Who is Monsieur Pambe?

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.

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