bad roads. We seemed always to be just ahead of them or behind
them. The farther we came the better the roads seemed, though
this was probably due to the fact that we were learning more and
more what four horses and a light rig could do on a road. And
thus do I save my face with all the counties. I refuse to make
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32
invidious road comparisons. I can add that while, save in rare
instances on steep pitches, I have trotted my horses down all the
grades, I have never had one horse fall down nor have I had to
send the rig to a blacksmith shop for repairs.
Also, I am learning to throw leather. If any tyro thinks it is
easy to take a short-handled, long-lashed whip, and throw the end
of that lash just where he wants it, let him put on automobile
goggles and try it. On reconsideration, I would suggest the
substitution of a wire fencing-mask for the goggles. For days I
looked at that whip. It fascinated me, and the fascination was
composed mostly of fear. At my first attempt, Charmian and Nakata
became afflicted with the same sort of fascination, and for a long
time afterward, whenever they saw me reach for the whip, they
closed their eyes and shielded their heads with their arms.
Here’s the problem. Instead of pulling honestly, Prince is
lagging back and manoeuvring for a bite at Milda’s neck. I have
four reins in my hands. I must put these four reins into my left
hand, properly gather the whip handle and the bight of the lash in
my right hand, and throw that lash past Maid without striking her
and into Prince. If the lash strikes Maid, her thoroughbredness
will go up in the air, and I’ll have a case of horse hysteria on
my hands for the next half hour. But follow. The whole problem
is not yet stated. Suppose that I miss Maid and reach the
intended target. The instant the lash cracks, the four horses
jump, Prince most of all, and his jump, with spread wicked teeth,
is for the back of Milda’s neck. She jumps to escape–which is
her second jump, for the first one came when the lash exploded.
The Outlaw reaches for Maid’s neck, and Maid, who has already
jumped and tried to bolt, tries to bolt harder. And all this
infinitesimal fraction of time I am trying to hold the four
animals with my left hand, while my whip-lash, writhing through
the air, is coming back to me. Three simultaneous things I must
do: keep hold of the four reins with my left hand; slam on the
brake with my foot; and on the rebound catch that flying lash in
the hollow of my right arm and get the bight of it safely into my
right hand. Then I must get two of the four lines back into my
right hand and keep the horses from running away or going over the
grade. Try it some time. You will find life anything but
wearisome. Why, the first time I hit the mark and made the lash
go off like a revolver shot, I was so astounded and delighted that
I was paralysed. I forgot to do any of the multitudinous other
things, tangled the whip lash in Maid’s harness, and was forced to
call upon Charmian for assistance. And now, confession. I carry
a few pebbles handy. They’re great for reaching Prince in a tight
place. But just the same I’m learning that whip every day, and
before I get home I hope to discard the pebbles. And as long as I
rely on pebbles, I cannot truthfully speak of myself as “tooling a
four-in-hand.”
From Garberville, where we ate eel to repletion and got acquainted
with the aborigines, we drove down the Eel River Valley for two
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33
days through the most unthinkably glorious body of redwood timber
to be seen anywhere in California. From Dyerville on to Eureka,
we caught glimpses of railroad construction and of great concrete
bridges in the course of building, which advertised that at least
Humboldt County was going to be linked to the rest of the world.
We still consider our trip is just begun. As soon as this is
mailed from Eureka, it’s heigh ho! for the horses and pull on. We
shall continue up the coast, turn in for Hoopa Reservation and the
gold mines, and shoot down the Trinity and Klamath rivers in
Indian canoes to Requa. After that, we shall go on through Del
Norte County and into Oregon. The trip so far has justified us in
taking the attitude that we won’t go home until the winter rains
drive us in. And, finally, I am going to try the experiment of
putting the Outlaw in the lead and relegating Prince to his old
position in the near wheel. I won’t need any pebbles then.
NOTHING THAT EVER CAME TO ANYTHING
It was at Quito, the mountain capital of Ecuador, that the
following passage at correspondence took place. Having occasion
to buy a pair of shoes in a shop six feet by eight in size and
with walls three feet thick, I noticed a mangy leopard skin on the
floor. I had no Spanish. The shop-keeper had no English. But I
was an adept at sign language. I wanted to know where I should go
to buy leopard skins. On my scribble-pad I drew the interesting
streets of a city. Then I drew a small shop, which, after much
effort, I persuaded the proprietor into recognising as his shop.
Next, I indicated in my drawing that on the many streets there
were many shops. And, finally, I made myself into a living
interrogation mark, pointing all the while from the mangy leopard
skin to the many shops I had sketched.
But the proprietor failed to follow me. So did his assistant.
The street came in to help–that is, as many as could crowd into
the six-by-eight shop; while those that could not force their way
in held an overflow meeting on the sidewalk. The proprietor and
the rest took turns at talking to me in rapid-fire Spanish, and,
from the expressions on their faces, all concluded that I was
remarkably stupid. Again I went through my programme, pointing on
the sketch from the one shop to the many shops, pointing out that
in this particular shop was one leopard skin, and then questing
interrogatively with my pencil among all the shops. All regarded
me in blank silence, until I saw comprehension suddenly dawn on
the face of a small boy.
“Tigres montanya!” he cried.
This appealed to me as mountain tigers, namely, leopards; and in
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34
token that he understood, the boy made signs for me to follow him,
which I obeyed. He led me for a quarter of a mile, and paused
before the doorway of a large building where soldiers slouched on
sentry duty and in and out of which went other soldiers.
Motioning for me to remain, he ran inside.
Fifteen minutes later he was out again, without leopard skins, but
full of information. By means of my card, of my hotel card, of my
watch, and of the boy’s fingers, I learned the following: that at
six o’clock that evening he would arrive at my hotel with ten
leopard skins for my inspection. Further, I learned that the
skins were the property of one Captain Ernesto Becucci. Also, I
learned that the boy’s name was Eliceo.
The boy was prompt. At six o’clock he was at my room. In his
hand was a small roll addressed to me. On opening it I found it
to be manuscript piano music, the Hora Tranquila Valse, or
“Tranquil Hour Waltz,” by Ernesto Becucci. I came for leopard
skins, thought I, and the owner sends me sheet music instead. But
the boy assured me that he would have the skins at the hotel at
nine next morning, and I entrusted to him the following letter of
acknowledgment:
“DEAR CAPTAIN BECUCCI:
“A thousand thanks for your kind presentation of Hora Tranquila
Valse. Mrs. London will play it for me this evening.
Sincerely yours,
“Jack London.”
Next morning Eliceo was back, but without the skins. Instead, he
gave me a letter, written in Spanish, of which the following is a
free translation:
“To my dearest and always appreciated friend, I submit myself –
“DEAR SIR:
” I sent you last night an offering by the bearer of this note,
and you returned me a letter which I translated.
“Be it known to you, sir, that I am giving this waltz away in the
best society, and therefore to your honoured self. Therefore it
is beholden to you to recognise the attention, I mean by a
tangible return, as this composition was made by myself. You will
therefore send by your humble servant, the bearer, any offering,