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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1487cdc --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51957 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51957) diff --git a/old/51957-0.txt b/old/51957-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8d8d7f5..0000000 --- a/old/51957-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6589 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Tales From a Rolltop Desk, by Christopher Morley - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Tales From a Rolltop Desk - -Author: Christopher Morley - -Illustrator: Walter Jack Duncan - -Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51957] -Last Updated: March 16, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK - -By Christopher Morley - -Illustrated By Walter Jack Duncan - -Garden City, N. Y., And Toronto - -Doubleday, Page & Company - -1921 - -[Illustration: 0001] - -[Illustration: 0008] - -[Illustration: 0009] - -A LETTER OF DEDICATION - -TO - -FRANK NELSON DOUBLEDAY - -Dear Effendi: - -I take the liberty of dedicating these little stories to you, with -affection and respect. They have all grown, in one mood or another, -out of the various life of Grub Street, suggested by adventures with -publishers, booksellers, magazine editors, newspaper men, theatrical -producers, commuters, and poets major and minor. If they have any appeal -at all, it must be as an honest (though perhaps sometimes too jocular) -picture of the excitements that gratify the career of young men -who embark upon the ocean of ink, and (let us not forget) those -much-enduring Titanias who consent to share their vicissitudes. You have -been the best of friends and counsellors to many such young men, and I -assure you that they look back upon the time spent under your shrewd and -humorous magistracy with special loyalty and regard. You will understand -that in these irresponsible stories no personal identifications are to -be presumed. - -I think you remember--I know you do, because you have often charitably -chuckled over the incident--that rather too eager young man who came to -call on you one day in September, 1913, saying that he simply must have -a job. And how you, in your inimitable way, said “Well, what kind of -a job would you like best to have around this place?” And he cried -“Yours!” And you justly punctured the creature by saying “All right, go -to work and get it.” (There was more youthful palpitation than intended -impertinence in the young man's outcry, so he has assured me.) And then, -still tremulous with ambition, this misguided freshman pulled out of his -pocket a bulky memorandum on which he had inscribed his pet scheme for -the regeneration and stimulus of the publishing business, and laid -it before you. How hospitably you considered his programme, and -how tenderly you must have smiled, inwardly, at his odd mixture of -earnestness and excitement! At any rate, you set him to work that -afternoon, with the assurance that he might have your job as soon as he -could qualify. - -Well, he did not get it; nor will he ever, for he knows (by this time) -what a rare complex of instincts and sagacities is needed in the head of -a great publishing house; and his own ambition has proved to be a little -different. But he can never be enough grateful for the patience and -humorous tolerance with which you brooded upon his various antics, -condoned his many absurdities, welcomed and encouraged his enthusiasms. -In nearly four years in your “shop” he learned (so he insists) more than -any college could ever teach: and how much he had to unlearn, too! And -the surprising part of it was, it was all such extraordinarily good fun. -The greatest moments of all, I suppose, were when this young man -was invited by one of your partners (on occasions that seemed so -interminably far apart!) to “walk in the garden,” that being the -cheerful tradition of the Country Life Press. There, after some -embarrassing chat about the peonies and the sun dial, the victim -meanwhile groaning to know whether it was, this time, hail or farewell, -there would come tidings of one of those five-dollar raises that were -so hotly desiderated. That paternal function (so this young man and his -fellow small fry observed) was rightly a little beneath the dignity -of the Effendi: you, they noted, only walked in the garden with paper -merchants and people like Booth Tarkington and Ellen Glasgow and good -Mr. Grosset of Grosset and Dunlap! - -Many young men (O Effendi), from Frank Norris down, have found your -house a wonderful training-school for writers and publishers and -booksellers. There are great names, of permanent honour in literature, -that owe much to your wisdom and patience. But among all those who know -you in your trebled capacity as employer, publisher, and friend, there -is none who has more reason to be grateful, or who has done less to -deserve it, than the young man I have described. And so you will forgive -him if he thus publicly and selfishly pleases himself by trying to -express his sense of gratitude, and signs himself - -Faithfully yours - -Christopher Morley. - -Roslyn, Long Island January, 1921. - -ACKNOWLEDGMENT - -The original responsibility for some of these stories--or at any rate -the original copyright--was allotted as follows: “The Prize Package,” - Collier's Weekly (1918); “Urn Burial,” Every Week (1918); “The -Climacteric,” The Smart Set (1918); “The Pert Little Hat,” The -Metropolitan (1919); “The Battle of Manila Envelopes,” The Bookman -(1920); “The Commutation Chop-house,” The New York Evening Post (1920); -“The Curious Case of Kenelm Digby,” The Bookman (1921); “Gloria and -the Garden of Sweden,” Munsey's (1921); “Punch and Judy,” The Outlook -(1921). - -All but one of these publications are still in existence. To their -editors and owners the author expresses his indebtedness and his -congratulation. - - - - - -TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK - - - - -THE PRIZE PACKAGE - - -LESTER VALIANT came back from Oxford with the degree of B. Litt., some -unpaid tailors' bills, and the conviction that the world owed him a -living because he had been suffered within the sacred precincts of -Balliol College for three years. A Rhodes scholarship is one of the most -bounteous gifts the world holds for a young man; but in Lester's case -Oxford piled upon Harvard left him with a perilous lot to unlearn. You -can tell a lot about a man when you know what he is proud of; and Lester -was really proud of having worn a wrist watch and a dinner jacket with -blue silk lapels three or four years before they became habitual in the -region of Herald Square. But let us be just: he was also proud of his -first editions of Conrad and George Moore; for he was much afflicted -with literature. - -Lester originated in the yonder part of Indiana, but when he returned -from Oxford he made up his mind to live in New York. He felt it -appropriate that he should be connected in some way with the production -of literature, and after hiring a bedroom on the fourth floor of an old -house on Madison Avenue, where two friends of his were living, he set -out to visit the publishers. - -There is a third-rate club in London called the Litterateurs' Club. -A few years ago it was in urgent need of funds, and a brilliant idea -struck the managing committee. Every writer listed in the American -“Who's Who” was circularized and received a very flattering letter -saying that, owing to the distinction of his contributions to -contemporary letters, the Litterateurs' Club of London would be very -much pleased to welcome him as a member, upon a nominal payment of -five guineas. About seven hundred guileless persons complied, and -transatlantic travel became appreciably denser on account of these men -of letters crossing to England to revel in their importance as members -of a club of which no one in London has ever heard. And by some fluke -the managing committee had got hold of the name of Lester Valiant, -then at Oxford--perhaps because he had once published a story in the -_Cantharides Magazine_. Probably they bought a mailing list from some -firm in Tottenham Court Road. - -Cecil Rhodes's executors paid his five guineas, and he had his cards -engraved: - -LESTER G. P. VALIANT - -The Litterateurs' Club, London - -The use of these pasteboards brought him ready entrée in the offices -of New York publishers. If he had not been so eager to impress the -gentlemen he interviewed with his literary connoisseurship, undoubtedly -he would have landed a job much sooner. But publishers are justly -suspicious of anything that savours of literature, and Lester's innocent -allusions to George Moore and Chelsea did much to alarm them. At length, -however, Mr. Arundel, the president of the Arundel Company, took pity -on the young man and gave him a desk in his editorial department -and fifteen dollars a week. Mr. Arundel had once walked through the -quadrangle of Balliol, and he was not disposed to be too severe toward -Lester's naïve mannerisms. - -To his amazement and dismay, Lester found his occupation not even -faintly flavoured with literature. He was set to work writing press -notes about authors of whom he had never heard at Oxford and whose books -he soon discovered to be amateurish or worse. He had been nourishing -himself upon the English conception of a publisher's office: a quaint, -dingy rookery somewhere in Clifford's Inn, where gentlemen in spats -and monocles discuss, over cups of tea and platters of anchovy toast, -realism and the latest freak of the Spasmodists. - -The Arundel office was a wilderness of light walnut desks and filing -cases, throbbing with typewriters, adding machines, and hoarse cries -from the shipping room at the rear. Here sat Lester, gloomily writing -blurbs for literary editors, and wondering how long it would be before -he would earn forty dollars a week. He reckoned that was what one ought -to get before incurring matrimony. - -***** - -Like all young men of twenty-three, Lester thought a good deal about -marriage, although he had not yet chosen his quarry. The feeling that -he could marry almost anybody was delicious to him. But this heavenly -eclecticism endures such a short time! For youth abhors generalities and -seeks the concrete instance. Also, much reading of George Moore sets the -mind brooding on these things. Lester used to stroll in Madison Square -at dusk before going back to his room, and his visions were often of a -dark-panelled apartment in the Gramercy Park neighbourhood where an open -fire would be burning and someone sitting in silk stockings to endear -him as he returned from the office. - -His arrival caused something of an upheaval in the placid breasts of the -two old college friends whose sitting room he shared on Madison Avenue. -They were sturdy and steady creatures, more familiar with Edward Earle -Purinton and Orison Swett Marden than with Swinburne and Crackanthorpe -and Mallarmé. To his secret annoyance, Lester learned that both Jack -Hulbert and Harry Hanover were earning more than thirty dollars a week, -and he even had an uneasy suspicion that they were saving some of -it. When he spoke about Beardsley or Will Rothenstein or the Grafton -Galleries they were apt to turn the talk upon Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker. -When he showed them his greatest treasure, a plaster life mask of -himself that a sculpturing friend in Chelsea had made, they were frankly -ribald. Jack was in the circulation department of a popular magazine, -and Harry performed some unexplained tasks in the office of a tea -importer. Lester was fond of them both, but it seemed to him a bitter -travesty that these simple-minded Philistines should possess so much -higher earning power than he. So he thought of taking a garret in -Greenwich Village, but in the Madison Avenue house he was sharing a big -sitting room at little expense. So he spread his books about, hung up -his framed letter from Przybyszewski, put his hammered brass tea caddy -on the reading table, and made the best of the situation. - -Even on fifteen dollars a week a young man may have a very amusing time -in New York. For his room and breakfast Lester paid six dollars a -week; for his other meals he used to hunt out the little table-d'hôte -restaurants of which there are so many in the crosstown streets between -the Avenue and Broadway. To come in from the snowy street on a winter -evening, sit down to a tureen of Moretti's hot minestrone, open a -new packet of ten-cent cigarettes, and prop up a copy of the _Oblique -Review_ against the cruet stand, seemed to Lester the prismatic fringe -of all that was _je ne sais quoi_ and _ne plus ultra_. The dandruffians -in the little orchestra under the stairs would hammer out some braying -operatic strains, and Lester would lean back in a swirl of acrid tobacco -smoke and survey his surroundings with great content. - -It was while he was conjugating the verb _to live_ in this manner, and -sowing (as someone has said) a notable crop of wild table d'hôtes, that -he first realized the importance of Pearl Denver. Miss Pearl was -Mr. Arundel's personal stenographer, a young woman remarkable in -her profession by the fact that she never exposed the details of her -camisole to the public gaze; also when the boss dictated she was able to -rescue his subordinate clauses from the airy vacancy in which they hung -suspended, and hook them up into new sentences capable of grammatical -analysis. As a stenog she was distinctly above par, but not above -parsing. - -Lester, of course, had a speaking acquaintance with Miss Denver, but -her existence had never really penetrated the warm aura of egocentric -thoughts that enhaloed him. He knew her simply as one of the contingents -of the office; and the office had proved a great disappointment to him. -Not one of the “firm” (he called them “directors”) wore spats; not one -of them had shown the faintest interest in his suggestion that they -publish a volume of Clara Tice's drawings. Lester must be pardoned for -having dismissed Miss Denver, if he had thought of her at all, as not -_generis._ - -***** - -We now proceed more rapidly. Entering the hallway of Moretti's on -Thirty-fifth Street, about half past one cocktail of a winter evening, -he found the cramped vestibule crowded by several persons taking -off their wraps. A copy of the _Oblique Review_, unmistakable in its -garlic-green cover, fell at his feet. Thinking it his own, he picked it -up and was about to pocket it when a red tarn o'shan-ter in front of him -turned round. He saw the bobbed brown hair and gray eyes of Miss Denver. -“Well, Mr. Valiant, what are you doing with my magazine?” - -“Oh--why--I beg your pardon! I thought it was mine! I'm awfully sorry!” - He was keenly embarrassed, and pulled his own copy out of his overcoat -pocket as an evidence of good faith. - -She laughed. “I don't wonder you made the mistake,” she said. “Probably -you thought you were the only person in New York reading the Oblique!” - -He felt the alarm that every shy or cautious youth experiences in the -presence of beauty, and, with a mumbled apology, fled hastily to a -little table in a corner. There, pretending to read some preposterous -farrago of free verse, he watched Miss Denver meet another girl who was -evidently waiting for her. The two chattered with such abandon, smoked -so many cigarettes, and seemed so thoroughly at home that Lester envied -them their savoir. Manoeuvring his spaghetti and parmesan, his gaze -passed as direct as the cartoonist's dotted line to the charming contour -of the stenographer's cheek and neck. His equanimity was quite overset. -Never before had he gazed with seeing eye upon the demure creature -sorting out Mr. Arundel's mind into paragraphs. Human nature is what it -is; let Lester's first thought be confessed: “I wonder if she knows what -my salary is?” - -At last, after smoking many cigarettes and skimming over the _Oblique -Review_, Lester felt it was his move. He walked down the room, looking -at his wrist watch with a slight frown as he passed her table. At the -door he saw by the reflection in a mirror that she had not even looked -up. He hurried back to Madison Avenue, pausing to sniff the crystal -frosty air. At the corner of Fifth he stood for a moment, inhaling the -miraculous clearness of the night and pondering on the relative values -of free verse and ordered rhythms as modes of self-expression. - -In spite of a certain bumptiousness among males, Lester was painfully -shy with nubile women, and it was several days before he had opportunity -for further speech with Miss Denver. Moretti's is a fifty-cent table -d'hôte, and his regimen was calculated on a forty-cent limit for dinner; -but after this meeting with the _Oblique Review's_ fairest _abonnée_ he -haunted the place for some evenings. Then one day, taking in some copy -for a book jacket to be approved by the sales manager, he encountered -Miss Denver in the sample room. During working hours she was “strictly -business,” and he admired the trim white blouse, the satin-smooth neck, -and the small, capable hands jotting pothooks in her notebook as she -took a long telephone call. She put down the receiver, and smiled -pleasantly at him. - -“Don't you go to Moretti's any more?” he asked, and then regretted the -brusqueness of the question. - -“Sometimes,” she said. “Usually when I buy the _Oblique_ I go to -a Hartford Lunch. I can sit there as long as I want and read, with -doughnuts and coffee.” - -Lester had a curious feeling of oscillation somewhere to the left of -his middle waistcoat button. As the little girl said on the Coney Island -switchback, he felt as though he had freckles on his stomach. - -“Will you come to Moretti's with me some night?” he asked. - -“I'd love to,” she said. “I must hurry now. Mr. Arundel's waiting for -this phone call.” - -A little later in the day, after a good deal of heartburning, Lester -called her up from his desk. “How about to-morrow night?” he said, and -she accepted. - -***** - -Coursing back to his chamber the next evening, Lester was a little -worried about the ceremonial demanded by the occasion. Should he put -on white linen and a dinner jacket, becoming the conquering male of the -upper classes? But the recollection of the _Oblique Review_ suggested -that a touch of négligée would be more appropriate. A clean, soft collar -and a bow tie of lavender silk were his concessions to unconvention. He -was about to scrub out a minute soup stain on the breast of his coat, -but concluded that as a badge of graceful carelessness this might -remain. At a tobacconist's he bought a package of cheap Russian -cigarettes, such as he imagined a Bolshevik might smoke. - -There she came, tripping along the street, with something of the quick, -alcaic motion of an Undersmith on high. He waved gayly. She depressed -her shift key and reversed the ribbon. He double-spaced, and they -entered the restaurant together. - -Lester felt an intellectual tremor as they sat down at a corner table. -Never had his mind seemed so relentlessly clear, so keen to leap upon -the problems of life and tessellate them. It was as though all his past -experience had cumulated and led up to this peak of existence. “Now for -a close analysis of Female Mind,” was his secret thought as he settled -in his chair. He felt almost sorry for this gay, defenceless little -shred of humanity who had cast herself under his domineering gaze. A -masculine awareness of size and power filled him. And yet--she seemed -quite unterrified. - -As they began on the antipasto he thought to himself: “I must start very -gently. Women like men to veil their power.” So he said: - -“That was funny, my picking up your magazine the other night, wasn't it? -You know I thought it was my copy.” - -“Oh, the dear old _Oblique!_ Isn't it a scream? I read myself to sleep -with it every night. We'll have to make the most of it while we can, -because Mr. Arundel says it can't pay its paper bill much longer.” - -This irreverence rather startled Lester, who was writing an article “On -the Art of Clara Tice” which he had been hoping the Oblique would -buy. In fact, he was startled quite out of the careful conversational -paradigm he had planned. He found himself getting a little ahead of his -barrage. “Does Mr. Arundel read it?” he asked. “Heavens, no!” cried Miss -Denver, and effervesced with laughter. “He would rather face a firing -squad than read that kind of stuff. But he has an interest in the -concern that supplies their paper.” The matter of paper had never -occurred to Lester before. Of course he knew a magazine had to have -something to print on, but he had never thought of the editors of a -radical review being embarrassed by such a paltry consideration. - -“Is Mr. Arundel literary?” he asked. - -Miss Denver found this very whimsical. “Say, are you kidding me?” she -said, with tilted eyebrows. “The chief says literature is the curse of -the publishing business. Every time somebody puts over some highbrow -stuff on him we lose money on it. The only kind of literature that gets -under his ribs is reports from the sales department.” - -“That's very Philistine, isn't it?” - -“Sure it is, but it puts the frogs in the pay envelopes, so what of it?” - -“Well, I should expect the head of a big publishing house to be at least -interested in some form of literary expression.” - -“You should worry! That's what we hires for. Besides he _has_ a literary -passion, too--Walt Mason. He thinks Walt is the greatest poet in the -world.” - -“Walter Mason?” murmured Lester. “I don't think I know his work.” - -“Hasn't Walt made Oxford yet?” asked Miss Denver. “He writes the prose -poems in the evening papers, syndicate stuff, you know. Printed to -look like prose, just the opposite of the free-verse gag.” She smiled -reminiscently, and quoted: - -_When I am as dry as a fish up a tree, then I to the hydrant repair, -and fill myself up, without ticket or fee, with the water that's eddying -there. I drink all I want--half a gallon or more--and then I lie down on -my couch; when I rise in the morning my head isn't sore and I don't wear -a dark brindle grouch----“_ - -“Is there any free-verse stuff that can cover that?” she asked. - -Lester was somewhat disconcerted. His assessment of Female Mind did not -seem to be proceeding methodically. He played for time. - -“I thought you enjoyed the _Oblique_?” - -“As a joke, yes: I laugh myself giddy over it. But I know darn well that -kind of junk won't last. By and by the ghost'll quit putting up and the -editors will get jobs as ticket choppers. I guess I'm a Philistine!” - -With this deliciously impudent creature beaming at him, Lester felt -himself cursedly at a disadvantage. Neither Harvard nor Balliol had -informed him about this Walter Mason, and though he had seven hundred -quips and anecdotes indexed in a scrapbook marked _Jocoseria_, none -of them seemed to bubble up just now. Darn the girl, her mind wouldn't -stand still long enough for him to take its temperature. It was like -trying to write captions for the movies while the film was running. He -blew a cloud of blue Russian vapour across the board, and smiled at her -in a tolerant, _veni-vidi-Bolsheviki_ kind of way. Behind his forehead -he was fighting desperately to catch up. - -As they wrestled with the spaghetti he remembered that someone had told -him that publishers usually depend on the literary judgment of their -wives. Perhaps that was the case with Mr. Arundel? But Miss Denver -laughed aloud at the suggestion. - -“Wrong again!” she said. “He's not married. Petunia Veal, the author of -'Sveltschmerz,' has been angling for him for years, and lots of other -lady authors, too. He's so sentimental, he's escaped 'em all so far.” - -She bubbled and chuckled and gurgled her way through the rest -of Moretti's menu, amazing him more and more by the spontaneity, -sophistication, and charm of her wit. He escorted her home, and then -stood under a lamp-post for three minutes removing the soup stain with -a handkerchief. “She's immense!” he said to himself. “Why she's--she's -a poem by William Butler Yeats!” As an afterthought, he made a mental -memorandum to visit the library and look up the work of Walter Mason. - -A few days later Mr. Arundel sent for Lester, who hurried to the private -office with visions of a raise in salary. The president was sitting at -his desk turning over some papers; he motioned Lester to a chair and -seemed curiously loath to begin conversation. At last he turned, saying: - -“Mr. Valiant, your life at Oxford did a great deal to mitigate your -literary sensibilities?” Lester hardly knew what to say, and murmured -some meaningless syllables. - -“I think that your abilities can be of very great service to us,” - continued Mr. Arundel, “and as an evidence of that I am asking the -cashier to raise your salary five dollars a week.” - -Lester bowed gently; he was not capable of articulate speech. - -“I want to ask you a rather delicate question,” pursued the president, -who seemed as much embarrassed as his visitor. “Do you ever write -poetry?” - -Lester's voice was amazingly hoarse and choky, but in a spasm of -puzzlement and gratification he ejaculated: “Sometimes!” - -“What I really mean,” said Mr. Arundel, “is this: do you ever write -verses of a sentimental nature--hum--what might be called endearments?” - -The young man sat speechless in surprise and embarrassment. As a matter -of fact, he had been trolling some amatory staves in secret, in honour -of Miss Denver; and he imagined they had come in some way under his -employer's eye. - -“Please do not be alarmed,” said Mr. Arundel, seeing his discomfiture. -“This is purely a matter of business. As it happens, I have a need for -some poems of an intimately sentimental character, and, being totally -unfitted to produce them myself, I wondered if you would sell me some? I -would be glad to pay market rates for them.” - -Still Lester could do no more than bow. - -“I shall have to be frank,” said Mr. Arundel, “and I must beg you to -keep this matter absolutely confidential. I have your word of honour in -that regard?” - -“Absolutely,” said Lester, quite vanquished by amazement. - -The president's sense of humour seemed to have mastered his diffidence. -A quaint smile lurked behind the furrows that years of royalties had -carved on his face. - -“I want to do some wooing in rhyme; and I want you to turn out some -verses for me of a superlatively lyric sort, it being understood that I -purchase all rights in these poems, including that of authorship. Would -you be willing to do me half a dozen, at say ten dollars each?” - -Lester, although staggered by the proposal, was still able to multiply -six by ten, and his answer was affirmative and speedy. - -“I do not wish to give you any specifications as to the object of your -vicarious amour,” said the president. “It is a lady, of course; young -and fair. How soon can you despoil the English language of half a dozen -songs of passion worthy of the best Oxford traditions?” - -Jack and Harry found Lester good company that evening. When they got -back to the sitting room on Madison Avenue he was lying on a couch, -nursing a large calabash and contemplating the ceiling with dreamy brow. -As they entered, stripping off their overcoats and chucking the night -extras across the room at him, he smiled the rich, tolerant smile of -Alexander at the Macedon polo grounds. - -“Well, Lester,” said Jack, “why the Cheshire-cat grin?” - -“I've sold sixty dollars' worth of verse,” said Lester, benignly; “also -I've had a raise.” - -“My God!” said Harry. “Think how many starving cubists you could endow -on that! There'll be a riot in Greenwich Village.” - -“Pity the poor bartenders on a night like this!” cried Jack. Then they -went to Browne's chop-house for dinner. After a three-finger steak and -several beakers of dog's nose, Lester was readily persuaded to enounce -the first number of his sonnet sequence, which had accreted or (as its -author expressed it) nucleolated, while he was walking home from the -office. - -“Sonnet, in the Petrarchan mode, item No. 1,” he proclaimed: - - - Upon a trellis, bending toward the south, - - I set my heart, a yearning rose, to climb; - - It pullulates and blooms in sultry rhyme, - - It spires and speeds aloft, in spite of drouth. - - And seeking for that sweeter rose, your mouth, - - That beckons from some balcony sublime, - - It heeds no whit the tick-tack-tock of Time - - And with its sweetness all the night endow'th. - - - O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn! - - O velvet petals unsmutched of the mire! - - For this my life was manifestly born, - - To climb toward thy lips, and never tire! - - Now ope thy shutter in the flood of mom-- - - Lean out, and smile, and pluck thy heart's desire. - - -“Seems strange,” said Harry, “that a man can buy a good meal with a -thing like that!” - -“What is a petrarch, anyway?” said Jack. “Gee, you'll have to brush your -hair to keep it out of your eyebrows,” said Harry. “Herod was petrarch -of Galilee, don't you remember? It's a kind of comptroller or efficiency -expert.” - -“Nonsense,” said Harry. “Herod was patriarch of Galilee, not petrarch.” - -At this moment Lester was busy multiplying twenty by fifty-two, and -adding sixty, and he did not attempt to put Laura's friend right in the -eyes of his companions. - -***** - -The next morning, at the office, Lester took occasion to stroll over to -the corner where Miss Denver was tickling the keys. Her delicious, able -fingers flashed like the boreal aurora; the incomparable smoothness of -her neck and throat fascinated him; her clear, blue-washed gray eyes -startled him with their merry archness. Wambling inwardly, he met her -gaze as coolly as he might. - -“Come to Moretti's to-night?” he asked. - -“I'm sorry; I've got a date to-night.” - -He ached in spirit. “To-morrow night?” - -She hesitated a moment, tapping the desk with a rosy finger nail. Then -her face brightened. “I'd love to.” - -As he returned to his desk and the dull routine of writing press notes -for Petunia Veal's latest novel, he uttered a phrase that he had caught -from Harry Hanover. It was the first sign of his emancipation from -Mallarmé and the Oxford Movement, for certainly that phrase had never -been heard on the quilted lawns of Balliol: “She's a prize package, all -right, all right!” - -Ten days elapsed. All six sonnets had been delivered and paid for, and -Mr. Arundel had bargained for a few extra rondeaux, at five dollars -each. - -Antipasto, minestrone, breadsticks, force-meat balls, and here we are -again at the spaghetti and Hackensack Chianti. Lester had mailed his -MS. on “Clara Tice and the Pleinaerists of Greenwich Village” to the -_Oblique Review_ that afternoon, and had calculated that the editors -could not in any decency offer him less than fifty--or perhaps -forty--dollars for it. This, added to 20 by 52 plus 60 plus the rondeaux -and other probable increments, would certainly support two in a garret -for some time. He also had hopes of selling some obscenarios for the -movies. Pearl would probably want to go on with her work, for a while at -any rate. She was so independent! But those clear eyes of hers, like -a March sky with teasings of April in it, how tender and laughing they -were! A few nights ago they had taken a long bus ride together, and she -had forgotten her muff. She let him warm her hands instead. He went -home that night feeling strong enough to bite lamp-posts in two, and had -waked up Jack and Harry to put them right about Petrarch. - -Pearl was teaching Lester to twirl up his spaghetti with fork and spoon, -instead of draping it out of his mouth like Spanish moss. Suddenly she -laughed. - -“What did I tell you!” she said. “The dear old _Oblique_ has gone -blooie! Mr. Arundel called up the editor to-day and told him the -Barmecide Company won't supply him with any more paper until he pays his -bills. Of course that means he'll have to quit.” - -Lester was touched in two vital spots: his own private hopes, and his -zeal for fly-specked literature. “Shades of Frank Harris!” he cried. -“If that isn't just like Arundel! Why, that man is pure and simple -_bourgeois!_ I never heard of such a thing. Has he no feeling at all for -art?” Pearl laughed--the pure, musical laugh of careless girlishness, -but the recording angel caught in the nimble chords a faint overtone of -something else--like the tinkle of ice in a misty tumbler. “Oh, he -has his own ideas about art,” she said. “He's taken to writing poetry -himself. You never heard such stuff--I've been meaning to tell you. What -does 'pullulate' mean?” - -Lester's valiant heart, Lester's manly hands that had acted as a muff -on a Riverside Drive bus, trembled and stiffened. “_It 'pullulates and -blooms in sultry rhyme_,” she quoted gayly. “Now what do you make -of that, as referring to Mr. Arundel's heart? Sultry is right, too!” - Lion-hearted Harvard, oak-bosomed Balliol, and all the mature essences -of manhood were needed to keep Lester calm. How had she seen these -secret strains? She must have been peeping into the chief's private -correspondence. He hesitated during six inches of spaghetti. “Search -me!” he said. “Is it in Walter Mason?” - -“No, it's his own stuff, I tell you. _O beauteous rose! O shrub without -a thorn!_” she chanted, and her laughter popped like a champagne cork. -The horrid truth burst upon him. The boss was courting the angel of the -office with the very ammunition that Lester himself had furnished, and -his vow of secrecy forbade him to disclose the truth. Oh, the paltry -meanness of fate, the villainy of circumstance! It is impossible to -describe the pangs it cost him to dissemble, cloak, disguise, and -conceal the anguish he felt. But dissemble, cloak, disguise, and conceal -he did, and though his heart glowed like an angry cigar stub, he reached -home at last. - -There he sat down at his table, and amid the healthy snores of his -roommates he concocted a fine piece of literary ordnance. Late and -grimly he toiled and contrived. At length he had fashioned a sonnet -which would be the golden sum and substance of the previous sequence; -a cry of the heart so splendidly forensic that Mr. Arundel would pounce -upon it, yielding his crisp steel engraving in return. But see, the -asp concealed in the basket of fruit, the adder in the woodpile! Read -Lester's sonnet as an acrostic: - - - Over that trellis where the moon distills - - My heart is climbing like a rambler rose: - - You lean and listen to the whippoorwills, - - Heedless of how the fragrant blossom grows! - - O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn! - - When wilt thou realize my love in sooth? - - I touch the windowsill with heart forlorn, - - Hoping the guerdon of thy bounteous youth. - - After the grief and teen of bitter days, - - Troubled by woes that cicatrize and burn, - - Ever at eventide I seek thy praise, - - Yearning thy maiden bliss--I yearn, I yearn! - - Over the rotten fruit of buried years - - Unbar the bolt--have pity on my tears! - - -The discerning reader will spot the glittering falchion of malice -lurking in the initial letters. Read them downward, they convey: _o my -how I hate you!_ Lester had but to convey this poisoned comfit to his -chief: then, playing upon the artless Pearl, persuade her to show it to -him--point out the murderous duplicity of the love token; and she would -recoil into his arms. Greenwich Village would sound the timbrel of joy, -and even the _Oblique_ might find a softer-hearted papyrus vendor. -_Vos plaudite!_ With such thoughts, amid the wailing matin song of -boarding-house steam pipes, our hero fell into a brief slumber. - -That morning Lester hastened to the office. He waited feverishly until -the hour when the chief usually arrived, then visited the private -office. There he found the vice-president going over the morning mail. -“Is--is Mr. Arundel in?” he stammered. - -“Mr. Arundel isn't here to-day,” said the vicepresident. “He will be -away two weeks.” - -Lester retired queasily, and hurried to the corner sacred to Miss -Denver. Here he found one of the other stenographers using Pearl's -machine. - -“Where's Miss Denver?” he asked. - -The young lady, of humorous turn, looked at her wrist watch. “Getting -ready to go over the top,” she said. - -“What do you mean?” - -“Haven't you heard? She marries the boss this morning.” - - - - - -ADVICE TO TO LOVELORN - - -I - -MISS ANN AUSTIN came briskly into her little cupboard of a room at -the back of the _Evening Planet_ office. She hung up her hat and coat, -opened her rolltop desk, put her small handbag carefully in a drawer, -and looked at herself in a greenish mirror that hung secretly on a hook -in the recess under the pigeonholes. She took the rubber hood off her -typewriter, poured three paper cupfuls of drinking water on the potted -geranium on the windowledge, wound up the cheap clock on top of the -desk, and moved it forward ten minutes to compensate for what it had -lost during the night. Now she was ready for work. As she wound up the -clock, the usual thought occurred to her--when would she be able to buy -herself the handsome little wrist watch she coveted? There were a lot -of them in the jeweller's shop on Park Row, and she admired them every -morning on her way to the office. But when one is supporting one's self -and an invalid mother in an uptown apartment, and has to pay for a woman -to come in during the day to lend a hand, all on fifty dollars a week, -in an era of post-bellum prices, wrist watches have to wait. However, -as Ann made the daily correction in her laggard clock she used to say to -herself: “There's a better time coming.” She was not devoid of humour, -you see. - -Then the office boy would bring in the big pile of morning mail, -grinning as he laid it on the pullout slide of her desk. He may be -excused for grinning, because Ann was the kind of creature who would -bring a smile to the surliest face. She was just a nice size, with a -face that was both charming and sensible, and merry brown eyes (when -it wasn't too close to the first of the month). Also, that pile of mail -_was_ rather amusing. Those letters, so many of them written on cheap -pink or blue stationery and addressed in unsophisticated handwriting, -were not directed to Miss Ann Austin, but to “Cynthia,” and the office -boy knew pretty well the kind of messages that were in them. For Ann, -under the pseudonym of “Cynthia,” conducted the _Planet's_ department of -Advice to the Lovelorn, and daily several score of puzzled or distracted -beings bared their hearts to her. The pile of letters was growing -bigger, too. The _Planet_, which was not a very flourishing paper just -at that time, had started the Advice to the Lovelorn department a few -months before, and had put Ann in charge of it because she had done so -well writing sob stories. It was beginning to “pull” quite surprisingly -as a circulation feature, especially since her smiling little picture, -vignetted in a cut with a border of tiny hearts, had been put at -the head of the column. Under the cut was the legend: “Cynthia, a -Sympathetic Adviser in Matters of the Heart.” Ann didn't know whether to -be pleased or not at the growing popularity of her feature. This was not -quite the kind of thing she had hoped for when she entered the newspaper -world. But--the more letters there were from the lovelorn, the sooner -she might get that needed raise. - -With a little sigh she got out her penknife, began slitting the -envelopes, ceased to be Ann Austin and became Cynthia, the sage and -gentle arbiter over her troubled parliament of love. - -It was a task that required no small discretion and tact, because -Cynthia, whatever her private misgivings, tried to perform it with some -honest idealism. In the first place, the letters that were obviously -merely humorous, or were amorous attempts to inveigle her into private -correspondence, were discarded. Then the letters to be used in the next -day's column had to be selected, and laid aside to be printed with her -comment on the ethical or sociological problems involved. The remaining -letters had all to be answered, and data noted down that would be useful -in compiling the pamphlet “1001 Problems of Courtship” that the managing -editor insisted on her preparing. He said it would be great circulation -dope. Ann didn't care much for the managing editor, Mr. Sikes. He had a -way of coming into her room, closing the door behind him, leaning over -her desk, and saying: “Well, how's little Miss Cupid?” If it hadn't been -for that habit of his, Ann would have spoken to him about a raise before -now. But she had an uneasy feeling that it would not be pleasing to put -herself in the position of asking him favours. She would have been still -more disturbed if she had known that some of the boys in the city room -used to talk about “Cupid and Sikey” when they saw him visit her room. -They said it angrily, because Ann was a general office favourite. Even -the coloured elevator man had brought his wooing problems to her one -day, wanting to be reassured as to his technique. - -It is all very well for you to scoff, superior reader, but letters -such as Ann had to read every morning bring an honest pang to an -understanding heart; particularly when that heart is in collaboration -with twenty-two years of bright, brown-eyed, high-spirited girlhood. -Perhaps you don't realize how many of us are young and ignorant and at -work in offices, and absorbed, out of working hours, in the universal -passion. A good many make shift to be cynical and worldly-wise in -public, but who knows how ravishingly sentimental we are in private? -Some say that Doctor Freud didn't tell the half of it. As that waggish -poet Keith Preston has remarked, - - Love, lay thy phobias to rest, - - Inhibit thy taboo! - - We twain shall share, forever blest, - - A complex built for two! - -A complex built for two was the ambition of most of Ann's -correspondents; but mainly her letters exhibited the seamy side of -Love's purple mantle. You see, when lovers are perfectly happy, they -don't write to the papers about it. And when she pondered gravely -over “Brokenhearted's” letter saying that she has just learned that a -perfectly splendid fellow she is so infatuated with has a wife and three -children in Detroit; or over “Puzzled's” inquiry as to whether she is -“a bum sport” because she wouldn't let the dark young man kiss her -good-night, she sometimes said to herself that Napoleon was right. -Napoleon, you remember, remarked that Love causes more unhappiness than -anything else in the world. And then she would turn to her typewriter, -and put under “Puzzled's” inquiry: - -_No, “Puzzled,” do not let him kiss you unless you are betrothed. If any -one is a “bum sport” it is he for wanting to do so. If he “always kisses -the girls good-night when he has had a good time,” he is not your sort. -A man that does not respect a girl before marriage will certainly not -respect her afterward._ - -After she had typed these replies she always hastily took the paper out -of her typewriter and tucked it away in her desk. She did not like the -idea of Mr. Sikes coming in and reading it over her shoulder, as he had -done once. That was the time she had used the quotation “Pains of Love -are sweeter far than all other pleasures are” in answering “Desolate.” - The managing editor had repeated the verse in a way that both angered -and alarmed her. - -This particular morning, among the other letters was one that interested -her both by the straightforward simplicity of its statement and by the -clear, vigorous handwriting on sensible plain notepaper. It ran thus: - -_Dear Cynthia:_ - -_I am a young business man, very much in love, and I need your help. I -have fallen in love with a girl who does not know me. I do not even know -her name but I know her by sight, and I know where she works. She looks -like the only one for me, but I don't want to do anything disrespectful. -Would it be a mistake for me to call at her office and try to get a -chance to meet her? Do you think she would be offended? She looks very -adorable. Please tell me honestly what you think._ - -_Respectfully yours,_ - -_Sincerity._ - -Wearied by the maunderings of many idiotic flappers and baby vamps, this -appeal attracted her. She put it into the column for the following day, -writing underneath it: - -_You never can tell, “Sincerity”! It all depends upon you. If you are -the right kind of man, she ought not to be offended. Why not take a -chance? Faint heart never won fair lady._ - -It was trying enough, Ann used to think, to have to pore over the -troubles of her lovelorn clients on paper; but the worst times were when -they came to call on her at the office. Fortunately this did not happen -very often, for the stricken maidens and young Lochinvars who make up -the chief support of such columns as hers are safely and busily shut up -among typewriters and filing cases during the daytime; their wounds do -not begin to burn intolerably until about five-thirty p.m. But now and -then some forlorn and baffled creature would find his or her way to -“Cynthia” and ask her advice. She would listen sympathetically, apply -such homely febrifuge as her inexperienced but wise heart suggested to -her, and after the patient had gone she would add the case to her list -of 1001 Problems. The material for the pamphlet was growing rapidly. - -One morning, while the managing editor was in her room asking her how -soon the booklet would be ready, the office boy brought in a card -neatly engraved _Mr. Arthur