If I Had My Own Blue Box:

Continued….

  “The Three Traveling-Bags” (The Continental Monethly, 1862)

Chapter III

When the train stopped at Camden, four gentlemen got off, and walked, arm-in-arm, rapidly and silently, up one of the by-streets, and struck off into a foot-path leading to a secluded grove outside the town. Of the first two, one was our military friend in a blue coat, apparently the leader of the party. Of the second two, one was a smiling, rosy little man, carrying a black valise. Their respective companions walked hasty, irregular strides, were abstracted, and apparently ill at ease.

The party stopped.

“This is the place,” said Captain Jones.

“Yes,” said Doctor Smith”

The Captain and the Doctor conferred together. The other two studiously kept apart.

“Very, well. I’ll measure the ground, and do you place your man.”

It was done.

“Now, for the pistols,” whispered the Captain to his fellow-second.

“They are all ready, in the valise,” replied the Doctor.

The principals were placed, ten paces apart, and wearing that decidedly uncomfortable air a man has who is in momentary expectation of being shot.

“You will fire, gentlemen, simultaneously, when I give the word,” said the Captain. Then, in an undertone, to the Doctor, “Quick, the pistols.”

The Doctor, stooping over and fumbling at the valise, appeared to find something that surprised him.

“Why, what the devil –“

“What’s the matter?” asked the Captain, striding up. “Can’t you find the caps?”

“Deuce a pistol or a cap, but this!”

He held up – a lady’s night-cap!

“Look here – and here – and here!” holding up successively a hair-brush, a long white night-gown, a cologne-bottle, and a comb.

They were greeted with a long whistle by the Captain, and a blank stare by the two principals.

“Confound the luck!” ejaculated the Captain; “if we haven’t made a mistake, and brought the wrong valise!”

The principals looked at the seconds. The seconds looked at the principals. Nobody volunteered a suggestion. At last the Doctor inquired.

“Well, what’s to be done?”

“D—d unlucky!” again ejaculated the Captain. “The duel can’t go on.”

“Evidently not,” responded the Doctor, “unless they brain each other with the hairbrush, or take a pop at each other with the cologne-bottle.

“You are quite sure there are no pistols in the valise?” said on of the principals, with suppressed eagerness, and drawing a long breath of evident relief.

“We might go over to the city and get pistols,” proposed the Captain.

“And by that time it will be dark,” said the Doctor.

“D—d unlucky,” said the Captain again.

“We shall be the laughing-stock of the town,” consolingly remarked the Doctor, “if this gets wind.”

“One work with you, Doctor,” here interposed his principal.

They conferred.

At the end of the conference with his principal, the Doctor, advancing to the Captain, conferred with him. Then the Captain conferred with his principal. Then the seconds conferred with each other. Finally, it was formally agreed between the contending parties that a statement should be drawn up in writing, whereby Principal No. 1 tendered the assurance that the offensive words “You are a liar” were not used by him in any personal sense, but solely as an abstract proposition, in a general way, in regard to the matter of fact dispute. To which Principal No 2 appended his statement of his high gratification at this candid and honorable explanation, and unqualifiedly withdrew the offensive words “You are a scoundrel.” They having been used by him under a misapprehension in the intent and purpose of the remark which preceded them.

There being no longer a cause of quarrel, the duel was of course ended. The principals shook hands, first with each other, and next with the seconds,  and were evidently very glad to get out of it.

“And now that it is so happily settled,” said the Doctor, chuckling and rubbing his hands, “it proves to have been a lucky mistake, after all, that we brought the wrong valise. Wonder what the lady that owns it will say when she opens ours and finds the pistols.”

“Very well for you to laugh about,” growled the Captain; “but it’s no joke for me to lose my pistols. Hair triggers – best English make, and gold mounted. There aren’t a finer pair in America.”

“Oh, we’ll find’em. We’ll go on a pilgrimage from house to house, asking if any lady there has lost a night-cap and found a pair of dueling-pistols.

Chapter IV

In very goo d spirits, the party crossed the river, and inquired at the baggage-room in reference to each and all black leather traveling-bags arrived that day, took notes of where they were sent, and set out to follow them up. In due time they reached the Continental, and, as luck would have it, met the unhappy bridal pair just coming down the stairs in charge of the policeman.

