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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/36057-8.txt b/36057-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8d75a8 --- /dev/null +++ b/36057-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6876 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Boy Grew Older, by Heywood Broun + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Boy Grew Older + +Author: Heywood Broun + +Release Date: May 8, 2011 [EBook #36057] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY GREW OLDER *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + + + THE BOY GREW OLDER + + BY + + HEYWOOD BROUN + + [Illustration: colophon] + + G. P. Putnam's Sons + New York & London + The Knickerbocker Press + 1923 + + Copyright, 1922, + by + Heywood Broun + + Made in the United States of America + + _First Printing, October 1922_ + _Second Printing, October 1922_ + _Third Printing, November 1922_ + _Fourth Printing, December 1922_ + _Fifth Printing, February 1923_ + _Sixth Printing, March 1923_ + +[Illustration: The Knickerbocker Press New York] + +Made in the United States of America + +DEDICATED + +TO + +HERBERT BAYARD SWOPE + + + + +The Boy Grew Older + +Book I + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +"Your son was born ten minutes ago," said the voice at the other end of +the wire. + +"I'll be up," replied Peter Neale, "right away." + +But it wasn't right away. First he had to go upstairs to the card room +and settle his losses. Indeed he played one more pot for when he +returned to the table his deal had come around again. He felt that it +was not the thing to quit just then. The other men might think he had +timed his departure in order to save the dollar ante. He dealt the cards +and picked up four spades and a heart. Eventually, he paid five dollars +to draw and again he had four spades and a heart. Nevertheless, he bet +ten dollars but it was no go. His hands shook as he dropped the two blue +chips in the centre of the table. The man with a pair of jacks noticed +that and called. Peter threw his cards away. + +"I've got nothing--a busted flush. I want to cash in now. I owe for two +stacks. That's right, isn't it? I haven't any chips left. If +somebody'll lend me a fountain pen I'll make out a check. I guess I +need a check too. Any kind'll do. I can cross the name off." + +"Why are you quitting so soon?" asked the banker as Peter waved the +check back and forth to let it dry. "We're all going to quit at seven +o'clock." + +"Two rounds and a consolation pot," corrected somebody across the table. + +Peter was curiously torn between reticence and an impulse to tell. He +felt a little as if he might begin to cry. When he spoke his voice was +thick. "I've got to go up to see my son," he said. "He's just been +born." + +He shoved the check over to the banker and was out of the room before +anybody could say anything. + +He thought that the banker said, "Congratulations," as he slammed the +door behind him, but he could not be certain of it. + +All the way up in the taxi he worried. The hospital was half a mile +away. He wished that the nurse had said, "A fine boy," but he remembered +it was just, "Your son was born ten minutes ago." + +"If anything had been wrong," he thought, "she wouldn't have said it +over the telephone." + +"Is everything all right?" was his first question when a nurse came to +the door of the small private hospital and let him in. "My name's Peter +Neale," he explained. "My son's just been born half an hour ago." + +"Everything's fine, Mr. Neale," she said and she smiled. "The baby +weighs nine pounds. Mrs. Neale is fine too. You can see them both, but +she's asleep now. You can't really see her today, but I think they'll +let you have a good look at your son. He's a little darling." + +Peter was reassured but irritated. Formula was all over the remark, +"He's a little darling." He thought she ought not to use it until she +had learned to do it better. Some place or other he had read that babies +were fearfully homely. Still it didn't look so bad when he came into the +room. Black was smudged all around the eyes which gave the child a +rakish look. + +"Miss Haine," said the nurse who brought him in, "this is Mr. Neale." + +"Mr. Neale," she added, "meet your son." Then she went out. + +"Is he all right, Miss Haine?" was Peter's first question as soon as the +door closed. After all, the other woman was just supposed to answer the +bell. Miss Haine might know more about it. + +"He's a cherub," said Miss Haine. + +"How did his eyes get blacked?" Peter wanted to know. + +"Oh that's just the silver nitrate. We always put that on a baby's eyes +to make sure--Look what a fine head he has." + +Peter bent closer. The baby was not nearly so red as he had expected. As +for the head he didn't see why it was fine. He had no notion of just +what made a head fine anyway. The child kept wrinkling up its face, but +it was not crying. There was nothing about his son to which Peter could +take specific exception, but somehow he was disappointed. When he had +said down at the New York Newspaper Club, "I've got to go up and see my +son," the phrase "my son" had thrilled him. But this wasn't "my son." It +was just a small baby. It seemed to him as distant as a second cousin. + +"He is sweet," remarked Miss Haine. + +"Yes," said Peter, but he felt that any extension of the discussion +would merely promote hypocrisy on both sides. "Can I see my wife?" he +asked. + +"Come this way," said Miss Haine. "You can only stay a second. I'm +pretty sure she's asleep." + +Maria was asleep and snoring hard. Miss Haine took up one arm which was +flung outside the cover and found the pulse of the sleeping girl and as +she felt it she smiled reassuringly. "Yes," she said, "she's doing +fine." + +"And now," she added, "I'm going to bundle you off. There really isn't +anything around here for a father to do. This isn't your job, you know. +I'm going to let you come back in the morning, but not before ten." + +Peter learned later that one of the strongest factors in Maria's +resentment against having a baby was that he was implicated in the +affair so slightly. He tried to tell her that she ought to blame biology +and not him, but she said there was nothing in the scheme of creation +which arranged that fathers should be playing cards when their sons were +born. It had an air of reckless indifference about it which maddened +her. Peter knew that he could not explain to her that he had not been +free in spirit during the afternoon. He simply could not bear to stay +out of a single pot. Hour after hour he kept coming in on middle +straights and three flushes. Never before had he done anything like +that. But she knew so little about poker that there was no use in +telling her any of this. Indeed he realized that he had made a mistake +in venturing his one answer. Maria was in nowise pacified when he said, +"But I lost fifty dollars." + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +Peter saw Maria only once after that and then for a few minutes. Most of +the time she wept. "She's getting along splendidly," said Dr. Clay. "Her +nervous condition isn't good," he added as an afterthought. "Somehow or +other she doesn't take much interest in the baby. You would almost think +she didn't like it. She'll get over that. The maternal urge is bound to +have its effect in time." + +Of course Peter could not know that this urge, of which the bearded +doctor spoke so confidently, might be tardy. That was something which he +was to learn later for two days after the baby was born he went to +Goldfield for the big fight. He had made the stipulation with the +managing editor that somebody else should cover the story in case his +son was not yet born. The consent had been somewhat grudging and so he +had no inclination to call for another respite now that the baby had +actually arrived. It would have embarrassed him to say to the managing +editor, "I don't want to go away now because Maria--that's my +wife--doesn't like the baby." Anyhow Dr. Clay had said she was getting +along splendidly except for her nerves and the maternal urge would +attend to that. + +And so Peter went to Goldfield and when he came back two weeks later +they told him at the hospital that Maria had gone leaving the baby +behind her. They were slightly apologetic. Miss Haine had been a little +careless. Twelve days after Peter started for the fight Maria had +dressed and walked out. Nobody around the hospital knew anything more +than that about it. She had left a note and Dr. Clay had taken the +extreme liberty of reading it. Medically speaking, he could not say that +it indicated anything more than a highly neurotic condition. The woman +was rational. He could not see his way clear to sending out a general +alarm. After all he did not suppose that there was any legal way of +making the young woman come back. She said she was going to sail for +Paris and he supposed she had. Dr. Clay offered sympathy and some +observations gleaned in twenty years of practice about the Latin +temperament. + +Peter said nothing in reply. He did not want to discuss it. He felt lost +and gone but not altogether startled. Now that it had happened he +realized that he should have known that Maria might do something just +like that. It was an altogether silly arrangement that she should have +had a baby. + +"The youngster's fine," said Dr. Clay. "It must be a comfort to you to +know that you've still got him. I believe he's having his bath now. +Wouldn't you like to come up and see him. It's quite an exciting event I +can assure you." + +Peter didn't want to be excited and it didn't appeal to him as a +sporting event anyhow. Would Dr. Clay allow him to lie down on his couch +for a little while. Later he'd come up and talk about what to do with +the baby. He supposed the hospital didn't want it very much longer +anyway. After Clay had gone he cried a little. That didn't necessarily +mean much. Only the Thursday before he had cried at the ringside in +Goldfield when Battling Nelson knocked out Joe Gans. Then it had been +partly rage because thousands around him had shouted "Knock his block +off. Kill the nigger." And he had seen someone very beautiful slowly +crumple up before a slab-sided, bristling, little man who had no quality +of skill or grace. Nelson had just kept coming in and in. He never +stepped back. Often he took a blow in the face rather than bother to +stop for an instant from swinging his own short arms at the brown belly +in front of him. The victory had seemed altogether mechanical. Gans had +not been knocked out so much as clawed to pieces by a threshing machine. +And it was Gans Peter had thought of two years ago when he first saw +Maria Algarez dance. She had that same amazing suddenness of movement. +When he first saw her she was standing still in the middle of the huge +stage. And then everything about her had come to life. There was never +any feeling that she was thinking about what to do. No roll call was +carried on in her mind before she kicked or leaped, or flung an arm +above her head. The left jab of Joe Gans was like that too. + +Peter went to the stage door and thought he had made up his mind to stop +her and speak to her. He found that he hadn't. She came out slowly and +when he stared at her she looked straight at him and almost smiled. He +could not be quite sure of it because that was the very moment something +inside rapidly wheeled him about and sent him all but running out of the +alley. Later he was more enterprising. The dramatic critic at his +request introduced him to the press agent of "Adios" and the press +agent introduced him to Maria Algarez. She had just finished her dance. +Peter was standing in the wings and people were telling him not to. + +"Perhaps Mlle. Algarez will take us up to her dressing-room," said the +press agent. + +"It is not mine," said Maria, "I am not a star. The eight Bandana +Sisters dress with me. But never mind. Here they come. It is now their +turn on the stage. You will have to climb two flights of stairs, Mr. +Neale. You do not mind? Yes?" + +"I do," said the press agent. "But that scores for you. You're the one +he wants to see." + +And so Peter found himself alone in one corner of the long dressing-room +of Maria Algarez and the eight Bandana Sisters. All sorts of clothes +were scattered over the room. Maria sat down on a chair and stretched +out her feet. There was another chair nearby but somebody's stockings +were on it. Peter stood up. Maria looked at him and smiled with no +particular merriment. She was tired. Peter shifted from one foot to +another through a long pause. + +"Are they really sisters?" he asked. + +"Just two," said Maria. "Vonnie is the sister to Boots. The rest they +are all mixed. It could not be that there should be eight such bad +dancers in the one family." + +"I think you're the greatest dancer I ever saw." + +Maria nodded. "Yes, I am the great dancer. It is smart for you to know +that. The others they do not know. When Boots was sick, Mr. Casey--he is +our stage manager--he wanted me to go on in her place. He said he would +give me $5 a week more. He is stupid Mr. Casey. I do not dance like +that. It is not for me." + +"We'll be miss, miss, missed in Mississip," she hummed and made a face. +"One, two, three, four, lie down on the stomach and kick first the right +leg and then the left leg and then kick both legs. That was what he +wanted Maria Algarez to do. How is it you know? It is so smart. Here +throw down those stockings on the floor and take the chair. I want to +hear you say more about why I am so great a dancer." + +Peter lifted the stockings as if they had been little kittens and placed +them on the long shelf under the electric lights. + +"I don't know why," he said. "It just seems so easy when you do things. +And the thing you dance to; I think that's the best tune in the show." + +Maria was merry now for the first time. "Again you are smart. It is 'The +Invitation to the Waltz' of Weber. 'Miss, Miss, Missed' is not so good. +That is right. And some time you will tell about me in your newspaper +and say that I am a great dancer?" + +"I can't," said Peter. "I don't write about the theatre. I only write +about sports. Baseball, you know and football and prizefights and things +like that." + +"Never mind, you and I know, it will be our secret. We will tell none of +the others." + +Up the stairs there came a tramping and shouting and all eight Bandanas +rushed into the room approximately at the same time. + +"I'm going," said Peter jumping up hastily. + +"Don't you mind us Bandanas," shouted Vonnie across the room. "We don't +take off anything for half an hour." + +"Goodbye," said Peter. "Excuse me, ladies." + +Maria held his hand for one and two thirds seconds. "You must come +again. I want that you should tell me more about our secret." + +Vonnie held the door open for Peter. "You come when we're all here," +she said. "There isn't a nickle's worth of harm in the lot of us. But +that Maria there is a vamp, a baby Spanish vamp. Will you remember +that." + +"I'll remember." + +As Peter went down the stairs he was trying to see if he could hum the +thing that Maria said was "The Invitation to the Waltz" by Weber. He +wasn't good at it. And besides it was all mixed up and racketing around +in his head with, "We'll be miss, miss, missed in Mississip." + +Peter went to the show the next night and after that the alley. He stood +scrunched up against a wall for a time but he felt too conspicuous. He +was afraid that somebody would come up to him suddenly and say, "What +are you hanging around here for?" It didn't make much difference who +said it, the door man, a stage hand, a scrub woman, anyone would have +sufficient authority to terrify him. His mind leaped beyond that and he +had a vision of a policeman laying a hand upon his shoulder and saying, +"I arrest you on the charge of mashing." After that would come the trial +and the sentence. Peter moved out of the alley. He had no notion of just +what were the fixed post rights of anybody waiting at a stage door to +see an actress. Walking seemed safer and he took up a beat along the +side street which ran at right angles to the alley. + +His pace was brisk and he succeeded pretty well in developing the air of +a man bent upon getting to some important engagement five or six miles +away. Of course, every time he passed the alley it was possible to sweep +it with a glance over his shoulder. Even a man in a hurry has a right to +notice a tributary of chorus girls, musicians and actors sweeping into +his street. First came the musicians. Then one girl. Then two and +presently the flood. Peter did not dare to be too detached any more. +Fortunately he found the window of a cigar store just at the corner +where the alley turned into the street. By pretending an interest in the +special sale of genuine imported English briar pipes Peter was able to +keep close watch upon everyone who came from the stage door and at the +same time seem not quite a prominent clubman. But one of the pipes, +possibly the calabash cut to $2.21, must have commanded more than +fictitious interest, for Peter was suddenly startled by a clutch at his +left arm. He tugged away and turned at the same moment. + +"Unhand me, woman," said Vonnie, but she immediately took his arm again. +"I knew you'd come," she said. "It was that look you threw at me over +your shoulder when you went out yesterday." + +"I haven't come," said Peter. "I just happened to be going by." + +"But you are glad to see me?" + +"Of course I am." + +"And you'll walk home with me to keep me from being unprotected on the +streets of a great city at night. It's only about twelve blocks. You +don't need to take a taxi." + +"Honest, I can't. I wish I could. I'm awful sorry." + +Vonnie began to laugh. "I wonder why it is that when they come big they +haven't got any sense. 'I knew I could rule you the day we were wed,' +she hummed, 'for thick in the middle is thick in the head.'" + +"What did I do that was stupid? And I'm not thick in the middle." + +"Well, that's a fact. I don't know your name but your figure is grand. I +guess you find being so handsome you don't need any sense." + +"I have so too got sense. What have I done?" + +"Well, you're just so serious I can't go on kidding you. Don't you +suppose I knew you were waiting for Maria? And I know a lot more than +that. You keep looking at that girl the way you did yesterday afternoon +and all of a sudden you'll find rice in your ears." + +"All right," said Peter, "I guess I can stand that." + +"Here comes the bride--watch your step," and Vonnie went up the street +as Maria came around the corner. + +"Hello," said Maria, "what was it you talked about to Vonnie?" + +"She thinks we're going to get married." + +"And what is it you think?" + +"I'd like it." + +"Because I am the great dancer you think I ought to be the wife. So? It +is funny. But it is not so funny. We can talk about it again. Now I am +so tired that I just want to hear you say one thing and that is about +the dancing and me." + +"I think you were just fine," said Peter. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +I + +Maria was right. They did talk about it again and largely because Peter +surprised himself and her with enterprise. It was raining hard that +night when she came out into the alley. Peter grown bold was standing +not more than two feet away from the stage door at a spot where a +projecting fire escape offered some shelter from the rain. A big puddle +lay all the way across the alley. + +"Here," said Peter, almost casually and he picked Maria up and carried +her across. + +"Thank God, there's no winding staircase," Vonnie shouted after them. + +Still it was an entirely natural and easy thing to keep one arm around +Maria when they got into the taxicab. She rested her head against his +shoulder. Peter realized then that he ought to kiss her. After all he +had known her three weeks. It seemed the conventional thing to do. +Besides he wanted to. She said nothing until the second time. + +"I like the quiet ones better, Peter, my hermit. It is nice to lean +against you. With you the taxi does not jounce so much. Part of my +tiredness it goes into your arm." + +"Won't you marry me?" asked Peter. + +"Because we have kissed? And I have put my head on your shoulder? You +would make me the honest woman?" + +"I want to marry you." + +"First we must have some supper. Maybe it is that you are just hungry. +It is not upon an empty stomach to talk about getting married." + +Maria would not take the table which the headwaiter offered. "No that +other. The little one in the corner." + +After they had ordered Maria took up a long bread stick and began +breaking it into little pieces in her hand. + +"Peter," she said, "I must make you very sad. Maybe I will be a little +sad. You do not think I am good?" + +Peter stared at her. + +"That is too bad. I am not good, not very good. You know what I mean. +You have heard the actress in the play say, 'I am a good woman?' Maria +is not. I do not know why I tell you but I will. First it was three +years ago in Paris. He was married and I knew that. I do not even like +him much but I go. It was wrong. It was not so wrong another time +because that boy I like a little. Now it was Mr. Casey, our manager, I +told you he was a fool. That I could not help. He is such a fool. I try +to get the job and he does not say you can dance. He say to me, 'I am a +nice man and you are a nice girl.' What is there for me to say except +'yes.' About the dance he does not know anything. What is the use for me +to say, 'No, I am not the nice girl, I am the great dancer.' Even if he +would watch me dance he would not know. And so for the week-end at Long +Beach I was the nice girl. I cannot help it that people are fools. It +does not make me sad, but I am sad because now you are unhappy." + +But Peter was not exactly unhappy. He knew that by all the rules he +should be broken-hearted or raging. He wondered why he had no impulse to +shoot Casey. As a matter of fact he could think of nothing more silly. +His mind kept turning back to a play he had seen once called "The Second +Mrs. Tanqueray." In that the heroine had confessed in the first act to +the man she was going to marry. It was thrilling Peter found to have +somebody confessing to him. Maria the dancer was romantic, but Maria the +adventuress was a whole leap beyond that into the realm of fantasy. He +stole a glance around the long room and everywhere he saw men and women +talking. Some were laughing and some were earnest. "But," he thought to +himself, "probably this is the only table in the room where anybody is +making a confession." + +And besides all the dramatic values of the situation, he was not quite +unconscious of the comic ones. There sat Maria, at least five feet high +and looking about ten years old, gravely lifting up one corner of life a +little gingerly to spare the feelings of Peter Neale, the best known +sporting writer in America. But every other impression was swept away by +the sudden feeling that it was extraordinarily honest for Maria to tell +him all this. It was more than that. It was like cheering when the Yale +captain got up again. It was sportsmanship. + +Peter reached across the table and patted her hand. "I'm not sad, Maria. +I think it was awfully white of you to tell me. I'm not exactly a good +man myself. Anyhow things are different with you. Those things you said +are nothing. You know the way I feel is that you're an artist and it's +nobody's business what you do. We don't have to talk about that any +more. There's something else. You remember what we were saying in the +taxicab. You've had two pieces of bread now and a glass of water. Won't +you marry me?" + +"Yes," said Maria, "I'm going to marry you." + + +II + +Peter was surprised the day they went down to get the license to +discover that Maria was twenty-three. He was only twenty-six himself. +Maria had seemed a child. Nineteen would have been his guess. + +"Maybe," she said, "you will not want me because I am so old." + +"You could be a hundred," Peter answered. + +They were to be married the next day but when he met her at the theatre +in the evening she told him that Dolly Vance was ill and that Mr. Casey +wanted her to take over four of the sick girl's numbers. "I have to come +to the theatre at ten o'clock and rehearse all the day." + +"Then we'll get married at nine. I'm not going to take a chance like +that. I've read about it in books. The whole house will be cheering you +and then you'll ask for waivers on me. I want to get you signed up." + +"Pooh, for me they will not cheer. These are the jazz dances. They are +not for me. And Peter, oh, Peter, I must sing." + +"Can you sing?" + +"Yes, my hermit, I am almost so good a singer as a dancer. And I could +play the piano if there was any one smart enough to know. You see I +bring you the dowry." + +A very bored Alderman said that they were man and wife, but there was +some excitement when they came out of the City Hall and two newspaper +photographers took their pictures. Peter was proud of the fact that both +the camera men made a point of treating him as a person of a good deal +of importance. "You see," he said, "I'm somebody in my business." + +"The paper you work on what is the name?" + +"It's called the Bulletin." + +"And what is it they pay you?" + +"Well, with my share of the syndicate and all that it amounts to about +$100 a week." + +"One hundred dollars a week! That is funny. My pay it is $50. I have +caught a millionaire. Peter, why do they pay you $100 a week?" + +"I don't know, Maria----" + +"One hundred dollars a week to write about the baseball game! Fifty +dollars a week to Maria Algarez. My God, what a country! I do not like +that, Peter. Still, it does not matter so much. Maybe I am glad that you +are rich. You can buy me a piano and I will show you that I know how to +play Chopin. You would like that." + +"That'll be fine," said Peter. + +"Where was it that you learned so much about this baseball that they pay +you $100 for the week?" + +"I used to play myself at Harvard. At least I played one year. I pitched +against Yale and shut 'em out. The next year I got fired because I +couldn't learn French." + +"But that is so easy, the French. I do not know what it is to shut Yale +out." + +"Of course it's easy for you. You lived there, you told me ever since +you were five. Any foreigner ought to be able to speak French." + +"But I am not. I am now the American, I know that. I am Mrs. Peter +Neale." + +"Oh," she said, and made a fearful grimace, "that you must never call +me. It must be that I am still Maria Algarez. Mrs. Peter Neale I do not +know. Maria Algarez she will not die. Oh no, Peter, you understand +that?" + +"It's all right with me," said Peter. "I'm just going to call you Maria +any way." + +"And, Peter, I forgot, you have a father and a mother and the relations +for me to meet." + +"Not a one. I've got an uncle in Salt Lake City. That's a long way off +if you don't know. But how about you?" + +"Maybe, who can tell. They are no good. I do not care. Perhaps they are +dead. Peter, you are all I have in the world. That is why you must buy +me the grand piano." + +They went straight from the City Hall to the theatre and Peter left her. +He was not to see her again until after the performance. Of course he +went to the show and sat in the second row. But Maria did not see him +when she came on to do the first of her new numbers. Or at any rate she +made no sign of recognition. She kept her eyes intently on the +conductor's baton. And then she began to sing. Even Peter had an inkling +of the fact that here was a lovely voice. If he had not been married to +Maria Algarez at nine o'clock that morning he would still have been +caught up in the excitement of the theatre. Almost everybody stopped +coughing. They honestly cheered and they kept it up. Nine times Maria +sang the chorus and five times more she came out to bow. Her fourth song +was the last number in the play with the exception of the parade of all +the nations and nobody paid any attention to that. They just kept on +applauding and shouting. Peter argued with the stage door man. + +"I have to see Maria Algarez," he said. "I have to, I tell you. I'm her +husband." + +"Write your name down on a piece of paper, and I'll take it up and see +what she says." + +In three or four minutes he returned. "Miss Algarez says you're to come +up. It's number twelve. Two flights up at the head of the stairs." + +Peter knocked. + +"Come in," said Maria. She had thrown the blue and gold costume in a +corner, and slipped on a kimono. + +"It was marvelous," said Peter; "nobody's ever heard anything like it in +a theatre. They're still cheering and applauding for you." + +"For all that applause I do not give a damn," answered Maria and snapped +her fingers. "As long as you like. That is all." + +Peter kissed her. "Maria, I was afraid I'd lost you." He held her at +arm's length and the kimono slipped down over one shoulder. "Cover +yourself up," said Peter almost sharply. Maria pulled the wrap back and +folded it closely around her. Peter had never seen that smile before. + +"A husband," she said. "It is different." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +I + +Maria blamed a good many things upon the institution of marriage for +which the explanation probably lay elsewhere. If Peter had been a lover +rather than a husband he would still have been insensitive to Chopin. In +all the range of Maria's repertoire he was never able to detect more +than a single tune. That itself seemed to him an achievement for the +Fantaisie Impromptu had not yet been discovered to be actually, "I'm +Always Chasing Rainbows." But as a matter of fact Peter did not really +understand Maria Algarez any better than he understood Chopin. He loved +her throughout the year of their married life but he was not happy. + +"It is the curse of the witch on you," she said, "or maybe it is not the +witch but that America of yours. There is something in you, Peter, that +will not let you be happy. You are afraid of it. Of me you are afraid, +Peter." + +He protested that this was not so but Maria knew better. + +"Love--what you call sex--that is one of the things which has frightened +you the most of any. Somebody has put black thoughts into that head. +Yes, I tell you it is so. A terrible thing has been done to you. +Somebody has brought you up carefully." + +But in an instant she had come across the room to him and had a +protecting arm about him. + +"Now I have made you the more sad. You must tell me what it is." + +"I can't, Maria. I don't know whether I know. But anyhow I can't." + +"Perhaps it is the sound of it which you fear. You tell me. You must. +Whisper it." + +Peter did whisper. "You remember that night you told me---- you told me +about the others." + +"You mean those oh so few lovers. But that did not make you sad then. +You were not angry." + +"I'm not angry now. But I can't help it, Maria, that I worry." + +"And for what do you worry?" + +"I think that maybe those other lovers they made you happier than I +can." + +"So! That I should have known. You think you are not the so great lover. +These men they are gone but they are still your rivals. Perhaps I +remember. That is it?" + +"Yes," said Peter. + +He was startled when Maria laughed. + +"Why do you laugh at me?" + +"It is to you like the baseball game. It is what you call it? Oh yes, a +competition." + +Peter made no answer. + +"Now listen to me, Peter. You I love the most of anybody in the world. I +tell you that but it is not enough. You still worry. Something I must do +to show you. This blackness I must drive away. Peter, you must have a +baby. Yes, it is a son you need. Then you can worry about him." + +Maria spoke upon the conviction but also upon impulse and babies are not +born that way. The time of her trial beat fiercely upon her. She had to +quit the show just a day after a new rôle and several new songs were +promised to her. During the last three months of her pregnancy she never +left the apartment. "I do not want anybody to point at me," she told +Peter, "and say that is Maria Algarez who did the Butterfly Dance in +'Adios.'" + + * * * * * + +In the note which Dr. Clay handed to Peter, Maria had written: "I did +keep my promise. It is a baby and a son. That was all I promised. More I +cannot do. Peter, I must be Maria Algarez, the dancer. I cannot be the +wife and the mother. You should not be sad altogether. I think it is +good that we have met. When you look at your son you will forget some of +the rubbish that was in your head. That is more than that you should +remember Maria Algarez. And the boy, Peter, remember it is fair that +from life he should get fun. Thank God, nobody can ever make of him the +wife and mother. Miss Haine says he is like me. If that is so, Peter, +you may have much trouble. But leave him just a little bad." + +The last sentence was hard to decipher. Peter could not make out whether +Maria had written, "I love you," or "I loved you." + + +II + +Peter must have gone to sleep eventually on the sofa in the reception +room of Dr. Clay's hospital. It was almost dark when he woke. He had +been dreaming hard. In the dream some vague figure, forgotten by the +time he awoke, presented him with a small lion cub as a pet. Throughout +the dream Peter worried about the lion cub. The apartment house in which +he lived had a strict rule against dogs. The janitor did not actually +come into the dream, but much of Peter's sleeping consciousness was +concerned with planning arguments for that official. "But it isn't a +dog," Peter was prepared to say, "it's a lion. Your rules don't say +anything about lions. Anyhow it's only a little lion." There had been a +lion cub in Battling Nelson's camp and Peter had often watched the +fighter fool around with it and slap the animal when it tried to nip +him. Nelson had a trick of rubbing the rough stubble of his beard +against the lion's nose. Peter hated that. + +Disentangling himself from his dream he decided that his nightmare had +been an echo he remembered from Goldfield. It took him several minutes +to get himself back from the Nevada fight to the hospital in New York. +While he slept he had forgotten that Maria had run away and that his son +was in a room upstairs. He was about to skirmish out in search of one +of the nurses when Dr. Clay came into the room. + +"Feeling any better?" asked the doctor. + +"I feel all right. I'm all ready to take the baby now." + +"You don't need to be in any hurry about that, Mr. Neale. Better let him +stay till tomorrow. It's after six now. Suppose we go up and watch the +little fellow get bathed. I asked Miss Haine to postpone that so you +could see him." + +Peter realized that his presence at the bath seemed to be obligatory in +the mind of the doctor. He went up the stairs to the same room which he +had visited the fortnight before when he rushed away from the poker +game. There could be no possible question about finding the right door +for the hall was filled with loud howling. + +"They never like it," said Dr. Clay. + +"Is there any other reason for doing it?" asked Peter, but the physician +made no answer. + +The baby was propped up against one end of the tub rubbing at his eyes +and Miss Haine was sloshing his chest with water from a sponge. + +She looked up and said, "He's just fine, Mr. Neale. I'm not really +hurting him." + +Peter found that a dim shadow of personality had descended upon his son +in the two weeks since he had last seen him. The face was too crowded +with tears and fingers to make much of an impression, but Peter, making +room for the doctor, walked around behind the tub and from the shoulders +of the child he received his first thrill. They were square high +shoulders without the suggestion of a curve. Christy Mathewson, the +rookie pitcher of the Giants, whom Peter Neale had recently hailed in +his column as a coming baseball star had shoulders just like that. And +it was a fine assertive chest. + +"He'll be a big man some day," said Miss Haine lifting up one of the +baby's feet. "Remember he's got to grow up to these." + +But no sooner was his foot lifted than the child began to howl louder +than ever. Peter suddenly reached toward him. + +"Look out," cried Miss Haine in alarm. "You mustn't touch his head." + +Peter cared nothing about the head. It was the high boxed shoulders +which he wanted, for some reason, to touch. He patted the child twice. +"I wouldn't cry like that," he said. But the child continued. + +"He thinks I put soap in his eyes," explained Miss Haine. "Tell him I +didn't." + +Peter thought it would be silly to say anything like that to the baby. +He patted him twice more and said, "There, there." + +"You're going to have your bottle in just a minute now," cooed Miss +Haine, drying the child with a vigor which it resented. She put him back +into his crib and presented the bottle. + +Instantly he ceased crying and drank noisily. He drank a good deal more +than he could conveniently swallow and milk began to spill out at the +corners of his mouth. The flash of interest which had animated Peter +died away. Indeed his feeling slumped down through indifference to +dislike. + +"I suppose," said Miss Haine, "you're going to keep him on cow's milk +from now on." + +"Cow's milk?" said Peter. "That's what he's got in the bottle now, isn't +it? It's all right for him, I suppose?" + +"In theory," said Dr. Clay, "bottle babies don't do quite so well, but +it doesn't make much difference. I imagine more than half the children +in New York today are brought up on bottles." + +"By the way," he continued, "I don't want to pry into your affairs, Mr. +Neale, but I suppose the little fellow's got a grandmother or somebody +you can turn him over to." + +"No," said Peter, "he hasn't got any grandmother that I know of. I guess +we'll just have to get along without one." + +"I can give you the telephone number of an agency where you could get a +trained nurse for him. That would insure expert care for a month or so +while you're looking around trying to make some more permanent +arrangement." + +Peter shook his head. He had come to hate the hospital. Any starched +person would remind him constantly of Maria and her letter and her +running away. + +"I think I've got somebody," he said. He was thinking of Kate. She had +been part of his life before he met Maria. And then there couldn't be +any scandal concerning Kate. She was about sixty. Before the baby was +born Kate had discussed the possibility of his paying her more than she +got for part time housekeeping and letting her be a nurse for the child. + +"Well, whoever you get," advised Dr. Clay, "I want you to buy this book. +I'll write it down for you--it's Dr. Kerley's, I've always found it the +best--and have her follow the directions carefully." + +Peter put the slip in his pocket. "I'll come around for the baby at +ten," he said. He took one more glance at the crib, but the milk +guzzling still continued. He left without saying goodbye to anybody +except Miss Haine and Dr. Clay. As he went out the front door he +suddenly said, "Damn!" He remembered that Kate couldn't read. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +On the way back to the flat in West Sixty-sixth Street, Peter stopped at +a store and asked for Dr. Kerley's book. The clerk was sorry that it was +not in stock. Of course he could order it. + +"I want something right away," said Peter. They rummaged around on a +shelf marked miscellaneous and found, "Your Child," and "The Christian +Nursery." Neither seemed from its title quite to answer the needs of +Peter, but since there was nothing else he took them both. Arriving at +his flat in West Sixty-sixth Street three doors away from Central Park, +Peter found Kate on hand. He had seen her just for a minute on his +return from Goldfield but not since he had learned his news at the +hospital. He did not know whether or not she knew. + +"My wife's gone away," he said. "And she won't be back." + +"Yes, sir," replied Kate. Peter liked her for that. Whether she was +surprised or not she made no sign. + +"Now," he continued, "I've got to bring the baby back here tomorrow. +It's a boy. There isn't anybody I know to turn him over to. I want you +to come and live here and be his nurse. I'll pay you fifteen dollars a +week. You remember you said you would come for ten when we were talking +about it before. I'm going to pay you more because you'll have to do the +whole job now." + +"I want one night a week off, Mr. Neale," said Kate. + +"That'll be all right if you make it Sunday. I guess I can learn enough +to take care of him once a week. I've got a couple of books here that +tell how to do it. This baby's going to be brought up right, Kate. I +want you to read these books too." + +"Mr. Neale, I've broke my glasses and I can't see print at all without +them. I'm an old woman, Mr. Neale." + +"That's all right, Kate, I'll read you some of it so we can be ready for +this baby when he comes tomorrow. Don't stand up. Sit down, Kate. This +is called 'Your Child.' It's written by a woman named Alice Carter +Scott." + +Peter opened the book and decided to skip the preface. + +"I had a sister in Brooklyn once," said Kate, "that was married to a man +named Scott. She's dead these ten years, God rest her soul." + +"It says," began Peter, skimming over the first page and deciding that a +summary would be sufficient, "that the most important task in the world +and the greatest blessing is to bring up children." + +"'The first years of the child's life'" he read, "'roughly speaking from +birth to the age of six, constitute the most important period of the +child's whole existence.'" + +He skimmed ahead again until he found a heading, "Constructive +Suggestions." + +"'First of all,'" he read, "'I would say that the home cannot be a +normal home unless the mother herself is a normal being---- '" + +Peter tried to skip ahead rapidly. "'She must learn to discriminate +between the essentials and the non-essentials in life. She must give the +best of herself to important things and she must learn to eliminate or +subordinate the non-important--'" Here Peter broke off and put the book +down. + +"This doesn't seem to be much good for us," he said. "It's all too +general. Maybe we can get something more out of this one. This one's +called 'The Christian Nursery,' That doesn't sound much good, but we'll +see. 'Functions of the Family--.' 'The Functions of the family in human +life are five-fold: (1) biological; (2) educational; (3) moral; (4) +social; (5) religious.'" + +He put it down impatiently. "These aren't what I wanted at all. I'll +have to go and get that Dr. Kerley book they told me about in the +hospital. I can get it in the morning." + +"Begging your pardon, Mr. Neale," said Kate, "there's no need for me to +have a book about babies. I raised five children and buried four. I'm +not saying, mind you, that books aren't the great things for wisdom but +it's not wisdom that little children do be needing. The Blessed Virgin +herself, she didn't have to read in no books. I'll be bringing him up +like he was my own son, Mr. Neale, and that's better than you'll be +finding in all your fine books." + +Peter was disposed to argue the proposition that all a woman needs to +know about motherhood can be learned by having some children, but Kate +got up and walked out into the kitchen to show that the interview was +over. Peter never did get around to buying Dr. Kerley even for his own +education. Still he could not quite dismiss the little he had read that +night. He could not remember whether it was in the Christian book or the +other that he had come across the paragraph about the mother--"She must +learn to discriminate between the essentials and the non-essentials in +life." He wondered whether it was essential that Maria should devote +herself to the gurgling little child who cried about everything but +spilt milk, or that she should go on dancing to the strains of that tune +by Weber. He tried to hum it and couldn't. Then he sat and thought for a +long time. In reply to a question from Kate he said that he didn't want +any dinner. He was going out. Would she please be at the flat at ten +o'clock as he expected to have the baby back by that time. + +Presently Kate went out. Peter sat by the window and looked up towards +the park. He could catch a glimpse of it by leaning out. There was a +moon. A wind whipped through the trees and they were swaying back and +then rushing forward again whenever the gusts gave them an opening. That +was a sort of dance. He turned away from the window. There was nothing +in the room to remind him of Maria except the grand piano. He would get +rid of that. His mind began to lose its ache. He could accept the fact +that Maria had gone. He would remember her now always as he had seen her +that first night standing still in the centre of the stage just before +she began to dance. The sight of Maria washing a baby would have been +queer. It was all right for nurses and old Irish women and sporting +writers to mess around with babies and soap and rubber-tipped milk +bottles. Somehow or other he was glad he had never seen the greatest +dancer in all the world with a mouth full of safety pins. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +Miss Haine seemed somewhat surprised when Peter arrived at the hospital +alone the next morning. "You're not going to carry him back yourself?" +she said. + +"Why not?" + +"Have you ever held a baby?" + +Peter thought back. "Not such a little one," he admitted. + +"Well then, watch me," she said. "See, take him like this. If you don't +he's sure to cry." + +"But he's crying now," protested Peter. + +"That's for some other reason. It isn't because I'm holding him wrong. +All little babies cry a good deal at first. It's good for them. Any time +a small baby doesn't cry a certain number of hours a day there's +something wrong. You see he isn't big enough to walk, or crawl, or even +roll around much and crying is the way he gets his exercise. He's +getting air into his little lungs now." + +"There isn't anything to be done about it?" Peter wanted to know. + +"Well, of course, you must look first of all to see if there is any real +reason for his crying. His skin is very sensitive. There might be a pin +sticking in him. It might be that his clothes need to be changed." Miss +Haine paused. "Yes, he wants to be changed now." + +Peter made a step toward the door, "Oh, you'll have to learn this," said +Miss Haine. "Watch me." + +At the moment she seemed skilful. For the first time Peter appreciated +the fact that she really was trained. But he did not know until after +months of subsequent experience just what a marvel he was permitted to +observe. In the course of a year or so he made progress. His improvement +was tangible enough to be demonstrated in figures. Neale was given to +statistics. He was the first sporting writer to keep separate averages +for batters against right and lefthanded pitching. It was Peter Neale +who proved years later that there were definite exceptions to the +accepted theory that lefthanded batters do badly against southpaws. He +was able to show that through one entire campaign Ty Cobb batted 11.692 +points better against lefthanders than he did against righthanders. In +much the same spirit Peter used a stop watch on himself while he was +engaged in the task of changing the child. In twelve months time he was +pleased to observe that his record was gradually cut down from nineteen +minutes to five and a half. Later he wished it had been his privilege to +time Miss Haine at this first demonstration. He was sportsman enough to +admit that in all probability even his best performance after months of +practice was markedly inferior to hers. Indeed he would not have been a +bit surprised to learn that she had established a world's record before +his very eyes. Even as a novice in the matter he knew that he had seen a +marvel. + +After all, in spite of Peter's ignorance of babies he did have a +reportorial eye. It took him no more than a few seconds to observe that +Miss Haine's phrase, "He wants to be changed," was not a particularly +nice use of English. There seemed to be nothing in the world which the +child wanted less. He screamed as Peter, at that time, had never heard +him scream, and kicked prodigiously. Many months later when Peter had +begun to perfect himself in the technique of the task he felt that +perhaps he would not do at all badly in any competition limited to +participants who were also parents. He was never able to challenge in +any way the complete mastery of Miss Haine because she was endowed with +a complete indifference. She did not allow the screaming to interfere +with her efficiency in any way. The kicking never worried or angered +her. She acted as if it were a natural hazard. + +"There's a nice dry child for you," she said at the end of an interval +which Peter subsequently estimated to have been three minutes and twenty +seconds. He was also a silent child until Peter picked him up. + +"Put your right hand a little lower and raise your left," advised Miss +Haine. "Remember he isn't strong enough yet to hold up his head all by +himself." + +Peter obeyed at the moment, but he grew to have a certain contempt for +all established canons of good form in regard to holding a baby. Indeed +he eventually wrote an article for one of the magazines in which he +maintained: "There are one hundred and fifty-two distinctly different +ways of holding a baby--and all are right! At least all will do." He +based this contention on the fact that the body of a small baby is soft +and pliable and that a person with a strong pair of hands can get a +grip pretty much any place he chooses. Still, for the moment he obeyed +instructions implicitly and went down the stairs gingerly and out to the +taxicab. + +"That's a fine husky kid you've got there," said the driver. "Is it +yours?" + +"Yes," said Peter somewhat ashamed and annoyed by the fact that a +suggestion of pride crept into his voice quite against his will. "It's +my son." + +"He certainly knows how to yell," said the driver. "I've got five but he +beats 'em all." + +Curiously enough the child ceased crying the instant the taxi started. +The motion of the journey and possibly the sight of the trees and the +river and the ships seemed to have a certain interest for it. The mouth +opened into something that might have been a grin. + +"That's Grant's Tomb," said Peter before he realized that whatever +interest in the proceedings the child actually had it could hardly be +pinned down to the particular. Climbing the two flights of stairs which +led to his apartment, Peter knocked at the door briskly. Somehow or +other the baby had begun to slip through his fingers and he found it +impossible to reach the pocket in his vest where he kept his keys. +There was no answer. Peter knocked again and still nobody came. Heaving +the baby up over his shoulder he found the key after trying three wrong +pockets and went into the flat. There was no one about. Kate had not +arrived. Peter was alone with his son. + +Panic descended upon him. He remembered, "His skin is very sensitive. A +pin may be sticking into him," and he wondered if in the event of such +an emergency he could possibly locate the trouble. He was still more +doubtful of his ability to do anything else which might be necessary. +Even in the taxicab, Peter had not felt wholly alone. After all the +driver had said that he was the father of five. This was reassuring to +Peter. He had a mind which hopped ahead. He had been quite alive to the +arrival of a contingency upon which he would find it necessary to tap +upon the window and say, "Never mind the car for a minute. What should I +do now?" + +Fortunately, the conduct of the baby was more admirable than anything +Peter had yet known. He put it in the middle of the bed where it +promptly went to sleep. Peter sat in a chair close by and watched. +Suddenly something happened which startled him. Without waking the +child rolled over and buried its head in the pillow face downward. Peter +knew that it would not smother. He had slept exactly that way himself +for twenty-five years. + +There was no clock in the house and Peter had no notion of how long he +waited. Presently the child woke and began to cry petulantly. A search +for pins was resented and the wailing took on its characteristic vigor. + +"Don't do that," said Peter. He picked the child up, carried it to the +window and back again without good results. Then he said, "Listen!" +Peter cleared his throat. "Rockabye, baby, on the tree top," he began +but to no avail. He wasn't very sure of the tune. There was only one +song of which he was confident. "Oh, Harvard was old Harvard when Yale +was but a pup," struck up Peter. "And Harvard will be Harvard still when +Yale is all gone up, And if any Eli son of a----." + +Instinctively Peter began to hum the rest. It did not seem to him just +the sort of song he should sing to his baby. And yet it proved exactly +right. The child went off to sleep again and remained that way while +Peter disentangled it. A few minutes later Kate came in. "I was +thinking, Mr. Neale," she said, "that there was no clothes for the +child." She stepped across to the bed. "Oh, the little angel. Now the +deep sleep does be on him. I found some old things and brought them. I +hope he was no trouble to you." + +"No," said Peter, mopping his forehead. "He wasn't so much trouble. Have +you got everything you need? I'm going to leave you some money for milk +and food and things. Can you stay with him right along now till your day +off?" + +"I can that." + +"Well, let's see. This is Tuesday. I'm going out for awhile. I won't be +back tonight. Maybe I won't be back tomorrow. Anyhow I'll be back before +Sunday. Take good care of him." + +Peter had to steady himself going down the stairs to the street. He was +shaky and wringing with perspiration. He felt as if he had pitched a +nine inning game with the score nothing to nothing all the way. He just +had to get out of the house. The ache which had died down the night +before was back again. "I guess I've got to get drunk," thought Peter. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +When Peter reached the corner he found that it was only half-past +twelve. It was much too early to get drunk. Daylight drinking had always +seemed to him disgusting. As a matter of fact, he was contemplating the +spree merely as a means to an end. In order to forget Maria he must +think of someone else and it would suit his purpose that the other +person should be someone rowdy and degraded. He would rub himself with +mud to ease the numbness of his spirit. He knew that he could never do +it without drinking. First many gates must be unlocked. Maria had been +right when she said that Peter was afraid of sex. When he was quite a +small boy somebody had told him about flowers and it meant nothing to +him. It had seemed merely a fairy story rather more dull than usual. +Much later a red-haired boy who lived five houses away had talked to +Peter and frightened and disgusted him. After that he had run away when +other boys tried to tell him anything about these mysteries. Of course +his squeamishness had been marked and he became the butt of every +youngster with any talent for smut. Finding that flight was useless +Peter adopted a new system and fought fiercely with anyone who taunted +him. He was bigger and stronger than most of the other boys and he soon +piled up an imposing list of victims to his prowess. He fought so well +that his ignorance remained almost unimpaired. Once when he was in the +act of belaboring a companion who had tried to outline for him the plot +of a book called "Only A Boy," a woman passing by had interrupted the +fight. She wanted to know if Peter was not ashamed of himself. +Defensively he answered that the other boy had been "talking dirty." +Immediately the passerby deluged Peter with admiration. She took down +his name and address and later he received by mail a Bible, leather +bound, and on the flyleaf was the inscription "To a young Sir Galahad." +Peter never took any particular pride in this gift. + +He knew in his heart that his purity rested solidly on fear. He burned +with curiosity. At times he actually invited lewd confidences though +making every pretence of anger when they were imparted to him. Respite +came to him for a year or two before he went to college because +athletics became his god. He excelled all competitors in school and was +generally rated the best right-handed pitcher in the metropolitan +district. Baseball filled all his thoughts waking and sleeping, and in +the autumn it was football, although in this branch of sport he was by +no means as proficient. Indeed when he went to Harvard at the age of +seventeen he was dropped from the varsity squad in the first cut and +later from the freshmen. + +At this particular time, when he was much more foot-loose than usual, +the annual medical lecture to the Freshmen was delivered. It was known +in unofficial circles as Smut One and attendance was compulsory. Very +gravely and severely the old doctor unfolded his tale of horrors. The +spirit was not unlike that of a traditional hell-fire sermon. Peter +heard the man half through and then fainted, toppling over from his seat +across an aisle. He was carried downstairs into the fresh air and did +not come back. But he had heard enough to be convinced that this sex +business was even worse than it had seemed in the crude and rowdy +flashes which had come to him from his companions. And yet the fact that +it was horrible by no means served to keep his thoughts clear of the +subject. The doctor had talked entirely of the dangers and disgraces of +immorality. Peter could not escape the only partially conscious surmise +that unspeakable delights and wonders must lie within this circle of +leaping flames. This impression was confirmed when he happened in the +college library to come across a poem by Carew called "The Rapture." Sex +seemed to him now by far the most romantic and adventurous thing in +life. The fact that there were monsters and dragons to be dared made it +all the more a piece with the unforgotten tales of childhood concerning +giant killers and knights-errant. + +Peter was no longer satisfied to be Galahad. He wanted to be Launcelot. +And still he was afraid. He found out that Columbus Avenue in Boston was +a street largely given over to women and night after night he used to +slink about dark corners hoping and dreading that somebody would speak +to him. Whenever a "Hello dearie" came to him out of the darkness Peter +trembled. "No," he would say, "I'm sorry. I've got a very important +engagement. I've got to go right along. I must go right along. Sure, +I'll be here at this same time tomorrow night." + +Often he would carry on some such dialogue a dozen times in an evening +and then one night a woman, more stalwart and audacious than any he had +yet encountered, seized him by the arm. "Sonny," she said, "I'm not +going to let you waste my time. You're not going any place except with +me. Now march along." + +Peter marched. That was why he told Maria Algarez that he was not quite +a good man himself. + +For a time disillusion supplanted turmoil in the mind of Peter. He found +that the romanticists were just as fraudulent as the moralists. Don Juan +seemed to him as great a fake as Galahad. Besides in the spring the call +for baseball candidates came along and Peter surprised the college world +by being the only Freshman to win a place on the varsity nine. He +pitched the second game against Yale and won by a score of 2 to 0. Life +meant something after all. Bending a third strike across the knees of a +man with a Y on his chest gave a dignity to existence which it had never +before possessed. Peter was done with hot thoughts and cold ones. +Unfortunately he was also done with thoughts about examinations. French +was his most abject failure, but he did badly enough in everything else +to be told that his college days were over. + +Still he was bereft of romance for no more than a month. He caught on +with the sporting department of the Bulletin early in August and made an +almost instantaneous hit. Here again he found satisfaction in the gait +and color of life. Women were not rigorously excluded from the scheme of +things, but they were not important. He saw them in the dance halls +where he went after hours and talked to them and drank with them, but +they served merely as minor characters. The talk which animated this +existence for Peter was all of the shop. A reporter from San Francisco, +named Rusk, suddenly discovered to his amazement and delight that here +was a man eager to hear his tales of newspaper work along the waterfront +in the days when the coast towns were still unregenerate. Everybody else +on the Bulletin was in the habit of groaning loudly whenever Rusk began, +"In the old days on the waterfront----," but Peter listened with the +most intense sort of interest to Rusk's entire stock of anecdotes. By +and by Rusk had to make them up. He gave himself a boyhood as a jockey +and also enlisted fictionally in the Spanish American war. Peter +believed everything and liked everything. Four months later Rusk left +the Bulletin in order to try his hand at free lancing for the +magazines. His failure in that field surprised him. He had come to +confuse Peter Neale and the general public. + + * * * * * + +Peter began his spree by going to the Newspaper Club. He found no one in +the big room except two old men playing chess. One of them did weather +and the other fish on the New York Press. They were not communicative +and neither seemed disposed to be drawn into conversation. And so for a +time Peter watched the game. He found it impossible to work up any +enthusiasm about the issue and departed to practice pool on a table at +the other end of the room. Caring nothing about performance, Peter was +surprised to discover that the most difficult shots all came off. +Nothing was too hard. Even the most fantastically complicated +combinations plopped the required ball into a pocket. + +Far from being pleased at this Peter grew angry. He felt that Fate was +ironically evening up things for him by burdening him with luck and +prowess in something which made no difference and withholding its favor +in all the important aspects of life. Testing out his theory he picked +up a straggler, a man he knew but slightly, who happened to wander into +the club at that moment. + +"I'll roll you Indian dice," challenged Peter. "A dollar a throw." + +Good luck continued to plague him although he knew that its attentions +were not honorable! At the end of three quarters of an hour Peter was +$85 ahead. + +"That's enough," he said with irritation. + +"You're not going to quit now that you've got me in the hole," protested +his opponent. "Aren't you going to give me a chance to get back?" + +"You wouldn't have any chance. If we keep up I'm sure to win hundreds of +dollars from you. Nobody can beat me just now. Look here if you don't +believe me I'll give you a chance. I'll bet you a hundred dollars to ten +on one roll." + +"What's the matter with you, Neale?" asked the loser. "Are you soused?" + +"Not yet," said Peter. "You're not taking any advantage of me. I tell +you I know. I can't lose. Go ahead and roll." + +"All right, if you want to throw money away it's not my fault." + +He took the leather cup and rolled a pair of sixes. Peter slammed the +dice down and four aces and a five danced out. + +"No more," said Peter. "It's no use. That's $95 you owe me." + +"Would you mind if I held you up on that till next week? I'm sort of +busted just now." + +"No hurry, anytime'll do." + +"Ninety-five, that's right, isn't it? Lend me $5 that'll make it an even +hundred. Easier to remember." + +Peter gave him the five. He knew that even in his gambling triumphs +there would be some catch. Wandering over to the bar alone he had two +Martinis and then a Bronx but nothing seemed to happen. Looking at his +watch he found that it was still only a little after three and he went +up town to Fourteenth Street to a burlesque house. The show was called +"Dave Shean's Joy Girls." When Peter came in Shean as a German comedian +with a false stomach and a red wig had just volunteered to take the +place of the bullfighter played by the straight man. + +"Do you think you can kill the bull?" asked the straight man. + +"I don't know dot I kills him," said Shean, "but I can throw him." + +It annoyed Peter that everybody else in the theatre laughed so loudly. + +"Yesterday," continued the real toreador, "I killed four bulls in the +arena." + +"I had him for breakfast." + +"What are you talking about? What did you have for breakfast?" + +"Farina." + +Peter thought he would go but he waited in the hope that it might get +better. Presently Shean and the tall man got into an argument. The +serious one of the pair contended that Otto Schmaltz, the character +played by Shean, did not have a whole shirt on his back. + +"I bet you! I bet you!" shouted Schmaltz dancing about and patting the +other man on the cheek. They came close to the footlights and placed +huge piles of stage money side by side. + +"Now," said the big man, "the bet is you haven't got a whole shirt on +your back." + +"Ches," replied Schmaltz. + +"Why, you poor pusillanimous, transcendental, ossified little shrimp, +you," said the big man. "Of course you haven't got a whole shirt on +your back. Half of it is on the front." + +"Ha! Ha! Ha!" he continued sneeringly and kicked the little man +resoundingly while the crowd screamed. + +Later Schmaltz bet with somebody else taking the other side of the +contention, but again he lost because when it came time for the tag line +he grew confused and shouted. "Why, you poor pussaliniment, +tramps-on-a-dimple, oysterfied little shrimp, you, half of de back is on +the front." And again the fortune of Schmaltz was swept away and again +he was kicked. + +Possibly the three cocktails had begun to have some effect after all or +it may have been something else, but at any rate Peter was no longer +merely bored by all these happenings. His sensation was just as +unpleasant, but it was acute. Somehow or other the story of Schmaltz and +the shirt had made him sad. + +"Schmaltz is on me," he thought. "Schmaltz is everybody. Getting fooled +and getting kicked." His musing became more vague. "Half of the back is +on the front," seemed to take form as a tragic complaint against life. +He and Schmaltz they couldn't have it whole because "half of the back +is on the front." + +More disturbing moralizing was yet to come from the book of "Dave +Shean's Joy Girls." The next entertainers were the Mulligan Brothers, +female impersonators. One played the part of Clara and the other was +Margie. + +"The sailors on that ship was awful," began Clara. "The sailors on that +ship was just awful. The poor girl was sinking there in the water and +they wouldn't let her into the lifeboat. Every time she came up, Margie, +one of the sailors hit her over the head with an oar." + +Margie began to laugh stridently. + +"What are you laughing for, Margie? Did you hear what I was telling you? +I said every time the poor girl came up a sailor hit her over the head +with an oar." + +"Wasn't she the fool to come up," said Margie. + +Peter knew that was not a joke. Here was his case against life summed up +in a sentence. Idiots about him were laughing. Couldn't they see the +bitterness of it. "Wasn't she the fool to come up!" That was his folly. +He was going on taking the buffeting of the oars and for no reason. And +yet he knew perfectly well that he would continue to come up no matter +what blows fell about his head and shoulders. There was no use making +any resolve to quit it all. Peter had no facility for suicide. He did +not dare and he tried to justify himself in this unwillingness. + +"After all," he thought, "it would be a pretty rotten trick to play on +Kate. I promised her she could have Sunday off." + +One piece of positive action he could and did take. He did not wait to +gather any further pessimistic contributions to cosmic philosophy from +"Dave Shean's Joy Girls," but walked out in the middle of Shean's +drunken act. The comedian was pretending that the edge of the stage was +the brass rail along a bar. Now he was swaying far over the orchestra +pit and seemed about to fall into it. A woman in front of Peter +screamed. Shean slowly straightened himself up and shook a reproving +finger at the laughing audience. "My wife's bes' lil' woman in worl'," +he said and did a hiccough. Still he seemed sober enough when Peter +sitting on the aisle in the second row got up and started out of the +theatre. + +"Don't you like our show?" he called after him. + +Peter flushed and made no answer. + +"I guess I'm too natural," said Shean. "He can't stand it. You know how +it is. He's a married man himself." + +"Hey, Percy," he shouted after the retreating figure of Peter in a high +falsetto, "you'll find a saloon right around the corner. Tell the +bartender to let you have one on Otto Schmaltz." + +Peter conscientiously walked past the saloon mentioned by the +impertinent Shean and went into the next one three blocks farther on. He +began to drink doggedly and consequently with slight effect. He was like +a sleepless person. No blur came over the acuteness of his +consciousness. He might just as well have tried counting sheep jumping +over a fence. "Wasn't she the fool to come up!" recurred in his ears as +if it had been a clock ticking late at night in a big silent house. +Straight whiskey tasted abominably and returned no reward for his +efforts. In the back room somebody was singing "Mother Machree" and +cheating on the high notes. An idea for a newspaper paragraph came to +Peter. Somebody had been conducting an agitation in the Bulletin against +the use of "The Star Spangled Banner" as a national anthem on the ground +that the air was originally that of a drinking song. "We ought to point +out," thought Peter, "that it takes a few drinks to make anybody think +he can get up to 'the rockets' red glare.'" + +He wished his mind would stop pelting him with ideas. Thinking ought not +to keep up when he hated it so. Leaving the bar, Peter took his drink +over into the corner and sat down at a table. On the wall to his left +hung a large colored picture labelled "Through the Keyhole." Peter +looked at it and then moved his chair around so that he couldn't see it. +He realized that he must get much drunker. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +It was after ten when Peter came into Billy Gallivan's, the restaurant +of the singing waiters. By now he could not see distinctly every sheep +which jumped over the fence but he was still counting them. "I am +drunk," he said to himself. "I am so drunk that nothing matters." But he +knew that it was not so. Unfortunately the formula of Coué had not yet +been given to the world and Peter lacked the prevision to say, "Drink by +drink I am getting drunker and drunker and drunker." + +And the singing waiters failed to inspire him with that reckless +disregard for present, past and future which he desired. One of them, a +fat man who had blonde hair and sang bass, eventually took Peter's +order. He set the glass on the table and then moved away no more than a +step to begin his song. "When I'm a-a-lone I'm lonely," he thundered in +Peter's ear, "when I'm a-a-lone I'm bloo." Probably he was not as lonely +as Peter. It made it worse because the song was so silly. "Every other +girl and brother," the verse went on later, "has some pal just like a +mother." + +By this time the waiters were gathering from all over the long low room. +Six of them stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Peter's table and +sang together. "When I'm a-a-lone I'm lonely, when I'm a-a-lone I'm +bloo." One of them went up high and quavered. Others went elsewhere. +There was a voice for every level. It was part singing. And they swayed +back and forth from one foot to another. The room swayed with them but +it would not keep time. The rhythm of the room was much longer. Peter +could feel it pound as if he had been a mile runner and the finish lay a +hundred yards ahead of him. He still knew that he was a fool to come up. + +After a long time the song stopped. The patrons of the place began to +throw money out to the singers. With painstaking recklessness Peter +fumbled in his pockets and found a silver dollar. It almost filled his +hand as if it had been a baseball. He shook his head vehemently. What +did he care if the count was two and three, he was not going to lay it +over. The curve was the trick. The outside corner was the nervy spot to +shoot for. Drawing back his arm he flung the dollar and it crashed +against a table and bounded away. For a second the coin spun around and +then it waddled in a long arc straight home to Peter's chair. He put his +foot on it and picked it up. No, he was too sober not to know that a +dollar was excessive. + +These men were not very good waiters--any of them--but that did not make +them artists. They were not very good singers either. Peter remembered +that he had read in his little leather Bible, "You cannot serve God and +mammon." That was the trouble. Art and utility should never meet. A fine +tenor ought not to serve drinks and even indifferent singing seemed to +spoil a man as a waiter. This theme had been in his mind before. A great +dancer could not be a mother. Yes, that was the point where this +speculation had begun. At last he found a quarter and threw that and he +left a ten cent tip on the table. + +"Hello, big boy," said a woman as he was going out. She was as blonde +and as fat as the lonely waiter and much redder. Peter made no reply but +went out and up the street to the Eldorado. Eldorado! That was a land of +which the Spaniards had dreamed, a land of gold. They never found it. +Perhaps that was just as well. Somebody in a tub had said, "Eldorado!" +No, he didn't--that was "Eureka!" + +At the Eldorado the waiters didn't sing at all. Special people did that. +But mostly it was just dancing. The floor was filled with couples. A +long flight of steps led down to the tables. At the foot of the steps a +girl sat alone. She was a young girl and pretty but hard and brazen +enough. And she didn't call him, "Dearie." She merely said, "Buy me a +drink." + +Peter sat down. + +"My name's Elaine," she said. "But you don't have to call me that. I +think it's sort of a cold name, don't you? I'm not cold. People that +like me call me 'Red,' on account of my hair. Now you tell me your +name." + +"John Whittier," said Peter, reverting to the slumming name he had used +in his Freshman year at Harvard. It was the name of the proctor in his +entry. + +"Maybe John Greenleaf Whittier," said Elaine. + +"Perhaps you're a poet. Yes, I can see you're a poet." + +Peter was annoyed. "John Whittier's not my real name," he said. "My +name's Peter Neale." + +That aroused no flash of recognition. Peter was surprised that this girl +of the Eldorado should know John Greenleaf Whittier and never have heard +of Peter Neale. + +"I don't think it's very nice of you," she said, "not to give me your +real name. I gave you mine. Are you ashamed of me?" + +"No," replied Peter, "I'm ashamed of myself." + +"What are you doing?" + +"Trying to get drunk." + +"We'll get drunk together. I'll help you." + +Drinking with somebody did seem to help. At any rate after two rounds +Peter achieved for the first time during the evening that detached +feeling which he had been seeking. All the dancers now were dim and +distant. The music was something which tinkled from down a long +corridor. Even the obligation to drink seemed lighter. Peter merely sat +and stared at Elaine. Gray-eyed, firm and flaming, it was a face which +blotted out all other images. He found himself thinking only of this +woman in front of him. And she was real. She was close. He could touch +her. + +"Who are you looking at?" said the girl. + +"Elaine." + +"I told you that people that liked me called me Red. Why don't you call +me that? Why don't you like me?" + +"I like you a lot." + +Elaine made a face at him. In her no barriers seemed to have been set up +against the potency of drinking. Already she was in the babbling stage. + +"I'm not like the rest of the girls around here. You don't need to be +ashamed of me. I've had a good education. I can prove it to you. Ask me +about the square on the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle." + +"What about it?" + +"It's equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides. You see, +if it wasn't for hard luck I wouldn't be in a place like this. I'm a +lady. I know Latin too. _Amo_, that's love. _Amo_, I love. _Amas_, you +love." + +"Don't," said Peter crossly. The spell was broken. The woman was making +him think. Now he could hear the drums again. This was the meanest trick +of many which the fate of the day had played him. With all the evil +women of a great city to choose from it had been Peter's misfortune to +happen upon an educated harlot. He had drugged himself steadfastly to be +rowdy and here was a lady who talked about Latin and right angles. + +Elaine sensed a mistake in technique. "Come away from here, Peter," she +said. "Come on. You're just a tired little baby. You don't want to talk +any more. You're my little baby." + +Peter got up and had to catch the table to keep from falling over. "My +name's Otto Schmaltz," he said and did a silly imitation of the accent +of the comedian in "The Joy Girls." But the possibility of a revision of +the material came to him. "My baby's bes' lil' baby in the world." + +He would have gone away at once, but a man came down the stairs at that +moment and approached the table. "Red," he said, "if you ever stand me +up again I'll bust your face." + +"Honest, Jim," said the girl, "I waited half an hour. I thought you +weren't coming." + +"Let that lady alone," said Peter. "She's with me." + +He didn't like Elaine any more, but he knew that the code demanded that +he should show resentment of the intrusion. + +"Keep your face out of this," said the newcomer. "What damned business +is it of yours?" + +There was a ready-made answer for that in the code. + +"You come outside and I'll make it my business," said Peter. + +"Don't waste your time on the big souse, Jim," said Elaine clutching at +the arm of the man who had threatened her. But the fact that the girl +absolved Peter from all the cares of guardianship did not remove his +responsibilities according to the code. "Come on outside," he repeated. +He went slowly up the stairs but when he reached the sidewalk and turned +around there was no Jim. Peter waited. He wanted very much to hit +somebody and Jim seemed wholly appropriate. After a few seconds the man +came out. He walked up close to Peter but he held his hands behind his +back. According to the code nothing could be done until each had +extended an arm. + +"Come on," said Peter impatiently, "put up your hands and I'll punch +your head off." + +Jim suddenly drew his right arm from behind his back and clipped him +sharply over the head with a bottle. Peter stared at him wonderingly for +almost a second. Surprise seemed to halt the message to his brain. +Slowly he crumpled up on the sidewalk. The blow was not painful, but the +swinging arc of all things visible was now longer than ever before. The +lights, the lamp-posts and the buildings slowly turned end over end in a +complete circle. Peter put one hand to his head. It was wet and sticky. +For a second or so he considered that and wondered. Finally he realized +that it was blood. Lifting himself up on his hands and knees he saw Jim +and Elaine scrambling into a taxicab. + +"I'll bet she doesn't talk about right angles to him," thought Peter. +For a moment he considered pursuit, but before he could make up his mind +the taxicab had started. It swept past him no more than ten feet away. +He could see the red head of the woman in the window. One week later he +decided that he should have cupped his hands and shouted, "You +hypotenuse hussy!" That night he could think of nothing. The fragments +of glass lay about him. Peter examined them and found it had been a +champagne bottle. After a bit he called a taxicab for himself and said, +"Go to some hospital that's near." He had begun to feel a little faint. + +A doctor in the reception room dug the glass out of Peter's scalp bit by +bit and hurt him dreadfully. Every stab of pain cut through the fumes +and left him clear-headed. Nothing was forgotten any more. He was able +to compare the relative poignancy of two sorts of pain and decided that +he did not care much how long the doctor kept it up. At last the job was +finished and Peter's head bandaged. + +"You were drunk, weren't you?" said the doctor. + +"Yes," said Peter, "I was." + +There was no other comment. Nobody would call Peter Sir Galahad on +account of this fight and yet it was honorable enough he thought, even +if the issues were a little mixed. Nor was it entirely unsatisfactory. +At least he had been able to taunt Fate into an overt act. He knew a +poem by a man who wrote, "My head is bloody but unbowed." Peter had +often used that line in prizefight stories. Still he was a little sick +now and perfectly sober. He looked at his watch. In an hour or so it +would be dawn. There didn't seem to be anything to do but go home. + +Opening the door of his apartment, Peter tripped over something in the +dark and fell with a bang. Kate woke and called out in obvious terror, +"Who's there?" + +"It's only me," said Peter, "Mr. Neale. I decided not to stay out after +all. I'm sorry I woke you up. I fell over the baby carriage." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Somebody at the office must have heard about the flight of Maria +Algarez, for when Peter returned from Goldfield he had found at his flat +a telegram which said, "Lay off a couple of weeks. Longer if you +like--Miles, managing editor." That was an extraordinary thing because +the material for Peter's column--"Looking Them Over with Peter +Neale"--was only up one week ahead. A two weeks' vacation would mean not +only that there would be no Peter Neale in the Bulletin, but that in +thirty-one other papers throughout the country the feature would be +missing. Peter wondered how Miles could suggest a thing like that so +calmly. Maria's running away ought not to wrench a whole chain of +newspapers in that fashion. In daydreams Peter had often pictured +himself dying from flood, or earthquake or a stray bullet in some great +riot. When the rescuers picked him up and bent over to hear what he +might say his lips framed the words, "Send a story to the Bulletin!" + +The Bulletin couldn't be bothered about people's dying or running away. +The Bulletin was bigger than that. The newspaper yarn of Rusk's which +had impressed Peter the most was about a man named O'Brale in San +Francisco. O'Brale was secretly engaged to a girl in Alameda and then a +week or so before they were to be married she had eloped with a man who +said he was a Polish Count. According to Rusk by some strange +coincidence O'Brale received the assignment to cover the story. He +didn't beg off. He sat down to write it and he finished up his story +with: "And when the news of Miss Lee's elopement drifted into the office +of the Chronicle a reporter on the city staff sighed and said, 'Scooped +again.'" + +Miles must be a fool not to know that even after Peter Neale had been +smashed that part of him which was the Bulletin would go on. A picture +suddenly came to Peter. That was the way he did his thinking. "I can go +on wriggling," he said to himself, "until the first edition." + +Peter felt that it was up to him to go down to the office and show them +that. He would have to show Miles. Miles was new to him. The managing +editor traffic through the office of the Bulletin was prodigious. After +all Peter had been away for two weeks and it was only natural that there +should be a new man in charge. Peter wasn't a veteran, but he had seen +five managing editors in his time and probably a couple of hundred copy +readers. "Looking Them Over" was different. That was something vital and +rooted in the Bulletin. It wasn't so much that Peter Neale was a part of +the Bulletin as that the Bulletin was a part of Peter Neale. "This other +thing," thought Peter, "is just my private life." + +He felt pretty rocky when he got up. During the night the bandages had +turned bloody. It made him shaky to look at himself. Something of the +rhythm of the buildings as they swung in the long arc and turned over +was still in the pulse of Peter. All right, but he had seen Gans get up +when his legs would barely hold him. Not only get up but walk +deliberately across the ring to meet the charge of Battling Nelson. + +Neale went down town. There was no one else in the elevator when he went +up to the ninth floor to the office of the Bulletin, but Sykes, the head +office boy, was in the hall outside the city room. He looked up and +said, "Hello, Mr. Neale." + +So far it was all right. Nelson had knocked out Gans and Maria had run +away since Peter and Sykes had last seen each other. Sykes had been able +to take all that in his stride. Peter wondered if Miles would be as +smart. There was a man at the desk, a fat placid man, in the office of +the managing editor. Peter knocked at the door and went in before the +man looked up. "My name's Peter Neale," he said. "You're Mr. Miles, +aren't you? I got your telegram. It was nice of you, but I don't want +any time off. There's a whole batch of stuff due for the syndicate +tomorrow." + +Miles nodded. He tilted his chair back three times without saying +anything. It was like a pitcher's wind-up. Peter found Miles always +spoke just after the third tilt. "Have a cigarette," he said. He also +provided a match. Then letting the chair rest on the floor he sat +looking at Peter. There wasn't any surprise or inquiry in his face. +Peter felt acutely conscious of his bloody bandages. He sat waiting to +hear, "Have an accident?" or something like that, but Miles seemed to +take it as a matter of course that Peter was all cut up. Apparently the +managing editor accepted it as something inevitable in an out-of-town +assignment. Peter dreaded the question so long that he would have felt +easier if Miles had asked him about the bandages. He was prepared to +say something about a taxicab. After all it wasn't fair that Miles +should assume that he had been drunk just because he had. Presently the +tilting began again. One, two, three, Peter counted to himself. "I want +you to do baseball in addition to your column," said Miles. "Monday +isn't too soon to start in, is it?" + +"Monday's all right," said Peter. + +"All right," said Miles. "You need a match," he added. "Your cigarette's +gone out." + +Neither of them said anything then for a minute. Miles continued to look +at him and ignore the bandages. + +"All right on Monday," said Peter and went across the hall to his own +office. Putting the catch on, he closed the door. Miles hadn't talked +about his private life, but Peter felt that he must know about it. +Probably he was thinking about it every time he quit tilting. That was +the trouble. + +Out there in the City Room they were talking about it too. They must be. +Nothing happened to anybody on the Bulletin that didn't get talked about +in the City Room. No district in the town was covered so perfectly as +the reporters covered the lives of each other. When Woolstone, the +Sunday editor, started living with that little girl, Miss Gray, the one +who wrote the piece about the Haymarket, it was common gossip within a +week. Woolstone hadn't told anybody. Indeed he hadn't said a word except +that the Haymarket story was the finest piece of English prose since De +Quincey. But somehow after that everybody knew that Woolstone was living +with Miss Gray. + +Peter put a sheet of paper into his typewriter and rapidly wrote at the +top of the upper right-hand corner Neale--Sports--Syndicate. Then he +turned half of the sheet through the machine and wrote "Looking Them +Over With Peter Neale--(Copyright)." There he stuck. + +The sheet of paper had not been blemished but after a while Peter took +it out and wrote the same thing on another. After that he sharpened a +pencil. He wanted to get a drink of water but that was out in the City +Room. It was foolish of him not to have brought cigarettes. Miles had +cigarettes, but Peter didn't want to face that scrutiny any more. +"Gans," he wrote, "was not outboxed but he was outfought." That wouldn't +do. There had been a line almost like that in his fight story. Of course +he might do some sort of prediction story about how long Battling +Nelson would hold the title. A man who took all that punishment couldn't +last so very long. But suddenly Peter realized that he didn't give a +damn about Gans or about Nelson. The Bulletin didn't make so much +difference either. Maria was more than all this. He'd ask Miles to send +him to Africa or China or some place. Sedition seeped in. Baseball +wasn't exciting enough to make him forget. He tried to make his mind do +him a picture of Matty bending back and then shooting over his fast one. +Instead he saw Maria Algarez standing in the middle of the big stage. + +That wouldn't do. Peter gripped the edge of his desk. If his mind was +only something that would stand up to him and fight like a man. He could +heave it back all right if only he could get a hand on it. Instead he +pushed against the desk. Very slowly the picture began to fade. Maria +was taller and broader. Now it was Matty. Dim but unmistakably Matty. +But the figure stood in the centre of the big stage. He must get him out +of there. If he was to hold the thing it would have to move and take on +life. Suddenly Peter realized the trick. The picture ought not to be +Matty throwing his fast one. The fadeway! That was the thing which +marked Matty in his mind above all others. He closed his eyes in order +to help. The figure bent back. The arms came up over the head. The left +leg kicked. No, it was not Maria kicking. This was a huge clumsy leg +which moved slowly, ever so slowly, grinding power for the swing of back +and shoulders which was to come. Then there was the lunge forward. Matty +had thrown the ball straight at his head. He conquered the impulse to +duck. This was the slow ball. He could see the seams. Now it was slower +and growing bigger and bigger all the time. It would walk past him +shoulder high. Peter swung at it and the ball wasn't there. A sudden +decision had come upon it. Down it swooped and out. It had passed him. +Peter opened his eyes. He didn't want to go to China or Africa after +all. Honus Wagner and the Pirates would be at the Polo Grounds on +Monday. + +Peter got up and started for his drink of water. There were only three +men in the City Room. Charlie Hall was sitting at his desk right beside +the ice cooler. Perhaps Charlie had had a lot of fun out of that story +of Maria Algarez running away. Women didn't run away from Charlie. Peter +remembered the time Charlie was marooned in the Press Club. He stuck in +the poker game for two days not daring to leave the building. The +elevator man had told him of the woman who kept coming in every half an +hour or so and asking for Mr. Hall. According to the elevator man she +was very much excited. Charlie said it sounded a lot like Ethel. He +wouldn't be surprised if she wanted to shoot him. She had often +threatened to do that. Twice during those two days Peter had volunteered +to go down and scout around. Both times he had seen a woman pacing the +sidewalk just across the street from the Press Club. It looked like the +same woman. Charlie said probably it was. Ethel was very determined. +Finally they had to get a policeman to come and tell Ethel to go away. +Nobody ever seemed so glamorous to Peter as Charlie during those two +days. Peter wondered if any woman would ever want to shoot him. + +There was no way of getting to the ice cooler without passing Charlie. +Peter did it slowly. Charlie looked up. "Have any fun at the fight?" he +asked. + +"No, it was too hot. Anyhow I wanted to see Gans win." + +"It was a great story you wrote." + +"I'm glad you liked it." + +"Too bad about the nigger--he was the smartest of the lot, wasn't he?" + +"Yes, and don't forget he could hit too. Nelson wouldn't have had a +chance with him five years ago." + +Peter was turning to go back to his office when Charlie Hall thrust out +a hand and slapped him on the shoulder. "I hear you've had some hard +luck," he said. "I'm sorry." + +Peter couldn't answer for a second. "I guess nobody ever is happy so +very much," Charlie continued, sensing that Peter was stumped for the +moment. "Now you take me. I suppose you'd say I was happily married. +I've been married fifteen years and I've got five children. Well, +sometimes when I sit down at home I wonder, 'What's the use of all this +anyway?' There ought to be a law that reporters can't get married. It's +bad for them and it's bad for the paper." + +"I guess you're right," said Peter. + +"The thing to do is not to take women seriously. They'll bust hell out +of you if you do." + +Peter brightened perceptibly. "Do you remember that time you got stuck +up in the Press Club and the girl was waiting downstairs to shoot you?" +he inquired with a certain eagerness. + +"Oh yes, sure, Gracie." + +"No, that wasn't the name. It was Ethel." + +"Ethel?--I remember now. I had it mixed up with a business in Chicago. +Ethel! Oh yes, indeed. She was a wild one. She was just about the most +dangerous woman south of Fifty-ninth Street. That was a couple of years +ago. I can't stand so much excitement now." + +"Go on," said Peter, "I suppose you'll be telling me you've reformed." + +"That wouldn't be so far off the truth. Anyhow where do you get off. Who +beaned you?" + +Another burden of reticence was snatched away. At last Peter had a +chance to tell somebody about the bandages. + +"I was with a woman up at the Eldorado. You know the Eldorado. And a big +fellow comes over and tries to butt in. I bawled him out and we went up +on the sidewalk. I made a couple of passes at him and he hauled off and +clipped me with a bottle--a champagne bottle. I guess I was pretty +drunk." + +Charlie Hall nodded his head. "You're all right. I'm glad. Some of the +boys around here have been telling me that you were all busted up about +that girl you married. I'm glad it's not so. I knew you had too much +sense for that. There isn't a one of them in the whole world that's +worth getting busted up over. Don't take 'em seriously. That's what I +say. I ought to know. I've been married fifteen years. Well, almost +fifteen years. It'll be fifteen years in October." + +"I'm all right, Charlie. You tell that to the rest. I'm back on the job, +you know." + +"That's good. It wouldn't seem like the Bulletin without you." + +Charlie turned to the story in front of him and put one second of energy +into pounding the space bar before coming back to conversation. + +"Where is this Eldorado?" he asked. + +"Fiftieth Street and Seventh Avenue." + +"Does it stay open all night?" + +"Well, it's open all night but after one there's a man on the door and +he won't let you in unless he knows you." + +"Are they strict about it?" + +"Pretty strict, lately," said Peter, "but that's all right, Charlie. +Any time you want to go up late you let me know. I'll be glad to show +you round. I'm always free nights. Any night at all--That is any night +except Sunday." + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +THE baby carriage was kept in the kitchen thereafter and Peter did not +see it again until Sunday, his first Sunday at home. Kate left the flat +very early. Peter could not very well object to that because she said +she was going to mass. He wished that she might be converted to one of +the eleven o'clock denominations, but he supposed at her age there was +small hope of that. She would be gone, she told him, until nine or ten +o'clock in the evening. Her niece, the one who lived in Jamaica, had a +new baby five weeks old. Kate was going there right after church. Peter +thought that if he had Kate's job he would prefer to spend his day off +at an old folks' home or some other spot exclusively mature. + +Still he could understand the psychology of it. Out in Jamaica, Kate +could sit around and when the baby cried she need not move hand or foot. +She could watch other people bustle around and fulfill its needs. And +then every now and then she might give advice and see it carried out. He +himself had spent many a day off in the office of the Bulletin sitting +on the desk of somebody who was working and interrupting him. + +Before Kate left she gave Peter a complete list of directions for the +baby's day and also a problem for him to ponder over. "What will I be +calling the boy?" she wanted to know. "I find it hard to be talking to +him and him with no name." + +"I'll think it over," Peter told her. After she left he did think it +over. He went into the baby's room and looked at him as he lay there to +see if the child suggested any name in particular. Being asleep he +seemed a little more impersonal than usual. Of course, Peter Neale was a +pretty good name, but there didn't seem to be any point in calling him +that unless in some way or other he seemed to be Peter. He did sleep +with his head buried face down in the pillow but that was an +insufficient bond. Perhaps there were millions of people in the world +who slept that way. Probably there were no statistics on the subject. + +Maybe one Peter Neale was enough. It did mean something. After all it +was Peter Neale who had written in the Bulletin: "If Horace Fogel goes +through with his plan of making a first baseman out of Christy Mathewson +he will be committing the baseball crime of the century. Mathewson, or +Matty as his team mates call him, is still green, but he has in him the +makings of one of the greatest pitchers the world has ever known. He has +the speed and control and more than that he has a head on his shoulders. +Horace Fogel hasn't." + +And they didn't switch Matty to first base after all and now everybody +was beginning to realize that he was a great pitcher. But Peter Neale +knew it first of all. More than that it was Peter Neale who had begun +his round by round story of the Gans-Nelson fight, only two weeks ago, +with the memorable line, "The Dane comes up like thunder." He had +invented the name of "Hooks" for George Wiltse and had written that +"Frank Bowerman runs the bases like somebody pulling Grover Cleveland in +a rickshaw." And Peter was still progressing. He would go on, years +hence, to make the most of McGraw's practice of starting games with Rube +Schauer and finishing them with Ferdie Schupp by contriving the lead, +"It never Schauers but it Schupps." Perhaps he had prevision enough to +realize that it was he, Peter Neale, who would eventually ascribe to +Jack Dempsey the motto, "Say it with cauliflowers" and write after a +Crimson disaster on the Thames, "Harvard's most perplexing race problems +appear to be crewish and Jewish." + +He looked at the sleeping child and wondered if there were any leads +like that in the little head. By and by, of course, the baby would grow +up and in some newspaper there would be articles under his name. Peter +would like to see the articles before he was willing to have them signed +"By Peter Neale." Every now and then somebody wandered into his office +at the Bulletin and asked him to use his good influences with the +managing editor. Peter always said, "Will you let me see something +you've written." Here in front of him was a candidate not only for a job +but for his job. And the applicant had nothing to show. + +It was a hot bright Sunday and Kate had recommended that the baby go +out. The carriage was deplorable. Peter had not bothered to look at it +before, but now he examined it and found it wholly lacking in +distinction. It could not be that all the things which were wrong with +it had resulted from his falling over it a few mornings back. That had +hurt him much more than the carriage. The paint was splotchy and all the +wheels squeaked. Kate must have seized the first available vehicle in +the neighborhood. What with that carriage and his heavily bandaged head +he felt that the caravan which he was about to conduct would be +disreputable. The numerous chin straps which held the bandages in place +made it difficult for Peter to shave. In order to avoid that difficulty +Peter hadn't shaved. He only hoped that nobody in the Park would stop +the procession and ask him to accept a quarter. Peter practised an +expression of scorn in front of a mirror in order to be ready for some +such contingency. Nature had endowed him with a loose scalp. He could +wiggle both ears, together or separately. So far this had never been of +much use although he found that it helped him enormously to qualify as a +nursery entertainer. But there was another manoeuvre which he used +habitually and successfully to indicate utter disagreement and contempt. +He could elevate his right eyebrow without disturbing the other. This +never failed to strike terror to all observers. Peter had that so well +in hand that he needed no mirror practice to perfect it. He worked on +curling his lip, a device which was new to him. + +Combined with an elevated eyebrow an effect was produced ample to carry +off the handicaps of both carriage and bandages. + +Nevertheless, he felt a little conspicuous when he started for the Park. +And pushing a carriage was dull work. There was no future to it, no +competitive value, no opportunity for advancement. One could not very +well come to the point of being able to say, "I can wheel a carriage a +little bit better than anybody else in New York." The thing was without +standards. Of all outdoor sports this was the most dreary and +democratic. But in spite of the ease of manipulation he was under the +impression that a carriage required constant attention. Quite by +accident he discovered that it would space nicely between shoves if he +happened to let go of the handlebar. This led to the creation of a +rather amusing game. Peter called it putting the sixteen pound carriage. + +Not far from the Sixty-fifth Street entrance of the Park he found a +large hill and for a moment it was clear of pedestrians. Standing at the +foot of this hill Peter gave the carriage a violent shove and let go. Up +the hill it sped until its momentum was exhausted and then it rolled +back again. The game was to try and make it reach the top. Peter never +succeeded in that although he came within four feet eight inches of +accomplishing the feat which he had set for himself. He was handicapped +by the fact that he did not quite dare to put all his back and shoulders +into the preliminary shove. Indeed on his best heave, the one which took +the missile within four feet eight inches of the top, the carriage +careened precariously. More than that it almost hit a stout woman who +was coming down the hill. She stopped and spoke to Peter. "Haven't you +got any better sense than to do a thing like that," she said. "That +carriage almost upset. I've a good mind to follow you home and tell the +father of that baby some of the things you're doing with his child. +Aren't you ashamed of yourself, a grown man carrying on like that. And +on Sunday too." + +Peter didn't want her to follow him home and so he merely said, "Yes, +mam, I won't do it any more." + +And for that day he kept his word. However, the baby did not seem to +mind much. It continued to sleep. Peter pushed the carriage aimlessly +about for a little while, never letting go of the handlebar. He felt +like an Atlantic City Negro with a wheel chair hired for the day by a +tired business man. There was nobody to whom he could talk. The baby +had slept so long by now that Peter began to worry that something might +be wrong with him. Bending over the carriage he ascertained that the +child was still breathing. He wished it would wake up. Of course he +might not actually be company if aroused but he seemed even less +animated when asleep. + +Perhaps Christy would be a good name for him. Christopher Mathewson +Neale had a fine resounding swing to it. Still maybe Matty wouldn't turn +out to be a great pitcher after all. Peter was tremendously confident +about him, but it might be best to wait until time had tested him. After +a World's Series or something like that one could be absolutely certain. +No good taking chances until then. It was still within the bounds of +possibility that Matty might be a bloomer and it would hardly be fair to +name the child after somebody in the Three I League. + +Finding a tree and a bench Peter sat down to continue his speculations. +How about a newspaper name? Greeley Neale wouldn't be so bad. Yes, it +would. Everybody would be sure to make it Greasy Neale. A prizefight +name offered possibilities. Nelson Neale, for instance, had +alliteration. Peter had given the lightweight a name--the Durable Dane +was his invention--and it seemed no more than a fair exchange to take +his in return. Still he had never been convinced that Nelson was a +really first class man. He had neither speed nor a punch. It was just +stamina which carried him along. The youngster ought not to go through +life head down. Besides a name like that would serve to remind Peter of +his return from Goldfield and the flight of Maria. + +Just then a sound came from the carriage. It was a gurgle. Peter pushed +back the hood. The baby looked at him fixedly and Peter fancied that +there was a certain trace of emotion in the small face. Surprise seemed +to be indicated. And it was not altogether agreeable surprise for as +Peter returned the stare the baby's right eyebrow went up and the left +one didn't. + +"God!" said Peter, "he is Peter Neale." + +But there must be more ceremony than that. Peter looked around to see +that he and the baby were alone. Then he spoke to him distinctly +although emotionally. He realized now that his intuition had been sound +when he had said way back weeks ago at the Newspaper Club. "My son has +just been born." He had never had any doubt about his physical +paternity but that did not seem important. It was spiritual kinship +which counted and an eyebrow like that was a thing of the spirit. + +"You're my son all right," said Peter, "and you're going to have my +name. Peter Neale, that's your name." + +He thought it would complicate things to go into the question of whether +he should be Peter Neale, Jr. or Peter Neale, 2nd. The Peter Neale was +the important part of it. "I guess maybe you can do a lot more with that +name than I have, but I've made it a good newspaper name. You can make +it a better one maybe. We'll wait and see." He reached out and took the +small hand of Peter Neale and shook it. The prayer which went with it +was silent. "O God, give him some of the breaks and I will." That +completed the christening. It was all that young Peter ever got. + +The red-headed boy up the block who had contributed disturbing ideas in +other fields also threw a bombshell into Peter's boyhood theology. "Can +God do anything?" was his catch question. "Of course He can," replied +Peter. "Well, I'll just bet you a million billion dollars He can't make +a trolley car go in two directions at the same time." Peter didn't see +how He could. He puzzled over the problem for months and at last he +decided that maybe God could work it by making the trolley car like an +elastic so that it could be stretched up town and down town at the same +time. It was not an entirely satisfactory solution of the problem. If a +passenger stood in the middle of the car he wouldn't get any place at +all. + +But for the moment Peter was not much concerned with the potential +relationship between the Deity and young Peter. He could bide his time +and think up an answer for the day when the child should ask him, "Who's +God?" The immediate problem was what place he should fill on the +Bulletin. Eventually, of course, he would conduct the column called, +"Looking Them Over With Peter Neale." Already there were thirty-one +papers in the syndicate and some day Peter could step down and the +column would still be "Looking Them Over With Peter Neale." + +It would be pleasant not to die in the office but to have ten years or +so with no worries as to whether Jim Jeffries could have beaten John L. +Sullivan in his prime. And he didn't want to go on forever writing on +the question of whether more nerve was required to hole a ten foot putt +in a championship match or bring down a halfback on the five yard line. +In those last ten years he would have all the fun of reading a Peter +Neale column without having to write it. The job had come to him by the +merest chance. But young Peter could be trained from the beginning for +the work. "I'll start his education right now," Peter resolved and then +he looked at the baby and decided that there didn't seem to be anything +specific which could be done immediately. Still an early start was +possible. Long division ought to be easy and interesting for a child who +knew that it was something used in computing batting averages. Of course +young Peter would receive an excellent general education. There wasn't +any reason why a sporting writer shouldn't be a person of well rounded +culture. Sometimes Peter regretted that his Harvard career had lasted +only a year. Probably his sporting poems might have been better if he +had been able to go on and take that course in versification. Fine arts +and history would not be a waste of time. + +There was never any telling when some stray scrap of information could +be pressed into service for a sporting story. For instance Peter had +been struck by that quotation from Walter Pater about the Mona Lisa +which he had happened upon in a Sunday newspaper story. Two years later +he had been able to use it about Ed Dunkhurst, the human freight car, by +paraphrasing the line to read, "Here is the head upon which all the jabs +of the world have come and the eyelids are a little weary." + +The quotation had given distinction to the story. Sporting writing ought +to be just as distinguished as a man could make it. The days of the +lowbrow commentator were disappearing. Young Peter might very well carry +on and expand the tradition which he had begun. To be sure, there wasn't +any hurry about giving him the job. Twenty-five years more for himself +would be about right. By that time young Peter would be just twenty-five +years and three weeks old. A year or so of general work on the city +staff of the Bulletin might be good for him. Indeed anything on the +newspaper would do for a start. That was, anything real. Book critics +and people like that weren't really newspaper men. On his fiftieth +birthday, perhaps, Peter would go to the managing editor and say, "I'm +through and there's just one thing I want from the Bulletin. I think +it's only fair that you should let me name my successor." + +And the managing editor would say, "Why, of course, Neale, who is it to +be?" + +"His name is Peter Neale." + +Naturally, the managing editor would express some regrets. He would pay +a warm tribute to the worth and career of Peter Neale, at the end of +which Peter would remark, "I'm glad you feel that way about it, sir." +After that formality the substitution would be accepted. The line of +Neale would remain unbroken. + +All this gazing into the future cheered up Peter so much that he started +out very gaily that afternoon to compose a column and mind the baby at +the same time. Unfortunately the five o'clock feeding time came around +just as he was getting into the swing of an article on the advantages of +being lefthanded for the purposes of baseball. Somebody had told him +that the Bible had something to say on the subject. Peter found it in +the twentieth chapter of Judges where he read: "The inhabitants of +Gibeah.... Among all this people there were seven hundred chosen men +lefthanded; everyone could sling stones at an hair-breadth, and not +miss." + +That was just meat for Peter. + +"The average southpaw of today," he began, "may have even more speed +than the inhabitants of old Gibeah but his control isn't so good." +Before he could develop the theme further young Peter began to cry. When +searched nothing seemed wrong with him but then Peter remembered about +the bottle. He was already half an hour late. The milk was mixed and +ready in individual containers in the icebox but Kate had told him to be +sure and have it warm. Peter had never warmed anything in his life. +After some thought he decided that he could put water into a pot and +heat it and then dip the bottle in. He waited until the water was +boiling. But the next problem was more difficult. What did Kate mean by +warm? How hot could the child stand it? His first three estimates were +wrong. Young Peter spit out the milk and yelled. It was annoying for the +mixture was hardly steaming. + +Cooling it seemed ever so much more difficult than heating. Peter stood +the bottle on the window ledge and waved it over his head and blew on it +without much appreciable effect upon the temperature. More than half an +hour was wasted before the child consented to accept the milk. When +Peter went back to his column about lefthanders the spirit and swing of +the thing had disappeared. He tried to write a poem to Rube Waddell +called, "The Great Gibean" and couldn't find any rhymes. The notion +limped home. + +Kate's ten o'clock turned out to be past midnight. Shortly before her +return the baby went to sleep. + +"How did you find your niece's child?" asked Peter. + +"Oh, she's fine," said Kate. "She's a girl. A fine little girl, but +she's not a patch on himself." + +"He's got a name now," said Peter. "We won't have to be saying 'him,' +and 'it' and 'the baby' any more. His name's Peter Neale." + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +The name Peter did not stick to the baby long. Old Peter noticed that +Kate never used it. Her first move was to modify it into Petey, then +Pete and suddenly it became an unmistakable Pat. "What have you got +against the name Peter?" he asked her. + +"It's not for me to be criticising a saint in Heaven," answered Kate +piously. + +"I won't tell on you. Why didn't you like him, He was a good man, wasn't +he?" + +"A good man, is it?--begging your pardon and that of the blessed saints +in Heaven--didn't he deny the name of our blessed Lord and Him seized by +the dirty Jews?" + +Peter had forgotten about it but he found the striking story in the +Gospel according to St. Mark. + +"'And thou also wast with Jesus of Nazareth.' But he denied, saying--'I +know not, neither understand I what thou sayest.'" + +Of course, it was not admirable conduct, but Peter could understand and +sympathize with the motives of his namesake. He himself, he felt, would +have done much the same thing. Cowardice was not the only factor which +prompted the denial. The incident was more complicated than that. Maybe +Peter didn't want to make a scene. If he had said yes he was a Christian +everybody in the palace of the High Priest would have felt +self-conscious and uncomfortable. It might have been necessary for some +one to change the subject. Saying "No" made things easier for everybody. +Courage may be admirable but tact is not altogether contemptible. Peter +Neale usually agreed with people when he felt that they wanted him to. + +Still, he hoped that his son would move through the world with a freer +and more courageous mood and the next time Kate called the baby Pat, +Peter did not object much. He merely said: + +"I don't think that name's much of an improvement, Kate." + +"And why not?" + +"Well, what did this St. Patrick of yours ever do?" + +"The blessed St. Patrick that drove the snakes out of Ireland!" + +"Yes, but he left the Irish." + +Nevertheless for all practical purposes little Peter became Pat from +that time on. Kate got most things which she wanted. Peter lived in +constant fear of her suddenly quitting her job. He dreaded the task of +invading the agencies in search of a new nurse and there did not seem to +be any other feasible arrangement. + +About three months after he assumed the duties of Sunday father he did +contemplate dimly a move which might well have revolutionized the +existence of himself and Pat and Kate as well. He met Margaret quite by +chance. Pat had colic in the Park. Of course, Peter didn't know it was +colic. He only knew that the child screamed in a manner more violent +than any he had yet known. His inability to handle the situation was so +obvious that Margaret who was sitting with her four-year-old charge on a +bench nearby came over and showed him how to roll the baby. After Pat +had been rolled sufficiently he recovered but Margaret and Peter did not +part company immediately. + +"You're a funny one to be sending out with a baby," said Margaret. + +"I'm not sent out with him. I go out with him. I'm his father." + +Peter realized afterwards that his admission, indeed his boast, of not +belonging to the employed classes was largely responsible for the blight +which lay under the surface of his relationship to Margaret and finally +led to tragedy. There were many meetings following the afternoon of the +colic. For a month or so the pretense was kept up that these were merely +accidental, but finally one Sunday Peter and Pat and Margaret and Bobby, +the boy she was in charge of, were driven under an archway by a +thunderstorm. There was so much thunder that Margaret grew very +frightened. Peter could think of nothing better to do than put an arm +around her. He realized an obligation. Hadn't she rolled Pat out of +colic? By and by there was lightning and Peter kissed her. After that +they met by acknowledged premeditation every Sunday--close to the +entrance of the tunnel. + +Peter found it almost as difficult to talk to Margaret as to Pat, but +she was better company. The long Sundays went faster when he could sit +holding hands in some moderately obscure corner of the park. Margaret +was the sort of person who didn't seem to expect much in the way of +conversation. All she required was an occasional answer to some simple +hypothetical question. These were generally somewhat similar in +character. Did he think (she never reached the stage of calling him +Peter) that a rich man could marry a poor girl and be happy? Did he +realize that a girl could be a child's nurse and a lady at the same +time? Wasn't it a fact that widowers led a desperately lonely and +unhappy life? Peter happened to have adopted the easy expedient of +disposing of Maria by means of a fever. + +Margaret was unmistakably a fool, but Peter thought her rather an +appealing one. She seemed pretty and he knew that she was expert in +handling children. The things required by Bobby and Pat never gave her +more than the briefest trouble. And then as Peter was becoming more and +more liberal about unintelligence the fatal Sunday arrived. They had +lingered a little longer in the Park than usual. Bobby in obedience to +the usual command, "Now run away and play, Bobby, and don't get your +clothes dirty," had done so. Suddenly he came running back across the +meadow as fast as his legs would carry him straight to Margaret. + +"I want to make a river," he said. + +"Shush! Bobby," answered Margaret in a low voice. + +"But I want to make a river," repeated Bobby, even more insistently. + +Margaret, her face flaming scarlet, got up and seized the child roughly +by the wrist. As she dragged him away he screamed. Peter heard her say, +"Aren't you ashamed of yourself!" Presently from out of the bushes in +addition to frantic screaming there came the unmistakable sound of a +child being spanked. + +When Margaret returned to the bench, if indeed she did, Peter had gone. +He saw her once weeks afterwards at a distance, but they never talked +again. This time it was Peter who did the blushing for the more he +thought about the whole business the more degraded he found himself. He +had come within at least an appreciable distance of selling his soul for +a colic cure. A disgusting snip of a person had moved between him and +those bitter but glamorous memories of Maria Algarez. Maybe Maria did +ruin all his hope of happiness and yet he knew that but for Maria he +would never have made up enough ground in his pursuit of life to learn +the great truth that propriety is one of the vices. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +Pat grew but it was slow work. Kate would speak of an ounce as if it +were some silver trophy which the child had won. Like Samuel Butler her +admiration was unbounded for the intelligence which manifested itself in +the process of developing bone and muscle and tissue. Peter was not +inclined to give the child any credit for this. If you poured water on a +lawn, grass sprang up. All the credit belonged to the gardener and Pat +became bigger and bigger through no obvious efforts of his own but +merely because Peter and Kate plied him with milk and sometimes carrots. +Raising grass was easier. The gardener didn't have to deal with a moving +target and he could administer water quite irrespective of the wishes of +the grass. + +Of course, there were moments when Pat displayed intelligence but it was +of the most rudimentary sort. When he was about six months old Peter +found that if he put a finger in front of him Pat would try to bite it. +Sometimes he laughed but only at his own jokes. At seven months he +began to crawl. This was moderately interesting but it doubled Peter's +Sunday responsibilities and even affected his literary style. Short +paragraphs appeared more frequently than ever before in the Looking Them +Over column. Longer flights were subject to interruption as Peter had to +put Pat away from places such as the steam radiator or the gas logs. It +was no longer even possible to leave safety razor blades about. + +Eventually somebody told Peter to buy a stockade and he did so. The +arrangement was a collapsible fence which could be set up in the middle +of the floor to imprison the child and curtail its wanderings. The only +trouble lay in the fact that it was much too collapsible. In a month or +so Pat was able to pull himself to his feet by holding on to the rail +and after a few violent tugs the whole contraption would come down on +top of him. + +And yet when Kate came to Peter and said that her niece, the one in +Jamaica, was looking for a part time job and would take care of Pat on +Sundays for $3 a week, Peter refused the offer. He never knew quite why. +Somehow or other his Sunday fatherhood had become part of a routine. +Perhaps he would have felt foot-loose without it. He merely told Kate +that $3 was too much. And one night when Pat was suddenly assailed by +croup Peter almost worried himself sick. It was a short illness, but +terrific while it lasted. The child seemed to be strangling. The cough +which racked it was deep and in its agony the child took on maturity. +Against death it fought back. Peter was moved not only because this was +his son but because here was a fellow human being grappling with the +common enemy. He waited in the hall outside while Dr. Clay was making +his examination. There he had more room to walk up and down. + +Presently the doctor came out and, taking Peter's arm, led him to the +front of the flat. "The child's very ill," he said, "I'm going to send +for a trained nurse." + +Pat cried his best, but every now and then this would be broken by the +fearful cough. It was like the baying of an animal. A spasm from the +back room interrupted Dr. Clay. "It almost sounds as if there was +another person in that room," he said. "I'm going back." + +Peter knew who that thing or person was. He went with Clay and lifted +Pat out of his crib and held him in his arms. This gave him a curious +feeling that he was doing something; as if he were trying to throw his +body between Pat and someone else. In a dim way he felt that he and Pat +and the other one, all three, were running down a football field. He +must keep close to Pat and block off the tackler. + +"Part of my tiredness it goes into your arm." Maria had said that. And +now Peter wanted to give something of his own strength to Pat against +the fury of the attack. It did not seem fantastic. There was a current +in the contact. The man had lied when he said Peter and Maria were one. +That couldn't be done. Men and women were grown people, individuals, all +finished, but this was only a little person. He was part of Peter. +Father and son were one. He was holding Pat so tightly that nobody could +take him away. His prayer was all the more fervent from the fact that he +did not believe in God. He had to create God. "Don't let him die. Don't +let him die." God began to take form in his mind. God was Maria. She was +gone and not gone. To her he did not need to make a prayer. "Maria" was +enough. + +The doorbell rang and Dr. Clay answered it. He brought Miss Haine back. +"I guess you know this baby," he said. "We've got to make him well." +The nurse spoke to Peter and set about fixing a croup kettle beside the +crib. The fumes filled the room. It was a pleasant smell. "Better lay +him down in his crib, now," said the Doctor, touching Peter on the +shoulder, "so he can get the benefit of this. I think he's a little +better already." + +Peter knew that he was. Pat was no longer gasping and in a few minutes +he was asleep. For a time Peter sat beside the bed. The child's +breathing was regular and his cheek was cool to the touch. "Why, he's +fine now," Miss Haine told him. "You go to bed. In the morning you won't +even know that he's been sick." + +There was no trace of the shadow upon Pat next day. Peter was the +haggard one. Something had gone out of him during the night as he held +Pat in his arms. Father and child were doing as well as could be +expected. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +At the age of eleven months and eight days Pat walked for the first +time. Peter thought he might have been considerate enough to have chosen +a Sunday. His first tooth came on a Sunday, but that wasn't any fun. +Besides, it couldn't be tied exactly to some particular day and minute +the way that the walking could. Nor was there any gaiety about it. +However, Peter did not quite miss the walking for he came in time to see +the last couple of hundred yards. + +It was a rainy Saturday and Peter happened home early. Kate met him in +the hall with a finger at her lips. "He's walking." + +She seemed to feel that if anybody said anything about it the child +would probably grow self-conscious and collapse. There appeared to be a +certain sagacity in that. It was not an experiment but an adventure. One +step led to another. At terrific speed Pat went round and round the +room. He might have been Bobby Walthour trying to steal a lap in a six +day race. Kate and Peter watched him breathlessly from behind the +curtains of the living-room. + +"How long has this been going on?" Peter wanted to know. + +"It's these ten minutes." + +Peter pulled out his gold stop watch and created thereby a psychic +crisis. Perhaps Pat felt that his amateur standing was in jeopardy. At +any rate he tripped on the edge of a rug, almost turned a somersault, +blacked his eye and cried for half an hour. + +He did not even attempt to walk again for a week. After that it became +habitual. Up to this time Peter had never said much to anybody about his +son. He did not talk to the men at the office about the child. There +wouldn't be any sense in interrupting Charlie Hall in the middle of a +story about city politics with, "My son's got two teeth." They were all +busy men and it was not conceivable that they would care how much Pat +Neale weighed. + +Walking was a little different. Maybe it wasn't exactly a first page +story but still Peter wanted to tell somebody about it. For the first +time he was disposed to show off Pat--in person. Of course eleven months +and eights days wasn't a record. Peter would have to look into that and +find out the best accepted performance. He remembered being told that +his own brother had walked at eight months but he had no means of +knowing whether or not that was authentic. + +The desire to confide in somebody eventually took Peter around to a +stage door, though not the one at the end of the alley. From a Sunday +graphic section he had noticed that Vonnie Bandana was playing in a +musical show called "Harvest Moon." Vonnie Bandana wasn't really her +name. The caption said Vonnie Ryan and Peter was sure it was the same +girl. Evidently the Eight Bandana Sisters had gone the way of Brook Farm +and Halcyon Hall and many another experiment in co-operation. Vonnie +knew him all right. + +"You're the man that married Maria Algarez," she said. + +"Yes, but she's gone away." + +"I'm sorry." + +"That's all right. It was a long time ago. Almost a year now. She was a +good dancer, wasn't she?" + +"Maria, oh, yes, she could dance. I wondered what became of her." + +"I don't know that. I haven't heard from her at all. I think she's +abroad." + +"Have you seen our show?" + +"No, I just happened to notice your picture in the Bulletin last +Sunday." + +"Did you? Wasn't that smart of you? I've got a part in this. Lines and +everything. I sing a song. You know I don't sing it much. Just one verse +and the chorus and then I dance it. The dance is all right." + +Peter and Vonnie had been slowly walking away from the theatre towards +Broadway while they carried on this discussion and when they reached the +avenue Vonnie stopped. + +"Are you going my way? I go up to a Hundred and Sixty-eighth street. +Just a little this side of Albany." + +"Well, as a matter of fact, I was wondering if maybe you wouldn't come +out and have supper with me. I just happened to be going by the theatre +and I stopped around and thought I might run into you." + +"Listen," said Vonnie. "I'll have supper with you, but don't pull any +more of that 'I just happened to be going by the theatre.' That's awful. +You ought to say you've been planning to come and see me for a week and +came all the way in from New Rochelle just special. You don't know +anything about women, do you?" + +"I guess I don't," said Peter very soberly. + +"Oh, I am sorry," Vonnie laid her hand on his arm. "I didn't mean +anything by that. Forget it. You're all right even if I don't remember +your name. Did you ever tell it to me?" + +"My name's Peter Neale." + +"You're not the Peter Neale that writes in the Bulletin, are you?" + +"Yes, I do a sporting column. That looking 'em over stuff." + +"I've been looking for you. Do you know I almost wrote you a letter. +Where do you get that stuff about Sandow Mertes being a more valuable +man than George Browne?" + +"Browne can't hit lefthanders." + +"That's the bunk. You and the rest of the sporting writers keep pulling +that stuff about him and of course he can't. Suppose there was somebody +standing in the wings every night just before I came on, yelling at me, +'Vonnie, you can't dance,' do you suppose I could go on and do that song +for a cent? Of course I couldn't. You and the rest of you, you're just +ruining this fellow. The best looking young outfielder I've seen in ten +years. Why he could run up a hill faster than Mertes could roll down +one." + +"You don't know what you're talking about," said Peter. It was the +boldest speech he had ever made to a woman and he did it without turning +a hair. Vonnie was wrong. George Browne couldn't hit lefthanders. Before +he took her home Vonnie had arranged to go with him to the Polo Grounds +the next day and to come and see the baby on Sunday. + +"Here," she said as he was turning away from the door of her apartment, +"you've got a kiss coming to you. When you live up as far as One Hundred +and Sixty-eighth Street you've got to do at least that much for any +fellow that takes you home." + +"And say, listen," said Vonnie, just before she closed the door, "next +month I'm going to move to Two Hundred and Forty-second Street." + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +Vonnie came to the flat the next Sunday. The moment might have +embarrassed Peter if it had been anybody else. + +But Vonnie had such an imperious and lofty way of rising above all +things traditionally embarrassing to Peter and snooting down at them +that she carried him with her. At least part way. + +"Why haven't you got the young Giant in his ball park over there," said +Vonnie pointing to the Stockade. + +"I'm changing him." + +"No game," said Vonnie, "wet grounds." + +"Get out of that. Never had a baby in my life," she continued, briskly +rapping her knuckles on the woodwork above her head, "but I can't be +worse at that job than you are." + +She pushed Peter away, but did not begin on the business in hand +immediately. "He's a good kid. A fine husky kid. I know now why you +asked me here. You figured if I wanted one for myself you'd let me know +where to apply." + +"Never mind the compliments," said Peter. "Change his diapers." + +Vonnie had brought the new freedom into his life. + +"No doubt about his being yours," she went on. "Everything up to the +chin is you--of course I'm just guessing--but Maria left him those eyes +and that nose. Maybe she left him more than that. He's marked for the +show business. You might as well make up your mind to that." + +"He's going to be a newspaper man," cut in Peter sharply. + +"Oh, I see. Got it all fixed. If he begins to bust out singing or +playing the piano or something you won't let him. That's it, isn't it?" + +"I'm going to shape him in that direction." + +"Just shape him, hey? Boy, didn't you ever bust bang into the artistic +temperament? I played a season once with William Faversham. Shape him? +You can't beat him out of it with a club. I don't know yet what way he's +going to jump but I want to put down a little bet this kid of yours is +going to be some kind of an artist." + +"Don't keep saying that. I tell you he's coming on the Bulletin. His +name's Peter Neale." + +"You could name him Rosenberg and that wouldn't make him a pawnbroker." + +"But this is in his blood just like in mine. He can't help himself. He's +just got to be a newspaper man." + +"All right we won't fight about it. You say he's going to be a newspaper +man and I tell you he's going to be an artist. Maybe he won't be +anything but a moving picture actor." + +Peter saw Vonnie frequently throughout the summer. She went to the ball +games with him almost every afternoon except matinée days. The dispute +about George Browne and Sandow Mertes persisted. There could be no +question but that Browne had the speed. Even when he hit straight to an +infielder it took a fast throw to nail him at first. But Peter didn't +like him because his cap almost always fell off whenever he beat out a +slow roller. Somebody would have to carry it down to first for him and +while Browne was waiting he had a trick of bending his head back and +shaking his long hair out of his eyes. + +"He looks like a Goddamn violinist," said Peter. + +"Yes," replied Vonnie, "and your friend Mertes looks like a piccolo +player. Do you know the story about the piccolo player?" + +"Not in the press box," interrupted Peter fearfully. He felt obliged to +interrupt Vonnie a good deal. She was much given to tantalizing him by +beginning in a loud clear voice, "It seems there was a travelling +salesman came to a hotel," or "This fellow, you see, started to take his +girl out for a ride." + +"I don't want to hear it," Peter would say half in jest and half hoping +to be effectual. + +"But it's a nice story." + +"It isn't a nice story or it wouldn't begin that way" was the agreed +formula for Peter's reply, whereupon Vonnie would disturb his gravity +and dignity by digging him in the ribs with her elbow. Another favorite +device of hers was sedulously to brush an imaginary spot on Peter's coat +lapel and when he looked down bring up her hand and flip him under the +nose. Peter never seemed to remember not to look down. Perhaps he liked +to have his nose flipped. + +"It isn't necessary," he would object, "for everybody around here to +know you're a chorus girl." + +"Chorus girl, nothing. I got the song hit of the piece. 'Any little +thing for you dear, any little thing for you,'" Vonnie indicated the +tempo by scruffing her feet against the concrete floor of the press box. + +"Cut it out. Pay attention to the game." + +Sometimes the admonition was unnecessary. The day George Browne took a +real cut at the ball and banged it over the ropes in right field Vonnie +hopped into a chair and shouted, "The blessed lamb! Oh, you Georgie boy! +Watch that kid go. Look at him, Peter, he runs just like my Michael." + +Michael was Vonnie's white dog, said to be a Highland terrier. When +Peter took Vonnie home to One Hundred and Sixty-eighth Street it had +become the custom for him to wait down in the street while she got +Michael and took him a turn around the block before saying good night to +Peter. Vonnie had a good deal to say about Michael from time to time, +which was calculated to embarrass Peter. "You got to get me a book for +Michael," she told Peter. + +"What sort of a book?" + +"Well, I guess it's called 'What a Young Dog Ought to Know.' He don't +know any of the facts about life. I can take that dog past a million +lamp-posts and ten minutes after I get him back in the flat I've got to +lick him. Maybe you could give him a little plain talk, Peter. Coming +from a man, you know, it'd carry more weight with him." + +After Peter had known Vonnie for two months she did move to Two Hundred +and Forty-second Street. Peter took her out to supper a week later and +made the long journey up town. She was more subdued than usual as they +stood at the door of the apartment house. He put both hands on her +shoulders and leaned down to kiss her good night. + +"Don't you like me, Peter?" she said. + +"Of course I do. You know that." + +"I don't want you to go away, now. I don't want you to go away tonight." + +"I've got to." + +"Why have you got to?" + +"I think I ought to go." + +"Oh, if it's just morals, forget it. There's nothing to be afraid of. +You're not in love with me and I'm not in love with you. I just like +you. And I'm lonely. They won't let me keep Michael in this place, but I +guess I can sneak you in if you don't bark as we go up the stairs." + +"Maybe this'll spoil everything," said Peter. "It's been so nice and +easy and pleasant going around with you, Vonnie. If I get in love with +you something will happen to me sure. I can't stand anything like that +again. I do like you a lot. That's the trouble." + +"Oh, Hell! nothing like that's going to happen. I'm a tough bird. I'll +make you a promise, Peter. The minute I see you're falling in love with +me any I'll tell you that story about the tattooed man and the girl from +Oshkosh and shock it right out of you. Don't make any noise, Peter. I've +found the janitor's a light sleeper. And don't be so awful solemn. Try +and think up something worse that could have happened to you." + +Still when Vonnie kissed him again after they had tiptoed up two flights +and into her flat, Peter noticed that this time she did not laugh. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +I + +Peter worried a good deal over Vonnie's predictions as to Pat's future. +The doubt which she had cast upon the feasibility of his scheme +heightened after the victrola was introduced into the flat. The man on +the floor below happened to be moving and meeting Peter in the hall one +night he struck up a bargain to sell his phonograph and all the records. +After the bargain was made and the machine duly delivered, Peter looked +over the repertoire and found it queer stuff according to his notions. +"Werther--Ah! non mi ridestar!" sung by Mattia Battistini; "Siegfried's +Funeral March;" "The Funeral March of a Marionette." It seemed morbid to +Peter. "Minuet in G, No. 2" played by Ysaye; "Lucia--il dolce suono (mad +scene)." "Merry old bird," thought Peter. "Invitation to the +Waltz--Weber." That was a tune he knew, but it could hardly be classed +as cheerful. + +Peter went out and purchased a few of the latest song hits--"The +Sextette from Floradora," "Under the Shade of the Sheltering Palm," and +to his delight he found "Any Little Thing for You, Dear." Unfortunately +the phonograph company had chosen another voice instead of Vonnie's for +the record. Nevertheless, Peter bought it and some more. + +Pat was now a year and a half old, but he manifested the most violent +interest in the phonograph. That pleased Peter but he did not like it +quite so well when Kate reported to him, "'Tis a queer child, Mr. Neale. +It's them red records he does be playing all the time. He wants the one +about somebody's funeral all the time. Would you believe it he cries +when I put on a nice tune for him." + +The report was not exaggerated. Pat liked the song from Werther, but the +Siegfried record was his favorite, with Gounod a close second. Indeed +his passion to have his own particular favorites played and no others +seemed to be the compelling influence which brought him to language. +Almost his first articulate words were "Boom-Boom" which Peter +eventually and regretfully identified as an attempt to designate the +Siegfried Funeral March. When more words were developed The Funeral +March of a Marionette became "the other Boom-Boom." + +Before Pat was quite two he could mess about in the cabinet of the +victrola and pick out a dozen records in response to Peter's request. + +"Go get the red Bat," Peter would say and Pat would gravely pull out a +handful of records and return with Battistini's Werther. For that matter +he knew Floradora well enough to pick it out of the pile but he never +held it out to Peter with an imperious, "I want" as he did whenever he +got his hands on "Siegfried" or "The Funeral March of a Marionette." It +was still more thrilling, a little later, when he abandoned his +descriptive "Boom-Boom" for "Siegfried's Funeral March" and began to +call it, "Go to Bed Tired." Peter never knew just how Pat could identify +the records by looking at them. He supposed that some of the titles were +longer than others and that the child was able to bear in mind the +picture created by some certain series of signs. + +But a still more shocking discovery came when Peter learned that his +tiny son could identify by sound as well as sight. Peter, for instance, +was never quite certain whether the record being played was the Mad +Scene from Lucia or the Floradora Sextette. At any rate not until it had +gone along about to "On bended knee--on bended knee." But there was no +fooling Pat. He never needed more than a few notes before he was able to +exclaim with a well justified assurance that the piece in question was +"Chi-Chi" or "Floor" as the case might be. The Weber waltz was never +played much and Pat had no name for it, but he evidently knew it well +enough for no sooner was it started than he would get up and swing +slowly from side to side. Peter finally got a hammer and broke that +record. He would have liked to pass the victrola on to somebody else but +Kate would have protested as well as Pat. Music had solved for her the +problem of what to do with Pat on rainy days. Outside of a little +cranking these once difficult experiences had now become practically +painless. + +On Pat's second birthday Peter was startled to receive at the office of +the Bulletin a package directed in the handwriting of Maria Algarez. +Peter had travelled a little of the way toward forgetting Maria Algarez. +Time had done something, but Vonnie had done more. It was almost seven +months now since Peter first went to Two Hundred and Forty-second +Street. In the package he found a letter and a phonograph record. On the +disc he read "Chanson de Solveig--Maria Algarez." The letter +said--"Dear Peter--I send to your son a present for his second birthday. +I hope he will like it. Is his name Peter, too? So it should be. He will +be a fine boy I think, big and strong like his father. And make it so +that he shall grow up not to have the fear of anything and not the shame +of anything. Here for two years I have studied the English hard. You see +I write it much better. Now I have not danced for two years. First it +was because of the baby. It was not his fault. Maybe I have left the +hospital too soon. I did not want to stay longer and to die. All the +time I sing. The voice it is magnificent. Perhaps it is next season I am +to sing in the Opera Comique. For the phonograph company I have made the +one record and they say it will be more. I do not know. It is not +necessary ever for me to see your son, or for him to see me but some +time you will play for him this record. That he should hear me I want. +You need not say who it is. That does not matter. In you, Peter, there +is no song. For little Peter that should be different. Perhaps you will +say no. I do not think so. I want that he should hear my song--Maria." + +There was no address. Peter played Solveig's song that Sunday. It +stirred him strangely. This was almost a tune. When the notes went high +he could not only see Maria in the room, he could almost feel her. He +was so intent with this presence that he did not watch Pat. The child +was lying on the floor. He said nothing until the last note had almost +died away. "I want the red Bat," he said. + + +II + +Vonnie never came to the flat except on Sundays. It wouldn't do to have +Kate know anything about her. Several weeks after the arrival of Maria's +letter she happened in just as Peter was playing the Solveig song for +Pat. The child never put this particular record into his list of +imperatives, but he was reconciled to it. Perhaps interested. And Peter +felt a sort of compulsion of duty to play it every once and so often. He +had been surprised in the beginning that no miracle of recognition had +occurred in Pat's mind. To Pat she was merely a lady singing. Yet Peter +could not be sure what currents might move beneath the surface. Anyhow +it was enough for him that Maria had asked that he play the record. And +to him there was a certain instinct to play the record for his own +sake. Now that the memory was not so painful he rather wanted to keep it +alive. The thing was far enough away by now to be romantic. Peter took a +definite pride in the fact that once his heart had been broken. That +didn't happen to everybody. + +His feeling about Vonnie was different. She was ever so much more fun +than Maria, but she wasn't romantic. He felt that he knew her better. +Certainly he was more assured and easy with her than he had ever been +with Maria, but she could not move him to that curious exalted +unhappiness which he had once known. People about to become monks or +missionaries must feel something of what he felt for Maria. Still, that +wasn't it exactly. Maria was that moment before you hit the water in a +chute the chutes. Living with her was like watching a baseball game with +the bases always full and two strikes on the batter. Even marriage was +no windbreak. There was never a moment in that year when he had not felt +the tang of a gale full upon him. Having an affair with Vonnie was +highly respectable in comparison. This passion was even hospitable to +little jokes. Life had become comfortable. + +He did not know whether or not Vonnie realized that she and Maria were +different. They no longer talked ever of Maria Algarez. Even when she +came in upon the Solveig song Peter would have said nothing about it. + +"It's Maria, isn't it?" asked Vonnie. + +"Yes." + +"Where did you get it?" + +"She sent it to me." + +"Has she come back?" + +"No, it just said Paris." + +"Maybe she thinks she don't need to come back. She can bean you just as +good with a phonograph record." + +Peter said nothing, but let the song die out and then took the disc from +the machine. + +"Here," said Vonnie, "let me see it." + +Peter handed it over. Vonnie looked at it for a moment, then she moved +across the room. + +"Pete," she said, "what would you do if I dropped this thing out the +window." She made a move as if to put the suggestion into execution. + +"Don't do that," cried Peter. + +"Don't do that," mimicked Vonnie. "You're still a damn fool, hey?" + +"It's not mine. It was sent to Pat." + +"Oh, yes, blame it on the kid. I don't suppose he's a nut about her, +too. Are you, Pat?" + +Pat seemed to have no comprehension of the issue and made no answer. + +"Look here, Pete," said Vonnie, "nobody can say I've ever been jealous. +You can be daffy about anybody you like. That's none of my business, but +I can't stand it to have you such a fool that you'll let this damn woman +slap you in the face and then come back for more. If you didn't know she +was no good in the first place you ought to know it now." + +"I don't want you to say that." + +"Well, what is she good for?" + +"She's the greatest dancer in the world." + +"Don't make me laugh." + +"You know she is. You heard them cheering her that night." + +"Hell to that. Everything was set for her. Somebody gets sick and on she +waltzes. Any audience'll fall for that. If Carmencita should fall down +and break her leg I could do the same thing. 'Miss Vonnie Ryan with one +hour's rehearsing will take the place of Carmencita.' It's a cinch." + +"All right. You've got your opinion and I've got mine. Don't let's talk +about it." + +"I'm going to talk about it. This gets settled right now. I don't have +to be first with you, Pete, or anybody else, but I'm not going to run +second to a dish-faced mutt. I've got some pride in the people that cut +me out. Either I smash that phonograph record or you and I smash." + +"Give me that." + +Vonnie handed it over. + +"All right," she said. "I'm sorry. It was silly for me to bawl you out. +You haven't done anything to me. God knows I can't stand here and say +you seduced me. I had to get a half-nelson on you to pull you into the +flat that night. Maybe that's what makes me so sore. I put a lot of work +in on you, Pete." + +"Please don't go way, Vonnie. It's silly for us to scrap over a +phonograph record." + +"Everything's silly. I got to go way. I'm going to get just as far away +as I can. I'm going to get in some road company going to the Coast and +then by God, I hope we get stranded. You poor mutt, I'm in love with +you." + +"Oh, please, Vonnie, don't cry. I know I'm no good. I just can't help +it about that phonograph record." + +"Well, you don't suppose I'd bawl this way if I could help it. Now don't +be patting me on the back. I don't love you enough to let you, 'There! +there!' me." + +She moved resolutely to the door and by the time she reached it the line +had come to her. + +"I ought've known," said Vonnie, "no good could come out of taking up +with a fellow that thinks Mertes is a better outfielder than George +Browne." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +I + +Vonnie made good her threat and two weeks after the quarrel Peter +received a picture postcard of a giant redwood. The message said, "Well +Peter here I am in San Francisco--Vonnie." It was the first written +communication he had ever received from her and so he did not know +whether or not the brevity was habitual or was intended to convey a +rebuke. It seemed safe to assume the latter as Vonnie sent no address. + +Peter found himself turning to Pat for companionship. Perhaps he did not +exactly turn, but was rather tugged about without will of his own. The +needs of Pat were increasingly greater and Peter was caught up into them +now that he had nothing in particular to do with his evenings. Instead +of taking Vonnie out to an early dinner before the show he helped to put +Pat to bed. It didn't seem quite virile to Peter, but it was easier than +hanging around Jack's or Joel's or the Eldorado. Of course, Pat was +supposed to be in bed long before the night life of New York had really +begun, but bit by bit he edged his time ahead until it was often eleven +or after before he fell off to sleep. The child fought against sleep as +if it were a count of ten. Never within Peter's memory did Pat express a +willingness to go to sleep, much less a desire. It was always necessary +to conduct him forcibly over the line where consciousness ceased. + +Peter was swept under the tyranny of this obligation a couple of nights +after Vonnie went away. Unable to think up anything to do, he came back +to the flat a little after ten. He saw a light burning down the hall in +Pat's room and occasional entreaties and commands drifted out. Pat +wanted a drink of water and the toy alligator and the electric engine +and six freight cars. Looking at his watch Peter found that it was half +past ten. He walked into the child's room and exclaimed sternly, "What's +all this racket about?" + +"He wants the funny section read to him," explained Kate, "and it's been +lost some place. I can't find it anywhere." + +"That's perfect rubbish," said Peter. + +"I've looked all over for it, Mr. Neale." + +"That wasn't what I meant was rubbish, Kate. I'm glad you lost it. I +want you to keep on losing it. I meant it's rubbish for him to be +staying up this late and asking for things." + +"Yes sir." + +"Now we'll both say good night to him, Kate, and let him go to sleep." + +Pat began to cry not only loudly but with a certain note of sincerity +which caught Peter's ear. "What's the matter with him now?" + +"He made me promise I'd tell him a story if I couldn't find the funny +paper," said Kate. + +"It's too late now and anyway if he made you do it, Kate, it isn't a +promise. It don't count." + +"Yes, Mr. Neale. But it's so set he is he'll be calling me back all the +night long for me to tell him the story. It's nothing he does be +forgetting." + +"All right, Kate, we'll settle that very easily. You go out and I'll +stay and he can cry his head off." + +"Where'll I go, Mr. Neale?" + +"I don't care, Kate. Go any place you like. It isn't eleven o'clock yet. +Where do you usually go?" + +"To my sister's in Jamaica, but it's no time to be routing them out at +this hour." + +"Well, let me see. I tell you, Kate, there's a moving picture theatre +down there at Fifty-ninth Street that keeps going till after one. +Here's some money. You go there and see the picture and I'll stay and +show this young man he can't get everything he cries for." + +"I want to see the picture," said Pat, sitting up in bed. + +"Now don't be silly. You get back there on your pillow," said Peter, "or +I'll just knock you down." + +Kate rummaged around for her bonnet and finally went out. During all +this time Pat kept up a suppressed sobbing. As soon as the door slammed +behind Kate he was sufficiently rested again to begin crying full force. + +"Well, what is it now?" said Peter as fiercely as he could. + +Pat's utterance was muffled with tears. "I want a story." + +"You heard Kate go out. If you've got any sense you know she can't tell +you a story." + +"You tell me a story." + +"I'm too busy. Go to sleep." + +"Why are you busy?" + +"Because I am. Now go to sleep." + +"I don't want to go to sleep. I want you to tell me a story." + +Pat commenced to cry again. He had sensed an opening. + +Peter dropped his guard. "Just one story?" he asked. + +Upon the instant Pat ceased crying and sat up. "Tell me about the old +beggarman and Saint Pat." + +"I don't know it," said Peter. In fact he felt almost as if he had been +suddenly called upon to make a speech at a public banquet. Of course, he +had heard of Cinderella and Red Riding Hood and Aladdin and the +wonderful lamp, but he could not quite remember what any of them did. +Suddenly he remembered another source book. + +"Once," he began, "there was a man named Goliath and he was the biggest +man in the world. He could beat any man in the world. And one day there +was a little man named David----." + +"I'm bigger than David," interrupted Pat. + +"I guess you are. He was a little bit of a man, but he wasn't afraid of +Goliath. He said, 'Ole Goliath, you talk too much. You make me sick.' +And he picked up a rock and hit Goliath and knocked him down." + +"Why did he knock Goliath down?" Pat wanted to know. + +"I guess he knocked Goliath down because it was Goliath's bedtime and +Goliath wouldn't go to bed." + +Pat remained alert in spite of the moralizing. He gave no hint of +recognition that the end of a story had been reached. Anyhow, the +creative impulse had seized upon Peter particularly since it might be so +unblushingly combined with propaganda. + +"Well," he continued, "pretty soon George Browne came out of his house +and he was the second biggest man in the world and he wouldn't go to bed +and so David picked up another great big rock and knocked him down. And +then your friend the Red Bat came out of his house and he was the next +biggest man in the world and he wouldn't go to bed and so David picked +up another rock and knocked him down." + +"No, he didn't," broke in Pat. + +"I'm telling this story. David hit the Red Bat with a rock and knocked +him down because he wouldn't go to bed." + +"No, he didn't." + +"Oh, all right then, if you know so much about it, he didn't. What did +he do?" + +"He knocked David down." + +Peter realized that his narrative was overburdened with propaganda and +he was artist enough to throw over some of his moralizing ballast. + +"Well, this was the way it happened, Pat. David picked up a big rock and +threw it at the Red Bat, but the Red Bat was too smart for him. The Red +Bat caught the rock and threw it back at David and knocked him down. +That was it, wasn't it?" + +"Yes," said Pat. + +When Kate returned a little after one Peter reported, "I didn't have any +bother with him. He just went right off to sleep." + + +II + +David and Goliath became set as a bedtime story and lasted through the +next six months almost without change. Indeed Pat resented changes. +"Once," Peter would begin, "there was a man named Goliath and he was the +biggest man in the world and he could lick any man in the world." + +"Not lick," Pat would interrupt. "Beat." + +"Oh, yes, he could beat any man in the world." Peter found himself +coming home for Pat's bedtime with increasing frequency. Once or twice +he tried to break away, but upon such occasions Kate reported that the +child had cried for him and had kept awake until after midnight asking +for the story of David and Goliath. + +"You tell it to him," said Peter. "I think I can teach it to you. He +wants it just this way." And he repeated the accepted version. + +Kate shook her head. "I'm too old a woman to be learning so many words, +Mr. Neale," she said. "And it's not a story I think Father Ryan would +like me to be telling. That's not the way the story do be going in our +Bible." + +"Gosh," thought Peter to himself. "She thinks it was Martin Luther made +those changes." + +Notwithstanding Goliath, Peter made a gallant attempt to break away from +his newly found responsibilities. He felt that he ought to. He felt that +in the restaurants and poolrooms there lay the sort of sporting gossip +he ought to pick up for his column. Of course, not all New York kept +Pat's hours in those days but there was something almost auto-hypnotic +in getting the child to sleep. In addition to the bedtime story, Peter +found it necessary to feign great weariness in order to suggest a +similar feeling in Pat. He would yawn prodigiously immediately after the +Red Bat had knocked down David and pretend to doze off on the foot of +Pat's bed. Presently, he would hear the boy's regular breathing and +would tiptoe out of the room. But Peter acted his rôle much too well. +After so much shamming he generally was actually tired himself and +indisposed to wander down to Jack's or any of the other places where he +might find fighters or their managers. + +Indeed, he made the discovery that the material to be extracted from +these people was not inexhaustible. Like David and Goliath they had a +tendency to run into formula. "And I yell at him, don't box him; fight +him. Keep rushing him. Don't let him set. And when he comes to his +corner at the end of the third round I bawl in his ear, 'You kike so and +so, begging your pardon, Mr. Neale, if you don't get that lousy wop I'm +done with you.' And would you believe me it did him a lot of good. It +put guts in him. In the fourth we nail him with a right and we win. Now +we're going after the champ and if we ever get him into a ring we'll +lick him." + +A year or so before Neale could have taken stuff like that and worked it +over into a column on "The Psychology of a Prizefight Manager." But now +all the inspiration was gone. He had heard precisely the same tale in +much the same language too many times. He was almost tempted to cry out, +"Not lick him, beat him." + +Nor was there much more available color in the fighters themselves. They +were a silent crowd, most of them, particularly if they happened to have +a manager along. + +Once, Peter found Dave Keyes, the Brooklyn lightweight, sitting all +alone in Jack's. He was going great guns that year and Peter thought of +him as the logical successor to the champion. They had met a couple of +times at fight clubs, but Keyes did not seem to remember Peter. He was +sober but not bright. Still, Peter felt that he might draw him out +during the course of the evening. In time Keyes began to talk freely +enough. He was even confidential but fighting seemed to be the last +thing in the world he cared to discuss. + +"You see there's two dames fall for me. And the tough break is the both +of them lives on the same block. See. Well, let me tell you how I works +it. First I give Helen, that's the blonde one, a ring and then right +bang on top of that I has the call switched over to Gracie's flat----." + +"Life," thought the harassed Peter Neale, "is just one bedtime story +after another." + +In the Spring a long swing around the baseball training camps took Peter +away for almost two months and another month and a half went in a +fruitless journey to Juarez to wait for a fight which never happened. It +was June when Peter returned and to his horror he found that the child +had picked up theology in his absence. A storm helped the discovery. The +roll of the thunder was still a long way off when Peter called it to +Pat's attention. "We're going to have a thunderstorm," he said. + +"No, we're not," answered the child. "Thunder storms only come when +you're bad." + +"What's that?" asked Peter. + +"A thunderstorm's God showing his ankle," explained Pat. + +This did not seem a dogma altogether iron clad and yet it worried Peter. + +"Thunder's got nothing to do with you're being bad," he told Pat. "If +that was it we'd have thunder all the time. Thunder's nothing to be +afraid of. It's just somebody up the sky saying 'Booh' at you for fun." + +"God lives up in the sky." + +"How do you know that? Did you see him?" + +"Yes," said Pat stoutly. + +That made the question difficult to argue. + +"All right," continued Peter. "Call him God if you want to. Anyhow, when +it's thunder he's just saying 'Booh' at you and if you get scared you +haven't got any sense. Remember that's what thunder is. Just somebody +named God saying 'Booh.'" + +"No, it isn't." + +"Well, you tell me then." + +"When it's thunder," said Pat, pointing up the street in the direction +of Central Park, "it's a big giant in the trees." + +The child paused. "A blind giant," he added. + +Peter stared at him and wondered whether the phrase and figure were his +own or whether he had picked them up from Kate. Later Peter took +occasion to ask her and she denied it. "God's ankle," she admitted but +only after revision. "You know, Mr. Neale, it's the way he has of +getting things twisted in his little head. You understand now it was +'God's anger' I was a telling him." + +"Oh, I knew that all right, Kate. I knew he made up the ankle part of +it. But you're sure you didn't tell him anything about thunder and a +giant in the trees--a blind giant." + +"No, sir." + +Peter got to thinking things over and began to remember what Vonnie had +said concerning the future of Pat. He was worried. This idolatry of the +Red Bat who sang on the phonograph he didn't like. After this it would +have to be somebody else who knocked David down. Sandow Mertes maybe. +Then there was this blind giant in the trees. He didn't mind Pat's +growing up to be a poet. That would fit into the column nicely enough, +but not wild poetry. The thing had to be kept in bounds or there wasn't +any way to syndicate it. Still the next column of "Looking Them Over" +which Peter wrote contained a little poem somewhat outside his usual +manner. It was called, "The Big Blind Giant." + +Three days later the syndicate manager on the Bulletin called up Peter. +"We've got six telegrams already about that poem of yours," he said. +"The one about the big blind giant running around and hitting his head +against the trees." + +"What's the matter with it?" asked Peter aggressively. + +"Nothing at all, Peter, they all say it's great. All but that sporting +editor of the Des Moines Register--you know him, Caleb Powers?" + +"No, I don't know him. What's he say?" + +"He just gives the name of the poem and then he says in his telegram, +'Don't tell me the answer, I want to guess.'" + +"Five out of six is plenty," said Peter. "And say, Bill, where do you +suppose I got the idea from?" + +"Where?" + +"From my kid--Peter Neale, 2nd. He isn't four yet, but you see I've got +him working for the Bulletin already." + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +Pat furnished copy for Peter again within a month. Kate came in from the +Park all breathless with an account of a fight between the child and his +friend and playmate Bobby, last name not given. + +"It was about an engine," explained Kate. "Bobby give it to Pat and then +he wanted to take it away again. Before we could get to them Pat hit +Bobby in the mouth so hard it made his mouth bleed. And that Bobby, him +almost six years old. And a head taller than Pat. He bled something +terrible, Mr. Neale. First I thought it was just Bobby's blood on Pat's +hand, but it kept on and when I looked closer there was all the skin off +of the knuckles of Pat. It must have been the teeth of that Bobby when +Pat hit him. I'll be putting iodine on it this very minute if you'll +watch till I get back, Mr. Neale." + +"Put down that engine and come here, Pat," said Peter. + +"I can't hear you." + +"Yes, you can. I said put down that engine. Nobody's going to take it +away from you. Not just now, anyway. It's not yours but I suppose you've +won it. Come here, I want to see your hand." + +Very reluctantly Pat placed the engine on the sofa and advanced slowly. + +"It's all red," he said. + +Peter took off the handkerchief. "Nonsense," he said, "you haven't more +than scratched it." + +He was about to dismiss the matter from his mind and start for the +office when he noticed something he'd overlooked. "Kate, Kate," cried +Peter in great excitement, "this hand that Pat cut hitting that boy is +his left hand." + +"Yes, 'tis his left hand he'd be using all the time when I'm not +noticing him," said Kate, returning with the iodine. "That's where the +strength is. It'll be hard to teach him out of it." + +"I don't want him taught out of it, Kate. Don't you ever try to stop +him. It's bad to try to change children around. Anyway I don't want him +changed. This is fine for him. When he grows up and plays baseball he'll +be two steps nearer first base and besides the swing will throw him into +his stride. Maybe you don't know what I'm talking about, Kate, but +remember I want him to stay a left-hander." + +Peter went down to the office and wrote, "There seems to be no shadow of +doubt from which hope can spring--I am the father of a southpaw." He +nursed the theme and the incident along for almost a column, and there +were other by-products of comfort. In the City Room Peter ran into Deane +Taylor, the venerable music critic of the Bulletin. + +"Mr. Taylor," he asked, "did you ever see a left-handed violin player?" + +"No, Peter," said the old man, "there's no such thing. Of course there +might be left-handed piano players, but certainly all the fiddlers and +all the conductors are right-handed. Come to think of it, I don't know +any left-handed musicians at all. But if you're writing something about +that you better ask somebody else. I might be wrong. You see I've never +gone into music from that angle." + +"No," replied Peter, "this is just something I'm interested in +personally. Your impression's good enough for me. You don't have to +prove it. Thank you very much." + +Peter went away greatly pleased. "There's one of Vonnie's guesses gone +wrong anyhow," he said. + +From his observations of professional baseball, Peter had worked out the +theory that lefthanders were more difficult to handle than anybody else. +There was Rube Waddell for instance. Peter had seen him call the +outfielders in for the ninth inning and retire the side with only an +infield behind him. And everybody knew about the way Rube used to +disappear every now and then during the middle of a season and go +fishing. Only the day before he had had a Rube Waddell story in his +column. It was about Rube and the animal crackers. The man who told +Peter said the story came straight from Connie Mack and that there was +no doubt about its being true. Ollie Shreck, Rube's regular catcher, +wouldn't sign a contract one season. When they asked him the trouble he +said, "They always put me in to room with Rube on the road. Maybe they +think I understand him after catching him so much. Well, Mr. Mack, I +won't sign no contract unless you put in a clause that Rube can't eat +animal crackers in our bed." + +Pat lived up to most of Peter's theories about southpaws. Before the +child had quite turned four Peter discovered that Kate had no control +over him. She had given him a little theology but no discipline. The +facts came out through her complaint that Pat wouldn't eat any of the +things which he was supposed to eat. A doctor called in to attend a +passing cold had remained to suggest a diet. He was horrified to learn +that Kate had allowed the child to eat meat two or three times a day, +with the exception of Friday, just as she did. + +"Your child is just about one ton behind in spinach," said Dr. Whiting +to Peter. "He's got to catch up, but there won't be any particular +trouble about that. He's pretty sure to like spinach. All children do. +And I want him to have more milk." + +Peter found upon inquiry that Pat had never known spinach. "I don't like +it," explained Kate. + +"Well, he's got to have a lot of it," said Peter. "I want you to start +right in today." + +The report next morning was unsatisfactory. "How did the spinach go?" +asked Peter. "He wouldn't eat any of it," answered Kate. "He said he +didn't like it." + +"How could he tell he didn't like it if he didn't eat any," objected +Peter sharply. + +"I don't know. But he said he didn't like it. He threw the plate on the +floor." + +"How about the milk?" + +"He wouldn't drink any." + +"Didn't you tell him that he had to." + +"I did that, Mr. Neale. I told him God wouldn't love him if he didn't +eat his nice spinach and that, begging your pardon, sir, you'd cry." + +"Today," said Peter with a certain magnificence, "I'll stay home and eat +lunch with him myself. And for lunch we'll have just spinach and milk." + +"Well, well," said Peter, with great gusto as lunch was served, "isn't +this fine--milk and spinach. Kate, how did you know just what we +wanted?" + +"I don't want any lunch," said Pat. + +"No spinach?" + +Pat did not deign a reply. + +"What do you want?" + +"I want crackerjack and ice cream." + +"Spinach is what you're going to get." + +Pat began to cry, but Peter found that it was only a sign of rage and +not of weakness. The child's refusal remained steadfast. Finally, Peter +spanked him for the first time in his life. It was not a success. Pat +cried a lot more but he ate no spinach. Press of other work kept Peter +from pursuing the problem for three days, during which time the child +reverted to his old diet. In a second personally conducted test, Peter +Neale managed to induce Pat both to drink milk and eat spinach, but it +was not exactly a triumph. The result was gained by strategy, which was +ingenious but also abject. Moreover, it was almost wholly accidental. +Driven desperate by an unyielding stubbornness, Peter at length lost his +temper and shouted at the child. "All right then, don't eat any spinach. +I won't let you eat any spinach." + +Pat scowled and, reaching all the way across the table, helped himself +to a large spoonful. "I'm eating spinach," he said, "I'm eating it right +now." + +The only thing of which Peter had a right to boast was that he did not +allow any false pride to stand between him and the object which he +sought. He was quick to seize his opportunity. Pat's seeming free will +was harnessed to serve the predetermined purposes of an ego less +powerful but more unscrupulous. + +"Maybe you are eating a little spinach," said Peter, "but I guess you +won't dare take any milk when I tell you not to." + +Pat fell into the trap. "Look at me now, Peter, I'm drinking it all +up." + +Once he learned the method Peter became a strict disciplinarian. Almost +invariably Pat disobeyed with alacrity when he heard the stalwart and +ringing command, "Now, Pat, I don't want you to go to bed and I don't +want you to go this very minute." Of course the thing became a little +complicated. Even after much practice Peter used to get somewhat mixed +up over such instructions as, "No, the nightgown I don't want you to +wear is the one over there." + +The eating problem was subjected to still further complexities. Peter +was shrewd enough to realize that the scheme of indirect discourse might +become strained beyond all usefulness if employed too much. Pat +conformed and yet it became evident at length that he saw through the +trickery. On his fifth birthday, for instance, at his party he made no +rush for the ice cream which was placed before him but looked up +plaintively and said, "Peter, why don't you tell me not to eat my ice +cream." + +Accordingly, other games were invented. The milk race proved generally +useful but rules had to be devised to prevent Pat from going too fast. +Eventually the contest was introduced by Peter as "a slow milk race." In +order to prevent Pat from choking to death he would cry every now and +then "Measure!" At that signal both would lower their glasses and set +one against the other on the table. Pat took over the announcing of +these results. He used only one decision--"I'm ahead"--and this bore no +accurate relation to the actual quantity of milk in the two glasses. + +As a matter of fact, the milk race never was a very sporting +proposition. Pat always won and as the practice continued he began to +demand new guarantees of success. "You mustn't start till I'm through, +Peter," he would say. "I want to win." Peter also hit upon the device of +serving Pat with nothing but "special milk." His own came out of the +same bottle but had no title. Nobody but Pat was supposed under any +circumstances to be allowed to touch "special milk." The story, +circulated by Peter, was that the cow wouldn't like it. + +Another incentive to appetite was playing burglar. This game was also +one of Peter's inventions, but Pat eventually became the aggressor. "You +must be asleep," he would say, "and I must be a burglar and come along +and steal some of your spinach. Shut your eyes." + +Even years afterward Peter could never look at spinach without blinking. + +Kate was not very apt at any of the eating games and the result was that +Peter found himself more bound to the flat than ever. Now he seldom got +down to the office except during the hours between lunch and dinner. The +feeding and more particularly, the urging of Pat came to be almost a +regular duty. Peter was never quite sure whether he liked or hated these +activities. Although they were confining and arduous he got an +undeniable satisfaction out of them. He was succeeding with something a +good deal more personal than a syndicate. He was succeeding where Kate, +the mother of five or six, had failed. + +"Maybe women are all right for children when they get a little older," +was the way Peter expressed it to himself, "but they haven't imagination +enough to handle a little one like Pat. That's a man's job." + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +Pat was six years old when he saw his first ball game up at the old hill +top park of the New York Yankees who were then the Highlanders. The Red +Sox were the visiting team. + +"That's Sea Lion Harry Hall," said Peter, pointing to a man in a gray +uniform who was throwing the ball. Pat tried to follow the direction in +which Peter pointed. + +"I don't see no sea lion," he complained. + +"Right over there," replied Peter, "the pitcher. Don't you see the man +that's throwing the ball. That's his name, Sea Lion Harry Hall." + +Pat was enormously disappointed. He had thought that maybe it was some +sort of circus which they were going to see in this great open park. The +sea lion had sounded like a promise of elephants to come. He tried to +beat back his grief, but presently tears rolled out of his eyes. The +best he could do was to make no sound. Eventually Peter noticed the damp +tracks across his face. + +"What are you crying about?" he asked in surprise. + +"You said it was a sea lion," sobbed Pat, "and it isn't any sea lion." + +"Oh, that's it. Don't you understand: his name's Sea Lion. Just as they +call you Pat." + +"Why do they call him a Sea Lion?" + +"Well," said Peter, "to tell the truth I don't know exactly. It's just +one of those things. I've been writing about Sea Lion Harry Hall a +couple of years and now I never stopped to think up any reason for it. +It was smart of you to ask me, Pat. That's right. Don't you go taking in +things people tell you without asking why. That's the first thing a +newspaperman ought to learn. You just wait here a minute and I'll go and +find out why they call him Sea Lion Harry Hall." + +Peter went over to the wire screen which ran in front of the press box +and called to a short little man who was sitting on his heels and +balancing himself with his bat which he had dug into the ground. The +player straightened up and came over. Peter conversed earnestly with him +for a moment. Then he came back. "Now," he said, "I know all about it. +Kid Elberfeld--that was Kid Elberfeld I was talking to--he says they +call him Sea Lion Harry Hall because he roars so--just like a sea lion." + +For the next half hour Pat abandoned all thought of the game. Peter +rattled off words and the meaning of them. There were hits and errors +and flies and grounders. Once everybody in the park shouted and stood up +and Peter said it was a home run, but Pat gave very little heed to this. +He paid no more attention to the rooting than if it had been Peter +talking to him. It was another sound for which he was waiting. He +couldn't be burdened with learning about hits and errors or even the +thing called a home run. What he wanted was to hear Sea Lion Harry Hall +roar like a sea lion. For hours Pat heard nothing. The man just did his +exercises and threw the ball. Then something happened which made him +mad. He threw the ball and after it was thrown he walked straight up to +a man in blue who had on a false face. And he talked at him. Very loud +and hoarse he said, "Jesus, Tim, call 'em right." + +"There goes the Sea Lion," said Peter who had been busy with something +else and had caught no more than the rumble. "Didn't that sound just +like a sea lion?" + +Pat scorned to cry. He did not even bother to say "No." By now he knew +that the baseball park was the land of disappointment. It was a place +where things were cried up with words which were not so. Peter had said +he would roar like a sea lion. And he didn't. He was just a man who said +"Jesustim" pretty loud. + +Pat heard a seal lion once. "Jesustim" didn't sound anything like a sea +lion. + +Interesting inquiry might have centred around "Too hot to handle" if +Peter had used it earlier in the day, but by the time it came Pat knew +that it was just a grown up way of talking big. When Peter said, "That's +Birdie Cree," Pat did not look or even ask any questions. He knew there +was not a birdie. + +Only one romantic concept came to Pat from the game. + +"That's Tris Speaker, that kid in centre field," said Peter. + +Of course, Pat knew that he really wouldn't be a kid. It didn't surprise +him to find that Tris was a man but he was quite a lot different from +pretty nearly all the other grown-ups that Pat had ever seen. They +didn't run like Tris. Probably they couldn't. The other men in this +baseball park ran, but Tris was the fastest. But it wasn't just looking +at him that Pat liked. He said the name over to himself several times. +"Tris Speaker, Tris Speaker." There was fun in the sound of it. Not +quite enough for a whole afternoon, to be sure. This was a park without +sandpiles or a merry-go-round. And there were no policemen to make +everybody keep off the grass. Pat wished they would. + +"I want to go home," he said at last. + +"Tired already?" asked Peter. "Well, there's only half an inning more. +It wasn't much of a game, was it? Too one-sided. But we're not going +home right off. I've got to go straight to the office and I'm going to +take you with me." + +In another ten minutes the game was over. "You didn't like it, did you?" +asked Peter. The formula nettled Pat. + +"Yes, I did," he said. + +After a long trip in the subway they came to the big building where +Peter worked. Pat had never been there before. At the end of a long +corridor was a small office and Peter opened the door and went in. "I've +got to write the paper," he said. "You keep quiet till I'm done. Here's +the funny section for you." + +Upon examination Pat found that it was last Sunday's pictures. He had +already seen the one about how the kids put dynamite in the Captain's +high hat. Still he followed the adventure again. When Kate read it to +him on Sunday it had made him a little sad. It seemed to him that it +must have hurt the Captain when Maude, the mule, kicked him in the head. +Now he found a new significance in the last picture. Maude and the +Captain were floating in the air high above the roof. Coming out of the +Captain's mouth were marks like this, "!----!!!" And yet it must be +pleasant to go floating away in the sky like that. Pat looked out of the +window and he could see the river and the great bridge. He would like to +have a high hat and some dynamite and a mule. Then he could float +through the window like Davey and the Goblin. That would be better than +sitting there in the little office so quietly while Peter pounded the +keys of his typewriter. Peter kept taking sheets of paper out of it and +tearing them up. + +"Whatch you doing?" Pat asked when he could keep silent no longer. + +"Hush," said Peter very sternly, "you mustn't ask questions now. I'm +doing a story for the Bulletin. That's very important, I must do it +right away." + +"Why?" + +"Well, pretty soon they're going to put the paper to bed." Pat knew that +must be some sort of joke. Papers didn't go to bed. They didn't have any +pajamas or nightgowns. + +Somebody knocked at the door and before Peter could say anything Charlie +Hall came in. "Is that your kid?" he asked. + +"Yes," said Peter, "He's my son. Say hello to Charlie Hall, Pat." + +"Well, what's your name?" said Hall just as if he was very much +interested. + +"My name's Pat." + +"Tell him your big name," prompted Peter. "Go ahead." + +"Peter Neale, second." + +"I suppose you'll be down here doing baseball yourself pretty soon now +that you're getting to be such a big boy," said Hall. + +Pat picked up the funny paper again and pretended to become engrossed in +it. Charlie Hall was diverted back to the first of the Peter Neales. + +"I guess he's a little older than my youngest," he said. "Let me see, +Joe--no, that's not the one I mean--Bill must be about four or five now. +Just around there." + +"Pat's older than that. He was six a couple of days ago." + +"Getting pretty near time to begin figuring what to do with him." + +"I know that already," said Peter, "he's going to be a newspaper man. +He's going to be 'by Peter Neale'." + +"I'd drown mine, all six of 'em, before I'd let 'em go into the +newspaper business." + +"What's the matter with it?" + +"It don't get you any place. Now if I was in business I'd be just +getting ready to be a president of the company or something. And as it +is I'm just an old man around the shop. Forty-two my last birthday. In a +couple of years more I'll be on the copy desk." + +"That's mostly bunk, Charlie. But even if it was so, haven't you had a +lot of fun?" + +"What do you mean, fun?" + +"Going out where things are happening and writing pieces and seeing them +in the paper the next day. Just writing a baseball story seems sort of +exciting to me." + +"Hell," said Charlie, "they're all faked, those baseball games. I +wouldn't go across the street to see one." + +He paused, but went on again before Peter could protest. + +"It's a funny thing, but the longer you stay in newspaper work the more +it gets to seem as if everything's faked. After a while you find out +that all the murders are just alike. Somebody sleeps with somebody and +somebody else don't like it and then you have what we call a 'mystery' +and we get all steamed up about it. Railroad accidents--the engineer +disregarded the signal--fires--somebody dropped a cigarette in a pile of +waste. My God, Pete, there's only about ten things can happen any place +in the world and then they must go on repeating themselves over and +over." + +Peter rushed in pellmell. "But don't you see, Charlie. It's the writing +about them makes them different. A piano player might as well say, 'I +haven't got anything but the same notes.'" + +"Well," said Charlie, "I'd drown all five of them if they wanted to be +piano players. Maybe there is some fun in writing. I don't know +anything about that. But if a man wants to write why put it down some +place where it's going to be swept up by the street cleaner the next +day. At eleven o'clock tomorrow morning all that stuff you were writing +before I came in will be dead and rotten. It'll have to make room for +the home edition and on top of that'll come another. And so on all day +long. Writing for a newspaper's like spitting in Niagara Falls. Anybody +that can write ought to get on a magazine and do something that'll last +anyway from breakfast to dinner time." + +"It's no good for me," said Peter. "I've written for magazines a +little--just sport stuff, you know. You do something and maybe you like +it, but that's the last you hear about it for a month. By the time it +comes out you've forgotten all about it and maybe by that time it isn't +true anyway. It's like writing for posterity." + +"All right," said Charlie, "go on with your story. If you make it a good +one maybe there'll be somebody around the office'll remember it clear +into next week." + +Left alone, Peter proceeded at a furious rate. Even Pat was frightened +out of interrupting by the beat and pace of the noise which came from +the typewriter. If there had been a steam whistle it would have sounded +a good deal like a locomotive. Soon Peter called a copy boy and gave him +the pages. It had grown almost dark now, but he did not switch on the +electric light immediately. From the next room came the clicking sound +of telegraph keys. + +"Do you hear that," said Peter. "That's magic. Some place there's a war, +or a king's just died, or maybe he's only sick and those clicks are +telling us about it." + +"Did he eat too much ice cream and cake?" asked Pat. + +"I don't know. I can't tell till somebody writes it down. You have to +make _a b c's_ out of it before anybody except just the man in the +room understands about it." + +"Come here," said Peter, suddenly getting up from his chair, "you sit +down there, Pat." + +"I don't want to," said Pat. + +"All right, I won't let you sit in my chair." + +Pat got up and took the seat. + +"Now," said Peter earnestly, "I don't want you to grow up to be a +newspaper man, and I don't want you to come into this office after I'm +gone." + +He put his arm around Pat's shoulder and drew him close. Then he took +the boy's hand, the left one, and moved it forward near the typewriter. + +"This is the desk," said Peter, "that I don't want you to use." + + + + +Book II + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +Peter was coming back to America. He had been through the war and then +the peace and he was very tired. The tension of it all was still upon +him. Even though he lay back in his steamer chair and looked over the +rail at a wide and peaceful ocean the jangle within him continued. For +him there was no friendship in the sea. Probably there never would be +any more. He had come to hate it that afternoon on the Espagne when they +ran from the submarine. That was almost four years ago, but Peter had +not forgotten. He had been playing poker in the card-room when the +little gun on the forward deck went "bang!" The man across the table had +his whole stack of chips in his hand. He was just about to say, "I'll +raise you, Neale." And then he said nothing. He just sat there holding +the chips and grinning. Some of them trickled out of his hands and a +yellow one fell on the floor. The man stooped down and rummaged for it +under his chair. Yellow chips represented five dollars. Peter couldn't +stand the comedy of it. His capacity for irony was limited. + +"Don't do that," he said sharply. "Maybe it's going to sink us. Come on. +We can look for the chips afterwards." + +Still the man didn't come. His right hand was trembling but he held on +to the cards. + +"Oh," said Peter, "you win if that's what you're waiting for. For God's +sake, come on." + +Peter didn't have the courage to be the first man out of the +smoking-room. He walked slowly enough to let two players pass him. Going +to his room he found a life preserver and put it on clumsily. Outside in +the hall a very white-faced steward was saying over and over again, +"There is no danger. There is no danger." Coming out on deck a passenger +almost ran into Peter. He was dashing up and down the deck shouting, +"Don't get excited." Peter saw his poker friend standing beside the rail +and took his place alongside him. + +"There she is," said the man, pointing to a thing about a mile away +which looked like a stray beanpole thrust into the ocean. "It's the +periscope," he explained. The gun on the Espagne went "bang!" once +more. + +"If we don't get her, she'll get us, won't she?" asked Peter. + +The man nodded. The beanpole disappeared. "She'll come up some other +place," he told Peter. + +They both stared at the ocean, looking for the sprouting of the weed. +Peter kept silent for at least two minutes. He held on to the rail +because his right leg was shaking. The man must not know that he was +afraid. + +"What did you have?" asked Peter. "What did you have?" he repeated. + +"How's that?" + +"A minute ago when I dropped. What did you have?" + +"A king high flush." + +Peter was just about to confess his full house, but thought better of +it. "I guess the submarine didn't hurt me any," he said. "Mine was only +aces and eights." + +His companion turned and looked at him. He was a little white, too. +There was a growing horror in his face. Peter wondered and then realized +the reason for the curious look. Somehow it cheered him enormously to +find terror in another. The man had shamed him by sticking to the card +room and looking for the yellow chip. Now Peter could pay him back. +Even the huskiness was gone from his voice. "Yes," he said slowly, "aces +and eights. That was queer, wasn't it? The dead man's hand." + +The beanpole never did come up again and now in the year 1919 there +would be none in this pleasant glassy ocean and yet Peter couldn't look +at it very long without seeing black stakes rise up against him. In the +twenty minutes of watching which followed the remark about aces and +eights Peter planted firmly and deeply in himself another abiding fear. +He wondered idly now whether the man who stood with him, the name was +Bentwick, would ever enjoy ocean travel again. + +Peter found that it was not physically possible to be afraid of +everything which he encountered in the war. Everybody had his pet fear. +Peter specialized on submarines, which was convenient since, after +arriving in France, he saw nothing more of warfare on the water. He +never liked shells, particularly the big ones, airplanes or machine guns +and yet he could stand them well enough to do his work. Before going he +had assumed that he would be unable to endure the strain of getting +under fire. Indeed he told Miles, "You mustn't expect a lot of stuff +from me about how things look in a front line trench." + +Miles had said, "All right. Give us the news and we won't kick." + +The news had been enough to take Peter into hell and keep him there. +Miles had been smart. Dying for his country might very likely have been +an insufficient ideal for Peter, but there never was any place he +refused to go to get a story for the Bulletin. He never knew why. There +wasn't any person on the Bulletin whom Peter idolized. The owner lived +in Arizona and Peter had never seen him. The paper itself was a person. +That was what Miles had seemed to say that afternoon in the office when +he asked Peter to go over as a war correspondent. "I think you ought to +go for the paper," he said. First, of course, he teetered back and forth +on his chair three times. "Sport don't look so important now," he began. +"This thing is much bigger than baseball. It's going to get bigger. The +syndicate's selling you to one hundred and ten papers now but that +doesn't make any difference, Neale. There's no good waiting for the +bottom to drop out of a thing. We've got to beat 'em to it." + +"I don't know anything about war," suggested Peter. + +"We don't want war stuff. I wouldn't give a damn for the regular war +correspondent stuff. You can humanize all that. You've got a light +touch. Some of this is going to be funny. Most of the papers are +overlooking that. And mark my words, by and by we're going to get in +it." + +"Maybe it won't be so funny then," said Peter. + +Miles paid no attention. "Don't you see the big start you'll have if +you're already over there when America comes in. You'll have the hang of +the thing. You'll know a lot more about it than most of the generals. +You'll be on the spot to jump right into it." + +Miles did not foresee that by the time America came into the war there +wouldn't be much jump left in Peter. Blood and, more than that, a +desperate boredom fell upon the light touch. Almost all of Peter's +romantic enthusiasm was spent in his first two years on the fighting +line of the English and the French. The American war correspondents used +to tell with wonder and amusement of the afternoon upon which Peter +started off to join the American army with the other correspondents. +They just filled the compartment, but a minute before the train left +the Gare du Nord, a Y. M. C. A. man who had reserved his seat bustled +in. He picked out Peter and slapped him on the back. "I'm very sorry, +old scout," he said, "but you've got my seat." + +Peter got up. "You can have the seat, you son of a----," he answered, +"but don't you 'old scout' me." + +Whatever romantic feeling might have been left in Peter about America +and the war broke on the military bearing of John J. Pershing. Peter was +with him the day he inspected the newly arrived First Division. Aides +and war correspondents without number trailed at his heels. They +followed him into a stable which had been transformed into a company +kitchen. Just inside the door stood a youngster only a year or so older +than Pat. He was peeling potatoes but when the General entered he +dropped his work and stood at attention. Pershing went on to the far end +of the stable and, as he passed by, the boy who had never seen the +commander-in-chief of all the American expeditionary forces, stole just +a fleeting look over his shoulder. Pershing saw him and strode back, +followed by all the war correspondents and his aides. + +"What's the matter with you?" he shouted at the boy. "You don't know +the first thing about being a soldier." Turning to a lieutenant he said, +"Take this man out and make him stand at attention for two hours." Not +even the dead men upon the wire ever moved Peter to the same violent +revulsion against the war. Nor did he have a chance to write it out of +himself. His cable dispatch which began, "They will never call him Papa +Pershing," did not get by the censors. + +Censorship was among the horrors of war which Peter never thought of as +he stood in the office of Miles. He was a little hesitant about +accepting the assignment and the managing editor misunderstood him +somewhat. + +"You'll find your war stuff will sell in time just as well as sports," +he said. + +"I've got enough money, almost enough," Peter told him. "I don't know +what to do about Pat, that's my son. He's here in school. He's fourteen. +There isn't a soul to look after him." + +"Yes," said Miles, "that makes it hard. I tell you what I'll do. Will +you let him come and live with me and Mrs. Miles? Next year he can go to +boarding-school. This thing can't last forever. You'll be back in a +little while." + +"Well," said Peter, "that's nice of you but I don't know how it'll work +out." + +"What are you planning for the boy?" + +"Why, I've always figured that as soon as he got old enough I'd try to +get him on the paper. I want him to be a newspaper man." + +Miles broke in so eagerly that he even neglected to do his three +preliminary tilts. "That's fine. Don't you see how that all fits in? You +go to France for us and I'll promise you a job for the boy on the +Bulletin. You won't have to just think about it. The thing's done. He's +nominated for the Bulletin right now. And you can start him off the +minute you think he's old enough. Don't fret about that. I'll give him +an ear full of shop. Is it a bargain?" + +"All right," said Peter, "I'll go over for the paper for a little +while." + +The little while lasted almost five years. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +It was a June night in the fourth year of the war when Peter saw Maria +Algarez. He was walking up the Avenue de l'Opera when a woman cut across +in front of him, turning into a side street. The street was crowded with +soldiers and women, sauntering and peering, but this woman was walking +fast. She almost bumped into Peter. They were under a shaded light which +fell on her face as she looked up. Peter looked at her without much +curiosity. He did not want to invite friendliness. Hospitality had been +hurled at him all the way down the avenue. He knew instantly that it was +Maria. When she left him she had seemed a child. After seventeen years +there was the same youthful quality in her face. The only change was, it +was much more tired. And there was paint. + +"Hello," said Peter. + +Maria smiled at him without obvious recognition, but made no answer. + +"I'm Peter Neale." + +Maria's smile grew broader. "I thought I have made a conquest," she +said, "and it is a husband." + +She held out her hand. Peter took it, but his eager surprise at seeing +her was chilled by a sudden thought. + +"You're not--," he said, but he could not phrase it. He tried again. +"You're not walking here alone?" + +Maria's smile became a laugh. "And what then?" she asked. + +"Good God!" said Peter in horror. And then almost to himself, "And it +might have been any other soldier on the avenue." + +"There, there," said Maria, checking her laughter and patting him on the +arm. "It is not right for me to laugh at you. I should not forget to +remember that you are the worrier. You think that maybe it is my living +to walk in L'avenue de L'Opera and to look for the good-looking soldier. +It should please that it is you I have selected, Peter. But no, there, +it is not so. Come with me. My car it is around the corner. Do not let +us stand here where maybe you will be compromised. We will drive to my +studio. There we can talk." + +Peter followed Maria around the corner where a limousine was waiting and +got in. + +"How do you manage to have a car in war time?" he asked. + +"It is because I am the important person. Yes, that is true. You have +not heard of me, Peter? Really? That is so extraordinary. You do not +know that I am the singer?" + +"Well," said Peter, "of course I heard that phonograph record you sent +for Pat but that was fifteen years ago. I never heard from you again. +Sometimes I went to the shops and asked if they had records of Maria +Algarez but none of them had ever heard of you." + +"Pooh," said Maria, "in America you do not know anything. But here in +Paris do you never hear anybody speak of Maria Algarez?" + +Peter shook his head. "I've been with the American army almost all the +time. What would I know if I had heard? What do they say about you?" + +"Maybe it is better that I should say it myself," answered Maria. "The +others might not make it enough. When I send the phonograph record so +long ago I say in my letter to you 'the voice is magnificent.' That is +true. It is much more than that. Peter, sometimes it makes me sad that I +cannot sit off a little way and hear the voice. The phonograph, it is +not the same thing. That is the pity of it, I alone of everybody in +Europe cannot truly hear Maria Algarez sing. It has been the great voice +in the world. It is still the great voice." + +"Oh," said Peter, "and that is what anybody would have told me if I +asked." + +Maria shook her head. "People, they are not so smart. You remember when +I was a dancer they did not know about me all that you and I, we knew. +It is the same now. They do not know. A little, yes, but not all." + +"But they realize it enough to give you a job, don't they?" + +"The job, pooh! Yes, the job. First I sing in Comique. I sing in Russia +and Spain and for the seven, eight years I am the leading soprano of the +Paris opera house. Where is it that you hide yourself that all this you +do not know?" + +"In mud in Flanders, I guess." + +"Yes, it is not your fault. The war, it is so loud in all the world +there is no other noise. That is why I go away. I have the contract to +sing in Argentine." + +The limousine drew up in front of an apartment and Maria took Peter up +to a studio on the top floor. They went into a big room with one great +window of glass covering an entire wall. Through it Peter could see the +defense of Paris aviators moving across the skyline like high riding +fireflies. + +"It's a nice place for air raids," suggested Peter. + +"The Boche--the German--he comes sometime but I am not afraid. You know, +Peter, now I know that there is the God. It is something. I cannot tell +you just what. But he is smart. When the others did not know about the +voice it was that I remembered. He would know. If there was nobody else +he would be smart enough. He is not silly. Nothing can happen to Maria +Algarez." + +"Gosh," said Peter, abashed and puzzled by this outburst, "I hope he +feels the same way about me. Most of the last three years I've been +needing him more than you do." + +Maria's rapt expression faded. "I am the pig. All the time I talk about +myself. And you, you, Peter, what is it you do? You are the officer, +that I know, but captain, colonel, general that I do not know." + +"I see I've got a kick coming, too. Where have you been hiding? I'm not +an officer. I'm a war correspondent. If you can say it I guess I can. +Any way I will. I'm the best war correspondent in the world," Peter +grinned. "That's not such a joke either. Maybe I am. Didn't you ever +hear of my book--'Lafayette, Nous Voila?' All the rest of it's English. +It means 'Lafayette, We're Here.' I forgot you'd know that. They've sold +seventy-five thousand copies. Didn't you ever hear of it?" + +"No, I have not heard. I think you are still the newspaper man." + +"Well, a war correspondent's a sort of a newspaper man, only more so. +I'm still on the Bulletin. That was my paper years ago when--when we +knew each other." + +Maria was almost startled. "The boy," she said suddenly. "Your boy, how +is he? He is well? He is big? What is it that you call him?" + +"Yes," said Peter, "bigger than I know, I guess. I haven't seen him for +almost three years. His name is Peter Neale, Jr." + +"But you hear from him? He writes? What is it he says?" + +"Well, as a matter of fact I just got a letter from him today. There +isn't anything much in it. I don't know whether you'd be interested. +It's just about stuff he's doing in school." + +"Yes, I want to know what it is he learns. Here, let me see?" + +Peter fumbled in his pocket and found Pat's letter. + +"Maybe I'd better read it you. Handwriting is one of the things they +haven't taught him. I don't believe you could make out his writing." + +He picked up the letter and began, "'Dear Peter---- ' + +"'Peter,' it is so he calls you?" + +"Yes 'father' sounds terribly formal to me and I don't want to be 'pop' +or 'dad' or anything like that. 'Peter' seems closer. Before this war +Pat and I were pretty chummy." + +Maria settled back and Peter went on with the letter. + +"'Perhaps, I didn't tell you about my joining the fraternity here last +month. It's called Alpha Kappa Phi. The letters stand for Greek words +which are secret and mean friends and brothers or maybe it's brothers +and friends. And of course the initiation is secret, but I guess it +won't be any harm if I tell you about it. I had to report at the +fraternity house in the afternoon and they took me down in the cellar +and put me in a coffin. It wasn't really a coffin, but a big packing +case but we tell the fellows that come in that it's a coffin and that +scares the life out of some of them. I wasn't scared any, but it got +pretty tiresome lying around all afternoon. In the evening they took me +out and told me they were going to put the initials of the fraternity on +my chest. They pretended to be heating up an iron. There was a long +speech which went with this and it is quite beautiful. While they were +pretending to heat up the irons they burned something, meat I guess, and +it made an awful smell. They did make me a little nervous but when they +got around to cutting the initials in my chest it was just an electric +battery they had and they ran the current over my chest. It hurt a +little, but I knew they weren't really cutting initials and so I didn't +mind. After that they took a chemical called lunar caustic and traced +out Alpha Kappa Phi on my chest. It didn't do anything just then, but +the next day it turned all black. Every time I took a shower in the gym +all the younger kids stared at me. One asked me what I got on my chest +and I said maybe I fell down in some mud. After I was branded they took +me up some stairs and down some more. I was still blindfolded, you know. +They said to me, "You must jump the last fifteen steps." Well, I jumped +and it was just one step and it nearly ruined me. Then there were some +more things like having to stand on your head and sing the first verse +of the school song. They helped you a little by holding up your feet. +And you had to get down on the floor and scramble like an egg. Then +there was something very impressive. They took the bandage off and I was +standing just in front of a skull. A man all in white read out about the +secrets of the society. It was quite beautiful but I can't remember +enough to tell you. Just when he came where it said what would happen to +any neophyte who divulged aught on the sacred scroll of Alpha Kappa Phi, +a great big tongue of flame shot out of the mouth of the skull. They do +it by pinching the end of a piece of gas pipe and putting it in the +mouth of the skull and when you turn on the gas the thing shoots out. +That was about all except all of us being stood up against a wall and +hitting us in the tail with tennis balls. Of course there was supper +finally and I shook hands with all the brothers and they said most of +them get scared a lot more than I did. We've put in a couple of lots +since I got in and I certainly got square with them for what they did to +me. I suppose you read in the paper about my kicking a goal from the +thirty-three yard line and winning the game from the Columbia +freshmen.'" + +There was a good deal more about the game, almost a complete play by +play account, but Peter, peeking over the edge of the letter saw that +Maria was yawning. He just put in a "With love--Pat," and stopped in the +middle of a paragraph. + +"He is nice. I think he is like you," she said. "How old is he, Peter?" + +"Just about seventeen." + +"Like you he will be the writer for the Bulletin? Is it so that you want +it?" + +"Yes, I've set my heart on that." + +"It is good. He knows about the baseball that you know and all your +sport. Is he big too like you, Peter?" + +"I guess he must be by now. He sent me a picture. It's an enlargement +of a snapshot. Just a head like one of these motion picture closeups." + +Maria held out her hand casually. "Let me see." + +She took the picture under a lamp and looked closely. For a full minute +or more Maria held the picture and stared at it. She said nothing, but +Peter was conscious in some way that the casual mood had gone. He could +tell that she was enormously moved. He did not even dare break in upon +her silence. Still looking at the picture Maria whispered, "He is my +son. It is my nose. It is my nose exactly." + +"Yes," said Peter, in a matter of fact way, "there is quite a +resemblance." + +Maria waved her left hand impatiently. "No, no, it is not a resemblance. +The rest does not look alike. It is the nose. That is not a resemblance. +It is the same. It is my nose. Here you see," she slapped the bridge of +her nose violently, "so it would be if the bone it had been broken. You +see in the picture of my son it is the break. The same. The hook in the +nose. But it is not broken. Never it has not been?" + +"Why, no," said Peter, "his nose has always been like that." + +"Yes, yes, it is from me he has it. Yes, and from the God. Do you not +know why it is the break in the nose?" + +"Well, he's got to have some kind of a nose I suppose." + +"But this kind, Peter, it is for just one thing. It marks him like those +foolish letters on his chest in the letter. You cannot read the marking. +I can read it for you. It says singer, singer, singer. It must be. The +singing nose it is always so. Sometimes it is not so much. But this is +my nose. It says more than singer. It says great singer." + +"Well," said Peter somewhat impatient at the fervency of Maria, "he says +in his letter that he sang the first verse of the school song standing +on his head. That must have been hard." + +"Yes," replied Maria fiercely, "he is standing on his head. He writes to +you only foolishness. It is about skulls and jumping steps. And about +the sport. And there was more. I know you did not read it all. You have +made him to stand on his head. They have made him. He lives only for +foolishness. The mark is there but first there must be work. Years of +work. He is not a child to jump over steps. He must come with me to the +Argentine." + +"Whoa," cried Peter. "We can't let a nose run away with us. Just stop +and think a minute. It's impossible for Pat to go to Argentine with you. +In a year or so he may be old enough to go into the army. It would look +as if he was running away." + +Peter's attempt at a conciliatory speech was conspicuously a failure. + +"The army! The war!" said Maria between clenched teeth. "That is the +most silly of all. Better he should stay with the good brothers and jump +down the steps. My God! Peter, you won't, you can't let him go to the +war. If there was in him not one note of music you would not let him. He +is a boy. He is something alive. And don't you understand? I think it is +in him the fire. They won't kill him. This I will not let." + +"All right, but if the war goes on and he comes of age what can anybody +do about it?" + +"I have much money, Peter. It can be all spent to save him if there is +the need." + +"Money, I've got money too. Lots of it. That's all foolishness. It won't +work." + +"Is it that you want him to go?" + +"Damn you," said Peter, almost sobbing in his anger, "you mustn't say +things like that. He's my son too. He was my son when you ran away and +left him. I've seen war. I've got lately so I see it all from one angle. +Any time our lines go forward I think of them fighting for just one +thing, fighting to keep Pat out of it. You get all excited and worked up +about a nose in a photograph. A picture of a boy you don't even know. +I've wheeled him in the park. I saw him walk the first time. I'm not +looking to save him because he's some kind of a genius. I want him to +live because he's Pat." + +"I said wrong, Peter. I am sorry. Both of us we must wait. It will be +all right. I know God won't be silly." + +Presently Maria said, "I do not know him. That is what you have said. +Tell me about him--about Pat." + +Peter did. It was mostly things about when Pat was a small boy. He +remembered God's ankle and told Maria, and about the blind giant. She +was enormously interested to hear of how Pat had picked out phonograph +records. "And mine," she said eagerly, "did he like that?" + +Peter lied a little. "It was the one he asked for first all the time," +he answered. It surprised Peter that he remembered so much about Pat. +All sorts of little things which he hadn't thought of for years welled +up in his mind. Some of them were things that he had hardly noticed at +the time. + +"And of course you never heard about Judge Krink," he said. "He was a +man Pat invented when he was about five years old. He used to tell me +that he wrote letters to Judge Krink and Judge Krink wrote letters to +him. 'What did he say?' I'd ask him. 'Nothing,' said Pat. I remember +Judge Krink had dirty fingernails. He never went to bed. I don't know +just where he lived, but it was some place in a garden. He sat there and +dug dirt. All the things that Pat couldn't do, Judge Krink did. Maybe I +got asking him about Judge Krink too much because one day he said, 'I +don't have Judge Krink any more. He's got table manners.'" + +"You see," broke in Maria, "it is not the truth when you said I do not +even know him--my son. I have seen him many times. I have played with +him." + +"Where?" asked Peter, puzzled. + +"At the house of the Judge Krink." + +Later they talked about themselves. Peter told Maria about Vonnie. +Somehow he could not bear to have her think that he had been altogether +desolated by her flight seventeen years ago or that he had spent his +life entirely in persuading Pat to eat spinach. Certainly Maria was not +displeased by the story. She smiled cheerfully when told of the +devastation wrought by her phonograph record but she said, "Oh, Peter, +you should not have let her go. I did not teach you enough or you would +have broken the record of the song." Maria met confession with +confession and rather overtopped Peter. + +"How about this God you were telling me about. Do you think he liked +that?" he inquired. + +"Oh," said Maria, "it is not such little things about which he bothers." + +"Didn't you ever love me?" Peter protested. + +"Not after the baby," said Maria. "It was not your fault but in my heart +I blamed you. It seemed to me the thing mean and silly. To be hurt so +much, that cannot be good. Now I am not so sure. If he is to sing it +cannot be too much. Nothing. Not even that." + +She moved to the piano and ran over an air which sounded familiar to +Peter. "You remember?" she said. + +On a chance he guessed. "That's what you danced to in 'Adios'." + +"That is smart. You remember. It is the Invitation to the Waltz. All +these years you have remembered." + +"When do you go back to the war?" she asked suddenly. + +"Tomorrow," said Peter. + +"It is seventeen years and you go away tomorrow." She came across the +room and bending across the back of the chair in which Peter sat she +kissed him on the eyes. "There is something more I want you to +remember," she said. + +Peter was swept as he had been years ago by a gust of emotion. He +started to get up but his legs were a little unsteady. Maria moved +across the room to the piano. + +"Maybe," she said, "you will remember me for the seventeen years more if +I sing 'Depuis Le Jour.'" + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Maria went to the Argentine a month later but Peter heard from her every +now and then. Her letters were mostly brief, acknowledging the letters +from Pat which Peter forwarded to her. Occasionally he would supply a +footnote to something which Pat had written if it touched upon things +which were known only to himself and the boy and could not be understood +by an outsider without explanation. Or it might be that some sporting +reference, simple enough in itself, seemed to require clarification for +the sake of Maria. For instance when Pat wrote, "He tried a forward pass +but I managed to grab it on the two yard line and ran all the way for a +touchdown," Peter added the note, "A football field is a hundred yards +long. Pat's feat was most unusual." + +But sports did not figure quite so large in the letters as they had done +before. Rather often the boy wrote about books. In one letter he +outlined the entire plot of "Mr. Polly" for Peter. In another somewhat +to Peter's astonishment he wrote "Heard Galli again last Saturday. She +does not excite me so much as she used to." Maria returned this letter +with her acknowledgment and Peter found that this time she was supplying +a footnote. "Galli," she wrote, "is Galli Curci, an opera singer with +the voice and nothing else." + +When the letter came in which Pat announced that he had entered the +officer's training school at Harvard, Peter cabled to Maria. She replied +almost immediately, "Have broken my contract, coming back to Paris." +Before she arrived the armistice was signed. Peter went to see her +almost immediately. He wanted to explain to her why her schemes about +Pat were wholly impossible and he felt that now with the war issue +removed it would be easier to discuss the matter calmly and rationally. +He plunged into the question immediately. + +"Now let's both make a solemn promise, Maria, to tell nothing but the +truth without letting emotion or anything like that come in." + +"But then," objected Maria, "it would not be the truth." + +"Oh, you know what I mean. When I showed you Pat's picture that night +you got very much excited. You said he had a nose just like yours and +that it meant he was all cut out to be a singer. A great singer you +said. Well, we're not excited now. Be honest with me. You can't really +tell anything about whether he could be a singer or not just by looking +at his nose in a picture. That was a little far-fetched, wasn't it? I +mean it wasn't plain, cold, common-sense." + +"What you ask me is a little hard, Peter. This common-sense you talk to +me about, for that I care nothing. It is no good. It is not so that I +see things. I was excited when I see the picture. That is true but it +makes no difference. To have the much sense it is necessary for me to +get excited. It is so I see things. If you mean can I write it down on +the piece of paper like the contract, Pat he will be the singer, the +great singer, I must say no. That I cannot promise. But contracts too I +do not like." + +"Yes," said Peter, "I've observed that." + +"But I feel it, Peter. That is so much more. Can you not understand? You +have sometimes maybe look into the crystal. It is so when I look at the +picture. Here is my nose again in the world. It is for something." + +"Maybe," suggested Peter, "it's a nose for news." + +Maria paid no attention. "Do you not see? If it is the failure that does +not matter. Just so long as it is the possibility it is necessary that +we try. + +"You don't begin to understand how far apart we are, Maria. I'll tell +you frankly where I stand. Even if I knew Pat could be the greatest +singer in the world I'd rather have him a newspaperman. That's my +angle." + +"You are not serious." + +"But I am. Newspaper work's real. It's got roots into life. It is life. +It makes people in the world a little different. Singing is just +something you go and hear in the evening." + +"For you it is enough that he should go to the baseball and the football +and perhaps the next war and write the book 'Lafayette Voulez Vous.'" + +Peter flushed. "I think there's more sense to it," he said. "And it's +pretty probable that Pat'll think something like I do. We were together +and you weren't there. And we went around together and talked about +Matty and Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker." + +Maria looked a little puzzled. + +"You wouldn't know," said Peter a little bitterly, "they're none of them +singers." + +"I didn't mean to be rotten," he added hastily. "I'm just trying to tell +you the truth." + +Maria smiled. "It is all right. You tell me, Peter, the truth---- your +truth." + +"Well, you see, Maria, he is like me. The nose may be you, but the rest +is me. It's just got to be. In the beginning he wasn't anything but just +sort of red clay or he was like a phonograph record before you cut the +tune on it. He's been brought up around baseball games and newspaper +offices. He knows, and everybody knows, that he's coming on the Bulletin +and will take my place. In fact the job's been promised him. I'm not +trying to lay down the law. It's just the way things are. I don't see +what I could do about it even if I wanted to. He's all made by now. +What's the use of my saying, 'Yes, let him go over and learn to be a +singer.' It just hasn't been put in him." + +Peter paused. + +"I'm sorry, Maria. The trouble is he's a boy. If he'd been a girl I'd +have jumped at the chance to have you make a singer of him. Newspaper +work's no good for women." + +"And singing, it is not good for men?" asked Maria. + +"Well, as a matter of fact, I don't honestly think it is." + +"Peter, I understand better now what this is you feel, but it is not all +the truth you say. When I go away he is red clay, that is what you say. +It is not so simple. I have looked at him then and to me he was just +what you have said. But it is more. Inside the clay all the time there +is something. The little bug, I do not know what it is you call it." + +"Do you mean germ?" + +"Yes, I think so. That you cannot touch and I cannot. So we do not need +to talk and to get angry. It is for him to say. Is it not so?" + +"Well, within reason--yes." + +"So! You go back to America and you make him the newspaper man. That is +fair. When he is twenty-one you will come here. And he will come. You +will say 'yes'." + +"That's almost four years off." + +"The day I know; it is the twentieth in August. The year it will be +1922." + +Peter hesitated. + +"But it is fair, Peter. You should like it. Do you not see it is what +you call it 'sporting'." + +"You're on," said Peter. + +"There, now we will not quarrel any more. Some things I want to know. +You will tell me. You have heard him singing? Sometimes he sings a +little?" + +"I suppose so. I never noticed particularly. Yes, I remember when he was +a kid he used to sing something that went, 'Tell me, pretty maiden'---- I +can't remember the rest of it. He's got a loud voice, I say that for +him. When he was playing out in front of the house with other kids I +could always hear him a way above all the others. I guess he's got lungs +all right." + +"Those he has got from you. If he is the singer, you see, it will not be +all my fault." + +Maria was leaving for Spain within a few days and Peter said he expected +to get back to America pretty soon. + +"Here we shall meet on the twentieth in August, in nineteen twenty-two," +said Maria. "Good-bye, Peter. I want you to bring my son at eight +o'clock." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +A few months later while the peace conference was still raging fiercely, +Peter was puzzled by a cablegram which he received from America. +"Congratulations on your story," it read, "we want more just like it. +Convey my respects to President Wilson and tell him I am solidly behind +him,---- Twice." + +Peter couldn't remember anybody named Twice which made it still more +difficult for him to understand why he was being congratulated. He +wondered just how urgent was the message to Wilson. Of course it sounded +a little bit like somebody on the paper, but the manner was not that of +Miles even if he assumed that the signature had been in some way or +other so curiously distorted. Cheeves, the Paris correspondent of the +Bulletin, solved his perplexity. + +"You're kidding me," he said. "It isn't possible that you never heard of +Twice. Why, it's Rufus Twice of course, but he always signs just his +last name. You know how it is on state documents, 'Lansing,' 'Bryan' or +whoever the current boy on the job happens to be." + +"It doesn't help any that his first name's Rufus. Who's Rufus Twice, +anyhow?" + +"Well, since yesterday afternoon he happens to be your boss. He's the +new managing editor of the Bulletin, only they don't call him that. He's +got a title. They call him Supervising Editor." + +"He didn't lose any time cabling, did he?" + +"No, everybody around here got one." + +"Were they all congratulations?" + +"All that I've seen, but most of them are much briefer than yours." + +"How about this message I'm to give Wilson, is that really necessary?" + +"Oh, I guess not. But the president ought to feel flattered that Rufus +Twice is behind him and not about three feet out in front pulling him +along. On the level, don't you remember Rufus Twice on the Bulletin?" + +"No, I don't. I've been away for years and years now. I don't remember +anybody." + +"Big black-haired fellow. Snappy dresser. Always made a point of coming +in late and just barely catching the first edition." + +"That fits any one of twenty people around the shop." + +"Maybe they were all Rufus Twice. My God! there've been times when he +seemed like _ad nauseam_. You'll remember him if I remind you of the +story about Twice and the district attorney." + +"Go on. Remind me. What district attorney?" + +"Hell! I can't be bothered remembering the names of district attorneys. +He don't figure anyway. We'll just call him Smith. It was about that +Haldeman murder case. I suppose you've forgotten that too, but Haldeman +was a fellow said he had something on the police and the day before he +was to spill it they found him murdered up in his apartment. This was +about twelve o'clock at night and all the reporters come down to the +station. Rufus Twice is there and this district attorney fellow he shows +up too. After getting all the facts they go out for sandwiches and one +of the reporters says, 'Mr. Smith, haven't you some statement to make to +the papers about this murder.' The district attorney just looks at him +and sits there trying to make up his mind. And while he's thinking Rufus +Twice hops in. 'I think Mr. Smith would like to say something about as +follows,' he begins. It goes on for about a thousand words and when +he's all done he turns to Smith and says, 'That's about right, isn't +it?' And Smith says, 'Yes.' And after that all through the case Twice +gives out the statements the same way except that he doesn't bother to +say, 'That's about right' any more." + +"Is that a true story?" + +"I don't know. That's the way Twice always tells it." + +As Peter was going out, Cheeves called him back. + +"Say, I suppose now that the cruel peace conference is almost over +you'll be going back. I don't want to give you a wrong steer about +Twice. Maybe you got the impression from what I said that he's just a +big bluff. That's only about ten per cent right. He is a big bluff but +in addition to that he's got the stuff. You could make about ten of +Miles out of him. When you pack up your stuff to go back don't forget to +take along a grain of salt." + +There must have been something of prophetic vision in the remarks of +Cheeves for Peter received his message of recall the next day. The cable +said, "Baseball beginning to look more important peace conference stop +much quicker stop we want you back right away stop advise you take +Espagne--Twice." + +Peter looked at his watch. He had just twenty-two hours to dig up such +roots as he had sprouted during his four years in France. He made the +boat by the closest possible margin. Of course he would rather that it +had been any vessel afloat except the Espagne haunted by the ghost of +what was probably by now a dead submarine. Still catching the boat was a +sort of assignment. And it was the quickest way home. Pat would be +waiting on the pier in New York. Peter had cabled ahead to him. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +It was a Pat prodigiously grown who met Peter as he came down the +gangplank. Not much had altered in the look of him but just the added +inches and heft gave him a curiously disturbing air of maturity. Peter +would have liked to put his arms around him but he didn't dare. The +handshake was not adequate and there was nothing he could say to express +what he wanted to. It seemed better not to try. + +"Hello, Pat," he said. + +"Hello, Father," said the boy. + +"Don't," exclaimed Peter almost as if in pain. "I've got a name. I don't +want to be father. I never have been father. Four years oughtn't to do +that." + +"I'm sorry, Peter," Pat said it almost shyly. + +The baggage was passed promptly, but as Peter was about to leave the +pier a man came up to him. + +"You're Peter Neale, aren't you?" he asked. + +Peter nodded. + +"I'm a reporter from the Bulletin. My name's Weed. Mr. Twice sent me +down. He told me to tell you to come right up to the office." + +"What's the rush?" asked Peter. + +"I don't know. He didn't say." + +"I think maybe we'd better go," broke in Pat. "He gave me the same +message for you yesterday. I forgot about it." + +"What has he got to do with you?" Peter inquired, after Weed had gone. + +"Don't you see, when Mr. Twice became editor he inherited me along with +the paper. Mr. Miles never did anything much the last couple years about +managing me. He just turned over the allowance you gave me every week. +Mr. Twice has taken complete charge. He's got my whole life mapped out." + +"What's it going to be?" + +"He's got it all fixed up for me to go to Harvard one more year and then +start on the Bulletin." + +"How do you like that?" + +"I like it fine. But that doesn't make any difference. It's all fixed up +that way anyhow. Twice has made up his mind about it." + +"I'm obliged to him, but why can't he let me alone the first day. They +didn't do things like this on the Bulletin in the old days. Here it is +four years and I want to sit down some place and talk with you." + +They waited in the outer office less than half an hour before a young +woman ushered them into Twice's room. Peter had seen him before. The +description which Cheeves gave was not so very good after all. His hair +wasn't very black. + +"Glad to see you back, Neale," said Twice, "and you, Pat. Won't you just +sit down. I'll be with you in a second." + +"Miss Nathan," he called across the room to his secretary, "I want you +to take a cablegram to Speyer in Berlin. 'Fine story today. We think +Ebert is doing constructive service to humanity. Tell him I said so.' +And oh, Miss Nathan, let me know the minute that call from Washington +comes through. But don't disturb me for anything else. I'm going to be +busy now for some time. Don't forget to make that note about finding out +when Blake's contract is up. I want to know about that the first thing +in the morning. And tell Mr. O'Neill not to go home until he sees me. +You can hold the rest of those letters over till I get back from dinner +tonight. You know where to get me. Just a minute. Take a note for +Booth. The Milwaukee offer is far too low. Tell 'em I've been thinking +it over and that the price for the series is now three hundred instead +of two.' That's the cheapest crowd I ever had to deal with. Don't put +that in the letter. 'Price for the series now three hundred instead of +two.' That's the end of it." + +He turned to Peter. "It's that diary of the sub-commander. I'm letting a +few selected papers in on it. Miss Nathan--" In the moment of lull the +secretary had gone. + +"Well, Neale, I certainly am glad to have you back here again. We've got +to begin to hammer sports. They're coming back terrifically. I put all +the foreign politics in the paper because that's what I think the people +ought to read. Baseball's the thing that actually gets 'em. If Babe Ruth +and Lloyd George both died tomorrow Ruth would just blanket him. And let +me tell you, Neale, George is one of the great men of our day. I have a +very warm personal feeling for him. I don't suppose you remember +Delehanty." + +Peter was just about to answer that he had seen him several times but he +wasn't nearly quick enough. + +"Ruth reminds me more of him than any other player I've seen in the +game," continued Twice. "Killed, jumping off a railroad bridge on June +third, 1902. I've always made it a business not to be wrong. Remember +that, Pat. It's just as easy to have the right date as the wrong one. +It's just a knack. Anybody can do it. Come in some time and I'll explain +the trick for you." + +Peter broke in resolutely. "There was a man came down to the dock who +said you wanted to see me. His name was Weed." + +"Yes, Weed, good man. I dug him up myself. He came off a little paper in +Reading. Of course he hasn't quite got the touch yet. The city's a +little too big for him, but I think he's going to be a first rate +newsman. Right now he tries too hard. He thinks he's got to dazzle +people. The result is he's just a little esoteric. A little too +esoteric. I must remember to tell him he's too esoteric." + +"What is it you want to do with me?" asked Peter, returning to the +attack. + +"Yes," said Rufus Twice, "that's why I asked you to come here. I've been +talking it over with Booth, the syndicate man, and a week from Monday'll +be a good time for you to begin the sport column again. It takes a +little time to get momentum up again but inside of a year I think we'll +have a bigger list for you than when you went away. What did you have +then?" + +"A hundred and twelve," replied Peter. + +"A hundred and twelve," repeated Twice. "Yes, that's just about right. +Well, in a year we'll give you two hundred. I've got another name for +your column. I don't like 'Looking Them Over With Peter Neale.' It's a +little amorphous. How do you like 'Hit and Run?'" + +"I'm not sure I like that at all," said Peter. + +"That's just because it sounds strange to you. You'll get used to it in +no time. Now, we want you to get your first column ready in a couple of +days. We want to have a good margin of time there. I don't want to do +any more than suggest, but I believe you want to say in your first +column that fundamentally there is a kinship between war and sport. Take +a football quarterback and you have the perfect prototype of the general +in charge of operations. The line plunge gives you exactly the same +problem the allies had in Flanders. If you have sufficient preparation +the point of attack will be learned before you're ready. The quick +thrust must be a surprise. Then you have the forward pass. What's that?" + +"Why, I don't know," said Peter. + +"An air raid," said Pat. + +"Exactly. Work it out, Neale and you'll find it has almost innumerable +possibilities. Of course you understand this is just a suggestion." + +Miss Nathan ran in through the door. "Senator Borah's on the wire now," +she cried. + +"All right," said Twice, "I'll be there in a minute. While you were +away, Neale, Miles told me I was supposed to take a look after Pat. That +was an agreement he made with you, he told me. I've got that all fixed. +He goes back to Harvard next week. His work in the officers' training +camp will count him for a year. That means he'll be a sophomore and can +play football. I think he might even make the team. Then the next year +he comes to us. Four years of college is too much. A degree's just +nonsense. I never got one and I wouldn't take an LL.D. I hope the +arrangement's satisfactory to you. Will you please excuse me now? I've +got to talk up disarmament in Washington. You and Pat come down and have +lunch with me tomorrow. Ring me up at the house around noon. It's a +private number but Miss Nathan will give it to you. Glad to have you +back, Neale." + +He was gone. + +"Say, Pat," said Peter, "how did you know a forward pass was like an air +raid?" + +"Well, you see I've heard him do that a couple of times before. How do +you like him?" + +Peter did not obey his first impulse in answering. He suddenly realized +that Rufus Twice was in a position to offer him the most useful sort of +support in launching Pat safely and permanently into the newspaper +business. + +"I tell you, Pat," he said. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's got a lot +more sense than you'd think." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +"Let's go and dine at some terribly quiet place," suggested Peter as he +and Pat came down in the elevator from the office of Rufus Twice. They +went to the Harvard Club and sat in a corner of the dining-room where +not even a waiter noticed them for the first half hour. Peter was +distressed because he found it enormously difficult to talk to Pat. The +years he had been away stood like a wall between them. It seemed to be +an effort for the boy even to call him "Peter" as he had done for so +many years. He was attentive and respectful. There didn't begin to be +enough intimacy for banter. + +In reply to questions Pat said that he had spent almost no time on +football or baseball during his last year because the work at the +officers' training camp had been much too difficult. He didn't know +whether he ever could pitch again. In the last football game at school +he had hurt his left shoulder and it was still a little stiff. It +wouldn't keep him from football he thought, but when he tried to swing +the arm up over his head he got a twinge in the bad shoulder. Anyway he +had come to like football a good deal better than baseball. Twice had +told him he ought to have a bully chance to make the team at Harvard but +he wasn't sure. Perhaps he wouldn't have quite enough speed for a big +college team. + +"I said something like that to Mr. Twice," Pat added, "and he jumped all +over me. He asked me if I'd ever heard of Freud and if I knew what an +inferiority complex was, and I said I had, but he explained it all to me +anyway." + +"What is an inferiority complex?" asked Peter. + +"Oh, you know--that business of thinking there's something wrong with +you about something." + +Pat rubbed the lower part of his neck. "Down here in the subconscious +mind. A sort of a fear or shame or something like that gets stuck down +there and you have rheumatism or you yell at people." + +"What do you mean yell at people? Why do you yell at them?" + +"I don't know exactly, sir. I guess it's to show 'em that you aren't +inferior." + +"Say, Pat, please don't call me 'sir' any more." + +"I'm sorry." + +"I guess there is something in that inferiority thing after all. I've +seen it lots of times, but I never knew the name for it. Lots of +pitchers come up from the sticks with all the stuff in the world and +can't do anything because they're afraid it's going to be too tough for +them. Say, Pat, you've got to pitch again some time. You know on account +of this war I've never seen you pitch." + +"Oh, yes. Don't you remember the year before you went away. We used to +go over in the Park and you'd catch for me." + +"That doesn't count. I mean in a game. How were you anyway?" + +"Well, I guess I wasn't much good. Not with men on bases. If anything +went wrong I always had a terrible time to keep from hurrying. I had to +just stick the ball right over." + +"Why?" + +"Well, I always got to worrying that I was going to lose control. In my +head I could keep a jump ahead of everything that was happening. I was +always seeing fellows walking down to first. I didn't mind them hitting +me so much. It was having 'em all walking around just as slow as they +liked that got my goat. Sometimes I used to have nightmares about it." + +"That's funny, maybe you can't pitch," said Peter. "It doesn't make any +difference. You've had enough baseball already to help you a lot when +you begin to write about it." + +Pat made no reply. + +"Don't you think so?" asked Peter a little sharply. + +"Oh, yes, sir." + +Peter made no comment. He realized that the sharpness of his tone had +checked his advance into the confidence of Pat. That business about the +nightmares was better. People didn't tell things like that to strangers. +He tried to re-establish the mood. + +"Speaking of nightmares," said Peter. "There's one I have a lot. Mine is +about people running, running along the deck of a ship. I guess it's +something left over from that time we had the fight with the submarine +on the Espagne. But there isn't any submarine in the dream. It's just +the people running that frightens me." + +Pat merely listened. Peter paused a moment. "That's curious, isn't it?" + +"Yes, it is," answered Pat. + +A waiter came up now and took the order. After he went away they were +silent. From the big lounging-room came the sound of a man more or less +aimlessly fooling with the piano. After a while Peter broke the silence. +He would have liked to know something about Pat's thoughts on this +career which was being planned for him, and his attitude on the war and +religion and women. "Are you in love with anybody and who is she and +tell me about her?" Peter would have liked to ask a question like that, +but he did not dare. + +"What have you been doing with yourself?" was what he did ask. + +"Mostly just hanging around to find out what Mr. Twice was deciding to +do with me?" Pat answered. + +Then there was more silence. The man in the next room was playing +louder. "I wish, he'd either play that 'Invitation to the Waltz' or cut +it out," said Pat. + +So that was it. The "Invitation to the Waltz." It suggested to Peter +that he bid boldly and offer close confidence in the hope that it would +be met in kind. + +"I wish he wouldn't play the 'Invitation to the Waltz' at all," he said. +"That tune always tears me to bits." + +He waited but Pat said nothing. + +"I've never talked to you before about your mother. The first time I saw +her she danced to that tune ... the 'Invitation to the Waltz.' She's a +singer now but she was a dancer then. I don't suppose you even know her +name." + +"Yes," said Pat, "her name is Maria Algarez and she's singing now at the +opera in Buenos Aires." + +"How did you know that? I didn't even know myself that she was in Buenos +Aires right now." + +"I had a letter from her last week," explained Pat. + +"She writes to you?" asked Peter in a good deal of surprise. "You mean +she always has written to you?" + +"Oh no, I never heard from her at all till during the war. It must have +been a couple of years ago. Of course even when I was a kid I'd heard a +little about her. You remember old Kate. Well, a long time ago she told +me that my mother was an actress and a very bad woman and that I mustn't +say anything about her to you. I don't believe I ever did, did I?" + +"Kate had no right to say that. Your mother isn't a bad woman. She's a +great artist." + +"Well, I guess I never worried much about it anyway. Maybe I was a +little sad about it at first, but I've forgotten. And then all of +sudden I got this letter from Maria Algarez. She said she'd seen you in +Paris and that you showed her my picture and she wanted to write to me. +She told me all about her singing. After that I got a lot of letters +from her. She'd say she'd just been singing in 'Butterfly' and then +she'd tell me what it was all about. You know that funny broken way she +has of writing things." + +"Yes," said Peter, "I know." + +"Well, it was a lot of fun. You see I'd never heard any of these operas +but after I found out about Maria Algarez singing in them I used to go. +If she wrote that she'd been singing 'Butterfly' I'd go to the Met and +get a standup seat and then I'd write to her and tell her about Farrar +and all the people I'd heard. She'd write back and tell me all the +things that were the matter with Farrar and the way she did it +differently and a lot better." + +"She never showed any of those letters to me," said Peter. + +"Didn't she?" asked Pat casually as if it made no difference. "Oh yes, I +remember she wrote to me once that if I told you about going to the +opera it might worry you and not to say anything about it. I don't know +why. She used to send me clippings from the newspapers with the things +critics said about her. They were all just crazy about her." + +Peter in his bitterness was about to say, "Of course, she picked out the +good ones," but Pat was in full swing and he decided not to throw him +off his stride. + +"You know I couldn't read this stuff at first. It was in French and +Spanish, but there was an old fellow that taught at school and he was +terribly excited too when I told him that Maria Algarez was sending me +these clippings. He'd heard her sing, you know. He used to translate the +clippings for me and he told me a lot about Maria Algarez." + +"And now," said Peter, "I suppose you can read them yourself." + +"Well, I can do the French all right but I'm not much on the Spanish. +You see the old Frenchman, the fellow that taught at school, he was +awful decent to me. He used to give me extra classes outside of school. +You see we had a secret between us. It was like belonging to that kid +fraternity we used to have in high school--Alpha Kappa Phi. That means +something that nobody else knew. I can't remember what." + +"Brothers and friends," prompted Peter. + +"How did you know that?" + +"You told me about it in one of the letters you wrote to me. But what +was the secret you had with the old Frenchman?" + +"Why, about Maria. He told me not to let any of the fellows know that +Maria Algarez was my mother. He said that it was a beautiful romance but +that here in America people wouldn't understand on account of American +morality being so strict and that they might look down on me." + +Peter was indignant. "Beautiful romance! Where did he get that idea? +Maria Algarez and I were married just like anybody. Didn't she tell you +that?" + +"No," said Pat in obvious disappointment, "she didn't." + +"I guess she forgot about it," suggested Peter. + +"It doesn't make any difference to me, but if I run into old Mons. +Fournier I won't dare tell him. It would spoil the whole thing for him. +He'll think I was just boasting. Gosh he got a lot of fun out of it." + +"Fournier, there's a Jacques Fournier that plays first base for the +White Sox." + +"No, this man's named Antoine. He's the old French teacher I was telling +you about. Maybe they're related. He never said anything about it." + +"In these letters about the opera and singing and all that," asked +Peter, "did Maria Algarez ever suggest that you ought to try and be a +singer." + +Pat broke into unrestrained merriment. "Good God! no," he said and added +quickly, "I beg your pardon, Father, I didn't mean to curse but it would +be so funny if Maria'd said anything like that about me." + +Peter was nettled. "If you're going to call me 'father' why don't you +call her 'mother'?" + +"I'm sorry; I know you don't like to be called 'father'. I won't do it +again." + +"All right, but you haven't answered my question. Don't you ever think +of calling her 'mother'?" + +"Maria Algarez? No, it would sound so funny. I've never seen her. She +doesn't seem like my mother or anybody's mother. She's around singing +before people and all that. And look at her picture." + +He took one out of his pocket and handed it across the table. For the +first time since the conversation had turned upon Maria Peter smiled. +He recognized the picture. He too had had one just like it a good many +years ago. It was taken two or three months before he married Maria +Algarez. However, Peter let it pass without comment. + +"What does Maria say about what you're going to do?" he wanted to know. +"She hasn't raised any objections to your going into the newspaper +business?" + +"No, she never mentioned that or anything definite. She's just kept +hammering away at one thing. She keeps saying Pat don't do anything +unless it's something you want to do very much. And she says if a man or +a woman has something like that he wants to do he musn't let anything in +the world stand in his way. He must go after it." + +"Have you been living up to that? Have you been doing everything you +wanted?" + +"Well, no," said Pat, "not since Rufus Twice took me over." + +Peter brightened. Maria had a fight on her hands. Rufus Twice was right +behind him even as he had been behind President Wilson. But the next +moment he was again sunk in gloom. They were done with dinner and Pat +asked with unmistakable eagerness, "Couldn't we go some place and hear +some music?" + +Peter throttled down his chagrin but before he could answer Pat added, +"Do you suppose there's any chance of our getting in to the Follies?" + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +The plans of Rufus Twice did not work out quite according to +specifications. Pat went to Harvard, but he failed to make the football +team although he remained on the squad as a rather remotely removed +substitute quarterback. He was not even taken to the Princeton game, but +he wrote to Peter that he would be on the sidelines in uniform for the +game with Yale at New Haven. It was arranged that he should meet Peter +immediately afterwards at the Western Union office. Pat's letters from +Harvard were sparse and infrequent. + +"Football is the toughest course I have," he wrote, "and the dullest. +Learning the signals here is worse than dates. You can't even guess at +them. You have to know. Last week Bob Fisher gave us a blackboard talk +in the locker-room and made a comparison between war and football. It +sounded just like Mr. Twice. Maybe Mr. Twice put him up to it. It's +beginning to seem to me as if that man ran everything in this world. The +only thing I've enjoyed much is going round to Copeland's. He's an +assistant professor in English. I take a course with him about Dr. +Johnson and his Circle. I don't care anything about Dr. Johnson. He +seems to have been the Rufus Twice of his day. But I do like hearing +Copeland. The fellows that know him well call him 'Copey,' but I haven't +nerve enough to do that. He has receptions in his room at night. There's +a regular thing he tells you, 'Nobody comes much before ten or stays +after eleven'. He talks about books and makes them exciting. I'm kind of +steamed up about an English woman writer called May Sinclair. I've been +reading 'Mary Olivier.' It isn't much like any writing I've ever seen +before. She just sort of sails along over a story and whenever she sees +anything that seems important to her she swoops down and collars it. All +the stuff that doesn't matter is left out. There isn't much here that +matters, but you can't leave it out because if you do the dean tells you +about it. Do you remember that suggestion you made to me that night we +took dinner at the Harvard Club. You remember you asked me if I ever +thought any about singing myself. I got rather interested and thought +some about going out for the Glee Club, but I knew Mr. Twice would +raise the dickens if I didn't play football. Sometimes we sing up here +in the room. Just swipes you know. I'm getting so I can work out chords +on the piano. I don't know anything about my voice because it's always a +bunch of us that sings together. I do know though that I can sing a lot +louder than the rest. I think if you're smart you'll put a bet on us +against Yale. Those lickings we got earlier in the season don't mean +anything. We're just beginning to come along now. I don't know why I say +'we.' I mean 'they.' I haven't got anything to do with it. Somehow +though I do get swept along into the whole business. Mr. Copeland was +telling us the other night that we all take football a lot too +seriously. He says nothing will crumble and fall down even if we don't +beat Yale next Saturday. I know there's sense to that, but somehow I +can't help caring about it. Keep your eyes on Charlie Bullitt when you +come up to the game. When I watch him work I realize how far off I am +from being a regular college quarterback. He's got a bean on him. I'll +see you right after the game at the telegraph office. I suppose you're +going to do the story for the Bulletin. See that Harvard doesn't get any +the worst of it." + +Peter did watch Bullitt, but more than that he watched the huddled crowd +of Harvard players on the sidelines. He couldn't help feeling that in +some way or other Pat would finally get into the game. His old habit of +making pictures beforehand was with him. There was Pat throwing off his +blanket and running out to report to the officials. Peter wondered if he +would know him from his lofty seat at the top of the Stadium. He felt +sure that he would. Still every time a Harvard substitute went in Peter +shouted down the line to find out if at last this was Pat. The picture +he had fashioned for himself couldn't be wrong. Pat would run down the +field through the blue team yard after yard over the goal line. If it +only could happen to Pat. Once let him hear the roar of the whole +Harvard cheering section racketing behind him and there could never be +any more talk about his being a singer or anything like that. It +wouldn't be exciting enough. + +Just to sit there and watch made Peter feel that he was a part of one of +the most thrilling manifestations of life. When the British went over +and captured Messines Ridge Peter had watched the show from the top of +Kemmel Hill. He and the other correspondents knew the exact second when +the mines were to explode. They all knew that this might be the decisive +push of the war. And as he waited for the great crash which would show +that the attack was on Peter trembled. But the excitement didn't begin +to toss him about as it did now when Harvard was playing Yale. Yes, it +was true as Pat had said that there wasn't any sense to it, but there it +was. It was a symbol of something much greater. Peter didn't know quite +what. Maybe there was some significance for him in the fact that the +Yale line was so much bigger and heavier. Harvard would have to win with +speed and skill. + +Maria had always said that there was no song in him. He knew that she +felt he didn't appreciate beauty. But what could she ever show Pat that +would pound a pulse like this. How could anybody dream of making a +singer out of Pat when he might be a quarterback and after his own +playing was done go on living the thing over as he watched the games +year after year. And perhaps when Pat came to write he could put in it +this thing that was sport, and beauty, and life and fighting and +everything else worth while in life. Perhaps he could do the things that +he spoke of in the letter about that English novelist, the woman that +sort of soared over things and then swooped down on them. All this that +was happening belonged to him and Pat. Maria and the boy had nothing +like this in common. She just couldn't have an ear for football. + +By and by Peter forgot all about her. He didn't even remember very much +that Pat was waiting in the sidelines. The affair grew too desperate to +admit of any personal considerations. The one present and compelling +tragedy of Peter's life dwarfing all others was that Yale was winning. +He had stationed beside him a young undergraduate from New Haven who was +supposed to give him the substitutions in the Yale lineup and identify +the Eli who carried the ball or made the tackle. This young man had gone +a little more insane than Peter. He paid no attention to any questions, +but pounded his fist on the great pile of copy paper which lay in front +of Peter and shouted: "Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!" + +"Don't do that," said Peter. He didn't like the sentiment and he hated +to have his notes knocked around. The Yale youngster didn't hear him. +"Touchdown!" he screamed again and almost jarred Peter's typewriter over +the edge of the Stadium. + +A fumble lost three yards and halted the Yale attack. There came a punt +and the Harvard quarterback raced down the field. Pat had said, "Watch +Charlie Bullitt." They threw him on the fourteen yard line. + +"Who made that tackle?" asked Peter. + +"Hold 'em, Yale! Hold 'em, Yale!" chanted the undergraduate reporter. + +Suddenly Peter jumped up scattering his notes all over the press box. +His typewriter fell to the concrete with a clatter. "Harvard!" he said, +and then much louder, "Harvard! Harvard!" And as he shouted the ball +went over the line. It was only by chance that he happened to hit the +Yale reporter on the back the first time, but he was so swept along by +the wildness of the moment that he continued to slap him violently until +the youngster moved away. A little later there was a field goal and +presently the game was over and Harvard had won by a score of 10 to 3. + +Peter didn't leave the press box immediately. He was much too shaky to +attempt the journey down the long steps to the field. The Harvard stands +had poured out on to the gridiron and the students were throwing their +hats over the goal posts. The Yale undergraduates remained and across +the field came booming, "For God! For Country! And for Yale!" Peter knew +that he would have to cool off emotionally before he could write his +story. That would have to tell who carried the ball and when and how +far. He couldn't just write, "Harvard! Harvard! Harvard!" and let it go +at that. He must make most of his story on that run of Bullitt's. The +thing was almost perfect in its newspaper possibilities. It couldn't be +better. The tackle which stopped the quarterback on the fourteen-yard +line had knocked him out. Peter wished he knew what Dr. Nichols had said +when he ran out to the player. Then he remembered somebody had told him +once that the doctor had a formula which he invariably used when a +player was knocked out. "What day of the week is it? Who are you +playing? What's the score?" That was the test which must be passed by an +injured man before he could remain in the game. + +Suddenly an idea came to Peter. That was just the touch he needed. His +story was made. He almost jogged all the way to the telegraph office. +His first two starts were false ones. Then he achieved a sentence which +suited him and pounded away steadily. No doubts assailed him. He was +never forced to stop and hunt for any word. The thing just wrote itself. +"There's a little trouble," said the chief operator, "but I can let you +have a wire in about half an hour." + +"I've got half of it done already," replied Peter. "Make it snappy." +They were holding him up and he stopped to look over what he had +written. + +"Cambridge, Mass., November, 19--By Peter Neale--The Harvard worm turned +into a snake dance. Tied by Penn State, beaten by Centre and by +Princeton, the plucky Crimson eleven made complete atonement this +afternoon when it won from Yale by a score of 10 to 3. + +"Joy came in the evening. Harvard did all its scoring in the dusk of the +final period. The Crimson backs showed that they were not afraid to go +home in the dark. + +"Charles K. Bullitt, quarterback, who weighs 156 pounds, earned most of +the glory. In the past this slight young man has been valued chiefly for +his head work. He is rather a delicate piece of thinking machinery and +it has been the custom to guard him a little from the bumps of the game. +His rôle has been like that of a chief of staff. + +"The customary procedure is for Bullitt to peer calmly over the opposing +lines and then make a suggestion to one of the bigger backs as to where +it might be advisable for him to go. In general his acquaintance with +the ball has been only a passing one. He is expected merely to fair +catch punts and not to run them back. Indeed for the last two years +Bullitt has fairly thought his way into a place on the Harvard team. + +"But today the scholar in football suddenly became the man of action. He +proved that he could function from the neck down. Standing at midfield, +late in the third period, Bullitt received a punt from Aldrich. He +switched his tactics. Instead of playing safe he began to run. Leaving +his philosophic cloister, he plunged headlong into life. And it was life +of the roughest sort, for Yale men were all about him. Fortunately for +the little anchorite of the football field he had achieved a theory +during his sheltered meditations and it worked. Whenever a Yale tackler +approached him he thrust out one foot. And then, just to fool the foe, +he took it away again. + +"The zest of living gripped him and he went on and on over the chalk +marks. It seemed to him that the rigors of existence had been +overstated. Drunk with achievement he set no limit on his journey. But +the Yale tacklers did. + +"In the end the world was too much with him. Disillusion came in the +form of two tacklers in blue who hurled themselves upon him. Their hands +touched him and held tight. Down went Bullitt. The big stadium turned +three complete revolutions before his eyes. Pinwheels danced. From a +distance of approximately one million miles he heard thousands of people +crying 'Harvard! Harvard! Harvard!' Curiously enough they were all +whispering. And then he lost consciousness. After several quarts of +water had been poured over Bullitt he came to. Dr. Nichols the physician +of the Harvard team was standing over him. The doctor waited while +Bullitt blinked a couple of times and then he propounded his stock +questions which he always uses after a player has been knocked out. The +test of rationality was, 'What day is it? Whom are you playing? And +what's the score?' Dr. Nichols was gravity itself but Bullitt grinned +and answered, 'It's Saturday, November nineteenth. We're playing Yale +and the score is three to nothing against us but Harvard's going to get +a touchdown damn soon.' + +"Dr. Nichols gave it as his professional opinion that Bullitt was +rational. Four minutes later as the Crimson swept over the line for a +touchdown, he knew it." + +Just as he finished rereading his story the wire chief came in and +announced that he had the Bulletin looped up. Before Peter could hand +him the copy Pat walked into the office. Peter felt just as he had done +at the pier. He wanted to throw his arms around Pat. "It was wonderful, +wasn't it?" he cried. "That's the greatest game I ever saw in my life." + +"Yes," said Pat, "I guess it was a good game. Have you finished your +story?" + +"Just the lead. Do you want to see it?" + +"All right." + +"The wire's waiting for me. Hand it over a sheet at a time as soon as +you get done." + +Peter turned to his typewriter, but he couldn't go on. He kept watching +Pat. He waited to hear him say something. Pat read on to the end without +comment. Then he looked up. "Where did you get that story about Charlie +Bullitt and Doc Nichols?" + +"I didn't get it. I knew that they said something to each other and I +thought that would be about it." + +"The part about Nichols is all right. Those are the questions he always +asks, but Charlie Bullitt wouldn't have said anything like that. Don't +you know how serious they take football. They'd put a man off the squad +for making jokes like that. He winked, did he? They shook him up a long +ways beyond winking. I don't believe he said it at all. Who told you +anyway?" + +"I've said nobody told me. It's just one of those things that might have +happened." + +"Don't stand there holding on to that copy," Peter added in +exasperation. "The wire's waiting." + +"But you're not going to send it, are you? It's not true. It doesn't +even sound true." + +"I'm writing this story," said Peter. "Hand it in." + +"All right." + +Pat carried it to the operator in the next room. Peter began to write +again but all the zest and excitement of it was gone. He had to fumble +around and look at his notes. Nothing went right. It was almost three +quarters of an hour before he got to the last page. Pat sat across the +table from him saying nothing. + +"All done," said Peter at last. "Where shall we go?" + +"I don't care." + +"Maybe there's a party for the team that you've got to go to." + +"I don't have to go. I'm not going." + +"What's the matter with you, Pat. You'd think Yale had licked us. Are +you sore because you didn't get into the game?" + +"No, I knew I wouldn't get in. Pretty near the whole squad would have to +be struck by lightning before I got in. That wasn't it. I found out this +afternoon that Copeland was right. The thing doesn't matter. It's silly +to get so worked up about it." + +"What made you think that?" + +"You remember that man that dropped the punt in the first quarter, that +fumble that gave the Elis the chance for their field goal." + +"Yes, I remember. He had it square in his hands and muffed it." + +"Well, that was Bill French. I know him better than anybody else on the +squad. He's a corker. They hauled him out right after that muff and as +he came off one of the coaches said something to him. I don't know what, +but he flopped down on the seat right beside me and began blubbering +like a kid. He was trying not to, you understand, but just bawling +away." + +"Oh, he'll forget about all that by tomorrow." + +"No, he won't and nobody else will. They won't let him forget. He'll be +'the man that dropped the punt.' If we hadn't won he'd be around +thinking of committing suicide. It's just rotten. There oughtn't to be +things like that." + +"Well, you can't have any kind of a real struggle without somebody +suffering." + +"Then let 'em suffer for something worth while. The thing's all dolled +up in the newspaper stories. You come along with that yarn about Bullitt +saying, 'We're going to get a touchdown damn soon' and all that stuff +about his getting knocked out." + +"Well, he did get knocked out, didn't he?" + +"You bet your life he did but it wasn't all nice and pretty. Pinwheels +and whispering cheers in his ears and all that. You weren't close enough +to see what happened when Jim came out with the sponge." + +"What did happen?" + +"He put his lunch, but that isn't pretty enough to get in your story." + +"That's not going to disable him for life." + +"I didn't say it would. He was just a sick pup and he would have liked +to go off some place and lie down. But you can't. I'd die for dear old +Harvard and all that. He had to get up and go on with it. If you don't +you're a quitter and you haven't got any guts. I tell you I think it's +damn rot. It's phoney like your story." + +"Maybe you'll have a chance to write a better one some day," said Peter. +He had hard work to steady himself. He didn't believe Bullitt had been +hurt any worse than he was at that moment. Pat didn't answer. + +"Wasn't there anything that gave you any kick all afternoon?" asked +Peter after a pause. + +"Sure, just one thing. It was the Yale stands singing 'Die Wacht Am +Rhein.' I know they've got terribly silly words, but there is something +that has got guts. I think that's just about ten times as exciting as +all the football games ever played. There was our crowd tooting away, +'Hit the line for Harvard, for Harvard wins today' and that big song +with all those marching feet in it throbbing over across the field." + +"German feet," objected Peter. + +"Well, but they are feet and you can't take the beat and the sweep out +of it. Maybe we did win the game but they did sing the heads off us." + +"Another moral victory for Yale," suggested Peter. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +When Peter came into his office one afternoon a couple of weeks after +the Yale game he found Pat sitting at his desk waiting for him. + +"I'm through," said Pat. + +"What's the matter?" + +"Well, as a matter of fact, they're through with me. They've fired me." + +Pat looked across the desk expectantly awaiting a question. Peter didn't +ask it. "I'm sorry," was all he said. + +"You know about it. I suppose you must have the letter from the dean by +now. It took me three days getting back from Cambridge." + +"I don't know anything about it. You can tell me if you want to." + +"Well, I got fired the worst way. It wasn't just flunking courses. I +didn't even mean to do it. Not ahead of time anyway. It just sort of +happened." + +Peter waited and then suddenly he remembered his interview with Miles +years ago, the day he came to the office in bandages and was never +offered a chance to tell about it. A question would be kinder. + +"What happened, Pat?" he asked. + +"The proctor reported me. I had a girl in my room. No, that's slicking +it up and making it sound romantic and pretty. What I mean is I had a +woman in my room. You know ... a woman." + +"I know," said Peter. + +"You remember I was low in my mind after the football game. It let me +down. I don't care what I wrote you before the game. I really did think +it was going to be fine. I thought I'd get stirred by it and after it +was all over the only things I remembered were Bill French sitting on +the side-lines crying and Charlie Bullitt out on the field putting his +lunch. You don't mind if I tell it this way--the long way." + +"Take your time." + +"Well, I know it sounds silly, but it seemed to me that I just had to go +out and find something that was thrilling and beautiful too. I saw this +girl--this woman--walking across Harvard Square. It was night and +raining and blowing. The wind was almost carrying her along. You know it +made her seem so alive." + +He paused again. Peter could not resist an impulse to break into the +story. "She said to you, 'Come along' or a something like that," he +suggested. + +"No, I spoke to her. I said, 'Why get wet?' It was dark and we sneaked +up the stairs in Weld to my room. And then it wasn't beautiful at all." +Pat buried his head in his hands. + +This time Peter did put his arm around his shoulders. "That's right," +said Peter, "it wasn't beautiful. You couldn't know that. Nobody ever +does. I didn't." + +Pat looked up and in the second he had snapped back to normal. The shame +had gone somewhere; into Peter's protecting arm perhaps. He managed a +smile. + +"Peter," he said, "there's something more I'm sorry about. I'm sorry for +what I said about that football story. It was a good football story. A +peach of a story--all but that part about Charlie Bullitt and Dr. +Nichols." + +Peter grinned back at him. "That's my weakness. I can't help being a +little yellow sometime." + +A sudden elation swept over Peter. Here at last was a secret shared just +by him and Pat. Of course, the Dean of Harvard College and the proctor +and the woman who walked in the rain knew about it, but they didn't +count. + +"The proctor saw her when she was going out," Pat added just to finish +up the story. There they left it and went on to talk of other things but +presently Miss Nathan came in. + +"Mr. Neale," she said, "Mr. Twice wants to see you in his office." + +Peter got up. "No," she said, "it's Mr. Pat Neale he wants to see. He's +been asking for him for a couple of days now. I told him that he was +here this afternoon." + +"What's Twice want to see you for, I wonder?" + +"I know," said Pat. "I've just thought of it. He must have got the +Dean's letter. Don't you remember it was Mr. Twice arranged about my +going to Harvard before you got back? I suppose they think he's still my +guardian." + +"Do you want me to come in with you?" + +"Never mind. Now that I've got it off my chest once I guess I can do it +again." + +Pat was gone for almost three quarters of an hour. Peter walked up and +down nervously. He wondered what was happening. From across the transoms +of Twice's office he could hear just the rumbling of the editor's +voice. Pat didn't seem to be saying anything. At last he came back. + +"What did he say to you? He seemed to be raising Cain." + +"No, he didn't say anything much. At least not much about the Dean's +letter. He had that all right. He got talking to me about Krafft-Ebing." + +"Oh, was that all?" + +"No, there was more than that. I report down here for work on Monday." + + * * * * * + +"The trouble with him," said Rufus Twice, "is that he doesn't seem to +understand that you've got to have a certain routine in a newspaper +office. Deering tells me that he hardly ever gets in at one o'clock. +Along about two he calls up on the phone and wants to get his assignment +that way. And last night Warren says that he called up after ten and +said, 'It's raining like hell. You don't really want me to go out and +cover that story, do you?' Warren told him, 'Oh no, Mr. Neale. I didn't +know it was raining. Of course, if this keeps up we won't get out any +paper at all.'" + +Peter couldn't laugh because Twice was telling him of the reportorial +shortcomings of Pat. He spoke to Pat about it when he got home to the +apartment. The old flat in Sixty-sixth Street was again theirs. + +"But I get such lousy assignments," said Pat. "I think Deering's down on +me. I suppose I've given him cause all right, but he's taking it out on +me. He sends me where there isn't any chance of getting anything. If I +do write something it never gets in the paper anyway. I did tell him it +was raining. What was the use of my getting wet for nothing? They wanted +me to go up to a meeting of the trustees of the Museum of Natural +History. Now what could I get out of that?" + +"Didn't you go up?" said Peter aghast. "He was just being sarcastic when +he told you there wouldn't be any paper if the rain kept up." + +"Oh, I know that. The Bulletin comes out every day all right. That's the +trouble with it, but I took him up literally on what he said. I don't +think the joke was on me. It was on him." + +"You shouldn't do things like that." + +"Suppose I had gone. There wouldn't have been any story anyway." + +"You've got to quit supposing. Let the city editor do that. The +worst-looking assignment may turn out to be something if you go after +it." + +"Yes, once in every twenty years those directors of the Museum of +Natural History get into an awful row about whether to put the +ichthyosaurus on the second floor or in the basement and if anything +like that happened they'd turn over the whole front page to me." + +Peter shook his head gloomily. "You've got the wrong spirit. Even if +your assignments are no good keep your eyes and your ears open when you +go round the city and something will turn up. That's the way to show +them. Bring in something you pick up yourself. Every day of the year +there must be whole pagefuls of stuff just as good and better than the +stuff we get in the paper. Only we don't find out about it. Keep +scouting for stuff like that. When you say newspaper work's stupid +you're practically saying that life's stupid." + +"Maybe it is," said Pat, "but I'm not so sure about that as I am about +newspapers." + +"It's the same thing." + +"I don't think so. Here's the sort of thing that makes life amusing and +isn't worth anything for a newspaper. I was riding in one of those +B.R.T. subway trains the other day and there were two women sitting next +me on one of those cross seats. One was fat and middle-aged and the +other was younger. I didn't notice her so much. It was the fat one who +was doing the talking. She was very much excited and she was explaining +something to the younger woman. 'Why, I said to him,' she told her--'I +said to him, 'Why, Mr. Babcock, I don't want to be sacrilegious but that +girl she's so sweet and so pretty I don't even believe our Lord himself +could be mean to her.' That made me satisfied with the whole day, but +imagine coming in and trying to put it over on Warren or Deering for a +story." + +"A story's got to begin some place and end some place," objected Peter. + +"The kind I get don't begin any place and so I don't have to wait around +for them to end." + +Peter went to Rufus Twice and told him that Pat didn't seem to be making +any progress in general work. + +"You ought to be more patient, Neale," answered Twice. "What's all this +hurry about Pat? He won't be twenty-one yet for a couple of years." + +"It's nearer than that. It's just thirteen months and three days." +Peter could have told him the hours and the minutes too which lay +between Pat and his eight o'clock appointment in Paris. + +"That doesn't make him exactly aged. He's learning or he ought to be +learning all the time. Even if he didn't get a line in the paper all +year he wouldn't be wasting his time. Just being here helps him to pick +up my way of doing things. Of course, when I say 'my' I mean the +paper's." + +"All that's perfectly true, Mr. Twice, but I have a very special reason +for wanting him to get ahead right now. I want him to be interested. I +want him to feel that he's important." + +"There isn't any job around here that isn't important. You ought to know +that, Neale. None of us count as individuals. We're all part of the +Bulletin. Nobody can say that one cog's more important than another. Did +you ever see a Liberty motor assembled?" + +"Yes," said Peter with as much haste and emphasis as he could muster, +but it was probably the convenient ringing of the phone which saved him. + +"If Mr. Boone has anything to say in reply to the story we printed this +morning he's welcome to come to my office and see me. That is if he's +got facts. I want you to know that I resent his making his complaint +through an advertising agency. I don't care if I am impolite. I intend +to be. Don't bother to threaten me about your advertising. You can't +take it out. I'll beat you to that. It's thrown out. Good-bye." + +Twice swung his chair around and faced Peter. "I've just cost the paper +$65,000 a year in advertising," he said cheerfully. "The Dubell Agency +was trying to bawl me out about that Sun Flower Oil story we had on the +front page this morning. Did you see it?" + +"Well, I saw the headlines," said Peter untruthfully. + +"I want you to read it. Weed did it. I told you I was going to make +something out of that young man. Let's see, what were we talking about?" + +Peter almost said, "The Liberty Motor," but stopped himself in time. "We +were talking about Pat." + +"Oh yes, I remember. I suppose, Neale, you and I could say without +egotism that we're important cogs here on the Bulletin. I suppose +sometimes it seems to us that we're vital cogs, but if you should die +tomorrow the Bulletin would come out just the same. I'd give you a good +obit but work would go on. Nobody is indispensable. Pat's got to get it +through his head that he's just part of an army." + +"I think he has," said Peter, "but the trouble is he feels that he's got +a permanent assignment on kitchen police." + +"But consider this, Neale. I didn't seduce Pat away from college and on +to the Bulletin. I did promise him a job and he's got it. He can't +expect to hang around here for a year or so and jump right in and write +lead stories. What is it you want me to do anyway?" + +"Well, I thought maybe it would be a good thing to shift him over on +sports. He knows baseball and football and I'd like to have him come out +with me and do notes of the games and things like that. That would be +down his alley. That would interest him and I think he could do it." + +"I don't think it's the best way. I think you're forgetting that general +news is the backbone of a paper. All the rest is tacked on. You're wrong +but I tell you what I'll do. I'm going to yield to your judgment. Go in +and tell Clark that I want Pat to report to him from now on. Go and send +Pat in. I want to have a talk with him." + +Peter ran into Pat late that night in the Newspaper Club. + +"Did Twice get hold of you?" he asked. + +"He certainly did," said Pat. "He's decided to take me off general work +and put me on sports. His idea is to send me around with you to football +games and baseball and have me write notes. You know 'Diamond Chips' or +'Hot Off The Gridiron.'" + +"Did he say anything else to you?" + +"Yes, he asked me if I'd ever seen a Liberty Motor assembled and I said, +'No,' and he told me about it. Oh yes, and he said, 'When a reporter +goes out on a story there are four things he ought to remember--When! +Where! What! and Why!'" + +"What's the matter with that?" Peter felt that Pat ought to show a +little more delight and gratitude at being fairly launched on his career +as a sporting writer. + +"Well, I tried it out on that assignment I had to cover--the directors +of the Museum of Natural History. It worked out like this--When--last +night. Where--the palatial apartment of Mr. Harold Denny at 605 Park +avenue. What--the annual report of the directors of the Museum of +Natural History. Why--God knows." + +Pat was busily engaged with three other men in a game called horse +racing. Each contestant had two pool balls and all were lined up at one +end of the table with a piece of board behind them. The starter's job +rotated among the players. He sent the balls spinning up the table and +the one which landed nearest to the rail on the rebound won the purse. +Peter wanted to talk to Pat, but he seemed anxious to get away. + +"There's a newspaper man over in the corner that I'd like to have you +meet," said Peter. + +"Who is it?" + +"His name's Heywood Broun. He's on the World." + +"Which one do you mean? The one with the shave?" + +"No, the other one." + +"I'm too busy," said Pat. "I can't be bothered. We're just going to run +the Suburban Handicap, That costs fifty cents for each horse." + +As the balls were shoved away Pat raced down the table with them +shouting, "Come on Ulysses. Come on James Joyce." He ran over to Peter +with a handful of coins. "Ulysses won," he said, "and James Joyce was +second." + +"What do you call them that for?" + +"They're named after a book I've been reading." + +Peter was about to head up town, but Pat urged him to stay. "Stick +around awhile," he said, "as soon as Nick Carter shows up the +quartette's going to have a concert." + +"What quartette?" + +"Oh just me and three other fellows. We're pretty good. At least I am. +We get in a few swipes almost every night." + +"Are you still going to the opera so much?" asked Peter anxiously. + +"No, I haven't had any time. There isn't any opera now anyway but it's +almost a year since I've been." + +"Have you heard from Maria lately?" + +"The last letter I got was almost six months ago. She didn't say +anything much except she said that before long she was going to see me +in Paris. I don't know how. You haven't heard Mr. Twice say anything +about giving me an assignment over there, the annual meeting of the +house committee of the Louvre or anything like that?" + +"He hasn't said anything to me about it." + +Peter didn't wait for the singing nor was he particularly worried about +it. He was cheered by the fact that Pat had spoken so casually of the +opera and of Maria. When he got home to the flat he noticed a big book +in blue paper covers on the table. It was "Ulysses" by James Joyce. + +"Why, that's the book Pat named the pool balls after." He picked it up +and began at the beginning and then skipped ahead frantically. An hour +or so later Pat came in. Peter pointed to the book and looked at him +reproachfully. + +"What does it mean, Pat?" he asked. Stumbling over it at random he read: + + "In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended. Douce with + Kennedy your other eye. They threw young heads back, bronze + gigglegold, to let freefly their laughter, screaming, your other, + signals to each other, high piercing notes." + +"I don't know," said Pat. "I haven't got that far yet. But what +difference does it make what it means? That isn't the point. There's +music in it." + +As Peter was going to bed he cursed silently to himself. "Damn this +music. They're even trying to play it on typewriters now." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +On sports Pat worked better and more cheerfully. It was Pat who devised +the note at one of the Princeton football games, "The Tiger eleven has +three fine backs and the greatest of these is Gharrity." And he came +through splendidly when he was assigned to cover Marshal Foch's +activities at another game and report in detail what the Frenchman did. +Peter found the story posted on the board in the Bulletin office. In +fact Twice had allowed Pat to have his signature in the paper. Right +after Peter's own story it came--"By Peter Neale, Jr." + +This was the third reading for Peter but he could not resist the +pleasure of standing in front of the board in the City Room and looking +over it again slowly: + + "Ferdinand Foch, field marshal, was outranked this afternoon by + Malcolm Aldrich, captain. The Field Marshal was received + enthusiastically by the 80,000 spectators but he found he could not + hold the attention of the throng once the whistle had blown. He + became then just a spectator at one of the greatest football games + ever played between Yale and Princeton. Come to think of it he was + rather less a part of the proceedings than the young men in the + cheering section behind him. Foch did not have a blue feather, or a + girl, or a bet on the game. The greatest military leader in the + world was assigned today to the humble job of being just a neutral. + He must have known that momentous things were happening when 40,000 + roared defiance and another 40,000 roared back. Undoubtedly he was + stirred when huge sections of the Bowl turned into fluttering banks + of orange and black, or of blue, but probably there was much of it + which he could not understand. It would be hard, for instance, to + explain to a man who had been at Verdun the justice of penalizing + anybody for holding, nor did the rival teams pay any respect to the + slogan 'They shall not pass!' They did it all the time. + + "The young American officer detailed to help the distinguished + visitor did his best. 'You see, Marshal,' he would explain, 'it's + this way. Yale has _la balle_ on Princeton's 35-yard line and it's + _premier bas_ with _dix_ yards to go.' Just at that point Aldrich + or O'Hearn would tear through the Tigers for a run and the American + officer grew so excited that he would lose the thread of his + explanations. Foch never did catch up." + +"It's just the way I would have written it myself," thought Peter. + +Pat was grinning when he found him. "How did you like my parody?" he +asked. + +"What do you mean?" + +"Didn't you see yourself in that story about Foch. That business about +'They shall not pass' ought've tipped you off. I thought that was a +regular Peter Neale touch." + +"Oh," said Peter, "you were just fooling." + +"But here's the best of it," added Pat. He held out a letter from Rufus +Twice which read: + + "Dear Pat, I want to congratulate you on the story you wrote about + Foch at the football game. It was excellent. All the facts were + there and you handled them with a fresh and original touch of your + own. When I saw the Marshal at luncheon today he said he was very + much amused by our story--Twice." + +"Well," said Peter a little bitterly, "if that was just an imitation +keep it up." + +Pat did keep it up although he grew a little restive during the winter. +"If they're going to be many more of these indoor track meets," he +complained, "I want to be put back on the Museum of Natural History. +Clark there in the sporting department is just crazy about facts. You +have to squeeze them all into the first paragraph. Even if anything +exciting ever did happen there wouldn't be any chance to tell about it. +You'd have to start out just the same and say how many people there +were in the hall and what the temperature was and whether it was raining +or snowing outside." + +Still he had conformed with sufficient fidelity to remain in the graces +of the powers on the Bulletin and when Summer came around Pat was +assigned to go with Peter to Atlantic City and watch Jack Dempsey train. +Pat's part was to write a half column of notes called 'Sidelights On The +Big Show.' After the first day or so Pat lost interest in the actual +boxing at Dempsey's camp. + +"Where do you see anything in that?" he asked Peter as they sat at the +ringside in the enclosure near the training camp of the champion. +Dempsey was whaling away with both hands at Larry Williams, an +unfortunate blonde heavyweight who seemed to be under a contract or some +other compulsion to go two rounds every day. + +"Watch him," exclaimed Pat as Williams clinched desperately and tucked +his head over Dempsey's shoulder. "He looks like an old cow leaning over +a fence." + +"That's a good line," said Peter, "don't waste it on me. Use it in the +Bulletin." + +But Pat wandered off and loafed around the training quarters. When he +came back to the hotel late that afternoon he had something else. + +"This is all right, isn't it?" he asked. Peter looked over the copy +which Pat had written. + + "Dempsey is taking a great deal of electricity into his system," he + read, "in preparation for his fight with Carpentier. This portion + of his training is being handled by S. J. Foster, D.C.M.T., + chiropractor, mechano-therapist and electrical therapeutist. In + other words Doc Foster is the man who rubs Dempsey after his + workouts. But the rubbing is only a small part of it. Doc Foster + insists on that. His chief pride and reliance is the polysine + generator. 'Why, that machine,' said Doc Foster, this afternoon, + 'has got some currents in it that would break your arm in a minute. + Yes, sir, they'd break your arm quicker than that.' And as he + boasted he looked rather longingly at the fattest arm of the + fattest newspaper correspondent. Of course, there are more soothing + currents as well in the polysine generator. 'They just reach down + after the deep muscles,' the old Doc explained, 'and grab 'em.' He + neglected to add just what the electricity does with the deep + muscles after it has grabbed them. Presumably it does not break + them, but just frolics around with the muscles and then casts them + aside like withered violets." + +"Sure," said Peter, "that's fine. You don't have to bother with Larry +Williams at all. I'll put all the stuff about him into the lead." + +Next morning Peter awoke with a splitting headache. Toward noon it got +much worse. He called Pat in from the next room. "I'm up against it," he +told him. "I'm sick as a dog. Of course I could telegraph to the office +and get them to send somebody down but I don't want to do that. This is +your chance. You'll have to do the lead story. You say you can imitate +me or parody me or whatever you call it. Now's the time to go to it. And +say nobody has to know that I'm not doing it. Just sign your story 'by +Peter Neale.'" + +"I'll do my best," said Pat. Peter dozed off late that afternoon and the +doze became a deep slumber. He did not wake until morning when there +came a violent rapping on his door. In the hall was a messenger with a +telegram. Peter opened it and read: + + "What happened? We didn't get the story. Never mind telephoning + explanations because I'm coming down over the week-end. I'll be at + the hotel at one--Twice." + +Pat was nowhere around the hotel and nobody seemed to know where he had +gone. Peter was still mystified when Rufus Twice arrived. He thought at +first of trying to conceal the fact that Pat had acted as his substitute +and then decided not to. "It isn't fair to expect me to do as much as +that," he thought. However he found that any such deception would have +been useless. + +"What happened to you?" was Twice's first question. + +"I was sick. I had a blinding headache and I told Pat to do the story. +Didn't he send anything?" + +"Yes, but it might as well have been nothing. All we had to go by was +the A. P. Dempsey cut loose yesterday and knocked Larry Williams down +three times. The last time they had to carry him out of the ring. And +our story was something about a man named Daredevil Oliver that's doing +a high dive at an amusement park down here. It was signed Peter Neale +but I knew it couldn't be you." + +Twice picked some copy out of his pocket and flourished it in the air. +"Lights. Gray mist. East wind," he read. "Good God! Peter, nobody can +say I don't appreciate Walt Whitman or Amy Lowell, but I tell you +Dempsey knocked Larry Williams down three times. The last time he was +out clean as a whistle." + +"You mean to say there wasn't any Peter Neale story in the paper?" asked +Peter terrified. + +"Yes, you get off all right. You don't suffer any. I did it myself. I +rewrote the A. P. and signed your name. But it was just the merest +chance that I happened to drop in at the office. You should have called +me up and let me send a man down." + +"But I didn't know he'd blow up like that. The other story he did from +here seemed all right." + +"Yes, but it wasn't news. I think Pat can write but somebody's got to +stand over him and tell him what news is. The one he sent might have +been all right for an editorial page feature though it was a little +esoteric. What do you suppose 'gigglegold' means or is that something +the operator did?" + +"I don't know what it means but it's a word James Joyce uses in +'Ulysses.'" + +"I'd forgotten," said Twice. "Of course. I was trying to place it. Great +book, 'Ulysses,' never should have been suppressed. But you couldn't use +any of it on the sporting page." + +"Was it all like that?" + +"Pretty much. It was about this Daredevil Oliver doing a high dive of a +hundred and five feet into four feet of water. And there were only nine +people there to watch him and how ironic it would have been if he'd +broken his neck. And then some more about Eugene O'Neill and the tragic +drama in America. Jack Dempsey or Larry Williams or the fight never got +mentioned at all." + +Pat came in without knocking. He was flushed and angry. "Mr. Twice," he +said, "that story in the Bulletin signed 'Peter Neale' wasn't the story +I sent. I wouldn't have written anything like that." + +"I know it," said Twice, "that's why I wrote it." + +"Didn't you go down to see the workout?" asked Peter. + +"Of course I did. I didn't stay all through it. I waited until Jack +Dempsey knocked that old cow Larry Williams down for the third time and +then I got bored and went out." + +"But that was the story," cried Peter. "Can't you see that." + +"Why Dempsey could knock out Larry Williams a hundred times in an +afternoon," objected Pat. + +"That isn't the point," Twice broke in. "News isn't things that might +happen. News is things that do happen. When a reporter goes out on a +story there are four things for him to remember." + +"I know," said Pat. "When! Where! What! and Why!" + +"Yes, and there are two ways of doing a story. One of them is the way I +want it to be done. The other doesn't count. I don't want you to argue +with me. I tell you that your story should have been about Larry +Williams getting knocked out. Some day you'll learn why. Pat, I'm not +going to fire you. You've got stuff. Deering's had a crack at you and so +has your father. Now I'm going to see what I can do. You're to go back +to New York this afternoon. Report at my office on Monday. Hereafter +you'll get your assignments from me and turn your copy over to me. I've +never been licked yet and I'm not going to be licked now. I'm going to +make a newspaperman of you or my name's not Rufus Twice." + +After Twice had gone Peter asked, "Pat, what made you want to throw me +down?" + +"You don't think I made all this trouble for you on purpose?" + +"Well, why did you go and write a story about Daredevil Oliver and leave +Dempsey out of it?" + +"It seemed so much more important to me. You'd have thought so too if +you'd seen him. He just leaned back off the platform so slowly. He could +have stopped himself any second. And then all of a sudden he couldn't. +And he started to fall." + +"But the story was signed with my name. Didn't you think of that?" + +"Of course I did." + +"Didn't you remember that I'd get blamed for it." + +Pat was pale with earnestness and almost crying. "I didn't think +anybody'd be blamed. I wanted to do something for you." + +"Do you mean to say," asked Peter in surprise, "that you thought it was +as good a story as I'd write." + +"I thought it was a better story. It was a better story than you ever +wrote." + +Peter was silent with astonishment. Where, he wondered, did his son +Peter Neale, second, ever unearth such amazing and audacious confidence. +Suddenly it came to him that he was not the only parent. He remembered +Maria. Obviously there was no use in arguing with Pat any further. +Indeed he was almost a little frightened at so bold a blaze of spirit. + +"Well," he said at length, "what are you going to do?" + +"I'm going to report to Mr. Twice on Monday," answered Pat. + +Peter sent down and got a "Bulletin" in order to find out just what it +was that Peter Neale had written. He read only the first line, "Can Jack +Dempsey sock? Ask Larry Williams." + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +Not until after the big fight did Peter get back to the Bulletin office. +He found a subdued and cheerless Pat. "How are things going?" he asked. + +"I'm learning a trade," said Pat. + +Rufus Twice was more optimistic. "He's getting along fine," he reported. +"I flatter myself that he's picked up more of the newspaper angle on +things in the last two weeks than he got in a whole year before this. +You see I call him into the office every afternoon and go over the paper +with him and show him why we've used each story and the reason for +handling it the way we do. He's been a good soldier. I'll tell you what +I'll do. You take your vacation next week and I'll let him go with you. +You ought to have a month but I don't believe the syndicate can spare +you. Three weeks is the best I can do." + +Peter and Pat planned to go out in the country some place, but they kept +putting it off and two weeks were gone before they decided on Westport, +Conn., and bought the tickets. On the morning set for the journey Pat +came into Peter's room with the paper. + +"Don't let's go," he said. + +"All right but why not." + +"Maria Algarez is here. They've got her picture in the Bulletin. It +isn't a very good one. She got in from Argentine yesterday afternoon." + +"Maria Algarez here in New York? Where?" + +"It doesn't say." + +A messenger arrived with a letter a few hours later. Peter opened it and +read: + + "You must not hide from me. I have called up the Bulletin and they + say you are not there. When I ask for the number of your house they + tell me it is the rule that they must not tell. Is it, Peter, that + so many ladies call you up? The next time I am more smart. I say + that your father is very sick and that I am the nurse and must know + where you are. But I should have known. It is twenty years and the + flat it is the same. You are like that Peter. You do not change. I + thought not to see you and Pat until next year in Paris but from + Buenos Aires I decided suddenly I will go to New York. Here I am. + My hotel it is the Ritz. You and Pat you will come tonight at eight + and have supper with me--Maria." + +"I didn't want to go to Westport much anyway," said Pat. + +He was more nervous than Peter when they came to the door of Maria's +suite. She kissed Peter but Pat only held out his hand. Maria laughed. +"He does not know me. I know him. He is like the picture." + +Pat was almost silent during supper. He spoke up only once. Maria was +ordering. "We will have some vegetable," she said. "What is the name? I +do not know the English. _Les épinards._" + +"That's spinach," said Peter and added slyly. "Pat doesn't like spinach. +He won't want that." + +"Yes, I do," said Pat promptly. + +Peter smiled but he had the joke all to himself. Pat had forgotten. + +After dinner they talked sparsely with Peter doing most of the work. +Suddenly Maria said, "It is necessary that somebody he ask me." + +Peter was puzzled, but Pat understood. "I've waited for five years to +hear you sing. Won't you?" + +"It is nice, but it is the twenty years I have waited. First you must +sing." + +"I can't." + +"Maybe. It must be that sometimes you have sung." + +"Oh, just with other people. Swipes you know." + +"I do not know what it is but you sing and the swipes I will do." + +"Just anything. That's all I can sing--anything." + +Maria moved over to the piano. "The accompaniment it is not necessary +but it I can do if what you sing it is not too hard." + +"It's just something you sing around with a crowd." + +"Come nearer." + +Pat moved over beside the piano. + +"Allons!" + +Maria looked up at him and whispered, "You can. I know." + +There was no banter in it. Pat began a little husky at first but then +louder and clearer. + + "Down by the stream where I first met Rebecca + Down by the stream where the sun loves to shine. + Sweet were the garlands I wound for Rebecca. + Bright eyes gave answer, she said she'd be mine. + One, two, three, four, + Sometimes I wish there were more. + Ein, zwei, drei, vier, + I love the one that's near. + Ut ne sam si, + So says the heathen Chinee. + Fair girls bereft + There will get left, + One, two, and three." + +Maria looked up and smiled. Peter waited in an agony. He remembered that +he had not heard Pat sing since he was a small child. He waited for +somebody to speak. He did not know whether or not it was good. Somebody +would have to tell him if this was the singing voice for which Maria had +hoped. + +She continued to look at Pat and smile and he smiled back now more +boldly. + +Peter couldn't stand it any longer. "Tell me ... Maria. Can he sing?" + +Getting up from the piano she put a hand on Pat's shoulder. + +"It is the fine voice that I know. I think it will be the greatest voice +in all the world." + +Peter took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Maria turned to +him. "The time it is not up. I have come too soon. There is still the +year. But you must not. We cannot wait." + +"Ask him. Tell him," said Peter hoarsely. + +"Pat," she said, "if you will come with me to Paris you can be the great +singer. It will not be tomorrow. It will be two years. Maybe three +years. You must work. You must do what I say." + +"When?" asked Pat trembling. + +"In the week." + +Peter said nothing, but he looked at Pat. The boy continued to stare at +Maria. + +"Pat," he said. + +His son turned to him. + +"I want to, Peter. I want to." + +Peter mopped his forehead again. + +"He wants to, Maria," he said. "I give up my year." Peter paused. "I +give up all my years," he added in a low voice. + +"But you must not give up the years," said Maria. "We will go to Paris, +all three. It will be more and more. You must watch and listen. He is +your son Peter." + +But Peter shook his head. "No," he answered, "it wouldn't mean anything +to me. I wouldn't know. I don't care anything about tunes." + +Maria ran her hands over the keys playing softly "The Invitation to the +Waltz." She watched Peter but he gave no sign of recognition. He was +fumbling in his pocket for something. At last he found it and pulled out +a letter. + +"You see it wouldn't be possible for me to go anyway," he said. "This +morning I got this letter from Rufus Twice. He's the Supervising Editor +of the Bulletin. He writes and says, 'I'm sorry about your vacation, but +it is imperative that you give up the last week of it. The syndicate's +doing great work on your Hit And Run column. Booth has just come back +from the West and he's sold you to eighteen more papers. When you got +back from the war I promised you two hundred. This addition brings it up +to two hundred and ten. You see I've made good for you. But Booth says +they want the stuff right off. Another week might mean our losing some +of them.'" + +Peter folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. "There's no chance +anyway. It's the tightest race they've had in the American League for +years and pretty soon the World Series'll be on and right after that +football starts. With all that going on there ought to be something in +the paper by Peter Neale." + + +THE END + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Boy Grew Older, by Heywood Broun + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY GREW OLDER *** + +***** This file should be named 36057-8.txt or 36057-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/0/5/36057/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Boy Grew Older + +Author: Heywood Broun + +Release Date: May 8, 2011 [EBook #36057] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY GREW OLDER *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h1>THE BOY GREW OLDER</h1> + +<p class="cb">BY<br /><br /> +HEYWOOD BROUN</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 30px;"> +<img src="images/colophon.png" width="30" height="24" alt="colophon" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="cb">G. P. Putnam's Sons<br /> +New York & London<br /> +<small>The Knickerbocker Press</small><br /> +1923</p> + +<p class="c">Copyright, 1922,<br /> +by<br /> +Heywood Broun</p> + +<p class="c">Made in the United States of America</p> + +<p> +<br /> +</p> + +<p class="c"><small><i>First Printing, October 1922</i><br /> +<i>Second Printing, October 1922</i><br /> +<i>Third Printing, November 1922</i><br /> +<i>Fourth Printing, December 1922</i><br /> +<i>Fifth Printing, February 1923</i><br /> +<i>Sixth Printing, March 1923</i><br /></small> +</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> +<img src="images/knickerbocher.jpg" width="150" height="223" alt="The Knickerbocker Press New York" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="c"><small>Made in the United States of America</small></p> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<p class="cb">D<small>EDICATED<br /> +TO</small><br /> +HERBERT BAYARD SWOPE</p> + +<p><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a></p> + +<h1>The Boy Grew Older</h1> + +<h2><a name="Book_I" id="Book_I"></a>Book I</h2> + +<p><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a></p> + +<p><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_Ia" id="CHAPTER_Ia"></a>CHAPTER I</h3> + +<p>"Your son was born ten minutes ago," said the voice at the other end of +the wire.</p> + +<p>"I'll be up," replied Peter Neale, "right away."</p> + +<p>But it wasn't right away. First he had to go upstairs to the card room +and settle his losses. Indeed he played one more pot for when he +returned to the table his deal had come around again. He felt that it +was not the thing to quit just then. The other men might think he had +timed his departure in order to save the dollar ante. He dealt the cards +and picked up four spades and a heart. Eventually, he paid five dollars +to draw and again he had four spades and a heart. Nevertheless, he bet +ten dollars but it was no go. His hands shook as he dropped the two blue +chips in the centre of the table. The man with a pair of jacks noticed +that and called. Peter threw his cards away.</p> + +<p>"I've got nothing—a busted flush. I want to cash in now. I owe for two +stacks. That's right, isn't it? I haven't any chips left. If +somebody'll<a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a> lend me a fountain pen I'll make out a check. I guess I +need a check too. Any kind'll do. I can cross the name off."</p> + +<p>"Why are you quitting so soon?" asked the banker as Peter waved the +check back and forth to let it dry. "We're all going to quit at seven +o'clock."</p> + +<p>"Two rounds and a consolation pot," corrected somebody across the table.</p> + +<p>Peter was curiously torn between reticence and an impulse to tell. He +felt a little as if he might begin to cry. When he spoke his voice was +thick. "I've got to go up to see my son," he said. "He's just been +born."</p> + +<p>He shoved the check over to the banker and was out of the room before +anybody could say anything.</p> + +<p>He thought that the banker said, "Congratulations," as he slammed the +door behind him, but he could not be certain of it.</p> + +<p>All the way up in the taxi he worried. The hospital was half a mile +away. He wished that the nurse had said, "A fine boy," but he remembered +it was just, "Your son was born ten minutes ago."</p> + +<p>"If anything had been wrong," he thought, "she wouldn't have said it +over the telephone."<a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a></p> + +<p>"Is everything all right?" was his first question when a nurse came to +the door of the small private hospital and let him in. "My name's Peter +Neale," he explained. "My son's just been born half an hour ago."</p> + +<p>"Everything's fine, Mr. Neale," she said and she smiled. "The baby +weighs nine pounds. Mrs. Neale is fine too. You can see them both, but +she's asleep now. You can't really see her today, but I think they'll +let you have a good look at your son. He's a little darling."</p> + +<p>Peter was reassured but irritated. Formula was all over the remark, +"He's a little darling." He thought she ought not to use it until she +had learned to do it better. Some place or other he had read that babies +were fearfully homely. Still it didn't look so bad when he came into the +room. Black was smudged all around the eyes which gave the child a +rakish look.</p> + +<p>"Miss Haine," said the nurse who brought him in, "this is Mr. Neale."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Neale," she added, "meet your son." Then she went out.</p> + +<p>"Is he all right, Miss Haine?" was Peter's first question as soon as the +door closed. After all, the<a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a> other woman was just supposed to answer the +bell. Miss Haine might know more about it.</p> + +<p>"He's a cherub," said Miss Haine.</p> + +<p>"How did his eyes get blacked?" Peter wanted to know.</p> + +<p>"Oh that's just the silver nitrate. We always put that on a baby's eyes +to make sure—Look what a fine head he has."</p> + +<p>Peter bent closer. The baby was not nearly so red as he had expected. As +for the head he didn't see why it was fine. He had no notion of just +what made a head fine anyway. The child kept wrinkling up its face, but +it was not crying. There was nothing about his son to which Peter could +take specific exception, but somehow he was disappointed. When he had +said down at the New York Newspaper Club, "I've got to go up and see my +son," the phrase "my son" had thrilled him. But this wasn't "my son." It +was just a small baby. It seemed to him as distant as a second cousin.</p> + +<p>"He is sweet," remarked Miss Haine.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Peter, but he felt that any extension of the discussion +would merely promote hypocrisy on both sides. "Can I see my wife?" he +asked.</p> + +<p><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>"Come this way," said Miss Haine. "You can only stay a second. I'm +pretty sure she's asleep."</p> + +<p>Maria was asleep and snoring hard. Miss Haine took up one arm which was +flung outside the cover and found the pulse of the sleeping girl and as +she felt it she smiled reassuringly. "Yes," she said, "she's doing +fine."</p> + +<p>"And now," she added, "I'm going to bundle you off. There really isn't +anything around here for a father to do. This isn't your job, you know. +I'm going to let you come back in the morning, but not before ten."</p> + +<p>Peter learned later that one of the strongest factors in Maria's +resentment against having a baby was that he was implicated in the +affair so slightly. He tried to tell her that she ought to blame biology +and not him, but she said there was nothing in the scheme of creation +which arranged that fathers should be playing cards when their sons were +born. It had an air of reckless indifference about it which maddened +her. Peter knew that he could not explain to her that he had not been +free in spirit during the afternoon. He simply could not bear to stay +out of a single pot. Hour after hour he kept coming in on middle +straights and three flushes. Never before had he done anything<a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a> like +that. But she knew so little about poker that there was no use in +telling her any of this. Indeed he realized that he had made a mistake +in venturing his one answer. Maria was in nowise pacified when he said, +"But I lost fifty dollars."<a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IIa" id="CHAPTER_IIa"></a>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<p>Peter saw Maria only once after that and then for a few minutes. Most of +the time she wept. "She's getting along splendidly," said Dr. Clay. "Her +nervous condition isn't good," he added as an afterthought. "Somehow or +other she doesn't take much interest in the baby. You would almost think +she didn't like it. She'll get over that. The maternal urge is bound to +have its effect in time."</p> + +<p>Of course Peter could not know that this urge, of which the bearded +doctor spoke so confidently, might be tardy. That was something which he +was to learn later for two days after the baby was born he went to +Goldfield for the big fight. He had made the stipulation with the +managing editor that somebody else should cover the story in case his +son was not yet born. The consent had been somewhat grudging and so he +had no inclination to call for another respite now that the baby had +actually arrived. It would have embarrassed him to say to the managing +editor, "I don't want to go away now<a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a> because Maria—that's my +wife—doesn't like the baby." Anyhow Dr. Clay had said she was getting +along splendidly except for her nerves and the maternal urge would +attend to that.</p> + +<p>And so Peter went to Goldfield and when he came back two weeks later +they told him at the hospital that Maria had gone leaving the baby +behind her. They were slightly apologetic. Miss Haine had been a little +careless. Twelve days after Peter started for the fight Maria had +dressed and walked out. Nobody around the hospital knew anything more +than that about it. She had left a note and Dr. Clay had taken the +extreme liberty of reading it. Medically speaking, he could not say that +it indicated anything more than a highly neurotic condition. The woman +was rational. He could not see his way clear to sending out a general +alarm. After all he did not suppose that there was any legal way of +making the young woman come back. She said she was going to sail for +Paris and he supposed she had. Dr. Clay offered sympathy and some +observations gleaned in twenty years of practice about the Latin +temperament.</p> + +<p>Peter said nothing in reply. He did not want to discuss it. He felt lost +and gone but not altogether<a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a> startled. Now that it had happened he +realized that he should have known that Maria might do something just +like that. It was an altogether silly arrangement that she should have +had a baby.</p> + +<p>"The youngster's fine," said Dr. Clay. "It must be a comfort to you to +know that you've still got him. I believe he's having his bath now. +Wouldn't you like to come up and see him. It's quite an exciting event I +can assure you."</p> + +<p>Peter didn't want to be excited and it didn't appeal to him as a +sporting event anyhow. Would Dr. Clay allow him to lie down on his couch +for a little while. Later he'd come up and talk about what to do with +the baby. He supposed the hospital didn't want it very much longer +anyway. After Clay had gone he cried a little. That didn't necessarily +mean much. Only the Thursday before he had cried at the ringside in +Goldfield when Battling Nelson knocked out Joe Gans. Then it had been +partly rage because thousands around him had shouted "Knock his block +off. Kill the nigger." And he had seen someone very beautiful slowly +crumple up before a slab-sided, bristling, little man who had no quality +of skill or grace. Nelson had just kept coming in and in. He never +stepped back. Often he<a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a> took a blow in the face rather than bother to +stop for an instant from swinging his own short arms at the brown belly +in front of him. The victory had seemed altogether mechanical. Gans had +not been knocked out so much as clawed to pieces by a threshing machine. +And it was Gans Peter had thought of two years ago when he first saw +Maria Algarez dance. She had that same amazing suddenness of movement. +When he first saw her she was standing still in the middle of the huge +stage. And then everything about her had come to life. There was never +any feeling that she was thinking about what to do. No roll call was +carried on in her mind before she kicked or leaped, or flung an arm +above her head. The left jab of Joe Gans was like that too.</p> + +<p>Peter went to the stage door and thought he had made up his mind to stop +her and speak to her. He found that he hadn't. She came out slowly and +when he stared at her she looked straight at him and almost smiled. He +could not be quite sure of it because that was the very moment something +inside rapidly wheeled him about and sent him all but running out of the +alley. Later he was more enterprising. The dramatic critic at his +request<a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a> introduced him to the press agent of "Adios" and the press +agent introduced him to Maria Algarez. She had just finished her dance. +Peter was standing in the wings and people were telling him not to.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps Mlle. Algarez will take us up to her dressing-room," said the +press agent.</p> + +<p>"It is not mine," said Maria, "I am not a star. The eight Bandana +Sisters dress with me. But never mind. Here they come. It is now their +turn on the stage. You will have to climb two flights of stairs, Mr. +Neale. You do not mind? Yes?"</p> + +<p>"I do," said the press agent. "But that scores for you. You're the one +he wants to see."</p> + +<p>And so Peter found himself alone in one corner of the long dressing-room +of Maria Algarez and the eight Bandana Sisters. All sorts of clothes +were scattered over the room. Maria sat down on a chair and stretched +out her feet. There was another chair nearby but somebody's stockings +were on it. Peter stood up. Maria looked at him and smiled with no +particular merriment. She was tired. Peter shifted from one foot to +another through a long pause.</p> + +<p>"Are they really sisters?" he asked.<a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a></p> + +<p>"Just two," said Maria. "Vonnie is the sister to Boots. The rest they +are all mixed. It could not be that there should be eight such bad +dancers in the one family."</p> + +<p>"I think you're the greatest dancer I ever saw."</p> + +<p>Maria nodded. "Yes, I am the great dancer. It is smart for you to know +that. The others they do not know. When Boots was sick, Mr. Casey—he is +our stage manager—he wanted me to go on in her place. He said he would +give me $5 a week more. He is stupid Mr. Casey. I do not dance like +that. It is not for me."</p> + +<p>"We'll be miss, miss, missed in Mississip," she hummed and made a face. +"One, two, three, four, lie down on the stomach and kick first the right +leg and then the left leg and then kick both legs. That was what he +wanted Maria Algarez to do. How is it you know? It is so smart. Here +throw down those stockings on the floor and take the chair. I want to +hear you say more about why I am so great a dancer."</p> + +<p>Peter lifted the stockings as if they had been little kittens and placed +them on the long shelf under the electric lights.</p> + +<p>"I don't know why," he said. "It just seems so<a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a> easy when you do things. +And the thing you dance to; I think that's the best tune in the show."</p> + +<p>Maria was merry now for the first time. "Again you are smart. It is 'The +Invitation to the Waltz' of Weber. 'Miss, Miss, Missed' is not so good. +That is right. And some time you will tell about me in your newspaper +and say that I am a great dancer?"</p> + +<p>"I can't," said Peter. "I don't write about the theatre. I only write +about sports. Baseball, you know and football and prizefights and things +like that."</p> + +<p>"Never mind, you and I know, it will be our secret. We will tell none of +the others."</p> + +<p>Up the stairs there came a tramping and shouting and all eight Bandanas +rushed into the room approximately at the same time.</p> + +<p>"I'm going," said Peter jumping up hastily.</p> + +<p>"Don't you mind us Bandanas," shouted Vonnie across the room. "We don't +take off anything for half an hour."</p> + +<p>"Goodbye," said Peter. "Excuse me, ladies."</p> + +<p>Maria held his hand for one and two thirds seconds. "You must come +again. I want that you should tell me more about our secret."</p> + +<p><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>Vonnie held the door open for Peter. "You come when we're all here," +she said. "There isn't a nickle's worth of harm in the lot of us. But +that Maria there is a vamp, a baby Spanish vamp. Will you remember +that."</p> + +<p>"I'll remember."</p> + +<p>As Peter went down the stairs he was trying to see if he could hum the +thing that Maria said was "The Invitation to the Waltz" by Weber. He +wasn't good at it. And besides it was all mixed up and racketing around +in his head with, "We'll be miss, miss, missed in Mississip."</p> + +<p>Peter went to the show the next night and after that the alley. He stood +scrunched up against a wall for a time but he felt too conspicuous. He +was afraid that somebody would come up to him suddenly and say, "What +are you hanging around here for?" It didn't make much difference who +said it, the door man, a stage hand, a scrub woman, anyone would have +sufficient authority to terrify him. His mind leaped beyond that and he +had a vision of a policeman laying a hand upon his shoulder and saying, +"I arrest you on the charge of mashing." After that would come the trial +and the sentence. Peter moved out of the alley. He had no notion of just +what were the fixed post rights<a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a> of anybody waiting at a stage door to +see an actress. Walking seemed safer and he took up a beat along the +side street which ran at right angles to the alley.</p> + +<p>His pace was brisk and he succeeded pretty well in developing the air of +a man bent upon getting to some important engagement five or six miles +away. Of course, every time he passed the alley it was possible to sweep +it with a glance over his shoulder. Even a man in a hurry has a right to +notice a tributary of chorus girls, musicians and actors sweeping into +his street. First came the musicians. Then one girl. Then two and +presently the flood. Peter did not dare to be too detached any more. +Fortunately he found the window of a cigar store just at the corner +where the alley turned into the street. By pretending an interest in the +special sale of genuine imported English briar pipes Peter was able to +keep close watch upon everyone who came from the stage door and at the +same time seem not quite a prominent clubman. But one of the pipes, +possibly the calabash cut to $2.21, must have commanded more than +fictitious interest, for Peter was suddenly startled by a clutch at his +left arm. He tugged away and turned at the same moment.<a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a></p> + +<p>"Unhand me, woman," said Vonnie, but she immediately took his arm again. +"I knew you'd come," she said. "It was that look you threw at me over +your shoulder when you went out yesterday."</p> + +<p>"I haven't come," said Peter. "I just happened to be going by."</p> + +<p>"But you are glad to see me?"</p> + +<p>"Of course I am."</p> + +<p>"And you'll walk home with me to keep me from being unprotected on the +streets of a great city at night. It's only about twelve blocks. You +don't need to take a taxi."</p> + +<p>"Honest, I can't. I wish I could. I'm awful sorry."</p> + +<p>Vonnie began to laugh. "I wonder why it is that when they come big they +haven't got any sense. 'I knew I could rule you the day we were wed,' +she hummed, 'for thick in the middle is thick in the head.'"</p> + +<p>"What did I do that was stupid? And I'm not thick in the middle."</p> + +<p>"Well, that's a fact. I don't know your name but your figure is grand. I +guess you find being so handsome you don't need any sense."<a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a></p> + +<p>"I have so too got sense. What have I done?"</p> + +<p>"Well, you're just so serious I can't go on kidding you. Don't you +suppose I knew you were waiting for Maria? And I know a lot more than +that. You keep looking at that girl the way you did yesterday afternoon +and all of a sudden you'll find rice in your ears."</p> + +<p>"All right," said Peter, "I guess I can stand that."</p> + +<p>"Here comes the bride—watch your step," and Vonnie went up the street +as Maria came around the corner.</p> + +<p>"Hello," said Maria, "what was it you talked about to Vonnie?"</p> + +<p>"She thinks we're going to get married."</p> + +<p>"And what is it you think?"</p> + +<p>"I'd like it."</p> + +<p>"Because I am the great dancer you think I ought to be the wife. So? It +is funny. But it is not so funny. We can talk about it again. Now I am +so tired that I just want to hear you say one thing and that is about +the dancing and me."</p> + +<p>"I think you were just fine," said Peter.<a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IIIa" id="CHAPTER_IIIa"></a>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>Maria was right. They did talk about it again and largely because Peter +surprised himself and her with enterprise. It was raining hard that +night when she came out into the alley. Peter grown bold was standing +not more than two feet away from the stage door at a spot where a +projecting fire escape offered some shelter from the rain. A big puddle +lay all the way across the alley.</p> + +<p>"Here," said Peter, almost casually and he picked Maria up and carried +her across.</p> + +<p>"Thank God, there's no winding staircase," Vonnie shouted after them.</p> + +<p>Still it was an entirely natural and easy thing to keep one arm around +Maria when they got into the taxicab. She rested her head against his +shoulder. Peter realized then that he ought to kiss her. After all he +had known her three weeks. It seemed the conventional thing to do. +Besides he wanted to. She said nothing until the second time.<a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a></p> + +<p>"I like the quiet ones better, Peter, my hermit. It is nice to lean +against you. With you the taxi does not jounce so much. Part of my +tiredness it goes into your arm."</p> + +<p>"Won't you marry me?" asked Peter.</p> + +<p>"Because we have kissed? And I have put my head on your shoulder? You +would make me the honest woman?"</p> + +<p>"I want to marry you."</p> + +<p>"First we must have some supper. Maybe it is that you are just hungry. +It is not upon an empty stomach to talk about getting married."</p> + +<p>Maria would not take the table which the headwaiter offered. "No that +other. The little one in the corner."</p> + +<p>After they had ordered Maria took up a long bread stick and began +breaking it into little pieces in her hand.</p> + +<p>"Peter," she said, "I must make you very sad. Maybe I will be a little +sad. You do not think I am good?"</p> + +<p>Peter stared at her.</p> + +<p>"That is too bad. I am not good, not very good. You know what I mean. +You have heard the actress in the play say, 'I am a good woman?' Maria<a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a> +is not. I do not know why I tell you but I will. First it was three +years ago in Paris. He was married and I knew that. I do not even like +him much but I go. It was wrong. It was not so wrong another time +because that boy I like a little. Now it was Mr. Casey, our manager, I +told you he was a fool. That I could not help. He is such a fool. I try +to get the job and he does not say you can dance. He say to me, 'I am a +nice man and you are a nice girl.' What is there for me to say except +'yes.' About the dance he does not know anything. What is the use for me +to say, 'No, I am not the nice girl, I am the great dancer.' Even if he +would watch me dance he would not know. And so for the week-end at Long +Beach I was the nice girl. I cannot help it that people are fools. It +does not make me sad, but I am sad because now you are unhappy."</p> + +<p>But Peter was not exactly unhappy. He knew that by all the rules he +should be broken-hearted or raging. He wondered why he had no impulse to +shoot Casey. As a matter of fact he could think of nothing more silly. +His mind kept turning back to a play he had seen once called "The Second +Mrs. Tanqueray." In that the heroine had confessed in the first act to +the man she was going to<a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a> marry. It was thrilling Peter found to have +somebody confessing to him. Maria the dancer was romantic, but Maria the +adventuress was a whole leap beyond that into the realm of fantasy. He +stole a glance around the long room and everywhere he saw men and women +talking. Some were laughing and some were earnest. "But," he thought to +himself, "probably this is the only table in the room where anybody is +making a confession."</p> + +<p>And besides all the dramatic values of the situation, he was not quite +unconscious of the comic ones. There sat Maria, at least five feet high +and looking about ten years old, gravely lifting up one corner of life a +little gingerly to spare the feelings of Peter Neale, the best known +sporting writer in America. But every other impression was swept away by +the sudden feeling that it was extraordinarily honest for Maria to tell +him all this. It was more than that. It was like cheering when the Yale +captain got up again. It was sportsmanship.</p> + +<p>Peter reached across the table and patted her hand. "I'm not sad, Maria. +I think it was awfully white of you to tell me. I'm not exactly a good +man myself. Anyhow things are different with you. Those things you said +are nothing. You know the<a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a> way I feel is that you're an artist and it's +nobody's business what you do. We don't have to talk about that any +more. There's something else. You remember what we were saying in the +taxicab. You've had two pieces of bread now and a glass of water. Won't +you marry me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Maria, "I'm going to marry you."</p> + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>Peter was surprised the day they went down to get the license to +discover that Maria was twenty-three. He was only twenty-six himself. +Maria had seemed a child. Nineteen would have been his guess.</p> + +<p>"Maybe," she said, "you will not want me because I am so old."</p> + +<p>"You could be a hundred," Peter answered.</p> + +<p>They were to be married the next day but when he met her at the theatre +in the evening she told him that Dolly Vance was ill and that Mr. Casey +wanted her to take over four of the sick girl's numbers. "I have to come +to the theatre at ten o'clock and rehearse all the day."</p> + +<p><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>"Then we'll get married at nine. I'm not going to take a chance like +that. I've read about it in books. The whole house will be cheering you +and then you'll ask for waivers on me. I want to get you signed up."</p> + +<p>"Pooh, for me they will not cheer. These are the jazz dances. They are +not for me. And Peter, oh, Peter, I must sing."</p> + +<p>"Can you sing?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, my hermit, I am almost so good a singer as a dancer. And I could +play the piano if there was any one smart enough to know. You see I +bring you the dowry."</p> + +<p>A very bored Alderman said that they were man and wife, but there was +some excitement when they came out of the City Hall and two newspaper +photographers took their pictures. Peter was proud of the fact that both +the camera men made a point of treating him as a person of a good deal +of importance. "You see," he said, "I'm somebody in my business."</p> + +<p>"The paper you work on what is the name?"</p> + +<p>"It's called the Bulletin."</p> + +<p>"And what is it they pay you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, with my share of the syndicate and all that it amounts to about +$100 a week."<a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a></p> + +<p>"One hundred dollars a week! That is funny. My pay it is $50. I have +caught a millionaire. Peter, why do they pay you $100 a week?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, Maria——"</p> + +<p>"One hundred dollars a week to write about the baseball game! Fifty +dollars a week to Maria Algarez. My God, what a country! I do not like +that, Peter. Still, it does not matter so much. Maybe I am glad that you +are rich. You can buy me a piano and I will show you that I know how to +play Chopin. You would like that."</p> + +<p>"That'll be fine," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"Where was it that you learned so much about this baseball that they pay +you $100 for the week?"</p> + +<p>"I used to play myself at Harvard. At least I played one year. I pitched +against Yale and shut 'em out. The next year I got fired because I +couldn't learn French."</p> + +<p>"But that is so easy, the French. I do not know what it is to shut Yale +out."</p> + +<p>"Of course it's easy for you. You lived there, you told me ever since +you were five. Any foreigner ought to be able to speak French."</p> + +<p>"But I am not. I am now the American, I know that. I am Mrs. Peter +Neale."<a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a></p> + +<p>"Oh," she said, and made a fearful grimace, "that you must never call +me. It must be that I am still Maria Algarez. Mrs. Peter Neale I do not +know. Maria Algarez she will not die. Oh no, Peter, you understand +that?"</p> + +<p>"It's all right with me," said Peter. "I'm just going to call you Maria +any way."</p> + +<p>"And, Peter, I forgot, you have a father and a mother and the relations +for me to meet."</p> + +<p>"Not a one. I've got an uncle in Salt Lake City. That's a long way off +if you don't know. But how about you?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe, who can tell. They are no good. I do not care. Perhaps they are +dead. Peter, you are all I have in the world. That is why you must buy +me the grand piano."</p> + +<p>They went straight from the City Hall to the theatre and Peter left her. +He was not to see her again until after the performance. Of course he +went to the show and sat in the second row. But Maria did not see him +when she came on to do the first of her new numbers. Or at any rate she +made no sign of recognition. She kept her eyes intently on the +conductor's baton. And then she began to sing. Even Peter had an inkling +of the fact that<a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a> here was a lovely voice. If he had not been married to +Maria Algarez at nine o'clock that morning he would still have been +caught up in the excitement of the theatre. Almost everybody stopped +coughing. They honestly cheered and they kept it up. Nine times Maria +sang the chorus and five times more she came out to bow. Her fourth song +was the last number in the play with the exception of the parade of all +the nations and nobody paid any attention to that. They just kept on +applauding and shouting. Peter argued with the stage door man.</p> + +<p>"I have to see Maria Algarez," he said. "I have to, I tell you. I'm her +husband."</p> + +<p>"Write your name down on a piece of paper, and I'll take it up and see +what she says."</p> + +<p>In three or four minutes he returned. "Miss Algarez says you're to come +up. It's number twelve. Two flights up at the head of the stairs."</p> + +<p>Peter knocked.</p> + +<p>"Come in," said Maria. She had thrown the blue and gold costume in a +corner, and slipped on a kimono.</p> + +<p>"It was marvelous," said Peter; "nobody's ever heard anything like it in +a theatre. They're still cheering and applauding for you."<a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a></p> + +<p>"For all that applause I do not give a damn," answered Maria and snapped +her fingers. "As long as you like. That is all."</p> + +<p>Peter kissed her. "Maria, I was afraid I'd lost you." He held her at +arm's length and the kimono slipped down over one shoulder. "Cover +yourself up," said Peter almost sharply. Maria pulled the wrap back and +folded it closely around her. Peter had never seen that smile before.</p> + +<p>"A husband," she said. "It is different."<a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IVa" id="CHAPTER_IVa"></a>CHAPTER IV</h3> + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>Maria blamed a good many things upon the institution of marriage for +which the explanation probably lay elsewhere. If Peter had been a lover +rather than a husband he would still have been insensitive to Chopin. In +all the range of Maria's repertoire he was never able to detect more +than a single tune. That itself seemed to him an achievement for the +Fantaisie Impromptu had not yet been discovered to be actually, "I'm +Always Chasing Rainbows." But as a matter of fact Peter did not really +understand Maria Algarez any better than he understood Chopin. He loved +her throughout the year of their married life but he was not happy.</p> + +<p>"It is the curse of the witch on you," she said, "or maybe it is not the +witch but that America of yours. There is something in you, Peter, that +will not let you be happy. You are afraid of it. Of me you are afraid, +Peter."<a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a></p> + +<p>He protested that this was not so but Maria knew better.</p> + +<p>"Love—what you call sex—that is one of the things which has frightened +you the most of any. Somebody has put black thoughts into that head. +Yes, I tell you it is so. A terrible thing has been done to you. +Somebody has brought you up carefully."</p> + +<p>But in an instant she had come across the room to him and had a +protecting arm about him.</p> + +<p>"Now I have made you the more sad. You must tell me what it is."</p> + +<p>"I can't, Maria. I don't know whether I know. But anyhow I can't."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it is the sound of it which you fear. You tell me. You must. +Whisper it."</p> + +<p>Peter did whisper. "You remember that night you told me—— you told me +about the others."</p> + +<p>"You mean those oh so few lovers. But that did not make you sad then. +You were not angry."</p> + +<p>"I'm not angry now. But I can't help it, Maria, that I worry."</p> + +<p>"And for what do you worry?"<a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a></p> + +<p>"I think that maybe those other lovers they made you happier than I +can."</p> + +<p>"So! That I should have known. You think you are not the so great lover. +These men they are gone but they are still your rivals. Perhaps I +remember. That is it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Peter.</p> + +<p>He was startled when Maria laughed.</p> + +<p>"Why do you laugh at me?"</p> + +<p>"It is to you like the baseball game. It is what you call it? Oh yes, a +competition."</p> + +<p>Peter made no answer.</p> + +<p>"Now listen to me, Peter. You I love the most of anybody in the world. I +tell you that but it is not enough. You still worry. Something I must do +to show you. This blackness I must drive away. Peter, you must have a +baby. Yes, it is a son you need. Then you can worry about him."</p> + +<p>Maria spoke upon the conviction but also upon impulse and babies are not +born that way. The time of her trial beat fiercely upon her. She had to +quit the show just a day after a new rôle and several new songs were +promised to her. During the last three months of her pregnancy she never +left the apartment. "I do not want anybody to<a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a> point at me," she told +Peter, "and say that is Maria Algarez who did the Butterfly Dance in +'Adios.'"</p> + +<p class="dotts">. . . . . . . . . .</p> + +<p>In the note which Dr. Clay handed to Peter, Maria had written: "I did +keep my promise. It is a baby and a son. That was all I promised. More I +cannot do. Peter, I must be Maria Algarez, the dancer. I cannot be the +wife and the mother. You should not be sad altogether. I think it is +good that we have met. When you look at your son you will forget some of +the rubbish that was in your head. That is more than that you should +remember Maria Algarez. And the boy, Peter, remember it is fair that +from life he should get fun. Thank God, nobody can ever make of him the +wife and mother. Miss Haine says he is like me. If that is so, Peter, +you may have much trouble. But leave him just a little bad."</p> + +<p>The last sentence was hard to decipher. Peter could not make out whether +Maria had written, "I love you," or "I loved you."</p> + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>Peter must have gone to sleep eventually on the sofa in the reception +room of Dr. Clay's hospital.<a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a> It was almost dark when he woke. He had +been dreaming hard. In the dream some vague figure, forgotten by the +time he awoke, presented him with a small lion cub as a pet. Throughout +the dream Peter worried about the lion cub. The apartment house in which +he lived had a strict rule against dogs. The janitor did not actually +come into the dream, but much of Peter's sleeping consciousness was +concerned with planning arguments for that official. "But it isn't a +dog," Peter was prepared to say, "it's a lion. Your rules don't say +anything about lions. Anyhow it's only a little lion." There had been a +lion cub in Battling Nelson's camp and Peter had often watched the +fighter fool around with it and slap the animal when it tried to nip +him. Nelson had a trick of rubbing the rough stubble of his beard +against the lion's nose. Peter hated that.</p> + +<p>Disentangling himself from his dream he decided that his nightmare had +been an echo he remembered from Goldfield. It took him several minutes +to get himself back from the Nevada fight to the hospital in New York. +While he slept he had forgotten that Maria had run away and that his son +was in a room upstairs. He was about to skirmish out in search<a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a> of one +of the nurses when Dr. Clay came into the room.</p> + +<p>"Feeling any better?" asked the doctor.</p> + +<p>"I feel all right. I'm all ready to take the baby now."</p> + +<p>"You don't need to be in any hurry about that, Mr. Neale. Better let him +stay till tomorrow. It's after six now. Suppose we go up and watch the +little fellow get bathed. I asked Miss Haine to postpone that so you +could see him."</p> + +<p>Peter realized that his presence at the bath seemed to be obligatory in +the mind of the doctor. He went up the stairs to the same room which he +had visited the fortnight before when he rushed away from the poker +game. There could be no possible question about finding the right door +for the hall was filled with loud howling.</p> + +<p>"They never like it," said Dr. Clay.</p> + +<p>"Is there any other reason for doing it?" asked Peter, but the physician +made no answer.</p> + +<p>The baby was propped up against one end of the tub rubbing at his eyes +and Miss Haine was sloshing his chest with water from a sponge.</p> + +<p>She looked up and said, "He's just fine, Mr. Neale. I'm not really +hurting him."<a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a></p> + +<p>Peter found that a dim shadow of personality had descended upon his son +in the two weeks since he had last seen him. The face was too crowded +with tears and fingers to make much of an impression, but Peter, making +room for the doctor, walked around behind the tub and from the shoulders +of the child he received his first thrill. They were square high +shoulders without the suggestion of a curve. Christy Mathewson, the +rookie pitcher of the Giants, whom Peter Neale had recently hailed in +his column as a coming baseball star had shoulders just like that. And +it was a fine assertive chest.</p> + +<p>"He'll be a big man some day," said Miss Haine lifting up one of the +baby's feet. "Remember he's got to grow up to these."</p> + +<p>But no sooner was his foot lifted than the child began to howl louder +than ever. Peter suddenly reached toward him.</p> + +<p>"Look out," cried Miss Haine in alarm. "You mustn't touch his head."</p> + +<p>Peter cared nothing about the head. It was the high boxed shoulders +which he wanted, for some reason, to touch. He patted the child twice. +"I wouldn't cry like that," he said. But the child continued.<a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a></p> + +<p>"He thinks I put soap in his eyes," explained Miss Haine. "Tell him I +didn't."</p> + +<p>Peter thought it would be silly to say anything like that to the baby. +He patted him twice more and said, "There, there."</p> + +<p>"You're going to have your bottle in just a minute now," cooed Miss +Haine, drying the child with a vigor which it resented. She put him back +into his crib and presented the bottle.</p> + +<p>Instantly he ceased crying and drank noisily. He drank a good deal more +than he could conveniently swallow and milk began to spill out at the +corners of his mouth. The flash of interest which had animated Peter +died away. Indeed his feeling slumped down through indifference to +dislike.</p> + +<p>"I suppose," said Miss Haine, "you're going to keep him on cow's milk +from now on."</p> + +<p>"Cow's milk?" said Peter. "That's what he's got in the bottle now, isn't +it? It's all right for him, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"In theory," said Dr. Clay, "bottle babies don't do quite so well, but +it doesn't make much difference. I imagine more than half the children +in New York today are brought up on bottles."</p> + +<p>"By the way," he continued, "I don't want to<a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a> pry into your affairs, Mr. +Neale, but I suppose the little fellow's got a grandmother or somebody +you can turn him over to."</p> + +<p>"No," said Peter, "he hasn't got any grandmother that I know of. I guess +we'll just have to get along without one."</p> + +<p>"I can give you the telephone number of an agency where you could get a +trained nurse for him. That would insure expert care for a month or so +while you're looking around trying to make some more permanent +arrangement."</p> + +<p>Peter shook his head. He had come to hate the hospital. Any starched +person would remind him constantly of Maria and her letter and her +running away.</p> + +<p>"I think I've got somebody," he said. He was thinking of Kate. She had +been part of his life before he met Maria. And then there couldn't be +any scandal concerning Kate. She was about sixty. Before the baby was +born Kate had discussed the possibility of his paying her more than she +got for part time housekeeping and letting her be a nurse for the child.</p> + +<p>"Well, whoever you get," advised Dr. Clay, "I want you to buy this book. +I'll write it down for<a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a> you—it's Dr. Kerley's, I've always found it the +best—and have her follow the directions carefully."</p> + +<p>Peter put the slip in his pocket. "I'll come around for the baby at +ten," he said. He took one more glance at the crib, but the milk +guzzling still continued. He left without saying goodbye to anybody +except Miss Haine and Dr. Clay. As he went out the front door he +suddenly said, "Damn!" He remembered that Kate couldn't read.<a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_Va" id="CHAPTER_Va"></a>CHAPTER V</h3> + +<p>On the way back to the flat in West Sixty-sixth Street, Peter stopped at +a store and asked for Dr. Kerley's book. The clerk was sorry that it was +not in stock. Of course he could order it.</p> + +<p>"I want something right away," said Peter. They rummaged around on a +shelf marked miscellaneous and found, "Your Child," and "The Christian +Nursery." Neither seemed from its title quite to answer the needs of +Peter, but since there was nothing else he took them both. Arriving at +his flat in West Sixty-sixth Street three doors away from Central Park, +Peter found Kate on hand. He had seen her just for a minute on his +return from Goldfield but not since he had learned his news at the +hospital. He did not know whether or not she knew.</p> + +<p>"My wife's gone away," he said. "And she won't be back."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," replied Kate. Peter liked her for that. Whether she was +surprised or not she made no sign.<a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a></p> + +<p>"Now," he continued, "I've got to bring the baby back here tomorrow. +It's a boy. There isn't anybody I know to turn him over to. I want you +to come and live here and be his nurse. I'll pay you fifteen dollars a +week. You remember you said you would come for ten when we were talking +about it before. I'm going to pay you more because you'll have to do the +whole job now."</p> + +<p>"I want one night a week off, Mr. Neale," said Kate.</p> + +<p>"That'll be all right if you make it Sunday. I guess I can learn enough +to take care of him once a week. I've got a couple of books here that +tell how to do it. This baby's going to be brought up right, Kate. I +want you to read these books too."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Neale, I've broke my glasses and I can't see print at all without +them. I'm an old woman, Mr. Neale."</p> + +<p>"That's all right, Kate, I'll read you some of it so we can be ready for +this baby when he comes tomorrow. Don't stand up. Sit down, Kate. This +is called 'Your Child.' It's written by a woman named Alice Carter +Scott."</p> + +<p>Peter opened the book and decided to skip the preface.<a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a></p> + +<p>"I had a sister in Brooklyn once," said Kate, "that was married to a man +named Scott. She's dead these ten years, God rest her soul."</p> + +<p>"It says," began Peter, skimming over the first page and deciding that a +summary would be sufficient, "that the most important task in the world +and the greatest blessing is to bring up children."</p> + +<p>"'The first years of the child's life'" he read, "'roughly speaking from +birth to the age of six, constitute the most important period of the +child's whole existence.'"</p> + +<p>He skimmed ahead again until he found a heading, "Constructive +Suggestions."</p> + +<p>"'First of all,'" he read, "'I would say that the home cannot be a +normal home unless the mother herself is a normal being—— '"</p> + +<p>Peter tried to skip ahead rapidly. "'She must learn to discriminate +between the essentials and the non-essentials in life. She must give the +best of herself to important things and she must learn to eliminate or +subordinate the non-important—'" Here Peter broke off and put the book +down.</p> + +<p>"This doesn't seem to be much good for us," he said. "It's all too +general. Maybe we can get something more out of this one. This one's +called<a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a> 'The Christian Nursery,' That doesn't sound much good, but we'll +see. 'Functions of the Family—.' 'The Functions of the family in human +life are five-fold: (1) biological; (2) educational; (3) moral; (4) +social; (5) religious.'"</p> + +<p>He put it down impatiently. "These aren't what I wanted at all. I'll +have to go and get that Dr. Kerley book they told me about in the +hospital. I can get it in the morning."</p> + +<p>"Begging your pardon, Mr. Neale," said Kate, "there's no need for me to +have a book about babies. I raised five children and buried four. I'm +not saying, mind you, that books aren't the great things for wisdom but +it's not wisdom that little children do be needing. The Blessed Virgin +herself, she didn't have to read in no books. I'll be bringing him up +like he was my own son, Mr. Neale, and that's better than you'll be +finding in all your fine books."</p> + +<p>Peter was disposed to argue the proposition that all a woman needs to +know about motherhood can be learned by having some children, but Kate +got up and walked out into the kitchen to show that the interview was +over. Peter never did get around to buying Dr. Kerley even for his own +education. Still<a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a> he could not quite dismiss the little he had read that +night. He could not remember whether it was in the Christian book or the +other that he had come across the paragraph about the mother—"She must +learn to discriminate between the essentials and the non-essentials in +life." He wondered whether it was essential that Maria should devote +herself to the gurgling little child who cried about everything but +spilt milk, or that she should go on dancing to the strains of that tune +by Weber. He tried to hum it and couldn't. Then he sat and thought for a +long time. In reply to a question from Kate he said that he didn't want +any dinner. He was going out. Would she please be at the flat at ten +o'clock as he expected to have the baby back by that time.</p> + +<p>Presently Kate went out. Peter sat by the window and looked up towards +the park. He could catch a glimpse of it by leaning out. There was a +moon. A wind whipped through the trees and they were swaying back and +then rushing forward again whenever the gusts gave them an opening. That +was a sort of dance. He turned away from the window. There was nothing +in the room to remind him of Maria except the grand piano. He would get +rid of that. His mind began to lose its ache.<a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a> He could accept the fact +that Maria had gone. He would remember her now always as he had seen her +that first night standing still in the centre of the stage just before +she began to dance. The sight of Maria washing a baby would have been +queer. It was all right for nurses and old Irish women and sporting +writers to mess around with babies and soap and rubber-tipped milk +bottles. Somehow or other he was glad he had never seen the greatest +dancer in all the world with a mouth full of safety pins.