The Project Gutenberg eBook of Cream of the jug
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Title: Cream of the jug
An anthology of humorous stories
Editor: Grant M. Overton
Release date: March 27, 2026 [eBook #78305]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Harper & Brothers, 1927
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78305
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CREAM OF THE JUG ***
_C_ream _of_ the _J_ug
A_n_ A_nthology of_
H_umorous_ S_tories_
EDITED BY
GRANT OVERTON
HARPER & BROTHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
1927
COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY HARPER
& BROTHERS. PRINTED IN THE
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
FIRST EDITION
H-B
FOREWORD
A good many harsh things are likely to be said about this collection
of humorous stories and I may as well get in first by saying a few of
them right here. Not all of them are likely to strike any given
reader as being humorous; certainly not all of them are humorous in
the same sense nor in anything like the same degree. Humor, from the
writer's standpoint, can hardly be defined except as a method of
presenting material; from a reader's standpoint, as anything and
everything conducive to good-natured laughter. Humor may be brief;
perhaps is better so; nevertheless I have aimed to include only
humorous writing which also tells a fully-rounded story--writing in
which the humor is incidental to the story unless you, the reader,
find it otherwise.
There is plenty of evidence that I have had further formulas. Some
of it is misleading. I did not, for example, consciously select a
humorous negro story, a humorous animal story, a humorous Jewish
story, and so on. With more truth it can be alleged that I made this
book by culling a specimen of the work of this well-known writer of
humorous yarns, and that one. Still, there are one or two stories by
less well-known writers. And it is perhaps natural in any department
to think of a few who are outstanding and to say, "The collection
won't be representative without a story by Blank." In the end you
match Blank's tale against one by somebody else and are not
thunderstruck if Blank's is the better. It is his faculty for being
better that has got him his fame.
That there is only one story by a woman is as much of a surprise to
me as it can be to anybody. Probably, if my task were perfectly
done, there would be not less than three.
I have, however, failed to include only one story which I wished to
put in. This failure was due to the author's refusal of permission,
for no given reason.
Of course there are hundreds and probably thousands of stories I have
not read, and there must be omissions which, apart from the element
of individual appraisement, are mistakes. I shall be glad to know
about these. But in suggesting them it is fair to ask you to bear in
mind that I have been concerned only with American writers or those
who, like P. G. Wodehouse, have as it were adopted us and been
adopted by us; and that I have dealt almost exclusively with stories
of the last two years. I have also avoided in the majority of cases
stories already published in book form.
Should this book meet with favor, another collection of the sort is
not impossible, and for that I shall value suggestions to improve on
the present volume. They should generally be:
Fully-rounded "stories" of usual length.
By Americans; especially by women.
Published in a magazine in 1926 or 1927.
As yet unpublished in book form.
I can think of no other specification except the fundamental
one--that the story should have made you laugh, early and often. I
hope some of these may do that.
GRANT OVERTON
1 _July_, 1927
CONTENTS
I'M IN A HURRY
_William Hazlett Upson_
THE CUSTODY OF THE PUMPKIN
_P. G. Wodehouse_
THE MILKY WAY
_Stewart Edward White_
LA BELLA GINA
_Eleanor Mercein Kelly_
CLASSICS IN SLANG: ROBINSON CRUSOE
_H. C. Witwer_
THE PUSHER-IN-THE-FACE
_F. Scott Fitzgerald_
ALMOST A GENTLEMAN
_Edward Hope_
ARABIAN KNIGHTS
_Octavus Roy Cohen_
THE SIXTH MCNALLY
_Montague Glass_
ZONE OF QUIET
_Ring W. Lardner_
I'M IN A HURRY
_By_ William Hazlett Upson
WILLIAM HAZLETT UPSON
William Hazlett Upson was born at Glen Ridge, N.J., on September 20,
1891, the son of a lawyer practicing in New York City. After
graduating from the agricultural college at Cornell University he
tried farming for three years and was glad to quit to become a
soldier. He was a private in the field artillery and saw service in
the latter half of the Marne-Aisne offensive and in the St. Mihiel
and Argonne operations. After the Armistice he spent the winter in
Germany as one of the Army of Occupation.
He returned from abroad to pick up a job as a service mechanic with a
tractor company and in the next few years he learned all about
tractors and a good deal about how to sell them.
A long convalescence from illness set him to writing. William Almon
Wolff showed him how to revise a story that was getting rejections
and then sold it for him. Upson was very busy marrying, and writing
more stories, which also sold. He went back to work for the tractor
company and for almost a year did that job in the daytime and wrote
at night. He has been writing since 1922 and said good-by to
tractors, except in his stories, a long while ago.
Upson has written nearly all his stories from material that he
accumulated in his years as a farmer, his months as a soldier, and
his time with the tractor industry. Often a humorist, it is
improbable that he will ever write a funnier story than "I'm in a
Hurry," which has generally been adjudged one of the most perfect
humorous stories in recent years. "I'm in a Hurry" was first
published in _Collier's_ for May 2, 1925.
I'M IN A HURRY[1]
[1] Copyright, 1925, by William Hazlett Upson.
DRY RIVER JUNCTION, TEXAS
October 1, 1924
To The Farmers Friend Tractor Company
Earthworm City, Illinois
Dear Sir: I'm in a hurry I want a new main drive gear for my tractor.
This tractor was formerly owned by Joe Banks of Llano, Texas, and
bought by me at the auction after he died. The main drive gear in
the tractor has busted and I just been over and asked the widow Banks
where Joe used to buy parts for his tractors and she said she aint
sure but she thinks it was The Farmers Friend Tractor Company,
Earthworm City, Illinois. So please let me know if you are the
folks, and if so please send the gear at once. As I am in a hurry.
It is the main drive gear. It is the big bull gear in the back end
of the transmission that goes round and round and drives the tractor
excuse this paper as my regular business letter paper has not come
yet yours truly,
DAVID CROCKETT SUGGS.
FARMERS' FRIEND TRACTOR COMPANY
MAKERS OF EARTHWORM TRACTORS
EARTHWORM CITY, ILL.
October 3, 1924
Mr. David Crockett Suggs
Dry River Junction, Tex.
Dear Sir: This will acknowledge receipt of your letter of October 1,
in which we note that you request us to send you a gear for your
tractor.
In this connection we are pleased to advise that an inspection of our
files reveals the fact that Mr. Joseph Banks of Llano, Tex., was the
owner of one of our old-style Model 45 Earthworm Tractors. Mr. Banks
acquired this tractor on June 3, 1915. We are changing our records
to indicate that this tractor has been purchased by yourself, and we
are most happy to assure you that all the resources of the Farmers'
Friend Tractor Company are at your service and that we can supply you
promptly with everything you may need in the way of spare parts,
service and information.
We regret, however, that your description of the gear which you
desire is not sufficient for us to identify same, as there are a
number of gears in the transmission to which the description "main
drive gear" might conceivably apply. Kindly look up this gear in the
parts book and advise us the proper part number and name as given
therein. When necessary information is received, immediate shipment
will be made.
In the meantime, we wish to extend you a most cordial welcome into
the happy family of Earthworm users, to congratulate you upon
selecting an Earthworm Tractor--even though it be of such an old
model--and to assure you of our constant interest and desire to
coöperate with you to the fullest extent.
Very truly yours,
FREDERICK R. OVERTON,
Parts Department.
DRY RIVER JUNCTION, TEXAS
October 6, 1924
To The Farmers Friend Tractor Company
Earthworm City, Illinois.
Dear Sir: I got your letter I got no parts book. I asked the widow
of Joe Banks, who is the man that owned the tractor before I bought
it at the auction after he died, I asked her did they have a parts
book for the tractor and she said they once had a parts book but it
is lost. I would look up the gear in the parts book if I could, but
you can understand that I cant look up the gear in the parts book if
I got no parts book. What I want is the big bull gear way at the
back. The great big cog wheel with 44 cogs on it that goes round and
round and drives the tractor.
I'm in a hurry because the tractor is unfortunately broke down right
while I'm doing a very important job for Mr. Rogers of this city.
The tractor run fine until 3 P.M. October 1, when there came a loud
and very funny noise in the back and the tractor would no longer
pull. We took the cover off the transmission case, and this big cog
wheel was busted. Six cogs was busted off of it, and the tractor
will not pull, only make a funny noise.
I am a young man 24 years of age just starting in business and expect
to get married soon, so please send the gear at once as I'm in a
hurry and oblige,
DAVID CROCKETT SUGGS.
FARMERS' FRIEND TRACTOR COMPANY
MAKERS OF EARTHWORM TRACTORS
EARTHWORM CITY, ILL.
October 9, 1924
Mr. David Crockett Suggs
Dry River Junction, Tex.
Dear sir: This will acknowledge your valued letter of October 6,
stating that you desire a gear for your tractor, but are unable to
give us the parts number of same owing to the fact that you have no
parts book. We have carefully gone over your description of the
gear, but we regret that we have been unable positively to identify
what gear it is that you desire. We note that you state the gear has
44 teeth and we feel sure that some mistake has been made, as there
is no 44-tooth gear in the tractor.
We are therefore mailing you under separate cover a parts book for
the Model 45 Earthworm Tractor, Year 1915, and would suggest that you
look up the gear in this book, and let us know the part number so
that we can fill your order.
Unfortunately we are not able to supply you with a parts book printed
in English.
Nearly all of the old-style Model 45 tractors were sold to the French
Government in 1915 to be used in pulling artillery on the western
front. As only a few of these tractors were sold in America, the
edition of English parts books was very limited and has been
exhausted. We are, however, sending you one of the French parts
books.
We regret exceedingly that we are obliged to give you a parts book
printed in a foreign language; and we realize, of course, that
possibly you may be unable to understand it. However, you should be
able to find the desired gear in the pictures, which are very plain.
Kindly give us the part number which is given under the picture of
the gear, and we will make immediate shipment.
Very truly yours,
FREDERICK R. OVERTON,
Parts Department.
DRY RIVER JUNCTION, TEXAS
October 12, 1924
To the Farmers Friend Tractor Company
Earthworm City, Illinois
Dear Sir: Your letter has come your book has come you was right when
you said I might not understand it. I cant understand the Dago
printing and I been looking at the pictures all evening and I cant
understand the pictures they dont look like nothing I ever seen. So
I cant give you no part number, but I'm in a hurry so please send the
gear anyway. It is the one way at the back. You cant miss it. Its
not the one that lays down its the one that sets up on edge and has
44 teeth and meshes with the little one with 12 teeth. The little
one goes round and round and drives the big one. And the big one is
keyed on the main shaft and goes round and round and drives the
tractor. Or I should say used to go round and round, but now it has
six teeth busted out and wont go round--only makes a funny noise when
it gets to the place where the teeth are busted out.
I'm in a hurry and to show you that I need this gear quick, I will
explain that the tractor is laid up right in the middle of an
important job I'm doing for Mr. Rogers of this city. I'm a young
man, age 24 years, and new at the house moving business and I want to
make a good impression and also expect to get married soon.
When Mr. Rogers of this city decided to move his house from down by
the depot up to the north end of town, and give me the job, I thought
it was a fine chance to get started in business and make a good
impression. I got the house jacked up, and I put heavy timbers
underneath, and trucks with solid wheels that I bought from a
contractor at Llano. And I bought this second-hand tractor from Joe
Banks at Llano at the auction after he died, and all my money is tied
up in this equipment and on October 1, at 3 P.M. we had the house
moved half way to where they want it, when the tractor made a funny
noise and quit. And if I don't get a new gear pretty soon and move
the house the rest of the way I'll be a blowed up sucker.
I'm just starting in business and want to make a good impression and
I'm expecting to get married so please hurry with the gear. Excuse
paper as my regular business paper has not come yet and oblige,
DAVID CROCKETT SUGGS.
FARMERS' FRIEND TRACTOR COMPANY
MAKERS OF EARTHWORM TRACTORS
EARTHWORM CITY, ILL.
October 14, 1924
Mr. David Crockett Suggs
Dry River Junction, Tex.
Dear Sir: This will acknowledge your valued favor of October 12, and
we regret exceedingly that you have been unable to locate the part
which you desire in the parts book, and that consequently you have
been subject to annoying delay. As it is always our desire to render
the greatest possible service to Earthworm Tractor owners, we have
gone into this matter with the greatest of care; and after checking
over very thoroughly the descriptions given in your latest letter,
and also in former letters, we have come to the conclusion that the
gear you desire is the 45-tooth intermediate spur gear, symbol No.
6843, as illustrated on page 16 of the parts book. We note that you
state that the gear has 44 teeth, but as there is no such gear in
your model tractor, and as No. 6843 gears fits the description in
other particulars, we can only assume that you made a mistake in
counting the number of teeth in the gear.
Accordingly we are shipping you by express this afternoon one No.
6843 gear, which we trust will prove to be the part desired.
Assuring you of our constant desire to render you every possible
service, efficiently and promptly, I remain,
Very truly yours,
FREDERICK R. OVERTON,
Parts Department.
DRY RIVER JUNCTION, TEXAS
October 18, 1924
To The Farmers Friend Tractor Company
Earthworm City, Illinois
Dear Sir: Your letter come yesterday your gear come to-day C.O.D.
$41.26 and not only that, but it is no good and it wont fit. It is
not like the old gear. It looks like a well made gear but there is
nothing like it on my tractor so it is no good to me it is too big it
wont go on it wont fit on the shaft. And if it did fit on the shaft,
it would not work because it is too big and the teeth would not mesh
with the teeth on the little gear, and it ought to have 44 teeth like
I said, not 45. So will you look this up again more carefully and
send me the right gear and send it as quick as possible? I'm in a
hurry, and I will explain to you how things stand so you can see I am
no liar when I say I got to have this gear right off or I am a blowed
up sucker.
I am new in the house moving business and I am moving a house for Mr.
Rogers of this city, and Mr. Rogers is a very stubborn old cuss and
he insisted that the house be moved all together--which includes the
main part which is two stories high and built very strong and solid,
and also the front porch which sticks out in front and is built
pretty weak, and also the one-story kitchen which sticks out behind.
The kitchen is very frail.
But Mr. Rogers did not listen to me when I wanted to move the kitchen
and front porch separate from the house. So, as I am a young man and
new at the house moving business and anxious to make a good
impression, I tried to do it like he wanted. I jacked up the whole
works all together, and put timbers underneath, and heavy trucks that
I bought from a contractor at Llano, and we came up from the depot
fine--the tractor pulling good and the little old house rolling along
smooth and quiet and beautiful. But at 3 P.M. October 1, just as we
was going past Jim Ferguson's Drug Store on the main street of this
city, there come a funny noise in the tractor, and we have been stuck
ever since waiting for a new gear because the tractor will not run
with six teeth busted out of the old gear.
So you can see that it is no lie that I am in a hurry, and I will
explain that for 2 and ½ weeks, no traffic has been able to go past
Jim Ferguson's Drug Store. All traffic on the main street of this
city has been detoured--turning to the right through the field next
to Johnson's Garage, following the back lane past the shed where
Harvey Jenkins keeps his cow, and then around Wilson's Hardware Store
and back to the main street, and all this owing to the stubbornness
of old man Rogers making me take the porch and the kitchen along at
the same time.
The porch is now resting two feet from the drug store and the kitchen
just three feet from the post office on the other side of the street.
If old man Rogers had listened to me and we had taken the kitchen
off, there would have been room for traffic to get past, but now we
cant take the kitchen off on account of being so jammed up against
the post office, but people dont figger on that and everybody in town
blames it on me that traffic is held up, which is very wrong as I am
doing the best I can.
And now old man Rogers says I contracted to move his house, and I had
better hurry up, and he says why dont I hire some horses but I say
horses would be unsafe, because when they get to pulling something
very heavy they get to jerking and they would be liable to jerk the
house and injure it, owing to the fact that Mr. Rogers was so
stubborn as to make me leave the kitchen and the porch on the house,
thus weakening it. And besides I got no money to waste hiring horses
when I got a tractor already, so you can see why I'm in a hurry being
anxious to make a good impression and get married.
Please send at once the right gear which has FORTY-FOUR TEETH (44),
because the old gear has 38 good teeth, and 6 busted off, making 44
like I said, not 45. And the right gear is an inch narrower than the
one you sent, and the hole through the middle is smaller. I am
making a picture so you can see just what gear it is, so please send
it at once and oblige,
DAVID CKOCKETT SUGGS.
FARMERS' FRIEND TRACTOR COMPANY
MAKERS OF EARTHWORM TRACTORS
EARTHWORM CITY, ILL.
October 21, 1924
Mr. David Crockett Suggs
Dry River Junction, Tex.
Dear Sir: This will acknowledge receipt of your letter of October 18,
from which we note that you are having trouble in installing in your
tractor gear No. 6843, which we shipped you on October 14.
We regret exceedingly that you have had this trouble, and to the end
that the basis of the difficulty might be discovered, we have
carefully checked over your former correspondence and have at length
come to the conclusion that gear No. 6843, which we sent you, is the
proper gear. We are therefore at a loss to understand why you have
been unable to use it, and can only suggest that you may possibly
have made some error in installing it.
To obviate this difficulty we are to-day mailing you, under separate
cover, a copy of our latest instruction book on the care, operation
and repair of Earthworm Tractors. We regret that this book was
prepared for the new-style tractors, but as the method of installing
transmission gears is essentially the same in both old- and new-style
tractors, we feel sure that you will have no trouble in applying the
instructions to your old-style tractor. Please study carefully the
pictures and full descriptions on page 34, and if you proceed as
directed we feel sure you will experience no further difficulty in
installing the gear.
In case, however, there still remains some minor trouble to interfere
with the perfect operation of the tractor, we shall appreciate it if
you will notify us, as we are always anxious to give owner of
Earthworm Tractors the fullest possible coöperation.
Very truly yours,
FREDERICK R. OVERTON,
Parts Department.
DRY RIVER JUNCTION, TEXAS
October 25, 1924
To The Farmers Friend Tractor Company
Earthworm City, Illinois
Dear Sir: Your letter come yesterday your book come to-day they are
no good to me. It takes more than a book for a new tractor to put
onto an entirely different old tractor a gear wheel that don't belong
to it. I tell you again--you have sent me the wrong gear.
What I want is the big bull gear on the back that has 44 teeth.
FORTY-FOUR. _Not_ 45. And it goes round and round and makes the
tractor go. It is the great big cog wheel that meshes with the
little cog wheel. I bet you have sent me a gear for one of your
new-style tractors--how do I know? You told me you had looked it up
what model tractor I got, so why don't you send me the gear that will
fit?
If you people knew what I was up against, you would get busy, and you
would send me that gear in a hurry. The whole town is sore at me.
And I will explain that this is a big place with trolley cars and
everything.
The trolleys here run on a track, but they are not electric, they are
run by gasoline motors inside, and are very modern and up-to-date
like everything else in this city. And for over three weeks now the
trolley from the depot has been coming up almost as far as Jim
Ferguson's Drug Store, and then it has to stop and the conductor will
give the people transfers. And they will get out and squeeze past
old man Rogers's house, and get on the other trolley and ride on.
And it is lucky they have two cars. A few years ago they only had
one.
And old man Rogers says if I dont get action by the first of the
week, he is going to hire horses himself, and pull the house where he
wants it. And if I expect to get a cent for it I can just sue him,
and he says he is tired of living in a house sitting in the middle of
the street with the front porch poking into the drug store window and
the people kidding him all the time. But its all on account of his
own foolishness and stubborness, because I told him he had better go
live with his brother in Llano while the house was being moved, but
he is a guy that you cant tell him nothing and so he is living there
with Mrs. Rogers and daughter Mildred, and Mrs. Rogers is cooking on
an oil stove on account they dont know coal is safe in moving, and
now they blame it on me because the oil stove smokes up the whole
house. So you can see I'm in a hurry, and everybody is sore because
the traffic is detoured, and me having to hang red lanterns on the
house every night so people wont run into it, and the Police
Department has served notice on me that I got until next Thursday to
move the house or get pinched. And they had given me a permit to
move the house. But they say a permit aint no 99-year lease. And
that just shows how it is--they all try to make mean cracks like that.
And this afternoon, old Mr. Rogers came up to me and he said, "Dave,
I hope you aint still thinking of getting married?"
And I said, "I sure am," because, as I told you in another letter,
I'm expecting to get married.
Then Mr. Rogers said, "I may have something to say about that, young
man." And I will explain that it is possible that old Mr.
Rogers--whose house I am moving with my tractor--may have some
influence in the matter, owing to the fact that the girl I expect to
marry is named Mildred Rogers, and unfortunately happens to be the
daughter of old Mr. Rogers.
So you see, I want that gear, and I want it quick. I am sending back
the new gear please credit me with the $41.26 I paid on the C.O.D. I
am also sending you the old busted gear. Please look over the old
busted gear and send me one just like it, only with the six teeth not
busted out. Please hurry and remember FORTY-FOUR TEETH, and oblige
yours truly,
DAVID CROCKETT SUGGS.
P.S. _Not_ 45 teeth.
FARMERS' FRIEND TRACTOR COMPANY
MAKERS OF EARTHWORM TRACTORS
EARTHWORM CITY, ILL.
October 29, 1924
Mr. David Crockett Suggs
Dry River Junction, Tex.
Dear Sir: This will acknowledge your valued favor of October 26 in
reference to the trouble you are having with your tractor. We regret
exceedingly that the misunderstanding in regard to the gear which you
need has caused you the annoying delay which you mention.
As soon as your old gear arrives, it will be checked up and every
possible effort will be made to supply you promptly with a duplicate
of it.
Very truly yours,
FREDERICK R. OVERTON,
Parts Department.
DAVID CROCKETT SUGGS
CONTRACTOR
HOUSES MOVED SAFELY, SPEEDILY AND SURELY
DRY RIVER JUNCTION, TEXAS
October 31, 1924
To The Farmers Friend Tractor Company
Earthworm City, Illinois
Dear Sir: My new letter paper has come your letter has come please
send me the gear as quick as possible. I'm in a hurry more than at
any time before and unless I can get this mess straightened out I'll
be more of a blowed up sucker than anybody you ever seen, and in
order that you may see what a rush I am in and send the gear as quick
as possible, I will explain 2 very unfortunate events which has took
place since my last letter. The first was last night.
Being Thursday night and my regular night to call, I went around to
see Miss Mildred Rogers, who, as I have explained before, I had
expected to marry very soon, and who used to live down by the depot,
but is now located temporarily on Main Street just in front of
Ferguson's Drug Store. It is not as much fun as it used to be to
call at the Rogers's house. Formerly it was possible to sit in the
hammock on the front porch, and as the house set back from the street
and there was trees around and no street lights, a very pleasant
evening could be had.
But at present the front porch is located in a most unfortunate way
just two feet from the windows of Ferguson's Drug Store, which is all
lighted up--you know how drug store windows is--lots of big white
lights, and all kinds of jars full of colored water with more lights
shining through. And people squeezing past between the porch and the
drug store and going in to get ice cream sodas or stopping to crack
bum jokes about me, which I will not repeat. So you can see that it
would not be any fun for me and Mildred to sit in the hammock in the
evening, even if it was possible to sit in the hammock which it is
not, owing to the fact that the porch pillar to which the hammock is
fastened has become so weakened by the jacking up of the house that
it would take very little to pull it over and let the whole porch
roof down with a bang.
So we decided that we better sit in the parlor and we had no sooner
entered and I was not doing any harm in any way when old Mr. Rogers
came in and there was a very painful scene which I wont describe only
to say that he used such expressions as "Get to Hell out of here,"
and "I dont want my daughter keeping company with any moron," which
is a word he got out of the Dallas News.
So after he had hollered around and Mildred had cried, I left the
house in a dignified manner. Being a gentleman and always respectful
to old age, I did not talk back to him, the dirty crook. But you can
see why it is I am in a hurry for the gear.
The other unfortunate event was just this A.M., when old man Rogers
went out and hired twelve horses from all over town and also one
small flivver tractor to move his house up to where he wants it. He
tried to get a big tractor, but there is none in town or nearby
except mine which is broke down. But there is plenty of horses and
there is this little flivver tractor that would not be big enough to
pull the house all by itself.
So this morning they wheeled my poor old tractor out of the way, and
they hooked up to the house and there was about a hundred people from
the town and from round about that was helping with advice and
hollering and yelling and telling Mr. Rogers how to do it. And there
was I--the only practical and professional house-mover in the whole
city--and none of them asked my advice about anything and so it is
not my fault what happened.
When they was all ready, Mr. Rogers he stands up and hollers out,
"All ready,--Go!" And the six drivers yelled at the twelve horses,
and all the people standing around began to cheer and shout. And the
feller on the little flivver tractor started up the motor so quick it
made a big noise and scared the horses and all the horses began
jumping and heaving and they jerked the house sidewise, and some of
the timbers slipped, and the kitchen that I told you about,--it give
a little lurch and fell off the house. Just let go, and fell off.
So that scared them, and they unhooked the horses and the flivver
tractor and didnt try no more moving, and the house is still there
all except the kitchen which was busted up so bad that they finished
the job and knocked it to pieces and took it away in wheel barrows.
One good thing is that now the traffic can get in between the house
and the post office so they dont have to detour any more. But one
very unfortunate thing was that Mrs. Rogers happened to be in the
kitchen when it fell off being shaken up considerable but not
seriously injured so you can see that I got to have the tractor
running again so I can move the house and I hope you will send the
gear at once yours truly and oblige,
DAVID CROCKETT SUGGS.
FARMERS' FRIEND TRACTOR COMPANY
MAKERS OF EARTHWORM TRACTORS
EARTHWORM CITY, ILL.
November 2, 1924
Mr. David Crockett Suggs
Dry River Junction, Tex.
Dear Sir: This will acknowledge your valued favor of October 31
requesting that we use all possible haste in sending you a gear which
you need to repair your tractor. We are also pleased to report the
receipt of one No. 6843 gear which we shipped you on October 14 and
which you returned unused owing to the fact that it will not fit your
tractor. We are crediting your account with $41.26 C.O.D. which you
paid on this shipment.
The broken gear which you sent as a sample has been carefully checked
over by our Engineering Department. They report that they have been
unable to identify this gear, and they are of the opinion that no
gear similar to this has ever been manufactured by this company. We
are, therefore, at a loss to understand how this gear ever came to be
in your tractor. We do not make gears similar to the one you have
sent in, and it will therefore be impossible for us to supply you
with one. However, it is always our policy to be of the greatest
possible service to Earthworm owners, and we would suggest that the
best thing to do in the circumstances would be for one of our service
mechanics to inspect your machine.
Fortunately, it happens that Dry River Junction is the nearest
railroad point to the Canyon Ranch, which has just purchased a
Ten-Ton Earthworm Tractor. Consequently, Mr. Luke Torkle, one of our
service men, will be at Dry River Junction in a few days to unload
this tractor and drive it overland to the ranch. If you desire, we
will have Mr. Torkle stop off and inspect your machine, advising you
what steps to take to put it into first-class running condition; or,
if this is impossible, to confer with you in regard to turning in
your old machine and purchasing one of our new models. Kindly let us
know what you wish us to do in this matter.
Very truly yours,
FREDERICK R. OVERTON,
Parts Department.
TELEGRAM
DRY RIVER June TEX Nov 4 1924
FARMERS FRIEND TRACTOR Co
EARTHWORM CY, ILLS
_Have the guy come quick in a hurry._
DAVID CROCKETT SUGGS.
FARMERS' FRIEND TRACTOR COMPANY
SERVICE MAN'S REPORT
WRITTEN AT: Dry River Junction, Tex.
DATE: November 7, 1924
WRITTEN BY: Luke Turkle, Service Man
SUBJECT: Tractor belonging to D. C. Suggs
Reached here 7 A.M. Unloaded tractor for Canyon Ranch, and will
drive it over to-morrow.
Before I had a chance to look up D.C. Suggs, the mayor and prominent
citizens urgently requested me to use the new tractor to move a house
that was blocking the main street. This looked like good advertising
for us, especially as the county commissioner here is expecting to
buy a tractor for road work. Accordingly, I spent the morning moving
the house to where they wanted it, and then looked up Mr. Suggs.
Found he has left town. It is reported that he was shot at three
times yesterday by a man called Rogers, but escaped. Last night he
sold his entire property, consisting of a second-hand tractor, an old
fliv, one radio set and the good will in a house-moving business for
$450. He then took the train north with a girl called Mildred Rogers
of this place.
I inspected the tractor formerly owned by Mr. Suggs. No wonder we
couldn't supply him with repairs for it. It is not one of our
tractors. It has no name plate, but I was able to identify it as a
1920 Model, Steel Elephant Tractor, made by the S.E. Tractor Company
of Indianapolis. I talked on the phone with Mrs. Joseph Banks, whose
husband formerly owned the tractor. She says her husband sold the
old Earthworm Tractor three years ago to a man in Dallas. Mr. Banks
owned four or five different kinds of tractors. Mrs. Banks
remembered he had once bought tractor parts from the Farmers' Friend
Tractor Company.
In regard to your suggestion that Mr. Suggs might be persuaded to buy
a new tractor, I think this is hardly possible. It is reported that
before he left, Mr. Suggs stated that he and Miss Rogers would be
married and would locate in Chicago. He was uncertain what business
he would take up, but said very emphatically it would be nothing in
any way connected with house moving, or with tractors or any kind of
machinery.
THE CUSTODY OF THE PUMPKIN
_By_ P. G. Wodehouse
P. G. WODEHOUSE
P. G. Wodehouse--the initials stand for Pelham Grenville--is an
Englishman who divides his time between England and America and whose
audience unites the two countries more effectually than most
conscious fraternalizing. He writes short stories and novels with
equal success and he, Guy Bolton, and Jerome Kern have been
responsible for some of the pleasantest musical shows on Broadway.
Wodehouse is a consistent purveyor of light entertainment, but
sometimes, in one or two of his novels, he has shown serious emotion
touching for a moment some depth of character--to rise, the next, to
a surface of sparkle. His touch is usually exquisitely deft and no
one alive can make the farcically absurd situation more laughable.
And this he manages by restraint and understatement; as golfers say,
he never "presses" his stroke.
"The Custody of the Pumpkin," which was first published in the
Saturday Evening Post for November 29, 1924, is not only a typical
Wodehouse story, but concerns two of the principal characters in
Wodehouse's most popular novel, _Leave It to Psmith_. It is an
earlier episode in the saga of the amiably boneheaded Earl of
Blandings Castle and his heir.
THE CUSTODY OF THE PUMPKIN[1]
[1] Copyright, 1924, by The Curtis Publishing Company.
The pleasant morning sunshine descended like an amber shower bath on
Blandings Castle, that stately home of England which so adorns the
county of Shropshire, lighting up with a heartening glow its ivied
walls, its rolling parks, its gardens, out-houses and messuages and
such of its inhabitants as chanced at the moment to be taking the
air. It fell on green lawns and wide terraces, on noble trees and
bright flower beds. It fell on the baggy trousers seat of Angus
McAllister, head gardener to the Earl of Emsworth, as he bent with
dour Scottish determination to pluck a coy snail from its reverie
beneath the leaf of a lettuce. It fell on the white flannels of the
Hon. Freddie Threepwood, Lord Emsworth's second son, hurrying across
the water meadows. It also fell on Lord Emsworth himself, for the
proprietor of this fair domain was standing on the turret above the
west wing, placidly surveying his possessions through a powerful
telescope.
The Earl of Emsworth was a fluffy-minded and amiable old gentleman
with a fondness for new toys. Although the main interest of his life
was his garden, he was always ready to try a side line; and the
latest of these side lines was this telescope of his--the outcome of
a passion for astronomy which had lasted some two weeks.
For some minutes Lord Emsworth remained gazing with a pleased eye at
a cow down in the meadows. It was a fine cow, as cows go, but, like
so many cows, it lacked sustained dramatic interest; and his
lordship, surfeited after a while by the spectacle of it chewing the
cud and staring glassily at nothing, was about to swivel the
apparatus round in the hope of picking up something a trifle more
sensational, when into the range of his vision there came the
Honorable Freddie. White and shining, he tripped along over the turf
like a Theocritean shepherd hastening to keep an appointment with a
nymph; and for the first time that morning a frown came to mar the
serenity of Lord Emsworth's brow. He generally frowned when he saw
Freddie, for with the passage of the years that youth had become more
and more a problem to an anxious father.
The Earl of Emsworth, like so many of Britain's aristocracy, had but
little use for the Younger Son. And Freddie Threepwood was a
particularly trying younger son. There seemed, in the opinion of his
nearest and dearest, to be no way of coping with the boy. If he was
allowed to live in London he piled up debts and got into mischief;
and when hauled back home to Blandings he moped broodingly. It was
possibly the fact that his demeanor at this moment was so
mysteriously jaunty, his bearing so inexplicably free from the
crushed misery with which he usually mooned about the place that
induced Lord Emsworth to keep a telescopic eye on him. Some inner
voice whispered to him that Freddie was up to no good and would bear
watching.
The inner voice was absolutely correct. Within thirty seconds its
case had been proved up to the hilt. Scarcely had his lordship had
time to wish, as he invariably wished on seeing his offspring, that
Freddie had been something entirely different in manners, morals, and
appearance and had been the son of somebody else living a
considerable distance away, when out of a small spinney near the end
of the meadow there bounded a girl. And Freddie, after a cautious
glance over his shoulder, immediately proceeded to fold this female
in a warm embrace.
Lord Emsworth had seen enough. He tottered away from the telescope,
a shattered man. One of his favorite dreams was of some nice
eligible girl, belonging to a good family and possessing a bit of
money of her own, coming along some day and taking Freddie off his
hands; but that inner voice, more confident now than ever, told him
that this was not she. Freddie would not sneak off in this furtive
fashion to meet eligible girls; nor could he imagine any eligible
girl in her right senses rushing into Freddie's arms in that
enthusiastic way. No, there was only one explanation. In the
cloistral seclusion of Blandings, far from the metropolis with all
its conveniences for that sort of thing, Freddie had managed to get
himself entangled. Seething with anguish and fury, Lord Emsworth
hurried down the stairs and out onto the terrace. Here he prowled
like an elderly leopard waiting for feeding time, until in due season
there was a flicker of white among the trees that flanked the drive
and a cheerful whistling announced the culprit's approach.
It was with a sour and hostile eye that Lord Emsworth watched his son
draw near. He adjusted his pince-nez, and with their assistance was
able to perceive that a fatuous smile of self-satisfaction
illuminated the young man's face, giving him the appearance of a
beaming sheep. In the young man's buttonhole there shone a nosegay
of simple meadow flowers, which, as he walked, he patted from time to
time with a loving hand.
"Frederick!" bellowed his lordship.
The villain of the piece halted abruptly. Sunk in a roseate trance,
he had not observed his father. But such was the sunniness of his
mood that even this encounter could not damp him. He gamboled
happily up.
"Hullo, guv'nor," said Freddie. He searched in his mind for a
pleasant topic of conversation, always a matter of some little
difficulty on these occasions. "Lovely day, what?"
His lordship was not to be diverted into a discussion of the weather.
He drew a step nearer, looking like the man who smothered the young
princes in the Tower.
"Frederick," he demanded, "who was that girl?"
The Honorable Freddie started convulsively. He appeared to be
swallowing with difficulty something large and jagged.
"Girl?" he quavered. "Girl? Girl, guv'nor?"
"That girl I saw you kissing ten minutes ago down in the water
meadows."
"Oh!" said the Honorable Freddie. He paused. "Oh, ah!" He paused
again. "Oh, ah, yes! I've been meaning to tell you about that,
guv'nor."
"You have, have you?"
"All perfectly correct, you know. Oh yes, indeed! All most
absolutely correct-o! Nothing fishy, I mean to say, or anything like
that. She's my _fiancée_."
A sharp howl escaped Lord Emsworth, as if one of the bees humming in
the lavender beds had taken time off to sting him in the neck.
"Who is she?" he boomed. "Who is this woman?"
"Her name's Donaldson."
"Who is she?"
"Aggie Donaldson. Aggie's short for Niagara. Her people spent their
honeymoon at the Falls, she tells me. She's American, and all that.
Rummy names they give kids in America," proceeded Freddie with hollow
chattiness. "I mean to say! Niagara! I ask you!"
"Who is she?"
"She's most awfully bright, you know. Full of beans. You'll love
her."
"Who is she?"
"And can play the saxophone."
"Who," demanded Lord Emsworth for the sixth time, "is she? And where
did you meet her?"
Freddie coughed. The information, he perceived, could no longer be
withheld, and he was keenly alive to the fact that it scarcely fell
into the class of tidings of great joy.
"Well, as a matter of fact, guv'nor, she's a sort of cousin of Angus
McAllister's. She's come over to England for a visit, don't you
know, and is staying with the old boy. That's how I happened to run
across her."
Lord Emsworth's eyes bulged and he gargled faintly. He had had many
unpleasant visions of his son's future, but they had never included
one of him walking down the aisle with a sort of cousin of his head
gardener.
"Oh!" he said. "Oh, indeed?"
Lord Emsworth threw his arms up as if calling on Heaven to witness a
good man's persecution, and shot off along the terrace at a rapid
trot. Having ranged the grounds for some minutes, he ran his quarry
to earth at the entrance of the yew alley.
The head gardener turned at the sound of his footsteps. He was a
sturdy man of medium height with eyebrows that would have fitted
better a bigger forehead. These, added to a red and wiry beard, gave
him a formidable and uncompromising expression. Honesty Angus
McAllister's face had in full measure, and also intelligence; but it
was a bit short on sweetness and light.
"McAllister," said his lordship, plunging without preamble into the
matter of his discourse. "That girl. You must send her away." A
look of bewilderment clouded such of Mr. McAllister's features as
were not concealed behind his beard and eyebrows.
"Gurrul?"
"That girl who is staying with you. She must go!"
"Gae where?"
Lord Emsworth was not in the mood to be finicky about details.
"Anywhere," he said. "I won't have her here a day longer."
"Why?" inquired Mr. McAllister, who liked to thresh these things out.
"Never mind why. You must send her away immediately."
Mr. McAllister mentioned an insuperable objection.
"She's payin' me twa poon' a week," he said simply.
Lord Emsworth did not grind his teeth, for he was not given to that
form of displaying emotion; but he leaped some ten inches into the
air and dropped his pince-nez. And, though normally a fair-minded
and reasonable man, well aware that modern earls must think twice
before pulling the feudal stuff on their employees, he took on the
forthright truculence of a large landowner of the early Norman period
ticking off a serf.
"Listen, McAllister! Listen to me! Either you send that girl away
today or you can go yourself."
A curious expression came into Angus McAllister's face--always
excepting the occupied territories. It was the look of a man who has
not forgotten Bannockburn, a man conscious of belonging to the
country of William Wallace and Robert Bruce. He made Scotch noises
at the back of his throat.
"Y'r lorrudsheep will accept ma notis," he said with formal dignity.
"I'll pay you a month's wages in lieu of notice and you will leave
this afternoon," retorted Lord Emsworth with spirit.
"Mphm!" said Mr. McAllister.
Lord Emsworth left the battlefield with a feeling of pure
exhilaration, still in the grip of the animal fury of conflict. No
twinge of remorse did he feel at the thought that Angus McAllister
had served him faithfully for ten years. Nor did it cross his mind
that he might miss McAllister.
But that night, as he sat smoking his after-dinner cigarette, Reason,
so violently expelled, came stealing timidly back to her throne, and
a cold hand seemed suddenly placed upon his heart.
With Angus McAllister gone, how would the pumpkin fare?
The importance of this pumpkin in the Earl of Emsworth's life
requires, perhaps, a word of explanation. Every ancient family in
England has some little gap in its scroll of honor, and that of Lord
Emsworth was no exception. For generations back his ancestors had
been doing notable deeds; they had sent out from Blandings Castle
statesmen and warriors, governors and leaders of the people; but they
had not--in the opinion of the present holder of the title--achieved
a full hand. However splendid the family record might appear at
first sight, the fact remained that no Earl of Emsworth had ever won
a first prize for pumpkins at the Shrewsbury Flower and Vegetable
Show. For roses, yes. For tulips, true. For spring onions,
granted. But not for pumpkins; and Lord Emsworth, who lived for his
garden, felt it deeply.
For many a summer past he had been striving indefatigably to remove
this blot on the family escutcheon, only to see his hopes go tumbling
down. But this year at last victory had seemed in sight, for there
had been vouchsafed to Blandings a competitor of such amazing parts
that his lordship, who had watched it grow practically from a pip,
could not envisage failure. Surely, he told himself as he gazed on
its golden roundness, even Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe of Badgwick
Hall, winner for three successive years, would never be able to
produce anything to challenge this superb vegetable.
