Who is Monsieur Pambe?

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It was with much caution that Whistling Dick slid back the door of the
box-car, for Article 5716, City Ordinances, authorized (perhaps
unconstitutionally) arrest on suspicion, and he was familiar of old
with this ordinance. So, before climbing out, he surveyed the field
with all the care of a good general.

He saw no change since his last visit to this big, alms-giving, long-
suffering city of the South, the cold weather paradise of the tramps.
The levee where his freight-car stood was pimpled with dark bulks of
merchandise. The breeze reeked with the well-remembered, sickening
smell of the old tarpaulins that covered bales and barrels. The dun
river slipped along among the shipping with an oily gurgle. Far down
toward Chalmette he could see the great bend in the stream outlined by
the row of electric lights. Across the river Algiers lay, a long,
irregular blot, made darker by the dawn which lightened the sky
beyond. An industrious tug or two, coming for some early sailing ship,
gave a few appalling toots, that seemed to be the signal for breaking
day. The Italian luggers were creeping nearer their landing, laden
with early vegetables and shellfish. A vague roar, subterranean in
quality, from dray wheels and street cars, began to make itself heard
and felt; and the ferryboats, the Mary Anns of water craft, stirred
sullenly to their menial morning tasks.

Whistling Dick's red head popped suddenly back into the car. A sight
too imposing and magnificent for his gaze had been added to the scene.
A vast, incomparable policeman rounded a pile of rice sacks and stood
within twenty yards of the car. The daily miracle of the dawn, now
being performed above Algiers, received the flattering attention of
this specimen of municipal official splendour. He gazed with unbiased
dignity at the faintly glowing colours until, at last, he turned to
them his broad back, as if convinced that legal interference was not
needed, and the sunrise might proceed unchecked. So he turned his face
to the rice bags, and, drawing a flat flask from an inside pocket, he
placed it to his lips and regarded the firmament.

Whistling Dick, professional tramp, possessed a half-friendly
acquaintance with this officer. They had met several times before on
the levee at night, for the officer, himself a lover of music, had
been attracted by the exquisite whistling of the shiftless vagabond.
Still, he did not care, under the present circumstances, to renew the
acquaintance. There is a difference between meeting a policeman on a
lonely wharf and whistling a few operatic airs with him, and being
caught by him crawling out of a freight-car. So Dick waited, as even a
New Orleans policeman must move on some time--perhaps it is a
retributive law of nature--and before long "Big Fritz" majestically
disappeared between the trains of cars.



"So," observed the mountain calmly, "You are already pack. Und dere
vill not pe frost before two veeks yet! Und you haf forgotten how to
vistle. Dere was a valse note in dot last bar."

"Watcher know about it?" said Whistling Dick, with tentative
familiarity; "you wit yer little Gherman-band nixcumrous chunes.
Watcher know about music? Pick yer ears, and listen agin. Here's de
way I whistled it--see?"

He puckered his lips, but the big policeman held up his hand.

"Shtop," he said, "und learn der right way. Und learn also dot a
rolling shtone can't vistle for a cent."

Big Fritz's heavy moustache rounded into a circle, and from its depths
came a sound deep and mellow as that from a flute. He repeated a few
bars of the air the tramp had been whistling. The rendition was cold,
but correct, and he emphasized the note he had taken exception to....Show more

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