The Black Cat (magazine)/Volume 22/Number 2/The Bone of a Camel
THE BONE OF A CAMEL
A good yarn for Amy Lowell and the other verse librists to read. It might be the means of reviving the camel bone school of poets.
HAD just taken a headache powder. Every time I go to one of Bill Curtis's parties I have to take a headache powder the next day. The powder had not taken any effect yet. I was stretched out on the sofa, my head buried in a pillow which was the only heritage from a rich aunt. She had left all the rest of her belongings to charity.
The pillow was perfectly plain, just as plain as my aunt had been; nothing on it but green trees and red flowers on a yellow background. But, the way I felt, I imagined that I was in the midst of an African jungle with gorillas and snakes surrounding me. Just as a roaring lion approached to do me harm my man entered and announced:
"A Mr. Jennings."
"Who?"
"Mr. Jennings. He says he is from Kalamazoo and came here especially to see you."
"Mr. Jennings," I pondered, "and from Kalamazoo. Never heard of him."
Nevertheless, I told the servant to show him in after he had assured me that this man Jennings did not look as if he wanted to borrow money or sell me life insurance or books.
A callow youth entered the door. The thing I noticed first was that he had many freckles on his nose. If anybody had told me that there was room for so many freckles on one single nose, I should not have believed it.
The clothes indicated small town. The shoes, turned up in front, had been half-soled; and I noticed that that clean young man took the expensive little Belutschisten near the door for a door mat, as he respectfully scraped his feet on it. Then he advanced two steps, bowed and introduced himself.
"Joseph Jennings, student of physiology from Kalamazoo. At present I am studying Oriental languages at St. Vitus."
"Pleased to meet you," I lied.
"You will be surprised—" He stopped. But as I did not, as he expected, lie about it, he continued. "You may be surprised that I am calling on you. I am from Kalamazoo, Michigan, you know."
As I couldn't see any cause for surprise in the fact that the young man was from Kalamazoo and as, in my present condition I would not even have been surprised had he been from Jamina or Wadi Haifa, he soon resumed, stroking his knee:
"I have a recommendation for you from your friend, Doctor Mclntyre from St. Vitus."
I knew that kind of recommendation. Mclntyre was a great friend of all aspirants in art and letters and whenever anybody wanted anything he gave him a recommendation to friends in New York.
Only three weeks before he had sent me a flute player with a recommendation. The man was thin as a stick, wore a celluloid collar and had a whole book full of testimonials from his home town friends. He was bound to go into vaudeville and did not leave me until I started him on the road to success with a dollar. Therefore my enthusiasm for friend Mclntyre's recommendations was way below par.
Still, Jennings was a student, and I had been a student myself. "May I ask what you are doing here in New York?"
"Oh, yes, that's why I am calling on you."
He hesitated a moment then he asked: "Of course you know the Modsahabat?"
"The Modsahabat?" I pondered. Was that a Spanish dancer, or did she play in musical comedy, or—
"I am sorry," I finally said, "but I can't just place the lady. Is she supposed to be in New York?"
"A lady!" Jennings looked at me as if I had suddenly gone daft. "But you must remember the Modsahabat, those narrative poems of pre-Mohammedan origin which the Arabians wrote in golden letters on Byssus and which now hang on the walls of the Kaba in Mecca."
I thought that in my present condition the Arabians would have done me a great favor if, instead of the Modsahabat, they had hung Jennings of Kalamazoo on the walls. But I simply answered:
"Oh, yes, in the Kaba." "I am thinking of writing a book on the Modsahabat," Jennings then informed me.
I assured him that I had been waiting a long time for just such a valuable book to be published.
"I intend to prove, furthermore, that at the time the Modsahabat are supposed to have originated, the Arabians did not even know the art of writing on Byssus," continued Jennings.
A hypothesis which appeared much more important as I did not have the slightest idea what Byssus meant. I remembered Issus, where Alexander the Great had been victorious; I knew of Nessus who poisoned Hercules in such a mean manner; but Byssus was a stranger to me.