And it was this supreme pumpkin whose welfare he feared he had
jeopardized by dismissing Angus McAllister. For Angus was its
official trainer. He understood the pumpkin. Indeed, in his
reserved Scottish way he even seemed to love it. With Angus gone,
what would the harvest be?
Such were the meditations of Lord Emsworth as he reviewed the
position of affairs. And though, as the days went by, he tried to
tell himself that Angus McAllister was not the only man in the world
who understood pumpkins and that he had every confidence, the most
complete and unswerving confidence, in Robert Barker, recently
Angus's second in command, now promoted to the post of head gardener
and custodian of the Blandings Hope, he knew that this was but
shallow bravado. When you are a pumpkin owner with a big winner in
your stable, you judge men by hard standards, and every day it became
plainer that Robert Barker was only a makeshift. Within a week Lord
Emsworth was pining for Angus McAllister.
It might be purely imagination, but to his excited fancy the pumpkin
seemed to be pining for Angus too. It appeared to be drooping and
losing weight. Lord Emsworth could not rid himself of the horrible
idea that it was shrinking. And on the tenth night after
McAllister's departure he dreamed a strange dream. He had gone with
King George to show His Gracious Majesty the pumpkin, promising him
the treat of a lifetime; and, when they arrived, there in the corner
of the frame was a shriveled thing the size of a pea. He woke,
sweating, with his sovereign's disappointed screams ringing in his
ears; and Pride gave its last quiver and collapsed. To reinstate
Angus would be a surrender, but it must be done.
"Beach," he said that morning at breakfast, "do you happen to--er--to
have McAllister's address?"
"Yes, your lordship," replied the butler. "He is in London, residing
at Number 11 Buxton Crescent."
"Buxton Crescent? Never heard of it."
"It is, I fancy, your lordship, a boarding house or some such
establishment off the Cromwell Road. McAllister was accustomed to
make it his headquarters whenever he visited the metropolis on
account of its handiness for Kensington Gardens. He liked," said
Beach with respectful reproach, for Angus had been a friend of his
for nine years, "to be near the flowers, your lor'ship."
Two telegrams, passing through it in the course of the next twelve
hours, caused some gossip at the post office of the little town of
Market Blandings.
The first ran: "McAllister, 11 Buxton Crescent, Cromwell Road,
London. Return immediately. Emsworth."
The second: "Lord Emsworth, Blandings Castle, Shropshire. I will
not. McAllister."
Lord Emsworth had one of those minds capable of accommodating but one
thought at a time--if that; and the possibility that Angus McAllister
might decline to return had not occurred to him. It was difficult to
adjust himself to this new problem, but he managed it at last.
Before nightfall he had made up his mind. Robert Barker, that broken
reed, could remain in charge for another day or so, and meanwhile he
would go up to London and engage a real head gardener, the finest
head gardener that money could buy.
It was the opinion of Doctor Johnson that there is in London all that
life can afford. A man, he held, who is tired of London is tired of
life itself. Lord Emsworth, had he been aware of this statement,
would have contested it warmly. He hated London. He loathed its
crowds, its smells, its noises, its omnibuses, its taxis, and its
hard pavements. And, in addition to all its other defects, the
miserable town did not seem able to produce a single decent head
gardener. He went from agency to agency, interviewing candidates,
and not one of them came within a mile of meeting his requirements.
He disliked their faces, he distrusted their references. It was a
harsh thing to say of any man, but he was dashed if the best of them
was even as good as Robert Barker.
It was, therefore, in a black and soured mood that his lordship,
having lunched frugally at the Senior Conservative Club on the third
day of his visit, stood on the steps in the sunshine, wondering how
on earth he was to get through the afternoon. He had spent the
morning rejecting head gardeners, and the next batch was not due
until the morrow. And what--besides rejecting head gardeners--was
there for a man of reasonable tastes to do with his time in this
hopeless town?
And then there came into his mind a remark which Beach the butler had
made at the breakfast table about flowers in Kensington Gardens. He
could go to Kensington Gardens and look at the flowers.
He was about to hail a taxicab from the rank down the street when
there suddenly emerged from the Hotel Magnificent, over the way, a
young man. This young man proceeded to cross the road, and as he
drew near it seemed to Lord Emsworth that there was about his
appearance something oddly familiar. He stared for a long instant
before he could believe his eyes, then with a wordless cry bounded
down the steps just as the other started to mount them.
"Oh, hullo, guv'nor!" ejaculated the Honorable Freddie, plainly
startled.
"What--what are you doing here?" demanded Lord Emsworth.
He spoke with heat, and justly so. London, as the result of several
spirited escapades which still rankled in the mind of a father who
had had to foot the bills, was forbidden ground to Freddie.
The young man was plainly not at his ease. He had the air of one who
is being pushed toward dangerous machinery in which he is loath to
become entangled. He shuffled his feet for a moment, then raised his
left shoe and rubbed the back of his right calf with it. "The fact
is, guv'nor----"
"You know you are forbidden to come to London."
"Absolutely, guv'nor, but the fact is----"
"And why anybody but an imbecile should want to come to London when
he could be at Blandings----"
"I know, guv'nor, but the fact is----" Here Freddie, having replaced
his wandering foot on the pavement, raised the other and rubbed the
back of his left calf. "I wanted to see you," he said. "Yes.
Particularly wanted to see you."
This was not strictly accurate. The last thing in the world which
the Honorable Freddie wanted was to see his parent. He had come to
the Senior Conservative Club to leave a carefully written note.
Having delivered which, it had been his intention to bolt like a
rabbit. This unforeseen meeting had upset his plans.
"To see me?" said Lord Emsworth. "Why?"
"Got--er--got something to tell you. Bit of news."
"I trust it is of sufficient importance to justify your coming to
London against my express wishes."
"Oh yes. Oh yes, yes, yes. Oh, rather. It's dashed important.
Yes--not to put too fine a point upon it--most dashed important. I
say, guv'nor, are you in fairly good form to stand a bit of a shock?"
A ghastly thought rushed into Lord Emsworth's mind. Freddie's
mysterious arrival--his strange manner--his odd hesitation and
uneasiness---- Could it mean? He clutched the young man's arm
feverishly.
"Frederick! Speak! Tell me! Have the cats got at it?"
It was a fixed idea of Lord Emsworth, which no argument would have
induced him to abandon, that cats had the power to work some dreadful
mischief on his pumpkin and were continually lying in wait for the
opportunity of doing so; and his behavior on the occasion when one of
the fast sporting set from the stables, wandering into the kitchen
garden and, finding him gazing at the Blandings Hope, had rubbed
itself sociably against his leg, lingered long in that animal's
memory.
Freddie stared.
"Cats? Why? Where? Which? What cats?"
"Frederick! Is anything wrong with the pumpkin?"
In a crass and materialistic world there must inevitably be a
scattered few here and there in whom pumpkins touch no chord. The
Hon. Freddie Threepwood was one of these. He was accustomed to speak
in mockery of all pumpkins, and had even gone so far as to allude to
the Hope of Blanding as Percy. His father's anxiety, therefore,
merely caused him to giggle.
"Not that I know of," he said.
"Then what do you mean," thundered Lord Emsworth, stung by the
giggle--"what do you mean, sir, by coming here and alarming
me--scaring me out of my wits, by gad!--with your nonsense about
giving me shocks?"
The Honorable Freddie looked carefully at his fermenting parent. His
fingers, sliding into his pocket, closed on the note which nestled
there. He drew it forth.
"Look here, guv'nor," he said nervously, "I think the best thing
would be for you to read this. Meant to leave it for you with the
hall porter. It's--well, you just cast your eyes over it. Good-by,
guv'nor. Got to see a man."
And thrusting the note into his father's hand the Honorable Freddie
turned and was gone. Lord Emsworth, perplexed and annoyed, watched
him skim up the road and leap into a cab. He seethed impotently.
Practically any behavior on the part of his son Frederick had the
power to irritate him, but it was when he was vague and mysterious
and incoherent that the young man irritated him most.
He looked at the letter in his hand, turned it over, felt it and even
smelled it. Then, for it had suddenly occurred to him that if he
wished to ascertain its contents he had better read it, he tore open
the envelope.
The note was brief, but full of good reading matter.
DEAR GUV'NOR: Awfully sorry, and all that, but couldn't hold out any
longer. I've popped up to London in the two-seater, and Aggie and I
were spliced this morning. There looked like being a bit of a hitch
at one time, but Aggie's guv'nor, who has come over from America,
managed to wangle it all right by getting a special license or
something of that order. A most capable Johnny. He's coming to see
you. He wants to have a good long talk with you about the whole
binge. Lush him up hospitably, and all that, would you mind, because
he's a really sound egg and you'll like him. Well, cheerio!
Your affectionate son,
FREDDIE.
P.S. You won't mind if I freeze onto the two-seater for the nonce,
what? It may come in useful for the honeymoon.
The Senior Conservative Club is a solid and massive building, but, as
Lord Emsworth raised his eyes dumbly from the perusal of this letter,
it seemed to him that it was performing a kind of whirling dance.
The whole of the immediate neighborhood, indeed, appeared to be
shimmying in the middle of a thick mist. He was profoundly stirred.
It is not too much to say that he was shaken to the core of his
being. No father enjoys being flouted and defied by his own son; nor
is it reasonable to expect a man to take a cheery view of life who is
faced with the prospect of supporting for the remainder of his years
a younger son, a younger son's wife and possibly younger
grandchildren.
For an appreciable space of time he stood in the middle of the
pavement, rooted to the spot. Passers-by bumped into him or
grumblingly made detours to avoid a collision. Dogs sniffed at his
ankles. Seedy-looking individuals tried to arrest his attention in
order to speak of their financial affairs. Lord Emsworth heeded none
of them. He remained where he was, gasping like a fish, until
suddenly his faculties seemed to return to him.
An imperative need for flowers and green trees swept upon Lord
Emsworth. The noise of the traffic and the heat of the sun on the
stone pavement were afflicting him like a nightmare. He signaled
energetically to a passing cab.
"Kensington Gardens," he said, and sank back on the cushioned seat.
Something dimly resembling peace crept into his lordship's soul as he
paid off his cab and entered the cool shade of the gardens. Even
from the road he had caught a glimpse of stimulating reds and
yellows; and as he ambled up the asphalt path and plunged round the
corner the flower beds burst upon his sight in all their consoling
glory.
"Ah!" breathed Lord Emsworth rapturously, and came to a halt before a
glowing carpet of tulips. A man of official aspect, wearing a peaked
cap and a uniform, stopped as he heard the exclamation and looked at
him with approval and even affection.
"Nice weather we're 'avin'," he observed.
Lord Emsworth did not reply. He had not heard. There is that about
a well-set-out bed of flowers which acts on men who love their
gardens, like a drug, and he was in a sort of trance. Already he had
completely forgotten where he was, and seemed to himself to be back
in his paradise of Blandings. He drew a step nearer to the flower
bed, pointing like a setter.
The official-looking man's approval deepened. This man with the
peaked cap was the park keeper, who held the rights of the high, the
low, and the middle justice over that section of the gardens. He,
too, loved these flowers beds, and he seemed to see in Lord Emsworth
a kindred soul. The general public was too apt to pass by, engrossed
in its own affairs, and this often wounded the park keeper. In Lord
Emsworth he thought that he recognized one of the right sort.
"Nice----" he began.
He broke off with a sharp cry. If he had not seen it with his own
eyes he would not have believed it. But, alas! there was no
possibility of a mistake. With a ghastly shock he realized that he
had been deceived in this attractive stranger. Decently if untidily
dressed, clean, respectable to the outward eye, the stranger was in
reality a dangerous criminal, the blackest type of evildoer on the
park keeper's index. He was a Kensington Gardens flower picker.
For, even as he uttered the word "nice," the man had stepped lightly
over the low railing, had shambled across the strip of turf, and
before you could say "knife" was busy on his dark work. In the brief
instant in which the park keeper's vocal cords refused to obey him,
he was two tulips ahead of the game and reaching out to scoop in a
third.
"Hi!" roared the park keeper, suddenly finding speech. "'I there!"
Lord Emsworth turned with a start.
"Bless my soul!" he murmured reproachfully.
He was in full possession of his senses now, such as they were, and
understood the enormity of his conduct. He shuffled back onto the
asphalt, contrite.
"My dear fellow----" he began remorsefully.
The park keeper began to speak rapidly and at length. From time to
time Lord Emsworth moved his lips and made deprecating gestures, but
he could not stem the flood. Louder and more rhetorical grew the
park keeper, and denser and more interested the rapidly assembling
crowd of spectators. And then through the stream of words another
voice spoke.
"Wot's all this?"
The force had materialized in the shape of a large, solid constable.
The park keeper seemed to understand that he had been superseded. He
still spoke, but no longer like a father rebuking an erring son. His
attitude now was more that of an elder brother appealing for justice
against a delinquent junior. In a moving passage he stated his case.
"'E Says," observed the constable judicially, speaking slowly and in
capitals as if addressing an untutored foreigner--"'E Says You Was
Pickin' The Flowers."
"I saw 'im. I was standin' as close as I am to you."
"'E Saw You," interpreted the constable.
Lord Emsworth was feeling weak and bewildered. Without a thought of
annoying or doing harm to anybody, he seemed to have unchained the
fearful passions of a French Revolution; and there came over him a
sense of how unjust it was that this sort of thing should be
happening to him, of all people--a man already staggering beneath the
troubles of a Job.
"I'll 'ave to ask you for your name and address," said the constable
more briskly. A stubby pencil popped for an instant into his stern
mouth and hovered, well and truly moistened, over the virgin page of
his notebook--that dreadful notebook before which taxi drivers shrink
and hardened bus conductors quail.
"I--I, why, my dear fellow--I mean, officer--I am the Earl of
Emsworth."
Much has been written of the psychology of crowds, designed to show
how extraordinary and inexplicable it is, but most of such writing is
exaggeration. A crowd generally behaves in a perfectly natural and
intelligible fashion. When, for instance, it sees a man in a badly
fitting tweed suit and a hat he ought to be ashamed of getting put
through it for pinching flowers in the park and the man says he is an
earl, it laughs. This crowd laughed.
"Ho?" The constable did not stoop to join in the merriment of the
rabble, but his lip twitched sardonically. "Have you a card, your
lordship?"
Nobody intimate with Lord Emsworth would have asked such a foolish
question. His card-case was the thing he always lost second when
visiting London--immediately after losing his umbrella.
"I--er--I'm afraid----"
"R!" said the constable. And the crowd uttered another happy,
hyenalike laugh, so intensely galling that his lordship raised his
bowed head with an indignant glance. And as he did so the hunted
look faded from his eyes.
"McAllister!" he cried. "McAllister, my dear fellow, do please tell
this man who I am."
Two new arrivals had just joined the throng, and, being of rugged and
nobbly physique, had already shoved themselves through to the
ringside seats. One was a tall, handsome, smooth-faced gentleman of
authoritative appearance, who, if he had not worn rimless glasses,
would have looked like a Roman emperor. The other was a shorter,
sturdier man with a bristly red beard.
"McAllister!" moaned his lordship piteously.
After what had passed between himself and his late employer a lesser
man than Angus McAllister might have seen in Lord Emsworth's
predicament merely a judgment. A man of little magnanimity would
have felt that here was where he got a bit of his own back. Not so
this splendid Glaswegian.
"Aye," he said. "Yon's Lorrud Emsworruth."
"Who are you?" inquired the constable searchingly.
"I used to be head gardener at the cassel."
"Exactly," bleated Lord Emsworth. "Precisely. My head gardener."
The constable was shaken. Lord Emsworth might not look like an earl,
but there was no getting away from the fact that Angus McAllister was
supremely head-gardeneresque. A stanch admirer of the aristocracy,
the constable perceived that zeal had caused him to make a bit of a
bloomer. Yes, he had dropped a brick. In this crisis, however, he
comported himself with a masterly tact. He scowled blackly upon the
interested throng.
"Pass along there, please. Pass along," he commanded austerely.
"Ought to know better than block up a public thoroughfare like this.
Pass along!"
He moved off, shepherding the crowd before him. The Roman emperor
with the rimless glasses advanced upon Lord Emsworth, extending a
large hand.
"Pleased to meet you at last," he said. "My name is Donaldson, Lord
Emsworth."
For a moment the name conveyed nothing to his lordship. Then its
significance hit him, and he drew himself up with hauteur.
"You'll excuse us, Angus," said Mr. Donaldson. "High time you and I
had a little chat, Lord Emsworth."
Lord Emsworth was about to speak, when he caught the other's eye. It
was a strong, keen, level gray eye, with a curious forcefulness about
it that made him feel strangely inferior. There is every reason to
suppose that Mr. Donaldson had subscribed for years to those
personality courses advertised in the back pages of the magazines,
which guarantee to impart to the pupil who takes ten correspondence
lessons the ability to look the boss in the eye and make him wilt.
Mr. Donaldson looked Lord Emsworth in the eye, and Lord Emsworth
wilted.
"How do you do?" he said weakly.
"Now listen, Lord Emsworth," proceeded Mr. Donaldson. "No sense in
having hard feelings between members of a family. I take it you've
heard by this time that your boy and my girl have gone ahead and
fixed it up? Personally, I'm delighted. That boy is a fine young
fellow--"
Lord Emsworth blinked.
"You are speaking of my son Frederick?" he said incredulously.
"Of your son Frederick. Now, at the moment, no doubt, you are
feeling a trifle sore. I don't blame you. You have every right to
be sorer than a gumboil. But you must remember--young blood, eh? It
will, I am convinced, be a lasting grief to that splendid young
man----"
"You are still speaking of my son Frederick?"
"Of Frederick, yes. It will, I say, be a lasting grief to him if he
feels he has incurred your resentment. You must forgive him, Lord
Emsworth. He must have your support."
"I suppose he'll have to have it, dash it," said his lordship
unhappily. "Can't let the boy starve."
Mr. Donaldson's hand swept round in a wide grand gesture.
"Don't you worry about that. I'll look after that end of it. I am
not a rich man----"
"Ah!" said his lordship resignedly. A faint hope, inspired by the
largeness of the other's manner, had been flickering in his bosom.
"I doubt," continued Mr. Donaldson frankly, "if, all told, I have as
much as ten million dollars in the world."
Lord Emsworth swayed like a sapling in the breeze.
"Ten million? Ten million? Did you say you had ten million dollars?"
"Between nine and ten, I suppose. Not more. But you must bear in
mind that the business is growing all the time. I am Donaldson's Dog
Biscuits."
"Donaldson's Dog Biscuits! Indeed! Really! Fancy that!"
"You have heard of them?" asked Mr. Donaldson eagerly.
"Never," said Lord Emsworth cordially.
"Oh! Well, that's who I am. And, with your approval, I intend to
send Frederick over to Long Island City to start learning the
business. I have no doubt that he will in time prove a most valuable
asset to the firm."
Lord Emsworth could conceive of no way in which Freddie could be of
value to a dog-biscuit firm, except possibly as a taster: but he
refrained from damping the other's enthusiasm by saying so.
"He seems full of keenness. But he must feel that he has your moral
support, Lord Emsworth; his father's moral support."
"Yes, yes, yes!" said Lord Emsworth heartily. A feeling of positive
adoration for Mr. Donaldson was thrilling him. The getting rid of
Freddie, which he himself had been unable to achieve in twenty-six
years, this godlike dog-biscuit manufacturer had accomplished in less
than a week. "Oh, yes, yes, yes! Most decidedly!"
"They sail on Wednesday."
"Splendid!"
"Early in the morning."
"Capital!"
"I may give them a friendly message from you?"
"Certainly! Certainly, certainly, certainly! Inform Frederick that
he has my best wishes."
"I will."
"Mention that I shall watch his future progress with considerable
interest."
"Exactly."
"Say that I hope he will work hard and make a name for himself."
"Just so."
"And," concluded Lord Emsworth, speaking with a fatherly earnestness
well in keeping with this solemn moment, "tell him--er--not to hurry
home."
He pressed Mr. Donaldson's hand with feelings too deep for further
speech. Then he galloped swiftly to where Angus McAllister stood
brooding over the tulip bed.
"McAllister!"
The other's beard waggled grimly. He looked at his late employer
with cold eyes.
"McAllister," faltered Lord Emsworth humbly, "I wish--I wonder----
What I want to say is, have you accepted another situation yet?"
"I am conseederin' twa."
"Come back to me!" pleaded his lordship, his voice breaking. "Robert
Barker is worse than useless. Come back to me!"
Angus McAllister gazed woodenly at the tulips. "A' weel," he said at
length.
"You will?" cried Lord Emsworth joyfully. "Splendid! Capital!
Excellent!"
"A' didna say I wud."
"I thought you said 'I will,'" said his lordship, dashed.
"I didna say 'A' weel'; I said 'A' weel,'" said Mr. McAllister
stiffly. "Meanin', mebbe I might, mebbe not."
Lord Emsworth laid a trembling hand upon his arm.
"McAllister, I will raise your salary."
The beard twitched.
"Dash it, I'll double it!"
The eyebrows flickered.
"McAllister--Angus," said Lord Emsworth in a low voice. "Come back!
The pumpkin needs you."
In an age of rush and hurry like that of today, an age in which there
are innumerable calls on the leisure time of everyone, it is possible
that here and there throughout the ranks of the public who have read
this chronicle there may be one or two who for various reasons found
themselves unable to attend the annual Flower and Vegetable Show at
Shrewsbury. Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe of Badgwick Hall was there,
of course, but it would not have escaped the notice of a close
observer that his mien lacked something of the haughty arrogance
which had characterized it in other years. From time to time, as he
paced the tent devoted to the exhibition of vegetables, he might have
been seen to bite his lip, and his eye had something of that brooding
look which Napoleon's must have worn after Waterloo.
But there is the right stuff in Sir Gregory. He is a gentleman and a
sportsman. In the Parsloe-Parsloe tradition there is nothing small
or mean. Halfway down the tent he stopped, and with a quick manly
gesture thrust out his hand.
"Congratulate you, Emsworth," he said huskily.
Lord Emsworth looked up with a start. He had been deep in his
thoughts.
"Thanks, my dear fellow. Thanks. Thanks. Thank you very much." He
hesitated. "Er--can't both win, if you understand me."
Sir Gregory puzzled it out.
"No," he said. "No. See what you mean. Can't both win."
He nodded and walked on, with who knows what vultures gnawing at his
broad bosom? And Lord Emsworth--with Angus McAllister, who had been
a silent witness of the scene, at his side--turned once more to stare
reverently at that which lay on the strawy bottom of one of the
largest packing cases ever seen in Shrewsbury town.
Inside it, something vast and golden beamed up at him.
A card had been attached to the exterior of the packing case. It
bore the simple legend:
PUMPKINS. FIRST PRIZE.
THE MILKY WAY
_By_ Stewart Edward White
STEWART EDWARD WHITE
Stewart Edward White, one of the best-known of American authors, was
born in Grand Rapids, Mich., on March 12, 1873, grew up in lumber
camps, and has been an adventurer, explorer, and hunter all his life.
At his home, Little Hill, Burlingame, Calif., a separate building
houses his trophies from Alaska and elsewhere, including three
African expeditions. Readers will scarcely require to be reminded of
such novels as _The Blazed Trail_, _The Silent Places_, _The
Riverman_, _The Leopard Woman_, the California trilogy, _Gold_, _The
Gray Dawn_ and _The Rose Dawn_, _The Glory Hole_, etc., or of such
stories as _Arizona Nights_.
For some years Mr. White has owned a yacht on which during the summer
months he has cruised off the coast of British Columbia; and it will
be apparent to readers of this story that it may be based on an
actual occurrence only slightly varnished. I have refrained from
asking Mr. White as to the facts, if any. The story, which first
appeared in Collier's for June 6, 1925, was read at one-thirty in the
morning by an editor who had spent the whole evening with manuscripts
and was intolerably weary. After he had got over laughing he found
himself quite rested and decided that perhaps others might experience
the same beneficial result.
THE MILKY WAY[1]
[1] Copyright, 1925, by Stewart Edward White.
Somewhere along the British Columbia coast a well-found schooner
yacht moved in a thick, lazy mist. Glenn Walker, the owner thereof,
Aline, his comparatively recent wife, and Jimmy Forbes, together with
the mate, were all gathered about the wheel, combining their skill
and knowledge. The crow's nest aloft was occupied by a lookout man.
A sailor near the after hatch at intervals worked a crank that
actuated a bellows that, in turn, emitted a long, hollow groan. In
addition, Walker from time to time pulled the air-whistle cord. Then
the entire yacht fell silent, and everybody listened intently for an
echo that should indicate the proximity of islands and rocks.
Throughout all the ship's company was that nervous, intent, uneasy
alertness that is aroused only by a fog in uncertain, broken, or
unknown waters. Even Sam, the negro cook, had deserted his galley
and, an unusual solemnity adding a quite superfluous shadow to his
countenance, was gazing ahead.
"The worst of it is these confounded currents," observed Walker
impatiently, breaking the silence. "You can figure out where you
ought to be all right, but you can't tell where the currents may have
set you! We ought to be hearing from Disaster Point about now." He
pulled the whistle cord. All listened. Nothing! "Nice, cheerful
optimist named this country!" he grumbled. "Disaster Point;
Desolation Sound; Wreck Reef; Beware Passage; Destruction Point;
Grief Point----"
Nobody replied. All understood that the skipper was merely relieving
pressure.
The sailor mechanically cranked his machine. In answer to its hoarse
shout a booming bellow blared through the mist dead ahead. Walker's
hand jerked to the engine-room bell. The yacht came to a quivering
standstill. The water fell quiet under her counter as the reverse
ceased to operate. She lay gently rocking in the smooth swell. All
listened.
Nothing! Walker waved his hand toward the sailor operating the fog
horn.
It squawked; and almost immediately was answered from out the mists.
"No lighthouses up here, as I remember it," stated Walker, but in a
note of inquiry.
"No, sir; none," rejoined the mate positively.
"Doesn't sound like any ship's foghorn I ever heard, though."
"No, sir; more like a fixed signal."
The mate took two steps to their own foghorn, thrust the sailor
aside, and manipulated the crank, one long blast, followed by three
short ones. After a short interval he was answered; but, as before,
only by the single long-drawn-out note.
"Private signal; not in the books," he explained. "But everyone
navigating this coast knows it. Either that fellow's a cod-headed
fool or we're up against a fixed signal."
"Maybe it's a new establishment," suggested Jimmy Forbes.
"What I was thinking, sir. But why isn't it reported in this year's
'Information for Mariners'? They don't grow these things overnight."
Walker rang again, and the yacht's auxiliary engines fell silent.
"I don't hear any engine," he voiced the result of a short interval
of listening. "I'd better start up again and keep under control."
He signaled the engineer, and the yacht began to creep forward at a
snail's pace.
Jimmy Forbes and Aline sauntered forward to the bitts. Jimmy
clenched his pipe in his teeth, his hands were deep in his pockets,
and his face was alight. She glanced up at him.
"What is it?" she asked, struck by his expression.
"My psychic antennæ are vibrating," said he. "I smell adventure."
"Fog thinning aloft, sir," came the sailor's voice from the crow's
nest.
The invisible horn continued to blare at intervals, but the exact
direction or distance of its source was rendered uncertain by the
peculiar and baffling acoustic properties of the fog. At each
repetition everybody aboard the yacht strained his ears, and at each
silence exchanged low-voiced opinions, all different.
With the shattering effect of an explosion the lookout man's voice
came again from aloft. The effect was of the release from a spell, a
pearl-gray clogging muffled spell cast on sight and sound by the
spirit of the fog.
"Cow ho!" cried he.
A moment's incredulous silence was broken by an exasperated bellow of
inquiry from both Walker and his mate.
"Cow ho!" the sailor obligingly repeated.
"You triple idiot," shouted Walker, "what are you talking about?"
"It's a cow, sir," explained the lookout man.
"I can see her above the fog. She's standing on a sort of high peak
of rock that sticks up. Five points to sta'board, sir. She's a
spotted cow," he added after a moment, "and she's got a calf with
her."
"What in the name of Peter the Hermit do you suppose I care for her
color or her calf?" roared Walker, exasperated.
The mate was already eagerly searching the chart.
"It must be this little group here, sir," he indicated. "We've been
set west'ard by the tides."
"No bottom at ten," sang out the leadsman, who unbidden had cast his
lead.
In the bow Aline was looking at her chuckling brother. "You knew it
was a cow!" she accused him.
"I told you my psychic antennæ were quivering. You see, each and
every living thing has its own special aura which it emanates, or in
the midst of which it lives, so to speak. When two living things
come near enough to one another the auras contact or perhaps slightly
intermingle. One who--like me--is sensitive or especially trained in
the occult lore of the East is aware of the fact, and may even
identify the nature of that aura. It's very simple." He caught her
accusing eye. "And then, too," he continued, "it sounded like a cow."
The fog continued to thin overhead, while still remaining opaque
below, as is often the habit of fogs. Dazzling bits of sky became
visible, like blue jewels set in cotton wool. Those on deck shortly
became possessed of the vision that had earlier been vouchsafed the
lookout man, nearer heaven. On a flat-topped spire of rock stood a
veritable spotted cow, with a smaller but gangle-legged replica of
herself snuggled alongside. The spire lifted sheer from the rolling
fog clouds below. Its top was perhaps ten feet across; its sides
apparently almost precipitous. The cow was as though upon an altar.
There needed only a few seraphim or cherubim leaning their chins over
the clouds below to complete an entirely appropriate setting. The
idea was put forward by Aline.
"Should the cherubim be small chubby calves' heads with wings?" she
inquired. "Or perhaps little fat pigs?"
Appropriate leisure for the admiration of the spectacle was, however,
denied them. The spell was broken by the sudden appearance alongside
of an agitated man in a small boat. He was a stockily built person,
with a round red face, a shock of brown hair, and an anxious and
serious eye.
"Say," he called without preliminary, "can some of you fellows help
me with my cow?"
"What's the matter with your cow?" asked Walker.
"I can't get her down. She's clumb up atop and she can't get down.
I never knew a more gentle cow, but I can't do nothing with her. She
never acted this way before. Something must have scared her; and
then she had her calf, and now she's gone crazy. If my piston-rod
bearing hadn't give out, me and my partner'd have done something, but
as it is she ain't had a drop or a bite for two days except what I've
got up to her, and what with a new calf--by golly, you fellers come
along just right!"
"With the permission of the owner, here," struck in Jimmy, who, in
common with the entire yacht's company was leaning over the rail, "I
would propose that you come on deck and embroider with the glittering
high lights of lucidity your suggestive but somewhat obscure
narrative."
The man stared at him. "Huh?" he ejaculated.
"Come aboard and have a drink and tell us about it."
The owner of the cow, painter in hand, immediately swarmed over the
side. The attentive steward dived below to reappear with a bottle
and glasses.
"Better drop your hook," suggested the stranger, his eye on the
bottle.
"Is there good bottom here?" queried Walker doubtfully.
"Sure. And good shelter. You're in Graveyard Cove."
"By the mark, seven!" sang out the leadsman hastily.
"Let go the anchor!" commanded Walker sharply.
"The cow," Jimmy Forbes was observing, "is as perhaps you know, a
sacred animal among the Hindus. It therefore possesses for me, as a
humble Follower of the Path, a peculiar interest and significance.
The sight of one of these animals elevated to a position that I can
only regard as symbolical is significant of more than chance. I can
see in this concatenation of circumstances an interweaving of the
threads of Karma which may----"
"Give me that bottle!" Aline interrupted him severely.
She removed the cork and handed it, together with a tall glass from
the tray, to the newcomer, Jimmy sighed.
"Blinded," he murmured--"not so particularly to my occult lore as to
the alcoholic habits of the local native."
The glass was intended for high-balls, the soda for which was ready
on the tray. The man filled it three fourths full of whisky. This
he at once prepared to drink.
"Don't you take any water?" gasped Aline.
"Not if the whisky is good, ma'am."
He drank it in long gulps, set down the glass without a shudder and,
thus fortified, gave an account of himself. He lived, it seems, with
his partner on another small island a few miles distant. They ran a
cattle ranch. Jimmy pricked up his ears at this statement.
"How many head of stock have you?" he asked.
"Eleven," said the man. "We had twelve last year, but we killed one
for beef."
The spotted cow, being about to calve, and the grass becoming scant
on the "ranch" the idea had occurred to him to transfer her to this
island for better forage, and he did so.
"How?" asked Aline.
"In my gas boat, ma'am."
"But how?"
"I just put her in the cockpit and brought her over."
"I don't see how in the world----"
"It was easy enough, ma'am. I never knew a more gentle cow. Only
trouble was, it was choppy and she got seasick some."
The crossing and the landing had been successfully accomplished. All
seemed to be going well. Then trouble began.
The cow, after falling too eagerly on the new feed, had been seized
by a sudden panic.
"I can't think what ailed her," complained the man. "There wa'n't
nothing I could see to scare her. But she begun to run around and
bellow and curl her tail, and I couldn't do nothing with her nohow.
And she's the gentlest critter I ever see. I quit trying to get nigh
her, because I didn't want her to run around and get het up--she with
her calf, you see--but that didn't do no good. And how she done it,
I don't know, but somehow she managed to scramble right up to the top
of the island. Why, a goat couldn't hardly make it! Once she got up
there she quieted down, but there she was! She can't get down nohow,
and I can't figger no way to get her down. She's had her calf up
there, and there ain't no food or water, so I had to carry up what I
could, and she just stands there and bellers. And then when I
started to go get my partner to figger something out, my engine
breaks down; and I ain't got no small boat with me, and there I am."
"In your estimate of your cattle holdings, did you include the calf?"
inquired Jimmy.
"Huh?"
"Have you eleven head counting or not counting the calf?"
"The calf makes twelve."
"What on earth has that to do with it?" demanded Aline.
"I was just figuring whether it meant a nine or an eight and a half
per cent loss," submitted her brother meekly. "At any rate, a heavy
loss for any large industry."
The stranger looked at Jimmy suspiciously, but otherwise ignored him.
"You can just bet I was glad to hear you fellows whistling," he
concluded his narrative.
The fog was now returning into the invisible. There was no motion,
just a withdrawal as though into a fourth dimension without
disturbance of the three in which we live. The surroundings were
becoming distinguishable.
The yacht was shortly seen to be at anchor in a crescent-shaped bight
with long rocky arms on either side. A sparsely wooded shore rose
close by in a series of low rocky terraces to the central spire on
the top of which stood the spotted cow and her calf. The spire was
perhaps ten feet high above the last terrace, and seemed to afford
various small hand- or footholds in the shape of miniature ledges and
crevices, but would appear to be, as the cow's owner had said,
problematically scalable to even the skiptious goat.
"Do you mean to say that cow actually climbed up there?" demanded
Walker, after surveying the situation.
"I don't think she flew," said the man, and he said it seriously,
which pleased Aline.
"Well, let's go ashore and look things over," suggested Walker. "I
expect we'll have to help out."
"Any objection to the men landing, sir?" inquired the mate. "Good
chance to stretch their legs."
"None. But leave one aboard."
The small boats were put overside, and shortly the ship's crew stood
on the island. They ascended by a series of broad shallow terraces,
where they grouped themselves at the foot of the spire and looked up.
The cow looked down.
"It's plain enough where she got up," observed Walker after a
pause--"she could do it if she scrambled hard and kept scrambling.
And it's equally plain why she doesn't get down. But I believe she
might be led if it were done carefully."
"I figured that," agreed the cow's owner, "if she'd come down gentle;
but she's all het up and excited. And she's the gentlest critter I
ever see. You can do anything with her. But now I can't even get a
rope on her."
A deprecating cough called attention to the steward.
"Beg pardon, sir, but, if I might try? You see, sir, I was cow hand
for two years in the Argentine pampas, and I learned methods."
"A hundred and sixty-seven," murmured Aline.
Jimmy raised an inquiring eyebrow in her direction.
"It's Johnston's age," she explained to him aside, "according to the
number of years he says he has done different things. He was a
hundred and sixty-five yesterday."
Receiving permission, the steward procured a rope and rapidly climbed
to the miniature plateau, to the farther edge of which the cow
promptly retired with her calf behind her.
"You see," he said modestly, addressing the multitude from his
vantage point, "it's partly confidence and partly secret master words
which have been known to animal tamers from time immemorial."
"If you know any secret master words, you'd better say them quick,"
warned Forbes suddenly.
Without waiting for the secret words, and disregarding the confidence
entirely, the cow uttered a bellow and dashed at the steward. The
latter, caught unawares by this unsportsmanlike conduct, recovered
his wits only in time to dodge sidewise and escape impalement by the
skin of his teeth. Now ensued a brief but lively game of tag within
most inadequate boundaries. The cow was It, but seemed likely not
long to remain so. Before the spectators could either formulate an
idea for rescue or even make a move toward it, Johnston, escaping
death thrice by a hand-breadth, was seen to topple for a moment on
the far edge, throw up his hands, and disappear.
Cries and movements. Above the confusion rose the roaring voice of
the cow's owner:
"Can he swim?"
Several voices answered him in the affirmative.
"Then he's all right. The cliff is straight up on that side into
deep water. They's no rocks there."
Two men tumbled into the dinghy and rowed madly around the nearer of
the two points. Suspended action for a short interval. Shortly it
reappeared, and all could see that Johnston sat now in the stern
sheets, streaming sea water. His remarks could not be distinguished
at the distance, but from his posture, gestures, and the sound of his
voice it was evident that he was addressing the spotted cow.
"Undoubtedly the secret words, though a trifle belated," observed
Jimmy. "The creature should now be quite tamed."
"I never see her act up so before," said the cow's owner. "She's the
gentlest critter----"
"Well," urged Walker genially, "any more volunteers? Any more
buckaroos in this outfit?"
He ran his eye over the crew, grinning cheerfully at them. They
grinned back, glanced at one another, shook their heads.
"No? Well, come on, boys, let's see what we can do."
He was warming up to the situation. He had been sitting on a rock,
like Aline and his brother-in-law, as a spectator. Now he rose and
became the central figure--with due deference to the cow.
"Johnston has the right idea--in a way," said he. "The first thing
is to get a rope on her. Got to get hold of her. I don't know much
about cows, but I do know that with a rope around the base of the
horns you can do most anything with them, and around the neck is no
good. That right?" he asked the cow's owner. "By the way, what's
your name?"
"My name's Teller. Yes, that's right."
"Any of you men throw a lariat? No? How about you? You're a
ranchman."
"I ain't never tried."
"Well, I can't either--to amount to much. But I've had to catch my
horse a few times down in the cow country. Get me a stout line. I
think I can make a running noose."
Armed with his impromptu lasso, he started toward the rock.
"You aren't going up there?" cried Aline, alarmed.
"Don't worry; I have the greatest respect for the old girl."
He made his way to a point just below the little plateau, assured
himself of a good foothold, whirled the loop around his head, cowboy
fashion, and began to cast. The cow backed away to the far edge,
planted her feet and snorted. The position was awkward, Walker's
skill negligible, and the cow proved to be unexpectedly clever in
ducking. Again and again he hurled the rope, dragged it back empty,
and reformed the loop. Sometimes the loop would not spread,
sometimes the rope fell short, at encouraging moments it fell across
the cow, twice it actually settled over the horns and the attentive
bystanders uttered a yell, but before Walker in his unfavorable
position could take in the slack the cow lowered her head and flipped
her horns and the wide loop slipped off. By now the sun was shining
brightly. Walker took off his coat and wiped his brow.
"Gosh, this is hot work!" he remarked.
After the hundredth cast or so, he paused for a rest.
"I'm afraid I'm no Buffalo Bill," he confessed after another series
of failures. "One of you row off and tell that ineffable ass,
Johnston, to come back--to come ashore and have a try at this. He
ought to know how to throw a lasso if he was with the Argentine
Gauchos for two years."
While one of the men was gone in the dinghy Walker leaned against the
rock, resting. Presently the emissary returned.
"Johnston says they didn't lasso them down where he was," reported
the man, grinning. "He says they used bolos."
"Humph!" grunted Walker. "He's better read than I imagined."
He took up the rope again and hurled the loop carelessly and
disgustedly in the general direction of the cow. It settled about
the animal's horns.
"Stand by!" "Haul her!" "Take in your slack!" broke out a chorus of
yells.
The loop tightened. Walker descended from his elevated perch,
bringing with him the end of the long line.
"Now you've got her, what are you going to do with her?" murmured
Forbes.
But Walker, now wholly in the spirit of solving a difficult problem,
had his ideas.
