was certainly hungry enough, after the morning’s walking. I dipped my spoon into the bowl again, and the waiter said, “There! Didn’t I tell you that’s some mighty fine gumbo? Plenty tasty, plenty hot. You tell me when you’re done, and I’ll bring you ’nother bowl.” And he turned and went back to the kitchen, satisfied that he had done his duty by me.
“Not much like chowder, is it?” asked Mr. Clemens, a gleam in his eye.
I took another taste and found another flavor of seafood, this one not familiar, although quite good. “That’s crawfish,” said Mr. Cable, watching me eat. I had seen crawfish, looking somewhat like miniature lobsters, in streams back in Connecticut, but never thought of them as food. They seemed right at home in this gumbo, nonetheless. If I could only get used to the excess of pepper, it might be quite palatable. Luckily, I had ordered a glass of the local beer, and it served admirably to wash down the thick soup. And I had worked up quite an appetite. I took another spoonful, and another, and before I knew it, the bowl was empty, and I began to wonder if the waiter really would bring me another serving.
Seeing me devour the gumbo, Mr. Cable waxed eloquent about the cuisine of his native city. (He had ordered another dish with some barbarous name, a mixture of rice, vegetables, chicken, and sausage.) “Why, the worst New Orleans food makes anything you can get in a New York restaurant taste bland, never mind what passes for food in the rest of the North. You’d have a hard time finding a bad meal in this city if you tried for a month,” he said in between forkfuls of his jambalaya.
His smug expression made me want to rise to the defense of my home region, although I knew little enough of the restaurants of New York. But just as I opened my mouth to reply, Mr. Clemens cut me off with a gesture. “Well, George,” he said in the slow, drawling manner that was his characteristic way of speaking, “I’ll have to call you on that. Back in my cub pilot days, I remember a New Orleans meal that nobody at the table could get past their noses. Once we realized it was unfit for human consumption, we tried to get the dog to eat it, and he wouldn’t have any part of it. And when we threw it in the garbage, every single rat in that alley pulled up stakes and headed for Texas. The bugs ate it, though. I know that for a fact, because we found a passel of ’em dead up to a week afterward.” He smiled and nodded, as if in confirmation of his own declaration.
Mr. Cable began to sputter at this slander on New Orleans cooking, but Mr. Clemens continued. “Yes indeed, worst meal I ever had. Cooked it myself. I never made that mistake again.” He took a sip of lager and patted his stomach. “What’s on the schedule this afternoon, George?”
Mr. Cable snorted and shook his head before succumbing to laughter. Finally, he said, “I thought we’d ride out to Lake Pontchartrain and have dinner near West End. It’s only a five-mile ride, but it’ll be much cooler than here in the city, and I know a place where the chef is superb. Half the city migrates out there in the warm season.”
Mr. Clemens nodded. “Fine. How do we get there?”
“The train’s the easiest way, although a carriage ride out the Shell Road is more picturesque. Mr. Cabot might enjoy the view, since he’s new to the city. And you can take the train back, if you’re in a hurry then.”
Mr. Clemens agreed to this proposal, and we settled our bill and walked out to Jackson Square to find a carriage out to Lake Pontchartrain. We soon engaged a smart-looking rig, driven by a wiry little Irishman with bushy chin whiskers and a crooked smile. He took us along the famous Shell Road, a toll road running alongside a canal through swampy land. I saw my first live alligator swimming in this canal; Mr. Clemens, who had told me several stories about these animals during our steamboat trip, kindly offered to have the driver stop so I could inspect the reptile more closely. As the driver seemed to be in a hurry, I was unwilling to interfere with his schedule out of mere curiosity. I prevailed upon Mr. Clemens and Mr. Cable to postpone the opportunity to some indefinite future.
To the landward side, there was a thick forest full of exotic foliage and dark shadows; an occasional path broke the wall of greenery, leading to some destination I could only guess at. Some of the plants could have been giant versions of the house plants I was used to seeing my mother grow, but here they grew—nay, flourished!—out of doors, all on their own. Mr. Cable told me that most of the inhabitants of this territory were poor Negroes who supported themselves by fishing and trapping. The canal itself seemed busy enough; twice we passed tugboats with barges of bricks or other building materials headed for the heart of the city. And the road itself was well-traveled, with a number of gentlemen driving their buggies past us at impressive speed.
Eventually, we broke out onto the lakeshore, a district much like the shore resorts I had seen in Rhode Island: large, lightly constructed hotels with broad verandas and expansive pavilions, close upon the blue waves of the broad lake. Gaily dressed vacationers seemed to be everywhere, enjoying themselves in the warm sunlight. From somewhere in the distance I heard music, a sprightly waltz tune. Small sailboats dotted the water, and a good number of people were taking advantage of the cool waters to escape the late afternoon heat. Mr. Cable told us that another, newer resort had been constructed a few miles away, at Spanish Fort, and that thousands of citizens would come out every evening to enjoy the view, the breeze, the food, the gambling houses, and the band concerts at the two resorts.
We stopped at a little café to wash the dust from our throats, Mr. Clemens and I with an excellent lager, and Mr. Cable (a teetotaler) with a glass of lemonade. Afterward, we strolled along the waterside a while, observing the sights and commenting idly on this or that. An occasional passerby would recognize Mr. Clemens and shout out a greeting, to which he would return some appropriate remark. Finally, at an intersection filled with happy vacationers, a newsboy’s cry seized our attention.
“Read all about it, an arrest in the Robinson murder! Read all about it!”
“An arrest at last!” said Mr. Cable. He reached in his pocket for a nickel. “Here, boy, give me a copy!” The grinning urchin took the coin and gave him the paper and his change, then raised his cry again, hoping to attract more customers.
“It looks as if the New Orleans police know their business,” said Mr. Clemens, as Mr. Cable scanned the front page. “The New York detective who came downriver with us took over a month to spot the man he was after and never did arrest him.”
Mr. Cable’s brow furrowed as his gaze moved down the column, and he finally slapped the paper against his leg. “Read that!” he said, abruptly throwing the paper in Mr. Clemens’s general direction. It hit my surprised employer in the chest and landed on the sidewalk, and I bent to pick it up.
“A travesty if ever I heard of one,” said Mr. Cable. He stamped away several paces, then whirled on his heel to face us again. “An absolute outrage!”
“What on earth is wrong, George?” said Mr. Clemens, looking at the little man with visible alarm.
“Read that story—that pack of lies,” said Mr. Cable, gesturing at the paper I held.
Mr. Clemens took the paper from me, and I crowded in behind him to look over his shoulder. “Here, Wentworth, give me some room,” he said after a moment. “Better yet, you take it and read it to me,” and he handed me back the paper.
I found the story and read aloud: “Police in Orleans Parish today announced they had arrested Leonard Galloway, a Negro cook, on suspicion of poisoning the late John David Robinson. Mr. Robinson, widely recognized as one of the leading lights of Crescent City society, was found dead by his wife, Eugenia Holt Robinson, on Friday the 11th of this month. Dr. Alphonse Soupape, the family physician, recognized the cause of death as poisoning and alerted the authorities. Police had learned that the deceased reprimanded the Negro for drunkenness a