“What’s all this?” inquired the Captain.

“Oh, a couple of burglars, caught with a valise full of stolen property.

“A valise! What kind of valise?”

“A black leather valise. That’s it, there.”

“Here! – Stop! – Hallo! – Policeman! – Landlord! It’s all right. It’s all a mistake. They got changed at the depot. This lady and gentleman are innocent. Here’s their valise, with her nightcap in it.”

Great was the laughter, multifarious the comments, and deep the interest of the crowd in all this dialogue, which they appeared to regard as a delightful entertainment, got up expressly for their amusement.

“Then you say this ‘ere is yourn?” said the policeman, relaxing his hold on the bridegroom, and confronting the Captain.

“Yes, it’s mine.”

“And how did you come by the spoons?”

“Spoons, you jackanapes!” said the Captain. “Pistols! – dueling-pistols!”

“Do you call these pistols?” said the policeman, holding up one of the silver spoons marked ‘T.B.”

The Captain, astounded, gasped “It’s the wrong valise again, after all!”

“Stop! Not so fast!” said the police functionary, now invested with the great dignity by the importance of the affair he found himself engaged in. “IF so be as how you’ve got this ‘cre lady’s valise, she’s all right, and can go. But, in that case, this is yourn,  and it comes on you to account fro them ‘are stole spoons. Have to take you in charge, all four of ye.”

“Why, you impudent scoundrel!” roared the Captain; “I’ll see you in-. I wish I had my pistols here; I’d teach you to insult gentlemen!” shaking his fist.

The dispute waxed fast and furious. The outsiders began to take part in it, and there is no telling how it would have ended, had not an explosion, followed by a heavy fall and a scream of pain, been heard in an adjoining room.

The crowd rushed to the scene of the new attraction.

The door was fast. It was soon burst open, and the mystery explained. The thief, who carried off the Captain’s valise by mistake for his own, had taken it up to his room, and opened it to gloat over the booty he supposed it to contain, thrusting his hand in after the spoons. In so doing he had touched one of the hair triggers, and the pistol had gone off, the bullet making a round hole through the side of the valise, and a corresponding round hole in the calf of his leg. The wounded rascal was taken in charge, first by the policeman, and then by the doctor; and the duelists and the wedded pair struck up a friendship on the score of their mutual mishaps, which culminated in a supper, where the fun was abundant, and where it would be hard to say which was in the best spirits, – the Captain for recovering his pistols, the bride for getting her night-cap, the bridegroom for escaping the station-house, or the duelists for escaping each other. All resolved to ‘mark the day with a white stone,’ and henceforth to mark their names on their black traveling-bags, in white letters.

Lately, I’ve really been enjoying lost or mixed-up baggage stories. This story, “The Three Traveling-Bags” is from The Continental Monethly  of 1862.

Chapter 1

There were three of them, all of shining black leather; one on top of the pile of trunks; one on the  ground; one in the owner’s hand; all going to Philadelphia; all waiting to be checked.

The last bell rang. The baggageman bustled, fuming, from one pile of baggage to another, dispensing chalk to the trunks, checks to the passagengers, and curses to the porters, in approved railway style.

“Mine! – Philadelphia” cried a stout military-looking man, with enormous whiskers and a red face, crowding forward, as the baggageman laid his hand on the first bag.

“Won’t you please to give me a check for this, now?” entreated a pale, slender, carefully-dressed young man, for the ninth time, holding out bag No. 2. “I have a lady to look after.”

“Say! be you agoin’ to give me a check for that ‘are, or not?” growled the proprietor of bag No. 3, a short, pockmarked fellow, in a shabby over coat.

“All right, gen’l’men. Here you are,’ says the functionary, rapidly distributing the three checks. “Philadelfy, this? Yes, sir, -1092-1740.11-1020. All right.”

“All aboard!” shouted the conductor.

“Whoo-whew!” responded the locomotive; and the train moved slowly out of the station-house.

The baggageman meditatively watched it, as it sped away in the distance, and then, as if a thought suddenly struck him, slapping his thigh, he exclaimed,

“Blest if I don’t believe – “

“What?” inquired the switchman.