"Get the calf down, and she'll follow of her own accord," he replied
promptly. "Here, some of you fellows take the end of the rope and
keep her from charging at me, and I'll see what can be done."
The cow securely tethered to one end of the plateau, Walker ventured
to mount to the other. Then ensued a game first of
blandishment--futile--then of dodge. The calf had been instructed by
Mother to view all proceedings with suspicion; on no account to do
anything he was expected to do; and to distrust all creatures that
did not progress on four legs. Infantile as he was, the calf had
understood and obeyed perfectly, a wonderful example to the young
independents of other species.
"That won't work," confessed Walker at length, descending the cliff.
"If you did get the calf, probably the cow wouldn't be calm enough to
pick her way down so difficult a path," consoled Aline. "Your
flannels are a sight!"
"There's something in that," assented Walker. "Darn my flannels."
"She's always been the gentlest critter I ever----"
"Well, she's reformed now," Walker cut him short. "Any suggestions,
anybody?"
The two groups had gradually drawn together until now master and crew
were gathered close. Nobody said anything for a moment.
"How about shoving her off the side where Johnston took the high
dive?" at length ventured one of the men.
"She'd bust herself wide open falling from that high up!" hastily
interposed Teller in alarm.
"How about shoving her off and then lowering her down with the rope
around her horns, then?" amended the author of the suggestion.
"We could all tail onto the rope on this side, run it over the top,
and then slack away," interposed another.
They gathered in a close group and discussed ways and means. It was
agreed that a roller of some kind would be needed to pass the rope
over so it would not chafe through. Also some sort of padded poles
for the shoving. Nobody seemed to fancy doing any shoving with the
naked hands. Also a selected squad to shove, and another to pull.
The plan gathered complications, fantastic nautical complications of
men accustomed to the sea but not to cows. Teller, who had been
listening with more and more bewilderment, finally dashed the whole
scheme.
"With her scraping and bumping down that clift," said he, "she'd
break a leg sure."
"We'll have to rig some sort of crane to sling her from," put in the
mate, who had heretofore remained silent. "Then we can run her over
and let her down easy."
"That's the idea!" cried Walker.
A new committee of the whole was formed. Three men held the cow back
by the rope while all the rest swarmed up the cliff to examine the
engineering possibilities. Cranes were more in line with a
sailorman's experience. The matter of a suitable foundation and
pivot was soon determined. There would need to be two stout timbers;
one upright and firmly guyed; the other attached loosely to its foot
like a boom. A block on the end of each through which ropes could be
rove would permit manipulation either up or down or sidewise. Then
reeve the cow's rope through the end of the boom, hoist her off her
feet, sling her sidewise into space, and lower away!
This masterpiece of planning by a dozen eagerly interested small
boys--for this is what they had all become--was no sooner rounded out
in all details than an obvious and damning fact ruined it. On the
little island there grew no trees big enough to furnish materials!
There were no trees big enough--so Teller admitted--on any of the
islands near by.
At this realization a consternation blank of everything but baffled
irritation fell upon the spirits of the multitude. With one accord
all stared at the cow; with one accord all cursed the cow. One or
two even cursed Teller for daring to own the cow. Teller was quite
meek, but very anxious and worried; and only muttered that she was
the gentlest cow he had ever known. Which, of course, helped.
"Better shoot the fool and use her up for beef and be done with it!"
sighed Walker wearily.
Into this lull obtruded the splash of oars. It had not been noticed
that some time previous Sam had withdrawn. Now he was to be seen, in
full white regalia, his bulk nearly filling the little dinghy,
placidly paddling to shore. He beached his craft, deliberately
shipped his oars, heaved himself on the strand, and approached.
"Lunching," he remarked with dignity, "is served. Gittin' cows down
offen rocks is no job on an empty stummick."
"Good Lord! It's two o'clock!" cried Walker, glancing at his wrist
watch, "Sam has the right idea. Get aboard and feed."
The cow, released from pressure, advanced to the edge of the little
plateau, dragging her rope after her. She stared down at them with
the unfocused bulging-eyed imbecility of the rattled bovine.
"Bla-a-a-a!" she bellowed, and in the cry there seemed to be a note
of sneering scorn.
"Make it snappy!" ordered Walker. "A half hour. Teller, you go
aboard and eat with the men. I'm going to get that cow down if it
takes a leg!"
Lunch was, to Sam's scandal, quite devoid of customary formalities.
Walker swallowed his food hastily and without further comment. Then
suddenly he bellowed for Johnston.
That astonished individual, accustomed to being summoned gently and
electrically as though by the lascivious pleasings of a lute, popped
in with unwonted haste.
"Bring that man Teller in here--the cow man," commanded Walker.
"In here, sir?"
"I said here!"
Johnston popped out again, looking slightly scandalized.
"Sit down," invited Walker when the ranchman had been ushered in.
"Tell me, how deep is the water on the other side of the island just
under the cliff?"
"It's about eight or ten fathom."
"Sure?"
"Yes, I've caught cod there."
"Any rock or shoals?"
"No, she runs off sheer and clean."
"How close in could a craft like this get?"
"Lord, you could tie up to the clift if you wanted to."
Walker hit the table with satisfaction.
"All right," he cried. "I've got it! It's as simple as falling off
a log. We'll take the yacht around there right under the confounded
cow. We'll use our mainmast as our upright and our main boom as the
spar."
"You can't raise it high enough," interposed Forbes quickly.
"Can't, eh? Well, to make sure, we'll hoist it and chock it high
enough up."
"It'll mar your mast."
"Hang the mast! I wish it was taller. We can't hoist her clear, but
we can pull her off sideways and catch her weight as she comes off
the plateau. It'll work perfectly, if only the weather will continue
calm."
He was as eager as a boy. Leaping from his seat, he ran on deck.
The crew already fed, were up from below.
"I've got it worked out," he told them rapidly, and detailed his
scheme.
"They's nigh a twenty-foot tide in these waters, sir," said the mate,
"so if you pull her off at high tide you'd gain that much on her."
"Good man!" cried Walker. The mate had already dived for the
tide-tables. They flipped the pages. "Here we are, Port Simpson--it
won't be far off Port Simpson--tides here--high water 19.7 feet at
22:48--why in blazes don't they say 10:48 P.M. and be done with it?
We can't do it to-day. It's 19.5 feet to-morrow morning. We'll do
it then. It'll take us the rest of the day to get rigged, anyway."
Walker underestimated the activity of sailormen at work on a job they
really understand and in a cause that has enlisted their fervent
interest. The boom was raised a little higher up the mast; the gaff
was unshipped and lashed to the boom where it would lend most
support; the necessary blocks and running gear were installed; the
contraption was swung and tested and pronounced satisfactory by the
middle of the first dogwatch. Satisfied that nothing more could be
done until the next day, Walker went below to remove the signs of
toil.
But shortly appeared Teller from the shore, where he had been
thrusting some fodder and a pail of water up to the plateau. He had
a new and disconcerting idea, which was that it was very possible
that during the night the noose might fall loose and the cow be
enabled to slip it off her horns. This horrible thought gave pause
to all satisfaction. Walker retired into executive session with
himself to grapple with the new problem. Finally he summoned the
mate, and explained the difficulty.
"We've got to keep that noose from slipping open," said he, "and the
only way to do it that I can see is to throw a half hitch, or
something above it around the beast's horns. It can be done, I
think, by flipping the slack of the rope in a sort of loop and giving
it a twist that will cross it as it flips. See what I mean?"
The mate said that he did.
"Well, send one of the men over to try it. On no account must he get
up onto the plateau with that crazy animal. I don't want any
accidents."
He went below to finish his interrupted toilet, which he did
leisurely. After a bath and a complete change he returned to the
deck to find that he was absolutely alone on the yacht. On the last
ledge below the pinnacle were closely grouped the missing ship's
company intently watching a man who, head and shoulders above the
level of the plateau, was painstakingly flipping in hopeful spirals
the bight of the line toward a brace-legged and snortsome cow.
After a number of trials he desisted, and to an accompaniment of
somewhat subdued jeers clambered down to the level of the company.
Another man deposited something in a hat that lay on the ground, spat
on his hands, climbed to the edge of the pinnacle, and in his turn
began to flip the rope.
Walker glanced overside. At least they had had the grace to leave
him his own dinghy. He dropped into it and rowed ashore.
On his appearance activities ceased, and a slight cloud of uneasy
uncertainty fell upon the occasion. Jimmy Forbes took upon himself
an explanation.
"It is a game," said he--"an excellent game in that it combines the
elements of chance, of skill, and the hope of pecuniary gain. You
deposit ten cents in the hat, and in return therefor you are allowed
ten tries. If you succeed in throwing a half hitch, you are rewarded
by the contents of the hat. I have myself already contributed twenty
cents, which, I am bound to confess, I am beginning to believe
irretrievably lost to me. Want to join? If you have not ten cents,
I am sure your credit is good."
"Thanks. I've just cleaned up," replied Walker dryly. "But don't
let me interrupt. I'll watch."
He went to seat himself by Aline, who was perched near by, a book in
her lap. The game was renewed, at first a little deprecatingly, but
soon with noisy hilarity. Walker picked up the book. It was Victor
Hugo's _Toilers of the Sea_.
"I brought it as a textbook," Aline explained.
A wild cheer greeted Johnston's extremely lucky cast. He descended,
emptied the hat.
"It's just a twist of the wrist," he announced loftily. "It's not
unlike handling a bolo."
The next morning proved calm, so the yacht was run around to the
other side of the island, moored fore and aft, and properly fended
from the perpendicular cliffs. It was found that the end of the boom
was just enough above the tiny plateau on which stood the marooned
cow that with the six-foot rise that remained of the tide a
sufficient hoist would be afforded.
But now a new complication was introduced by Teller. Where were they
going to deposit the cow once she was swung clear? Walker said he
had thought they would dump her into the sea and let her swim.
Teller had no faith that the cow in her present condition could swim
that far, and in such cold water and with so many currents. The
alternative seemed to be to lower her to the deck. Walked looked a
little dashed. The yacht's spick and span ultra-holystoned deck! He
took the hurdle nobly, however, and the men set to work to arrange a
suitable place on which to deposit her.
At last the great moment was at hand. Dispositions were carefully
made. Each was assigned his job and minutely instructed as to just
what he was to do. The men on the guy ropes braced themselves; those
on the falls began slowly and cautiously to haul. A lookout at the
foretop reported progress.
"She's afloat!" he shouted as the cow, hanging back and snorting,
began to be forced, in spite of braced feet, inexorably toward the
edge of the cliff. "Her bow's off bottom!" he yelled as the upward
pull lifted her from her forefeet. Over the edge of the cliff, in a
cloud of loose earth, the beast came into view.
"Hoist away! Smartly, men!" cried Walker.
She rose into the air; dangled. The yacht careened slightly as she
took the weight so far offside and so high up.
"Hold the falls! Swing her!" shouted Walker.
The men on the guy ropes swung the boom. High in the air, kicking
like a fish and uttering cries either of bovine profanity or of
terror, the cow dangled by her horns.
"Oh, the poor thing!" exclaimed Aline.
"Lower away!" cried Walker.
The cow descended, swinging to and fro, rocking the yacht from side
to side. The men at the falls watched their chance to catch her at
center, lowering rapidly a few feet, then checking the descent. A
dozen pairs of hands were outstretched to receive and guide the
descending pendulum. For a moment or so there was imminent danger
that the animal would either be dashed against the rocky wall or
carry away some of the yacht's standing rigging. The lookout man,
reaching up, managed to get hold of a hind leg. This was a mistake.
He went overside and splashed into the sea as though he had been
projected from a catapult. Somebody threw him a rope and he
scrambled aboard dripping, against a volley of facetious remarks from
those who were not too busy.
"Hurt?" snapped Walker.
"No, sir," replied the man, but he stood apart rubbing his shoulder,
having had enough of cows for the moment. Some ingenious and more
cautious spirit threw the loop of a small line over the beast. By
means of it she was guided safely to the deck, where she stood, feet
apart, blowing and rolling her eyes. The men cheered.
But the jubilation was cut short by a cry of warning from aloft. The
calf was seen to be wabbling back and forth along the edge of the
cliff, apparently getting ready to jump down after his parent. The
lookout man waved his cap; those on deck shouted and threw up their
arms and tossed up rope ends and cut antics in an effort to convince
the child that in spite of appearances to the contrary cows cannot
fly. Teller fell into the dinghy and began frantically to splash
toward a point from which he could scale the cliff. All these
maneuvers seemed doomed to failure; the calf had apparently every
intention of casting itself into space. Suddenly it froze to
immobility, staring fixedly straight out in front. All looked in the
direction of that gaze. At the foretop crouched Johnston, humped up
and gazing directly into the calf's bulging eyes. Calmly he held
that calf with his glittering eye. The calf stared. For the second
time Johnston had made good!
Breathless silence fell. If Teller could scale the cliff before the
unprecedented spell broke! He did! Breathing heavily and perspiring
freely, he was seen to creep upon the hypnotized calf, to grasp him
firmly. Everybody cheered. Two of the sailors clasped each other
and pulled off an impromptu dance.
But the celebration nearly proved fatal. In the excitement the two
men at the falls had dropped their rope in order to do a little caper
of triumph. This released the pressure on the cow. Whether her
finer feelings had been outraged to the point of retaliation, or
whether she was merely looking for her progeny, is obscure. At any
rate, she uttered another bellow and took charge of the deck. There
was no opposition. Men swarmed up the rigging. Aline and her
brother dived down the hatch. The lookout man, caught unawares
between wind and water, and with no other place to go, again went
overside. But, then, he was already wet. Walker swung himself up on
the boom, from which point he gave his view of the situation in no
uncertain terms.
The flurry was, of course, momentary. The trailing rope was soon
seized and the beast made fast. And at that moment the gentle and
plaintive voice of Teller was heard alongside, begging for assistance
in getting the calf aboard.
Excitement drained away as the sea drains from rocks, leaving the
yacht and her people once more a part of the surroundings instead of
a self-contained center of an unholy row. Walker looked about him.
The deck was strewn with ropes and chairs and things. Rigging
flapped idly at loose ends. The varnish on the masts and rails was
scraped and marred. The yacht looked like a drunken harridan. Also
the trip down and the excitement had made the cow seasick.
"Some job!" cried Walker, wiping his forehead. "I never expected to
be skipper of a cattle ship, but I guess I am." He began to laugh.
"I haven't had so much fun in a coon's age," he chuckled to Aline and
her brother. "Now what?"
Teller, in his deprecating way, proffered a suggestion, or rather a
request.
"You see," said he, "my gas boat is out of order and I've got to run
in a new bearing; and I wouldn't dast to put the cow back on this
island again, nohow; she might do the same thing again; and I thought
as how it wouldn't be no more trouble for you now if you was to take
her over back home again."
Walker stared at him a moment incredulously; then chuckled.
"All right, old-timer," he agreed; "anything goes. Where is it?"
Teller pointed. The other island was now in plain sight and about
four miles distant.
"They's a bight with five fathom on the south side. You can't miss
it. They's a good beach, and the water's still, so all you have to
do is to drop her overside and let her swim. It's only about a
hundred feet and she can make that. You'll find my partner across
the neck. Just tell him I will be along as soon as I get my gas boat
fixed up."
"All right," agreed Walker. "Here, Parks, you row him around to his
boat in the dinghy and then come back. We'll wait here."
The dinghy departed.
"Good Lord, I'll be glad to be rid of her!" cried Walker, with a
despairing glance toward the cow, which was now bellowing
continuously and with more vigor. "How did we ever get into such a
mess? What do you suppose is ailing her now?"
"It's so romantic!" pointed out Aline. "The rescue of a matron in
distress! She's hungry, poor thing. What have we aboard that is fit
for cows?" She approached the animal gingerly and held out something
in her flattened palm. The cow smelled of it and resumed her awful
racket. "She doesn't like green olives," observed Aline, regretfully
throwing the rejected fruit overboard. "I thought there was no harm
trying." She stopped as though thunderstruck. "Isn't there some
proper thing we have neglected?" she inquired seriously. "Oughtn't
we to run up the milk-white flag, for instance?"
Johnston appeared bearing a large white bowl.
"What have you there?" asked Walker.
"It's canned green peas, sir," answered Johnston. "It's all we've
got in the stores that we ever used to feed cows when I was in the
dairy business."
"How long were you in the dairy business, Johnston?" inquired Aline
interestedly.
"Not long, madam, about a year."
"A hundred and sixty-eight," tallied Aline.
Johnston approached the rescued matron, holding out his bowl of
canned peas. The cow ceased her racket and sniffed. Then she
inserted her nose in the bowl. Johnston looked around in pardonable
triumph. The cow apparently tasted and disapproved. Without
troubling to remove her muzzle from the bowl she blew violently.
Canned peas sprayed upward as from a fountain. Around both Johnston
and the cow was a nimbus of green peas. They scattered over the
already disgraceful deck. Johnston disappeared, spattered and
discomfited. The howls of joy from all in sight were drowned by the
renewed ululations of the cow. Johnston had leaned too heavily on
his luck.
Sam was summoned. He suggested canned corn and dried beans and
beets. A pail was produced and in it was prepared a marvelous bovine
goulash. "We've got to quiet the beast somehow, or we'll go mad,"
said Walker. "We ought to have a vegetable garden aboard," said
Aline. "It would be very simple: a foot or so of good garden soil in
that flat place there just forward of that funny thingumajig." The
cow accepted this; ate it; drank a pail of water; quieted down, began
to lick her calf, which in turn applied itself to its own meal.
Parks and the dinghy returned. Preparations were made for getting
under way.
"Two of the men will have to stand by while we're under way," Walker
instructed his mate, "in case there's a swell outside or the
confounded beast gets excited."
"The cow watch!" cried Aline delighted, "and it comes right before
the dogwatch; and it's miles ahead of the dogwatch because the
dogwatch hasn't any dog to watch, but the cow watch has a real cow to
watch!"
The engine took up its rhythm; the moorings were loosed; the yacht
swung slowly to the open. All was well. The cow had now apparently
become the gentlest critter in the world, as so repeatedly advertised
by her loving owner, and was dreamily chewing a placid cud. The calf
was still in search of refreshments.
"Sweet rural scene!" murmured Aline.
But beyond the point the yacht encountered a dead swell which cradled
her in long slow swoops from trough to crest. Thanks to the pen
improvised for her by spare spars and canvas, the cow had no
difficulty in holding her feet, but she stopped chewing her cud and
into her eyes came a haunted, querying uneasiness.
"I've seen that expression before. And she's stopped chewing her
cud!" cried Aline. "I believe she's going to regurgitate."
"The demoralization is complete," groaned Jimmy, "and I do not refer
to the cow."
"Tell Johnston to bring a basin," suggested one of the crew.
The spirit, however, was one of hilarity. Everyone had his little
joke. Some of those voiced by the crew out of hearing of the
quarterdeck were not entirely decorous, having to do largely with
possible safeguards of a no longer immaculate deck. Aline alone was
silent, lost in a brown study. Walker noticed this most unusual
condition and inquired about it.
"I'm composing a poem," she vouchsafed. "I haven't got very far with
it. Only the first two lines."
"Let's have them," urged Walker.
Aline struck an attitude; her voice became deep and solemn.
"When canned goods take the place of grass and hay,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the sea,"
she declaimed in a stage-elocution voice.
The cove on the other island was found without difficulty, and after
an interval of sounding the yacht came to anchor within a few hundred
feet of a shelving beach. Preparations were made for the landing.
The cow presented no difficulties: simply sling her overside, cast
off the lines, and let her swim ashore. Teller had informed them
that the cow could swim. But how about the calf? Nobody knew. It
was a very young calf. Do such animals swim naturally, or do they
have to be taught? Birds have to to be taught to fly, and flying is
their natural mode of progression. Swimming is not a cow's natural
mode of progression. Aline brought up these points, and argued them
with great ability in face of much scoffing. Finally, more in
disgusted yielding to feminine imbecility than from any conviction,
Walker ordered life preservers to be hooked about the body of the
little beast. The calf did not object. He had but one idea in his
poor little head, and that was concerned solely with the meals at all
hours of his conception.
"No meals will be served during the landing!" sang out one of the men.
It was finally considered advisable to lead the beasts while in the
water. Walker, Jimmy and three men in the dinghy undertook this
task. The other members of the ship's company lined the rail. The
men beached the boat and disappeared in the small timber and brush,
in search of Teller's partner. After a half hour they returned and
rowed over. Jimmy was laughing.
"Did you find him?" asked Aline as soon as they had stepped on deck.
"Yes, we found him: across a little narrow peninsula. He was working
in a garden. He was a long, lank, solemn individual, and he didn't
even look up at us as we approached. Just grunted in answer to our
greeting, and went right on working. He was planting potatoes, and
he had a basket of seed potatoes and a sack of starfish. He'd lay a
starfish in the hole, and put a potato on top of that, and then
another starfish, and cover them up with earth."
"Probably planting a milky way for the cow," murmured Aline. "Go on."
"Finally Glenn told him his partner's boat was out of commission, so
we'd brought back the cow for him, as the cow didn't like the other
island. Didn't go into details, and the partner didn't ask for them.
"'That so?' said he. 'What kind of boat you got?'
"'Pretty good sized boat,' says Glenn.
"'Well now,' says the old boy, 'that's a piece of luck that don't
often happen to me, because I was figuring on how we're going to get
the old bull back there--he's getting mighty poor here, and our gas
boat is too small. Could you take him back with you?'"
Jimmy chuckled. "What did you say?" Aline asked Walker.
"Say!" exploded the young man. "I said _no_ more forcefully than I
ever said it in my life!"
LA BELLA GINA
_By_ Eleanor Mercein Kelly
ELEANOR MERCEIN KELLY
Eleanor Mercein Kelly was born in Milwaukee, Wis., on August 30,
1880, the daughter of Thomas Boyce Mercein, was graduated from the
Georgetown Convent of the Visitation, Washington, in 1898, and was
married to Robert Morrow Kelly, Jr., of Louisville, Ky., in 1901.
Mr. Kelly died in 1926. She is the author of short stories of
unusual excellence appearing in many of the magazines and of several
novels of which the best known is perhaps _Kildares of Storm_. Her
home is in Edgehill Road, Louisville.
"La Bella Gina," which was first published in _Harper's Magazine_ for
September, 1926, is a fine example of thoroughly sophisticated and
completely unobtrusive humor. In fact, there are experienced judges
who will deny that it is a humorous story. In the same breath they
express their admiration for the story itself; so that evidently the
valuation of its humorous element, if it has one, depends upon
temperament. Mrs. Kelly expressed willingness for its inclusion and
I take it that this signifies that her intention, as author, was
partly humorous. In a collection which presents humor open and
unashamed, even on occasion a little riotous, this subtlest of
stories surely finds a place as representative of the opposite
extreme.
LA BELLA GINA[1]
[1] Copyright, 1926, by Eleanor Mercein Kelly.
One met the lady, as it were, by installments: first the dog Bijou,
emerging from the _ascenseur_ like a jack from its box, wheezing;
next the harassed little lady-secretary--or was she a duenna?--in
leashed pursuit; next the maid Annette, very French and voluble,
personally conducting the footsteps of greatness; last, but by no
means nor in any respect least, La Bella Gina herself, leaning upon
the arm of her devoted but practically invisible little cavalier, the
Marchese. It was always an effective entrance; a gay wave of the
hand for the gentleman at the desk, a coquettish smile for the
staring lobby at large, and for us, who had come so far to be the
guests of her Italy, a charming, courteous inclination of hospitality.
Then the Signor Direttore would hurry out of his office with a daily
bouquet provided by the management; the concierge, so haughty with
others, would abase himself backward before her; and the cortège
would pass out into the street, there to be greeted by a small cheer
from whatever public happened to be gathered about; flower-sellers,
beggars, cameo-vendors, quarreling groups of _vetturini_, and the
like. The latter would leap each to the box of his carriage, lifting
a hopeful whip; but Madame Gina, wagging a forefinger sidewise in
sign of friendly negation, as at a too insistent gallery, would turn
her teetering footsteps in the direction of the Pincio, leaning
partly upon the willing Marchese, and partly, _à la_ Tosca, upon a
cane.
The secretary and Bijou would fall into line behind; or possibly,
according to the whim of Bijou, they would lead the procession, at
the run; and only Annette was left, gazing after them commiseratingly
and shaking a well-coiffed head.
"Has it not of pathos?" she murmured to me on one occasion, observing
that I too watched this daily little parade with interest.
"Pathos?" I repeated. I supposed her reference was to the diva's
lameness, which had appeared to my skeptical American eye rather
histrionic than pathetic; due perhaps more to the tightness of the
lady's high-heeled satin boots than to any more serious infirmity.
The maid sighed. "Eh, that it should be La Gina, La Bella Gina
herself, thus marching on two feet like anybody, like you or
me!--trotting along the _pavé_ with no more _réclame_ than the _sale
bête Bijou_" (evidently Annette shared my lack of enthusiasm for the
poodle of the profession). "She who in a manner of speaking has not
set heel to ground since the day of her début at San Carlo; whose
carriage princes have been proud to draw, yes, and millionaires!--I
who speak have seen it thus. But now, upon those exquisite feet
which sculptors beg to model, she makes along rough streets the
promenade, like any _Anglaise_. Daily, as you see!---- It is the
imbecile doctors who have done this thing."
"In order to overcome her little lameness, perhaps?" I suggested.
Annette snapped her fingers. "The lameness, what of that? A
habitude, a gesture! At her age, Madame finds the cane _un peu
distingué_. No, it is for the--how shall I say?" Expressive hands
fluttered about her person, indicatively. "The conformation, hein?
the embonpoint. When last season an ankle sprained itself, as you
remember" (it did not occur to Annette that anyone, even tourists
from the Antipodes, could be ignorant of this event), "Madame was for
some time confined to the sitting and reclining postures. So, the
catastrophe commenced. Diet made nothing. My God, what misfortune!
The smallest _gâteau_, the merest _soupçon_ of whip-cream on the
morning chocolate, and spang! off pops another hook from the
brassière. Madame increased, literally, before the eye. How it was
tragic!"
"But," I said consolingly, "she carries her weight extremely well,
and she is no fatter than many other opera singers."
"That is true. And it is not as if she were a coloratura, what? To
the deeper voice must be allowed the wider latitudes. However, it is
not with the appearance one concerns oneself; assuredly, with such
beauty, appearance need not be considered--other than to add a dash
of rouge here, a drop of belladonna there. It is the voice,
voyez-vous, the voice itself! What if La Gina were to become short
of breath in the upper register? Picture to yourself if she were
compelled to wheeze, like the _sale bête Bijou_?"
I admitted that this would be indeed a misfortune.
"Therefore," shrugged Annette, "she makes daily the promenade. Also,
she starves--it would bring tears to the eyes to see. What
fortitude! Never a bon-bon, not so much as a pot of chocolate for
the _déjeuner_. Only _café noir_--picture to yourself, on an empty
digestion!" (She made a face of abhorrence.) "And to what avail?
Ah, Mees, I ask of you as one woman to another, to what avail?"
I gazed critically after the retreating figure of the diva, hobbling
heroically on toward the Pincian Gardens, three weary blocks away.
She had indeed developed, beyond repair, a sitting-figure; or as it
is known to my compatriots, the middle-aged spread. And quite
seasonably. While it was difficult to detect other symptoms beneath
the thick liquid-white of her face, the thin geranium-red of her
lips, and the varied glories of her hair, I could not but recall that
her début at San Carlo must have taken place at least thirty-odd
years earlier.
My eyes and Annette's met in mutual regret, and we shook our heads
together. A bond of sympathy was established between us; sympathy
for a fellow-woman in distress.
It led to other conversations in passing, Annette being one of those
to whom breath seems given entirely for purposes of conversation. La
Bella Gina (I wondered whether the song had been named for her, or
she for it) was making a pilgrimage, "as usual at this time of year."
They merely paused at Rome, en route from Naples.... I should not
have thought the singer so devout. One did not like to ask at what
shrine she intended to pay her devotions. Or was it perhaps at the
tomb of some lost loved one? Annette's manner, in speaking of the
pilgrimage, seemed appropriately grave and subdued.
Monsieur le Marchese, also as usual, was accompanying them on the
pilgrimage, although stopping at another hotel; which I thought
extremely delicate of the little gentleman. He had made many
journeys in the train of Madame, it appeared; had followed her
triumphs even to the Americas, and to Mexico. It was on the latter
occasion that he had taken with him his two young sons, in order that
they might have the advantage, the inestimable privilege of intimate
association with such an artist, such a woman of the world. But yes,
Annette assured me, the young noblemen had indeed appreciated the
privilege, Madame being excessively fond of children, particularly of
boys. She had fed them sweets all day long. There had been
afterwards a letter from Madame la Marchesa herself, thanking Madame
Gina for her kindness to the little noblemen.
"What! from their mother?"
But it appeared Madame la Marchesa was their grandmother.
It seemed to me an interesting and unusual relationship. I said so.
Ah, yes, agreed Annette; such fidelity through so many years deserved
its reward, _n'est-ce pas?_--a better reward than La Gina had felt
herself able to bestow, she being wedded to her art.
"And of a discretion _incroyable_. Picture to yourself!--never so
much as an hour alone tête-à-tête with monsieur; always a third
person in attendance!--myself, or Signora the secretary, or the
little noblemen--
"Or the dog Bijou?" I murmured.
"Or the dog Bijou," she assented seriously, "who has, if nothing
else, a nature of the most jealous.... 'While I value your
attachment, my Boncelli, above pearls and rubies' (I who speak have
heard her say this to monsieur, although pearls and rubies are her
favorite gems) 'still, a man may not serve two masters; particularly
if a woman. The competition deranges. My heart'--she said to him,
just like that--'is in my larynx, _cher_ Boncelli, in my diaphragm.
These are your successful rivals.'--The poor Marchese!"
"You think," I asked, "that there is no hope for him whatever?"
She shrugged. "Hope, yes--but what a sad little hope! If ever the
voice fails, then only will the Marchese receive his reward. He is
content to wait. What patience! Each year now we make the
pilgrimage; and some day, when the test is unfavorable..." She gave
a deep sigh. "Even La Bella Gina grows obviously no younger. Ah,
yes, for him there is hope--_hélas_!"
The good creature seemed torn between sentiment for this model lover
and for the exigent voice.
When next I passed the little gentleman, I looked at him with a new
regard. He had seemed before rather a negligible quantity, in his
dapper yellow gloves and high-heeled patent leathers; rather like an
alert elderly crow hopping along under the wing, as it were, of a
resplendent pouter-pigeon. But such faithfulness, such undiscouraged
devotion to an ideal which he might well have found somewhat faded,
lent him dignity; argued powers of endurance which commanded respect.
He engaged sympathy, too; and it was to his matrimonial aspirations,
rather than to the famous larynx, the too-exacting diaphragm, that
one wished success in the forthcoming test, whatever that might be.
I was surprised to find the party at Pisa some days later, when we
came to the grave old scholars' city; stopping at the Hotel of
Neptune, whose unpretentious, restful atmosphere seemed a trifle
primitive to appeal to the highly cultivated taste in hotels of a
Madame Gina. But there they were, in full possession, Bijou, the
harassed lady-secretary, and all, with the Marchese still in discreet
long-distance attendance. He was the guest, so Annette informed me
with some pride, of Monsieur the Archbishop of the diocese, his
cousin.
There was an air of tension, of peculiar gravity about the party by
this time. I fancied that the pilgrimage was wearing toward its
close. Yet I could think of no particular shrine to be visited in
the vicinity, nor of any famous singing master nearer than Florence
to whom La Gina might be bringing the sacred voice for its test.
There were no waters to be taken: on the contrary. As a resort of
either health or fashion, Pisa was nil; and I could not believe the
diva a mere tourist in her native land, searching for atmosphere,
leaning towers, and the like.
Very early the morning after we arrived, one heard them stirring;
they were always easy to hear. Apparently the promenade was about to
take place. But at such an hour? Only natives were abroad, market
women rattling barrows of melons and ripe purple figs over the
cobblestones; goats, the milk wagons of Italy, being made
vociferously to yield of their wares; watchful waiters already
manning the walls of the sleeping Arno, with bamboo poles, in hope
that the early worm would catch the fish at last (there can hardly be
more than one fish left in that ancient and enfeebled stream). The
real Pisa, that of the tourists, would slumber on for at least
another hour; or endeavor to do so.
Yet Madame Gina, who never appeared in public until after the midday
siesta, was unmistakably up and doing; one recognized her deep chest
tones addressing Bijou, evidently about to be left behind: "Na, na,
_piccolo mio!_ mother's jewel cannot accompany us to the mass, it is
not for such as thee. He must remain in his little bassinet and
masticate his little ball, like a good dog of my heart, while his
Gina who adores him goes forth alone to the ordeal!"--here the deep
chest tones faltered and broke.
"Ah, ah, you tear at my heart strings!" sobbed the voice of the
lady-secretary. "See, carissima, you are not alone! Are not _we_
with you?"
"Courage, but courage," came the firm, efficient murmur of Annette.
"Myself I have not a doubt but that things will go quite well, even
better than last year; when, as you remember, Madame was slightly
enrhumée."
"_Cara mia_, how you console me!--Signora, pray do not sniffle again;
it is a noise I detest! Quick, my cane! Am I to wait here forever?"
I hurried to the window. Outside stood an open carrozza, half filled
with flowers; beside it the Marchese, tugging at his mustache with
nervous yellow gloves. His doglike eyes, turned upon the door, had
an expression of mingled hope and apprehension. Certainly this was
no mere promenade.
Suddenly I understood. The moment of the test had come!
I hurried into some clothes and followed--not a difficult thing to do
since everybody in the street had been seized with the same idea.
Market barrows, milch goats, and fishermen, all of us hastened along
together in the direction of the Duomo. At its doors I recognized
the flower-filled carriage, empty, surrounded by interested
spectators.
"Have we then a wedding?" they asked one another. "A first
communion?"
"No, no!" replied somebody. "Did you not recognize her? La Gina, La
Gina again, in person!"
The great doors of the Cathedral were not yet open, but I managed an
entrance by means of a tip and a lesser door, of green baize; in some
such manner, perhaps, as sinners may enter Paradise. My cavalcade
was there, having a mass all its own, near that ancient swinging lamp
whose constant motion gave Galileo the idea of the pendulum. Level
rays of a new-risen sun, through prismatic glass, touched to pure
glory the rich interior: the black-and-white striped marble of the
walls, the mellowed sculptures, the old, dim saints and madonnas who
are forever young, the burnished silver splendor of the altar. They
knelt in a row at its rail; Gina and the other two women with black
veils over their hair, the Marchese beside them, yellow gloves and a
large plaid handkerchief neatly disposed in the high top hat at his
feet, and beside him the driver of their carriage, in a black Fascist
blouse; all of them receiving the Communion together at the hands of
a sleepy priest. I lingered a moment, to register the picture in my
memory.
Suddenly they rose and filed out past me, in the direction of the
Baptistry. Annette and the secretary walked with bent heads, as if
in prayer; but behind them Gina moved rather splendidly, with lifted
face and a fine, exalted smile on her lips, a victim going forth to
some self-appointed sacrifice. She had forgotten her cane, I saw it
leaning against the altar rail; nor did she avail herself of the arm
of the Marchese, who followed at her elbow.
I waited outside, for at last I knew what was occurring: La Bella
Gina, like many another singer before her, had come to try out an
aging voice by the test of the Baptistry's famous echo.
"Good luck!--Oh, good luck!" I whispered under my breath; not this
time to the Marchese, waiting like a neat little crow for its
pickings, but to the gallant old artist, facing perhaps the end of
her career.
What sounds came out to us there in the young dewy morning; what
trills and birdlike scales, invocations, fragments of
arias--sometimes a trifle off the key, but how impassioned! Great,
golden, contralto organ tones, soft whisperings of pure attenuated
melody, all multiplied, repeated, continued on and on by the
incomparable echo. It seemed to me, and to those who listened with
me, a glorious exhibition of what the human voice could do. We
smiled at one another happily.
"It goes well, eh?" asked my neighbors of one another and of me.
Everybody seemed to realize what was happening. At times they could
not resist applause.
"_Ancora, madonna mia!_" they shouted. "_Brava la Gina! La Gina
bella, bellissima!_" In their humble persons, all Tuscany was at her
feet.
Suddenly there fell a silence. Nobody moved or whispered. The door
of the Baptistry was opening.
The singer came out alone, still with that calm, uplifted smile; but
in her eyes as she gazed at us, those too expressive eyes of her
race, was the look of a dying Mimi, of a terrified Carmen at bay.
Behind her the others wept, even the Marchese, who blew his nose with
candor.
Seeing the unexpected audience, she bowed quite charmingly; she had
at all times and everywhere a most gracious stage presence. Then her
tragic gaze encountered mine.
"So, my dear! thou?" she remarked familiarly, although we had never
before exchanged a syllable; perhaps it was my sympathy she
recognized. "Well, it is over! The years have conquered. I am
done! The voice of Gina"--she made us a little cheery gesture of
despair--"is no more."
"Ah, ah! you break my heart!" sobbed the lady-secretary.
The priest, the verger, others about her were quick with disclaiming
protest. The coachman vociferated praise. Annette called upon her
God with tears to witness that never in life had she, she who spoke,
heard a high F attacked with greater purity.
"And what," shrilled Gina, turning upon them with sudden viciousness,
"what do you know about it? Hein? I ask you! Always you lie to me,
you flatter, you deceive! _Sapristi_! I trust none of you! Only
the echoes do not lie, flatter, deceive, they being straight from
Heaven. In the upper register I sharped--do you hear? I sharped!
What have you to say to that? And the _sostenuto_--my God, there was
no _sostenuto_! Add to these that in the middle register one had a
huskiness--ah, bah! It is I who hear! Myself who am the judge,
myself whom I trust! Not you--and you--and you!"
She snapped her fingers furiously under the nose of each of her
attendants in turn, including the priest.
But the storm passed as suddenly as it had arisen. She turned upon
the Marchese a rainbow smile; rather a wry attempt, but arch, and
kind, and singularly sweet. I recalled how she had fed his young
sons with sugarplums.
"For you, my friend," she murmured (and the smile took us all into
their confidence) "this is perhaps not altogether an occasion of
tragedy, eh?"
He tried visibly to utter a suitable disclaimer, to find some tactful
protestation of regret, but it was useless; sudden happiness shone
out from the man like a radiance. He could only bow over the hand
held out to him and salute it reverently. The audience cheered.
Then, tucking her arm beneath his, he led his capture proudly away
toward the flower-filled carrozza. It was a noble exit.
That evening we were aware of unusual activities afoot in the Hotel
of Neptune. Waiters scurried about, under a good deal of personal
direction; through a half-closed door into the grand salon, which is
used as a rule only for wedding parties or masked balls, we caught
glimpses of a table laid as for a banquet. I presently encountered
Annette, also scurrying, but able as always to pause for a brief
exchange of courtesies.
"My God, was it not pathetic?" she demanded of me, referring to the
morning's experience. "And to-night, she celebrates defeat with a
fête. What a gesture!"
I agreed with Annette. It was a gesture. "But she will have at
least the pleased support of the Marchese," I commented smilingly.
The maid smiled back at me, as one woman to another. "Ah, yes, that!
And also of Monsieur the Archbishop, who comes to the _festa_ in
person, since he is of the family Boncelli.--Ah, Mees, if I could but
show to you what a necklace Madame has received! Of pearls and
rubies, _par exemple_, as big as my two eyes!" She made them very
big indeed, to do justice to the princely offering. "And even
I"--she touched complacently a brooch at her throat--"have not been
neglected. It is the reward, one sees, of a sympathetic nature."
"How charming of him!" I exclaimed, delighted with such sentimental
forethought on the part of the Marchese. He must have had the gift
about him in readiness, since simple old Pisa would hardly be able to
provide at such short notice a necklace of pearls and rubies as large
as Annette's eyes.
"He has been carrying it _en poche_," she assured me, "for twenty
years! Touching, _n'est-ce pas_? And it is now quite _démodé_. But
we shall have the gems reset."
"So the engagement is to be announced already?" I asked. "The
nuptials will soon follow?"
Annette looked puzzled. "Pardon?"
"Their marriage," I explained. "I thought possibly the Archbishop
cousin might-- Surely," I interrupted myself, puzzled in turn by
her expression, "you told me that when her voice failed your mistress
had promised to marry the Marchese?"
"Ah!" Annette gave a nod of comprehension. "That, no; it is a
misunderstanding. What, in such case, would monsieur do with the
wife he already has, the mother of the young noblemen? And Madame
Gina, too--can you conceive that one of her rich nature should
content herself all these years with combing the tresses of Saint
Catherine?" She laughed a little, pleasantly. "Eh, no, it was not
of marriage that I spoke," she said with a tender sigh, "but of love.
