WHAT abominable bounders there are, to be sure! And what shocking conditions must exist to produce them and to tolerate them. Really, I am amazed at times, to think that I, a scion of the house of Comstock (the Surrey Comstocks, my dear lady), should know so many of the blighters. As you know, my ancestors were great churchmen, and, although we Comstocks of the present generation are perfect devils, especially my Uncle Percival, there are times when a little voice within me speaks up rudely, and I am carried back in fancy to the long-regretted days of my innocent youth in dear, charming old Chickingham. My word! Fancy the Bishop of Hounslow seeing his own nephew in the company of such cads. You cannot imagine how dreadfully difficult it is for a chap to keep in the straight and narrow path of rectitude; even if he is a bounder he will find it difficult to resist some of the temptations.

“Every day of my life I am brought into contact with chaps who are always lamenting their pasts, and making excuses for their present way of living, but have fallen too low to ever return to the old life, and will, I have no doubt, come to an end like poor old Beebe’s. Some of these chaps are a good sort; others are quite likely to be bounders.

“I have just heard something quite distressing. You have heard of Skilford, no doubt? No? How remarkable! I fancied everybody knew him. At all events, he is a countryman of yours—a Yankee chap. He came from Georgia, I believe. Well, the poor fellow is in quod at New Orleans, all on account of being a bit too good-hearted. Like the rest of us, he was a bit wild while here on the Isthmus, and was a great favorite with his boss, who was a married man; also, a great bounder, sly as a red Indian, and horribly unprincipled. But, just wait until I have finished, and you will fairly gasp for breath.

“This other Johnnie—the married one—it seems, was liv—er, er—excuse me, my dear lady; it’s terribly embarrassing—in fact, he had a sort of semi-detached alliance with a young female from Martinique, an Afro-Franco, as it were. By Jove! What a bally combination! The young Afro-Franco, however, was not at all bad-looking, and, as only natural in those times, (the alliance was formed in the early days,) she was much ‘sought after,’ as they say in the provincial journals when describing the marriage of the village belle to the leading grocer’s son. The chaps, you see, were lonely in those days, and were not to be blamed so much, you know, for having fancies they would never dream of at home. Really, now, I must confess, I almost succumbed to her charms myself. Fancy! I, grandson of the Dean of Oldtop, Shropshire.”

“You are moralizing again, Mr. Comstock.”

“Upon my word, so I am, my dear lady. A thousand pardons. We Comstocks are all great moralizers. Well, then, as the Afro-Franco would say, ‘revenous le mouton.’ She preferred the beastly married cad to whom I have already alluded. The blooming ass fancied he had made a conquest, and flaunted her in our eyes. Spent more money than he could really afford, to buy finery for her. Things went on so for quite a time, until he wearied of her, and, as his holiday was about due, he resolved to go home, when, bless your eyes, the blooming Bacchante cooly announced to him that he would take a vacation over her dead body. Now, the bounder was in a quandary—fairly stumped. He really needed a vacation, and wished to take it to prevent his wife, a very estimable woman, from communicating with Culebra, which he fancied she might do, which would be the means of his losing his job. He had a very good job. Fear of exposure quite upset him, and what do you think the bounder did? The little brute! He actually came to me, Algernon Comstock, of Comstock Lodge, Surrey. ‘Algy,’ said he (the infamous vagabond), ‘how would you like to earn five hundred dollars gold?’ ‘I should like it very much,’ I replied, quite innocently. ‘Come with me,’ said he. I followed the blighter, and what do you think? He took me to the lodgings he had provided for the Afro-Franco, and very hospitably set out some excellent cognac (the Comstocks are all great chaps for the B. and S.), and after we had some little conversation the scoundrel had the effrontery to suggest to me, in an insinuating way, that I make myself agreeable to the hussy—he, in the meantime, to absent himself, to return at an opportune moment, create a scene, and then, having ‘something on her,’ as it were, he expected to screw up courage enough to drive the baggage from him. He was most assuredly afraid of her, and knew that, lacking friendly moral support, he could never have it out with her in any way satisfactory to himself. What a serpent! I was struck quite dumb—speechless with indignation, and for reply I gave the bounder a blow that sent him sprawling. Then, with a heavy heart—the affair had given me quite a turn—I went to my quarters and sat down to think. I marveled at myself for having sunk so low. Fancy me being asked to take part in such an iniquitous scheme!

“Well, I fully expected to lose my berth over the affair, as the cad was supposed to have considerable influence. In the event of my dismissal I would have nothing but my personal effects, as I had lived up to every penny paid for my services. However, don’t be alarmed, my dear lady; I was not fired for that. Some other time I’ll tell you how I happened to be ‘let out.’ Just now I was in one of my periodically penitent moods, and resolved, on the spot, after earnestly praying, to lead a better life, a life more worthy of a Comstock. I did, upon my word! I reasoned that I must have appeared low in the eyes of the bounder, else he would not have asked me to help him trick such a creature. As I thought thus, my dear lady, the old Comstock blood fairly boiled in every blooming vein in my body. Really, I wished to die.”

