years, Monsieur Deveau, and such athing has never before happened."
"What thing? Of what do you speak? Out with it, man."
"This!" cried Monsieur Pettipon tragically.
He thrust out his great paw of a hand; in it nestled a small darkobject, now lifeless.
The head steward gave it a swift examination.
"Ah!" he exclaimed petulantly. "Must you trouble me with your pets atthis time when I am busy?"
"Pets, monsieur?" The aghast Pettipon raised protesting hands towardheaven. "Oh, never in this life, monsieur the head steward."
"Then why do you bring him to me with such great care?" demanded thehead steward. "Do you think perhaps, Monsieur Pettipon, that I wish todiscuss entomology at six in the morning? I assure you that such a thingis not a curiosity to me. I have lived, Monsieur Pettipon."
"But--but he was in one of my cabins," groaned Monsieur Pettipon.
"Indeed?" The head steward was growing impatient. "I did not suppose youhad caught him with a hook and line. Take him away. Drown him. Bury him.Burn him. Do I care?"
"He is furious," thought Monsieur Pettipon, "at my sin. But he ispretending not to be. He will save up his wrath until the _Voltaire_returns to France, and then he will denounce me before the whole ship'scompany. I know these long-nosed Normans. Even so, I must save my honorif I can."
He leaned toward the head steward and said with great earnestness oftone, "I assure you, monsieur the head steward, that I took everyprecaution. The passenger who occupies the cabin is, between ourselves,a fellow of great dirtiness. I am convinced he brought this aboard withhim. I have my reasons, monsieur. Did I not say to Georges Prunier--heis steward in the corridor next to mine--'Georges, old oyster, thathairy fellow in C 346 has a look of itchiness which I do not fancy. Imust be on my guard.' You can ask Georges Prunier--an honest fellow,monsieur the head steward--if I did not say this. And Georges said,'Alphonse, my friend, I incline to agree with you.' And I said toGeorges, 'Georges, my brave, it would not surprise me if----'"
The head steward of the second class broke in tartly: "You should writea book of memoirs, Monsieur Pettipon. When I have nothing to do I willread it. But now have I not a thousand and two things to do? Take awayyour pet. Have him stuffed. Present him to a museum. Do I care?" Hestarted to turn from Monsieur Pettipon, whose cheeks were quivering likespilled jelly.
"I entreat you, Monsieur Deveau," begged Pettipon, "to consider how fortwenty-two years, three months and a day, such a thing had not happenedin my cabins. This little rascal--and you can see how tiny he is--is theonly one that has ever been found, and I give you my word, the word of aPettipon, that he was not there when we sailed. The passenger broughthim with him. I have my reasons----"
"Enough!" broke in the head steward of the second class with mountingirritation. "I can stand no more. Go back to your work, MonsieurPettipon."
He presented his back to Monsieur Pettipon. Sick at heart the adiposesteward went back to his domain. As he made the cabins neat he did notsing the little song with the chorus of "oo la las."
"There was deep displeasure in that Norman's eye," said MonsieurPettipon to himself. "He does not believe that the passenger is toblame. Your goose is cooked, my poor Alphonse. You must appeal to thechief steward."
To the chief steward, in his elaborate office in the first class, wentMonsieur Pettipon, nervously opening and shutting his fat fists.
The chief steward, a tun of a man, bigger even than Monsieur Pettipon,peeped at his visitor from beneath waggish, furry eyebrows.
"I am Monsieur Pettipon," said the visitor timidly. "For twenty-twoyears, three months and a day, I have been second-class steward on the_Voltaire_, and never monsieur the chief steward, has there been acomplaint, one little complaint against me. One hundred and twenty-seventrips have I made, and never has a single passenger said----"
"I'm sorry," interrupted the chief steward, "but I can't make you afirst-class steward. No vacancies. Next year, perhaps; or the yearafter----"
"Oh, it isn't that," said Monsieur Pettipon miserably. "It is this."
He held out his hand so that the chief steward could see its contents.
"Ah?" exclaimed the chief steward, arching his furry brows. "Is thisperhaps a bribe, monsieur?"
"Monsieur the chief steward is good enough to jest," said Pettipon,standing first on one foot and then on the other in his embarrassment,"but I assure you that it has been a most serious blow to me."
"Blow?" repeated the chief steward. "Blow? Is it that in the secondclass one comes to blows with them?"
"He knows about it all," thought Monsieur Pettipon. "He is making gameof me." His moon face stricken and appealing, Monsieur Pettiponaddressed the chief steward. "He brought it with him, monsieur the chiefsteward. I have my reasons----"
"Who brought what with whom?" queried the chief steward with a trace ofasperity.