Caldwell_. Now as a rule Cynthia did not see -masculine visitors, because (after one or two trying experiences) she -had found that they were inclined to transfer to her the heart that -someone else had bruised. But in this case she welcomed the caller -because Mr. Sikes was being annoyingly facetious. He had looked over her -laboriously gathered data for the 1001 Problems, and had said: “Well, -you're getting to be quite an experienced little girl in these matters, -hey?” He had seemed disposed to linger on the topic with pleasure. -Therefore Cynthia told the office boy to send Mr. Caldwell in, though -the name meant nothing to her. Mr. Sikes went out, and the caller was -introduced. - -Mr. Caldwell proved to be a young man, quite as nice-looking as the -collar-advertising young men without being so desperately handsome. -Cynthia liked him from the first glance. There was something that seemed -very genuine about his soft collar and his candid, clean-shaven face and -the little brown brief-case he carried. He had on brown woollen socks, -too, she noticed, in one of those quick feminine observations. He seemed -very embarrassed, and his face suddenly went ruby red. - -“Is this Cynthia?” he said. - -“Yes,” said Ann, pushing aside a mass of lovelorn correspondence, and -wondering what the trouble could be. - -“My name's Caldwell,” he said. “Look here, I suppose you'll think me an -awful idiot, but I wanted to ask your advice. I--I wrote you a letter -the other day, and your answer in the column made me think that perhaps -you wouldn't mind giving me some help. I wrote that letter signed -'Sincerity'.” - -He was obviously ill at ease, and Ann tried to help him out. - -“I remember the letter perfectly,” she said. “Did you take my advice?” - -“Well, I'm a bit uncertain about it,” he said. - -“I just wanted to explain to you a little more fully, and see what -you think. You see I happened to see this girl one day, going into her -office. I suppose the idea about love at first sight is all exploded, -but I had a hunch as soon as I saw her that----Oh, well, that I would -like to know her. I've seen her going in and out of the building, but -she has never seen me, never even heard of me. I don't know any one who -can introduce me to her, and I can't just walk up to her and tell her -I'm crazy about her. They don't do that except in Shakespeare. I don't -know much about girls and I thought maybe you could suggest some way in -which I could meet her without frightening her.” - -Ann pondered. She liked the young man's way of putting his problem, and -it was plain from his genuine embarrassment that he was sincere. - -“I'd love to help you, if I could,” she said. “It seems to me that the -only way to go about it is to arrange some business with the firm she -works for, and try to meet her that way. Couldn't that be done?” - -“She's secretary to one of the big bugs in the Telephone Company,” he -said. “I'm in the publishing business. I don't see any way in which I -could fake up a business connection there. The worst of it is, there may -be a dozen fellows in love with her already, for all I know. I suppose I -might get a job with the Telephone Company, but by the time I had worked -up far enough to have an excuse for going into the vice-president's -office where she works, someone else might have married her.” He -laughed, a boyish, ingratiating chuckle. - -“It does seem pretty hard,” said Ann. “I don't know what to say.” She -had a mental picture of the unknown fair one, going in and out of the -big Telephone Company's building on Dey Street, unaware of the admiring -glances of this bashful admirer. “I'll bet the men she knows aren't half -as nice as he is,” she said to herself. - -“I happen to know that she reads your column,” said Caldwell. “I suppose -there isn't any way I could get in touch with her through that?” - -“If there's any legitimate way I can help,” Ann said, “I'll be glad to. -But I hardly see what I can do.” - -“Well, thanks awfully,” he said. “If I get a chance to meet her, will -you let me come in again and tell you about it? Perhaps you would let -me mention your name as a reference, in regard to my respectability I -mean?” - -“Surely you can give her better references than that? You see, I don't -know so very much about you, Mr. Caldwell.” - -“In matters like this,” he said, “I guess you're the Big Authority. And -by the way, do you ever do any book reviewing? I work for Fawcett and -Company, the publishers, and we'd like immensely to have your comment on -some of our love stories. Can I send you some books?” - -“I can't promise to review them,” said Ann, rather pleased, because this -seemed to her a way to earn a little extra money. “But I'll speak to the -literary editor, and we'll see.” - -“Suppose I send them to your home address,” said Caldwell. “I know what -a newspaper office is, if I send them here someone else might snitch -them. Give me your street number, and you'll be spared the trouble of -taking them home to read.” - -“That's very kind of you,” said Ann. “Miss Ann Austin, 527 West 150th -Street. Well, you let me know what happens about your fair lady. I wish -you all sorts of luck!” - -When Arthur Caldwell got outside the office, he looked down Park Row to -where the great Telephone Building rose up behind the brown silhouette -of St. Paul's. - -“Caldwell,” he said to himself, “you're an infernal liar! But it pays! -I'll figure out some way. While there's life there's dope.” - -He set out for the subway, but paused again to meditate. - -“Ann Austin!” he said. “By George, she's a queen.” - - - -II - -It is not the purpose of this tale to tell in detail how Arthur -Caldwell laid siege to Ann Austin. He was a cautious man, and for -some time he contented himself by presenting occasional reports of his -progress with the damsel of the Telephone Company. Ann, in her friendly -and unselfish way, was delighted to hear, a few days later, that he had -met his ideal. Then, averring that he needed further counsel, Arthur -persuaded her to have lunch with him one day; and Ann, convinced that -the young man was in love with someone else, saw no reason why this -should not be done. Perhaps it was a little odd that at their various -meetings they should have talked so much of themselves, their ambitions, -the books they had been reading, and so on; and so little of the -Telephone lady. But surely it was strictly a matter of business that -Arthur should send Miss Austin some of Fawcett's novels, for her to -review in the _Planet_; and equally a professional matter that he should -discuss with her her opinion of them. And then came the day when Arthur -called up to say that things were going so well with the Telephone -lady that he wanted Cynthia to meet her; and would she join them in St. -Paul's Churchyard at half-past twelve? Ann, with just a curious little -unanalyzed twinge in her heart, agreed to do so. - -But when she reached the bench in the graveyard, where a bright autumn -sunshine filled the clearing among those tremendous buildings, Arthur -was there alone. - -“Where's Alice?” said Ann, innocently--for such was the name Arthur had -always given the lady of the Telephone Company. - -“She couldn't come,” he said. “But I want to show you her picture.” - -They sat down on the bench, and he took out of his pocket a copy of -the noon edition of the _Planet_. He turned to the feature page, and -displayed the little cut of Cynthia at the head of the Lovelorn column. - -“There,” he said, stoutly (though his heart was tremulous within him), -“there, you adorable little thing, there she is.” - -It would be pleasant to linger over this scene, but, as I have just -said, this is not our _denouement,_ but only an incident. Ann, shot -through with delicious pangs of doubt and glory and anger, asked for -explanations. - -“And do you mean to say there never was any Alice, the beautiful -Telephone blonde?” she said. “What a fraud you are!” - -“Of course not,” he said. “You dear, delightful innocent, I just had -to cook up some excuse for coming up to see you. And you can't be angry -with me now, Ann, because in your own answer to Sincerity's letter you -said the girl ought not to be offended. You told me to take a chance! -Just think what self-control I had, that first time I came up to see -you, not to blurt out the truth.” And then he tore off a scrap of margin -from the newspaper and measured her finger for a ring. - - -III - -There were happy evenings that winter, when Ann, after finishing her -stint at the office, would hasten up their rendezvous at Piazza's little -Italian table d'hote. Here, over the minestrone soup and the spaghetti -and that strong Italian coffee that seems to have a greenish light round -the edges of the liquid (and an equally greenish taste), they would -discuss their plans and platitudes, just as lovers always have and -always will. As for Ann, the light of a mystical benevolence shone in -her as she conned her daily pile of broken hearts in the morning mail. -More than ever she felt that she, who had seen the true flame upon the -high altar, had a duty to all perplexed and random followers of the -gleam who had gone astray in their search. Aware more keenly that the -troubled appeals of “Tearful” and “Little Pal,” however absurd, were -the pains of genuine heartache, she became more and more tender in her -comments, and her correspondence grew apace. Now that she knew that her -job need not go on forever she tried honestly to run the column with all -her might. How stern she was with the flirt and the vamp and the jilt; -how sympathetic with the wounded on Love's great battle-field. “Great -stuff, great stuff!” Mr. Sikes would cry, in his coarse way, and -complimented her on the increasing “kick” of her department. Knowing -that he attributed the accelerated pulse of the Lovelorn column to mere -cynicism on her part, she did not dare wear her ring in the office for -fear of being joked about it. She used to think sadly that because she -had made sympathy with lovers a matter of trade, she herself, now -she was in love, could hope for no understanding. Although she hardly -admitted it, she longed for the day when she could drop the whole thing. - -One evening Arthur met her at Piazza's, radiant. He was going off on a -long business trip for his publishing house, and they had promised him a -substantial raise when he returned. They sat down to dinner together in -the highest spirits. Arthur, in particular, was in a triumphant mood: -the publishing world, it seemed, lay under his feet. - -“Great news, hey?” he said. “We'll be able to get married in the spring, -and you can kick out of that miserable job.” - -“But, Arthur,” she said, “you know I have to take care of Mother. Don't -you think it would be wiser if I went on with the work for a while, -until your next raise comes? It would help a good deal, and we'd be able -to put a little away for a rainy day.” - -“What?” he said. “Do you think I'm going to have my wife doing that -lovelorn stuff in the paper every day? It'd make me a laughing stock if -it ever got out. No, _sir!_ I haven't said much about it, because I knew -it couldn't be helped; but believe me, honey, that isn't the right kind -of job for you. I've often wondered you didn't feel that yourself.” - -Ann was a little nettled that he should put it that way. Whatever her -private distaste for the Lovelorn column, it had served her well in a -difficult time, and had paid the doctor's bills at home. And she knew -how much honest devotion she had put into the task of trying to give -helpful counsel. - -“At any rate,” she said, “it was through the column that we first met.” - -What evil divinity sat upon Arthur's tongue that he could not see this -was the moment for a word of tenderness? But a young man flushed with -his first vision of business success, the feeling that now nothing can -prevent him from “making good,” is likely to be obtuse to the finer -shades of intercourse. - -“Of course, dear, I could see you were different from the usual sob -sister of the press,” he said. “I could see you didn't really fall for -that stuff. It's because I love you so, I want to get you out of that -cheap, degrading sensational work. Most of those letters you get are -only fakes, anyway. I think Love ought to be sacred, not used as mere -circulation bait for a newspaper.” - -Ann was a high-spirited girl, and this blunt criticism touched her in -that vivid, quivering region of the mind where no woman stops to reason. -But she made an honest attempt to be patient. - -“But, Arthur,” she said; “there's nothing really cheap and degraded in -trying to help others who haven't had the same advantages we have. I -know a lot of the letters I print are silly and absurd, but not more so -than some of the books you publish.” - -“Now, listen,” he said, loftily, “we won't quarrel about this. I don't -want you to go on with the job, that's all. It isn't fair to you. You -may take the work seriously, and put all sorts of idealism into it, but -it's not the right kind of job for a refined girl. How about the men in -the office? I'll bet I know what _they_ think of it. They probably think -it's a devil of a good joke, and laugh about it among themselves. Don't -you think I've seen that managing editor leering at you? That sort of -thing cheapens a girl among decent men. Every Lovelace in town feels he -has a right to send you mash-notes, I guess.” - -Ann was furious. - -“Well, you're the only one I ever paid any attention to,” she said, -blazing at him. “I'm sorry you think I've cheapened myself. I guess I -have, by letting you interfere with my affairs.” - -She slipped the ring from her finger, and thrust it at him. Arthur saw, -too late, what he had done. She listened in scornful silence to his -miserable attempts to console her, which were doubly handicapped by the -old waiter hovering near. She was still adamant while he took her up -town. The only thing she said was when she reached the door of her -apartment. - -“I don't want you to cheapen yourself. You needn't come any more.” - -By this time Arthur also was thoroughly angry. The next morning he went -away on his business trip, realizing for the first time that he who has -the pass key to a human heart treads among dangerous explosives. - - -IV - -How different the little room in the Planet office looked to Ann -when she returned, with a sick heart, to her work the next morning. -Everything was just the same--the geranium on its windowledge, that -seemed to survive both the eddying hot air from the steampipes beneath -it and the daily douche of iced drinking water; the noisily ticking -inaccurate little clock; the dusty typewriter. All were the same, and -there was the pile of morning letters from Love's battered henchmen. -To office boy and casual reporter Ann herself seemed the usual cheerful -charmer with her crisp little white collar and dark, alluring hair. -Her swift, capable hands sped over the pile of letters, slitting the -envelopes and sorting the outcries into some classification of her own. -Outwardly nothing had altered, but everything seemed to have lost its -meaning. What a desolate emptiness gaped beneath the firm routine of her -daily life. She was struck by the irony of the fact that the only one -in the office who seemed to notice that something was amiss was the -one person whom she disliked--Mr. Sikes. He came in about something or -other, and then stayed, looking at her intently. - -“You look sick,” he said. “What's the matter, is the love feast getting -on your nerves?” - -With a queer twitching at the corners of her mouth, she forced herself -to say some trifling remark. He leaned over her and put his hand on -hers. She caught the strong cigarry whiff of his clothes, which sickened -her. - -“Too much love in the abstract,” he said, insinuatingly. “What you need -is a little love in the concrete.” - -If he--or any one--had spoken tenderly to her, she would have burst into -tears. But the boorishness of his words was just the tonic she needed. -She looked at him with flashing eyes, and was about to say: “Keep to -some topic you understand.” Then she dared not say it, for now she could -not run the risk of losing her job. She faced him steadily, in angry -silence. He left the room, and the little green-tarnished mirror under -the pigeonholes saw tears for the first time. - -The irony of her position moved her cruelly when she began her task of -dealing with the correspondents. Here she was, giving helpful, cheery -advice, posing as all-wise in these matters, when her own love affair -had come so miserably to grief. In the ill-written scrawls on scented -and scalloped paper she could hear an echo of her own suffering. -“Hopeless” and “Uncertain” and “Miss Eighteen” got very tender -replies that day. And how she laid the lash upon “Beau Brummel” and -“Disillusioned,” those self-assured young men, who had chosen that mail -to contribute their views on the flirtatious and unreliable qualities of -modern girls. - -The bitterness of her paradoxical task became dulled as the days went -on, but there were other troubles, too, to bother her. Her mother, -quick and querulous to detect unhappiness, fell into one of her nervous -spells, and the doctor had to be called in again. The woman-by-the-day -got blood-poisoning in her arm, and could not come. The landlord gave -notice of a coming raise in rent. A fat letter came from Arthur, and in -a flush of passion she destroyed it unread. If it hadn't been such a fat -letter, she said to herself, it wouldn't have annoyed her so to see it. -But she wasn't going to wade through pages of explanation of just what -he had meant. She was still cut to the quick when she remembered the -cavalier and easy way in which he had scoffed at her work. And then, as -time went by, she found herself moving into a new mood--no longer one of -exaggerated tenderness toward her clients, but a feeling almost cynical. -“They're all fools, just as I am,” she said. - -One morning she found on her desk a note from the managing editor: - -_Dear Miss Cupid:_ - -_We've made some changes in our budget, and I've been authorized to -fatten your envelope $15 a week. I'm glad to do this, because the -Lovelorn stuff is going big. Just keep kidding them along and everything -will be fine. Maybe some day we can syndicate it. Hope this will cheer -you up, don't look so blue at your friends._ - -_Sikes._ - -There had been a time when the tone and phrasing of this note might -have seemed offensive, but in the numbness of despondency Ann had felt -lately, it was a fine burst of rosy warmth. Thank God, she said to -herself, something has broken my way at last! She wondered if she had -been mistaken in Sikes, after all? Perhaps he was really a friend of -hers, and she had misunderstood his odd ways. - -That day at noon she went down to the cashier's department to cash -a small check. There was no one in the cage, but in the adjoining -compartment, behind a wall of filing cases, she could hear two girls -talking. One of them said: - -“I see Sikes has put through a raise for Lovelorn. Pretty soft for her, -hey?” - -“She'll have to give value received, I guess,” said the other. “Sikes -figures if he puts that over for her, she'll fall for him. She's been -stalling him for quite a while, but I suppose he's got her fixed now.” - -She fled, aghast, ran down to another floor so as not to be seen, and -took the elevator. Out on the street she walked mechanically along Park -Row and found herself opposite St. Paul's. She wandered in and sat down -on a bench. It was a chilly day, and the churchyard was nearly empty. - -So this was Sikes's friendliness; and she, utterly innocent even in -thought, was already the subject of vulgar office gossip. For the first -time there broke in upon her, with bitter force, the knowledge that no -matter how easy it may be to counsel others, few of us are wise in our -own affairs. - -Pitiable paradox: she, the “sympathetic adviser in matters of the -heart,” had made shipwreck of her own happiness. How right Arthur had -been, and how childish and mad she, to reject his just instinct. It was -true: she had made use of Love for mere newspaper circulation; and now -Love had died between her hands. Well, this was the end. No matter what -happened, she could not go on with the job. Cold and trembling with -nervousness, she returned to her desk, to finish her column for the next -day. - -On her typewriter lay some letters, which had come in while she was out. -She opened one, and read. - -_Dear Cynthia:_ - -_I am in great trouble, please help me. I am in love with a fellow -and know he is all right and we would be very happy together. We were -engaged to be married, and everything was lovely. But he objected to the -work I was doing, said it was not a good job for a girl and that I ought -to give it up. I knew he was right, but the way he said it made me mad. -I guess I am hot-tempered and stubborn--anyway, I told him to mind his -own business, and he went away. Now I am heart-broken, because I love -him and I know he loves me. Tell me what to do._ - -_Jessie._ - -Ann sat looking at the cheap blue paper with the initial J gaudily -embossed upon it in gilt. In the sprawling lines of unlettered -handwriting she saw an exact parallel to her own unhappy rupture with -Arthur. How much more clearly we can see the answer in others' tangles -than in our own! Jessie, with her pathetic pretentious gilt initial, -knew that she had been in the wrong, and was brave enough to want to -make amends. And she--had she not been less true to Love than Jessie? -Her false pride and obstinacy had brought their own punishment. Seeing -the situation through Jessie's eyes, she could read her duty plain. -Arthur, no doubt, was through with her forever, but she must play the -game no less. - -She put Jessie's letter at the head of the Lovelorn column for the next -day. Under it she wrote: - -_Certainly, dear Jessie, if you feel you were in the wrong, you ought -to take the first step toward making up. Probably he was tactless in -criticizing you, but I am sure he only did it because he had your true -interest at heart. So write him a nice letter and be happy together. -Your friend Cynthia hopes it will all come out all right, because she -has seen other cases like this where false pride caused great suffering. -If he is the right man, he will love you all the more after he gets your -letter._ - -Ann sent up her copy to the composing room, and then going to a -telephone booth she called up Fawcett and Company and asked for Mr. -Caldwell. - -“Mr. Caldwell's not here any longer,” said the girl. - -“Serves me right,” said Ann to herself. “Can you tell me where I can -find him?” she asked, wondering how it was that one so miserable could -still speak in such a pleasant and apparently unconcerned tone of voice. - -The Fawcett operator switched her to another wire. - -“I'm sorry,” said a stenographer, “Mr. Fawcett left here about two weeks -ago. He's got a job out of town--in Boston, I think. I can find out for -you in the morning if you'll call again.” - -“Never mind,” said Ann. - -She had a horror of facing Mr. Sikes in her present wretchedness, so -before she went home she wrote him a note, resigning her job, and asking -permission to leave as soon as possible. - -The next day she had to nerve herself to face his protests, and the -friendly remarks of all the staff when the news spread. It was a hideous -ordeal, but she managed to get through it smiling. But by evening -she was inwardly a wreck. In her present mood, she had an instinctive -longing to revisit the shabby little restaurant where she and -Arthur had spent so many happy hours. She knew it would give her pain; -but she felt that pain was what she needed--sharp, clean, insistent -pain to ease the oppression and disgust of what she had been through. -Remorse, she felt, is surgical in action: it cuts away foul tissues -of the mind. She could not, without preparatory discipline, face her -mother's outcry at hearing she had given up her job. - - -V - -In the crisp blue evening air the bright front of Piazza's café shone -with a warm and generous lustre. From sheer force of habit, her heart -lightened a little as she climbed the stairs and entered the familiar -place, where festoons of red and green paper decoration criss-crossed -above the warm, soup-flavoured, tobacco-fogged room. There was a clatter -of thick dishes and a clamour of talk. - -“One?” said the head waiter, his wiry black hair standing erect as -though in surprise. - -She nodded, and followed him down the narrow aisle. There was the little -table, in the corner under the stair, where they had always sat. A -man was there, reading a newspaper.... Her heart felt very strange, as -though it had dropped a long way below its usual place. It was -Arthur, and he was smiling at her as though nothing had happened. He was -getting up. . . he was shaking hands with her. . . how natural it all -seemed! - -Like all really great crises, it was over in a flash. She found herself -sitting at the little table, taking off her gloves in the most casual -fashion. Arthur was whispering outrageous things. How fine it is that -everybody talks so loud in Italian table d'hôtes, and the waiters crash -the dishes round so recklessly! - -Arthur's talk seemed to be in two different keys, partly for the benefit -of old Tonio, the waiter, and partly for her alone. - -“Well, here you are! I wondered how soon you'd get here.... _Have -you forgiven me, dearest?_. . . Do you want some minestrone?. . . _Why -didn't you answer my letters, brownest eyes?_ . . . Yes, and some of the -near-beer.. . . _Darling, it was all my fault. I wrote to tell you so. -Didn't you get my letter?_” - -After all, at such times there isn't much explaining done, A happy -reconciliation is the magic of a moment, and no explanations are -necessary. The trouble just drops away, and life begins again from the -last kind thing that was said. All Ann could do was whisper: - -“No, Arthur--it was I who was wrong. I--I've given up the Lovelorn.” - -And then, after a sudden moisture of eye on both sides, the steaming -minestrone came on in its battered leaden tureen from which the silver -plating disappeared long ago, and under pretense of serving her soup -Arthur stretched out his hand. She put out hers to meet it, and found -the ring slipped deftly back on her finger. - -“But, Arthur,” she said, presently, “I thought you were out of town.” - -“I was,” he said. “I've got a new job, with King and Company in Boston. -A good job, too, we can be married right away, and you don't need to -worry.” - -“Well, how did you happen to come here tonight? You didn't know I was -going to be here. I didn't know it myself until an hour or so ago.” - -“Perhaps I willed you to come, who knows?” he said, gaily. “Have you -been advising lovers all this while, and didn't know that they always -haunt the scenes of former felicity? I've been in town several days, and -came here every night.” - -He produced a copy of the _Evening Planet_ which he had been reading -when she came in. - -“I had a special reason for thinking you might come here to-night,” he -said. “This afternoon I read your column, and I saw Jessie's letter -and your answer. What you said made me think that perhaps you might be -willing to forgive me.” Ann, once more safely enthroned on the shining -glory of her happiness, felt that she could afford to tease him just a -little. - -“Ah,” she said, “so you admit that some of those letters people write me -_are_ genuine, and that the answers do some good?” - -He smiled at her and laid his hand over the ring, which outglittered -even the most newly nickeled of Piazza's cutlery. - -“Yes, honey,” he said. “I admit it. And I knew that Jessie's letter was -genuine, because I wrote it myself.” - - - - -THE CURIOUS CASE OF KENELM DIGBY - -WE HAD been dining together at the Hotel Ansonia, and as we walked up -the shining breezy channel of Broadwhat is the commonest phrase of the -detectives? To put two and two together. What else, I ask you, is the -poet doing all the time but putting two and two together--two rhymes, -and then two rhymes more, and making a quatrain. - -He swung his stick, puffed strongly at his cigar, and amorously surveyed -the deep blue of the night, against which the huge blocks of apartment -houses spread their random patterns of lighted windows. Between these -granolithic cliffs flowed a racing stream of bright motors, like the -rapids of a river of light hurrying downward to the whirlpool of Times -Square. - -My friend Dove Dulcet (the well-known poet and literary agent) -vigorously expounded a theorem which I afterward had occasion to -remember. - -“There is every reason,” he cried, “why a poet should be the best of -detectives! My boy, there is a rhyme in events as well as in words. When -you see two separate and apparently unconnected happenings that seem (as -one might say) to rhyme together, you begin to suspect one author behind -them both. It is the function of the poet to have a quick and tender -apprehension of similarities. The root of poetry is nothing else than -describing things as being like other apparently quite different things. -The lady who compared herself to a bird in a gilded cage was chaffed for -her opulent and spendthrift imagination; but in that lively simile she -showed an understanding of the poetic principle. Look here: - -“Either for a poet or for a detective,” he said, gaily, “this seems to -me the ideal region. I tell you, I walk about here suspecting the -most glorious crimes. When I see the number of banana splits that are -consumed in these glittering drugstores, I feel sure that somewhere, -in the purple silences of the night, hideous consequences must follow. -Those who feed so violently on that brutalizing mixture of banana, -chocolate ice cream, cherry syrup, and whipped marshmallow, must -certainly be gruesome at heart. I look out of my window late at night -toward the scattered lights of that vast pile of apartments, always -thinking to see them blaze some great golden symbol or letter into the -darkness, some terrible or obscene code that means death and terror.” - -“Your analogy seems to have some sense,” I said. “Certainly the minor -poet, like the law breaker, loves to linger about the scene of his -rhyme, or crime.” - -“You are an amateur of puns,” he replied. “Then let me tell you the -motto I have coined to express the spirit of this Little White Way--_Ein -feste bourgeois ist unser Gott_. This is the proud kingdom of the -triumphant middle class. It is a perilous country for a poet. If he were -found out, he would be martyred at the nearest subway station. But how -I love it! See how the quiet side streets cut across highways so richly -contrasting: West End Avenue, leafy, expensive, and genteel; Broadway, -so gloriously cruel and artificial; Amsterdam Avenue, so honestly and -poignantly real. My club is the Hartford Lunch Room, where they call an -omelet an _omulet_, and where the mystic word _Combo_ resounds through -the hatchway to the fat man in the kitchen. My church is the St. Agnes -branch of the Public Library, over on Amsterdam Avenue. In those -cool, quiet rooms, when I watch the pensive readers, I have a sense -of treading near an artery of fine human idealism. In all this various -neighbourhood I have a cheerful conviction that almost anything might -happen. In the late afternoons, when the crosswise streets end on a -glimpse of the Jersey bluffs that glow like smoky blue opals, and smell -like rotten apples, I feel myself on the very doorsill of the most -stunning outrages.” - -We both laughed, and turned off on Seventy-seventh Street to the small -apartment house where Dulcet had a comfortable suite of two rooms and -bath. In his book-lined sitting room we lit our pipes and sat down for a -gossip. - -We had been talking at dinner of the extraordinary number of grievous -deaths of well-known authors that had happened that year. As it is -almost unnecessary to remind you, there was Dunraven Bleak, the humorous -essayist, who was found stark (in both senses) in his bathtub; and -Cynthia Carboy, the famous writer of bedtime stories, who fell down the -elevator shaft. In the case of Mrs. Carboy, the police were distracted -because her body was found at the top of the building, and the detective -bureau insisted that in some unexplainable manner she must have fallen -_up_ the shaft; but as Dulcet pointed out at the time of the Authors' -League inquiry, the body might have been carried upstairs after the -accident. Then there was Andrew Baffle, the psychological novelist, -whose end was peculiarly atrocious and miserable, because it seemed that -he had contracted tetanus from handling a typewriter ribbon that showed -signs of having been poisoned. Frank Lebanon, the brilliant short-story -writer, was stabbed in the fulness of his powers; and there were others -whom I do not recall at the moment. Mr. Dulcet had suffered severely by -these sad occurrences, for a number of these authors were his clients, -and the loss of the commissions on the sale of their works was a serious -item. The secret of these tragedies had never been discovered, and there -had been something of a panic among members of the Authors' League. The -rumour of a pogrom among bestselling writers was tactfully hushed. - -“What is your friend Kenelm Digby writing nowadays?” I asked, as I -looked along Dulcet's shelves. Digby, the brilliant novelist, was -probably Dulcet's most distinguished client, an eccentric fellow who, in -spite of his excellent royalties, lived a solitary and modest existence -in a boardinghouse somewhere in that part of the West Side. Outside his -own circle of intimates Dulcet was almost the only man whom Digby saw -much of, and many of us, who admired the novelist's work, had our only -knowledge of his person from hearing the agent talk of him. - -“By George, I'm glad you reminded me,” said Dulcet. “Why, he has just -finished a story, and he telephoned me this afternoon asking me to stop -over at his house this evening to get the manuscript. He never has any -dealings with the editors on his own hook--likes me to attend to all -his business arrangements for him. I said I'd run over there about ten -o'clock.” - -“That last book of his was a great piece of work,” I said. “I've been -following his stuff for over ten years, and he looks to me about the -most promising fellow we've got. He has something of the Barrie touch, -it seems to me.” - -“Yes, he's the real thing,” said Dulcet, blowing a blue cloud of his -Cartesian Mixture. “I only wish he were not quite so eccentric. He lives -like a hermit-crab, over in a lodging-house near the Park. Even I, who -know him as well as most people, never feel like intruding on him except -when he asks me to. I can't help thinking it would be good for him to -get out more and see something of other men in his line of work. I tried -to get him to join The Snails, but he says that Amsterdam Avenue is his -only amusement. And Central Park seems to be his country club. I wonder -if you've noticed that in his tales whenever he wants to describe a bit -of country he takes it right out of the Park. I sometimes suspect that's -the only scenery he knows.” - -“He has attained a very unusual status among writers,” I said. “In my -rambles among bookshops I have noticed that his first editions bring -quite a good price. It's very seldom that a writer--at any rate an -American--gets 'collected' during his lifetime.” - -“Did you ever see any of his manuscript?” asked Dulcet; and on my -shaking my head, he took out a thick packet of foolscap from a cabinet. - -“This is the original of 'Girlhood',” he explained. “Digby gave it to -me. It'll be worth a lot some day.” - -I looked with interest at the neatly written sheets, thickly covered -with a small, beautiful, and rather crabbed penmanship. - -“Worth a lot!” I exclaimed. “Well, I should say so! Why the other day I -was browsing round in a bookshop and I found a lot of his first editions -marked at $15 each. It struck me as a very high price for I know I have -seen them listed for three or four dollars in catalogues.” - -“Exorbitantly high,” Dulcet said. “I'm afraid your bookseller is -profiteering. I admire Digby as much as any one, but that is an -artificial price. The firsts aren't rare enough to warrant any such -price as that. Still, I'm glad to know about it as it's a sign of -growing recognition. I remember the time when it was all I could do to -get any editors to look at his things. I'll have to tell him about that, -it will please him mightily.” - -We sat for a while chatting about this and that and then Dulcet got up -and put on his hat. - -“Look here, old man,” he said. “You squat here and be comfortable while -I run round to Digby. It won't take me more than a few minutes--he lives -on Eighty-second Street. I'll be back right speedily, and we can go on -with our talk.” I heard him go down in the elevator, and then I refit my -pipe, and picked out a book from one of his shelves. I remember that it -was Brillat-Savarin's amusing “Gastronomy as a Fine Art”. I smiled -at finding this in Dulcet's library, for I knew that the agent rather -prided himself on being something of a gourmet, and I was reading the -essays of the jovial French epicure with a good deal of relish when the -telephone rang. I went to it with that slight feeling of embarrassment -one always has in answering someone else's phone. - -To my surprise, it was Dulcet's voice. - -“Hullo?” he said. “That you, Ben? Listen, I want you to come round to -Digby's right away,” and he gave the address. - -Thinking he had arranged a chance for me to meet Digby (I had long -wanted to do so), I felt hesitant about intruding; but he repeated -his message rather sharply. “Please come at once,” he said. “It's -important.” Again he gave the street number, made me promise to come -immediately, and rang off. - -It was nearly half-past ten, and the streets were fairly quiet as I -walked briskly along. The house was one of a row of old cocoa-coloured -stone dwellings, and evidently someone was watching for me, for while I -was trying to read the numbers a door opened and from a dark hall an arm -beckoned to me. I went up the tall steps and a stout woman, who seemed -to be in some agitation, whispered my name interrogatively. “Is this Mr. -Trovato?” she murmured. - -“Yes,” I said, puzzled. - -“Third floor front,” she said, and I creaked quietly up the stairs. - -I tapped at the front room on the top floor, and Dulcet opened. - -“Thank goodness you're here, Ben,” he said. “Something has happened.” - -It was a large, comfortable room, crowded with books on three walls, -furnished with easy chairs and a couch in one corner. A brilliant blaze -of light from several bulbs under a frosted hood poured upon a reading -table in the middle of the room. Sitting at this table, in a Windsor -chair, slumped down into the seat, was a short stout man whose head -lolled sideways over his chest. He was wearing a tweed suit and a soft -shirt, and looked as though he had fallen asleep at his work. In front -of him were some books and a can of tobacco. I recognized him, of -course, from the photographs I had often seen. It was Digby. - -I looked at Dulcet, aghast. But, as always at such moments, what was -uppermost in my mind was something trivial and irrelevant. I had an -intense desire to open a window. The air in that room was thick and -foggy, a sort of close, strangling frowst of venomously strong tobacco -and furnace gas. After the clear elixir of the wintry night it was -loathsome. It was the typical smell that hangs about the rooms of -literary bachelors, who work all day long in a room without ever -thinking of airing it. - -“Yes,” he said. “He's dead. Pretty awful, isn't it? I found him like -this when I got here. No sign of injury as far as I can see.” - -There was something profoundly dreadful in this first sight, as mere -sagging clay, of the brilliant and powerful writer whose books I had -so long admired, and whom I had thought of as one of the strong and -fortunate few who shape human perplexities to their own ends. I looked -down at him with a miserable blackness in my spirit, and laid a hand on -Dulcet's shoulder in sympathy. - -“I've sent for a doctor,” he said. “Before he comes I want to get all -the information I can from the landlady. I wanted to have you here as a -witness. I haven't touched anything.” - -The woman had followed me upstairs, and stood crying quietly in the -doorway. - -“Come in, Mrs. Barlow,” said Dulcet. “Now please tell us everything -you can about where Mr. Digby went this evening, and anything that has -happened.” - -Mrs. Barlow, who seemed to be a good-hearted, simple-minded creature, -snuffled wretchedly. “Oh, dear, oh dear,” she said. “He was such a nice -gentleman, too. Let me see, he went out about seven, I suppose for his -supper, but he was always irregular about his meals, you never could -tell, sometimes he would eat in the middle of the afternoon, and -sometimes not till late at night. I always would urge him that he would -die of indigestion, but he was so kind-hearted.” - -“You don't know where he went?” said Dulcet. “Perhaps he went round to -the laundry,” she said, “for he had a parcel with him, which I took to -be his laundry because he usually took it out on Monday evenings because -by that time the clean shirt he put on on Sunday was ready to go to the -wash. I hate to think that in all the years he lived in this house his -laundry was the only thing we ever had a difference about, because I -used to have it done in the house for him but he said my washwoman tore -the buttons off his shirts or collars or something, so a little while -ago he started taking his things out to be done, but I don't know where -because he used to call for them himself.” - -“You haven't any idea where he used to eat?” insisted Dulcet. - -“Oh, no, sir, he liked to go different places, you know yourself how -he was always a bit queer and concentric and he never talked much about -where he went, but always so nice and considerate. Oh, he _was_ a fine -gentleman.” - -Mrs. Barlow, plainly much grieved, wept anew. “Please try to tell us -everything you can think of,” said Dulcet, gently. “What time did he -come in, and did you notice anything unusual?” - -“Nothing out of the way that I can think of, but then I was down in the -basement most of the evening, for I let my maid go to the movies and -I had a deal to do. I suppose he went along Amsterdam Avenue, he was -always strolling up and down Amsterdam or Columbus, poor man, getting -ideas for his literature I guess. He came back about nine o'clock I -should say, because I heard the door about then. Just a few minutes -before he came in there was a man came to the door with a tin of tobacco -for him, which he said Mr. Digby had ordered sent around, and I took -it up and put it on his table, there it is now, poor man, Carter's -Mixture.” - -Mrs. Barlow pointed to the tin of Cartesian Mixture that stood on the -table. Evidently it had only just been opened, for it was practically -full. - -“Yes,” said Dulcet. “Here's his pipe lying on the floor under his -chair.” He picked up the briar and glanced at it. “Only just begun to -smoke it, for the tobacco is hardly burned. He must have been smoking -when he.... There wasn't anything else you can think of?” - -The woman dried her eyes with her apron. “There was just one other thing -I noticed, but I suppose it's silly. But I took note of it special, -because I thought I had heard it before, lately. While he was out, and -a little before the man brought the tin of tobacco, I heard a sharp -tapping out on the street in front of the house. I noticed it special, -because I thought at first it was someone rapping on the door, and I -wondered if the bell was out of order again, but when I went I couldn't -see any one. But I wondered about it because I heard it two or three -times, a sharp kind of tapping, it sounded some way like hitting on -stone with a stick of some sort.” - -Dulcet and I looked at each other rather blankly. - -“And after that,” she went on, “I didn't think about anything one way or -another till you came in and I told you to go right up.” - -There was a clear peal from the front door bell. “That's the doctor,” - said Dulcet, and Mrs. Barlow hurried downstairs. - -I have never seen any one so brisk and matter of fact as that physician, -and after his arrival the affair seemed to pass out of Dulcet's hands -into the painful official machinery that takes charge in such events. -Dulcet, acting as the dead writer's literary representative, went into -the adjoining room, which was Digby's study, to look over the papers in -the desk for any manuscripts that he ought to take care of. He wrote out -a list of friends and relatives for me to send telegrams to and I went -out to attend to this. I don't know how they get wind of these affairs, -but the reporters were already beginning to arrive when I left. - -The next day, and for several days afterward, the papers all carried -long stories about poor Digby's brilliant career. Then the literary -weeklies took it up. At the libraries and bookshops everyone was asking -for his books, and I have never seen a more depressing illustration of -the familiar fact that a writer's real fame never comes until it is too -late to do him any good. Editors and people who had hardly been aware of -Digby's genius while he was alive now praised him fluently, speaking -of him as “America's most honest realist,” and all that sort of thing. -Moving-picture people began inquiring about the film rights of his -novels. Some of the sensational newspapers