"And I intend to prove that before the days of Mohammed such prize poems of Arabian poets were generally written on camels' bones and that on all preserved camels' bones there is not the slightest trace of Modsahabat."
"And you see," he continued, scratching his freckles, "I am looking for one of those camel bones."
"In my house?"
"No, of course not. But I have been told that at the museum here they have one of those bones. My father gave me my travelling expenses and enough money to stay here as long as it will take me to decipher the writing on the bone. Tomorrow I shall start on my search in the museum. I thought that perhaps—and your friend Doctor Mclntyre said that you—"
That was just like McIntyre; flute or camel's bone—I never played one or read the other,—but, in both cases, McIntyre stamped me as an authority. I therefore assured Mr. Jennings of Kalamazoo that as long as I had lived in New York I had never heard of the camel bone.
He was very sorry and our conversation began to lag until I finally asked him:
"How do you like New York?"
"It seems rather a noisy town for quiet study," replied Jennings, "and the arrangement of the streets is somewhat strange. One seems to take the wrong cars continually."
I was afraid he might begin to talk about Modsahabat and Byssus again, and, as I did not care to display further ignorance, I began to draw an elaborate map for him, showing the nearest and safest way to the museum.
Finally I explained the route with all its street car, subway, elevated and bus connections, and as I happened to have a ticket for a musical comedy which I could not use on account of my headache, I offered it to him, apologizing for the fact that it would be rather a frivolous entertainment for a man of his mental calibre, but then—this was New York.
He was kind enough to accept the ticket, remarking at the same time that while it had nothing to do with his studies and that he was especially opposed to the shameless display of hosiery which one sees in such entertainments, out of mere curiosity he would look in for a few minutes.
Before he departed he promised to keep me informed about his progress with the Modsahabat.
Two days later, one of my cousins called on me. He is a fruitgrower on a large ranch near a small town and his principal accomplishments are high-balls and a book on "The Removal of Spiders from Young Peach Plants," which he considers one of the best books ever written.
But when cousin Edward comes to New York he generally forgets all about spiders and peach plants and thinks mostly of his other accomplishment. He is especially interested in the night life. And as he stoutly maintains that he can not get along without me on his night trips, his visits generally mean numerous highballs and splitting headaches for me.
This time, as usual, I had to accompany him. He managed to find a statuesque blonde with a raucous voice, who chewed a toothpick and was inordinately fond of champagne at five dollars the bottle. While Edward was telling her about crops and spiders, she flirted with a college student at the next table.
I was bored and felt extremely de trop when suddenly I saw something that attracted my attention. There in one of the stalls, with his arms around a very thin lady, sat Jennings from Kalamazoo, freckles and all.
When he saw me he came over to our table, his steps rather insecure, and he expressed great pleasure at seeing me.
"You are no doubt surprised to see me here," he said, "but, you see, I met that young lady after the theatre the night you gave me the ticket and she has been a great help to me ever since."
"Have you found the camel bone?" I asked.
He told me that he had not and, to be perfectly frank, had not even been to the museum.
"In spite of your description, I got the wrong car and instead of going to the museum I landed in Fourteenth Street."
He was about to tell me what he had done in Fourteenth Street, when his female friend came over to the table.
"Say, Jennings," she queried, "are you trying to ditch me?"
He informed her, tenderly, that he had no such intentions.
It then developed that my cousin's blonde and Jennings's bony beauty were friends. They kissed and embraced and the two joined our party.
I took French leave and went home.
The next day Cousin Edward called me up on the 'phone and informed me that Jennings was an awfully good scout and although he had been very drunk he had told him all about the Modsahabat and the camel bone. For two days I heard nothing from Cousin Edward and I forgot about him and Jennings.
The third day, without knocking, Cousin Edward came in, sat in my most comfortable chair, lighted one of my cigars, and began to whistle.
"Did you ever see a real Salome dance?" he suddenly asked me.
I told him that I had not and was informed that I had missed the chance of a lifetime.
