Dutch contemplates a plug of fresh tobacco.
Then he resumes. This time a more intimate tale--the story of his
romance--a weird, grotesque amour with a gaudy can-can obbligato.
"Long ago," Dutch whispers; "yeh, I knew all the girls. I tattoned them
all. And I live in this street for thirty years now. But nobody is
interested any more in what used to be. How this street has become
different! Ach, it is gone, all gone. Everything. Tattooing hangs on a
little. Human nature demand it. But human nature is dying likewise. Yeh, I
ask you what would old Barnum say if he should come back and see me
sitting here? Me, who was as good any day as Capt. Constantinus? I hate to
think what. In those days talent counted. If you could sing or dance or
tattoo it meant something. Now what does it mean? Look at the dancers and
singers they have, and who is there that tattooes any more? It's all gone
to smash, the whole world."
* * * * *
Now amid the popping of the rifles and the tinny whanging of the piano
Dutch draws forth a final package. He unwraps a yellowed newspaper.
Photographs. One by one he shuffles them out and arranges them on the
broken desk as if in some pensive game of solitaire.
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