"The passenger brought this aboard with him," explained MonsieurPettipon. "I have good reasons, monsieur, for making so grave a charge.Did I not say to Georges Prunier--he is in charge of the corridor nextto mine--'Georges, old oyster, that hairy fellow in C 346 has a look ofitchiness which I do not fancy. I must be on my guard.' You can askGeorges Prunier--a thoroughly reliable fellow, monsieur, a wearer of themilitary medal, and the son of the leading veterinarian in Amiens--if Idid not say this. And Georges said----"
The chief steward held up a silencing hand.
"Stop, I pray you, before my head bursts," he commanded. "Your reparteewith Georges is most affecting, but I do not see how it concerns a busyman like me."
"But the passenger said he found this in his berth!" wailed MonsieurPettipon, wringing his great hands.
"My compliments to monsieur the passenger," said the chief steward, "andtell him that there is no reward."
"Now I am sure he is angry with me," said Monsieur Pettipon to himself."These sly, smiling, fat fellows! I must convince him of my innocence."
Monsieur Pettipon laid an imploring hand on the chief steward's sleeve.
"I can only say," said Monsieur Pettipon in the accents of a man on thegallows, "that I did all within the power of one poor human to preventthis dreadful occurrence. I hope monsieur the chief steward will believethat. I cannot deny that the thing exists"--as he spoke he sadlycontemplated the palm of his hand--"and that the evidence is against me.But in my heart I know I am innocent. I can only hope that monsieurwill take into account my long and blameless service, my one hundred andtwenty-seven trips, my twenty-two years, three months and----"
"My dear Pettipon," said the chief steward with a ponderous jocosity,"try to bear your cross. The only way the _Voltaire_ can atone for thismonstrous sin of yours is to be sunk, here, now and at once. But I'mafraid the captain and Monsieur Ronssoy might object. Get along now,while I think up a suitable penance for you."
As he went with slow, despairing steps to his quarters Monsieur Pettiponsaid to himself, "It is clear he thinks me guilty. Helas! PoorAlphonse." For long minutes he sat, his huge head in his hands,pondering.
"I must, I shall appeal to him again," he said half aloud. "There arecertain points he should know. What Georges Prunier said, for instance."
So back he went to the chief steward.
"Holy Blue!" cried that official. "You? Again? Found another one?"
"No, no, monsieur the chief steward," replied Monsieur Pettipon inagonies; "there is only one. In twenty-two years there has been onlyone. He brought it with him. Ask Georges Prunier if I did not say----"
"Name of a name!" burst out the chief steward. "Am I to hear all thatagain? Did I not say to forget the matter?"
"Forget, monsieur? Could Napoleon forget Waterloo? I beg that you permitme to explain."
"Oh, bother you and your explanations!" cried the chief steward with thesudden impatience common to fat men. "Take them to some less busy man.The captain, for example."
Monsieur Pettipon bowed himself from the office, covered with confusionand despair. Had not the chief steward refused to hear him? Did not thechief steward's words imply that the crime was too heinous for any oneless than the captain himself to pass judgment on it? To the captainMonsieur Pettipon would have to go, although he dreaded to do it, forthe captain was notoriously the busiest and least approachable man onthe ship. Desperation gave him courage. Breathless at his own temerity,pink as a peony with shame, Monsieur Pettipon found himself bowingbefore a blur of gold and multi-hued decorations that instinct ratherthan his reason told him was the captain of the _Voltaire_.
The captain was worried about the fog, and about the presence aboard ofM. Victor Ronssoy, the president of the line, and his manner was briskand chilly.
"Did I ring for you?" he asked.
"No," jerked out Monsieur Pettipon, "but if the captain will pardon thegreat liberty, I have a matter of the utmost importance on which I wishto address him."
"Speak, man, speak!" shot out the captain, alarmed by MonsieurPettipon's serious aspect. "Leak? Fire? Somebody overboard? What?"
"No, no!" cried Monsieur Pettipon, trickles of moist emotion slidingdown the creases of his round face. "Nobody overboard; no leak; no fire.But--monsieur the captain--behold this!"
He extended his hand and the captain bent his head over it with quickinterest.
For a second the captain stared at the thing in Monsieur Pettipon'shand; then he stared at Monsieur Pettipon.
"Ten thousand million little blue devils, what does this mean?" roaredthe captain. "Have you been drinking?"
Monsieur Pettipon quaked to the end of his toes.
"No, no!" he stammered. "I am only too sober, monsieur the captain, andI do not blame you for being enraged. The _Voltaire_ is your ship, andyou love her, as I do. I feel this disgrace even more than you can,monsieur the captain, believe me. But I beg of you do not be hasty; myhonor is involved. I admit that this thing was found in one of mycabins. Consider my horror when he was found. It was no less than yours,monsieur the captain. But I give you my word, the word of a Pettipon,that----"
The captain stopped the rush of words with, "Compose yourself. Come tothe point."