He then gave me a description of a little trip he and Jennings from Kalamazoo had taken into the tenderloin the previous evening after a good dinner with much wine, and how they had dropped into a place which advertised real Arabian dancers.
"It was not a very inviting place," he said, "and the drinks were awful. I didn't feel like going, but Jennings thinks there isn't a better chance to study life than in these places.
"It was too early for the crowds and two of the Arabian girls were sitting around in the half empty place. They joined us and started a conversation. One of them did not look very genuine and was quite old, but the other was great! Young, classy, with big black eyes, very black hair and teeth like ivory.
"The girls soon became familiar, the older first. Finally, the younger of the two proposed to give a special performance for twenty dollars; and she danced the real Salome dance. It isn't necessary to describe it, but it was the real thing, all right. And with the drinks, and the dance, and the heat, Jennings became very lively.
"He took a great fancy to the younger girl and she told him that her name was Zuleika and that twice as a child she had been in Mecca with her father, a respected Bedouin sheik of oldest desert nobility, and that she had in her personal possession one of those rare camel bones on which the Modsahabat is written.
"She did not brag about it. Jennings, clever as he is, just wormed it out of her by numerous questions.
"He then tried to speak Arabian to her, but did not succeed, because he knew only the classic Arabian, while the pretty girl apparently spoke the modern dialect. But because Zuleika had been working in New York for a number of years—publicly showing the greatly modified Salome dance—she spoke English very well, in fact, with the typical Bowery slang.
"As it was Jennings's greatest wish to gain possession of the camel bone before a museum or a college could take it away from him, he immediately offered the girl fifty dollars for it. But Zuleika only smiled and gave him such a look that he felt very cheap for having made such a low offer."
At length Edward came to the purpose of his visit. Jennings's money had temporarily given out, and he also was a little embarrassed at present. He had written home and expected funds shortly, but he needed two hundred dollars right away to buy the camel bone. And as they, of course, wanted to celebrate the good luck, a few dollars more for a nice, quiet, wine supper with the Arabian girls was necessary.
It was hard for me to say what I thought of Edward and Jennings. But rather than be called stingy, I gave Edward my check; and he promised to return the money in a few days.
Several months passed. I never saw Jennings again, but from Cousin Edward I received this letter:
Dear Cousin and Friend:—
You are probably surprised that I haven't sent the money I owe you and I should have written a long time ago, but I have been awfully busy with some experiments on a new spider glue. It's going to be a world beater. So I hope you will excuse me.
Poor Jennings is in wrong at home. He came back without the bone, looking very seedy. His mother thought he had worked too hard, but his father knew better. He was in New York once when he was young.
Jennings is trying awfully hard to get along and is earning his living tutoring and writing for the newspapers up home. Worst of all, he has discovered that the bone which he bought from the beautiful Arabian girl—you remember the one with the Salome dance I told you about—seems to be of more recent date than he thought and the hieroglyphics on it are not Modsahabat at all, but something more modern. He thinks however, it is worth considerable money anyway, as he bought it at a bargain. To show his good faith, he gave it to me for the debt.
Of course, in this little town, I can't dispose of such a rare bone; but in New York you should be able to sell it easily and that's why I'm sending it to you. Keep the $225 we owe out of what you get for the bone and send me the balance so that I may forward it to poor Jennings.
It will be to our and your best interests that you sell it soon, because I think the bone smells a little.
Yours sincerely,
I agreed particularly with the last part of the letter and did not lose any time. I took the bone to the curator of the Museum of Natural History. He is an authority on Oriental matters and examined the hieroglyphics carefully, covering his nose. He said it wasn't Assyrian, nor Arabian, nor Babylonian, nor Chaldean. It was Bunk. As to the bone, he advised me to consult a butcher.
I threw Modsahabat in the garbage can yesterday. Then I wrote a letter which read as follows:
Dear Cousin Edward:—
The market for camel bones is punk just now, especially when the camel is an ox. Tell Jennings to brush up on Zoology before he goes after any more Modsahabats.