<a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIa" id="CHAPTER_VIa"></a>CHAPTER VI</h3> + +<p>Miss Haine seemed somewhat surprised when Peter arrived at the hospital +alone the next morning. "You're not going to carry him back yourself?" +she said.</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Have you ever held a baby?"</p> + +<p>Peter thought back. "Not such a little one," he admitted.</p> + +<p>"Well then, watch me," she said. "See, take him like this. If you don't +he's sure to cry."</p> + +<p>"But he's crying now," protested Peter.</p> + +<p>"That's for some other reason. It isn't because I'm holding him wrong. +All little babies cry a good deal at first. It's good for them. Any time +a small baby doesn't cry a certain number of hours a day there's +something wrong. You see he isn't big enough to walk, or crawl, or even +roll around much and crying is the way he gets his exercise. He's +getting air into his little lungs now."<a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a></p> + +<p>"There isn't anything to be done about it?" Peter wanted to know.</p> + +<p>"Well, of course, you must look first of all to see if there is any real +reason for his crying. His skin is very sensitive. There might be a pin +sticking in him. It might be that his clothes need to be changed." Miss +Haine paused. "Yes, he wants to be changed now."</p> + +<p>Peter made a step toward the door, "Oh, you'll have to learn this," said +Miss Haine. "Watch me."</p> + +<p>At the moment she seemed skilful. For the first time Peter appreciated +the fact that she really was trained. But he did not know until after +months of subsequent experience just what a marvel he was permitted to +observe. In the course of a year or so he made progress. His improvement +was tangible enough to be demonstrated in figures. Neale was given to +statistics. He was the first sporting writer to keep separate averages +for batters against right and lefthanded pitching. It was Peter Neale +who proved years later that there were definite exceptions to the +accepted theory that lefthanded batters do badly against southpaws. He +was able to show that through one entire campaign Ty Cobb batted 11.692 +points better against lefthanders than<a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a> he did against righthanders. In +much the same spirit Peter used a stop watch on himself while he was +engaged in the task of changing the child. In twelve months time he was +pleased to observe that his record was gradually cut down from nineteen +minutes to five and a half. Later he wished it had been his privilege to +time Miss Haine at this first demonstration. He was sportsman enough to +admit that in all probability even his best performance after months of +practice was markedly inferior to hers. Indeed he would not have been a +bit surprised to learn that she had established a world's record before +his very eyes. Even as a novice in the matter he knew that he had seen a +marvel.</p> + +<p>After all, in spite of Peter's ignorance of babies he did have a +reportorial eye. It took him no more than a few seconds to observe that +Miss Haine's phrase, "He wants to be changed," was not a particularly +nice use of English. There seemed to be nothing in the world which the +child wanted less. He screamed as Peter, at that time, had never heard +him scream, and kicked prodigiously. Many months later when Peter had +begun to perfect himself in the technique of the task he felt that +perhaps he would not do at all badly in any competition limited<a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a> to +participants who were also parents. He was never able to challenge in +any way the complete mastery of Miss Haine because she was endowed with +a complete indifference. She did not allow the screaming to interfere +with her efficiency in any way. The kicking never worried or angered +her. She acted as if it were a natural hazard.</p> + +<p>"There's a nice dry child for you," she said at the end of an interval +which Peter subsequently estimated to have been three minutes and twenty +seconds. He was also a silent child until Peter picked him up.</p> + +<p>"Put your right hand a little lower and raise your left," advised Miss +Haine. "Remember he isn't strong enough yet to hold up his head all by +himself."</p> + +<p>Peter obeyed at the moment, but he grew to have a certain contempt for +all established canons of good form in regard to holding a baby. Indeed +he eventually wrote an article for one of the magazines in which he +maintained: "There are one hundred and fifty-two distinctly different +ways of holding a baby—and all are right! At least all will do." He +based this contention on the fact that the body of a small baby is soft +and pliable and that a person<a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a> with a strong pair of hands can get a +grip pretty much any place he chooses. Still, for the moment he obeyed +instructions implicitly and went down the stairs gingerly and out to the +taxicab.</p> + +<p>"That's a fine husky kid you've got there," said the driver. "Is it +yours?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Peter somewhat ashamed and annoyed by the fact that a +suggestion of pride crept into his voice quite against his will. "It's +my son."</p> + +<p>"He certainly knows how to yell," said the driver. "I've got five but he +beats 'em all."</p> + +<p>Curiously enough the child ceased crying the instant the taxi started. +The motion of the journey and possibly the sight of the trees and the +river and the ships seemed to have a certain interest for it. The mouth +opened into something that might have been a grin.</p> + +<p>"That's Grant's Tomb," said Peter before he realized that whatever +interest in the proceedings the child actually had it could hardly be +pinned down to the particular. Climbing the two flights of stairs which +led to his apartment, Peter knocked at the door briskly. Somehow or +other the baby had begun to slip through his fingers and he found it +impossible to reach the pocket in his vest where he<a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a> kept his keys. +There was no answer. Peter knocked again and still nobody came. Heaving +the baby up over his shoulder he found the key after trying three wrong +pockets and went into the flat. There was no one about. Kate had not +arrived. Peter was alone with his son.</p> + +<p>Panic descended upon him. He remembered, "His skin is very sensitive. A +pin may be sticking into him," and he wondered if in the event of such +an emergency he could possibly locate the trouble. He was still more +doubtful of his ability to do anything else which might be necessary. +Even in the taxicab, Peter had not felt wholly alone. After all the +driver had said that he was the father of five. This was reassuring to +Peter. He had a mind which hopped ahead. He had been quite alive to the +arrival of a contingency upon which he would find it necessary to tap +upon the window and say, "Never mind the car for a minute. What should I +do now?"</p> + +<p>Fortunately, the conduct of the baby was more admirable than anything +Peter had yet known. He put it in the middle of the bed where it +promptly went to sleep. Peter sat in a chair close by and watched. +Suddenly something happened which<a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a> startled him. Without waking the +child rolled over and buried its head in the pillow face downward. Peter +knew that it would not smother. He had slept exactly that way himself +for twenty-five years.</p> + +<p>There was no clock in the house and Peter had no notion of how long he +waited. Presently the child woke and began to cry petulantly. A search +for pins was resented and the wailing took on its characteristic vigor.</p> + +<p>"Don't do that," said Peter. He picked the child up, carried it to the +window and back again without good results. Then he said, "Listen!" +Peter cleared his throat. "Rockabye, baby, on the tree top," he began +but to no avail. He wasn't very sure of the tune. There was only one +song of which he was confident. "Oh, Harvard was old Harvard when Yale +was but a pup," struck up Peter. "And Harvard will be Harvard still when +Yale is all gone up, And if any Eli son of a——."</p> + +<p>Instinctively Peter began to hum the rest. It did not seem to him just +the sort of song he should sing to his baby. And yet it proved exactly +right. The child went off to sleep again and remained that way while +Peter disentangled it. A few minutes later Kate came in. "I was +thinking, Mr. Neale," she<a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a> said, "that there was no clothes for the +child." She stepped across to the bed. "Oh, the little angel. Now the +deep sleep does be on him. I found some old things and brought them. I +hope he was no trouble to you."</p> + +<p>"No," said Peter, mopping his forehead. "He wasn't so much trouble. Have +you got everything you need? I'm going to leave you some money for milk +and food and things. Can you stay with him right along now till your day +off?"</p> + +<p>"I can that."</p> + +<p>"Well, let's see. This is Tuesday. I'm going out for awhile. I won't be +back tonight. Maybe I won't be back tomorrow. Anyhow I'll be back before +Sunday. Take good care of him."</p> + +<p>Peter had to steady himself going down the stairs to the street. He was +shaky and wringing with perspiration. He felt as if he had pitched a +nine inning game with the score nothing to nothing all the way. He just +had to get out of the house. The ache which had died down the night +before was back again. "I guess I've got to get drunk," thought Peter.<a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIIa" id="CHAPTER_VIIa"></a>CHAPTER VII</h3> + +<p>When Peter reached the corner he found that it was only half-past +twelve. It was much too early to get drunk. Daylight drinking had always +seemed to him disgusting. As a matter of fact, he was contemplating the +spree merely as a means to an end. In order to forget Maria he must +think of someone else and it would suit his purpose that the other +person should be someone rowdy and degraded. He would rub himself with +mud to ease the numbness of his spirit. He knew that he could never do +it without drinking. First many gates must be unlocked. Maria had been +right when she said that Peter was afraid of sex. When he was quite a +small boy somebody had told him about flowers and it meant nothing to +him. It had seemed merely a fairy story rather more dull than usual. +Much later a red-haired boy who lived five houses away had talked to +Peter and frightened and disgusted him. After that he had run away when +other boys tried to tell him anything about these mysteries. Of course<a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a> +his squeamishness had been marked and he became the butt of every +youngster with any talent for smut. Finding that flight was useless +Peter adopted a new system and fought fiercely with anyone who taunted +him. He was bigger and stronger than most of the other boys and he soon +piled up an imposing list of victims to his prowess. He fought so well +that his ignorance remained almost unimpaired. Once when he was in the +act of belaboring a companion who had tried to outline for him the plot +of a book called "Only A Boy," a woman passing by had interrupted the +fight. She wanted to know if Peter was not ashamed of himself. +Defensively he answered that the other boy had been "talking dirty." +Immediately the passerby deluged Peter with admiration. She took down +his name and address and later he received by mail a Bible, leather +bound, and on the flyleaf was the inscription "To a young Sir Galahad." +Peter never took any particular pride in this gift.</p> + +<p>He knew in his heart that his purity rested solidly on fear. He burned +with curiosity. At times he actually invited lewd confidences though +making every pretence of anger when they were imparted to him. Respite +came to him for a year or two before<a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a> he went to college because +athletics became his god. He excelled all competitors in school and was +generally rated the best right-handed pitcher in the metropolitan +district. Baseball filled all his thoughts waking and sleeping, and in +the autumn it was football, although in this branch of sport he was by +no means as proficient. Indeed when he went to Harvard at the age of +seventeen he was dropped from the varsity squad in the first cut and +later from the freshmen.</p> + +<p>At this particular time, when he was much more foot-loose than usual, +the annual medical lecture to the Freshmen was delivered. It was known +in unofficial circles as Smut One and attendance was compulsory. Very +gravely and severely the old doctor unfolded his tale of horrors. The +spirit was not unlike that of a traditional hell-fire sermon. Peter +heard the man half through and then fainted, toppling over from his seat +across an aisle. He was carried downstairs into the fresh air and did +not come back. But he had heard enough to be convinced that this sex +business was even worse than it had seemed in the crude and rowdy +flashes which had come to him from his companions. And yet the fact that +it was horrible by no means served to<a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a> keep his thoughts clear of the +subject. The doctor had talked entirely of the dangers and disgraces of +immorality. Peter could not escape the only partially conscious surmise +that unspeakable delights and wonders must lie within this circle of +leaping flames. This impression was confirmed when he happened in the +college library to come across a poem by Carew called "The Rapture." Sex +seemed to him now by far the most romantic and adventurous thing in +life. The fact that there were monsters and dragons to be dared made it +all the more a piece with the unforgotten tales of childhood concerning +giant killers and knights-errant.</p> + +<p>Peter was no longer satisfied to be Galahad. He wanted to be Launcelot. +And still he was afraid. He found out that Columbus Avenue in Boston was +a street largely given over to women and night after night he used to +slink about dark corners hoping and dreading that somebody would speak +to him. Whenever a "Hello dearie" came to him out of the darkness Peter +trembled. "No," he would say, "I'm sorry. I've got a very important +engagement. I've got to go right along. I must go right along. Sure, +I'll be here at this same time tomorrow night."</p> + +<p>Often he would carry on some such dialogue a<a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a> dozen times in an evening +and then one night a woman, more stalwart and audacious than any he had +yet encountered, seized him by the arm. "Sonny," she said, "I'm not +going to let you waste my time. You're not going any place except with +me. Now march along."</p> + +<p>Peter marched. That was why he told Maria Algarez that he was not quite +a good man himself.</p> + +<p>For a time disillusion supplanted turmoil in the mind of Peter. He found +that the romanticists were just as fraudulent as the moralists. Don Juan +seemed to him as great a fake as Galahad. Besides in the spring the call +for baseball candidates came along and Peter surprised the college world +by being the only Freshman to win a place on the varsity nine. He +pitched the second game against Yale and won by a score of 2 to 0. Life +meant something after all. Bending a third strike across the knees of a +man with a Y on his chest gave a dignity to existence which it had never +before possessed. Peter was done with hot thoughts and cold ones. +Unfortunately he was also done with thoughts about examinations. French +was his most abject failure, but he did badly enough in everything else +to be told that his college days were over.<a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a></p> + +<p>Still he was bereft of romance for no more than a month. He caught on +with the sporting department of the Bulletin early in August and made an +almost instantaneous hit. Here again he found satisfaction in the gait +and color of life. Women were not rigorously excluded from the scheme of +things, but they were not important. He saw them in the dance halls +where he went after hours and talked to them and drank with them, but +they served merely as minor characters. The talk which animated this +existence for Peter was all of the shop. A reporter from San Francisco, +named Rusk, suddenly discovered to his amazement and delight that here +was a man eager to hear his tales of newspaper work along the waterfront +in the days when the coast towns were still unregenerate. Everybody else +on the Bulletin was in the habit of groaning loudly whenever Rusk began, +"In the old days on the waterfront——," but Peter listened with the +most intense sort of interest to Rusk's entire stock of anecdotes. By +and by Rusk had to make them up. He gave himself a boyhood as a jockey +and also enlisted fictionally in the Spanish American war. Peter +believed everything and liked everything. Four months later Rusk left +the Bulletin in order to<a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a> try his hand at free lancing for the +magazines. His failure in that field surprised him. He had come to +confuse Peter Neale and the general public.</p> + +<p class="c">. . . . . . . . . .</p> + +<p>Peter began his spree by going to the Newspaper Club. He found no one in +the big room except two old men playing chess. One of them did weather +and the other fish on the New York Press. They were not communicative +and neither seemed disposed to be drawn into conversation. And so for a +time Peter watched the game. He found it impossible to work up any +enthusiasm about the issue and departed to practice pool on a table at +the other end of the room. Caring nothing about performance, Peter was +surprised to discover that the most difficult shots all came off. +Nothing was too hard. Even the most fantastically complicated +combinations plopped the required ball into a pocket.</p> + +<p>Far from being pleased at this Peter grew angry. He felt that Fate was +ironically evening up things for him by burdening him with luck and +prowess in something which made no difference and withholding its favor +in all the important aspects of life. Testing<a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a> out his theory he picked +up a straggler, a man he knew but slightly, who happened to wander into +the club at that moment.</p> + +<p>"I'll roll you Indian dice," challenged Peter. "A dollar a throw."</p> + +<p>Good luck continued to plague him although he knew that its attentions +were not honorable! At the end of three quarters of an hour Peter was +$85 ahead.</p> + +<p>"That's enough," he said with irritation.</p> + +<p>"You're not going to quit now that you've got me in the hole," protested +his opponent. "Aren't you going to give me a chance to get back?"</p> + +<p>"You wouldn't have any chance. If we keep up I'm sure to win hundreds of +dollars from you. Nobody can beat me just now. Look here if you don't +believe me I'll give you a chance. I'll bet you a hundred dollars to ten +on one roll."</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with you, Neale?" asked the loser. "Are you soused?"</p> + +<p>"Not yet," said Peter. "You're not taking any advantage of me. I tell +you I know. I can't lose. Go ahead and roll."</p> + +<p>"All right, if you want to throw money away it's not my fault."<a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a></p> + +<p>He took the leather cup and rolled a pair of sixes. Peter slammed the +dice down and four aces and a five danced out.</p> + +<p>"No more," said Peter. "It's no use. That's $95 you owe me."</p> + +<p>"Would you mind if I held you up on that till next week? I'm sort of +busted just now."</p> + +<p>"No hurry, anytime'll do."</p> + +<p>"Ninety-five, that's right, isn't it? Lend me $5 that'll make it an even +hundred. Easier to remember."</p> + +<p>Peter gave him the five. He knew that even in his gambling triumphs +there would be some catch. Wandering over to the bar alone he had two +Martinis and then a Bronx but nothing seemed to happen. Looking at his +watch he found that it was still only a little after three and he went +up town to Fourteenth Street to a burlesque house. The show was called +"Dave Shean's Joy Girls." When Peter came in Shean as a German comedian +with a false stomach and a red wig had just volunteered to take the +place of the bullfighter played by the straight man.</p> + +<p>"Do you think you can kill the bull?" asked the straight man.<a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a></p> + +<p>"I don't know dot I kills him," said Shean, "but I can throw him."</p> + +<p>It annoyed Peter that everybody else in the theatre laughed so loudly.</p> + +<p>"Yesterday," continued the real toreador, "I killed four bulls in the +arena."</p> + +<p>"I had him for breakfast."</p> + +<p>"What are you talking about? What did you have for breakfast?"</p> + +<p>"Farina."</p> + +<p>Peter thought he would go but he waited in the hope that it might get +better. Presently Shean and the tall man got into an argument. The +serious one of the pair contended that Otto Schmaltz, the character +played by Shean, did not have a whole shirt on his back.</p> + +<p>"I bet you! I bet you!" shouted Schmaltz dancing about and patting the +other man on the cheek. They came close to the footlights and placed +huge piles of stage money side by side.</p> + +<p>"Now," said the big man, "the bet is you haven't got a whole shirt on +your back."</p> + +<p>"Ches," replied Schmaltz.</p> + +<p>"Why, you poor pusillanimous, transcendental, ossified little shrimp, +you," said the big man. "Of<a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a> course you haven't got a whole shirt on +your back. Half of it is on the front."</p> + +<p>"Ha! Ha! Ha!" he continued sneeringly and kicked the little man +resoundingly while the crowd screamed.</p> + +<p>Later Schmaltz bet with somebody else taking the other side of the +contention, but again he lost because when it came time for the tag line +he grew confused and shouted. "Why, you poor pussaliniment, +tramps-on-a-dimple, oysterfied little shrimp, you, half of de back is on +the front." And again the fortune of Schmaltz was swept away and again +he was kicked.</p> + +<p>Possibly the three cocktails had begun to have some effect after all or +it may have been something else, but at any rate Peter was no longer +merely bored by all these happenings. His sensation was just as +unpleasant, but it was acute. Somehow or other the story of Schmaltz and +the shirt had made him sad.</p> + +<p>"Schmaltz is on me," he thought. "Schmaltz is everybody. Getting fooled +and getting kicked." His musing became more vague. "Half of the back is +on the front," seemed to take form as a tragic complaint against life. +He and Schmaltz they<a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a> couldn't have it whole because "half of the back +is on the front."</p> + +<p>More disturbing moralizing was yet to come from the book of "Dave +Shean's Joy Girls." The next entertainers were the Mulligan Brothers, +female impersonators. One played the part of Clara and the other was +Margie.</p> + +<p>"The sailors on that ship was awful," began Clara. "The sailors on that +ship was just awful. The poor girl was sinking there in the water and +they wouldn't let her into the lifeboat. Every time she came up, Margie, +one of the sailors hit her over the head with an oar."</p> + +<p>Margie began to laugh stridently.</p> + +<p>"What are you laughing for, Margie? Did you hear what I was telling you? +I said every time the poor girl came up a sailor hit her over the head +with an oar."</p> + +<p>"Wasn't she the fool to come up," said Margie.</p> + +<p>Peter knew that was not a joke. Here was his case against life summed up +in a sentence. Idiots about him were laughing. Couldn't they see the +bitterness of it. "Wasn't she the fool to come up!" That was his folly. +He was going on taking the buffeting of the oars and for no reason. And +yet he knew perfectly<a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a> well that he would continue to come up no matter +what blows fell about his head and shoulders. There was no use making +any resolve to quit it all. Peter had no facility for suicide. He did +not dare and he tried to justify himself in this unwillingness.</p> + +<p>"After all," he thought, "it would be a pretty rotten trick to play on +Kate. I promised her she could have Sunday off."</p> + +<p>One piece of positive action he could and did take. He did not wait to +gather any further pessimistic contributions to cosmic philosophy from +"Dave Shean's Joy Girls," but walked out in the middle of Shean's +drunken act. The comedian was pretending that the edge of the stage was +the brass rail along a bar. Now he was swaying far over the orchestra +pit and seemed about to fall into it. A woman in front of Peter +screamed. Shean slowly straightened himself up and shook a reproving +finger at the laughing audience. "My wife's bes' lil' woman in worl'," +he said and did a hiccough. Still he seemed sober enough when Peter +sitting on the aisle in the second row got up and started out of the +theatre.</p> + +<p>"Don't you like our show?" he called after him.</p> + +<p>Peter flushed and made no answer.<a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a></p> + +<p>"I guess I'm too natural," said Shean. "He can't stand it. You know how +it is. He's a married man himself."</p> + +<p>"Hey, Percy," he shouted after the retreating figure of Peter in a high +falsetto, "you'll find a saloon right around the corner. Tell the +bartender to let you have one on Otto Schmaltz."</p> + +<p>Peter conscientiously walked past the saloon mentioned by the +impertinent Shean and went into the next one three blocks farther on. He +began to drink doggedly and consequently with slight effect. He was like +a sleepless person. No blur came over the acuteness of his +consciousness. He might just as well have tried counting sheep jumping +over a fence. "Wasn't she the fool to come up!" recurred in his ears as +if it had been a clock ticking late at night in a big silent house. +Straight whiskey tasted abominably and returned no reward for his +efforts. In the back room somebody was singing "Mother Machree" and +cheating on the high notes. An idea for a newspaper paragraph came to +Peter. Somebody had been conducting an agitation in the Bulletin against +the use of "The Star Spangled Banner" as a national anthem on the ground +that the air was originally that of a drinking song. "We<a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a> ought to point +out," thought Peter, "that it takes a few drinks to make anybody think +he can get up to 'the rockets' red glare.'"</p> + +<p>He wished his mind would stop pelting him with ideas. Thinking ought not +to keep up when he hated it so. Leaving the bar, Peter took his drink +over into the corner and sat down at a table. On the wall to his left +hung a large colored picture labelled "Through the Keyhole." Peter +looked at it and then moved his chair around so that he couldn't see it. +He realized that he must get much drunker.<a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIIIa" id="CHAPTER_VIIIa"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h3> + +<p>It was after ten when Peter came into Billy Gallivan's, the restaurant +of the singing waiters. By now he could not see distinctly every sheep +which jumped over the fence but he was still counting them. "I am +drunk," he said to himself. "I am so drunk that nothing matters." But he +knew that it was not so. Unfortunately the formula of Coué had not yet +been given to the world and Peter lacked the prevision to say, "Drink by +drink I am getting drunker and drunker and drunker."</p> + +<p>And the singing waiters failed to inspire him with that reckless +disregard for present, past and future which he desired. One of them, a +fat man who had blonde hair and sang bass, eventually took Peter's +order. He set the glass on the table and then moved away no more than a +step to begin his song. "When I'm a-a-lone I'm lonely," he thundered in +Peter's ear, "when I'm a-a-lone I'm bloo." Probably he was not as lonely +as Peter. It made it worse<a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a> because the song was so silly. "Every other +girl and brother," the verse went on later, "has some pal just like a +mother."</p> + +<p>By this time the waiters were gathering from all over the long low room. +Six of them stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Peter's table and +sang together. "When I'm a-a-lone I'm lonely, when I'm a-a-lone I'm +bloo." One of them went up high and quavered. Others went elsewhere. +There was a voice for every level. It was part singing. And they swayed +back and forth from one foot to another. The room swayed with them but +it would not keep time. The rhythm of the room was much longer. Peter +could feel it pound as if he had been a mile runner and the finish lay a +hundred yards ahead of him. He still knew that he was a fool to come up.</p> + +<p>After a long time the song stopped. The patrons of the place began to +throw money out to the singers. With painstaking recklessness Peter +fumbled in his pockets and found a silver dollar. It almost filled his +hand as if it had been a baseball. He shook his head vehemently. What +did he care if the count was two and three, he was not going to lay it +over. The curve was the trick. The outside corner was<a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a> the nervy spot to +shoot for. Drawing back his arm he flung the dollar and it crashed +against a table and bounded away. For a second the coin spun around and +then it waddled in a long arc straight home to Peter's chair. He put his +foot on it and picked it up. No, he was too sober not to know that a +dollar was excessive.</p> + +<p>These men were not very good waiters—any of them—but that did not make +them artists. They were not very good singers either. Peter remembered +that he had read in his little leather Bible, "You cannot serve God and +mammon." That was the trouble. Art and utility should never meet. A fine +tenor ought not to serve drinks and even indifferent singing seemed to +spoil a man as a waiter. This theme had been in his mind before. A great +dancer could not be a mother. Yes, that was the point where this +speculation had begun. At last he found a quarter and threw that and he +left a ten cent tip on the table.</p> + +<p>"Hello, big boy," said a woman as he was going out. She was as blonde +and as fat as the lonely waiter and much redder. Peter made no reply but +went out and up the street to the Eldorado. Eldorado! That was a land of +which the Spaniards had<a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a> dreamed, a land of gold. They never found it. +Perhaps that was just as well. Somebody in a tub had said, "Eldorado!" +No, he didn't—that was "Eureka!"</p> + +<p>At the Eldorado the waiters didn't sing at all. Special people did that. +But mostly it was just dancing. The floor was filled with couples. A +long flight of steps led down to the tables. At the foot of the steps a +girl sat alone. She was a young girl and pretty but hard and brazen +enough. And she didn't call him, "Dearie." She merely said, "Buy me a +drink."</p> + +<p>Peter sat down.</p> + +<p>"My name's Elaine," she said. "But you don't have to call me that. I +think it's sort of a cold name, don't you? I'm not cold. People that +like me call me 'Red,' on account of my hair. Now you tell me your +name."</p> + +<p>"John Whittier," said Peter, reverting to the slumming name he had used +in his Freshman year at Harvard. It was the name of the proctor in his +entry.</p> + +<p>"Maybe John Greenleaf Whittier," said Elaine.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you're a poet. Yes, I can see you're a poet."<a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a></p> + +<p>Peter was annoyed. "John Whittier's not my real name," he said. "My +name's Peter Neale."</p> + +<p>That aroused no flash of recognition. Peter was surprised that this girl +of the Eldorado should know John Greenleaf Whittier and never have heard +of Peter Neale.</p> + +<p>"I don't think it's very nice of you," she said, "not to give me your +real name. I gave you mine. Are you ashamed of me?"</p> + +<p>"No," replied Peter, "I'm ashamed of myself."</p> + +<p>"What are you doing?"</p> + +<p>"Trying to get drunk."</p> + +<p>"We'll get drunk together. I'll help you."</p> + +<p>Drinking with somebody did seem to help. At any rate after two rounds +Peter achieved for the first time during the evening that detached +feeling which he had been seeking. All the dancers now were dim and +distant. The music was something which tinkled from down a long +corridor. Even the obligation to drink seemed lighter. Peter merely sat +and stared at Elaine. Gray-eyed, firm and flaming, it was a face which +blotted out all other images. He found himself thinking only of this +woman in front of him. And she was real. She was close. He could touch +her.<a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a></p> + +<p>"Who are you looking at?" said the girl.</p> + +<p>"Elaine."</p> + +<p>"I told you that people that liked me called me Red. Why don't you call +me that? Why don't you like me?"</p> + +<p>"I like you a lot."</p> + +<p>Elaine made a face at him. In her no barriers seemed to have been set up +against the potency of drinking. Already she was in the babbling stage.</p> + +<p>"I'm not like the rest of the girls around here. You don't need to be +ashamed of me. I've had a good education. I can prove it to you. Ask me +about the square on the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle."</p> + +<p>"What about it?"</p> + +<p>"It's equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides. You see, +if it wasn't for hard luck I wouldn't be in a place like this. I'm a +lady. I know Latin too. <i>Amo</i>, that's love. <i>Amo</i>, I love. <i>Amas</i>, you +love."</p> + +<p>"Don't," said Peter crossly. The spell was broken. The woman was making +him think. Now he could hear the drums again. This was the meanest trick +of many which the fate of the day had played him. With all the evil +women of a great city<a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a> to choose from it had been Peter's misfortune to +happen upon an educated harlot. He had drugged himself steadfastly to be +rowdy and here was a lady who talked about Latin and right angles.</p> + +<p>Elaine sensed a mistake in technique. "Come away from here, Peter," she +said. "Come on. You're just a tired little baby. You don't want to talk +any more. You're my little baby."</p> + +<p>Peter got up and had to catch the table to keep from falling over. "My +name's Otto Schmaltz," he said and did a silly imitation of the accent +of the comedian in "The Joy Girls." But the possibility of a revision of +the material came to him. "My baby's bes' lil' baby in the world."</p> + +<p>He would have gone away at once, but a man came down the stairs at that +moment and approached the table. "Red," he said, "if you ever stand me +up again I'll bust your face."</p> + +<p>"Honest, Jim," said the girl, "I waited half an hour. I thought you +weren't coming."</p> + +<p>"Let that lady alone," said Peter. "She's with me."</p> + +<p>He didn't like Elaine any more, but he knew that the code demanded that +he should show resentment of the intrusion.<a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a></p> + +<p>"Keep your face out of this," said the newcomer. "What damned business +is it of yours?"</p> + +<p>There was a ready-made answer for that in the code.</p> + +<p>"You come outside and I'll make it my business," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"Don't waste your time on the big souse, Jim," said Elaine clutching at +the arm of the man who had threatened her. But the fact that the girl +absolved Peter from all the cares of guardianship did not remove his +responsibilities according to the code. "Come on outside," he repeated. +He went slowly up the stairs but when he reached the sidewalk and turned +around there was no Jim. Peter waited. He wanted very much to hit +somebody and Jim seemed wholly appropriate. After a few seconds the man +came out. He walked up close to Peter but he held his hands behind his +back. According to the code nothing could be done until each had +extended an arm.</p> + +<p>"Come on," said Peter impatiently, "put up your hands and I'll punch +your head off."</p> + +<p>Jim suddenly drew his right arm from behind his back and clipped him +sharply over the head with a bottle. Peter stared at him wonderingly for +almost<a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a> a second. Surprise seemed to halt the message to his brain. +Slowly he crumpled up on the sidewalk. The blow was not painful, but the +swinging arc of all things visible was now longer than ever before. The +lights, the lamp-posts and the buildings slowly turned end over end in a +complete circle. Peter put one hand to his head. It was wet and sticky. +For a second or so he considered that and wondered. Finally he realized +that it was blood. Lifting himself up on his hands and knees he saw Jim +and Elaine scrambling into a taxicab.</p> + +<p>"I'll bet she doesn't talk about right angles to him," thought Peter. +For a moment he considered pursuit, but before he could make up his mind +the taxicab had started. It swept past him no more than ten feet away. +He could see the red head of the woman in the window. One week later he +decided that he should have cupped his hands and shouted, "You +hypotenuse hussy!" That night he could think of nothing. The fragments +of glass lay about him. Peter examined them and found it had been a +champagne bottle. After a bit he called a taxicab for himself and said, +"Go to some hospital that's near." He had begun to feel a little faint.<a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a></p> + +<p>A doctor in the reception room dug the glass out of Peter's scalp bit by +bit and hurt him dreadfully. Every stab of pain cut through the fumes +and left him clear-headed. Nothing was forgotten any more. He was able +to compare the relative poignancy of two sorts of pain and decided that +he did not care much how long the doctor kept it up. At last the job was +finished and Peter's head bandaged.</p> + +<p>"You were drunk, weren't you?" said the doctor.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Peter, "I was."</p> + +<p>There was no other comment. Nobody would call Peter Sir Galahad on +account of this fight and yet it was honorable enough he thought, even +if the issues were a little mixed. Nor was it entirely unsatisfactory. +At least he had been able to taunt Fate into an overt act. He knew a +poem by a man who wrote, "My head is bloody but unbowed." Peter had +often used that line in prizefight stories. Still he was a little sick +now and perfectly sober. He looked at his watch. In an hour or so it +would be dawn. There didn't seem to be anything to do but go home.</p> + +<p>Opening the door of his apartment, Peter tripped over something in the +dark and fell with a bang.<a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a> Kate woke and called out in obvious terror, +"Who's there?"</p> + +<p>"It's only me," said Peter, "Mr. Neale. I decided not to stay out after +all. I'm sorry I woke you up. I fell over the baby carriage."<a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IXa" id="CHAPTER_IXa"></a>CHAPTER IX</h3> + +<p>Somebody at the office must have heard about the flight of Maria +Algarez, for when Peter returned from Goldfield he had found at his flat +a telegram which said, "Lay off a couple of weeks. Longer if you +like—Miles, managing editor." That was an extraordinary thing because +the material for Peter's column—"Looking Them Over with Peter +Neale"—was only up one week ahead. A two weeks' vacation would mean not +only that there would be no Peter Neale in the Bulletin, but that in +thirty-one other papers throughout the country the feature would be +missing. Peter wondered how Miles could suggest a thing like that so +calmly. Maria's running away ought not to wrench a whole chain of +newspapers in that fashion. In daydreams Peter had often pictured +himself dying from flood, or earthquake or a stray bullet in some great +riot. When the rescuers picked him up and bent over to hear what he +might say his lips framed the words, "Send a story to the Bulletin!"<a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a></p> + +<p>The Bulletin couldn't be bothered about people's dying or running away. +The Bulletin was bigger than that. The newspaper yarn of Rusk's which +had impressed Peter the most was about a man named O'Brale in San +Francisco. O'Brale was secretly engaged to a girl in Alameda and then a +week or so before they were to be married she had eloped with a man who +said he was a Polish Count. According to Rusk by some strange +coincidence O'Brale received the assignment to cover the story. He +didn't beg off. He sat down to write it and he finished up his story +with: "And when the news of Miss Lee's elopement drifted into the office +of the Chronicle a reporter on the city staff sighed and said, 'Scooped +again.'"</p> + +<p>Miles must be a fool not to know that even after Peter Neale had been +smashed that part of him which was the Bulletin would go on. A picture +suddenly came to Peter. That was the way he did his thinking. "I can go +on wriggling," he said to himself, "until the first edition."</p> + +<p>Peter felt that it was up to him to go down to the office and show them +that. He would have to show Miles. Miles was new to him. The managing +editor traffic through the office of the Bulletin was<a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a> prodigious. After +all Peter had been away for two weeks and it was only natural that there +should be a new man in charge. Peter wasn't a veteran, but he had seen +five managing editors in his time and probably a couple of hundred copy +readers. "Looking Them Over" was different. That was something vital and +rooted in the Bulletin. It wasn't so much that Peter Neale was a part of +the Bulletin as that the Bulletin was a part of Peter Neale. "This other +thing," thought Peter, "is just my private life."</p> + +<p>He felt pretty rocky when he got up. During the night the bandages had +turned bloody. It made him shaky to look at himself. Something of the +rhythm of the buildings as they swung in the long arc and turned over +was still in the pulse of Peter. All right, but he had seen Gans get up +when his legs would barely hold him. Not only get up but walk +deliberately across the ring to meet the charge of Battling Nelson.</p> + +<p>Neale went down town. There was no one else in the elevator when he went +up to the ninth floor to the office of the Bulletin, but Sykes, the head +office boy, was in the hall outside the city room. He looked up and +said, "Hello, Mr. Neale."</p> + +<p>So far it was all right. Nelson had knocked out<a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a> Gans and Maria had run +away since Peter and Sykes had last seen each other. Sykes had been able +to take all that in his stride. Peter wondered if Miles would be as +smart. There was a man at the desk, a fat placid man, in the office of +the managing editor. Peter knocked at the door and went in before the +man looked up. "My name's Peter Neale," he said. "You're Mr. Miles, +aren't you? I got your telegram. It was nice of you, but I don't want +any time off. There's a whole batch of stuff due for the syndicate +tomorrow."</p> + +<p>Miles nodded. He tilted his chair back three times without saying +anything. It was like a pitcher's wind-up. Peter found Miles always +spoke just after the third tilt. "Have a cigarette," he said. He also +provided a match. Then letting the chair rest on the floor he sat +looking at Peter. There wasn't any surprise or inquiry in his face. +Peter felt acutely conscious of his bloody bandages. He sat waiting to +hear, "Have an accident?" or something like that, but Miles seemed to +take it as a matter of course that Peter was all cut up. Apparently the +managing editor accepted it as something inevitable in an out-of-town +assignment. Peter dreaded the question so long that he would have felt +easier if<a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a> Miles had asked him about the bandages. He was prepared to +say something about a taxicab. After all it wasn't fair that Miles +should assume that he had been drunk just because he had. Presently the +tilting began again. One, two, three, Peter counted to himself. "I want +you to do baseball in addition to your column," said Miles. "Monday +isn't too soon to start in, is it?"</p> + +<p>"Monday's all right," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"All right," said Miles. "You need a match," he added. "Your cigarette's +gone out."</p> + +<p>Neither of them said anything then for a minute. Miles continued to look +at him and ignore the bandages.</p> + +<p>"All right on Monday," said Peter and went across the hall to his own +office. Putting the catch on, he closed the door. Miles hadn't talked +about his private life, but Peter felt that he must know about it. +Probably he was thinking about it every time he quit tilting. That was +the trouble.</p> + +<p>Out there in the City Room they were talking about it too. They must be. +Nothing happened to anybody on the Bulletin that didn't get talked about +in the City Room. No district in the town was covered so perfectly as +the reporters covered the lives<a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a> of each other. When Woolstone, the +Sunday editor, started living with that little girl, Miss Gray, the one +who wrote the piece about the Haymarket, it was common gossip within a +week. Woolstone hadn't told anybody. Indeed he hadn't said a word except +that the Haymarket story was the finest piece of English prose since De +Quincey. But somehow after that everybody knew that Woolstone was living +with Miss Gray.</p> + +<p>Peter put a sheet of paper into his typewriter and rapidly wrote at the +top of the upper right-hand corner Neale—Sports—Syndicate. Then he +turned half of the sheet through the machine and wrote "Looking Them +Over With Peter Neale—(Copyright)." There he stuck.</p> + +<p>The sheet of paper had not been blemished but after a while Peter took +it out and wrote the same thing on another. After that he sharpened a +pencil. He wanted to get a drink of water but that was out in the City +Room. It was foolish of him not to have brought cigarettes. Miles had +cigarettes, but Peter didn't want to face that scrutiny any more. +"Gans," he wrote, "was not outboxed but he was outfought." That wouldn't +do. There had been a line almost like that in his fight story. Of course +he might do some<a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a> sort of prediction story about how long Battling +Nelson would hold the title. A man who took all that punishment couldn't +last so very long. But suddenly Peter realized that he didn't give a +damn about Gans or about Nelson. The Bulletin didn't make so much +difference either. Maria was more than all this. He'd ask Miles to send +him to Africa or China or some place. Sedition seeped in. Baseball +wasn't exciting enough to make him forget. He tried to make his mind do +him a picture of Matty bending back and then shooting over his fast one. +Instead he saw Maria Algarez standing in the middle of the big stage.</p> + +<p>That wouldn't do. Peter gripped the edge of his desk. If his mind was +only something that would stand up to him and fight like a man. He could +heave it back all right if only he could get a hand on it. Instead he +pushed against the desk. Very slowly the picture began to fade. Maria +was taller and broader. Now it was Matty. Dim but unmistakably Matty. +But the figure stood in the centre of the big stage. He must get him out +of there. If he was to hold the thing it would have to move and take on +life. Suddenly Peter realized the trick. The picture ought not to be +Matty throwing<a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a> his fast one. The fadeway! That was the thing which +marked Matty in his mind above all others. He closed his eyes in order +to help. The figure bent back. The arms came up over the head. The left +leg kicked. No, it was not Maria kicking. This was a huge clumsy leg +which moved slowly, ever so slowly, grinding power for the swing of back +and shoulders which was to come. Then there was the lunge forward. Matty +had thrown the ball straight at his head. He conquered the impulse to +duck. This was the slow ball. He could see the seams. Now it was slower +and growing bigger and bigger all the time. It would walk past him +shoulder high. Peter swung at it and the ball wasn't there. A sudden +decision had come upon it. Down it swooped and out. It had passed him. +Peter opened his eyes. He didn't want to go to China or Africa after +all. Honus Wagner and the Pirates would be at the Polo Grounds on +Monday.</p> + +<p>Peter got up and started for his drink of water. There were only three +men in the City Room. Charlie Hall was sitting at his desk right beside +the ice cooler. Perhaps Charlie had had a lot of fun out of that story +of Maria Algarez running away. Women didn't run away from Charlie. Peter +remembered<a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a> the time Charlie was marooned in the Press Club. He stuck in +the poker game for two days not daring to leave the building. The +elevator man had told him of the woman who kept coming in every half an +hour or so and asking for Mr. Hall. According to the elevator man she +was very much excited. Charlie said it sounded a lot like Ethel. He +wouldn't be surprised if she wanted to shoot him. She had often +threatened to do that. Twice during those two days Peter had volunteered +to go down and scout around. Both times he had seen a woman pacing the +sidewalk just across the street from the Press Club. It looked like the +same woman. Charlie said probably it was. Ethel was very determined. +Finally they had to get a policeman to come and tell Ethel to go away. +Nobody ever seemed so glamorous to Peter as Charlie during those two +days. Peter wondered if any woman would ever want to shoot him.</p> + +<p>There was no way of getting to the ice cooler without passing Charlie. +Peter did it slowly. Charlie looked up. "Have any fun at the fight?" he +asked.</p> + +<p>"No, it was too hot. Anyhow I wanted to see Gans win."<a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a></p> + +<p>"It was a great story you wrote."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you liked it."</p> + +<p>"Too bad about the nigger—he was the smartest of the lot, wasn't he?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and don't forget he could hit too. Nelson wouldn't have had a +chance with him five years ago."</p> + +<p>Peter was turning to go back to his office when Charlie Hall thrust out +a hand and slapped him on the shoulder. "I hear you've had some hard +luck," he said. "I'm sorry."</p> + +<p>Peter couldn't answer for a second. "I guess nobody ever is happy so +very much," Charlie continued, sensing that Peter was stumped for the +moment. "Now you take me. I suppose you'd say I was happily married. +I've been married fifteen years and I've got five children. Well, +sometimes when I sit down at home I wonder, 'What's the use of all this +anyway?' There ought to be a law that reporters can't get married. It's +bad for them and it's bad for the paper."</p> + +<p>"I guess you're right," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"The thing to do is not to take women seriously. They'll bust hell out +of you if you do."</p> + +<p>Peter brightened perceptibly. "Do you remember<a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a> that time you got stuck +up in the Press Club and the girl was waiting downstairs to shoot you?" +he inquired with a certain eagerness.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, sure, Gracie."</p> + +<p>"No, that wasn't the name. It was Ethel."</p> + +<p>"Ethel?—I remember now. I had it mixed up with a business in Chicago. +Ethel! Oh yes, indeed. She was a wild one. She was just about the most +dangerous woman south of Fifty-ninth Street. That was a couple of years +ago. I can't stand so much excitement now."</p> + +<p>"Go on," said Peter, "I suppose you'll be telling me you've reformed."</p> + +<p>"That wouldn't be so far off the truth. Anyhow where do you get off. Who +beaned you?"</p> + +<p>Another burden of reticence was snatched away. At last Peter had a +chance to tell somebody about the bandages.</p> + +<p>"I was with a woman up at the Eldorado. You know the Eldorado. And a big +fellow comes over and tries to butt in. I bawled him out and we went up +on the sidewalk. I made a couple of passes at him and he hauled off and +clipped me with a bottle—a champagne bottle. I guess I was pretty +drunk."<a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a></p> + +<p>Charlie Hall nodded his head. "You're all right. I'm glad. Some of the +boys around here have been telling me that you were all busted up about +that girl you married. I'm glad it's not so. I knew you had too much +sense for that. There isn't a one of them in the whole world that's +worth getting busted up over. Don't take 'em seriously. That's what I +say. I ought to know. I've been married fifteen years. Well, almost +fifteen years. It'll be fifteen years in October."</p> + +<p>"I'm all right, Charlie. You tell that to the rest. I'm back on the job, +you know."</p> + +<p>"That's good. It wouldn't seem like the Bulletin without you."</p> + +<p>Charlie turned to the story in front of him and put one second of energy +into pounding the space bar before coming back to conversation.</p> + +<p>"Where is this Eldorado?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Fiftieth Street and Seventh Avenue."</p> + +<p>"Does it stay open all night?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it's open all night but after one there's a man on the door and +he won't let you in unless he knows you."</p> + +<p>"Are they strict about it?"</p> + +<p>"Pretty strict, lately," said Peter, "but that's all<a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a> right, Charlie. +Any time you want to go up late you let me know. I'll be glad to show +you round. I'm always free nights. Any night at all—That is any night +except Sunday."<a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_Xa" id="CHAPTER_Xa"></a>CHAPTER X</h3> + +<p>THE baby carriage was kept in the kitchen thereafter and Peter did not +see it again until Sunday, his first Sunday at home. Kate left the flat +very early. Peter could not very well object to that because she said +she was going to mass. He wished that she might be converted to one of +the eleven o'clock denominations, but he supposed at her age there was +small hope of that. She would be gone, she told him, until nine or ten +o'clock in the evening. Her niece, the one who lived in Jamaica, had a +new baby five weeks old. Kate was going there right after church. Peter +thought that if he had Kate's job he would prefer to spend his day off +at an old folks' home or some other spot exclusively mature.</p> + +<p>Still he could understand the psychology of it. Out in Jamaica, Kate +could sit around and when the baby cried she need not move hand or foot. +She could watch other people bustle around and fulfill<a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a> its needs. And +then every now and then she might give advice and see it carried out. He +himself had spent many a day off in the office of the Bulletin sitting +on the desk of somebody who was working and interrupting him.</p> + +<p>Before Kate left she gave Peter a complete list of directions for the +baby's day and also a problem for him to ponder over. "What will I be +calling the boy?" she wanted to know. "I find it hard to be talking to +him and him with no name."</p> + +<p>"I'll think it over," Peter told her. After she left he did think it +over. He went into the baby's room and looked at him as he lay there to +see if the child suggested any name in particular. Being asleep he +seemed a little more impersonal than usual. Of course, Peter Neale was a +pretty good name, but there didn't seem to be any point in calling him +that unless in some way or other he seemed to be Peter. He did sleep +with his head buried face down in the pillow but that was an +insufficient bond. Perhaps there were millions of people in the world +who slept that way. Probably there were no statistics on the subject.</p> + +<p>Maybe one Peter Neale was enough. It did mean something. After all it +was Peter Neale who had<a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a> written in the Bulletin: "If Horace Fogel goes +through with his plan of making a first baseman out of Christy Mathewson +he will be committing the baseball crime of the century. Mathewson, or +Matty as his team mates call him, is still green, but he has in him the +makings of one of the greatest pitchers the world has ever known. He has +the speed and control and more than that he has a head on his shoulders. +Horace Fogel hasn't."</p> + +<p>And they didn't switch Matty to first base after all and now everybody +was beginning to realize that he was a great pitcher. But Peter Neale +knew it first of all. More than that it was Peter Neale who had begun +his round by round story of the Gans-Nelson fight, only two weeks ago, +with the memorable line, "The Dane comes up like thunder." He had +invented the name of "Hooks" for George Wiltse and had written that +"Frank Bowerman runs the bases like somebody pulling Grover Cleveland in +a rickshaw." And Peter was still progressing. He would go on, years +hence, to make the most of McGraw's practice of starting games with Rube +Schauer and finishing them with Ferdie Schupp by contriving the lead, +"It never Schauers but it Schupps." Perhaps he had prevision enough to<a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a> +realize that it was he, Peter Neale, who would eventually ascribe to +Jack Dempsey the motto, "Say it with cauliflowers" and write after a +Crimson disaster on the Thames, "Harvard's most perplexing race problems +appear to be crewish and Jewish."</p> + +<p>He looked at the sleeping child and wondered if there were any leads +like that in the little head. By and by, of course, the baby would grow +up and in some newspaper there would be articles under his name. Peter +would like to see the articles before he was willing to have them signed +"By Peter Neale." Every now and then somebody wandered into his office +at the Bulletin and asked him to use his good influences with the +managing editor. Peter always said, "Will you let me see something +you've written." Here in front of him was a candidate not only for a job +but for his job. And the applicant had nothing to show.</p> + +<p>It was a hot bright Sunday and Kate had recommended that the baby go +out. The carriage was deplorable. Peter had not bothered to look at it +before, but now he examined it and found it wholly lacking in +distinction. It could not be that all the things which were wrong with +it had resulted from his falling over it a few mornings back. That had<a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a> +hurt him much more than the carriage. The paint was splotchy and all the +wheels squeaked. Kate must have seized the first available vehicle in +the neighborhood. What with that carriage and his heavily bandaged head +he felt that the caravan which he was about to conduct would be +disreputable. The numerous chin straps which held the bandages in place +made it difficult for Peter to shave. In order to avoid that difficulty +Peter hadn't shaved. He only hoped that nobody in the Park would stop +the procession and ask him to accept a quarter. Peter practised an +expression of scorn in front of a mirror in order to be ready for some +such contingency. Nature had endowed him with a loose scalp. He could +wiggle both ears, together or separately. So far this had never been of +much use although he found that it helped him enormously to qualify as a +nursery entertainer. But there was another manœuvre which he used +habitually and successfully to indicate utter disagreement and contempt. +He could elevate his right eyebrow without disturbing the other. This +never failed to strike terror to all observers. Peter had that so well +in hand that he needed no mirror practice to perfect it. He worked on +curling his lip, a device which was new to him.<a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a></p> + +<p>Combined with an elevated eyebrow an effect was produced ample to carry +off the handicaps of both carriage and bandages.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, he felt a little conspicuous when he started for the Park. +And pushing a carriage was dull work. There was no future to it, no +competitive value, no opportunity for advancement. One could not very +well come to the point of being able to say, "I can wheel a carriage a +little bit better than anybody else in New York." The thing was without +standards. Of all outdoor sports this was the most dreary and +democratic. But in spite of the ease of manipulation he was under the +impression that a carriage required constant attention. Quite by +accident he discovered that it would space nicely between shoves if he +happened to let go of the handlebar. This led to the creation of a +rather amusing game. Peter called it putting the sixteen pound carriage.</p> + +<p>Not far from the Sixty-fifth Street entrance of the Park he found a +large hill and for a moment it was clear of pedestrians. Standing at the +foot of this hill Peter gave the carriage a violent shove and let go. Up +the hill it sped until its momentum was exhausted and then it rolled +back again. The game<a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a> was to try and make it reach the top. Peter never +succeeded in that although he came within four feet eight inches of +accomplishing the feat which he had set for himself. He was handicapped +by the fact that he did not quite dare to put all his back and shoulders +into the preliminary shove. Indeed on his best heave, the one which took +the missile within four feet eight inches of the top, the carriage +careened precariously. More than that it almost hit a stout woman who +was coming down the hill. She stopped and spoke to Peter. "Haven't you +got any better sense than to do a thing like that," she said. "That +carriage almost upset. I've a good mind to follow you home and tell the +father of that baby some of the things you're doing with his child. +Aren't you ashamed of yourself, a grown man carrying on like that. And +on Sunday too."</p> + +<p>Peter didn't want her to follow him home and so he merely said, "Yes, +mam, I won't do it any more."</p> + +<p>And for that day he kept his word. However, the baby did not seem to +mind much. It continued to sleep. Peter pushed the carriage aimlessly +about for a little while, never letting go of the handlebar. He felt +like an Atlantic City Negro with a wheel chair hired for the day by a +tired business man.<a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a> There was nobody to whom he could talk. The baby +had slept so long by now that Peter began to worry that something might +be wrong with him. Bending over the carriage he ascertained that the +child was still breathing. He wished it would wake up. Of course he +might not actually be company if aroused but he seemed even less +animated when asleep.</p> + +<p>Perhaps Christy would be a good name for him. Christopher Mathewson +Neale had a fine resounding swing to it. Still maybe Matty wouldn't turn +out to be a great pitcher after all. Peter was tremendously confident +about him, but it might be best to wait until time had tested him. After +a World's Series or something like that one could be absolutely certain. +No good taking chances until then. It was still within the bounds of +possibility that Matty might be a bloomer and it would hardly be fair to +name the child after somebody in the Three I League.</p> + +<p>Finding a tree and a bench Peter sat down to continue his speculations. +How about a newspaper name? Greeley Neale wouldn't be so bad. Yes, it +would. Everybody would be sure to make it Greasy Neale. A prizefight +name offered possibilities.<a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a> Nelson Neale, for instance, had +alliteration. Peter had given the lightweight a name—the Durable Dane +was his invention—and it seemed no more than a fair exchange to take +his in return. Still he had never been convinced that Nelson was a +really first class man. He had neither speed nor a punch. It was just +stamina which carried him along. The youngster ought not to go through +life head down. Besides a name like that would serve to remind Peter of +his return from Goldfield and the flight of Maria.</p> + +<p>Just then a sound came from the carriage. It was a gurgle. Peter pushed +back the hood. The baby looked at him fixedly and Peter fancied that +there was a certain trace of emotion in the small face. Surprise seemed +to be indicated. And it was not altogether agreeable surprise for as +Peter returned the stare the baby's right eyebrow went up and the left +one didn't.</p> + +<p>"God!" said Peter, "he is Peter Neale."</p> + +<p>But there must be more ceremony than that. Peter looked around to see +that he and the baby were alone. Then he spoke to him distinctly +although emotionally. He realized now that his intuition had been sound +when he had said way back weeks ago at the Newspaper Club. "My son has +just been<a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a> born." He had never had any doubt about his physical +paternity but that did not seem important. It was spiritual kinship +which counted and an eyebrow like that was a thing of the spirit.</p> + +<p>"You're my son all right," said Peter, "and you're going to have my +name. Peter Neale, that's your name."</p> + +<p>He thought it would complicate things to go into the question of whether +he should be Peter Neale, Jr. or Peter Neale, 2nd. The Peter Neale was +the important part of it. "I guess maybe you can do a lot more with that +name than I have, but I've made it a good newspaper name. You can make +it a better one maybe. We'll wait and see." He reached out and took the +small hand of Peter Neale and shook it. The prayer which went with it +was silent. "O God, give him some of the breaks and I will." That +completed the christening. It was all that young Peter ever got.</p> + +<p>The red-headed boy up the block who had contributed disturbing ideas in +other fields also threw a bombshell into Peter's boyhood theology. "Can +God do anything?" was his catch question. "Of course He can," replied +Peter. "Well, I'll just bet you a million billion dollars He can't make +a trolley<a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a> car go in two directions at the same time." Peter didn't see +how He could. He puzzled over the problem for months and at last he +decided that maybe God could work it by making the trolley car like an +elastic so that it could be stretched up town and down town at the same +time. It was not an entirely satisfactory solution of the problem. If a +passenger stood in the middle of the car he wouldn't get any place at +all.</p> + +<p>But for the moment Peter was not much concerned with the potential +relationship between the Deity and young Peter. He could bide his time +and think up an answer for the day when the child should ask him, "Who's +God?" The immediate problem was what place he should fill on the +Bulletin. Eventually, of course, he would conduct the column called, +"Looking Them Over With Peter Neale." Already there were thirty-one +papers in the syndicate and some day Peter could step down and the +column would still be "Looking Them Over With Peter Neale."</p> + +<p>It would be pleasant not to die in the office but to have ten years or +so with no worries as to whether Jim Jeffries could have beaten John L. +Sullivan in his prime. And he didn't want to go on forever<a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a> writing on +the question of whether more nerve was required to hole a ten foot putt +in a championship match or bring down a halfback on the five yard line. +In those last ten years he would have all the fun of reading a Peter +Neale column without having to write it. The job had come to him by the +merest chance. But young Peter could be trained from the beginning for +the work. "I'll start his education right now," Peter resolved and then +he looked at the baby and decided that there didn't seem to be anything +specific which could be done immediately. Still an early start was +possible. Long division ought to be easy and interesting for a child who +knew that it was something used in computing batting averages. Of course +young Peter would receive an excellent general education. There wasn't +any reason why a sporting writer shouldn't be a person of well rounded +culture. Sometimes Peter regretted that his Harvard career had lasted +only a year. Probably his sporting poems might have been better if he +had been able to go on and take that course in versification. Fine arts +and history would not be a waste of time.</p> + +<p>There was never any telling when some stray scrap of information could +be pressed into service for a<a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a> sporting story. For instance Peter had +been struck by that quotation from Walter Pater about the Mona Lisa +which he had happened upon in a Sunday newspaper story. Two years later +he had been able to use it about Ed Dunkhurst, the human freight car, by +paraphrasing the line to read, "Here is the head upon which all the jabs +of the world have come and the eyelids are a little weary."</p> + +<p>The quotation had given distinction to the story. Sporting writing ought +to be just as distinguished as a man could make it. The days of the +lowbrow commentator were disappearing. Young Peter might very well carry +on and expand the tradition which he had begun. To be sure, there wasn't +any hurry about giving him the job. Twenty-five years more for himself +would be about right. By that time young Peter would be just twenty-five +years and three weeks old. A year or so of general work on the city +staff of the Bulletin might be good for him. Indeed anything on the +newspaper would do for a start. That was, anything real. Book critics +and people like that weren't really newspaper men. On his fiftieth +birthday, perhaps, Peter would go to the managing editor and say, "I'm +through and there's just one thing I want from the Bulletin. I<a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a> think +it's only fair that you should let me name my successor."</p> + +<p>And the managing editor would say, "Why, of course, Neale, who is it to +be?"</p> + +<p>"His name is Peter Neale."</p> + +<p>Naturally, the managing editor would express some regrets. He would pay +a warm tribute to the worth and career of Peter Neale, at the end of +which Peter would remark, "I'm glad you feel that way about it, sir." +After that formality the substitution would be accepted. The line of +Neale would remain unbroken.</p> + +<p>All this gazing into the future cheered up Peter so much that he started +out very gaily that afternoon to compose a column and mind the baby at +the same time. Unfortunately the five o'clock feeding time came around +just as he was getting into the swing of an article on the advantages of +being lefthanded for the purposes of baseball. Somebody had told him +that the Bible had something to say on the subject. Peter found it in +the twentieth chapter of Judges where he read: "The inhabitants of +Gibeah.... Among all this people there were seven hundred chosen men +lefthanded; everyone could sling stones at an hair-breadth, and not +miss."<a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a></p> + +<p>That was just meat for Peter.</p> + +<p>"The average southpaw of today," he began, "may have even more speed +than the inhabitants of old Gibeah but his control isn't so good." +Before he could develop the theme further young Peter began to cry. When +searched nothing seemed wrong with him but then Peter remembered about +the bottle. He was already half an hour late. The milk was mixed and +ready in individual containers in the icebox but Kate had told him to be +sure and have it warm. Peter had never warmed anything in his life. +After some thought he decided that he could put water into a pot and +heat it and then dip the bottle in. He waited until the water was +boiling. But the next problem was more difficult. What did Kate mean by +warm? How hot could the child stand it? His first three estimates were +wrong. Young Peter spit out the milk and yelled. It was annoying for the +mixture was hardly steaming.</p> + +<p>Cooling it seemed ever so much more difficult than heating. Peter stood +the bottle on the window ledge and waved it over his head and blew on it +without much appreciable effect upon the temperature. More than half an +hour was wasted before the child consented to accept the milk. When +Peter went<a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a> back to his column about lefthanders the spirit and swing of +the thing had disappeared. He tried to write a poem to Rube Waddell +called, "The Great Gibean" and couldn't find any rhymes. The notion +limped home.</p> + +<p>Kate's ten o'clock turned out to be past midnight. Shortly before her +return the baby went to sleep.</p> + +<p>"How did you find your niece's child?" asked Peter.</p> + +<p>"Oh, she's fine," said Kate. "She's a girl. A fine little girl, but +she's not a patch on himself."</p> + +<p>"He's got a name now," said Peter. "We won't have to be saying 'him,' +and 'it' and 'the baby' any more. His name's Peter Neale."<a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIa" id="CHAPTER_XIa"></a>CHAPTER XI</h3> + +<p>The name Peter did not stick to the baby long. Old Peter noticed that +Kate never used it. Her first move was to modify it into Petey, then +Pete and suddenly it became an unmistakable Pat. "What have you got +against the name Peter?" he asked her.</p> + +<p>"It's not for me to be criticising a saint in Heaven," answered Kate +piously.</p> + +<p>"I won't tell on you. Why didn't you like him, He was a good man, wasn't +he?"</p> + +<p>"A good man, is it?—begging your pardon and that of the blessed saints +in Heaven—didn't he deny the name of our blessed Lord and Him seized by +the dirty Jews?"</p> + +<p>Peter had forgotten about it but he found the striking story in the +Gospel according to St. Mark.</p> + +<p>"'And thou also wast with Jesus of Nazareth.' But he denied, saying—'I +know not, neither understand I what thou sayest.'"</p> + +<p>Of course, it was not admirable conduct, but Peter could understand and +sympathize with the<a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a> motives of his namesake. He himself, he felt, would +have done much the same thing. Cowardice was not the only factor which +prompted the denial. The incident was more complicated than that. Maybe +Peter didn't want to make a scene. If he had said yes he was a Christian +everybody in the palace of the High Priest would have felt +self-conscious and uncomfortable. It might have been necessary for some +one to change the subject. Saying "No" made things easier for everybody. +Courage may be admirable but tact is not altogether contemptible. Peter +Neale usually agreed with people when he felt that they wanted him to.</p> + +<p>Still, he hoped that his son would move through the world with a freer +and more courageous mood and the next time Kate called the baby Pat, +Peter did not object much. He merely said:</p> + +<p>"I don't think that name's much of an improvement, Kate."</p> + +<p>"And why not?"</p> + +<p>"Well, what did this St. Patrick of yours ever do?"</p> + +<p>"The blessed St. Patrick that drove the snakes out of Ireland!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but he left the Irish."<a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a></p> + +<p>Nevertheless for all practical purposes little Peter became Pat from +that time on. Kate got most things which she wanted. Peter lived in +constant fear of her suddenly quitting her job. He dreaded the task of +invading the agencies in search of a new nurse and there did not seem to +be any other feasible arrangement.</p> + +<p>About three months after he assumed the duties of Sunday father he did +contemplate dimly a move which might well have revolutionized the +existence of himself and Pat and Kate as well. He met Margaret quite by +chance. Pat had colic in the Park. Of course, Peter didn't know it was +colic. He only knew that the child screamed in a manner more violent +than any he had yet known. His inability to handle the situation was so +obvious that Margaret who was sitting with her four-year-old charge on a +bench nearby came over and showed him how to roll the baby. After Pat +had been rolled sufficiently he recovered but Margaret and Peter did not +part company immediately.</p> + +<p>"You're a funny one to be sending out with a baby," said Margaret.</p> + +<p>"I'm not sent out with him. I go out with him. I'm his father."<a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a></p> + +<p>Peter realized afterwards that his admission, indeed his boast, of not +belonging to the employed classes was largely responsible for the blight +which lay under the surface of his relationship to Margaret and finally +led to tragedy. There were many meetings following the afternoon of the +colic. For a month or so the pretense was kept up that these were merely +accidental, but finally one Sunday Peter and Pat and Margaret and Bobby, +the boy she was in charge of, were driven under an archway by a +thunderstorm. There was so much thunder that Margaret grew very +frightened. Peter could think of nothing better to do than put an arm +around her. He realized an obligation. Hadn't she rolled Pat out of +colic? By and by there was lightning and Peter kissed her. After that +they met by acknowledged premeditation every Sunday—close to the +entrance of the tunnel.</p> + +<p>Peter found it almost as difficult to talk to Margaret as to Pat, but +she was better company. The long Sundays went faster when he could sit +holding hands in some moderately obscure corner of the park. Margaret +was the sort of person who didn't seem to expect much in the way of +conversation. All she required was an occasional answer to some<a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a> simple +hypothetical question. These were generally somewhat similar in +character. Did he think (she never reached the stage of calling him +Peter) that a rich man could marry a poor girl and be happy? Did he +realize that a girl could be a child's nurse and a lady at the same +time? Wasn't it a fact that widowers led a desperately lonely and +unhappy life? Peter happened to have adopted the easy expedient of +disposing of Maria by means of a fever.</p> + +<p>Margaret was unmistakably a fool, but Peter thought her rather an +appealing one. She seemed pretty and he knew that she was expert in +handling children. The things required by Bobby and Pat never gave her +more than the briefest trouble. And then as Peter was becoming more and +more liberal about unintelligence the fatal Sunday arrived. They had +lingered a little longer in the Park than usual. Bobby in obedience to +the usual command, "Now run away and play, Bobby, and don't get your +clothes dirty," had done so. Suddenly he came running back across the +meadow as fast as his legs would carry him straight to Margaret.</p> + +<p>"I want to make a river," he said.</p> + +<p>"Shush! Bobby," answered Margaret in a low voice.<a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a></p> + +<p>"But I want to make a river," repeated Bobby, even more insistently.</p> + +<p>Margaret, her face flaming scarlet, got up and seized the child roughly +by the wrist. As she dragged him away he screamed. Peter heard her say, +"Aren't you ashamed of yourself!" Presently from out of the bushes in +addition to frantic screaming there came the unmistakable sound of a +child being spanked.</p> + +<p>When Margaret returned to the bench, if indeed she did, Peter had gone. +He saw her once weeks afterwards at a distance, but they never talked +again. This time it was Peter who did the blushing for the more he +thought about the whole business the more degraded he found himself. He +had come within at least an appreciable distance of selling his soul for +a colic cure. A disgusting snip of a person had moved between him and +those bitter but glamorous memories of Maria Algarez. Maybe Maria did +ruin all his hope of happiness and yet he knew that but for Maria he +would never have made up enough ground in his pursuit of life to learn +the great truth that propriety is one of the vices.<a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIIa" id="CHAPTER_XIIa"></a>CHAPTER XII</h3> + +<p>Pat grew but it was slow work. Kate would speak of an ounce as if it +were some silver trophy which the child had won. Like Samuel Butler her +admiration was unbounded for the intelligence which manifested itself in +the process of developing bone and muscle and tissue. Peter was not +inclined to give the child any credit for this. If you poured water on a +lawn, grass sprang up. All the credit belonged to the gardener and Pat +became bigger and bigger through no obvious efforts of his own but +merely because Peter and Kate plied him with milk and sometimes carrots. +Raising grass was easier. The gardener didn't have to deal with a moving +target and he could administer water quite irrespective of the wishes of +the grass.</p> + +<p>Of course, there were moments when Pat displayed intelligence but it was +of the most rudimentary sort. When he was about six months old Peter +found that if he put a finger in front of him Pat would try to bite it. +Sometimes he laughed but<a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a> only at his own jokes. At seven months he +began to crawl. This was moderately interesting but it doubled Peter's +Sunday responsibilities and even affected his literary style. Short +paragraphs appeared more frequently than ever before in the Looking Them +Over column. Longer flights were subject to interruption as Peter had to +put Pat away from places such as the steam radiator or the gas logs. It +was no longer even possible to leave safety razor blades about.</p> + +<p>Eventually somebody told Peter to buy a stockade and he did so. The +arrangement was a collapsible fence which could be set up in the middle +of the floor to imprison the child and curtail its wanderings. The only +trouble lay in the fact that it was much too collapsible. In a month or +so Pat was able to pull himself to his feet by holding on to the rail +and after a few violent tugs the whole contraption would come down on +top of him.</p> + +<p>And yet when Kate came to Peter and said that her niece, the one in +Jamaica, was looking for a part time job and would take care of Pat on +Sundays for $3 a week, Peter refused the offer. He never knew quite why. +Somehow or other his Sunday fatherhood had become part of a routine. +Perhaps<a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a> he would have felt foot-loose without it. He merely told Kate +that $3 was too much. And one night when Pat was suddenly assailed by +croup Peter almost worried himself sick. It was a short illness, but +terrific while it lasted. The child seemed to be strangling. The cough +which racked it was deep and in its agony the child took on maturity. +Against death it fought back. Peter was moved not only because this was +his son but because here was a fellow human being grappling with the +common enemy. He waited in the hall outside while Dr. Clay was making +his examination. There he had more room to walk up and down.</p> + +<p>Presently the doctor came out and, taking Peter's arm, led him to the +front of the flat. "The child's very ill," he said, "I'm going to send +for a trained nurse."</p> + +<p>Pat cried his best, but every now and then this would be broken by the +fearful cough. It was like the baying of an animal. A spasm from the +back room interrupted Dr. Clay. "It almost sounds as if there was +another person in that room," he said. "I'm going back."</p> + +<p>Peter knew who that thing or person was. He went with Clay and lifted +Pat out of his crib and held<a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a> him in his arms. This gave him a curious +feeling that he was doing something; as if he were trying to throw his +body between Pat and someone else. In a dim way he felt that he and Pat +and the other one, all three, were running down a football field. He +must keep close to Pat and block off the tackler.</p> + +<p>"Part of my tiredness it goes into your arm." Maria had said that. And +now Peter wanted to give something of his own strength to Pat against +the fury of the attack. It did not seem fantastic. There was a current +in the contact. The man had lied when he said Peter and Maria were one. +That couldn't be done. Men and women were grown people, individuals, all +finished, but this was only a little person. He was part of Peter. +Father and son were one. He was holding Pat so tightly that nobody could +take him away. His prayer was all the more fervent from the fact that he +did not believe in God. He had to create God. "Don't let him die. Don't +let him die." God began to take form in his mind. God was Maria. She was +gone and not gone. To her he did not need to make a prayer. "Maria" was +enough.</p> + +<p>The doorbell rang and Dr. Clay answered it. He brought Miss Haine back. +"I guess you know this<a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a> baby," he said. "We've got to make him well." +The nurse spoke to Peter and set about fixing a croup kettle beside the +crib. The fumes filled the room. It was a pleasant smell. "Better lay +him down in his crib, now," said the Doctor, touching Peter on the +shoulder, "so he can get the benefit of this. I think he's a little +better already."</p> + +<p>Peter knew that he was. Pat was no longer gasping and in a few minutes +he was asleep. For a time Peter sat beside the bed. The child's +breathing was regular and his cheek was cool to the touch. "Why, he's +fine now," Miss Haine told him. "You go to bed. In the morning you won't +even know that he's been sick."</p> + +<p>There was no trace of the shadow upon Pat next day. Peter was the +haggard one. Something had gone out of him during the night as he held +Pat in his arms. Father and child were doing as well as could be +expected.<a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIIIa" id="CHAPTER_XIIIa"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h3> + +<p>At the age of eleven months and eight days Pat walked for the first +time. Peter thought he might have been considerate enough to have chosen +a Sunday. His first tooth came on a Sunday, but that wasn't any fun. +Besides, it couldn't be tied exactly to some particular day and minute +the way that the walking could. Nor was there any gaiety about it. +However, Peter did not quite miss the walking for he came in time to see +the last couple of hundred yards.</p> + +<p>It was a rainy Saturday and Peter happened home early. Kate met him in +the hall with a finger at her lips. "He's walking."</p> + +<p>She seemed to feel that if anybody said anything about it the child +would probably grow self-conscious and collapse. There appeared to be a +certain sagacity in that. It was not an experiment but an adventure. One +step led to another. At terrific speed Pat went round and round the +room. He might have been Bobby Walthour trying to steal a<a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a> lap in a six +day race. Kate and Peter watched him breathlessly from behind the +curtains of the living-room.</p> + +<p>"How long has this been going on?" Peter wanted to know.</p> + +<p>"It's these ten minutes."</p> + +<p>Peter pulled out his gold stop watch and created thereby a psychic +crisis. Perhaps Pat felt that his amateur standing was in jeopardy. At +any rate he tripped on the edge of a rug, almost turned a somersault, +blacked his eye and cried for half an hour.</p> + +<p>He did not even attempt to walk again for a week. After that it became +habitual. Up to this time Peter had never said much to anybody about his +son. He did not talk to the men at the office about the child. There +wouldn't be any sense in interrupting Charlie Hall in the middle of a +story about city politics with, "My son's got two teeth." They were all +busy men and it was not conceivable that they would care how much Pat +Neale weighed.</p> + +<p>Walking was a little different. Maybe it wasn't exactly a first page +story but still Peter wanted to tell somebody about it. For the first +time he was disposed to show off Pat—in person. Of course eleven months +and eights days wasn't a record.<a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a> Peter would have to look into that and +find out the best accepted performance. He remembered being told that +his own brother had walked at eight months but he had no means of +knowing whether or not that was authentic.</p> + +<p>The desire to confide in somebody eventually took Peter around to a +stage door, though not the one at the end of the alley. From a Sunday +graphic section he had noticed that Vonnie Bandana was playing in a +musical show called "Harvest Moon." Vonnie Bandana wasn't really her +name. The caption said Vonnie Ryan and Peter was sure it was the same +girl. Evidently the Eight Bandana Sisters had gone the way of Brook Farm +and Halcyon Hall and many another experiment in co-operation. Vonnie +knew him all right.</p> + +<p>"You're the man that married Maria Algarez," she said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but she's gone away."</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry."</p> + +<p>"That's all right. It was a long time ago. Almost a year now. She was a +good dancer, wasn't she?"</p> + +<p>"Maria, oh, yes, she could dance. I wondered what became of her."<a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a></p> + +<p>"I don't know that. I haven't heard from her at all. I think she's +abroad."</p> + +<p>"Have you seen our show?"</p> + +<p>"No, I just happened to notice your picture in the Bulletin last +Sunday."</p> + +<p>"Did you? Wasn't that smart of you? I've got a part in this. Lines and +everything. I sing a song. You know I don't sing it much. Just one verse +and the chorus and then I dance it. The dance is all right."</p> + +<p>Peter and Vonnie had been slowly walking away from the theatre towards +Broadway while they carried on this discussion and when they reached the +avenue Vonnie stopped.</p> + +<p>"Are you going my way? I go up to a Hundred and Sixty-eighth street. +Just a little this side of Albany."</p> + +<p>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was wondering if maybe you wouldn't come +out and have supper with me. I just happened to be going by the theatre +and I stopped around and thought I might run into you."</p> + +<p>"Listen," said Vonnie. "I'll have supper with you, but don't pull any +more of that 'I just happened to be going by the theatre.' That's awful. +You ought to say you've been planning to come and see<a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a> me for a week and +came all the way in from New Rochelle just special. You don't know +anything about women, do you?"</p> + +<p>"I guess I don't," said Peter very soberly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I am sorry," Vonnie laid her hand on his arm. "I didn't mean +anything by that. Forget it. You're all right even if I don't remember +your name. Did you ever tell it to me?"</p> + +<p>"My name's Peter Neale."</p> + +<p>"You're not the Peter Neale that writes in the Bulletin, are you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do a sporting column. That looking 'em over stuff."</p> + +<p>"I've been looking for you. Do you know I almost wrote you a letter. +Where do you get that stuff about Sandow Mertes being a more valuable +man than George Browne?"</p> + +<p>"Browne can't hit lefthanders."</p> + +<p>"That's the bunk. You and the rest of the sporting writers keep pulling +that stuff about him and of course he can't. Suppose there was somebody +standing in the wings every night just before I came on, yelling at me, +'Vonnie, you can't dance,' do you suppose I could go on and do that song +for a cent? Of course I couldn't. You and the rest<a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a> of you, you're just +ruining this fellow. The best looking young outfielder I've seen in ten +years. Why he could run up a hill faster than Mertes could roll down +one."</p> + +<p>"You don't know what you're talking about," said Peter. It was the +boldest speech he had ever made to a woman and he did it without turning +a hair. Vonnie was wrong. George Browne couldn't hit lefthanders. Before +he took her home Vonnie had arranged to go with him to the Polo Grounds +the next day and to come and see the baby on Sunday.</p> + +<p>"Here," she said as he was turning away from the door of her apartment, +"you've got a kiss coming to you. When you live up as far as One Hundred +and Sixty-eighth Street you've got to do at least that much for any +fellow that takes you home."</p> + +<p>"And say, listen," said Vonnie, just before she closed the door, "next +month I'm going to move to Two Hundred and Forty-second Street."<a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIVa" id="CHAPTER_XIVa"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h3> + +<p>Vonnie came to the flat the next Sunday. The moment might have +embarrassed Peter if it had been anybody else.</p> + +<p>But Vonnie had such an imperious and lofty way of rising above all +things traditionally embarrassing to Peter and snooting down at them +that she carried him with her. At least part way.</p> + +<p>"Why haven't you got the young Giant in his ball park over there," said +Vonnie pointing to the Stockade.</p> + +<p>"I'm changing him."</p> + +<p>"No game," said Vonnie, "wet grounds."</p> + +<p>"Get out of that. Never had a baby in my life," she continued, briskly +rapping her knuckles on the woodwork above her head, "but I can't be +worse at that job than you are."</p> + +<p>She pushed Peter away, but did not begin on the business in hand +immediately. "He's a good kid. A fine husky kid. I know now why you +asked me<a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a> here. You figured if I wanted one for myself you'd let me know +where to apply."</p> + +<p>"Never mind the compliments," said Peter. "Change his diapers."</p> + +<p>Vonnie had brought the new freedom into his life.</p> + +<p>"No doubt about his being yours," she went on. "Everything up to the +chin is you—of course I'm just guessing—but Maria left him those eyes +and that nose. Maybe she left him more than that. He's marked for the +show business. You might as well make up your mind to that."</p> + +<p>"He's going to be a newspaper man," cut in Peter sharply.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see. Got it all fixed. If he begins to bust out singing or +playing the piano or something you won't let him. That's it, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"I'm going to shape him in that direction."</p> + +<p>"Just shape him, hey? Boy, didn't you ever bust bang into the artistic +temperament? I played a season once with William Faversham. Shape him? +You can't beat him out of it with a club. I don't know yet what way he's +going to jump but I want to put down a little bet this kid of yours is +going to be some kind of an artist."<a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a></p> + +<p>"Don't keep saying that. I tell you he's coming on the Bulletin. His +name's Peter Neale."</p> + +<p>"You could name him Rosenberg and that wouldn't make him a pawnbroker."</p> + +<p>"But this is in his blood just like in mine. He can't help himself. He's +just got to be a newspaper man."</p> + +<p>"All right we won't fight about it. You say he's going to be a newspaper +man and I tell you he's going to be an artist. Maybe he won't be +anything but a moving picture actor."</p> + +<p>Peter saw Vonnie frequently throughout the summer. She went to the ball +games with him almost every afternoon except matinée days. The dispute +about George Browne and Sandow Mertes persisted. There could be no +question but that Browne had the speed. Even when he hit straight to an +infielder it took a fast throw to nail him at first. But Peter didn't +like him because his cap almost always fell off whenever he beat out a +slow roller. Somebody would have to carry it down to first for him and +while Browne was waiting he had a trick of bending his head back and +shaking his long hair out of his eyes.</p> + +<p>"He looks like a Goddamn violinist," said Peter.<a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a></p> + +<p>"Yes," replied Vonnie, "and your friend Mertes looks like a piccolo +player. Do you know the story about the piccolo player?"</p> + +<p>"Not in the press box," interrupted Peter fearfully. He felt obliged to +interrupt Vonnie a good deal. She was much given to tantalizing him by +beginning in a loud clear voice, "It seems there was a travelling +salesman came to a hotel," or "This fellow, you see, started to take his +girl out for a ride."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to hear it," Peter would say half in jest and half hoping +to be effectual.</p> + +<p>"But it's a nice story."</p> + +<p>"It isn't a nice story or it wouldn't begin that way" was the agreed +formula for Peter's reply, whereupon Vonnie would disturb his gravity +and dignity by digging him in the ribs with her elbow. Another favorite +device of hers was sedulously to brush an imaginary spot on Peter's coat +lapel and when he looked down bring up her hand and flip him under the +nose. Peter never seemed to remember not to look down. Perhaps he liked +to have his nose flipped.</p> + +<p>"It isn't necessary," he would object, "for everybody around here to +know you're a chorus girl."<a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a></p> + +<p>"Chorus girl, nothing. I got the song hit of the piece. 'Any little +thing for you dear, any little thing for you,'" Vonnie indicated the +tempo by scruffing her feet against the concrete floor of the press box.</p> + +<p>"Cut it out. Pay attention to the game."</p> + +<p>Sometimes the admonition was unnecessary. The day George Browne took a +real cut at the ball and banged it over the ropes in right field Vonnie +hopped into a chair and shouted, "The blessed lamb! Oh, you Georgie boy! +Watch that kid go. Look at him, Peter, he runs just like my Michael."</p> + +<p>Michael was Vonnie's white dog, said to be a Highland terrier. When +Peter took Vonnie home to One Hundred and Sixty-eighth Street it had +become the custom for him to wait down in the street while she got +Michael and took him a turn around the block before saying good night to +Peter. Vonnie had a good deal to say about Michael from time to time, +which was calculated to embarrass Peter. "You got to get me a book for +Michael," she told Peter.</p> + +<p>"What sort of a book?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess it's called 'What a Young Dog Ought to Know.' He don't +know any of the facts<a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a> about life. I can take that dog past a million +lamp-posts and ten minutes after I get him back in the flat I've got to +lick him. Maybe you could give him a little plain talk, Peter. Coming +from a man, you know, it'd carry more weight with him."</p> + +<p>After Peter had known Vonnie for two months she did move to Two Hundred +and Forty-second Street. Peter took her out to supper a week later and +made the long journey up town. She was more subdued than usual as they +stood at the door of the apartment house. He put both hands on her +shoulders and leaned down to kiss her good night.</p> + +<p>"Don't you like me, Peter?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Of course I do. You know that."</p> + +<p>"I don't want you to go away, now. I don't want you to go away tonight."</p> + +<p>"I've got to."</p> + +<p>"Why have you got to?"</p> + +<p>"I think I ought to go."</p> + +<p>"Oh, if it's just morals, forget it. There's nothing to be afraid of. +You're not in love with me and I'm not in love with you. I just like +you. And I'm lonely. They won't let me keep Michael in this place, but I +guess I can sneak you in if you don't bark as we go up the stairs."<a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a></p> + +<p>"Maybe this'll spoil everything," said Peter. "It's been so nice and +easy and pleasant going around with you, Vonnie. If I get in love with +you something will happen to me sure. I can't stand anything like that +again. I do like you a lot. That's the trouble."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Hell! nothing like that's going to happen. I'm a tough bird. I'll +make you a promise, Peter. The minute I see you're falling in love with +me any I'll tell you that story about the tattooed man and the girl from +Oshkosh and shock it right out of you. Don't make any noise, Peter. I've +found the janitor's a light sleeper. And don't be so awful solemn. Try +and think up something worse that could have happened to you."</p> + +<p>Still when Vonnie kissed him again after they had tiptoed up two flights +and into her flat, Peter noticed that this time she did not laugh.<a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVa" id="CHAPTER_XVa"></a>CHAPTER XV</h3> + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>Peter worried a good deal over Vonnie's predictions as to Pat's future. +The doubt which she had cast upon the feasibility of his scheme +heightened after the victrola was introduced into the flat. The man on +the floor below happened to be moving and meeting Peter in the hall one +night he struck up a bargain to sell his phonograph and all the records. +After the bargain was made and the machine duly delivered, Peter looked +over the repertoire and found it queer stuff according to his notions. +"Werther—Ah! non mi ridestar!" sung by Mattia Battistini; "Siegfried's +Funeral March;" "The Funeral March of a Marionette." It seemed morbid to +Peter. "Minuet in G, No. 2" played by Ysaye; "Lucia—il dolce suono (mad +scene)." "Merry old bird," thought Peter. "Invitation to the +Waltz—Weber." That was a tune he knew, but it could hardly be classed +as cheerful.</p> + +<p>Peter went out and purchased a few of the latest<a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a> song hits—"The +Sextette from Floradora," "Under the Shade of the Sheltering Palm," and +to his delight he found "Any Little Thing for You, Dear." Unfortunately +the phonograph company had chosen another voice instead of Vonnie's for +the record. Nevertheless, Peter bought it and some more.</p> + +<p>Pat was now a year and a half old, but he manifested the most violent +interest in the phonograph. That pleased Peter but he did not like it +quite so well when Kate reported to him, "'Tis a queer child, Mr. Neale. +It's them red records he does be playing all the time. He wants the one +about somebody's funeral all the time. Would you believe it he cries +when I put on a nice tune for him."</p> + +<p>The report was not exaggerated. Pat liked the song from Werther, but the +Siegfried record was his favorite, with Gounod a close second. Indeed +his passion to have his own particular favorites played and no others +seemed to be the compelling influence which brought him to language. +Almost his first articulate words were "Boom-Boom" which Peter +eventually and regretfully identified as an attempt to designate the +Siegfried Funeral March. When more words were developed The Funeral +March of a Marionette became "the other Boom-Boom."<a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a></p> + +<p>Before Pat was quite two he could mess about in the cabinet of the +victrola and pick out a dozen records in response to Peter's request.</p> + +<p>"Go get the red Bat," Peter would say and Pat would gravely pull out a +handful of records and return with Battistini's Werther. For that matter +he knew Floradora well enough to pick it out of the pile but he never +held it out to Peter with an imperious, "I want" as he did whenever he +got his hands on "Siegfried" or "The Funeral March of a Marionette." It +was still more thrilling, a little later, when he abandoned his +descriptive "Boom-Boom" for "Siegfried's Funeral March" and began to +call it, "Go to Bed Tired." Peter never knew just how Pat could identify +the records by looking at them. He supposed that some of the titles were +longer than others and that the child was able to bear in mind the +picture created by some certain series of signs.</p> + +<p>But a still more shocking discovery came when Peter learned that his +tiny son could identify by sound as well as sight. Peter, for instance, +was never quite certain whether the record being played was the Mad +Scene from Lucia or the Floradora Sextette. At any rate not until it had +gone along<a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a> about to "On bended knee—on bended knee." But there was no +fooling Pat. He never needed more than a few notes before he was able to +exclaim with a well justified assurance that the piece in question was +"Chi-Chi" or "Floor" as the case might be. The Weber waltz was never +played much and Pat had no name for it, but he evidently knew it well +enough for no sooner was it started than he would get up and swing +slowly from side to side. Peter finally got a hammer and broke that +record. He would have liked to pass the victrola on to somebody else but +Kate would have protested as well as Pat. Music had solved for her the +problem of what to do with Pat on rainy days. Outside of a little +cranking these once difficult experiences had now become practically +painless.</p> + +<p>On Pat's second birthday Peter was startled to receive at the office of +the Bulletin a package directed in the handwriting of Maria Algarez. +Peter had travelled a little of the way toward forgetting Maria Algarez. +Time had done something, but Vonnie had done more. It was almost seven +months now since Peter first went to Two Hundred and Forty-second +Street. In the package he found a letter and a phonograph record. On the +disc he read "Chanson de<a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a> Solveig—Maria Algarez." The letter +said—"Dear Peter—I send to your son a present for his second birthday. +I hope he will like it. Is his name Peter, too? So it should be. He will +be a fine boy I think, big and strong like his father. And make it so +that he shall grow up not to have the fear of anything and not the shame +of anything. Here for two years I have studied the English hard. You see +I write it much better. Now I have not danced for two years. First it +was because of the baby. It was not his fault. Maybe I have left the +hospital too soon. I did not want to stay longer and to die. All the +time I sing. The voice it is magnificent. Perhaps it is next season I am +to sing in the Opera Comique. For the phonograph company I have made the +one record and they say it will be more. I do not know. It is not +necessary ever for me to see your son, or for him to see me but some +time you will play for him this record. That he should hear me I want. +You need not say who it is. That does not matter. In you, Peter, there +is no song. For little Peter that should be different. Perhaps you will +say no. I do not think so. I want that he should hear my song—Maria."</p> + +<p><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>There was no address. Peter played Solveig's song that Sunday. It +stirred him strangely. This was almost a tune. When the notes went high +he could not only see Maria in the room, he could almost feel her. He +was so intent with this presence that he did not watch Pat. The child +was lying on the floor. He said nothing until the last note had almost +died away. "I want the red Bat," he said.</p> + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>Vonnie never came to the flat except on Sundays. It wouldn't do to have +Kate know anything about her. Several weeks after the arrival of Maria's +letter she happened in just as Peter was playing the Solveig song for +Pat. The child never put this particular record into his list of +imperatives, but he was reconciled to it. Perhaps interested. And Peter +felt a sort of compulsion of duty to play it every once and so often. He +had been surprised in the beginning that no miracle of recognition had +occurred in Pat's mind. To Pat she was merely a lady singing. Yet Peter +could not be sure what currents might move beneath the surface. Anyhow +it was enough for him that Maria had asked that he play the record. And +to him there was a<a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a> certain instinct to play the record for his own +sake. Now that the memory was not so painful he rather wanted to keep it +alive. The thing was far enough away by now to be romantic. Peter took a +definite pride in the fact that once his heart had been broken. That +didn't happen to everybody.</p> + +<p>His feeling about Vonnie was different. She was ever so much more fun +than Maria, but she wasn't romantic. He felt that he knew her better. +Certainly he was more assured and easy with her than he had ever been +with Maria, but she could not move him to that curious exalted +unhappiness which he had once known. People about to become monks or +missionaries must feel something of what he felt for Maria. Still, that +wasn't it exactly. Maria was that moment before you hit the water in a +chute the chutes. Living with her was like watching a baseball game with +the bases always full and two strikes on the batter. Even marriage was +no windbreak. There was never a moment in that year when he had not felt +the tang of a gale full upon him. Having an affair with Vonnie was +highly respectable in comparison. This passion was even hospitable to +little jokes. Life had become comfortable.<a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a></p> + +<p>He did not know whether or not Vonnie realized that she and Maria were +different. They no longer talked ever of Maria Algarez. Even when she +came in upon the Solveig song Peter would have said nothing about it.</p> + +<p>"It's Maria, isn't it?" asked Vonnie.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Where did you get it?"</p> + +<p>"She sent it to me."</p> + +<p>"Has she come back?"</p> + +<p>"No, it just said Paris."</p> + +<p>"Maybe she thinks she don't need to come back. She can bean you just as +good with a phonograph record."</p> + +<p>Peter said nothing, but let the song die out and then took the disc from +the machine.</p> + +<p>"Here," said Vonnie, "let me see it."</p> + +<p>Peter handed it over. Vonnie looked at it for a moment, then she moved +across the room.</p> + +<p>"Pete," she said, "what would you do if I dropped this thing out the +window." She made a move as if to put the suggestion into execution.</p> + +<p>"Don't do that," cried Peter.</p> + +<p>"Don't do that," mimicked Vonnie. "You're still a damn fool, hey?"<a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a></p> + +<p>"It's not mine. It was sent to Pat."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, blame it on the kid. I don't suppose he's a nut about her, +too. Are you, Pat?"</p> + +<p>Pat seemed to have no comprehension of the issue and made no answer.</p> + +<p>"Look here, Pete," said Vonnie, "nobody can say I've ever been jealous. +You can be daffy about anybody you like. That's none of my business, but +I can't stand it to have you such a fool that you'll let this damn woman +slap you in the face and then come back for more. If you didn't know she +was no good in the first place you ought to know it now."</p> + +<p>"I don't want you to say that."</p> + +<p>"Well, what is she good for?"</p> + +<p>"She's the greatest dancer in the world."</p> + +<p>"Don't make me laugh."</p> + +<p>"You know she is. You heard them cheering her that night."</p> + +<p>"Hell to that. Everything was set for her. Somebody gets sick and on she +waltzes. Any audience'll fall for that. If Carmencita should fall down +and break her leg I could do the same thing. 'Miss Vonnie Ryan with one +hour's rehearsing will take the place of Carmencita.' It's a cinch."<a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a></p> + +<p>"All right. You've got your opinion and I've got mine. Don't let's talk +about it."</p> + +<p>"I'm going to talk about it. This gets settled right now. I don't have +to be first with you, Pete, or anybody else, but I'm not going to run +second to a dish-faced mutt. I've got some pride in the people that cut +me out. Either I smash that phonograph record or you and I smash."</p> + +<p>"Give me that."</p> + +<p>Vonnie handed it over.</p> + +<p>"All right," she said. "I'm sorry. It was silly for me to bawl you out. +You haven't done anything to me. God knows I can't stand here and say +you seduced me. I had to get a half-nelson on you to pull you into the +flat that night. Maybe that's what makes me so sore. I put a lot of work +in on you, Pete."</p> + +<p>"Please don't go way, Vonnie. It's silly for us to scrap over a +phonograph record."</p> + +<p>"Everything's silly. I got to go way. I'm going to get just as far away +as I can. I'm going to get in some road company going to the Coast and +then by God, I hope we get stranded. You poor mutt, I'm in love with +you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, please, Vonnie, don't cry. I know I'm no<a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a> good. I just can't help +it about that phonograph record."</p> + +<p>"Well, you don't suppose I'd bawl this way if I could help it. Now don't +be patting me on the back. I don't love you enough to let you, 'There! +there!' me."</p> + +<p>She moved resolutely to the door and by the time she reached it the line +had come to her.</p> + +<p>"I ought've known," said Vonnie, "no good could come out of taking up +with a fellow that thinks Mertes is a better outfielder than George +Browne."<a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVIa" id="CHAPTER_XVIa"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h3> + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>Vonnie made good her threat and two weeks after the quarrel Peter +received a picture postcard of a giant redwood. The message said, "Well +Peter here I am in San Francisco—Vonnie." It was the first written +communication he had ever received from her and so he did not know +whether or not the brevity was habitual or was intended to convey a +rebuke. It seemed safe to assume the latter as Vonnie sent no address.</p> + +<p>Peter found himself turning to Pat for companionship. Perhaps he did not +exactly turn, but was rather tugged about without will of his own. The +needs of Pat were increasingly greater and Peter was caught up into them +now that he had nothing in particular to do with his evenings. Instead +of taking Vonnie out to an early dinner before the show he helped to put +Pat to bed. It didn't seem quite virile to Peter, but it was easier than +hanging around Jack's or Joel's or the Eldorado. Of course, Pat was +supposed to be in bed long before the night<a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a> life of New York had really +begun, but bit by bit he edged his time ahead until it was often eleven +or after before he fell off to sleep. The child fought against sleep as +if it were a count of ten. Never within Peter's memory did Pat express a +willingness to go to sleep, much less a desire. It was always necessary +to conduct him forcibly over the line where consciousness ceased.</p> + +<p>Peter was swept under the tyranny of this obligation a couple of nights +after Vonnie went away. Unable to think up anything to do, he came back +to the flat a little after ten. He saw a light burning down the hall in +Pat's room and occasional entreaties and commands drifted out. Pat +wanted a drink of water and the toy alligator and the electric engine +and six freight cars. Looking at his watch Peter found that it was half +past ten. He walked into the child's room and exclaimed sternly, "What's +all this racket about?"</p> + +<p>"He wants the funny section read to him," explained Kate, "and it's been +lost some place. I can't find it anywhere."</p> + +<p>"That's perfect rubbish," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"I've looked all over for it, Mr. Neale."</p> + +<p>"That wasn't what I meant was rubbish, Kate.<a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a> I'm glad you lost it. I +want you to keep on losing it. I meant it's rubbish for him to be +staying up this late and asking for things."</p> + +<p>"Yes sir."</p> + +<p>"Now we'll both say good night to him, Kate, and let him go to sleep."</p> + +<p>Pat began to cry not only loudly but with a certain note of sincerity +which caught Peter's ear. "What's the matter with him now?"</p> + +<p>"He made me promise I'd tell him a story if I couldn't find the funny +paper," said Kate.</p> + +<p>"It's too late now and anyway if he made you do it, Kate, it isn't a +promise. It don't count."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mr. Neale. But it's so set he is he'll be calling me back all the +night long for me to tell him the story. It's nothing he does be +forgetting."</p> + +<p>"All right, Kate, we'll settle that very easily. You go out and I'll +stay and he can cry his head off."