“But who is Mr. Skilford, Mr. Comstock, and what has he to do with the case? And who is this old bounder—the married one?” I asked.

“Wait, I am coming to that presently,” replied Mr. Comstock, as he lighted his pipe, which went out a great many times when he grew excited. “Skilford is a good chap—nothing but a boy, extremely good-natured, honest, and all that—well liked, you know—but utterly without that fine discrimination which should always prevent a Comstock from doing anything off-color. He worked under the other one. The bounder was an elderly cad, a noisy brute when in his cups, which was very often, I can assure you. Very common sort. Loves to sit in a tap-room, pounding the table, telling every one who will listen what a clever chap he is—Poor old Beebe knew him well. I remember one night we were carousing at the ‘Oriole,’ Beebe and I at one table and the bounder with his audience at another nearby. He was a bit squiffy, as usual, and seemed in rare form. Beebe was quite vexed at the brute, and what do you suppose he did? Blessed, if he didn’t call for pad and pencil and scratch off some doggerel which, I fancy, pretty well describes the bounder. Poor Beebe was clever at that sort of thing. The first verse went something like this:

“Then, old Beebe had a lot more verses describing the bounder’s antics. Really, I’m getting very forgetful. It’s the beastly climate, I fancy; but one other verse went on thus:

“I cannot remember any more, but some day I will let you have a copy of the thing.

“Well, at any rate, my beating the brute did not deter him from making the same proposition to others, as is well known, but all refused, until he approached young Skilford. He fell. Not for the money. Oh, dear no! He’s too decent a sort for that. As you may have already surmised, Skilford was a rather weak, complacent sort of a chap; and then, perhaps, the bounder, being his boss, influenced him in a way. At any rate, Charley agreed to his proposal, and the scene was set as before, with a new villain in place of your humble servant. This time, however, everything came off as prearranged. Charley went through his part beautifully. You see, he didn’t have to act very hard; in fact, the situation quite pleased the silly fellow, and he played up to the bounder’s leads marvelously. The bounder, being pretty well primed up when he burst upon the scene, did not have to strain for effect, either. As to the Afro-Franco, she, strangely enough, did not seem a bit upset. My word, what a farce! The bounder got shut of her and departed on his holiday with a light heart, unmolested, save for a few patois curses, which he didn’t understand, and poor Skilford, victim of his own good nature, stayed on to carry out in earnest the part he had essayed to act for a few minutes only, in order to oblige his boss.

“The bounder never returned. His wife saw to that, I fancy. Charley seemed quite infatuated with the little brown parley-vouz, and she thought a great deal more of him than she had of the bounder. My word! She used to swear ferociously that she would cut his heart out if he ever tried to leave her. What a savage! But it’s laughable, too, if it were not so sad. Mind you, all of this time Charley was engaged to a fine young woman in the States. Before long, the infatuation wearing off, and wishing to leave the Isthmus for good, anyway, he began to cast about for ways and means (like the bounder) of getting away alive. He was mindful of the hussy’s threats, and dared take no chances. However, with the connivance of friends, he was enabled (as he fancied) to make his plans for departure without the hussy’s knowledge. When everything was ready, transportation procured, etc., and she all the while happily unconscious (as he fancied), he told her he was being sent down the line for a few days to do a little job. She said nothing, and Charley started off, as usual, in his working clothes. He took no luggage, of course. The poor chap sacrificed everything—everything but his Canal medal, which she allowed him to carry attached to his dollar watch.

“I went to Colon to see him off, and we had a few nips on board in the smoking-room. I breathed a great sigh of relief as the ship pulled out from the wharf, and on Charley’s face was a most beatific expression. The old chap waved his hand to me, when—oh, horrors! What did I see? The girl. I grew sick at heart as I beheld her. She laid one of her hands upon Charley’s shoulder. I saw him turn quietly, and then they passed out of sight. It made me quite ill. As it now appears, she had ‘beaten Charley to it,’ as it were, and had booked a passage for herself to New Orleans. Poor Charley, to avoid a scene, had quieted her, by the Lord knows what promises. At any rate, they say that there was no disturbance on the trip up. The denouement came when the ship berthed at New Orleans. There, waiting to welcome him home, were his parents and the young lady to whom I alluded. Imagine the poor chap’s position. Well, to make a long story short, while Charley was being fondly welcomed by his intended, the brown girl rushed into the midst of the little group, flourishing a revolver and screaming at the top of her voice that she was Charley’s wife. Charley grabbed her, they say, to wrest away the revolver. During the scuffle the gun went off, and the creature was shot through the lungs. Poor Charley’s locked up, temporarily, of course; the Afro-Franco’s in the hospital, going to recover, I believe. And the poor young lady. Ah, my dear lady, it is indeed shocking. I wonder how many poor young ladies there are at home? Iniquitous!

“Well, good-day. I must really go and have a B. and S.”