The Passport

AN affair of some urgency required my presence in the Antilles; and having made all arrangements for the journey, I left written instructions at the desk of a southern hotel to be called in time to catch the five o’clock train, and retired for the night. At five-thirty I was awakened by the night clerk, who told me that the five o’clock train had gone about half an hour before, and that his neglect to inform me earlier of this interesting event was simply an oversight and was not intentional. The incident was closed.

But, after all, how fortunate it is that things do not always run according to plan; for, if they did, our lives would be devoid of color—existence would be a drab and even thing.

I must say, however, that these philosophical reflections occurred to me considerably after the event, and for the moment I took pleasure in thinking what I could do if I were Trotsky and I had that clerk in Moscow.

During the morning, while awaiting a later train, I made diligent inquiry as to what might happen if I arrived at the port after the office-hours of the man who had to visé the passport. Of course, there was a passport with photographs of the bearer on it, the whole mess costing thirteen dollars. Each authority gave different counsel, ranging from ‘By no means attempt it,’ to ‘It is a cinch; people do it all the time.’ As there were sailings only on alternate days, I decided to chance it, although forty-eight hours on a coral reef were to be the price of failure.

A drummer who sat near me in the train told me just what to do on arriving. There would be three officials to see. I was to do thus and so. Nothing could be simpler.

Following instructions, I went first to the income-tax agent. This was wrong. He should have been the second in order, and judging from his indignation at my mistake, it was indeed fortunate for me that he had n’t been third. My income-tax record had been found to be perfection itself in my home town, and was recertified to when the passport was issued; but that availed nothing. It had to be done all over again by this pathetic little person, who, it seemed, was powerless to act until Mr. Bowles had signed the passport; and if I did n’t make haste and catch him at his office, I could not sail that night.

George Sanders — a spiritual descendant of Captain Kidd: he asked me if I ever returned would I look him up — drove the taxi that carried me to Mr. Bowles’s office just around the corner. No Bowles (fifty cents for Sanders). But he generally went right home after work, an old darky averred; so we followed and got there before him. The construction of the preceding sentence seems odd to me, but it must be right, for that is what happened. (Two dollars for Sanders.) Mrs. Bowles had no idea where he could be, but he was never later than six or seven at the outside; and to while away the time, I ate fried yellow-tails (that’s fish) at the New York Café, run by a Mexican. (Fifty cents for Sanders, not to mention the war-tax on yellow-tails.)

Sanders was given clearly to understand that, if he could locate Bowles, he was to receive a monetary reward; and as the last yellow-tail was disappearing down the red lane, friend Sanders hove in sight and reported that he had been to the Elks’ Club and every other place, and nary a sign. He had asked everyone and no one had seen him.

The evening was pleasant, and feeling somewhat lonely in a strange city, I boarded Skipper Sanders’s craft and called upon Mrs. Bowles, having a premonition that her husband would not be at home. And from there to the Elks’ Club via his office, and thence to his residence to consult with Mrs. Bowles, who was trying to keep the supper hot and was getting just a little peevish about it. No Bowles.

Lots of people in the seaport were taking an interest in me by this time, and from a store where my friend the drummer was plying his vocation, I telephoned and got in touch with my man, who had finally returned home.

I told him what I wanted,

‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re entirely mistaken. I don’t have to sign it. If you have a passport, that is all that is necessary. Go to the Custom House.’

So I went to the Custom House, and they said that I should have gone first to the income-tax man; but in any event, Mr. Bowles had to sign it; that was flat and final.

Back to Mr. Bowles, who reluctantly consented to glance over my document. ‘This is not a passport,’ said he sternly (just imagine how I felt). ‘This is only an application for a passport.’

A long pause.

‘When I sign it, it becomes a passport.’

‘But why should I do this for you?’ he continued, with a tremor in his voice. ‘I have been working like a slave all day, and should n’t I be permitted to have some time with my home and family?’

The bosom of his family had not known him for the last three hours, to my certain knowledge, but I did n’t think it would be tactful to remind him of that. Well, I told him why he should do it for me. First, from one human being to another. Second, from one father to another. I went on to tell him about the night clerk who had failed to wake me. How I had tried to get up at 4 A.M. so that this ordeal could be spared him; and groping in the dark, I finally had the good fortune to hit upon a reason that appealed mightily to Mr. Bowles.

‘Well, of course,’ said he, ‘that last thing you mentioned might make some difference’; and if I would come back at half-past eight, when he would have finished supper, he would go with me to his office.

Mr. Sanders and I were not late, and after all the children had been kissed and the wife had stopped us several times to give some last messages, we started for the office, calling upon several friends on the way, one of whom was a doctor, only to discover, much to Mr. Bowles’s chagrin, that he had left the passport — on which he had carefully put his glasses so that he would n’t lose it — in the house. So back we went and found the passport just where he had put it and actually arrived at the office. And then he SIGNED it.

In our farewell hand-shake there was something more substantial than mere friendship.

The income-tax personage now enters upon the scene. He wrote something and questioned me very narrowly about Mr. Bowles, about charges and things, because he, that is to say Mr. Bowles, had no right to charge anything or even so much as to ask a question. Just sign on the dotted line. That’s all he had to do. But I stuck up for Mr. Bowles. No sir-ee, he was one of the nicest men I had ever met. This part of the business was concluded without any hand-shaking.

On the way to the wharf and the Custom House, I encountered a pair of my new friends, who asked what progress I was making; and when I told them I was about to take the final step, they assured me that my troubles were all over. I approached the door. Heavens, it was locked! Nothing. Not anybody. A ship had had the fiendish impulse to arrive from Cuba that very minute, and the Custom-House officers were busy examining the baggage. Finally a man came out, locked the door behind him, and confirmed the above bad news, but added that, as soon as the examination was finished, my case would be taken up and that I would n’t miss my boat, which was making sinister noises with its whistle, preparatory to backing out. They made me a little nervous, those sounds did, and I asked the vanishing CustomHouse man if he was sure that I would n’t lose out at the very last minute. Spitting to the right and left, he qualified his former optimistic statement by saying that he thought I would be on time, and moved off into the gloom.

In this new crisis I dug out a kindfaced employee of something, perhaps of our 100 per cent government, and related to him the story of my recent experiences, not omitting a single detail. But, as Mrs. Scheherazade was wont to remark, it is not necesary to repeat it.

‘Come with me,’ he said; and taking me by the arm, he led me to a large sliding door in a fence, on the other side of which passengers from a foreign land were having their pockets rifled and their breaths analyzed under process of law.

Presently a duly qualified person passed within hailing distance, and my kind-faced friend, acting as spokesman, set forth my urgent requirements. There were unmistakable signs that the boat upon which I still hoped to sail, which was lying on the other side of the dock, was about to depart, for the whistle was bellowing with greater and greater frequency. The official took my paper, looked it over, and what he said would be impossible to divine in a thousand years. He said, ‘Why did n’t you come before my office was closed ? ’

There was no help for it. I recited to him the story of my immediate past, not omitting a single detail. But it is not necessary to repeat it. He turned his head and walked away. I think he was crying, — I don’t see how he could help it, — and in a few minutes he returned and handed me my papers, my dear little passport, which had so narrowly escaped being but an application, duly adorned with the third and final signature.

Four hours and a half to obtain three specimens of chirography, each one of which was a mere formality, entailing not the shadow of responsibility upon any one of the signers! As I turned to go, there was Sanders! But this was simple. Ten dollars. No writing; no receipt; no nothing. Just ten dollars. He was the only one of the crowd who had earned his pay. May the Lord forgive me for calling him a son of Captain Kidd!