Assuredly the poor Marchese deserves at last his happiness.... Yet
at what cost to the world, what cost! The voice of Gina, that voice
of velvet edged with little silver bells, never to be heard again,
never again! Unless," she added pensively as she hurried away, "upon
the concert stage of America, perhaps--who knows?"
CLASSICS IN SLANG:
ROBINSON CRUSOE
_By_ H. C. Witwer
H. C. WITWER
Harry Charles Witwer was born in Athens, Pa., on March 11, 1890. He
attended St. Joseph's College, Philadelphia, and his pre-literary
career included: Errand boy in butcher shop, bellhop, managing prize
fighters, and plain and fancy reporting on newspapers in Florida,
Elizabeth, N.J., Newark, N.J., Atlanta, Ga., and New York (_American_
and _Sun_). In 1917 he was a war correspondent and the following
year his popular stories in slang first achieved book publication
(_From Baseball to Baches_). He has had approximately a book a year
ever since, of which _The Leather Pushers_ was one of the most
successful and _Bill Grimm's Progress_ is the most recent. Besides
something like 400 magazine stories--over 100 of them for a single
magazine--he is the author of at least 125 motion pictures, a couple
of comic strips and one or two plays.
_Classics in Slang_ is a series of tales told by a prize fighter,
One-Punch McTague, who has inherited a bookshop, conducted for him by
an attractive young woman named Ethel Kingsley. At least she is
attractive to McTague and he finds her altogether too attractive to a
customer named Hootmon and probably Scotch. Ethel has been trying to
instil in McTague a love for reading and in each story the prize
fighter gives his own version of some literary classic she has put in
his hands. There is also a running account of his own personal
affairs, including fights in the ring and encounters in the bookshop.
CLASSICS IN SLANG: ROBINSON CRUSOE[1]
[1] Copyright, 1926, by H. C. Witwer.
I wish whoever ejaculates they's nothin' new under the son couldst of
got a load of the gory conflict between them two fascinatin'
heavyweights, Fifty-seven-Round McFoul and One-Punch McTague. In
this epoch-makin' fracas One-Punch McTague done somethin' which was
as new as the word itself; namely, he knocked _himself_ as cold as a
mother-in-law's kiss!
Speakin' of artichokes, few people can give you as good a account of
that brawl as I can, because by a odd coincidence I'm One-Punch
McTague.
I suppose, gentle readers, all three of you remember I was left a
book store by my defunct Uncle Angus and I know you're all agog over
my romantical affair de heart with Ethel Kingsley, the blond panic
which is governess of the volumes therein. Via the efforts of sweet
Ethel I'm gettin' a mock education through a darin' method she worked
out herself; viz., I read one of my books and then put down in black
and white all I can remember about it, if anything. In this way I've
dallied and toyed with a flock of the classicals, somethin' I missed
in my youth, as my schoolin' went in one ear and out the other, there
bein' nothin' in between to stop it.
The fly in the ointment is a boloney answerin' to the high-soundin'
title of Jack Hootmon, only sun and air of the aged Elihu Hootmon,
the trillionaire Thumb-Tack King. This milk-fed bozo is a inmate of
Columbia's College and nearly every time I honor my book emporium
with a visit he's acin' around Ethel tryin' to promote. She
tolerates him on the account he always hurriedly buys a book when he
sees me darken the threshold and as customers is at the premium Ethel
won't give him the gate. The last time he was in our midst he hauled
off and purchased a choice novel published in 1790 and give us a
thousand bucks for same. Since then Ethel has been busy tryin' to
find some more bed-time stories of that date and likewise some more
Patsys like Jack Hootmon, both bein' exceedin'ly rare.
Well, to get to the plot, the day of my fatal muss with Fifty-seven
Round McFoul I sauntered nimbly into my book bazaar, and, low and
behold, the first thing which greets my sparklin' eye is Jack Hootmon.
The plentifully tubed triple superiodine I'd put in to amuse my
delicious clerkess was playin' either a Charleston or St. Vitus
dance, and I bet in another minute them two wouldst of been trippin'
the light fantastical. Not so good! I ain't what you call jealous,
what I mean, but for a counterfeit Chinese coin of nominal value I
wouldst of clouted this Hootmon gil right in the whiskers. Ethel
turned to the shelves with undue haste and nature's gift to
Columbia's College gives me a sickly grin. "Hello, McTague," he
says. "Nice day, isn't it?"
"Blah!" I growled courteously. "What are you doin' clutterin' up my
store?"
"He's been helping me look for some rare first editions," speaks up
Ethel, comin' to this dizzy boob's succor. "You know, I'm sure, this
place is a treasure house of valuable old books."
"Of course!" yeses Stupid, in that male milliner's voice of his.
"Wouldn't it be splendid if you'd come across a first folio
Shakespeare?"
"It'd be even more splendid if you'd come across with the price of a
couple books," I tells him. "What's the idea of the jazz? This
ain't no dance hall!"
"We picked up Static, Wyoming, a little while ago!" brags Ethel,
hopin' to stave off violence. "Tune in on a movie studio if you
crave some real distance!" I says.
"You mean we can listen to a star?" butts in Hootmon, beatin' me to
the giggle of my nifty and lookin' to the smilin' Ethel for
admiration.
"Cop a sneak and make it snappy!" I barks, the bit infuriated. "If
it wasn't for the facts that I'm goin' to box to-night I'd broadcast
you!"
He looked somewhat alarmed and picked up a near-by book. "How much
is this?" he asks, the bit nervous.
"Ten bucks!" I snaps promptly. "And at that price it's a steal!"
"Nonsense!" says Ethel, frownin' at me. "That Mother Goose is only
two and a half dollars!"
"Not no more!" I says firmly. "Geese is out of season and has went
up in price!"
"I love that!" says Hootmon.
"So's your elderly parent!" I returns, bein' unrivaled at repertoire.
"Here's a new history of the League of Nations, Mr. Hootmon," remarks
Ethel in a futile effort to change the subject.
"I don't think so much of the League," says this tomato, and who
cares if he don't? "With all the bickering they're havin' over
there, I don't believe we should ever join it, do you, McTague?"
"What wouldst the League of Nations wish with you and me?" I asked
him lightly. "C'mon, leave me book you! Have you scanned 'Ladies
Prefer Brunettes,' by Anita Loose; 'Lightnin' on the Right,' by
Christy More Lee; 'The--
"What do _you_ read?" he butts in, with a touch of evil curiosity.
"He's going to read Robinson Crusoe next," says Ethel, actin' as my
counsel. "That will give him a breathing spell before he returns to
the heavier classics."
"Why, he must have become familiar with Robinson Crusoe when he was
in school!" exclaims Hootmon.
"I never get familiar with nobody, Ape!" I says. "And on top of that
Robinson Crusoe didn't go to my school. We was particular in the
trap _I_ studied at, what I mean--you had to get sent by a judge!"
"Who do you box this evening?" inquired Ethel, winkin' at me not to
give this mug too much of my secret life story.
Says I: "A palooka named Fifty-seven-Round McFoul, heavyweight
champeen of Saturn. I'll lay him like a pavement, and I don't mean I
guess so! I wish you wouldst be there to see the fun. I already got
you a ringside ducat, for that matter."
"But I couldn't go to a prize fight without a male escort!" cries
Ethel in dismay.
"I'd be very glad to take you, Miss Kingsley," pipes up the chump.
I was on the brinks of breakin' his arm for him, pour le sport, when
like the flash it strikes me that the best thing in the world wouldst
be to let him go to the murder with Ethel. Then she couldst see for
herself what a vast difference they was between a he-man of the wide
open faces like me and a parlor pest like Hootmon. So I become
ungruff and give my consent to the date, though I knew that sendin'
this monkey anywheres with the breath-takin' Ethel was like sendin'
somebody a cabbage leaf by a rabbit. How the so ever, I couldst
always leap from the ring and ruin Monsieur Hootmon, shouldst he
endeavor to hold Ethel's hand durin' the fight.
Well, lads and lassies, a few delicate hints, such as pushin' him out
the door and slammin' it in his pan, soon made this Hootmon sapolio
check out. Then me and Ethel searched high, low, jack and the game
for some more choice old books but the only thing we discovered was
that spiders is still makin' cobwebs. The hunt throwed me and Ethel
into close contact which she didn't seem to find nauseatin' and I was
doin' a fine piece of buildin' up for a evenin' in her parlor, when
Red Higgins phones me. This clown's my manager and operates a stable
of racin' snails on the side. I got the same cryin' need for him as
I got for another thumb, what I mean!
"Hey, you big umpchay!" he greets me, with Old World politeness.
"Shove off from 'at blonde and do some road work. I'll state you'll
need it to-night in this pettin' party we got on with
Fifty-seven-Round McFoul, because if you can't run he'll kill you!"
A nice, encouragin' manager, what? The big stiff!
"What have you found out about this catcher McFoul?" I inquired, with
forgivable interest. "Can he hit?"
"And how!" says Red, with the gusto. "If you keep in close, he'll
cave in your ribs, and if you box him off he'll left-hand you into a
pulp. His best punch is his right, though nobody's ever yet got up
from a sock with his left!"
"I see--just a tramp, eh? Well, I don't know my own strength, Red!"
"You wouldn't fool me, would you? 'At ain't _all_ you won't know
when _this_ baby pastes you. You better give me a power of attorney
so's I can act for you, Big Boy, just in case!"
"You can start right off actin' for me to-night," I suggests
demurely, "by goin' in there with powers of attorney and boxin' this
guy McFoul!"
"I can't," says Red. "The referee's McFoul's old man, and he knows
me."
No kiddin', Red simply slays me!
Well, Ethel give me Robinson Crusoe for my home work, and I says
good-by and left for the wars. First I got a shave and a haircut to
ready myself for the battle of the centuries with Fifty-seven-Round
McFoul, and then I went home and passed the few remainin' hours
before my doom by readin' about Robby. It's a grand book, and I'll
put you jerry to it the minute I get through describin' my thrillin'
conflict with this McFoul scissor-bill--a fight which was the talk of
the industry for many moons.
When I stumbled into the ring my first view of Fifty-seven-Round
McFoul satisfied me that they wasn't the faintest chance of me
yawnin' myself to death for the next half hour! I'll have you know
this burly gorilla must of outweighed me eighty-odd pounds, and I
personally tip the beams at two hundred, stark naked. He toured over
me like Washington's monument, but faint heart never win no
decisions, so I merely give this proper elephant a dirty look and sit
down on my stool determined to show no quarter to _nobody_! I'm one
of them two-fisted, fightin' idiots which makes boxin' a tough racket
for the weaklin's.
The instant the old cowbell rings out I fairly skidded across the
ring, and before McFoul couldst make a move I slammed him on the
smeller with a horrible left. He looked somewhat nonpulsed at this
little incident, and his seconds shrieked, "Don't leave him fox you,
McFoul--use your head!" No sooner said than this big goiter butts me
with that organ and the crowd howls, "Just a couple of bums!"
meanin', of course, McFoul and the referee.
I then put a sizzlin' left and right to McFoul's profile, but they
got delayed in transit whilst the right he shot at me didn't! Alas,
ah me and alackaday! The next thing I know I'm sittin on the floor
and the referee is sayin' to me, "Six--get up, you banana, you, ain't
hurt!--seven--snap into it or I'll kick your teeth out--eight----"
Up I sprang like a enraged baboon and the panic was on! I chased
McFoul all over the ring till it looked like our names was Paddock
and Nurmi, instead of what the customers was callin' us. The fun
waxed fast and furious! Twice McFoul led with his chin and each time
he connected perfect with my right glove. The second time he dropped
to his haunches, bounced up and wowed me and the fans by smackin' me
right on top of the head. It was a fearful buffet! I come near
windin' up in the basement of the club, but thought better of it and
stayed in the ring, gettin' a bird's eye view of the ceilin'. I
managed to leap up before the referee got through countin' and I
swung two murderous rights which wouldst of ended the thing, only I
forgot to get off my knees and the punches caught McFoul in the
shins. The bell found us in mid-ring, exchangin' wise cracks.
I was sittin' on my stool with my handlers laughin' themselves sick
at the whole affair, when McFoul staggers over to me and holds out
his glove. He seemed the bit goofy.
"Well, I hope we fight again some time!" he says, shakin' my hand.
"Go back and sit down, you big mock orange!" snarls the referee.
"That's only the first round!"
We had ten frames yet to go.
"How am I goin'?" I quizzed Red Higgins as he shoved the smellin'
salts under my battered beak.
"You wouldn't even make a good punchin' bag!" says my jovial manager
coyly. "You're so far behind now, you'll have to knock this other
false alarm stiff to get a draw!"
I seen Ethel and this Hootmon parsnip in the ringside seats I'd
bestowed on 'em. Ethel give me a cheery smile, whilst Hootmon gazed
at me and then grabbed his uncomely nose with his thumb and finger
like some garlic eater had just breathed on him.
With all this encouragement, I was full of new life for the second
round, while McFoul pushes his handlers to one side and stands erect,
glarin' at me. The mob screams for us to kill each other, and at the
gong I tried nobly to oblige. I decided to make a choppin' block out
of my adversus, and I begin workin' on him with the skill of a old
master, hittin' him with everything but the ring posts! He socked me
on the button with a hard right, but life bein' what it is I
deliberately ignored it and wittily retorted with a terrible left to
the stomach. Mr. McFoul didn't care for it down below, and was
forced to grimace at me. We traded ugly looks whilst the crowd went
mad and then I suddenly run amuck.
I slammed McFoul back against the ropes with a torrid right to what
passed for his head. Another right to the same address crashed him
to the mat, and Jack Dempsey, a ringside witness, was heard to
shudder and wince. McFoul rose and fell again. This time he got up
about as steady as the French Premier's job, and I indignantly
floored him again, as he annoyed me bobbin' up and down like that!
McFoul took nine before arisin', and at that he didn't seem
overanxious to make no reputation for gameness which wouldst stand
for all time. This Humpty Dumpty staggered around the ring like a
wood-alcohol admirer and out of the corner of my one good eye I seen
Ethel jump up and cheer me!
Honest to Coolidge, I simply couldn't lose, and though the crowd was
urgin' me in no uncertain terms to execute McFoul, I took my time and
measured him carefully. Tippin' his jaw back to a attractive angle
with a light left, I swung a most boisterous right for the button.
My glove landed flush on his embarrassed features, and he went down
like I'd shot him through the heart! But, sad to relate, my
countrymen, my swing was so furious that I lost my balance and fell
backward on my head. The force of that fall knocked me insensible.
I'd knocked myself for a loop, and this big punk McFoul got to his
feet at nine and win the fight! What's wrong with this picture?
I was out for ten minutes, and when I come to life the water bucket
was jammed tight over my head, where Red Higgins had carelessly
parked it when the referee held up McFoul's glove.
Well, it's all in the game, and here's the confessions of Robinson
Crusoe. If you find 'em less appetizin' than I did, don't be afraid
to keep it a secret.
_ROBINSON CRUSOE_
By _Daniel Defoe_ and _One-Punch McTague_
Once upon a time Robinson Crusoe, a Big Pudding Man from Yorkshire,
set sail for a slab called Guinea with the objects of buyin' some
Senegambians. Rob wished these high browns for a Broadway revue he
had a piece of, though he fails to state how come he had to sail the
briny for 'em, when he couldst of hired a slew of colored
entertainers in Birmingham and the etc.
How the so ever, he shoved off, and all went well till the twelfth
day, when along come grief! For no reason at all, either two or
fifty-one hurricanes hit the scow and drove it hither, thither and
even yon, much to the dismay of the passengers, as you may well
believe. Things had come to a pretty pass and somebody bellowed
"Land!" But before anybody couldst get in touch with this real-estate
operator, the ship hit a sand bank and bein' sick of the voyage it
begin to sink. So much for that.
Robinson Crusoe, bein' a jack of all trades, hopped in a lifeboat
with fourteen other devil-may-cares which started workin' their way
toward the new sub-division discovered by the lookout, but before
they got there the boat upset and everybody went down to mingle with
the other poor fish with the slight exception of Rob. The latter
done a Johnny Weismuller to shore, climbed up the cliffs and slept
that night in a tree with the monkeys. Let Dayton, Tennessee, laugh
that off!
Came the dawn and Rob woke up bright and early--that is, the mornin'
was bright and he was early. Much to his surprise and
disappointment, the ship was still floatin' about, and he seen at a
glance that nobody wouldst of been drownded had they only kept out of
the lifeboat or else stayed at home. Well, it was too late to tell
his deceased companions they were all wet and as Robby had a hunch he
was set for a long stay on the island he snapped into it.
His first imitation was to make a raft. He was a smart lad and knew
his bananas! With the aid of the raft this boy scout managed to get
his saxophone, food, gadgets, ammunition and game in season from the
ship, includin' a pair of cats and a dog. He wouldst of brung the
ship's horse and cow along too, only for one reason; namely, the ship
didn't have no horse or cow. Right after that the noble but
unseaworthy vessel sunk in deadly earnest. Bein' sociable to a
fault, Rob looked about for more company and fin'ly run down a
full-fledged parrot which he took the liberty of namin' "Poll" and
taught to talk in a twinklin'. I told you he was clever! Rob claims
the way this dizzy parrot wouldst crack "So's your old man!" and the
like was a caution and broke up many's the dull night.
Well, to make a long story even longer, Mrs. Crusoe's little boy next
scans the landscape for a joint to inhabit, but hotels was just
somethin' else the island didn't have. It was no Miami, though ripe
for a boom. D'ye think that stopped Robby? Hades, no! He snatched
up a ax and buildin' materials he'd hauled from the ship and builds
himself as nobby a drum as you'd care to lay a eye on. He was like
that.
In the midst of his labors a sack of grain caught his glance, and he
carelessly dumped the grain out on the ground, wishin' to use the
sack for evenin' clothes shouldst the monkeys ask him to bridge or
somethin'. That night it rained like nobody's business, and the next
mornin' Rob nearly swoons when outside his hut he seen whole rows of
corn, rice, barley and produce growin' where he'd throwed that grain.
"Well, burn my clothes!" laughs Robby, which was delighted with his
good fortune and imagination. "If them Californians couldst only see
this!"
Though Rob had never used tools before in his life, he found that
when it got down to makin' furniture he had Grand Rapids lookin' like
a novice, what I mean! Tables, chairs, bureaus, desks, beds,
custom-made limousine bodies or what have you flowed from his fluent
ax like magic. This go-getter likewise turned out baskets, hammers,
creature comforts, hatchets, nails, crowbars and fliv rear ends as a
side line. Why, they was no stoppin' the kid, and a simple ax to him
was the same as a fully equipped machine shop to anybody else. His
favorite feat of strength and skill was to stick his finger in his
ear and hold himself out at arm's length!
They was cake galore on this wonderful island, but alas, no bread.
Well, Rob was no cake eater, so he grabs up his trusty ax again,
which was a little worn by now, and hews him a bakery. He ovened a
wicked poultice, as he readily admits. All this took him a paltry
three years, but, then, he was short-handed, as them cats, the dog
and the wise-crackin' parrot was all thumbs when it come to helpin'
him hew.
Rob kept one of the finest stables of goats on the island, which done
nothin' night and day but make his clothin'. That is, they growed
their own skin, at which point Rob stepped in and knocked 'em off,
sewin' their hides into plus fours and the like. He was gettin'
smarter all the time.
In that way the years passed like years. Rob was king of the island,
even if he didn't have no subjects, and he wouldst of been as happy
as happy itself, but for one thing--namely, he thought the island was
applesauce and he craved somebody to talk to. Robby didn't care who
it was, but he wouldn't of cut his throat by no means if his
tête-à-tête had been late of the Follies!
Walkin' about his vast domains one fine day, Rob gets the thrill
which comes once in a lifetime to a guy on a desert island. He seen
a human footprint in the sand. Hot dog! Right away Rob thinks of
cannibals and not havin' the wish to be part of somebody's diet he
scurries back to his castle and locks himself in.
"What a sucker I was to go down to the sea in ships!" says Rob to his
parrot. "They's Hades to pay and no pitch hot!"
"Be your age--this is only a book we're in, anyways!" sneers pretty
Poll.
Rob had now put in twenty-two annums on this island, and he was
commencin' to feel the need of a change. Two years later he heard a
great how-dy-do on the beach and peerin' down from his cliff he seen
a nude savage runnin' for his life from a mob of other scantily clad
savages. He had the skin they'd love to touch! They hurled spears
and tommyhawks and sarcastical remarks at the runner, but he was a
two-legged fool and was tow-ropin' the field when he stumbled. Well,
Robinson Crusoe come to the rescue by drawin' his gat and cookin' a
bevy of these cannibals. The rest of 'em scampered away with shrill
cries of indignation, and the sap he saved from a fatal death fell
down at Robby's shapely feet and says:
"Boss, yo' sure is de berries, and Ah'm yo' slave fo' life!"
"Fair enough!" says Rob. "And what might your name be, gentle
stranger?"
"Did y'all ever heah ob Napoleon Bonaparte?" asks the dinge.
"Yes," says Robby, gettin' interested in spite of himself.
"Well, mah name's Friday!" grins the slave, executin' a parabola.
"My, my, it's a small world after all!" remarks Crusoe.
"Ain't it de truf?" says Friday, the first yes-man, with typical
cannibal wit.
As this was no time to draw the color line, the men become fast
friends and after Rob had been on the island for a net total of
twenty-seven years, a English ship comes along. The captain tripped
gracefully ashore and told Rob he was just the egg he was lookin'
for, as his crew had went crazy and mutinied on him. What to do? In
round numbers, Crusoe and Friday made mince meat of the crew's
ringleaders and then sailed for home on the ship. Robby made Friday
a present of a brand-new whisk broom and got him a job as a Pullman
porter, so they all lived happy ever after.
Robinson Crusoe was gone on that one voyage a total of thirty-five
fiscal years and from that day to this he can't as much as look at a
anchor without gettin' deathly sick at his stomach. He nearly killed
a real-estate agent which tried to sell him a home on Long Island!
THE PUSHER-IN-THE-FACE
_By_ F. Scott Fitzgerald
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
F. Scott Fitzgerald, born at St. Paul, Minn., on September 24, 1896,
attended Princeton University, 1913-17, as every reader of his novel,
_This Side of Paradise_, knows. He served in France as an officer of
infantry, becoming aide-de-camp to Brig.-Gen. J. A. Ryan after the
Armistice and being honorably discharged in February, 1919. He
records himself as a Socialist. His novel, _The Great Gatsby_, has
been held by most competent judges to be his best book to date.
"The Pusher-in-the-Face," first published in _Woman's Home Companion_
for February, 1925, and included in Fitzgerald's book, _All the Sad
Young Men_, is something more than a humorous story, appealing as it
does to a universal experience--for who has not at some tortured
moment in his life yearned to push-in the face of the nuisance at the
rear? This, as editors say, is a story of the very widest
"reader-appeal."
THE PUSHER-IN-THE-FACE[1]
[1] Copyright, 1925, by Wheeler Syndicate, Inc.
The last prisoner was a man--his masculinity was not much in
evidence, it is true; he would perhaps better be described as a
"person," but he undoubtedly came under that general heading and was
so classified in the court record. He was a small, somewhat
shriveled, somewhat wrinkled American who had been living along for
probably thirty-five years.
His body looked as if it had been left by accident in his suit the
last time it went to the tailor's and pressed out with hot, heavy
irons to its present sharpness. His face was merely a face. It was
the kind of face that makes up crowds, gray in color with ears that
shrank back against the head as if fearing the clamor of the city,
and with the tired, tired eyes of one whose forebears have been
underdogs for five thousand years.
Brought into the dock between two towering Celts in executive blue he
seemed like the representative of a long extinct race, a very fagged
out and shriveled elf who had been caught poaching on a buttercup in
Central Park.
"What's your name?"
"Stuart."
"Stuart what?"
"Charles David Stuart."
The clerk recorded it without comment in the book of little crimes
and great mistakes.
"Age?"
"Thirty."
"Occupation?"
"Night cashier."
The clerk paused and looked at the judge. The judge yawned.
"Wha's charge?" he asked.
"The charge is"--the clerk looked down at the notation in his
hand--"the charge is that he pushed a lady in the face."
"Pleads guilty?"
"Yes."
The preliminaries were now disposed of. Charles David Stuart,
looking very harmless and uneasy, was on trial for assault and
battery.
The evidence disclosed, rather to the judge's surprise, that the lady
whose face had been pushed was not the defendant's wife.
On the contrary the victim was an absolute stranger--the prisoner had
never seen her before in his life. His reasons for the assault had
been two: first, that she talked during a theatrical performance;
and, second, that she kept joggling the back of his chair with her
knees. When this had gone on for some time he had turned around and
without any warning pushed her severely in the face.
"Call the plaintiff," said the judge, sitting up a little in his
chair. "Let's hear what she has to say."
The court room, sparsely crowded and unusually languid in the hot
afternoon, had become suddenly alert. Several men in the back of the
room moved into benches near the desk and a young reporter leaned
over the clerk's shoulder and copied the defendant's name on the back
of an envelope.
The plaintiff arose. She was a woman just this side of fifty with a
determined, rather overbearing face under yellowish white hair. Her
dress was a dignified black and she gave the impression of wearing
glasses; indeed the young reporter, who believed in observation, had
so described her in his mind before he realized that no such
adornment sat upon her thin, beaked nose.
It developed that she was Mrs. George D. Robinson of 1219 Riverside
Drive. She had always been fond of the theater and sometimes she
went to the matinée. There had been two ladies with her yesterday,
her cousin, who lived with her, and a Miss Ingles--both ladies were
in court.
This is what had occurred:
As the curtain went up for the first act a woman sitting behind had
asked her to remove her hat. Mrs. Robinson had been about to do so
anyhow, and so she was a little annoyed at the request and had
remarked as much to Miss Ingles and her cousin. At this point she
had first noticed the defendant who was sitting directly in front,
for he had turned around and looked at her quickly in a most insolent
way. Then she had forgotten his existence until just before the end
of the act when she made some remark to Miss Ingles--when suddenly he
had stood up, turned around and pushed her in the face.
"Was it a hard blow?" asked the judge at this point.
"A hard blow!" said Mrs. Robinson indignantly. "I should say it was.
I had hot and cold applications on my nose all night."
----"on her nose all night."
This echo came from the witness bench where two faded ladies were
leaning forward eagerly and nodding their heads in corroboration.
"Were the lights on?" asked the judge.
No, but everyone around had seen the incident and some people had
taken hold of the man right then and there.
This concluded the case for the plaintiff. Her two companions gave
similar evidence and in the minds of everyone in the court room the
incident defined itself as one of unprovoked and inexcusable
brutality.
The one element which did not fit in with this interpretation was the
physiognomy of the prisoner himself. Of any one of a number of minor
offenses he might have appeared guilty--pickpockets were notoriously
mild-mannered, for example--but of this particular assault in a
crowded theater he seemed physically incapable. He did not have the
kind of voice or the kind of clothes or the kind of mustache that
went with such an attack.
"Charles David Stuart," said the judge, "you've heard the evidence
against you?"
"Yes."
"And you plead guilty?"
"Yes."
"Have you anything to say before I sentence you?"
"No." The prisoner shook his head hopelessly. His small hands were
trembling.
"Not one word in extenuation of this unwarranted assault?"
The prisoner appeared to hesitate.
"Go on," said the judge. "Speak up--it's your last chance."
"Well," said Stuart with an effort, "she began talking about the
plumber's stomach."
There was a stir in the court room. The judge leaned forward.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, at first she was only talking about her own stomach to--to
those two ladies there"--he indicated the cousin and Miss
Ingles--"and that wasn't so bad. But when she began talking about
the plumber's stomach it got different."
"How do you mean--different?"
Charles Stuart looked around helplessly.
"I can't explain," he said, his mustache wavering a little, "but when
she began talking about the plumber's stomach you--you had to listen."
A snicker ran about the court room, Mrs. Robinson and her attendant
ladies on the bench were visibly horrified. The guard took a step
nearer as if at a nod from the judge he would whisk off this criminal
to the dingiest dungeon in Manhattan.
But much to his surprise the judge settled himself comfortably in his
chair.
"Tell us about it, Stuart," he said not unkindly. "Tell us the whole
story from the beginning."
This request was a shock to the prisoner and for a moment he looked
as though he would have preferred the order of condemnation. Then
after one nervous look around the room he put his hands on the edge
of the desk, like the paws of a fox terrier just being trained to sit
up, and began to speak in a quivering voice.
"Well, I'm a night cashier, your honor, in T. Cushmael's restaurant
on Third Avenue. I'm not married"--he smiled a little, as if he knew
they had all guessed _that_--"and so on Wednesday and Saturday
afternoons I usually go to the matinée. It helps to pass the time
till dinner. There's a drug store, maybe you know, where you can get
tickets for a dollar sixty-five to some of the shows and I usually go
there and pick out something. They got awful prices at the box
office now." He gave out a long silent whistle and looked feelingly
at the judge. "Four or five dollars for one seat----"
The judge nodded his head.
"Well," continued Charles Stuart, "when I pay even a dollar
sixty-five I expect to see my money's worth. About two weeks ago I
went to one of these here mystery plays where they have one fella
that did the crime and nobody knows who it was. Well, the fun at a
thing like that is to guess who did it. And there was a lady behind
me that'd been there before and she gave it all away to the fella
with her. Gee"--his face fell and he shook his head from side to
side--"I like to died right there. When I got home to my room I was
so mad that they had to come and ask me to stop walking up and down.
Dollar sixty-five of my money gone for nothing.
"Well, Wednesday came around again, and this show was one show I
wanted to see. I'd been wanting to see it for months, and every time
I went into the drug store I asked them if they had any tickets. But
they never did." He hesitated. "So Tuesday I took a chance and went
over to the box office and got a seat. Two seventy-five it cost me."
He nodded impressively. "Two seventy-five. Like throwing money
away. But I wanted to see that show."
Mrs. Robinson in the front row rose suddenly to her feet.
"I don't see what all this story has to do with it," she broke out a
little shrilly. "I'm sure I don't care----"
The judge brought his gavel sharply down on the desk.
"Sit down, please," he said. "This is a court of law, not a matinée."
Mrs. Robinson sat down, drawing herself up into a thin line and
sniffing a little as if to say she'd see about this after while. The
judge pulled out his watch.
"Go on," he said to Stuart. "Take all the time you want."
"I got there first," continued Stuart in a flustered voice. "There
wasn't anybody in there but me and the fella that was cleaning up.
After a while the audience came in, and it got dark and the play
started, but just as I was all settled in my seat and ready to have a
good time I heard an awful row directly behind me. Somebody had
asked this lady"--he pointed to Mrs. Robinson--"to remove her hat
like she should of done anyhow and she was sore about it. She kept
telling the two ladies that was with her how she'd been at the
theater before and knew enough to take off her hat. She kept that up
for a long time, five minutes maybe, and then every once in a while
she'd think of something new and say it in a loud voice. So finally
I turned around and looked at her because I wanted to see what a lady
looked like that could be so inconsiderate as that. Soon as I turned
back she began on me. She said I was insolent and then she said
'Tchk! Tchk! Tchk!' a lot with her tongue and the two ladies that
was with her said 'Tchk! Tchk! Tchk!' until you could hardly hear
yourself think, much less listen to the play. You'd have thought I'd
done something terrible.
"By and by, after they calmed down and I began to catch up with what
was doing on the stage, I felt my seat sort of creak forward and then
creak back again and I knew the lady had her feet on it and I was in
for a good rock. Gosh!" he wiped his pale, narrow brow on which the
sweat had gathered thinly, "it was awful. I hope to tell you I
wished I'd never come at all. Once I got excited at a show and
rocked a man's chair without knowing it and I was glad when he asked
me to stop. But I knew this lady wouldn't be glad if I asked her.
She'd of just rocked harder than ever."
Some time before, the population of the court room had begun stealing
glances at the middle-aged lady with yellowish-white hair. She was
of a deep, lifelike lobster color with rage.
"It got to be near the end of the act," went on the little pale man,
"and I was enjoying it as well as I could, seeing that sometimes
she'd push me toward the stage and sometimes she'd let go, and the
seat and me would fall back into place. Then all of a sudden she
began to talk. She said she had an operation or something--I
remember she said she told the doctor that she guessed she knew more
about her own stomach than he did. The play was getting good just
then--the people next to me had their handkerchiefs out and was
weeping--and I was feeling sort of that way myself. And all of a
sudden this lady began to tell her friends what she told the plumber
about his indigestion. Gosh!" Again he shook his head from side to
side; his pale eyes fell involuntarily on Mrs. Robinson --then looked
quickly away. "You couldn't help but hear some and I begun missing
things and then missing more things and then everybody began laughing
and I didn't know what they were laughing at and, as soon as they'd
leave off, her voice would begin again. Then there was a great big
laugh that lasted for a long time and everybody bent over double and
kept laughing and laughing, and I hadn't heard a word. First thing I
knew the curtain came down and then I don't know what happened. I
must of been a little crazy or something because I got up and closed
my seat, and reached back and pushed the lady in the face."
As he concluded there was a long sigh in the court room as though
everyone had been holding in his breath waiting for the climax. Even
the judge gasped a little and the three ladies on the witness bench
burst into a shrill chatter and grew louder and louder and shriller
and shriller until the judge's gavel rang out again upon his desk.
"Charles Stuart," said the judge in a slightly raised voice, "is this
the only extenuation you can make for raising your hand against a
woman of the plaintiff's age?"
Charles Stuart's head sank a little between his shoulders, seeming to
withdraw as far as it was able into the poor shelter of his body.
"Yes, sir," he said faintly.
Mrs. Robinson sprang to her feet.
"Yes, judge," she cried shrilly, "and there's more than that. He's a
liar too, a dirty little liar. He's just proclaimed himself a dirty
little----"
"Silence!" cried the judge in a terrible voice. "I'm running this
court, and I'm capable of making my own decisions!" He paused. "I
will now pronounce sentence upon Charles Stuart," he referred to the
register, "upon Charles David Stuart of 212½ West Twenty-second
Street."
The court room was silent. The reporter drew nearer--he hoped the
sentence would be light--just a few days on the Island in lieu of a
fine.
The judge leaned back in his chair and hid his thumbs somewhere under
his black robe.
"Assault justified," he said. "Case dismissed."
The little man Charles Stuart came blinking out into the sunshine,
pausing for a moment at the door of the court and looking furtively
behind him as if he half expected that it was a judicial error.
Then, sniffing once or twice, not because he had a cold but for those
dim psychological reasons that make people sniff, he moved slowly
south with an eye out for a subway station.
He stopped at a news stand to buy a morning paper; then entering the
subway was borne south to Eighteenth Street where he disembarked and
walked east to Third Avenue. Here he was employed in an all-night
restaurant built of glass and plaster white tile. Here he sat at a
desk from curfew until dawn, taking in money and balancing the books
of T. Cushmael, the proprietor. And here, through the interminable
nights, his eyes, by turning a little to right or left, could rest
upon the starched linen uniform of Miss Edna Schaeffer.
Miss Edna Schaeffer was twenty-three, with a sweet mild face and hair
that was a living example of how henna should not be applied. She
was unaware of this latter fact, because all the girls she knew used
henna just this way, so perhaps the odd vermilion tint of her
coiffure did not matter.
Charles Stuart had forgotten about the color of her hair long ago--if
he had ever noticed its strangeness at all. He was much more
interested in her eyes, and in her white hands which, as they moved
deftly among piles of plates and cups, always looked as if they
should be playing the piano. He had almost asked her to go to a
matinée with him once, but when she had faced him her lips
half-parted in a weary, cheerful smile, she had seemed so beautiful
that he had lost courage and mumbled something else instead.
It was not to see Edna Schaeffer, however, that he had come to the
restaurant so early in the afternoon. It was to consult with T.
Cushmael, his employer, and discover if he had lost his job during
his night in jail. T. Cushmael was standing in the front of the
restaurant looking gloomily out the plate-glass window, and Charles
Stuart approached him with ominous forebodings.
"Where've you been?" demanded T. Cushmael.
"Nowhere," answered Charles Stuart discreetly.
"Well, you're fired."
Stuart winced.
"Right now?"
Cushmael waved his hands apathetically.
"Stay two or three days if you want to, till I find somebody.
Then"--he made a gesture of expulsion--"outside for you."
Charles Stuart assented with a weary little nod. He assented to
everything. At nine o'clock, after a depressed interval during which
he brooded upon the penalty of spending a night among the police, he
reported for work.
"Hello, Mr. Stuart," said Edna Schaeffer, sauntering curiously toward
him as he took his place behind the desk. "What become of you last
night? Get pinched?"
She laughed, cheerfully, huskily, charmingly he thought, at her joke.
"Yes," he answered on a sudden impulse, "I was in the Thirty-fifth
Street jail."
"Yes, you were," she scoffed.
"That's the truth," he insisted. "I was arrested."
Her face grew serious at once.
"Go on. What did you do?"
He hesitated.
"I pushed somebody in the face."
Suddenly she began to laugh, at first with amusement and then
immoderately.
"It's a fact," mumbled Stuart. "I almost got sent to prison account
of it."
Setting her hand firmly over her mouth Edna turned away from him and
retired to the refuge of the kitchen. A little later, when he was
pretending to be busy at the accounts, he saw her retailing the story
to the two other girls.
The night wore on. The little man in the grayish suit with the
grayish face attracted no more attention from the customers than the
whirring electric fan over his head. They gave him their money and
his hand slid their change into a little hollow in the marble
counter. But to Charles Stuart the hours of this night, this last
night, began to assume a quality of romance. The slow routine of a
hundred other nights unrolled with a new enchantment before his eyes.
Midnight was always a sort of a dividing point--after that the
intimate part of the evening began. Fewer people came in, and the
ones that did seemed depressed and tired: a casual ragged man for
coffee, the beggar from the street corner who ate a heavy meal of
cakes and a beefsteak, a few nightbound street-women and a watchman
with a red face who exchanged warning phrases with him about his
health.
Midnight seemed to come early to-night and business was brisk until
after one. When Edna began to fold napkins at a nearby table he was
tempted to ask her if she too had not found the night unusually
short. Vainly he wished that he might impress himself on her in some
way, make some remark to her, some sign of his devotion that she
would remember forever.
She finished folding the vast pile of napkins, loaded it onto the
stand and bore it away, humming to herself. A few minutes later the
door opened and two customers came in. He recognized them
immediately, and as he did so a flush of jealousy went over him. One
of them, a young man in a handsome brown suit, cut away rakishly from
his abdomen, had been a frequent visitor for the last ten days. He
came in always at about this hour, sat down at one of Edna's tables,
and drank two cups of coffee with lingering ease. On his last two
visits he had been accompanied by his present companion--a swarthy
Greek with sour eyes who ordered in a loud voice and gave vent to
noisy sarcasm when anything was not to his taste.
It was chiefly the young man, though, who annoyed Charles Stuart.
The young man's eyes followed Edna wherever she went, and on his last
two visits he had made unnecessary requests in order to bring her
more often to his table.
"Good evening, girlie," Stuart heard him say to-night. "How's
tricks?"
"O.K.," answered Edna formally. "What'll it be?"
"What have you?" smiled the young man. "Everything, eh? Well,
what'd you recommend?"
Edna did not answer. Her eyes were staring straight over his head
into some invisible distance.
He ordered finally at the urging of his companion. Edna withdrew and
Stuart saw the young man turn and whisper to his friend, indicating
Edna with his head.
Stuart shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hated that young man
and wished passionately that he would go away. It seemed as if his
last night here, his last chance to watch Edna, and perhaps even in
some blessed moment to talk to her a little, was marred by every
moment this man stayed.
Half a dozen more people had drifted into the restaurant--two or
three workmen, the news dealer from over the way--and Edna was too
busy for a few minutes to be bothered with attentions. Suddenly
Charles Stuart became aware that the sour-eyed Greek had raised his
hand and was beckoning him. Somewhat puzzled he left his desk and
approached the table.
"Say, fella," said the Greek, "what time does the boss come in?"
"Why--two o'clock. Just a few minutes now."
"All right. That's all. I just wanted to speak to him about
something."
Stuart realized that Edna was standing beside the table; both men
turned toward her.
"Say, girlie," said the young man, "I want to talk to you. Sit down."
"I can't."
"Sure you can. The boss don't mind." He turned menacingly to
Stuart. "She can sit down, can't she?"
Stuart did not answer.