tried to play up his death as -a mystery story, but the physicians asserted heart failure as the cause, -and this aspect of the matter soon subsided. - -Except at the funeral, which was attended by a great many literary -people, I did not see Dulcet for some days. I gathered from what I read -in the news that Digby's will had appointed him executor of his literary -property, and I knew that he must have much to attend to. But one -afternoon the telephone rang, and Dulcet asked me if I could knock off -work and come round to see him. As I was living up town at that time, -it only took me a few minutes to go round to his apartment. I found him -smoking a pipe as usual, and looking pale and fagged. He welcomed me -with his affectionate cordiality, and I sat down to hear what was on his -mind. - -“You must excuse me if I'm a little upset,” he said. “I've just had an -interview with a ghoul. A fellow came in to see me who had heard that -I have a number of poor Digby's books and manuscripts. He wanted to buy -them from me, offered big prices for them. He said that since Digby's -death all his first editions and so on have gone up enormously in value. -Apparently he expected me to do trading over the dead body of a friend.” - -He smoked awhile in silence, and then said: “Sorry not to have seen you -sooner, but to tell the truth I've had my hands full. His brother, -who was the nearest kin, couldn't come from Ohio on account of serious -illness, and everything fell on me. I had to pack up all his things and -ship them, all that sort of business. But I've been wanting to talk to -you about it, because I'm convinced there was something queer about the -whole affair. I'm not satisfied with that heart-failure verdict. That's -absurd. There was nothing wrong with his heart that I ever heard of. -It's very unfortunate that for the first few days I was too occupied -with urgent matters to be able to follow up the various angles of the -affair. But I've been turning it over in my mind, and I've got some -ideas I'd like to share with you. You remember what I told you, with -unfortunate levity, about the secret of detective work being ability -to notice the unsuspected rhymes in events? Well, there are one or two -features of this affair that seem to me to rhyme together in a very -sinister fashion. Wait a minute until I put on my other coat, and we'll -go out.” - -He went into his bedroom. I had not liked to interrupt him, but I was -yearning for a smoke, for leaving my rooms in a hurry I had forgotten to -bring my pouch with me. On his mantelpiece I saw a tin of tobacco, and -began to fill my pipe. To my surprise, just as I was taking out a match -he darted out of the bedroom, uttered an exclamation, and snatched the -briar from my hand. - -“Sorry,” he said, bluntly, “but you mustn't smoke that. It's something -very special.” He opened his penknife, scraped out the weed I had put -in the bowl, and carefully put it back in the tin. He took the tin and -locked it in his desk. - -“Try some of this,” he said, handing his pouch. I concluded that the -tension of the past days had troubled his nerves. This rudeness was so -unlike him that I knew there must be some explanation, but he offered -none. As we went down in the elevator he said: “The question is, can you -make a rhyme out of tobacco and collar buttons?” - -“No,” I said, a little peevishly. “And I don't believe any one could, -except Edward Lear.” - -“Well,” he continued, “that's what we've got to do. And don't imagine -that it's merely a nonsense rhyme, any more than Lear's were. -Edward Lear was as great as King Lear, in his own way.” He led me to -Eighty-second Street. The December afternoon was already dark as we -approached Mrs. Barlow's house. At the foot of her front steps he halted -and turned to me. - -“Is your pipe going?” he said. - -“No,” I said, irritably. “It's out. And I haven't any tobacco.” - -“Don't be surly, old chap; I'll give you some if you'll tell me what you -do when your pipe goes out.” - -“Why, you idiot,” I cried, “I do this.” And I knocked out the ashes by -striking the bowl smartly against the palm of my hand. - -“Ah,” he said. “But some people do this.” - -He bent down and rapped his pipe against the stone ramp of the steps, -with a clear, sharp, hollow sound. - -“Yes, a good way to break a nice pipe,” I was remarking, when the -basement door of the house flew open, and Mrs. Barlow darted out -into the sunken area just below the pavement level. In the pale -lemon-coloured glare of a near-by street lamp we could see that she was -strongly excited. - -“Good gracious,” she panted. “Is it Mr. Dulcet? Oh, sir, you did give me -a turn. Oh, dear, that was just the tapping sound I heard the night poor -Mr. Digby died. What was it? Did you hear it?” - -“Like this?” said Dulcet, knocking his pipe again on the stone step. - -“That was it, exactly,” she said. “What a fright, to be sure! Was it -only someone knocking his pipe like that? Oh, dear, it did bring back -that horrid evening, just as plain.” - -“So much for the mysterious death rap,” said Dulcet as we walked -back toward Amsterdam Avenue. “I can't claim much ingenuity for that, -however. You see, the morning after Digby's death I went round to Mrs. -Barlow's early, before she had been out to sweep her pavement. The first -thing I noticed, by the lowest step, was a little dottle of tobacco such -as falls from a halfsmoked pipe when it is knocked out. That seemed to -me to make a perfect couplet with Mrs. Barlow's tale of the tapping she -had heard. She heard it several times, you remember, in a short space of -time. That suggests to me someone standing on the street, or walking up -and down, in a state of nervousness, because he didn't smoke any of his -pipes through. When they were only half smoked he knocked them out, in -sheer impatience. Was he waiting for someone?” - -“Perhaps it was Digby himself?” I suggested. “I don't think so,” he -said. “Because, in the first place, nervousness was the last thing I -would associate with his temperament, which was calm and collected in -the extreme. And also, he always smoked Brown Eyed Blend, and had done -so for years. That was the first thing that struck me as unusual the -night we were there--that tin of Cartesian on the table. He was a man of -fixed habits; why should he have made a change just that night? I picked -up the little wad of tobacco I found lying on the step, and took it -carefully home. It's Cartesian, or I'm a Dutchman. So item I in our -criminal rhyme-scheme is: Find me a nervous man smoking Cartesian.” - -“It's a bit fanciful,” I objected. - -“Of course it is,” he cried. “But crime is a fanciful thing. Ever let -the fancy roam, as Keats said. What the deuce is the line that follows? -Suppose we stroll down Amsterdam Avenue and find a new place to have -dinner.” - -“Poor old Digby,” he said, as we walked along admiring the lighted -caves of the shopwindows. “How he enjoyed all this. You know, there is a -certain honest simplicity about Amsterdam Avenue's merchandising that is -pleasant to contemplate after the shining sophistications of Broadway. -In a Broadway delicatessen window you'll see such horrid luxuries as -jars of cocks' combs in jelly; whereas along here the groceries show -candid and heartening signs such, as this: 'Coming Back to The Old -Times, 17c lb. Sugar.' Amsterdam Avenue shopkeepers speak with engaging -directness about their traffic; for instance, there's a barber at the -corner of Eighty-first Street who embosses on his window the legend: -'Yes, We Do Buster Brown Hair Cutting.' That sort of thing is very -humane and genuine, that's why Digby was so fond of it. There's a -laundry along here somewhere that I have often noticed; it calls itself -the Fastidious Laundry----” - -“Speaking of laundries,” I said, “what do you think of this?” We -stopped, and I pointed to a neatly lettered placard in a window which -had caught my eye. It said: - -_Notice to Artists and Authors_ - -_We Sew Buttons on Soft Collars Free of Charge_ - -“By Jove,” I said, “there's a laundry that has the right idea. I think -I'll bring my----” - -I broke off when I saw my companion's face. He was leaning forward -toward the pane, and his eyes were bright but curiously empty, as though -in some way the mechanism of sight had been reversed, and he was looking -inward rather than out. - -“That's very odd,” he said, presently. “I've been up and down this -street many times, but I never noticed that sign before.” - -He turned and marched into the shop, and I followed. In the soft steamy -air several girls were ironing shirts, and a plump, pink-cheeked Hebrew -stood behind a counter wrapping up bundles. - -“I noticed your sign in the window,” said Dulcet. “What do you charge -for laundering soft collars?” - -“Five cents each, but we mend them, too, and sew on the buttons.” - -“That's a good idea,” said Dulcet, genially. “I wish I'd known that -before; I'd have brought my collars round to you. How long have you been -doing that? I often go by here, but I never saw the sign before.” - -“Only about a week,” the man replied. “Let's see--a week ago last Monday -I put that sign up. You wouldn't believe how much new trade it has -brought in. I thought it would be a kind of a joke--the man next door -suggested it, and I put it in to please him. But 'most everybody wears -soft collars nowadays, and it seems good business.” - -“The man next door?” said Dulcet, in a casual tone. - -“Sure, the cigar store.” - -“Is his name Stork?” said Dulcet, reflectively. - -“Stork? Why, no, Basswood. What do you mean, Stork?” - -“I mean,” said Dulcet, slowly, “does he ever stand on one leg?” - -“Quit your kidding,” cried the laundryman, annoyed. - -“I assure you, I do not trifle,” said Dulcet, gravely. “I'll bring you -in some collars to fix up for me. Much obliged.” - -We went out again, and my companion stood for a moment in front of the -laundry window, looking thoughtfully at the sign. - -“While you ponder, old son,” I said, “I'll run into Mr. Stork-Basswood's -and get some tobacco.” - -He seized my arm in a firm and painful clutch and whispered, “Look at -the corner!” - -The laundry was the second shop from the corner. Under the lamp-post at -the angle of the street I saw, to my amazement, a man standing balanced -on one leg. Directly under the light, he was partly in shadow, and -I could only see him in silhouette, but the absurd profile of his -onelegged attitude afflicted me with a renewed sense of absurdity and -irritation. Dulcet, I thought, had evidently suffered some serious -stroke in the region of his wits. - -“Now,” he said, softly, “can you see any rhyme between soft collars and -standing on one leg?” - -As he spoke, we both started, for somewhere near us on the street there -sounded a sharp tapping, a ringing hollow wooden sound. Evidently it -came from the one-legged man. This was too much for my composure. -I broke away from Dulcet and ran to the corner. As I got there the -one-legged creature put down a concealed limb and stood solidly on two -feet, in a state of normalcy, as an eminent statesman would say. I was -confused, and said angrily to the man: - -“Here, you mustn't stand like that, on the public street you know, on -one leg. It's setting a bad example.” - -To my amazement he made no retort whatever, but turned and scuttled -hastily down the avenue, disappearing in the crowds that were doing -their evening marketing. - -“My dear fellow,” said Dulcet, calmly, coming up to me, “you shouldn't -have done that. You've very nearly spoilt it all. Come on, let's go in -and get your tobacco.” - -Basswood's proved to be one of those interesting combination tobacco, -stationery, toy, and bookshops which are so common on the upper West -Side. I have often noticed that these places are by no means unfruitful -as hunting ground for books, because the dealers are wholly ignorant of -literature and sometimes one may find on their shelves some forgotten -volume that has been there for years, and which they will gladly part -with for a song. A good many of these stores have, tucked away at the -back, a shabby stock of circulating library volumes that have come down -through many changes of proprietorship. Only the other day I saw in just -such a place first editions of Kenneth Grahame's “The Golden Age” - and Arthur Machen's “The Three Impostors,” which the storekeeper was -delighted to sell for fifteen cents each. - -A dark young man was behind the tobacco counter, and from him I got a -packet of my usual blend. - -“Mr. Basswood in?” said Dulcet. - -“Just stepped out,” said the young man. - -We lit our pipes and looked round the shop, glancing at the magazines -and the queer miscellany of books. As it was approaching Christmas time -there was a profuse assortment of those dreadful little bibelots that -go by the name of “gift books,” among which were the usual copies of -“Recessional” and “Vampire,” Thoreau's “Friendship,” and “Ballads of -a Cheechako,” bound in what the trade calls “padded ooze”. I was -particularly heartened to observe that one of these atrocities, called -“As a Man Thinketh,” was described on the box (for all such books come -in little cardboard cases) as being bound in antique yap. This pleased -me so much that I was about to call it to Dulcet's attention, when I saw -that he was looking at me from the rear of the store with a spark in -his eye. I approached and found that he was staring at a doorway partly -concealed by a pile of Christmas toys and novelties. Over this door was -a sign: J. Basswood, Rare Book Department. - -“Can we go in and look at the rare books?” said Dulcet. - -“Sure thing,” said the young man. “Help yourself. The boss'll be back -soon, if you want to buy anything.” - -Mr. Basswood was evidently a man of some literary discretion. To -our amazement we found, in a dark little room lined with shelves, a -judicious assortment of modern books, several hundred volumes, and all -first editions or autographed copies. The prices were marked in cipher, -so we could not tell whether there were any bargains among them, but I -know that I saw several particularly rare and desirable things which I -would have been glad to have. - -“Good heavens,” I said to Dulcet, “friend Basswood is a real collector. -There isn't a thing here that isn't of prime value.” - -He was staring at a shelf in the corner, and I went over to see what he -had found. - -“Upon my soul,” I cried, “look at the Digbies! Not merely one copy of -each, but three or four! This man must have specialized in Digbies.” - -“Not only that,” said Dulcet, “but he has three of 'The Autogenesis of -a Novelist', the first thing that Digby wrote. It was privately printed, -and afterward suppressed. It's devilish rare; even I haven't got a copy. -I wish I knew what prices he asks for these things.” - -“Look at this,” I said. “Perhaps this will tell us.” I picked up one of -a pile of pamphlets that were lying in a large sheet of wrapping -paper in a corner of the room. It was evidently a new catalogue of Mr. -Basswood's rare books, that had just come from the printer. - -“Here we are,” I said, turning over the leaves. “Look at this.” - -_Special Note_ - -_Fine Collection of Digbiana: J. Basswood wishes to call particular -attention to the Digbiana listed below. Anticipating the growing -interest in collectors' items of this great writer's work, J. Basswood -has taken pains to gather a stock of first editions and presentation -copies which is absolutely unique. The prices of these items, while -high, are a fair index of the appreciation in which this author's work -is held among connoisseurs. All are copies in good condition and their -authenticity is guaranteed._ - -_November 15, 19--_. - -Dulcet seized the catalogue and ran his eye down the pages. - -“'Girlhood,' first edition, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1901, $100,” he -read. “'The Nuisance of Being Loved,' first edition, $75. 'The Princess -Quarrelsome,' $90. 'The Anatomy of Cheerfulness,' autographed copy, -$150. 'Distemper,' acting copy, signed by the author and Richard -Mansfield, $200. - -“Why,” he cried, shrilly, “this is madness! I am in touch with all the -dealers in this sort of thing, and I know the proper prices. This man -has multiplied them by ten.” He thrust the catalogue into his pocket and -glared round at the musty shelves. - -“I suppose it's due to poor Digby's death,” I said. I saw that Dulcet -was overwrought, and suggested that we go out and get some supper. - -“Supper?” he said. “A good idea. I know a place on Broadway where we -can get some guinea pigs.” He strode out of the store and I followed, -wondering what next. He seized my arm and hurried me along Seventy-ninth -Street to Broadway. - -In the clarid blue of the evening that blazing gully of light seemed to -foam and bubble with preposterous fire. Chop suey restaurants threw out -crawling streamers of red and yellow brilliance; against the -peacock green of the western sky the queer church at the corner of -Seventy-ninth, with the oriental pinnacle and truncated belfry rising -above its solid Baptist wings, seemed like the offspring of some -reckless marriage of two infatuated architects, one Jewish and one -Calvinist. It was a fitting silhouette, I thought, congruent with an -evening of such wild humours. Guinea pigs for supper, how original and -enlivening! “Are guinea pigs properly kosher?” I asked, sarcastically. - -Dulcet paid no heed, but, holding my arm, urged me along the pavement to -an animal shop on the western side of Broadway. The window was full of -puppies and long-haired cats. All down the aisle of the establishment -were tiers of birdcages, covered with curtains while the birds slept. -In lucid bowls persevering goldfish pursued their glittering and -improfitable round. - -“Those guinea pigs I ordered,” said Dulcet to the man, “are they ready?” - -“All ready, sir,” he said, and took out a cage from under the counter. -“Very fine pigs, sir, strong and hearty; they will stand a great deal.” - -“Yes,” I said, with a wild desire to shout with laughter. “But will they -stand being eaten? They will find that rather trying, I fancy.” - -Dulcet tapped his forehead, and the dealer smiled indulgently. My -companion took the cage, paid some money, and sped outdoors again. - -I made no further comment and in a few minutes we were in Dulcet's -apartment. - -“You have no kitchenette here, have you?” I protested. “Or do we devour -them raw? Oh, I see, you have a camp oven. How ingenious!” - -He had put on the table a large tin box. With complete seriousness he -now produced a small spirit lamp, over which he fitted a little basket -of fine wire mesh. When the flame of the lamp was lit, it played upon -the basket, which was supported by legs at just the right height. He now -put the unsuspecting guinea pigs into the tin box, which was shaped like -a rural-free-delivery letter-box, with a hinged door opening at one -end. He took the spirit lamp with its attached basket and pushed the -contraption carefully into the box with the pigs. Then he opened both -windows in the room. - -“Admirable!” I exclaimed. “Like those much-advertised cigarettes, they -will be toasted. But won't it take a long time?” - -“Don't be an ass,” he said. - -He went to his desk, and took out the tin of Cartesian Mixture he had -snatched away from me earlier in the evening. - -“Your mention of those cigarettes is apt,” he said, “for in this case -also the fuel is tobacco. Please go over by the window, and stay there.” - -I watched, somewhat impressed by the gravity of his manner. From the tin -of tobacco he took a small pinch of mixture and carefully placed it in -the mesh basket above the lamp. Reaching into the box, he lit the wick -of the lamp with a match, and hastily clapped to the hinged lid. The -guinea pigs seemed to be awed by these proceedings, for they remained -quiet. Dulcet joined me at the window, and remarked that fresh air was a -fine thing. - -We waited for about five minutes, while the guinea-pig oven stood -quietly on the table. - -“Well,” said Dulcet, finally, “we ought to be able to see whether it -rhymes or not.” - -He snatched open the door of the tin box, and skipped away from it in -a way that seemed to me perfectly insane. He picked up a pair of tongs -from the fireplace, and standing at a distance, lifted out the lamp. The -tobacco was smoking strongly in its mesh basket. Holding the lamp away -from him with the tongs, he carried it into the bathroom, and I heard -him turn on the water. Then, coming back, he inserted the tongs into the -tin box, and gingerly withdrew first one guinea pig and then the other. -Both were calm as possible, quite dead. Looking over the sill to see -that the pavement was clear, he threw the tin box into the street, where -it fell with a crash. - -“Surely they're not cooked already?” I said. - -“I haven't heard from the doctor yet,” he said; “but he promised to ring -me up this evening. I'm awfully sorry to have delayed your dinner, old -man. Meet me at the Lucerne grill room, Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam -Avenue, to-morrow evening at seven o'clock and we'll eat together. -You've been a great help to me.” - -“I hope the doctor is a mental specialist,” I said; but he pushed me -gently out of the room. “We'll finish our rhyme at dinner to-morrow -evening.” - -I went out into the night, and sorrowfully visited a Hartford Lunch. - -The next evening I was at the Lucerne grill promptly. This modest chop -house was one of Dulcet's favourite resorts, and I found him already -sitting in one of the alcoves studying the menu. He was in fine spirits, -and his quizzical blue eyes shone with a healthy lustre. - -“Are you armed?” he said, mysteriously. - -“What,” I cried, “are we going to do some more guinea pigs to death? It -was cruel. I have scruples against taking innocent lives. Besides, your -experiment proved nothing. Those pigs would have died anyway, shut up in -an air-tight box like that.” - -“Stuff!” he said. “The box was not hermetic. I had left small apertures: -there was plenty of oxygen. No, it was not the confinement in the -tin box that killed them. After you had gone, the chemist whom I had -consulted called me up. My suspicions were sound. Have you ever heard of -fumacetic acid?” - -This is going to be terrible, I thought to myself, and ordered -tenderloin steak, well done, with a double order of hashed brown -potatoes. - -“Have you ever heard of fumacetic acid?” he repeated, relentlessly. - -“No,” I said, nervously. - -“It is a deadly and little-known drug,” he said, “which (so the chemist -tells me) possesses the property that when vaporized the slightest whiff -of it causes instant death if inhaled into the lungs. The tobacco in -that tin had been doctored with it. I sent the chemist the pipe that -poor Digby was smoking when he died, and he analyzed what was left in -the bowl. There is no doubt whatever. He was poisoned in that way. I -tell you, my professional duty as a literary agent requires that in my -clients' interest I should sift this thing to the bottom. It may explain -some of those earlier deaths that baffled the Authors' League.” - -“But Mrs. Carboy, surely, did not smoke,” I was about to say; but I -checked myself in time. - -“Dove,” I said, “you are superb. But I wish you would tell me how you -worked the thing out. What was it that first aroused your suspicions? If -it had not been for you, I should never have guessed anything wrong.” - -“Of course,” he said, grimly, “it was that murderous placard in the -laundry window, and that is to your credit, for you noticed it. That was -the one thing that made plain the whole complicated business. Naturally -I suspected the tobacco from the first, for (as I told you) it was a -mixture that Digby never smoked ordinarily. But when I heard that that -eccentric and damnable placard had been put there at the suggestion of -the tobacconist next door, and then found that the tobacconist was also -a bookseller, I knew the worst. I have spent to-day in rounding up the -threads, and I think I may say without vainglory that the miscreant is -in my power.” - -“But the man standing on one leg?” I said, puzzled. “What was he up to, -and why did he run?” Dulcet's face shone with quiet triumph. - -“I told you,” he said, “to look for a nervous man smoking Cartesian -Mixture. That tobacconist, Basswood, smokes Cartesian. It is a very -moist, sticky blend, as you know. It can only be shaken out of the pipe, -after smoking, by vigorously knocking the bowl on something hard. Very -well, and if there is no stone step or something of that sort handy, -what will a smoker tap his pipe on? Why, he will stand on one leg and -knock it out on the lifted heel of the other. And his running away when -you addressed him so whimsically, wasn't that a pretty good sign of -nervousness--and also of a guilty and doubtful spirit?” - -He finished his tumbler of the near-beer that has made Milwaukee -infamous, and leaned forward earnestly. - -“You know very well,” he said, “that that laundryman would never have -thought of his grotesque notice, addressed to 'Artists and Authors', if -someone hadn't suggested it to him. Obviously he was only a gull. That -card was intended as a decoy, to lure Digby away from his room, so that -Basswood could leave the poisoned tobacco for him. Basswood had studied -Digby's habits, and must have known that the notice about the collars -would be sure to catch his eye. Now we had better be going. The police -will be at Basswood's shop at eight o'clock.” - -I could have done with a little strong coffee, but he haled me out -of the restaurant, and we walked up Amsterdam Avenue. How little, I -reflected, did the passersby, hurrying about their kindly and innocent -concerns, suspect our dark and perilous errand. - -“The motive, of course,” said Dulcet, “was to profit by the increase -of value Digby's death would give to his literary work. You will see a -proof of that in a moment. Here we are. Come on, this is no time to hang -back!” - -He strode into the brightly lighted shop, and I followed with a clumsy -assumption of carelessness. I must confess that my eye wandered in -search of suitable cover in case there should be any gun play. - -Mr. Basswood was behind his counter, smoking a battered-looking briar. -One side of the bowl was worn down nearly half an inch (from repeated -knocking out on stone steps, I suppose). He was a fat, cross-looking -person, with a black jut of moustache and a small, vindictive eye. - -“A friend told me about your bookshop,” said Dulcet. “He said that you -sometimes buy books and manuscripts and that sort of thing.” - -“Yes, sometimes,” said Basswood, without enthusiasm. - -“I have an unpublished story of Kenelm Digby's,” said Dulcet. “It is -about forty pages of manuscript. What would you give for that?” - -The dealer's eyes brightened. He took his pipe from his mouth, and -knocked it out smartly on his heel, tramping on the glowing cinders. -Dulcet looked at me gravely. - -“Let me see it,” Basswood said, eagerly. - -“I haven't got it with me. But give me an idea what it would be worth to -you.” - -“If it is genuine, and characteristic of Digby's genius,” said Basswood, -slowly, “I would give you two hundred dollars for it.” - -“Nonsense!” said Dulcet. “It isn't worth half that. I would not dream of -selling it for more than seventy-five.” - -Basswood looked startled. - -“I guess you are not in touch with the market for such things,” he said. -“There is more interest among collectors in Digby's work than in any -other recent writer. Perhaps you don't realize what a difference his sad -death has made in the prices of his editions. It is very regrettable, -but the death of a writer of that kind always puts a premium on -collectors' items, because there will never be any more of them.” - -“Oh, I see,” said Dulcet, politely. “It is his death that has made the -difference, is it?” - -“Exactly.” - -“Well, then, I suppose this manuscript _is_ worth more than I thought. -By the way, I think the title of it will interest you. It is called 'The -Mystery of the Soft Collars' and deals with a murder that took place on -Eighty-second Street.” - -I couldn't help admiring the glorious nonchalance with which Dulcet made -this remark, gazing the dealer straight in the eye. Basswood's face was -a study, and his cheek was pale and greasy. But he, too, was a man of -considerable nerve. - -“I don't believe it's genuine,” he said. “That doesn't sound to me like -Digby's style.” His voice shook a little, and he added: “However, if -it's as interesting as it sounds, I might pay even more than two hundred -for it.” - -“You rascal!” shouted Dulcet. “Do you think you can buy me off? No! keep -your hands above the counter!” - -He had whipped out his revolver, and held it at the man's face. - -“Look here, Mr. Basswood,” he said. “Even the cleverest of us make -mistakes. Let me call your attention to one thing. If it was Digby's -death that made the difference in the values of his books, how is it -that this bill from your printer, for that new catalogue of yours, is -dated ten days before Digby died? I picked it up in your back room the -other day. Doesn't that seem to show that you knew, ten days before the -event, that there was going to be a sudden boom in Digbiana? Ten days -before he died you were multiplying the prices of the items you had -gathered. Now, you dog, can you explain that?” - -Basswood shook, but still he clung to his hope. - -“I'll give you a thousand for that manuscript,” he said. - -“Ben,” said Dulcet to me, “just slip around the corner and whistle three -times. The police are waiting on Eighty-fifth Street.” - -***** - -“There's still one thing that puzzles me,” I said to Dulcet late that -night as we sat in his room for a final smoke. “I remember that before -we discovered that sign in the laundry you said that what we needed to -do was to find a rhyme between tobacco and collar buttons. Now what the -deuce started you off on collar buttons?” - -He smiled patiently. - -“When I had to pack up poor old Digby's belongings,” he said, “I had -the sad task of going through his bureau drawers. You know the devilish -little buttons that the manufacturers insist on putting on soft collars. -They always come off after one or two washings, and then the collar -collapses round your neck into an object of slovenly reproach. Digby was -a bachelor, and there was no one to do any mending for him. And when I -found that every one of his soft collars had its little button neatly -sewed on, I knew there was something wrong. I ask you, wouldn't that -have aroused the alarm of the least suspicious?” - -Up to the present time, as far as I know, Basswood remains the only -bookseller who has ever been electrocuted. - - - - -GLORIA AND THE GARDEN OF SWEDEN - -IT WAS one of those gilded October days when the serene sunshine is as -soft and tawny as candle-light; when the air is thin and sharp in -the early mornings, but the noontime is as comfortably genial as the -radiance of a hearth reddened with hickory embers. Dove Dulcet and I -were strolling along Riverside Park, enjoying the blue elixir of the -afternoon, in which there was just a faint prick, a gently tangible barb -of the coming arrows of the North. - -“Winter sharpens her spearheads,” said Dulcet. “Aye,” was my reply. -Below us I saw the coaling-station at the Seventy-ninth Street pier. -“The merriest music the householder can hear nowadays is the roar of -coal going down the chute into the cellar.” - -He sighed, and seemed touched by a sudden melancholy. - -“Ben,” he said, “that coal-dump reminds me of Gloria Larsen. Did I ever -tell you about her?” - -“Never,” I said. “Coal, I presume, made you think of diamonds; and -diamonds, of Miss Larsen. Were you engaged to her?” - -“I might have been,” he said, sentimentally. Before us was an empty -bench, on a little knoll that looks out over the shining sweep of the -river. I drew him to it, and we filled our pipes. When you can get a -minor poet in an autobioloquacious mood, it is well to encourage him. -No one takes life so seriously as the minor poet, and consequently his -memoirs make fine sport for the disinterested bystander. - -“No,” he said, blowing a waft of tobacco smoke into the soft, -sun-brimmed air, and settling down into the curve of the bench. “The -association was even more obvious than that of coal and diamonds. I -always think of Gloria when winter begins to come in.” - -“Ah!” I said. “She was cold?” - -He meditated, ignoring my jocularity. - -***** - -“It was a good many years ago,” he said at last; “before you knew me. -When I first came to town, you know, I had a fine ambition to be a -writer. I had just a little money, so I shut myself up in a hall room -at the top of a cheap lodging-house on Seventy-fifth Street, hired a -typewriter, and set about to butt my bead against all the walls that hem -in the beginner. - -“It was one of those old four-story dwellings that are now mostly -boarding-houses, and it was run by a good-hearted widow who would let -her rooms only to men, because she said they were less trouble than -women. Her house was clean and incredibly cheap, and almost all the -lodgers were young fellows like myself--students, or starveling artists, -or chaps with literary ambitions. That was how I had heard of the place, -through another fellow who lived there and had built up a little sort of -coterie in the house. He was Black-more. You know his name; he gave up -art long ago. He's now the art editor of the _Mother, Home, and Heaven -Magazine_. - -“Mrs. Vesey, our landlady, was quite a character. I was always rather -a favourite with her, because the very first day I came to her house -I happened to find her cat, which had wandered away some days before, -leaving her disconsolate. The cat's name, I remember, was Nemo. She had -called it so because, with that admirable virginity of mind that one -finds only in a childless married woman, she was uncertain of the -animal's sex. Anyway, it was a fine big creature, and the apple of Mrs. -Vesey's pie. She talked so much about it that we used to chaff her a -good deal on the subject, and say that we thought it was going to have -kittens, and all that sort of thing. Blackmore used to say, remembering -the title of some idiotic melodrama he had seen, that it was 'Neither -Maid, Wife, nor Widow.' He was right, for it was the kind of cat that -is not likely to be either a father or a mother without a miracle. But I -don't want to be indelicate. I only mention Nemo because it was through -him that I first talked with Gloria. - -“The first day I was at Mrs. Vesey's I heard her groaning about the -vanished cat. That evening I went out to supper, feeling rather lonely, -and dropped in at an eccentric-looking little restaurant on Amsterdam -Avenue. It was called Larsen's Physical Culture Chophouse, and I have -never seen a more amusing place. Old man Larsen was a Swede, and all the -Scandinavian fads ran riot in his head--vegetarian food, for instance. -He didn't absolutely condemn meat, for he would serve it if you -insisted, but all his joy was in weird combinations of calory, protose, -and vitamine, or whatever those things are called. Bean “cutlets,” and -protose “steak” that turned out, on examination, to be made of chopped -walnuts and lentils, and the “Thousand-Calory Combination Dinner,” of -which he made a specialty. When you sat down, if you were a regular -customer, old Larsen would come round and look you over and diagnose -from your complexion the kind and quantity of calories you needed for -that meal, and would give you combinations of spinach croquettes and -lentil pie that he warranted would purge the blood and compose the mind. -On the walls were charts of Swedish exercises and systems of -calisthenics, and he sold a little pamphlet that he himself had written -telling how to be strong and merry and full of physique. - -“Well, to come back to my first visit to Larsen's restaurant. I hadn't -been in there many minutes before I noticed the girl at the cashier's -desk. My, my, what a girl! My table was close to her little throne, and -I couldn't help watching her out of the end of my eye. I wondered if -she was raised entirely on protose and lentils, for I have never seen -anything so gloriously and vitally physical in my life. Great, bold blue -eyes, and crisp, sparkling golden hair, and blood that spoke delicately -through her skin, and a figure--well, just our old friend of Melos -over again, that lively combination of grace and strength. She was just -curves and waves and athletic softness--the kind of creature that makes -your arms tingle, you know. No corset, I suppose. In the old man's -booklet on physical culture he defended the gymnastic doctrine that -women should develop what he called a muscle corset by bending and -swaying from the hips a thousand times a day. He said it must be -done--well, _au naturel_, in front of an open window in one's bedroom in -the morning. I'd be ashamed to admit that we fellows at Mrs. Vesey's -used to set our alarm clocks at half-past six to go round the corner to -Amsterdam Avenue----” - -Dulcet paused a while and watched the river pensively. - -“But about the cat,” I reminded him presently. - -“Yes,” he said. “Well, that first night I was at the chop-house I -noticed a very fine, fat cat browsing about under the tables. I was -amused at the corpulence of the animal. I said to myself that a cat -as large as that must surely get some meat somewhere, because, while -vegetarian protose food may be all right for Swedes, a cat is a realist -in the matter of carnal meals. And when I went to the desk to pay my -check, wanting some excuse to get into talk with the superb Gloria--who -was, of course, the old man's daughter--I remarked on the sleek, healthy -appearance of her cat. - -“'Oh, it's not ours,' she said. 'It came in here yesterday. I don't know -whose he is.' - -“I'll bet I know whose it is,” I said. - -I told her that Mrs. Vesey, who ran the bachelor lodging-house on -Seventy-Fifth Street, had lost her Nemo. She listened with interest, -those thrilling blue eyes sizing me up in a keen, humorous way. - -“'I shouldn't wonder it's hers,' she said. - -“Welcoming any pretext for prolonging the discussion, I borrowed the -phone at Gloria's elbow, and, studying the heart-rending curves of her -chin and cheek and throat, I called up Mrs. Vesey and told her I thought -I had found her pet. Mrs. Vesey hurried round to the restaurant, -and swept up the vagabond Nemo with cries of joy into her lean and -affectionate bosom. Nemo purred, and I escorted Mrs. Vesey home, -recapitulating in my mind the perfect contours of the girl's heavenly -form. My enthusiasm was even such that when the other men came in I -could not refrain from telling them all about her. I saw that I had made -a mistake, for instantly Blackmore swore he would get her to sit for -him. - -“Of course, from that time on, the Physical Culture Chophouse became the -nightly haunt of our little party. The other men had seen it many times, -but the vegetarian threats in the window had frightened them away. But -now, none of us dared to be absent very many dinners, for fear the -rest would gain some advantage with the girl. I cannot give you any -conception of the humorous glamour of that time unless I insist that she -was the most superbly luscious thing I have ever glimpsed; and one sees -a good many covetable creatures on the streets of New York. Some of them -said she was cold; that in spite of all the nutritious algebra printed -on old Larsen's menus (he used to put down all sorts of preposterous -formulas about starch, and albumen, and phosphorus, and proteids, and so -on)--she was lacking in calories. But I know that when we sat at table, -and she came round to ask if everything was all right, and leaned over -us with her clear eyes, as blue as a special-delivery stamp, and that -cream-white neck, and the faint glimmer of a blue ribbon shining through -the hilly slopes of her blouse-----Oh, well, Ben, we were young, and we -ate red meat for lunch, anyway. - -“I guess old man Larsen, who spent most of his time in the kitchen, -encouraged her to kid us along, for he never seemed to mind our open -admiration of his daughter. He probably saw that she was a bigger -business asset than any number of calory charts. Every now and then he -would come out and chin with us, for our party became a nightly event -in the café. Before long we had sampled every kind of vegetarian -combination on the list, and had him busy inventing new ones. We used to -ask him if he had raised a girl like that on nothing but vegetables, and -he would laugh and swear that Gloria had never tasted blood until she -was sixteen. It seemed queer to us that the restaurant wasn't full of -her suitors. I should have thought, with a girl like her, they'd have -been standing in line waiting for a look at her. I suppose that people -who feed on nothing but vegetables are rather puny in such matters. -It's an odd thing, but I've always noticed that most of the people who -frequent these crank physical-culture and dietetic eating-places are a -queer, sick-looking lot--youths with rolling Adam's apples, and sallow, -soup-stained girls. Certainly our little gang, so very jovial and -fancy-free, made a quaint contrast to most of the patrons of the house. -In a few days we felt as if we owned the place, and had the old man -slide two tables together just underneath Gloria's cash register, where -we met every evening for dinner. - -“As for Larsen, he was a crank on many subjects but he was no fool. -He was an athletic, erect fellow with a bristling gray moustache and -cropped hair and a forcible gray eye. On the wall was a huge photo -of him in a kind of Sandow pose, with a leopard-skin apron round his -middle, showing terrific knotty biceps and back muscles. Gloria told us -that at one time he had been a physical instructor in the Swedish army, -and the head of a _Turnverein_, or something of that sort. There was a -certain physical and gymnastic candour about him that amused us. He was -awfully proud of Gloria, whom he had raised himself (being a widower) -according to his own hygienic and athletic principles. After we had all -bought his booklets, and promised to take up his system of calisthenics, -he became quite chummy and showed us a lot of photographs of Gloria at -different ages, doing her gymnastic exercises, beginning as a little -plump Venus and ending as a stunning profile in tights. We tried to -maintain an attitude of merely scientific detachment toward those -pictures, admiring them only as connoisseurs of physical culture; but we -ended by begging him for copies, insisting that they would be a useful -guide to us in our own private exercising. But Larsen said he -was keeping them to illustrate a new enlarged edition of his -physical-culture book. We told him that it would sell a million copies, -and I think we all volunteered to act as selling-agents for the book. -Annette Kellermann and Susanna Cocroft, we cried, were scarecrows -compared to Gloria. - -“To all this banter Gloria would listen calmly and unembarrassed, for -she had a magnificent unconsciousness of her own superb allure. We would -each try to get a moment alone with her to describe the exercises we -were taking, and to ask her advice about our muscular development. -I remember that Blackmore, after secret practice that we had not -suspected, took the wind out of our sails one evening when some of us -were bragging of our accomplishment in bending and touching the floor -while standing on tiptoe. He jumped up and caught hold of the lintel of -the doorway, and chinned himself on it a dozen times or so. We were -all crestfallen by this feat until Gloria came forward--all the other -customers had gone home--and did the same thing about twenty times. She -went back to her counter with a heavenly flush of pride, while Blackmore -dashed to a table and did a little sketch of her from memory, with the -lovely lines of her figure silhouetted against the doorway. - -“But it was I who was first to think of the subtlest compliment that any -one could pay her, which was to ask the privilege of feeling her biceps. -And what an arm she had! Not a great, fleshy, flabby washerwoman's -limb, but the rippling marble of a Greek statue brought to warm life! -Blackmore used to sit at meal-times neglecting his protose steak and -making sketches of her while she wasn't looking. The best I could do was -write verses about her. And while she played no favourites, I think -she really gave me a little the inside track, because I talked physical -culture with her more seriously than the others, who tried to make love -to her a little too baldly. - -“By this time she had us all doing calisthenics. The creaky floors of -Mrs. Vesey's house used to resound night and morning with the agonies -of our gymnastics. There was one exercise that Gloria told us she found -particularly helpful. It was to lie down with the feet under a bureau or -any other heavy piece of furniture, extend the arms behind the head, and -then raise and lower the body a hundred times, pivoting from the waist. -This was only one of fifty or more laborious accomplishments that we -undertook for the sake of our goddess. No woman was ever wooed with -more honest pangs, or with more repeated genuflections. As we lay on -the floor before going to bed, raising our legs in the air two hundred -times, or groaned in some sinew-cracking, twisting contortion devised -by the pitiless Swede, it was the vision of Gloria's beauty of snow and -rose that gave us courage. If any passer-by ever looked up at the front -of Mrs. Vesey's house in the early mornings, he must have been startled -to see a white figure near every window, furiously going through the -Swedish manual. One of us, we fondly thought, would some day spend a -healthy Swedish honeymoon performing these motions in ecstatic company -with Gloria; and we did not want to be shamed by her incomparable -perfection. If she worshipped bodily symmetry, our goal was nothing -less. We wanted to be lithe, supple, very panthers of elasticity and -grace. The evening I was able to stand on one leg in the restaurant and -proudly raise my other foot to touch a gas-jet some six feet from the -floor, I felt that Gloria might some day be mine.” - -Dove paused again, and seemed to fall into a reminiscent reverie. -Unconsciously he stiffly extended one leg in front of him, and I divined -that he was inwardly rehearsing that act of calisthenic triumph. - -“By gracious!” he said, “I've never forgotten the night I got her -father's permission to take her to some gymnastic tournament, or -something of that sort, down at Madison Square Garden. How annoyed the -other men were when they went to the chop-house that night for their -evening penance of lentils, and found Gloria absent! Yes, it was an odd -wooing. I had found the measurements of the Venus de Milo in some Sunday -paper, and that night, when we became quite sentimental, I made her -promise to take her own dimensions, so that we could compare the -proportions of the two. And we had some very happy little jokes, quite -simple ones that she would understand, about her arms being much more -lovely than those of the statue, and that sort of thing. How deliciously -she blushed the next day when she gave me her list of measurements, -written out on a sheet of paper. Of course, I pretended not to -understand which was which. I wrote a little poem about them.” - -“It seems to me,” I said, “that you were getting on very well. What was -the trouble? You didn't marry her, did you?” - -“Old man Larsen,” he continued, gravely, “had a number of other hobbies -besides vegetarianism and physical culture. He was a mechanical -genius in his way. I remember once, after we had expressed exaggerated -admiration of some atrocious compound of lentils and nuts and -fruit, Gloria took us through the kitchen to show us an ingenious -sandwich-making machine her father had contrived. You fed in loaves of -pumpernickel bread and pats of nut butter on one side, hard-boiled eggs -and lettuce and dressing on the other, and out came egg-salad sandwiches -through a slot, as neat as you could want to see. But the best of his -stunts was a sort of miniature vacuum cleaner which the waitresses used -for taking the crumbs off the tables. You've seen those little hot-air -pistols they use at swell shoe-shining stands to dry the liquid cleanser -off your shoes before they put on the polishing paste? Well, Larsen's -decrumbing machine, as we used to call it, looked rather like those. You -screwed a plug into an electric light socket, ran the little gun over -the table, and in a jiffy it sucked up crumbs and cigarette ashes and -spilled lentils and matches, and left the cloth neat. Larsen was so -proud of it he said he was going to patent it. - -“I never cared so very much for the old man, he was a little too -eccentric; and I began to think, after a while, that he used his -daughter a little too crudely as a business bait; but he was full of -ideas. He had a big motor-truck that he used to cruise around town, -visiting the markets himself, to get the pick of the vegetables; and he -was always tinkering with that truck, planning new mechanical tricks of -some kind. He had an insatiable curiosity, too. He used to sit down -at the table with us sometimes, late in the evening, and ask about our -work, and where we lived, and what Mrs. Vesey was like, and what time of -day we were home, and all sorts of fool questions like that. - -“Well, the time went on, and it began to be cold weather. I noticed this -sooner than the other fellows, I think, because whereas most of them -went to offices during the daytime, I stayed home at Mrs. Vesey's, -trying to write in my narrow coop of a top bedroom. You know how -depressing an instrument a typewriter is when your hands are cold. I -haven't forgotten some dreary vigils I had up there, struggling to write -short stories. Sometimes I used to give it up weakly, and go round to -Larsen's, where it was always warm and cozy, to drink herb coffee and -eat those brittle Swedish biscuits and chat with Gloria. I used to -complain to her about the cold in my room, and she would laugh and say -that I just ought to try a winter in Sweden. - -“'Swedish exercises,' she would say. 