Eddy was also a theatrical booking agent for 25 years, promoting shows that featured many famous vaudevillians and performers of the early twentieth century. In later years, he was a proofreader for Oxford Press, a principal clerk at the business management office of the Rhode Island State Department of Public Health, secretary treasurer of the Rhode Island Theatrical Booking Agents' Association, and president (1954–1956) and treasurer (1962–67) of the Rhode Island Writers’ Guild. He died on November 21, 1967, aged 71, and is interred at Swan Point Cemetery.
—Karl Wurf
Rockville, Maryland
CHAPTER ONE
AN OATH OF ALLEGIANCE
WHEN MY FATHER WAS stricken one morning in April, Death was the farthest from my thoughts. I looked upon it, as did Mrs. Waynemore, the housekeeper, as a passing illness. But, as he grew steadily worse, Doctor Barnes, who had known me since he helped usher me into this old world, said to me to hope for the best, but to be prepared for the worst. At last came the day when the doctor told the old gentleman that his hours were numbered, that he had done all in his power to stay the onward march of the Grim Reaper. Father listened to the verdict of the physician, and asked that I be summoned. My heart was heavy as I went in and took my place at his bedside.
He was quite calm, but I could detect a suppressed excitement in his eyes as he asked the doctor and the housekeeper to retire. In spite of its sadness my heart beat a little faster as they left the room, and I began to wonder what it could be that he wanted of me—alone. As soon as he was sure that the others were safely out of hearing, he indicated a seat for me by the head of the bed.
“Chester,” he began, before I leave this old world I want to tell you a tale out of my life that I have never told you before. I want you to listen without interruption, for my time is short and I want to be sure that it is finished before I pass on.”
He paused for a moment, as if doubtful just how to begin.
“I was just a bit older than you are now, and I had seen pretty much of the world, even at that age. But no matter where I roamed, I always came back to Manorport sooner or later. It was the only real home I knew. I had been back from my last trip just a few days. My pockets were well lined, for my last venture had been a profitable one. We all have our hobbies and mine has always been the acquisition of curios in the way of jewelry or trinkets, worthless except for their oddity. I was somehow reminded of a peculiar ring I had marked in a little Chinese shop, on the waterfront in Boston, which I had passed on my way home a few days before. I was possessed of an uncontrollable desire to add it to my collection. The desire for that ring grew upon me all throughout the day, and I spent a sleepless night because of it. The next morning I left Manorport intent only upon acquiring it. The shop I mentioned was in rather an unsavory section of the city, but I knew my Boston well. Many was the oddity I had picked up in this selfsame shop. The Chinaman who ran the place—Len Sang he called himself—knew me for a regular customer. My luck must have been sidetracked somehow. When I reached the shop I found, to my dismay, that the ring was gone from the window. There was no need of ‘pidgin’ English with Len Sang. I don’t know where he learned, but he could speak our language as well as I.
“‘Yes,’ he told me, ‘I remember well the ring you have in mind. Was it not a silver ring, with a peculiar setting? A Chinese dragon, with eyes of jade?’
“‘That’s the one I came all the way back here to get,’ I told him. ‘Where is it? I want to buy it.’
“‘It is gone, sir. I sold it only last evening.’
“‘Sold it! But I must have it!’ The desire for that ring was becoming an obsession.
“‘But yes,’ he returned; ‘wait but a moment.’
“He disappeared into the back room of the shop. When he returned, he had in his hand what I could have sworn was the self-same ring I had seen in the shop window.
“‘Sly dog! I thought you told me you had sold it,’ I accused him.
“‘Aye, sir, and so I did.’ He bowed. ‘This is its mate. There were only two of these rings ever made. The one I sold last evening to the customer I mentioned. This ring is its exact duplicate.’
“That rather savored of mystery, and I asked him if by chance the rings had a history.
“‘All that I know,’ he responded, ‘is that a few weeks ago a little old man came into the store with these two rings to sell me. He told me they had been made especially for two Chinese nobleman, whose names and peculiarities I well knew, and were worn by them until their recent death. He claimed that they were the only rings of their kind ever made. How he came into possession of them, or his right to sell them, I did not question. We seldom question such rights here. I was taken by the peculiar character of the rings, so I bought them, almost at my own price. One I put in the window, where it has remained until last night; the other is here.’
“He passed it over the counter for my inspection.
“I was rather skeptical about the story he told of the rings and how they came into his possession. It came too readily to his lips to carry any weight with me. From what I knew of Len Sang, he was, like most of the others of his race, secretive and taciturn. To find him loquacious was to make me suspicious that he must have a reason, for being so.
“I did not give him any inkling of my doubts, however, but began haggling with him over the price of the remaining ring. Len Sang was a shrewd business man, and he knew I wanted the ring badly. Finally we came to terms, I forgot just what the ring cost me, but Len Sang was no loser, of that I am certain.
“Len Sang bowed me all the way to the door of the shop, a sleepy, oily, shop-worn smile on his saffron face, thanking me profusely all the while for my custom. I was sorry, of course, that I had not been able to acquire the pair of rings, but I rather congratulated myself on my luck in their being a second one that I might buy. My bargaining had made me rather thirsty, so I made for a nearby grog-shop to quench my thirst and provide myself with an opportunity to examine my purchase more closely.
“I had settled myself with my half-and-half when I spied some one whom I had not seen in an age. It was ‘Spike’ Burgess; a big hulking brute of a man, but as good-hearted a chap as had ever been my good fortune to meet. Many a wild time we had weathered together and escaped unscathed. He was the only real ‘pal’ I had ever had, and I’d been lonesome enough. drifting around since I saw him last, two years before. I hailed him, and he came lumbering over to my table.
“‘Peter Brent, by all that’s holy! Where have you been keeping yourself? Damn it all, old man, I’m glad to see you!’
“His mighty fist came down upon the table in emphasis of his remark with a crash that nearly splintered the boards of the table itself. I gripped the brawny hand he extended, and we settled down to talk over the things that had happened since we had last seen one another.
“We exchanged confidences freely, for at that hour of the day the saloon was well-nigh deserted. At length I bethought myself of my latest purchase. I slipped it off my finger and held it up for Spike’s inspection.
“I was totally unprepared for the effect it had upon him. At the sight of it his eyes dilated, his hands gripped the edges of the table so tightly that the muscles on his arms stood out like whipcords, and the perspiration ran down his face in streams.
“‘Good God, man!’ he rasped, his voice hoarse and unnatural,