"I say she can sit down, can't she?" said the young man more
intently, and added, "Speak up, you little dummy."
Still Stuart did not answer. Strange blood currents were flowing all
over his body. He was frightened; anything said determinedly had a
way of frightening him. But he could not move.
"Sh!" said the Greek to his companion.
But the younger man was angered.
"Say," he broke out, "sometime somebody's going to take a paste at
you when you don't answer what they say. Go on back to your desk!"
Still Stuart did not move.
"Go on away!" repeated the young man in a dangerous voice. "Hurry
up! _Run!_"
Then Stuart ran. He ran as hard as he was able. But instead of
running away from the young man he ran _toward_ him, stretching out
his hands as he came near in a sort of straight arm that brought his
two palms, with all the force of his hundred and thirty pounds,
against his victim's face. With a crash of china the young man went
over backward in his chair and, his head striking the edge of the
next table, lay motionless on the floor.
The restaurant was in a small uproar. There was a terrified scream
from Edna, an indignant protest from the Greek, and the customers
arose with exclamations from their tables Just at this moment the
door opened and Mr. Cushmael came in.
"Why, you little fool!" cried Edna wrathfully. "What are you trying
to do! Lose me my job?"
"What's this?" demanded Mr. Cushmael, hurrying over. "What's the
idea?"
"Mr. Stuart pushed a customer in the face!" cried a waitress, taking
Edna's cue. "For no reason at all!"
The population of the restaurant had now gathered around the
prostrate victim. He was doused thoroughly with water and a folded
table-cloth was placed under his head.
"Oh, he did, did he?" shouted Mr. Cushmael in a terrible voice,
seizing Stuart by the lapels of his coat.
"He's raving crazy!" sobbed Edna. "He was in jail last night for
pushing a lady in the face. He told me so himself!"
A large laborer reached over and grasped Stuart's small trembling
arm. Stuart gazed around dumbly. His mouth was quivering.
"Look what you done!" shouted Mr. Cushmael. "You like to kill a man."
Stuart shivered violently. His mouth opened and he fought the air
for a moment. Then he uttered a half-articulate sentence:
"Only meant to push him in the face."
"Push him in the face?" ejaculated Cushmael in a frenzy. "So you got
to be a pusher-in-the-face, eh? Well, we'll push your face right
into jail!"
"I--I couldn't help it," gasped Stuart. "Sometimes I can't help it."
His voice rose unevenly. "I guess I'm a dangerous man and you better
take me and lock me up!" He turned wildly to Cushmael. "I'd push
you in the face if he'd let go my arm. Yes, I would! I'd push
you--right-in-the-_face_!"
For a moment an astonished silence fell, broken by the voice of one
of the waitresses who had been groping under the table.
"Some stuff dropped out of this fella's back pocket when he tipped
over," she explained, getting to her feet. "It's--why, it's a
revolver and----"
She had been about to say handkerchief but as she looked at what she
was holding her mouth fell open and she dropped the thing quickly on
the table. It was a small black mask about the size of her hand.
Simultaneously the Greek, who had been shifting uneasily upon his
feet ever since the accident, seemed to remember an important
engagement that had slipped his mind. He dashed suddenly around the
table and made for the front door, but it opened just at that moment
to admit several customers who, at the cry of "Stop him!" obligingly
spread out their arms. Barred in that direction, he jumped an
overturned chair, vaulted over the delicatessen counter, and set out
for the kitchen, collapsing precipitately in the firm grasp of the
chef in the doorway.
"Hold him! Hold him!" screamed Mr. Cushmael, realizing the turn of
the situation. "They're after my cash drawer!"
Willing hands assisted the Greek over the counter, where he stood
panting and gasping under two dozen excited eyes.
"After my money, hey?" shouted the proprietor, shaking his fist under
the captive's nose.
The stout man nodded, panting.
"We'd of got it too!" he gasped, "if it hadn't been for that little
pusher-in-the-face."
Two dozen eyes looked around eagerly. The little pusher-in-the-face
had disappeared.
The beggar on the corner had just decided to tip the policeman and
shut up shop for the night when he suddenly felt a small, somewhat
excited hand fall on his shoulder.
"Help a poor man get a place to sleep----" he was beginning
automatically when he recognized the little cashier from the
restaurant. "Hello, brother," he added, leering up at him and
changing his tone.
"You know what?" cried the little cashier in a strangely ominous
tone. "I'm going to push you in the face!"
"What do you mean?" snarled the beggar. "Why, you Ga----"
He got no farther. The little man seemed to run at him suddenly,
holding out his hands, and there was a sharp, smacking sound as the
beggar came in contact with the sidewalk.
"You're a fakir!" shouted Charles Stuart wildly. "I gave you a
dollar when I first came here, before I found out you had ten times
as much as I had. And you never gave it back!"
A stout, faintly intoxicated gentleman who was strutting expansively
along the other sidewalk had seen the incident and came running
benevolently across the street.
"What does this mean!" he exclaimed in a hearty, shocked voice.
"Why, poor fellow----"
He turned indignant eyes on Charles Stuart and knelt unsteadily to
raise the beggar.
The beggar stopped cursing and assumed a piteous whine.
"I'm a poor man, Cap'n----"
"This is--this is _horrible_!" cried the Samaritan, with tears in his
eyes. "It's a disgrace! Police! _Pol_----!"
He got no farther. His hands, which he was raising for a megaphone,
never reached his face--other hands reached his face, however, hands
held stiffly out from a one-hundred-and-thirty-pound body! He sank
down suddenly upon the beggar's abdomen, forcing out a sharp curse
which faded into a groan.
"This beggar'll take you home in his car!" shouted the little man who
stood over him. "He's got it parked around the corner."
Turning his face toward the hot strip of sky which lowered over the
city the little man began to laugh, with amusement at first, then
loudly and triumphantly until his high laughter rang out in the quiet
street with a weird, elfish sound, echoing up the sides of the tall
buildings, growing shriller and shriller until people blocks away
heard its eerie cadence on the air and stopped to listen.
Still laughing the little man divested himself of his coat and then
of his vest and hurriedly freed his neck of tie and collar. Then he
spat upon his hands and with a wild, shrill, exultant cry began to
run down the dark street.
He was going to clean up New York, and his first objective was the
disagreeable policeman on the corner!
They caught him at two o'clock, and the crowd which had joined in the
chase were flabbergasted when they found that the ruffian was only a
weeping little man in his shirt sleeves. Someone at the station
house was wise enough to give him an opiate instead of a padded cell,
and in the morning he felt much better.
Mr. Cushmael, accompanied by an anxious young lady with crimson hair,
called at the jail before noon.
"I'll get you out," cried Mr. Cushmael, shaking hands excitedly
through the bars. "One policeman, he'll explain it all to the other."
"And there's a surprise for you too," added Edna softly, taking his
other hand. "Mr. Cushmael's got a big heart and he's going to make
you his day man now."
"All right," agreed Charles Stuart calmly. "But I can't start till
to-morrow."
"Why not?"
"Because this afternoon I got to go to a matinée--with a friend."
He relinquished his employer's hand but kept Edna's white fingers
twined firmly in his.
"One more thing," he went on in a strong, confident voice that was
new to him, "if you want to get me off don't have the case come up in
the Thirty-fifth Street court."
"Why not?"
"Because," he answered with a touch of swagger in his voice, "that's
the judge I had when I was arrested last time."
"Charles," whispered Edna suddenly, "what would you do if I refused
to go with you this afternoon?"
He bristled. Color came into his cheeks and he rose defiantly from
his bench.
"Why, I'd--I'd----"
"Never mind," she said, flushing slightly. "You'd do nothing of the
kind."
ALMOST A GENTLEMAN
_By_ Edward Hope
EDWARD HOPE
Edward Hope is Edward Hope Coffey, Jr., of New York. I forget his
age, but he is about thirty. He was graduated from Princeton and has
varied newspaper work with employment in a great advertising agency.
He has begun to write for the theater and was the author of one of
the most amusing sketches in the _Garrick Follies_ for 1926, produced
by the Theatre Guild School.
As a newspaperman he first found his niche pinch-hitting for Don
Marquis, then a columnist on the _Sun_, New York. Don tells me that
having occasion to look up his column a year later at about the time
Hope had filled it for him, he found himself quite unable to tell
which was his stuff and which was Hope's. Hope now writes the column
in the New York _Herald Tribune_ which Marquis used to do daily.
If I am not mistaken, "Almost a Gentleman" was Hope's second real
attempt at a short story--and he sold his first at first try. He is
not invariably a humorist, but sometimes follows it as the line of
least resistance. He is probably almost the least known of the
authors represented in this book--due to his youth as a writer--but
every collection like this should produce one "unknown" and he will
serve very well. And, anyway, "Almost a Gentleman"--first published
in the _Saturday Evening Post_ for February 25, 1925--deserves to be
here.
ALMOST A GENTLEMAN[1]
[1] Copyright, 1925, by Edward Hope.
The Sunday morning after the game there were many students and
graduates of the Yale persuasion who claimed that young Mr.
Gildersleeve of Princeton was a lucky stiff. In New York, New Haven,
and I doubt not, Hartford, they called upon Heaven to punish him and
to lay a curse on the unkind fate which had guided a Yale forward
pass into his arms during the last quarter, with the score Yale 3,
Princeton 0. It was not, however, until the event had been almost
forgotten in undergraduate circles that George Banks began to harbor
a grudge against young Mr. Gildersleeve for his glorious run. For
Gildersleeve had inadvertently brought a great deal of sorrow upon
George Banks's head, although George was a recent Princeton graduate
and should normally have benefited, both financially and spiritually,
by the victory.
This is how it was:
When George asked Mildred Trudeau to go to the game with him--and in
fact right up to the moment when Gildersleeve's cleats tore a chunk
out of the Yale goal line--she seemed to him to be quite an ordinary
sort of last year's débutante.
Pretty, of course, or she never would have been honored with the
invitation. But otherwise a little blah. Good mouth, a mouth a
fellow might kiss with a certain amount of satisfaction, but not a
mouth from which wisdom could reasonably be expected. Pretty eyes,
but no suggestion of anything behind them except a blue back drop.
Nice, even features, but too even for much character.
That was, as I have said, George Banks's estimate of Mildred Trudeau
until close to the end of the fourth quarter, up to which point he
was what you might call a rational young man.
But Gildersleeve's run did something to George Banks's entire being.
At its conclusion he pounded the back of the ponderous, middle-aged
gentleman in front of him. He emitted a yell which would have set a
high standard of audibility for a locomotive whistle. He flung both
arms around Mildred Trudeau and hugged her as, I hope, she had never
been hugged before.
He tore off his rather modish gray felt hat and scaled it toward the
field. He drank at some length from a frankly illegal square bottle
and whooped again louder than before.
As they changed Princeton's 6 on the scoreboard to a 7, George Banks
augmented the loss of his hat with the loss of its erstwhile
contents. During the minute that remained of the game he babbled and
gurgled and laughed into the ear of Mildred Trudeau like one bereft
of his senses. Again and again he besought her to tell him if she
had ever seen anything like that before. And she showed her teeth,
which had been well spoken of, and tried to be as excited as he was,
which was absurd.
Even after the game his exaltation held. Outwardly he became a
little calmer, but his heart thumped with the fullness of his
emotion. He found himself overwhelmed with a love of the world he
lived in, of the human race in general, and of Mildred Trudeau, with
whom he had shared this transfiguration, in particular. Walking with
her, he squeezed her fur-coated arm until her shoulder was in grave
danger of dislocation.
Presently, when they were buttoned into George's roadster, protected
from the cold November wind, his love of things in general focused
itself more and more on his companion. The girl at his side was
warmish and smallish and very much his.
Before they got to New Brunswick he told her intimate details about
himself and the peculiarities of his mind.
Just past the Raritan bridge he slipped one of his hands into both of
hers.
Right in the middle of Metuchen he put his arm around her.
A couple of miles farther on he kissed her tentatively.
A minute or two beyond Rahway he asked her to marry him.
He alleged--in a voice that carried surprising conviction--that he
had loved her passionately ever since he had first met her, though
that would have taken him back through the Dorothy Husted era into
the time of Louise Vanderlin, as he might have remembered. He told
her that he had loved her always, for that matter, for she was the
ideal for whom he had sought.
To give her a chance to answer, he stopped the roadster with a
suddenness which nearly caused horrible carnage in the line of cars
behind.
When she raised her eyes to his and said that she would marry him if
her mother would let her, you might have expected him to realize the
enormity of the thing he had done.
He did not. Rather, he bent his head a little and drew her face
close to his, murmuring "My dear, my dear" in a whisper he could not
help admiring, if he did it himself, who shouldn't have. He found
his exaltation increased by this new entanglement. The jeers of
home-going football fans seeped through the side curtains, but he
heeded them not. He kissed her rather thoroughly.
The rest of the journey was joy unstinted.
She told him things about his charms that even he had never
suspected. He answered with gallantries he would have labeled the
grossest sort of exaggeration a few hours before. They planned how
they would tell her mother, and his father and mother and kid sister.
They speculated joyously about how astonished Marian would be and
what Paul would say. Stalled in the line of cars on the hill leading
to the ferry, they petted shamelessly.
That is a brief explanation of the resentment toward Gildersleeve of
Princeton which grew and grew in the heart of George Banks toward the
last of the year; a resentment which became stronger as the New Year
came in and January and February passed, and Mildred Trudeau was in
fact the _fiancée_ of George Banks, and was turning out to be, as he
had suspected, pretty, but otherwise blah; quite hopelessly blah.
They went to deb parties at the Ritz and Sherry's and Pierre's. They
saw musical comedies and farces and plain comedies and melodramas
together. They became recognized and were bowed to in most of the
fashionable night clubs. They motored hither and yon in the environs
of New York. They were lavishly entertained at teas and dinners and
luncheons. By all ordinary standards they should have had a most
enjoyable winter.
Probably Mildred was having just that. Her picture appeared in the
papers with reasonable regularity. She was on whatever committees it
was right to be on. She was engaged to George Banks, who was no mean
catch socially, financially, and personally.
Through the eyes of the desirable young man, however, things were not
so satisfactory. This girl who seemed destined to be attached to him
for life fell several running broad jumps short of his ideal of
womanhood. She had looks and poise and serenity--and not another
visible gift. He knew by heart her answers to everything he might
conceivably say to her, which discouraged him from saying anything.
He knew even what she would do in any given set of circumstances,
which took most of the interest out of creating sets of
circumstances. She repeated herself with perfect regularity.
He knew her seven facial expressions as well as if he had had a
photograph of each with a descriptive caption: Disappointment,
Pleasure, Love, Annoyance, Surprise, Interest, Boredom--every one of
them mild.
She danced average well, but with an indefinable sense of heaviness.
She played bridge passably, but with too frequent recourse to the
wide-eyed look which is supposed to excuse misplay. Her conversation
was fair until you got onto her system, or until the talk slipped off
the field which is covered by the society columns. Her intellectual
interests were limited to an attempt to classify everything she came
in contact with as either nice or vulgar.
For some men, no doubt, she would have been an ideal mate. George
credited her with this possibility. The elder Bankses seemed to
approve her as prospective daughter-in-law. Young men who knew her
slightly congratulated George on her charms with unlimited fervor.
He was even willing to admit that the whole trouble might be the
result of something wrong with his own make-up; but the main point
was that there was something awfully wrong with some one. That he
knew.
II
Perhaps it would be just as well for the story to skip lightly over
the late winter and early spring and bring the reader snappily to the
weekend in May when Mildred Trudeau and George Banks went to Barbara
Kittridge's house party. It was there that things started to happen.
As a matter of fact, the exact time when things started to happen was
12:17 A.M. on Saturday, May eighteenth. It was at that particular
moment that George Banks and Barbara Kittridge stopped dancing and
stepped through a French window of the living room to the terrace.
It was at that particular moment that Barbara Kittridge turned her
head upward so that she could catch George Banks with the corners of
her eyes, and said, "What you need, Mr. Banks, is to sit down quietly
in the moonlight and talk about yourself."
Her voice was pleasant to the ear. She was soothing. Had it been
May of last year, with the moon just exactly the way it was, George
Banks would have proceeded to flirt outrageously with her. But it
was May of this year.
"Oh no," he said self-consciously. And again, "No."
He lighted a cigarette, and they walked out to the edge of the
terrace.
"But you're depressed," she said. "If I ever saw a depressed
man--and I have seen depressed men--you are gruesomely depressed."
"Oh no, I'm not." He spoke without conviction, listlessly.
"You are! Listen to yourself! You sound like a funeral oration that
has been badly received. Come along. I am going to take the liberty
of leading you to a place where you can sit down quietly in the
moonlight. You can decide then whether to talk about yourself."
They went down the steps to the bottom of the terrace and down a path
thickly bordered with shrubs which cut off the moonlight. He was
moodily silent while they walked twenty steps. Suddenly she laughed
softly.
"Which is the leper?" she said. "You or I?"
"Leper? I don't think----"
"I have had men tell me they were afraid of me, but they have always
been chronic bachelors and they have suspected me of wanting to marry
them. Now you are Trudy's _fiancé_ and Trudy's a friend of mine.
You ought to know I don't mean you any harm."
"My dear Miss Kittridge, I really haven't been thinking of you at
all. I----"
"If I believed you, I should think you very rude. But I don't
believe you. I know perfectly well that you have been thinking of me
and that you're afraid of me. That is why you have kept this careful
yard of space between us."
George Banks laughed uneasily.
"No," he said. "Oh no--didn't notice it."
He stepped closer to her, miscalculated the distance and rubbed her
soft, cool forearm with the back of his hand. He snatched the hand
back as though it had touched hot iron. She laughed again.
"You see? You are afraid."
The path widened and they came into a tiny plaza in the middle of
which there was an inactive fountain. To right and left, back
against the shrubbery, were low stone benches, one moon-lit, the
other in darkness. Barbara Kittridge led him to the dark one. She
seated herself, leaning back against the curved stone arm at one end,
and placed her feet on the middle of the seat.
"Now," she said, "let me explain. Sit down over there."
She paused while he produced a cigarette and lighted it.
"Now here is the idea: I don't want you to flirt with me. I don't
want you to try to kiss me. I don't want you to do anything that
bothers your conscience in the least. I have no designs whatever
upon you.
"But I like Trudy. I've known her around school and at parties for
three or four years, and I like her. When I heard about her
engagement to you I asked you both down here so that I could see the
happy couple. And what do I feast my eyes on?
"Trudy about as usual, and--you! A dignified young pallbearer. It
looks bad. Something is wrong. It hurts me to see the course of
true love so bumpy. Therefore I have enticed you out here among the
moon and the shrubs and the nasty cold stone benches to find out what
is wrong."
George Banks lighted another cigarette and withdrew to his corner of
the bench.
"It's very--nice of you," he said at length, and lapsed into silence.
"Come now, tell me about yourself. What sort of person are you?
What did you do at Princeton?"
"Played baseball a couple of years."
"No poetry? Never contributed to the Lit? Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Were you notoriously gloomy or silent?"
"No."
"What was your nickname? That will tell something."
"Phooey."
"What?"
"Phooey."
"Where did you get a nickname like that? It doesn't fit you now."
"That's kind of a long story. It had something to do with drinking
applejack sophomore year. I don't believe you'd care to hear it."
"Then you drink applejack?"
"Well, I have."
"Phooey, do you know what I've got?"
"No. At least I don't know everything you've got. I have some idea
of your talents."
For a moment the old George Banks threatened to show himself. There
was life in his voice.
"I've got about ten bottles of applejack in the cellar."
"You're lucky."
"So are you."
"I?"
"My applejack is your applejack."
"Oh, that's very good of you; but---- Well, you see, Trudy doesn't
like my drinking much and I'm pretty careful. Cocktails and punch,
but that's about enough." He rose and walked to the inactive
fountain, balanced himself upon its stone rim. "It's mighty good of
you," he said again.
"Not at all. Trudy ought to know better than to cut a strong young
man off from his applejack! That may be just what you need to make
you cheer up."
"No, that isn't what's the matter. It's----"
He broke off suddenly. He went back and sat at his end of the bench,
lighted another cigarette.
"Then you know what is the matter?"
"Miss Kittridge, really----"
"Please don't call me Miss Kittridge and please don't say really to
me in that particular way again. You're the most unpardonable sort
of man. I don't see how you ever persuaded Trudy to think of
marrying you. I give up. Let's go back."
She stood up and started up the path toward the house.
"But, Miss Kittridge--er--B a r b a r a--er----"
"Kitt."
"Kitt."
"You were going to say?"
She had turned. She stood in the moonlight facing him, slim and
tall, shimmering in a white evening dress. Her dark hair contrasted
with the moonlit whiteness of her neck and shoulders. A little cold
shiver made its way up George Banks's back.
"Oh, nothing," he said. "Let's go back."
And they went back to the house. He left her and walked alone among
the shrubs. It had been a stupid conversation. It had been an
embarrassing conversation. But--this Barbara
Kittridge--Kitt--thrilling--exciting--to look at, to talk to, to keep
from involving oneself with. Lively girl. Snappy dark eyes. Nice
hands. Well built. Slim ankles. Quick, elusive, jumping around
behind a conversation, with a funny mouth that did queer little
things with its corners.
Face that laughed at you, without laughing at all so you could trace
it. And always one jump ahead of what you were thinking. Footwork
with her head. Now that kind of a girl----
He danced with his betrothed.
"What do you think of Kitt?" she asked from his shoulder.
He executed an intricate step and stalled for time.
"What did you say, dear?"
"What do you think of Kitt?"
"Oh, very nice. Clever, I should think. Talks well."
"Do you think so?"
"Well, we didn't talk much. She seemed quick."
"She says whatever comes into her head. I've heard her say the worst
things--to men--trying to be original."
The music stopped and George and Mildred Trudeau seated themselves
side by side. His eyes followed Barbara Kittridge as she went,
laughing, through the French windows with a man.
"Her reputation," said Trudy guardedly into his ear, "is not too good
lately. She went to Europe all alone last summer. Katherine Milton
met her in Brussels and she was traveling all over with two Oxford
students. Perfectly respectable, of course. But a girl can't tell
what people are going to think and say. It isn't a very nice thing
to do."
"But if she was all alone in Europe----"
"There were plenty of girls she knew, without her picking out
perfectly strange young Englishmen and traveling all over with them.
I'll bet she had a fine gay time. A couple of weeks ago I heard
about a party at a bachelor apartment in town that Kitt went to. I
don't believe that was too nice. She drinks a little too much,
anyway."
The music started and they danced again.
Just before three the party broke up for the evening. George Banks
took Trudy to the top of the stairs and kissed her good night. Then
he remembered that he had no cigarettes and went down again to find
some.
So far as is known, it was entirely by accident that he found Barbara
Kittridge alone in the library. She was curled up at the end of the
big leather sofa.
George Banks sighted her and jumped like a startled criminal. He
took a step backward and smiled foolishly. Kitt laughed.
"Why, Phooey! I thought I'd packed you off to bed. What are you
doing prowling around downstairs again? You don't go in for
nocturnal melancholia, do you? I hope it isn't so bad as that."
He fidgeted.
"No. Cigarettes. Found I didn't have any in my pocket. None
upstairs. Thought I'd come down and find some."
"Lots in that box on the table beside you. Help yourself."
He did, and dropped six or eight into his pocket.
"Well----" he said, fidgeting toward the door.
"Breakfast at eleven thirty," said his hostess, and just then
something strange happened in George Banks.
"What the dickens are you going to do for the rest of the night?" he
asked. "Are you given to communing with nature yourself?" Again she
laughed.
"Brave boy!" she said. "Sit down."
This time they were not on a cold stone bench in the darkness. This
time her feet were not so placed as to keep him at a distance.
He seated himself a couple of inches from her, his arm on the back of
the sofa behind her head. He took one of the cigarettes from his
pocket and placed it between his lips. For the first time his manner
of looking at her was leisurely. He filled his lungs with smoke
before he opened the conversation.
"And now," he said, "tell me what this is all about. Where do you
get the privilege of laughing at me? Who told you I was a funny old
man to be kidded unmercifully at every opportunity? What have you
done to deserve the right to embarrass me?"
She laughed.
"Why, Phooey! I haven't done anything to embarrass you. If you've
felt uncomfortable it's been your own fault. I have laughed at you,
but that was because you were funny. I reserve the right to laugh at
anything that's funny."
"That isn't entirely wise. You'll find there are a lot of things
that are funny that you aren't supposed to laugh at. You'll get in
trouble laughing indiscriminately."
"In trouble with you?"
"Among others--yes."
"Ah, then it bites?"
"Not necessarily. But a healthy man can't stand being laughed at.
You'll find that out."
"Are you a healthy man? You don't seem healthy. You goof too much.
You stare into corners and study rug patterns and look as though you
were going to scream with some secret sorrow gnawing at your
entrails. Do you really think you're healthy?"
"I really know I'm healthy."
She made an incredulous noise and the corners of her mouth did
things. He leaned closer to her.
"Further," he said, picking up one of her hands, "I can prove I'm
healthy. I have a healthy normal desire to kiss you."
"To kiss me?" Her mouth was still insulting him. "You look more as
though you wanted to choke me."
She executed some sort of distracting movement of her knees. Her
eyes were larger than he had thought. Her hand was cool and smooth
in his. His arm slipped slowly down from the back of the sofa behind
her. His fingers touched her bare shoulder on the side away from
him. He thought profane things about himself and removed her hand
from a position where it might interfere with possible progress.
Slowly, eye to eye with her, he drew her close to him and placed his
lips on hers--left them there for throbbing seconds. The end of her
nose was cool against his cheek. Her lips were soft. Her body in
the crook of his arm was pliant and small. His mind traveled out of
the library, upstairs to Mildred Trudeau.
He took his mouth away, replaced his arm on the back of the sofa. He
still looked into her eyes.
"Was that what you wanted me to do?" he asked.
"No; though you do do it rather well. I am quite glad you did. It
was very pleasant. Thank you."
"I'm afraid you're not welcome. That one kiss is going to make me
feel like a burglar for weeks. You have no idea the mental anguish
I'll go through."
"And end up by telling Trudy I made you do it?"
"No, I don't think that. But I'm not proud of myself. I might have
a little more self-control." He stood up before her, feet slightly
apart, right hand gripping left elbow. "Well----" he said. Then,
after a pause, "I hope you'll understand this whole performance. I
hope you won't think I go around kissing other girls while I'm
engaged to Trudy."
He saw a flicker at the corners of her mouth. He fled. Over his
shoulder he heard her words:
"It must be funny to have a conscience." Then a laugh. "Breakfast
at eleven thirty."
III
It wasn't funny to have a conscience. It was bad for George Banks's
trousers, which he tossed over the back of a chair and left there to
wrinkle. It was bad for his disposition, especially as he found that
the cigarettes he had put in his pocket were crushed beyond the
possibility of use. It was bad for his sleep, for he lay flat on his
back for a long time thinking things over, and all he could think of
was the way Barbara Kittridge's lips felt and the way her mouth
laughed at him.
The next day he avoided his hostess. In the evening particularly he
made sure not to be left alone with her. And on Sunday, when he said
his good-by and drove off with Trudy at his side, he vowed he would
never see Barbara Kittridge again.
If he was going to marry Trudy--and that seemed entirely probable,
for she seemed perfectly willing and he certainly couldn't do
anything about it--well, the thing to do was to keep out of the way
of temptation. After all, Kitt was the first girl who had interested
him since he had asked Mildred to marry him. If he should strike
only one exciting girl every six or eight months, it ought to be
fairly easy to keep out of their way.
I record his line of reasoning. It becomes my painful duty to record
his actions during the three months that followed. But I will do it
quickly for you, so that you will not feel so badly about it as I do.
A week after the Kittridge house party Mrs. Trudeau decided to take
Mildred abroad. Two weeks after that they sailed. Both of them were
properly kissed good-by by George Banks. They found their stateroom
filled to the point of discomfort with flowers and baskets of fruit
and cakes and books, and cards from George Banks saying _bon voyage_
and other stimulating sentiments.
From the pier George made his way to a certain club and partook of
certain stimulants in tall cold glasses. He stayed in the club for
dinner, which consisted of several repetitions of the same
stimulants, and for the night, which was interspersed with more of
the same. By Monday he was ready to return to his regular round of
duties in his father's bond house and to look at things calmly.
Thereafter for two weeks he lived a life of quiet and sobriety, at
home for dinner every night and in bed early. He wrote to Mildred,
care of this and that in Paris and London and Berne and elsewhere,
and told her that life was dull without her, as it was. He did not
mention that this particular sort of dullness was relief from the
other kind of dullness that had been his lot before she left.
Then he got a note from Barbara Kittridge, which said that she was
having a lot of people out for a week-end and that she would be
delighted to have him among them. This he carried in his pocket for
two days and finally answered by a letter which alleged a business
trip out of town. The next day he called Kitt on the phone and told
her that he found he didn't have to go away after all.
For a great part of Friday evening he talked with Kitt. Saturday
morning they swam together--with several other people, which was just
as well. Sunday they played tennis and talked about books. Monday
he came home again with a heavy heart. He had not kissed Kitt, nor
had he come close to it. But he had recognized in her a person
worthy of himself--more than worthy of himself--far above him.
She worried him. She made him wish he were less than a gentleman and
could drop his _fiancée_ quietly off a pier in a burlap bag. She
caused him to spend another afternoon and evening with the tall cool
glasses.
For the rest of the summer, let us say merely that George Banks was
seen more or less frequently at the Kittridge summer home and that he
dined with Kitt in town on several occasions. Let us say that he
remembered throughout that he was engaged to be married and that he
maintained a high standard of personal behavior.
Let us skip to the not particularly joyous day on which he received a
letter from Mildred Trudeau, saying that she would land in New York
from the Majestic on September fifth, barring icebergs and other acts
of God. At which time, she said, they would announce that their
wedding would take place in October.
With the aid of another evening at the club, George bore up. After
all, Mildred was a very fine type of young woman. High social
endowments. Mighty respectable and dependable. He wouldn't jilt
her. Hell, let her marry him!
Still, when his father called him in next morning and asked him to go
to Chicago on business that would keep him away from New York on the
day of his _fiancée's_ arrival, he welcomed the opportunity. He
wired to Bill Lincoln, who had been his roommate for two years, and
told him to have the Field Museum and the stockyards ready. With
some abandon he packed two bottles of Scotch in his suit case for the
trip.
IV
On the evening of September third George Banks was told by the
doorman of the Sportsmen's Club in Chicago that Mr. Lincoln was
awaiting him in the bar. Going through the main lounge and taking
the first turn to the left, he found that the doorman had spoken at
least part of the truth.
Mr. Lincoln was awaiting him. So was the bartender of the
Sportsmen's Club. So were a great many Sportsmen's Specials, which
were made of gin and lime juice and dashes of things from several
bottles, the whole being shaken until it became greenish and frothy.
The mixture was efficacious. After the fifth, or possibly the sixth,
Mr. Lincoln and his guest, Mr. Banks, might fairly have been said to
have reached the ole-fella state. After the eighth, or possibly the
twelfth, they felt themselves sufficiently fortified for dinner, and
left the bar with promises of a speedy return.
In the dining room, when the waiter, wrinkling his brow over his
orders, was fairly started toward the kitchen, Bill Lincoln came to
the point.
"Phooey," he said, "whus this I hear 'bout you being engaged?"
He leaned across the table slightly, looking out of the tops of his
eyes. His guest drank water.
"Yes," said George Banks.
"Yes, what? Yes, you're engaged? I shu'say you pro'bly are engaged.
Seems's though I haven't read anything else in months but George
Banks engaged. What I mean's, who's the girl? Whus she like? Is
she downhearted or does she keep the spirit of conviv'al'ty in the
home? Tell me about her."
"Oh, she's all right."
"Well, tha's a big send-off you give her. 'She's all right,' he
says. I didn't ask you if she's sick. I ask you whus she like? Is
she a good egg? Tha's what I mean. Is she a good egg?" He stared
across the table at George. "Phooey," he said after a moment,
"y'understand I didn't mean any harm. I hope I didn't offend you or
anything. 'S jus' friendlies' kin' of interes'. 'F course a fella
gets a drink or two, he doesn't talk so nice as he might. But Lord!
I didn't mean any harm!" His voice trailed off and he stared.
"It isn't that, Bill. You didn't say anything wrong. 'S jus' th' I
wan'ed to keep on pleasant topics. I don't want to talk about whus
she like. Le's talk about you."
George Banks reached for the water again.
"Wait!" said Bill Lincoln. "Wait! Don' touch that stuff. Good
Scotch in my pocket."
He called a captain and ordered sparkling water, glasses and ice.
When these necessities arrived he made two drinks and pushed one
across the table.
"Now," he said, "what's all this talk about pleasant topics?" The
oysters arrived and interrupted him, but he waited. "Tell me," he
said as a father commands his erring son.
And so it was that George Banks divulged, for the first time, his
inmost thoughts about marriage and women and Mildred Trudeau. With
eloquence that waned and waxed as food sobered him and Scotch buoyed
him up, he told the whole story of nearly a year of engagement. He
told of the enthusiasm that had robbed him of discretion, of the
dreadful months of engagement to beauty unmarred by brains. He
explained the conventions that the fact of being a gentleman forces
upon one engaged by mistake, and how he was just gentleman enough to
go through with the thing. He omitted entirely any reference to
Barbara Kittridge, and, at that, his story was not finished until
they were ready to return to the bar--which they did.
At eleven, when the bar closed, they went, supplied with water and
ice, to a corner of the lounge and talked further. All I can say of
their conversation is that it was earnest. To reproduce it would be
to endanger the world's supply of apostrophes and possibly to make
this story unfit for publication.
Eliminating nonessentials, the thing simmered down to an argument as
to whether a gentleman must necessarily be a damn fool. Mr. Lincoln
saw no sense in Mr. Banks's theories of social ethics, and Mr. Banks
had no defense except a series of dogmas about what a gentleman might
not do. Therefore Mr. Lincoln won the debate and Mr. Banks agreed
that, gentleman or no gentleman, it was up to him, for the good of
all concerned, especially old Bill Lincoln, to break his engagement
into a thousand pieces.
So firm was his conviction that it held him after he had safely
attained his room. He found writing materials in the desk and
proceeded not to put off till tomorrow what he had the nerve to do
tonight. For nearly an hour he sat and wrote and tore up paper and
chewed the penholder and smoked cigarettes. And finally he was
satisfied. He folded the paper and put it into an envelope. He
picked his way carefully down the hall and rang for the elevator.
When it came he handed his letter and fifty cents to the astonished
elevator boy, with strict orders that this letter must be posted at
once. The boy bowed and agreed that it should be so. George Banks
found his room and went to bed. Let us read the letter into the
evidence:
MY DEAR MILDRED: I sent a letter to you at the Ritz yesterday to
explain how I happened to be in Chicago when you got home. In that
letter I said a lot of things I did not honestly mean. The things I
mean I did not mean were the things I said about--erasure--loving
you. I know that a gentleman does not ever jilt a lady and I hope
you will accept my apologies and I hope you will forgive me and I
hope that you will understand that I am not jilting you exactly, but
only telling you the truth for your good and my good both. You see,
it would be a hell of a mess if we got married and we would both be
unhappy and so I do not see any sense in being a gentleman about it.
It would be pretty hard to be a gentleman and be married to you,
anyway, as a friend of mine was saying to me only this evening.
You see, when I asked you to marry me I did not know you very well
and I thought you were different from the way you are. I do not mean
to say that you are not great the way you are, and everybody seems to
think you are great, and my family likes you; but what I mean is I
think you would probably be a wonderful wife for somebody that thinks
woman's place is in the home, or probably almost anybody but me.
But, you see, I cannot talk to you, because I never think you
understand what I say and I do not believe you do now. Anyway, I do
not think that would be a very good way to commence being married,
not understanding each other when we talk and not talking very much.
So what I want to suggest if you do not mind too much is that we do
not announce that we will get married in October or any time at all,
but just quietly forget it and let bygones be bygones and you speak
to me when you see me around even if you know I am not a gentleman,
because this is the only time I have not been a gentleman with you or
anybody else. And you will know that I am sorry, because I have been
thinking of what a mess we would make of it for months; and I have
not said anything about it before, because I did not want to be not a
gentleman. And I want to impress on you that I am perfectly stone
cold sober when I am writing this and that I would never write it at
all if it wasn't for the best of both of us.
Hoping to see you soon.
Sincerely yours,
GEORGE BANKS.
V
At eleven the next morning George Banks awoke in his room in the
Sportsmen's Club. He found his eyes burning and his vision blurred.
He found his head throbbing with an ache which radiated from one
particular spot inside of his forehead. He found his lips and tongue
parched as though he had slept all day in the middle of a desert with
his mouth wide open to the blistering sun. An experiment in rising
showed conclusively that his knees were weak and that his equilibrial
nerves were functioning badly, if at all.
But worse than all this physical disability was a sickening sense of
unpleasantness to be faced, which was firmly fixed in the back of his
mind. He tried to think, but memories slipped away from him and
disappeared like so many slippery pieces of soap under a bathtub.
Presently he gave up and lay face downward on the bed, partly
conscious, knowing only that his head was throbbing, throbbing,
throbbing.
Half an hour later he mustered his courage again and sat up. The
room whirled dangerously and he grasped the side of the bed. The
edges of his vision were a little clearer. He looked about him. On
the desk he saw salvation--a half-full bottle of Scotch. Shakily,
supporting himself by whatever came to hand, he made his way to the
desk. He carried the bottle to the bathroom and poured a drink of
heroic proportions. He drank.
For a minute he sputtered. His eyes blurred again worse than before.
He was not entirely sure that he had not wasted the whisky. Then he
became stronger, blinked a few times, placed one foot timidly before
the other and walked.
Just as he got back to the bed and sat down, he remembered. He had
written a letter to Mildred. He had told her what he thought--of her
and of his engagement to her and everything. He had asked her to
call it all off. Of that much he was sure. And past that his memory
would not carry him. Had he told her she was the world's dumbest
woman? Had he told her that he had much rather marry a book of
etiquette because that, at least, could be left home? Probably. He
didn't know, and it didn't make much difference. The import of the
letter, however he had worded it, was enough.
He rolled across the bed to the telephone and got Bill Lincoln on the
wire.
What George Banks said to Bill Lincoln is neither printable nor
essential. It is enough that Bill rushed to the Sportsmen's Club to
confer with his ex-roommate, and that the result of the hasty
conference was that George Banks found himself, in almost no time, on
a train which was due at Grand Central Station at 9 A.M., September
fifth.
For it had been decided that he must beat his _fiancée_ to his letter
or be forever damned, socially and as a gentleman, and this was the
only way the thing could be done. His father's business was
unfinished, but that could be explained somehow. The point now was
to save Mildred Trudeau's feelings and George Banks's soul. To that
end all else must be sacrificed.
George Banks slept soundly in the club car while the train bore him
many miles from Chicago. It was close to dinner time when he
snorted, gulped five times in rapid succession, and awoke feeling
clearer in the head, but clearer, too, in the realization of what he
had to face. It was then that he remembered a bottle which had never
been taken from his suit case, and bethought himself, in this
connection, of an old proverb having to do with the hair of the dog
that bites one. A few minutes later the club-car porter was pouring
bubbly water into a glass the lower half of which was filled with ice
and an amber colored fluid.
After the first, George Banks felt stronger. As the treatment
progressed he began to become friendlier toward his fellow wanderers
through this vale of tears. When it was time for the fourth, he felt
moved to alleviate the sufferings of a young man who sat at his left,
separated from him by only one vacant chair. The young man accepted.
On investigation he proved to be none other than Harry Powers, who
had graduated from Princeton only three years before George. So
there they were. They found reminiscences enough to last nearly
through dinner; and by the time these began to pall on them they were
ready to philosophize on whatever subjects presented themselves,
which offered a wide range indeed.
The upshot was that they spent the evening together over George's
bottle. Nor did they consider the evening at an end until the bottle
had been emptied beyond the possibility of miscalculation. Even then
the club-car porter had to plead with them to let him close up for
the night.
By showing his Pullman check to the various porters he encountered,
George found his way to his own berth. He flung himself in headlong.
He undressed lying on his stomach, and wriggling out of his clothes,
after what must be the manner of Houdini in a strait-jacket at the
bottom of a river. By a miracle he found his pajamas and got himself
into them.
For some time he had not thought of what awaited him in the morning.
Suddenly the realization came back to him with a vividness that shook
him. He would have to kiss the bearded cheek of Mrs. Trudeau. He
would have to stare hungrily for hours and hours at her inane
daughter--his _fiancée_. And--good Lord!--first he would have to
dash to the Ritz and get that letter before she did. Suppose the
ship should dock at daybreak. He had heard they did sometimes. He
would have to be early all right.