'That's the thing to stir up your -blood! They'll keep you warm.' - -“And then, in her enchanting way, she would tell me a new one, and if -there were no customers (as there generally weren't in the middle of -the afternoon) she would illustrate how it should be done. Sometimes she -would even allow me what she called a Swedish kiss--a very fleeting -and provocative embrace. And then I would show her my new perfection in -doing the backward stoop or some such muscular oddity, and return to my -cold citadel. - -“But in spite of the fact that we were all busy much of the time going -through our manual of exercises, presently the chill of Mrs. Vesey's -lodgings became severe. Mrs. Vesey was a rather obstinate and frugal old -dear, and she herself dwelt down in the kitchen, where her big gas-range -kept her comfortable. When we complained of the cold, she had all sorts -of excuses for postponing lighting the furnace. There was a big coal -strike that year, and she was quite right in suspecting that once her -present supply was exhausted it would be very hard to get more. Also, -she said, her furnace man had quit, but she was hunting for another. On -one pretext or another, she kept on putting us off, until finally it was -mid-November, and we were doing our exercises in rooms where our breath -showed like clouds of fog. And then one day Mrs. Vesey came up in great -glee to say that a coal man had called that very morning, of his own -accord, and had offered to give her five tons. She had promptly snapped -at the chance, and he had put the coal in the cellar; so we should have -heat the very next day, when the new furnace man was expected. - -“Naturally we were all cheered by this good news. We sped round to -Larsen's restaurant in high spirits, and adored our divinity with even -more than usual abandon. - -“'Now my fingers will be warm again, Gloria,' I said, 'I'll be able to -write some more poems about you.' - -“'Yes,' cried Blackmore, 'and now it will be warm enough for you to -come and pose for me in my lovely attic at Mrs. Vesey's. If you had come -before, I should have called my painting “The Chilblain Venus.”' - -“'Silly boys!' said Gloria, with that delicious, soft Swedish accent -which I can't even try to imitate. 'You are hot-blooded enough as it is. -You don't need all that warming up. Look at us vegetarians; you make fun -of us, but our lentils keep our blood circulating. Try Brussels sprouts; -they are full of calories.' - -“'Ah!' we shouted. 'But you seem to keep this place warm enough.' - -“Old Larsen, who passed through the room just then, broke in crossly: - -“'We have to, for the sake of the customers,' he said. 'Gloria, stop -fooling with the gentlemen and attend to business.' He seemed in a bad -humour that night. - -“The next day must have been some sort of holiday, for I know we all -went out to see a football game. We got back about supper-time and found -the house perishing chill. With shouts and protests we called Mrs. Vesey -from her kitchen, but she explained that the expected furnace man had -not turned up. - -“'Well,' said Blackmore, 'this can't go on any longer, Mrs. Vesey. I'll -go down and light the fire myself. We'll take turns and keep it going -till your man comes.' - -“He ran down to the basement, but a minute later he was up again. - -“'Mrs. Vesey,' he shouted, 'what is all this nonsense? Are you kidding -us? There's no coal down there at all!' - -“'No coal?' she exclaimed. 'Why, there was a good three or four tons, -and the man said he put five tons more in yesterday. I heard him do -it--never heard such a noise in my life. I paid him ten dollars a ton. - -“'Impossible!' Blackmore cried, angrily. 'There's not enough down there -to fry Nemo with. About three shovelfuls, that's all. What is this--some -kind of a game to freeze us out?' - -“Mrs. Vesey wrung her hands, and we all ran down to the cellar. It was -as Blackmore had said. The bins were empty, save for a few lumps.” - -Dove gazed down thoughtfully at the coal office on the pier below us, -where a wagon was loading. - -“On a mellow afternoon like this,” he said, “coal doesn't seem quite -so pressing a concern; but I tell you, in a bleak boarding-house about -Thanksgiving time, with no heat of any sort available but a gas-jet, it -is a different matter. We were an angry and puzzled lot that night. Mrs. -Vesey protested so pitifully that there had been coal in the bins only -the day before, and asserted so repeatedly that she had heard the -noise of the new load going in, that we could not help believe her. She -promised to call up her coal man the first thing the next morning, and -we also agreed to go round and visit him in a body, to add our personal -appeals; but how on earth several tons of coal could have been stolen -out of the cellar without any one hearing it seemed to us a mystery. - -“The next morning we visited the coal-dealer _en masse_--in a coalition, -as Blackmore said--and by spirited imprecation and paying cash we -extracted a promise to have a couple of tons sent at once. His office -was some distance up on Columbus Avenue, and on our way back we passed -through one of the cross-streets--Eighty-Third, I think it was, because -one of us wanted to get some stamps at the post-office. As we came -along, we heard the rumble of coal passing down a chute, and saw a -coal-wagon in the distance. - -“'There's somebody in luck,' said one. - -“'But what an odd-looking coal-wagon,' said another, as we approached. - -“It was a large motor-truck with a hinged metal top, something like a -huge street-cleaning cart. The engine was throbbing, and the coal was -roaring noisily in the chute, which led down into the cellar window of -a brownstone dwelling. The chute, instead of being the customary shallow -trough, was a large circular pipe, so that we could not actually see the -coal pouring downward, but only hear it crashing through the metal -tube. That struck me as a good idea for preventing the coal-dust from -spreading over everything near. - -“But we were all interested not only in the odd appearance of the truck, -but in the extraordinary din it caused. Delivering coal is never a -silent job, naturally; but this racket was really terrific. The driver -seemed to have left his engine running full tilt, and the whole truck -quivered and shook with the power. We stood amazed at the furious rattle -and uproar. The noise was too great for spoken words to be caught, but I -pointed out the circular chute to Blackmore. It was made in telescoping -sections, to slide into itself, and was an interesting novelty. - -“It occurred to me that this dealer, whoever he might be--there was no -name on the truck--could perhaps let Mrs. Vesey have some coal. We could -see the feet of the driver, who was standing on the other side of the -truck, and I went round to speak to him. It was a stocky man with a -flowing bush of black beard and wearing a suit of very grimy overalls. -At the top of my voice I yelled: - -“'Got any coal to sell?' - -“He shook his head in a surly way and turned his back on me. - -“I could not tell from his gesture whether he had answered my question, -or was indicating that he could not hear; so I shouted at him again. - -“At the same time I noticed Blackmore and the others gathered at the -cellar window, looking in curiously over the slope of the delivery -pipe. The coal man seized a lever and shut off his power, for the engine -stopped, and after a little sliding and rumbling in the tube the racket -ceased. He picked up a shovel and ran to the group by the chute. - -“'Here, let that alone!' he cried, angrily. “'Keep your shirt on,' said -Blackmore. 'We're just looking at this outfit of yours. It makes a devil -of a noise. Regular public nuisance, I call it!' '“It's none of your -affair,' said the man. 'Keep out of what don't concern you.' - -“He returned to his truck, pulled a handle, and the roar of the coal -began again. I was standing near him, while the others were on the -opposite side of the wagon, so I was the only one to see a curious -thing. There were several revolving cogwheels at the side of the truck, -and in his irritation, I suppose the driver stooped over them too -closely. At any rate, his beard caught in the cogs, and I gave a cry of -dismay, thinking he would be cruelly hurt. To my amazement the beard was -whisked quickly from his face, and I saw that he was Larsen. He looked -at me with an expression of alarm and anger that was laughable. - -“'When did you turn coal-dealer?' I shouted. But at this moment -Blackmore, who was still bending over the chute, sprang up and ran round -to us. He, too, was staggered to see the identity of the driver. He -dragged me a few paces away and shouted in my ear. - -“'Damn queer business,' he said. 'That coal isn't going in. It's coming -out!' - -“'What the deuce do you mean?' I said. - -“'Just what I say. He's got some sort of a suction engine in that truck, -a kind of big vacuum cleaner, and he's simply siphoning the coal out of -somebody's cellar.' - -“Larsen ran at us with a big spanner in his hand, but we grappled with -him, and while three of us held him the others examined the truck. It -was perfectly true. By an ingenious gasoline pump installed in the wagon -he was drawing out the coal. Looking into the top of the wagon through a -little glass peephole, we could see the black nuggets coming swiftly up -out of the chute. By this time a little crowd had gathered, and the lady -of the house ran out to see what was happening. I think she thought we -were trying to seduce her coal supply. She explained angrily to us that -Larsen had driven up to her door half an hour before and offered to sell -her several tons of coal. Her cellar, like everyone else's, was none too -well stocked, and she had been delighted to agree. - -“While we were wondering just what to do, Larsen, who had been glaring -wickedly at us, broke away from our grasp and reversed his machinery -so that the coal began to thunder back honestly into the cellar. The -puzzled woman, not suspecting anything wrong, went back indoors after we -made some impromptu explanation for the fuss. Larsen's amputated black -beard whirled round and round, still adhering to the rolling cogs, as -we watched, while he stood by sullenly. We walked away down the block -to hold a council, and also to let the group of mystified onlookers -disperse. Of course, our first thought was to go for the police; but -then we thought of Gloria.” - -Dove sighed, and tapped out his long-expired pipe. - -“Well,” he said, “that's pretty near the end of the story. I'm afraid -association with Beauty blunts the sense of rectitude. No, we didn't do -anything about it, except see to it that Larsen put back that coal -in the cellar. I suppose we were really accessory to a misdemeanour, -because we gathered from some small paragraphs we saw in the papers that -a number of householders in that neighbourhood had been mysteriously -robbed of their coal. To tell you the truth, we couldn't bear the -thought of taking any action that would ruin Gloria's happiness. What -were a few tons of black, filthy coal compared to that serene and -golden-white beauty of hers, like some princess in a Norse fairy tale? -The old man was a lunatic, we supposed, and would come to grief sooner -or later. We were not going to be the ones to bring humiliation upon -him. - -“We walked back, stricken, to our lodgings; and as we passed the -Physical Culture Chophouse we looked furtively through the window. We -could see Gloria laying the tables for lunch, the tall, strong curve -of her back as she leaned over, her capable white hands smoothing the -cloth. None of us had the heart to go in. - -“We clubbed together to pay for Mrs. Vesey's new supply of coal, -although it broke our pocket-books for the next month or so. We were -too hard up, then, to go on eating at Larsen's. We had to patronize a -lunch-counter instead, where we gloomed over frankfurters and beans -and quarrelled with one another, in sheer misery, as to which one of us -Gloria had really liked best. We never saw her again, because about a -week later the Larsen café shut up, and they disappeared.” - -“And the calisthenics?” I said. “Did you go on with those?” - -“No,” he said; “we were too melancholy. Also, as soon as Mrs. Vesey's -coal arrived, we didn't need to. That was the terrible part of it. You -see, Gloria had simply egged us on to do those exercises so that we -wouldn't feel the chill when her father stole the coal. I'm afraid she -was as guilty as he was, but we tried to convince ourselves that she was -only a tool.” - -We got up from our bench, for the afternoon air was growing bleak. - -“Now you know,” he said, “why that coal-dump down there reminded me of -Gloria. Well, it was wonderful while it lasted--until, as you might say, -the serpent drove us out of our Garden of Sweden.” - - - - - -THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -IT WAS two days before Christmas, and Dove Dulcet had come down town -to have lunch with me. As he had arrived rather early, we were taking a -little stroll round the bright, windy streets before our meal, -enjoying the colour and movement of the scene. We stopped by St. Paul's -churchyard to note the curious contrast of the old chocolate spire -relieved against the huge glittering shaft of the Woolworth Building. At -the noon hour St. Paul's stands in the dark shadow of the great cliffs -to the south, while the Woolworth pinnacle leaps up like a spearhead -into the golden vacancy of day-long sunshine. - -“Saint Paul in the shadow, Saint Frank in the sun,” said Dove with -gentle irony. “It seems to prove that ten cents put in the cash register -gets nearer Heaven than ten cents dropped in the collection plate.” - -When Dove is philosophical, he is always full of quaint matter, but -I was hardly heeding what he said. My eye had been caught by a crowd -gathered at the corner of Church Street. Over the heads of the throng was -a winking spark of light that flashed this way and that as though spun -from a turning mirror. - -“Let's go and see what's doing,” I said. My poet friend is always -docile, and he followed me down Fulton Street. - -“It looks to me like a silk hat,” he said. - -And so it was. On the corner of the pavement stood a tall, stout, and -very well-nourished man with a ruddy face, wearing shabby but still -presentable cutaway coat and gray trousers, and crowned by a steep -and glittering stovepipe hat which twinkled like a heliograph in the -dazzling winter glare. But, most amazing, when we elbowed a passage -through the jocular crowd, we saw that this personable individual was -wearing, instead of an overcoat, two large sandwich boards vigorously -lettered as follows: - -THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -OPENS TO-DAY 59 Ann Street - -Celebrate the Merry Yuletide! - -One Prodigious Meal, - -$1 BUY A STRIP TICKET AND SAVE MONEY - -TO-DAY ONLY 100 meals for $10 - -This corpulent sandwich man was blithely answering the banter of those -who were not awed by the radiance of his headgear and the dignity of his -mien, and passing out printed cards to those nearest him. - -“Do all the hundred meals have to be eaten to-day?” asked Dulcet. “If -so, the task is beyond my powers.” - -“Like the man in the Bible,” I said, “he probably rented his garments. -But he couldn't rent that admirable abdomen that proclaims him a -well-fed man. It seems to me a very sound ad. for the chophouse.” - -“Unquestionably,” said my friend, gravely, “he is the man who put the ad -in adipose.” - -The sandwich man, unabashed by these remarks, handed me one of his -cards, which Dulcet and I read together: - -_K. Jefferson Gastric, the best-fed man south of 42nd Street, takes this -importunity of urging you to become a steakholder in the Commutation -Chophouse. Why pay for overhead expense? In the Commutation Chophouse -all unnecessaries are discarded and you pay only for food, not for -finger-bowls and a lovely female cashier. No tips. To-day Only, the -Opening Day, to celebrate the jovial Yule, the management will sell -Strip Tickets entitling you to 100 Glorious Meals, for $10._ - -At this point a policeman politely urged Mr. Gastric to move on, and he -passed genially down Church Street, his resplendent hat glowing above a -trail of followers. - -“Come on,” I said; “it's time to eat, anyway. Let's go over to Ann -Street and have a look at this philanthropic venture.” - -“Well,” said Dulcet, “since it's your turn to buy, far be it from me to -protest.” - -The narrow channel of Ann Street is always crowded at the lunch hour, -but on that occasion it was doubly congested with patrons of the amusing -toyshops. We pushed patiently along, and passing Nassau Street moved -into a darker and shabbier region. A sound of music rose upon the air. -To our surprise, at the entrance to an unsuspected alley stood a fiddler -playing a merry jig. Beside him was another sandwich man, also stout and -well-favoured and in Fifth-Avenue attire, carrying boards which read: - -ENTRANCE TO THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -Eat Drink and Be Merry For To-morrow We Die - -To-day Only, for the Jocund Yule, - -Strip Tickets for 100 Square Meals, $10 - -“This is highly diverting,” I said. “Apparently we go down this passage. -Come on, everyone seems bound the same way. We won't get a seat unless -we make haste.” - -Dulcet was gazing reflectively at the sandwich boards. His blue eyes had -a quizzical twinkle. - -“For God, for country, and for Yule,” he said. “Queer that this should -happen on Ann Street. I seem to remember----” - -“Queer that it should happen anywhere,” I interrupted him. “It's a -clever advertising stunt, anyway--100 meals for $10. It seems too good -to be true.” - -“The only thing I'm afraid of,” he said, “is that it is literally true.” - -“Walk in, gents, give us a try,” cried the sandwich man. “Try anything -once, gents.” - -“Come on, Dove,” I said, seeing that others were crowding ahead of us -down the alley. “None of your paradoxes!” - -The narrow passage turned into a courtyard overlooked by old grimy -warehouses with iron-shuttered windows. In one corner was a fine -substantial brick building with a rounded front, and a long flight of -wooden stairs that seemed to lead up to a marine junk shop, for old -sea-boots and ships' lanterns and fenders hung along the wall. In a -basement was an iron foundry where we could see the bright glow of a -forge. Halfway down the little area was a low door with a huge stone -lintel-piece over which was a large canvas sign: _the commutation -chophouse_. - -***** - -I must confess to an irrational affection for quaint eating places, and -having explored downtown New York's crowded cafés and lunchrooms rather -carefully in quest of a congenial tavern, the Commutation Chophouse -struck me as highly original and pleasing. We stepped down into a very -large and rather dark cellar that apparently had previously been used as -a carpenter's shop, for a good many traces of the earlier tenancy were -still visible. The furnishings were of the plainest, consisting simply -of heavy wooden tables and benches. There was no linen on the tables, -but the wood had been scrubbed scrupulously clean and there were piles -of tissue napkins. From a door at the back waiters came rushing with -trays of food. A glorious clatter of knives and forks filled the air, -and it looked at first as though we would find no place to sit. As Dove -expressed it, the room was loaded to the muzzle; and a continuous stream -of patrons was coming down the alley, allured by the sandwich man and -the absurd thin gayety of the fiddle. By the front door stood a dark -young man, behind a small counter, selling tickets. - -“One meal for a dollar,” he cried, repeatedly, as he took in money. “One -hundred meals for ten dollars. Get your commutation tickets here.” - -“We'll try two single meals to begin with,” I said, and put down a -ten-dollar bill. - -The young man rummaged in a drawer full of greasy notes to get the -change. “Better get a commutation,” he said. “Tremendous saving.” - -“I should think you'd need a cash register,” said Dulcet. “Handling all -that kale, it would be useful in keeping the accounts straight.” - -The young man looked up sharply. - -“Say,” he retorted, “what are you, mister? Cash-register salesman? Step -along please, don't block the gangway. Next! Seats in the rear! No, -commutation tickets not transferable. Good only to the purchaser. Ten -dollars, please. Next!” - -“They seem to be coining money,” said Dove, as we found places at last -in a rear corner. - -“Well,” I said, “this is just the kind of place I like. By Jove, this -building must be well over a hundred years old. Look at those beams -in the ceiling. All they need is a few sporting prints and an open -fireplace. Lit by candles, too, you see. Well, well, this is the real -alehouse atmosphere. Why, it's as good as the Cheshire Cheese. This is -the kind of place where I can imagine Doctor Johnson and Charles Lamb -sitting in a corner.” - -“You are an incurable sentimentalist,” he said. “Besides, Lamb would -have had to sit on Johnson's knee, I expect. If I remember rightly, Lamb -was a very small urchin when Doctor Johnson died.” - -“Why be so literal?” I protested. “Haven't you any sentiment for fine -antique flavour, and all that sort of thing?” - -“If there is one thing where sentiment plays no part with me,” he said, -“it is food. At meal times I am distinctly a realist. Fine antique -flavour is rather upsetting when you find it in your meat. But still,” - he continued, “I must admit this looks good.” He beamed approvingly at -the thick chop and baked potatoes and beans and coffee the waiter had -put down in front of us. - -“Evidently you don't order your food,” I said. “They give you the -standardized meal of the day. Fall to! These beans baked in cheese -strike me as excellent.” - -I have never seen waiters rush around with such speed as they did in -that crowded cellar, where flickering candle-gleams cast a tawny light -over the crowded tables of men packed shoulder to shoulder. They flashed -in and out through the rear door like men possessed. They careered in -with trays of steaming viands, crashed them down on the bare tables, and -fled out again, napkins streaming behind them like pennants. Once they -had delivered your food it seemed impossible to catch their gaze, for we -tried to hail one to ask for ketchup. It was no use. He flew hither and -yon with frantic and single-minded energy. - -“These waiters speed like dervishes,” I said. “Evidently the no-tip rule -does not lessen their zeal.” - -“Perhaps they get a share in the profits of the enterprise,” said -Dulcet, placidly. - -Just behind us was a small barred window looking out on a street. It -was at the ground level, and looking through the dusty pane I could see -horses' hoofs going by, and the feet of pedestrians. Suddenly there was -a great clang and crash outside, and I turned to look. - -“What's up?” said Dulcet, who was cheerfully disposing of his chop as -well as his neighbour's elbow would permit him. - -“They seem to have spilled some beans,” I said, peering through the -dusky aperture. “There's a truck delivering food or something at the -back door. They've tipped over a can, I think.” - -“Spilled some beans?” he said, with his first sign of real interest. -“That sounds symbolic. Let me have a look.” - -He stood up on the bench and gazed outward. Presently he sat down again -and went on calmly with his meal. Some excellent cheese cake was brought -us as dessert. - -“That alley behind us,” he said. “I suppose it communicates with Beekman -Street, doesn't it?” - -“I guess so. Why?” - -“Just wondering. Ben, I apologize for my skepticism. The food here is -jolly good. In fact, it's so good that I think I've tasted it before. I -am your debtor for a very enlarging experience. And now, as the crowd is -becoming almost oppressive, and I can see that there are others eager to -commute, suppose we smoke our cigars outdoors.” - -“Right you are,” I said. “And since the food is eatable, and I happen -to have the money with me, I think I'll invest in one of those strip -tickets. Everyone else seems to be doing it, and it looks to me a good -way to save money. A hundred lunches--why, that will see me through till -spring. I don't think I'll get tired of eating here, it's so amusing.” - -“No,” said Dove, as he picked up his hat, “I don't think you'll get -tired of eating here. Perhaps the money will be well spent.” - -I bought my commutation, and we stood in the shabby old courtyard for a -few minutes watching the crowd stream in. A good many, I noticed, though -unable to find seats, still took advantage of the opening-day offer and -bought the hundred meal tickets for future consumption. - -“The only drawback about this place is the crowd,” I said. “If this -keeps up, half of downtown New York will be eating here.” - -“Look here,” said Dove, “I think I shall be down this way again -to-morrow. It's my turn to buy. Will you lunch with me then? We'll -celebrate the jovial Yule together.” - -“Fine,” I said. “Meet you at the old red newspaper-box at the corner of -Broadway and Vesey to-morrow at 12 o'clock.” - -***** - -We were both there punctually. - -“Have you got your appetite with you?” asked Dove. “It's a bit early for -feasting, but it'll give us time for a stroll after lunch.” - -“Where do we eat?” I said. “Commutation again? It's all velvet to me, -anyway, all my lunches are paid for for the next three months.” - -“There's a little place on Beekman Street I used to know,” he said. -“Let's try that.” - -We found a corner table in an odd old eating house at the corner of -Beekman and Gold streets, which I had never seen before. - -“I'm a great believer in tit for tat, fair play, and all that sort -of thing,” said Dulcet when the waiter approached. “You gave me an -excellent lunch yesterday. I intend to give you the same lunch to-day, -if you can stand eating it again. Waiter! Mutton chop, baked potato, -baked beans, coffee, and cheese cake. For two.” - -When the beans came, baked with cheese in a little brown dish, just as -they were served the day before, I must confess that I was startled. - -“Why, these beans are done exactly like those we had at the -Commutation,” I said. “Are these people doing the cooking for the -chop-house?” - -“Perhaps you'll have to eat chop and beans for a hundred lunches,” - Dulcet said. “Well, it's a hearty diet. After all, the sandwich boards -simply said a hundred meals. They didn't guarantee that they would be -different.” - -I insisted that on our way back toward the office we should stop at the -Commutation Chophouse and find out from a customer what the bill of fare -had been on the second day. The vision of a hundred repetitions of any -meal, however good, is rather ghastly. - -“I don't hear the minstrel to-day,” Dove observed as we drew near the -alley. - -“Oh, well,” I said, “that was just to draw business for the opening.” - -We turned down the passage at No. 59. Quite a crowd of patrons were -waiting their turn, I saw. They were standing in the courtyard by the -chop-house door, talking busily. - -“You see,” I said, “it's still crowded.” - -We reached the entrance. The door was closed. The sign over the doorway -now had additional lettering painted on it, and read: - -THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -The Other 99 Meals Will Be Served In Augusta, Maine. - -“Come on, Ben,” said Dulcet. “No use trying to break through a window. -There's no one there. I wonder what the fare is to Augusta?” - -“You rascal!” I cried. “If you suspected this, why the devil did you -encourage me to squander my $10?” - -“I simply said it would probably be well spent,” he said, with a -clear blue humorous gaze. “If it helps to cauterize your magnificent -credulity, it will be.” - -We sat down on a bench in St. Paul's churchyard to smoke a pipe together -while I performed some mental obsequies over my vanished Federal Reserve -certificate. Dove looked up at the sparkling gilded turret of the -Woolworth. - -***** - -“I daresay Frank Woolworth would have fallen for it, too,” Dove said. -“The idea of a hundred meals for 10 cents each would have appealed to -him. But you know, old man, there are certain fixed and immutable laws -that the observant city dweller is accustomed to. My motto is, whenever -you find an apparent exception to those laws, look for an enigma in the -woodpile. I suspected something wrong when I saw that sandwich man -on Church Street. A man as fat as that doesn't generally take a job -sandwiching. Also I have doubts about people who insist on calling -Christmas 'Yule'. Moreover, a man doesn't generally take a job -sandwiching until his shirt is so ragged that he is ashamed to exhibit -it in public, when he is glad to cover it up with the boards. Those two -fat sandwicheers were members of the firm, I fear, for their linen was -O. K. And, secondly, what are the first things a man gets if he really -intends to start a restaurant? A cash register and a bunch of ketchup -bottles. There wasn't a cash register nor a ketchup bottle in sight in -the Commutation Chophouse. No, my dear; what you admired as carefully -arranged atmosphere of antiquity, the plain board tables and candles and -so on, was really stark cheapness. They weren't spending any money on -overhead; they said so themselves. - -“When you called my attention to the spilled beans, I was sure. For they -were not merely beans: they were baked beans; a far more significant -matter. When I looked out of the window I could see at once that there -was no kitchen attached to the Commutation Chophouse. The food was all -being delivered from that place on Beekman Street, whose name was on -the truck. A few ingenious rogues simply rented that old cellar, cheaply -enough I guess, put in a few tables, arranged to have grub shipped in -from near by, printed their commutation tickets, and sat down to collect -as many dollars as they could lure out of the open-handed Christmas -throng.” - -“Well, of all infernal liars,” I cried, “they certainly take the prize.” - -“Not so,” said Dulcet as we got up to go. “You should have read the -sandwich boards a little more carefully. Their ingenious author, -whom you chide as the Ann Street Ananias, really told the exact and -circumstantial truth.” - -We stood at the gateway of the graveyard, and gazed across the roaring -traffic of Broadway. Dove smiled and said he must be starting on his -Christmas shopping. - -“I tried to warn you,” he said, “but you wouldn't listen. As I was about -to say just before we visited the place, it was queer that it should -happen on Ann Street. Don't you remember that a certain famous gentleman -had his museum at the corner of Broadway and Ann? And it was he, I -think, who remarked that there's one born every minute. Well, Merry -Christmas!” - - - - - -THE PERT LITTLE HAT - -HEMMING had a home, and dearly he loved everything in it--with one -exception. He loved the furnace, and the kitchen range with its warm -ruddy glow, and the violet-coloured wafer of expensive aromatic soap -that always mysteriously appeared on the marble wash-basin when -visitors came. He loved the little glass towel racks, and the miniature -embroidered hand towels with Mrs. Hemming's maiden initials on them, -which also appeared, white and fragrant, whenever there was any special -festivity. Those little towels were to him a kind of symbol of the first -ecstatic days of their married life, and he could not bear to think of -the inevitable time when they would be frayed and discarded. He loved -the shelf over the fireplace where his brown-stained corncob pipe waited -for the after-supper smoke. He loved the little porch where the baby -carriage stood, and the tulip beds that he and Janet had planted -together, and the mission dining table, now blistered and scarred, that -had been their very first piece of furniture. - -But in the little den upstairs stood his desk, and how he hated it! - -Hemming, you see, had literary ambitions, and that desk meant to him -every circumstance, every long-drawn torment, of weariness and toil. It -had meant much pleasure, too, in hours when his writing had prospered; -but how the bitter outnumbered the sweet! How many hundred evenings he -had dragged himself to it, in lassitude and lethargy; had forced his -drowsy, unwilling mind to the task at hand. How many nights, nodding -over the typewriter, he had stumbled on and on. Over his desk he kept, -ironically, a letter he had once had from an editor, which said: _We -like stories. They have a joyous freshness. You write as though you -enjoyed it._ - -Hemming was no quick and easy composer. His stories emerged slowly, -painfully, hammered and wrenched from the stubborn tissues of a weary -brain. When his whole soul and body cried out for a comfortable stretch -on the couch, with pipe and book, and a gradual, blissful lapse into -slumber, he would throw off his coat, stick his head out of the window -for a dozen gulps of cool night air, and then sit down at the wheezy old -typewriter. - -Its yellow keys seemed a kind of doleful rosary on which he told long -petitions to whatever gods look down pityingly on young writers. He -would think how wonderful it would be if he could only do his writing -in the morning when he was fresh. To leap out of bed in the crisp early -air, to plunge into the cold bath where the water shimmered a pale green -by catching the tint of the big maple tree just outside the bathroom, to -swallow two cups of hot coffee, two slices of buttered toast, and then -sit down to his desk. In the zest and lustihood of the morning, how the -thoughts would throng, how the great empire of words would unroll before -him, far away to the blue hills where lived his unwritten poems! Such -was his daily thought as he hurried down the hill on bright mornings to -catch the 8.13 train to town. But to come back at night after a long day -at the office, and after helping Janet wash the dishes, and stoking the -furnace or mowing the lawn or planting bulbs in the garden--then to try -to write seemed tough indeed. - -Still, it had to be done, and Hemming threw his manhood into the task. -In his little den there was just space for a couch, his desk, and -his books, which were littered about the room. His only chance of -accomplishing anything was to get Janet safely installed on the couch, -for if he once lay down there work was impossible. She would curl up -under a steamer rug, tired out from a long day with the house and -the baby, reading a book or the evening paper. And then the stumbling -clatter of the typewriter would begin. - -After a while there always came what they humorously called “the -pathetic little moment.” This was the time when Janet's book or paper -would slip from her hand, she would turn away from the light, and coast -down the long, smooth toboggan of sleep. Then Hemming would switch off -the reading lamp above her head (with the secret economic satisfaction -young householders always feel when they switch off a light), touch the -soft cheek with a friendly finger, and climb the keys once more. His -writing always seemed to go better after the “pathetic little moment” - was past. There was a kind of subconscious satisfaction in the feeling -that Janet was there, asleep, and that he was working for her. And Janet -used to affirm that there was no lullaby like the irregular thumping of -those keys and levers. - -There was another catchword they had, which also moved stealthily in the -back passages of his mind as he mulled over his manuscripts. Janet badly -needed a new bonnet--a “pert little hat,” she liked to call it--and -Hemming had pledged himself to write something that would bring her the -saucy little ornament she craved in time for Christmas. She was a -slender, bright-faced creature, and no one could wear an innocently -tilted turban with more grace. But these had been hard days for small -incomes. Winter coal, and warm clothes for the Urchin, and the cook's -wages (when they had one), and Liberty Bonds--all these had taken -precedence over the pert little hat. It had been talked of so long, it -had become a kind of joyous legend, which Janet hardly expected to see -realized on her head. She used to say wistfully, as she coasted off to -sleep on the couch: “Would it be unpatriotic to think about the pert -little hat?” And her husband would vow that patriotism that excluded -pert little hats was no patriotism at all. So he had sworn that the -bonnet should be millinered on the clacking loom of his typewriter. They -used to laugh about it, and say that the little hat ought to be trimmed -with carbon typewriter ribbons. - -But Hemming did not know that Janet was not always asleep after the -so-called “pathetic moment” when she ostensibly gave up the struggle -with drowsiness. The twanging springs of the old couch made less noise -than the typewriter keys, but they, too, moved to a secret creative -refrain. There were times when Janet lay watching the lamplight on the -rows of books, and little pictures of stories that she would like -to write flashed into her head. They often used to come to her at -inopportune periods during the day, when the Urchin was in his bath or -when she was taking stock of the ice-box. Of course her husband was the -literary man of the family, and she had no thought of setting up her -simple imaginings against his more serious efforts. But one night, when -he was engrossed in some intractable plot, Janet slipped away into the -little guest room and shut herself in. With a stub pencil, on odd sheets -of notepaper, she began scribbling hotly. Two hours later, when Hemming -came back to earth and hunted her out, she was still at it. - -“What on earth are you up to, monk?” he asked. - -“Making out laundry lists,” she said. - -More observant husbands might have wondered what occasion there would be -for a laundry list on Thursday evening, but Hemming was always drowned -in his dreams of literary fame. - -His story, on which he had laboured at night for two months, and hers, -which had taken the spare hours of three days, were finished almost at -the same time. After dinner one night, when he had read the manuscript -of his story aloud, Janet handed him her venture, with some trepidation. -At first he seemed a little nettled that she should have done such a -thing. - -“Look here, monk,” he said, “you oughtn't to wear yourself out trying -to write. You have quite enough to do with the house and the baby. -Moreover, you don't know how discouraging it is. It takes years of -patient apprenticeship before one can get anything across with the -editors. This is my job, brownie.” - -“But I enjoyed doing it,” she said. - -“That's a bad sign. All really good stories take fearful effort. How -long did you spend on this?” - -“Oh, quite a while,” she said, vaguely. She did not like to admit that -her little story had involved no “patient apprenticeship.” - -He lit his pipe and began reading the sheets on which her quick pencil -had flashed with such enthusiasm. She sat with her sewing, watching him -shyly. - -“Very nice,” was his comment; but privately he wondered how he was to -avoid hurting her feelings. It seemed to him that the story had all the -faults of the amateur. - -“Would you submit it anywhere?” she asked, eagerly. “Do you think any -magazine would buy it?” - -He evaded the question. “Would you like me to type it for you?” he said. - -“Oh, _would_ you?” - -“I'll tell you what I'll do,” he said, “I'll be sending my manuscript to -Mr. Edwards to-morrow. I'll type yours and send it, too.” - -Janet was delighted, and she fell asleep that night with the sweet music -of the thumping keys in her ears. As she heard the staccato clicking, -she thought: “I wonder how far he has got now? How good of him to take -all that trouble to copy my poor little story.” - -Hemming sat up very late that night, copying Janet's manuscript and -planning what to say to Mr. Edwards, the editor of the _Colonial -Magazine_, who had been very cordial to him. He resisted the temptation -to alter Janet's naïve phrasing here and there, to improve her technique -by recasting some of the situations in her story. It was long past -midnight when both manuscripts were ready to go into the stout manila -envelope. Then, after some meditation, Hemming added the following note: - -_Dear Mr. Edwards:_ - -_I am sending you herewith my new story, and hope you may like it. I am -also enclosing a manuscript from my wife. Of course she is an untrained -writer--this is her first attempt--but I think her story has a certain -charm. Won't you, if you can, give her any encouragement you feel -proper? If you would write her a personal note of comment it would mean -a great deal to her. You know how tenderly one feels toward one's maiden -effort._ - -_Sincerely yours,_ - -_Godfrey Hemming._ - -It was very late when Hemming folded the carefully typed sheets and -placed them in the precious envelope. He was utterly weary, which must -be the explanation