</p> + +<p>"Where'll I go, Mr. Neale?"</p> + +<p>"I don't care, Kate. Go any place you like. It isn't eleven o'clock yet. +Where do you usually go?"</p> + +<p>"To my sister's in Jamaica, but it's no time to be routing them out at +this hour."</p> + +<p>"Well, let me see. I tell you, Kate, there's a moving picture theatre +down there at Fifty-ninth<a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a> Street that keeps going till after one. +Here's some money. You go there and see the picture and I'll stay and +show this young man he can't get everything he cries for."</p> + +<p>"I want to see the picture," said Pat, sitting up in bed.</p> + +<p>"Now don't be silly. You get back there on your pillow," said Peter, "or +I'll just knock you down."</p> + +<p>Kate rummaged around for her bonnet and finally went out. During all +this time Pat kept up a suppressed sobbing. As soon as the door slammed +behind Kate he was sufficiently rested again to begin crying full force.</p> + +<p>"Well, what is it now?" said Peter as fiercely as he could.</p> + +<p>Pat's utterance was muffled with tears. "I want a story."</p> + +<p>"You heard Kate go out. If you've got any sense you know she can't tell +you a story."</p> + +<p>"You tell me a story."</p> + +<p>"I'm too busy. Go to sleep."</p> + +<p>"Why are you busy?"</p> + +<p>"Because I am. Now go to sleep."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to go to sleep. I want you to tell me a story."<a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a></p> + +<p>Pat commenced to cry again. He had sensed an opening.</p> + +<p>Peter dropped his guard. "Just one story?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Upon the instant Pat ceased crying and sat up. "Tell me about the old +beggarman and Saint Pat."</p> + +<p>"I don't know it," said Peter. In fact he felt almost as if he had been +suddenly called upon to make a speech at a public banquet. Of course, he +had heard of Cinderella and Red Riding Hood and Aladdin and the +wonderful lamp, but he could not quite remember what any of them did. +Suddenly he remembered another source book.</p> + +<p>"Once," he began, "there was a man named Goliath and he was the biggest +man in the world. He could beat any man in the world. And one day there +was a little man named David——."</p> + +<p>"I'm bigger than David," interrupted Pat.</p> + +<p>"I guess you are. He was a little bit of a man, but he wasn't afraid of +Goliath. He said, 'Ole Goliath, you talk too much. You make me sick.' +And he picked up a rock and hit Goliath and knocked him down."</p> + +<p>"Why did he knock Goliath down?" Pat wanted to know.<a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a></p> + +<p>"I guess he knocked Goliath down because it was Goliath's bedtime and +Goliath wouldn't go to bed."</p> + +<p>Pat remained alert in spite of the moralizing. He gave no hint of +recognition that the end of a story had been reached. Anyhow, the +creative impulse had seized upon Peter particularly since it might be so +unblushingly combined with propaganda.</p> + +<p>"Well," he continued, "pretty soon George Browne came out of his house +and he was the second biggest man in the world and he wouldn't go to bed +and so David picked up another great big rock and knocked him down. And +then your friend the Red Bat came out of his house and he was the next +biggest man in the world and he wouldn't go to bed and so David picked +up another rock and knocked him down."</p> + +<p>"No, he didn't," broke in Pat.</p> + +<p>"I'm telling this story. David hit the Red Bat with a rock and knocked +him down because he wouldn't go to bed."</p> + +<p>"No, he didn't."</p> + +<p>"Oh, all right then, if you know so much about it, he didn't. What did +he do?"</p> + +<p>"He knocked David down."<a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a></p> + +<p>Peter realized that his narrative was overburdened with propaganda and +he was artist enough to throw over some of his moralizing ballast.</p> + +<p>"Well, this was the way it happened, Pat. David picked up a big rock and +threw it at the Red Bat, but the Red Bat was too smart for him. The Red +Bat caught the rock and threw it back at David and knocked him down. +That was it, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Pat.</p> + +<p>When Kate returned a little after one Peter reported, "I didn't have any +bother with him. He just went right off to sleep."</p> + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>David and Goliath became set as a bedtime story and lasted through the +next six months almost without change. Indeed Pat resented changes. +"Once," Peter would begin, "there was a man named Goliath and he was the +biggest man in the world and he could lick any man in the world."</p> + +<p>"Not lick," Pat would interrupt. "Beat."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, he could beat any man in the world." Peter found himself +coming home for Pat's bedtime with increasing frequency. Once or twice +he tried to break away, but upon such occasions Kate<a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a> reported that the +child had cried for him and had kept awake until after midnight asking +for the story of David and Goliath.</p> + +<p>"You tell it to him," said Peter. "I think I can teach it to you. He +wants it just this way." And he repeated the accepted version.</p> + +<p>Kate shook her head. "I'm too old a woman to be learning so many words, +Mr. Neale," she said. "And it's not a story I think Father Ryan would +like me to be telling. That's not the way the story do be going in our +Bible."</p> + +<p>"Gosh," thought Peter to himself. "She thinks it was Martin Luther made +those changes."</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding Goliath, Peter made a gallant attempt to break away from +his newly found responsibilities. He felt that he ought to. He felt that +in the restaurants and poolrooms there lay the sort of sporting gossip +he ought to pick up for his column. Of course, not all New York kept +Pat's hours in those days but there was something almost auto-hypnotic +in getting the child to sleep. In addition to the bedtime story, Peter +found it necessary to feign great weariness in order to suggest a +similar feeling in Pat. He would yawn prodigiously immediately after the +Red Bat had<a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a> knocked down David and pretend to doze off on the foot of +Pat's bed. Presently, he would hear the boy's regular breathing and +would tiptoe out of the room. But Peter acted his rôle much too well. +After so much shamming he generally was actually tired himself and +indisposed to wander down to Jack's or any of the other places where he +might find fighters or their managers.</p> + +<p>Indeed, he made the discovery that the material to be extracted from +these people was not inexhaustible. Like David and Goliath they had a +tendency to run into formula. "And I yell at him, don't box him; fight +him. Keep rushing him. Don't let him set. And when he comes to his +corner at the end of the third round I bawl in his ear, 'You kike so and +so, begging your pardon, Mr. Neale, if you don't get that lousy wop I'm +done with you.' And would you believe me it did him a lot of good. It +put guts in him. In the fourth we nail him with a right and we win. Now +we're going after the champ and if we ever get him into a ring we'll +lick him."</p> + +<p>A year or so before Neale could have taken stuff like that and worked it +over into a column on "The Psychology of a Prizefight Manager." But now<a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a> +all the inspiration was gone. He had heard precisely the same tale in +much the same language too many times. He was almost tempted to cry out, +"Not lick him, beat him."</p> + +<p>Nor was there much more available color in the fighters themselves. They +were a silent crowd, most of them, particularly if they happened to have +a manager along.</p> + +<p>Once, Peter found Dave Keyes, the Brooklyn lightweight, sitting all +alone in Jack's. He was going great guns that year and Peter thought of +him as the logical successor to the champion. They had met a couple of +times at fight clubs, but Keyes did not seem to remember Peter. He was +sober but not bright. Still, Peter felt that he might draw him out +during the course of the evening. In time Keyes began to talk freely +enough. He was even confidential but fighting seemed to be the last +thing in the world he cared to discuss.</p> + +<p>"You see there's two dames fall for me. And the tough break is the both +of them lives on the same block. See. Well, let me tell you how I works +it. First I give Helen, that's the blonde one, a ring and then right +<a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>bang on top of that I has the call switched over to Gracie's flat——."</p> + +<p>"Life," thought the harassed Peter Neale, "is just one bedtime story +after another."</p> + +<p>In the Spring a long swing around the baseball training camps took Peter +away for almost two months and another month and a half went in a +fruitless journey to Juarez to wait for a fight which never happened. It +was June when Peter returned and to his horror he found that the child +had picked up theology in his absence. A storm helped the discovery. The +roll of the thunder was still a long way off when Peter called it to +Pat's attention. "We're going to have a thunderstorm," he said.</p> + +<p>"No, we're not," answered the child. "Thunder storms only come when +you're bad."</p> + +<p>"What's that?" asked Peter.</p> + +<p>"A thunderstorm's God showing his ankle," explained Pat.</p> + +<p>This did not seem a dogma altogether iron clad and yet it worried Peter.</p> + +<p>"Thunder's got nothing to do with you're being bad," he told Pat. "If +that was it we'd have thunder all the time. Thunder's nothing to be +afraid of. It's just somebody up the sky saying 'Booh' at you for fun."</p> + +<p>"God lives up in the sky."<a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a></p> + +<p>"How do you know that? Did you see him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Pat stoutly.</p> + +<p>That made the question difficult to argue.</p> + +<p>"All right," continued Peter. "Call him God if you want to. Anyhow, when +it's thunder he's just saying 'Booh' at you and if you get scared you +haven't got any sense. Remember that's what thunder is. Just somebody +named God saying 'Booh.'"</p> + +<p>"No, it isn't."</p> + +<p>"Well, you tell me then."</p> + +<p>"When it's thunder," said Pat, pointing up the street in the direction +of Central Park, "it's a big giant in the trees."</p> + +<p>The child paused. "A blind giant," he added.</p> + +<p>Peter stared at him and wondered whether the phrase and figure were his +own or whether he had picked them up from Kate. Later Peter took +occasion to ask her and she denied it. "God's ankle," she admitted but +only after revision. "You know, Mr. Neale, it's the way he has of +getting things twisted in his little head. You understand now it was +'God's anger' I was a telling him."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I knew that all right, Kate. I knew he made up the ankle part of +it. But you're sure you didn't<a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a> tell him anything about thunder and a +giant in the trees—a blind giant."</p> + +<p>"No, sir."</p> + +<p>Peter got to thinking things over and began to remember what Vonnie had +said concerning the future of Pat. He was worried. This idolatry of the +Red Bat who sang on the phonograph he didn't like. After this it would +have to be somebody else who knocked David down. Sandow Mertes maybe. +Then there was this blind giant in the trees. He didn't mind Pat's +growing up to be a poet. That would fit into the column nicely enough, +but not wild poetry. The thing had to be kept in bounds or there wasn't +any way to syndicate it. Still the next column of "Looking Them Over" +which Peter wrote contained a little poem somewhat outside his usual +manner. It was called, "The Big Blind Giant."</p> + +<p>Three days later the syndicate manager on the Bulletin called up Peter. +"We've got six telegrams already about that poem of yours," he said. +"The one about the big blind giant running around and hitting his head +against the trees."</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with it?" asked Peter aggressively.<a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a></p> + +<p>"Nothing at all, Peter, they all say it's great. All but that sporting +editor of the Des Moines Register—you know him, Caleb Powers?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't know him. What's he say?"</p> + +<p>"He just gives the name of the poem and then he says in his telegram, +'Don't tell me the answer, I want to guess.'"</p> + +<p>"Five out of six is plenty," said Peter. "And say, Bill, where do you +suppose I got the idea from?"</p> + +<p>"Where?"</p> + +<p>"From my kid—Peter Neale, 2nd. He isn't four yet, but you see I've got +him working for the Bulletin already."<a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVIIa" id="CHAPTER_XVIIa"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h3> + +<p>Pat furnished copy for Peter again within a month. Kate came in from the +Park all breathless with an account of a fight between the child and his +friend and playmate Bobby, last name not given.</p> + +<p>"It was about an engine," explained Kate. "Bobby give it to Pat and then +he wanted to take it away again. Before we could get to them Pat hit +Bobby in the mouth so hard it made his mouth bleed. And that Bobby, him +almost six years old. And a head taller than Pat. He bled something +terrible, Mr. Neale. First I thought it was just Bobby's blood on Pat's +hand, but it kept on and when I looked closer there was all the skin off +of the knuckles of Pat. It must have been the teeth of that Bobby when +Pat hit him. I'll be putting iodine on it this very minute if you'll +watch till I get back, Mr. Neale."</p> + +<p>"Put down that engine and come here, Pat," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"I can't hear you."<a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a></p> + +<p>"Yes, you can. I said put down that engine. Nobody's going to take it +away from you. Not just now, anyway. It's not yours but I suppose you've +won it. Come here, I want to see your hand."</p> + +<p>Very reluctantly Pat placed the engine on the sofa and advanced slowly.</p> + +<p>"It's all red," he said.</p> + +<p>Peter took off the handkerchief. "Nonsense," he said, "you haven't more +than scratched it."</p> + +<p>He was about to dismiss the matter from his mind and start for the +office when he noticed something he'd overlooked. "Kate, Kate," cried +Peter in great excitement, "this hand that Pat cut hitting that boy is +his left hand."</p> + +<p>"Yes, 'tis his left hand he'd be using all the time when I'm not +noticing him," said Kate, returning with the iodine. "That's where the +strength is. It'll be hard to teach him out of it."</p> + +<p>"I don't want him taught out of it, Kate. Don't you ever try to stop +him. It's bad to try to change children around. Anyway I don't want him +changed. This is fine for him. When he grows up and plays baseball he'll +be two steps nearer first base and besides the swing will throw him into +his stride.<a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a> Maybe you don't know what I'm talking about, Kate, but +remember I want him to stay a left-hander."</p> + +<p>Peter went down to the office and wrote, "There seems to be no shadow of +doubt from which hope can spring—I am the father of a southpaw." He +nursed the theme and the incident along for almost a column, and there +were other by-products of comfort. In the City Room Peter ran into Deane +Taylor, the venerable music critic of the Bulletin.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Taylor," he asked, "did you ever see a left-handed violin player?"</p> + +<p>"No, Peter," said the old man, "there's no such thing. Of course there +might be left-handed piano players, but certainly all the fiddlers and +all the conductors are right-handed. Come to think of it, I don't know +any left-handed musicians at all. But if you're writing something about +that you better ask somebody else. I might be wrong. You see I've never +gone into music from that angle."</p> + +<p>"No," replied Peter, "this is just something I'm interested in +personally. Your impression's good enough for me. You don't have to +prove it. Thank you very much."</p> + +<p>Peter went away greatly pleased. "There's one<a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a> of Vonnie's guesses gone +wrong anyhow," he said.</p> + +<p>From his observations of professional baseball, Peter had worked out the +theory that lefthanders were more difficult to handle than anybody else. +There was Rube Waddell for instance. Peter had seen him call the +outfielders in for the ninth inning and retire the side with only an +infield behind him. And everybody knew about the way Rube used to +disappear every now and then during the middle of a season and go +fishing. Only the day before he had had a Rube Waddell story in his +column. It was about Rube and the animal crackers. The man who told +Peter said the story came straight from Connie Mack and that there was +no doubt about its being true. Ollie Shreck, Rube's regular catcher, +wouldn't sign a contract one season. When they asked him the trouble he +said, "They always put me in to room with Rube on the road. Maybe they +think I understand him after catching him so much. Well, Mr. Mack, I +won't sign no contract unless you put in a clause that Rube can't eat +animal crackers in our bed."</p> + +<p>Pat lived up to most of Peter's theories about southpaws. Before the +child had quite turned four Peter discovered that Kate had no control +over him.<a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a> She had given him a little theology but no discipline. The +facts came out through her complaint that Pat wouldn't eat any of the +things which he was supposed to eat. A doctor called in to attend a +passing cold had remained to suggest a diet. He was horrified to learn +that Kate had allowed the child to eat meat two or three times a day, +with the exception of Friday, just as she did.</p> + +<p>"Your child is just about one ton behind in spinach," said Dr. Whiting +to Peter. "He's got to catch up, but there won't be any particular +trouble about that. He's pretty sure to like spinach. All children do. +And I want him to have more milk."</p> + +<p>Peter found upon inquiry that Pat had never known spinach. "I don't like +it," explained Kate.</p> + +<p>"Well, he's got to have a lot of it," said Peter. "I want you to start +right in today."</p> + +<p>The report next morning was unsatisfactory. "How did the spinach go?" +asked Peter. "He wouldn't eat any of it," answered Kate. "He said he +didn't like it."</p> + +<p>"How could he tell he didn't like it if he didn't eat any," objected +Peter sharply.</p> + +<p>"I don't know. But he said he didn't like it. He threw the plate on the +floor."<a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a></p> + +<p>"How about the milk?"</p> + +<p>"He wouldn't drink any."</p> + +<p>"Didn't you tell him that he had to."</p> + +<p>"I did that, Mr. Neale. I told him God wouldn't love him if he didn't +eat his nice spinach and that, begging your pardon, sir, you'd cry."</p> + +<p>"Today," said Peter with a certain magnificence, "I'll stay home and eat +lunch with him myself. And for lunch we'll have just spinach and milk."</p> + +<p>"Well, well," said Peter, with great gusto as lunch was served, "isn't +this fine—milk and spinach. Kate, how did you know just what we +wanted?"</p> + +<p>"I don't want any lunch," said Pat.</p> + +<p>"No spinach?"</p> + +<p>Pat did not deign a reply.</p> + +<p>"What do you want?"</p> + +<p>"I want crackerjack and ice cream."</p> + +<p>"Spinach is what you're going to get."</p> + +<p>Pat began to cry, but Peter found that it was only a sign of rage and +not of weakness. The child's refusal remained steadfast. Finally, Peter +spanked him for the first time in his life. It was not a success. Pat +cried a lot more but he ate no spinach. Press of other work kept Peter +from pursuing the problem for three days, during which<a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a> time the child +reverted to his old diet. In a second personally conducted test, Peter +Neale managed to induce Pat both to drink milk and eat spinach, but it +was not exactly a triumph. The result was gained by strategy, which was +ingenious but also abject. Moreover, it was almost wholly accidental. +Driven desperate by an unyielding stubbornness, Peter at length lost his +temper and shouted at the child. "All right then, don't eat any spinach. +I won't let you eat any spinach."</p> + +<p>Pat scowled and, reaching all the way across the table, helped himself +to a large spoonful. "I'm eating spinach," he said, "I'm eating it right +now."</p> + +<p>The only thing of which Peter had a right to boast was that he did not +allow any false pride to stand between him and the object which he +sought. He was quick to seize his opportunity. Pat's seeming free will +was harnessed to serve the predetermined purposes of an ego less +powerful but more unscrupulous.</p> + +<p>"Maybe you are eating a little spinach," said Peter, "but I guess you +won't dare take any milk when I tell you not to."</p> + +<p>Pat fell into the trap. "Look at me now, Peter, I'm drinking it all +up."<a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a></p> + +<p>Once he learned the method Peter became a strict disciplinarian. Almost +invariably Pat disobeyed with alacrity when he heard the stalwart and +ringing command, "Now, Pat, I don't want you to go to bed and I don't +want you to go this very minute." Of course the thing became a little +complicated. Even after much practice Peter used to get somewhat mixed +up over such instructions as, "No, the nightgown I don't want you to +wear is the one over there."</p> + +<p>The eating problem was subjected to still further complexities. Peter +was shrewd enough to realize that the scheme of indirect discourse might +become strained beyond all usefulness if employed too much. Pat +conformed and yet it became evident at length that he saw through the +trickery. On his fifth birthday, for instance, at his party he made no +rush for the ice cream which was placed before him but looked up +plaintively and said, "Peter, why don't you tell me not to eat my ice +cream."</p> + +<p>Accordingly, other games were invented. The milk race proved generally +useful but rules had to be devised to prevent Pat from going too fast. +Eventually the contest was introduced by Peter as "a slow milk race." In +order to prevent Pat<a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a> from choking to death he would cry every now and +then "Measure!" At that signal both would lower their glasses and set +one against the other on the table. Pat took over the announcing of +these results. He used only one decision—"I'm ahead"—and this bore no +accurate relation to the actual quantity of milk in the two glasses.</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, the milk race never was a very sporting +proposition. Pat always won and as the practice continued he began to +demand new guarantees of success. "You mustn't start till I'm through, +Peter," he would say. "I want to win." Peter also hit upon the device of +serving Pat with nothing but "special milk." His own came out of the +same bottle but had no title. Nobody but Pat was supposed under any +circumstances to be allowed to touch "special milk." The story, +circulated by Peter, was that the cow wouldn't like it.</p> + +<p>Another incentive to appetite was playing burglar. This game was also +one of Peter's inventions, but Pat eventually became the aggressor. "You +must be asleep," he would say, "and I must be a burglar and come along +and steal some of your spinach. Shut your eyes."<a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a></p> + +<p>Even years afterward Peter could never look at spinach without blinking.</p> + +<p>Kate was not very apt at any of the eating games and the result was that +Peter found himself more bound to the flat than ever. Now he seldom got +down to the office except during the hours between lunch and dinner. The +feeding and more particularly, the urging of Pat came to be almost a +regular duty. Peter was never quite sure whether he liked or hated these +activities. Although they were confining and arduous he got an +undeniable satisfaction out of them. He was succeeding with something a +good deal more personal than a syndicate. He was succeeding where Kate, +the mother of five or six, had failed.</p> + +<p>"Maybe women are all right for children when they get a little older," +was the way Peter expressed it to himself, "but they haven't imagination +enough to handle a little one like Pat. That's a man's job."<a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVIIIa" id="CHAPTER_XVIIIa"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h3> + +<p>Pat was six years old when he saw his first ball game up at the old hill +top park of the New York Yankees who were then the Highlanders. The Red +Sox were the visiting team.</p> + +<p>"That's Sea Lion Harry Hall," said Peter, pointing to a man in a gray +uniform who was throwing the ball. Pat tried to follow the direction in +which Peter pointed.</p> + +<p>"I don't see no sea lion," he complained.</p> + +<p>"Right over there," replied Peter, "the pitcher. Don't you see the man +that's throwing the ball. That's his name, Sea Lion Harry Hall."</p> + +<p>Pat was enormously disappointed. He had thought that maybe it was some +sort of circus which they were going to see in this great open park. The +sea lion had sounded like a promise of elephants to come. He tried to +beat back his grief, but presently tears rolled out of his eyes. The +best he could do was to make no sound. Eventually Peter noticed the damp +tracks across his face.<a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a></p> + +<p>"What are you crying about?" he asked in surprise.</p> + +<p>"You said it was a sea lion," sobbed Pat, "and it isn't any sea lion."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's it. Don't you understand: his name's Sea Lion. Just as they +call you Pat."</p> + +<p>"Why do they call him a Sea Lion?"</p> + +<p>"Well," said Peter, "to tell the truth I don't know exactly. It's just +one of those things. I've been writing about Sea Lion Harry Hall a +couple of years and now I never stopped to think up any reason for it. +It was smart of you to ask me, Pat. That's right. Don't you go taking in +things people tell you without asking why. That's the first thing a +newspaperman ought to learn. You just wait here a minute and I'll go and +find out why they call him Sea Lion Harry Hall."</p> + +<p>Peter went over to the wire screen which ran in front of the press box +and called to a short little man who was sitting on his heels and +balancing himself with his bat which he had dug into the ground. The +player straightened up and came over. Peter conversed earnestly with him +for a moment. Then he came back. "Now," he said, "I know all about it. +Kid Elberfeld—that was Kid Elberfeld I was<a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a> talking to—he says they +call him Sea Lion Harry Hall because he roars so—just like a sea lion."</p> + +<p>For the next half hour Pat abandoned all thought of the game. Peter +rattled off words and the meaning of them. There were hits and errors +and flies and grounders. Once everybody in the park shouted and stood up +and Peter said it was a home run, but Pat gave very little heed to this. +He paid no more attention to the rooting than if it had been Peter +talking to him. It was another sound for which he was waiting. He +couldn't be burdened with learning about hits and errors or even the +thing called a home run. What he wanted was to hear Sea Lion Harry Hall +roar like a sea lion. For hours Pat heard nothing. The man just did his +exercises and threw the ball. Then something happened which made him +mad. He threw the ball and after it was thrown he walked straight up to +a man in blue who had on a false face. And he talked at him. Very loud +and hoarse he said, "Jesus, Tim, call 'em right."</p> + +<p>"There goes the Sea Lion," said Peter who had been busy with something +else and had caught no more than the rumble. "Didn't that sound just +like a sea lion?"<a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a></p> + +<p>Pat scorned to cry. He did not even bother to say "No." By now he knew +that the baseball park was the land of disappointment. It was a place +where things were cried up with words which were not so. Peter had said +he would roar like a sea lion. And he didn't. He was just a man who said +"Jesustim" pretty loud.</p> + +<p>Pat heard a seal lion once. "Jesustim" didn't sound anything like a sea +lion.</p> + +<p>Interesting inquiry might have centred around "Too hot to handle" if +Peter had used it earlier in the day, but by the time it came Pat knew +that it was just a grown up way of talking big. When Peter said, "That's +Birdie Cree," Pat did not look or even ask any questions. He knew there +was not a birdie.</p> + +<p>Only one romantic concept came to Pat from the game.</p> + +<p>"That's Tris Speaker, that kid in centre field," said Peter.</p> + +<p>Of course, Pat knew that he really wouldn't be a kid. It didn't surprise +him to find that Tris was a man but he was quite a lot different from +pretty nearly all the other grown-ups that Pat had ever seen. They +didn't run like Tris. Probably they<a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a> couldn't. The other men in this +baseball park ran, but Tris was the fastest. But it wasn't just looking +at him that Pat liked. He said the name over to himself several times. +"Tris Speaker, Tris Speaker." There was fun in the sound of it. Not +quite enough for a whole afternoon, to be sure. This was a park without +sandpiles or a merry-go-round. And there were no policemen to make +everybody keep off the grass. Pat wished they would.</p> + +<p>"I want to go home," he said at last.</p> + +<p>"Tired already?" asked Peter. "Well, there's only half an inning more. +It wasn't much of a game, was it? Too one-sided. But we're not going +home right off. I've got to go straight to the office and I'm going to +take you with me."</p> + +<p>In another ten minutes the game was over. "You didn't like it, did you?" +asked Peter. The formula nettled Pat.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I did," he said.</p> + +<p>After a long trip in the subway they came to the big building where +Peter worked. Pat had never been there before. At the end of a long +corridor was a small office and Peter opened the door and went in. "I've +got to write the paper," he said.<a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a> "You keep quiet till I'm done. Here's +the funny section for you."</p> + +<p>Upon examination Pat found that it was last Sunday's pictures. He had +already seen the one about how the kids put dynamite in the Captain's +high hat. Still he followed the adventure again. When Kate read it to +him on Sunday it had made him a little sad. It seemed to him that it +must have hurt the Captain when Maude, the mule, kicked him in the head. +Now he found a new significance in the last picture. Maude and the +Captain were floating in the air high above the roof. Coming out of the +Captain's mouth were marks like this, "!——!!!" And yet it must be +pleasant to go floating away in the sky like that. Pat looked out of the +window and he could see the river and the great bridge. He would like to +have a high hat and some dynamite and a mule. Then he could float +through the window like Davey and the Goblin. That would be better than +sitting there in the little office so quietly while Peter pounded the +keys of his typewriter. Peter kept taking sheets of paper out of it and +tearing them up.</p> + +<p>"Whatch you doing?" Pat asked when he could keep silent no longer.<a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a></p> + +<p>"Hush," said Peter very sternly, "you mustn't ask questions now. I'm +doing a story for the Bulletin. That's very important, I must do it +right away."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Well, pretty soon they're going to put the paper to bed." Pat knew that +must be some sort of joke. Papers didn't go to bed. They didn't have any +pajamas or nightgowns.</p> + +<p>Somebody knocked at the door and before Peter could say anything Charlie +Hall came in. "Is that your kid?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Peter, "He's my son. Say hello to Charlie Hall, Pat."</p> + +<p>"Well, what's your name?" said Hall just as if he was very much +interested.</p> + +<p>"My name's Pat."</p> + +<p>"Tell him your big name," prompted Peter. "Go ahead."</p> + +<p>"Peter Neale, second."</p> + +<p>"I suppose you'll be down here doing baseball yourself pretty soon now +that you're getting to be such a big boy," said Hall.</p> + +<p>Pat picked up the funny paper again and pretended to become engrossed in +it. Charlie Hall was diverted back to the first of the Peter Neales.<a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a></p> + +<p>"I guess he's a little older than my youngest," he said. "Let me see, +Joe—no, that's not the one I mean—Bill must be about four or five now. +Just around there."</p> + +<p>"Pat's older than that. He was six a couple of days ago."</p> + +<p>"Getting pretty near time to begin figuring what to do with him."</p> + +<p>"I know that already," said Peter, "he's going to be a newspaper man. +He's going to be 'by Peter Neale'."</p> + +<p>"I'd drown mine, all six of 'em, before I'd let 'em go into the +newspaper business."</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with it?"</p> + +<p>"It don't get you any place. Now if I was in business I'd be just +getting ready to be a president of the company or something. And as it +is I'm just an old man around the shop. Forty-two my last birthday. In a +couple of years more I'll be on the copy desk."</p> + +<p>"That's mostly bunk, Charlie. But even if it was so, haven't you had a +lot of fun?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean, fun?"</p> + +<p>"Going out where things are happening and writing pieces and seeing them +in the paper the next<a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a> day. Just writing a baseball story seems sort of +exciting to me."</p> + +<p>"Hell," said Charlie, "they're all faked, those baseball games. I +wouldn't go across the street to see one."</p> + +<p>He paused, but went on again before Peter could protest.</p> + +<p>"It's a funny thing, but the longer you stay in newspaper work the more +it gets to seem as if everything's faked. After a while you find out +that all the murders are just alike. Somebody sleeps with somebody and +somebody else don't like it and then you have what we call a 'mystery' +and we get all steamed up about it. Railroad accidents—the engineer +disregarded the signal—fires—somebody dropped a cigarette in a pile of +waste. My God, Pete, there's only about ten things can happen any place +in the world and then they must go on repeating themselves over and +over."</p> + +<p>Peter rushed in pellmell. "But don't you see, Charlie. It's the writing +about them makes them different. A piano player might as well say, 'I +haven't got anything but the same notes.'"</p> + +<p>"Well," said Charlie, "I'd drown all five of them if they wanted to be +piano players. Maybe there is<a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a> some fun in writing. I don't know +anything about that. But if a man wants to write why put it down some +place where it's going to be swept up by the street cleaner the next +day. At eleven o'clock tomorrow morning all that stuff you were writing +before I came in will be dead and rotten. It'll have to make room for +the home edition and on top of that'll come another. And so on all day +long. Writing for a newspaper's like spitting in Niagara Falls. Anybody +that can write ought to get on a magazine and do something that'll last +anyway from breakfast to dinner time."</p> + +<p>"It's no good for me," said Peter. "I've written for magazines a +little—just sport stuff, you know. You do something and maybe you like +it, but that's the last you hear about it for a month. By the time it +comes out you've forgotten all about it and maybe by that time it isn't +true anyway. It's like writing for posterity."</p> + +<p>"All right," said Charlie, "go on with your story. If you make it a good +one maybe there'll be somebody around the office'll remember it clear +into next week."</p> + +<p>Left alone, Peter proceeded at a furious rate. Even Pat was frightened +out of interrupting by the<a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a> beat and pace of the noise which came from +the typewriter. If there had been a steam whistle it would have sounded +a good deal like a locomotive. Soon Peter called a copy boy and gave him +the pages. It had grown almost dark now, but he did not switch on the +electric light immediately. From the next room came the clicking sound +of telegraph keys.</p> + +<p>"Do you hear that," said Peter. "That's magic. Some place there's a war, +or a king's just died, or maybe he's only sick and those clicks are +telling us about it."</p> + +<p>"Did he eat too much ice cream and cake?" asked Pat.</p> + +<p>"I don't know. I can't tell till somebody writes it down. You have to +make <i>a b c's</i> out of it before anybody except just the man in the +room understands about it."</p> + +<p>"Come here," said Peter, suddenly getting up from his chair, "you sit +down there, Pat."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to," said Pat.</p> + +<p>"All right, I won't let you sit in my chair."</p> + +<p>Pat got up and took the seat.</p> + +<p>"Now," said Peter earnestly, "I don't want you to grow up to be a +newspaper man, and I don't want<a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a> you to come into this office after I'm +gone."</p> + +<p>He put his arm around Pat's shoulder and drew him close. Then he took +the boy's hand, the left one, and moved it forward near the typewriter.</p> + +<p>"This is the desk," said Peter, "that I don't want you to use."</p> + +<p><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a></p> + +<p><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a></p> + +<h2><a name="Book_II" id="Book_II"></a>Book II</h2> + +<p><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a></p> + +<p><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_Ib" id="CHAPTER_Ib"></a>CHAPTER I</h3> + +<p>Peter was coming back to America. He had been through the war and then +the peace and he was very tired. The tension of it all was still upon +him. Even though he lay back in his steamer chair and looked over the +rail at a wide and peaceful ocean the jangle within him continued. For +him there was no friendship in the sea. Probably there never would be +any more. He had come to hate it that afternoon on the Espagne when they +ran from the submarine. That was almost four years ago, but Peter had +not forgotten. He had been playing poker in the card-room when the +little gun on the forward deck went "bang!" The man across the table had +his whole stack of chips in his hand. He was just about to say, "I'll +raise you, Neale." And then he said nothing. He just sat there holding +the chips and grinning. Some of them trickled out of his hands and a +yellow one fell on the floor. The man stooped down and rummaged for it +under his chair. Yellow chips represented five dollars. Peter<a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a> couldn't +stand the comedy of it. His capacity for irony was limited.</p> + +<p>"Don't do that," he said sharply. "Maybe it's going to sink us. Come on. +We can look for the chips afterwards."</p> + +<p>Still the man didn't come. His right hand was trembling but he held on +to the cards.</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Peter, "you win if that's what you're waiting for. For God's +sake, come on."</p> + +<p>Peter didn't have the courage to be the first man out of the +smoking-room. He walked slowly enough to let two players pass him. Going +to his room he found a life preserver and put it on clumsily. Outside in +the hall a very white-faced steward was saying over and over again, +"There is no danger. There is no danger." Coming out on deck a passenger +almost ran into Peter. He was dashing up and down the deck shouting, +"Don't get excited." Peter saw his poker friend standing beside the rail +and took his place alongside him.</p> + +<p>"There she is," said the man, pointing to a thing about a mile away +which looked like a stray beanpole thrust into the ocean. "It's the +periscope," he explained. The gun on the Espagne went "bang!" once +more.<a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a></p> + +<p>"If we don't get her, she'll get us, won't she?" asked Peter.</p> + +<p>The man nodded. The beanpole disappeared. "She'll come up some other +place," he told Peter.</p> + +<p>They both stared at the ocean, looking for the sprouting of the weed. +Peter kept silent for at least two minutes. He held on to the rail +because his right leg was shaking. The man must not know that he was +afraid.</p> + +<p>"What did you have?" asked Peter. "What did you have?" he repeated.</p> + +<p>"How's that?"</p> + +<p>"A minute ago when I dropped. What did you have?"</p> + +<p>"A king high flush."</p> + +<p>Peter was just about to confess his full house, but thought better of +it. "I guess the submarine didn't hurt me any," he said. "Mine was only +aces and eights."</p> + +<p>His companion turned and looked at him. He was a little white, too. +There was a growing horror in his face. Peter wondered and then realized +the reason for the curious look. Somehow it cheered him enormously to +find terror in another. The man had shamed him by sticking to the card +room and<a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a> looking for the yellow chip. Now Peter could pay him back. +Even the huskiness was gone from his voice. "Yes," he said slowly, "aces +and eights. That was queer, wasn't it? The dead man's hand."</p> + +<p>The beanpole never did come up again and now in the year 1919 there +would be none in this pleasant glassy ocean and yet Peter couldn't look +at it very long without seeing black stakes rise up against him. In the +twenty minutes of watching which followed the remark about aces and +eights Peter planted firmly and deeply in himself another abiding fear. +He wondered idly now whether the man who stood with him, the name was +Bentwick, would ever enjoy ocean travel again.</p> + +<p>Peter found that it was not physically possible to be afraid of +everything which he encountered in the war. Everybody had his pet fear. +Peter specialized on submarines, which was convenient since, after +arriving in France, he saw nothing more of warfare on the water. He +never liked shells, particularly the big ones, airplanes or machine guns +and yet he could stand them well enough to do his work. Before going he +had assumed that he would be unable to endure the strain of getting +under fire. Indeed he told Miles, "You mustn't<a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a> expect a lot of stuff +from me about how things look in a front line trench."</p> + +<p>Miles had said, "All right. Give us the news and we won't kick."</p> + +<p>The news had been enough to take Peter into hell and keep him there. +Miles had been smart. Dying for his country might very likely have been +an insufficient ideal for Peter, but there never was any place he +refused to go to get a story for the Bulletin. He never knew why. There +wasn't any person on the Bulletin whom Peter idolized. The owner lived +in Arizona and Peter had never seen him. The paper itself was a person. +That was what Miles had seemed to say that afternoon in the office when +he asked Peter to go over as a war correspondent. "I think you ought to +go for the paper," he said. First, of course, he teetered back and forth +on his chair three times. "Sport don't look so important now," he began. +"This thing is much bigger than baseball. It's going to get bigger. The +syndicate's selling you to one hundred and ten papers now but that +doesn't make any difference, Neale. There's no good waiting for the +bottom to drop out of a thing. We've got to beat 'em to it."<a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a></p> + +<p>"I don't know anything about war," suggested Peter.</p> + +<p>"We don't want war stuff. I wouldn't give a damn for the regular war +correspondent stuff. You can humanize all that. You've got a light +touch. Some of this is going to be funny. Most of the papers are +overlooking that. And mark my words, by and by we're going to get in +it."</p> + +<p>"Maybe it won't be so funny then," said Peter.</p> + +<p>Miles paid no attention. "Don't you see the big start you'll have if +you're already over there when America comes in. You'll have the hang of +the thing. You'll know a lot more about it than most of the generals. +You'll be on the spot to jump right into it."</p> + +<p>Miles did not foresee that by the time America came into the war there +wouldn't be much jump left in Peter. Blood and, more than that, a +desperate boredom fell upon the light touch. Almost all of Peter's +romantic enthusiasm was spent in his first two years on the fighting +line of the English and the French. The American war correspondents used +to tell with wonder and amusement of the afternoon upon which Peter +started off to join the American army with the other correspondents. +They just<a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a> filled the compartment, but a minute before the train left +the Gare du Nord, a Y. M. C. A. man who had reserved his seat bustled +in. He picked out Peter and slapped him on the back. "I'm very sorry, +old scout," he said, "but you've got my seat."</p> + +<p>Peter got up. "You can have the seat, you son of a——," he answered, +"but don't you 'old scout' me."</p> + +<p>Whatever romantic feeling might have been left in Peter about America +and the war broke on the military bearing of John J. Pershing. Peter was +with him the day he inspected the newly arrived First Division. Aides +and war correspondents without number trailed at his heels. They +followed him into a stable which had been transformed into a company +kitchen. Just inside the door stood a youngster only a year or so older +than Pat. He was peeling potatoes but when the General entered he +dropped his work and stood at attention. Pershing went on to the far end +of the stable and, as he passed by, the boy who had never seen the +commander-in-chief of all the American expeditionary forces, stole just +a fleeting look over his shoulder. Pershing saw him and strode back, +followed by all the war correspondents and his aides.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with you?" he shouted at the<a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a> boy. "You don't know +the first thing about being a soldier." Turning to a lieutenant he said, +"Take this man out and make him stand at attention for two hours." Not +even the dead men upon the wire ever moved Peter to the same violent +revulsion against the war. Nor did he have a chance to write it out of +himself. His cable dispatch which began, "They will never call him Papa +Pershing," did not get by the censors.</p> + +<p>Censorship was among the horrors of war which Peter never thought of as +he stood in the office of Miles. He was a little hesitant about +accepting the assignment and the managing editor misunderstood him +somewhat.</p> + +<p>"You'll find your war stuff will sell in time just as well as sports," +he said.</p> + +<p>"I've got enough money, almost enough," Peter told him. "I don't know +what to do about Pat, that's my son. He's here in school. He's fourteen. +There isn't a soul to look after him."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Miles, "that makes it hard. I tell you what I'll do. Will +you let him come and live with me and Mrs. Miles? Next year he can go to +boarding-school. This thing can't last forever. You'll be back in a +little while."<a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a></p> + +<p>"Well," said Peter, "that's nice of you but I don't know how it'll work +out."</p> + +<p>"What are you planning for the boy?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I've always figured that as soon as he got old enough I'd try to +get him on the paper. I want him to be a newspaper man."</p> + +<p>Miles broke in so eagerly that he even neglected to do his three +preliminary tilts. "That's fine. Don't you see how that all fits in? You +go to France for us and I'll promise you a job for the boy on the +Bulletin. You won't have to just think about it. The thing's done. He's +nominated for the Bulletin right now. And you can start him off the +minute you think he's old enough. Don't fret about that. I'll give him +an ear full of shop. Is it a bargain?"</p> + +<p>"All right," said Peter, "I'll go over for the paper for a little +while."</p> + +<p>The little while lasted almost five years.<a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IIb" id="CHAPTER_IIb"></a>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<p>It was a June night in the fourth year of the war when Peter saw Maria +Algarez. He was walking up the Avenue de l'Opera when a woman cut across +in front of him, turning into a side street. The street was crowded with +soldiers and women, sauntering and peering, but this woman was walking +fast. She almost bumped into Peter. They were under a shaded light which +fell on her face as she looked up. Peter looked at her without much +curiosity. He did not want to invite friendliness. Hospitality had been +hurled at him all the way down the avenue. He knew instantly that it was +Maria. When she left him she had seemed a child. After seventeen years +there was the same youthful quality in her face. The only change was, it +was much more tired. And there was paint.</p> + +<p>"Hello," said Peter.</p> + +<p>Maria smiled at him without obvious recognition, but made no answer.</p> + +<p>"I'm Peter Neale."<a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a></p> + +<p>Maria's smile grew broader. "I thought I have made a conquest," she +said, "and it is a husband."</p> + +<p>She held out her hand. Peter took it, but his eager surprise at seeing +her was chilled by a sudden thought.</p> + +<p>"You're not—," he said, but he could not phrase it. He tried again. +"You're not walking here alone?"</p> + +<p>Maria's smile became a laugh. "And what then?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Good God!" said Peter in horror. And then almost to himself, "And it +might have been any other soldier on the avenue."</p> + +<p>"There, there," said Maria, checking her laughter and patting him on the +arm. "It is not right for me to laugh at you. I should not forget to +remember that you are the worrier. You think that maybe it is my living +to walk in L'avenue de L'Opera and to look for the good-looking soldier. +It should please that it is you I have selected, Peter. But no, there, +it is not so. Come with me. My car it is around the corner. Do not let +us stand here where maybe you will be compromised. We will drive to my +studio. There we can talk."<a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a></p> + +<p>Peter followed Maria around the corner where a limousine was waiting and +got in.</p> + +<p>"How do you manage to have a car in war time?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"It is because I am the important person. Yes, that is true. You have +not heard of me, Peter? Really? That is so extraordinary. You do not +know that I am the singer?"</p> + +<p>"Well," said Peter, "of course I heard that phonograph record you sent +for Pat but that was fifteen years ago. I never heard from you again. +Sometimes I went to the shops and asked if they had records of Maria +Algarez but none of them had ever heard of you."</p> + +<p>"Pooh," said Maria, "in America you do not know anything. But here in +Paris do you never hear anybody speak of Maria Algarez?"</p> + +<p>Peter shook his head. "I've been with the American army almost all the +time. What would I know if I had heard? What do they say about you?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe it is better that I should say it myself," answered Maria. "The +others might not make it enough. When I send the phonograph record so +long ago I say in my letter to you 'the voice is<a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a> magnificent.' That is +true. It is much more than that. Peter, sometimes it makes me sad that I +cannot sit off a little way and hear the voice. The phonograph, it is +not the same thing. That is the pity of it, I alone of everybody in +Europe cannot truly hear Maria Algarez sing. It has been the great voice +in the world. It is still the great voice."</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Peter, "and that is what anybody would have told me if I +asked."</p> + +<p>Maria shook her head. "People, they are not so smart. You remember when +I was a dancer they did not know about me all that you and I, we knew. +It is the same now. They do not know. A little, yes, but not all."</p> + +<p>"But they realize it enough to give you a job, don't they?"</p> + +<p>"The job, pooh! Yes, the job. First I sing in Comique. I sing in Russia +and Spain and for the seven, eight years I am the leading soprano of the +Paris opera house. Where is it that you hide yourself that all this you +do not know?"</p> + +<p>"In mud in Flanders, I guess."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is not your fault. The war, it is so loud in all the world +there is no other noise. That is<a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a> why I go away. I have the contract to +sing in Argentine."</p> + +<p>The limousine drew up in front of an apartment and Maria took Peter up +to a studio on the top floor. They went into a big room with one great +window of glass covering an entire wall. Through it Peter could see the +defense of Paris aviators moving across the skyline like high riding +fireflies.</p> + +<p>"It's a nice place for air raids," suggested Peter.</p> + +<p>"The Boche—the German—he comes sometime but I am not afraid. You know, +Peter, now I know that there is the God. It is something. I cannot tell +you just what. But he is smart. When the others did not know about the +voice it was that I remembered. He would know. If there was nobody else +he would be smart enough. He is not silly. Nothing can happen to Maria +Algarez."</p> + +<p>"Gosh," said Peter, abashed and puzzled by this outburst, "I hope he +feels the same way about me. Most of the last three years I've been +needing him more than you do."</p> + +<p>Maria's rapt expression faded. "I am the pig. All the time I talk about +myself. And you, you, Peter, what is it you do? You are the officer, +that I<a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a> know, but captain, colonel, general that I do not know."</p> + +<p>"I see I've got a kick coming, too. Where have you been hiding? I'm not +an officer. I'm a war correspondent. If you can say it I guess I can. +Any way I will. I'm the best war correspondent in the world," Peter +grinned. "That's not such a joke either. Maybe I am. Didn't you ever +hear of my book—'Lafayette, Nous Voila?' All the rest of it's English. +It means 'Lafayette, We're Here.' I forgot you'd know that. They've sold +seventy-five thousand copies. Didn't you ever hear of it?"</p> + +<p>"No, I have not heard. I think you are still the newspaper man."</p> + +<p>"Well, a war correspondent's a sort of a newspaper man, only more so. +I'm still on the Bulletin. That was my paper years ago when—when we +knew each other."</p> + +<p>Maria was almost startled. "The boy," she said suddenly. "Your boy, how +is he? He is well? He is big? What is it that you call him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Peter, "bigger than I know, I guess. I haven't seen him for +almost three years. His name is Peter Neale, Jr."<a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a></p> + +<p>"But you hear from him? He writes? What is it he says?"</p> + +<p>"Well, as a matter of fact I just got a letter from him today. There +isn't anything much in it. I don't know whether you'd be interested. +It's just about stuff he's doing in school."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I want to know what it is he learns. Here, let me see?"</p> + +<p>Peter fumbled in his pocket and found Pat's letter.</p> + +<p>"Maybe I'd better read it you. Handwriting is one of the things they +haven't taught him. I don't believe you could make out his writing."</p> + +<p>He picked up the letter and began, "'Dear Peter—— '</p> + +<p>"'Peter,' it is so he calls you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes 'father' sounds terribly formal to me and I don't want to be 'pop' +or 'dad' or anything like that. 'Peter' seems closer. Before this war +Pat and I were pretty chummy."</p> + +<p>Maria settled back and Peter went on with the letter.</p> + +<p>"'Perhaps, I didn't tell you about my joining the fraternity here last +month. It's called Alpha Kappa Phi. The letters stand for Greek words +which are<a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a> secret and mean friends and brothers or maybe it's brothers +and friends. And of course the initiation is secret, but I guess it +won't be any harm if I tell you about it. I had to report at the +fraternity house in the afternoon and they took me down in the cellar +and put me in a coffin. It wasn't really a coffin, but a big packing +case but we tell the fellows that come in that it's a coffin and that +scares the life out of some of them. I wasn't scared any, but it got +pretty tiresome lying around all afternoon. In the evening they took me +out and told me they were going to put the initials of the fraternity on +my chest. They pretended to be heating up an iron. There was a long +speech which went with this and it is quite beautiful. While they were +pretending to heat up the irons they burned something, meat I guess, and +it made an awful smell. They did make me a little nervous but when they +got around to cutting the initials in my chest it was just an electric +battery they had and they ran the current over my chest. It hurt a +little, but I knew they weren't really cutting initials and so I didn't +mind. After that they took a chemical called lunar caustic and traced +out Alpha Kappa Phi on my chest. It didn't do anything just then, but +the next day it<a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a> turned all black. Every time I took a shower in the gym +all the younger kids stared at me. One asked me what I got on my chest +and I said maybe I fell down in some mud. After I was branded they took +me up some stairs and down some more. I was still blindfolded, you know. +They said to me, "You must jump the last fifteen steps." Well, I jumped +and it was just one step and it nearly ruined me. Then there were some +more things like having to stand on your head and sing the first verse +of the school song. They helped you a little by holding up your feet. +And you had to get down on the floor and scramble like an egg. Then +there was something very impressive. They took the bandage off and I was +standing just in front of a skull. A man all in white read out about the +secrets of the society. It was quite beautiful but I can't remember +enough to tell you. Just when he came where it said what would happen to +any neophyte who divulged aught on the sacred scroll of Alpha Kappa Phi, +a great big tongue of flame shot out of the mouth of the skull. They do +it by pinching the end of a piece of gas pipe and putting it in the +mouth of the skull and when you turn on the gas the thing shoots out. +That was about all except all<a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a> of us being stood up against a wall and +hitting us in the tail with tennis balls. Of course there was supper +finally and I shook hands with all the brothers and they said most of +them get scared a lot more than I did. We've put in a couple of lots +since I got in and I certainly got square with them for what they did to +me. I suppose you read in the paper about my kicking a goal from the +thirty-three yard line and winning the game from the Columbia +freshmen.'"</p> + +<p>There was a good deal more about the game, almost a complete play by +play account, but Peter, peeking over the edge of the letter saw that +Maria was yawning. He just put in a "With love—Pat," and stopped in the +middle of a paragraph.</p> + +<p>"He is nice. I think he is like you," she said. "How old is he, Peter?"</p> + +<p>"Just about seventeen."</p> + +<p>"Like you he will be the writer for the Bulletin? Is it so that you want +it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I've set my heart on that."</p> + +<p>"It is good. He knows about the baseball that you know and all your +sport. Is he big too like you, Peter?"</p> + +<p><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>"I guess he must be by now. He sent me a picture. It's an enlargement +of a snapshot. Just a head like one of these motion picture closeups."</p> + +<p>Maria held out her hand casually. "Let me see."</p> + +<p>She took the picture under a lamp and looked closely. For a full minute +or more Maria held the picture and stared at it. She said nothing, but +Peter was conscious in some way that the casual mood had gone. He could +tell that she was enormously moved. He did not even dare break in upon +her silence. Still looking at the picture Maria whispered, "He is my +son. It is my nose. It is my nose exactly."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Peter, in a matter of fact way, "there is quite a +resemblance."</p> + +<p>Maria waved her left hand impatiently. "No, no, it is not a resemblance. +The rest does not look alike. It is the nose. That is not a resemblance. +It is the same. It is my nose. Here you see," she slapped the bridge of +her nose violently, "so it would be if the bone it had been broken. You +see in the picture of my son it is the break. The same. The hook in the +nose. But it is not broken. Never it has not been?"</p> + +<p>"Why, no," said Peter, "his nose has always been like that."<a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a></p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, it is from me he has it. Yes, and from the God. Do you not +know why it is the break in the nose?"</p> + +<p>"Well, he's got to have some kind of a nose I suppose."</p> + +<p>"But this kind, Peter, it is for just one thing. It marks him like those +foolish letters on his chest in the letter. You cannot read the marking. +I can read it for you. It says singer, singer, singer. It must be. The +singing nose it is always so. Sometimes it is not so much. But this is +my nose. It says more than singer. It says great singer."</p> + +<p>"Well," said Peter somewhat impatient at the fervency of Maria, "he says +in his letter that he sang the first verse of the school song standing +on his head. That must have been hard."</p> + +<p>"Yes," replied Maria fiercely, "he is standing on his head. He writes to +you only foolishness. It is about skulls and jumping steps. And about +the sport. And there was more. I know you did not read it all. You have +made him to stand on his head. They have made him. He lives only for +foolishness. The mark is there but first there must be work. Years of +work. He is not a child to<a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a> jump over steps. He must come with me to the +Argentine."</p> + +<p>"Whoa," cried Peter. "We can't let a nose run away with us. Just stop +and think a minute. It's impossible for Pat to go to Argentine with you. +In a year or so he may be old enough to go into the army. It would look +as if he was running away."</p> + +<p>Peter's attempt at a conciliatory speech was conspicuously a failure.</p> + +<p>"The army! The war!" said Maria between clenched teeth. "That is the +most silly of all. Better he should stay with the good brothers and jump +down the steps. My God! Peter, you won't, you can't let him go to the +war. If there was in him not one note of music you would not let him. He +is a boy. He is something alive. And don't you understand? I think it is +in him the fire. They won't kill him. This I will not let."</p> + +<p>"All right, but if the war goes on and he comes of age what can anybody +do about it?"</p> + +<p>"I have much money, Peter. It can be all spent to save him if there is +the need."</p> + +<p>"Money, I've got money too. Lots of it. That's all foolishness. It won't +work."<a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a></p> + +<p>"Is it that you want him to go?"</p> + +<p>"Damn you," said Peter, almost sobbing in his anger, "you mustn't say +things like that. He's my son too. He was my son when you ran away and +left him. I've seen war. I've got lately so I see it all from one angle. +Any time our lines go forward I think of them fighting for just one +thing, fighting to keep Pat out of it. You get all excited and worked up +about a nose in a photograph. A picture of a boy you don't even know. +I've wheeled him in the park. I saw him walk the first time. I'm not +looking to save him because he's some kind of a genius. I want him to +live because he's Pat."</p> + +<p>"I said wrong, Peter. I am sorry. Both of us we must wait. It will be +all right. I know God won't be silly."</p> + +<p>Presently Maria said, "I do not know him. That is what you have said. +Tell me about him—about Pat."</p> + +<p>Peter did. It was mostly things about when Pat was a small boy. He +remembered God's ankle and told Maria, and about the blind giant. She +was enormously interested to hear of how Pat had picked out phonograph +records. "And mine," she said eagerly, "did he like that?"<a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a></p> + +<p>Peter lied a little. "It was the one he asked for first all the time," +he answered. It surprised Peter that he remembered so much about Pat. +All sorts of little things which he hadn't thought of for years welled +up in his mind. Some of them were things that he had hardly noticed at +the time.</p> + +<p>"And of course you never heard about Judge Krink," he said. "He was a +man Pat invented when he was about five years old. He used to tell me +that he wrote letters to Judge Krink and Judge Krink wrote letters to +him. 'What did he say?' I'd ask him. 'Nothing,' said Pat. I remember +Judge Krink had dirty fingernails. He never went to bed. I don't know +just where he lived, but it was some place in a garden. He sat there and +dug dirt. All the things that Pat couldn't do, Judge Krink did. Maybe I +got asking him about Judge Krink too much because one day he said, 'I +don't have Judge Krink any more. He's got table manners.'"</p> + +<p>"You see," broke in Maria, "it is not the truth when you said I do not +even know him—my son. I have seen him many times. I have played with +him."</p> + +<p>"Where?" asked Peter, puzzled.</p> + +<p>"At the house of the Judge Krink."<a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a></p> + +<p>Later they talked about themselves. Peter told Maria about Vonnie. +Somehow he could not bear to have her think that he had been altogether +desolated by her flight seventeen years ago or that he had spent his +life entirely in persuading Pat to eat spinach. Certainly Maria was not +displeased by the story. She smiled cheerfully when told of the +devastation wrought by her phonograph record but she said, "Oh, Peter, +you should not have let her go. I did not teach you enough or you would +have broken the record of the song." Maria met confession with +confession and rather overtopped Peter.</p> + +<p>"How about this God you were telling me about. Do you think he liked +that?" he inquired.</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Maria, "it is not such little things about which he bothers."</p> + +<p>"Didn't you ever love me?" Peter protested.</p> + +<p>"Not after the baby," said Maria. "It was not your fault but in my heart +I blamed you. It seemed to me the thing mean and silly. To be hurt so +much, that cannot be good. Now I am not so sure. If he is to sing it +cannot be too much. Nothing. Not even that."</p> + +<p>She moved to the piano and ran over an air which<a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a> sounded familiar to +Peter. "You remember?" she said.</p> + +<p>On a chance he guessed. "That's what you danced to in 'Adios'."</p> + +<p>"That is smart. You remember. It is the Invitation to the Waltz. All +these years you have remembered."</p> + +<p>"When do you go back to the war?" she asked suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Tomorrow," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"It is seventeen years and you go away tomorrow." She came across the +room and bending across the back of the chair in which Peter sat she +kissed him on the eyes. "There is something more I want you to +remember," she said.</p> + +<p>Peter was swept as he had been years ago by a gust of emotion. He +started to get up but his legs were a little unsteady. Maria moved +across the room to the piano.</p> + +<p>"Maybe," she said, "you will remember me for the seventeen years more if +I sing 'Depuis Le Jour.'"<a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IIIb" id="CHAPTER_IIIb"></a>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<p>Maria went to the Argentine a month later but Peter heard from her every +now and then. Her letters were mostly brief, acknowledging the letters +from Pat which Peter forwarded to her. Occasionally he would supply a +footnote to something which Pat had written if it touched upon things +which were known only to himself and the boy and could not be understood +by an outsider without explanation. Or it might be that some sporting +reference, simple enough in itself, seemed to require clarification for +the sake of Maria. For instance when Pat wrote, "He tried a forward pass +but I managed to grab it on the two yard line and ran all the way for a +touchdown," Peter added the note, "A football field is a hundred yards +long. Pat's feat was most unusual."</p> + +<p>But sports did not figure quite so large in the letters as they had done +before. Rather often the boy wrote about books. In one letter he +outlined the entire plot of "Mr. Polly" for Peter. In another<a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a> somewhat +to Peter's astonishment he wrote "Heard Galli again last Saturday. She +does not excite me so much as she used to." Maria returned this letter +with her acknowledgment and Peter found that this time she was supplying +a footnote. "Galli," she wrote, "is Galli Curci, an opera singer with +the voice and nothing else."</p> + +<p>When the letter came in which Pat announced that he had entered the +officer's training school at Harvard, Peter cabled to Maria. She replied +almost immediately, "Have broken my contract, coming back to Paris." +Before she arrived the armistice was signed. Peter went to see her +almost immediately. He wanted to explain to her why her schemes about +Pat were wholly impossible and he felt that now with the war issue +removed it would be easier to discuss the matter calmly and rationally. +He plunged into the question immediately.</p> + +<p>"Now let's both make a solemn promise, Maria, to tell nothing but the +truth without letting emotion or anything like that come in."</p> + +<p>"But then," objected Maria, "it would not be the truth."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you know what I mean. When I showed you Pat's picture that night +you got very much<a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a> excited. You said he had a nose just like yours and +that it meant he was all cut out to be a singer. A great singer you +said. Well, we're not excited now. Be honest with me. You can't really +tell anything about whether he could be a singer or not just by looking +at his nose in a picture. That was a little far-fetched, wasn't it? I +mean it wasn't plain, cold, common-sense."</p> + +<p>"What you ask me is a little hard, Peter. This common-sense you talk to +me about, for that I care nothing. It is no good. It is not so that I +see things. I was excited when I see the picture. That is true but it +makes no difference. To have the much sense it is necessary for me to +get excited. It is so I see things. If you mean can I write it down on +the piece of paper like the contract, Pat he will be the singer, the +great singer, I must say no. That I cannot promise. But contracts too I +do not like."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Peter, "I've observed that."</p> + +<p>"But I feel it, Peter. That is so much more. Can you not understand? You +have sometimes maybe look into the crystal. It is so when I look at the +picture. Here is my nose again in the world. It is for something."</p> + +<p>"Maybe," suggested Peter, "it's a nose for news."<a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a></p> + +<p>Maria paid no attention. "Do you not see? If it is the failure that does +not matter. Just so long as it is the possibility it is necessary that +we try.</p> + +<p>"You don't begin to understand how far apart we are, Maria. I'll tell +you frankly where I stand. Even if I knew Pat could be the greatest +singer in the world I'd rather have him a newspaperman. That's my +angle."</p> + +<p>"You are not serious."</p> + +<p>"But I am. Newspaper work's real. It's got roots into life. It is life. +It makes people in the world a little different. Singing is just +something you go and hear in the evening."</p> + +<p>"For you it is enough that he should go to the baseball and the football +and perhaps the next war and write the book 'Lafayette Voulez Vous.'"</p> + +<p>Peter flushed. "I think there's more sense to it," he said. "And it's +pretty probable that Pat'll think something like I do. We were together +and you weren't there. And we went around together and talked about +Matty and Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker."</p> + +<p>Maria looked a little puzzled.</p> + +<p>"You wouldn't know," said Peter a little bitterly, "they're none of them +singers."<a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a></p> + +<p>"I didn't mean to be rotten," he added hastily. "I'm just trying to tell +you the truth."</p> + +<p>Maria smiled. "It is all right. You tell me, Peter, the truth—— your +truth."</p> + +<p>"Well, you see, Maria, he is like me. The nose may be you, but the rest +is me. It's just got to be. In the beginning he wasn't anything but just +sort of red clay or he was like a phonograph record before you cut the +tune on it. He's been brought up around baseball games and newspaper +offices. He knows, and everybody knows, that he's coming on the Bulletin +and will take my place. In fact the job's been promised him. I'm not +trying to lay down the law. It's just the way things are. I don't see +what I could do about it even if I wanted to. He's all made by now. +What's the use of my saying, 'Yes, let him go over and learn to be a +singer.' It just hasn't been put in him."</p> + +<p>Peter paused.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry, Maria. The trouble is he's a boy. If he'd been a girl I'd +have jumped at the chance to have you make a singer of him. Newspaper +work's no good for women."</p> + +<p>"And singing, it is not good for men?" asked Maria.<a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a></p> + +<p>"Well, as a matter of fact, I don't honestly think it is."</p> + +<p>"Peter, I understand better now what this is you feel, but it is not all +the truth you say. When I go away he is red clay, that is what you say. +It is not so simple. I have looked at him then and to me he was just +what you have said. But it is more. Inside the clay all the time there +is something. The little bug, I do not know what it is you call it."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean germ?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I think so. That you cannot touch and I cannot. So we do not need +to talk and to get angry. It is for him to say. Is it not so?"</p> + +<p>"Well, within reason—yes."</p> + +<p>"So! You go back to America and you make him the newspaper man. That is +fair. When he is twenty-one you will come here. And he will come. You +will say 'yes'."</p> + +<p>"That's almost four years off."</p> + +<p>"The day I know; it is the twentieth in August. The year it will be +1922."</p> + +<p>Peter hesitated.</p> + +<p>"But it is fair, Peter. You should like it. Do you not see it is what +you call it 'sporting'."</p> + +<p>"You're on," said Peter.<a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a></p> + +<p>"There, now we will not quarrel any more. Some things I want to know. +You will tell me. You have heard him singing? Sometimes he sings a +little?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose so. I never noticed particularly. Yes, I remember when he was +a kid he used to sing something that went, 'Tell me, pretty maiden'—— I +can't remember the rest of it. He's got a loud voice, I say that for +him. When he was playing out in front of the house with other kids I +could always hear him a way above all the others. I guess he's got lungs +all right."</p> + +<p>"Those he has got from you. If he is the singer, you see, it will not be +all my fault."</p> + +<p>Maria was leaving for Spain within a few days and Peter said he expected +to get back to America pretty soon.</p> + +<p>"Here we shall meet on the twentieth in August, in nineteen twenty-two," +said Maria. "Good-bye, Peter. I want you to bring my son at eight +o'clock."<a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IVb" id="CHAPTER_IVb"></a>CHAPTER IV</h3> + +<p>A few months later while the peace conference was still raging fiercely, +Peter was puzzled by a cablegram which he received from America. +"Congratulations on your story," it read, "we want more just like it. +Convey my respects to President Wilson and tell him I am solidly behind +him,—— Twice."</p> + +<p>Peter couldn't remember anybody named Twice which made it still more +difficult for him to understand why he was being congratulated. He +wondered just how urgent was the message to Wilson. Of course it sounded +a little bit like somebody on the paper, but the manner was not that of +Miles even if he assumed that the signature had been in some way or +other so curiously distorted. Cheeves, the Paris correspondent of the +Bulletin, solved his perplexity.</p> + +<p>"You're kidding me," he said. "It isn't possible that you never heard of +Twice. Why, it's Rufus Twice of course, but he always signs just his +last name. You know how it is on state documents,<a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a> 'Lansing,' 'Bryan' or +whoever the current boy on the job happens to be."</p> + +<p>"It doesn't help any that his first name's Rufus. Who's Rufus Twice, +anyhow?"</p> + +<p>"Well, since yesterday afternoon he happens to be your boss. He's the +new managing editor of the Bulletin, only they don't call him that. He's +got a title. They call him Supervising Editor."</p> + +<p>"He didn't lose any time cabling, did he?"</p> + +<p>"No, everybody around here got one."</p> + +<p>"Were they all congratulations?"</p> + +<p>"All that I've seen, but most of them are much briefer than yours."</p> + +<p>"How about this message I'm to give Wilson, is that really necessary?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I guess not. But the president ought to feel flattered that Rufus +Twice is behind him and not about three feet out in front pulling him +along. On the level, don't you remember Rufus Twice on the Bulletin?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't. I've been away for years and years now. I don't remember +anybody."</p> + +<p>"Big black-haired fellow. Snappy dresser. Always made a point of coming +in late and just barely catching the first edition."<a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a></p> + +<p>"That fits any one of twenty people around the shop."</p> + +<p>"Maybe they were all Rufus Twice. My God! there've been times when he +seemed like <i>ad nauseam</i>. You'll remember him if I remind you of the +story about Twice and the district attorney."</p> + +<p>"Go on. Remind me. What district attorney?"</p> + +<p>"Hell! I can't be bothered remembering the names of district attorneys. +He don't figure anyway. We'll just call him Smith. It was about that +Haldeman murder case. I suppose you've forgotten that too, but Haldeman +was a fellow said he had something on the police and the day before he +was to spill it they found him murdered up in his apartment. This was +about twelve o'clock at night and all the reporters come down to the +station. Rufus Twice is there and this district attorney fellow he shows +up too. After getting all the facts they go out for sandwiches and one +of the reporters says, 'Mr. Smith, haven't you some statement to make to +the papers about this murder.' The district attorney just looks at him +and sits there trying to make up his mind. And while he's thinking Rufus +Twice hops in. 'I think Mr. Smith would like to say something about as +follows,' he begins. It<a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a> goes on for about a thousand words and when +he's all done he turns to Smith and says, 'That's about right, isn't +it?' And Smith says, 'Yes.' And after that all through the case Twice +gives out the statements the same way except that he doesn't bother to +say, 'That's about right' any more."</p> + +<p>"Is that a true story?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. That's the way Twice always tells it."</p> + +<p>As Peter was going out, Cheeves called him back.</p> + +<p>"Say, I suppose now that the cruel peace conference is almost over +you'll be going back. I don't want to give you a wrong steer about +Twice. Maybe you got the impression from what I said that he's just a +big bluff. That's only about ten per cent right. He is a big bluff but +in addition to that he's got the stuff. You could make about ten of +Miles out of him. When you pack up your stuff to go back don't forget to +take along a grain of salt."</p> + +<p>There must have been something of prophetic vision in the remarks of +Cheeves for Peter received his message of recall the next day. The cable +said, "Baseball beginning to look more important peace conference stop +much quicker stop we want you<a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a> back right away stop advise you take +Espagne—Twice."</p> + +<p>Peter looked at his watch. He had just twenty-two hours to dig up such +roots as he had sprouted during his four years in France. He made the +boat by the closest possible margin. Of course he would rather that it +had been any vessel afloat except the Espagne haunted by the ghost of +what was probably by now a dead submarine. Still catching the boat was a +sort of assignment. And it was the quickest way home. Pat would be +waiting on the pier in New York. Peter had cabled ahead to him.<a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_Vb" id="CHAPTER_Vb"></a>CHAPTER V</h3> + +<p>It was a Pat prodigiously grown who met Peter as he came down the +gangplank. Not much had altered in the look of him but just the added +inches and heft gave him a curiously disturbing air of maturity. Peter +would have liked to put his arms around him but he didn't dare. The +handshake was not adequate and there was nothing he could say to express +what he wanted to. It seemed better not to try.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Pat," he said.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Father," said the boy.</p> + +<p>"Don't," exclaimed Peter almost as if in pain. "I've got a name. I don't +want to be father. I never have been father. Four years oughtn't to do +that."</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry, Peter," Pat said it almost shyly.</p> + +<p>The baggage was passed promptly, but as Peter was about to leave the +pier a man came up to him.</p> + +<p>"You're Peter Neale, aren't you?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Peter nodded.<a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a></p> + +<p>"I'm a reporter from the Bulletin. My name's Weed. Mr. Twice sent me +down. He told me to tell you to come right up to the office."</p> + +<p>"What's the rush?" asked Peter.</p> + +<p>"I don't know. He didn't say."</p> + +<p>"I think maybe we'd better go," broke in Pat. "He gave me the same +message for you yesterday. I forgot about it."</p> + +<p>"What has he got to do with you?" Peter inquired, after Weed had gone.</p> + +<p>"Don't you see, when Mr. Twice became editor he inherited me along with +the paper. Mr. Miles never did anything much the last couple years about +managing me. He just turned over the allowance you gave me every week. +Mr. Twice has taken complete charge. He's got my whole life mapped out."</p> + +<p>"What's it going to be?"</p> + +<p>"He's got it all fixed up for me to go to Harvard one more year and then +start on the Bulletin."</p> + +<p>"How do you like that?"</p> + +<p>"I like it fine. But that doesn't make any difference. It's all fixed up +that way anyhow. Twice has made up his mind about it."</p> + +<p>"I'm obliged to him, but why can't he let me<a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a> alone the first day. They +didn't do things like this on the Bulletin in the old days. Here it is +four years and I want to sit down some place and talk with you."</p> + +<p>They waited in the outer office less than half an hour before a young +woman ushered them into Twice's room. Peter had seen him before. The +description which Cheeves gave was not so very good after all. His hair +wasn't very black.</p> + +<p>"Glad to see you back, Neale," said Twice, "and you, Pat. Won't you just +sit down. I'll be with you in a second."</p> + +<p>"Miss Nathan," he called across the room to his secretary, "I want you +to take a cablegram to Speyer in Berlin. 'Fine story today. We think +Ebert is doing constructive service to humanity. Tell him I said so.' +And oh, Miss Nathan, let me know the minute that call from Washington +comes through. But don't disturb me for anything else. I'm going to be +busy now for some time. Don't forget to make that note about finding out +when Blake's contract is up. I want to know about that the first thing +in the morning. And tell Mr. O'Neill not to go home until he sees me. +You can hold the rest of those letters over till I get back from dinner +tonight.<a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a> You know where to get me. Just a minute. Take a note for +Booth. The Milwaukee offer is far too low. Tell 'em I've been thinking +it over and that the price for the series is now three hundred instead +of two.' That's the cheapest crowd I ever had to deal with. Don't put +that in the letter. 'Price for the series now three hundred instead of +two.' That's the end of it."</p> + +<p>He turned to Peter. "It's that diary of the sub-commander. I'm letting a +few selected papers in on it. Miss Nathan—" In the moment of lull the +secretary had gone.</p> + +<p>"Well, Neale, I certainly am glad to have you back here again. We've got +to begin to hammer sports. They're coming back terrifically. I put all +the foreign politics in the paper because that's what I think the people +ought to read. Baseball's the thing that actually gets 'em. If Babe Ruth +and Lloyd George both died tomorrow Ruth would just blanket him. And let +me tell you, Neale, George is one of the great men of our day. I have a +very warm personal feeling for him. I don't suppose you remember +Delehanty."</p> + +<p>Peter was just about to answer that he had seen him several times but he +wasn't nearly quick enough.<a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a></p> + +<p>"Ruth reminds me more of him than any other player I've seen in the +game," continued Twice. "Killed, jumping off a railroad bridge on June +third, 1902. I've always made it a business not to be wrong. Remember +that, Pat. It's just as easy to have the right date as the wrong one. +It's just a knack. Anybody can do it. Come in some time and I'll explain +the trick for you."</p> + +<p>Peter broke in resolutely. "There was a man came down to the dock who +said you wanted to see me. His name was Weed."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Weed, good man. I dug him up myself. He came off a little paper in +Reading. Of course he hasn't quite got the touch yet. The city's a +little too big for him, but I think he's going to be a first rate +newsman. Right now he tries too hard. He thinks he's got to dazzle +people. The result is he's just a little esoteric. A little too +esoteric. I must remember to tell him he's too esoteric."</p> + +<p>"What is it you want to do with me?" asked Peter, returning to the +attack.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Rufus Twice, "that's why I asked you to come here. I've been +talking it over with Booth, the syndicate man, and a week from Monday'll +be a good time for you to begin the sport<a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a> column again. It takes a +little time to get momentum up again but inside of a year I think we'll +have a bigger list for you than when you went away. What did you have +then?"</p> + +<p>"A hundred and twelve," replied Peter.</p> + +<p>"A hundred and twelve," repeated Twice. "Yes, that's just about right. +Well, in a year we'll give you two hundred. I've got another name for +your column. I don't like 'Looking Them Over With Peter Neale.' It's a +little amorphous. How do you like 'Hit and Run?'"</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure I like that at all," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"That's just because it sounds strange to you. You'll get used to it in +no time. Now, we want you to get your first column ready in a couple of +days. We want to have a good margin of time there. I don't want to do +any more than suggest, but I believe you want to say in your first +column that fundamentally there is a kinship between war and sport. Take +a football quarterback and you have the perfect prototype of the general +in charge of operations. The line plunge gives you exactly the same +problem the allies had in Flanders. If you have sufficient preparation +the point of attack will be learned before you're ready. The quick<a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a> +thrust must be a surprise. Then you have the forward pass. What's that?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I don't know," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"An air raid," said Pat.</p> + +<p>"Exactly. Work it out, Neale and you'll find it has almost innumerable +possibilities. Of course you understand this is just a suggestion."</p> + +<p>Miss Nathan ran in through the door. "Senator Borah's on the wire now," +she cried.</p> + +<p>"All right," said Twice, "I'll be there in a minute. While you were +away, Neale, Miles told me I was supposed to take a look after Pat. That +was an agreement he made with you, he told me. I've got that all fixed. +He goes back to Harvard next week. His work in the officers' training +camp will count him for a year. That means he'll be a sophomore and can +play football. I think he might even make the team. Then the next year +he comes to us. Four years of college is too much. A degree's just +nonsense. I never got one and I wouldn't take an LL.D. I hope the +arrangement's satisfactory to you. Will you please excuse me now? I've +got to talk up disarmament in Washington. You and Pat come down and have +lunch with me tomorrow. Ring me up at the house around noon. It's a<a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a> +private number but Miss Nathan will give it to you. Glad to have you +back, Neale."</p> + +<p>He was gone.</p> + +<p>"Say, Pat," said Peter, "how did you know a forward pass was like an air +raid?"</p> + +<p>"Well, you see I've heard him do that a couple of times before. How do +you like him?"</p> + +<p>Peter did not obey his first impulse in answering. He suddenly realized +that Rufus Twice was in a position to offer him the most useful sort of +support in launching Pat safely and permanently into the newspaper +business.</p> + +<p>"I tell you, Pat," he said. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's got a lot +more sense than you'd think."<a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIb" id="CHAPTER_VIb"></a>CHAPTER VI</h3> + +<p>"Let's go and dine at some terribly quiet place," suggested Peter as he +and Pat came down in the elevator from the office of Rufus Twice. They +went to the Harvard Club and sat in a corner of the dining-room where +not even a waiter noticed them for the first half hour. Peter was +distressed because he found it enormously difficult to talk to Pat. The +years he had been away stood like a wall between them. It seemed to be +an effort for the boy even to call him "Peter" as he had done for so +many years. He was attentive and respectful. There didn't begin to be +enough intimacy for banter.</p> + +<p>In reply to questions Pat said that he had spent almost no time on +football or baseball during his last year because the work at the +officers' training camp had been much too difficult. He didn't know +whether he ever could pitch again. In the last football game at school +he had hurt his left shoulder and it was still a little stiff. It +wouldn't keep him from football he thought, but when he tried to swing +the<a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a> arm up over his head he got a twinge in the bad shoulder. Anyway he +had come to like football a good deal better than baseball. Twice had +told him he ought to have a bully chance to make the team at Harvard but +he wasn't sure. Perhaps he wouldn't have quite enough speed for a big +college team.</p> + +<p>"I said something like that to Mr. Twice," Pat added, "and he jumped all +over me. He asked me if I'd ever heard of Freud and if I knew what an +inferiority complex was, and I said I had, but he explained it all to me +anyway."</p> + +<p>"What is an inferiority complex?" asked Peter.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you know—that business of thinking there's something wrong with +you about something."</p> + +<p>Pat rubbed the lower part of his neck. "Down here in the subconscious +mind. A sort of a fear or shame or something like that gets stuck down +there and you have rheumatism or you yell at people."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean yell at people? Why do you yell at them?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know exactly, sir. I guess it's to show 'em that you aren't +inferior."</p> + +<p>"Say, Pat, please don't call me 'sir' any more."</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry."</p> + +<p>"I guess there is something in that inferiority<a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a> thing after all. I've +seen it lots of times, but I never knew the name for it. Lots of +pitchers come up from the sticks with all the stuff in the world and +can't do anything because they're afraid it's going to be too tough for +them. Say, Pat, you've got to pitch again some time. You know on account +of this war I've never seen you pitch."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes. Don't you remember the year before you went away. We used to +go over in the Park and you'd catch for me."</p> + +<p>"That doesn't count. I mean in a game. How were you anyway?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess I wasn't much good. Not with men on bases. If anything +went wrong I always had a terrible time to keep from hurrying. I had to +just stick the ball right over."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I always got to worrying that I was going to lose control. In my +head I could keep a jump ahead of everything that was happening. I was +always seeing fellows walking down to first. I didn't mind them hitting +me so much. It was having 'em all walking around just as slow as they +liked that got my goat. Sometimes I used to have nightmares about it."<a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a></p> + +<p>"That's funny, maybe you can't pitch," said Peter. "It doesn't make any +difference. You've had enough baseball already to help you a lot when +you begin to write about it."</p> + +<p>Pat made no reply.</p> + +<p>"Don't you think so?" asked Peter a little sharply.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, sir."</p> + +<p>Peter made no comment. He realized that the sharpness of his tone had +checked his advance into the confidence of Pat. That business about the +nightmares was better. People didn't tell things like that to strangers. +He tried to re-establish the mood.</p> + +<p>"Speaking of nightmares," said Peter. "There's one I have a lot. Mine is +about people running, running along the deck of a ship. I guess it's +something left over from that time we had the fight with the submarine +on the Espagne. But there isn't any submarine in the dream. It's just +the people running that frightens me."</p> + +<p>Pat merely listened. Peter paused a moment. "That's curious, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is," answered Pat.</p> + +<p>A waiter came up now and took the order. After he went away they were +silent. From the big<a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a> lounging-room came the sound of a man more or less +aimlessly fooling with the piano. After a while Peter broke the silence. +He would have liked to know something about Pat's thoughts on this +career which was being planned for him, and his attitude on the war and +religion and women. "Are you in love with anybody and who is she and +tell me about her?" Peter would have liked to ask a question like that, +but he did not dare.</p> + +<p>"What have you been doing with yourself?" was what he did ask.</p> + +<p>"Mostly just hanging around to find out what Mr. Twice was deciding to +do with me?" Pat answered.</p> + +<p>Then there was more silence. The man in the next room was playing +louder. "I wish, he'd either play that 'Invitation to the Waltz' or cut +it out," said Pat.</p> + +<p>So that was it. The "Invitation to the Waltz." It suggested to Peter +that he bid boldly and offer close confidence in the hope that it would +be met in kind.</p> + +<p>"I wish he wouldn't play the 'Invitation to the Waltz' at all," he said. +"That tune always tears me to bits."</p> + +<p>He waited but Pat said nothing.<a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a></p> + +<p>"I've never talked to you before about your mother. The first time I saw +her she danced to that tune ... the 'Invitation to the Waltz.' She's a +singer now but she was a dancer then. I don't suppose you even know her +name."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Pat, "her name is Maria Algarez and she's singing now at the +opera in Buenos Aires."</p> + +<p>"How did you know that? I didn't even know myself that she was in Buenos +Aires right now."</p> + +<p>"I had a letter from her last week," explained Pat.</p> + +<p>"She writes to you?" asked Peter in a good deal of surprise. "You mean +she always has written to you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh no, I never heard from her at all till during the war. It must have +been a couple of years ago. Of course even when I was a kid I'd heard a +little about her. You remember old Kate. Well, a long time ago she told +me that my mother was an actress and a very bad woman and that I mustn't +say anything about her to you. I don't believe I ever did, did I?"</p> + +<p>"Kate had no right to say that. Your mother isn't a bad woman. She's a +great artist."</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess I never worried much about it anyway. Maybe I was a +little sad about it at first,<a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a> but I've forgotten. And then all of +sudden I got this letter from Maria Algarez. She said she'd seen you in +Paris and that you showed her my picture and she wanted to write to me. +She told me all about her singing. After that I got a lot of letters +from her. She'd say she'd just been singing in 'Butterfly' and then +she'd tell me what it was all about. You know that funny broken way she +has of writing things."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Peter, "I know."</p> + +<p>"Well, it was a lot of fun. You see I'd never heard any of these operas +but after I found out about Maria Algarez singing in them I used to go. +If she wrote that she'd been singing 'Butterfly' I'd go to the Met and +get a standup seat and then I'd write to her and tell her about Farrar +and all the people I'd heard. She'd write back and tell me all the +things that were the matter with Farrar and the way she did it +differently and a lot better."</p> + +<p>"She never showed any of those letters to me," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"Didn't she?" asked Pat casually as if it made no difference. "Oh yes, I +remember she wrote to me once that if I told you about going to the +opera it might worry you and not to say anything about it.<a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a> I don't know +why. She used to send me clippings from the newspapers with the things +critics said about her. They were all just crazy about her."</p> + +<p>Peter in his bitterness was about to say, "Of course, she picked out the +good ones," but Pat was in full swing and he decided not to throw him +off his stride.</p> + +<p>"You know I couldn't read this stuff at first. It was in French and +Spanish, but there was an old fellow that taught at school and he was +terribly excited too when I told him that Maria Algarez was sending me +these clippings. He'd heard her sing, you know. He used to translate the +clippings for me and he told me a lot about Maria Algarez."</p> + +<p>"And now," said Peter, "I suppose you can read them yourself."</p> + +<p>"Well, I can do the French all right but I'm not much on the Spanish. +You see the old Frenchman, the fellow that taught at school, he was +awful decent to me. He used to give me extra classes outside of school. +You see we had a secret between us. It was like belonging to that kid +fraternity we used to have in high school—Alpha Kappa Phi. That means +something that nobody else knew. I can't remember what."<a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a></p> + +<p>"Brothers and friends," prompted Peter.</p> + +<p>"How did you know that?"</p> + +<p>"You told me about it in one of the letters you wrote to me. But what +was the secret you had with the old Frenchman?"</p> + +<p>"Why, about Maria. He told me not to let any of the fellows know that +Maria Algarez was my mother. He said that it was a beautiful romance but +that here in America people wouldn't understand on account of American +morality being so strict and that they might look down on me."</p> + +<p>Peter was indignant. "Beautiful romance! Where did he get that idea? +Maria Algarez and I were married just like anybody. Didn't she tell you +that?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Pat in obvious disappointment, "she didn't."</p> + +<p>"I guess she forgot about it," suggested Peter.</p> + +<p>"It doesn't make any difference to me, but if I run into old Mons. +Fournier I won't dare tell him. It would spoil the whole thing for him. +He'll think I was just boasting. Gosh he got a lot of fun out of it."</p> + +<p>"Fournier, there's a Jacques Fournier that plays first base for the +White Sox."<a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a></p> + +<p>"No, this man's named Antoine. He's the old French teacher I was telling +you about. Maybe they're related. He never said anything about it."</p> + +<p>"In these letters about the opera and singing and all that," asked +Peter, "did Maria Algarez ever suggest that you ought to try and be a +singer."</p> + +<p>Pat broke into unrestrained merriment. "Good God! no," he said and added +quickly, "I beg your pardon, Father, I didn't mean to curse but it would +be so funny if Maria'd said anything like that about me."</p> + +<p>Peter was nettled. "If you're going to call me 'father' why don't you +call her 'mother'?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry; I know you don't like to be called 'father'. I won't do it +again."</p> + +<p>"All right, but you haven't answered my question. Don't you ever think +of calling her 'mother'?"</p> + +<p>"Maria Algarez? No, it would sound so funny. I've never seen her. She +doesn't seem like my mother or anybody's mother. She's around singing +before people and all that. And look at her picture."</p> + +<p>He took one out of his pocket and handed it across the table. For the +first time since the conversation<a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a> had turned upon Maria Peter smiled. +He recognized the picture. He too had had one just like it a good many +years ago. It was taken two or three months before he married Maria +Algarez. However, Peter let it pass without comment.</p> + +<p>"What does Maria say about what you're going to do?" he wanted to know. +"She hasn't raised any objections to your going into the newspaper +business?"</p> + +<p>"No, she never mentioned that or anything definite. She's just kept +hammering away at one thing. She keeps saying Pat don't do anything +unless it's something you want to do very much. And she says if a man or +a woman has something like that he wants to do he musn't let anything in +the world stand in his way. He must go after it."</p> + +<p>"Have you been living up to that? Have you been doing everything you +wanted?"</p> + +<p>"Well, no," said Pat, "not since Rufus Twice took me over."</p> + +<p>Peter brightened. Maria had a fight on her hands. Rufus Twice was right +behind him even as he had been behind President Wilson. But the next +moment he was again sunk in gloom. They were done with dinner and Pat +asked with unmistakable<a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a> eagerness, "Couldn't we go some place and hear +some music?"</p> + +<p>Peter throttled down his chagrin but before he could answer Pat added, +"Do you suppose there's any chance of our getting in to the Follies?"<a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIIb" id="CHAPTER_VIIb"></a>CHAPTER VII</h3> + +<p>The plans of Rufus Twice did not work out quite according to +specifications. Pat went to Harvard, but he failed to make the football +team although he remained on the squad as a rather remotely removed +substitute quarterback. He was not even taken to the Princeton game, but +he wrote to Peter that he would be on the sidelines in uniform for the +game with Yale at New Haven. It was arranged that he should meet Peter +immediately afterwards at the Western Union office. Pat's letters from +Harvard were sparse and infrequent.</p> + +<p>"Football is the toughest course I have," he wrote, "and the dullest. +Learning the signals here is worse than dates. You can't even guess at +them. You have to know. Last week Bob Fisher gave us a blackboard talk +in the locker-room and made a comparison between war and football. It +sounded just like Mr. Twice. Maybe Mr. Twice put him up to it. It's +beginning to seem to me as if that man ran everything in this world. The +only thing I've<a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a> enjoyed much is going round to Copeland's. He's an +assistant professor in English. I take a course with him about Dr. +Johnson and his Circle. I don't care anything about Dr. Johnson. He +seems to have been the Rufus Twice of his day. But I do like hearing +Copeland. The fellows that know him well call him 'Copey,' but I haven't +nerve enough to do that. He has receptions in his room at night. There's +a regular thing he tells you, 'Nobody comes much before ten or stays +after eleven'. He talks about books and makes them exciting. I'm kind of +steamed up about an English woman writer called May Sinclair. I've been +reading 'Mary Olivier.' It isn't much like any writing I've ever seen +before. She just sort of sails along over a story and whenever she sees +anything that seems important to her she swoops down and collars it. All +the stuff that doesn't matter is left out. There isn't much here that +matters, but you can't leave it out because if you do the dean tells you +about it. Do you remember that suggestion you made to me that night we +took dinner at the Harvard Club. You remember you asked me if I ever +thought any about singing myself. I got rather interested and thought +some about going out for the Glee Club, but<a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a> I knew Mr. Twice would +raise the dickens if I didn't play football. Sometimes we sing up here +in the room. Just swipes you know. I'm getting so I can work out chords +on the piano. I don't know anything about my voice because it's always a +bunch of us that sings together. I do know though that I can sing a lot +louder than the rest. I think if you're smart you'll put a bet on us +against Yale. Those lickings we got earlier in the season don't mean +anything. We're just beginning to come along now. I don't know why I say +'we.' I mean 'they.' I haven't got anything to do with it. Somehow +though I do get swept along into the whole business. Mr. Copeland was +telling us the other night that we all take football a lot too +seriously. He says nothing will crumble and fall down even if we don't +beat Yale next Saturday. I know there's sense to that, but somehow I +can't help caring about it. Keep your eyes on Charlie Bullitt when you +come up to the game. When I watch him work I realize how far off I am +from being a regular college quarterback. He's got a bean on him. I'll +see you right after the game at the telegraph office. I suppose you're +going to do the story for the Bulletin. See that Harvard doesn't get any +the worst of it."<a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a></p> + +<p>Peter did watch Bullitt, but more than that he watched the huddled crowd +of Harvard players on the sidelines. He couldn't help feeling that in +some way or other Pat would finally get into the game. His old habit of +making pictures beforehand was with him. There was Pat throwing off his +blanket and running out to report to the officials. Peter wondered if he +would know him from his lofty seat at the top of the Stadium. He felt +sure that he would. Still every time a Harvard substitute went in Peter +shouted down the line to find out if at last this was Pat. The picture +he had fashioned for himself couldn't be wrong. Pat would run down the +field through the blue team yard after yard over the goal line. If it +only could happen to Pat. Once let him hear the roar of the whole +Harvard cheering section racketing behind him and there could never be +any more talk about his being a singer or anything like that. It +wouldn't be exciting enough.</p> + +<p>Just to sit there and watch made Peter feel that he was a part of one of +the most thrilling manifestations of life. When the British went over +and captured Messines Ridge Peter had watched the show from the top of +Kemmel Hill. He and the<a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a> other correspondents knew the exact second when +the mines were to explode. They all knew that this might be the decisive +push of the war. And as he waited for the great crash which would show +that the attack was on Peter trembled. But the excitement didn't begin +to toss him about as it did now when Harvard was playing Yale. Yes, it +was true as Pat had said that there wasn't any sense to it, but there it +was. It was a symbol of something much greater. Peter didn't know quite +what. Maybe there was some significance for him in the fact that the +Yale line was so much bigger and heavier. Harvard would have to win with +speed and skill.</p> + +<p>Maria had always said that there was no song in him. He knew that she +felt he didn't appreciate beauty. But what could she ever show Pat that +would pound a pulse like this. How could anybody dream of making a +singer out of Pat when he might be a quarterback and after his own +playing was done go on living the thing over as he watched the games +year after year. And perhaps when Pat came to write he could put in it +this thing that was sport, and beauty, and life and fighting and +everything else worth while in life. Perhaps he could do the things that +he spoke of in the letter about that<a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a> English novelist, the woman that +sort of soared over things and then swooped down on them. All this that +was happening belonged to him and Pat. Maria and the boy had nothing +like this in common. She just couldn't have an ear for football.</p> + +<p>By and by Peter forgot all about her. He didn't even remember very much +that Pat was waiting in the sidelines. The affair grew too desperate to +admit of any personal considerations. The one present and compelling +tragedy of Peter's life dwarfing all others was that Yale was winning. +He had stationed beside him a young undergraduate from New Haven who was +supposed to give him the substitutions in the Yale lineup and identify +the Eli who carried the ball or made the tackle. This young man had gone +a little more insane than Peter. He paid no attention to any questions, +but pounded his fist on the great pile of copy paper which lay in front +of Peter and shouted: "Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!"</p> + +<p>"Don't do that," said Peter. He didn't like the sentiment and he hated +to have his notes knocked around. The Yale youngster didn't hear him. +"Touchdown!" he screamed again and almost jarred Peter's typewriter over +the edge of the Stadium.<a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a></p> + +<p>A fumble lost three yards and halted the Yale attack. There came a punt +and the Harvard quarterback raced down the field. Pat had said, "Watch +Charlie Bullitt." They threw him on the fourteen yard line.</p> + +<p>"Who made that tackle?" asked Peter.</p> + +<p>"Hold 'em, Yale! Hold 'em, Yale!" chanted the undergraduate reporter.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Peter jumped up scattering his notes all over the press box. +His typewriter fell to the concrete with a clatter. "Harvard!" he said, +and then much louder, "Harvard! Harvard!" And as he shouted the ball +went over the line. It was only by chance that he happened to hit the +Yale reporter on the back the first time, but he was so swept along by +the wildness of the moment that he continued to slap him violently until +the youngster moved away. A little later there was a field goal and +presently the game was over and Harvard had won by a score of 10 to 3.</p> + +<p>Peter didn't leave the press box immediately. He was much too shaky to +attempt the journey down the long steps to the field. The Harvard stands +had poured out on to the gridiron and the students were throwing their +hats over the goal posts. The Yale<a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a> undergraduates remained and across +the field came booming, "For God! For Country! And for Yale!" Peter knew +that he would have to cool off emotionally before he could write his +story. That would have to tell who carried the ball and when and how +far. He couldn't just write, "Harvard! Harvard! Harvard!" and let it go +at that. He must make most of his story on that run of Bullitt's. The +thing was almost perfect in its newspaper possibilities. It couldn't be +better. The tackle which stopped the quarterback on the fourteen-yard +line had knocked him out. Peter wished he knew what Dr. Nichols had said +when he ran out to the player. Then he remembered somebody had told him +once that the doctor had a formula which he invariably used when a +player was knocked out. "What day of the week is it? Who are you +playing? What's the score?" That was the test which must be passed by an +injured man before he could remain in the game.</p> + +<p>Suddenly an idea came to Peter. That was just the touch he needed. His +story was made. He almost jogged all the way to the telegraph office. +His first two starts were false ones. Then he achieved a sentence which +suited him and pounded<a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a> away steadily. No doubts assailed him. He was +never forced to stop and hunt for any word. The thing just wrote itself. +"There's a little trouble," said the chief operator, "but I can let you +have a wire in about half an hour."</p> + +<p>"I've got half of it done already," replied Peter. "Make it snappy." +They were holding him up and he stopped to look over what he had +written.</p> + +<p>"Cambridge, Mass., November, 19—By Peter Neale—The Harvard worm turned +into a snake dance. Tied by Penn State, beaten by Centre and by +Princeton, the plucky Crimson eleven made complete atonement this +afternoon when it won from Yale by a score of 10 to 3.</p> + +<p>"Joy came in the evening. Harvard did all its scoring in the dusk of the +final period. The Crimson backs showed that they were not afraid to go +home in the dark.</p> + +<p>"Charles K. Bullitt, quarterback, who weighs 156 pounds, earned most of +the glory. In the past this slight young man has been valued chiefly for +his head work. He is rather a delicate piece of thinking machinery and +it has been the custom to guard him a little from the bumps of the game. +His rôle has been like that of a chief of staff.<a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a></p> + +<p>"The customary procedure is for Bullitt to peer calmly over the opposing +lines and then make a suggestion to one of the bigger backs as to where +it might be advisable for him to go. In general his acquaintance with +the ball has been only a passing one. He is expected merely to fair +catch punts and not to run them back. Indeed for the last two years +Bullitt has fairly thought his way into a place on the Harvard team.