His reasoning led him to the conclusion that the porter must be
admonished to call him early--if the porter was waking. If you're
waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear. Oh yes, by all
means. The porter must be waking, and if he was waking, he must call
George early.
With the refrain of Tennyson's worst poem running through his head,
George Banks, neatly clad in blue silk pajamas, rolled from his berth
into the dimly lighted aisle. If you're waking, call me early, call
me early, porter dear. He stumbled over the prominently displayed
shoes of the snoring gentleman in the next section. If you're
waking, call me early.... He arrived at the men's wash room and
pushed the curtain aside. The porter was not there.
George Banks rang a bell and waited a moment, but no one appeared.
Porter probably gone to sleep in the caboose or whatever arrangement
they have for porters to sleep in. Better find the conductor,
anyway. More dependable fellows, these conductors.... If you're
waking, call me early, call me early, conductor dear. Not so good.
Meter all wrong. But a wise hunch to tell the conductor.
If you're waking, call me early.... George Banks found his way
through the next car to the confusion of the shoes parked neatly
along the aisle. No porter there, either. He went on. Another car
yielded neither porter nor conductor, and George was sick of this
business. Chances were some one would call him too early, anyway.
They always did.
He gave up the expedition and started back. Through one car--two,
three. And then he began to have misgivings. What was the name of
his car? Santa Clara? Middleditch? Marianola? Spencersfield?
None of them sounded familiar. For that matter, what was the number
of his berth? Lower--Lower Five? Seven? Twelve? Ten? That bit of
information, too, escaped him. He went through another car to see if
any of the green curtains looked familiar. Then he went back through
three or four cars. The cars were all alike. The curtains were all
alike. The numbers meant nothing.
The train threw itself round a curve just as George Banks came
opposite the curtained entrance to the men's room of the good car
Gwendoline. George's feet forsook him. He was catapulted through
the curtain and saved himself from destruction only by a lucky grab
at a passing wash basin. He pulled himself upright. The shock was
great. He eased himself to a position of comfort on the long leather
seat. It had been a long walk through all those cars, back and forth.
In fact he was remarkably sleepy. A tiring journey it had been....
Oh, well, the train was going to New York. Some porter could be
persuaded to find him his berth in the morning. He drew his feet up
and stretched out as far as possible on the seat. Presently he slept.
VI
The porter who came upon George Banks in the morning was a fat jolly
person who had made many a friend and many a tip by his big-hearted
way. He placed hand on the shoulder of the Banks blue silk pajamas.
He shook ever so gently. He knew that you never know what will
happen when you wake the gentlemen up.
"Cap'n, sir," he said in his easiest voice, "better wake up, sir. We
in." There was a faint, almost indefinable sign of life from the
gentleman in the blue pajamas. The porter allowed his pudgy hand to
shake again. "Time you was up, sir," he said more than civilly.
"Gettin'-up time."
He was rewarded with greater activity. The blue-pajamaed body
uncurled itself in the manner of a boa constrictor.
"Wump!" said George Banks.
The hand on his shoulder continued to move gently back and forth.
"Yes, sir. Gettin'-up time. We in a station right this minute."
George Banks turned his head slightly, opened one eye and fixed it on
the porter. He thought deeply for an instant.
"Wump?" he inquired.
"We right at a platform right this minute," the porter repeated.
"This yere's Boston." George Banks sat up straight with both eyes
wide.
"This yere's what?"
"Boston."
"Boston?"
"Boston, I says, Cap'n. Boston's right."
"Boston?"
"You said it."
George Banks sprang to his feet, disregarding the state of his
equilibrial nerves. He took the porter by both shoulders and held
him firmly.
"Now," he said sternly, "you think very carefully and tell me where
we are. One false move may cost you your life. Tell me the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Where are we?"
"Boston, Mass-a-chusitts, Cap'n, sir. I said it and I sticks to it.
Boston, like a little brown bulldog."
The porter of the car Gwendoline was wondering what sort of case he
had to deal with. He saw insanity in the reddish eyes of his man in
blue pajamas.
"Look here," said George Banks, "I got on a train in Chicago
yesterday and that train was going to New York. How can you tell me
I'm waking up in Boston?"
"I ain't told you no lie, Cap'n, sir. I tells you we in Boston
be-cause in Boston we is. 'Is yere car, she come from Chicago last
night and you come with her. 'At's all I know."
"But I had a New York ticket and the conductor took it. I couldn't
have been on the wrong train."
"Wrong train--no, sir. This car, she switch offn that train at
Albany. This yere's the Boston car."
The truth poured into George Banks's tired brain. His clothes, his
money--everything he had had with him was in New York. He released
the porter. His limp arms flopped to his sides. He looked out the
window at the wooden platform.
Suddenly he was galvanized into action. He sprang, knocking the
porter to one side, swished through the curtained door and out to the
station platform. Far away he saw the station. Pausing not, he took
that direction as fast as his slippered feet would carry him, which
was pretty fast, all things considered.
Through the glass swing doors he went across No Man's Land between
station and trains, into the station, down the marble steps.
Civilians and railroad employees stared at him. Women probably
screamed. Children pointed. George Banks rushed on.
Before him was the street. In the street was an empty taxi. That
was all the sprinting young man saw. Beyond that taxi he had no
plans. All he knew was that there might be nameless delays in the
station and in the taxi he was free. He splashed through the muddy
street and jumped on the running board of the taxicab. The driver
turned to him.
"Harvard Square, Cambridge!" shouted George Banks.
He opened the door and got inside. The taxi moved onward with a jerk
that threw him into the seat.
"Them college boys!" sighed the driver to himself. "It's a wonder to
me the things they do. Runnin' through the streets in pejammers!"
Within, George Banks huddled into a corner of the cab and thought
hard. Whom did he know in Boston? There was his father's branch
office, of course; but that would never do. There was old Miss
Cable, his mother's second cousin; but she would serve even worse....
Wait--Jimmy Sayre! Jimmy Sayre, of course! Somewhere in
Cambridge--James M. Sayre, 79--75--
He opened the door and yelled an address into the driver's ear.
The taxi man had to go up to the house and explain things a bit. He
cleared the way and at a signal George Banks ran up the walk at top
speed, causing, even so, considerable amazement among the
breakfasting residents of Cambridge. Jimmy paid the taxi driver and
gave George a bathrobe to cover his blueness.
"Better have a wash and some breakfast," said Jimmy. "Lil'll be down
in a minute. Let me take you upstairs."
But the distracted look was still in George's eyes.
"Telephone," he said briefly.
"Sure, right in here," Jimmy led the way.
"I want to get the manager of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in New York,"
George Banks told the operator. There was fuss and waiting;
interminable waiting, during which George Banks paced the rug and
smoked Jimmy Sayre's cigarettes, Egyptian though they were. His host
asked questions, but George was unable to give coherent answers.
After a while the connection with New York was ready.
"Is this the manager? ... Well, I want to speak to somebody who has
charge of the guests' mail.... Yeah.... All right, listen! I
mailed a letter from Chicago night before last. Addressed to Miss
Mildred Trudeau and marked Hold for Arrival.... Miss Mildred
Trudeau. Mildred.... Yeah, Trudeau. That's right.... Now, I want
that letter destroyed--destroyed, torn up, thrown away.... Yeah....
"What? Oh, don't be dumb. I wrote the letter, I tell you! It isn't
the guests' mail unless the guests get it.... Yeah, but I wrote it;
can't I have you destroy it if I want to? ... How do you know? How
do you know anything? _Do you_ know anything? Of course I wrote it.
How'd I know you had it if I didn't write it? ... Don't be dumb. Why
can't you----"
The conversation continued a minute or two and came to a snappy
conclusion when George Banks gave the Ritz gentleman certain specific
directions as to where to go.
George jiggled the receiver hook and got the long-distance operator
on the line again. He told her to get him the office of the White
Star Line. Again there was a pause of minutes and again the
telephone was ready with New York.
"Hello! White Star Line? Is the _Majestic_ docking this morning?
... She has, you say? What time? ... What time is it now? Do you
suppose most of the passengers are still on the pier? ... Don't be
fresh! I'm asking you for information. Is there any possibility of
reaching one of the passengers by telephone? ... By telephone....
Yeah, I might better run down to the pier myself--in pajamas, from
Boston. Sure, that's a good idea, too! I'm asking you if there's
any chance of reaching one of the passengers by telephone. Is there?
... You're sure? ... No way at all, eh? All right. Thanks."
With a gesture of finality, George Banks put the receiver on the hook.
"Well, Jimmy, I've done all I could, haven't I?"
Jimmy Sayre, who had not the faintest idea of what it was all about,
thought it was best to agree.
"It looks as though you had, Phooey."
"Thank you," said George Banks.
Again he placed the receiver at his ear and asked for long-distance.
There was the shadow of a smile on his face.
"Long-distance, old dear. I'm awfully sorry to break in on your
morning like this," he said. "I hope it isn't too much trouble....
"Will you please get me Great Neck, Long Island, one-one-six-one? ...
Yep.... And ask for Miss Barbara Kittridge."
ARABIAN KNIGHTS
_By_ Octavus Roy Cohen
OCTAVUS ROY COHEN
One of the long-distance records for magazine publication of a series
of stories is held by Octavus Roy Cohen, who was born in Charleston,
S.C., on June 26, 1891, and who was a civil engineer, a newspaper
man, and a lawyer before, in 1915, he gave his time exclusively to
writing. The series of humorous negro stories centered about Florian
Slappey which have appeared for years in the _Saturday Evening Post_
has provided a succession of diverting books with no less diverting
titles--_Polished Ebony_, _Highly Colored_, _Assorted Chocolates_,
_Black and Blue,_ etc.
"Arabian Knights," which is of this lineage, was first published in
_Photoplay_.
In justice to Mr. Cohen the reader may be reminded that he is not a
writer in a single vein. _The Crimson Alibi_--afterward made into a
highly successful play--was his novel, and his negro stories have
been interspersed with detective and mystery tales. In general his
other fiction is of the type rather loosely called "dramatic"; and
Cohen is famed among editors for his extraordinary gifts as a
contriver of plots. Lately this gift for situation and the "O. Henry
twist" has gained him a fresh reputation as the author of dramatic,
highly compressed stories told in not more than a thousand words.
ARABIAN KNIGHTS[1]
[1] Copyright, 1926, by Octavus Roy Cohen.
J. Cæsar Clump, director-in-chief for the Midnight Pictures
Corporation, Inc., of Birmingham, Alabama, reclined in a hammock and
gazed languidly down upon the city of Algiers. He was engaged in the
task of whipping his brain into a subjective state, in order that he
might more efficiently consider a new story idea suggested that
morning by Forcep Swain, Midnight's elegant author.
Physical conditions were ideal. He was surrounded by the vivid
vegetation of the hotel gardens. Overhead the sun streamed warmly
from an unflecked sky. Through the iron grill of the garden gates he
could see the narrow, winding streets of Mustapha Superieur,
fashionable suburb of Algiers: and far below the harbor
stretched--all sapphire and burnished gold, studded with small and
picturesque ships: fishing boats with queer, triangular sails;
decrepit tramp steamers from Gibraltar, Marseilles, Venice, Naples,
Genoa and North African ports; one tremendous liner stopping over in
Algiers for a day in the course of a world cruise.
He extracted from his pocket a package of American cigarettes,
liberally besprinkled with Algerian revenue stamps. He selected one,
lighted it, and luxuriously inhaled the rich Virginia tobacco. He
raised his putteed legs from the ground, settled them comfortably in
the hammock, removed a checkered cap, and closed his eyes in order to
give his thought processes the benefit of full physical comfort.
And then his superb serenity was shattered by a crashing in the
shrubbery and a hoarse voice bellowing his name. Director Clump sat
up and stared with ill-concealed hostility toward the sound.
"Mistuh Clump!" came the harsh, masculine call: "Hey, Cæsar! Where
is you at?"
The director sighed and shook his head. Always when he slipped away
for an hour of undisturbed thought, there was something to destroy
his tranquillity. And usually it was this same person.
He waited resignedly until the enormous figure of Opus Randall,
Midnight's most popular comedian, burst through a hedge of flowers
and confronted him.
Mr. Randall was hot, tired, and indignant. His massive chest was
heaving with exertion, his pudgy face was beaded with perspiration,
and his fat legs trembled.
One glance at the face of the leading actor, and Director Clump knew
that peace had departed for the afternoon. There were times when
Opus was trying beyond the point of endurance--and this was one of
the times. Cæsar Clump assumed a resigned look, waved a languid
hand, and voiced a question.
"Well, Opus--wha's eatin' you now?"
Mr. Randall came close and hovered over the recumbent figure, upon
which he gazed with ill-concealed hostility. His voice quivered with
fury.
"Wha's the matter? Huh! That you could lay down there an' ask me
such!" He doubled one big fist and spanked it into the palm of the
other hand. "I reckon you know as well as me wha's the matter."
"Well, if you know an' I know--then us bofe knows, an' there ain't no
need talkin' about it."
"Gittin' sarcastical, is you? Just like you been doin' ever since us
fust come to Africa. You think you can talk to me like that--an'
ride me all the time when us is workin'--an' gimme dirty work to do.
I's good an' sick an' tired of it, an' I ain't gwine stan' it another
minute."
"What does you aim to do?" inquired the director. His tone was
smooth, but anger was commencing to smolder within the narrow bosom.
"Plenty!"
"What, f'r instant?"
Opus spluttered. He choked. He knew very well there was nothing he
could do--but he hated to be reminded of that fact. Director Clump
saw his opportunity and was quick to press the advantage.
"Now listen at me, Fat Boy. Ever since us left Bumminham you has
been makin' trouble. Nothin' ever suits you. Always you is fightin'
with Florian Slappey or Welford Potts or Aleck Champagne--or
somebody. An' now you comes bustin' in on my solichude yellin'
'cause I has been givin' you some funny scenes----"
"Funny? Great Sufferin' Tripe! Who says they is funny? You reckon
it's funny fo' me that you should chuck me overboard fo' some
fishermen to pull up in a net ... an' then a dawg-gone octopus gits
in that net with me an' I is almost drowned an' besides also scared
to death? I guess you think I just laughed myse'f sick, don't you?
An' was it funny I should fall down them stone steps in the native
quarter this mawnin'? Why di'n't you tell me there was a rope across
that street?"
Mr. Clump explained patiently. "I wanted the fall to look nachel."
"Ooooow! So that's it? An' you takes a chance of bustin' me all up!
A lot you care does I crack my neck. Why don't you give Welford
Potts some of them terrible things to do? Why is it always me, me,
me when it comes to gittin' beat up?"
Mr. Clump rose and his voice crackled. "Stop! You quit kickin' an'
listen at me! I craves to make somethin' plain to yo' fat head--once
an' fo' all time. You signed up with this comp'ny to play slapstick
comedy. You is a comedian an' tha's all what you is. But ev'ything
you gits tol' to do, you raises a howl. What do you think you is,
anyhow--a tragedian? Wantin' to play _Hamlick_ or somethin' like
that? Now I'se finished, th'oo and done with you. I has exhausted
my temper an' next time you do any of this yellin' aroun' you gits
fined an' laid off without sal'ry. Git that clear. I has tried to
keep fum havin' trouble with you. I has let you buzz aroun' like a
crazy hawssfly ... but I'se finished. You ain't nothin' but a straw
an' I is a camel's back. I has done broke! Now--git!"
Opus stared intently at his chief. It was the first time he had ever
seen the immaculate little man aroused to a high pitch of ill humor
and instinct warned him that Mr. Clump had been exasperated to the
absolute limit of his endurance. Opus was no fool. He swung around
with what dignity he could master and crashed away through the
flowers and palms. He assumed a grand manner, but he knew that his
bluff had been called--and he boiled with rage.
Mr. Randall wished to convey the impression that he accepted the
dictum of his director. He wished Mr. Clump to lower his guard in
order that the force of Opus's retaliating blow might be unimpaired.
Mr. Randall vowed vengeance! And, what was more, he knew precisely
how he intended wreaking it.
He moved through the luxurious gardens in search of a particular
person. He found her in a tiny palm grove, sipping tea and eating
little cakes. She was a slender and attractive creature of undoubted
strength of character. Opus bowed low.
"Good evenin', Mis' Clump."
"Evenin', Opus. How is you this evenin'?"
"Tol'able, thank you." He seated himself opposite, and yawned.
"Algiers suttinly bores me. Nothin' to do an' heaps of time to do it
in."
Mrs. Sicily Clump smiled. "Reckon you must be the only bored pusson
in the Midnight troupe, Opus."
"How come? Ain't Cæsar bored?"
"My husban'?" She gestured in negation. "Nossuh, he showly ain't.
He says this is the finest town fo' pitchers we has found since we
come abroad. All day he wuks an' at night he goes out an' gathers
material."
"Oh! he does?" Opus eyed her speculatively and tried to make his
question casual. "Is he goin' out tonight?"
"Showly."
"Where?"
"Down to the water front to watch the ships an' git ideas. Him an'
Florian Slappey is goin'."
Mr. Randall emitted a large and raucous laugh, and Mrs. Clump leaned
forward.
"What at is you laughin', Brother Randall?"
"Nothin', Mis' Clump. Nothin' at all--'cept that a lady which has
been ma'ied to a man as long as you has, should b'lieve such
fumadiddles."
"You mean my husban' ain't gwine to no water front? You mean you
know where him an' Florian is really goin'?"
"Uh-huh." Mr. Randall drummed on the table-top. "Now you mind,
Sicily--I ain't tryin' to start somethin'. But I happen to know that
where Cæsar an' Florian really is goin' is down to a Arab
dancin'-girl place on a li'l alley right off that Rue de la Kasba we
seen the other day."
Sicily smiled. "Tha's where you is wrong, Opus. The place what you
mention, Florian an' my husban' went to las' night with my
permission."
"Aaah! An' they had such a good time with them cullud dancin' ladies
that tonight they goes back without tellin' you they is doin' such."
Opus rose ponderously. "Sicily, what you ain't got in you' haid is
no brains."
He retired in excellent order, leaving Sicily Clump sitting straight
up in her chair, eyes focused upon a tangerine. She knew
instinctively that Opus had spoken the truth, and her wifely wrath
was beginning to mount.
Reviewing the events of the past week, it seemed as though her
husband and Florian had been unnaturally zealous in their hunt for
filmable material. Last night Cæsar had told her frankly that he
wished to visit a hall where Algerian girls performed Arab dances.
His frankness disarmed her, and she gave her permission. But if,
tonight, he was returning to the dance hall and concealing his
intention of doing so--then she felt that it behooved her, as a
lawfully wedded spouse, to do something.
Mr. Randall was thoroughly satisfied with the start he had made. He
knew Sicily was no bungler. He realized that she would proceed
carefully--and to the complete eventual discomfiture of the dapper
director who persisted in making Opus's life one misery after
another. Meanwhile he seated himself on the ground with his back
against an orange tree and lost himself in thought. A peaceful smile
played about his lips and until a voice broke upon his ears he was
unaware of another's presence in the vicinity.
"What is you so happy about, Opus?"
Mr. Randall looked up at the trim little figure of Edwin Boscoe Fizz,
Midnight's second director. Mr. Randall frowned. He resented the
imputation that he was happy.
"I'se mis'able!" he snapped. "Entirely an' completely unhappy."
"How come you is smilin', then?"
"Just got to fool people. 'Fraid if I don't smile, folks will stop
thinkin' I'se a comedjin. But my heart ain't smilin', Eddie--it's
bustin'."
Mr. Fizz seated himself beside the portly actor. "Shuh! Opus, that
ain't no way to talk. S'pose you tell me what's wrong?"
Mr. Randall was quite willing to unburden himself. "I showly wisht
you was my director, Eddie--instead of that uppity, strutful Cæsar
Clump. What I think of that feller----"
Eddie Fizz stiffened. "Quit talkin' that away, Opus. Cæsar Clump is
the fondest man I is of."
"Well, I ain't gwine be yo' rival. You is a better man than him an'
a better director. Was you handlin' me, you woul'n't be doin' me the
dirty tricks he is."
"Like what, f'rinstance?"
Opus unfolded his worries and laid them out before the eyes of Eddie
Fizz. But somehow, Eddie failed to agree with him, even though he
was sympathetic. Soft-heartedness was one of Eddie's greatest
shortcomings. "I think you takes things all wrong, Opus," he
volunteered. "Wasn't you such a good actor, you woul'n't git so much
rough stuff to do. An' you is lucky to have such a swell director as
Cæsar----"
"Piffles! That slice of tripe! That----"
"You cain't call him out of his name befo' me!" Eddie had risen and
was confronting the infuriated Opus with aggressive loyalty.
"I reckon I can. I ain't quarrelin' with you, Eddie. I like you
fine. But I has got my 'pinion of Mustuh Julius Cæsar Clump an'
there ain't nobody gwine change me. N'r neither I ain't no pusson to
sit back idle an' git stepped on. Cæsar has insulted me, an' when
I'se insulted I fights! I'se gwine make that feller wish he hadn't
never been bawn. I'se gwine----"
"Is you threatenin' him?"
"Tha's the one thing I ain't doin' nothin' else but!"
Mr. Fizz turned away. "I cain't listen to you no mo' then, Opus. Us
is friends, but Cæsar is mo' friendlier with me than you, so I bids
you a respective good evenin'."
Opus stared after the slim figure. He liked Eddie--couldn't help
liking the modest, inoffensive little man whose genius for comedy had
elevated him to his present important post over the handicap of a
shy, sensitive disposition. But he resented Eddie's loyalty to Cæsar
Clump.
What if Clump had worked with Eddie and taught him all he knew? What
if Eddie had attained directorship through handling Sicily Clump when
her husband failed? Gratitude was one thing, but Opus felt that Mr.
Fizz carried it to the point of insanity.
As for Eddie Fizz, he was considerably worried. He discounted Opus's
threats, of course. Opus was always threatening somebody. He was an
inveterate trouble maker, the single member of the Midnight troupe
possessing a violent case of temperament. But, just the same, it was
well for him to know--as Cæsar's stanch friend--that there was
somebody in the organization who bore him ill-will.
A low whistle was wafted to his ears. He traced it with his eyes and
saw that it came from the lips of the elegant Mr. Florian Slappey.
Florian leaned out of the window and called softly.
"Hey, Eddie--come up to my room a minute."
Mr. Fizz obeyed. He mounted the stairway and entered the bare little
cubicle which Mr. Slappey occupied in solitary state. Then his eyes
fell upon the other occupant of the room.
"Hello, Cæsar."
"Howdye, Eddie."
Florian dropped an affectionate hand on Eddie's shoulder and spoke
beatifically. "Man! where Cæsar an' I was las' night!"
"That dancin'-girl place?"
"Uh-huh!" Florian rolled his eyes. "Hot diggity dawg!"
J. Cæsar Clump chuckled. "How 'bout you goin' back there with us
tonight, Eddie?"
Mr. Fizz frowned. "You goin' back there?"
"Tha's the most thing we is aimin' to do."
"But Cæsar--how come Sicily lets you return to a place like that?"
Mr. Clump laughed loudly. "Shuh! Eddie, she don't know nothin'
'bout it. She thinks I an' Florian is gwine be gallivantin' aroun'
the water front lookin' fo' lit'ry material."
"No!"
"Yea. Golla! she woul'n't dream of leavin' me go to see no Algiers
dancin' girls a secon' time. Once was bad enough. So I an' Florian
framed this story an' right away she says all right we can go. Now
we was thinkin' that you would have the time of yo' life.... Boy!
until you has visited that place, you ain't been nowhere an' you
ain't seen nothin'. How 'bout it?"
Eddie shook his head. "Nothin' stirrin', Cæsar. Glorious woul'n't
never say yes."
"You ain't got to 'splain ev'ything to yo' wife, has you?"
"Uh-huh. Us promised each other that."
Florian grimaced. "What good is a wife if you cain't break promises
to her? C'mon, Eddie--be a good sport."
"Cain't make it, boys." He stared at Cæsar thoughtfully. "Anybody
but me know where you-all is goin'?"
"I don't reckon so."
"Well, don't tell nobody then."
Cæsar smiled affectionately. "Ol' Sad Face! Why not?"
"'Cause ev'body in this comp'ny ain't yo' friend, Cæsar. An' was
Sicily to find out where you was at----"
Both men whistled expressively. Eddie wished them luck and went his
way. Once out of the room Florian and Cæsar looked apprehensively at
each other.
"What you reckon he meant, Florian?"
"Talkin' 'bout Opus Randall, mos' prob'ly. He's hatin' you plenty in
the las' few days."
"He don't know nothin' 'bout this trip tonight, does he?"
"Showly not." There was the faintest quiver of doubt in Florian's
voice. "Co'se I guess there's some in the comp'ny suspecks where we
is gwine. We done a heap of talkin' this mawnin' an' Opus might of
heard."
Mr. Clump's eyes narrowed hostilely. "If that fat slab of side-meat
ever tol' my wife on me.... But shuh! we ain't doin' nothin' but
borryin' trouble. Sicily don't suspeck nothin' an' us is gwine have
the time of our lives."
Mr. Slappey grinned hugely. "Chief, when you said that you show
spoke a parabola!"
At three o'clock that afternoon a party of three, consisting of
Director Clump, Cameraman Exotic Hines and Author Forcep Swain, left
the hotel on a tour of inspection. They were seeking locations for
certain important comedy shots and were intent on business.
Mrs. Sicily Clump stood at her window and watched them go. They
moved off down the Rue Michelet and passed from sight. Immediately
Sicily swung into action.
She descended to the hotel gardens and quested for the company's
official Algiers guide. She found him chatting amiably with two taxi
drivers.
M. Fernand Boutierre was a decidedly estimable gentleman. His
credentials were unimpeachable, as President Orifice R. Latimer had
taken very good care to see after a certain thoroughly disastrous
experience in Biskra.
Fernand was of medium height and modest structure. In complexion he
was of that doubtful mahogany tinge which marks the native Algerian.
Born and reared within the corporate limits of the sprawling, hilly
city on the north African coast, Fernand had learned to speak French
fluently. Later he had picked up bits of English from tourists and
then had seriously studied the language until now it was his proud
boast that he spoke it as good as a native.
A large tourist bureau had recommended Fernand without qualification.
He was licensed by the police and they asserted that he was familiar
with everything in Algiers from palace to pest-hole. He spoke on
terms of respectful intimacy with officials and wharf-rats.
Proprietors of two large halls where boule and baccarat flourished
knew him well, and there was no iniquitous establishment in the city
which was not eager to welcome him and his clients.
His chief recommendation was that wherever he chose to guide a
person--there that person was safe. Being a native Algerian, he held
high social rank among his kind. French shopkeepers and
entertainment purveyors catered to the man.
Sicily Clump knew Fernand well, and liked him. She opened the
interview by pressing in his hand a crisp, new hundred-franc note,
realizing that this made of Fernand her stanch ally--unless somebody
happened to come along with more than a hundred francs.
She spoke earnestly and lengthily with M. Boutierre. At first he
raised his hands in horror and shook his head violently. Once he
offered to return her hundred francs. But Mrs. Clump was insistent.
He spoke of risks and she volunteered to assume them. He told her he
dared not jeopardize his very excellent position with Midnight, and
she promised protection: she gave her word that he was to be merely
an innocent bystander. And at the crucial instant of his indecision,
she produced a second hundred-franc note.
Fernand was converted. Much against his better judgment he consented
to put himself at her disposal. She then proceeded to speak more
specifically and a half hour later the somewhat doubtful M. Boutierre
boarded a tram for down-town, there to seek the native clothing shop
of a very good friend. Frankly, Fernand regarded it as a very silly
proceeding--entirely too much ado about nothing at all. What if this
woman's husband cared to visit--for the second time in two nights--an
irreproachable dancing establishment? Fernand shrugged. The mental
ways of these American women were quite beyond him. Why, the place
was so respectable that he frequently took tourist ladies to watch
the dancing ... invariably to their disappointment. Native Algerian
dances lack considerable of the paprika which seasons the famous
French can-can.
Shortly before the dinner hour Fernand returned from the native
quarter with a large bundle and a suggestion. He had surveyed the
situation from every angle and finally made it quite clear to Sicily
that he would take her to the dancing place only on condition that
some colored gentleman in the company should accompany them. This,
Fernand felt, would leave him in the clear should things go wrong.
Much to his amazement, Sicily did not protest. In fact, she
instantly and heartily endorsed the idea and immediately went in
search of Opus, whom she found staring down miserably upon the
Mediterranean Sea.
Opus demurred. It was one thing to start the ball rolling, and quite
another to trot along with it. Sicily used powerful argument, and
eventually Opus consented to accompany them to the dance palace.
"But," said he, in qualification of his agreement, "I ain't gwine in.
I goes downtown in the taxi with you-all, but when we gits to that
place, I waits outside."
"Why?"
"You is gwine be disguised. I ain't. Minute I go in, Cæsar an'
Florian reckernizes me ... then the whole scheme goes blooie. Ain't
that the truth?"
"Yeh ... seems so."
"'Tis so. You don't wan yo' husban' to know you is there. An' with
me waitin' outside, he won't know nothin'."
"Good enough. Now, you keep yo' eyes open this evenin', Brother
Randall, an' as soon as Cæsar an' Florian starts downtown you hunt me
up."
Dinner that evening was a gala affair. There was unusual jocularity
and good nature, most of the laughter emanating from J. Cæsar Clump,
Florian Slappey, Sicily Clump, and Opus Randall. The first two stood
upon the threshold of a glorious evening, Sicily was determined that
any lurking suspicion on the part of her husband should be allayed
and Opus was chuckling inwardly at the thought of the revenge he was
about to take.
Mr. Randall was, as a matter of fact, in fine fettle. His deep voice
boomed across the room. He fairly oozed high spirits. Personally
unpopular as he was, the others were laughing with him--all save
Director Edwin Boscoe Fizz, whose mild little eyes turned inquiringly
upon the fat comedian. Mr. Fizz felt that there must be something
sinister behind Opus's abrupt climb from the nadir of unhappiness to
the zenith of jocularity.
By the time dinner ended, night had settled over Algiers in a rich,
purple mantle. The sky was cloudless and spangled with stars. From
the hotel veranda one could look down upon the sprawling city; the
wide, tree-sentineled streets of the French quarter, the white houses
and mosques in the native section. The panorama was weirdly
beautiful in the moonlight.... Cæsar and Florian took their leave
and, as long as they remained within earshot, discussed loudly the
sort of pictorial material they hoped to discover on the proposed
tour of the congested and malodorous water front.
Less than fifteen minutes after their departure, Sicily Clump
answered a tap on her door. She took from M. Boutierre a sizable
bundle, and talked with him briefly in subdued tones. She closed the
door and started to dress.
Less than twenty minutes after that, Mrs. Sicily Clump, feminine star
of Midnight productions, surveyed herself in the mirror. The
reflection showed an Arab lady of unusual shapeliness, encased in a
long, flowing robe of white. The head was completely covered and the
lower half of her face was concealed by a white veil. Only the eyes
shone forth ... and they were twinkling with a mixture of excitement
and anger.
Sicily was well content. "Cæsar woul'n't never know me," she
observed to her reflection. "In fack, I ain't so sure I'd reckernize
myself."
She tapped on the door as a signal to Fernand, who was waiting in the
hall. He entered and exclaimed rapturously, declaring that even an
Algerian would mistake her for a native. He then bade her wait,
while he inspected the narrow hall leading to the side door.
He returned in a few moments. Sicily took his arm, gathered her
Arabian robe about her, and they slipped down the stairway, along the
dark hall and thence into a taxi which was waiting outside. Opus was
already there. He was enthusiastic. "Golla! Sicily--how moslemmed
up you is!"
She smiled. "You is sure that they ain't nobody saw'n us?"
"Positively not. I been standin' heah waitin' an' nobody but the
taxi driver ain't been near heah."
Mrs. Clump was satisfied. But neither she nor Opus knew of the
loyalty which had aroused the suspicions of Eddie Fizz, nor of the
determination with which he had shadowed Opus Randall since dinner.
Eddie had missed no move of Opus since the conclusion of that meal.
He felt that something was brewing--and when Mr. Randall posted
himself by the side door of the hotel, Mr. Fizz scrooched himself in
the shadow of a nearby palm tree--and watched.
What he had just seen appeared to more than justify such pains as he
had taken. First there had been Opus standing alone--expectantly.
Then the figure of Fernand Boutierre appearing briefly, speaking a
few words with the large actor; then beckoning with his right hand.
At once, as though it had been waiting for this particular signal, a
taxicab rolled out of line, and came to a halt near where Mr. Randall
was standing. Opus immediately entered.
Fernand reëntered the hotel. He appeared again a few seconds later
accompanied by a modestly veiled Arab woman. This couple joined Opus
in the taxi and the vehicle rolled down the driveway toward the gate
of the hotel grounds.
Eddie Fizz stepped out of the shadow of the palm tree. The Arab
woman puzzled him. Then his mind flashed back over the episodes and
apprehensions of the afternoon, and a great light broke upon him. He
clapped his hands together and his eyes blazed.
"Ow!" he murmured, "what a dirty trick!"
His legs twinkled upstairs to his room, where he found his wife,
Glorious. He spoke jerkily.
"Don' ast me no questions, honey; an' don't say nothin' to nobody no
time. But Cæsar Clump is in trouble, an' I has got to git him out."
Mrs. Fizz patted his hand. "Go ahead, Eddie. I ain't gwine to say
nothin', an' I won't repeat myse'f."
He was gone as abruptly as he entered. He shot out of the front door
like a slender, black arrow and pitched himself into a taxi. He
motioned the driver into the Rue Michelet and gestured toward the
town below. Wild contortions indicated to his driver that he desired
speed and plenty of it.
They started toward the lower town at a breakneck rate, twisting this
way and that, coming now within sight of the harbor, and again being
hemmed in by high walls surrounding handsome homes. Eventually there
appeared far ahead of them another car in the rear of which Eddie
could discern the veiled and hooded figure of the woman he believed
was Sicily Clump. In his very worst and most painstaking French he
explained to the driver that he wished the other taxi trailed--but
not too closely.
Their way led through the French quarter; a section of wide streets
and imposing shops--very much like any city of France. Then they
turned to the left and progress was slower. The streets narrowed,
seeming to close in upon them. They rose sharply, buildings lost
individuality ... they found themselves in a twisting, tortuous maze
of narrow cobblestoned alleys. The native quarter was picturesque,
but not prepossessing. Lights glowed palely--intensifying the outer
darkness; the streets were crowded with burnoosed Algerians moving
with slow indifference, or merely squatting against the stucco walls
and gazing with some hostility and considerable distaste toward the
taxi. It was a silent section of the city; sinisterly quiet; narrow;
treacherous....
Meanwhile in the leading taxi, Sicily Clump was wondering whether she
had allowed wifely indignation to vanquish common sense. In broad
daylight the native quarter had attracted her. Now, she felt herself
oppressed by vague fears. She fancied that she detected criticism in
certain native eyes--as though they were asking what a veiled
Algerian lady was doing in a taxi-cab with an American negro and a
native guide.
Even the bazaars, so intriguing in the daytime, were pale and
uninteresting tonight. The ineffective lights glowed weirdly on the
white walls ... and there were blocks where there was no light at
all; merely scores of ghostlike figures moving soundlessly in the
night.
Sicily regretted the trip, but now that she had come this far she had
no intention of turning back. Her resentment against her husband was
flaming. It was all his fault! What right had he to force her to
trail him down here!
"Is we near the place, Fernand?"
"Ver' near quite, madame. Almost are there."
She sighed. "Remember, Fernand--if I should be reckernized we is
just gwine say that I was studyin' for a part I'se gwine play in a
Arab pitcher, an' that I made you bring me heah."
"Madame is correct. For Arab part she desire to see Arab dance so
Fernand is delight' to escort, _n'est-ce pas_?"
"_Oui--oui!_" broke in Opus, "we gotcha, Fernand."
Their taxi moved with difficulty along the Rue Babel Oued, a populous
street urgent with color, odor and life. In the center, and flanking
both sides, were tiny shops displaying odds and ends: nondescript
garments, bits of glassware, pieces of filmy silk, ragged and
worthless rugs, squares of gaudy, imitation tapestry. Halfway along
this narrow, pulsing thoroughfare they came to the corner of the Rue
de la Kasba, where the Eglise Notre Dame des Victoires gleamed
whitely in the moonlight. An ancient mosque of impressive dimensions
and architecture, it affected Sicily Clump with a bad case of creeps.
But even more impressive was the narrow street they swung into after
proceeding a few squares upgrade along the Rue de la Kasba. This was
indeed the narrowest street they had yet traversed, and just as
Sicily was on the point of reconsidering, the taxi stopped and
Fernand announced that they had arrived.
The house before which they stood was more impressive than its
somewhat squalid neighbors. It was of strictly Moorish design with
an ornate entrance. Fernand instructed the taxi driver to keep his
headlights burning until after he and Sicily had entered the house.
Opus settled himself comfortably in the rear of the car and wished
the others much luck.
Obviously Mr. Fernand Boutierre was well known in this particular
establishment. The girl at the door smiled a greeting and gazed with
casual curiosity at the figure of the veiled woman. Fernand walked
ahead and Sicily followed, her heart thumping.
They came into a large room, perhaps twenty feet wide by forty in
depth, across the width of which benches had been placed. But the
second floor of the building did not form a ceiling to the room.
Instead, a balcony circled the hall about sixteen feet above the
first story, and leading off from this balcony were several ornately
carved doorways.
At the lower end of the hall was the stage: a simple platform raised
perhaps two feet from the floor. On this stage were dancers and
orchestra. As Sicily and Fernand seated themselves in a dark,
obscure corner where they could not be recognized the orchestra
sounded off. It performed this feat without undue formality. One
portly Algerian lady played deftly on an instrument resembling a
flageolet, another scraped earnestly at a sort of fiddle. And the
drummer drummed.
The drummer fascinated Mrs. Clump. For one thing, he seemed to be
the only man connected with the enterprise; for another, he was a man
of striking proportions. Probably six feet in height and
correspondingly broad; with a vast chest and huge, muscular arms, he
sat cross-legged in the middle of the stage and thumped with the
fingers of both hands on the end of a huge kettle covered with
tightly-stretched hide. The effect was inspiring:
thumpy-thump-thump-thump! Thumpy - thump - thump - thump!
Thumpy-thump ... over and over again, marking time for the flageolet
and fiddle.
The drummer seemed disinterested. His black eyes were unseeing, his
dark-complexioned face inscrutable. He did not even look around when
a young Arab lady, introduced in French as an Ouled Nail dancer from
Biskra, arose and commenced to strut her stuff.
The dance, as such, was vastly disappointing, even to Sicily. This
particular young woman was as fully dressed as her dozen sister
performers who sat stolidly on the floor of the stage awaiting their
turn. She wore an ornate blouse, baggy trousers, a few beads and a
sort of veil. As she moved, the others clapped languidly, keeping
time to the thumping of the Gargantuan drummer.
The dancer moved slowly and indifferently. If there was any
intricacy in the steps, Sicily could not detect it. To her untutored
eyes the lady seemed to be performing about one-quarter of a
desultory daily dozen. She walked up and down the stage a few times,
smiled, bowed--and seated herself. At which signal another
lady--equally bored and languid--arose.
But now Sicily turned her gaze from the stage, and her eyes came to
rest on the figures of her truant husband and his friend.
It was obvious that J. Cæsar Clump and Florian Slappey were enjoying
themselves hugely. They were sitting straight up in their chairs
paying rapt attention to the modest undulations of the dancer then
holding the boards. Once or twice they broke into spontaneous
applause ... and it was then that Mrs. Sicily Clump commenced to
become angry in earnest.
She eyed them balefully through her veil. Once Cæsar looked straight
at her. For an instant she feared detection, but he turned away
disinterestedly. What mattered it to him that an Arab woman desired
to see the dancers?
Two or three more numbers were performed, the giant thumper thumping
steadily. Then Sicily saw her husband and Florian rise. They
beckoned to the overlarge and overdark woman who seemed to be the
proprietress and there ensued a difficult but evidently satisfactory
conversation in French. Florian and Cæsar started for the door.
Sicily half rose from her seat, intending to confront her husband.
But just as she would have started forward, Cæsar turned back toward
the stage. The smile which he flung at the girls seemed to include
them all, and he waved a cheery hand toward the fat duenna.
"So long, girls," called Cæsar gaily. "See you-all a li'l later!"