"Point, monsieur the captain?" gasped Pettipon. "Is it not enoughpoint that this thing was found in one of my cabins? Such a thing--inthe cabin of Monsieur Alphonse Marie Louis Camille Pettipon! Is thatnothing? For twenty-two years have I been steward in the second class,and not one of these, not so much as a baby one, has ever been found. Iam beside myself with chagrin. My only defense is that a passenger--afellow of dirtiness, monsieur the captain--brought it with him.He denies it. I denounce him as a liar the most barefaced. Fordid I not say to Georges Prunier--a fellow steward and a man ofintegrity--'Georges, old oyster, that hairy fellow in C 346 has a lookof itchiness which I do not fancy. I must be on my guard.' And Georgessaid----"
The captain, with something like a smile playing about among hiswhiskers, interrupted with, "So this is the first one in twenty-twoyears, eh? We'll have to look into this, Monsieur Pettipon. Good day."
"Look into this," groaned Pettipon as he stumbled down a gangway. "Iknow what that means. Ah, poor Therese! Poor Napoleon!"
He looked down at the great, green, hungry waves with a calculating eye;he wondered if they would be cold. He placed a tentative hand on therail. Then an inspiration c
ame to him. M. Victor Ronssoy was aboard; hewas the last court of appeal. Monsieur Pettipon would dare, for the sakeof his honor, to go to the president of the line himself. For torturedminutes Alphonse Pettipon paced up and down, and something closelyresembling sobs shook his huge frame as he looked about his littlekingdom and thought of his impending banishment. At last by a supremeeffort of will he nerved himself to go to the suite of Monsieur Ronssoy.It was a splendid suite of five rooms, and Monsieur Pettipon had morethan once peeked into it when it was empty and had noted with fascinatedeyes the perfection of its appointments. But now he twice turned fromthe door, his courage oozing from him. On the third attempt, with therecklessness of a condemned man, he rapped on the door.
The president of the line was a white-haired giant with a chin like ananvil and bright humorous eyes, like a kingfisher.
"Monsieur Ronssoy," began the flustered, damp-browed Pettipon in afaltering voice, "I have only apologies to make for this intrusion. Onlya matter of the utmost consequence could cause me to take the liberty."
The president's brow knitted anxiously.
"Out with it," he ordered. "Are we sinking? Have we hit an iceberg?"
"No, no, monsieur the president! But surely you have heard what I,Alphonse Pettipon, steward in the second class, found in one of mycabins?"
"Oh, so you're Pettipon!" exclaimed the president, and his frownvanished. "Ah, yes; ah, yes."
"He knows of my disgrace," thought Monsieur Pettipon, mopping hisstreaming brow. "Now all is lost indeed." Hanging his head he addressedthe president: "Alas, yes, I am none other than that unhappy Pettipon,"he said mournfully. "But yesterday, monsieur, I was a proud man. Thiswas my one hundred and twenty-eighth trip on the _Voltaire_. I had not amark against me. But the world has been black for me, monsieur thepresident, since I found this."
He held out his hand so that the president could view the remains lyingin it.
"Ah," exclaimed the president, adjusting his pince-nez, "a perfectspecimen!"
"But note, monsieur the president," begged Monsieur Pettipon, "that heis a mere infant. But a few days old, I am sure. He could not have beenaboard long. One can see that. I am convinced that it was the passengerwho brought him with him. I have my reasons for making this seriouscharge, Monsieur Ronssoy. Good reasons too. Did I not say to GeorgesPrunier--a steward of the strictest honesty, monsieur--'Georges, oldoyster, that hairy fellow in C 346 has a look of itchiness which I donot fancy.' And Georges said, 'Alphonse, my friend----'"
"Most interesting," murmured the president. "Pray proceed."
With a wealth of detail and with no little passion Monsieur Pettipontold his story. The eyes of the president encouraged him, and he told oflittle Napoleon and the violin, and of his twenty-two years on the_Voltaire_ and how proud he was of his work as a steward, and how severea blow the affair had been to him.
When he had finished, Monsieur Ronssoy said, "And you thought itnecessary to report your discovery to the head steward of the secondclass?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And to the chief steward?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And to the captain?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And finally to me, the president of the line?"
"Even so, monsieur," said the perspiring Pettipon.
M. Victor Ronssoy regarded him thoughtfully.
"Monsieur Pettipon," he said, "the sort of man I like is the man whotakes his job seriously. You would not have raised such a devil of afuss about so small a thing as this if you were not that sort of man. Iam going to have you made steward of my suite immediately, MonsieurPettipon. Now you may toss that thing out of the porthole."
"Oh, no, monsieur!" cried Alphonse Pettipon, great, grateful tearsrushing to his eyes. "Never in this life! Him I shall keep always in mywatch charm."
The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon, and other humorous tales Page 1