of a curious error he made. It was his custom to type -his name and address on a separate sheet of paper which was clipped to -the story he was submitting. He put his own name on one sheet, and his -wife's on another. But in arranging the manuscripts for the envelope -he inadvertently put his name-page with his wife's manuscript, and vice -versa. Then he went to bed with the satisfaction of well-earned fatigue, -and wondering how soon he would be able to order the “pert little hat”. - -It was two weeks later, and the Urchin had just murmured himself off -into his morning nap, when Janet heard the postman's whistle, and ran -down to receive an envelope with the name of the _Colonial Magazine_ -engraved upon it. Eagerly she tore it open. - -My Dear Mrs. Hemming: - -Your husband was good enough to send me the manuscript of your story, -which I have read with interest. It is an able piece of work, and shows -unusual technical skill for a beginner. But I must caution you not to -let your pen follow the track of your husband's method too closely. -Naturally enough, perhaps, your style seems to have modeled itself on -his: but this is a mistake, because it is quite evident that you have -ability enough to strike out on your own line. I wish you would study -carefully Mr. Hemming's last story, “Three Is Company,” which shows a -freshness and spontaneous originality better than anything he has done -before. It has a touch of charming humour which is new to his work. -If you can do us something of that sort, we shall be only too happy to -publish it. - -I am returning your manuscript with many thanks. - -Faithfully yours - -Theodore Edwards. - -Janet looked at the editor's flowing signature in amazement. “Three -Is Company” was her own story. And there, in the _Colonial Magazine's_ -envelope, lay the revered pages of Godfrey's masterpiece, returned. -The “fresh and spontaneous originality” was hers! A flush of exultation -thrilled her: she could almost feel the pert little hat on her head. -Instinctively she looked at herself in the mirror over the hall -mantelpiece. Was it possible that she was a literary genius, and had -never known it? - -But then a pang of horror chilled her. What dreadful mistake had -happened? Alas, it was only too plain--the two stories had been -confused. The editor had thought that her story was Godfrey's. He had -read it expecting to find the skill of Godfrey's trained hand. And -now how was she to spare her husband the mortification of having his -painstaking work rejected, while her prentice sketch had won favour by -some fluke? Her loyal heart, entirely devoid of selfish satisfaction, -could not bear the thought of this grotesque and unhappy climax for her -innocent venture. It was all her fault for meddling with what did not -concern her. What business had she to write a better story than Godfrey, -anyway? She knew that her husband would be honestly proud of her success -and would not grudge her the triumph for an instant, but she felt that -the poignance of the situation would be intolerable for her. Much better -do without all the pert little hats on Chestnut Street than win one at -the expense of Godfrey's feelings. - -How could she prevent the bad tidings from reaching him? Even now it -might be too late. She flew to the telephone, and with pricking pulses -asked for the office of the _Colonial_. One nervous hand unconsciously -flew to her hair, as though she were about to enter the august sanctum -of the editor. - -“Is this Mr. Edwards? - -“Oh, Mr. Edwards, this is Mrs. Hemming, Mrs. Godfrey Hemming, the wife -of one of your authors---- - -“Why, there's been a terrible mistake about our manuscripts, Mr. -Edwards, the stories that Mr. Hemming sent you. I've just had your -letter, and that story you sent back wasn't mine at all, it was -Godfrey's---- - -“I don't see how you can have made the mistake-- - -“Yes, the story called 'Three Is Company' is mine, I wrote it, but -really it can't possibly be better than the other one because I wrote it -in such a hurry, it's my first attempt---- - -“You want to publish it? But, Mr. Edwards, you simply mustn't, -because---- - -“I can't explain over the telephone. I know you only like it because you -thought---- - -“Will you promise not to do anything about it, and not to tell Mr. -Hemming anything, until you get a letter from me? - -“You _will_ promise? Oh, thank you so much! I'll write at once. - -“Good-bye!” - -She hurried to the little white enamelled desk, the same desk where the -ill-starred “Three Is Company” had been written. - -“This will cure me of trying to write,” she thought; “why, I never heard -of such a thing--to have one's first story accepted! Mr. Edwards must be -mad.” - -Luckily there was one sheet of her engraved stationery left--the paper -that Godfrey had given her, she thought remorsefully. All about her were -evidences of his loving care, and she had repaid him by undermining his -prestige with the one editor who had been nice to him. A fine way for an -author's wife to behave! She seized her pen and wrote: - -Dear Mr. Edwards: - -As I just told you over the phone, there has been some horrible mistake. -How it happened I can't guess. The manuscript you sent back to me is -Mr. Hemming's story. The one you say you like and want me to study as a -model is my own story, “Three Is Company”. I'm sorry you like it, I mean -I'm sorry you think it is better than Mr. Hemming's story, which can't -be so as it is the first story I ever tried to write. I have decided -to withdraw it, I don't want it published, so please send it back to -me instantly, and write me a letter saying how amateurish it is. I am -sending Mr. Hemming's story back to you, so that now you know who wrote -it you can reconsider it. Of course, if you thought it was by me, you -naturally considered it as the work of a beginner, and only a poor -imitation of Mr. Hemming's style. - -I don't want you ever to tell Mr. Hemming that I have written this -letter. Just tell him you sent my story back to me because it was not -good enough. - -Sincerely yours, - -Janet Colton Hemming. - -The importance Janet attached to this letter may be judged from the fact -that she left the baby alone in the house, asleep, while she hurried -down to the post-office to mail it, together with Godfrey's manuscript, -back to Mr. Edwards. And not even the sympathetic Mr. Edwards ever -guessed that on the first page, where Godfrey's careful typing ran in -neat lines, she had printed a good luck kiss. - -The editor was an honourable man, and though he chuckled a little over -Janet's breathless letter he really meant to keep the innocent secret. -We hope that no young wives will be lured to destruction by our telling -the truth, which was simply this, that Janet's little story was much -better than Godfrey's. It might not have happened again in a lifetime, -but the enthusiasm of her girlish zeal had carried her pen into a very -pretty and moving tale, which the _Colonial_ would have been glad to -print. But since she wanted it back, there was nothing for Mr. Edwards -to do but comply. Then, that very morning, while he was dictating a note -of polite refusal to accompany “Three Is Company” back to the suburbs, -who should call at the office but Godfrey, to know what the editor -thought of the two stories. The coincidence was too much for Edwards, -and thinking that it could do no harm to let Hemming know of his wife's -devotion--for young husbands are too likely to be selfish--he told him -the whole incident. And Godfrey, with a faint sensation of burning under -his eyelids, related the dream of a new bonnet that had inspired “Three -Is Company”. - -“Well, now, look here,” said Edwards, “I'm not so awfully keen on this -story of yours. It isn't anywhere near up to what you can do--or rather, -up to what Mrs. Hemming can do,” he added, chuckling. “But you go home -and write me a yarn about the pert little hat, and I'll put it in the -January number. It'll come out just before Christmas, and I hope you'll -get that wife of yours the best bonnet in town on the proceeds. If all -writers had wives like yours, perhaps the magazines would make better -reading. But for heaven's sake don't tell Mrs. Hemming I gave her away. -Wait until she sees the story in the magazine, it'll be a Christmas -surprise for her.” - -On the Saturday before Christmas Hemming took Janet to the city to -solemnize the purchase of the pert little hat. Any one who happened to -see her wearing it down Chestnut Street that bright winter afternoon -knew that the elated pink in her cheek was not all reflected from the -red bow on the bonnet's neat brim. As they sat down for a matinée and -Janet removed the precious creation, giving it to Godfrey to hold for a -moment, he said admiringly: - -“Well, the old typing bus isn't such a bad milliner after all, hey, -monk?” - -And Janet, who would then have denied that such a story as “Three Is -Company” ever existed, replied innocently: - -“I'm so glad Mr. Edwards turned down my story, grump. I like the pert -little hat ever so much better because it came all from you.” - -Even if the pert little hat should live to be a great-great-grandbonnet, -none of its descendants will ever give Janet such pleasure. - - - - - -URN BURIAL - -NEVER quarrel at breakfast is the first maxim for commuters and their -wives. Partings in anger mean day-long misery for both, and generally -involve telephone calls later in the day, and a box of chocolate-coated -maraschino cherries carried home on the 5.18. Marriage (say the -philosophers) is a subdivision of the penal code, dedicated to the -proposition that men and women are created equal. But the studious -observer of matrimonial feints and skirmishes sees very little to verify -that daring surmise. - -Harry Bennett sipped his breakfast coffee grimly. Its savour had -departed: for ninety seconds earlier Mrs. Bennett had fled upstairs in -a flush of anger and tears. In five minutes he would have to run for the -train; and what man can soothe an outraged wife in five minutes? He ate -his toast without relish, gazing sourly on the blue-and-white imitation -Copenhagen china, the pretty little porcelain marmalade pot, and the big -silver coffee-urn. - -The desperate inequality of married life pierced his heart. Why should -he have to accept in silence tart remarks uttered by his wife, while the -least savagery of his own was cause for tears? - -He rushed upstairs to say a few consoling words. The bedroom door was -locked. Compassion fled, and he growled furiously through the panels. -Then he ran hotly for the train. - -It seems unreasonable: but the lives of human beings are not guided by -reason. Harry had come to the conclusion that the silver coffee-urn was -at the bottom of all their squabbles. - -Before Elaine Addison surrendered herself into his capable hands, there -had been a competitor for the honour of surrounding her with sectional -bookcases, linen closets, potted hydrangeas, and the other authentic -trappings of a home. - -Aubrey Andrews was the rival warrior. He was the kind of man who always -has a lot of crisp greenbacks in a neat leather bill-fold. Harry's -hard-earned frogskins were always crumpled in a trousers pocket This may -seem trivial, but it distinguishes two totally different classes of men. -Aubrey was tall, dark, well groomed; he played billiards and belonged to -expensive clubs. It was supposed that his wife would be beyond the reach -of financial worries. He kept a horse and easy office hours. - -Harry--well, Harry was no aristocrat. He worked hard for what he got, -and didn't get much. He was neither tall, nor dark, nor well groomed. -But he was a fine, lovable, high-minded chap, and to everyone's -surprise, including his own, he got Elaine. - -Tennyson had a good deal to do with it, I think. Harry still read -Tennyson, although that excellent poet is no longer fashionable, and -kept on repeating what Tennyson said about Elaine. And finally Elaine -could not help saying, “My Lancelot!” and melting into his arms. - -Aubrey gave them a magnificent silver coffee-urn for a wedding present, -and presently enlisted for service, first on the Mexican border and then -in France, where he became a heroic and legendary figure, surrounded in -Elaine's mind by the prismatic glamour of girlhood days. - -That coffee-urn was a stunner! It was far the handsomest thing in the -little suburban house, except, of course, Elaine herself. Beneath its -shining caldron sat an alcohol lamp that rendered a blue flame and kept -the coffee hot. Elaine's initials--her maiden initials--were engraved -upon it, and those of the donor: E. A. A. A. The hand of the insidious -silversmith had twined the A's together very gracefully. - -Every time he looked at it, Harry felt subconsciously irritated, -although he hardly realized why. - -It stood on the little mission sideboard, outshining everything else in -the pretty dining room. It was Elaine's particular pride, and was used -only on special occasions. Often it was brought out for the little -celebrations that young married couples have every now and then. And, -curiously enough, these celebrations very often ended in tears. The -polished dazzle of those silver curves was only too apt to suggest to -Elaine's radiant little beauty-loving heart other handsome wares she -would like to have, or unlucky comparison of the relative beauty of the -wedding presents sent by _her_ friends and _his;_ or Harry would make -some blunt remark about his not being able to give her all that some -other husband might have. - -Alas! Something of the sardonic spirit of the black-browed Aubrey seemed -to radiate from his urn. Can a coffee-um hypnotize? Grotesque as it -appears, little by little they realized that the innocent piece of -silver was marring many an otherwise happy hour. - -***** - -All the way to town in the smoking car, Harry's mind rotated savagely -about their absurd tiff. - -Let's see, how was it? He had said: “I'm sorry, dearest; I shall have to -be rather late tonight. The head of my department is away, and I've -got an extra lot of work to do.” She said: “Oh, dear--oh, dear! Then -we sha'n't be able to go to the theatre, shall we?” He said: “We can go -next week, Brownie.” She said: “Something horrid always happens when we -have this coffee-urn on the table.” - -(N. B. Right here, when the danger topic was introduced, he should have -put on an extra soft pedal. But did he? Not a bit. As soon as the urn -was mentioned his eyes began to flash.) - -“Well,” he said, “don't let's have it on so often!” She said: “Any one -might think you were jealous of it. It's the only handsome piece of -silver I've got.” - -Here he did make one honest effort to steer away from danger: - -“I'm awfully sorry about to-night, honey, but the work's just got to be -done.” She said: “Why didn't you let me know sooner you were going to -work late? I could have arranged to go and see Mother.” He said: “Oh, -well, everything I do is always wrong, anyway! I suppose if I could buy -you a roomful of silver like that old tureen, you wouldn't mind.” - -And after that it was not far to the deluge. All conducted according -to the recognized technique of quarrelling, passing through the seven -stages of repartee outlined by Touchstone, which should never be -forgotten by those happily married: - - 1 The retort courteous - - 2 The quip modest - - 3 The reply churlish - - 4 The reproof valiant - - 5 The counter-check quarrelsome - - 6 The lie with circumstance - - 7 The lie direct - -All day both Mr. and Mrs. Bennett were unpleasantly conscious of their -undigested altercation lying black and gloomy in the back of their -minds. At lunch-time he tried to call her on the telephone; but the -wire did not answer. Indeed, she had gone to spend the day in town with -friends, and was to go to dinner and the theatre with them. She left no -message for Harry, and gave the cook permission to go out overnight. - -About nine o'clock he got home tired and eager to resume their usual -blissful companionship. The house was dark and untenanted. In a rage, he -threw away the box of candy he had brought, and got himself some bread -and cheese from the ice-box. - -In the dining room his eye fell upon the coffee-urn. He swore at it. -Just then Elaine called him up, and in a cool, distant voice told him -that she had decided to spend the night in town with her mother. - -The next morning Elaine came home about ten o'clock, humming a merry -little air as she walked down the quiet suburban street. She and Harry -had patched things up over the telephone at breakfast-time. - -The sun was shining brightly, and she was planning a specially nice -dinner for poor Harry that evening. After all, it wasn't the dear boy's -fault that he had to work so hard. It was horrible of her to run off and -desert him that way. Tonight she would show him how much she loved him. -They would have ice cream with hot chocolate sauce, and meringues and -chicken salad; and she would buy him a cigar and hide it in his napkin. -And the old coffee-um should go back in the glass cabinet. - -***** - -The cook, with a very grave face, opened the front door. - -“Heavens, Emily, what's the matter?” cried Mrs. Bennett. - -“Burgled!” said Emily, tragically. “Someone's been an' bruk in the -dining-room winder. Footpads, I guess.” - -Mrs. Bennett gave a little shriek of dismay She ran to the dining room. - -One window stood an inch or two open, and one of the panes was broken. -She glanced round the room. Nothing was disarranged, but her glance fell -on the sideboard. - -The coffee-urn was gone! - -“Well,” she said, “that's very extraordinary. Mr. Bennett slept here -last night, and he's a light sleeper. He always locks the windows before -he goes to bed. Is anything else missing?” - -“The apple pie's gone out o' the ice-box,” said Emily. - -“Oh, well, that's Mr. Bennett, I'm sure,” said Elaine. “I'll call up the -police right away, and see if they can do anything. My nice coffee-urn! -Why, it's the finest thing we had in the whole house.” - -Before the police arrived, Mrs. Bennett herself took a careful look -round the outside of the house. She found nothing unusual except a -cigar butt lying on the ground near the broken window. She picked it up -gingerly. A section of the gilt band still adhered to the wrapper. She -could read the name, _Florona._ She carried the fragment into the cellar -and threw it into the ash-can. - -Two policemen arrived shortly, examined everything, and asked -innumerable questions. Mrs. Bennett gave them a careful description of -the coffee-urn. They departed, promising to do everything possible to -trace it. They said that a piece of silver so large and unusual would -not be hard to locate with the aid of the pawnbrokers. Then Mrs. Bennett -went upstairs to think. - -It seemed very strange that the thieves should take the urn and nothing -else, when there were other pieces of silver beside it on the sideboard. -She called up Harry, who was horrified to learn of the loss. He had -slept right through the night without hearing a sound. He offered to -come home if he could do anything to help; but she would not hear of it. - -That night Mrs. Bennett had a special little dinner waiting for her -husband: his favourite soup, a tender steak, fried potatoes, ice cream -with hot chocolate sauce. And after dinner they discussed the theft of -the urn. - -“I don't understand how it was that you didn't hear anything,” said -Elaine. “You generally sleep so lightly. Did you sit up late?” - -“No,” he said; “I sat in the dining room until about ten, eating cheese -and apple pie, and smoking a cigar. Then I went to bed----” - -“Oh, you just reminded me!” cried Elaine. “I bought you a nice cigar to -smoke after your dinner, and I forgot to give it to you.” - -From the mantelpiece she gave him a cigar with a _Florona_ band. - -“Why, isn't that nice!” said he, “That's the kind I always smoke. I -didn't think you knew one brand from the other.” - -“I know more than you think, old man,” she said. - -When Harry came home the next night, he brought a bulky parcel with him. - -“I'm awfully sorry about the urn, Brownie,” he said. “I went to see the -detectives to-day, and they think there's very little chance of getting -it back; so I brought you this to take its place.” She opened the -package. It was a big China coffee-jug of rose-and-white porcelain, -flagrantly out of harmony with her silver and blue china. - -“Honey,” she said, “I think it's just lovely. It's ever and ever so much -nicer than that old urn.” - -A week later, in the afternoon, the local chief of police called up Mrs. -Bennett. - -“Come down here to the police station,” he said. “We've found your -coffee-pot. The most extraordinary thing you ever heard of. We found it -buried in a haystack, back of Webster's barn. Why any one should leave -it there is more than I know. The thief must have been frightened and -hid it. Will you come down and identify it?” - -Mrs. Bennett hastened down to the police station. There on the -sergeant's table stood the famous urn, the pride of her heart. There was -no doubt about it: the initials were there--it was hers. Tarnished and -spotted by exposure, it was still the handsomest piece of silver she had -ever seen. Involuntarily she gave a cry of delight. Then she hesitated. -After all, compared to Harry's happiness and hers, what was a silver -urn? - -“Oh, captain,” she said, “I'm so disappointed. That's not mine! It's -very much like it, but it isn't mine.” - - - - - -THE BATTLE OF MANILA ENVELOPES - -MR. BIRDLIP was a good old man, of unimpeachable simplicity. He had -achieved enormous wealth in an honourable business, and then found (to -his mild distress) that the great traffic he had built up conducted -itself automatically. He had, in a way, been gently shouldered out of -his own nest by the capable men whose fortunes he had made. But his -zealous and frugal spirit required some sort of problem to feed upon, -and he delighted his heart by owning a newspaper. _The Evening Lens_ was -his toy and the child of his dotage. - -So the Persian rugs and walnut panelling of his private suite in the -huge Birdlip Building saw him rarely. He was supremely happy in the -dingy sanctum at the back of the old _Lens_ office, where the hum of the -presses and the racket of the city room (which he still, by an innocent -misunderstanding, called the “sitting room”) delighted his guileless -heart. He would sit turning over the pages of each edition as it came -upstairs (putting his second finger up to his tongue before he turned -each leaf) and poring industriously over the market reports, the comics, -and the Woman's Page. With his pink cheeks, his dapper little figure in -a brown suit and cream-coloured waistcoat, and his eager, shy, chirping -manner, he was very like a robin. Although he was full of gigantic -schemes, which he broached naively in the editorial council every now -and then, he never wittingly interfered with his editor-in-chief, -in whom he had full confidence. But his gentle and jejune mind had a -disastrous effect on the paper no less. Almost unconsciously the Lens -was written and edited down to his standard, as a roomful of adults will -amiably prattle so as to carry along a child in the conversation. - -Mr. Birdlip's amazing success in his original field had been due partly -to his decent sagacity, honesty, and persistence, and partly to his -sheer fortune in finding (at the very outset of his enterprise) several -men of rugged ability, who became the pearls in his simple oyster-shell. -As a result of this, it had become his fixed mental habit to believe -that somewhere, some day, he would encounter the man or men who would -make the _Lens_ the greatest newspaper in the country. This, indeed, was -his candid ambition, and he never went anywhere without keeping his eyes -open for the anticipated messiah. - -He was greatly taken by broad primitive effects: when he noticed that a -Chicago daily always called itself “The World's Greatest Newspaper” he -was marvellously struck by the power of this slogan, and lamented that -he had not thought of it first. The question as to whether the slogan -were true or not never occurred to him. He liked to have the keynote -sentences in the leading editorial emphasized in blackface type, so that -there might be no danger of any one's missing the point. Desiring for -his beloved sheet “this man's art and that man's scope,” as the sonnet -puts it, every now and then he thought he had discovered the prodigy, -and some new feature would be added to the paper at outrageous expense, -only to be quietly shovelled out six months or a year later. In the -meantime, the auditor was growing very gray, and even Mr. Birdlip's -quick blue eye was sometimes hazed with faint perplexity when he studied -the circulation charts. Perhaps it would have been kinder if someone -could have told him that a boyhood spent in splitting infinitives is -not sufficient training for one to become an Abraham Lincoln of the -newspaper business. - -As he trotted in and out of the _Lens_ office, with his rosy air of -confidence and his disarming simplicity (which made his white hair seem -a wanton cruelty on the part of Time, that would wither a man's cells -while his mind was still on all fours), Mr. Birdlip was the object of -furtive but very sharp study on the part of some cynical journalists -whom he hired. It was a genuine amazement to Sanford, the dramatic -critic, that the owner was so entirely unaware of his (Sanford's) -abilities, which certainly (he thought) called for a salary of more -than sixty dollars a week. Sanford often meditated about this, and not -entirely in secret. In fact, it was generally admitted among the younger -members of the staff, when they gathered at Ventriloquo's for lunch, -that the Old Man was immaculately ignorant of all phases of the -newspaper business. While the spaghetti and mushrooms cheered the -embittered gossips, merry and quaint were the quips sped toward the -unsuspecting target. Sanford's private grievance was that though for -over a year he had been doing signed critiques of plays, which were -really spirited and honest, not once had the Old Man condescended to -mention them, or to show any sign of uttering an _Ecce Homo_ in his -direction. As far as he was concerned, he felt that the weekly battle of -Manila Envelopes was a conspicuous rout, and he frequently rehearsed the -exact tone in which he would some day say to the managing editor: “You -may fire when ready, Gridley.” Little did Sanford realize that the only -time Mr. Birdlip had attempted to read the “Exits and Entrances” column -he had met the name of Æschylus, had faltered, and retreated upon the -syndicated sermon by the Rev. Frank Crane. - -***** - -“I saw 'Ruddigore' the other evening,” said Sanford to his cronies, as -they called for a second round of coffee. “There's a line in it that -describes old Birdie fore, aft, and amidships. Something like this: 'He -is that particular variety of good old man to whom the truth is always a -refreshing novelty'.” - -They complauded. Rightly or wrongly, these high-spirited and -sophisticated young men had decided that Mr. Birdlip's naïveté was -so refreshingly complete that it gave them an aesthetic pleasure to -contemplate it. It had the exquisite beauty of any absolute perfection. -Their employer's latest venture, which had been to pay $200,000 for the -exclusive right to publish and syndicate the mysterious formulae of a -leading Memory Course, had shocked them very greatly. - -It touched them in a tender spot to know that there had been all that -money lying round the office, unused, which was now to be squandered (as -they put it) on charlatanry, when they felt that they might just as well -have had some of it. - -“The Old Man is always looking for some special stunt, and trying to -discover someone on the outside,” said one. “He can't see the material -right under his nose.” - -“It's really rather pathetic: he's crazy to get out a great newspaper, -but he hasn't the faintest idea how to do it.” - -“Yes, give him credit for sincerity. It isn't just circulation he -wants.” - -“Circulation's easy enough, if that's what you're after. The three -builders of circulation are Sordid, Sensational, and Sex--” - -“And the greatest of these is Sex.” - -“Oh, he's decent enough. He won't pander.” - -“He panders to stupidity. He's fallen for this Memory bunk. And when he -finds that's a flivver, he'll try something else, equally fatuous. He's -making the old _Lens_ ridiculous.” - -They smoked awhile, meditatively. - -“What I would like to figure out,” said Sanford, “is some way of making -an impression on the Old Man. I've got to get more money. The -trouble--some part of it is, I feel instinctively that he and I live in -different worlds. We hardly even talk the same language. Well, there's -no chance of his learning my way of thinking; so I suppose I'll have to -learn his.” - -“He's the man who puts the nil in the Manila envelope,” said one of the -others. - -“As far as we are concerned, yes. But there's plenty of the stuff going -round on Fridays for the kind of people he understands.” - -“He seems to be an absent-minded old bird. When I talk to him, it's as -though I were trying to speak through a fog.” - -“It looks to me as though his mind had overstayed its leave of absence.” - -“He likes the kind of men who, as he says, 'have both feet on the -ground'.” - -“Yes, but you've got to have at least one foot in the air if you're -going to get anywhere.” - -“See here,” said the literary editor, who was more tolerant than the -others. “What's the use of panning the Old Man? He's trying to put the -paper over, just as hard as we are. Maybe harder. But he doesn't know. -And I believe he knows he doesn't know. I think the chief trouble is, -they all knuckle down to him so. They're scared of him. They think the -only way they can hold their jobs is by agreeing with him. If someone -could only put him wise----” - -“But how _can_ you put him wise? He doesn't see anything unless it's -laid out for him in a strip cartoon or a full-page ad. The kind of thing -that interests him is the talk he hears in a Pullman smoker or club -car.” - -“That's a fact. You know he always says he likes to go travelling, -because he picks up ideas from people on the train. 'Of course I -place you! Mr. Mowbray Monk of Seattle. And is your Rotary Club still -rotating?' That kind of talk.” - -“I think you're right,” said Sanford. “He doesn't see us because we have -too much protective colouring. We are only the patient drudges. We don't -talk that Pullman palaver about Big Business. We've got to learn to -talk his language. What is that phrase of Bacon's--we've got to bring -ourselves home to his business and bosom----” - -“Let's get back to the office,” said the disillusioned literary editor. -“That's the way to bring home the bacon.” - -***** - -A few days later Sanford was at his desk, clipping and pasting press -agents' flimsies for the Saturday Theatre Page. This was a task which he -hated above all others, and he was meditating sourly on the scarcity -of truth in human affairs. At this moment Mr. Birdlip happened to pass -along the corridor outside the editorial rooms. Sanford heard him say: - -“Miss Flaccus, will you get me a seat in the club car, ten o'clock -train to-morrow? I've got to run over to New York to take lunch with Mr. -Montaigne.” - -Sanford put down his shears, relit his pipe, and began to pursue a -fugitive idea round the suburbs of his mind. Presently he drew out his -check book from a drawer and did some calculating on a sheet of paper. -“A hundred dollars,” he said to himself. “I guess it's worth it.” - -The following morning, dressed in a new suit and with shoes freshly -burnished, Sanford was at the terminal twenty minutes before train time. -With him was a young man carrying a leather portfolio. To observe the -respectful demeanour of this young man, no one would have suspected that -he was Sanford's young brother-in-law, rejoicing in cutting his classes -at college for a day's masquerading. Sanford bought some cigars (a form -of smoking which he detested) and carefully removed the bands from all -but one of them. - -Presently Mr. Birdlip appeared, cheerfully trotting up the stairs. -Sanford and his companion followed discreetly. As Mr. Birdlip went -through the gate, they were close behind. Entering the club car, Mr. -Birdlip sat down and opened a morning paper. Sanford and his companion -were prompt to take the two adjoining seats. Sanford began to look over -_System_ and _Printers' Ink_, and perhaps his interest in these vigorous -journals was not wholly unfeigned, for it was the first time he had -studied them. The young man beside him drew out a mass of papers from -his leather bag, and in a moment of stillness just before the train -started said in a clear voice: - -“Pardon, sir, but there is some important dictation here that ought to -be attended to.” - -Sanford assumed the air of a man wearied with tremendous affairs. . - -“Very well, what comes first?” - -“The New York _Budget_ has wired for an answer in regard to their -proposition.” - -Sanford blew a luxurious whiff of smoke. “Take this letter: My dear Mr. -Ralston. Replying to your inquiries as to whether I would be willing to -take charge of the editorial page of the _Budget_ for a few months, -to put the paper on its feet, I am willing to consider the matter, and -would be pleased to discuss it with you if you will run over to see me. -I am very busy just now, and could not possibly undertake the work -for some weeks. I have been retained in an advisory capacity by a big -Western syndicate which was badly in need of some circulation building; -and until I can put their paper up to a half-million figure I have not -much spare time. Their paper has gone up a couple of hundred thousand -since I mapped out a campaign for them, but I would not feel justified -in discontinuing my services to them until these gains are properly -consolidated. I will be in my office at ten o'clock next Tuesday morning -if you care to see me. Very truly yours.” - -Mr. Birdlip was hidden behind his paper, but something in the angle at -which the sheets were held led Sanford to believe that the old gentleman -was listening. - -“Very well, Edwards,” he said. “What's next?” - -“Here's this letter from Lord Southpeak of the London _Gazette_ asking -if he can see you when he comes over next month.” - -“Cable Southpeak I shall be very happy to see him if he gets here before -the fifteenth. I am going on my vacation then.” - -The attentive Edwards scribbled rapidly in his notebook. - -“Just pick out the most urgent stuff,” said Sanford. “I don't care to -bother with anything that isn't really pressing. I've got an important -conference on in New York to-day, and I want to keep my mind clear. -Blackwit of the Associated Press has asked me to say a few words to his -directors on 'Journalism as a Function of Public Conscience'.” - -Edwards ran rapidly through an imposing mass of documents. - -“That long-distance call from the Chicago _Vox_,” he said. “You promised -to give Mr. Groton some word this morning.” - -“Call him up when we get to Penn. Station,” said Sanford. “Tell him I -can't give him any decision yet awhile. Tell him that loyalty to my own -city will keep me there for some time. You might tell him that I believe -the _Lens_ has great possibilities if properly handled. I should not -care to build up the property of a Chicago paper while there is a chance -of the _Lens_ becoming the great evening paper of the East.” - -“Yes, sir,” said Edwards, jotting down what, might pass for stenography. - -The train was running smoothly through level green country, and Mr. -Birdlip laid down his paper on his lap. Sanford was ready to catch his -eye. - -“Good morning, Mr. Birdlip,” he said, genially. - -“Good morning,” said the owner of the _Lens_, whose bright gaze -exhibited a lively tincture of interest. - -“Here are the typed notes of your remarks on 'Newspaper Circulation as a -Byproduct of the Multiplication Table',” said Edwards, in a loud voice. - -“You can let those wait,” said Sanford, carelessly. “I don't want to -be bothered with anything else this morning. Give me a memorandum of -anything that needs to be attended to when we get to New York.” He -turned to Mr. Birdlip. “I find that in these busy days one has to attend -to some of one's work even on the train. It is about the only place -where one is never interrupted.” - -“Did I hear you say something about Circulation?” said Mr. Birdlip. “Are -you specially interested in that problem?” - -“I have given it a good deal of thought,” said Sanford. “But I would -hardly dignify it by calling it a problem. It is perfectly simple. It -is purely a matter of taking the right attitude toward it. So many -newspaper proprietors regard it merely as a problem in addition. Now it -should be considered rather as a matter of multiplication. Instead of -trying to add ten to your figures, why not multiply by ten? The result -is so much more satisfactory.” - -This sounded so plausible that Mr. Birdlip felt ashamed to ask how it -was to be done. - -“Will you have a cigar, sir?” asked Sanford, handing out the only one -with a band on it. Mr. Birdlip accepted it, and looked as though he were -about to ask a question. Sanford went on rapidly. - -“Speaking of circulation,” he said, “when I am consulted I am always -surprised to note that newspaper proprietors are so prone to view -the matter merely as a question of distribution; of--well, of -merchandising,” he added, as his eye fell upon that word in his copy -of _System_. “Indeed it rests upon quite another basis. The essence of -merchandising” (he repeated the word with relish, noting its soothing -effect on his employer) “is what?” - -He made a dramatic pause, and Mr. Birdlip, carried away, wondered what -indeed was the essence. - -“The essence of merchandising,” said Sanford (he smote the arm of his -chair, and leaned forward in emphasis), “and by merchandising I mean of -course in the modern sense, merchandising on a big scale, is nothing but -Confidence. Confidence, an impalpable thing, a state of mind. Now, -sir, what is it that upbuilds circulation? It is Public Confidence. The -assurance on the part of the public that the newspaper is reliable. It -is a secret and inviolable conviction on the part of the reader that the -integrity and enterprise of the paper are beyond cavil, in other words, -unimpeachable. In order to create the Will-to-Purchase on the part of -the prospect, in order to beget that desirable state of mind, there must -be a state of mind in the paper itself. Note that word _Mind_. Now -what is the Mind of the paper? I always ask every newspaper owner who -consults me, what is the Mind of his paper?” - -Without waiting for Mr. Birdlip to be embarrassed by his inability to -answer this question, the ecstatic Sanford continued: - -“The Mind of the paper is, of course, the Editorial Department. How -subtle, how delicate, how momentous, is that function of commenting on -the great affairs of the world! As I said in an address to a Rotary -club recently, of what use to have all the mechanical perfections ever -invented unless your editors are the right men? Walter Whitman, the -efficiency engineer, said: 'Produce great persons: the rest follows.' -That is the kind of production that counts most. Get great personalities -for your editors, and watch the circulation rise. Of course the right -kind of editors must be very highly paid.” - -This was a strange doctrine to Mr. Birdlip, who never read the editorial -page of his own paper, and secretly wondered how the editors found so -much to write about. - -“The great error that so many newspaper owners make,” said Sanford, -sonorously, “is to think of their product as they would of any other -article of commerce which is turned out day by day, in standardized -units, from a factory. A newspaper is not standardized. It is born anew -every issue. It is not a manufacturing routine that puts it together: -it is a human organism, built up out of human brains. Every unit -is different. It depends not primarily on machinery but on human -personalities. I cannot understand why it is that newspaper owners yearn -for the finest and most modern presses, and yet are often content to -staff their journals with second-rate men.” - -“I agree with you,” said Mr. Birdlip. “It is all a question of getting -the right man. That is one reason why I am so fond of travelling; I -always meet up with new ideas. Now, sir (I am sorry I do not know your -name, for your face is rather familiar; I think I must have met you -at some Rotary club), you seem to me a man of forceful and aggressive -character. You are the kind of man I should like to have on the _Lens_, -I heard you mention the paper to your secretary awhile back; you must be -interested in it.” - -Sanford was perfectly cool. “I might consider it,” he said. - -“I think you would find the _Lens_ a pleasant paper to work on,” said -Mr. Birdlip. “I flatter myself that the staff is a capable one, for the -most part.” - -“I should insist on being given a free hand,” said Sanford. “Perhaps the -position of circulation manager----?” - -“Let me think a moment,” said Mr. Birdlip. “I suppose I ought to visit -with my editor-in-chief before firing any one to make room for you. But I -must say I like the way you talk, straight from the shoulder, like that -Dr. Cranium, you know. That's the sort of stuff we need.” - -“Right!” cried Sanford. “If you always talk straight from the shoulder, -you'll never talk through your hat.” - -Mr. Birdlip relished this impromptu aphorism. “Well, now, let me see,” - he said, pondering. “The editor-in-chief, the managing editor, the -editorial writers--they're all pretty good men.” - -“Of course I shouldn't care for a merely routine position,” said -Sanford. “The only position I would consider would be one in which I -could really build up circulation for you.” He was wondering inwardly -whether to stand out for a ten thousand salary. - -“Quite so,” said Mr. Birdlip. “I think I have it. How would you care -to run a column? 