Sicily sank back in fury. So he was coming back later, was he? She
was quivering with righteous wrath as she watched them disappear
through the front door. Once they had gone she swung violently on
her guide.
"Fernand," she hissed, "you heard my husban' say just now he was
comin' back, didn't you?"
"_Oui_, madame."
"Well, I crave to have you take me up yonder on the balcony. Then
when him an' that wuthless Florian Slappey return back heah, I can
watch what they does, an' they won't see me."
Fernand shrugged. He was under orders and receiving excellent pay.
If a wife chose to act this way... He escorted Sicily up the
twisting stairway leading to the balcony. Once there, Mrs. Clump
took matters in her own hands.
She arranged two chairs where she and the guide might sit and gaze
down onto the first floor without themselves being observed. To make
assurance doubly sure, she borrowed an ornate Moorish screen from an
adjoining room and placed this in front of the chairs. Then,
firm-lipped and bright-eyed, she settled herself to wait until such
time as Julius Cæsar Clump paid his return visit.
Meanwhile, another chapter in the drama was being enacted in the
terrifyingly dark side street on which the dance house was located.
Mr. Edwin Boscoe Fizz was loyally on the job.
The task of trailing Sicily's taxi had not been simple, but
eventually Eddie's chauffeur parked a block away from the spot where
the other taxi was standing. Eddie commanded the man to extinguish
his lights. Then the little director stepped to the ground and
pussyfooted up the alley toward the waiting car.
He was unobserved. The Stygian gloom of the alley afforded excellent
protection and he came quite close to Sicily's car. There, in the
glow of a light over the doorway, he saw the figure of the large and
smug Opus Randall perched comfortably in a corner, a large cigar in
his teeth.
Eddie stood motionless, observing Opus--and thinking. Sicily and
Fernand were inside, he knew. If Cæsar was already there, then the
rescue was too late. If not ... Eddie took up his place in the
shadows of a building and waited, prepared to intercept Cæsar in case
he had not already arrived.
The door of the big Moorish house opened and in the pale yellow light
of the entry, two masculine figures stood revealed. At the same
instant a bit of melancholy music spurted into the street: the thump
of drum and wail of _derbuka_. Eddie frowned in puzzlement. Sicily
was inside, and Cæsar was leaving. Obviously he had not been
confronted by the irate wife.
Cæsar and Florian started down the street. Opus Randall made himself
as inconspicuous as possible. And Eddie Fizz--hestitating to accost
his friends in full view of Opus--slunk along in the shadows until
they turned a corner. He accelerated his pace and whistled softly.
They turned in surprise.
"Well, if it ain't ol' Eddie Fizz! Coul'n't stan' the gaff!
Dawg-gone yo' ol' hide----"
"Cease!" commanded the mild little man. "Cæsar--you is up to yo'
neck in trouble."
Mr. Clump chuckled. "Boy! you says words but they don't convey no
inflammation. I asks you, How come?"
Eddie stepped close. "Was there a Arab lady sittin' in the dance
place back yonder?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well," snapped Eddie, "there wasn't!"
"Huh? Be yo' age, boy. I seen the Arab lady----"
"You didn't do no such of a thing. The lady you seen which you
thought was Arab, was Sicily Clump!"
There was an instant of hushed and bleak terror. Then doubt gripped
the husbandly heart of Mr. Clump and questions cascaded from his
lips. Briefly and graphically Eddie explained the situation and the
sinister role in which Opus had cast himself. The eyes of Mr. Clump
blazed with homicidal fury and he suggested that they immediately
repair to the alley and start the evening right by completely
exterminating Mr. Randall--a suggestion which Florian
enthusiastically seconded.
Eddie restrained them. "When time comes fo' beatin' up that no-good
ol' buzzard," he said, "I'se gwine he'p, an' he'p a-plenty. Any man
which would do what he has done ain't wuth plantin' lilies on. But
meanwhile, Cæsar, you got mo' impawtant things to consider. In the
fust place, you got to conwince Sicily that you ain't gallivantin'."
"Hmph!" mourned Clump, "is that all?"
"'Tain't hard! Where yo' brains is at, feller? Now listen: Sicily
seen you in there an' you was behavin' proper. You says yo'se'f that
you tol' the lady you-all was comin' back. Undoubtlessly, Sicily is
waitin' fo' you to do same. All right: You an' Florian goes back an'
I goes with you. You go in an' talk loud about how bored you is an'
how you wish you was home with yo' wife. An' you makes loud
speechments about you got to go on down to the water front an' git
material. Sicily heahs all that, an' she don't know you know she's
there an' right away she sees she's done you injustice an' gits
sorry. Maybe she don't even leave you know she is there, but goes
back to the hotel instead. Then you comes in about an hour fum now
an' goes right to her an' says, 'Honey, I an' Florian had to go back
to that dance place fo' a few minutes, but it was awful.' That puts
you all clear and makes things happy."
Director J. Cæsar Clump was staring pop-eyed at his friend.
"Eddie," he declared solemnly, "you ain't no man! You is simply a
genius!"
The trio marked time for perhaps ten minutes. Then, filled with high
purpose, they returned to the dance house. Clump rapped on the door
and they were admitted. They moved through the ill-lighted hallway
into the large room. At sight of them the music of drum and
flageolet and _derbuka_ immediately commenced and one of the Algerian
ladies rose and commenced to undulate.
Wearing masks of innocence, the three gentlemen strode down the
aisle. Cæsar surveyed the room out of the corners of his eyes. Then
he stopped short and whispered uncertainly to Eddie Fizz.
"Eddie--where Sicily is at?"
From her post of vantage on the balcony, Mrs. Clump saw the three men
glance affrightedly about the hall. But she did not hear the
conversation.
"I dunno, Cæsar."
"She coul'n't of gone out, could she?"
"No. Nobody come out of heah, an' besides, wasn't Opus still sittin'
outside in his taxi?"
"Then what----"
Florian Slappey had been gazing about with increasing fright. He
clutched Mr. Clump's arm. "Cæsar--s'pose they 'scovered she wasn't
no Arab lady an' done somethin' terrible to her?"
Genuine terror smote Mr. Clump. It was one thing for him to come
down with his friend and enjoy a bit of dancing--and quite another to
have his wife abducted.
And so--in this hour of danger--Mr. Clump became a very grim and
determined man. He was convinced that Sicily was somewhere in the
house, and he determined to know where--and to know promptly. His
manner as he advanced to the stage was surcharged with hostility
which those on the stage sensed.
Mr. Clump and his associates found themselves in a quandary. No one
in the place could speak a word of English, and he knew practically
no French. But a mere discrepancy in language could not affect his
determination to save the fair Sicily from whatever trouble might
have befallen her.
"Madame," he rasped, "_ou est mon femme?_"
The stout woman shook her head. On the balcony Sicily inquired of
Fernand what Cæsar had said.
"I cannot comprehend way up here," answered M. Boutierre. "Also I do
not know whether Mr. Clump speaks the French or the English."
"That's French," snapped Sicily.
Fernand shrugged. "I do not say. To me it sounds like English."
Cæsar was trying again. His voice barely carried to the balcony.
"_Mon femme est ici,_" he asserted with decidedly American accent.
"_Je demander ou est elle a!_"
The stout lady gestured hopelessly. Sicily again inquired of her
guide what Cæsar was saying.
"I do not know, madame. The words they may be French but the sound
is English and the meaning is absent."
Cæsar turned helplessly to Florian Slappey.
"You is smart, Florian--you try. An' tell her us ain't to be fooled
with."
Mr. Slappey spoke without hesitation. "_Femme!_" he announced.
"_Très bon femme! Vous cacher ou? Vous respondez_ or we _est_ going
to staht somethin'. _Comprez?_"
The woman did not comprez. Neither did the bewildered Fernand on the
balcony. "If they would not talk French!" he wailed. "I can speak
French and therefore I cannot understand what they say."
Cæsar was glaring hostilely at the proprietress. To his way of
thinking, both he and Mr. Slappey had spoken clearly and perfectly in
French. It was inconceivable that they should not be readily
understood. Therefore he believed that her look of blankness was
affected to trick him.
Mr. Clump tried again. He raised his fists and shook them in the
startled face of the fat Algerian lady. French verbs and nouns and
adjectives tumbled all over the room. Nobody understood what he was
saying, but it was obvious that he was exceedingly wrathy and on the
verge of precipitating trouble.
From the back of the stage the large gentleman uncoiled himself and
ostentatiously placed his drum on the floor. Standing, he seemed
even more formidable than when seated. His more-than-two-hundred
pounds of sinew moved forward and hovered over the irate Cæsar.
He spoke in his native tongue. The words fell softly as snowflakes,
but the eyes were level and cold. Ordinarily, the three colored
gentlemen from Birmingham would have retreated in more or less good
order, but now--confronted by the possibility of genuine danger to
Sicily--no such thought entered their heads. Cæsar returned stare
for stare.
"You long-drawed-out cracklin'!" he observed scathingly. "Thinkin'
you can scare us!"
He stepped away and motioned the others into a conference. His voice
dropped to a whisper.
"They is prob'ly holdin' Sicily prisoner," he announced. "I'se gwine
find her, an' it'll take the whole Algiers army to stop me--let alone
that tall boy. Is you-all with me, or does you crave to beat it
befo' the action stahts?"
Florian hitched his belt together. "Reckon if you is boun' to git
kilt, you could use a li'l comp'ny."
Mr. Fizz was equally ready, but his brain continued to function.
"Befo' the row commences," he suggested, "le's go drag Opus Randall
in heah. He's got plenty beef an' we can use him."
Cæsar grimaced. "He won't fight."
"Then," suggested Eddie calmly, "le's manslaughter him out yonder."
Still whispering, they moved into the alley. From the balcony Sicily
and Fernand saw them go--apparently permanently. Sicily rose.
"Le's travel back to the hotel, Fernand."
M. Boutierre was quite willing. He started toward the stairway.
Mrs. Clump restrained him.
"Ain't there another way out? My husban' will mos' likely be hangin'
around that alley an' I don't crave fo' him to see me."
Fernand admitted that there was another exit, and through this he
escorted Sicily from the house. But while they were reaching their
decision and making their departure, much was happening in the alley.
The door of the taxi was flung violently open and the terrified Mr.
Randall found himself staring into the frigid eyes of Director J.
Cæsar Clump. Over Mr. Clump's shoulder he could glimpse the hostile
countenances of Florian Slappey and Eddie Fizz. Cæsar spoke.
"Git out of that car, wuthless."
"Whaffo?"
"'Cause you stahted all this. It was you tol' Sicily where I was
gwine be at tonight. If you hadn't of been suggestive, she never
would of come. Now they has kidnapped her an' is holdin' her
prisoner. Us four goes in an' commits a rescue."
Opus alighted, but exhibited marked reluctance. "I--I ain't yearnin'
fo' no trouble."
"Boy! yo' yearns don't afflict me none whatsoever. You is in the
middle of a whole mess of trouble right now. Inside that house
there's li'ble to be a rough-house, an' you does yo' share.
Otherwise us th'ee steps on you right heah an' now an' makes you into
a pancake."
Opus considered flight and abandoned the idea. He stared at the
three men and saw that they were determined and desperate. He tried
to appear cheerful. "Well, if you really needs my he'p..."
"Come along. Keep yo' mouf an' yo' fists shut!"
They barged through the front door. The dancing girls were cowering
on the stage. The proprietress of the place rushed forward,
chattering hysterically in French. And immediately behind her
towered the warlike figure of the monster drummer. Cæsar acted as
spokesman.
"You got _mon femme en haute_ somewhere," he grated. "Us is gwine
fetch her down. An' if this big hunk of cheese here tries to stop
me, I'll----"
The Algerian gentleman and lady understood nothing of the situation.
They did not connect the dark-skinned tourists with the veiled woman
who had recently visited the place. All they could see was that
these four men were obviously looking for trouble. Therefore the
large man placed himself squarely across the path of J. Cæsar Clump.
To Mr. Clump this was a sinister maneuver. His voice came harshly.
"Out of my way, big boy! I'se gwine _en haute_----"
He put his foot on the first step. Iron fingers closed about his arm
and he was jerked roughly aside.
Cæsar struck. He struck straight and hard and his fist spanked
against the face of the Algerian. That individual let loose a bellow
of rage and astonishment and leaped toward Mr. Clump.
Florian Slappey swung into action. Swiftly and with genuine skill,
he executed a flying tackle. Algerian and Birminghamite struck the
floor together. At the same instant two flailing figures landed on
top of the native. Cæsar and Eddie were small but enthusiastic.
It was then that the fight really started. The girls were shrieking.
The fat proprietress flew howling into the street. On the floor four
figures milled viciously.
Three against one, but the three were small and the one was a giant.
Time after time he staggered to his feet with one or two men hanging
to his arms and another punching viciously at his face. And in the
background stood the terrified Opus Randall, too cowed to fight and
entirely too scared to run. Once, from the melee, came Florian's
voice----
"Git in heah, Opus. Us needs you!"
And Opus's honest answer. "I--I'se scared, Florian. You-all is
doin' fine without me."
The voice of Mr. Fizz came back, expressing his opinion of Mr.
Randall. Mr. Fizz was doing himself proud. He and his two friends
were taking a fine beating, but they were inflicting more than a bit
of punishment at the same time. They were now up, now down; benches
and tables were knocked over; the native was roaring with rage ...
the three slender Birmingham negroes fought silently and desperately.
The tide of battle ebbed and flowed. It was an epic encounter;
numbers against might--a trio of Lilliputians at grips with a
dark-skinned Gulliver. And just when the battle was at its fiercest,
when it was anybody's victory--or nobody's--the door was flung open
and a weeping proprietress entered in the wake of two businesslike
gendarmes.
The voice of authority rang through the room. The two efficient
figures surged into the middle of the battle and dragged the
contestants apart. Then words began to fly.
The four men presented a sorry spectacle. Cæsar, Florian and Eddie
were clad in rags, their faces resembled a boy's nightmare of a trip
through an abattoir. The Algerian was scarcely any better. His
clothing, too, was torn; his face pounded out of shape and his whole
body bruised. Only Opus Randall showed no scars of battle ... and
even in their rage Florian and Eddie found time to express their
opinion of him.
The woman and the drummer explained that they knew no reason for the
disturbance. J. Cæsar struggled in his best French to explain that
his wife was being held prisoner in the house. But they could not
understand him, and so--struggling and protesting--he and Eddie and
Florian and Opus ... the latter screaming his innocence ... were
dragged to the police station.
It was a sadly bedraggled trio which confronted the sergeant at
headquarters. But fortunately an interpreter was on duty and through
him Cæsar explained what it was all about. The interpreter had heard
of the movie company and had no reason to doubt the story told,
although he made it quite clear that the Americans were laboring
under a misapprehension. The house, he affirmed, was eminently
respectable and safe.
The quartet was dismissed from custody. Then the interpreter and a
gendarme went with them to the dancing establishment. They searched
the place and when the interpreter explained whom they were seeking,
the fat woman told them she had long since departed. Cæsar assuaged
her grief with two one-hundred franc notes and profound apologies.
Then he caused the interpreter to question her. The result was
somewhat startling.
"She say," explained the interpreter, "that the lady who was here is
Arab lady and not no American."
Florian, Cæsar and Eddie exchanged significant glances. Opus caught
their meaning and hastened to speak.
"That was Sicily," he announced. "I'se sure of it."
"How come you is so sure?"
Mr. Randall found himself between the devil and the deep sea. "I
just got a hunch," he affirmed. "I don't know nothin' fo' certain,
but I'se positive anyhow."
They took Opus with them into the alley and bundled him into the
taxi. The machine bumped and rolled down the narrow, ill-lighted,
cobblestoned thoroughfare and the three participants in the recent
battle groaned with each agonizing jerk of the antiquated machine.
Opus cowered in the corner. He felt that all was not as it should
be. Instinct informed him that the end was not yet, and that he had
erred in attempting to wreak revenge on Cæsar.
During the ride through the French quarter and thence toward the
upper reaches of the city where their hotel was located, the three
battlers spoke little and groaned much, but such words as dropped
from their lips were fraught with unpleasant promise for Mr. Randall.
Eventually they swung in through the big iron gates, rolled under the
trees that lined the hotel garden and came to a stop before the front
door.
The trio of battered figures dragged themselves up the steps,
completely surrounding the harried Opus. They moved into the
lobby--where a picture of utter serenity presented itself.
Seated in an easy-chair, immersed in a London magazine, was Sicily
Clump. She was calm and quiet and unruffled as she swept the
newcomers with a curious gaze.
Cæsar started forward, his tone indicative of relief.
"Honeybunch!" he exulted, "you is safe!"
"What you mean, Cæsar? Safe?"
"Nothin' happened to you, did it?"
A slow smile creased Sicily's lips. She had determined to torture
her husband with uncertainty.
"How come anythin' should occur to me, Mistuh Clump?"
Cæsar frowned. "Has you been out anywhere?"
And Sicily, mistress of the situation, shook her head.
"Goodness, no! I ain't been out of this hotel all evenin'."
A solemn and terrible hush fell upon the trio of slim young men who
had lately been locked in deadly combat with a large and muscular
drum-beater.
With one accord they turned and inspected the cringing Opus Randall.
He started to speak, but before the words came, the others acted.
They acted efficiently, positively and immediately. Two arms hooked
into Opus's and he found himself propelled into the darkness of the
hotel gardens. An awful thought occurred to him--there swept over
him the knowledge that no matter what developed he was in a horrid
predicament.
They escorted him outside and surrounded him. Then, with ghastly
ostentation, Cæsar, Eddie and Florian shed their torn coats and
rolled up their sleeves.
Their eyes blazed with a fine and righteous light.
"Us is about to pufform a sweet duty," remarked Mr. Slappey casually.
Mr. Clump's voice carried slightly more bitterness. "An' all on
account of this feller," he grated. "It was bad enough when us
thought we was rescuin' Sicily. But to find out she never lef' this
hotel, an' that we got beat up over some woman we don't even know..."
Opus stared wild-eyed from one to the other. He felt that it were
better that the truth be known--far better than that they should
think he had invented the entire story.
He knew he must convince them that Sicily had actually left the hotel
to visit the dancing establishment.
His eye lighted on the bruised figure of Director Edwin Boscoe Fizz.
Mr. Fizz could prove his case....
"Eddie!" he wailed, "you know good an' well Sicily lef' this hotel
tonight. You seen her go! Please, suh, tell these fellers that you
know I is speakin' the truth."
Mr. Fizz caressed his biceps. Terror still sat largely upon him and
he burned with indignation. The others moved closer. It became
terribly apparent to Mr. Randall that his only hope for mercy lay
with Mr. Fizz. If Eddie chose to testify that he spoke the truth
about Sicily's absence ...
"Eddie! Please... Don't you remember seein' Sicily Clump leave the
hotel in the taxi?"
Eddie stared thoughtfully.
Then he doubled his fists and nodded to Cæsar and Florian.
He addressed the cringing Mr. Randall--and his words shattered that
gentleman's last forlorn hope.
"When that big drummer walloped me on the jaw," announced Mr. Fizz,
"he knocked my memory plumb loose!"
THE SIXTH McNALLY
_By_ Montague Glass
MONTAGUE GLASS
I think it is not generally known that Montague (Marsden) Glass was
born in Manchester, England, on July 23, 1877, and came to America at
the age of thirteen. Once here, he was educated at the College of
the City of New York and New York University, and in a dozen more
years or so was famous as the author of the Potash and Perlmutter
stories. Perhaps no fictional characters of our generation have
enjoyed so extensive a popularity.
"The Sixth McNally" is from Mr. Glass's book, _Y' Understand_.
THE SIXTH McNALLY[1]
[1] Copyright, 1925, by Doubleday, Page & Company. Copyright, 1921,
by International Publications, Inc.
"Yes, Mr. Leonard," Gershon Danowitz said as he sat in the office of
J.J. Leonard, manager, producer, and personal director of the "Comics
of 1913 to 1919," both inclusive--"yes, Mr. Leonard, your poor father
_olav hasholom_, Sam Lippmann, had me down right. 'Danowitz,' he
used to say, 'the trouble with you is that you are all heart,' he
used to say. 'If some one is in trouble or misfortune,' he used to
say, 'you are right there,' he used to say, and certainly he was
right."
Mr. Leonard nodded perfunctorily.
"The old man was a big jollier," he said.
"And a wonderful judge from character," Danowitz added, "which when
he resigned from the presidency of the Bella Hirschkind Home for
Indignant Females, Mr. Leonard, he says to me, 'Danowitz,' he says to
me, 'you are my successor,' he says to me, 'and I know how it is with
a man like you,' he says. 'You will want to do the whole thing
yourself,' he says. 'You will be giving a thousand dollars _here_, a
thousand dollars _there_, and the first thing you know, you will be
practically supporting that Home out of your own pocket,' he says.
'So don't be afraid to ask my son to get up an annual benefit,' he
says, and I says that while it ain't in my nature to ask favors for
myself, y'understand, if that was his wish and desire, I says, _auch
recht_, I says, which if Sunday evening February eleventh would be
convenient to you, Mr. Leonard, it would be convenient to me."
Mr. Leonard sighed heavily. "This'll be the fifth annual benefit I
give for them rotten females," he declared.
"And you could depend on it, Mr. Leonard," Danowitz said, piously,
"that your poor father, _olav hasholom_, which when he was alive was
a _tzadik_ if ever there was one, knows about these here benefits you
are giving for the Home, and appreciates it."
"Maybe he appreciates that it has cost me on an average, $425.20 for
lights, ushers, orchestra, and advertising," Leonard retorted, "not
to say nothing about cleaning the theater and a full stage crew at
regular union rates. So I am giving you this straight, Mr. Danowitz;
next year you've got to get some one else to get up this here
benefit, because this is positively the last time I am going to get
stung for it."
He lifted the receiver from the telephone. "See if Al Sands of Sands
& McNally is out there, and don't let nobody else in till you find
who they are first. That was what my instructions was the first day
I hired you.... What's that? ... Is _that_ so! I suppose you didn't
let in a party a few minutes ago what I thought was Manowitz the
_costoomer_, and it turns out to be somebody else."
As he banged the receiver back on its hook, he fixed Danowitz with a
venomous glare. It did not, however, noticeably disturb the
expression of benevolence which, as president of the Bella Hirschkind
Home for Indigent Females, Danowitz habitually wore.
"Well, I guess I would be moving on," the philanthropist remarked,
with precisely the same inflection as though he anticipated being
pressed to remain for anyhow twenty minutes; "which if there is
anything you would like to ring me up about, don't hesitate to
trespass on my time."
His manner was graciousness itself as he cuddled Leonard's resisting
hand in a warm clasp of farewell, and when he passed out of the room,
a less adamant person than Leonard might have been left with the
impression that to share in benevolent enterprises of so admirable a
character, even to the extent of $425.20, was a privilege and an
honor. Leonard, however, did not see it that way, and he was still
muttering to himself when Al Sands, the male partner of the
old-established team of Sands & McNally, entered the room.
"You ain't got no objections if I bring a couple of sandwiches along
the next time, J.J.?" Al said, by way of giving himself what he
considered to be a good speech to come on with. "I've been waiting
outside since ten o'clock."
"Always clowning, ain't you, Al?" Leonard retorted. "Why don't you
get some of that comedy into your performance? Because if you don't
get no more laughs in this year's 'Comics' than you did in last
year's, I've got to make some different arrangements, that's all.
And as for McNally----"
"I know, I know," Sands interrupted. "But I ain't got that McNally
no longer. The McNally I've got this year is a wonder."
"That's what you said last year," Leonard declared. "In fact,
this'll be the sixth McNally you've had since you and me has been
doing business together, Al, and they've been going down steadily.
The one you had last year was the worst of the bunch."
"Sure, I know, but _that_ McNally was Irish," Sands explained.
"She's the only Irish McNally I ever had, and that's where I made a
big mistake. The McNally I've got this year is all right, J. J.
She's got a wonderful voice, good dancer, and she's right there in
three dialects."
"And on your say-so, unsight unseen, without letting the cat out of
the bag or nothing, you want me to give you a contract, I suppose,"
Leonard said.
"I ain't trying to keep no cat in a bag," Al said. "When do you want
me to bring her up here?"
"I don't want you to bring her up here never," Leonard replied. "I'm
giving a benefit for a home for females--the one I always give the
benefit for, on account of my father once being the president of it,
on Sunday night February eleventh--and if _they_ like her, _I'll_
like her."
"You couldn't tell nothing by a benefit audience," Al Sands protested.
"Benefit or no benefit," Leonard declared, "if the people out front
pays three dollars apiece for an orchestra seat, y'understand, they
ain't going to laugh unless the laugh is there."
He turned to a desk heaped high with manuscripts of plays whose fate
had long since been sealed by the circumstance that Leonard produced
nothing but his annual revue. He utilized them, nevertheless, in the
reception and dismissal of visitors; and by way of informing Al Sands
that his visit was at an end Leonard immediately became absorbed in
the title page and dramatis persons of a thick manuscript bound in
blue vellum paper. To any other manager, its inordinate length would
have made it impossible, because, reckoning that one page of
manuscript consumes one minute in its performance, there were eight
hours and twenty-five minutes of solid drama contained within its
covers; but for J.J. Leonard's purposes, this was, if anything, an
advantage.
Thus, at the beginning of the season, when obscure members of the
"Comics" Company would summon up sufficient courage to call on
Leonard with a request for more salary, the impression they received
from discovering their employer in the perusal of so weighty a
manuscript was not at all dispelled by the noise with which Leonard
closed it and threw it back on his desk. It frequently banged twenty
dollars a week off a timid actor's salary, and was therefore
Leonard's favorite manuscript.
"I suppose I get anyhow one orchestra rehearsal," Al Sands said, with
his hand on the door knob.
"Saturday morning at eleven downstairs," J.J. said, without looking
up.
The manuscript was called "Death and Transfiguration" and suggested
in its treatment Tolstoy's "Resurrection" with just a hint of "Twin
Beds," but for anything Leonard had learned of its contents, it might
just as well have been a combination of "Romeo and Juliet" and "Oh,
Boy!" All he knew about it was that his father, Sam Lippmann, had
brought it into the office and asked him to read it when he found the
time; and although as the resolution of the Board of Trustees of the
Bella Hirschkind Home for Indigent Females had so aptly put it, an
all-wise Providence had gathered Sam unto his fathers some three
years before, J.J. had still not found the time. Nevertheless, out
of respect for his father he continued to believe that he was going
to find the time some time or other, and he periodically instructed
his secretary to notify the author that his manuscript was under
consideration by Mr. Leonard and a decision would be rendered upon it
in due course.
These notifications were all sent to Gerald Dane, care of The Fitgood
Shirt Company, 22A Washington Place, New York City; and while it may
seem a piece of pure coincidence that, half an hour after the
incidents above set forth, Gershon Danowitz entered the Washington
Place factory of the Fitgood Shirt Company, it may be readily
explained upon the score that he was the sole proprietor of it and
that Gerald Dane labored there under the shirt-business name of
Gershon Danowitz, Jr.
"Well," Gershon, Jr., demanded impatiently before his father had time
to remove his hat and coat, "did you ask him about it?"
The proprietor of the Fitgood Shirt Company and President of the
Bella Hirschkind Home for Indigent Females immediately lost his
benevolent manner and became livid with rage.
"What do you mean--did I ask him?" he bellowed. "It ain't enough
that I am insulted about the benefit already. I should ask him about
your _verflüchte Schauspiel_ yet!"
He tore off his hat and coat and threw them on to a chair.
"Sam Lippmann, that was a friend!" he cried. "I should ought to of
been shot before I ever met that old crook, _olav hasholom_. Throws
the whole burden of them fakers of females on my shoulders and then
he goes to work and encourages my only son that he should be a play
writer yet!"
"Now look here, pop," Gershon, Jr., protested. "There isn't any need
to get so excited."
"Isn't there?" Gershon, Sr., began. "Well, let me tell you
something, Gershon. Once and for all I want you to get through with
this nonsense. You have been fooling away your time here long
enough. Either you must got to be a play writer _oder_ a shirt
manufacturer, but you couldn't be both, y'understand."
He had been delivering the same ultimatum at intervals of a week or
so for more than three years, and it had always been accepted by
Gershon, Jr., as incidental to the avocation of dramatist and to be
dismissed with some such rejoinder as "Hire a hall!" or even, in less
respectful moments, "Tell it to Sweeney." But on this occasion
Gershon, Jr., maintained what his father ought to have recognized as
an ominous silence; for only the night before, while dining on West
Houston Street, somebody at the next table had audibly informed a
female companion that the feller with the spectacles and that leather
sample case--don't look now--was the one that wrote all them shows
for them now Washington Square actors. And although the female
companion was extremely rustic in her appearance and said, "What!
That homely looking feller with the long hair?" the incident had
fired his imagination, nevertheless.
"Because when a young feller gets to be already twenty-six years old,
he ain't a child no longer," Gershon, Sr., continued, his
philanthropic manner beginning to reassert itself. He intended it to
be a heart-to-heart conversation such as any president of any home
might hold with a thoughtless son in whom there wasn't, so to speak,
a button's worth of harm, and to that end settled himself comfortably
in the revolving chair at his office desk; but Gershon, Jr., refused
to perform in the role assigned to him.
"I know I ain't," he said with a firmness that ought to have warned
Gershon, Sr.
"You bet your life you ain't," Gershon, Sr., went on, just as though
he were not addressing a dramatist who only the night before had been
mistaken for the author of the entire Washington Square Players
repertoire. "And when a feller gets to be twenty-six years old in
any business--particularly the shirt business----"
"To hell with the shirt business!" Gershon, Jr., exclaimed.
If a spectator had arisen in the body of the Supreme Court at
Washington and said the same thing about the Constitution of the
United States the combined bench and bar there present could have
been no more shocked than Gershon, Sr., was. For at least a minute
he sat in his office chair unable to move, unable even to enunciate;
but at last he tottered to his feet.
"Go on," he said, "out of here, before I kick you out."
"You wouldn't kick anybody out," Gershon, Jr., retorted. "For three
years now I've sat and listened to you giving advice, and I ain't
going to stand for it any longer."
"And for how many years did he sit and listen to you cutting teeth
and having colic?" inquired a stout, florid gentleman in a fur
overcoat. He had entered the office unnoticed at the very moment of
Gershon, Jr.'s sacrilegious outbreak against the shirt industry, and
although shirts were only one department of the Gembitz-Jones
Mercantile Company's jobbing business in Los Angeles, Marcus Gembitz
was hardly less shocked than Gershon, Sr., himself. "Ain't you
ashamed to talk that way to your father?"
He might just as well have asked Trotzky and Lenin if they weren't
ashamed to speak disrespectfully about such decent, estimable people
as the Russian bourgeoisie, for in the lexicon of a Greenwich Village
dramatist, derived in great measure from the prefaces to the
published plays of Bernard Shaw, there are no such words as respect
for parents. In fact, even in that crucial moment--the turning point
of a career, as it were--when Gershon, Jr., was putting on his hat
and coat preparatory to abandoning the shirt business forever, he
could not help snorting contemptuously at such a hopelessly
old-fashioned remark.
"Here!" Gershon, Sr., demanded. "Where are you going?"
For answer Gershon, Jr., crushed his hat over his forehead. It was a
black, soft hat--essentially a dramatist's hat and not a
shirt-manufacturer's hat. And then looking around the office, much
as the Prisoner of Chillon must have looked around his dungeon at the
moment of liberation--if he ever was liberated--he opened the door,
and the next moment it closed behind him with a bang. Indeed, had it
closed with a clang instead of a bang, the effect could not have been
more dramatic.
"_Nu_, Danowitz," Marcus Gembitz said at last, "don't worry your
head. He'll come back."
"I don't want him to come back," Gershon, Sr., said. "He's made his
bed. Now he could rot in it for all I care."
Gembitz waved his hands in deprecation of such harshness.
"Say!" he said. "You'll get over that feeling." He patted
Danowitz's shoulder consolingly. "After all," he continued, "we all
have trouble with our children and it comes out all right."
"With children maybe, but with an only child, Mr. Gembitz, that's
something else again," Danowitz said. His head nodded slowly as he
began to realize the bereavement he had suffered.
"Mind you," he went on, "I begged his mother she shouldn't send him
to college, because if you have two sons and one of them goes to
college, supposing something happens to you, _Gott soll hüten_,
you've anyhow one left to look after the business, but if you've got
only one son and him a college gradgewate, y'understand, what is it?
Am I right or wrong?"
"Couldn't a college gradgewate also run a business?" Gembitz inquired.
"In some business, _maybe_," Danowitz said. "But in a business where
there is such a competition like the shirt business, Mr. Gembitz,
such business you've got to learn it from the bottom up, whereas a
college gradgewate learns a business from the top down, and while
some college gradgewates reaches the bottom quicker as others,
y'understand, when such a college gradgewate is also a play writer,
before he has learned even the top of the business, understand me,
the bottom has dropped out of it."
"Even so," Gembitz said, "you've got to make allowances for your boy."
"I would never forgive him--never," Danowitz said emphatically.
"Say!" Gembitz protested. "I would make you a bet right now that in
less than two weeks the young feller would be back on the job and you
would never think nothing had happened at all. Forgiving children is
the easiest thing fathers could do. Why, you take me, for instance,
Danowitz, and the troubles which you got with your boy ain't already
a marker to what I got with my daughter, which I told my wife how it
would come out if she lets her take vocal.
"'Learn her first to make a decent cup of coffee,' I says to my wife,
'or that she should cook _chotzig_ a potato,' I says.
"But you know how it is in Los Angeles, Danowitz. Everybody figures
that if their daughter ain't got no other talent, she looks like Mary
Pickford; and my wife has settled in her mind that my Sadie has only
got to take for twelve hundred dollars singing lessons to be a second
Geraldine Patti, y'understand. Right now she is in Chicago staying
with her aunt and taking vocal from an _Italiener_, which he has got
the nerve to charge more for one office call than a first-class
A-number-one stomach specialist."
"Well, that's the way it goes," Gershon, Sr., declared, with a
tremulous sigh. "I've got a good business and nobody to leave it to
but the boy, and nothing would do but that he must be a play writer
_doch_. You have got an only daughter which you are well fixed
enough that she could have a good husband and a good home, and I
suppose the first thing you know, you would be firing her out of the
house for getting a job singing in a moving-picture theayter or
something."
"Say!" Gembitz remarked. "The girl is very far from reaching that
point, y'understand, but if she did, understand me, firing her out of
the house would be the furthest from my thoughts. Hafter all,
Danowitz, children has got their rights as well as parents, and if
your son or my daughter thinks they've got openings above the shirt
business or the home, y'understand, the thing to do is to look at the
matter from philosophy."
Once more he patted Danowitz's shoulder.
"Now come, Danowitz," he said, "this here business about your Gershon
is going to blow over, and in the meantime I would like to see what
you've got in some popular-price percales. My reservations for Los
Angeles is all taken for tomorrow, and I ain't got no time to lose."
For more than an hour Gershon, Sr., displayed his spring line of
shirts, and in spite of his broken-hearted condition succeeded in
procuring from Gembitz a most satisfactory order at prices slightly
above the market, since Gembitz could not find it within his
ordinarily businesslike nature to add to Danowitz's troubles by
standing out for bedrock figures. In fact, once or twice Gembitz
suspected that Danowitz was taking advantage of a customer's kindness
of heart by sandwiching rather extravagant quotations between two
outbursts of emotion at his son's ungrateful behavior. But Gembitz's
sympathy for Danowitz, as of one father for another, outweighed the
trade antagonism which as a jobber he would normally have felt toward
a manufacturer, and he allowed Danowitz to get away with a couple of
items which upon mature reflection he considered to be little short
of grand larceny. Nevertheless, after checking up the order and
correcting a few mistakes which Danowitz in his grief had made in his
own favor, the two parents shook hands warmly.
"You will see, Danowitz," Gembitz declared, "that your boy will be
back here in a few days, and you and him will be just as good friends
as ever."
"Him with me, maybe," Danowitz said, "but not me with him."
"_Ach_! That's nonsense!" Gembitz exclaimed. He was about to
enlarge upon the amount of forgiveness which a parent ought to
display to an erring child, when the telephone bell rang.
"Excuse me," Danowitz said, taking the receiver from the hook.
"Hello.... Yes, this is the Fitgood Shirt Company. Hello....
Mister Who? ... Yes, he's right here."
He turned to Gembitz.
"For you, Mr. Gembitz," he said.
"For me?" Gembitz cried. "Why, nobody knows I'm here, excepting I
told the twentieth-floor clerk at the hotel she should ring me up
here in case a package didn't come from my tailor, but the package
came just as I left. I wonder who it would be?"
"Might if you answered the phone, maybe you would find out," Danowitz
suggested.
"Give it to me," Gembitz said. "Hello.... Yes, this is Mr.
Gembitz.... You are the twentieth-floor clerk, yes? ... You got a
what? ... What kind of wire? ... A telegram? ... Sure, go ahead and
open it."
He smiled at Danowitz.
"Ain't it funny, when you get a telegram, you always think sickness
or death and it turns out to be nothing," he said. "Probably my
partner is---- Oh, hello! ... Yes, I'm listening.... It's from
Chicago.... Yes, I understand--Chicago.... Mrs. Clarence Fimpel.
That's my wife's sister.... Yes, go ahead.... What? ... _Shema
Beni_! What do you think of that?"
He hung up the receiver and stared at Danowitz while his florid
complexion grew suddenly purple.
"Mr. Gembitz!" Danowitz exclaimed. "What's the matter? Is somebody
sick or something?"
Gembitz flipped his right hand in a gesture of despair.
"Worser," he said. "My Sadie has run away to be an actress."
"An actress?" Danowitz repeated.
"The telegram says, 'Sadie in New York, threatens go on stage, stop
her,' signed Mrs. Clarence Fimpel," Gembitz said. "And she don't
even give the telephone number in New York where Sadie threatens to
go on the stage."
"Don't it say letter follows?" Danowitz asked. "Most telegrams do,
and usually you couldn't tell nothing about it till the letter
arrives."
"I don't care if fifty letters follows," Gembitz declared, striking
the desk with his clenched fist. "If the girl wants to go on the
stage, she can go."
He rose from the chair on which he was sitting and looked as though
he were about to raise both hands in the classic gesture that used to
accompany all parental curses with or without a snowstorm off stage.
"But if she does," he said, "she'll never see a penny of my
money--not one penny."
He sank back into his chair and covered his eyes with his right hand.
"A shame and a disgrace!" he muttered. "My only daughter to be an
actress!"
Danowitz shrugged his shoulders.
"Say!" he said. "Lots of girls from good families has threatened to
go on the stage and even went. Hafter all, what is so terrible that
your daughter should be an actress, Mr. Gembitz? An actress could
behave herself the same like anybody else and very often does."
"She should never come near my house again," Gembitz said with a
groan.
"Schmooes!" Danowitz exclaimed. "If the girl makes a hit on the
stage, you will be proud of her the same like any other father."
He patted Gembitz's back reassuringly, but Gembitz only shook his
head.
"You don't know me, Danowitz. When I make up my mind, I make up my
mind," he concluded. "And I would never forgive her--never."
The passage of a camel through the eye of a needle or of a rich man
into Heaven is a relatively easy matter compared with the admission
of an aspiring playwright to the presence of a manager, and when
Gershon Danowitz, Jr., called at the office of J.J. Leonard on the
following Saturday morning, it Avas only because Leonard failed to
notice the Jr. on Gershon's visiting card that he succeeded in
getting an audience.
"Tell that faker to come in here," Leonard said to the office boy who
brought it in. "I want to talk to him."
He almost bit his cigar in two as he framed in sufficiently strong
language just how he was going to break to the president of the Bella
Hirschkind Home for Indigent Females that if one-half of the
increased expenses of running off the benefit were not forthcoming
from the treasury of the Home, there wasn't going to be any benefit
at all.
"Now, looky here, Danowitz," he began, as Gershon, Jr., entered, and
then broke off suddenly when he discovered that his visitor was not
the person he supposed him to be. "Say! Who let you in here?" he
bellowed.
It is hardly necessary to say that the question was embroidered with
profanity selected at random from a particularly rich vocabulary, and
for a moment Gershon, Jr., forgot that he was no longer the manager
of a prosperous shirt business.
"Who do you think you're talking to--a shipping clerk?" he asked. "I
sent in my card, and your boy told me to come in."
Leonard picked up the card and looked at it again.
"Oh, you're the old man's son," he said.
"I'm not any man's son," Gershon replied. "I'm here on my own
account."