</p> + +<p>"But today the scholar in football suddenly became the man of action. He +proved that he could function from the neck down. Standing at midfield, +late in the third period, Bullitt received a punt from Aldrich. He +switched his tactics. Instead of playing safe he began to run. Leaving +his philosophic cloister, he plunged headlong into life. And it was life +of the roughest sort, for Yale men were all about him. Fortunately for +the little anchorite of the football field he had achieved a theory +during his sheltered meditations and it worked. Whenever a Yale tackler +approached him he thrust out one foot. And then, just to fool the foe, +he took it away again.</p> + +<p>"The zest of living gripped him and he went on and on over the chalk +marks. It seemed to him that the rigors of existence had been +overstated.<a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a> Drunk with achievement he set no limit on his journey. But +the Yale tacklers did.</p> + +<p>"In the end the world was too much with him. Disillusion came in the +form of two tacklers in blue who hurled themselves upon him. Their hands +touched him and held tight. Down went Bullitt. The big stadium turned +three complete revolutions before his eyes. Pinwheels danced. From a +distance of approximately one million miles he heard thousands of people +crying 'Harvard! Harvard! Harvard!' Curiously enough they were all +whispering. And then he lost consciousness. After several quarts of +water had been poured over Bullitt he came to. Dr. Nichols the physician +of the Harvard team was standing over him. The doctor waited while +Bullitt blinked a couple of times and then he propounded his stock +questions which he always uses after a player has been knocked out. The +test of rationality was, 'What day is it? Whom are you playing? And +what's the score?' Dr. Nichols was gravity itself but Bullitt grinned +and answered, 'It's Saturday, November nineteenth. We're playing Yale +and the score is three to nothing against us but Harvard's going to get +a touchdown damn soon.'<a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a></p> + +<p>"Dr. Nichols gave it as his professional opinion that Bullitt was +rational. Four minutes later as the Crimson swept over the line for a +touchdown, he knew it."</p> + +<p>Just as he finished rereading his story the wire chief came in and +announced that he had the Bulletin looped up. Before Peter could hand +him the copy Pat walked into the office. Peter felt just as he had done +at the pier. He wanted to throw his arms around Pat. "It was wonderful, +wasn't it?" he cried. "That's the greatest game I ever saw in my life."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Pat, "I guess it was a good game. Have you finished your +story?"</p> + +<p>"Just the lead. Do you want to see it?"</p> + +<p>"All right."</p> + +<p>"The wire's waiting for me. Hand it over a sheet at a time as soon as +you get done."</p> + +<p>Peter turned to his typewriter, but he couldn't go on. He kept watching +Pat. He waited to hear him say something. Pat read on to the end without +comment. Then he looked up. "Where did you get that story about Charlie +Bullitt and Doc Nichols?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't get it. I knew that they said something<a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a> to each other and I +thought that would be about it."</p> + +<p>"The part about Nichols is all right. Those are the questions he always +asks, but Charlie Bullitt wouldn't have said anything like that. Don't +you know how serious they take football. They'd put a man off the squad +for making jokes like that. He winked, did he? They shook him up a long +ways beyond winking. I don't believe he said it at all. Who told you +anyway?"</p> + +<p>"I've said nobody told me. It's just one of those things that might have +happened."</p> + +<p>"Don't stand there holding on to that copy," Peter added in +exasperation. "The wire's waiting."</p> + +<p>"But you're not going to send it, are you? It's not true. It doesn't +even sound true."</p> + +<p>"I'm writing this story," said Peter. "Hand it in."</p> + +<p>"All right."</p> + +<p>Pat carried it to the operator in the next room. Peter began to write +again but all the zest and excitement of it was gone. He had to fumble +around and look at his notes. Nothing went right. It was almost three +quarters of an hour before he got to<a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a> the last page. Pat sat across the +table from him saying nothing.</p> + +<p>"All done," said Peter at last. "Where shall we go?"</p> + +<p>"I don't care."</p> + +<p>"Maybe there's a party for the team that you've got to go to."</p> + +<p>"I don't have to go. I'm not going."</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with you, Pat. You'd think Yale had licked us. Are +you sore because you didn't get into the game?"</p> + +<p>"No, I knew I wouldn't get in. Pretty near the whole squad would have to +be struck by lightning before I got in. That wasn't it. I found out this +afternoon that Copeland was right. The thing doesn't matter. It's silly +to get so worked up about it."</p> + +<p>"What made you think that?"</p> + +<p>"You remember that man that dropped the punt in the first quarter, that +fumble that gave the Elis the chance for their field goal."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I remember. He had it square in his hands and muffed it."</p> + +<p>"Well, that was Bill French. I know him better than anybody else on the +squad. He's a corker.<a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a> They hauled him out right after that muff and as +he came off one of the coaches said something to him. I don't know what, +but he flopped down on the seat right beside me and began blubbering +like a kid. He was trying not to, you understand, but just bawling +away."</p> + +<p>"Oh, he'll forget about all that by tomorrow."</p> + +<p>"No, he won't and nobody else will. They won't let him forget. He'll be +'the man that dropped the punt.' If we hadn't won he'd be around +thinking of committing suicide. It's just rotten. There oughtn't to be +things like that."</p> + +<p>"Well, you can't have any kind of a real struggle without somebody +suffering."</p> + +<p>"Then let 'em suffer for something worth while. The thing's all dolled +up in the newspaper stories. You come along with that yarn about Bullitt +saying, 'We're going to get a touchdown damn soon' and all that stuff +about his getting knocked out."</p> + +<p>"Well, he did get knocked out, didn't he?"</p> + +<p>"You bet your life he did but it wasn't all nice and pretty. Pinwheels +and whispering cheers in his ears and all that. You weren't close enough +to see what happened when Jim came out with the sponge."<a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a></p> + +<p>"What did happen?"</p> + +<p>"He put his lunch, but that isn't pretty enough to get in your story."</p> + +<p>"That's not going to disable him for life."</p> + +<p>"I didn't say it would. He was just a sick pup and he would have liked +to go off some place and lie down. But you can't. I'd die for dear old +Harvard and all that. He had to get up and go on with it. If you don't +you're a quitter and you haven't got any guts. I tell you I think it's +damn rot. It's phoney like your story."</p> + +<p>"Maybe you'll have a chance to write a better one some day," said Peter. +He had hard work to steady himself. He didn't believe Bullitt had been +hurt any worse than he was at that moment. Pat didn't answer.</p> + +<p>"Wasn't there anything that gave you any kick all afternoon?" asked +Peter after a pause.</p> + +<p>"Sure, just one thing. It was the Yale stands singing 'Die Wacht Am +Rhein.' I know they've got terribly silly words, but there is something +that has got guts. I think that's just about ten times as exciting as +all the football games ever played. There was our crowd tooting away, +'Hit the line for Harvard, for Harvard wins today' and that big song<a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a> +with all those marching feet in it throbbing over across the field."</p> + +<p>"German feet," objected Peter.</p> + +<p>"Well, but they are feet and you can't take the beat and the sweep out +of it. Maybe we did win the game but they did sing the heads off us."</p> + +<p>"Another moral victory for Yale," suggested Peter.<a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIIIb" id="CHAPTER_VIIIb"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h3> + +<p>When Peter came into his office one afternoon a couple of weeks after +the Yale game he found Pat sitting at his desk waiting for him.</p> + +<p>"I'm through," said Pat.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?"</p> + +<p>"Well, as a matter of fact, they're through with me. They've fired me."</p> + +<p>Pat looked across the desk expectantly awaiting a question. Peter didn't +ask it. "I'm sorry," was all he said.</p> + +<p>"You know about it. I suppose you must have the letter from the dean by +now. It took me three days getting back from Cambridge."</p> + +<p>"I don't know anything about it. You can tell me if you want to."</p> + +<p>"Well, I got fired the worst way. It wasn't just flunking courses. I +didn't even mean to do it. Not ahead of time anyway. It just sort of +happened."</p> + +<p>Peter waited and then suddenly he remembered his interview with Miles +years ago, the day he came<a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a> to the office in bandages and was never +offered a chance to tell about it. A question would be kinder.</p> + +<p>"What happened, Pat?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"The proctor reported me. I had a girl in my room. No, that's slicking +it up and making it sound romantic and pretty. What I mean is I had a +woman in my room. You know ... a woman."</p> + +<p>"I know," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"You remember I was low in my mind after the football game. It let me +down. I don't care what I wrote you before the game. I really did think +it was going to be fine. I thought I'd get stirred by it and after it +was all over the only things I remembered were Bill French sitting on +the side-lines crying and Charlie Bullitt out on the field putting his +lunch. You don't mind if I tell it this way—the long way."</p> + +<p>"Take your time."</p> + +<p>"Well, I know it sounds silly, but it seemed to me that I just had to go +out and find something that was thrilling and beautiful too. I saw this +girl—this woman—walking across Harvard Square. It was night and +raining and blowing. The wind was almost carrying her along. You know it +made her seem so alive."<a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a></p> + +<p>He paused again. Peter could not resist an impulse to break into the +story. "She said to you, 'Come along' or a something like that," he +suggested.</p> + +<p>"No, I spoke to her. I said, 'Why get wet?' It was dark and we sneaked +up the stairs in Weld to my room. And then it wasn't beautiful at all." +Pat buried his head in his hands.</p> + +<p>This time Peter did put his arm around his shoulders. "That's right," +said Peter, "it wasn't beautiful. You couldn't know that. Nobody ever +does. I didn't."</p> + +<p>Pat looked up and in the second he had snapped back to normal. The shame +had gone somewhere; into Peter's protecting arm perhaps. He managed a +smile.</p> + +<p>"Peter," he said, "there's something more I'm sorry about. I'm sorry for +what I said about that football story. It was a good football story. A +peach of a story—all but that part about Charlie Bullitt and Dr. +Nichols."</p> + +<p>Peter grinned back at him. "That's my weakness. I can't help being a +little yellow sometime."</p> + +<p>A sudden elation swept over Peter. Here at last was a secret shared just +by him and Pat. Of course, the Dean of Harvard College and the proctor +and<a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a> the woman who walked in the rain knew about it, but they didn't +count.</p> + +<p>"The proctor saw her when she was going out," Pat added just to finish +up the story. There they left it and went on to talk of other things but +presently Miss Nathan came in.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Neale," she said, "Mr. Twice wants to see you in his office."</p> + +<p>Peter got up. "No," she said, "it's Mr. Pat Neale he wants to see. He's +been asking for him for a couple of days now. I told him that he was +here this afternoon."</p> + +<p>"What's Twice want to see you for, I wonder?"</p> + +<p>"I know," said Pat. "I've just thought of it. He must have got the +Dean's letter. Don't you remember it was Mr. Twice arranged about my +going to Harvard before you got back? I suppose they think he's still my +guardian."</p> + +<p>"Do you want me to come in with you?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind. Now that I've got it off my chest once I guess I can do it +again."</p> + +<p>Pat was gone for almost three quarters of an hour. Peter walked up and +down nervously. He wondered what was happening. From across the transoms +of Twice's office he could hear just the rumbling of<a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a> the editor's +voice. Pat didn't seem to be saying anything. At last he came back.</p> + +<p>"What did he say to you? He seemed to be raising Cain."</p> + +<p>"No, he didn't say anything much. At least not much about the Dean's +letter. He had that all right. He got talking to me about Krafft-Ebing."</p> + +<p>"Oh, was that all?"</p> + +<p>"No, there was more than that. I report down here for work on Monday."</p> + +<p class="c">. . . . . . . . . .</p> + +<p>"The trouble with him," said Rufus Twice, "is that he doesn't seem to +understand that you've got to have a certain routine in a newspaper +office. Deering tells me that he hardly ever gets in at one o'clock. +Along about two he calls up on the phone and wants to get his assignment +that way. And last night Warren says that he called up after ten and +said, 'It's raining like hell. You don't really want me to go out and +cover that story, do you?' Warren told him, 'Oh no, Mr. Neale. I didn't +know it was raining. Of course, if this keeps up we won't get out any +paper at all.'"<a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a></p> + +<p>Peter couldn't laugh because Twice was telling him of the reportorial +shortcomings of Pat. He spoke to Pat about it when he got home to the +apartment. The old flat in Sixty-sixth Street was again theirs.</p> + +<p>"But I get such lousy assignments," said Pat. "I think Deering's down on +me. I suppose I've given him cause all right, but he's taking it out on +me. He sends me where there isn't any chance of getting anything. If I +do write something it never gets in the paper anyway. I did tell him it +was raining. What was the use of my getting wet for nothing? They wanted +me to go up to a meeting of the trustees of the Museum of Natural +History. Now what could I get out of that?"</p> + +<p>"Didn't you go up?" said Peter aghast. "He was just being sarcastic when +he told you there wouldn't be any paper if the rain kept up."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know that. The Bulletin comes out every day all right. That's the +trouble with it, but I took him up literally on what he said. I don't +think the joke was on me. It was on him."</p> + +<p>"You shouldn't do things like that."</p> + +<p>"Suppose I had gone. There wouldn't have been any story anyway."<a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a></p> + +<p>"You've got to quit supposing. Let the city editor do that. The +worst-looking assignment may turn out to be something if you go after +it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, once in every twenty years those directors of the Museum of +Natural History get into an awful row about whether to put the +ichthyosaurus on the second floor or in the basement and if anything +like that happened they'd turn over the whole front page to me."</p> + +<p>Peter shook his head gloomily. "You've got the wrong spirit. Even if +your assignments are no good keep your eyes and your ears open when you +go round the city and something will turn up. That's the way to show +them. Bring in something you pick up yourself. Every day of the year +there must be whole pagefuls of stuff just as good and better than the +stuff we get in the paper. Only we don't find out about it. Keep +scouting for stuff like that. When you say newspaper work's stupid +you're practically saying that life's stupid."</p> + +<p>"Maybe it is," said Pat, "but I'm not so sure about that as I am about +newspapers."</p> + +<p>"It's the same thing."</p> + +<p>"I don't think so. Here's the sort of thing that makes life amusing and +isn't worth anything for<a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a> a newspaper. I was riding in one of those +B.R.T. subway trains the other day and there were two women sitting next +me on one of those cross seats. One was fat and middle-aged and the +other was younger. I didn't notice her so much. It was the fat one who +was doing the talking. She was very much excited and she was explaining +something to the younger woman. 'Why, I said to him,' she told her—'I +said to him, 'Why, Mr. Babcock, I don't want to be sacrilegious but that +girl she's so sweet and so pretty I don't even believe our Lord himself +could be mean to her.' That made me satisfied with the whole day, but +imagine coming in and trying to put it over on Warren or Deering for a +story."</p> + +<p>"A story's got to begin some place and end some place," objected Peter.</p> + +<p>"The kind I get don't begin any place and so I don't have to wait around +for them to end."</p> + +<p>Peter went to Rufus Twice and told him that Pat didn't seem to be making +any progress in general work.</p> + +<p>"You ought to be more patient, Neale," answered Twice. "What's all this +hurry about Pat? He won't be twenty-one yet for a couple of years."</p> + +<p>"It's nearer than that. It's just thirteen months<a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a> and three days." +Peter could have told him the hours and the minutes too which lay +between Pat and his eight o'clock appointment in Paris.</p> + +<p>"That doesn't make him exactly aged. He's learning or he ought to be +learning all the time. Even if he didn't get a line in the paper all +year he wouldn't be wasting his time. Just being here helps him to pick +up my way of doing things. Of course, when I say 'my' I mean the +paper's."</p> + +<p>"All that's perfectly true, Mr. Twice, but I have a very special reason +for wanting him to get ahead right now. I want him to be interested. I +want him to feel that he's important."</p> + +<p>"There isn't any job around here that isn't important. You ought to know +that, Neale. None of us count as individuals. We're all part of the +Bulletin. Nobody can say that one cog's more important than another. Did +you ever see a Liberty motor assembled?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Peter with as much haste and emphasis as he could muster, +but it was probably the convenient ringing of the phone which saved him.</p> + +<p>"If Mr. Boone has anything to say in reply to the story we printed this +morning he's welcome to come to my office and see me. That is if he's +got<a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a> facts. I want you to know that I resent his making his complaint +through an advertising agency. I don't care if I am impolite. I intend +to be. Don't bother to threaten me about your advertising. You can't +take it out. I'll beat you to that. It's thrown out. Good-bye."</p> + +<p>Twice swung his chair around and faced Peter. "I've just cost the paper +$65,000 a year in advertising," he said cheerfully. "The Dubell Agency +was trying to bawl me out about that Sun Flower Oil story we had on the +front page this morning. Did you see it?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I saw the headlines," said Peter untruthfully.</p> + +<p>"I want you to read it. Weed did it. I told you I was going to make +something out of that young man. Let's see, what were we talking about?"</p> + +<p>Peter almost said, "The Liberty Motor," but stopped himself in time. "We +were talking about Pat."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, I remember. I suppose, Neale, you and I could say without +egotism that we're important cogs here on the Bulletin. I suppose +sometimes it seems to us that we're vital cogs, but if you should die +tomorrow the Bulletin would come out just the same.<a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a> I'd give you a good +obit but work would go on. Nobody is indispensable. Pat's got to get it +through his head that he's just part of an army."</p> + +<p>"I think he has," said Peter, "but the trouble is he feels that he's got +a permanent assignment on kitchen police."</p> + +<p>"But consider this, Neale. I didn't seduce Pat away from college and on +to the Bulletin. I did promise him a job and he's got it. He can't +expect to hang around here for a year or so and jump right in and write +lead stories. What is it you want me to do anyway?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I thought maybe it would be a good thing to shift him over on +sports. He knows baseball and football and I'd like to have him come out +with me and do notes of the games and things like that. That would be +down his alley. That would interest him and I think he could do it."</p> + +<p>"I don't think it's the best way. I think you're forgetting that general +news is the backbone of a paper. All the rest is tacked on. You're wrong +but I tell you what I'll do. I'm going to yield to your judgment. Go in +and tell Clark that I want Pat to report to him from now on. Go and send +Pat in. I want to have a talk with him."<a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a></p> + +<p>Peter ran into Pat late that night in the Newspaper Club.</p> + +<p>"Did Twice get hold of you?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"He certainly did," said Pat. "He's decided to take me off general work +and put me on sports. His idea is to send me around with you to football +games and baseball and have me write notes. You know 'Diamond Chips' or +'Hot Off The Gridiron.'"</p> + +<p>"Did he say anything else to you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, he asked me if I'd ever seen a Liberty Motor assembled and I said, +'No,' and he told me about it. Oh yes, and he said, 'When a reporter +goes out on a story there are four things he ought to remember—When! +Where! What! and Why!'"</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with that?" Peter felt that Pat ought to show a +little more delight and gratitude at being fairly launched on his career +as a sporting writer.</p> + +<p>"Well, I tried it out on that assignment I had to cover—the directors +of the Museum of Natural History. It worked out like this—When—last +night. Where—the palatial apartment of Mr. Harold Denny at 605 Park +avenue. What—the annual report of the directors of the Museum of +Natural History. Why—God knows."<a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a></p> + +<p>Pat was busily engaged with three other men in a game called horse +racing. Each contestant had two pool balls and all were lined up at one +end of the table with a piece of board behind them. The starter's job +rotated among the players. He sent the balls spinning up the table and +the one which landed nearest to the rail on the rebound won the purse. +Peter wanted to talk to Pat, but he seemed anxious to get away.</p> + +<p>"There's a newspaper man over in the corner that I'd like to have you +meet," said Peter.</p> + +<p>"Who is it?"</p> + +<p>"His name's Heywood Broun. He's on the World."</p> + +<p>"Which one do you mean? The one with the shave?"</p> + +<p>"No, the other one."</p> + +<p>"I'm too busy," said Pat. "I can't be bothered. We're just going to run +the Suburban Handicap, That costs fifty cents for each horse."</p> + +<p>As the balls were shoved away Pat raced down the table with them +shouting, "Come on Ulysses. Come on James Joyce." He ran over to Peter +with a handful of coins. "Ulysses won," he said, "and James Joyce was +second."<a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a></p> + +<p>"What do you call them that for?"</p> + +<p>"They're named after a book I've been reading."</p> + +<p>Peter was about to head up town, but Pat urged him to stay. "Stick +around awhile," he said, "as soon as Nick Carter shows up the +quartette's going to have a concert."</p> + +<p>"What quartette?"</p> + +<p>"Oh just me and three other fellows. We're pretty good. At least I am. +We get in a few swipes almost every night."</p> + +<p>"Are you still going to the opera so much?" asked Peter anxiously.</p> + +<p>"No, I haven't had any time. There isn't any opera now anyway but it's +almost a year since I've been."</p> + +<p>"Have you heard from Maria lately?"</p> + +<p>"The last letter I got was almost six months ago. She didn't say +anything much except she said that before long she was going to see me +in Paris. I don't know how. You haven't heard Mr. Twice say anything +about giving me an assignment over there, the annual meeting of the +house committee of the Louvre or anything like that?"</p> + +<p>"He hasn't said anything to me about it."</p> + +<p>Peter didn't wait for the singing nor was he<a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a> particularly worried about +it. He was cheered by the fact that Pat had spoken so casually of the +opera and of Maria. When he got home to the flat he noticed a big book +in blue paper covers on the table. It was "Ulysses" by James Joyce.</p> + +<p>"Why, that's the book Pat named the pool balls after." He picked it up +and began at the beginning and then skipped ahead frantically. An hour +or so later Pat came in. Peter pointed to the book and looked at him +reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"What does it mean, Pat?" he asked. Stumbling over it at random he read:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended. Douce with +Kennedy your other eye. They threw young heads back, bronze +gigglegold, to let freefly their laughter, screaming, your other, +signals to each other, high piercing notes."</p></div> + +<p>"I don't know," said Pat. "I haven't got that far yet. But what +difference does it make what it means? That isn't the point. There's +music in it."</p> + +<p>As Peter was going to bed he cursed silently to himself. "Damn this +music. They're even trying to play it on typewriters now."<a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IXb" id="CHAPTER_IXb"></a>CHAPTER IX</h3> + +<p>On sports Pat worked better and more cheerfully. It was Pat who devised +the note at one of the Princeton football games, "The Tiger eleven has +three fine backs and the greatest of these is Gharrity." And he came +through splendidly when he was assigned to cover Marshal Foch's +activities at another game and report in detail what the Frenchman did. +Peter found the story posted on the board in the Bulletin office. In +fact Twice had allowed Pat to have his signature in the paper. Right +after Peter's own story it came—"By Peter Neale, Jr."</p> + +<p>This was the third reading for Peter but he could not resist the +pleasure of standing in front of the board in the City Room and looking +over it again slowly:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p class="nind">"Ferdinand Foch, field marshal, was outranked this afternoon by +Malcolm Aldrich, captain. The Field Marshal was received +enthusiastically by the 80,000 spectators but he found he could not +hold the attention of the throng once the whistle had blown. He +became then just a spectator at one of the greatest football<a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a> games +ever played between Yale and Princeton. Come to think of it he was +rather less a part of the proceedings than the young men in the +cheering section behind him. Foch did not have a blue feather, or a +girl, or a bet on the game. The greatest military leader in the +world was assigned today to the humble job of being just a neutral. +He must have known that momentous things were happening when 40,000 +roared defiance and another 40,000 roared back. Undoubtedly he was +stirred when huge sections of the Bowl turned into fluttering banks +of orange and black, or of blue, but probably there was much of it +which he could not understand. It would be hard, for instance, to +explain to a man who had been at Verdun the justice of penalizing +anybody for holding, nor did the rival teams pay any respect to the +slogan 'They shall not pass!' They did it all the time.</p> + +<p>"The young American officer detailed to help the distinguished +visitor did his best. 'You see, Marshal,' he would explain, 'it's +this way. Yale has <i>la balle</i> on Princeton's 35-yard line and it's +<i>premier bas</i> with <i>dix</i> yards to go.' Just at that point Aldrich +or O'Hearn would tear through the Tigers for a run and the American +officer grew so excited that he would lose the thread of his +explanations. Foch never did catch up."</p></div> + +<p>"It's just the way I would have written it myself," thought Peter.</p> + +<p>Pat was grinning when he found him. "How did you like my parody?" he +asked.<a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a></p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Didn't you see yourself in that story about Foch. That business about +'They shall not pass' ought've tipped you off. I thought that was a +regular Peter Neale touch."</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Peter, "you were just fooling."</p> + +<p>"But here's the best of it," added Pat. He held out a letter from Rufus +Twice which read:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p class="nind">"Dear Pat, I want to congratulate you on the story you wrote about +Foch at the football game. It was excellent. All the facts were +there and you handled them with a fresh and original touch of your +own. When I saw the Marshal at luncheon today he said he was very +much amused by our story—Twice."</p></div> + +<p>"Well," said Peter a little bitterly, "if that was just an imitation +keep it up."</p> + +<p>Pat did keep it up although he grew a little restive during the winter. +"If they're going to be many more of these indoor track meets," he +complained, "I want to be put back on the Museum of Natural History. +Clark there in the sporting department is just crazy about facts. You +have to squeeze them all into the first paragraph. Even if anything +exciting ever did happen there wouldn't be any chance to tell about it. +You'd have to start out just the<a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a> same and say how many people there +were in the hall and what the temperature was and whether it was raining +or snowing outside."</p> + +<p>Still he had conformed with sufficient fidelity to remain in the graces +of the powers on the Bulletin and when Summer came around Pat was +assigned to go with Peter to Atlantic City and watch Jack Dempsey train. +Pat's part was to write a half column of notes called 'Sidelights On The +Big Show.' After the first day or so Pat lost interest in the actual +boxing at Dempsey's camp.</p> + +<p>"Where do you see anything in that?" he asked Peter as they sat at the +ringside in the enclosure near the training camp of the champion. +Dempsey was whaling away with both hands at Larry Williams, an +unfortunate blonde heavyweight who seemed to be under a contract or some +other compulsion to go two rounds every day.</p> + +<p>"Watch him," exclaimed Pat as Williams clinched desperately and tucked +his head over Dempsey's shoulder. "He looks like an old cow leaning over +a fence."</p> + +<p>"That's a good line," said Peter, "don't waste it on me. Use it in the +Bulletin."</p> + +<p>But Pat wandered off and loafed around the<a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a> training quarters. When he +came back to the hotel late that afternoon he had something else.</p> + +<p>"This is all right, isn't it?" he asked. Peter looked over the copy +which Pat had written.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p class="nind">"Dempsey is taking a great deal of electricity into his system," he +read, "in preparation for his fight with Carpentier. This portion +of his training is being handled by S. J. Foster, D.C.M.T., +chiropractor, mechano-therapist and electrical therapeutist. In +other words Doc Foster is the man who rubs Dempsey after his +workouts. But the rubbing is only a small part of it. Doc Foster +insists on that. His chief pride and reliance is the polysine +generator. 'Why, that machine,' said Doc Foster, this afternoon, +'has got some currents in it that would break your arm in a minute. +Yes, sir, they'd break your arm quicker than that.' And as he +boasted he looked rather longingly at the fattest arm of the +fattest newspaper correspondent. Of course, there are more soothing +currents as well in the polysine generator. 'They just reach down +after the deep muscles,' the old Doc explained, 'and grab 'em.' He +neglected to add just what the electricity does with the deep +muscles after it has grabbed them. Presumably it does not break +them, but just frolics around with the muscles and then casts them +aside like withered violets."</p></div> + +<p>"Sure," said Peter, "that's fine. You don't have to bother with Larry +Williams at all. I'll put all the stuff about him into the lead."<a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a></p> + +<p>Next morning Peter awoke with a splitting headache. Toward noon it got +much worse. He called Pat in from the next room. "I'm up against it," he +told him. "I'm sick as a dog. Of course I could telegraph to the office +and get them to send somebody down but I don't want to do that. This is +your chance. You'll have to do the lead story. You say you can imitate +me or parody me or whatever you call it. Now's the time to go to it. And +say nobody has to know that I'm not doing it. Just sign your story 'by +Peter Neale.'"</p> + +<p>"I'll do my best," said Pat. Peter dozed off late that afternoon and the +doze became a deep slumber. He did not wake until morning when there +came a violent rapping on his door. In the hall was a messenger with a +telegram. Peter opened it and read:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p class="nind">"What happened? We didn't get the story. Never mind telephoning +explanations because I'm coming down over the week-end. I'll be at +the hotel at one—Twice."</p></div> + +<p>Pat was nowhere around the hotel and nobody seemed to know where he had +gone. Peter was still mystified when Rufus Twice arrived. He thought at +first of trying to conceal the fact that Pat had acted as his substitute +and then decided not<a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a> to. "It isn't fair to expect me to do as much as +that," he thought. However he found that any such deception would have +been useless.</p> + +<p>"What happened to you?" was Twice's first question.</p> + +<p>"I was sick. I had a blinding headache and I told Pat to do the story. +Didn't he send anything?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but it might as well have been nothing. All we had to go by was +the A. P. Dempsey cut loose yesterday and knocked Larry Williams down +three times. The last time they had to carry him out of the ring. And +our story was something about a man named Daredevil Oliver that's doing +a high dive at an amusement park down here. It was signed Peter Neale +but I knew it couldn't be you."</p> + +<p>Twice picked some copy out of his pocket and flourished it in the air. +"Lights. Gray mist. East wind," he read. "Good God! Peter, nobody can +say I don't appreciate Walt Whitman or Amy Lowell, but I tell you +Dempsey knocked Larry Williams down three times. The last time he was +out clean as a whistle."</p> + +<p>"You mean to say there wasn't any Peter Neale story in the paper?" asked +Peter terrified.<a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a></p> + +<p>"Yes, you get off all right. You don't suffer any. I did it myself. I +rewrote the A. P. and signed your name. But it was just the merest +chance that I happened to drop in at the office. You should have called +me up and let me send a man down."</p> + +<p>"But I didn't know he'd blow up like that. The other story he did from +here seemed all right."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but it wasn't news. I think Pat can write but somebody's got to +stand over him and tell him what news is. The one he sent might have +been all right for an editorial page feature though it was a little +esoteric. What do you suppose 'gigglegold' means or is that something +the operator did?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know what it means but it's a word James Joyce uses in +'Ulysses.'"</p> + +<p>"I'd forgotten," said Twice. "Of course. I was trying to place it. Great +book, 'Ulysses,' never should have been suppressed. But you couldn't use +any of it on the sporting page."</p> + +<p>"Was it all like that?"</p> + +<p>"Pretty much. It was about this Daredevil Oliver doing a high dive of a +hundred and five feet into four feet of water. And there were only nine +people there to watch him and how ironic it would have been if he'd +broken his neck. And then some<a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a> more about Eugene O'Neill and the tragic +drama in America. Jack Dempsey or Larry Williams or the fight never got +mentioned at all."</p> + +<p>Pat came in without knocking. He was flushed and angry. "Mr. Twice," he +said, "that story in the Bulletin signed 'Peter Neale' wasn't the story +I sent. I wouldn't have written anything like that."</p> + +<p>"I know it," said Twice, "that's why I wrote it."</p> + +<p>"Didn't you go down to see the workout?" asked Peter.</p> + +<p>"Of course I did. I didn't stay all through it. I waited until Jack +Dempsey knocked that old cow Larry Williams down for the third time and +then I got bored and went out."</p> + +<p>"But that was the story," cried Peter. "Can't you see that."</p> + +<p>"Why Dempsey could knock out Larry Williams a hundred times in an +afternoon," objected Pat.</p> + +<p>"That isn't the point," Twice broke in. "News isn't things that might +happen. News is things that do happen. When a reporter goes out on a +story there are four things for him to remember."</p> + +<p>"I know," said Pat. "When! Where! What! and Why!"<a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a></p> + +<p>"Yes, and there are two ways of doing a story. One of them is the way I +want it to be done. The other doesn't count. I don't want you to argue +with me. I tell you that your story should have been about Larry +Williams getting knocked out. Some day you'll learn why. Pat, I'm not +going to fire you. You've got stuff. Deering's had a crack at you and so +has your father. Now I'm going to see what I can do. You're to go back +to New York this afternoon. Report at my office on Monday. Hereafter +you'll get your assignments from me and turn your copy over to me. I've +never been licked yet and I'm not going to be licked now. I'm going to +make a newspaperman of you or my name's not Rufus Twice."</p> + +<p>After Twice had gone Peter asked, "Pat, what made you want to throw me +down?"</p> + +<p>"You don't think I made all this trouble for you on purpose?"</p> + +<p>"Well, why did you go and write a story about Daredevil Oliver and leave +Dempsey out of it?"</p> + +<p>"It seemed so much more important to me. You'd have thought so too if +you'd seen him. He just leaned back off the platform so slowly. He could +have stopped himself any second. And then all of a sudden he couldn't. +And he started to fall."<a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a></p> + +<p>"But the story was signed with my name. Didn't you think of that?"</p> + +<p>"Of course I did."</p> + +<p>"Didn't you remember that I'd get blamed for it."</p> + +<p>Pat was pale with earnestness and almost crying. "I didn't think +anybody'd be blamed. I wanted to do something for you."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to say," asked Peter in surprise, "that you thought it was +as good a story as I'd write."</p> + +<p>"I thought it was a better story. It was a better story than you ever +wrote."</p> + +<p>Peter was silent with astonishment. Where, he wondered, did his son +Peter Neale, second, ever unearth such amazing and audacious confidence. +Suddenly it came to him that he was not the only parent. He remembered +Maria. Obviously there was no use in arguing with Pat any further. +Indeed he was almost a little frightened at so bold a blaze of spirit.</p> + +<p>"Well," he said at length, "what are you going to do?"</p> + +<p>"I'm going to report to Mr. Twice on Monday," answered Pat.<a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a></p> + +<p>Peter sent down and got a "Bulletin" in order to find out just what it +was that Peter Neale had written. He read only the first line, "Can Jack +Dempsey sock? Ask Larry Williams."<a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_Xb" id="CHAPTER_Xb"></a>CHAPTER X</h3> + +<p>Not until after the big fight did Peter get back to the Bulletin office. +He found a subdued and cheerless Pat. "How are things going?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"I'm learning a trade," said Pat.</p> + +<p>Rufus Twice was more optimistic. "He's getting along fine," he reported. +"I flatter myself that he's picked up more of the newspaper angle on +things in the last two weeks than he got in a whole year before this. +You see I call him into the office every afternoon and go over the paper +with him and show him why we've used each story and the reason for +handling it the way we do. He's been a good soldier. I'll tell you what +I'll do. You take your vacation next week and I'll let him go with you. +You ought to have a month but I don't believe the syndicate can spare +you. Three weeks is the best I can do."</p> + +<p>Peter and Pat planned to go out in the country some place, but they kept +putting it off and two weeks were gone before they decided on Westport, +Conn., and bought the tickets. On the morning set<a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a> for the journey Pat +came into Peter's room with the paper.</p> + +<p>"Don't let's go," he said.</p> + +<p>"All right but why not."</p> + +<p>"Maria Algarez is here. They've got her picture in the Bulletin. It +isn't a very good one. She got in from Argentine yesterday afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Maria Algarez here in New York? Where?"</p> + +<p>"It doesn't say."</p> + +<p>A messenger arrived with a letter a few hours later. Peter opened it and +read:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p class="nind">"You must not hide from me. I have called up the Bulletin and they +say you are not there. When I ask for the number of your house they +tell me it is the rule that they must not tell. Is it, Peter, that +so many ladies call you up? The next time I am more smart. I say +that your father is very sick and that I am the nurse and must know +where you are. But I should have known. It is twenty years and the +flat it is the same. You are like that Peter. You do not change. I +thought not to see you and Pat until next year in Paris but from +Buenos Aires I decided suddenly I will go to New York. Here I am. +My hotel it is the Ritz. You and Pat you will come tonight at eight +and have supper with me—Maria."</p></div> + +<p>"I didn't want to go to Westport much anyway," said Pat.<a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a></p> + +<p>He was more nervous than Peter when they came to the door of Maria's +suite. She kissed Peter but Pat only held out his hand. Maria laughed. +"He does not know me. I know him. He is like the picture."</p> + +<p>Pat was almost silent during supper. He spoke up only once. Maria was +ordering. "We will have some vegetable," she said. "What is the name? I +do not know the English. <i>Les épinards.</i>"</p> + +<p>"That's spinach," said Peter and added slyly. "Pat doesn't like spinach. +He won't want that."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do," said Pat promptly.</p> + +<p>Peter smiled but he had the joke all to himself. Pat had forgotten.</p> + +<p>After dinner they talked sparsely with Peter doing most of the work. +Suddenly Maria said, "It is necessary that somebody he ask me."</p> + +<p>Peter was puzzled, but Pat understood. "I've waited for five years to +hear you sing. Won't you?"</p> + +<p>"It is nice, but it is the twenty years I have waited. First you must +sing."</p> + +<p>"I can't."</p> + +<p>"Maybe. It must be that sometimes you have sung."</p> + +<p>"Oh, just with other people. Swipes you know."<a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a></p> + +<p>"I do not know what it is but you sing and the swipes I will do."</p> + +<p>"Just anything. That's all I can sing—anything."</p> + +<p>Maria moved over to the piano. "The accompaniment it is not necessary +but it I can do if what you sing it is not too hard."</p> + +<p>"It's just something you sing around with a crowd."</p> + +<p>"Come nearer."</p> + +<p>Pat moved over beside the piano.</p> + +<p>"Allons!"</p> + +<p>Maria looked up at him and whispered, "You can. I know."</p> + +<p>There was no banter in it. Pat began a little husky at first but then +louder and clearer.</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry"> +<tr><td align="left">"Down by the stream where I first met Rebecca</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">Down by the stream where the sun loves to shine.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">Sweet were the garlands I wound for Rebecca.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">Bright eyes gave answer, she said she'd be mine.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">One, two, three, four,</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">Sometimes I wish there were more.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">Ein, zwei, drei, vier,</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">I love the one that's near.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">Ut ne sam si,</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">So says the heathen Chinee.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">Fair girls bereft<a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">There will get left,</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: .25em;">One, two, and three."</span></td></tr> +</table> + +<p>Maria looked up and smiled. Peter waited in an agony. He remembered that +he had not heard Pat sing since he was a small child. He waited for +somebody to speak. He did not know whether or not it was good. Somebody +would have to tell him if this was the singing voice for which Maria had +hoped.</p> + +<p>She continued to look at Pat and smile and he smiled back now more +boldly.</p> + +<p>Peter couldn't stand it any longer. "Tell me ... Maria. Can he sing?"</p> + +<p>Getting up from the piano she put a hand on Pat's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"It is the fine voice that I know. I think it will be the greatest voice +in all the world."</p> + +<p>Peter took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Maria turned to +him. "The time it is not up. I have come too soon. There is still the +year. But you must not. We cannot wait."</p> + +<p>"Ask him. Tell him," said Peter hoarsely.</p> + +<p>"Pat," she said, "if you will come with me to Paris you can be the great +singer. It will not be tomorrow.<a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a> It will be two years. Maybe three +years. You must work. You must do what I say."</p> + +<p>"When?" asked Pat trembling.</p> + +<p>"In the week."</p> + +<p>Peter said nothing, but he looked at Pat. The boy continued to stare at +Maria.</p> + +<p>"Pat," he said.</p> + +<p>His son turned to him.</p> + +<p>"I want to, Peter. I want to."</p> + +<p>Peter mopped his forehead again.</p> + +<p>"He wants to, Maria," he said. "I give up my year." Peter paused. "I +give up all my years," he added in a low voice.</p> + +<p>"But you must not give up the years," said Maria. "We will go to Paris, +all three. It will be more and more. You must watch and listen. He is +your son Peter."</p> + +<p>But Peter shook his head. "No," he answered, "it wouldn't mean anything +to me. I wouldn't know. I don't care anything about tunes."</p> + +<p>Maria ran her hands over the keys playing softly "The Invitation to the +Waltz." She watched Peter but he gave no sign of recognition. He was +fumbling in his pocket for something. At last he found it and pulled out +a letter.<a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a></p> + +<p>"You see it wouldn't be possible for me to go anyway," he said. "This +morning I got this letter from Rufus Twice. He's the Supervising Editor +of the Bulletin. He writes and says, 'I'm sorry about your vacation, but +it is imperative that you give up the last week of it. The syndicate's +doing great work on your Hit And Run column. Booth has just come back +from the West and he's sold you to eighteen more papers. When you got +back from the war I promised you two hundred. This addition brings it up +to two hundred and ten. You see I've made good for you. But Booth says +they want the stuff right off. Another week might mean our losing some +of them.'"</p> + +<p>Peter folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. "There's no chance +anyway. It's the tightest race they've had in the American League for +years and pretty soon the World Series'll be on and right after that +football starts. With all that going on there ought to be something in +the paper by Peter Neale."</p> + +<p> +<br /> +</p> + +<p class="c">THE END</p> + +<hr class="full" /> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Boy Grew Older, by Heywood Broun + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY GREW OLDER *** + +***** This file should be named 36057-h.htm or 36057-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/0/5/36057/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Boy Grew Older + +Author: Heywood Broun + +Release Date: May 8, 2011 [EBook #36057] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY GREW OLDER *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + + + THE BOY GREW OLDER + + BY + + HEYWOOD BROUN + + [Illustration: colophon] + + G. P. Putnam's Sons + New York & London + The Knickerbocker Press + 1923 + + Copyright, 1922, + by + Heywood Broun + + Made in the United States of America + + _First Printing, October 1922_ + _Second Printing, October 1922_ + _Third Printing, November 1922_ + _Fourth Printing, December 1922_ + _Fifth Printing, February 1923_ + _Sixth Printing, March 1923_ + +[Illustration: The Knickerbocker Press New York] + +Made in the United States of America + +DEDICATED + +TO + +HERBERT BAYARD SWOPE + + + + +The Boy Grew Older + +Book I + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +"Your son was born ten minutes ago," said the voice at the other end of +the wire. + +"I'll be up," replied Peter Neale, "right away." + +But it wasn't right away. First he had to go upstairs to the card room +and settle his losses. Indeed he played one more pot for when he +returned to the table his deal had come around again. He felt that it +was not the thing to quit just then. The other men might think he had +timed his departure in order to save the dollar ante. He dealt the cards +and picked up four spades and a heart. Eventually, he paid five dollars +to draw and again he had four spades and a heart. Nevertheless, he bet +ten dollars but it was no go. His hands shook as he dropped the two blue +chips in the centre of the table. The man with a pair of jacks noticed +that and called. Peter threw his cards away. + +"I've got nothing--a busted flush. I want to cash in now. I owe for two +stacks. That's right, isn't it? I haven't any chips left. If +somebody'll lend me a fountain pen I'll make out a check. I guess I +need a check too. Any kind'll do. I can cross the name off." + +"Why are you quitting so soon?" asked the banker as Peter waved the +check back and forth to let it dry. "We're all going to quit at seven +o'clock." + +"Two rounds and a consolation pot," corrected somebody across the table. + +Peter was curiously torn between reticence and an impulse to tell. He +felt a little as if he might begin to cry. When he spoke his voice was +thick. "I've got to go up to see my son," he said. "He's just been +born." + +He shoved the check over to the banker and was out of the room before +anybody could say anything. + +He thought that the banker said, "Congratulations," as he slammed the +door behind him, but he could not be certain of it. + +All the way up in the taxi he worried. The hospital was half a mile +away. He wished that the nurse had said, "A fine boy," but he remembered +it was just, "Your son was born ten minutes ago." + +"If anything had been wrong," he thought, "she wouldn't have said it +over the telephone." + +"Is everything all right?" was his first question when a nurse came to +the door of the small private hospital and let him in. "My name's Peter +Neale," he explained. "My son's just been born half an hour ago." + +"Everything's fine, Mr. Neale," she said and she smiled. "The baby +weighs nine pounds. Mrs. Neale is fine too. You can see them both, but +she's asleep now. You can't really see her today, but I think they'll +let you have a good look at your son. He's a little darling." + +Peter was reassured but irritated. Formula was all over the remark, +"He's a little darling." He thought she ought not to use it until she +had learned to do it better. Some place or other he had read that babies +were fearfully homely. Still it didn't look so bad when he came into the +room. Black was smudged all around the eyes which gave the child a +rakish look. + +"Miss Haine," said the nurse who brought him in, "this is Mr. Neale." + +"Mr. Neale," she added, "meet your son." Then she went out. + +"Is he all right, Miss Haine?" was Peter's first question as soon as the +door closed. After all, the other woman was just supposed to answer the +bell. Miss Haine might know more about it. + +"He's a cherub," said Miss Haine. + +"How did his eyes get blacked?" Peter wanted to know. + +"Oh that's just the silver nitrate. We always put that on a baby's eyes +to make sure--Look what a fine head he has." + +Peter bent closer. The baby was not nearly so red as he had expected. As +for the head he didn't see why it was fine. He had no notion of just +what made a head fine anyway. The child kept wrinkling up its face, but +it was not crying. There was nothing about his son to which Peter could +take specific exception, but somehow he was disappointed. When he had +said down at the New York Newspaper Club, "I've got to go up and see my +son," the phrase "my son" had thrilled him. But this wasn't "my son." It +was just a small baby. It seemed to him as distant as a second cousin. + +"He is sweet," remarked Miss Haine. + +"Yes," said Peter, but he felt that any extension of the discussion +would merely promote hypocrisy on both sides. "Can I see my wife?" he +asked. + +"Come this way," said Miss Haine. "You can only stay a second. I'm +pretty sure she's asleep." + +Maria was asleep and snoring hard. Miss Haine took up one arm which was +flung outside the cover and found the pulse of the sleeping girl and as +she felt it she smiled reassuringly. "Yes," she said, "she's doing +fine." + +"And now," she added, "I'm going to bundle you off. There really isn't +anything around here for a father to do. This isn't your job, you know. +I'm going to let you come back in the morning, but not before ten." + +Peter learned later that one of the strongest factors in Maria's +resentment against having a baby was that he was implicated in the +affair so slightly. He tried to tell her that she ought to blame biology +and not him, but she said there was nothing in the scheme of creation +which arranged that fathers should be playing cards when their sons were +born. It had an air of reckless indifference about it which maddened +her. Peter knew that he could not explain to her that he had not been +free in spirit during the afternoon. He simply could not bear to stay +out of a single pot. Hour after hour he kept coming in on middle +straights and three flushes. Never before had he done anything like +that. But she knew so little about poker that there was no use in +telling her any of this. Indeed he realized that he had made a mistake +in venturing his one answer. Maria was in nowise pacified when he said, +"But I lost fifty dollars." + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +Peter saw Maria only once after that and then for a few minutes. Most of +the time she wept. "She's getting along splendidly," said Dr. Clay. "Her +nervous condition isn't good," he added as an afterthought. "Somehow or +other she doesn't take much interest in the baby. You would almost think +she didn't like it. She'll get over that. The maternal urge is bound to +have its effect in time." + +Of course Peter could not know that this urge, of which the bearded +doctor spoke so confidently, might be tardy. That was something which he +was to learn later for two days after the baby was born he went to +Goldfield for the big fight. He had made the stipulation with the +managing editor that somebody else should cover the story in case his +son was not yet born. The consent had been somewhat grudging and so he +had no inclination to call for another respite now that the baby had +actually arrived. It would have embarrassed him to say to the managing +editor, "I don't want to go away now because Maria--that's my +wife--doesn't like the baby." Anyhow Dr. Clay had said she was getting +along splendidly except for her nerves and the maternal urge would +attend to that. + +And so Peter went to Goldfield and when he came back two weeks later +they told him at the hospital that Maria had gone leaving the baby +behind her. They were slightly apologetic. Miss Haine had been a little +careless. Twelve days after Peter started for the fight Maria had +dressed and walked out. Nobody around the hospital knew anything more +than that about it. She had left a note and Dr. Clay had taken the +extreme liberty of reading it. Medically speaking, he could not say that +it indicated anything more than a highly neurotic condition. The woman +was rational. He could not see his way clear to sending out a general +alarm. After all he did not suppose that there was any legal way of +making the young woman come back. She said she was going to sail for +Paris and he supposed she had. Dr. Clay offered sympathy and some +observations gleaned in twenty years of practice about the Latin +temperament. + +Peter said nothing in reply. He did not want to discuss it. He felt lost +and gone but not altogether startled. Now that it had happened he +realized that he should have known that Maria might do something just +like that. It was an altogether silly arrangement that she should have +had a baby. + +"The youngster's fine," said Dr. Clay. "It must be a comfort to you to +know that you've still got him. I believe he's having his bath now. +Wouldn't you like to come up and see him. It's quite an exciting event I +can assure you." + +Peter didn't want to be excited and it didn't appeal to him as a +sporting event anyhow. Would Dr. Clay allow him to lie down on his couch +for a little while. Later he'd come up and talk about what to do with +the baby. He supposed the hospital didn't want it very much longer +anyway. After Clay had gone he cried a little. That didn't necessarily +mean much. Only the Thursday before he had cried at the ringside in +Goldfield when Battling Nelson knocked out Joe Gans. Then it had been +partly rage because thousands around him had shouted "Knock his block +off. Kill the nigger." And he had seen someone very beautiful slowly +crumple up before a slab-sided, bristling, little man who had no quality +of skill or grace. Nelson had just kept coming in and in. He never +stepped back. Often he took a blow in the face rather than bother to +stop for an instant from swinging his own short arms at the brown belly +in front of him. The victory had seemed altogether mechanical. Gans had +not been knocked out so much as clawed to pieces by a threshing machine. +And it was Gans Peter had thought of two years ago when he first saw +Maria Algarez dance. She had that same amazing suddenness of movement. +When he first saw her she was standing still in the middle of the huge +stage. And then everything about her had come to life. There was never +any feeling that she was thinking about what to do. No roll call was +carried on in her mind before she kicked or leaped, or flung an arm +above her head. The left jab of Joe Gans was like that too. + +Peter went to the stage door and thought he had made up his mind to stop +her and speak to her. He found that he hadn't. She came out slowly and +when he stared at her she looked straight at him and almost smiled. He +could not be quite sure of it because that was the very moment something +inside rapidly wheeled him about and sent him all but running out of the +alley. Later he was more enterprising. The dramatic critic at his +request introduced him to the press agent of "Adios" and the press +agent introduced him to Maria Algarez. She had just finished her dance. +Peter was standing in the wings and people were telling him not to. + +"Perhaps Mlle. Algarez will take us up to her dressing-room," said the +press agent. + +"It is not mine," said Maria, "I am not a star. The eight Bandana +Sisters dress with me. But never mind. Here they come. It is now their +turn on the stage. You will have to climb two flights of stairs, Mr. +Neale. You do not mind? Yes?" + +"I do," said the press agent. "But that scores for you. You're the one +he wants to see." + +And so Peter found himself alone in one corner of the long dressing-room +of Maria Algarez and the eight Bandana Sisters. All sorts of clothes +were scattered over the room. Maria sat down on a chair and stretched +out her feet. There was another chair nearby but somebody's stockings +were on it. Peter stood up. Maria looked at him and smiled with no +particular merriment. She was tired. Peter shifted from one foot to +another through a long pause. + +"Are they really sisters?" he asked. + +"Just two," said Maria. "Vonnie is the sister to Boots. The rest they +are all mixed. It could not be that there should be eight such bad +dancers in the one family." + +"I think you're the greatest dancer I ever saw." + +Maria nodded. "Yes, I am the great dancer. It is smart for you to know +that. The others they do not know. When Boots was sick, Mr. Casey--he is +our stage manager--he wanted me to go on in her place. He said he would +give me $5 a week more. He is stupid Mr. Casey. I do not dance like +that. It is not for me." + +"We'll be miss, miss, missed in Mississip," she hummed and made a face. +"One, two, three, four, lie down on the stomach and kick first the right +leg and then the left leg and then kick both legs. That was what he +wanted Maria Algarez to do. How is it you know? It is so smart. Here +throw down those stockings on the floor and take the chair. I want to +hear you say more about why I am so great a dancer." + +Peter lifted the stockings as if they had been little kittens and placed +them on the long shelf under the electric lights. + +"I don't know why," he said. "It just seems so easy when you do things. +And the thing you dance to; I think that's the best tune in the show." + +Maria was merry now for the first time. "Again you are smart. It is 'The +Invitation to the Waltz' of Weber. 'Miss, Miss, Missed' is not so good. +That is right. And some time you will tell about me in your newspaper +and say that I am a great dancer?" + +"I can't," said Peter. "I don't write about the theatre. I only write +about sports. Baseball, you know and football and prizefights and things +like that." + +"Never mind, you and I know, it will be our secret. We will tell none of +the others." + +Up the stairs there came a tramping and shouting and all eight Bandanas +rushed into the room approximately at the same time. + +"I'm going," said Peter jumping up hastily. + +"Don't you mind us Bandanas," shouted Vonnie across the room. "We don't +take off anything for half an hour." + +"Goodbye," said Peter. "Excuse me, ladies." + +Maria held his hand for one and two thirds seconds. "You must come +again. I want that you should tell me more about our secret." + +Vonnie held the door open for Peter. "You come when we're all here," +she said. "There isn't a nickle's worth of harm in the lot of us. But +that Maria there is a vamp, a baby Spanish vamp. Will you remember +that." + +"I'll remember." + +As Peter went down the stairs he was trying to see if he could hum the +thing that Maria said was "The Invitation to the Waltz" by Weber. He +wasn't good at it. And besides it was all mixed up and racketing around +in his head with, "We'll be miss, miss, missed in Mississip." + +Peter went to the show the next night and after that the alley. He stood +scrunched up against a wall for a time but he felt too conspicuous. He +was afraid that somebody would come up to him suddenly and say, "What +are you hanging around here for?" It didn't make much difference who +said it, the door man, a stage hand, a scrub woman, anyone would have +sufficient authority to terrify him. His mind leaped beyond that and he +had a vision of a policeman laying a hand upon his shoulder and saying, +"I arrest you on the charge of mashing." After that would come the trial +and the sentence. Peter moved out of the alley. He had no notion of just +what were the fixed post rights of anybody waiting at a stage door to +see an actress. Walking seemed safer and he took up a beat along the +side street which ran at right angles to the alley. + +His pace was brisk and he succeeded pretty well in developing the air of +a man bent upon getting to some important engagement five or six miles +away. Of course, every time he passed the alley it was possible to sweep +it with a glance over his shoulder. Even a man in a hurry has a right to +notice a tributary of chorus girls, musicians and actors sweeping into +his street. First came the musicians. Then one girl. Then two and +presently the flood. Peter did not dare to be too detached any more. +Fortunately he found the window of a cigar store just at the corner +where the alley turned into the street. By pretending an interest in the +special sale of genuine imported English briar pipes Peter was able to +keep close watch upon everyone who came from the stage door and at the +same time seem not quite a prominent clubman. But one of the pipes, +possibly the calabash cut to $2.21, must have commanded more than +fictitious interest, for Peter was suddenly startled by a clutch at his +left arm. He tugged away and turned at the same moment. + +"Unhand me, woman," said Vonnie, but she immediately took his arm again. +"I knew you'd come," she said. "It was that look you threw at me over +your shoulder when you went out yesterday." + +"I haven't come," said Peter. "I just happened to be going by." + +"But you are glad to see me?" + +"Of course I am." + +"And you'll walk home with me to keep me from being unprotected on the +streets of a great city at night. It's only about twelve blocks. You +don't need to take a taxi." + +"Honest, I can't. I wish I could. I'm awful sorry." + +Vonnie began to laugh. "I wonder why it is that when they come big they +haven't got any sense. 'I knew I could rule you the day we were wed,' +she hummed, 'for thick in the middle is thick in the head.'" + +"What did I do that was stupid? And I'm not thick in the middle." + +"Well, that's a fact. I don't know your name but your figure is grand. I +guess you find being so handsome you don't need any sense." + +"I have so too got sense. What have I done?" + +"Well, you're just so serious I can't go on kidding you. Don't you +suppose I knew you were waiting for Maria? And I know a lot more than +that. You keep looking at that girl the way you did yesterday afternoon +and all of a sudden you'll find rice in your ears." + +"All right," said Peter, "I guess I can stand that." + +"Here comes the bride--watch your step," and Vonnie went up the street +as Maria came around the corner. + +"Hello," said Maria, "what was it you talked about to Vonnie?" + +"She thinks we're going to get married." + +"And what is it you think?" + +"I'd like it." + +"Because I am the great dancer you think I ought to be the wife. So? It +is funny. But it is not so funny. We can talk about it again. Now I am +so tired that I just want to hear you say one thing and that is about +the dancing and me." + +"I think you were just fine," said Peter. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +I + +Maria was right. They did talk about it again and largely because Peter +surprised himself and her with enterprise. It was raining hard that +night when she came out into the alley. Peter grown bold was standing +not more than two feet away from the stage door at a spot where a +projecting fire escape offered some shelter from the rain. A big puddle +lay all the way across the alley. + +"Here," said Peter, almost casually and he picked Maria up and carried +her across. + +"Thank God, there's no winding staircase," Vonnie shouted after them. + +Still it was an entirely natural and easy thing to keep one arm around +Maria when they got into the taxicab. She rested her head against his +shoulder. Peter realized then that he ought to kiss her. After all he +had known her three weeks. It seemed the conventional thing to do. +Besides he wanted to. She said nothing until the second time. + +"I like the quiet ones better, Peter, my hermit. It is nice to lean +against you. With you the taxi does not jounce so much. Part of my +tiredness it goes into your arm." + +"Won't you marry me?" asked Peter. + +"Because we have kissed? And I have put my head on your shoulder? You +would make me the honest woman?" + +"I want to marry you." + +"First we must have some supper. Maybe it is that you are just hungry. +It is not upon an empty stomach to talk about getting married." + +Maria would not take the table which the headwaiter offered. "No that +other. The little one in the corner." + +After they had ordered Maria took up a long bread stick and began +breaking it into little pieces in her hand. + +"Peter," she said, "I must make you very sad. Maybe I will be a little +sad. You do not think I am good?" + +Peter stared at her. + +"That is too bad. I am not good, not very good. You know what I mean. +You have heard the actress in the play say, 'I am a good woman?' Maria +is not. I do not know why I tell you but I will. First it was three +years ago in Paris. He was married and I knew that. I do not even like +him much but I go. It was wrong. It was not so wrong another time +because that boy I like a little. Now it was Mr. Casey, our manager, I +told you he was a fool. That I could not help. He is such a fool. I try +to get the job and he does not say you can dance. He say to me, 'I am a +nice man and you are a nice girl.' What is there for me to say except +'yes.' About the dance he does not know anything. What is the use for me +to say, 'No, I am not the nice girl, I am the great dancer.' Even if he +would watch me dance he would not know. And so for the week-end at Long +Beach I was the nice girl. I cannot help it that people are fools. It +does not make me sad, but I am sad because now you are unhappy." + +But Peter was not exactly unhappy. He knew that by all the rules he +should be broken-hearted or raging. He wondered why he had no impulse to +shoot Casey. As a matter of fact he could think of nothing more silly. +His mind kept turning back to a play he had seen once called "The Second +Mrs. Tanqueray." In that the heroine had confessed in the first act to +the man she was going to marry. It was thrilling Peter found to have +somebody confessing to him. Maria the dancer was romantic, but Maria the +adventuress was a whole leap beyond that into the realm of fantasy. He +stole a glance around the long room and everywhere he saw men and women +talking. Some were laughing and some were earnest. "But," he thought to +himself, "probably this is the only table in the room where anybody is +making a confession." + +And besides all the dramatic values of the situation, he was not quite +unconscious of the comic ones. There sat Maria, at least five feet high +and looking about ten years old, gravely lifting up one corner of life a +little gingerly to spare the feelings of Peter Neale, the best known +sporting writer in America. But every other impression was swept away by +the sudden feeling that it was extraordinarily honest for Maria to tell +him all this. It was more than that. It was like cheering when the Yale +captain got up again. It was sportsmanship. + +Peter reached across the table and patted her hand. "I'm not sad, Maria. +I think it was awfully white of you to tell me. I'm not exactly a good +man myself. Anyhow things are different with you. Those things you said +are nothing. You know the way I feel is that you're an artist and it's +nobody's business what you do. We don't have to talk about that any +more. There's something else. You remember what we were saying in the +taxicab. You've had two pieces of bread now and a glass of water. Won't +you marry me?" + +"Yes," said Maria, "I'm going to marry you." + + +II + +Peter was surprised the day they went down to get the license to +discover that Maria was twenty-three. He was only twenty-six himself. +Maria had seemed a child. Nineteen would have been his guess. + +"Maybe," she said, "you will not want me because I am so old." + +"You could be a hundred," Peter answered. + +They were to be married the next day but when he met her at the theatre +in the evening she told him that Dolly Vance was ill and that Mr. Casey +wanted her to take over four of the sick girl's numbers. "I have to come +to the theatre at ten o'clock and rehearse all the day." + +"Then we'll get married at nine. I'm not going to take a chance like +that. I've read about it in books. The whole house will be cheering you +and then you'll ask for waivers on me. I want to get you signed up." + +"Pooh, for me they will not cheer. These are the jazz dances. They are +not for me. And Peter, oh, Peter, I must sing." + +"Can you sing?" + +"Yes, my hermit, I am almost so good a singer as a dancer. And I could +play the piano if there was any one smart enough to know. You see I +bring you the dowry." + +A very bored Alderman said that they were man and wife, but there was +some excitement when they came out of the City Hall and two newspaper +photographers took their pictures. Peter was proud of the fact that both +the camera men made a point of treating him as a person of a good deal +of importance. "You see," he said, "I'm somebody in my business." + +"The paper you work on what is the name?" + +"It's called the Bulletin." + +"And what is it they pay you?" + +"Well, with my share of the syndicate and all that it amounts to about +$100 a week." + +"One hundred dollars a week! That is funny. My pay it is $50. I have +caught a millionaire. Peter, why do they pay you $100 a week?" + +"I don't know, Maria----" + +"One hundred dollars a week to write about the baseball game! Fifty +dollars a week to Maria Algarez. My God, what a country! I do not like +that, Peter. Still, it does not matter so much. Maybe I am glad that you +are rich. You can buy me a piano and I will show you that I know how to +play Chopin. You would like that." + +"That'll be fine," said Peter. + +"Where was it that you learned so much about this baseball that they pay +you $100 for the week?" + +"I used to play myself at Harvard. At least I played one year. I pitched +against Yale and shut 'em out. The next year I got fired because I +couldn't learn French." + +"But that is so easy, the French. I do not know what it is to shut Yale +out." + +"Of course it's easy for you. You lived there, you told me ever since +you were five. Any foreigner ought to be able to speak French." + +"But I am not. I am now the American, I know that. I am Mrs. Peter +Neale." + +"Oh," she said, and made a fearful grimace, "that you must never call +me. It must be that I am still Maria Algarez. Mrs. Peter Neale I do not +know. Maria Algarez she will not die. Oh no, Peter, you understand +that?" + +"It's all right with me," said Peter. "I'm just going to call you Maria +any way." + +"And, Peter, I forgot, you have a father and a mother and the relations +for me to meet." + +"Not a one. I've got an uncle in Salt Lake City. That's a long way off +if you don't know. But how about you?" + +"Maybe, who can tell. They are no good. I do not care. Perhaps they are +dead. Peter, you are all I have in the world. That is why you must buy +me the grand piano." + +They went straight from the City Hall to the theatre and Peter left her. +He was not to see her again until after the performance. Of course he +went to the show and sat in the second row. But Maria did not see him +when she came on to do the first of her new numbers. Or at any rate she +made no sign of recognition. She kept her eyes intently on the +conductor's baton. And then she began to sing. Even Peter had an inkling +of the fact that here was a lovely voice. If he had not been married to +Maria Algarez at nine o'clock that morning he would still have been +caught up in the excitement of the theatre. Almost everybody stopped +coughing. They honestly cheered and they kept it up. Nine times Maria +sang the chorus and five times more she came out to bow. Her fourth song +was the last number in the play with the exception of the parade of all +the nations and nobody paid any attention to that. They just kept on +applauding and shouting. Peter argued with the stage door man. + +"I have to see Maria Algarez," he said. "I have to, I tell you. I'm her +husband." + +"Write your name down on a piece of paper, and I'll take it up and see +what she says." + +In three or four minutes he returned. "Miss Algarez says you're to come +up. It's number twelve. Two flights up at the head of the stairs." + +Peter knocked. + +"Come in," said Maria. She had thrown the blue and gold costume in a +corner, and slipped on a kimono. + +"It was marvelous," said Peter; "nobody's ever heard anything like it in +a theatre. They're still cheering and applauding for you." + +"For all that applause I do not give a damn," answered Maria and snapped +her fingers. "As long as you like. That is all." + +Peter kissed her. "Maria, I was afraid I'd lost you." He held her at +arm's length and the kimono slipped down over one shoulder. "Cover +yourself up," said Peter almost sharply. Maria pulled the wrap back and +folded it closely around her. Peter had never seen that smile before. + +"A husband," she said. "It is different." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +I + +Maria blamed a good many things upon the institution of marriage for +which the explanation probably lay elsewhere. If Peter had been a lover +rather than a husband he would still have been insensitive to Chopin. In +all the range of Maria's repertoire he was never able to detect more +than a single tune. That itself seemed to him an achievement for the +Fantaisie Impromptu had not yet been discovered to be actually, "I'm +Always Chasing Rainbows." But as a matter of fact Peter did not really +understand Maria Algarez any better than he understood Chopin. He loved +her throughout the year of their married life but he was not happy. + +"It is the curse of the witch on you," she said, "or maybe it is not the +witch but that America of yours. There is something in you, Peter, that +will not let you be happy. You are afraid of it. Of me you are afraid, +Peter." + +He protested that this was not so but Maria knew better. + +"Love--what you call sex--that is one of the things which has frightened +you the most of any. Somebody has put black thoughts into that head. +Yes, I tell you it is so. A terrible thing has been done to you. +Somebody has brought you up carefully." + +But in an instant she had come across the room to him and had a +protecting arm about him. + +"Now I have made you the more sad. You must tell me what it is." + +"I can't, Maria. I don't know whether I know. But anyhow I can't." + +"Perhaps it is the sound of it which you fear. You tell me. You must. +Whisper it." + +Peter did whisper. "You remember that night you told me---- you told me +about the others." + +"You mean those oh so few lovers. But that did not make you sad then. +You were not angry." + +"I'm not angry now. But I can't help it, Maria, that I worry." + +"And for what do you worry?" + +"I think that maybe those other lovers they made you happier than I +can." + +"So! That I should have known. You think you are not the so great lover. +These men they are gone but they are still your rivals. Perhaps I +remember. That is it?" + +"Yes," said Peter. + +He was startled when Maria laughed. + +"Why do you laugh at me?" + +"It is to you like the baseball game. It is what you call it? Oh yes, a +competition." + +Peter made no answer. + +"Now listen to me, Peter. You I love the most of anybody in the world. I +tell you that but it is not enough. You still worry. Something I must do +to show you. This blackness I must drive away. Peter, you must have a +baby. Yes, it is a son you need. Then you can worry about him." + +Maria spoke upon the conviction but also upon impulse and babies are not +born that way. The time of her trial beat fiercely upon her. She had to +quit the show just a day after a new role and several new songs were +promised to her. During the last three months of her pregnancy she never +left the apartment. "I do not want anybody to point at me," she told +Peter, "and say that is Maria Algarez who did the Butterfly Dance in +'Adios.'" + + * * * * * + +In the note which Dr. Clay handed to Peter, Maria had written: "I did +keep my promise. It is a baby and a son. That was all I promised. More I +cannot do. Peter, I must be Maria Algarez, the dancer. I cannot be the +wife and the mother. You should not be sad altogether. I think it is +good that we have met. When you look at your son you will forget some of +the rubbish that was in your head. That is more than that you should +remember Maria Algarez. And the boy, Peter, remember it is fair that +from life he should get fun. Thank God, nobody can ever make of him the +wife and mother. Miss Haine says he is like me. If that is so, Peter, +you may have much trouble. But leave him just a little bad." + +The last sentence was hard to decipher. Peter could not make out whether +Maria had written, "I love you," or "I loved you." + + +II + +Peter must have gone to sleep eventually on the sofa in the reception +room of Dr. Clay's hospital. It was almost dark when he woke. He had +been dreaming hard. In the dream some vague figure, forgotten by the +time he awoke, presented him with a small lion cub as a pet. Throughout +the dream Peter worried about the lion cub. The apartment house in which +he lived had a strict rule against dogs. The janitor did not actually +come into the dream, but much of Peter's sleeping consciousness was +concerned with planning arguments for that official. "But it isn't a +dog," Peter was prepared to say, "it's a lion. Your rules don't say +anything about lions. Anyhow it's only a little lion." There had been a +lion cub in Battling Nelson's camp and Peter had often watched the +fighter fool around with it and slap the animal when it tried to nip +him. Nelson had a trick of rubbing the rough stubble of his beard +against the lion's nose. Peter hated that. + +Disentangling himself from his dream he decided that his nightmare had +been an echo he remembered from Goldfield. It took him several minutes +to get himself back from the Nevada fight to the hospital in New York. +While he slept he had forgotten that Maria had run away and that his son +was in a room upstairs. He was about to skirmish out in search of one +of the nurses when Dr. Clay came into the room. + +"Feeling any better?" asked the doctor. + +"I feel all right. I'm all ready to take the baby now." + +"You don't need to be in any hurry about that, Mr. Neale. Better let him +stay till tomorrow. It's after six now. Suppose we go up and watch the +little fellow get bathed. I asked Miss Haine to postpone that so you +could see him." + +Peter realized that his presence at the bath seemed to be obligatory in +the mind of the doctor. He went up the stairs to the same room which he +had visited the fortnight before when he rushed away from the poker +game. There could be no possible question about finding the right door +for the hall was filled with loud howling. + +"They never like it," said Dr. Clay. + +"Is there any other reason for doing it?" asked Peter, but the physician +made no answer. + +The baby was propped up against one end of the tub rubbing at his eyes +and Miss Haine was sloshing his chest with water from a sponge. + +She looked up and said, "He's just fine, Mr. Neale. I'm not really +hurting him." + +Peter found that a dim shadow of personality had descended upon his son +in the two weeks since he had last seen him. The face was too crowded +with tears and fingers to make much of an impression, but Peter, making +room for the doctor, walked around behind the tub and from the shoulders +of the child he received his first thrill. They were square high +shoulders without the suggestion of a curve. Christy Mathewson, the +rookie pitcher of the Giants, whom Peter Neale had recently hailed in +his column as a coming baseball star had shoulders just like that. And +it was a fine assertive chest. + +"He'll be a big man some day," said Miss Haine lifting up one of the +baby's feet. "Remember he's got to grow up to these." + +But no sooner was his foot lifted than the child began to howl louder +than ever. Peter suddenly reached toward him. + +"Look out," cried Miss Haine in alarm. "You mustn't touch his head." + +Peter cared nothing about the head. It was the high boxed shoulders +which he wanted, for some reason, to touch. He patted the child twice. +"I wouldn't cry like that," he said. But the child continued. + +"He thinks I put soap in his eyes," explained Miss Haine. "Tell him I +didn't." + +Peter thought it would be silly to say anything like that to the baby. +He patted him twice more and said, "There, there." + +"You're going to have your bottle in just a minute now," cooed Miss +Haine, drying the child with a vigor which it resented. She put him back +into his crib and presented the bottle. + +Instantly he ceased crying and drank noisily. He drank a good deal more +than he could conveniently swallow and milk began to spill out at the +corners of his mouth. The flash of interest which had animated Peter +died away. Indeed his feeling slumped down through indifference to +dislike. + +"I suppose," said Miss Haine, "you're going to keep him on cow's milk +from now on." + +"Cow's milk?" said Peter. "That's what he's got in the bottle now, isn't +it? It's all right for him, I suppose?" + +"In theory," said Dr. Clay, "bottle babies don't do quite so well, but +it doesn't make much difference. I imagine more than half the children +in New York today are brought up on bottles." + +"By the way," he continued, "I don't want to pry into your affairs, Mr. +Neale, but I suppose the little fellow's got a grandmother or somebody +you can turn him over to." + +"No," said Peter, "he hasn't got any grandmother that I know of. I guess +we'll just have to get along without one." + +"I can give you the telephone number of an agency where you could get a +trained nurse for him. That would insure expert care for a month or so +while you're looking around trying to make some more permanent +arrangement." + +Peter shook his head. He had come to hate the hospital. Any starched +person would remind him constantly of Maria and her letter and her +running away. + +"I think I've got somebody," he said. He was thinking of Kate. She had +been part of his life before he met Maria. And then there couldn't be +any scandal concerning Kate. She was about sixty. Before the baby was +born Kate had discussed the possibility of his paying her more than she +got for part time housekeeping and letting her be a nurse for the child. + +"Well, whoever you get," advised Dr. Clay, "I want you to buy this book. +I'll write it down for you--it's Dr. Kerley's, I've always found it the +best--and have her follow the directions carefully." + +Peter put the slip in his pocket. "I'll come around for the baby at +ten," he said. He took one more glance at the crib, but the milk +guzzling still continued. He left without saying goodbye to anybody +except Miss Haine and Dr. Clay. As he went out the front door he +suddenly said, "Damn!" He remembered that Kate couldn't read. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +On the way back to the flat in West Sixty-sixth Street, Peter stopped at +a store and asked for Dr. Kerley's book. The clerk was sorry that it was +not in stock. Of course he could order it. + +"I want something right away," said Peter. They rummaged around on a +shelf marked miscellaneous and found, "Your Child," and "The Christian +Nursery." Neither seemed from its title quite to answer the needs of +Peter, but since there was nothing else he took them both. Arriving at +his flat in West Sixty-sixth Street three doors away from Central Park, +Peter found Kate on hand. He had seen her just for a minute on his +return from Goldfield but not since he had learned his news at the +hospital. He did not know whether or not she knew. + +"My wife's gone away," he said. "And she won't be back." + +"Yes, sir," replied Kate. Peter liked her for that. Whether she was +surprised or not she made no sign. + +"Now," he continued, "I've got to bring the baby back here tomorrow. +It's a boy. There isn't anybody I know to turn him over to. I want you +to come and live here and be his nurse. I'll pay you fifteen dollars a +week. You remember you said you would come for ten when we were talking +about it before. I'm going to pay you more because you'll have to do the +whole job now." + +"I want one night a week off, Mr. Neale," said Kate. + +"That'll be all right if you make it Sunday. I guess I can learn enough +to take care of him once a week. I've got a couple of books here that +tell how to do it. This baby's going to be brought up right, Kate. I +want you to read these books too." + +"Mr. Neale, I've broke my glasses and I can't see print at all without +them. I'm an old woman, Mr. Neale." + +"That's all right, Kate, I'll read you some of it so we can be ready for +this baby when he comes tomorrow. Don't stand up. Sit down, Kate. This +is called 'Your Child.' It's written by a woman named Alice Carter +Scott." + +Peter opened the book and decided to skip the preface. + +"I had a sister in Brooklyn once," said Kate, "that was married to a man +named Scott. She's dead these ten years, God rest her soul." + +"It says," began Peter, skimming over the first page and deciding that a +summary would be sufficient, "that the most important task in the world +and the greatest blessing is to bring up children." + +"'The first years of the child's life'" he read, "'roughly speaking from +birth to the age of six, constitute the most important period of the +child's whole existence.'" + +He skimmed ahead again until he found a heading, "Constructive +Suggestions." + +"'First of all,'" he read, "'I would say that the home cannot be a +normal home unless the mother herself is a normal being---- '" + +Peter tried to skip ahead rapidly. "'She must learn to discriminate +between the essentials and the non-essentials in life. She must give the +best of herself to important things and she must learn to eliminate or +subordinate the non-important--'" Here Peter broke off and put the book +down. + +"This doesn't seem to be much good for us," he said. "It's all too +general. Maybe we can get something more out of this one. This one's +called 'The Christian Nursery,' That doesn't sound much good, but we'll +see. 'Functions of the Family--.' 'The Functions of the family in human +life are five-fold: (1) biological; (2) educational; (3) moral; (4) +social; (5) religious.'" + +He put it down impatiently. "These aren't what I wanted at all. I'll +have to go and get that Dr. Kerley book they told me about in the +hospital. I can get it in the morning." + +"Begging your pardon, Mr. Neale," said Kate, "there's no need for me to +have a book about babies. I raised five children and buried four. I'm +not saying, mind you, that books aren't the great things for wisdom but +it's not wisdom that little children do be needing. The Blessed Virgin +herself, she didn't have to read in no books. I'll be bringing him up +like he was my own son, Mr. Neale, and that's better than you'll be +finding in all your fine books." + +Peter was disposed to argue the proposition that all a woman needs to +know about motherhood can be learned by having some children, but Kate +got up and walked out into the kitchen to show that the interview was +over. Peter never did get around to buying Dr. Kerley even for his own +education. Still he could not quite dismiss the little he had read that +night. He could not remember whether it was in the Christian book or the +other that he had come across the paragraph about the mother--"She must +learn to discriminate between the essentials and the non-essentials in +life." He wondered whether it was essential that Maria should devote +herself to the gurgling little child who cried about everything but +spilt milk, or that she should go on dancing to the strains of that tune +by Weber. He tried to hum it and couldn't. Then he sat and thought for a +long time. In reply to a question from Kate he said that he didn't want +any dinner. He was going out. Would she please be at the flat at ten +o'clock as he expected to have the baby back by that time. + +Presently Kate went out. Peter sat by the window and looked up towards +the park. He could catch a glimpse of it by leaning out. There was a +moon. A wind whipped through the trees and they were swaying back and +then rushing forward again whenever the gusts gave them an opening. That +was a sort of dance. He turned away from the window. There was nothing +in the room to remind him of Maria except the grand piano. He would get +rid of that. His mind began to lose its ache. He could accept the fact +that Maria had gone. He would remember her now always as he had seen her +that first night standing still in the centre of the stage just before +she began to dance. The sight of Maria washing a baby would have been +queer. It was all right for nurses and old Irish women and sporting +writers to mess around with babies and soap and rubber-tipped milk +bottles. Somehow or other he was glad he had never seen the greatest +dancer in all the world with a mouth full of safety pins. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +Miss Haine seemed somewhat surprised when Peter arrived at the hospital +alone the next morning. "You're not going to carry him back yourself?" +she said. + +"Why not?" + +"Have you ever held a baby?" + +Peter thought back. "Not such a little one," he admitted. + +"Well then, watch me," she said. "See, take him like this. If you don't +he's sure to cry." + +"But he's crying now," protested Peter. + +"That's for some other reason. It isn't because I'm holding him wrong. +All little babies cry a good deal at first. It's good for them. Any time +a small baby doesn't cry a certain number of hours a day there's +something wrong. You see he isn't big enough to walk, or crawl, or even +roll around much and crying is the way he gets his exercise. He's +getting air into his little lungs now." + +"There isn't anything to be done about it?" Peter wanted to know. + +"Well, of course, you must look first of all to see if there is any real +reason for his crying. His skin is very sensitive. There might be a pin +sticking in him. It might be that his clothes need to be changed." Miss +Haine paused. "Yes, he wants to be changed now." + +Peter made a step toward the door, "Oh, you'll have to learn this," said +Miss Haine. "Watch me." + +At the moment she seemed skilful. For the first time Peter appreciated +the fact that she really was trained. But he did not know until after +months of subsequent experience just what a marvel he was permitted to +observe. In the course of a year or so he made progress. His improvement +was tangible enough to be demonstrated in figures. Neale was given to +statistics. He was the first sporting writer to keep separate averages +for batters against right and lefthanded pitching. It was Peter Neale +who proved years later that there were definite exceptions to the +accepted theory that lefthanded batters do badly against southpaws. He +was able to show that through one entire campaign Ty Cobb batted 11.692 +points better against lefthanders than he did against righthanders. In +much the same spirit Peter used a stop watch on himself while he was +engaged in the task of changing the child. In twelve months time he was +pleased to observe that his record was gradually cut down from nineteen +minutes to five and a half. Later he wished it had been his privilege to +time Miss Haine at this first demonstration. He was sportsman enough to +admit that in all probability even his best performance after months of +practice was markedly inferior to hers. Indeed he would not have been a +bit surprised to learn that she had established a world's record before +his very eyes. Even as a novice in the matter he knew that he had seen a +marvel. + +After all, in spite of Peter's ignorance of babies he did have a +reportorial eye. It took him no more than a few seconds to observe that +Miss Haine's phrase, "He wants to be changed," was not a particularly +nice use of English. There seemed to be nothing in the world which the +child wanted less. He screamed as Peter, at that time, had never heard +him scream, and kicked prodigiously. Many months later when Peter had +begun to perfect himself in the technique of the task he felt that +perhaps he would not do at all badly in any competition limited to +participants who were also parents. He was never able to challenge in +any way the complete mastery of Miss Haine because she was endowed with +a complete indifference. She did not allow the screaming to interfere +with her efficiency in any way. The kicking never worried or angered +her. She acted as if it were a natural hazard. + +"There's a nice dry child for you," she said at the end of an interval +which Peter subsequently estimated to have been three minutes and twenty +seconds. He was also a silent child until Peter picked him up. + +"Put your right hand a little lower and raise your left," advised Miss +Haine. "Remember he isn't strong enough yet to hold up his head all by +himself." + +Peter obeyed at the moment, but he grew to have a certain contempt for +all established canons of good form in regard to holding a baby. Indeed +he eventually wrote an article for one of the magazines in which he +maintained: "There are one hundred and fifty-two distinctly different +ways of holding a baby--and all are right! At least all will do." He +based this contention on the fact that the body of a small baby is soft +and pliable and that a person with a strong pair of hands can get a +grip pretty much any place he chooses. Still, for the moment he obeyed +instructions implicitly and went down the stairs gingerly and out to the +taxicab. + +"That's a fine husky kid you've got there," said the driver. "Is it +yours?" + +"Yes," said Peter somewhat ashamed and annoyed by the fact that a +suggestion of pride crept into his voice quite against his will. "It's +my son." + +"He certainly knows how to yell," said the driver. "I've got five but he +beats 'em all." + +Curiously enough the child ceased crying the instant the taxi started. +The motion of the journey and possibly the sight of the trees and the +river and the ships seemed to have a certain interest for it. The mouth +opened into something that might have been a grin. + +"That's Grant's Tomb," said Peter before he realized that whatever +interest in the proceedings the child actually had it could hardly be +pinned down to the particular. Climbing the two flights of stairs which +led to his apartment, Peter knocked at the door briskly. Somehow or +other the baby had begun to slip through his fingers and he found it +impossible to reach the pocket in his vest where he kept his keys. +There was no answer. Peter knocked again and still nobody came. Heaving +the baby up over his shoulder he found the key after trying three wrong +pockets and went into the flat. There was no one about. Kate had not +arrived. Peter was alone with his son. + +Panic descended upon him. He remembered, "His skin is very sensitive. A +pin may be sticking into him," and he wondered if in the event of such +an emergency he could possibly locate the trouble. He was still more +doubtful of his ability to do anything else which might be necessary. +Even in the taxicab, Peter had not felt wholly alone. After all the +driver had said that he was the father of five. This was reassuring to +Peter. He had a mind which hopped ahead. He had been quite alive to the +arrival of a contingency upon which he would find it necessary to tap +upon the window and say, "Never mind the car for a minute. What should I +do now?" + +Fortunately, the conduct of the baby was more admirable than anything +Peter had yet known. He put it in the middle of the bed where it +promptly went to sleep. Peter sat in a chair close by and watched. +Suddenly something happened which startled him. Without waking the +child rolled over and buried its head in the pillow face downward. Peter +knew that it would not smother. He had slept exactly that way himself +for twenty-five years. + +There was no clock in the house and Peter had no notion of how long he +waited. Presently the child woke and began to cry petulantly. A search +for pins was resented and the wailing took on its characteristic vigor. + +"Don't do that," said Peter. He picked the child up, carried it to the +window and back again without good results. Then he said, "Listen!" +Peter cleared his throat. "Rockabye, baby, on the tree top," he began +but to no avail. He wasn't very sure of the tune. There was only one +song of which he was confident. "Oh, Harvard was old Harvard when Yale +was but a pup," struck up Peter. "And Harvard will be Harvard still when +Yale is all gone up, And if any Eli son of a----." + +Instinctively Peter began to hum the rest. It did not seem to him just +the sort of song he should sing to his baby. And yet it proved exactly +right. The child went off to sleep again and remained that way while +Peter disentangled it. A few minutes later Kate came in. "I was +thinking, Mr. Neale," she said, "that there was no clothes for the +child." She stepped across to the bed. "Oh, the little angel. Now the +deep sleep does be on him. I found some old things and brought them. I +hope he was no trouble to you." + +"No," said Peter, mopping his forehead. "He wasn't so much trouble. Have +you got everything you need? I'm going to leave you some money for milk +and food and things. Can you stay with him right along now till your day +off?" + +"I can that." + +"Well, let's see. This is Tuesday. I'm going out for awhile. I won't be +back tonight. Maybe I won't be back tomorrow. Anyhow I'll be back before +Sunday. Take good care of him." + +Peter had to steady himself going down the stairs to the street. He was +shaky and wringing with perspiration. He felt as if he had pitched a +nine inning game with the score nothing to nothing all the way. He just +had to get out of the house. The ache which had died down the night +before was back again. "I guess I've got to get drunk," thought Peter. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +When Peter reached the corner he found that it was only half-past +twelve. It was much too early to get drunk. Daylight drinking had always +seemed to him disgusting. As a matter of fact, he was contemplating the +spree merely as a means to an end. In order to forget Maria he must +think of someone else and it would suit his purpose that the other +person should be someone rowdy and degraded. He would rub himself with +mud to ease the numbness of his spirit. He knew that he could never do +it without drinking. First many gates must be unlocked. Maria had been +right when she said that Peter was afraid of sex. When he was quite a +small boy somebody had told him about flowers and it meant nothing to +him. It had seemed merely a fairy story rather more dull than usual. +Much later a red-haired boy who lived five houses away had talked to +Peter and frightened and disgusted him. After that he had run away when +other boys tried to tell him anything about these mysteries. Of course +his squeamishness had been marked and he became the butt of every +youngster with any talent for smut. Finding that flight was useless +Peter adopted a new system and fought fiercely with anyone who taunted +him. He was bigger and stronger than most of the other boys and he soon +piled up an imposing list of victims to his prowess. He fought so well +that his ignorance remained almost unimpaired. Once when he was in the +act of belaboring a companion who had tried to outline for him the plot +of a book called "Only A Boy," a woman passing by had interrupted the +fight. She wanted to know if Peter was not ashamed of himself. +Defensively he answered that the other boy had been "talking dirty." +Immediately the passerby deluged Peter with admiration. She took down +his name and address and later he received by mail a Bible, leather +bound, and on the flyleaf was the inscription "To a young Sir Galahad." +Peter never took any particular pride in this gift. + +He knew in his heart that his purity rested solidly on fear. He burned +with curiosity. At times he actually invited lewd confidences though +making every pretence of anger when they were imparted to him. Respite +came to him for a year or two before he went to college because +athletics became his god. He excelled all competitors in school and was +generally rated the best right-handed pitcher in the metropolitan +district. Baseball filled all his thoughts waking and sleeping, and in +the autumn it was football, although in this branch of sport he was by +no means as proficient. Indeed when he went to Harvard at the age of +seventeen he was dropped from the varsity squad in the first cut and +later from the freshmen. + +At this particular time, when he was much more foot-loose than usual, +the annual medical lecture to the Freshmen was delivered. It was known +in unofficial circles as Smut One and attendance was compulsory. Very +gravely and severely the old doctor unfolded his tale of horrors. The +spirit was not unlike that of a traditional hell-fire sermon. Peter +heard the man half through and then fainted, toppling over from his seat +across an aisle. He was carried downstairs into the fresh air and did +not come back. But he had heard enough to be convinced that this sex +business was even worse than it had seemed in the crude and rowdy +flashes which had come to him from his companions. And yet the fact that +it was horrible by no means served to keep his thoughts clear of the +subject. The doctor had talked entirely of the dangers and disgraces of +immorality. Peter could not escape the only partially conscious surmise +that unspeakable delights and wonders must lie within this circle of +leaping flames. This impression was confirmed when he happened in the +college library to come across a poem by Carew called "The Rapture." Sex +seemed to him now by far the most romantic and adventurous thing in +life. The fact that there were monsters and dragons to be dared made it +all the more a piece with the unforgotten tales of childhood concerning +giant killers and knights-errant. + +Peter was no longer satisfied to be Galahad. He wanted to be Launcelot. +And still he was afraid. He found out that Columbus Avenue in Boston was +a street largely given over to women and night after night he used to +slink about dark corners hoping and dreading that somebody would speak +to him. Whenever a "Hello dearie" came to him out of the darkness Peter +trembled. "No," he would say, "I'm sorry. I've got a very important +engagement. I've got to go right along. I must go right along. Sure, +I'll be here at this same time tomorrow night." + +Often he would carry on some such dialogue a dozen times in an evening +and then one night a woman, more stalwart and audacious than any he had +yet encountered, seized him by the arm. "Sonny," she said, "I'm not +going to let you waste my time. You're not going any place except with +me. Now march along." + +Peter marched. That was why he told Maria Algarez that he was not quite +a good man himself. + +For a time disillusion supplanted turmoil in the mind of Peter. He found +that the romanticists were just as fraudulent as the moralists. Don Juan +seemed to him as great a fake as Galahad. Besides in the spring the call +for baseball candidates came along and Peter surprised the college world +by being the only Freshman to win a place on the varsity nine. He +pitched the second game against Yale and won by a score of 2 to 0. Life +meant something after all. Bending a third strike across the knees of a +man with a Y on his chest gave a dignity to existence which it had never +before possessed. Peter was done with hot thoughts and cold ones. +Unfortunately he was also done with thoughts about examinations. French +was his most abject failure, but he did badly enough in everything else +to be told that his college days were over. + +Still he was bereft of romance for no more than a month. He caught on +with the sporting department of the Bulletin early in August and made an +almost instantaneous hit. Here again he found satisfaction in the gait +and color of life. Women were not rigorously excluded from the scheme of +things, but they were not important. He saw them in the dance halls +where he went after hours and talked to them and drank with them, but +they served merely as minor characters. The talk which animated this +existence for Peter was all of the shop. A reporter from San Francisco, +named Rusk, suddenly discovered to his amazement and delight that here +was a man eager to hear his tales of newspaper work along the waterfront +in the days when the coast towns were still unregenerate. Everybody else +on the Bulletin was in the habit of groaning loudly whenever Rusk began, +"In the old days on the waterfront----," but Peter listened with the +most intense sort of interest to Rusk's entire stock of anecdotes. By +and by Rusk had to make them up. He gave himself a boyhood as a jockey +and also enlisted fictionally in the Spanish American war. Peter +believed everything and liked everything. Four months later Rusk left +the Bulletin in order to try his hand at free lancing for the +magazines. His failure in that field surprised him. He had come to +confuse Peter Neale and the general public. + + * * * * * + +Peter began his spree by going to the Newspaper Club. He found no one in +the big room except two old men playing chess. One of them did weather +and the other fish on the New York Press. They were not communicative +and neither seemed disposed to be drawn into conversation. And so for a +time Peter watched the game. He found it impossible to work up any +enthusiasm about the issue and departed to practice pool on a table at +the other end of the room. Caring nothing about performance, Peter was +surprised to discover that the most difficult shots all came off. +Nothing was too hard. Even the most fantastically complicated +combinations plopped the required ball into a pocket. + +Far from being pleased at this Peter grew angry. He felt that Fate was +ironically evening up things for him by burdening him with luck and +prowess in something which made no difference and withholding its favor +in all the important aspects of life. Testing out his theory he picked +up a straggler, a man he knew but slightly, who happened to wander into +the club at that moment. + +"I'll roll you Indian dice," challenged Peter. "A dollar a throw." + +Good luck continued to plague him although he knew that its attentions +were not honorable! At the end of three quarters of an hour Peter was +$85 ahead. + +"That's enough," he said with irritation. + +"You're not going to quit now that you've got me in the hole," protested +his opponent. "Aren't you going to give me a chance to get back?" + +"You wouldn't have any chance. If we keep up I'm sure to win hundreds of +dollars from you. Nobody can beat me just now. Look here if you don't +believe me I'll give you a chance. I'll bet you a hundred dollars to ten +on one roll." + +"What's the matter with you, Neale?" asked the loser. "Are you soused?" + +"Not yet," said Peter. "You're not taking any advantage of me. I tell +you I know. I can't lose. Go ahead and roll." + +"All right, if you want to throw money away it's not my fault." + +He took the leather cup and rolled a pair of sixes. Peter slammed the +dice down and four aces and a five danced out. + +"No more," said Peter. "It's no use. That's $95 you owe me." + +"Would you mind if I held you up on that till next week? I'm sort of +busted just now." + +"No hurry, anytime'll do." + +"Ninety-five, that's right, isn't it? Lend me $5 that'll make it an even +hundred. Easier to remember." + +Peter gave him the five. He knew that even in his gambling triumphs +there would be some catch. Wandering over to the bar alone he had two +Martinis and then a Bronx but nothing seemed to happen. Looking at his +watch he found that it was still only a little after three and he went +up town to Fourteenth Street to a burlesque house. The show was called +"Dave Shean's Joy Girls." When Peter came in Shean as a German comedian +with a false stomach and a red wig had just volunteered to take the +place of the bullfighter played by the straight man. + +"Do you think you can kill the bull?" asked the straight man. + +"I don't know dot I kills him," said Shean, "but I can throw him." + +It annoyed Peter that everybody else in the theatre laughed so loudly. + +"Yesterday," continued the real toreador, "I killed four bulls in the +arena." + +"I had him for breakfast." + +"What are you talking about? What did you have for breakfast?" + +"Farina." + +Peter thought he would go but he waited in the hope that it might get +better. Presently Shean and the tall man got into an argument. The +serious one of the pair contended that Otto Schmaltz, the character +played by Shean, did not have a whole shirt on his back. + +"I bet you! I bet you!" shouted Schmaltz dancing about and patting the +other man on the cheek. They came close to the footlights and placed +huge piles of stage money side by side. + +"Now," said the big man, "the bet is you haven't got a whole shirt on +your back." + +"Ches," replied Schmaltz. + +"Why, you poor pusillanimous, transcendental, ossified little shrimp, +you," said the big man. "Of course you haven't got a whole shirt on +your back. Half of it is on the front." + +"Ha! Ha! Ha!" he continued sneeringly and kicked the little man +resoundingly while the crowd screamed. + +Later Schmaltz bet with somebody else taking the other side of the +contention, but again he lost because when it came time for the tag line +he grew confused and shouted. "Why, you poor pussaliniment, +tramps-on-a-dimple, oysterfied little shrimp, you, half of de back is on +the front." And again the fortune of Schmaltz was swept away and again +he was kicked. + +Possibly the three cocktails had begun to have some effect after all or +it may have been something else, but at any rate Peter was no longer +merely bored by all these happenings. His sensation was just as +unpleasant, but it was acute. Somehow or other the story of Schmaltz and +the shirt had made him sad. + +"Schmaltz is on me," he thought. "Schmaltz is everybody. Getting fooled +and getting kicked." His musing became more vague. "Half of the back is +on the front," seemed to take form as a tragic complaint against life. +He and Schmaltz they couldn't have it whole because "half of the back +is on the front." + +More disturbing moralizing was yet to come from the book of "Dave +Shean's Joy Girls." The next entertainers were the Mulligan Brothers, +female impersonators. One played the part of Clara and the other was +Margie. + +"The sailors on that ship was awful," began Clara. "The sailors on that +ship was just awful. The poor girl was sinking there in the water and +they wouldn't let her into the lifeboat. Every time she came up, Margie, +one of the sailors hit her over the head with an oar." + +Margie began to laugh stridently. + +"What are you laughing for, Margie? Did you hear what I was telling you? +I said every time the poor girl came up a sailor hit her over the head +with an oar." + +"Wasn't she the fool to come up," said Margie. + +Peter knew that was not a joke. Here was his case against life summed up +in a sentence. Idiots about him were laughing. Couldn't they see the +bitterness of it. "Wasn't she the fool to come up!" That was his folly. +He was going on taking the buffeting of the oars and for no reason. And +yet he knew perfectly well that he would continue to come up no matter +what blows fell about his head and shoulders. There was no use making +any resolve to quit it all. Peter had no facility for suicide. He did +not dare and he tried to justify himself in this unwillingness. + +"After all," he thought, "it would be a pretty rotten trick to play on +Kate. I promised her she could have Sunday off." + +One piece of positive action he could and did take. He did not wait to +gather any further pessimistic contributions to cosmic philosophy from +"Dave Shean's Joy Girls," but walked out in the middle of Shean's +drunken act. The comedian was pretending that the edge of the stage was +the brass rail along a bar. Now he was swaying far over the orchestra +pit and seemed about to fall into it. A woman in front of Peter +screamed. Shean slowly straightened himself up and shook a reproving +finger at the laughing audience. "My wife's bes' lil' woman in worl'," +he said and did a hiccough. Still he seemed sober enough when Peter +sitting on the aisle in the second row got up and started out of the +theatre. + +"Don't you like our show?" he called after him. + +Peter flushed and made no answer. + +"I guess I'm too natural," said Shean. "He can't stand it. You know how +it is. He's a married man himself." + +"Hey, Percy," he shouted after the retreating figure of Peter in a high +falsetto, "you'll find a saloon right around the corner. Tell the +bartender to let you have one on Otto Schmaltz." + +Peter conscientiously walked past the saloon mentioned by the +impertinent Shean and went into the next one three blocks farther on. He +began to drink doggedly and consequently with slight effect. He was like +a sleepless person. No blur came over the acuteness of his +consciousness. He might just as well have tried counting sheep jumping +over a fence. "Wasn't she the fool to come up!" recurred in his ears as +if it had been a clock ticking late at night in a big silent house. +Straight whiskey tasted abominably and returned no reward for his +efforts. In the back room somebody was singing "Mother Machree" and +cheating on the high notes. An idea for a newspaper paragraph came to +Peter. Somebody had been conducting an agitation in the Bulletin against +the use of "The Star Spangled Banner" as a national anthem on the ground +that the air was originally that of a drinking song. "We ought to point +out," thought Peter, "that it takes a few drinks to make anybody think +he can get up to 'the rockets' red glare.'" + +He wished his mind would stop pelting him with ideas. Thinking ought not +to keep up when he hated it so. Leaving the bar, Peter took his drink +over into the corner and sat down at a table. On the wall to his left +hung a large colored picture labelled "Through the Keyhole." Peter +looked at it and then moved his chair around so that he couldn't see it. +He realized that he must get much drunker. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +It was after ten when Peter came into Billy Gallivan's, the restaurant +of the singing waiters. By now he could not see distinctly every sheep +which jumped over the fence but he was still counting them. "I am +drunk," he said to himself. "I am so drunk that nothing matters." But he +knew that it was not so. Unfortunately the formula of Coue had not yet +been given to the world and Peter lacked the prevision to say, "Drink by +drink I am getting drunker and drunker and drunker." + +And the singing waiters failed to inspire him with that reckless +disregard for present, past and future which he desired. One of them, a +fat man who had blonde hair and sang bass, eventually took Peter's +order. He set the glass on the table and then moved away no more than a +step to begin his song. "When I'm a-a-lone I'm lonely," he thundered in +Peter's ear, "when I'm a-a-lone I'm bloo." Probably he was not as lonely +as Peter. It made it worse because the song was so silly. "Every other +girl and brother," the verse went on later, "has some pal just like a +mother." + +By this time the waiters were gathering from all over the long low room. +Six of them stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Peter's table and +sang together. "When I'm a-a-lone I'm lonely, when I'm a-a-lone I'm +bloo." One of them went up high and quavered. Others went elsewhere. +There was a voice for every level. It was part singing. And they swayed +back and forth from one foot to another. The room swayed with them but +it would not keep time. The rhythm of the room was much longer. Peter +could feel it pound as if he had been a mile runner and the finish lay a +hundred yards ahead of him. He still knew that he was a fool to come up. + +After a long time the song stopped. The patrons of the place began to +throw money out to the singers. With painstaking recklessness Peter +fumbled in his pockets and found a silver dollar. It almost filled his +hand as if it had been a baseball. He shook his head vehemently. What +did he care if the count was two and three, he was not going to lay it +over. The curve was the trick. The outside corner was the nervy spot to +shoot for. Drawing back his arm he flung the dollar and it crashed +against a table and bounded away. For a second the coin spun around and +then it waddled in a long arc straight home to Peter's chair. He put his +foot on it and picked it up. No, he was too sober not to know that a +dollar was excessive. + +These men were not very good waiters--any of them--but that did not make +them artists. They were not very good singers either. Peter remembered +that he had read in his little leather Bible, "You cannot serve God and +mammon." That was the trouble. Art and utility should never meet. A fine +tenor ought not to serve drinks and even indifferent singing seemed to +spoil a man as a waiter. This theme had been in his mind before. A great +dancer could not be a mother. Yes, that was the point where this +speculation had begun. At last he found a quarter and threw that and he +left a ten cent tip on the table. + +"Hello, big boy," said a woman as he was going out. She was as blonde +and as fat as the lonely waiter and much redder. Peter made no reply but +went out and up the street to the Eldorado. Eldorado! That was a land of +which the Spaniards had dreamed, a land of gold. They never found it. +Perhaps that was just as well. Somebody in a tub had said, "Eldorado!" +No, he didn't--that was "Eureka!" + +At the Eldorado the waiters didn't sing at all. Special people did that. +But mostly it was just dancing. The floor was filled with couples. A +long flight of steps led down to the tables. At the foot of the steps a +girl sat alone. She was a young girl and pretty but hard and brazen +enough. And she didn't call him, "Dearie." She merely said, "Buy me a +drink." + +Peter sat down. + +"My name's Elaine," she said. "But you don't have to call me that. I +think it's sort of a cold name, don't you? I'm not cold. People that +like me call me 'Red,' on account of my hair. Now you tell me your +name." + +"John Whittier," said Peter, reverting to the slumming name he had used +in his Freshman year at Harvard. It was the name of the proctor in his +entry. + +"Maybe John Greenleaf Whittier," said Elaine. + +"Perhaps you're a poet. Yes, I can see you're a poet." + +Peter was annoyed. "John Whittier's not my real name," he said. "My +name's Peter Neale." + +That aroused no flash of recognition. Peter was surprised that this girl +of the Eldorado should know John Greenleaf Whittier and never have heard +of Peter Neale. + +"I don't think it's very nice of you," she said, "not to give me your +real name. I gave you mine. Are you ashamed of me?" + +"No," replied Peter, "I'm ashamed of myself." + +"What are you doing?" + +"Trying to get drunk." + +"We'll get drunk together. I'll help you." + +Drinking with somebody did seem to help. At any rate after two rounds +Peter achieved for the first time during the evening that detached +feeling which he had been seeking. All the dancers now were dim and +distant. The music was something which tinkled from down a long +corridor. Even the obligation to drink seemed lighter. Peter merely sat +and stared at Elaine. Gray-eyed, firm and flaming, it was a face which +blotted out all other images. He found himself thinking only of this +woman in front of him. And she was real. She was close. He could touch +her. + +"Who are you looking at?" said the girl. + +"Elaine." + +"I told you that people that liked me called me Red. Why don't you call +me that? Why don't you like me?" + +"I like you a lot." + +Elaine made a face at him. In her no barriers seemed to have been set up +against the potency of drinking. Already she was in the babbling stage. + +"I'm not like the rest of the girls around here. You don't need to be +ashamed of me. I've had a good education. I can prove it to you. Ask me +about the square on the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle." + +"What about it?" + +"It's equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides. You see, +if it wasn't for hard luck I wouldn't be in a place like this. I'm a +lady. I know Latin too. _Amo_, that's love. _Amo_, I love. _Amas_, you +love." + +"Don't," said Peter crossly. The spell was broken. The woman was making +him think. Now he could hear the drums again. This was the meanest trick +of many which the fate of the day had played him. With all the evil +women of a great city to choose from it had been Peter's misfortune to +happen upon an educated harlot. He had drugged himself steadfastly to be +rowdy and here was a lady who talked about Latin and right angles. + +Elaine sensed a mistake in technique. "Come away from here, Peter," she +said. "Come on. You're just a tired little baby. You don't want to talk +any more. You're my little baby." + +Peter got up and had to catch the table to keep from falling over. "My +name's Otto Schmaltz," he said and did a silly imitation of the accent +of the comedian in "The Joy Girls." But the possibility of a revision of +the material came to him. "My baby's bes' lil' baby in the world." + +He would have gone away at once, but a man came down the stairs at that +moment and approached the table. "Red," he said, "if you ever stand me +up again I'll bust your face." + +"Honest, Jim," said the girl, "I waited half an hour. I thought you +weren't coming." + +"Let that lady alone," said Peter. "She's with me." + +He didn't like Elaine any more, but he knew that the code demanded that +he should show resentment of the intrusion. + +"Keep your face out of this," said the newcomer. "What damned business +is it of yours?" + +There was a ready-made answer for that in the code. + +"You come outside and I'll make it my business," said Peter. + +"Don't waste your time on the big souse, Jim," said Elaine clutching at +the arm of the man who had threatened her. But the fact that the girl +absolved Peter from all the cares of guardianship did not remove his +responsibilities according to the code. "Come on outside," he repeated. +He went slowly up the stairs but when he reached the sidewalk and turned +around there was no Jim. Peter waited. He wanted very much to hit +somebody and Jim seemed wholly appropriate. After a few seconds the man +came out. He walked up close to Peter but he held his hands behind his +back. According to the code nothing could be done until each had +extended an arm. + +"Come on," said Peter impatiently, "put up your hands and I'll punch +your head off." + +Jim suddenly drew his right arm from behind his back and clipped him +sharply over the head with a bottle. Peter stared at him wonderingly for +almost a second. Surprise seemed to halt the message to his brain. +Slowly he crumpled up on the sidewalk. The blow was not painful, but the +swinging arc of all things visible was now longer than ever before. The +lights, the lamp-posts and the buildings slowly turned end over end in a +complete circle. Peter put one hand to his head. It was wet and sticky. +For a second or so he considered that and wondered. Finally he realized +that it was blood. Lifting himself up on his hands and knees he saw Jim +and Elaine scrambling into a taxicab. + +"I'll bet she doesn't talk about right angles to him," thought Peter. +For a moment he considered pursuit, but before he could make up his mind +the taxicab had started. It swept past him no more than ten feet away. +He could see the red head of the woman in the window. One week later he +decided that he should have cupped his hands and shouted, "You +hypotenuse hussy!" That night he could think of nothing. The fragments +of glass lay about him. Peter examined them and found it had been a +champagne bottle. After a bit he called a taxicab for himself and said, +"Go to some hospital that's near." He had begun to feel a little faint. + +A doctor in the reception room dug the glass out of Peter's scalp bit by +bit and hurt him dreadfully. Every stab of pain cut through the fumes +and left him clear-headed. Nothing was forgotten any more. He was able +to compare the relative poignancy of two sorts of pain and decided that +he did not care much how long the doctor kept it up. At last the job was +finished and Peter's head bandaged. + +"You were drunk, weren't you?" said the doctor. + +"Yes," said Peter, "I was." + +There was no other comment. Nobody would call Peter Sir Galahad on +account of this fight and yet it was honorable enough he thought, even +if the issues were a little mixed. Nor was it entirely unsatisfactory. +At least he had been able to taunt Fate into an overt act. He knew a +poem by a man who wrote, "My head is bloody but unbowed." Peter had +often used that line in prizefight stories. Still he was a little sick +now and perfectly sober. He looked at his watch. In an hour or so it +would be dawn. There didn't seem to be anything to do but go home. + +Opening the door of his apartment, Peter tripped over something in the +dark and fell with a bang. Kate woke and called out in obvious terror, +"Who's there?" + +"It's only me," said Peter, "Mr. Neale. I decided not to stay out after +all. I'm sorry I woke you up. I fell over the baby carriage." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Somebody at the office must have heard about the flight of Maria +Algarez, for when Peter returned from Goldfield he had found at his flat +a telegram which said, "Lay off a couple of weeks. Longer if you +like--Miles, managing editor." That was an extraordinary thing because +the material for Peter's column--"Looking Them Over with Peter +Neale"--was only up one week ahead. A two weeks' vacation would mean not +only that there would be no Peter Neale in the Bulletin, but that in +thirty-one other papers throughout the country the feature would be +missing. Peter wondered how Miles could suggest a thing like that so +calmly. Maria's running away ought not to wrench a whole chain of +newspapers in that fashion. In daydreams Peter had often pictured +himself dying from flood, or earthquake or a stray bullet in some great +riot. When the rescuers picked him up and bent over to hear what he +might say his lips framed the words, "Send a story to the Bulletin!" + +The Bulletin couldn't be bothered about people's dying or running away. +The Bulletin was bigger than that. The newspaper yarn of Rusk's which +had impressed Peter the most was about a man named O'Brale in San +Francisco. O'Brale was secretly engaged to a girl in Alameda and then a +week or so before they were to be married she had eloped with a man who +said he was a Polish Count. According to Rusk by some strange +coincidence O'Brale received the assignment to cover the story. He +didn't beg off. He sat down to write it and he finished up his story +with: "And when the news of Miss Lee's elopement drifted into the office +of the Chronicle a reporter on the city staff sighed and said, 'Scooped +again.'" + +Miles must be a fool not to know that even after Peter Neale had been +smashed that part of him which was the Bulletin would go on. A picture +suddenly came to Peter. That was the way he did his thinking. "I can go +on wriggling," he said to himself, "until the first edition." + +Peter felt that it was up to him to go down to the office and show them +that. He would have to show Miles. Miles was new to him. The managing +editor traffic through the office of the Bulletin was prodigious. After +all Peter had been away for two weeks and it was only natural that there +should be a new man in charge. Peter wasn't a veteran, but he had seen +five managing editors in his time and probably a couple of hundred copy +readers. "Looking Them Over" was different. That was something vital and +rooted in the Bulletin. It wasn't so much that Peter Neale was a part of +the Bulletin as that the Bulletin was a part of Peter Neale. "This other +thing," thought Peter, "is just my private life." + +He felt pretty rocky when he got up. During the night the bandages had +turned bloody. It made him shaky to look at himself. Something of the +rhythm of the buildings as they swung in the long arc and turned over +was still in the pulse of Peter. All right, but he had seen Gans get up +when his legs would barely hold him. Not only get up but walk +deliberately across the ring to meet the charge of Battling Nelson. + +Neale went down town. There was no one else in the elevator when he went +up to the ninth floor to the office of the Bulletin, but Sykes, the head +office boy, was in the hall outside the city room. He looked up and +said, "Hello, Mr. Neale." + +So far it was all right. Nelson had knocked out Gans and Maria had run +away since Peter and Sykes had last seen each other. Sykes had been able +to take all that in his stride. Peter wondered if Miles would be as +smart. There was a man at the desk, a fat placid man, in the office of +the managing editor. Peter knocked at the door and went in before the +man looked up. "My name's Peter Neale," he said. "You're Mr. Miles, +aren't you? I got your telegram. It was nice of you, but I don't want +any time off. There's a whole batch of stuff due for the syndicate +tomorrow." + +Miles nodded. He tilted his chair back three times without saying +anything. It was like a pitcher's wind-up. Peter found Miles always +spoke just after the third tilt. "Have a cigarette," he said. He also +provided a match. Then letting the chair rest on the floor he sat +looking at Peter. There wasn't any surprise or inquiry in his face. +Peter felt acutely conscious of his bloody bandages. He sat waiting to +hear, "Have an accident?" or something like that, but Miles seemed to +take it as a matter of course that Peter was all cut up. Apparently the +managing editor accepted it as something inevitable in an out-of-town +assignment. Peter dreaded the question so long that he would have felt +easier if Miles had asked him about the bandages. He was prepared to +say something about a taxicab. After all it wasn't fair that Miles +should assume that he had been drunk just because he had. Presently the +tilting began again. One, two, three, Peter counted to himself. "I want +you to do baseball in addition to your column," said Miles. "Monday +isn't too soon to start in, is it?" + +"Monday's all right," said Peter. + +"All right," said Miles. "You need a match," he added. "Your cigarette's +gone out." + +Neither of them said anything then for a minute. Miles continued to look +at him and ignore the bandages. + +"All right on Monday," said Peter and went across the hall to his own +office. Putting the catch on, he closed the door. Miles hadn't talked +about his private life, but Peter felt that he must know about it. +Probably he was thinking about it every time he quit tilting. That was +the trouble. + +Out there in the City Room they were talking about it too. They must be. +Nothing happened to anybody on the Bulletin that didn't get talked about +in the City Room. No district in the town was covered so perfectly as +the reporters covered the lives of each other. When Woolstone, the +Sunday editor, started living with that little girl, Miss Gray, the one +who wrote the piece about the Haymarket, it was common gossip within a +week. Woolstone hadn't told anybody. Indeed he hadn't said a word except +that the Haymarket story was the finest piece of English prose since De +Quincey. But somehow after that everybody knew that Woolstone was living +with Miss Gray. + +Peter put a sheet of paper into his typewriter and rapidly wrote at the +top of the upper right-hand corner Neale--Sports--Syndicate. Then he +turned half of the sheet through the machine and wrote "Looking Them +Over With Peter Neale--(Copyright)." There he stuck. + +The sheet of paper had not been blemished but after a while Peter took +it out and wrote the same thing on another. After that he sharpened a +pencil. He wanted to get a drink of water but that was out in the City +Room. It was foolish of him not to have brought cigarettes. Miles had +cigarettes, but Peter didn't want to face that scrutiny any more. +"Gans," he wrote, "was not outboxed but he was outfought." That wouldn't +do. There had been a line almost like that in his fight story. Of course +he might do some sort of prediction story about how long Battling +Nelson would hold the title. A man who took all that punishment couldn't +last so very long. But suddenly Peter realized that he didn't give a +damn about Gans or about Nelson. The Bulletin didn't make so much +difference either. Maria was more than all this. He'd ask Miles to send +him to Africa or China or some place. Sedition seeped in. Baseball +wasn't exciting enough to make him forget. He tried to make his mind do +him a picture of Matty bending back and then shooting over his fast one. +Instead he saw Maria Algarez standing in the middle of the big stage. + +That wouldn't do. Peter gripped the edge of his desk. If his mind was +only something that would stand up to him and fight like a man. He could +heave it back all right if only he could get a hand on it. Instead he +pushed against the desk. Very slowly the picture began to fade. Maria +was taller and broader. Now it was Matty. Dim but unmistakably Matty. +But the figure stood in the centre of the big stage. He must get him out +of there. If he was to hold the thing it would have to move and take on +life. Suddenly Peter realized the trick. The picture ought not to be +Matty throwing his fast one. The fadeway! That was the thing which +marked Matty in his mind above all others. He closed his eyes in order +to help. The figure bent back. The arms came up over the head. The left +leg kicked. No, it was not Maria kicking. This was a huge clumsy leg +which moved slowly, ever so slowly, grinding power for the swing of back +and shoulders which was to come. Then there was the lunge forward. Matty +had thrown the ball straight at his head. He conquered the impulse to +duck. This was the slow ball. He could see the seams. Now it was slower +and growing bigger and bigger all the time. It would walk past him +shoulder high. Peter swung at it and the ball wasn't there. A sudden +decision had come upon it. Down it swooped and out. It had passed him. +Peter opened his eyes. He didn't want to go to China or Africa after +all. Honus Wagner and the Pirates would be at the Polo Grounds on +Monday. + +Peter got up and started for his drink of water. There were only three +men in the City Room. Charlie Hall was sitting at his desk right beside +the ice cooler. Perhaps Charlie had had a lot of fun out of that story +of Maria Algarez running away. Women didn't run away from Charlie. Peter +remembered the time Charlie was marooned in the Press Club. He stuck in +the poker game for two days not daring to leave the building. The +elevator man had told him of the woman who kept coming in every half an +hour or so and asking for Mr. Hall. According to the elevator man she +was very much excited. Charlie said it sounded a lot like Ethel. He +wouldn't be surprised if she wanted to shoot him. She had often +threatened to do that. Twice during those two days Peter had volunteered +to go down and scout around. Both times he had seen a woman pacing the +sidewalk just across the street from the Press Club. It looked like the +same woman. Charlie said probably it was. Ethel was very determined. +Finally they had to get a policeman to come and tell Ethel to go away. +Nobody ever seemed so glamorous to Peter as Charlie during those two +days. Peter wondered if any woman would ever want to shoot him. + +There was no way of getting to the ice cooler without passing Charlie. +Peter did it slowly. Charlie looked up. "Have any fun at the fight?" he +asked. + +"No, it was too hot. Anyhow I wanted to see Gans win." + +"It was a great story you wrote." + +"I'm glad you liked it." + +"Too bad about the nigger--he was the smartest of the lot, wasn't he?" + +"Yes, and don't forget he could hit too. Nelson wouldn't have had a +chance with him five years ago." + +Peter was turning to go back to his office when Charlie Hall thrust out +a hand and slapped him on the shoulder. "I hear you've had some hard +luck," he said. "I'm sorry." + +Peter couldn't answer for a second. "I guess nobody ever is happy so +very much," Charlie continued, sensing that Peter was stumped for the +moment. "Now you take me. I suppose you'd say I was happily married. +I've been married fifteen years and I've got five children. Well, +sometimes when I sit down at home I wonder, 'What's the use of all this +anyway?' There ought to be a law that reporters can't get married. It's +bad for them and it's bad for the paper." + +"I guess you're right," said Peter. + +"The thing to do is not to take women seriously. They'll bust hell out +of you if you do." + +Peter brightened perceptibly. "Do you remember that time you got stuck +up in the Press Club and the girl was waiting downstairs to shoot you?" +he inquired with a certain eagerness. + +"Oh yes, sure, Gracie." + +"No, that wasn't the name. It was Ethel." + +"Ethel?--I remember now. I had it mixed up with a business in Chicago. +Ethel! Oh yes, indeed. She was a wild one. She was just about the most +dangerous woman south of Fifty-ninth Street. That was a couple of years +ago. I can't stand so much excitement now." + +"Go on," said Peter, "I suppose you'll be telling me you've reformed." + +"That wouldn't be so far off the truth. Anyhow where do you get off. Who +beaned you?" + +Another burden of reticence was snatched away. At last Peter had a +chance to tell somebody about the bandages. + +"I was with a woman up at the Eldorado. You know the Eldorado. And a big +fellow comes over and tries to butt in. I bawled him out and we went up +on the sidewalk. I made a couple of passes at him and he hauled off and +clipped me with a bottle--a champagne bottle. I guess I was pretty +drunk." + +Charlie Hall nodded his head. "You're all right. I'm glad. Some of the +boys around here have been telling me that you were all busted up about +that girl you married. I'm glad it's not so. I knew you had too much +sense for that. There isn't a one of them in the whole world that's +worth getting busted up over. Don't take 'em seriously. That's what I +say. I ought to know. I've been married fifteen years. Well, almost +fifteen years. It'll be fifteen years in October." + +"I'm all right, Charlie. You tell that to the rest. I'm back on the job, +you know." + +"That's good. It wouldn't seem like the Bulletin without you." + +Charlie turned to the story in front of him and put one second of energy +into pounding the space bar before coming back to conversation. + +"Where is this Eldorado?" he asked. + +"Fiftieth Street and Seventh Avenue." + +"Does it stay open all night?" + +"Well, it's open all night but after one there's a man on the door and +he won't let you in unless he knows you." + +"Are they strict about it?" + +"Pretty strict, lately," said Peter, "but that's all right, Charlie. +Any time you want to go up late you let me know. I'll be glad to show +you round. I'm always free nights. Any night at all--That is any night +except Sunday." + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +THE baby carriage was kept in the kitchen thereafter and Peter did not +see it again until Sunday, his first Sunday at home. Kate left the flat +very early. Peter could not very well object to that because she said +she was going to mass. He wished that she might be converted to one of +the eleven o'clock denominations, but he supposed at her age there was +small hope of that. She would be gone, she told him, until nine or ten +o'clock in the evening. Her niece, the one who lived in Jamaica, had a +new baby five weeks old. Kate was going there right after church. Peter +thought that if he had Kate's job he would prefer to spend his day off +at an old folks' home or some other spot exclusively mature. + +Still he could understand the psychology of it. Out in Jamaica, Kate +could sit around and when the baby cried she need not move hand or foot. +She could watch other people bustle around and fulfill its needs. And +then every now and then she might give advice and see it carried out. He +himself had spent many a day off in the office of the Bulletin sitting +on the desk of somebody who was working and interrupting him. + +Before Kate left she gave Peter a complete list of directions for the +baby's day and also a problem for him to ponder over. "What will I be +calling the boy?" she wanted to know. "I find it hard to be talking to +him and him with no name." + +"I'll think it over," Peter told her. After she left he did think it +over. He went into the baby's room and looked at him as he lay there to +see if the child suggested any name in particular. Being asleep he +seemed a little more impersonal than usual. Of course, Peter Neale was a +pretty good name, but there didn't seem to be any point in calling him +that unless in some way or other he seemed to be Peter. He did sleep +with his head buried face down in the pillow but that was an +insufficient bond. Perhaps there were millions of people in the world +who slept that way. Probably there were no statistics on the subject. + +Maybe one Peter Neale was enough. It did mean something. After all it +was Peter Neale who had written in the Bulletin: "If Horace Fogel goes +through with his plan of making a first baseman out of Christy Mathewson +he will be committing the baseball crime of the century. Mathewson, or +Matty as his team mates call him, is still green, but he has in him the +makings of one of the greatest pitchers the world has ever known. He has +the speed and control and more than that he has a head on his shoulders. +Horace Fogel hasn't." + +And they didn't switch Matty to first base after all and now everybody +was beginning to realize that he was a great pitcher. But Peter Neale +knew it first of all. More than that it was Peter Neale who had begun +his round by round story of the Gans-Nelson fight, only two weeks ago, +with the memorable line, "The Dane comes up like thunder." He had +invented the name of "Hooks" for George Wiltse and had written that +"Frank Bowerman runs the bases like somebody pulling Grover Cleveland in +a rickshaw." And Peter was still progressing. He would go on, years +hence, to make the most of McGraw's practice of starting games with Rube +Schauer and finishing them with Ferdie Schupp by contriving the lead, +"It never Schauers but it Schupps." Perhaps he had prevision enough to +realize that it was he, Peter Neale, who would eventually ascribe to +Jack Dempsey the motto, "Say it with cauliflowers" and write after a +Crimson disaster on the Thames, "Harvard's most perplexing race problems +appear to be crewish and Jewish." + +He looked at the sleeping child and wondered if there were any leads +like that in the little head. By and by, of course, the baby would grow +up and in some newspaper there would be articles under his name. Peter +would like to see the articles before he was willing to have them signed +"By Peter Neale." Every now and then somebody wandered into his office +at the Bulletin and asked him to use his good influences with the +managing editor. Peter always said, "Will you let me see something +you've written." Here in front of him was a candidate not only for a job +but for his job. And the applicant had nothing to show. + +It was a hot bright Sunday and Kate had recommended that the baby go +out. The carriage was deplorable. Peter had not bothered to look at it +before, but now he examined it and found it wholly lacking in +distinction. It could not be that all the things which were wrong with +it had resulted from his falling over it a few mornings back. That had +hurt him much more than the carriage. The paint was splotchy and all the +wheels squeaked. Kate must have seized the first available vehicle in +the neighborhood. What with that carriage and his heavily bandaged head +he felt that the caravan which he was about to conduct would be +disreputable. The numerous chin straps which held the bandages in place +made it difficult for Peter to shave. In order to avoid that difficulty +Peter hadn't shaved. He only hoped that nobody in the Park would stop +the procession and ask him to accept a quarter. Peter practised an +expression of scorn in front of a mirror in order to be ready for some +such contingency. Nature had endowed him with a loose scalp. He could +wiggle both ears, together or separately. So far this had never been of +much use although he found that it helped him enormously to qualify as a +nursery entertainer. But there was another manoeuvre which he used +habitually and successfully to indicate utter disagreement and contempt. +He could elevate his right eyebrow without disturbing the other. This +never failed to strike terror to all observers. Peter had that so well +in hand that he needed no mirror practice to perfect it. He worked on +curling his lip, a device which was new to him. + +Combined with an elevated eyebrow an effect was produced ample to carry +off the handicaps of both carriage and bandages. + +Nevertheless, he felt a little conspicuous when he started for the Park. +And pushing a carriage was dull work. There was no future to it, no +competitive value, no opportunity for advancement. One could not very +well come to the point of being able to say, "I can wheel a carriage a +little bit better than anybody else in New York." The thing was without +standards. Of all outdoor sports this was the most dreary and +democratic. But in spite of the ease of manipulation he was under the +impression that a carriage required constant attention. Quite by +accident he discovered that it would space nicely between shoves if he +happened to let go of the handlebar. This led to the creation of a +rather amusing game. Peter called it putting the sixteen pound carriage. + +Not far from the Sixty-fifth Street entrance of the Park he found a +large hill and for a moment it was clear of pedestrians. Standing at the +foot of this hill Peter gave the carriage a violent shove and let go. Up +the hill it sped until its momentum was exhausted and then it rolled +back again. The game was to try and make it reach the top. Peter never +succeeded in that although he came within four feet eight inches of +accomplishing the feat which he had set for himself. He was handicapped +by the fact that he did not quite dare to put all his back and shoulders +into the preliminary shove. Indeed on his best heave, the one which took +the missile within four feet eight inches of the top, the carriage +careened precariously. More than that it almost hit a stout woman who +was coming down the hill. She stopped and spoke to Peter. "Haven't you +got any better sense than to do a thing like that," she said. "That +carriage almost upset. I've a good mind to follow you home and tell the +father of that baby some of the things you're doing with his child. +Aren't you ashamed of yourself, a grown man carrying on like that. And +on Sunday too." + +Peter didn't want her to follow him home and so he merely said, "Yes, +mam, I won't do it any more." + +And for that day he kept his word. However, the baby did not seem to +mind much. It continued to sleep. Peter pushed the carriage aimlessly +about for a little while, never letting go of the handlebar. He felt +like an Atlantic City Negro with a wheel chair hired for the day by a +tired business man. There was nobody to whom he could talk. The baby +had slept so long by now that Peter began to worry that something might +be wrong with him. Bending over the carriage he ascertained that the +child was still breathing. He wished it would wake up. Of course he +might not actually be company if aroused but he seemed even less +animated when asleep. + +Perhaps Christy would be a good name for him. Christopher Mathewson +Neale had a fine resounding swing to it. Still maybe Matty wouldn't turn +out to be a great pitcher after all. Peter was tremendously confident +about him, but it might be best to wait until time had tested him. After +a World's Series or something like that one could be absolutely certain. +No good taking chances until then. It was still within the bounds of +possibility that Matty might be a bloomer and it would hardly be fair to +name the child after somebody in the Three I League. + +Finding a tree and a bench Peter sat down to continue his speculations. +How about a newspaper name? Greeley Neale wouldn't be so bad. Yes, it +would. Everybody would be sure to make it Greasy Neale. A prizefight +name offered possibilities. Nelson Neale, for instance, had +alliteration. Peter had given the lightweight a name--the Durable Dane +was his invention--and it seemed no more than a fair exchange to take +his in return. Still he had never been convinced that Nelson was a +really first class man. He had neither speed nor a punch. It was just +stamina which carried him along. The youngster ought not to go through +life head down. Besides a name like that would serve to remind Peter of +his return from Goldfield and the flight of Maria. + +Just then a sound came from the carriage. It was a gurgle. Peter pushed +back the hood. The baby looked at him fixedly and Peter fancied that +there was a certain trace of emotion in the small face. Surprise seemed +to be indicated. And it was not altogether agreeable surprise for as +Peter returned the stare the baby's right eyebrow went up and the left +one didn't. + +"God!" said Peter, "he is Peter Neale." + +But there must be more ceremony than that. Peter looked around to see +that he and the baby were alone. Then he spoke to him distinctly +although emotionally. He realized now that his intuition had been sound +when he had said way back weeks ago at the Newspaper Club. "My son has +just been born." He had never had any doubt about his physical +paternity but that did not seem important. It was spiritual kinship +which counted and an eyebrow like that was a thing of the spirit. + +"You're my son all right," said Peter, "and you're going to have my +name. Peter Neale, that's your name." + +He thought it would complicate things to go into the question of whether +he should be Peter Neale, Jr. or Peter Neale, 2nd. The Peter Neale was +the important part of it. "I guess maybe you can do a lot more with that +name than I have, but I've made it a good newspaper name. You can make +it a better one maybe. We'll wait and see." He reached out and took the +small hand of Peter Neale and shook it. The prayer which went with it +was silent. "O God, give him some of the breaks and I will." That +completed the christening. It was all that young Peter ever got. + +The red-headed boy up the block who had contributed disturbing ideas in +other fields also threw a bombshell into Peter's boyhood theology. "Can +God do anything?" was his catch question. "Of course He can," replied +Peter. "Well, I'll just bet you a million billion dollars He can't make +a trolley car go in two directions at the same time." Peter didn't see +how He could. He puzzled over the problem for months and at last he +decided that maybe God could work it by making the trolley car like an +elastic so that it could be stretched up town and down town at the same +time. It was not an entirely satisfactory solution of the problem. If a +passenger stood in the middle of the car he wouldn't get any place at +all. + +But for the moment Peter was not much concerned with the potential +relationship between the Deity and young Peter. He could bide his time +and think up an answer for the day when the child should ask him, "Who's +God?" The immediate problem was what place he should fill on the +Bulletin. Eventually, of course, he would conduct the column called, +"Looking Them Over With Peter Neale." Already there were thirty-one +papers in the syndicate and some day Peter could step down and the +column would still be "Looking Them Over With Peter Neale." + +It would be pleasant not to die in the office but to have ten years or +so with no worries as to whether Jim Jeffries could have beaten John L. +Sullivan in his prime. And he didn't want to go on forever writing on +the question of whether more nerve was required to hole a ten foot putt +in a championship match or bring down a halfback on the five yard line. +In those last ten years he would have all the fun of reading a Peter +Neale column without having to write it. The job had come to him by the +merest chance. But young Peter could be trained from the beginning for +the work. "I'll start his education right now," Peter resolved and then +he looked at the baby and decided that there didn't seem to be anything +specific which could be done immediately. Still an early start was +possible. Long division ought to be easy and interesting for a child who +knew that it was something used in computing batting averages. Of course +young Peter would receive an excellent general education. There wasn't +any reason why a sporting writer shouldn't be a person of well rounded +culture. Sometimes Peter regretted that his Harvard career had lasted +only a year. Probably his sporting poems might have been better if he +had been able to go on and take that course in versification. Fine arts +and history would not be a waste of time. + +There was never any telling when some stray scrap of information could +be pressed into service for a sporting story. For instance Peter had +been struck by that quotation from Walter Pater about the Mona Lisa +which he had happened upon in a Sunday newspaper story. Two years later +he had been able to use it about Ed Dunkhurst, the human freight car, by +paraphrasing the line to read, "Here is the head upon which all the jabs +of the world have come and the eyelids are a little weary." + +The quotation had given distinction to the story. Sporting writing ought +to be just as distinguished as a man could make it. The days of the +lowbrow commentator were disappearing. Young Peter might very well carry +on and expand the tradition which he had begun. To be sure, there wasn't +any hurry about giving him the job. Twenty-five years more for himself +would be about right. By that time young Peter would be just twenty-five +years and three weeks old. A year or so of general work on the city +staff of the Bulletin might be good for him. Indeed anything on the +newspaper would do for a start. That was, anything real. Book critics +and people like that weren't really newspaper men. On his fiftieth +birthday, perhaps, Peter would go to the managing editor and say, "I'm +through and there's just one thing I want from the Bulletin. I think +it's only fair that you should let me name my successor." + +And the managing editor would say, "Why, of course, Neale, who is it to +be?" + +"His name is Peter Neale." + +Naturally, the managing editor would express some regrets. He would pay +a warm tribute to the worth and career of Peter Neale, at the end of +which Peter would remark, "I'm glad you feel that way about it, sir." +After that formality the substitution would be accepted. The line of +Neale would remain unbroken. + +All this gazing into the future cheered up Peter so much that he started +out very gaily that afternoon to compose a column and mind the baby at +the same time. Unfortunately the five o'clock feeding time came around +just as he was getting into the swing of an article on the advantages of +being lefthanded for the purposes of baseball. Somebody had told him +that the Bible had something to say on the subject. Peter found it in +the twentieth chapter of Judges where he read: "The inhabitants of +Gibeah.... Among all this people there were seven hundred chosen men +lefthanded; everyone could sling stones at an hair-breadth, and not +miss." + +That was just meat for Peter. + +"The average southpaw of today," he began, "may have even more speed +than the inhabitants of old Gibeah but his control isn't so good." +Before he could develop the theme further young Peter began to cry. When +searched nothing seemed wrong with him but then Peter remembered about +the bottle. He was already half an hour late. The milk was mixed and +ready in individual containers in the icebox but Kate had told him to be +sure and have it warm. Peter had never warmed anything in his life. +After some thought he decided that he could put water into a pot and +heat it and then dip the bottle in. He waited until the water was +boiling. But the next problem was more difficult. What did Kate mean by +warm? How hot could the child stand it? His first three estimates were +wrong. Young Peter spit out the milk and yelled. It was annoying for the +mixture was hardly steaming. + +Cooling it seemed ever so much more difficult than heating. Peter stood +the bottle on the window ledge and waved it over his head and blew on it +without much appreciable effect upon the temperature. More than half an +hour was wasted before the child consented to accept the milk. When +Peter went back to his column about lefthanders the spirit and swing of +the thing had disappeared. He tried to write a poem to Rube Waddell +called, "The Great Gibean" and couldn't find any rhymes. The notion +limped home. + +Kate's ten o'clock turned out to be past midnight. Shortly before her +return the baby went to sleep. + +"How did you find your niece's child?" asked Peter. + +"Oh, she's fine," said Kate. "She's a girl. A fine little girl, but +she's not a patch on himself." + +"He's got a name now," said Peter. "We won't have to be saying 'him,' +and 'it' and 'the baby' any more. His name's Peter Neale." + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +The name Peter did not stick to the baby long. Old Peter noticed that +Kate never used it. Her first move was to modify it into Petey, then +Pete and suddenly it became an unmistakable Pat. "What have you got +against the name Peter?" he asked her. + +"It's not for me to be criticising a saint in Heaven," answered Kate +piously. + +"I won't tell on you. Why didn't you like him, He was a good man, wasn't +he?" + +"A good man, is it?--begging your pardon and that of the blessed saints +in Heaven--didn't he deny the name of our blessed Lord and Him seized by +the dirty Jews?" + +Peter had forgotten about it but he found the striking story in the +Gospel according to St. Mark. + +"'And thou also wast with Jesus of Nazareth.' But he denied, saying--'I +know not, neither understand I what thou sayest.'" + +Of course, it was not admirable conduct, but Peter could understand and +sympathize with the motives of his namesake. He himself, he felt, would +have done much the same thing. Cowardice was not the only factor which +prompted the denial. The incident was more complicated than that. Maybe +Peter didn't want to make a scene. If he had said yes he was a Christian +everybody in the palace of the High Priest would have felt +self-conscious and uncomfortable. It might have been necessary for some +one to change the subject. Saying "No" made things easier for everybody. +Courage may be admirable but tact is not altogether contemptible. Peter +Neale usually agreed with people when he felt that they wanted him to. + +Still, he hoped that his son would move through the world with a freer +and more courageous mood and the next time Kate called the baby Pat, +Peter did not object much. He merely said: + +"I don't think that name's much of an improvement, Kate." + +"And why not?" + +"Well, what did this St. Patrick of yours ever do?" + +"The blessed St. Patrick that drove the snakes out of Ireland!" + +"Yes, but he left the Irish." + +Nevertheless for all practical purposes little Peter became Pat from +that time on. Kate got most things which she wanted. Peter lived in +constant fear of her suddenly quitting her job. He dreaded the task of +invading the agencies in search of a new nurse and there did not seem to +be any other feasible arrangement. + +About three months after he assumed the duties of Sunday father he did +contemplate dimly a move which might well have revolutionized the +existence of himself and Pat and Kate as well. He met Margaret quite by +chance. Pat had colic in the Park. Of course, Peter didn't know it was +colic. He only knew that the child screamed in a manner more violent +than any he had yet known. His inability to handle the situation was so +obvious that Margaret who was sitting with her four-year-old charge on a +bench nearby came over and showed him how to roll the baby. After Pat +had been rolled sufficiently he recovered but Margaret and Peter did not +part company immediately. + +"You're a funny one to be sending out with a baby," said Margaret. + +"I'm not sent out with him. I go out with him. I'm his father." + +Peter realized afterwards that his admission, indeed his boast, of not +belonging to the employed classes was largely responsible for the blight +which lay under the surface of his relationship to Margaret and finally +led to tragedy. There were many meetings following the afternoon of the +colic. For a month or so the pretense was kept up that these were merely +accidental, but finally one Sunday Peter and Pat and Margaret and Bobby, +the boy she was in charge of, were driven under an archway by a +thunderstorm. There was so much thunder that Margaret grew very +frightened. Peter could think of nothing better to do than put an arm +around her. He realized an obligation. Hadn't she rolled Pat out of +colic? By and by there was lightning and Peter kissed her. After that +they met by acknowledged premeditation every Sunday--close to the +entrance of the tunnel. + +Peter found it almost as difficult to talk to Margaret as to Pat, but +she was better company. The long Sundays went faster when he could sit +holding hands in some moderately obscure corner of the park. Margaret +was the sort of person who didn't seem to expect much in the way of +conversation. All she required was an occasional answer to some simple +hypothetical question. These were generally somewhat similar in +character. Did he think (she never reached the stage of calling him +Peter) that a rich man could marry a poor girl and be happy? Did he +realize that a girl could be a child's nurse and a lady at the same +time? Wasn't it a fact that widowers led a desperately lonely and +unhappy life? Peter happened to have adopted the easy expedient of +disposing of Maria by means of a fever. + +Margaret was unmistakably a fool, but Peter thought her rather an +appealing one. She seemed pretty and he knew that she was expert in +handling children. The things required by Bobby and Pat never gave her +more than the briefest trouble. And then as Peter was becoming more and +more liberal about unintelligence the fatal Sunday arrived. They had +lingered a little longer in the Park than usual. Bobby in obedience to +the usual command, "Now run away and play, Bobby, and don't get your +clothes dirty," had done so. Suddenly he came running back across the +meadow as fast as his legs would carry him straight to Margaret. + +"I want to make a river," he said. + +"Shush! Bobby," answered Margaret in a low voice. + +"But I want to make a river," repeated Bobby, even more insistently. + +Margaret, her face flaming scarlet, got up and seized the child roughly +by the wrist. As she dragged him away he screamed. Peter heard her say, +"Aren't you ashamed of yourself!" Presently from out of the bushes in +addition to frantic screaming there came the unmistakable sound of a +child being spanked. + +When Margaret returned to the bench, if indeed she did, Peter had gone. +He saw her once weeks afterwards at a distance, but they never talked +again. This time it was Peter who did the blushing for the more he +thought about the whole business the more degraded he found himself. He +had come within at least an appreciable distance of selling his soul for +a colic cure. A disgusting snip of a person had moved between him and +those bitter but glamorous memories of Maria Algarez. Maybe Maria did +ruin all his hope of happiness and yet he knew that but for Maria he +would never have made up enough ground in his pursuit of life to learn +the great truth that propriety is one of the vices. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +Pat grew but it was slow work. Kate would speak of an ounce as if it +were some silver trophy which the child had won. Like Samuel Butler her +admiration was unbounded for the intelligence which manifested itself in +the process of developing bone and muscle and tissue. Peter was not +inclined to give the child any credit for this. If you poured water on a +lawn, grass sprang up. All the credit belonged to the gardener and Pat +became bigger and bigger through no obvious efforts of his own but +merely because Peter and Kate plied him with milk and sometimes carrots. +Raising grass was easier. The gardener didn't have to deal with a moving +target and he could administer water quite irrespective of the wishes of +the grass. + +Of course, there were moments when Pat displayed intelligence but it was +of the most rudimentary sort. When he was about six months old Peter +found that if he put a finger in front of him Pat would try to bite it. +Sometimes he laughed but only at his own jokes. At seven months he +began to crawl. This was moderately interesting but it doubled Peter's +Sunday responsibilities and even affected his literary style. Short +paragraphs appeared more frequently than ever before in the Looking Them +Over column. Longer flights were subject to interruption as Peter had to +put Pat away from places such as the steam radiator or the gas logs. It +was no longer even possible to leave safety razor blades about. + +Eventually somebody told Peter to buy a stockade and he did so. The +arrangement was a collapsible fence which could be set up in the middle +of the floor to imprison the child and curtail its wanderings. The only +trouble lay in the fact that it was much too collapsible. In a month or +so Pat was able to pull himself to his feet by holding on to the rail +and after a few violent tugs the whole contraption would come down on +top of him. + +And yet when Kate came to Peter and said that her niece, the one in +Jamaica, was looking for a part time job and would take care of Pat on +Sundays for $3 a week, Peter refused the offer. He never knew quite why. +Somehow or other his Sunday fatherhood had become part of a routine. +Perhaps he would have felt foot-loose without it. He merely told Kate +that $3 was too much. And one night when Pat was suddenly assailed by +croup Peter almost worried himself sick. It was a short illness, but +terrific while it lasted. The child seemed to be strangling. The cough +which racked it was deep and in its agony the child took on maturity. +Against death it fought back. Peter was moved not only because this was +his son but because here was a fellow human being grappling with the +common enemy. He waited in the hall outside while Dr. Clay was making +his examination. There he had more room to walk up and down. + +Presently the doctor came out and, taking Peter's arm, led him to the +front of the flat. "The child's very ill," he said, "I'm going to send +for a trained nurse." + +Pat cried his best, but every now and then this would be broken by the +fearful cough. It was like the baying of an animal. A spasm from the +back room interrupted Dr. Clay. "It almost sounds as if there was +another person in that room," he said. "I'm going back." + +Peter knew who that thing or person was. He went with Clay and lifted +Pat out of his crib and held him in his arms. This gave him a curious +feeling that he was doing something; as if he were trying to throw his +body between Pat and someone else. In a dim way he felt that he and Pat +and the other one, all three, were running down a football field. He +must keep close to Pat and block off the tackler. + +"Part of my tiredness it goes into your arm." Maria had said that. And +now Peter wanted to give something of his own strength to Pat against +the fury of the attack. It did not seem fantastic. There was a current +in the contact. The man had lied when he said Peter and Maria were one. +That couldn't be done. Men and women were grown people, individuals, all +finished, but this was only a little person. He was part of Peter. +Father and son were one. He was holding Pat so tightly that nobody could +take him away. His prayer was all the more fervent from the fact that he +did not believe in God. He had to create God. "Don't let him die. Don't +let him die." God began to take form in his mind. God was Maria. She was +gone and not gone. To her he did not need to make a prayer. "Maria" was +enough. + +The doorbell rang and Dr. Clay answered it. He brought Miss Haine back. +"I guess you know this baby," he said. "We've got to make him well." +The nurse spoke to Peter and set about fixing a croup kettle beside the +crib. The fumes filled the room. It was a pleasant smell. "Better lay +him down in his crib, now," said the Doctor, touching Peter on the +shoulder, "so he can get the benefit of this. I think he's a little +better already." + +Peter knew that he was. Pat was no longer gasping and in a few minutes +he was asleep. For a time Peter sat beside the bed. The child's +breathing was regular and his cheek was cool to the touch. "Why, he's +fine now," Miss Haine told him. "You go to bed. In the morning you won't +even know that he's been sick." + +There was no trace of the shadow upon Pat next day. Peter was the +haggard one. Something had gone out of him during the night as he held +Pat in his arms. Father and child were doing as well as could be +expected. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +At the age of eleven months and eight days Pat walked for the first +time. Peter thought he might have been considerate enough to have chosen +a Sunday. His first tooth came on a Sunday, but that wasn't any fun. +Besides, it couldn't be tied exactly to some particular day and minute +the way that the walking could. Nor was there any gaiety about it. +However, Peter did not quite miss the walking for he came in time to see +the last couple of hundred yards. + +It was a rainy Saturday and Peter happened home early. Kate met him in +the hall with a finger at her lips. "He's walking." + +She seemed to feel that if anybody said anything about it the child +would probably grow self-conscious and collapse. There appeared to be a +certain sagacity in that. It was not an experiment but an adventure. One +step led to another. At terrific speed Pat went round and round the +room. He might have been Bobby Walthour trying to steal a lap in a six +day race. Kate and Peter watched him breathlessly from behind the +curtains of the living-room. + +"How long has this been going on?" Peter wanted to know. + +"It's these ten minutes." + +Peter pulled out his gold stop watch and created thereby a psychic +crisis. Perhaps Pat felt that his amateur standing was in jeopardy. At +any rate he tripped on the edge of a rug, almost turned a somersault, +blacked his eye and cried for half an hour. + +He did not even attempt to walk again for a week. After that it became +habitual. Up to this time Peter had never said much to anybody about his +son. He did not talk to the men at the office about the child. There +wouldn't be any sense in interrupting Charlie Hall in the middle of a +story about city politics with, "My son's got two teeth." They were all +busy men and it was not conceivable that they would care how much Pat +Neale weighed. + +Walking was a little different. Maybe it wasn't exactly a first page +story but still Peter wanted to tell somebody about it. For the first +time he was disposed to show off Pat--in person. Of course eleven months +and eights days wasn't a record. Peter would have to look into that and +find out the best accepted performance. He remembered being told that +his own brother had walked at eight months but he had no means of +knowing whether or not that was authentic. + +The desire to confide in somebody eventually took Peter around to a +stage door, though not the one at the end of the alley. From a Sunday +graphic section he had noticed that Vonnie Bandana was playing in a +musical show called "Harvest Moon." Vonnie Bandana wasn't really her +name. The caption said Vonnie Ryan and Peter was sure it was the same +girl. Evidently the Eight Bandana Sisters had gone the way of Brook Farm +and Halcyon Hall and many another experiment in co-operation. Vonnie +knew him all right. + +"You're the man that married Maria Algarez," she said. + +"Yes, but she's gone away." + +"I'm sorry." + +"That's all right. It was a long time ago. Almost a year now. She was a +good dancer, wasn't she?" + +"Maria, oh, yes, she could dance. I wondered what became of her." + +"I don't know that. I haven't heard from her at all. I think she's +abroad." + +"Have you seen our show?" + +"No, I just happened to notice your picture in the Bulletin last +Sunday." + +"Did you? Wasn't that smart of you? I've got a part in this. Lines and +everything. I sing a song. You know I don't sing it much. Just one verse +and the chorus and then I dance it. The dance is all right." + +Peter and Vonnie had been slowly walking away from the theatre towards +Broadway while they carried on this discussion and when they reached the +avenue Vonnie stopped. + +"Are you going my way? I go up to a Hundred and Sixty-eighth street. +Just a little this side of Albany." + +"Well, as a matter of fact, I was wondering if maybe you wouldn't come +out and have supper with me. I just happened to be going by the theatre +and I stopped around and thought I might run into you." + +"Listen," said Vonnie. "I'll have supper with you, but don't pull any +more of that 'I just happened to be going by the theatre.' That's awful. +You ought to say you've been planning to come and see me for a week and +came all the way in from New Rochelle just special. You don't know +anything about women, do you?" + +"I guess I don't," said Peter very soberly. + +"Oh, I am sorry," Vonnie laid her hand on his arm. "I didn't mean +anything by that. Forget it. You're all right even if I don't remember +your name. Did you ever tell it to me?" + +"My name's Peter Neale." + +"You're not the Peter Neale that writes in the Bulletin, are you?" + +"Yes, I do a sporting column. That looking 'em over stuff." + +"I've been looking for you. Do you know I almost wrote you a letter. +Where do you get that stuff about Sandow Mertes being a more valuable +man than George Browne?" + +"Browne can't hit lefthanders." + +"That's the bunk. You and the rest of the sporting writers keep pulling +that stuff about him and of course he can't. Suppose there was somebody +standing in the wings every night just before I came on, yelling at me, +'Vonnie, you can't dance,' do you suppose I could go on and do that song +for a cent? Of course I couldn't. You and the rest of you, you're just +ruining this fellow. The best looking young outfielder I've seen in ten +years. Why he could run up a hill faster than Mertes could roll down +one." + +"You don't know what you're talking about," said Peter. It was the +boldest speech he had ever made to a woman and he did it without turning +a hair. Vonnie was wrong. George Browne couldn't hit lefthanders. Before +he took her home Vonnie had arranged to go with him to the Polo Grounds +the next day and to come and see the baby on Sunday. + +"Here," she said as he was turning away from the door of her apartment, +"you've got a kiss coming to you. When you live up as far as One Hundred +and Sixty-eighth Street you've got to do at least that much for any +fellow that takes you home." + +"And say, listen," said Vonnie, just before she closed the door, "next +month I'm going to move to Two Hundred and Forty-second Street." + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +Vonnie came to the flat the next Sunday. The moment might have +embarrassed Peter if it had been anybody else. + +But Vonnie had such an imperious and lofty way of rising above all +things traditionally embarrassing to Peter and snooting down at them +that she carried him with her. At least part way. + +"Why haven't you got the young Giant in his ball park over there," said +Vonnie pointing to the Stockade. + +"I'm changing him." + +"No game," said Vonnie, "wet grounds." + +"Get out of that. Never had a baby in my life," she continued, briskly +rapping her knuckles on the woodwork above her head, "but I can't be +worse at that job than you are." + +She pushed Peter away, but did not begin on the business in hand +immediately. "He's a good kid. A fine husky kid. I know now why you +asked me here. You figured if I wanted one for myself you'd let me know +where to apply." + +"Never mind the compliments," said Peter. "Change his diapers." + +Vonnie had brought the new freedom into his life. + +"No doubt about his being yours," she went on. "Everything up to the +chin is you--of course I'm just guessing--but Maria left him those eyes +and that nose. Maybe she left him more than that. He's marked for the +show business. You might as well make up your mind to that." + +"He's going to be a newspaper man," cut in Peter sharply. + +"Oh, I see. Got it all fixed. If he begins to bust out singing or +playing the piano or something you won't let him. That's it, isn't it?" + +"I'm going to shape him in that direction." + +"Just shape him, hey? Boy, didn't you ever bust bang into the artistic +temperament? I played a season once with William Faversham. Shape him? +You can't beat him out of it with a club. I don't know yet what way he's +going to jump but I want to put down a little bet this kid of yours is +going to be some kind of an artist." + +"Don't keep saying that. I tell you he's coming on the Bulletin. His +name's Peter Neale." + +"You could name him Rosenberg and that wouldn't make him a pawnbroker." + +"But this is in his blood just like in mine. He can't help himself. He's +just got to be a newspaper man." + +"All right we won't fight about it. You say he's going to be a newspaper +man and I tell you he's going to be an artist. Maybe he won't be +anything but a moving picture actor." + +Peter saw Vonnie frequently throughout the summer. She went to the ball +games with him almost every afternoon except matinee days. The dispute +about George Browne and Sandow Mertes persisted. There could be no +question but that Browne had the speed. Even when he hit straight to an +infielder it took a fast throw to nail him at first. But Peter didn't +like him because his cap almost always fell off whenever he beat out a +slow roller. Somebody would have to carry it down to first for him and +while Browne was waiting he had a trick of bending his head back and +shaking his long hair out of his eyes. + +"He looks like a Goddamn violinist," said Peter. + +"Yes," replied Vonnie, "and your friend Mertes looks like a piccolo +player. Do you know the story about the piccolo player?" + +"Not in the press box," interrupted Peter fearfully. He felt obliged to +interrupt Vonnie a good deal. She was much given to tantalizing him by +beginning in a loud clear voice, "It seems there was a travelling +salesman came to a hotel," or "This fellow, you see, started to take his +girl out for a ride." + +"I don't want to hear it," Peter would say half in jest and half hoping +to be effectual. + +"But it's a nice story." + +"It isn't a nice story or it wouldn't begin that way" was the agreed +formula for Peter's reply, whereupon Vonnie would disturb his gravity +and dignity by digging him in the ribs with her elbow. Another favorite +device of hers was sedulously to brush an imaginary spot on Peter's coat +lapel and when he looked down bring up her hand and flip him under the +nose. Peter never seemed to remember not to look down. Perhaps he liked +to have his nose flipped. + +"It isn't necessary," he would object, "for everybody around here to +know you're a chorus girl." + +"Chorus girl, nothing. I got the song hit of the piece. 'Any little +thing for you dear, any little thing for you,'" Vonnie indicated the +tempo by scruffing her feet against the concrete floor of the press box. + +"Cut it out. Pay attention to the game." + +Sometimes the admonition was unnecessary. The day George Browne took a +real cut at the ball and banged it over the ropes in right field Vonnie +hopped into a chair and shouted, "The blessed lamb! Oh, you Georgie boy! +Watch that kid go. Look at him, Peter, he runs just like my Michael." + +Michael was Vonnie's white dog, said to be a Highland terrier. When +Peter took Vonnie home to One Hundred and Sixty-eighth Street it had +become the custom for him to wait down in the street while she got +Michael and took him a turn around the block before saying good night to +Peter. Vonnie had a good deal to say about Michael from time to time, +which was calculated to embarrass Peter. "You got to get me a book for +Michael," she told Peter. + +"What sort of a book?" + +"Well, I guess it's called 'What a Young Dog Ought to Know.' He don't +know any of the facts about life. I can take that dog past a million +lamp-posts and ten minutes after I get him back in the flat I've got to +lick him. Maybe you could give him a little plain talk, Peter. Coming +from a man, you know, it'd carry more weight with him." + +After Peter had known Vonnie for two months she did move to Two Hundred +and Forty-second Street. Peter took her out to supper a week later and +made the long journey up town. She was more subdued than usual as they +stood at the door of the apartment house. He put both hands on her +shoulders and leaned down to kiss her good night. + +"Don't you like me, Peter?" she said. + +"Of course I do. You know that." + +"I don't want you to go away, now. I don't want you to go away tonight." + +"I've got to." + +"Why have you got to?" + +"I think I ought to go." + +"Oh, if it's just morals, forget it. There's nothing to be afraid of. +You're not in love with me and I'm not in love with you. I just like +you. And I'm lonely. They won't let me keep Michael in this place, but I +guess I can sneak you in if you don't bark as we go up the stairs." + +"Maybe this'll spoil everything," said Peter. "It's been so nice and +easy and pleasant going around with you, Vonnie. If I get in love with +you something will happen to me sure. I can't stand anything like that +again. I do like you a lot. That's the trouble." + +"Oh, Hell! nothing like that's going to happen. I'm a tough bird. I'll +make you a promise, Peter. The minute I see you're falling in love with +me any I'll tell you that story about the tattooed man and the girl from +Oshkosh and shock it right out of you. Don't make any noise, Peter. I've +found the janitor's a light sleeper. And don't be so awful solemn. Try +and think up something worse that could have happened to you." + +Still when Vonnie kissed him again after they had tiptoed up two flights +and into her flat, Peter noticed that this time she did not laugh. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +I + +Peter worried a good deal over Vonnie's predictions as to Pat's future. +The doubt which she had cast upon the feasibility of his scheme +heightened after the victrola was introduced into the flat. The man on +the floor below happened to be moving and meeting Peter in the hall one +night he struck up a bargain to sell his phonograph and all the records. +After the bargain was made and the machine duly delivered, Peter looked +over the repertoire and found it queer stuff according to his notions. +"Werther--Ah! non mi ridestar!" sung by Mattia Battistini; "Siegfried's +Funeral March;" "The Funeral March of a Marionette." It seemed morbid to +Peter. "Minuet in G, No. 2" played by Ysaye; "Lucia--il dolce suono (mad +scene)." "Merry old bird," thought Peter. "Invitation to the +Waltz--Weber." That was a tune he knew, but it could hardly be classed +as cheerful. + +Peter went out and purchased a few of the latest song hits--"The +Sextette from Floradora," "Under the Shade of the Sheltering Palm," and +to his delight he found "Any Little Thing for You, Dear." Unfortunately +the phonograph company had chosen another voice instead of Vonnie's for +the record. Nevertheless, Peter bought it and some more. + +Pat was now a year and a half old, but he manifested the most violent +interest in the phonograph. That pleased Peter but he did not like it +quite so well when Kate reported to him, "'Tis a queer child, Mr. Neale. +It's them red records he does be playing all the time. He wants the one +about somebody's funeral all the time. Would you believe it he cries +when I put on a nice tune for him." + +The report was not exaggerated. Pat liked the song from Werther, but the +Siegfried record was his favorite, with Gounod a close second. Indeed +his passion to have his own particular favorites played and no others +seemed to be the compelling influence which brought him to language. +Almost his first articulate words were "Boom-Boom" which Peter +eventually and regretfully identified as an attempt to designate the +Siegfried Funeral March. When more words were developed The Funeral +March of a Marionette became "the other Boom-Boom." + +Before Pat was quite two he could mess about in the cabinet of the +victrola and pick out a dozen records in response to Peter's request. + +"Go get the red Bat," Peter would say and Pat would gravely pull out a +handful of records and return with Battistini's Werther. For that matter +he knew Floradora well enough to pick it out of the pile but he never +held it out to Peter with an imperious, "I want" as he did whenever he +got his hands on "Siegfried" or "The Funeral March of a Marionette." It +was still more thrilling, a little later, when he abandoned his +descriptive "Boom-Boom" for "Siegfried's Funeral March" and began to +call it, "Go to Bed Tired." Peter never knew just how Pat could identify +the records by looking at them. He supposed that some of the titles were +longer than others and that the child was able to bear in mind the +picture created by some certain series of signs. + +But a still more shocking discovery came when Peter learned that his +tiny son could identify by sound as well as sight. Peter, for instance, +was never quite certain whether the record being played was the Mad +Scene from Lucia or the Floradora Sextette. At any rate not until it had +gone along about to "On bended knee--on bended knee." But there was no +fooling Pat. He never needed more than a few notes before he was able to +exclaim with a well justified assurance that the piece in question was +"Chi-Chi" or "Floor" as the case might be. The Weber waltz was never +played much and Pat had no name for it, but he evidently knew it well +enough for no sooner was it started than he would get up and swing +slowly from side to side. Peter finally got a hammer and broke that +record. He would have liked to pass the victrola on to somebody else but +Kate would have protested as well as Pat. Music had solved for her the +problem of what to do with Pat on rainy days. Outside of a little +cranking these once difficult experiences had now become practically +painless. + +On Pat's second birthday Peter was startled to receive at the office of +the Bulletin a package directed in the handwriting of Maria Algarez. +Peter had travelled a little of the way toward forgetting Maria Algarez. +Time had done something, but Vonnie had done more. It was almost seven +months now since Peter first went to Two Hundred and Forty-second +Street. In the package he found a letter and a phonograph record. On the +disc he read "Chanson de Solveig--Maria Algarez." The letter +said--"Dear Peter--I send to your son a present for his second birthday. +I hope he will like it. Is his name Peter, too? So it should be. He will +be a fine boy I think, big and strong like his father. And make it so +that he shall grow up not to have the fear of anything and not the shame +of anything. Here for two years I have studied the English hard. You see +I write it much better. Now I have not danced for two years. First it +was because of the baby. It was not his fault. Maybe I have left the +hospital too soon. I did not want to stay longer and to die. All the +time I sing. The voice it is magnificent. Perhaps it is next season I am +to sing in the Opera Comique. For the phonograph company I have made the +one record and they say it will be more. I do not know. It is not +necessary ever for me to see your son, or for him to see me but some +time you will play for him this record. That he should hear me I want. +You need not say who it is. That does not matter. In you, Peter, there +is no song. For little Peter that should be different. Perhaps you will +say no. I do not think so. I want that he should hear my song--Maria." + +There was no address. Peter played Solveig's song that Sunday. It +stirred him strangely. This was almost a tune. When the notes went high +he could not only see Maria in the room, he could almost feel her. He +was so intent with this presence that he did not watch Pat. The child +was lying on the floor. He said nothing until the last note had almost +died away. "I want the red Bat," he said. + + +II + +Vonnie never came to the flat except on Sundays. It wouldn't do to have +Kate know anything about her. Several weeks after the arrival of Maria's +letter she happened in just as Peter was playing the Solveig song for +Pat. The child never put this particular record into his list of +imperatives, but he was reconciled to it. Perhaps interested. And Peter +felt a sort of compulsion of duty to play it every once and so often. He +had been surprised in the beginning that no miracle of recognition had +occurred in Pat's mind. To Pat she was merely a lady singing. Yet Peter +could not be sure what currents might move beneath the surface. Anyhow +it was enough for him that Maria had asked that he play the record. And +to him there was a certain instinct to play the record for his own +sake. Now that the memory was not so painful he rather wanted to keep it +alive. The thing was far enough away by now to be romantic. Peter took a +definite pride in the fact that once his heart had been broken. That +didn't happen to everybody. + +His feeling about Vonnie was different. She was ever so much more fun +than Maria, but she wasn't romantic. He felt that he knew her better. +Certainly he was more assured and easy with her than he had ever been +with Maria, but she could not move him to that curious exalted +unhappiness which he had once known. People about to become monks or +missionaries must feel something of what he felt for Maria. Still, that +wasn't it exactly. Maria was that moment before you hit the water in a +chute the chutes. Living with her was like watching a baseball game with +the bases always full and two strikes on the batter. Even marriage was +no windbreak. There was never a moment in that year when he had not felt +the tang of a gale full upon him. Having an affair with Vonnie was +highly respectable in comparison. This passion was even hospitable to +little jokes. Life had become comfortable. + +He did not know whether or not Vonnie realized that she and Maria were +different. They no longer talked ever of Maria Algarez. Even when she +came in upon the Solveig song Peter would have said nothing about it. + +"It's Maria, isn't it?" asked Vonnie. + +"Yes." + +"Where did you get it?" + +"She sent it to me." + +"Has she come back?" + +"No, it just said Paris." + +"Maybe she thinks she don't need to come back. She can bean you just as +good with a phonograph record." + +Peter said nothing, but let the song die out and then took the disc from +the machine. + +"Here," said Vonnie, "let me see it." + +Peter handed it over. Vonnie looked at it for a moment, then she moved +across the room. + +"Pete," she said, "what would you do if I dropped this thing out the +window." She made a move as if to put the suggestion into execution. + +"Don't do that," cried Peter. + +"Don't do that," mimicked Vonnie. "You're still a damn fool, hey?" + +"It's not mine. It was sent to Pat." + +"Oh, yes, blame it on the kid. I don't suppose he's a nut about her, +too. Are you, Pat?" + +Pat seemed to have no comprehension of the issue and made no answer. + +"Look here, Pete," said Vonnie, "nobody can say I've ever been jealous. +You can be daffy about anybody you like. That's none of my business, but +I can't stand it to have you such a fool that you'll let this damn woman +slap you in the face and then come back for more. If you didn't know she +was no good in the first place you ought to know it now." + +"I don't want you to say that." + +"Well, what is she good for?" + +"She's the greatest dancer in the world." + +"Don't make me laugh." + +"You know she is. You heard them cheering her that night." + +"Hell to that. Everything was set for her. Somebody gets sick and on she +waltzes. Any audience'll fall for that. If Carmencita should fall down +and break her leg I could do the same thing. 'Miss Vonnie Ryan with one +hour's rehearsing will take the place of Carmencita.' It's a cinch." + +"All right. You've got your opinion and I've got mine. Don't let's talk +about it." + +"I'm going to talk about it. This gets settled right now. I don't have +to be first with you, Pete, or anybody else, but I'm not going to run +second to a dish-faced mutt. I've got some pride in the people that cut +me out. Either I smash that phonograph record or you and I smash." + +"Give me that." + +Vonnie handed it over. + +"All right," she said. "I'm sorry. It was silly for me to bawl you out. +You haven't done anything to me. God knows I can't stand here and say +you seduced me. I had to get a half-nelson on you to pull you into the +flat that night. Maybe that's what makes me so sore. I put a lot of work +in on you, Pete." + +"Please don't go way, Vonnie. It's silly for us to scrap over a +phonograph record." + +"Everything's silly. I got to go way. I'm going to get just as far away +as I can. I'm going to get in some road company going to the Coast and +then by God, I hope we get stranded. You poor mutt, I'm in love with +you." + +"Oh, please, Vonnie, don't cry. I know I'm no good. I just can't help +it about that phonograph record." + +"Well, you don't suppose I'd bawl this way if I could help it. Now don't +be patting me on the back. I don't love you enough to let you, 'There! +there!' me." + +She moved resolutely to the door and by the time she reached it the line +had come to her. + +"I ought've known," said Vonnie, "no good could come out of taking up +with a fellow that thinks Mertes is a better outfielder than George +Browne." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +I + +Vonnie made good her threat and two weeks after the quarrel Peter +received a picture postcard of a giant redwood. The message said, "Well +Peter here I am in San Francisco--Vonnie." It was the first written +communication he had ever received from her and so he did not know +whether or not the brevity was habitual or was intended to convey a +rebuke. It seemed safe to assume the latter as Vonnie sent no address. + +Peter found himself turning to Pat for companionship. Perhaps he did not +exactly turn, but was rather tugged about without will of his own. The +needs of Pat were increasingly greater and Peter was caught up into them +now that he had nothing in particular to do with his evenings. Instead +of taking Vonnie out to an early dinner before the show he helped to put +Pat to bed. It didn't seem quite virile to Peter, but it was easier than +hanging around Jack's or Joel's or the Eldorado. Of course, Pat was +supposed to be in bed long before the night life of New York had really +begun, but bit by bit he edged his time ahead until it was often eleven +or after before he fell off to sleep. The child fought against sleep as +if it were a count of ten. Never within Peter's memory did Pat express a +willingness to go to sleep, much less a desire. It was always necessary +to conduct him forcibly over the line where consciousness ceased. + +Peter was swept under the tyranny of this obligation a couple of nights +after Vonnie went away. Unable to think up anything to do, he came back +to the flat a little after ten. He saw a light burning down the hall in +Pat's room and occasional entreaties and commands drifted out. Pat +wanted a drink of water and the toy alligator and the electric engine +and six freight cars. Looking at his watch Peter found that it was half +past ten. He walked into the child's room and exclaimed sternly, "What's +all this racket about?" + +"He wants the funny section read to him," explained Kate, "and it's been +lost some place. I can't find it anywhere." + +"That's perfect rubbish," said Peter. + +"I've looked all over for it, Mr. Neale." + +"That wasn't what I meant was rubbish, Kate. I'm glad you lost it. I +want you to keep on losing it. I meant it's rubbish for him to be +staying up this late and asking for things." + +"Yes sir." + +"Now we'll both say good night to him, Kate, and let him go to sleep." + +Pat began to cry not only loudly but with a certain note of sincerity +which caught Peter's ear. "What's the matter with him now?" + +"He made me promise I'd tell him a story if I couldn't find the funny +paper," said Kate. + +"It's too late now and anyway if he made you do it, Kate, it isn't a +promise. It don't count." + +"Yes, Mr. Neale. But it's so set he is he'll be calling me back all the +night long for me to tell him the story. It's nothing he does be +forgetting." + +"All right, Kate, we'll settle that very easily. You go out and I'll +stay and he can cry his head off." + +"Where'll I go, Mr. Neale?" + +"I don't care, Kate. Go any place you like. It isn't eleven o'clock yet. +Where do you usually go?" + +"To my sister's in Jamaica, but it's no time to be routing them out at +this hour." + +"Well, let me see. I tell you, Kate, there's a moving picture theatre +down there at Fifty-ninth Street that keeps going till after one. +Here's some money. You go there and see the picture and I'll stay and +show this young man he can't get everything he cries for." + +"I want to see the picture," said Pat, sitting up in bed. + +"Now don't be silly. You get back there on your pillow," said Peter, "or +I'll just knock you down." + +Kate rummaged around for her bonnet and finally went out. During all +this time Pat kept up a suppressed sobbing. As soon as the door slammed +behind Kate he was sufficiently rested again to begin crying full force. + +"Well, what is it now?" said Peter as fiercely as he could. + +Pat's utterance was muffled with tears. "I want a story." + +"You heard Kate go out. If you've got any sense you know she can't tell +you a story." + +"You tell me a story." + +"I'm too busy. Go to sleep." + +"Why are you busy?" + +"Because I am. Now go to sleep." + +"I don't want to go to sleep. I want you to tell me a story." + +Pat commenced to cry again. He had sensed an opening. + +Peter dropped his guard. "Just one story?" he asked. + +Upon the instant Pat ceased crying and sat up. "Tell me about the old +beggarman and Saint Pat." + +"I don't know it," said Peter. In fact he felt almost as if he had been +suddenly called upon to make a speech at a public banquet. Of course, he +had heard of Cinderella and Red Riding Hood and Aladdin and the +wonderful lamp, but he could not quite remember what any of them did. +Suddenly he remembered another source book. + +"Once," he began, "there was a man named Goliath and he was the biggest +man in the world. He could beat any man in the world. And one day there +was a little man named David----." + +"I'm bigger than David," interrupted Pat. + +"I guess you are. He was a little bit of a man, but he wasn't afraid of +Goliath. He said, 'Ole Goliath, you talk too much. You make me sick.' +And he picked up a rock and hit Goliath and knocked him down." + +"Why did he knock Goliath down?" Pat wanted to know. + +"I guess he knocked Goliath down because it was Goliath's bedtime and +Goliath wouldn't go to bed." + +Pat remained alert in spite of the moralizing. He gave no hint of +recognition that the end of a story had been reached. Anyhow, the +creative impulse had seized upon Peter particularly since it might be so +unblushingly combined with propaganda. + +"Well," he continued, "pretty soon George Browne came out of his house +and he was the second biggest man in the world and he wouldn't go to bed +and so David picked up another great big rock and knocked him down. And +then your friend the Red Bat came out of his house and he was the next +biggest man in the world and he wouldn't go to bed and so David picked +up another rock and knocked him down." + +"No, he didn't," broke in Pat. + +"I'm telling this story. David hit the Red Bat with a rock and knocked +him down because he wouldn't go to bed." + +"No, he didn't." + +"Oh, all right then, if you know so much about it, he didn't. What did +he do?" + +"He knocked David down." + +Peter realized that his narrative was overburdened with propaganda and +he was artist enough to throw over some of his moralizing ballast. + +"Well, this was the way it happened, Pat. David picked up a big rock and +threw it at the Red Bat, but the Red Bat was too smart for him. The Red +Bat caught the rock and threw it back at David and knocked him down. +That was it, wasn't it?" + +"Yes," said Pat. + +When Kate returned a little after one Peter reported, "I didn't have any +bother with him. He just went right off to sleep." + + +II + +David and Goliath became set as a bedtime story and lasted through the +next six months almost without change. Indeed Pat resented changes. +"Once," Peter would begin, "there was a man named Goliath and he was the +biggest man in the world and he could lick any man in the world." + +"Not lick," Pat would interrupt. "Beat." + +"Oh, yes, he could beat any man in the world." Peter found himself +coming home for Pat's bedtime with increasing frequency. Once or twice +he tried to break away, but upon such occasions Kate reported that the +child had cried for him and had kept awake until after midnight asking +for the story of David and Goliath. + +"You tell it to him," said Peter. "I think I can teach it to you. He +wants it just this way." And he repeated the accepted version. + +Kate shook her head. "I'm too old a woman to be learning so many words, +Mr. Neale," she said. "And it's not a story I think Father Ryan would +like me to be telling. That's not the way the story do be going in our +Bible." + +"Gosh," thought Peter to himself. "She thinks it was Martin Luther made +those changes." + +Notwithstanding Goliath, Peter made a gallant attempt to break away from +his newly found responsibilities. He felt that he ought to. He felt that +in the restaurants and poolrooms there lay the sort of sporting gossip +he ought to pick up for his column. Of course, not all New York kept +Pat's hours in those days but there was something almost auto-hypnotic +in getting the child to sleep. In addition to the bedtime story, Peter +found it necessary to feign great weariness in order to suggest a +similar feeling in Pat. He would yawn prodigiously immediately after the +Red Bat had knocked down David and pretend to doze off on the foot of +Pat's bed. Presently, he would hear the boy's regular breathing and +would tiptoe out of the room. But Peter acted his role much too well. +After so much shamming he generally was actually tired himself and +indisposed to wander down to Jack's or any of the other places where he +might find fighters or their managers. + +Indeed, he made the discovery that the material to be extracted from +these people was not inexhaustible. Like David and Goliath they had a +tendency to run into formula. "And I yell at him, don't box him; fight +him. Keep rushing him. Don't let him set. And when he comes to his +corner at the end of the third round I bawl in his ear, 'You kike so and +so, begging your pardon, Mr. Neale, if you don't get that lousy wop I'm +done with you.' And would you believe me it did him a lot of good. It +put guts in him. In the fourth we nail him with a right and we win. Now +we're going after the champ and if we ever get him into a ring we'll +lick him." + +A year or so before Neale could have taken stuff like that and worked it +over into a column on "The Psychology of a Prizefight Manager." But now +all the inspiration was gone. He had heard precisely the same tale in +much the same language too many times. He was almost tempted to cry out, +"Not lick him, beat him." + +Nor was there much more available color in the fighters themselves. They +were a silent crowd, most of them, particularly if they happened to have +a manager along. + +Once, Peter found Dave Keyes, the Brooklyn lightweight, sitting all +alone in Jack's. He was going great guns that year and Peter thought of +him as the logical successor to the champion. They had met a couple of +times at fight clubs, but Keyes did not seem to remember Peter. He was +sober but not bright. Still, Peter felt that he might draw him out +during the course of the evening. In time Keyes began to talk freely +enough. He was even confidential but fighting seemed to be the last +thing in the world he cared to discuss. + +"You see there's two dames fall for me. And the tough break is the both +of them lives on the same block. See. Well, let me tell you how I works +it. First I give Helen, that's the blonde one, a ring and then right +bang on top of that I has the call switched over to Gracie's flat----." + +"Life," thought the harassed Peter Neale, "is just one bedtime story +after another." + +In the Spring a long swing around the baseball training camps took Peter +away for almost two months and another month and a half went in a +fruitless journey to Juarez to wait for a fight which never happened. It +was June when Peter returned and to his horror he found that the child +had picked up theology in his absence. A storm helped the discovery. The +roll of the thunder was still a long way off when Peter called it to +Pat's attention. "We're going to have a thunderstorm," he said. + +"No, we're not," answered the child. "Thunder storms only come when +you're bad." + +"What's that?" asked Peter. + +"A thunderstorm's God showing his ankle," explained Pat. + +This did not seem a dogma altogether iron clad and yet it worried Peter. + +"Thunder's got nothing to do with you're being bad," he told Pat. "If +that was it we'd have thunder all the time. Thunder's nothing to be +afraid of. It's just somebody up the sky saying 'Booh' at you for fun." + +"God lives up in the sky." + +"How do you know that? Did you see him?" + +"Yes," said Pat stoutly. + +That made the question difficult to argue. + +"All right," continued Peter. "Call him God if you want to. Anyhow, when +it's thunder he's just saying 'Booh' at you and if you get scared you +haven't got any sense. Remember that's what thunder is. Just somebody +named God saying 'Booh.'" + +"No, it isn't." + +"Well, you tell me then." + +"When it's thunder," said Pat, pointing up the street in the direction +of Central Park, "it's a big giant in the trees." + +The child paused. "A blind giant," he added. + +Peter stared at him and wondered whether the phrase and figure were his +own or whether he had picked them up from Kate. Later Peter took +occasion to ask her and she denied it. "God's ankle," she admitted but +only after revision. "You know, Mr. Neale, it's the way he has of +getting things twisted in his little head. You understand now it was +'God's anger' I was a telling him." + +"Oh, I knew that all right, Kate. I knew he made up the ankle part of +it. But you're sure you didn't tell him anything about thunder and a +giant in the trees--a blind giant." + +"No, sir." + +Peter got to thinking things over and began to remember what Vonnie had +said concerning the future of Pat. He was worried. This idolatry of the +Red Bat who sang on the phonograph he didn't like. After this it would +have to be somebody else who knocked David down. Sandow Mertes maybe. +Then there was this blind giant in the trees. He didn't mind Pat's +growing up to be a poet. That would fit into the column nicely enough, +but not wild poetry. The thing had to be kept in bounds or there wasn't +any way to syndicate it. Still the next column of "Looking Them Over" +which Peter wrote contained a little poem somewhat outside his usual +manner. It was called, "The Big Blind Giant." + +Three days later the syndicate manager on the Bulletin called up Peter. +"We've got six telegrams already about that poem of yours," he said. +"The one about the big blind giant running around and hitting his head +against the trees." + +"What's the matter with it?" asked Peter aggressively. + +"Nothing at all, Peter, they all say it's great. All but that sporting +editor of the Des Moines Register--you know him, Caleb Powers?" + +"No, I don't know him. What's he say?" + +"He just gives the name of the poem and then he says in his telegram, +'Don't tell me the answer, I want to guess.'" + +"Five out of six is plenty," said Peter. "And say, Bill, where do you +suppose I got the idea from?" + +"Where?" + +"From my kid--Peter Neale, 2nd. He isn't four yet, but you see I've got +him working for the Bulletin already." + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +Pat furnished copy for Peter again within a month. Kate came in from the +Park all breathless with an account of a fight between the child and his +friend and playmate Bobby, last name not given. + +"It was about an engine," explained Kate. "Bobby give it to Pat and then +he wanted to take it away again. Before we could get to them Pat hit +Bobby in the mouth so hard it made his mouth bleed. And that Bobby, him +almost six years old. And a head taller than Pat. He bled something +terrible, Mr. Neale. First I thought it was just Bobby's blood on Pat's +hand, but it kept on and when I looked closer there was all the skin off +of the knuckles of Pat. It must have been the teeth of that Bobby when +Pat hit him. I'll be putting iodine on it this very minute if you'll +watch till I get back, Mr. Neale." + +"Put down that engine and come here, Pat," said Peter. + +"I can't hear you." + +"Yes, you can. I said put down that engine. Nobody's going to take it +away from you. Not just now, anyway. It's not yours but I suppose you've +won it. Come here, I want to see your hand." + +Very reluctantly Pat placed the engine on the sofa and advanced slowly. + +"It's all red," he said. + +Peter took off the handkerchief. "Nonsense," he said, "you haven't more +than scratched it." + +He was about to dismiss the matter from his mind and start for the +office when he noticed something he'd overlooked. "Kate, Kate," cried +Peter in great excitement, "this hand that Pat cut hitting that boy is +his left hand." + +"Yes, 'tis his left hand he'd be using all the time when I'm not +noticing him," said Kate, returning with the iodine. "That's where the +strength is. It'll be hard to teach him out of it." + +"I don't want him taught out of it, Kate. Don't you ever try to stop +him. It's bad to try to change children around. Anyway I don't want him +changed. This is fine for him. When he grows up and plays baseball he'll +be two steps nearer first base and besides the swing will throw him into +his stride. Maybe you don't know what I'm talking about, Kate, but +remember I want him to stay a left-hander." + +Peter went down to the office and wrote, "There seems to be no shadow of +doubt from which hope can spring--I am the father of a southpaw." He +nursed the theme and the incident along for almost a column, and there +were other by-products of comfort. In the City Room Peter ran into Deane +Taylor, the venerable music critic of the Bulletin. + +"Mr. Taylor," he asked, "did you ever see a left-handed violin player?" + +"No, Peter," said the old man, "there's no such thing. Of course there +might be left-handed piano players, but certainly all the fiddlers and +all the conductors are right-handed. Come to think of it, I don't know +any left-handed musicians at all. But if you're writing something about +that you better ask somebody else. I might be wrong. You see I've never +gone into music from that angle." + +"No," replied Peter, "this is just something I'm interested in +personally. Your impression's good enough for me. You don't have to +prove it. Thank you very much." + +Peter went away greatly pleased. "There's one of Vonnie's guesses gone +wrong anyhow," he said. + +From his observations of professional baseball, Peter had worked out the +theory that lefthanders were more difficult to handle than anybody else. +There was Rube Waddell for instance. Peter had seen him call the +outfielders in for the ninth inning and retire the side with only an +infield behind him. And everybody knew about the way Rube used to +disappear every now and then during the middle of a season and go +fishing. Only the day before he had had a Rube Waddell story in his +column. It was about Rube and the animal crackers. The man who told +Peter said the story came straight from Connie Mack and that there was +no doubt about its being true. Ollie Shreck, Rube's regular catcher, +wouldn't sign a contract one season. When they asked him the trouble he +said, "They always put me in to room with Rube on the road. Maybe they +think I understand him after catching him so much. Well, Mr. Mack, I +won't sign no contract unless you put in a clause that Rube can't eat +animal crackers in our bed." + +Pat lived up to most of Peter's theories about southpaws. Before the +child had quite turned four Peter discovered that Kate had no control +over him. She had given him a little theology but no discipline. The +facts came out through her complaint that Pat wouldn't eat any of the +things which he was supposed to eat. A doctor called in to attend a +passing cold had remained to suggest a diet. He was horrified to learn +that Kate had allowed the child to eat meat two or three times a day, +with the exception of Friday, just as she did. + +"Your child is just about one ton behind in spinach," said Dr. Whiting +to Peter. "He's got to catch up, but there won't be any particular +trouble about that. He's pretty sure to like spinach. All children do. +And I want him to have more milk." + +Peter found upon inquiry that Pat had never known spinach. "I don't like +it," explained Kate. + +"Well, he's got to have a lot of it," said Peter. "I want you to start +right in today." + +The report next morning was unsatisfactory. "How did the spinach go?" +asked Peter. "He wouldn't eat any of it," answered Kate. "He said he +didn't like it." + +"How could he tell he didn't like it if he didn't eat any," objected +Peter sharply. + +"I don't know. But he said he didn't like it. He threw the plate on the +floor." + +"How about the milk?" + +"He wouldn't drink any." + +"Didn't you tell him that he had to." + +"I did that, Mr. Neale. I told him God wouldn't love him if he didn't +eat his nice spinach and that, begging your pardon, sir, you'd cry." + +"Today," said Peter with a certain magnificence, "I'll stay home and eat +lunch with him myself. And for lunch we'll have just spinach and milk." + +"Well, well," said Peter, with great gusto as lunch was served, "isn't +this fine--milk and spinach. Kate, how did you know just what we +wanted?" + +"I don't want any lunch," said Pat. + +"No spinach?" + +Pat did not deign a reply. + +"What do you want?" + +"I want crackerjack and ice cream." + +"Spinach is what you're going to get." + +Pat began to cry, but Peter found that it was only a sign of rage and +not of weakness. The child's refusal remained steadfast. Finally, Peter +spanked him for the first time in his life. It was not a success. Pat +cried a lot more but he ate no spinach. Press of other work kept Peter +from pursuing the problem for three days, during which time the child +reverted to his old diet. In a second personally conducted test, Peter +Neale managed to induce Pat both to drink milk and eat spinach, but it +was not exactly a triumph. The result was gained by strategy, which was +ingenious but also abject. Moreover, it was almost wholly accidental. +Driven desperate by an unyielding stubbornness, Peter at length lost his +temper and shouted at the child. "All right then, don't eat any spinach. +I won't let you eat any spinach." + +Pat scowled and, reaching all the way across the table, helped himself +to a large spoonful. "I'm eating spinach," he said, "I'm eating it right +now." + +The only thing of which Peter had a right to boast was that he did not +allow any false pride to stand between him and the object which he +sought. He was quick to seize his opportunity. Pat's seeming free will +was harnessed to serve the predetermined purposes of an ego less +powerful but more unscrupulous. + +"Maybe you are eating a little spinach," said Peter, "but I guess you +won't dare take any milk when I tell you not to." + +Pat fell into the trap. "Look at me now, Peter, I'm drinking it all +up." + +Once he learned the method Peter became a strict disciplinarian. Almost +invariably Pat disobeyed with alacrity when he heard the stalwart and +ringing command, "Now, Pat, I don't want you to go to bed and I don't +want you to go this very minute." Of course the thing became a little +complicated. Even after much practice Peter used to get somewhat mixed +up over such instructions as, "No, the nightgown I don't want you to +wear is the one over there." + +The eating problem was subjected to still further complexities. Peter +was shrewd enough to realize that the scheme of indirect discourse might +become strained beyond all usefulness if employed too much. Pat +conformed and yet it became evident at length that he saw through the +trickery. On his fifth birthday, for instance, at his party he made no +rush for the ice cream which was placed before him but looked up +plaintively and said, "Peter, why don't you tell me not to eat my ice +cream." + +Accordingly, other games were invented. The milk race proved generally +useful but rules had to be devised to prevent Pat from going too fast. +Eventually the contest was introduced by Peter as "a slow milk race." In +order to prevent Pat from choking to death he would cry every now and +then "Measure!" At that signal both would lower their glasses and set +one against the other on the table. Pat took over the announcing of +these results. He used only one decision--"I'm ahead"--and this bore no +accurate relation to the actual quantity of milk in the two glasses. + +As a matter of fact, the milk race never was a very sporting +proposition. Pat always won and as the practice continued he began to +demand new guarantees of success. "You mustn't start till I'm through, +Peter," he would say. "I want to win." Peter also hit upon the device of +serving Pat with nothing but "special milk." His own came out of the +same bottle but had no title. Nobody but Pat was supposed under any +circumstances to be allowed to touch "special milk." The story, +circulated by Peter, was that the cow wouldn't like it. + +Another incentive to appetite was playing burglar. This game was also +one of Peter's inventions, but Pat eventually became the aggressor. "You +must be asleep," he would say, "and I must be a burglar and come along +and steal some of your spinach. Shut your eyes." + +Even years afterward Peter could never look at spinach without blinking. + +Kate was not very apt at any of the eating games and the result was that +Peter found himself more bound to the flat than ever. Now he seldom got +down to the office except during the hours between lunch and dinner. The +feeding and more particularly, the urging of Pat came to be almost a +regular duty. Peter was never quite sure whether he liked or hated these +activities. Although they were confining and arduous he got an +undeniable satisfaction out of them. He was succeeding with something a +good deal more personal than a syndicate. He was succeeding where Kate, +the mother of five or six, had failed. + +"Maybe women are all right for children when they get a little older," +was the way Peter expressed it to himself, "but they haven't imagination +enough to handle a little one like Pat. That's a man's job." + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +Pat was six years old when he saw his first ball game up at the old hill +top park of the New York Yankees who were then the Highlanders. The Red +Sox were the visiting team. + +"That's Sea Lion Harry Hall," said Peter, pointing to a man in a gray +uniform who was throwing the ball. Pat tried to follow the direction in +which Peter pointed. + +"I don't see no sea lion," he complained. + +"Right over there," replied Peter, "the pitcher. Don't you see the man +that's throwing the ball. That's his name, Sea Lion Harry Hall." + +Pat was enormously disappointed. He had thought that maybe it was some +sort of circus which they were going to see in this great open park. The +sea lion had sounded like a promise of elephants to come. He tried to +beat back his grief, but presently tears rolled out of his eyes. The +best he could do was to make no sound. Eventually Peter noticed the damp +tracks across his face. + +"What are you crying about?" he asked in surprise. + +"You said it was a sea lion," sobbed Pat, "and it isn't any sea lion." + +"Oh, that's it. Don't you understand: his name's Sea Lion. Just as they +call you Pat." + +"Why do they call him a Sea Lion?" + +"Well," said Peter, "to tell the truth I don't know exactly. It's just +one of those things. I've been writing about Sea Lion Harry Hall a +couple of years and now I never stopped to think up any reason for it. +It was smart of you to ask me, Pat. That's right. Don't you go taking in +things people tell you without asking why. That's the first thing a +newspaperman ought to learn. You just wait here a minute and I'll go and +find out why they call him Sea Lion Harry Hall." + +Peter went over to the wire screen which ran in front of the press box +and called to a short little man who was sitting on his heels and +balancing himself with his bat which he had dug into the ground. The +player straightened up and came over. Peter conversed earnestly with him +for a moment. Then he came back. "Now," he said, "I know all about it. +Kid Elberfeld--that was Kid Elberfeld I was talking to--he says they +call him Sea Lion Harry Hall because he roars so--just like a sea lion." + +For the next half hour Pat abandoned all thought of the game. Peter +rattled off words and the meaning of them. There were hits and errors +and flies and grounders. Once everybody in the park shouted and stood up +and Peter said it was a home run, but Pat gave very little heed to this. +He paid no more attention to the rooting than if it had been Peter +talking to him. It was another sound for which he was waiting. He +couldn't be burdened with learning about hits and errors or even the +thing called a home run. What he wanted was to hear Sea Lion Harry Hall +roar like a sea lion. For hours Pat heard nothing. The man just did his +exercises and threw the ball. Then something happened which made him +mad. He threw the ball and after it was thrown he walked straight up to +a man in blue who had on a false face. And he talked at him. Very loud +and hoarse he said, "Jesus, Tim, call 'em right." + +"There goes the Sea Lion," said Peter who had been busy with something +else and had caught no more than the rumble. "Didn't that sound just +like a sea lion?" + +Pat scorned to cry. He did not even bother to say "No." By now he knew +that the baseball park was the land of disappointment. It was a place +where things were cried up with words which were not so. Peter had said +he would roar like a sea lion. And he didn't. He was just a man who said +"Jesustim" pretty loud. + +Pat heard a seal lion once. "Jesustim" didn't sound anything like a sea +lion. + +Interesting inquiry might have centred around "Too hot to handle" if +Peter had used it earlier in the day, but by the time it came Pat knew +that it was just a grown up way of talking big. When Peter said, "That's +Birdie Cree," Pat did not look or even ask any questions. He knew there +was not a birdie. + +Only one romantic concept came to Pat from the game. + +"That's Tris Speaker, that kid in centre field," said Peter. + +Of course, Pat knew that he really wouldn't be a kid. It didn't surprise +him to find that Tris was a man but he was quite a lot different from +pretty nearly all the other grown-ups that Pat had ever seen. They +didn't run like Tris. Probably they couldn't. The other men in this +baseball park ran, but Tris was the fastest. But it wasn't just looking +at him that Pat liked. He said the name over to himself several times. +"Tris Speaker, Tris Speaker." There was fun in the sound of it. Not +quite enough for a whole afternoon, to be sure. This was a park without +sandpiles or a merry-go-round. And there were no policemen to make +everybody keep off the grass. Pat wished they would. + +"I want to go home," he said at last. + +"Tired already?" asked Peter. "Well, there's only half an inning more. +It wasn't much of a game, was it? Too one-sided. But we're not going +home right off. I've got to go straight to the office and I'm going to +take you with me." + +In another ten minutes the game was over. "You didn't like it, did you?" +asked Peter. The formula nettled Pat. + +"Yes, I did," he said. + +After a long trip in the subway they came to the big building where +Peter worked. Pat had never been there before. At the end of a long +corridor was a small office and Peter opened the door and went in. "I've +got to write the paper," he said. "You keep quiet till I'm done. Here's +the funny section for you." + +Upon examination Pat found that it was last Sunday's pictures. He had +already seen the one about how the kids put dynamite in the Captain's +high hat. Still he followed the adventure again. When Kate read it to +him on Sunday it had made him a little sad. It seemed to him that it +must have hurt the Captain when Maude, the mule, kicked him in the head. +Now he found a new significance in the last picture. Maude and the +Captain were floating in the air high above the roof. Coming out of the +Captain's mouth were marks like this, "!