“That I’ve gone and guv them three last fellers the wrong checks! The cussed little black things was all alike, and they bothered me.”

“Telegraph,” suggested the switchman.

“Never you mind,’ replied the baggageman. “They was all going to Philadelfy. They’ll find it out when they get there.”

They did.

Chapter II

The scene shifts to the Continental Hotel, Philadelphia. – Front parlor, up stairs. – Occupants, the young gentleman alluded to in Chapter I, and a young lady. In accordance with the fast usages of the times, the twain had been made one in holy matrimony at 7.30 a.m.; duly kissed and congratulated till 8.15; put aboard the express train at 8.45, and deposited at the Continental, bag and baggage, by 12.58.

They were seated on the sofa, the black broadcloth coat-sleeve encircling the slender waist of the gray traveling-dress, and the jetty moustache in equally affectionate proximity to the glossy curls.

“Are you tired, dearest?”

“No, love, not much. But you are, arn’t you?”

“No, darling.”

Kiss, and a pause.

“Don’t it seem funny?” said the lady.

“What, love?”

“That we should be married.”

“Yes, darling.”

“Won’t they be glad to see us at George’s?”

“Of course they will.”

“I’m sure I shall enjoy it so much. Shall we get there to-night?”

“Yes, love, if – “

Rap-rap-rap, at the door.

A  hasty separation took place between man and wife – to opposite ends of the sofa; and  then –

“Come in.”

“Av you plaze, sur, it’s an M.P. is waiting to see yez.”

“To see me! A policeman?”

“Yis, sur.”

“There must be some mistake.”

“No sur, it’s yourself; and he’s waiting in the hall, beyant.”

“Well, I’ll go to – No, tell him to come here.”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” said the M.P., with a huge brass star on his breast, appearing with great alacrity at the waiter’s elbow. B’lieve this is your black valise?”

“Yes, that is ours, certainly. It has Julia’s – the lady’s things in it.”

“Suspicious sarcumstances about that ‘ere valise, sir. Telegraph come this morning that a burglar started on the 8.45 Philadelphia train, with a lot of stolen spoons, in a black valise. – spoons marked T. B. – Watched at the Ferry. Saw the black valise. – Followed it up here. – Took a peek inside. Sure enough, there was the spoons. Marked T. B., too. Said it was yours. Shall have to take you in charge.”

“Take me in charge!” echoed the dismayed bridegroom. “But I assure you, my dear sir, there is some strange mistake. It’s all a mistake.”

“S’pose you’ll be able to account for the spoons being in your valise, then?”

“Why, I – I – it isn’t mine. It must be somebody else’s. Somebody’s put them there. It is some villainous conspiracy.”

“Hope you’ll be able to tell a straighter story before the magistrate, young man; ‘cause if you don’t, you stand a smart chance of being sent up for six months.”

“Oh, Charles! This is horrid. Do send him away. Oh dear! I wish I was home,” sobbed the little bride.

“I tell you, sir,” said the bridegroom, bristling up with indignation, “this is all a vile plot. What would I be doing with your paltry spoon? I was married this morning, in Fifth Avenue, and I am on my wedding tour. I have high connections in New York. You’ll repent it, sir, if you dare arrest me.”

“Oh , come, now,” said the incredulous official, “I’ve been hearn stories like that before. This ain’t the first time swindlers has traveled in couples. Do you s’pose I don’t know nothin’? ‘Tan’t no use; you’ve just got to come along to the station-house. Might as well go peaceably, ‘cause you’ll have to.”

“Charles, this is perfectly dreadful! Our wedding night in the station-house! Do send for somebody. Send for the landlord to explain it.”

The landlord was sent for, and came; the porters were sent for, and came; the waiters, and chambermaids, and bar-room loungers came, without being sent for, and filled the room and the adjoining hall, some to laugh, some to say they wouldn’t have believed it, but nearly all to exult that the unhappy pair had been ‘found out.’ Now explanation could be given; and the upshot was, that, in spite of tears, threats, entreaties, rage, and expostulations, the unfortunate newly-married pair were taken in charge by the relentless policeman, and marched down stairs, en rout for the police office.

And here let the curtain drop on the melancholy scene, while we follow the fortunes of black valise No. 2.

 Continued…..