It was at this juncture that he saw his play on Leonard's desk.
"I called to see you about this," he said. Forthwith the habits of
five years spent in the shirt business began to assert themselves.
What he held in his hand seemed to him not a manuscript but a shirt,
a high-grade shirt--in fact, an entire line of high-grade shirts--and
he addressed himself to the task of selling it to Leonard, much as if
Leonard had been a retailer with a chain of haberdashery stores and
hence a prospective customer of large buying capacity. It was an
entirely novel experience for the theatrical manager. He had met
brash playwrights, shy playwrights, intellectual playwrights, and
playwrights who were acquainted with every device of the theater
since the days of Corneille and Racine, but a playwright who was also
a first-class, cracker jack, A-number-one shirt salesman was
something he had never been called upon to cope with, and he was soon
completely at Gershon's mercy.
For more than an hour his only contributions to the dialogue were,
"But, say!" or "Now, listen here," all of which Gershon treated as
mere punctuation. In disposing of this one manuscript, he was using
enough salesmanship to sell shirts in gross lots, and he talked on
and on to such good purpose that by twelve o'clock, not only had he
caused Leonard to accept in writing "Death and Transfiguration," a
play in three acts and a prologue by Gerald Dane, but they had also
discussed its forthcoming production to the extent of changing its
title to "Early to Bed," merging the prologue into the first act and
cutting between the laughs so as to bring its acting time well within
the conventional period of one hundred and thirty minutes.
"And now," Gershon, Jr., said, shortly before half-past twelve,
"we'll go out and have a bit of lunch."
Leonard looked at his watch and impiously uttered a pious exclamation.
"I've got a rehearsal downstairs," he said.
"All right, I'll go with you," Gershon remarked, and a few minutes
later Leonard vaguely wondered why he was not surprised to find
himself seated side by side with Gershon, Jr., in one of the last
rows on the ground floor of the Cabot Theater. An orchestra of less
than ten musicians--using the term in its occupational and not its
artistic meaning--was playing an accompaniment to a song in which the
word "Dixie" recurred at intervals. So far as it affected Gershon,
however, it might just as well have been Bosnia or Herzegovina, for
he was concerned not with the song but the singer. He clutched
Leonard's arm convulsively.
"Who's the lady?" he asked in a shrill whisper.
"What lady?" Leonard asked in return. "Lady" was a word he reserved
for members of the audience. For performers, whether as principals
or chorus women, he possessed a fund of synonyms which had never been
included in any thesaurus. "Oh, _her_!" he exclaimed, when he
realized that he was sitting next to a layman. "She's one of
them--now--McNallys."
"Yes?" Gershon said. He had, of course, heard of such theatrical
families as the Drews, the Barrymores, and even the Eight Brothers
Byrne, but, even though he was not prepared to admit it, he had never
heard of the McNally family.
"Which one is she?" he asked, as though he knew all the others.
"She's the fifth or the sixth," Leonard said. "I forget which."
"The sixth," a voice said from the seat back of them, "and the best
of the bunch, J.J."
"But she can't sing for nuts, Al," Leonard replied, without looking
around.
"Of course, I'm no judge of singing," Gershon began, by way of
protest, but he immediately became silent at a warning nudge from
Leonard.
"She ain't got no more voice than I have," Leonard said.
"Say!" Al Sands retorted. "She can put over a song without singing a
note. All she's got to do is to stand there, and it's across. Am I
right or wrong?"
Leonard clutched Gershon's knee, but this additional warning was
entirely unnecessary. Six years of buying and selling made him
realize at once that even though Miss McNally combined all the more
attractive features of Maxine Elliott, Billie Burke, and Mrs. Mildred
Harris Chaplin, these were commodities just as much subject to
bargain and sale in the theater as merchandise is in the dry-goods
district.
"She's a great performer," Al Sands added, emphatically.
Leonard turned around in his seat.
"What am I--a new beginner?" he asked. "Have I been putting on for
seven years now a show where I got to play to twenty-two thousand to
break even, without being my own judge of what's good and what ain't?"
These figures, representing the gross weekly receipts of the
"Comics," and the profanity with which they were quoted, made such an
impression on Al Sands that he was silent for at least thirty seconds.
"She's a big find," he said at last.
"She's a rank amateur," Leonard retorted. "I bet she ain't left her
home a month already."
"Well, what _of_ it?" Sands asked. That was just what Gershon wanted
to know. Here was a McNally--member, no doubt, of an old theatrical
family--in short, the sixth McNally, and yet she was a rank amateur
and had just left her home.
"What _of_ it?" Leonard said. "Why, there's _this_ of it: I suppose
you expect I should pay you the old figure when all you got to pay
_her_ is fifty a week."
"Say!" Al Sands interrupted. "You don't know her or you wouldn't
talk that way. _You_ may think she's an amateur and _I_ may think
she's an amateur, but _she_ don't think so. She struck me for two
hundred right off the reel, and she made me pay it, too."
"Back up!" Leonard cried. "What are you trying to give me?"
"All right," Sands said. "_Meet_ her once."
"All right, I will," Leonard said, jumping up from his seat. He made
his way down the side aisle to the door leading from the auditorium
to the stage, followed by Al Sands. Gershon stumbled after them
through the darkness, quite forgotten by Leonard, but when they all
three arrived on the stage, such was the effect of Gershon's late
salesmanship that Leonard accepted his presence there as a matter of
course.
"Miss McNally," Al said, "I want you to meet Mr. Leonard, and this
other gentleman here, I don't know his name."
"He ain't interested," Leonard said, shaking Miss McNally's ungloved
hand, and not releasing it after the handshake had concluded. "I
think I seen you somewheres before, didn't I?"
"I don't think so," Miss McNally replied.
"Good speaking voice," Sands commented. "Great carrying quality."
"Now, listen," Leonard broke in. "Let her do the talking, will you?"
Miss McNally withdrew her hand from Leonard's clasp.
"Mr. Sands does the talking _for_ me," she said. She looked at
Gershon and thereby caused him to undergo all the cardiac symptoms
associated with too much smoking and coffee-drinking. Nevertheless,
he seemed to detect a slight flicker of Miss McNally's left eyelid.
"I suppose," Leonard said, "Al told you to tell me that."
"What's the difference who told who?" Sands asked. "As a matter of
fact, she suggested it."
"Miss McNally," Leonard broke in angrily, "I want you to come
upstairs to my office. I'm starting to cast my 'Comics' and I want
to talk business to you."
"The act is Sands and McNally, Mr. Leonard," Sands said. "I own and
manage it, and if you want to talk business, talk it to me."
For at least half a minute Leonard hesitated.
Miss McNally's physical charms were no less evident to him than they
were to Gershon, but unlike Gershon, his heart functioned quite
normally. So did his brain. He was, in fact, considering her
attractiveness in terms of box-office receipts, and at the end of
thirty seconds he had made up his mind.
"Come upstairs, Al," he said, and a minute later Gershon was alone on
the stage with Miss McNally.
"Well," Miss McNally declared, "if he lands that job in the 'Comics,'
I guess I'll have burned my boats behind me and not a cent of
insurance."
Her lips parted in a melancholy smile and Gershon smiled in return.
He had only half heard what she had said, but Al Sands was right.
All she had to do was to stand there, and she was a hit with any
audience. For instance, she had not intended to create in Gershon
the feeling that without a home presided over by Miss McNally, play
writing and shirt manufacturing were as one. Nevertheless, merely by
standing there and looking at him, she had done more than that. Her
melancholy smile had automatically caused him to contrast the
hazardous compensation of a playwright with the relatively certain
income of the shirt-manufacturing business. In short, he was
considering her attractiveness, not by Leonard's standard of
box-office receipts, but in terms of a honeymoon, a small apartment
in a good neighborhood, and just one or two children, and by the time
she spoke again he was rapidly getting back into a shirt-business
frame of mind.
"You look like you didn't understand what I mean," she said, "so I
may as well tell you that I left a good home to go into this."
Gershon held out his right hand.
"Shake!" he said. "I've just burned a couple of fleets myself."
They shook hands solemnly.
"And one or two bridges," Gershon added.
"You don't mean to say that _you_ left a good home to be an actor?"
she asked, after they were seated side by side on a tool box against
the back wall.
"Not an actor," Gershon said; "a playwright, and I left more than a
good home. I left a good shirt business."
"A good shirt business!" she exclaimed. "Oh, dear! Wasn't that
foolish of you!"
She laid her left hand on his right sleeve and let it stay there for
just a moment.
"Why couldn't you write plays on the side and still stay in the shirt
business?" she said.
"Ask my father," Gershon replied. "He owns the business, and he told
me that I had to choose between being a shirt manufacturer and a
playwright, so I chose."
Miss McNally nodded her head comprehendingly.
"Aren't families just like that?" she said. "They don't understand
you one bit, do they?"
She moved up just a trifle closer to him.
"Tell me," she said. "What kind of plays do you write?"
"Suppose I tell you at lunch," Gershon said. "It'll be half an hour
or longer before Leonard gets through with your--your friend."
"He isn't my friend," Miss McNally assured him. "He pays me a salary
and I board with him and Mrs. Sands up in Tremont."
"Even at that, we could leave word with the doorman that we would be
back in half an hour," Gershon said. "How about it?"
Miss McNally considered the proposition for at least a minute.
"How many plays have you produced?" she asked.
"As yet, none," Gershon said, "but I've had one accepted."
"Then I'll go to lunch with you on one condition," Miss McNally
declared. "There's an awfully nice place right across the street
where they have the best Danish pastry."
And a moment later they were seated at a rear table in one of those
lunch rooms that seek to divert their patrons' attention from the
poor quality of the food by an elaborate scheme of decoration in the
style of an 1895 model Pullman Palace Car.
There over a plate of Danish pastry and two cups of coffee they
exchanged the preliminary confidences of what was rapidly to ripen
into an ardent friendship. In fact, so rapid was the ripening and so
ardent the friendship that, by the following Thursday, not only had
they lunched together five times and dined together six times, but in
the course of the last dinner Miss McNally had occasion to say, "No."
To be sure she didn't say it too emphatically. Her precise words
were: "No, Gerald dear, I couldn't. Not this season, anyway."
"But, I tell you, I'll go back into the shirt business. I'll do
anything," he protested.
"Don't I know you would?" Miss McNally said. "But I have a contract
with Mr. Sands not to get married for the run of the 'Comics,'
anyway."
"And it may run two years," he said, hopelessly.
"Well, that can't be helped," she said. "My contract with him says I
shouldn't get married and I can't break it."
That she was firm in this resolution, however, may be doubted by the
events of the following morning, when Gershon Danowitz, Sr., was
interrupted in the task of checking up his monthly statements by a
visitor whose clothes could not have been called conservative even
for a man half his age.
"Say, looky here!" the visitor said to Gershon, Sr. "This thing has
gone far enough. Is that plain?"
Gershon, Sr., was startled into a pious expectoration.
"T'phooee!" he said. "What do you mean, busting in here like this?"
"I mean what I say," Al Sands declared. "It's got to stop. I know
what my rights are, and this wouldn't be the first time I made
trouble for a guy like that."
"Say, what's the matter?" Gershon asked. "Are you _meshugga_ or
something?"
"I ain't no more crazy than you are," Al said. "I've got a contract
for the run of the 'Comics'--me and my partner--and if your son busts
it up on me, my lawyers tell me I can put him in jail for malicious
interfering in a contract."
For a brief interval Danowitz nodded his head while a pulse beat in
his cheek.
"So that's what it is, is it?" he said. "Already he gets into
trouble."
"And he'll get into worser trouble if he fools with me," Sands
commented.
"That I couldn't help," Danowitz rejoined. "I ain't seen the boy in
a week and what he is up to, I don't know."
"Well, I can tell you what he is up to," Sands told him. "He's
threatening to marry my partner."
"Your partner!" Danowitz repeated. "What for a business are you in
that you get a lady partner? The millinery business?"
"I ain't in _no_ business," Sands replied. "My name is Sands, of
Sands and McNally, my own act now for ten years, and your son is
going to marry my partner Miss McNally."
The pulse in Danowitz's cheek beat a trifle more quickly and he grew
slightly red in the face, but his voice was firm enough when he
spoke, even though his lips did quiver.
"Well," he said, "I didn't expect no better. Anyone what starts out
writing plays when he's got a good home and a good business, is
liable to end up marrying a Miss McNally, even."
"And how about me?" Sands asked.
"You?" Danowitz said. "What have I got to do with you?"
"You've got plenty to do with me," Sands retorted. "Either you stop
this thing or I put your son in jail."
Danowitz rose from his chair.
"You mean you are going to put into jail the young feller that is
going to marry this Miss McNally?" he said.
Al Sands nodded.
"Well, that young feller ain't my son," Danowitz declared. "I ain't
got no more a son."
For more than half an hour after Sands left, Danowitz remained seated
in his revolving chair, his head sunk on his breast, and it was in
this attitude that Marcus Gembitz found him when he entered the
office at eleven o'clock.
"Nu, Mr. Gembitz," he asked, rousing himself with an effort, "have
you heard from your daughter?"
"No, I ain't," Gembitz said, "and from the looks of you, you ain't
heard from your son, either."
Danowitz smiled a rather wan smile.
"You ain't no judge of looks, Mr. Gembitz," he said. "The reason why
I am looking this way is that I have heard from him--indirectly."
"And how is he getting on?" Gembitz asked.
"He's getting on fine," Danowitz replied. "He's going to marry a
Miss McNally."
Gembitz sat down heavily in the revolving chair at Gershon, Jr.'s
vacant desk. "_Um Gottes Willen_, you don't tell me!" he said.
He tried to think of something to say that might be of some
consolation.
"Well," he said, after a long silence, "the chances is that you don't
feel no worse over your son marrying Miss McNally than Miss McNally's
father does about her marrying your son."
"Did I say any different?" Danowitz asked. "And the chances is she
is a very nice girl, too," Gembitz added.
"Yaw, a nice girl!" Danowitz exclaimed. "She's an actress."
Gembitz grew red in the face.
"What are you trying to do--insult me?" he roared. "My own daughter
is an actress."
"Say, say!" Danowitz retorted. "Your daughter ain't no more an
actress than my son is a play writer."
"Is that so!" Gembitz cried. "Well, let me tell you something: If my
daughter wouldn't be a better actress than your son is a play writer,
I wouldn't mention the matter at all."
Danowitz waved both hands frantically.
"Don't get excited, Mr. Gembitz," he said. "For my part she could be
a regular Clara Bernhardt; but, just the same, if your daughter was
going to marry an actor by the name McNally, that wouldn't be exactly
nothing for you and Mrs. Gembitz to give a sigh of relief over,
neither."
"Well, of course, when it comes time for my daughter to get married,"
Gembitz said, after he had cooled down, "I should like for her to
marry a young man of her own people, but on the other hand if she
_should_ want to marry outside her own people--I suppose me and my
wife would got to forgive her."
Once more Danowitz's chin rested on his shirt-front and his eyes were
fixed on vacancy. Indeed, he presented so pitiable a spectacle that
Gembitz was moved to offer him a cigar. To be sure, it was the same
cigar that Gembitz had accepted from Danowitz only the week before,
but that he should have offered a man from whom he bought goods a
cigar at all, since it is a rigid convention that customers should
receive cigars and not give cigars away, indicated how deeply he felt
for the unfortunate Danowitz.
"Now, come, Danowitz," he said, patting him on the shoulder, "if I
would be in your situation, I wouldn't take it so much to heart. My
daughter is just so much my daughter as your son is your son, but if
she would marry some one outside her people, I would say, 'Sadie,' I
would say, 'you have done something which is wrong,' I would say,
'_but_,' I would say----"
However, the hypothetical duologue thus begun proceeded no further,
for when it had reached this critical stage of its development, the
door opened to admit a youth clothed in the uniform of a naval
lieutenant except for the words _Belsize Hotel_ which were
embroidered in gold thread on the collar and sleeves.
"Is there a party here by the name Gembitz?" he inquired.
"That's me," Gembitz said.
"The floor clerk on the twentieth floor says you left word that if
any letters or telegrams comes to bring 'em over here."
"Give it to me," Gembitz cried, and snatched a letter from the
messenger's hand. He tore it open, and after reading its contents he
sank back into his chair with a groan.
"Mr. Gembitz!" Danowitz exclaimed. "What's the matter?"
"I would never speak to her again so long as I live. Why, I would
never even look at her," he said, hoarsely.
"Mr. Gembitz!" Danowitz said. "What _is_ it?"
"I am like you, Danowitz," he groaned. "I ain't got no more a
daughter. She's dead."
"Dead!" Danowitz exclaimed.
"Worse than dead," Gemhitz replied. "She has gone to work and got
married. And by the name, he ain't one of our people."
The messenger from the hotel took off his cap reverently.
"That'll be fifty cents," he said, "and ten cents carfare."
Danowitz offered no consolation. He felt instinctively there could
be none. He did not even inquire the name of Gembitz's son-in-law,
but what he did do was to produce from the middle compartment of his
safe in violation of the Eighteenth Amendment of the Constitution of
the United States and the acts to enforce the same, a quart bottle of
rye whisky and two miniature glasses. He filled them both to the
brim and handed one to Gembitz.
"_L'chayim_," he said piously.
"_L'chayim tovim!_" Gembitz replied.
As they tossed it down, the office door opened again, and this time,
J.J. Leonard, the theatrical manager, literally flung himself into
the room.
"Huh!" he snorted. "Celebrating, ain't you!"
"I couldn't talk to you about the benefit now," Danowitz said,
hastily replacing the bottle in the safe.
"Benefit!" Leonard cried. "There ain't going to be no benefit."
"Why not?" Danowitz demanded.
Leonard threw his hat on the desk and jutted out his chin at Danowitz.
"Don't throw me no bluffs, you charity faker, you!" he cried.
"_Chutzpah_! Does me out of an act that would have made the
show--absolutely made it--and then expects me I should go on with his
rotten benefit yet."
"I don't know what you're talking about at all," Danowitz said.
"You don't, hey?" Leonard said. "I suppose you ain't drinking that
hootch because your son gets married this morning."
"And suppose he is," Gembitz said. "What _of_ it?"
"I don't know who you are and I don't want to know, but I'll tell you
what _of_ it," Leonard said. "His son busts up my 'Comics' by
marrying this here McNally, and he made up the match."
"_I_ made up the match!" Danowitz cried. "Do you think I'm crazy?"
"Like a fox," Leonard said. "I suppose you don't know that girl's
father is a millionaire."
Danowitz grabbed Leonard's hat from the desk and handed it to the
manager.
"You get right out of here," he shouted. "An idea! Just because the
girl's father is a millionaire or a multimillionaire or a
billionaire, he thinks that I should go to work and make up a match
between my only son and a lady which ain't one of our people."
"Yes, she ain't!" Leonard jeered.
"But her name is McNally," Gembitz said.
"And mine is Leonard," Leonard retorted. "She ain't no McNally.
She's only in the show business with Al Sands under the team name of
Sands and McNally."
"Maybe he's right, Danowitz," Gembitz said. "When a feller does
business under the firm name of the Eagle Pants Company he don't
necessarily got to be an eagle."
"Well, if her name ain't McNally," Danowitz asked, "what _is_ it?"
Before Leonard could answer, Gershon Danowitz, Jr., opened the door.
He was wearing a new hat--a brown derby--in place of the old soft
black hat. It was essentially a shirt manufacturer's hat and not a
dramatist's hat.
"Pop," he said, "I want you to meet my wife."
He stood aside and disclosed in the doorway behind him a young lady
who combined all the more attractive physical features of Maxine
Elliott, Billie Burke, and Mrs. Mildred Harris Chaplin.
"Sadie!" Gembitz cried, and immediately enfolded her in his arms.
"It looks like a curtain and a good one," Leonard said, "but it
ain't. I am going to see a lawyer about this."
"Save your money," Gershon, Jr., said. "All you can do under your
contract is to get an injunction against her acting in any other show
except yours, and if you want a written guarantee that she won't,
I'll give it to you."
"And I'll give you a written guarantee that I wouldn't put on your
show, neither," Leonard said.
"Your word is sufficient," Gershon, Jr., assured him, "because I am
out of the play-writing business for good."
"Well," Gershon Danowitz, Sr., remarked after Leonard had left, "it's
an old saying and a true one that all's well what ends well, but
where the Bella Hirschkind Home for Indignant Females gets off, I
don't know."
"Say," Gembitz said, "figure out what them indignant females would of
got out of this here benefit and send me a bill for it. After all,
an only daughter only gets married once, so why shouldn't it cost me
something? Am I right or wrong?"
ZONE OF QUIET
_By_ Ring W. Lardner
RING W. LARDNER
Ring Lardner was born in Niles, Mich., on March 6, 1885, became a
reporter in South Bend, Ind., twenty years later, and almost
immediately began a career as a sports writer, chiefly for Chicago
newspapers, which has never entirely terminated, although
crisscrossed in recent years by a couple of other careers. The more
widely known of these is Lardner's career as a humorist; but in
addition he has now become famous as a satirist of no mean powers.
For particulars see "Champion" in his book, _How to Write Short
Stories_.
"Zone of Quiet," which is, I think, a humorous story, but which is
also certainly something else again, is from Mr. Lardner's latest
collection, _The Love Nest_.
ZONE OF QUIET[1]
[1] Copyright, 1926, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Copyright, 1925, by
The International Magazine Company.
"Well," said the doctor briskly, "how do you feel?"
"Oh, I guess I'm all right," replied the man in bed. "I'm still kind
of drowsy, that's all."
"You were under the anesthetic an hour and a half. It's no wonder
you aren't wide-awake yet. But you'll be better after a good night's
rest, and I've left something with Miss Lyons that'll make you sleep.
I'm going along now. Miss Lyons will take good care of you."
"I'm off at seven o'clock," said Miss Lyons. "I'm going to a show
with my G.F. But Miss Halsey's all right. She's the night floor
nurse. Anything you want, she'll get it for you. What can I give
him to eat, Doctor?"
"Nothing at all; not till after I've been here tomorrow. He'll be
better off without anything. Just see that he's kept quiet. Don't
let him talk, and don't talk to him; that is, if you can help it."
"Help it!" said Miss Lyons. "Say, I can be old lady Sphinx herself
when I want to! Sometimes I sit for hours--not alone, neither--and
never say a word. Just think and think. And dream.
"I had a G.F. in Baltimore, where I took my training; she used to
call me Dummy. Not because I'm dumb like some people--you know--but
because I'd sit there and not say nothing. She'd say, 'A penny for
your thoughts, Eleanor.' That's my first name--Eleanor."
"Well, I must run along. I'll see you in the morning."
"Good-by, Doctor," said the man in bed as he went out.
"Good-by, Doctor Cox," said Miss Lyons as the door closed.
"He seems like an awful nice fella," said Miss Lyons. "And a good
doctor, too. This is the first time I've been on a case with him.
He gives a girl credit for having some sense. Most of these doctors
treat us like they thought we were Mormons or something. Like Doctor
Holland. I was on a case with him last week. He treated me like I
was a Mormon or something. Finally I told him, I said, 'I'm not as
dumb as I look.' She died Friday night."
"Who?" asked the man in bed.
"The woman; the case I was on," said Miss Lyons.
"And what did the doctor say when you told him you weren't as dumb as
you look?"
"I don't remember," said Miss Lyons. "He said, 'I hope not,' or
something. What could he say? Gee! It's quarter to seven. I
hadn't no idear it was so late. I must get busy and fix you up for
the night. And I'll tell Miss Halsey to take good care of you.
We're going to see 'What Price Glory?' I'm going with my G.F. Her
B.F. gave her the tickets and he's going to meet us after the show
and take us to supper.
"Marian--that's my G.F.--she's crazy wild about him. And he's crazy
about her, to hear her tell it. But I said to her this noon--she
called me up on the phone--I said to her: 'If he's so crazy about
you, why don't he propose? He's got plenty of money and no strings
tied to him, and as far as I can see there's no reason why he
shouldn't marry you if he wants you as bad as you say he does.' So
she said maybe he was going to ask her tonight. I told her: 'Don't
be silly! Would he drag me along if he was going to ask you?'
"That about him having plenty of money, though, that's a joke. He
told her he had and she believes him. I haven't met him yet, but he
looks in his picture like he's lucky if he's getting twenty-five
dollars a week. She thinks he must be rich because he's in Wall
Street. I told her, I said: 'That being in Wall Street don't mean
nothing. What does he do there? is the question. You know they have
to have janitors in those buildings just the same like anywhere
else.' But she thinks he's God or somebody.
"She keeps asking me if I don't think he's the best-looking thing I
ever saw. I tell her yes, sure, but between you and I, I don't
believe anybody'd ever mistake him for Richard Barthelmess.
"Oh, say! I saw him the other day, coming out of the Algonquin!
He's the best-looking thing! Even better looking than on the screen.
Roy Stewart."
"What about Roy Stewart?" asked the man in bed.
"Oh, he's the fella I was telling you about," said Miss Lyons. "He's
my G.F.'s B.F."
"Maybe I'm a D.F. not to know, but would you tell me what a B.F. and
G.F. are?"
"Well, you are dumb, aren't you!" said Miss Lyons. "A G.F., that's a
girl friend, and a B.F. is a boy friend. I thought everybody knew
that.
"I'm going out now and find Miss Halsey and tell her to be nice to
you. But maybe I better not."
"Why not?" asked the man in bed.
"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking of something funny that happened
last time I was on a case in this hospital. It was the day the man
had been operated on and he was the best-looking somebody you ever
saw. So when I went off duty I told Miss Halsey to be nice to him,
like I was going to tell her about you. And when I came back in the
morning he was dead. Isn't that funny?"
"Very!"
"Well," said Miss Lyons, "did you have a good night? You look a lot
better, anyway. How'd you like Miss Halsey? Did you notice her
ankles? She's got pretty near the smallest ankles I ever saw. Cute.
I remember one day Tyler--that's one of the internes--he said if he
could just see our ankles, mine and Miss Halsey's he wouldn't know
which was which. Of course we don't look anything alike other ways.
She's pretty close to thirty and--well, nobody'd ever take her for
Julia Hoyt. Helen."
"Who's Helen?" asked the man in bed.
"Helen Halsey. Helen; that's her first name. She was engaged to a
man in Boston. He was going to Tufts College. He was going to be a
doctor. But he died. She still carries his picture with her. I
tell her she's silly to mope about a man that's been dead four years.
And besides a girl's a fool to marry a doctor. They've got too many
alibis.
"When I marry somebody, he's got to be a somebody that has regular
office hours like he's in Wall Street or somewhere. Then when he
don't come home, he'll have to think up something better than being
'on a case.' I used to use that on my sister when we were living
together. When I happened to be out late, I'd tell her I was on a
case. She never knew the difference. Poor sis! She married a
terrible oil can! But she didn't have the looks to get a real
somebody. I'm making this for her. It's a bridge-table cover for
her birthday. She'll be twenty-nine. Don't that seem old?"
"Maybe to you; not to me," said the man in bed.
"You're about forty, aren't you?" said Miss Lyons.
"Just about."
"And how old would you say I am?"
"Twenty-three."
"I'm twenty-five," said Miss Lyons. "Twenty-five and forty. That's
fifteen years' difference. But I know a married couple that the
husband is forty-five and she's only twenty-four, and they get along
fine."
"I'm married myself," said the man in bed.
"You would be!" said Miss Lyons. "The last four cases I've been on
was all married men. But at that, I'd rather have any kind of a man
than a woman. I hate women! I mean sick ones. They treat a nurse
like a dog, especially a pretty nurse. What's that you're reading?"
"_Vanity Fair_," replied the man in bed.
"_Vanity Fair_! I thought that was a magazine."
"Well, there's a magazine and a book. This is the book."
"Is it about a girl?"
"Yes."
"I haven't read it yet. I've been busy making this thing for my
sister's birthday. She'll be twenty-nine. It's a bridge-table
cover. When you get that old, about all there is left is bridge or
cross-word puzzles. Are you a puzzle fan? I did them religiously
for a while, but I got sick of them. They put in such crazy words.
Like one day they had a word with only three letters and it said 'A
e-longated fish' and the first letter had to be an e. And only three
letters. That _couldn't_ be right! So I said if they put things
wrong like that, what's the use? Life's too short. And we only live
once. When you're dead, you stay a long time dead.
"That's what a B.F. of mine used to say. He was a caution! But he
was crazy about me. I might of married him only for a G.F. telling
him lies about me. And called herself my friend! Charley Pierce."
"Who's Charley Pierce?"
"That was my B.F. that the other girl lied to him about me. I told
him, I said, 'Well, if you believe all them stories about me, maybe
we better part once and for all. I don't want to be tied up to a
somebody that believes all the dirt they hear about me.' So he said
he didn't really believe it and if I would take him back he wouldn't
quarrel with me no more. But I said I thought it was best for us to
part. I got their announcement two years ago, while I was still in
training in Baltimore."
"Did he marry the girl that lied to him about you?"
"Yes, the poor fish! And I bet he's satisfied! They're a match for
each other! He was all right, though, at that, till he fell for her.
He used to be so thoughtful of me, like I was his sister or something.
"I like a man to respect me. Most fellas wants to kiss you before
they know your name.
"Golly! I'm sleepy this morning! And got a right to be, too! Do
you know what time I got home last night, or this morning, rather?
Well, it was half past three. What would mamma say if she could see
her little girl now! But we did have a good time. First we went to
the show--'What Price Glory?'--I and my G.F.--and afterwards her B.F.
met us and took us in a taxi down to Barney Gallant's. Peewee Byers
has got the orchestra there now. Used to be with Whiteman's. Gee!
How he can dance! I mean Roy."
"Your G.F.'s B.F.?"
"Yes, but I don't believe he's as crazy about her as she thinks he
is. Anyway--but this is a secret--he took down the phone number of
the hospital while Marian was out powdering her nose, and he said
he'd give me a ring about noon. Gee! I'm sleepy! Roy Stewart!"
"Well," said Miss Lyons, "how's my patient? I'm twenty minutes late,
but honest, it's a wonder I got up at all! Two nights in succession
is too much for this child!"
"Barney Gallant's again?" asked the man in bed.
"No, but it was dancing, and pretty near as late. It'll be different
tonight. I'm going to bed just the minute I get home. But I did
have a dandy time. And I'm just crazy about a certain somebody."
"Roy Stewart?"
"How'd you guess it? But honest, he's wonderful! And so different
than most of the fellas I've met. He says the craziest things, just
keeps you in hysterics. We were talking about books and reading, and
he asked me if I liked poetry--only he called it 'poultry'--and I
said I was wild about it and Edgar M. Guest was just about my
favorite, and then I asked him if he liked Kipling and what do you
think he said? He said he didn't know; he'd never kipled.
"He's a scream! We just sat there in the house till half past eleven
and didn't do nothing but just talk and the time went like we was at
a show. He's better than a show. But finally I noticed how late it
was and I asked him didn't he think he better be going and he said
he'd go if I'd go with him, so I asked him where could we go at that
hour of night, and he said he knew a road house just a little ways
away, and I didn't want to go, but he said we wouldn't stay for only
just one dance, so I went with him. To the Jericho Inn.
"I don't know what the woman thought of me where I stay, going out
that time of night. But he is such a wonderful dancer and such a
perfect gentleman! Of course we had more than one dance and it was
after two o'clock before I knew it. We had some gin, too, but he
just kissed me once and that was when we said good night."
"What about your G.F., Marian? Does she know?"
"About Roy and I? No. I always say that what a person don't know
don't hurt them. Besides, there's nothing _for_ her to know--yet.
But listen: If there was a chance in the world for her, if I thought
he cared anything about her, I'd be the last one in the world to
accept his intentions. I hope I'm not that kind! But as far as
anything serious between them is concerned, well, it's cold. I
happen to _know_ that! She's not the girl for him.
"In the first place, while she's pretty in a way, her complexion's
bad and her hair's scraggy and her figure, well, it's like some woman
in the funny pictures. And she's not peppy enough for Roy. She'd
rather stay home than do anything. Stay home! It'll be time enough
for that when you can't get anybody to take you out.
"She'd never make a wife for him. He'll be a rich man in another
year; that is, if things go right for him in Wall Street like he
expects. And a man as rich as he'll be wants a wife that can live up
to it and entertain and step out once in a while. He don't want a
wife that's a drag on him. And he's too good-looking for Marian. A
fella as good-looking as him needs a pretty wife or the first thing
you know some girl that is pretty will steal him off of you. But
it's silly to talk about them marrying each other. He'd have to ask
her first, and he's not going to. I know! So I don't feel at all
like I'm trespassing.
"Anyway, you know the old saying, everything goes in love. And I----
But I'm keeping you from reading your book. Oh yes; I almost forgot
a T.L. that Miss Halsey said about you. Do you know what a T.L. is?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, you give me one and I'll give you this one."
"But I haven't talked to anybody but the doctor. I can give you one
from myself. He asked me how I liked you and I said all right."
"Well, that's better than nothing. Here's what Miss Halsey said: She
said if you were shaved and fixed up, you wouldn't be bad. And now
I'm going out and see if there is any mail for me. Most of my mail
goes to where I live, but some of it comes here sometimes. What I'm
looking for is a letter from the state board telling me if I passed
my state examination. They ask you the craziest questions. Like 'Is
ice a disinfectant?' Who cares? Nobody's going to waste ice to kill
germs when there's so much of it needed in high balls. Do you like
high balls? Roy says it spoils whisky to mix it with water. He
takes it straight. He's a terror! But maybe you want to read."
"Good morning," said Miss Lyons. "Did you sleep good?"
"Not so good," said the man in bed. "I--
"I bet you got more sleep than I did," said Miss Lyons. "He's the
most persistent somebody I ever knew! I asked him last night, I
said, 'Don't you never get tired of dancing?' So he said, well, he
did get tired of dancing with some people, but there was others who
he never got tired of dancing with them. So I said, 'Yes, Mr.
Jollier, but I wasn't born yesterday and I know apple sauce when I
hear it and I bet you've told that to fifty girls.' I guess he
really did mean it, though.
"Of course most anybody'd rather dance with slender girls than stout
girls. I remember a B.F. I had one time in Washington. He said
dancing with me was just like dancing with nothing. That sounds like
he was insulting me, but it was really a compliment. He meant it
wasn't any effort to dance with me like with some girls. You take
Marian, for instance, and while I'm crazy about her, still that don't
make her a good dancer and dancing with her must be a good deal like
moving the piano or something.
"I'd die if I was fat! People are always making jokes about fat
people. And there's the old saying, 'Nobody loves a fat man.' And
it's even worse with a girl. Besides people making jokes about them
and don't want to dance with them and so forth, besides that they're
always trying to reduce and can't eat what they want to. I bet,
though, if I was fat, I'd eat everything in sight. Though I guess
not, either. Because I hardly eat anything as it is. But they do
make jokes about them.
"I'll never forget one day last winter, I was on a case in Great Neck
and the man's wife was the fattest thing! So they had a radio in the
house and one day she saw in the paper where Bugs Baer was going to
talk on the radio and it would probably be awfully funny because he
writes so crazy. Do you ever read his articles? But this woman, she
was awfully sensitive about being fat and I nearly died sitting there
with her listening to Bugs Baer, because his whole talk was all about
some fat woman and he said the craziest things, but I couldn't laugh
on account of she being there in the room with me. One thing he said
was that the woman, this woman he was talking about, he said she was
so fat that she wore a wrist watch on her thumb. Henry J. Belden."
"Who is Henry J. Belden? Is that the name of Bugs Baer's fat lady?"
"No, you crazy!" said Miss Lyons. "Mr. Belden was the case I was on
in Great Neck. He died."
"It seems to me a good many of your cases die."
"Isn't it a scream!" said Miss Lyons. "But it's true; that is, it's
been true lately. The last five cases I've been on has all died. Of
course it's just luck, but the girls have been kidding me about it
and calling me a jinx, and when Miss Halsey saw me here the evening
of the day you was operated, she said, 'God help him!' That's the
night floor nurse's name. But you're going to be mean and live
through it and spoil my record, aren't you? I'm just kidding. Of
course I want you to get all right.
"But it is queer, the way things have happened, and it's made me feel
kind of creepy. And besides, I'm not like some of the girls and
don't care. I get awfully fond of some of my cases and I hate to see
them die, especially if they're men and not very sick and treat you
half-way decent and don't yell for you the minute you go out of the
room. There's only one case I was ever on where I didn't mind her
dying and that was a woman. She had nephritis. Mrs. Judson.
"Do you want some gum? I chew it just when I'm nervous. And I
always get nervous when I don't have enough sleep. You can bet I'll
stay home tonight, B.F. or no B.F. But anyway he's got an engagement
tonight, some directors' meeting or something. He's the busiest
somebody in the world. And I told him last night, I said, 'I should
think you'd need sleep, too, even more than I do because you have to
have all your wits about you in your business or those big bankers
would take advantage and rob you. You can't afford to be sleepy,' I
told him.
"So he said, 'No, but of course it's all right for you, because if
you go to sleep on your job, there's no danger of you doing any
damage except maybe give one of your patients a bichloride of mercury
tablet instead of an alcohol rub.' He's terrible! But you can't
help from laughing.
"There was four of us in the party last night. He brought along his
B.F. and another girl. She was just blah, but the B.F. wasn't so
bad, only he insisted on me helping him drink a half a bottle of
Scotch, and on top of gin, too. I guess I was the life of the party;
that is, at first. Afterwards I got sick and it wasn't so good.
"But at first I was certainly going strong. And I guess I made quite
a hit with Roy's B.F. He knows Marian, too, but he won't say
anything, and if he does, I don't care. If she don't want to lose
her beaus, she ought to know better than to introduce them to all the
pretty girls in the world. I don't mean that I'm any Norma Talmadge,
but at least--well--but I sure was sick when I _was_ sick!
"I must give Marian a ring this noon. I haven't talked to her since
the night she introduced me to him. I've been kind of scared. But
I've got to find out what she knows. Or if she's sore at me. Though
I don't see how she can be, do you? But maybe you want to read."
"I called Marian up, but I didn't get her. She's out of town but
she'll be back tonight. She's been out on a case. Hudson, New York.
That's where she went. The message was waiting for her when she got
home the other night, the night she introduced me to Roy."
"Good morning," said Miss Lyons.
"Good morning," said the man in bed. "Did you sleep enough?"
"Yes," said Miss Lyons. "I mean no, not enough."
"Your eyes look bad. They almost look as if you'd been crying."
"Who? Me? It'd take more than--I mean, I'm not a baby! But go on
and read your book."
"Well, good morning," said Miss Lyons. "And how's my patient? And
this is the last morning I can call you that, isn't it? I think
you're mean to get well so quick and leave me out of a job. I'm just
kidding. I'm glad you're all right again, and I can use a little
rest myself."
"Another big night?" asked the man in bed.
"Pretty big," said Miss Lyons. "And another one coming. But
tomorrow I won't ever get up. Honest, I danced so much last night
that I thought my feet would drop off. But he certainly is a dancing
fool! And the nicest somebody to talk to that I've met since I came
to this town. Not a smart Aleck and not always trying to be funny
like some people, but just nice. He understands. He seems to know
just what you're thinking. George Morse."
"George Morse!" exclaimed the man in bed.
"Why, yes," said Miss Lyons. "Do you know him?"
"No. But I thought you were talking about this Stewart, this Roy."
"Oh, him!" said Miss Lyons. "I should say not! He's private
property; other people's property, not mine. He's engaged to my G.F.
Marian. It happened day before yesterday, after she got home from
Hudson. She was on a case up there. She told me about it night
before last. I told her congratulations. Because I wouldn't hurt
her feelings for the world! But heavens! what a mess she's going to
be in, married to that dumb-bell. But of course some people can't be
choosy. And I doubt if they ever get married unless some friend
loans him the price of a license.
"He's got her believing he's in Wall Street, but I bet if he ever
goes there at all, it's to sweep it. He's one of these kind of
fellas that's got a great line for a little while, but you don't want
to live with a clown. And I'd hate to marry a man that all he thinks
about is to step out every night and dance and drink.
"I had a notion to tell her what I really thought. But that'd only
of made her sore, or she'd of thought I was jealous or something. As
if I couldn't of had him myself! Though even if he wasn't so awful,
if I'd liked him instead of loathed him, I wouldn't of taken him from
her on account of she being my G.F. And especially while she was out
of town.
"He's the kind of a fella that'd marry a nurse in the hopes that some
day he'd be an invalid. You know, that kind.
"But say--did you ever hear of J.P. Morgan and Company? That's where
my B.F. works, and he don't claim to own it neither. George Morse.
"Haven't you finished that book yet?"
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