'Straight From the Shoulder'--wouldn't that be a fine -title?” - -“Fine!” said Sanford, but not without a secret shudder. Still, he -thought, gold can assuage anything; and he reflected on the rich, -sedentary, and care-free life of a syndicated philosopher. - -“Very well,” said the owner. “I've been looking around for a man with -both feet on the ground----” - -(“Both feet on the pay envelope is my idea,” said Sanford to himself.) - -“And I think you're just the man I want. There's only one place in the -paper I can think of that really needs a change. There's a fellow on -the staff called Sanford, runs a kind of column, terrible stuff. I don't -think he amounts to much. Now why couldn't you take his job?” - -Sanford has never forgiven his brother-in-law for that curious strangled -sound he emitted. - - - - - -THE CLIMACTERIC - -MR. EUSTACE VEAL was a manufacturer of cuspidors. His beautiful factory -was one of the finest of its kind, equipped with complete automatic -sprinklers, wire-glass windows, cafeteria on the top floor, pensions for -superannuated employees, rosewood directors' dining room, mottoes from -Orison Swett Marden on the weekly pay envelopes, and a clever young man -in tortoise-shell spectacles hired at eighty dollars a week to write the -house-organ (which was called _El Cuspidorado_). - -Mr. Veal lived in the exclusive and clean-shaven suburb of Mandrake -Park, where he had built a stucco mansion with Venetian blinds, a -croquet lawn with a revolving spray on it on hot days, and a mansard -butler. Here Mrs. Veal and the two Veal girls, Dora and Petunia, led the -blameless life of the _embonpoint_ classes. The electric lights in the -bedrooms were turned on promptly at ten o'clock every night, except on -the sixteen winter evenings when the Veals occupied their box at the -opera. During “Rigoletto” or “Pagliacci” the uncomplaining Mr. Veal -would sit in silence with his head against the thick red velvet curtain -at the back of the box, thinking up new ways to get an order for ten -thousand nickel-plated seamless number 13's from the Pullman Company. - -Mr. Veal, hampered as he was by the restrictions of success, was still -full of the enjoyment of life. He had written a little brochure on “The -Cuspidor: Its Use and Abuse Since the Times of the Pharaohs,” which -was very well spoken of in the trade. A morocco-bound copy lay on -the console table in Mrs. Veal's salon. It was he who invented the -papier-maché spittoon, and the collapsible paper “companion” for -travelling salesmen. It was he who had presented a solid silver spittoon -de luxe to the King of Siam when that worthy visited the United States. -And it was his idea, too, to name the beautiful shining brass model, -especially recommended for hotel lobbies, El Cuspidorado. This was -a stroke of imaginative genius, and several rival manufacturers wept -because they had not thought of it first. - -The spittoon magnate's habits were regular and sane. He rose by alarm -clock at seven. He bathed, shaved, brushed his teeth with the vertical -motion recommended by the toothbrush advertisers, breakfasted on cereal -and cream and poached eggs, with one cup of strong coffee; walked -leisurely to the station, bought a paper, and caught the 8.13 train. He -avoided the other men who wanted him to sit with them, took the fifth -chair on the left-hand side of the smoking car, and just as the train -started he lit his first cigar. His commutation ticket was always ready -for the conductor to punch. He never kept others waiting, just as he -hated to be kept waiting himself. After his ticket had been punched -and put back into an alligator-hide pocketbook, he opened the paper and -studied it faithfully until the train got to the terminal. - -At the factory Mr. Veal's routine was equally well-ordered and uniform. -At nine o'clock he reached his private office, greeted his secretary, -and ran over the morning mail, which had been opened and lay on his -desk. Then he went through his dictation, which was carefully (even if -not grammatically) accomplished. The sales reports for the preceding day -were brought to him. Then he discussed any matters requiring attention -with his department heads, calling them in one by one. At a quarter -after twelve he walked up to the Manufacturers' Club for lunch, after -which he played one game of pool. - -He was back at the office by half-past two, and gave his passionate -and devoted attention to the salivary needs of the nation until five -o'clock. He caught the 5.23 train back to Mandrake Park, sitting on the -right-hand side of the smoker where the setting sun would not dazzle on -his newspaper. - -But one day, about the time of the March equinox, when young ladies put -furry pussywillows on their typewriter desks, and bank tellers crack the -shells of spring jokes through the brass railings, Mr. Veal's behaviour -was so peculiar as to cause anxiety among his associates. - -He had ridden on the train as usual, without showing any abnormal -symptoms. But when he was next observed, walking down Vincent Street, -there was a red spot on his cheekbones and his expression was savage. -He entered a haberdasher's shop and asked to see some neckties. When the -clerk put out a tray of silk scarves in rich, sober colours, such as are -commonly worn by successful and middle-aged merchants, Mr. Veal swore -and dashed them aside. - -“Good Lord!” he cried, “I'm not going to a funeral! Things like that are -worn by Civil War veterans. What do you think I am, seventy years old? -Give me something with some snap to it!” - -And he chose a lemon-tinted cravat with vorticist patterns of brown -and purple. He tore off the dark gray tie he had on and substituted the -gaudy new one. - -At the next corner he passed a shoe-shop. He hesitated a moment at the -plate-glass window, then he entered and glared at the brisk young puppet -who came forward with a smirk. He displayed his elastic-sided boots -of the floorwalker type (which he had worn for years on account of his -corns) and asked to have them removed. When they were off his feet -he threw them to the other end of the long, narrow room. “I want some -russet shoes with cloth tops,” he said. “And some silk socks to match, -the kind the men wear in the magazine ads.” - -When he left the shop, his feet might have been taken for those of -Charley Chaplin, or of an assistant advertising manager of a department -store. - -***** - -Mr. Veal reached his office nearly two hours late, and one of his office -boys was instantly discharged for asking him whom he wanted to see. -Indeed, in a new suit of violent black-and-white checks, and with a -crush hat of velvety substance, he was almost unrecognizable. As he -passed through the filing department a hush fell over the young ladies -there. His secretary, looking nervously from her corner outside the -private office, felt a tingling _scherzo_ run up and down the keyboard -of her spine. Never before had she seen Mr. Veal wear flowers in his -buttonhole, and as he swung the door of his office behind him, she -sniffed the vibrating air. In the rich wake of cigar-fragrance always -exhaled by her employer her sharp nostrils detected a new tang--the -sweet scent of mignonette. Heavens! Was Mr. Veal using perfume? - -Miss Stafford was an acute young woman. She had long been waiting the -adroit moment to push her employer for a raise, which was indeed due -her. She determined that this was the psychological day. When the sign -of the Ram is ascendant in the zodiac, let employers tremble. This -is when even the most faithful and long-enduring wage-earner dreams -seditiously of a fatter manila envelope. Miss Stafford's typewriter -had sung like a zither for a number of years, she had orchestrated many -curious harmonies on it, and now she had reached the point where she -was almost as indispensable to the business as Mr. Veal himself. She was -carrying what the efficiency dopesters call the peak load. - -The buzzer buzzed, and Miss Stafford hastened to the private office, -nerving herself to throw cantilevers across the Rubicon. - -To her surprise, Mr. Veal, instead of sitting glowering over the morning -mail, was standing by the window, throwing a paper-weight in the air -and failing to catch it. The sunlight blazing through the large windows -seemed to surround his emphatic clothes with a prismatic fringe. To -her amazement, instead of the customary brief and reserved greeting, he -said: - -“Hullo, Miss Stafford. Great weather, eh? Sorry I'm late, but I just -couldn't keep my schedule this morning. Went out to buy myself some golf -clubs. I think I'd better take up the game, don't you?” - -He made a swing at an imaginary golf ball, and slipped on the polished -floor, nearly falling down. He recovered himself. - -“Here's some flowers for you,” he said, taking a bunch of daffodils from -the desk. “Daffy-down-dillies, as the poets call 'em. Lovely flowers, -hey? Now comes in the sweet of the year. What ho!” - -He advanced toward her, and for one extraordinary moment she thought he -was about to chuck her under the chin. - -“Ask Mr. Foster to come in,” he said. - -“Mr. Veal,” she said, nervously, “there's just one thing--I wanted to -ask you about, my salary, don't you think, er, I think, it seems to me -about time I had a raise. I've been here----” - -“Bless my soul,” he said. “I never thought of it. Why, of course, you're -right. Miss Stafford, how old would you say I am?” - -Miss Stafford knew perfectly well that he was fifty-five, but she had -learned the cunning of all women who have to manage men, whether those -men be husbands, employers, or ticket scalpers. - -“Why, Mr. Veal, in a good light and in your new suit, I should say about -thirty-nine.” - -“What are you getting now, Miss Stafford?” - -“Thirty dollars.” - -“Tell Mr. Mason to double it.” - -The feminine mind moves in rapid zigzags, and Miss Stafford's first -conscious and coherent thought was of a certain woollen sports suit she -had seen in a window on Vincent Street marked $50.00. - -“And by the way,” said Mr. Veal, “when you see Mr. Mason, tell him I've -got a new motto for next week's pay envelopes. Here it is; I found it -in the paper this morning. I don't know who wrote it--better have him -credit it to Orison Swett Marden.” - -He handed her a slip of paper, on which he had copied out: - - Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; - - For in my youth I never did apply - - Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood: - - Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo - - The means of weakness and debility. - - --Orison Swett Marden (?) - -“Before you call Mr. Foster,” said the secretary, “Mr. Schmaltz of the -Pullman Company is here to see you; he arrived just before you came in. -He says he wants to place a large order for the cuspidorados.” - -“Send him in,” said Mr. Veal, chuckling. “Hello, Schmaltz,” he cried, as -the customer entered. “How's this for weather?” - -“Great stuff!” said Schmaltz. “Makes us old fellows feel almost young -again, doesn't it?” - -Mr. Veal's face grew dark. He aged ten years in the instant. He pointed -morosely to a chair. - -“Mr. Veal,” said the other, “we want to place an order for ten thousand -of the cuspidorados. Can you give us the old price?” - -“I can _not_,” said Mr. Veal, shortly. “Materials have gone to the sky. -I can't give you the--the old price. I'll give you a young price, a very -young one indeed, based on the present state of the market. Eighteen and -a quarter cents is the best I can do.” - -Mr. Schmaltz raised racial hands. “Heavens!” he said, “you used to let -us have them for fourteen and a half. Why, in the old days----” - -Mr. Veal pounded the desk with his fist. - -“If you use that world _old_ again, I'll assassinate you with a dish -of ham!” he roared. “Great pigs' knuckles, what do you think this is, a -home for the aged?” - -***** - -After Mr. Schmaltz had gone Mr. Veal sent for Foster, the foreman of the -manufacturing department. - -“Well,” he said, “how about those machines?” - -“Mr. Veal,” said Foster, “we'll have to replace at least six of those -Victor stampers. They're so old they simply can't do the work. You know -when one of those machines is over five years old----” - -Mr. Veal was pointing to the door. - -“Get out!” he said. - -At lunch-time Mr. Veal went up to the club as usual. Swinging up the -street, in the bright sun and pellucid air, he felt quite cheerful, and -stopped to buy himself a rhinoceros cane. In the dining room of the club -he met Edwards, and they sat down together. - -“Hello, old man,” said Edwards. “You're looking chipper for a veteran. -Played any golf yet this year?” - -“I don't play,” said Mr. Veal. - -“Don't you? That's a mistake. It's the only game for us older fellows. -Of course we can't score like the youngsters; but still we can get round -and have a deal of fun----” - -Mr. Veal clenched his fists. Spilling his soup, he leaped up and rushed -from the room. He seized his coat and hat, forgetting the new cane, and -fled to the nearest Turkish bath. - -***** - -And all because, when going downstairs in the railway terminal that -morning, he had heard a man behind him say to another: - -“There goes Veal! He's beginning to look old, isn't he?” - -It was the first time in his life Mr. Veal had heard the damnable -adjective applied to himself in earnest. - -Wait until _your_ turn comes! - - - - - -PUNCH AND JUDY - -WHEN Judy Cronin first saw the topless towers of Manhattan rising into -the lilac vagueness of a foggy winter morning she passed into a numb -and frightened daze. Standing on the steerage deck of the _Celtic_, -she peered tremulously at those fantastic impossible profiles of stone. -Perhaps you don't know what it is to be thrown, ignorant and timid, into -a place where everything is utterly strange--particularly a place as -huge, violent, and hasty as New York. Judy, aged twenty-one, from a -little village near Queenstown, was incapable of distinguishing, in the -roaring voice of the city, that undertone of helpful kindness that -is really there. On the same steamer came the widow of a famous Irish -recusant and hungerstriker, and there were ten thousand people massed -in West Street to cheer her. Judy heard the shouts of the crowd, and -saw the lines of policemen on the pier. There was some of that quiet -but menacing scuffling with which the various branches of the -English-speaking world show their esteem for each other. Judy was not -familiar with that definition of a patriot as one who makes trouble for -his harmless fellow-citizens; but it looked as though she was blundering -into some more of the tribulations they had had at home. - -At last her sister Connie found her, sitting white and miserable on her -very small trunk, clutching her imitation-silver coin-purse. Connie had -been in New York for a couple of years, and it gave her a homesick throb -to see that coin-purse--one of those little metal pocketbooks with slots -to hold gold sovereigns and half-sovereigns. Father Daly had given it to -Judy, years ago, but it had never had gold in the little sockets until -Connie sent over the passage money to bring Judy to New York. - -The city flashed by like a current-events film. Judy found herself in a -friendly lodging-house in Brooklyn, kept by an Irishwoman who had been -kind to Connie. Her sister then explained matters. Her own employers, -with whom she had a position too good to abandon, had arranged to -go South for the latter part of the winter. They had already delayed -leaving so that Connie could meet her sister and get her settled. They -had given Connie a few days' holiday for that purpose. - -Therefore Judy must get a place as soon as possible. And that very -afternoon the sisters (Judy still in a kind of dreadful dream) went to -the office of a Brooklyn newspaper to insert an advertisement. - -A great many people were watching the _Situations Wanted_ columns, -and the next evening, at supper-time, Mrs. Leland called up the -lodging-house number, which had been given in the ad. Connie went to the -telephone. Mrs. Leland had a pleasant voice and “talked like gentry”, -Connie said. She lived in Heathwood, Long Island, which is some twenty -miles from town, and wanted a nurse to take care of two children. Connie -agreed to take Judy out to Heathwood the next morning, to see if they -could come to terms. Judy was inexperienced, but Mrs. Leland liked her -looks. In short: by the time Judy had been in America three days, she -was installed at Mrs. Leland's home in the country; and a few days later -Connie had gone off to Florida. - -Now Judy was really very fortunate in these random proceedings, for -she had found a good home under an exceptionally kind and understanding -mistress. And therefore perhaps it was unreasonable of her to be so -unhappy. But no one has ever demonstrated that human affairs are much -controlled by reason. Judy was dumbly and piteously miserable. She was -homesick and lonely, and half-mad with strangeness. She was not really -slow-witted; but the confusion of her spirits put her into a kind of -black stupor. Everything was uncouth to her: steam heat, electric light, -gas-stove, telephone--even the alarm clock in her bedroom. Not knowing -how to turn off her radiator, and having the simple person's distrust -of opening windows in a strange place, the first few nights she was sick -with heat and suffocation. In her sleep she cried out indistinguishable -words about being shot. In spite of Mrs. Leland's patient tuition, she -made every possible kind of mistake. The children, with the quickness of -youth, realized her inexperience and uncertainty, and played a thousand -impish pranks. Mrs. Leland could see that the girl had been through -distresses at home, and kept the evening papers, with their headlines -about Ireland, out of sight. But one evening, in the kitchen, Judy came -upon a Sunday rotogravure section with pictures of burnt streets in -Cork. The look of the people in those photographs went through her -heart. The men wearing caps, the women in shawls, something even in the -shape of trouser legs and heavy shoes, reminded Judy how far she was -from all that she understood. It's the little things you take for -granted at home that come back to hurt you when you're away. That night, -sitting in her bedroom next the nursery, she shook herself ill with -sobs. - -One who might have helped her greatly took pains to add to her -bewilderment. Hattie, Mrs. Leland's coloured cook, a retainer of long -standing, was sharply disgruntled at this new addition to the household. -Jealousy was the root of Hattie's irritation, and it shot up a rapid -foliage of poison ivy. The previous nurse, a bosom friend of Hattie's -own race, had been discharged in December for incompetence. Moreover, -Hattie had not forgotten poor naïve Judy's startled look when they first -encountered. Judy had hardly seen a coloured person before, and was -honestly alarmed. Hattie, though loyal to Mrs. Leland in her own -primitive fashion, deeply resented this interloper. The invasion proved -that Mrs. Leland was no longer entirely dependent on the particular -clique of Heathwood coloured society in which Hattie moved. The -cook's logic was narrow but rigorous. The sooner the intruder could be -discouraged out of the house, the sooner the Black Hussars (as Heathwood -ladies called the coloured colony on whom they largely relied for -assistance) would resume undivided sway. Mrs. Leland had had a Polish -girl as a stop-gap for a few days after the coloured nurse left; and -observing the cook's demeanour toward this unfortunate, Mr. Leland had -remarked that Hattie was working for a black Christmas. - -So Hattie, who was sharp-tongued and very capable, hectored Judy -whenever she entered the kitchen, and by all the black arts at her -command (which were many) added to the girl's distress. Judy, in spite -of her mistress's kindness, grew more and more wretched. As Mr. Leland -said in private (pursuing the train of his previous pun), the maids were -black and blue. Mrs. Leland, much goaded by domestic management and the -care of a very small baby, began to wonder whether she had not added -another child to look after rather than lightening her burdens. And then -she saw that Judy was on the verge of nervous collapse. She tried to -hearten the girl by giving her an extra holiday. Judy was given some -money, packed off to the station in a taxi, and sent on her maiden trip -to town in the hope that city sights and shop windows would revive her -interest in life. Mrs. Flaherty, the lodging-house lady in Brooklyn, was -telephoned to, and promised to send her small boy to meet the girl at -the station. - -It happened to be the eve of the genial Saint Valentine's Day. Shop -windows were gay with pleasantly exaggerated symbols of his romantic -power. Winter afternoons in the city are cruel to the unfortunate, -for the throng of the streets the light and lure of the scene, make -loneliness all the worse if there is trouble in your heart. - -Judy sat in the waiting room of the Long Island terminal in Brooklyn, -and tears were on her face. She had somehow missed Mrs. Flaherty's lad. -Then she had tried to find her way to the lodging-house, but grew more -and more frightened and bewildered as she strayed. Giving that up, she -had gone into a movie, and there, for a while, she had been happy. The -favourites of the screen are the true internationalists: they speak -a language, crude though it often is, which is known from Brooklyn to -Bombay. But then pictures were shown of scenes in Ireland. She came -out with cold hands, and wandered vaguely along the streets until dusk. -Finally, in despair, she groped back to the station at Flatbush Avenue, -and sat forlornly on a bench, too weary and sorry even to ask how to get -home. - -With the unerring instinct of the stranger for choosing the wrong place, -she had blundered into the downstairs station, by the train-gates, -missing the waiting room above where departures are duly announced by -orotund men in blue and silver. In that chilly cavern she sat, dumbly -watching the press of homeward commuters laden with parcels and papers. -Red signboards clattered up and down over the iron gates, and she -puzzled doubtfully over such names as _Speonk_, and _Far Rockaway_. The -last somehow recalled a nursery rhyme and made her feel even more lost -and homesick. Occasionally, with a gentle groan and rumble, an electric -train slid up to the railing and stared at her with two fierce hostile -eyes. The soda fountain in the corner was doing a big business: timidly -she went over, feeling cold, and asked for tea. To her amazement, there -were no hot drinks to be had. The people, all gulping iced mixtures, -stared at her curiously. Sure, this is a mad country, she thought. The -clock telling the time was the only thing she could properly understand. - -So it was the clock, at last, that brought her to startled action. It -was getting late. A tall, good-looking fellow in a blue uniform came out -of a room at the back of the station, carrying two lighted lanterns. He -halted not far from where she was sitting, and compared his watch with -the Western Union clock. Of all the hundreds she had seen, he was the -first who looked easily questionable. With a sudden impulse Judy got up, -clutching her coin-purse. - -“If you please, where will I be after taking the train to Heathwood?” - she said, nervously. - -“Heathwood? The 6:18 makes Heathwood. Right over there, the gate's just -opening. Change at Jamaica.” - -He looked down at her, wondering but kindly. He was puzzled at the -frightened way she was staring at his coat-collar; he could hardly have -guessed that to wet eyes the embroidered letters had at first seemed -to be _liar_. Her puny, pinched face was streaked with tears, the red -knitted muffler made her pallor even whiter. The little imitation fur -trimmings on her coat sleeves and collar were worn and shabby. - -“Thank you,” she said, blindly, and started off for the wrong gate. - -“Hey!” he called, and overtook her in a few long strides. “This way, -miss. Got your ticket?” - -In a sudden panic she opened her purse, and could not find it. - -“Oh, surely I've lost it,” she cried. “Where's the booking office?” - -“The booking office?” he said. “D'you mean the news-stand? Here you -are.” He picked up the ticket, which she had dropped in her nervousness. - -“That's all right,” he said, encouragingly. “This train, over here. I'm -one of the crew. I'll see you get there. Don't worry.” - -He escorted her through the gate, and found her a seat on the train, -beside a stout commuter half buried in parcels. - -“Now you stay right here,” he said. “I'll tell you when we get to -Jamaica, and show you the Heathwood train.” He smiled genially, and left -her. - -Judy got out her wet handkerchief and wiped her face. As the train ran -through the tunnel, she wished she had been on the inside of the seat, -for the dark window would have been useful as a mirror. “He saw me -crying,” she kept repeating to herself. The man beside her blanketed -himself with a newspaper, and the pile of packages on his knees kept -sliding over onto her lap, but she was oblivious. She was thinking of -the tall man in blue with the queer cap. How kind he had been. The first -real kindness she had met in all that nightmare afternoon. - -Presently he came through the car. She could see him far down the aisle, -leaning courteously over each seat. At first she thought he was just -saying a friendly word to all the passengers. Sure, that's like him, she -said to herself: he has a grand way with him. Then she saw that he was -punching tickets with a silver clipper. Glory, it's the Guard himself, -she thought. I wonder will he speak to me again? - -The man beside her thrust an arm out from his mass of bundles and held a -large oblong of red-striped cardboard across in front of her face. -This reminded Judy of her own ticket, which was so different from her -neighbour's that she worried for a moment lest it should not be valid. -Here was her friend, bending above her with a smile. - -“Everything all right?” he said. “The next stop's Jamaica. That's where -you get off. Watch for me at this door, and I'll show you the Heath-wood -train.” Click, click: the two tickets were punched, and he went on. Judy -shut up her coin purse with a snap, and began to notice the hat worn by -the lady in the seat in front. - -At Jamaica she found him in the vestibule, his head overtopping the -pushing crowd. “This way,” he said, and led her quickly across the -platform. “Jack,” he said to the brakeman on the other train, “tell this -lady when you get to Heathwood.” - -“Well, Judy,” said Mrs. Leland when her nursemaid got back to the house. -“How much better you look! Did you have a good time?” - -“Oh, a grand time,” said Judy. Her face had a touch of colour and indeed -even her awkward bog-trotting gait seemed lighter and more sprightly. -“That's good,” said her mistress. “You'd better run down and get some -supper before Hattie puts everything away. You can put Jack to bed after -you've had something to eat.” - -“Pretty late for supper,” grumbled Hattie, as Judy came into the -kitchen. “Doan' you think I got nothing to do but wait on you?” - -“I'll get my own supper,” said Judy, politely. “Don't you bother.” - -“You've got a head on your shoulders,” said Hattie, banging some dishes -on to the kitchen table. “Whyn't you use it and get back on time?” - -“The black banshee's up in arms again,” said Judy to herself. “I'll hold -my peace.” - -“That's the trouble with foreigners,” growled Hattie. “They ain't got no -sense. These Irish micks come over here, puttin' on airs, where nobody -wants 'em.” - -Judy's sallow cheek began to burn a darker tint. - -“Ah, nabocklish!” she said. “There's somebody loves me, at any rate.” - -She hurried through supper, and ran upstairs to put Jack to bed. The -six-year-old was amusing himself by snapping open and shut something -that gleamed in the lamplight. - -“Here!” she said. “What are you doing with Judy's purse?” - -Jack looked up in surprise. It was the first time that he had heard that -note of command in the meek Judy's voice. - -“I found it on your bureau,” he said. - -“Well, leave it be, darlin'.” She took it from him. “Glory above, what's -become of----?” - -She fell on her knees on the floor and began searching. - -“Ah, here, 'tis!” she cried, gladly. From the rug she picked up a tiny -red cardboard heart, and replaced it carefully in one of the sockets of -her purse. - -“What is it?” said Jack, yawning. - -“Sure, it's my Valentine!” said Judy. “It ain't many girls that gets -a Valentine from a big handsome man like that the first time he sees -them.” - -I have often wondered how many of the Long Island trainmen use a -heart-shaped punch. - - - - - -REFERRED TO THE AUTHOR - -YES, “Obedience” is a fine play. I'm glad they've revived it. Did you -know that the first time it was produced, Morgan Edwards played the part -of Dunbar? It's rather an odd story. - -I never think of Edwards without remembering the dark, creaky stairs in -that boarding-house on Seventy-third Street. That was where I first met -him. We had a comical habit of always encountering on the stairs. We -would pass with that rather ridiculous murmur and sidling obeisance -of two people who don't know each other but want to be polite. I was -interested in him at once. Even on the shadowy stairway I could see that -he had a fine head, and there was something curiously attractive about -his pale, preoccupied face. There was a touch of the unworldly about -him, and a touch of the tragic, too. You know how you divine things -about people. “He has troubles of his own” was the banal phrase that -came into my mind. Also there was something queerly familiar about him. -I wondered if I had seen Him before, or only imagined him. I was busy -writing, at that time, and my mind was peopled with energetic phantoms. -The thought struck me that perhaps he was someone I had invented for a -story, but had never given life to. I wondered, was this pale and rather -reproachful spectre going to haunt me until the tale was written? At any -rate, whatever the story was, I had forgotten it. - -One day, as I creaked up the first flight, I saw that he was standing at -the head of the stairs, waiting for me to pass. A door was open -behind him, and there was light enough to see him clearly. Tall, thin, -beautifully shaven on a fine angular jaw that would not be easy to -shave, I was surprised to see an air of sudden cheerfulness about him -that was almost incongruous. Having thought of him only as a sort -of melancholy hallucination living on a dingy stairway, it was quite -startling to see him with his face lit up like a lyric poet's, a glow of -mundane exhilaration in his eyes. For the first time in our meetings -he looked as though to speak to him would not break in upon his secret -thoughts. He was the kind of chap, you know, who usually looked as -though he was busy thinking. I remember what I said because it was so -inane. Some people don't like to cross on the stairs. I looked up as I -came to the turn in the steps, and said, “Superstitious?” He smiled and -said “No, I guess not!” - -“Only in the literal sense, at this moment,” I said. An absurd remark, -and a horrible pun which I regretted at once, for I thought I would have -to explain it. Nothing more humiliating than having to explain a bad -pun. But if I didn't explain it, it would seem rude. He looked puzzled, -then his face lit up charmingly. “Superstitious--standing above you, eh? -I never thought of the meaning before!” - -I came up the last steps. “Pardon the vile pun,” I said. Then I knew -where I had seen him before, and recognized him. “Aren't you Morgan -Edwards?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. - -“I thought so. I remember you in 'After Dinner'. I wrote the notice in -the _Observer_ .” - -“By Jove, did you? I _am_ glad to meet you. I think that was the nicest -thing any one ever said.” His gaunt and pensive face showed a quick -flash of that direct and honest friendliness which is so appealing. We -found that we were both living on the fourth floor. For similar reasons, -undoubtedly. I'm afraid he thought, at first, that I was a dramatic -critic of standing. Afterward I explained that the “After Dinner” notice -had been only a fluke. I was on the _Observer_ when the show was put on, -and one of the dramatic men happened to be ill. - -Wait a minute: give me a chance! I'll tell it exactly as it came to -me, in snips and shreds. At first I didn't pay much attention. I had -problems of my own that summer. You know what a fourth-floor hall -bedroom is in hot weather. I had given up my newspaper job, and was -trying to finish a novel. I couldn't work late at night, when it was -cool, because if I kept my typewriter going after nine-thirty the old -maid in the next room used to pound on the partition. I didn't get on -very well with the work, and the money was running low. Every now and -then I would meet Edwards in the hall. He looked ill and worried, and -I used to think there was a touching pathos in his careful neatness. -My own habits run the other way--my Palm Beach suit was a wreck, I -remember--but Edwards was always immaculate. I could see--having made -it my business to observe details--how cunningly he had mended his cuffs -and soft collars. Poor devil! I used to see him going out about noon, -with his cane and Panama hat. I dare say he scrubbed his hat with his -toothbrush. Summer is a hard time for an actor who hasn't had a job -all spring. Of course there are the pictures, and summer stock, but I -gathered that he had been ill, and then had turned down several offers -of that sort on account of something coming along that he had great -hopes for. I remembered his really outstanding work in “After Dinner”, -that satiric comedy that fell dead the winter before. Most of the -critics gave it a good roasting, but knowing what I do now I expect the -real trouble was poor direction. Fagan was the director, and what did he -know of sophisticated comedy? As I say, I had reviewed the piece for -the _Observer_, and had been greatly struck by Edwards's playing. Not a -leading part, but exquisitely done. - -But just at that time I was absorbed in my own not-too-successful -affairs. For several years I had been saying to myself that I would do -great stuff if I could only get away from the newspaper grind for a few -months. And then, when I had saved up five hundred dollars, and buried -myself there on Seventy-third Street to write, I couldn't seem to make -any headway. I got half through the novel, and then saw that it was -paltry stuff. It was flashy, spurious, and raw. One warm evening I was -sitting at my window, smoking mournfully and watching some girls who -were laughing and talking in a big apartment house that loomed over our -lodgings like an ocean liner beside a tugboat. There was a tap at the -door. Edwards asked if he could come in. I was surprised, and pleased. -He kept very much to himself. - -“Glad to see you,” I said. “Sit down and have a pipe.” - -“I didn't want to intrude,” he said. “I just wanted to ask you -something. You're a literary man. Do you know anything about Arthur -Sampson?” - -I had to confess that I had never heard the name. No one had, at that -time, you remember. - -“He's written a play,” Edwards said. “A perfectly lovely piece of work. -I've got a part in it. By heaven, it seems too good to be true--after a -summer like this: illness, the actors' strike, and all that--to get into -something so fine. I've just read the whole script. I'm so keen about -it, I'm eager to know who the author is. I thought perhaps you might -know something about him.” - -“I guess he's a new man,” I said. “What's the play called?” - -“'Obedience.' You know, I've never had such a stroke of luck--it's as if -the part had been written for me.” - -“Splendid,” I said, and I was honestly pleased to hear of his good -fortune. “Is it the lead?” - -“Oh, no. Of course they want a big name for that. Brooks is the man. My -part is only the foil--provides the contrast, you know--on the payroll -as well as on the stage.” He laughed, a little cynically. - -“Who's producing it?” - -“Upton.” - -“You don't mean to tell me Upton's got anything good?” I knew little -enough about theatrical matters, but even outsiders know Upton's sort -of producing, which mostly consists of musical shows where an atrocious -libretto is pulled through by an opulent chorus and plenty of eccentric -dancing. “A chorus that outstrips them all” was one of his favourite -advertising slogans. - -“That's why I was wondering about the author, Sampson. This must be his -first, or he'd never have given it to Upton. Or is Upton going to turn -over a new leaf?” - -“The only leaves Upton is likely to turn over are figleaves,” I said, -brutally. Upton's previous production had been called “The Figleaf -Lady”. - -“That's the amazing part of it,” said Edwards. “This thing is -really exquisite. It is beautifully written: quiet, telling, nothing -irrelevant, not a false note. What will happen to it in Upton's hands, -God knows. But he seems enthusiastic. He's a likable cutthroat: let's -hope for the best. You're busy--forgive me for breaking in.” - -***** - -Well, of course some of you have seen “Obedience” since that time, and -you know that what Edwards told me was true. The play _was_ lovely; not -even Upton could kill it altogether. It was Sampson's first. Have any of -you read it in printed form? It reads as well as it plays. And the part -that Edwards was cast for--Dunbar--is, to any competent spectator, the -centre of the action. You remember the lead: the cold, hard, successful -hypocrite; and then Dunbar, the blundering, kindly simpleton whose -forlorn attempts to create happiness for all about him only succeed in -bringing disaster to the one he loves best. It's a great picture of a -fine mind and heart, a life of rich, generous possibilities, frittered -and wasted and worn out by the needless petty obstinacies of destiny. -And all the tragedy (this was the superb touch) because the wretched -soul never had courage enough to be unkind. What was it St. Paul, or -somebody, said about not being disobedient to the heavenly vision? -Dunbar, in the play, was obedient enough, and his heavenly vision made -his life a hell. It was the old question of conflicting loyalties. How -are you going to solve that? - -I suppose the tragic farce is the most perfect conception of man's -mind--outside the higher mathematics, I dare say. Everyone knows -Sampson's touch now, but it was new then. Some of his situations came -pretty close to the nerve-roots. The pitiful absurdity of people in a -crisis, exquisite human idiocy where one can't smile because grotesque -tragedy is so close... those were the scenes that Upton's director -thought needed “working up”. But I'm getting ahead of my story. - -Well, now, let me see. I'd better be a little chronological. It must -have been September, because I know I took Labour Day off and went to -Long Beach for a swim. I had just about come to the conclusion that my -novel was worthless, and that I'd better get a job of some sort. At the -far end of the boardwalk, you remember, there's a quiet hotel where one -gets away from the crowd, and where you see quite nice-looking people. -After I'd had my swim, I thought I'd stroll up that way and have supper -there. It's not a cheap place, but I had been living on lunch-counter -food all summer, and I felt I owed myself a little extravagance. I was -on my way along the boardwalk, enjoying the cool, strong whiff that -comes off the ocean toward sunset, when I saw Edwards, on the other side -of the promenade, walking with a girl. My eye caught his, and we raised -our hats. I was going on, thinking that perhaps he wasn't so badly off -as I had imagined, when to my surprise he ran after me. He looked very -haggard and ill, and seemed embarrassed. - -“Look here,” he said, “it's frightfully awkward: I must have had my -pocket picked somehow. I've lost my railroad tickets and everything. -Could you possibly lend me enough to get back to town? I've got a lady -with me, too.” - -I didn't need to count my money to know how much I had. It was just -about five dollars, and, as you know, that doesn't go far at Long Beach. -I told him how I stood. “I can give you enough for the railroad fares, -and glad to,” I said. “But how about supper?” - -“Oh, we're not hungry,” he said; “we had a big lunch.” I knew this was -probably bravado, but I liked him for saying it. While I was feeling -in my pocket for some bills, and wondering how to pass them over to him -unobtrusively, he said, “I'd like to introduce you to Miss Cunningham. -We're going to be married in the autumn.” - -You may have seen Sylvia Cunningham? If so, you know how lovely she is. -Not pretty but with the simple charm that beauty can't---- - -Well, that's trite! She'll never be a great actress, but in the rôle of -Sylvia Cunningham she's perfect. I hate to call her slender--it's -such an overworked word, but what other is there? Dark hair and clear, -amberlucent brown eyes, and a slow, searching way of talking, as if she -were really trying to put thought into speech. She, too, poor child, had -had a bad summer, I guessed: there was a neat little mend in her glove. -She was very friendly--I think Edwards must have told her about that -_Observer_ notice. I saw that they were both much humiliated at their -mishap, and I judged that genial frankness would carry off the situation -best. - -“Life among the artists!” I said. “What are our assets?” - -“I've got seventeen cents,” said Edwards. It was a mark of fine -breeding, I thought, that he did not insist upon saying how much it was -that he had lost. - -Miss Cunningham began to open her purse. “I have----” - -“Nonsense!” I said. “What you have doesn't enter into the audit. In -the vulgar phrase, your money's no good. I've got five dollars and a -quarter. Now I suggest we go to Jamaica and get supper there, and then -go back to town by trolley. It'll be an adventure.” - -Well, that was what we did, and very jolly it was. You know how it is: -artists and actors and manicure girls and newspapermen are accustomed to -ups and downs of pocket; and when they have a misery in the right-hand -trouser they make up for it in a spirit of genial comradeship. Jamaica -is an entertaining place. In a little lunchroom, which I remembered from -a time when I covered a story out that way, we had excellent ham and -eggs, and a good talk. - -As we sat in that little white-tiled restaurant, I couldn't help -watching Edwards. I don't know how to make this plain to you, but our -talk, which was cheerful enough, was the least important part of the -occasion. Talk tells so little, anyway: most of it's a mere stumbling -in an almost foreign tongue when it comes to expressing the inward pangs -and certainties that make up life. I had a feeling, as I saw those -two, that I was coming closer than ever before to something urgent and -fundamental in the human riddle. I thought that I had never seen a man -so completely in love. When he looked at her there was a sort of--well, -a sort of possession upon him, an enthusiasm, in the true sense of that -strange word. I thought to myself that Keats must have looked at Fanny -Brawne in just that way. And--you know what writers are--I must confess -that my observation of these two began to turn into “copy” in my mind. -I was wondering whether they might not give me a hint for my stalled -novel. - -There are some engaged couples that make it a point of honour to be a -bit off-hand and jocose when any one else is with them. Just to show, -I suppose, how sure they are of each other. And somehow I had expected -actors, to whom the outward gestures of passion are a mere professional -accomplishment, to be a little blasé or polished in such matters. But -there was a perfect candour and simplicity about them that touched -me keenly. Their relation seemed a lovely thing. Too lovely, and too -intense perhaps, to be entirely happy, I thought, for I could see in -Edwards's face that his whole life and mind were wrapped up in it. I may -have been fanciful, but at that time I was seeing the human panorama not -for itself but as a reflection of my own amateurish scribblings. In -my novel I had been working on the theory--not an original one, of -course--that the essence of tragedy is fixing one's passion too deeply -on anything in life. In other words, that happiness only comes to those -who do not take life too seriously. Destiny, determined not to give up -its secrets, always maims or destroys those who press it too closely. As -we laughed and enjoyed ourselves over our meal, I was wondering whether -Edwards, with his strange air of honourable sorrow, was a proof of my -doctrine. - -Of course we talked about the new play. Edwards had persuaded Upton to -give Miss Cunningham a place in the cast, and she was radiant about it. -Her eyes were like pansies as she spoke of it. I remember one thing she -said: - -“Isn't it wonderful? Morgan and I are together again. You know how -much it means to us, for if the show has a run we can get married this -winter.” - -“This fall,” Edwards amended. - -“Morgan's part is fine,” she went on, after a look at him that made even -a hardened reporter feel that he had no right to be there. “It's really -the big thing in the play for any one who can understand. It's just made -for him.” - -She was thoughtful a moment, and then added: “It's _too much_ made for -him, that's the only trouble. You're living with him, Mr. Roberts. Don't -let him take it too hard. He thinks of nothing else.” - -I made some jocular remark, I forget what. Edwards was silent for a -minute. Then he said: “If you knew how I've longed for a part like -that--a part that I could really lose myself in.” - -“I shouldn't care,” I said, “to lose myself in a part. Suppose I -couldn't find myself again when the time came?” - -He turned to me earnestly. - -“You're not an actor, Roberts, so perhaps you hardly understand what it -means to find a play that's _real_--more real than everyday life. What -I mean is this: everyday life is so damned haphazard, troubled by a -thousand distractions and subject to every sort of cruel chance. We just -fumble along and never know what's coming next. But in a play, a good -play, it's all worked out beforehand, you can see the action progressing -under clear guidance. What a relief it is to be able to sink yourself in -your part, to live it and breathe it and get away for awhile from this -pitiless self-consciousness that tags around with us. You remember what -they used to say about Booth: that it wasn't Booth playing Hamlet, but -Hamlet playing Booth.” - -***** - -The next day, I remember, I tied up my manuscript neatly in a brown -paper parcel, marked it _Literary Remains of Leonard Roberts_ (I was -childish enough to think that the alliteration would please my literary -executor, if there should be such a person), put it away in my trunk, -and went down to Park Row to see if there were any jobs to be had. -Of course it was the usual story. I had been out of the game for -six months, and Park Row seemed to have survived the blow with great -courage. At the _Observer_ office they charitably gave me some books to -review. As I came uptown on the subway I was reflecting on the change a -few hours had made in my condition. That morning I had been an author, a -novelist if you please; and now I was not even a reporter, but that -most deplorable of all Grub Street figures, a hack reviewer. It was -mid-afternoon, and I hadn't had any lunch yet. In a fit of sulks I -went into Browne's, sat down in a corner, and ordered a chop and some -shandygaff. As I ate, I looked over the books with a peevish eye. Never -mind, I said to myself, I will write such brilliant, withering, and -scorching reviews that in six months the Authors' League will be -offering me hush money. I was framing the opening paragraph of my first -article when Johnson, whom I had known on the _Observer_, stopped at my -table. He was one of the newspaper men who had left Park Row to go into -professional publicity work. There had been a time when I sneered at -such a declension. - -“Hullo, Leonard,” he said. “What are you doing nowadays?” - -I told him, irritably, that I was writing a serial for one of the -women's magazines. There is no statement that puts envious awe into a -newspaper man so surely as that. But I also admitted that if he knew of -a good job I might be persuaded to listen to details. - -“As it happens,” he said, “I do. Upton, the theatrical producer, is -looking for a press agent. He tells me he's got something unusual under -way, and he wants a highbrow blurb-artist. He says his regular roughneck -is no good for this kind of show. Something by a new writer, rather out -of Upton's ordinary line, I guess.” - -“Is it 'Obedience'?” - -“That's it. I couldn't remember the name.” As soon as I had finished -my lunch I went round to Upton's office. It was high up in a building -overlooking Longacre Square, where the elevators were crowded with the -people of that quaint and spurious world. The