----!!!" And yet it must be +pleasant to go floating away in the sky like that. Pat looked out of the +window and he could see the river and the great bridge. He would like to +have a high hat and some dynamite and a mule. Then he could float +through the window like Davey and the Goblin. That would be better than +sitting there in the little office so quietly while Peter pounded the +keys of his typewriter. Peter kept taking sheets of paper out of it and +tearing them up. + +"Whatch you doing?" Pat asked when he could keep silent no longer. + +"Hush," said Peter very sternly, "you mustn't ask questions now. I'm +doing a story for the Bulletin. That's very important, I must do it +right away." + +"Why?" + +"Well, pretty soon they're going to put the paper to bed." Pat knew that +must be some sort of joke. Papers didn't go to bed. They didn't have any +pajamas or nightgowns. + +Somebody knocked at the door and before Peter could say anything Charlie +Hall came in. "Is that your kid?" he asked. + +"Yes," said Peter, "He's my son. Say hello to Charlie Hall, Pat." + +"Well, what's your name?" said Hall just as if he was very much +interested. + +"My name's Pat." + +"Tell him your big name," prompted Peter. "Go ahead." + +"Peter Neale, second." + +"I suppose you'll be down here doing baseball yourself pretty soon now +that you're getting to be such a big boy," said Hall. + +Pat picked up the funny paper again and pretended to become engrossed in +it. Charlie Hall was diverted back to the first of the Peter Neales. + +"I guess he's a little older than my youngest," he said. "Let me see, +Joe--no, that's not the one I mean--Bill must be about four or five now. +Just around there." + +"Pat's older than that. He was six a couple of days ago." + +"Getting pretty near time to begin figuring what to do with him." + +"I know that already," said Peter, "he's going to be a newspaper man. +He's going to be 'by Peter Neale'." + +"I'd drown mine, all six of 'em, before I'd let 'em go into the +newspaper business." + +"What's the matter with it?" + +"It don't get you any place. Now if I was in business I'd be just +getting ready to be a president of the company or something. And as it +is I'm just an old man around the shop. Forty-two my last birthday. In a +couple of years more I'll be on the copy desk." + +"That's mostly bunk, Charlie. But even if it was so, haven't you had a +lot of fun?" + +"What do you mean, fun?" + +"Going out where things are happening and writing pieces and seeing them +in the paper the next day. Just writing a baseball story seems sort of +exciting to me." + +"Hell," said Charlie, "they're all faked, those baseball games. I +wouldn't go across the street to see one." + +He paused, but went on again before Peter could protest. + +"It's a funny thing, but the longer you stay in newspaper work the more +it gets to seem as if everything's faked. After a while you find out +that all the murders are just alike. Somebody sleeps with somebody and +somebody else don't like it and then you have what we call a 'mystery' +and we get all steamed up about it. Railroad accidents--the engineer +disregarded the signal--fires--somebody dropped a cigarette in a pile of +waste. My God, Pete, there's only about ten things can happen any place +in the world and then they must go on repeating themselves over and +over." + +Peter rushed in pellmell. "But don't you see, Charlie. It's the writing +about them makes them different. A piano player might as well say, 'I +haven't got anything but the same notes.'" + +"Well," said Charlie, "I'd drown all five of them if they wanted to be +piano players. Maybe there is some fun in writing. I don't know +anything about that. But if a man wants to write why put it down some +place where it's going to be swept up by the street cleaner the next +day. At eleven o'clock tomorrow morning all that stuff you were writing +before I came in will be dead and rotten. It'll have to make room for +the home edition and on top of that'll come another. And so on all day +long. Writing for a newspaper's like spitting in Niagara Falls. Anybody +that can write ought to get on a magazine and do something that'll last +anyway from breakfast to dinner time." + +"It's no good for me," said Peter. "I've written for magazines a +little--just sport stuff, you know. You do something and maybe you like +it, but that's the last you hear about it for a month. By the time it +comes out you've forgotten all about it and maybe by that time it isn't +true anyway. It's like writing for posterity." + +"All right," said Charlie, "go on with your story. If you make it a good +one maybe there'll be somebody around the office'll remember it clear +into next week." + +Left alone, Peter proceeded at a furious rate. Even Pat was frightened +out of interrupting by the beat and pace of the noise which came from +the typewriter. If there had been a steam whistle it would have sounded +a good deal like a locomotive. Soon Peter called a copy boy and gave him +the pages. It had grown almost dark now, but he did not switch on the +electric light immediately. From the next room came the clicking sound +of telegraph keys. + +"Do you hear that," said Peter. "That's magic. Some place there's a war, +or a king's just died, or maybe he's only sick and those clicks are +telling us about it." + +"Did he eat too much ice cream and cake?" asked Pat. + +"I don't know. I can't tell till somebody writes it down. You have to +make _a b c's_ out of it before anybody except just the man in the +room understands about it." + +"Come here," said Peter, suddenly getting up from his chair, "you sit +down there, Pat." + +"I don't want to," said Pat. + +"All right, I won't let you sit in my chair." + +Pat got up and took the seat. + +"Now," said Peter earnestly, "I don't want you to grow up to be a +newspaper man, and I don't want you to come into this office after I'm +gone." + +He put his arm around Pat's shoulder and drew him close. Then he took +the boy's hand, the left one, and moved it forward near the typewriter. + +"This is the desk," said Peter, "that I don't want you to use." + + + + +Book II + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +Peter was coming back to America. He had been through the war and then +the peace and he was very tired. The tension of it all was still upon +him. Even though he lay back in his steamer chair and looked over the +rail at a wide and peaceful ocean the jangle within him continued. For +him there was no friendship in the sea. Probably there never would be +any more. He had come to hate it that afternoon on the Espagne when they +ran from the submarine. That was almost four years ago, but Peter had +not forgotten. He had been playing poker in the card-room when the +little gun on the forward deck went "bang!" The man across the table had +his whole stack of chips in his hand. He was just about to say, "I'll +raise you, Neale." And then he said nothing. He just sat there holding +the chips and grinning. Some of them trickled out of his hands and a +yellow one fell on the floor. The man stooped down and rummaged for it +under his chair. Yellow chips represented five dollars. Peter couldn't +stand the comedy of it. His capacity for irony was limited. + +"Don't do that," he said sharply. "Maybe it's going to sink us. Come on. +We can look for the chips afterwards." + +Still the man didn't come. His right hand was trembling but he held on +to the cards. + +"Oh," said Peter, "you win if that's what you're waiting for. For God's +sake, come on." + +Peter didn't have the courage to be the first man out of the +smoking-room. He walked slowly enough to let two players pass him. Going +to his room he found a life preserver and put it on clumsily. Outside in +the hall a very white-faced steward was saying over and over again, +"There is no danger. There is no danger." Coming out on deck a passenger +almost ran into Peter. He was dashing up and down the deck shouting, +"Don't get excited." Peter saw his poker friend standing beside the rail +and took his place alongside him. + +"There she is," said the man, pointing to a thing about a mile away +which looked like a stray beanpole thrust into the ocean. "It's the +periscope," he explained. The gun on the Espagne went "bang!" once +more. + +"If we don't get her, she'll get us, won't she?" asked Peter. + +The man nodded. The beanpole disappeared. "She'll come up some other +place," he told Peter. + +They both stared at the ocean, looking for the sprouting of the weed. +Peter kept silent for at least two minutes. He held on to the rail +because his right leg was shaking. The man must not know that he was +afraid. + +"What did you have?" asked Peter. "What did you have?" he repeated. + +"How's that?" + +"A minute ago when I dropped. What did you have?" + +"A king high flush." + +Peter was just about to confess his full house, but thought better of +it. "I guess the submarine didn't hurt me any," he said. "Mine was only +aces and eights." + +His companion turned and looked at him. He was a little white, too. +There was a growing horror in his face. Peter wondered and then realized +the reason for the curious look. Somehow it cheered him enormously to +find terror in another. The man had shamed him by sticking to the card +room and looking for the yellow chip. Now Peter could pay him back. +Even the huskiness was gone from his voice. "Yes," he said slowly, "aces +and eights. That was queer, wasn't it? The dead man's hand." + +The beanpole never did come up again and now in the year 1919 there +would be none in this pleasant glassy ocean and yet Peter couldn't look +at it very long without seeing black stakes rise up against him. In the +twenty minutes of watching which followed the remark about aces and +eights Peter planted firmly and deeply in himself another abiding fear. +He wondered idly now whether the man who stood with him, the name was +Bentwick, would ever enjoy ocean travel again. + +Peter found that it was not physically possible to be afraid of +everything which he encountered in the war. Everybody had his pet fear. +Peter specialized on submarines, which was convenient since, after +arriving in France, he saw nothing more of warfare on the water. He +never liked shells, particularly the big ones, airplanes or machine guns +and yet he could stand them well enough to do his work. Before going he +had assumed that he would be unable to endure the strain of getting +under fire. Indeed he told Miles, "You mustn't expect a lot of stuff +from me about how things look in a front line trench." + +Miles had said, "All right. Give us the news and we won't kick." + +The news had been enough to take Peter into hell and keep him there. +Miles had been smart. Dying for his country might very likely have been +an insufficient ideal for Peter, but there never was any place he +refused to go to get a story for the Bulletin. He never knew why. There +wasn't any person on the Bulletin whom Peter idolized. The owner lived +in Arizona and Peter had never seen him. The paper itself was a person. +That was what Miles had seemed to say that afternoon in the office when +he asked Peter to go over as a war correspondent. "I think you ought to +go for the paper," he said. First, of course, he teetered back and forth +on his chair three times. "Sport don't look so important now," he began. +"This thing is much bigger than baseball. It's going to get bigger. The +syndicate's selling you to one hundred and ten papers now but that +doesn't make any difference, Neale. There's no good waiting for the +bottom to drop out of a thing. We've got to beat 'em to it." + +"I don't know anything about war," suggested Peter. + +"We don't want war stuff. I wouldn't give a damn for the regular war +correspondent stuff. You can humanize all that. You've got a light +touch. Some of this is going to be funny. Most of the papers are +overlooking that. And mark my words, by and by we're going to get in +it." + +"Maybe it won't be so funny then," said Peter. + +Miles paid no attention. "Don't you see the big start you'll have if +you're already over there when America comes in. You'll have the hang of +the thing. You'll know a lot more about it than most of the generals. +You'll be on the spot to jump right into it." + +Miles did not foresee that by the time America came into the war there +wouldn't be much jump left in Peter. Blood and, more than that, a +desperate boredom fell upon the light touch. Almost all of Peter's +romantic enthusiasm was spent in his first two years on the fighting +line of the English and the French. The American war correspondents used +to tell with wonder and amusement of the afternoon upon which Peter +started off to join the American army with the other correspondents. +They just filled the compartment, but a minute before the train left +the Gare du Nord, a Y. M. C. A. man who had reserved his seat bustled +in. He picked out Peter and slapped him on the back. "I'm very sorry, +old scout," he said, "but you've got my seat." + +Peter got up. "You can have the seat, you son of a----," he answered, +"but don't you 'old scout' me." + +Whatever romantic feeling might have been left in Peter about America +and the war broke on the military bearing of John J. Pershing. Peter was +with him the day he inspected the newly arrived First Division. Aides +and war correspondents without number trailed at his heels. They +followed him into a stable which had been transformed into a company +kitchen. Just inside the door stood a youngster only a year or so older +than Pat. He was peeling potatoes but when the General entered he +dropped his work and stood at attention. Pershing went on to the far end +of the stable and, as he passed by, the boy who had never seen the +commander-in-chief of all the American expeditionary forces, stole just +a fleeting look over his shoulder. Pershing saw him and strode back, +followed by all the war correspondents and his aides. + +"What's the matter with you?" he shouted at the boy. "You don't know +the first thing about being a soldier." Turning to a lieutenant he said, +"Take this man out and make him stand at attention for two hours." Not +even the dead men upon the wire ever moved Peter to the same violent +revulsion against the war. Nor did he have a chance to write it out of +himself. His cable dispatch which began, "They will never call him Papa +Pershing," did not get by the censors. + +Censorship was among the horrors of war which Peter never thought of as +he stood in the office of Miles. He was a little hesitant about +accepting the assignment and the managing editor misunderstood him +somewhat. + +"You'll find your war stuff will sell in time just as well as sports," +he said. + +"I've got enough money, almost enough," Peter told him. "I don't know +what to do about Pat, that's my son. He's here in school. He's fourteen. +There isn't a soul to look after him." + +"Yes," said Miles, "that makes it hard. I tell you what I'll do. Will +you let him come and live with me and Mrs. Miles? Next year he can go to +boarding-school. This thing can't last forever. You'll be back in a +little while." + +"Well," said Peter, "that's nice of you but I don't know how it'll work +out." + +"What are you planning for the boy?" + +"Why, I've always figured that as soon as he got old enough I'd try to +get him on the paper. I want him to be a newspaper man." + +Miles broke in so eagerly that he even neglected to do his three +preliminary tilts. "That's fine. Don't you see how that all fits in? You +go to France for us and I'll promise you a job for the boy on the +Bulletin. You won't have to just think about it. The thing's done. He's +nominated for the Bulletin right now. And you can start him off the +minute you think he's old enough. Don't fret about that. I'll give him +an ear full of shop. Is it a bargain?" + +"All right," said Peter, "I'll go over for the paper for a little +while." + +The little while lasted almost five years. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +It was a June night in the fourth year of the war when Peter saw Maria +Algarez. He was walking up the Avenue de l'Opera when a woman cut across +in front of him, turning into a side street. The street was crowded with +soldiers and women, sauntering and peering, but this woman was walking +fast. She almost bumped into Peter. They were under a shaded light which +fell on her face as she looked up. Peter looked at her without much +curiosity. He did not want to invite friendliness. Hospitality had been +hurled at him all the way down the avenue. He knew instantly that it was +Maria. When she left him she had seemed a child. After seventeen years +there was the same youthful quality in her face. The only change was, it +was much more tired. And there was paint. + +"Hello," said Peter. + +Maria smiled at him without obvious recognition, but made no answer. + +"I'm Peter Neale." + +Maria's smile grew broader. "I thought I have made a conquest," she +said, "and it is a husband." + +She held out her hand. Peter took it, but his eager surprise at seeing +her was chilled by a sudden thought. + +"You're not--," he said, but he could not phrase it. He tried again. +"You're not walking here alone?" + +Maria's smile became a laugh. "And what then?" she asked. + +"Good God!" said Peter in horror. And then almost to himself, "And it +might have been any other soldier on the avenue." + +"There, there," said Maria, checking her laughter and patting him on the +arm. "It is not right for me to laugh at you. I should not forget to +remember that you are the worrier. You think that maybe it is my living +to walk in L'avenue de L'Opera and to look for the good-looking soldier. +It should please that it is you I have selected, Peter. But no, there, +it is not so. Come with me. My car it is around the corner. Do not let +us stand here where maybe you will be compromised. We will drive to my +studio. There we can talk." + +Peter followed Maria around the corner where a limousine was waiting and +got in. + +"How do you manage to have a car in war time?" he asked. + +"It is because I am the important person. Yes, that is true. You have +not heard of me, Peter? Really? That is so extraordinary. You do not +know that I am the singer?" + +"Well," said Peter, "of course I heard that phonograph record you sent +for Pat but that was fifteen years ago. I never heard from you again. +Sometimes I went to the shops and asked if they had records of Maria +Algarez but none of them had ever heard of you." + +"Pooh," said Maria, "in America you do not know anything. But here in +Paris do you never hear anybody speak of Maria Algarez?" + +Peter shook his head. "I've been with the American army almost all the +time. What would I know if I had heard? What do they say about you?" + +"Maybe it is better that I should say it myself," answered Maria. "The +others might not make it enough. When I send the phonograph record so +long ago I say in my letter to you 'the voice is magnificent.' That is +true. It is much more than that. Peter, sometimes it makes me sad that I +cannot sit off a little way and hear the voice. The phonograph, it is +not the same thing. That is the pity of it, I alone of everybody in +Europe cannot truly hear Maria Algarez sing. It has been the great voice +in the world. It is still the great voice." + +"Oh," said Peter, "and that is what anybody would have told me if I +asked." + +Maria shook her head. "People, they are not so smart. You remember when +I was a dancer they did not know about me all that you and I, we knew. +It is the same now. They do not know. A little, yes, but not all." + +"But they realize it enough to give you a job, don't they?" + +"The job, pooh! Yes, the job. First I sing in Comique. I sing in Russia +and Spain and for the seven, eight years I am the leading soprano of the +Paris opera house. Where is it that you hide yourself that all this you +do not know?" + +"In mud in Flanders, I guess." + +"Yes, it is not your fault. The war, it is so loud in all the world +there is no other noise. That is why I go away. I have the contract to +sing in Argentine." + +The limousine drew up in front of an apartment and Maria took Peter up +to a studio on the top floor. They went into a big room with one great +window of glass covering an entire wall. Through it Peter could see the +defense of Paris aviators moving across the skyline like high riding +fireflies. + +"It's a nice place for air raids," suggested Peter. + +"The Boche--the German--he comes sometime but I am not afraid. You know, +Peter, now I know that there is the God. It is something. I cannot tell +you just what. But he is smart. When the others did not know about the +voice it was that I remembered. He would know. If there was nobody else +he would be smart enough. He is not silly. Nothing can happen to Maria +Algarez." + +"Gosh," said Peter, abashed and puzzled by this outburst, "I hope he +feels the same way about me. Most of the last three years I've been +needing him more than you do." + +Maria's rapt expression faded. "I am the pig. All the time I talk about +myself. And you, you, Peter, what is it you do? You are the officer, +that I know, but captain, colonel, general that I do not know." + +"I see I've got a kick coming, too. Where have you been hiding? I'm not +an officer. I'm a war correspondent. If you can say it I guess I can. +Any way I will. I'm the best war correspondent in the world," Peter +grinned. "That's not such a joke either. Maybe I am. Didn't you ever +hear of my book--'Lafayette, Nous Voila?' All the rest of it's English. +It means 'Lafayette, We're Here.' I forgot you'd know that. They've sold +seventy-five thousand copies. Didn't you ever hear of it?" + +"No, I have not heard. I think you are still the newspaper man." + +"Well, a war correspondent's a sort of a newspaper man, only more so. +I'm still on the Bulletin. That was my paper years ago when--when we +knew each other." + +Maria was almost startled. "The boy," she said suddenly. "Your boy, how +is he? He is well? He is big? What is it that you call him?" + +"Yes," said Peter, "bigger than I know, I guess. I haven't seen him for +almost three years. His name is Peter Neale, Jr." + +"But you hear from him? He writes? What is it he says?" + +"Well, as a matter of fact I just got a letter from him today. There +isn't anything much in it. I don't know whether you'd be interested. +It's just about stuff he's doing in school." + +"Yes, I want to know what it is he learns. Here, let me see?" + +Peter fumbled in his pocket and found Pat's letter. + +"Maybe I'd better read it you. Handwriting is one of the things they +haven't taught him. I don't believe you could make out his writing." + +He picked up the letter and began, "'Dear Peter---- ' + +"'Peter,' it is so he calls you?" + +"Yes 'father' sounds terribly formal to me and I don't want to be 'pop' +or 'dad' or anything like that. 'Peter' seems closer. Before this war +Pat and I were pretty chummy." + +Maria settled back and Peter went on with the letter. + +"'Perhaps, I didn't tell you about my joining the fraternity here last +month. It's called Alpha Kappa Phi. The letters stand for Greek words +which are secret and mean friends and brothers or maybe it's brothers +and friends. And of course the initiation is secret, but I guess it +won't be any harm if I tell you about it. I had to report at the +fraternity house in the afternoon and they took me down in the cellar +and put me in a coffin. It wasn't really a coffin, but a big packing +case but we tell the fellows that come in that it's a coffin and that +scares the life out of some of them. I wasn't scared any, but it got +pretty tiresome lying around all afternoon. In the evening they took me +out and told me they were going to put the initials of the fraternity on +my chest. They pretended to be heating up an iron. There was a long +speech which went with this and it is quite beautiful. While they were +pretending to heat up the irons they burned something, meat I guess, and +it made an awful smell. They did make me a little nervous but when they +got around to cutting the initials in my chest it was just an electric +battery they had and they ran the current over my chest. It hurt a +little, but I knew they weren't really cutting initials and so I didn't +mind. After that they took a chemical called lunar caustic and traced +out Alpha Kappa Phi on my chest. It didn't do anything just then, but +the next day it turned all black. Every time I took a shower in the gym +all the younger kids stared at me. One asked me what I got on my chest +and I said maybe I fell down in some mud. After I was branded they took +me up some stairs and down some more. I was still blindfolded, you know. +They said to me, "You must jump the last fifteen steps." Well, I jumped +and it was just one step and it nearly ruined me. Then there were some +more things like having to stand on your head and sing the first verse +of the school song. They helped you a little by holding up your feet. +And you had to get down on the floor and scramble like an egg. Then +there was something very impressive. They took the bandage off and I was +standing just in front of a skull. A man all in white read out about the +secrets of the society. It was quite beautiful but I can't remember +enough to tell you. Just when he came where it said what would happen to +any neophyte who divulged aught on the sacred scroll of Alpha Kappa Phi, +a great big tongue of flame shot out of the mouth of the skull. They do +it by pinching the end of a piece of gas pipe and putting it in the +mouth of the skull and when you turn on the gas the thing shoots out. +That was about all except all of us being stood up against a wall and +hitting us in the tail with tennis balls. Of course there was supper +finally and I shook hands with all the brothers and they said most of +them get scared a lot more than I did. We've put in a couple of lots +since I got in and I certainly got square with them for what they did to +me. I suppose you read in the paper about my kicking a goal from the +thirty-three yard line and winning the game from the Columbia +freshmen.'" + +There was a good deal more about the game, almost a complete play by +play account, but Peter, peeking over the edge of the letter saw that +Maria was yawning. He just put in a "With love--Pat," and stopped in the +middle of a paragraph. + +"He is nice. I think he is like you," she said. "How old is he, Peter?" + +"Just about seventeen." + +"Like you he will be the writer for the Bulletin? Is it so that you want +it?" + +"Yes, I've set my heart on that." + +"It is good. He knows about the baseball that you know and all your +sport. Is he big too like you, Peter?" + +"I guess he must be by now. He sent me a picture. It's an enlargement +of a snapshot. Just a head like one of these motion picture closeups." + +Maria held out her hand casually. "Let me see." + +She took the picture under a lamp and looked closely. For a full minute +or more Maria held the picture and stared at it. She said nothing, but +Peter was conscious in some way that the casual mood had gone. He could +tell that she was enormously moved. He did not even dare break in upon +her silence. Still looking at the picture Maria whispered, "He is my +son. It is my nose. It is my nose exactly." + +"Yes," said Peter, in a matter of fact way, "there is quite a +resemblance." + +Maria waved her left hand impatiently. "No, no, it is not a resemblance. +The rest does not look alike. It is the nose. That is not a resemblance. +It is the same. It is my nose. Here you see," she slapped the bridge of +her nose violently, "so it would be if the bone it had been broken. You +see in the picture of my son it is the break. The same. The hook in the +nose. But it is not broken. Never it has not been?" + +"Why, no," said Peter, "his nose has always been like that." + +"Yes, yes, it is from me he has it. Yes, and from the God. Do you not +know why it is the break in the nose?" + +"Well, he's got to have some kind of a nose I suppose." + +"But this kind, Peter, it is for just one thing. It marks him like those +foolish letters on his chest in the letter. You cannot read the marking. +I can read it for you. It says singer, singer, singer. It must be. The +singing nose it is always so. Sometimes it is not so much. But this is +my nose. It says more than singer. It says great singer." + +"Well," said Peter somewhat impatient at the fervency of Maria, "he says +in his letter that he sang the first verse of the school song standing +on his head. That must have been hard." + +"Yes," replied Maria fiercely, "he is standing on his head. He writes to +you only foolishness. It is about skulls and jumping steps. And about +the sport. And there was more. I know you did not read it all. You have +made him to stand on his head. They have made him. He lives only for +foolishness. The mark is there but first there must be work. Years of +work. He is not a child to jump over steps. He must come with me to the +Argentine." + +"Whoa," cried Peter. "We can't let a nose run away with us. Just stop +and think a minute. It's impossible for Pat to go to Argentine with you. +In a year or so he may be old enough to go into the army. It would look +as if he was running away." + +Peter's attempt at a conciliatory speech was conspicuously a failure. + +"The army! The war!" said Maria between clenched teeth. "That is the +most silly of all. Better he should stay with the good brothers and jump +down the steps. My God! Peter, you won't, you can't let him go to the +war. If there was in him not one note of music you would not let him. He +is a boy. He is something alive. And don't you understand? I think it is +in him the fire. They won't kill him. This I will not let." + +"All right, but if the war goes on and he comes of age what can anybody +do about it?" + +"I have much money, Peter. It can be all spent to save him if there is +the need." + +"Money, I've got money too. Lots of it. That's all foolishness. It won't +work." + +"Is it that you want him to go?" + +"Damn you," said Peter, almost sobbing in his anger, "you mustn't say +things like that. He's my son too. He was my son when you ran away and +left him. I've seen war. I've got lately so I see it all from one angle. +Any time our lines go forward I think of them fighting for just one +thing, fighting to keep Pat out of it. You get all excited and worked up +about a nose in a photograph. A picture of a boy you don't even know. +I've wheeled him in the park. I saw him walk the first time. I'm not +looking to save him because he's some kind of a genius. I want him to +live because he's Pat." + +"I said wrong, Peter. I am sorry. Both of us we must wait. It will be +all right. I know God won't be silly." + +Presently Maria said, "I do not know him. That is what you have said. +Tell me about him--about Pat." + +Peter did. It was mostly things about when Pat was a small boy. He +remembered God's ankle and told Maria, and about the blind giant. She +was enormously interested to hear of how Pat had picked out phonograph +records. "And mine," she said eagerly, "did he like that?" + +Peter lied a little. "It was the one he asked for first all the time," +he answered. It surprised Peter that he remembered so much about Pat. +All sorts of little things which he hadn't thought of for years welled +up in his mind. Some of them were things that he had hardly noticed at +the time. + +"And of course you never heard about Judge Krink," he said. "He was a +man Pat invented when he was about five years old. He used to tell me +that he wrote letters to Judge Krink and Judge Krink wrote letters to +him. 'What did he say?' I'd ask him. 'Nothing,' said Pat. I remember +Judge Krink had dirty fingernails. He never went to bed. I don't know +just where he lived, but it was some place in a garden. He sat there and +dug dirt. All the things that Pat couldn't do, Judge Krink did. Maybe I +got asking him about Judge Krink too much because one day he said, 'I +don't have Judge Krink any more. He's got table manners.'" + +"You see," broke in Maria, "it is not the truth when you said I do not +even know him--my son. I have seen him many times. I have played with +him." + +"Where?" asked Peter, puzzled. + +"At the house of the Judge Krink." + +Later they talked about themselves. Peter told Maria about Vonnie. +Somehow he could not bear to have her think that he had been altogether +desolated by her flight seventeen years ago or that he had spent his +life entirely in persuading Pat to eat spinach. Certainly Maria was not +displeased by the story. She smiled cheerfully when told of the +devastation wrought by her phonograph record but she said, "Oh, Peter, +you should not have let her go. I did not teach you enough or you would +have broken the record of the song." Maria met confession with +confession and rather overtopped Peter. + +"How about this God you were telling me about. Do you think he liked +that?" he inquired. + +"Oh," said Maria, "it is not such little things about which he bothers." + +"Didn't you ever love me?" Peter protested. + +"Not after the baby," said Maria. "It was not your fault but in my heart +I blamed you. It seemed to me the thing mean and silly. To be hurt so +much, that cannot be good. Now I am not so sure. If he is to sing it +cannot be too much. Nothing. Not even that." + +She moved to the piano and ran over an air which sounded familiar to +Peter. "You remember?" she said. + +On a chance he guessed. "That's what you danced to in 'Adios'." + +"That is smart. You remember. It is the Invitation to the Waltz. All +these years you have remembered." + +"When do you go back to the war?" she asked suddenly. + +"Tomorrow," said Peter. + +"It is seventeen years and you go away tomorrow." She came across the +room and bending across the back of the chair in which Peter sat she +kissed him on the eyes. "There is something more I want you to +remember," she said. + +Peter was swept as he had been years ago by a gust of emotion. He +started to get up but his legs were a little unsteady. Maria moved +across the room to the piano. + +"Maybe," she said, "you will remember me for the seventeen years more if +I sing 'Depuis Le Jour.'" + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Maria went to the Argentine a month later but Peter heard from her every +now and then. Her letters were mostly brief, acknowledging the letters +from Pat which Peter forwarded to her. Occasionally he would supply a +footnote to something which Pat had written if it touched upon things +which were known only to himself and the boy and could not be understood +by an outsider without explanation. Or it might be that some sporting +reference, simple enough in itself, seemed to require clarification for +the sake of Maria. For instance when Pat wrote, "He tried a forward pass +but I managed to grab it on the two yard line and ran all the way for a +touchdown," Peter added the note, "A football field is a hundred yards +long. Pat's feat was most unusual." + +But sports did not figure quite so large in the letters as they had done +before. Rather often the boy wrote about books. In one letter he +outlined the entire plot of "Mr. Polly" for Peter. In another somewhat +to Peter's astonishment he wrote "Heard Galli again last Saturday. She +does not excite me so much as she used to." Maria returned this letter +with her acknowledgment and Peter found that this time she was supplying +a footnote. "Galli," she wrote, "is Galli Curci, an opera singer with +the voice and nothing else." + +When the letter came in which Pat announced that he had entered the +officer's training school at Harvard, Peter cabled to Maria. She replied +almost immediately, "Have broken my contract, coming back to Paris." +Before she arrived the armistice was signed. Peter went to see her +almost immediately. He wanted to explain to her why her schemes about +Pat were wholly impossible and he felt that now with the war issue +removed it would be easier to discuss the matter calmly and rationally. +He plunged into the question immediately. + +"Now let's both make a solemn promise, Maria, to tell nothing but the +truth without letting emotion or anything like that come in." + +"But then," objected Maria, "it would not be the truth." + +"Oh, you know what I mean. When I showed you Pat's picture that night +you got very much excited. You said he had a nose just like yours and +that it meant he was all cut out to be a singer. A great singer you +said. Well, we're not excited now. Be honest with me. You can't really +tell anything about whether he could be a singer or not just by looking +at his nose in a picture. That was a little far-fetched, wasn't it? I +mean it wasn't plain, cold, common-sense." + +"What you ask me is a little hard, Peter. This common-sense you talk to +me about, for that I care nothing. It is no good. It is not so that I +see things. I was excited when I see the picture. That is true but it +makes no difference. To have the much sense it is necessary for me to +get excited. It is so I see things. If you mean can I write it down on +the piece of paper like the contract, Pat he will be the singer, the +great singer, I must say no. That I cannot promise. But contracts too I +do not like." + +"Yes," said Peter, "I've observed that." + +"But I feel it, Peter. That is so much more. Can you not understand? You +have sometimes maybe look into the crystal. It is so when I look at the +picture. Here is my nose again in the world. It is for something." + +"Maybe," suggested Peter, "it's a nose for news." + +Maria paid no attention. "Do you not see? If it is the failure that does +not matter. Just so long as it is the possibility it is necessary that +we try. + +"You don't begin to understand how far apart we are, Maria. I'll tell +you frankly where I stand. Even if I knew Pat could be the greatest +singer in the world I'd rather have him a newspaperman. That's my +angle." + +"You are not serious." + +"But I am. Newspaper work's real. It's got roots into life. It is life. +It makes people in the world a little different. Singing is just +something you go and hear in the evening." + +"For you it is enough that he should go to the baseball and the football +and perhaps the next war and write the book 'Lafayette Voulez Vous.'" + +Peter flushed. "I think there's more sense to it," he said. "And it's +pretty probable that Pat'll think something like I do. We were together +and you weren't there. And we went around together and talked about +Matty and Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker." + +Maria looked a little puzzled. + +"You wouldn't know," said Peter a little bitterly, "they're none of them +singers." + +"I didn't mean to be rotten," he added hastily. "I'm just trying to tell +you the truth." + +Maria smiled. "It is all right. You tell me, Peter, the truth---- your +truth." + +"Well, you see, Maria, he is like me. The nose may be you, but the rest +is me. It's just got to be. In the beginning he wasn't anything but just +sort of red clay or he was like a phonograph record before you cut the +tune on it. He's been brought up around baseball games and newspaper +offices. He knows, and everybody knows, that he's coming on the Bulletin +and will take my place. In fact the job's been promised him. I'm not +trying to lay down the law. It's just the way things are. I don't see +what I could do about it even if I wanted to. He's all made by now. +What's the use of my saying, 'Yes, let him go over and learn to be a +singer.' It just hasn't been put in him." + +Peter paused. + +"I'm sorry, Maria. The trouble is he's a boy. If he'd been a girl I'd +have jumped at the chance to have you make a singer of him. Newspaper +work's no good for women." + +"And singing, it is not good for men?" asked Maria. + +"Well, as a matter of fact, I don't honestly think it is." + +"Peter, I understand better now what this is you feel, but it is not all +the truth you say. When I go away he is red clay, that is what you say. +It is not so simple. I have looked at him then and to me he was just +what you have said. But it is more. Inside the clay all the time there +is something. The little bug, I do not know what it is you call it." + +"Do you mean germ?" + +"Yes, I think so. That you cannot touch and I cannot. So we do not need +to talk and to get angry. It is for him to say. Is it not so?" + +"Well, within reason--yes." + +"So! You go back to America and you make him the newspaper man. That is +fair. When he is twenty-one you will come here. And he will come. You +will say 'yes'." + +"That's almost four years off." + +"The day I know; it is the twentieth in August. The year it will be +1922." + +Peter hesitated. + +"But it is fair, Peter. You should like it. Do you not see it is what +you call it 'sporting'." + +"You're on," said Peter. + +"There, now we will not quarrel any more. Some things I want to know. +You will tell me. You have heard him singing? Sometimes he sings a +little?" + +"I suppose so. I never noticed particularly. Yes, I remember when he was +a kid he used to sing something that went, 'Tell me, pretty maiden'---- I +can't remember the rest of it. He's got a loud voice, I say that for +him. When he was playing out in front of the house with other kids I +could always hear him a way above all the others. I guess he's got lungs +all right." + +"Those he has got from you. If he is the singer, you see, it will not be +all my fault." + +Maria was leaving for Spain within a few days and Peter said he expected +to get back to America pretty soon. + +"Here we shall meet on the twentieth in August, in nineteen twenty-two," +said Maria. "Good-bye, Peter. I want you to bring my son at eight +o'clock." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +A few months later while the peace conference was still raging fiercely, +Peter was puzzled by a cablegram which he received from America. +"Congratulations on your story," it read, "we want more just like it. +Convey my respects to President Wilson and tell him I am solidly behind +him,---- Twice." + +Peter couldn't remember anybody named Twice which made it still more +difficult for him to understand why he was being congratulated. He +wondered just how urgent was the message to Wilson. Of course it sounded +a little bit like somebody on the paper, but the manner was not that of +Miles even if he assumed that the signature had been in some way or +other so curiously distorted. Cheeves, the Paris correspondent of the +Bulletin, solved his perplexity. + +"You're kidding me," he said. "It isn't possible that you never heard of +Twice. Why, it's Rufus Twice of course, but he always signs just his +last name. You know how it is on state documents, 'Lansing,' 'Bryan' or +whoever the current boy on the job happens to be." + +"It doesn't help any that his first name's Rufus. Who's Rufus Twice, +anyhow?" + +"Well, since yesterday afternoon he happens to be your boss. He's the +new managing editor of the Bulletin, only they don't call him that. He's +got a title. They call him Supervising Editor." + +"He didn't lose any time cabling, did he?" + +"No, everybody around here got one." + +"Were they all congratulations?" + +"All that I've seen, but most of them are much briefer than yours." + +"How about this message I'm to give Wilson, is that really necessary?" + +"Oh, I guess not. But the president ought to feel flattered that Rufus +Twice is behind him and not about three feet out in front pulling him +along. On the level, don't you remember Rufus Twice on the Bulletin?" + +"No, I don't. I've been away for years and years now. I don't remember +anybody." + +"Big black-haired fellow. Snappy dresser. Always made a point of coming +in late and just barely catching the first edition." + +"That fits any one of twenty people around the shop." + +"Maybe they were all Rufus Twice. My God! there've been times when he +seemed like _ad nauseam_. You'll remember him if I remind you of the +story about Twice and the district attorney." + +"Go on. Remind me. What district attorney?" + +"Hell! I can't be bothered remembering the names of district attorneys. +He don't figure anyway. We'll just call him Smith. It was about that +Haldeman murder case. I suppose you've forgotten that too, but Haldeman +was a fellow said he had something on the police and the day before he +was to spill it they found him murdered up in his apartment. This was +about twelve o'clock at night and all the reporters come down to the +station. Rufus Twice is there and this district attorney fellow he shows +up too. After getting all the facts they go out for sandwiches and one +of the reporters says, 'Mr. Smith, haven't you some statement to make to +the papers about this murder.' The district attorney just looks at him +and sits there trying to make up his mind. And while he's thinking Rufus +Twice hops in. 'I think Mr. Smith would like to say something about as +follows,' he begins. It goes on for about a thousand words and when +he's all done he turns to Smith and says, 'That's about right, isn't +it?' And Smith says, 'Yes.' And after that all through the case Twice +gives out the statements the same way except that he doesn't bother to +say, 'That's about right' any more." + +"Is that a true story?" + +"I don't know. That's the way Twice always tells it." + +As Peter was going out, Cheeves called him back. + +"Say, I suppose now that the cruel peace conference is almost over +you'll be going back. I don't want to give you a wrong steer about +Twice. Maybe you got the impression from what I said that he's just a +big bluff. That's only about ten per cent right. He is a big bluff but +in addition to that he's got the stuff. You could make about ten of +Miles out of him. When you pack up your stuff to go back don't forget to +take along a grain of salt." + +There must have been something of prophetic vision in the remarks of +Cheeves for Peter received his message of recall the next day. The cable +said, "Baseball beginning to look more important peace conference stop +much quicker stop we want you back right away stop advise you take +Espagne--Twice." + +Peter looked at his watch. He had just twenty-two hours to dig up such +roots as he had sprouted during his four years in France. He made the +boat by the closest possible margin. Of course he would rather that it +had been any vessel afloat except the Espagne haunted by the ghost of +what was probably by now a dead submarine. Still catching the boat was a +sort of assignment. And it was the quickest way home. Pat would be +waiting on the pier in New York. Peter had cabled ahead to him. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +It was a Pat prodigiously grown who met Peter as he came down the +gangplank. Not much had altered in the look of him but just the added +inches and heft gave him a curiously disturbing air of maturity. Peter +would have liked to put his arms around him but he didn't dare. The +handshake was not adequate and there was nothing he could say to express +what he wanted to. It seemed better not to try. + +"Hello, Pat," he said. + +"Hello, Father," said the boy. + +"Don't," exclaimed Peter almost as if in pain. "I've got a name. I don't +want to be father. I never have been father. Four years oughtn't to do +that." + +"I'm sorry, Peter," Pat said it almost shyly. + +The baggage was passed promptly, but as Peter was about to leave the +pier a man came up to him. + +"You're Peter Neale, aren't you?" he asked. + +Peter nodded. + +"I'm a reporter from the Bulletin. My name's Weed. Mr. Twice sent me +down. He told me to tell you to come right up to the office." + +"What's the rush?" asked Peter. + +"I don't know. He didn't say." + +"I think maybe we'd better go," broke in Pat. "He gave me the same +message for you yesterday. I forgot about it." + +"What has he got to do with you?" Peter inquired, after Weed had gone. + +"Don't you see, when Mr. Twice became editor he inherited me along with +the paper. Mr. Miles never did anything much the last couple years about +managing me. He just turned over the allowance you gave me every week. +Mr. Twice has taken complete charge. He's got my whole life mapped out." + +"What's it going to be?" + +"He's got it all fixed up for me to go to Harvard one more year and then +start on the Bulletin." + +"How do you like that?" + +"I like it fine. But that doesn't make any difference. It's all fixed up +that way anyhow. Twice has made up his mind about it." + +"I'm obliged to him, but why can't he let me alone the first day. They +didn't do things like this on the Bulletin in the old days. Here it is +four years and I want to sit down some place and talk with you." + +They waited in the outer office less than half an hour before a young +woman ushered them into Twice's room. Peter had seen him before. The +description which Cheeves gave was not so very good after all. His hair +wasn't very black. + +"Glad to see you back, Neale," said Twice, "and you, Pat. Won't you just +sit down. I'll be with you in a second." + +"Miss Nathan," he called across the room to his secretary, "I want you +to take a cablegram to Speyer in Berlin. 'Fine story today. We think +Ebert is doing constructive service to humanity. Tell him I said so.' +And oh, Miss Nathan, let me know the minute that call from Washington +comes through. But don't disturb me for anything else. I'm going to be +busy now for some time. Don't forget to make that note about finding out +when Blake's contract is up. I want to know about that the first thing +in the morning. And tell Mr. O'Neill not to go home until he sees me. +You can hold the rest of those letters over till I get back from dinner +tonight. You know where to get me. Just a minute. Take a note for +Booth. The Milwaukee offer is far too low. Tell 'em I've been thinking +it over and that the price for the series is now three hundred instead +of two.' That's the cheapest crowd I ever had to deal with. Don't put +that in the letter. 'Price for the series now three hundred instead of +two.' That's the end of it." + +He turned to Peter. "It's that diary of the sub-commander. I'm letting a +few selected papers in on it. Miss Nathan--" In the moment of lull the +secretary had gone. + +"Well, Neale, I certainly am glad to have you back here again. We've got +to begin to hammer sports. They're coming back terrifically. I put all +the foreign politics in the paper because that's what I think the people +ought to read. Baseball's the thing that actually gets 'em. If Babe Ruth +and Lloyd George both died tomorrow Ruth would just blanket him. And let +me tell you, Neale, George is one of the great men of our day. I have a +very warm personal feeling for him. I don't suppose you remember +Delehanty." + +Peter was just about to answer that he had seen him several times but he +wasn't nearly quick enough. + +"Ruth reminds me more of him than any other player I've seen in the +game," continued Twice. "Killed, jumping off a railroad bridge on June +third, 1902. I've always made it a business not to be wrong. Remember +that, Pat. It's just as easy to have the right date as the wrong one. +It's just a knack. Anybody can do it. Come in some time and I'll explain +the trick for you." + +Peter broke in resolutely. "There was a man came down to the dock who +said you wanted to see me. His name was Weed." + +"Yes, Weed, good man. I dug him up myself. He came off a little paper in +Reading. Of course he hasn't quite got the touch yet. The city's a +little too big for him, but I think he's going to be a first rate +newsman. Right now he tries too hard. He thinks he's got to dazzle +people. The result is he's just a little esoteric. A little too +esoteric. I must remember to tell him he's too esoteric." + +"What is it you want to do with me?" asked Peter, returning to the +attack. + +"Yes," said Rufus Twice, "that's why I asked you to come here. I've been +talking it over with Booth, the syndicate man, and a week from Monday'll +be a good time for you to begin the sport column again. It takes a +little time to get momentum up again but inside of a year I think we'll +have a bigger list for you than when you went away. What did you have +then?" + +"A hundred and twelve," replied Peter. + +"A hundred and twelve," repeated Twice. "Yes, that's just about right. +Well, in a year we'll give you two hundred. I've got another name for +your column. I don't like 'Looking Them Over With Peter Neale.' It's a +little amorphous. How do you like 'Hit and Run?'" + +"I'm not sure I like that at all," said Peter. + +"That's just because it sounds strange to you. You'll get used to it in +no time. Now, we want you to get your first column ready in a couple of +days. We want to have a good margin of time there. I don't want to do +any more than suggest, but I believe you want to say in your first +column that fundamentally there is a kinship between war and sport. Take +a football quarterback and you have the perfect prototype of the general +in charge of operations. The line plunge gives you exactly the same +problem the allies had in Flanders. If you have sufficient preparation +the point of attack will be learned before you're ready. The quick +thrust must be a surprise. Then you have the forward pass. What's that?" + +"Why, I don't know," said Peter. + +"An air raid," said Pat. + +"Exactly. Work it out, Neale and you'll find it has almost innumerable +possibilities. Of course you understand this is just a suggestion." + +Miss Nathan ran in through the door. "Senator Borah's on the wire now," +she cried. + +"All right," said Twice, "I'll be there in a minute. While you were +away, Neale, Miles told me I was supposed to take a look after Pat. That +was an agreement he made with you, he told me. I've got that all fixed. +He goes back to Harvard next week. His work in the officers' training +camp will count him for a year. That means he'll be a sophomore and can +play football. I think he might even make the team. Then the next year +he comes to us. Four years of college is too much. A degree's just +nonsense. I never got one and I wouldn't take an LL.D. I hope the +arrangement's satisfactory to you. Will you please excuse me now? I've +got to talk up disarmament in Washington. You and Pat come down and have +lunch with me tomorrow. Ring me up at the house around noon. It's a +private number but Miss Nathan will give it to you. Glad to have you +back, Neale." + +He was gone. + +"Say, Pat," said Peter, "how did you know a forward pass was like an air +raid?" + +"Well, you see I've heard him do that a couple of times before. How do +you like him?" + +Peter did not obey his first impulse in answering. He suddenly realized +that Rufus Twice was in a position to offer him the most useful sort of +support in launching Pat safely and permanently into the newspaper +business. + +"I tell you, Pat," he said. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's got a lot +more sense than you'd think." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +"Let's go and dine at some terribly quiet place," suggested Peter as he +and Pat came down in the elevator from the office of Rufus Twice. They +went to the Harvard Club and sat in a corner of the dining-room where +not even a waiter noticed them for the first half hour. Peter was +distressed because he found it enormously difficult to talk to Pat. The +years he had been away stood like a wall between them. It seemed to be +an effort for the boy even to call him "Peter" as he had done for so +many years. He was attentive and respectful. There didn't begin to be +enough intimacy for banter. + +In reply to questions Pat said that he had spent almost no time on +football or baseball during his last year because the work at the +officers' training camp had been much too difficult. He didn't know +whether he ever could pitch again. In the last football game at school +he had hurt his left shoulder and it was still a little stiff. It +wouldn't keep him from football he thought, but when he tried to swing +the arm up over his head he got a twinge in the bad shoulder. Anyway he +had come to like football a good deal better than baseball. Twice had +told him he ought to have a bully chance to make the team at Harvard but +he wasn't sure. Perhaps he wouldn't have quite enough speed for a big +college team. + +"I said something like that to Mr. Twice," Pat added, "and he jumped all +over me. He asked me if I'd ever heard of Freud and if I knew what an +inferiority complex was, and I said I had, but he explained it all to me +anyway." + +"What is an inferiority complex?" asked Peter. + +"Oh, you know--that business of thinking there's something wrong with +you about something." + +Pat rubbed the lower part of his neck. "Down here in the subconscious +mind. A sort of a fear or shame or something like that gets stuck down +there and you have rheumatism or you yell at people." + +"What do you mean yell at people? Why do you yell at them?" + +"I don't know exactly, sir. I guess it's to show 'em that you aren't +inferior." + +"Say, Pat, please don't call me 'sir' any more." + +"I'm sorry." + +"I guess there is something in that inferiority thing after all. I've +seen it lots of times, but I never knew the name for it. Lots of +pitchers come up from the sticks with all the stuff in the world and +can't do anything because they're afraid it's going to be too tough for +them. Say, Pat, you've got to pitch again some time. You know on account +of this war I've never seen you pitch." + +"Oh, yes. Don't you remember the year before you went away. We used to +go over in the Park and you'd catch for me." + +"That doesn't count. I mean in a game. How were you anyway?" + +"Well, I guess I wasn't much good. Not with men on bases. If anything +went wrong I always had a terrible time to keep from hurrying. I had to +just stick the ball right over." + +"Why?" + +"Well, I always got to worrying that I was going to lose control. In my +head I could keep a jump ahead of everything that was happening. I was +always seeing fellows walking down to first. I didn't mind them hitting +me so much. It was having 'em all walking around just as slow as they +liked that got my goat. Sometimes I used to have nightmares about it." + +"That's funny, maybe you can't pitch," said Peter. "It doesn't make any +difference. You've had enough baseball already to help you a lot when +you begin to write about it." + +Pat made no reply. + +"Don't you think so?" asked Peter a little sharply. + +"Oh, yes, sir." + +Peter made no comment. He realized that the sharpness of his tone had +checked his advance into the confidence of Pat. That business about the +nightmares was better. People didn't tell things like that to strangers. +He tried to re-establish the mood. + +"Speaking of nightmares," said Peter. "There's one I have a lot. Mine is +about people running, running along the deck of a ship. I guess it's +something left over from that time we had the fight with the submarine +on the Espagne. But there isn't any submarine in the dream. It's just +the people running that frightens me." + +Pat merely listened. Peter paused a moment. "That's curious, isn't it?" + +"Yes, it is," answered Pat. + +A waiter came up now and took the order. After he went away they were +silent. From the big lounging-room came the sound of a man more or less +aimlessly fooling with the piano. After a while Peter broke the silence. +He would have liked to know something about Pat's thoughts on this +career which was being planned for him, and his attitude on the war and +religion and women. "Are you in love with anybody and who is she and +tell me about her?" Peter would have liked to ask a question like that, +but he did not dare. + +"What have you been doing with yourself?" was what he did ask. + +"Mostly just hanging around to find out what Mr. Twice was deciding to +do with me?" Pat answered. + +Then there was more silence. The man in the next room was playing +louder. "I wish, he'd either play that 'Invitation to the Waltz' or cut +it out," said Pat. + +So that was it. The "Invitation to the Waltz." It suggested to Peter +that he bid boldly and offer close confidence in the hope that it would +be met in kind. + +"I wish he wouldn't play the 'Invitation to the Waltz' at all," he said. +"That tune always tears me to bits." + +He waited but Pat said nothing. + +"I've never talked to you before about your mother. The first time I saw +her she danced to that tune ... the 'Invitation to the Waltz.' She's a +singer now but she was a dancer then. I don't suppose you even know her +name." + +"Yes," said Pat, "her name is Maria Algarez and she's singing now at the +opera in Buenos Aires." + +"How did you know that? I didn't even know myself that she was in Buenos +Aires right now." + +"I had a letter from her last week," explained Pat. + +"She writes to you?" asked Peter in a good deal of surprise. "You mean +she always has written to you?" + +"Oh no, I never heard from her at all till during the war. It must have +been a couple of years ago. Of course even when I was a kid I'd heard a +little about her. You remember old Kate. Well, a long time ago she told +me that my mother was an actress and a very bad woman and that I mustn't +say anything about her to you. I don't believe I ever did, did I?" + +"Kate had no right to say that. Your mother isn't a bad woman. She's a +great artist." + +"Well, I guess I never worried much about it anyway. Maybe I was a +little sad about it at first, but I've forgotten. And then all of +sudden I got this letter from Maria Algarez. She said she'd seen you in +Paris and that you showed her my picture and she wanted to write to me. +She told me all about her singing. After that I got a lot of letters +from her. She'd say she'd just been singing in 'Butterfly' and then +she'd tell me what it was all about. You know that funny broken way she +has of writing things." + +"Yes," said Peter, "I know." + +"Well, it was a lot of fun. You see I'd never heard any of these operas +but after I found out about Maria Algarez singing in them I used to go. +If she wrote that she'd been singing 'Butterfly' I'd go to the Met and +get a standup seat and then I'd write to her and tell her about Farrar +and all the people I'd heard. She'd write back and tell me all the +things that were the matter with Farrar and the way she did it +differently and a lot better." + +"She never showed any of those letters to me," said Peter. + +"Didn't she?" asked Pat casually as if it made no difference. "Oh yes, I +remember she wrote to me once that if I told you about going to the +opera it might worry you and not to say anything about it. I don't know +why. She used to send me clippings from the newspapers with the things +critics said about her. They were all just crazy about her." + +Peter in his bitterness was about to say, "Of course, she picked out the +good ones," but Pat was in full swing and he decided not to throw him +off his stride. + +"You know I couldn't read this stuff at first. It was in French and +Spanish, but there was an old fellow that taught at school and he was +terribly excited too when I told him that Maria Algarez was sending me +these clippings. He'd heard her sing, you know. He used to translate the +clippings for me and he told me a lot about Maria Algarez." + +"And now," said Peter, "I suppose you can read them yourself." + +"Well, I can do the French all right but I'm not much on the Spanish. +You see the old Frenchman, the fellow that taught at school, he was +awful decent to me. He used to give me extra classes outside of school. +You see we had a secret between us. It was like belonging to that kid +fraternity we used to have in high school--Alpha Kappa Phi. That means +something that nobody else knew. I can't remember what." + +"Brothers and friends," prompted Peter. + +"How did you know that?" + +"You told me about it in one of the letters you wrote to me. But what +was the secret you had with the old Frenchman?" + +"Why, about Maria. He told me not to let any of the fellows know that +Maria Algarez was my mother. He said that it was a beautiful romance but +that here in America people wouldn't understand on account of American +morality being so strict and that they might look down on me." + +Peter was indignant. "Beautiful romance! Where did he get that idea? +Maria Algarez and I were married just like anybody. Didn't she tell you +that?" + +"No," said Pat in obvious disappointment, "she didn't." + +"I guess she forgot about it," suggested Peter. + +"It doesn't make any difference to me, but if I run into old Mons. +Fournier I won't dare tell him. It would spoil the whole thing for him. +He'll think I was just boasting. Gosh he got a lot of fun out of it." + +"Fournier, there's a Jacques Fournier that plays first base for the +White Sox." + +"No, this man's named Antoine. He's the old French teacher I was telling +you about. Maybe they're related. He never said anything about it." + +"In these letters about the opera and singing and all that," asked +Peter, "did Maria Algarez ever suggest that you ought to try and be a +singer." + +Pat broke into unrestrained merriment. "Good God! no," he said and added +quickly, "I beg your pardon, Father, I didn't mean to curse but it would +be so funny if Maria'd said anything like that about me." + +Peter was nettled. "If you're going to call me 'father' why don't you +call her 'mother'?" + +"I'm sorry; I know you don't like to be called 'father'. I won't do it +again." + +"All right, but you haven't answered my question. Don't you ever think +of calling her 'mother'?" + +"Maria Algarez? No, it would sound so funny. I've never seen her. She +doesn't seem like my mother or anybody's mother. She's around singing +before people and all that. And look at her picture." + +He took one out of his pocket and handed it across the table. For the +first time since the conversation had turned upon Maria Peter smiled. +He recognized the picture. He too had had one just like it a good many +years ago. It was taken two or three months before he married Maria +Algarez. However, Peter let it pass without comment. + +"What does Maria say about what you're going to do?" he wanted to know. +"She hasn't raised any objections to your going into the newspaper +business?" + +"No, she never mentioned that or anything definite. She's just kept +hammering away at one thing. She keeps saying Pat don't do anything +unless it's something you want to do very much. And she says if a man or +a woman has something like that he wants to do he musn't let anything in +the world stand in his way. He must go after it." + +"Have you been living up to that? Have you been doing everything you +wanted?" + +"Well, no," said Pat, "not since Rufus Twice took me over." + +Peter brightened. Maria had a fight on her hands. Rufus Twice was right +behind him even as he had been behind President Wilson. But the next +moment he was again sunk in gloom. They were done with dinner and Pat +asked with unmistakable eagerness, "Couldn't we go some place and hear +some music?" + +Peter throttled down his chagrin but before he could answer Pat added, +"Do you suppose there's any chance of our getting in to the Follies?" + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +The plans of Rufus Twice did not work out quite according to +specifications. Pat went to Harvard, but he failed to make the football +team although he remained on the squad as a rather remotely removed +substitute quarterback. He was not even taken to the Princeton game, but +he wrote to Peter that he would be on the sidelines in uniform for the +game with Yale at New Haven. It was arranged that he should meet Peter +immediately afterwards at the Western Union office. Pat's letters from +Harvard were sparse and infrequent. + +"Football is the toughest course I have," he wrote, "and the dullest. +Learning the signals here is worse than dates. You can't even guess at +them. You have to know. Last week Bob Fisher gave us a blackboard talk +in the locker-room and made a comparison between war and football. It +sounded just like Mr. Twice. Maybe Mr. Twice put him up to it. It's +beginning to seem to me as if that man ran everything in this world. The +only thing I've enjoyed much is going round to Copeland's. He's an +assistant professor in English. I take a course with him about Dr. +Johnson and his Circle. I don't care anything about Dr. Johnson. He +seems to have been the Rufus Twice of his day. But I do like hearing +Copeland. The fellows that know him well call him 'Copey,' but I haven't +nerve enough to do that. He has receptions in his room at night. There's +a regular thing he tells you, 'Nobody comes much before ten or stays +after eleven'. He talks about books and makes them exciting. I'm kind of +steamed up about an English woman writer called May Sinclair. I've been +reading 'Mary Olivier.' It isn't much like any writing I've ever seen +before. She just sort of sails along over a story and whenever she sees +anything that seems important to her she swoops down and collars it. All +the stuff that doesn't matter is left out. There isn't much here that +matters, but you can't leave it out because if you do the dean tells you +about it. Do you remember that suggestion you made to me that night we +took dinner at the Harvard Club. You remember you asked me if I ever +thought any about singing myself. I got rather interested and thought +some about going out for the Glee Club, but I knew Mr. Twice would +raise the dickens if I didn't play football. Sometimes we sing up here +in the room. Just swipes you know. I'm getting so I can work out chords +on the piano. I don't know anything about my voice because it's always a +bunch of us that sings together. I do know though that I can sing a lot +louder than the rest. I think if you're smart you'll put a bet on us +against Yale. Those lickings we got earlier in the season don't mean +anything. We're just beginning to come along now. I don't know why I say +'we.' I mean 'they.' I haven't got anything to do with it. Somehow +though I do get swept along into the whole business. Mr. Copeland was +telling us the other night that we all take football a lot too +seriously. He says nothing will crumble and fall down even if we don't +beat Yale next Saturday. I know there's sense to that, but somehow I +can't help caring about it. Keep your eyes on Charlie Bullitt when you +come up to the game. When I watch him work I realize how far off I am +from being a regular college quarterback. He's got a bean on him. I'll +see you right after the game at the telegraph office. I suppose you're +going to do the story for the Bulletin. See that Harvard doesn't get any +the worst of it." + +Peter did watch Bullitt, but more than that he watched the huddled crowd +of Harvard players on the sidelines. He couldn't help feeling that in +some way or other Pat would finally get into the game. His old habit of +making pictures beforehand was with him. There was Pat throwing off his +blanket and running out to report to the officials. Peter wondered if he +would know him from his lofty seat at the top of the Stadium. He felt +sure that he would. Still every time a Harvard substitute went in Peter +shouted down the line to find out if at last this was Pat. The picture +he had fashioned for himself couldn't be wrong. Pat would run down the +field through the blue team yard after yard over the goal line. If it +only could happen to Pat. Once let him hear the roar of the whole +Harvard cheering section racketing behind him and there could never be +any more talk about his being a singer or anything like that. It +wouldn't be exciting enough. + +Just to sit there and watch made Peter feel that he was a part of one of +the most thrilling manifestations of life. When the British went over +and captured Messines Ridge Peter had watched the show from the top of +Kemmel Hill. He and the other correspondents knew the exact second when +the mines were to explode. They all knew that this might be the decisive +push of the war. And as he waited for the great crash which would show +that the attack was on Peter trembled. But the excitement didn't begin +to toss him about as it did now when Harvard was playing Yale. Yes, it +was true as Pat had said that there wasn't any sense to it, but there it +was. It was a symbol of something much greater. Peter didn't know quite +what. Maybe there was some significance for him in the fact that the +Yale line was so much bigger and heavier. Harvard would have to win with +speed and skill. + +Maria had always said that there was no song in him. He knew that she +felt he didn't appreciate beauty. But what could she ever show Pat that +would pound a pulse like this. How could anybody dream of making a +singer out of Pat when he might be a quarterback and after his own +playing was done go on living the thing over as he watched the games +year after year. And perhaps when Pat came to write he could put in it +this thing that was sport, and beauty, and life and fighting and +everything else worth while in life. Perhaps he could do the things that +he spoke of in the letter about that English novelist, the woman that +sort of soared over things and then swooped down on them. All this that +was happening belonged to him and Pat. Maria and the boy had nothing +like this in common. She just couldn't have an ear for football. + +By and by Peter forgot all about her. He didn't even remember very much +that Pat was waiting in the sidelines. The affair grew too desperate to +admit of any personal considerations. The one present and compelling +tragedy of Peter's life dwarfing all others was that Yale was winning. +He had stationed beside him a young undergraduate from New Haven who was +supposed to give him the substitutions in the Yale lineup and identify +the Eli who carried the ball or made the tackle. This young man had gone +a little more insane than Peter. He paid no attention to any questions, +but pounded his fist on the great pile of copy paper which lay in front +of Peter and shouted: "Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!" + +"Don't do that," said Peter. He didn't like the sentiment and he hated +to have his notes knocked around. The Yale youngster didn't hear him. +"Touchdown!" he screamed again and almost jarred Peter's typewriter over +the edge of the Stadium. + +A fumble lost three yards and halted the Yale attack. There came a punt +and the Harvard quarterback raced down the field. Pat had said, "Watch +Charlie Bullitt." They threw him on the fourteen yard line. + +"Who made that tackle?" asked Peter. + +"Hold 'em, Yale! Hold 'em, Yale!" chanted the undergraduate reporter. + +Suddenly Peter jumped up scattering his notes all over the press box. +His typewriter fell to the concrete with a clatter. "Harvard!" he said, +and then much louder, "Harvard! Harvard!" And as he shouted the ball +went over the line. It was only by chance that he happened to hit the +Yale reporter on the back the first time, but he was so swept along by +the wildness of the moment that he continued to slap him violently until +the youngster moved away. A little later there was a field goal and +presently the game was over and Harvard had won by a score of 10 to 3. + +Peter didn't leave the press box immediately. He was much too shaky to +attempt the journey down the long steps to the field. The Harvard stands +had poured out on to the gridiron and the students were throwing their +hats over the goal posts. The Yale undergraduates remained and across +the field came booming, "For God! For Country! And for Yale!" Peter knew +that he would have to cool off emotionally before he could write his +story. That would have to tell who carried the ball and when and how +far. He couldn't just write, "Harvard! Harvard! Harvard!" and let it go +at that. He must make most of his story on that run of Bullitt's. The +thing was almost perfect in its newspaper possibilities. It couldn't be +better. The tackle which stopped the quarterback on the fourteen-yard +line had knocked him out. Peter wished he knew what Dr. Nichols had said +when he ran out to the player. Then he remembered somebody had told him +once that the doctor had a formula which he invariably used when a +player was knocked out. "What day of the week is it? Who are you +playing? What's the score?" That was the test which must be passed by an +injured man before he could remain in the game. + +Suddenly an idea came to Peter. That was just the touch he needed. His +story was made. He almost jogged all the way to the telegraph office. +His first two starts were false ones. Then he achieved a sentence which +suited him and pounded away steadily. No doubts assailed him. He was +never forced to stop and hunt for any word. The thing just wrote itself. +"There's a little trouble," said the chief operator, "but I can let you +have a wire in about half an hour." + +"I've got half of it done already," replied Peter. "Make it snappy." +They were holding him up and he stopped to look over what he had +written. + +"Cambridge, Mass., November, 19--By Peter Neale--The Harvard worm turned +into a snake dance. Tied by Penn State, beaten by Centre and by +Princeton, the plucky Crimson eleven made complete atonement this +afternoon when it won from Yale by a score of 10 to 3. + +"Joy came in the evening. Harvard did all its scoring in the dusk of the +final period. The Crimson backs showed that they were not afraid to go +home in the dark. + +"Charles K. Bullitt, quarterback, who weighs 156 pounds, earned most of +the glory. In the past this slight young man has been valued chiefly for +his head work. He is rather a delicate piece of thinking machinery and +it has been the custom to guard him a little from the bumps of the game. +His role has been like that of a chief of staff. + +"The customary procedure is for Bullitt to peer calmly over the opposing +lines and then make a suggestion to one of the bigger backs as to where +it might be advisable for him to go. In general his acquaintance with +the ball has been only a passing one. He is expected merely to fair +catch punts and not to run them back. Indeed for the last two years +Bullitt has fairly thought his way into a place on the Harvard team. + +"But today the scholar in football suddenly became the man of action. He +proved that he could function from the neck down. Standing at midfield, +late in the third period, Bullitt received a punt from Aldrich. He +switched his tactics. Instead of playing safe he began to run. Leaving +his philosophic cloister, he plunged headlong into life. And it was life +of the roughest sort, for Yale men were all about him. Fortunately for +the little anchorite of the football field he had achieved a theory +during his sheltered meditations and it worked. Whenever a Yale tackler +approached him he thrust out one foot. And then, just to fool the foe, +he took it away again. + +"The zest of living gripped him and he went on and on over the chalk +marks. It seemed to him that the rigors of existence had been +overstated. Drunk with achievement he set no limit on his journey. But +the Yale tacklers did. + +"In the end the world was too much with him. Disillusion came in the +form of two tacklers in blue who hurled themselves upon him. Their hands +touched him and held tight. Down went Bullitt. The big stadium turned +three complete revolutions before his eyes. Pinwheels danced. From a +distance of approximately one million miles he heard thousands of people +crying 'Harvard! Harvard! Harvard!' Curiously enough they were all +whispering. And then he lost consciousness. After several quarts of +water had been poured over Bullitt he came to. Dr. Nichols the physician +of the Harvard team was standing over him. The doctor waited while +Bullitt blinked a couple of times and then he propounded his stock +questions which he always uses after a player has been knocked out. The +test of rationality was, 'What day is it? Whom are you playing? And +what's the score?' Dr. Nichols was gravity itself but Bullitt grinned +and answered, 'It's Saturday, November nineteenth. We're playing Yale +and the score is three to nothing against us but Harvard's going to get +a touchdown damn soon.' + +"Dr. Nichols gave it as his professional opinion that Bullitt was +rational. Four minutes later as the Crimson swept over the line for a +touchdown, he knew it." + +Just as he finished rereading his story the wire chief came in and +announced that he had the Bulletin looped up. Before Peter could hand +him the copy Pat walked into the office. Peter felt just as he had done +at the pier. He wanted to throw his arms around Pat. "It was wonderful, +wasn't it?" he cried. "That's the greatest game I ever saw in my life." + +"Yes," said Pat, "I guess it was a good game. Have you finished your +story?" + +"Just the lead. Do you want to see it?" + +"All right." + +"The wire's waiting for me. Hand it over a sheet at a time as soon as +you get done." + +Peter turned to his typewriter, but he couldn't go on. He kept watching +Pat. He waited to hear him say something. Pat read on to the end without +comment. Then he looked up. "Where did you get that story about Charlie +Bullitt and Doc Nichols?" + +"I didn't get it. I knew that they said something to each other and I +thought that would be about it." + +"The part about Nichols is all right. Those are the questions he always +asks, but Charlie Bullitt wouldn't have said anything like that. Don't +you know how serious they take football. They'd put a man off the squad +for making jokes like that. He winked, did he? They shook him up a long +ways beyond winking. I don't believe he said it at all. Who told you +anyway?" + +"I've said nobody told me. It's just one of those things that might have +happened." + +"Don't stand there holding on to that copy," Peter added in +exasperation. "The wire's waiting." + +"But you're not going to send it, are you? It's not true. It doesn't +even sound true." + +"I'm writing this story," said Peter. "Hand it in." + +"All right." + +Pat carried it to the operator in the next room. Peter began to write +again but all the zest and excitement of it was gone. He had to fumble +around and look at his notes. Nothing went right. It was almost three +quarters of an hour before he got to the last page. Pat sat across the +table from him saying nothing. + +"All done," said Peter at last. "Where shall we go?" + +"I don't care." + +"Maybe there's a party for the team that you've got to go to." + +"I don't have to go. I'm not going." + +"What's the matter with you, Pat. You'd think Yale had licked us. Are +you sore because you didn't get into the game?" + +"No, I knew I wouldn't get in. Pretty near the whole squad would have to +be struck by lightning before I got in. That wasn't it. I found out this +afternoon that Copeland was right. The thing doesn't matter. It's silly +to get so worked up about it." + +"What made you think that?" + +"You remember that man that dropped the punt in the first quarter, that +fumble that gave the Elis the chance for their field goal." + +"Yes, I remember. He had it square in his hands and muffed it." + +"Well, that was Bill French. I know him better than anybody else on the +squad. He's a corker. They hauled him out right after that muff and as +he came off one of the coaches said something to him. I don't know what, +but he flopped down on the seat right beside me and began blubbering +like a kid. He was trying not to, you understand, but just bawling +away." + +"Oh, he'll forget about all that by tomorrow." + +"No, he won't and nobody else will. They won't let him forget. He'll be +'the man that dropped the punt.' If we hadn't won he'd be around +thinking of committing suicide. It's just rotten. There oughtn't to be +things like that." + +"Well, you can't have any kind of a real struggle without somebody +suffering." + +"Then let 'em suffer for something worth while. The thing's all dolled +up in the newspaper stories. You come along with that yarn about Bullitt +saying, 'We're going to get a touchdown damn soon' and all that stuff +about his getting knocked out." + +"Well, he did get knocked out, didn't he?" + +"You bet your life he did but it wasn't all nice and pretty. Pinwheels +and whispering cheers in his ears and all that. You weren't close enough +to see what happened when Jim came out with the sponge." + +"What did happen?" + +"He put his lunch, but that isn't pretty enough to get in your story." + +"That's not going to disable him for life." + +"I didn't say it would. He was just a sick pup and he would have liked +to go off some place and lie down. But you can't. I'd die for dear old +Harvard and all that. He had to get up and go on with it. If you don't +you're a quitter and you haven't got any guts. I tell you I think it's +damn rot. It's phoney like your story." + +"Maybe you'll have a chance to write a better one some day," said Peter. +He had hard work to steady himself. He didn't believe Bullitt had been +hurt any worse than he was at that moment. Pat didn't answer. + +"Wasn't there anything that gave you any kick all afternoon?" asked +Peter after a pause. + +"Sure, just one thing. It was the Yale stands singing 'Die Wacht Am +Rhein.' I know they've got terribly silly words, but there is something +that has got guts. I think that's just about ten times as exciting as +all the football games ever played. There was our crowd tooting away, +'Hit the line for Harvard, for Harvard wins today' and that big song +with all those marching feet in it throbbing over across the field." + +"German feet," objected Peter. + +"Well, but they are feet and you can't take the beat and the sweep out +of it. Maybe we did win the game but they did sing the heads off us." + +"Another moral victory for Yale," suggested Peter. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +When Peter came into his office one afternoon a couple of weeks after +the Yale game he found Pat sitting at his desk waiting for him. + +"I'm through," said Pat. + +"What's the matter?" + +"Well, as a matter of fact, they're through with me. They've fired me." + +Pat looked across the desk expectantly awaiting a question. Peter didn't +ask it. "I'm sorry," was all he said. + +"You know about it. I suppose you must have the letter from the dean by +now. It took me three days getting back from Cambridge." + +"I don't know anything about it. You can tell me if you want to." + +"Well, I got fired the worst way. It wasn't just flunking courses. I +didn't even mean to do it. Not ahead of time anyway. It just sort of +happened." + +Peter waited and then suddenly he remembered his interview with Miles +years ago, the day he came to the office in bandages and was never +offered a chance to tell about it. A question would be kinder. + +"What happened, Pat?" he asked. + +"The proctor reported me. I had a girl in my room. No, that's slicking +it up and making it sound romantic and pretty. What I mean is I had a +woman in my room. You know ... a woman." + +"I know," said Peter. + +"You remember I was low in my mind after the football game. It let me +down. I don't care what I wrote you before the game. I really did think +it was going to be fine. I thought I'd get stirred by it and after it +was all over the only things I remembered were Bill French sitting on +the side-lines crying and Charlie Bullitt out on the field putting his +lunch. You don't mind if I tell it this way--the long way." + +"Take your time." + +"Well, I know it sounds silly, but it seemed to me that I just had to go +out and find something that was thrilling and beautiful too. I saw this +girl--this woman--walking across Harvard Square. It was night and +raining and blowing. The wind was almost carrying her along. You know it +made her seem so alive." + +He paused again. Peter could not resist an impulse to break into the +story. "She said to you, 'Come along' or a something like that," he +suggested. + +"No, I spoke to her. I said, 'Why get wet?' It was dark and we sneaked +up the stairs in Weld to my room. And then it wasn't beautiful at all." +Pat buried his head in his hands. + +This time Peter did put his arm around his shoulders. "That's right," +said Peter, "it wasn't beautiful. You couldn't know that. Nobody ever +does. I didn't." + +Pat looked up and in the second he had snapped back to normal. The shame +had gone somewhere; into Peter's protecting arm perhaps. He managed a +smile. + +"Peter," he said, "there's something more I'm sorry about. I'm sorry for +what I said about that football story. It was a good football story. A +peach of a story--all but that part about Charlie Bullitt and Dr. +Nichols." + +Peter grinned back at him. "That's my weakness. I can't help being a +little yellow sometime." + +A sudden elation swept over Peter. Here at last was a secret shared just +by him and Pat. Of course, the Dean of Harvard College and the proctor +and the woman who walked in the rain knew about it, but they didn't +count. + +"The proctor saw her when she was going out," Pat added just to finish +up the story. There they left it and went on to talk of other things but +presently Miss Nathan came in. + +"Mr. Neale," she said, "Mr. Twice wants to see you in his office." + +Peter got up. "No," she said, "it's Mr. Pat Neale he wants to see. He's +been asking for him for a couple of days now. I told him that he was +here this afternoon." + +"What's Twice want to see you for, I wonder?" + +"I know," said Pat. "I've just thought of it. He must have got the +Dean's letter. Don't you remember it was Mr. Twice arranged about my +going to Harvard before you got back? I suppose they think he's still my +guardian." + +"Do you want me to come in with you?" + +"Never mind. Now that I've got it off my chest once I guess I can do it +again." + +Pat was gone for almost three quarters of an hour. Peter walked up and +down nervously. He wondered what was happening. From across the transoms +of Twice's office he could hear just the rumbling of the editor's +voice. Pat didn't seem to be saying anything. At last he came back. + +"What did he say to you? He seemed to be raising Cain." + +"No, he didn't say anything much. At least not much about the Dean's +letter. He had that all right. He got talking to me about Krafft-Ebing." + +"Oh, was that all?" + +"No, there was more than that. I report down here for work on Monday." + + * * * * * + +"The trouble with him," said Rufus Twice, "is that he doesn't seem to +understand that you've got to have a certain routine in a newspaper +office. Deering tells me that he hardly ever gets in at one o'clock. +Along about two he calls up on the phone and wants to get his assignment +that way. And last night Warren says that he called up after ten and +said, 'It's raining like hell. You don't really want me to go out and +cover that story, do you?' Warren told him, 'Oh no, Mr. Neale. I didn't +know it was raining. Of course, if this keeps up we won't get out any +paper at all.'" + +Peter couldn't laugh because Twice was telling him of the reportorial +shortcomings of Pat. He spoke to Pat about it when he got home to the +apartment. The old flat in Sixty-sixth Street was again theirs. + +"But I get such lousy assignments," said Pat. "I think Deering's down on +me. I suppose I've given him cause all right, but he's taking it out on +me. He sends me where there isn't any chance of getting anything. If I +do write something it never gets in the paper anyway. I did tell him it +was raining. What was the use of my getting wet for nothing? They wanted +me to go up to a meeting of the trustees of the Museum of Natural +History. Now what could I get out of that?" + +"Didn't you go up?" said Peter aghast. "He was just being sarcastic when +he told you there wouldn't be any paper if the rain kept up." + +"Oh, I know that. The Bulletin comes out every day all right. That's the +trouble with it, but I took him up literally on what he said. I don't +think the joke was on me. It was on him." + +"You shouldn't do things like that." + +"Suppose I had gone. There wouldn't have been any story anyway." + +"You've got to quit supposing. Let the city editor do that. The +worst-looking assignment may turn out to be something if you go after +it." + +"Yes, once in every twenty years those directors of the Museum of +Natural History get into an awful row about whether to put the +ichthyosaurus on the second floor or in the basement and if anything +like that happened they'd turn over the whole front page to me." + +Peter shook his head gloomily. "You've got the wrong spirit. Even if +your assignments are no good keep your eyes and your ears open when you +go round the city and something will turn up. That's the way to show +them. Bring in something you pick up yourself. Every day of the year +there must be whole pagefuls of stuff just as good and better than the +stuff we get in the paper. Only we don't find out about it. Keep +scouting for stuff like that. When you say newspaper work's stupid +you're practically saying that life's stupid." + +"Maybe it is," said Pat, "but I'm not so sure about that as I am about +newspapers." + +"It's the same thing." + +"I don't think so. Here's the sort of thing that makes life amusing and +isn't worth anything for a newspaper. I was riding in one of those +B.R.T. subway trains the other day and there were two women sitting next +me on one of those cross seats. One was fat and middle-aged and the +other was younger. I didn't notice her so much. It was the fat one who +was doing the talking. She was very much excited and she was explaining +something to the younger woman. 'Why, I said to him,' she told her--'I +said to him, 'Why, Mr. Babcock, I don't want to be sacrilegious but that +girl she's so sweet and so pretty I don't even believe our Lord himself +could be mean to her.' That made me satisfied with the whole day, but +imagine coming in and trying to put it over on Warren or Deering for a +story." + +"A story's got to begin some place and end some place," objected Peter. + +"The kind I get don't begin any place and so I don't have to wait around +for them to end." + +Peter went to Rufus Twice and told him that Pat didn't seem to be making +any progress in general work. + +"You ought to be more patient, Neale," answered Twice. "What's all this +hurry about Pat? He won't be twenty-one yet for a couple of years." + +"It's nearer than that. It's just thirteen months and three days." +Peter could have told him the hours and the minutes too which lay +between Pat and his eight o'clock appointment in Paris. + +"That doesn't make him exactly aged. He's learning or he ought to be +learning all the time. Even if he didn't get a line in the paper all +year he wouldn't be wasting his time. Just being here helps him to pick +up my way of doing things. Of course, when I say 'my' I mean the +paper's." + +"All that's perfectly true, Mr. Twice, but I have a very special reason +for wanting him to get ahead right now. I want him to be interested. I +want him to feel that he's important." + +"There isn't any job around here that isn't important. You ought to know +that, Neale. None of us count as individuals. We're all part of the +Bulletin. Nobody can say that one cog's more important than another. Did +you ever see a Liberty motor assembled?" + +"Yes," said Peter with as much haste and emphasis as he could muster, +but it was probably the convenient ringing of the phone which saved him. + +"If Mr. Boone has anything to say in reply to the story we printed this +morning he's welcome to come to my office and see me. That is if he's +got facts. I want you to know that I resent his making his complaint +through an advertising agency. I don't care if I am impolite. I intend +to be. Don't bother to threaten me about your advertising. You can't +take it out. I'll beat you to that. It's thrown out. Good-bye." + +Twice swung his chair around and faced Peter. "I've just cost the paper +$65,000 a year in advertising," he said cheerfully. "The Dubell Agency +was trying to bawl me out about that Sun Flower Oil story we had on the +front page this morning. Did you see it?" + +"Well, I saw the headlines," said Peter untruthfully. + +"I want you to read it. Weed did it. I told you I was going to make +something out of that young man. Let's see, what were we talking about?" + +Peter almost said, "The Liberty Motor," but stopped himself in time. "We +were talking about Pat." + +"Oh yes, I remember. I suppose, Neale, you and I could say without +egotism that we're important cogs here on the Bulletin. I suppose +sometimes it seems to us that we're vital cogs, but if you should die +tomorrow the Bulletin would come out just the same. I'd give you a good +obit but work would go on. Nobody is indispensable. Pat's got to get it +through his head that he's just part of an army." + +"I think he has," said Peter, "but the trouble is he feels that he's got +a permanent assignment on kitchen police." + +"But consider this, Neale. I didn't seduce Pat away from college and on +to the Bulletin. I did promise him a job and he's got it. He can't +expect to hang around here for a year or so and jump right in and write +lead stories. What is it you want me to do anyway?" + +"Well, I thought maybe it would be a good thing to shift him over on +sports. He knows baseball and football and I'd like to have him come out +with me and do notes of the games and things like that. That would be +down his alley. That would interest him and I think he could do it." + +"I don't think it's the best way. I think you're forgetting that general +news is the backbone of a paper. All the rest is tacked on. You're wrong +but I tell you what I'll do. I'm going to yield to your judgment. Go in +and tell Clark that I want Pat to report to him from now on. Go and send +Pat in. I want to have a talk with him." + +Peter ran into Pat late that night in the Newspaper Club. + +"Did Twice get hold of you?" he asked. + +"He certainly did," said Pat. "He's decided to take me off general work +and put me on sports. His idea is to send me around with you to football +games and baseball and have me write notes. You know 'Diamond Chips' or +'Hot Off The Gridiron.'" + +"Did he say anything else to you?" + +"Yes, he asked me if I'd ever seen a Liberty Motor assembled and I said, +'No,' and he told me about it. Oh yes, and he said, 'When a reporter +goes out on a story there are four things he ought to remember--When! +Where! What! and Why!'" + +"What's the matter with that?" Peter felt that Pat ought to show a +little more delight and gratitude at being fairly launched on his career +as a sporting writer. + +"Well, I tried it out on that assignment I had to cover--the directors +of the Museum of Natural History. It worked out like this--When--last +night. Where--the palatial apartment of Mr. Harold Denny at 605 Park +avenue. What--the annual report of the directors of the Museum of +Natural History. Why--God knows." + +Pat was busily engaged with three other men in a game called horse +racing. Each contestant had two pool balls and all were lined up at one +end of the table with a piece of board behind them. The starter's job +rotated among the players. He sent the balls spinning up the table and +the one which landed nearest to the rail on the rebound won the purse. +Peter wanted to talk to Pat, but he seemed anxious to get away. + +"There's a newspaper man over in the corner that I'd like to have you +meet," said Peter. + +"Who is it?" + +"His name's Heywood Broun. He's on the World." + +"Which one do you mean? The one with the shave?" + +"No, the other one." + +"I'm too busy," said Pat. "I can't be bothered. We're just going to run +the Suburban Handicap, That costs fifty cents for each horse." + +As the balls were shoved away Pat raced down the table with them +shouting, "Come on Ulysses. Come on James Joyce." He ran over to Peter +with a handful of coins. "Ulysses won," he said, "and James Joyce was +second." + +"What do you call them that for?" + +"They're named after a book I've been reading." + +Peter was about to head up town, but Pat urged him to stay. "Stick +around awhile," he said, "as soon as Nick Carter shows up the +quartette's going to have a concert." + +"What quartette?" + +"Oh just me and three other fellows. We're pretty good. At least I am. +We get in a few swipes almost every night." + +"Are you still going to the opera so much?" asked Peter anxiously. + +"No, I haven't had any time. There isn't any opera now anyway but it's +almost a year since I've been." + +"Have you heard from Maria lately?" + +"The last letter I got was almost six months ago. She didn't say +anything much except she said that before long she was going to see me +in Paris. I don't know how. You haven't heard Mr. Twice say anything +about giving me an assignment over there, the annual meeting of the +house committee of the Louvre or anything like that?" + +"He hasn't said anything to me about it." + +Peter didn't wait for the singing nor was he particularly worried about +it. He was cheered by the fact that Pat had spoken so casually of the +opera and of Maria. When he got home to the flat he noticed a big book +in blue paper covers on the table. It was "Ulysses" by James Joyce. + +"Why, that's the book Pat named the pool balls after." He picked it up +and began at the beginning and then skipped ahead frantically. An hour +or so later Pat came in. Peter pointed to the book and looked at him +reproachfully. + +"What does it mean, Pat?" he asked. Stumbling over it at random he read: + + "In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended. Douce with + Kennedy your other eye. They threw young heads back, bronze + gigglegold, to let freefly their laughter, screaming, your other, + signals to each other, high piercing notes." + +"I don't know," said Pat. "I haven't got that far yet. But what +difference does it make what it means? That isn't the point. There's +music in it." + +As Peter was going to bed he cursed silently to himself. "Damn this +music. They're even trying to play it on typewriters now." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +On sports Pat worked better and more cheerfully. It was Pat who devised +the note at one of the Princeton football games, "The Tiger eleven has +three fine backs and the greatest of these is Gharrity." And he came +through splendidly when he was assigned to cover Marshal Foch's +activities at another game and report in detail what the Frenchman did. +Peter found the story posted on the board in the Bulletin office. In +fact Twice had allowed Pat to have his signature in the paper. Right +after Peter's own story it came--"By Peter Neale, Jr." + +This was the third reading for Peter but he could not resist the +pleasure of standing in front of the board in the City Room and looking +over it again slowly: + + "Ferdinand Foch, field marshal, was outranked this afternoon by + Malcolm Aldrich, captain. The Field Marshal was received + enthusiastically by the 80,000 spectators but he found he could not + hold the attention of the throng once the whistle had blown. He + became then just a spectator at one of the greatest football games + ever played between Yale and Princeton. Come to think of it he was + rather less a part of the proceedings than the young men in the + cheering section behind him. Foch did not have a blue feather, or a + girl, or a bet on the game. The greatest military leader in the + world was assigned today to the humble job of being just a neutral. + He must have known that momentous things were happening when 40,000 + roared defiance and another 40,000 roared back. Undoubtedly he was + stirred when huge sections of the Bowl turned into fluttering banks + of orange and black, or of blue, but probably there was much of it + which he could not understand. It would be hard, for instance, to + explain to a man who had been at Verdun the justice of penalizing + anybody for holding, nor did the rival teams pay any respect to the + slogan 'They shall not pass!' They did it all the time. + + "The young American officer detailed to help the distinguished + visitor did his best. 'You see, Marshal,' he would explain, 'it's + this way. Yale has _la balle_ on Princeton's 35-yard line and it's + _premier bas_ with _dix_ yards to go.' Just at that point Aldrich + or O'Hearn would tear through the Tigers for a run and the American + officer grew so excited that he would lose the thread of his + explanations. Foch never did catch up." + +"It's just the way I would have written it myself," thought Peter. + +Pat was grinning when he found him. "How did you like my parody?" he +asked. + +"What do you mean?" + +"Didn't you see yourself in that story about Foch. That business about +'They shall not pass' ought've tipped you off. I thought that was a +regular Peter Neale touch." + +"Oh," said Peter, "you were just fooling." + +"But here's the best of it," added Pat. He held out a letter from Rufus +Twice which read: + + "Dear Pat, I want to congratulate you on the story you wrote about + Foch at the football game. It was excellent. All the facts were + there and you handled them with a fresh and original touch of your + own. When I saw the Marshal at luncheon today he said he was very + much amused by our story--Twice." + +"Well," said Peter a little bitterly, "if that was just an imitation +keep it up." + +Pat did keep it up although he grew a little restive during the winter. +"If they're going to be many more of these indoor track meets," he +complained, "I want to be put back on the Museum of Natural History. +Clark there in the sporting department is just crazy about facts. You +have to squeeze them all into the first paragraph. Even if anything +exciting ever did happen there wouldn't be any chance to tell about it. +You'd have to start out just the same and say how many people there +were in the hall and what the temperature was and whether it was raining +or snowing outside." + +Still he had conformed with sufficient fidelity to remain in the graces +of the powers on the Bulletin and when Summer came around Pat was +assigned to go with Peter to Atlantic City and watch Jack Dempsey train. +Pat's part was to write a half column of notes called 'Sidelights On The +Big Show.' After the first day or so Pat lost interest in the actual +boxing at Dempsey's camp. + +"Where do you see anything in that?" he asked Peter as they sat at the +ringside in the enclosure near the training camp of the champion. +Dempsey was whaling away with both hands at Larry Williams, an +unfortunate blonde heavyweight who seemed to be under a contract or some +other compulsion to go two rounds every day. + +"Watch him," exclaimed Pat as Williams clinched desperately and tucked +his head over Dempsey's shoulder. "He looks like an old cow leaning over +a fence." + +"That's a good line," said Peter, "don't waste it on me. Use it in the +Bulletin." + +But Pat wandered off and loafed around the training quarters. When he +came back to the hotel late that afternoon he had something else. + +"This is all right, isn't it?" he asked. Peter looked over the copy +which Pat had written. + + "Dempsey is taking a great deal of electricity into his system," he + read, "in preparation for his fight with Carpentier. This portion + of his training is being handled by S. J. Foster, D.C.M.T., + chiropractor, mechano-therapist and electrical therapeutist. In + other words Doc Foster is the man who rubs Dempsey after his + workouts. But the rubbing is only a small part of it. Doc Foster + insists on that. His chief pride and reliance is the polysine + generator. 'Why, that machine,' said Doc Foster, this afternoon, + 'has got some currents in it that would break your arm in a minute. + Yes, sir, they'd break your arm quicker than that.' And as he + boasted he looked rather longingly at the fattest arm of the + fattest newspaper correspondent. Of course, there are more soothing + currents as well in the polysine generator. 'They just reach down + after the deep muscles,' the old Doc explained, 'and grab 'em.' He + neglected to add just what the electricity does with the deep + muscles after it has grabbed them. Presumably it does not break + them, but just frolics around with the muscles and then casts them + aside like withered violets." + +"Sure," said Peter, "that's fine. You don't have to bother with Larry +Williams at all. I'll put all the stuff about him into the lead." + +Next morning Peter awoke with a splitting headache. Toward noon it got +much worse. He called Pat in from the next room. "I'm up against it," he +told him. "I'm sick as a dog. Of course I could telegraph to the office +and get them to send somebody down but I don't want to do that. This is +your chance. You'll have to do the lead story. You say you can imitate +me or parody me or whatever you call it. Now's the time to go to it. And +say nobody has to know that I'm not doing it. Just sign your story 'by +Peter Neale.'" + +"I'll do my best," said Pat. Peter dozed off late that afternoon and the +doze became a deep slumber. He did not wake until morning when there +came a violent rapping on his door. In the hall was a messenger with a +telegram. Peter opened it and read: + + "What happened? We didn't get the story. Never mind telephoning + explanations because I'm coming down over the week-end. I'll be at + the hotel at one--Twice." + +Pat was nowhere around the hotel and nobody seemed to know where he had +gone. Peter was still mystified when Rufus Twice arrived. He thought at +first of trying to conceal the fact that Pat had acted as his substitute +and then decided not to. "It isn't fair to expect me to do as much as +that," he thought. However he found that any such deception would have +been useless. + +"What happened to you?" was Twice's first question. + +"I was sick. I had a blinding headache and I told Pat to do the story. +Didn't he send anything?" + +"Yes, but it might as well have been nothing. All we had to go by was +the A. P. Dempsey cut loose yesterday and knocked Larry Williams down +three times. The last time they had to carry him out of the ring. And +our story was something about a man named Daredevil Oliver that's doing +a high dive at an amusement park down here. It was signed Peter Neale +but I knew it couldn't be you." + +Twice picked some copy out of his pocket and flourished it in the air. +"Lights. Gray mist. East wind," he read. "Good God! Peter, nobody can +say I don't appreciate Walt Whitman or Amy Lowell, but I tell you +Dempsey knocked Larry Williams down three times. The last time he was +out clean as a whistle." + +"You mean to say there wasn't any Peter Neale story in the paper?" asked +Peter terrified. + +"Yes, you get off all right. You don't suffer any. I did it myself. I +rewrote the A. P. and signed your name. But it was just the merest +chance that I happened to drop in at the office. You should have called +me up and let me send a man down." + +"But I didn't know he'd blow up like that. The other story he did from +here seemed all right." + +"Yes, but it wasn't news. I think Pat can write but somebody's got to +stand over him and tell him what news is. The one he sent might have +been all right for an editorial page feature though it was a little +esoteric. What do you suppose 'gigglegold' means or is that something +the operator did?" + +"I don't know what it means but it's a word James Joyce uses in +'Ulysses.'" + +"I'd forgotten," said Twice. "Of course. I was trying to place it. Great +book, 'Ulysses,' never should have been suppressed. But you couldn't use +any of it on the sporting page." + +"Was it all like that?" + +"Pretty much. It was about this Daredevil Oliver doing a high dive of a +hundred and five feet into four feet of water. And there were only nine +people there to watch him and how ironic it would have been if he'd +broken his neck. And then some more about Eugene O'Neill and the tragic +drama in America. Jack Dempsey or Larry Williams or the fight never got +mentioned at all." + +Pat came in without knocking. He was flushed and angry. "Mr. Twice," he +said, "that story in the Bulletin signed 'Peter Neale' wasn't the story +I sent. I wouldn't have written anything like that." + +"I know it," said Twice, "that's why I wrote it." + +"Didn't you go down to see the workout?" asked Peter. + +"Of course I did. I didn't stay all through it. I waited until Jack +Dempsey knocked that old cow Larry Williams down for the third time and +then I got bored and went out." + +"But that was the story," cried Peter. "Can't you see that." + +"Why Dempsey could knock out Larry Williams a hundred times in an +afternoon," objected Pat. + +"That isn't the point," Twice broke in. "News isn't things that might +happen. News is things that do happen. When a reporter goes out on a +story there are four things for him to remember." + +"I know," said Pat. "When! Where! What! and Why!" + +"Yes, and there are two ways of doing a story. One of them is the way I +want it to be done. The other doesn't count. I don't want you to argue +with me. I tell you that your story should have been about Larry +Williams getting knocked out. Some day you'll learn why. Pat, I'm not +going to fire you. You've got stuff. Deering's had a crack at you and so +has your father. Now I'm going to see what I can do. You're to go back +to New York this afternoon. Report at my office on Monday. Hereafter +you'll get your assignments from me and turn your copy over to me. I've +never been licked yet and I'm not going to be licked now. I'm going to +make a newspaperman of you or my name's not Rufus Twice." + +After Twice had gone Peter asked, "Pat, what made you want to throw me +down?" + +"You don't think I made all this trouble for you on purpose?" + +"Well, why did you go and write a story about Daredevil Oliver and leave +Dempsey out of it?" + +"It seemed so much more important to me. You'd have thought so too if +you'd seen him. He just leaned back off the platform so slowly. He could +have stopped himself any second. And then all of a sudden he couldn't. +And he started to fall." + +"But the story was signed with my name. Didn't you think of that?" + +"Of course I did." + +"Didn't you remember that I'd get blamed for it." + +Pat was pale with earnestness and almost crying. "I didn't think +anybody'd be blamed. I wanted to do something for you." + +"Do you mean to say," asked Peter in surprise, "that you thought it was +as good a story as I'd write." + +"I thought it was a better story. It was a better story than you ever +wrote." + +Peter was silent with astonishment. Where, he wondered, did his son +Peter Neale, second, ever unearth such amazing and audacious confidence. +Suddenly it came to him that he was not the only parent. He remembered +Maria. Obviously there was no use in arguing with Pat any further. +Indeed he was almost a little frightened at so bold a blaze of spirit. + +"Well," he said at length, "what are you going to do?" + +"I'm going to report to Mr. Twice on Monday," answered Pat. + +Peter sent down and got a "Bulletin" in order to find out just what it +was that Peter Neale had written. He read only the first line, "Can Jack +Dempsey sock? Ask Larry Williams." + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +Not until after the big fight did Peter get back to the Bulletin office. +He found a subdued and cheerless Pat. "How are things going?" he asked. + +"I'm learning a trade," said Pat. + +Rufus Twice was more optimistic. "He's getting along fine," he reported. +"I flatter myself that he's picked up more of the newspaper angle on +things in the last two weeks than he got in a whole year before this. +You see I call him into the office every afternoon and go over the paper +with him and show him why we've used each story and the reason for +handling it the way we do. He's been a good soldier. I'll tell you what +I'll do. You take your vacation next week and I'll let him go with you. +You ought to have a month but I don't believe the syndicate can spare +you. Three weeks is the best I can do." + +Peter and Pat planned to go out in the country some place, but they kept +putting it off and two weeks were gone before they decided on Westport, +Conn., and bought the tickets. On the morning set for the journey Pat +came into Peter's room with the paper. + +"Don't let's go," he said. + +"All right but why not." + +"Maria Algarez is here. They've got her picture in the Bulletin. It +isn't a very good one. She got in from Argentine yesterday afternoon." + +"Maria Algarez here in New York? Where?" + +"It doesn't say." + +A messenger arrived with a letter a few hours later. Peter opened it and +read: + + "You must not hide from me. I have called up the Bulletin and they + say you are not there. When I ask for the number of your house they + tell me it is the rule that they must not tell. Is it, Peter, that + so many ladies call you up? The next time I am more smart. I say + that your father is very sick and that I am the nurse and must know + where you are. But I should have known. It is twenty years and the + flat it is the same. You are like that Peter. You do not change. I + thought not to see you and Pat until next year in Paris but from + Buenos Aires I decided suddenly I will go to New York. Here I am. + My hotel it is the Ritz. You and Pat you will come tonight at eight + and have supper with me--Maria." + +"I didn't want to go to Westport much anyway," said Pat. + +He was more nervous than Peter when they came to the door of Maria's +suite. She kissed Peter but Pat only held out his hand. Maria laughed. +"He does not know me. I know him. He is like the picture." + +Pat was almost silent during supper. He spoke up only once. Maria was +ordering. "We will have some vegetable," she said. "What is the name? I +do not know the English. _Les epinards._" + +"That's spinach," said Peter and added slyly. "Pat doesn't like spinach. +He won't want that." + +"Yes, I do," said Pat promptly. + +Peter smiled but he had the joke all to himself. Pat had forgotten. + +After dinner they talked sparsely with Peter doing most of the work. +Suddenly Maria said, "It is necessary that somebody he ask me." + +Peter was puzzled, but Pat understood. "I've waited for five years to +hear you sing. Won't you?" + +"It is nice, but it is the twenty years I have waited. First you must +sing." + +"I can't." + +"Maybe. It must be that sometimes you have sung." + +"Oh, just with other people. Swipes you know." + +"I do not know what it is but you sing and the swipes I will do." + +"Just anything. That's all I can sing--anything." + +Maria moved over to the piano. "The accompaniment it is not necessary +but it I can do if what you sing it is not too hard." + +"It's just something you sing around with a crowd." + +"Come nearer." + +Pat moved over beside the piano. + +"Allons!" + +Maria looked up at him and whispered, "You can. I know." + +There was no banter in it. Pat began a little husky at first but then +louder and clearer. + + "Down by the stream where I first met Rebecca + Down by the stream where the sun loves to shine. + Sweet were the garlands I wound for Rebecca. + Bright eyes gave answer, she said she'd be mine. + One, two, three, four, + Sometimes I wish there were more. + Ein, zwei, drei, vier, + I love the one that's near. + Ut ne sam si, + So says the heathen Chinee. + Fair girls bereft + There will get left, + One, two, and three." + +Maria looked up and smiled. Peter waited in an agony. He remembered that +he had not heard Pat sing since he was a small child. He waited for +somebody to speak. He did not know whether or not it was good. Somebody +would have to tell him if this was the singing voice for which Maria had +hoped. + +She continued to look at Pat and smile and he smiled back now more +boldly. + +Peter couldn't stand it any longer. "Tell me ... Maria. Can he sing?" + +Getting up from the piano she put a hand on Pat's shoulder. + +"It is the fine voice that I know. I think it will be the greatest voice +in all the world." + +Peter took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Maria turned to +him. "The time it is not up. I have come too soon. There is still the +year. But you must not. We cannot wait." + +"Ask him. Tell him," said Peter hoarsely. + +"Pat," she said, "if you will come with me to Paris you can be the great +singer. It will not be tomorrow. It will be two years. Maybe three +years. You must work. You must do what I say." + +"When?" asked Pat trembling. + +"In the week." + +Peter said nothing, but he looked at Pat. The boy continued to stare at +Maria. + +"Pat," he said. + +His son turned to him. + +"I want to, Peter. I want to." + +Peter mopped his forehead again. + +"He wants to, Maria," he said. "I give up my year." Peter paused. "I +give up all my years," he added in a low voice. + +"But you must not give up the years," said Maria. "We will go to Paris, +all three. It will be more and more. You must watch and listen. He is +your son Peter." + +But Peter shook his head. "No," he answered, "it wouldn't mean anything +to me. I wouldn't know. I don't care anything about tunes." + +Maria ran her hands over the keys playing softly "The Invitation to the +Waltz." She watched Peter but he gave no sign of recognition. He was +fumbling in his pocket for something. At last he found it and pulled out +a letter. + +"You see it wouldn't be possible for me to go anyway," he said. "This +morning I got this letter from Rufus Twice. He's the Supervising Editor +of the Bulletin. He writes and says, 'I'm sorry about your vacation, but +it is imperative that you give up the last week of it. The syndicate's +doing great work on your Hit And Run column. Booth has just come back +from the West and he's sold you to eighteen more papers. When you got +back from the war I promised you two hundred. This addition brings it up +to two hundred and ten. You see I've made good for you. But Booth says +they want the stuff right off. Another week might mean our losing some +of them.'" + +Peter folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. "There's no chance +anyway. It's the tightest race they've had in the American League for +years and pretty soon the World Series'll be on and right after that +football starts. With all that going on there ought to be something in +the paper by Peter Neale." + + +THE END + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Boy Grew Older, by Heywood Broun + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY GREW OLDER *** + +***** This file should be named 36057.txt or 36057.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/0/5/36057/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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