THE PASSING OF CLANGINGHARP.

And so old Clangingharp passed out. He did not die, and his case was not like Elijah’s or Enoch’s. Enoch left a spoor, while Clangingharp calmly and peacefully passed away, without striking a discord. Nobody had any idea where Clangingharp was. Frostembight had seen him the night before and they had drunk and been drunk; but where Clangingharp was Frostembight could not or would not say.

The Knittenpin woman, of course, acted like an idiot and went around to Frostembight’s house in the morning and threatened to kill Frostembight. Nothing prevented her but Frostembight. She afterwards told Shiningstar and Shiningstar’s little girl Eva, that Frostembight was not safe for dependence, even as a victim. Eva leered proudly and said she guessed it made very little difference anyway.

Eva was one of those frail, delicate little girls, happy for their years, who grow up into frail, delicate women, wretched for theirs. Sometimes they have blue eyes, sometimes black. Eva’s were green. Championoar liked green-eyed women, and half promised to wait till Eva was old enough to be married to him, when he could get her off the stage. Shiningstar was his stepdaughter’s stepfather.

By the second night after Clangingharp had passed away the editor of The Evening Coat had gone back into society again, and was the center of a jostling cluster at the Opera. Madame Frustra, the prima donna, seemed to incline toward the editor, and when his flowers reached her in her dressing room she was heard to murmur, “Poor Clangingharp!” That was really all there was to connect The Evening Coat with the affair, and, indeed, Frustra wrote the editor a note saying that nowadays a successful actress had to forego wine suppers and skip to her hotel directly after the opera. She got out of town with her luggage before the stranding was discovered.

Charmingbland, the hotel clerk, got himself into a devil of a fix, it was said, for hinting foul play and collusion between Little Eva and Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom was a good enough fellow, though pale at times, and made a dramatic exit when the Chinaman lost his cue. Of course there was a tremendous sensation, and speculation of all sorts over what Clangingharp’s son would have done if Clangingharp had had one. That led Padmarx, dramatic editor of The Evening Coat, to put on a copy and go behind the scenes to interview Ellen Squigs.

“Say, Squigsy,” he wheedled, “where’s Clangingharp?”

Squigsy went right on frizzing her hair with a curling-iron, and said she wasn’t no slouch and wasn’t going to be bluffed by Championoar nor any other dude. That made Padmarx curious, and he asked Squigsy if she really thought she could act. Squigsy rushed at Padmarx and ran the hot curling-iron all over his dress shirt, making long, irregular scorches on the bosom. Padmarx buttoned up his ulster and went out after the ball. Late that night a stranger walked up to Charmingbland, pulled off a false mustache and said furtively:

“There, you idiot—dyuh recognize meh now?”

“Strings Clangingharp, by Gawd,” remarked Charmingbland, “where you been?”

Clangingharp put his mustache on crooked, and they sat down at a table in the bar-room from which Charmingbland could see anybody that tried to steal the silver card-platters off the desk. Clangingharp drank eleven cocktails before he said a word, then he put his finger to his mustache to enjoin maudlin secrecy upon Charmingbland and said:

“Shay, ol’ man. Want t’ know w’er I been? Been zh’ gol’ cure, ol’ man. Zhay wouldn’ take me. Gimme some pepper there!”

And he spread himself, like a green bay tree.

Frank W. Noxon.