men I found particularly -fascinating--you know the type, so very young in figure, often so old -and hard and dry in face, with their lively tweeds, starched blue or -green collars, silver-gray ties, and straight-brushed, purply-black -hair. It was my first introduction to the realms of theatrical -producing, and I must confess that I found Mr. Upton's office very -entertaining with its air of elaborate and transparent bunkum. I sat -underneath a coloured enlarged photo of the Garden of Eden ballet in -“The Figleaf Lady” and surveyed the small anteroom. It was all intensely -unreal. Those framed photographs, on which were scrawled _To Harry -Upton, the Best of His Kind_, or some such inscriptions, and signed by -dramatists I had never heard of; the typist pounding out contracts; -the architect's drawing of the projected Upton Theatre at Broadway and -Fiftieth Street, showing a line of people at the box office--all this, I -knew by instinct, meant nothing. The dramatists whose photographs I saw -would never write a real play; the Upton Theatre, even if it should be -built, would not house anything but “burlettas,” and the typed contracts -were not worth so much carbon paper. As for Mr. Upton himself, one -couldn't help loving him: he was such a disarming, enthusiastic, shrewd, -unreliable bandit. To abbreviate, he took me on as a member of his -“publicity staff” (consisting of myself and a typewriter, as far as I -could see) at one hundred dollars a week. His private office had three -ingenious exits; going out by one of them, I found myself in a little -alcove with the typewriter and plenty of stationery. Rehearsals of -“Obedience” had started that morning, Upton had told me; so before I -went home that afternoon I had typed and sent off the following pregnant -paragraph for the next day's papers: - -Henry Upton's first dramatic production of the season, “Obedience,” - by Arthur Sampson, began making elbow room for itself at rehearsals -yesterday. Keith Brooks will play the leading rôle, supported by Lillian -Llewellyn, Sylvia Cunningham, Morgan Edwards, and other distinguished -players. - -I had a feeling of cheerfulness that evening. The cursed novel was no -longer on my mind, there would be a hundred dollars due me the next -week, and I was about to satisfy my long-standing curiosity to know -something about the theatre from the inside. It was one of those typical -evenings of New York loveliness: a rich, tawny, lingering light, a dry, -clear air, warm enough to be pleasantly soft and yet with a sharp tingle -in the breeze. I strolled about that bright jolly neighbourhood round -the hideous Verdi statue, bought a volume of Pinero's plays at one -of those combination book, cigar, and toy shops, and as I sat in my -favourite Milwaukee Lunch I believe (if I must be frank) that some idea -of writing a play was flitting through my mind. I got back to my room -about ten o'clock. I had just sat down to read Pinero when Edwards -tapped at the door. My mouth was open to tell him my surprising news -when I saw that he was unpleasantly agitated. First he insisted on -returning my loan, although I begged him to believe that there need be -no hurry about it. - -“Rehearsals began to-day,” he said. He sat down on the bed and looked -very sombre. “The worst possible has happened,” he said. “Fagan's -directing.” - -I tried to console him. Perhaps I felt that if Upton had shown such good -sense in his choice of a press representative his judgment in directors -couldn't be altogether wrong. - -“Oh, well,” I said, “if the play's as good as you say, he can't hurt it -much. Upton believes in it, he won't let Fagan chop it about, will he? -And he's got a good cast--they won't need much direction: they know how -to handle that kind of thing.” - -“It's plain you don't know the game,” he said. “If Upton had combed -Broadway from Herald Square to Reisenweber's, he couldn't have found -a man so superbly equipped to kill the piece. As for poor Sampson, God -help him. Fagan is a typical Broadway hanger-on, with plenty of debased -cunning of his own; not a fool at all; but the last man for this kind of -show, which needs imagination, atmosphere, delicate tone and tempo. -But that's not all of it. Fagan hates me personally. He'll get me out of -the company if he possibly can. He can do it, of course: he has Upton's -ear.” - -He sat a moment, one eyebrow twitching nervously. Suddenly he cried out, -in a quivering, passionate voice which horrified and frightened me: -“I've _got_ to play Dunbar! It's my only chance. _Everything_ depends -upon it.” - -Such an outcry, in a man usually so trained a master of himself, was -pitiful. I was truly shocked, and yet I was almost on the verge of -nervous laughter, I remember, when the idiotic old spinster in the -next room pounded lustily on the wall. I suppose she thought we were -revelling. I could see that he needed to talk. I tried to soothe him -with some commonplace words and a cigarette. - -“No,” he said, “I know what I'm talking about. Fagan hates me. No need -to go into details. He directed 'After Dinner,' you know--and massacred -it. We had a row then... he tried to bully a girl in the company... I -threatened to thrash him. He hasn't forgotten, of course. He passed the -word round then that I ruined the show. If this were any other play -I'd have walked out as soon as I saw him. But this piece is different. -I--I've set my heart on it. My God, I'm just _meant_ for that part----” - -In the hope of calming him, I asked what had happened at the first -rehearsal. - -“Oh, the usual thing. We went through the first act, with the sides. -I knew my lines perfectly, the only one who did (I ought to, I've been -over them incessantly these few weeks--the thing haunts me). That seemed -to annoy Fagan. Sampson was there--a quiet little man with a bright, -thoughtful eye. For his benefit, evidently, Fagan got off his old tosh -about Victor Hugo and the preface to 'Hernani'. It's a bit of patter he -picked up somewhere, and uses to impress people with. In the middle of -it, he suddenly realized that I had heard it all before. That made him -mad. So he cut it short, and reasserted himself by saying that the first -act would have to be cut a great deal. Sampson looked pretty groggy, -but said nothing. Sampson, I can see, is my only hope. Fagan will try to -force me out of the show by hounding me until I lose my temper and quit. -He began by telling me how to cross the stage. A man who learned the -business under Frank Benson doesn't need to be taught how to walk!” - -I ventured some mild sedative opinion, because I saw it did him good to -pour out his perplexity. - -“You don't know,” he said, “how the actor is at the mercy of the -director. The director is appointed by the manager and is responsible -only to him. If the director takes a dislike to one of the cast, he can -tell the manager he 'can't work with him', and get him fired that way; -or he can make the man's position impossible by ridicule and perpetual -criticism at rehearsals. He remarked to-day that I was miscast. The -fool! I've never had such a part.” - -Well, we talked until after midnight, and only stopped then because I -was afraid that the spinster might begin to hammer again. In the end I -got him fairly well pacified. He was delighted when I told him that I -was going to be press agent, and I pleased him by making some memoranda -of his previous career, which I thought I could work up into a Sunday -story. To tell the truth, I did not, then, take all his distress at its -face value. I knew he had had a difficult summer, and was in a nervous, -high-strung state. I thought that his trouble was partly what we -call “actors' disease,” or (to put it more humanely) oversensitized -selfconsciousness. I promised to get round to the rehearsal the next -day. - -As a matter of fact, it was several days before I was able to attend a -rehearsal. For the next morning Upton asked me to go to Atlantic City, -where he had a musical show opening, to collect data for publicity. His -regular press man was ill, and it was evident that he expected me to do -plenty of work for my hundred a week. However, it was a new and amusing -job, and I was keen to absorb as much local colour as possible. I went -to Atlantic City on the train with the “Jazz You Like It” company, took -notes of all their life histories, went in swimming with the Blandishing -Blondes quartette that afternoon, had them photographed on the sand, -took care to see that they were arrested in their one-piece suits, -bailed them out, and by dinner-time had collected enough material to -fill the trashiest Sunday paper. In the evening the show opened, and -I saw what seemed to me the most appallingly vulgar and brutally silly -spectacle that had ever disgraced a stage. I wondered how a company of -quite intelligent and amusing people could ever have been drilled -into such laborious and glittering stupidity. The gallery fell for -the Blondes, but the rest of the house suffered for the most part in -silence, and I expected to see Upton crushed to earth. When I met him -in the lobby afterward I was wondering how to condole with him. To my -surprise he was radiant. “Well, I guess we've got a knockout,” he said. -“This'll sell to the roof on Broadway.” He was right, too. Well, this -is out of the story. I simply wanted to explain that I was away from New -York for several days. - -When I got back to Upton's office I was busy most of the day sending -out stuff to the papers. Then I asked the imperial young lady who -was alternately typing letters and attending to the little telephone -switchboard, where “Obedience” was rehearsing. At the Stratford, she -replied. Wondering how many of Mr. Upton's amusing and discreditable -problems were bestowed under her magnificent rippling coiffure (she was -really a stunning creature), I went round to that theatre. The middle -door was open and I slipped in. The house was dark, on the tall, naked -stage the rehearsal was proceeding. It was my first experience of this -sort of thing, and I found it extremely interesting. The stage was set -out with chairs to indicate exits and essentials of furniture; at the -back hung a huge canvas sea-scene, used in some revue that had opened -at the Stratford the night before. The electricians were tinkering -with their illuminating effects, great blazes and shafts of light -criss-crossed about the place as the rehearsal went on, much to the -annoyance of the actors. Little electric stars winked in the painted sky -portion of the blue back-drop, and men in overalls walked about gazing -at their tasks. - -I sat down quietly in the gloom, about halfway down the middle aisle. -Two or three other people, whose identity I could not conjecture, sat -singly down toward the front. In the orchestra row, in shirtsleeves, -with his feet on the brass rail and a cigar in his mouth, sat a person -who, I saw, must be the renowned Fagan. Downstage were Brooks, Edwards, -and a charming creature in summery costume who was obviously the -original of the multitudinous photographs of Lillian Llewellyn. The rest -of the company were sitting about at the back, off the scene. Edwards, -who was very pale in the violent downpour of a huge bulb hanging from a -wire just overhead, was speaking as I took my seat. - -“Wait a minute, folks--_wait a minute!_” cried Fagan, sharply. “Now! -You've got your situation planted, let's nail it to the cross. Mr. -Edwards!” - -The actors turned, wearily, and Miss Llewellyn sat down on a chair. -Brooks stood waiting with a kind of dogged endurance. At the back of the -stage a workman was hammering on a piece of metal. Fagan pulled his legs -off the rail and climbed halfway up the little steps leading from the -orchestra pit to the proscenium. - -“Mr. Edwards!” he shouted, “you're letting it drop. It's dead. Give it -to Mr. Brooks so he can pick it up and do something with it. You've got -to lift it into the domain of comedy! My God!” he cried, throwing his -cigar stub into the orchestra well, “that whole act is terrible. Take it -again from Miss Llewellyn's entrance. Mr. Edwards, try to put a little -more stuff into it. This isn't amateur theatricals.” - -Edwards turned as though about to speak, but he clenched his fist and -kept silent. Brooks, however, was less patient. - -“Pardon me, Mr. Fagan,” he said, in a clear, ironical tone. “But I -should like to ask a question, if you will allow me. You speak, very -forcibly, of lifting it into the domain of comedy. That seems a curious -phrase for this scene. Is it intended to be comic? If so, I must have -misconstrued the author's directions in the script.” - -Brooks was too well-known a performer for Fagan to bully. Brooks was “on -the lights”--in other words, when the show's electric signboard went -up, it would carry his name. Around his presence hung the mystic aura -of five hundred dollars a week, quite enough in itself to make Fagan -respectful. The director seemed a little startled by the star's caustic -accent. As a matter of fact, I don't suppose he had ever read the script -as a whole. I remembered that after the first rehearsal Edwards told me -that Fagan had admitted not having read the play. He said he preferred -to “pick up the dialogue as they went along”. This reference to the -author must have seemed to him unaccountably eccentric. I daresay he had -forgotten that there was such a person. - -He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right, if -that's the way you take it, I've got nothing to say. Play it your own -way, folks. Mr. Edwards, you're killing Mr. Brooks's scene there. Give -him time to come down and get his effect.” - -Again I saw Edwards lift his head as though about to retort, but Brooks -whispered something to him. Fagan came back to his seat in the front row -and lit a fresh cigar. “Take it from Miss Llewellyn's first entrance,” - he shouted. - -Miss Cunningham and a third man came forward and the five regrouped -themselves. The rehearsal resumed. I watched with a curious tingle of -excitement. The dialogue meant little to me, plunging in at the middle -of the act, but I could not miss the passionate quality of Edwards's -playing. Even Brooks, a polished but very cold actor, caught the warmth. -Their speeches had the rich vibrance of anger. I was really startled -at the power and velocity of the performance, considering that they had -only rehearsed a week. As I watched, someone leaned over my shoulder -from behind and whispered: “What do you think of Dunbar?” - -My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. I turned and saw a little man -with a thin face and lifted eyebrows which gave him a quaint expression -of perpetual surprise. I was so absorbed in the scene that at first I -hardly understood. - -“Dunbar--? Oh, Edwards?” I whispered. “I think he's corking--fine.” - -At that moment Edwards was in the middle of a speech. Miss Cunningham -had just said something. Edwards, going toward her, had put his hand on -her shoulder and was replying in a tone of peculiar tenderness. Fagan's -loud voice broke in. - -“Dunbar! Mr. Edwards! I can't let you do it like that. You make me hold -up this scene every time. Now get it right. This is a bit of comedy, not -sob stuff. Try to be a bit facetious, if you can. You're not making love -to the girl--not yet!” - -There was a moment of silence. Those on the stage stood still, oddly -like children halted in the middle of a game. I don't suppose Fagan's -words were deliberately intended as a personal insult, but seemed to -himself a legitimate comment on the action of the piece. I think his -offences came more often from boorish obtuseness than calculated -malice. But the brutal interruption, coming after a long and difficult -afternoon, strained the players' nerves to snapping. Brooks sat down -with an air of calculated nonchalance and took out a cigarette. Then a -tinkling hammering began again somewhere up in the flies. Edwards was -flushed. - -“For God's sake stop that infernal racket up there,” he cried. Then, -coming down to the unlit gutter of footlights, he said quietly: - -“Mr. Fagan, I've studied this part rather more carefully than you have. -If the author is in the house, I'd like to appeal to him as to whether -my conception is correct.” - -There was such a quiver of passion in his voice that even Fagan seemed -taken aback. - -“What's got into you folks to-day?” he growled. “Oh, very well. Is Mr. -Sampson here?” - -The little man behind me got up and walked down the aisle in an -embarrassed way. - -“Mr. Author,” said Fagan, “have you been watching the rehearsal?” - -Sampson murmured something. - -“Is Mr. Edwards doing the part as you want it done?” - -“Mr. Edwards is perfectly right,” said Sampson. - -“Thank you, sir,” said Edwards from the stage. “Fagan, when you are -ready to conduct rehearsals like a gentleman, I will be here.” He turned -and walked off the stage. - -Brooks snapped his cigarette case to, and the sharp click seemed to -bring the scene to an end. Fagan picked up his coat from the seat beside -him. “Bolshevism!” he said. “All right, folks, ten o'clock to-morrow, -here. Miss Cunningham, will you tell Mr. Edwards ten o'clock tomorrow?” - -This last might be taken either as a surly apology, or as an added -insult. Rather subtle for Fagan, I thought. As I was getting out of my -seat, the director and a venomous-looking young man whom I had seen in -and out of Upton's office walked up the aisle together. Sampson was just -behind them. I could see that the director was either furiously angry, -or else (more likely) deemed it his duty to pretend to be. - -“This show's no good as long as Edwards is in it,” he said, loudly, -spitting out fragments of cigar-wrapper. “That fellow's breaking up the -company. I sha'n't be able to handle 'em at all, pretty soon. This kind -of thing puts an omen on a show.” - -***** - -Well, that was my introduction to “Obedience”. I watched Fagan and the -hanger-on of Upton's office--one of those innumerable black-haired young -infidels who run errands for a man like Upton, hobnob with the ticket -speculators in the enigmatic argot of the box office, and seem to look -out upon the world from behind a little grill of brass railings. They -moved up the velvet slope of the passage, arguing hoarsely. Sampson -faded gently away into the darkness and disappeared through the thick -blue curtains of the foyer. An idea struck me, and I ran behind to see -the stage manager, Cervaux, who was playing one of the minor parts. I -cajoled his own copy of the script away from him, promising to return it -to the office the next morning. I wanted to read the play entire. Going -out toward the stage door, behind a big flat of scenery I came upon Miss -Cunningham. She was sitting in a rolling chair, one of those things you -see on the boardwalk at Atlantic City. There was a whole fleet of them -drawn up in the wings, they were used in that idiotic revue playing -at the Stratford. It added to the curiously unreal atmosphere of the -occasion to see her crouching there, crying, alone in the half light, -among those absurd vehicles of joy. - -I intended to pass as though I hadn't seen her, but she called out to -me. If Upton could have seen her then, her honey-brown eyes glazed with -tears, black rings in her poor little pale face, he would have raised -her salary--or else fired her, I don't know which. - -“Mr. Roberts,” she said, slowly and tremulously--“I don't know who else -to ask. Will you try to help Morgan?” - -“Why of course,” I said. “Anything I can do----” - -“You were at the rehearsal? Then you saw how Fagan treats him. It's been -like that every day. The brute! It's abominable! You know how we had set -our hearts on playing this together, Morgan and I.... Now I've almost -come to pray that Morgan will throw it up. That's what Fagan wants, of -course, but I don't care. All I want is his happiness. I said something -to him about giving up the part, but he... Mr. Roberts, I'm _worried_. -I've never seen Morgan so strange before. He's not himself. I don't know -what's the matter, I have a feeling that something-----” - -The electricians were still fooling about with their spotlights, and a -great arrow of brilliance sliced across the stage and groped about us. -It blazed brutally upon her tear-stained face, and then see-sawed among -the little flock of rolling chairs. It was that shaft of light that -dispelled, once for all, the feeling I had had that this was all some -sort of theatrical gibberish, pantomime stuff intended to impress the -greenhorn press agent. For when she recoiled under the blow of that -sudden stroke of brightness I could read unquestionable trouble on her -face. There was not only perplexity, there was fear. - -She was silent, turning her face away. Then she stepped down from the -chair, in a blind sort of way. - -“I begged him to give it up,” she said, quietly. “He said that no -one but the author could take him out of this part. I wish the author -would.--Oh, I don't know what to wish! Morgan's making himself ill -fighting against Fagan.” - -We walked across Fortieth Street together, and I escorted her as far as -a Fifth Avenue bus. As we waited for the bus she said: - -“You'll probably see him to-night. Tell him about rehearsal to-morrow, -ten o'clock. He had gone before I could speak to him. You see, he's not -himself. We were to have taken supper together.” - -She added something that I have never forgotten: - -“The worst tragedy in the world is when lovely things get in the hands -of people who don't understand them. If you see Mr. Sampson, you might -tell him that. Some day he may write another play.” - -When I got up to Seventy-third Street I tapped at Edwards's door. He was -at his table, writing. I had intended to ask him to take dinner with me, -thinking that perhaps I could help him, but his manner showed plainly -that he wanted to be alone. If I had been an old friend of his, perhaps -I could have done something; but I did not feel I knew him well enough -to force myself upon his mood. - -“Fagan sent you word, rehearsal to-morrow at ten,” I said. “It sounds to -me like an apology.” - -He looked at me steadily. - -“You were there to-day? You will understand a little, then.” - -“I understand that Fagan is a ruffian.” - -“Fagan--Oh, I don't mean Fagan.” He paused and looked at the wet -point of his pen. “I was just writing a note to Sampson,” he said. He -hesitated a moment, and then tore the written sheet across several times -and dropped it in the basket. - -“Oh, hell,” he said. “I can't appeal to Sampson again. I'll have to work -it out myself.--Don't imagine I take Fagan too seriously. Fagan is only -an accident. A tragic accident. That's part of my weird, as the Scotch -say. I mean, you'll understand better about Dunbar.” - -I didn't quite understand, and said nothing. - -“I wouldn't let a man like Fagan stand between me and Dunbar,” he said. -“It's in the hands of the author now. You heard what he said. He put -Dunbar into the play, he's the only one who can take him out of it.” - -The next morning Upton broke the news to me that I was to go out as -advance man. The opening was set for Providence, only ten days later. -There was to be a two-weeks' tour of three-night engagements, and I had -to arrange for the publicity, poster-printing, accommodations for the -company, and so on. This did not appeal to me very strongly, but I -scrambled together a lot of photographs, interviewed the cast as to -their preferences in hotel rooms, and set off. I got back a week later. -We were then only three days away from the opening. They were rehearsing -with the sets, Upton's telephone blonde told me, and I hurried round to -the Stratford to see how the scenic artist had done the job. - -They had just knocked off for lunch when I got there, and at the stage -door I met Edwards coming out with Miss Cunningham. He looked very white -and tired. - -“Hullo,” I said; “just in time to have lunch with me! Come on, we'll go -to Maxim's. I've still got some of Upton's expense money.” - -“I've got to rush round to the modiste for a fitting,” said Miss -Cunningham. “The gowns are just finished. You take Morgan and give him a -good talking-to. He needs it.” I did not quite understand the appeal in -her eyes, but I saw that she wanted me to talk with Edwards alone. She -went toward Bryant Park, and we turned down to Thirty-eighth. Edwards -stood a moment at the corner looking after her. - -“Sylvia says I'm a fool,” he said, wearily. “I don't know: most of us -are, one way or another.--You know I told you that I put my confidence -in the author.” - -“Quite right,” I said. “I myself heard Sampson say he thought you were -corking.” - -“Well, I wonder if he's double-crossing me?” said Edwards, slowly, as -though to himself. - -“In what way?” - -“Yesterday, when I was coming down to rehearsal, there was a tie-up of -some kind on the subway. The train stood still for a long time, and -then the lights went out. We stayed in the dark for I don't know how -long--everybody got nervous. It was pitch black, and awfully hot and -stuffy. The women began to scream. I felt pretty queer myself--you know -I haven't been well--and as we sat there I went off into a kind of doze -or something. Then, just as everybody was on the edge of a panic, the -lights came on and we went ahead. When we got to Times Square I think I -must have been a bit off colour, for the damned rehearsal went out of -my head entirely. Suddenly I realized I was in a drugstore drinking some -headache fizz when I was over an hour late at the theatre. My God! I -hustled down there as fast as I could go. Queer thing. I went in through -the stage door, and as I came round behind the set I heard voices on the -stage. They were rehearsing, of course. Naturally, they couldn't wait -all morning for me. But this is what I'm getting at. You know that scene -in the second act where I say to Brooks: _It's all very well for you to -say that. Ah, hah! I see! But suppose you had been in my place---_ - -“You know that's a turning point in the act. There's a particular -inflection I give that speech--the way I say the 'Ah, hah! I see!' that -makes the point clear to the audience and gets it over. Well, they were -rehearsing that scene, and from behind the canvas I heard that speech. -And what I heard was my own voice.” - -“What on earth do you mean?” I said. - -He hesitated. He was sitting, his lunch almost untasted, with one elbow -on the table and his forehead leaning on his hand. Under his long, -sinewy fingers I could see his brows tightened and frowning downward -upon his plate. - -“Exactly what I say. It was my own voice. Or, if you prefer, Dunbar's -voice. I heard that speech uttered, tone for tone, as I had been saying -it. It was the precise accent and pitch of ironical comment which I had -thought appropriate for Dunbar at that point in the action. The sudden -change of tone, the pause, the placing of the emphasis--the words were -just as if they had come out of my own mouth. I stopped, instinctively. -I said to myself, has Fagan got someone else to play the part, and been -coaching him on the side? Someone who's been sitting in at rehearsals -and has picked up my conception of Dunbar? And at that moment I heard -Fagan sing out 'All right, folks, the carpenter wants to work on this -set. We'll quit until after lunch.' - -“I tell you, I was staggered. If I was out, I was out, but they might -have been straight with me. It was a matter for the Equity, I thought. I -didn't want to chin it over with the others just then, and I heard them -coming off, so I slipped through the door that opens into the passage -behind the stage box. I meant to tell Fagan what I thought about it. -There was Sampson sitting in one of the boxes. He saw me, and got up. He -said: 'By Jove, Mr. Edwards, you were fine this morning. I've never seen -you do it so well. It was bully, all through. Keep it like that, and -you're the hit of the play.' - -“I thought at first he was making fun of me. I was about to make some -sarcastic retort, when he put out his hand in the friendliest way, and -said: - -“'I want to thank you for what you're doing for that part, and I know it -hasn't been easy. I've never seen anything so beautifully done, and just -want to tell you that if the play is a success it will be largely due to -you.' - -“This, on the heels of the other, astounded me so that I didn't know -what to say. I made some automatic reply, and he left. I sat down in the -cool darkness of the box to rest, for I was feeling very seedy. My head -went round and round--touch of the sun, I dare say, or that foul air in -the crowded subway car. I was still there when they came back, an hour -later, for the afternoon rehearsal. I tried to talk to Sylvia about it, -but all she would say was that I ought to go to a doctor.” - -“I think she's right,” I said. “Look here, have you had any sleep -lately?” - -“You seem to have forgotten Dunbar's line,” he said. “'_There'll be -'plenty of time to sleep by and bye._'” - -“For God's sake forget about Dunbar,” I said. “Man, dear, you're on the -tip of a nervous breakdown. Now listen. This is Friday. Dress rehearsal -to-morrow. Sunday you'll have all day off. Take Miss Cunningham and go -away into the country somewhere and rest. Put the damned play out of -your mind and give her a good time. You both need it.” - -I didn't see him again until Monday morning. - -I went up to Providence on the train with the company. As I passed -through one of the Pullmans looking for a seat in a smoking compartment, -I found Miss Cunningham and Edwards sitting in adjoining chairs. To my -delight, they seemed very cheerful, and smiled up at me charmingly. - -“Took your advice yesterday,” he said. “We went down to Long Beach -again. Had a lovely day, not even a pickpocket to spoil it.” - -“What an unfortunate remark!” said Sylvia, laughing. “He means, not a -pickpocket to bring us a friend in need and give us a jolly evening in -Jamaica.” - -“I spoke the speech trippingly,” he admitted. - -“And we left Dunbar behind!” said Sylvia. She flashed me a grateful -little look that showed she knew I had tried to help. - -“Have you decided where to spend the honeymoon?” I asked, greatly -pleased to see them so happy. - -“Hush!” she said. “We'll wait till we see what sort of notices the show -gets.” - -“Think of the poor press agent. I've used up all my dope. Get spliced -while we're in Providence and it'll give me a nice little story. You -know the kind of thing--'_Critics' Praise Brings Pair to Altar; Press -Clippings Cupid's Aid_'.” - -“You're getting as vulgar as a regular press agent,” she said, merrily. -“They don't think of anything except in terms of good stories for the -paper.” - -“Oh,” I said, “the press agent has his tragedies, too. Think how many -stories he knows that he can't tell.” - -I felt that this remark was not very happily inspired, and went -on through the car calling myself a clumsy idiot. In the smoking -compartment, as luck would have it, were both Upton and Fagan, smoking -huge cigars and talking together. I sat down and lit my pipe. Fagan, in -his usual way, was trying to impress Upton with his own sagacity. There -was another musical horror of Upton's scheduled to begin rehearsal -shortly, and probably Fagan was hoping to land the job as director. - -“What did you think of Edwards at the dress rehearsal?” said Fagan. - -Upton grunted. He had a way of retaining his ideas until others had -committed themselves. - -“I've been telling you right along, he's impossible,” said Fagan. “No -one can work with him. He's too damned upstage. Now I got Billy Mitford -to promise he'd run up and see the opening. Billy is the man you need -for that part. I had him in at the dress, and he'll be there tonight. -I've given him a line on the part, and if Edwards falls down we can -start rehearsing Billy right away. He could get set in a week, and open -with the show in New York.” - -“Four hundred a week,” was Upton's comment, seemingly addressed to the -end of his cigar. - -“All right, he's worth it. He's got a following. This guy Edwards is -dear at any price. He'll kill the show. He doesn't get his stuff over. -God knows I've worked on him. And he crabs Brooks's work more'n half the -time. What you want is one of these birds that gets the women climbing -over the orchestra rail. Billy is your one best bet, take it from me.” - -“Well, we'll open her up and see what we got,” said Upton. “Is Sampson -along?” - -“No. Scared. Said he was too nervous to come. He'll learn to write -a play afterwhile. What a mess that script was until I got her -straightened out.” - -When we got to Providence I had several jobs to do around town. I -visited the newspaper offices, stopped in at the theatre where the stage -crew were busy unloading scenery, and when I returned to the hotel I -lay down in my room and had a good nap, I was awakened late in the -afternoon--about five o'clock, because I looked at my watch--by a -knocking at the door. I got up and opened. It was Edwards. To my dismay, -his cheerfulness had vanished. He had gone back to the old pallid and -anxious mood. - -“Nervous, old man?” I said. When I had booked the rooms for the company -I had arranged that he and I should be next door to each other, so that -I could keep an eye on him. - -“Nervous?” he said. “I'm ill. Had another of those damned swimming -spells in my head. Haven't got any brandy, have you?” - -I hadn't, but offered to go in search of some. He wouldn't let me. - -“Don't go,” he said. “Look here, I saw Mit-ford in the lobby just now. -What the devil is he doing here?” - -“Perhaps there's some other show on,” I suggested, miserably. - -“I told you they were trying to double-cross me,” he said. “I know -perfectly well what he's here for. Fagan is trying to razz me into a -breakdown. Then he'll put Mitford in as Dunbar. But I tell you, I'll -play this thing in spite of hell and high water.” - -He paced feverishly up and down, and I tried to ease his mind. - -“By God, they sha'n't!” he cried. “I'll put this thing up to the author. -Where's Sampson?” - -“He's not here. For heaven's sake, man, don't get in a state. -Everything's all right.” - -“Everything's all right!” he repeated, bitterly. “Yes, everything's -lovely. Let's 'lift it into the domain of comedy'. But if you see Fagan, -tell him to keep away from me.” - -I begged him to rest until dinner-time. I went into his room with him, -made him lie down on the bed, rang for a bottle of ice water, and left -him there. Then I went downstairs and wrote a couple of letters. I was -just leaving the hotel when I met Fagan coming in. He stopped me to ask -if I had taken care to put his name on the playbill as director. I -had. If the show was a flop, I at least wanted his name attached as a -participial cause. - -I wandered uneasily about the busy streets until theatre time. I -couldn't have been more nervous if I had been going on the boards -myself. I spent part of the time prowling about trying to see how much -“Obedience” paper I could find on the billboards and in shop windows. I -stopped in at a lunchroom and had some supper. The place reminded me -of the little café in Jamaica where Sylvia and Edwards and I had eaten -together. - -My mind was full of the picture of the two, and his face as he leaned -across the table toward her. I thought that I had never seen a couple -who so deserved happiness, or who had fought harder to earn it. What was -the subtle appeal in this play that made it react so strangely upon -him? The tragedy of Dunbar in the piece, the sacrifice of the poor, -well-meaning fellow whose virtue always seemed to turn and rend him, did -this echo some secret experience in his own life? I wondered whether -an actor's career was really the gay business I had conceived it. -It occurred to me that perhaps the actor's profession is doomed to -suffering, because it takes the most dangerous explosives in life and -plays with them. Love, ambition, jealousy, hatred, those are the things -actors deal with. You can't play with those without one of them going -off every now and then. They go off with a bang, and somebody gets hurt. - -I suppose I'm sentimental. I wanted those two to win out. It seemed to -me that a defeat for their fine and honourable passion would be a defeat -for Love everywhere, and for all who believe in the worthy aspirations -of the heart. I don't suppose any press agent ever pondered more -generous philosophies than I did that night, over my lunch-counter -supper. - -Time went so fast that it was after eight when I got to the theatre. I -went in and took a seat in the last row. The house, to my surprise, was -crowded. I could see Upton's big bald head, well down in front, beside -a massively carved lady, all bust and beads, whom I supposed to be Mrs. -Upton. The élite of Providence were out in force, for Brooks's name -is always a drawing card. Some of them, I feared, were going to be -disappointed. It is all very well to introduce a new Barrie or a new -Pinero to the playgoing public, but you've got to remember that it is -bound to be grievous for those who prefer the other sort of thing. - -The curtain, of course, was late, and I gave a sigh of relief when I saw -it go up. Edwards, waiting carefully for the hush, had the house with -him in three speeches. I have never seen better work, before or since. -It was noticeable that at his first exit he got a bigger hand than -Brooks at his carefully prepared entrance. The only thing that seemed -to me out of the way was his extreme pallor. The silly ass, I said to -myself, he hasn't made himself up properly. Then it struck me that it -was probably a sound touch of realism, for certainly Dunbar would not be -described as a full-blooded creature. I had read the play carefully, and -had seen it in rehearsal; but I had never known how much there was in -it. Strangely enough, Edwards was the only one who showed no trace of -nervousness. All the others, even Brooks, seemed unaccountably at a loss -now and then, trampled on their lines, and smothered their points. At -first the house was inclined to applaud, but as the action tightened, -they hushed into the perfect and passionate silence that is the -playwright's dream. There were six curtains at the end of the first act. -I could tell by the tilt of old Upton's pink pate that he was in fine -spirits. I looked about for Fagan in the lobby, as I was keen to see how -he was taking it, but missed him in the arguing and shifting crowd. - -By the time the third act was under way it was plain that we had a -sure-fire success. Novice as I was, I could read the signs when I -saw Upton scribbling telegrams at the box-office window in the second -intermission, and observed the face of Mr. Mitford. The usual slips that -always happen on first nights were there, of course. In the third act, -when Edwards had to take Sylvia in his arms, she seemed to trip and -almost fell; and I noticed that Brooks crossed the stage and helped her -off, which was not in the script; but these things were not marked by -most of the audience. Dunbar, you remember, makes his final exit several -minutes before the end of the third act. When he went off there was a -little stir among the audience--far more eloquent than applause would -have been. That beautiful delineation of a blundering high-minded -failure had made its appeal. - -After Edwards's last exit I felt my way out, quietly, and went round -through the street and up the alley to the stage door. I wanted to be -the first to congratulate him on his splendid triumph. I did not want to -break in too soon, so I waited near the door until I heard the crash of -hands that followed the curtain. The canvas rose and fell repeatedly as -the players took their calls, while the house shook with applause. From -where I stood, by the switches and buttons on the control board, I could -see them lined up in the orange glare of the gutter, bowing and smiling. -There were cries of “Dunbar! Dunbar!” and a rumbling of feet in the -gallery. It is the only time I have ever seen an audience crowd down the -aisles and stand by the orchestra rail, applauding. Then I saw why they -lingered. Edwards had not taken his call. - -The curtain fell again, and Cervaux, the stage manager, came running -off, the perspiration streaming down over his grease-paint. - -“Christ!” he cried. “Where's that fool Edwards?” - -As soon as the curtain finally shut off the house I could see the actors -turn to each other as though in dismay. Miss Cunningham came off, and I -ran to shake her hand. To my amazement she looked at me blankly, with a -dreadful face, and sat down on a trunk. - -Brooks strode across the stage. “Where's Edwards?” he shouted, angrily. -“Tell him to take this call with me, the house is crazy.” - -“Where's the author?” said someone. “They want the author, too.” - -Several hurried upstairs to the men's dressing rooms, and I followed. -The door of number 3, on which Edwards's name was scrawled in chalk, -stood open. Cervaux stood stupidly on the sill. The room was empty. - -“He's gone,” said Cervaux. “What do you know about that?” - -We could still hear the tumult of the house. - -“Take the curtain, Mr. Brooks,” said Cervaux. “Tell them he's ill.” - -I looked round number 3 dressing room. - -There was a taxi standing outside the stage door. I don't know how it -happened to be there, or who had ordered it, but I shouted to the driver -and jumped in. I have a faint impression that just as the engine started -Sylvia appeared at the door, with a cloak thrown over her stage gown, -and cried something, but I am not sure. - -When I got to the hotel, the door of the room next to mine was locked, -but the house detective got it open without any noise. There were two -men in the room. In the far corner lay Fagan, unconscious, with a broken -jaw, one arm hideously twisted under him, and a shattered water bottle -beside his bloody head. Sprawled against the bed, kneeling, with his -arms flung out across the counterpane, was Edwards.--The doctor said it -was heart disease. He had been dead since six o'clock. - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales From a Rolltop Desk, by Christopher Morley - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK *** - -***** This file should be named 51957-0.txt or 51957-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/5/51957/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - diff --git a/old/51957-0.zip b/old/51957-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index ab1a94d..0000000 --- a/old/51957-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/51957-8.txt b/old/51957-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 458e795..0000000 --- a/old/51957-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6588 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Tales From a Rolltop Desk, by Christopher Morley - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Tales From a Rolltop Desk - -Author: Christopher Morley - -Illustrator: Walter Jack Duncan - -Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51957] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK - -By Christopher Morley - -Illustrated By Walter Jack Duncan - -Garden City, N. Y., And Toronto - -Doubleday, Page & Company - -1921 - -[Illustration: 0001] - -[Illustration: 0008] - -[Illustration: 0009] - -A LETTER OF DEDICATION - -TO - -FRANK NELSON DOUBLEDAY - -Dear Effendi: - -I take the liberty of dedicating these little stories to you, with -affection and respect. They have all grown, in one mood or another, -out of the various life of Grub Street, suggested by adventures with -publishers, booksellers, magazine editors, newspaper men, theatrical -producers, commuters, and poets major and minor. If they have any appeal -at all, it must be as an honest (though perhaps sometimes too jocular) -picture of the excitements that gratify the career of young men -who embark upon the ocean of ink, and (let us not forget) those -much-enduring Titanias who consent to share their vicissitudes. You have -been the best of friends and counsellors to many such young men, and I -assure you that they look back upon the time spent under your shrewd and -humorous magistracy with special loyalty and regard. You will understand -that in these irresponsible stories no personal identifications are to -be presumed. - -I think you remember--I know you do, because you have often charitably -chuckled over the incident--that rather too eager young man who came to -call on you one day in September, 1913, saying that he simply must have -a job. And how you, in your inimitable way, said "Well, what kind of -a job would you like best to have around this place?" And he cried -"Yours!" And you justly punctured the creature by saying "All right, go -to work and get it." (There was more youthful palpitation than intended -impertinence in the young man's outcry, so he has assured me.) And then, -still tremulous with ambition, this misguided freshman pulled out of his -pocket a bulky memorandum on which he had inscribed his pet scheme for -the regeneration and stimulus of the publishing business, and laid -it before you. How hospitably you considered his programme, and -how tenderly you must have smiled, inwardly, at his odd mixture of -earnestness and excitement! At any rate, you set him to work that -afternoon, with the assurance that he might have your job as soon as he -could qualify. - -Well, he did not get it; nor will he ever, for he knows (by this time) -what a rare complex of instincts and sagacities is needed in the head of -a great publishing house; and his own ambition has proved to be a little -different. But he can never be enough grateful for the patience and -humorous tolerance with which you brooded upon his various antics, -condoned his many absurdities, welcomed and encouraged his enthusiasms. -In nearly four years in your "shop" he learned (so he insists) more than -any college could ever teach: and how much he had to unlearn, too! And -the surprising part of it was, it was all such extraordinarily good fun. -The greatest moments of all, I suppose, were when this young man -was invited by one of your partners (on occasions that seemed so -interminably far apart!) to "walk in the garden," that being the -cheerful tradition of the Country Life Press. There, after some -embarrassing chat about the peonies and the sun dial, the victim -meanwhile groaning to know whether it was, this time, hail or farewell, -there would come tidings of one of those five-dollar raises that were -so hotly desiderated. That paternal function (so this young man and his -fellow small fry observed) was rightly a little beneath the dignity -of the Effendi: you, they noted, only walked in the garden with paper -merchants and people like Booth Tarkington and Ellen Glasgow and good -Mr. Grosset of Grosset and Dunlap! - -Many young men (O Effendi), from Frank Norris down, have found your -house a wonderful training-school for writers and publishers and -booksellers. There are great names, of permanent honour in literature, -that owe much to your wisdom and patience. But among all those who know -you in your trebled capacity as employer, publisher, and friend, there -is none who has more reason to be grateful, or who has done less to -deserve it, than the young man I have described. And so you will forgive -him if he thus publicly and selfishly pleases himself by trying to -express his sense of gratitude, and signs himself - -Faithfully yours - -Christopher Morley. - -Roslyn, Long Island January, 1921. - -ACKNOWLEDGMENT - -The original responsibility for some of these stories--or at any rate -the original copyright--was allotted as follows: "The Prize Package," -Collier's Weekly (1918); "Urn Burial," Every Week (1918); "The -Climacteric," The Smart Set (1918); "The Pert Little Hat," The -Metropolitan (1919); "The Battle of Manila Envelopes," The Bookman -(1920); "The Commutation Chop-house," The New York Evening Post (1920); -"The Curious Case of Kenelm Digby," The Bookman (1921); "Gloria and -the Garden of Sweden," Munsey's (1921); "Punch and Judy," The Outlook -(1921). - -All but one of these publications are still in existence. To their -editors and owners the author expresses his indebtedness and his -congratulation. - - - - - -TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK - - - - -THE PRIZE PACKAGE - - -LESTER VALIANT came back from Oxford with the degree of B. Litt., some -unpaid tailors' bills, and the conviction that the world owed him a -living because he had been suffered within the sacred precincts of -Balliol College for three years. A Rhodes scholarship is one of the most -bounteous gifts the world holds for a young man; but in Lester's case -Oxford piled upon Harvard left him with a perilous lot to unlearn. You -can tell a lot about a man when you know what he is proud of; and Lester -was really proud of having worn a wrist watch and a dinner jacket with -blue silk lapels three or four years before they became habitual in the -region of Herald Square. But let us be just: he was also proud of his -first editions of Conrad and George Moore; for he was much afflicted -with literature. - -Lester originated in the yonder part of Indiana, but when he returned -from Oxford he made up his mind to live in New York. He felt it -appropriate that he should be connected in some way with the production -of literature, and after hiring a bedroom on the fourth floor of an old -house on Madison Avenue, where two friends of his were living, he set -out to visit the publishers. - -There is a third-rate club in London called the Litterateurs' Club. -A few years ago it was in urgent need of funds, and a brilliant idea -struck the managing committee. Every writer listed in the American -"Who's Who" was circularized and received a very flattering letter -saying that, owing to the distinction of his contributions to -contemporary letters, the Litterateurs' Club of London would be very -much pleased to welcome him as a member, upon a nominal payment of -five guineas. About seven hundred guileless persons complied, and -transatlantic travel became appreciably denser on account of these men -of letters crossing to England to revel in their importance as members -of a club of which no one in London has ever heard. And by some fluke -the managing committee had got hold of the name of Lester Valiant, -then at Oxford--perhaps because he had once published a story in the -_Cantharides Magazine_. Probably they bought a mailing list from some -firm in Tottenham Court Road. - -Cecil Rhodes's executors paid his five guineas, and he had his cards -engraved: - -LESTER G. P. VALIANT - -The Litterateurs' Club, London - -The use of these pasteboards brought him ready entre in the offices -of New York publishers. If he had not been so eager to impress the -gentlemen he interviewed with his literary connoisseurship, undoubtedly -he would have landed a job much sooner. But publishers are justly -suspicious of anything that savours of literature, and Lester's innocent -allusions to George Moore and Chelsea did much to alarm them. At length, -however, Mr. Arundel, the president of the Arundel Company, took pity -on the young man and gave him a desk in his editorial department -and fifteen dollars a week. Mr. Arundel had once walked through the -quadrangle of Balliol, and he was not disposed to be too severe toward -Lester's nave mannerisms. - -To his amazement and dismay, Lester found his occupation not even -faintly flavoured with literature. He was set to work writing press -notes about authors of whom he had never heard at Oxford and whose books -he soon discovered to be amateurish or worse. He had been nourishing -himself upon the English conception of a publisher's office: a quaint, -dingy rookery somewhere in Clifford's Inn, where gentlemen in spats -and monocles discuss, over cups of tea and platters of anchovy toast, -realism and the latest freak of the Spasmodists. - -The Arundel office was a wilderness of light walnut desks and filing -cases, throbbing with typewriters, adding machines, and hoarse cries -from the shipping room at the rear. Here sat Lester, gloomily writing -blurbs for literary editors, and wondering how long it would be before -he would earn forty dollars a week. He reckoned that was what one ought -to get before incurring matrimony. - -***** - -Like all young men of twenty-three, Lester thought a good deal about -marriage, although he had not yet chosen his quarry. The feeling that -he could marry almost anybody was delicious to him. But this heavenly -eclecticism endures such a short time! For youth abhors generalities and -seeks the concrete instance. Also, much reading of George Moore sets the -mind brooding on these things. Lester used to stroll in Madison Square -at dusk before going back to his room, and his visions were often of a -dark-panelled apartment in the Gramercy Park neighbourhood where an open -fire would be burning and someone sitting in silk stockings to endear -him as he returned from the office. - -His arrival caused something of an upheaval in the placid breasts of the -two old college friends whose sitting room he shared on Madison Avenue. -They were sturdy and steady creatures, more familiar with Edward Earle -Purinton and Orison Swett Marden than with Swinburne and Crackanthorpe -and Mallarm. To his secret annoyance, Lester learned that both Jack -Hulbert and Harry Hanover were earning more than thirty dollars a week, -and he even had an uneasy suspicion that they were saving some of -it. When he spoke about Beardsley or Will Rothenstein or the Grafton -Galleries they were apt to turn the talk upon Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker. -When he showed them his greatest treasure, a plaster life mask of -himself that a sculpturing friend in Chelsea had made, they were frankly -ribald. Jack was in the circulation department of a popular magazine, -and Harry performed some unexplained tasks in the office of a tea -importer. Lester was fond of them both, but it seemed to him a bitter -travesty that these simple-minded Philistines should possess so much -higher earning power than he. So he thought of taking a garret in -Greenwich Village, but in the Madison Avenue house he was sharing a big -sitting room at little expense. So he spread his books about, hung up -his framed letter from Przybyszewski, put his hammered brass tea caddy -on the reading table, and made the best of the situation. - -Even on fifteen dollars a week a young man may have a very amusing time -in New York. For his room and breakfast Lester paid six dollars a -week; for his other meals he used to hunt out the little table-d'hte -restaurants of which there are so many in the crosstown streets between -the Avenue and Broadway. To come in from the snowy street on a winter -evening, sit down to a tureen of Moretti's hot minestrone, open a -new packet of ten-cent cigarettes, and prop up a copy of the _Oblique -Review_ against the cruet stand, seemed to Lester the prismatic fringe -of all that was _je ne sais quoi_ and _ne plus ultra_. The dandruffians -in the little orchestra under the stairs would hammer out some braying -operatic strains, and Lester would lean back in a swirl of acrid tobacco -smoke and survey his surroundings with great content. - -It was while he was conjugating the verb _to live_ in this manner, and -sowing (as someone has said) a notable crop of wild table d'htes, that -he first realized the importance of Pearl Denver. Miss Pearl was -Mr. Arundel's personal stenographer, a young woman remarkable in -her profession by the fact that she never exposed the details of her -camisole to the public gaze; also when the boss dictated she was able to -rescue his subordinate clauses from the airy vacancy in which they hung -suspended, and hook them up into new sentences capable of grammatical -analysis. As a stenog she was distinctly above par, but not above -parsing. - -Lester, of course, had a speaking acquaintance with Miss Denver, but -her existence had never really penetrated the warm aura of egocentric -thoughts that enhaloed him. He knew her simply as one of the contingents -of the office; and the office had proved a great disappointment to him. -Not one of the "firm" (he called them "directors") wore spats; not one -of them had shown the faintest interest in his suggestion that they -publish a volume of Clara Tice's drawings. Lester must be pardoned for -having dismissed Miss Denver, if he had thought of her at all, as not -_generis._ - -***** - -We now proceed more rapidly. Entering the hallway of Moretti's on -Thirty-fifth Street, about half past one cocktail of a winter evening, -he found the cramped vestibule crowded by several persons taking -off their wraps. A copy of the _Oblique Review_, unmistakable in its -garlic-green cover, fell at his feet. Thinking it his own, he picked it -up and was about to pocket it when a red tarn o'shan-ter in front of him -turned round. He saw the bobbed brown hair and gray eyes of Miss Denver. -"Well, Mr. Valiant, what are you doing with my magazine?" - -"Oh--why--I beg your pardon! I thought it was mine! I'm awfully sorry!" -He was keenly embarrassed, and pulled his own copy out of his overcoat -pocket as an evidence of good faith. - -She laughed. "I don't wonder you made the mistake," she said. "Probably -you thought you were the only person in New York reading the Oblique!" - -He felt the alarm that every shy or cautious youth experiences in the -presence of beauty, and, with a mumbled apology, fled hastily to a -little table in a corner. There, pretending to read some preposterous -farrago of free verse, he watched Miss Denver meet another girl who was -evidently waiting for her. The two chattered with such abandon, smoked -so many cigarettes, and seemed so thoroughly at home that Lester envied -them their savoir. Manoeuvring his spaghetti and parmesan, his gaze -passed as direct as the cartoonist's dotted line to the charming contour -of the stenographer's cheek and neck. His equanimity was quite overset. -Never before had he gazed with seeing eye upon the demure creature -sorting out Mr. Arundel's mind into paragraphs. Human nature is what it -is; let Lester's first thought be confessed: "I wonder if she knows what -my salary is?" - -At last, after smoking many cigarettes and skimming over the _Oblique -Review_, Lester felt it was his move. He walked down the room, looking -at his wrist watch with a slight frown as he passed her table. At the -door he saw by the reflection in a mirror that she had not even looked -up. He hurried back to Madison Avenue, pausing to sniff the crystal -frosty air. At the corner of Fifth he stood for a moment, inhaling the -miraculous clearness of the night and pondering on the relative values -of free verse and ordered rhythms as modes of self-expression. - -In spite of a certain bumptiousness among males, Lester was painfully -shy with nubile women, and it was several days before he had opportunity -for further speech with Miss Denver. Moretti's is a fifty-cent table -d'hte, and his regimen was calculated on a forty-cent limit for dinner; -but after this meeting with the _Oblique Review's_ fairest _abonne_ he -haunted the place for some evenings. Then one day, taking in some copy -for a book jacket to be approved by the sales manager, he encountered -Miss Denver in the sample room. During working hours she was "strictly -business," and he admired the trim white blouse, the satin-smooth neck, -and the small, capable hands jotting pothooks in her notebook as she -took a long telephone call. She put down the receiver, and smiled -pleasantly at him. - -"Don't you go to Moretti's any more?" he asked, and then regretted the -brusqueness of the question. - -"Sometimes," she said. "Usually when I buy the _Oblique_ I go to -a Hartford Lunch. I can sit there as long as I want and read, with -doughnuts and coffee." - -Lester had a curious feeling of oscillation somewhere to the left of -his middle waistcoat button. As the little girl said on the Coney Island -switchback, he felt as though he had freckles on his stomach. - -"Will you come to Moretti's with me some night?" he asked. - -"I'd love to," she said. "I must hurry now. Mr. Arundel's waiting for -this phone call." - -A little later in the day, after a good deal of heartburning, Lester -called her up from his desk. "How about to-morrow night?" he said, and -she accepted. - -***** - -Coursing back to his chamber the next evening, Lester was a little -worried about the ceremonial demanded by the occasion. Should he put -on white linen and a dinner jacket, becoming the conquering male of the -upper classes? But the recollection of the _Oblique Review_ suggested -that a touch of nglige would be more appropriate. A clean, soft collar -and a bow tie of lavender silk were his concessions to unconvention. He -was about to scrub out a minute soup stain on the breast of his coat, -but concluded that as a badge of graceful carelessness this might -remain. At a tobacconist's he bought a package of cheap Russian -cigarettes, such as he imagined a Bolshevik might smoke. - -There she came, tripping along the street, with something of the quick, -alcaic motion of an Undersmith on high. He waved gayly. She depressed -her shift key and reversed the ribbon. He double-spaced, and they -entered the restaurant together. - -Lester felt an intellectual tremor as they sat down at a corner table. -Never had his mind seemed so relentlessly clear, so keen to leap upon -the problems of life and tessellate them. It was as though all his past -experience had cumulated and led up to this peak of existence. "Now for -a close analysis of Female Mind," was his secret thought as he settled -in his chair. He felt almost sorry for this gay, defenceless little -shred of humanity who had cast herself under his domineering gaze. A -masculine awareness of size and power filled him. And yet--she seemed -quite unterrified. - -As they began on the antipasto he thought to himself: "I must start very -gently. Women like men to veil their power." So he said: - -"That was funny, my picking up your magazine the other night, wasn't it? -You know I thought it was my copy." - -"Oh, the dear old _Oblique!_ Isn't it a scream? I read myself to sleep -with it every night. We'll have to make the most of it while we can, -because Mr. Arundel says it can't pay its paper bill much longer." - -This irreverence rather startled Lester, who was writing an article "On -the Art of Clara Tice" which he had been hoping the Oblique would -buy. In fact, he was startled quite out of the careful conversational -paradigm he had planned. He found himself getting a little ahead of his -barrage. "Does Mr. Arundel read it?" he asked. "Heavens, no!" cried Miss -Denver, and effervesced with laughter. "He would rather face a firing -squad than read that kind of stuff. But he has an interest in the -concern that supplies their paper." The matter of paper had never -occurred to Lester before. Of course he knew a magazine had to have -something to print on, but he had never thought of the editors of a -radical review being embarrassed by such a paltry consideration. - -"Is Mr. Arundel literary?" he asked. - -Miss Denver found this very whimsical. "Say, are you kidding me?" she -said, with tilted eyebrows. "The chief says literature is the curse of -the publishing business. Every time somebody puts over some highbrow -stuff on him we lose money on it. The only kind of literature that gets -under his ribs is reports from the sales department." - -"That's very Philistine, isn't it?" - -"Sure it is, but it puts the frogs in the pay envelopes, so what of it?" - -"Well, I should expect the head of a big publishing house to be at least -interested in some form of literary expression." - -"You should worry! That's what we hires for. Besides he _has_ a literary -passion, too--Walt Mason. He thinks Walt is the greatest poet in the -world." - -"Walter Mason?" murmured Lester. "I don't think I know his work." - -"Hasn't Walt made Oxford yet?" asked Miss Denver. "He writes the prose -poems in the evening papers, syndicate stuff, you know. Printed to -look like prose, just the opposite of the free-verse gag." She smiled -reminiscently, and quoted: - -_When I am as dry as a fish up a tree, then I to the hydrant repair, -and fill myself up, without ticket or fee, with the water that's eddying -there. I drink all I want--half a gallon or more--and then I lie down on -my couch; when I rise in the morning my head isn't sore and I don't wear -a dark brindle grouch----"_ - -"Is there any free-verse stuff that can cover that?" she asked. - -Lester was somewhat disconcerted. His assessment of Female Mind did not -seem to be proceeding methodically. He played for time. - -"I thought you enjoyed the _Oblique_?" - -"As a joke, yes: I laugh myself giddy over it. But I know darn well that -kind of junk won't last. By and by the ghost'll quit putting up and the -editors will get jobs as ticket choppers. I guess I'm a Philistine!" - -With this deliciously impudent creature beaming at him, Lester felt -himself cursedly at a disadvantage. Neither Harvard nor Balliol had -informed him about this Walter Mason, and though he had seven hundred -quips and anecdotes indexed in a scrapbook marked _Jocoseria_, none -of them seemed to bubble up just now. Darn the girl, her mind wouldn't -stand still long enough for him to take its temperature. It was like -trying to write captions for the movies while the film was running. He -blew a cloud of blue Russian vapour across the board, and smiled at her -in a tolerant, _veni-vidi-Bolsheviki_ kind of way. Behind his forehead -he was fighting desperately to catch up. - -As they wrestled with the spaghetti he remembered that someone had told -him that publishers usually depend on the literary judgment of their -wives. Perhaps that was the case with Mr. Arundel? But Miss Denver -laughed aloud at the suggestion. - -"Wrong again!" she said. "He's not married. Petunia Veal, the author of -'Sveltschmerz,' has been angling for him for years, and lots of other -lady authors, too. He's so sentimental, he's escaped 'em all so far." - -She bubbled and chuckled and gurgled her way through the rest -of Moretti's menu, amazing him more and more by the spontaneity, -sophistication, and charm of her wit. He escorted her home, and then -stood under a lamp-post for three minutes removing the soup stain with -a handkerchief. "She's immense!" he said to himself. "Why she's--she's -a poem by William Butler Yeats!" As an afterthought, he made a mental -memorandum to visit the library and look up the work of Walter Mason. - -A few days later Mr. Arundel sent for Lester, who hurried to the private -office with visions of a raise in salary. The president was sitting at -his desk turning over some papers; he motioned Lester to a chair and -seemed curiously loath to begin conversation. At last he turned, saying: - -"Mr. Valiant, your life at Oxford did a great deal to mitigate your -literary sensibilities?" Lester hardly knew what to say, and murmured -some meaningless syllables. - -"I think that your abilities can be of very great service to us," -continued Mr. Arundel, "and as an evidence of that I am asking the -cashier to raise your salary five dollars a week." - -Lester bowed gently; he was not capable of articulate speech. - -"I want to ask you a rather delicate question," pursued the president, -who seemed as much embarrassed as his visitor. "Do you ever write -poetry?" - -Lester's voice was amazingly hoarse and choky, but in a spasm of -puzzlement and gratification he ejaculated: "Sometimes!" - -"What I really mean," said Mr. Arundel, "is this: do you ever write -verses of a sentimental nature--hum--what might be called endearments?" - -The young man sat speechless in surprise and embarrassment. As a matter -of fact, he had been trolling some amatory staves in secret, in honour -of Miss Denver; and he imagined they had come in some way under his -employer's eye. - -"Please do not be alarmed," said Mr. Arundel, seeing his discomfiture. -"This is purely a matter of business. As it happens, I have a need for -some poems of an intimately sentimental character, and, being totally -unfitted to produce them myself, I wondered if you would sell me some? I -would be glad to pay market rates for them." - -Still Lester could do no more than bow. - -"I shall have to be frank," said Mr. Arundel, "and I must beg you to -keep this matter absolutely confidential. I have your word of honour in -that regard?" - -"Absolutely," said Lester, quite vanquished by amazement. - -The president's sense of humour seemed to have mastered his diffidence. -A quaint smile lurked behind the furrows that years of royalties had -carved on his face. - -"I want to do some wooing in rhyme; and I want you to turn out some -verses for me of a superlatively lyric sort, it being understood that I -purchase all rights in these poems, including that of authorship. Would -you be willing to do me half a dozen, at say ten dollars each?" - -Lester, although staggered by the proposal, was still able to multiply -six by ten, and his answer was affirmative and speedy. - -"I do not wish to give you any specifications as to the object of your -vicarious amour," said the president. "It is a lady, of course; young -and fair. How soon can you despoil the English language of half a dozen -songs of passion worthy of the best Oxford traditions?" - -Jack and Harry found Lester good company that evening. When they got -back to the sitting room on Madison Avenue he was lying on a couch, -nursing a large calabash and contemplating the ceiling with dreamy brow. -As they entered, stripping off their overcoats and chucking the night -extras across the room at him, he smiled the rich, tolerant smile of -Alexander at the Macedon polo grounds. - -"Well, Lester," said Jack, "why the Cheshire-cat grin?" - -"I've sold sixty dollars' worth of verse," said Lester, benignly; "also -I've had a raise." - -"My God!" said Harry. "Think how many starving cubists you could endow -on that! There'll be a riot in Greenwich Village." - -"Pity the poor bartenders on a night like this!" cried Jack. Then they -went to Browne's chop-house for dinner. After a three-finger steak and -several beakers of dog's nose, Lester was readily persuaded to enounce -the first number of his sonnet sequence, which had accreted or (as its -author expressed it) nucleolated, while he was walking home from the -office. - -"Sonnet, in the Petrarchan mode, item No. 1," he proclaimed: - - - Upon a trellis, bending toward the south, - - I set my heart, a yearning rose, to climb; - - It pullulates and blooms in sultry rhyme, - - It spires and speeds aloft, in spite of drouth. - - And seeking for that sweeter rose, your mouth, - - That beckons from some balcony sublime, - - It heeds no whit the tick-tack-tock of Time - - And with its sweetness all the night endow'th. - - - O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn! - - O velvet petals unsmutched of the mire! - - For this my life was manifestly born, - - To climb toward thy lips, and never tire! - - Now ope thy shutter in the flood of mom-- - - Lean out, and smile, and pluck thy heart's desire. - - -"Seems strange," said Harry, "that a man can buy a good meal with a -thing like that!" - -"What is a petrarch, anyway?" said Jack. "Gee, you'll have to brush your -hair to keep it out of your eyebrows," said Harry. "Herod was petrarch -of Galilee, don't you remember? It's a kind of comptroller or efficiency -expert." - -"Nonsense," said Harry. "Herod was patriarch of Galilee, not petrarch." - -At this moment Lester was busy multiplying twenty by fifty-two, and -adding sixty, and he did not attempt to put Laura's friend right in the -eyes of his companions. - -***** - -The next morning, at the office, Lester took occasion to stroll over to -the corner where Miss Denver was tickling the keys. Her delicious, able -fingers flashed like the boreal aurora; the incomparable smoothness of -her neck and throat fascinated him; her clear, blue-washed gray eyes -startled him with their merry archness. Wambling inwardly, he met her -gaze as coolly as he might. - -"Come to Moretti's to-night?" he asked. - -"I'm sorry; I've got a date to-night." - -He ached in spirit. "To-morrow night?" - -She hesitated a moment, tapping the desk with a rosy finger nail. Then -her face brightened. "I'd love to." - -As he returned to his desk and the dull routine of writing press notes -for Petunia Veal's latest novel, he uttered a phrase that he had caught -from Harry Hanover. It was the first sign of his emancipation from -Mallarm and the Oxford Movement, for certainly that phrase had never -been heard on the quilted lawns of Balliol: "She's a prize package, all -right, all right!" - -Ten days elapsed. All six sonnets had been delivered and paid for, and -Mr. Arundel had bargained for a few extra rondeaux, at five dollars -each. - -Antipasto, minestrone, breadsticks, force-meat balls, and here we are -again at the spaghetti and Hackensack Chianti. Lester had mailed his -MS. on "Clara Tice and the Pleinaerists of Greenwich Village" to the -_Oblique Review_ that afternoon, and had calculated that the editors -could not in any decency offer him less than fifty--or perhaps -forty--dollars for it. This, added to 20 by 52 plus 60 plus the rondeaux -and other probable increments, would certainly support two in a garret -for some time. He also had hopes of selling some obscenarios for the -movies. Pearl would probably want to go on with her work, for a while at -any rate. She was so independent! But those clear eyes of hers, like -a March sky with teasings of April in it, how tender and laughing they -were! A few nights ago they had taken a long bus ride together, and she -had forgotten her muff. She let him warm her hands instead. He went -home that night feeling strong enough to bite lamp-posts in two, and had -waked up Jack and Harry to put them right about Petrarch. - -Pearl was teaching Lester to twirl up his spaghetti with fork and spoon, -instead of draping it out of his mouth like Spanish moss. Suddenly she -laughed. - -"What did I tell you!" she said. "The dear old _Oblique_ has gone -blooie! Mr. Arundel called up the editor to-day and told him the -Barmecide Company won't supply him with any more paper until he pays his -bills. Of course that means he'll have to quit." - -Lester was touched in two vital spots: his own private hopes, and his -zeal for fly-specked literature. "Shades of Frank Harris!" he cried. -"If that isn't just like Arundel! Why, that man is pure and simple -_bourgeois!_ I never heard of such a thing. Has he no feeling at all for -art?" Pearl laughed--the pure, musical laugh of careless girlishness, -but the recording angel caught in the nimble chords a faint overtone of -something else--like the tinkle of ice in a misty tumbler. "Oh, he -has his own ideas about art," she said. "He's taken to writing poetry -himself. You never heard such stuff--I've been meaning to tell you. What -does 'pullulate' mean?" - -Lester's valiant heart, Lester's manly hands that had acted as a muff -on a Riverside Drive bus, trembled and stiffened. "_It 'pullulates and -blooms in sultry rhyme_," she quoted gayly. "Now what do you make -of that, as referring to Mr. Arundel's heart? Sultry is right, too!" -Lion-hearted Harvard, oak-bosomed Balliol, and all the mature essences -of manhood were needed to keep Lester calm. How had she seen these -secret strains? She must have been peeping into the chief's private -correspondence. He hesitated during six inches of spaghetti. "Search -me!" he said. "Is it in Walter Mason?" - -"No, it's his own stuff, I tell you. _O beauteous rose! O shrub without -a thorn!_" she chanted, and her laughter popped like a champagne cork. -The horrid truth burst upon him. The boss was courting the angel of the -office with the very ammunition that Lester himself had furnished, and -his vow of secrecy forbade him to disclose the truth. Oh, the paltry -meanness of fate, the villainy of circumstance! It is impossible to -describe the pangs it cost him to dissemble, cloak, disguise, and -conceal the anguish he felt. But dissemble, cloak, disguise, and conceal -he did, and though his heart glowed like an angry cigar stub, he reached -home at last. - -There he sat down at his table, and amid the healthy snores of his -roommates he concocted a fine piece of literary ordnance. Late and -grimly he toiled and contrived. At length he had fashioned a sonnet -which would be the golden sum and substance of the previous sequence; -a cry of the heart so splendidly forensic that Mr. Arundel would pounce -upon it, yielding his crisp steel engraving in return. But see, the -asp concealed in the basket of fruit, the adder in the woodpile! Read -Lester's sonnet as an acrostic: - - - Over that trellis where the moon distills - - My heart is climbing like a rambler rose: - - You lean and listen to the whippoorwills, - - Heedless of how the fragrant blossom grows! - - O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn! - - When wilt thou realize my love in sooth? - - I touch the windowsill with heart forlorn, - - Hoping the guerdon of thy bounteous youth. - - After the grief and teen of bitter days, - - Troubled by woes that cicatrize and burn, - - Ever at eventide I seek thy praise, - - Yearning thy maiden bliss--I yearn, I yearn! - - Over the rotten fruit of buried years - - Unbar the bolt--have pity on my tears! - - -The discerning reader will spot the glittering falchion of malice -lurking in the initial letters. Read them downward, they convey: _o my -how I hate you!_ Lester had but to convey this poisoned comfit to his -chief: then, playing upon the artless Pearl, persuade her to show it to -him--point out the murderous duplicity of the love token; and she would -recoil into his arms. Greenwich Village would sound the timbrel of joy, -and even the _Oblique_ might find a softer-hearted papyrus vendor. -_Vos plaudite!_ With such thoughts, amid the wailing matin song of -boarding-house steam pipes, our hero fell into a brief slumber. - -That morning Lester hastened to the office. He waited feverishly until -the hour when the chief usually arrived, then visited the private -office. There he found the vice-president going over the morning mail. -"Is--is Mr. Arundel in?" he stammered. - -"Mr. Arundel isn't here to-day," said the vicepresident. "He will be -away two weeks." - -Lester retired queasily, and hurried to the corner sacred to Miss -Denver. Here he found one of the other stenographers using Pearl's -machine. - -"Where's Miss Denver?" he asked. - -The young lady, of humorous turn, looked at her wrist watch. "Getting -ready to go over the top," she said. - -"What do you mean?" - -"Haven't you heard? She marries the boss this morning." - - - - - -ADVICE TO TO LOVELORN - - -I - -MISS ANN AUSTIN came briskly into her little cupboard of a room at -the back of the _Evening Planet_ office. She hung up her hat and coat, -opened her rolltop desk, put her small handbag carefully in a drawer, -and looked at herself in a greenish mirror that hung secretly on a hook -in the recess under the pigeonholes. She took the rubber hood off her -typewriter, poured three paper cupfuls of drinking water on the potted -geranium on the windowledge, wound up the cheap clock on top of the -desk, and moved it forward ten minutes to compensate for what it had -lost during the night. Now she was ready for work. As she wound up the -clock, the usual thought occurred to her--when would she be able to buy -herself the handsome little wrist watch she coveted? There were a lot -of them in the jeweller's shop on Park Row, and she admired them every -morning on her way to the office. But when one is supporting one's self -and an invalid mother in an uptown apartment, and has to pay for a woman -to come in during the day to lend a hand, all on fifty dollars a week, -in an era of post-bellum prices, wrist watches have to wait. However, -as Ann made the daily correction in her laggard clock she used to say to -herself: "There's a better time coming." She was not devoid of humour, -you see. - -Then the office boy would bring in the big pile of morning mail, -grinning as he laid it on the pullout slide of her desk. He may be -excused for grinning, because Ann was the kind of creature who would -bring a smile to the surliest face. She was just a nice size, with a -face that was both charming and sensible, and merry brown eyes (when -it wasn't too close to the first of the month). Also, that pile of mail -_was_ rather amusing. Those letters, so many of them written on cheap -pink or blue stationery and addressed in unsophisticated handwriting, -were not directed to Miss Ann Austin, but to "Cynthia," and the office -boy knew pretty well the kind of messages that were in them. For Ann, -under the pseudonym of "Cynthia," conducted the _Planet's_ department of -Advice to the Lovelorn, and daily several score of puzzled or distracted -beings bared their hearts to her. The pile of letters was growing -bigger, too. The _Planet_, which was not a very flourishing paper just -at that time, had started the Advice to the Lovelorn department a few -months before, and had put Ann in charge of it because she had done so -well writing sob stories. It was beginning to "pull" quite surprisingly -as a circulation feature, especially since her smiling little picture, -vignetted in a cut with a border of tiny hearts, had been put at -the head of the column. Under the cut was the legend: "Cynthia, a -Sympathetic Adviser in Matters of the Heart." Ann didn't know whether to -be pleased or not at the growing popularity of her feature. This was not -quite the kind of thing she had hoped for when she entered the newspaper -world. But--the more letters there were from the lovelorn, the sooner -she might get that needed raise. - -With a little sigh she got out her penknife, began slitting the -envelopes, ceased to be Ann Austin and became Cynthia, the sage and -gentle arbiter over her troubled parliament of love. - -It was a task that required no small discretion and tact, because -Cynthia, whatever her private misgivings, tried to perform it with some -honest idealism. In the first place, the letters that were obviously -merely humorous, or were amorous attempts to inveigle her into private -correspondence, were discarded. Then the letters to be used in the next -day's column had to be selected, and laid aside to be printed with her -comment on the ethical or sociological problems involved. The remaining -letters had all to be answered, and data noted down that would be useful -in compiling the pamphlet "1001 Problems of Courtship" that the managing -editor insisted on her preparing. He said it would be great circulation -dope. Ann didn't care much for the managing editor, Mr. Sikes. He had a -way of coming into her room, closing the door behind him, leaning over -her desk, and saying: "Well, how's little Miss Cupid?" If it hadn't been -for that habit of his, Ann would have spoken to him about a raise before -now. But she had an uneasy feeling that it would not be pleasing to put -herself in the position of asking him favours. She would have been still -more disturbed if she had known that some of the boys in the city room -used to talk about "Cupid and Sikey" when they saw him visit her room. -They said it angrily, because Ann was a general office favourite. Even -the coloured elevator man had brought his wooing problems to her one -day, wanting to be reassured as to his technique. - -It is all very well for you to scoff, superior reader, but letters -such as Ann had to read every morning bring an honest pang to an -understanding heart; particularly when that heart is in collaboration -with twenty-two years of bright, brown-eyed, high-spirited girlhood. -Perhaps you don't realize how many of us are young and ignorant and at -work in offices, and absorbed, out of working hours, in the universal -passion. A good many make shift to be cynical and worldly-wise in -public, but who knows how ravishingly sentimental we are in private? -Some say that Doctor Freud didn't tell the half of it. As that waggish -poet Keith Preston has remarked, - - Love, lay thy phobias to rest, - - Inhibit thy taboo! - - We twain shall share, forever blest, - - A complex built for two! - -A complex built for two was the ambition of most of Ann's -correspondents; but mainly her letters exhibited the seamy side of -Love's purple mantle. You see, when lovers are perfectly happy, they -don't write to the papers about it. And when she pondered gravely -over "Brokenhearted's" letter saying that she has just learned that a -perfectly splendid fellow she is so infatuated with has a wife and three -children in Detroit; or over "Puzzled's" inquiry as to whether she is -"a bum sport" because she wouldn't let the dark young man kiss her -good-night, she sometimes said to herself that Napoleon was right. -Napoleon, you remember, remarked that Love causes more unhappiness than -anything else in the world. And then she would turn to her typewriter, -and put under "Puzzled's" inquiry: - -_No, "Puzzled," do not let him kiss you unless you are betrothed. If any -one is a "bum sport" it is he for wanting to do so. If he "always kisses -the girls good-night when he has had a good time," he is not your sort. -A man that does not respect a girl before marriage will certainly not -respect her afterward._ - -After she had typed these replies she always hastily took the paper out -of her typewriter and tucked it away in her desk. She did not like the -idea of Mr. Sikes coming in and reading it over her shoulder, as he had -done once. That was the time she had used the quotation "Pains of Love -are sweeter far than all other pleasures are" in answering "Desolate." -The managing editor had repeated the verse in a way that both angered -and alarmed her. - -This particular morning, among the other letters was one that interested -her both by the straightforward simplicity of its statement and by the -clear, vigorous handwriting on sensible plain notepaper. It ran thus: - -_Dear Cynthia:_ - -_I am a young business man, very much in love, and I need your help. I -have fallen in love with a girl who does not know me. I do not even know -her name but I know her by sight, and I know where she works. She looks -like the only one for me, but I don't want to do anything disrespectful. -Would it be a mistake for me to call at her office and try to get a -chance to meet her? Do you think she would be offended? She looks very -adorable. Please tell me honestly what you think._ - -_Respectfully yours,_ - -_Sincerity._ - -Wearied by the maunderings of many idiotic flappers and baby vamps, this -appeal attracted her. She put it into the column for the following day, -writing underneath it: - -_You never can tell, "Sincerity"! It all depends upon you. If you are -the right kind of man, she ought not to be offended. Why not take a -chance? Faint heart never won fair lady._ - -It was trying enough, Ann used to think, to have to pore over the -troubles of her lovelorn clients on paper; but the worst times were when -they came to call on her at the office. Fortunately this did not happen -very often, for the stricken maidens and young Lochinvars who make up -the chief support of such columns as hers are safely and busily shut up -among typewriters and filing cases during the daytime; their wounds do -not begin to burn intolerably until about five-thirty p.m. But now and -then some forlorn and baffled creature would find his or her way to -"Cynthia" and ask her advice. She would listen sympathetically, apply -such homely febrifuge as her inexperienced but wise heart suggested to -her, and after the patient had gone she would add the case to her list -of 1001 Problems. The material for the pamphlet was growing rapidly. - -One morning, while the managing editor was in her room asking her how -soon the booklet would be ready, the office boy brought in a card -neatly engraved _Mr. Arthur Caldwell_. Now as a rule Cynthia did not see -masculine visitors, because (after one or two trying experiences) she -had found that they were inclined to transfer to her the heart that -someone else had bruised. But in this case she welcomed the caller -because Mr. Sikes was being annoyingly facetious. He had looked over her -laboriously gathered data for the 1001 Problems, and had said: "Well, -you're getting to be quite an experienced little girl in these matters, -hey?" He had seemed disposed to linger on the topic with pleasure. -Therefore Cynthia told the office boy to send Mr. Caldwell in, though -the name meant nothing to her. Mr. Sikes went out, and the caller was -introduced. - -Mr. Caldwell proved to be a young man, quite as nice-looking as the -collar-advertising young men without being so desperately handsome. -Cynthia liked him from the first glance. There was something that seemed -very genuine about his soft collar and his candid, clean-shaven face and -the little brown brief-case he carried. He had on brown woollen socks, -too, she noticed, in one of those quick feminine observations. He seemed -very embarrassed, and his face suddenly went ruby red. - -"Is this Cynthia?" he said. - -"Yes," said Ann, pushing aside a mass of lovelorn correspondence, and -wondering what the trouble could be. - -"My name's Caldwell," he said. "Look here, I suppose you'll think me an -awful idiot, but I wanted to ask your advice. I--I wrote you a letter -the other day, and your answer in the column made me think that perhaps -you wouldn't mind giving me some help. I wrote that letter signed -'Sincerity'." - -He was obviously ill at ease, and Ann tried to help him out. - -"I remember the letter perfectly," she said. "Did you take my advice?" - -"Well, I'm a bit uncertain about it," he said. - -"I just wanted to explain to you a little more fully, and see what -you think. You see I happened to see this girl one day, going into her -office. I suppose the idea about love at first sight is all exploded, -but I had a hunch as soon as I saw her that----Oh, well, that I would -like to know her. I've seen her going in and out of the building, but -she has never seen me, never even heard of me. I don't know any one who -can introduce me to her, and I can't just walk up to her and tell her -I'm crazy about her. They don't do that except in Shakespeare. I don't -know much about girls and I thought maybe you could suggest some way in -which I could meet her without frightening her." - -Ann pondered. She liked the young man's way of putting his problem, and -it was plain from his genuine embarrassment that he was sincere. - -"I'd love to help you, if I could," she said. "It seems to me that the -only way to go about it is to arrange some business with the firm she -works for, and try to meet her that way. Couldn't that be done?" - -"She's secretary to one of the big bugs in the Telephone Company," he -said. "I'm in the publishing business. I don't see any way in which I -could fake up a business connection there. The worst of it is, there may -be a dozen fellows in love with her already, for all I know. I suppose I -might get a job with the Telephone Company, but by the time I had worked -up far enough to have an excuse for going into the vice-president's -office where she works, someone else might have married her." He -laughed, a boyish, ingratiating chuckle. - -"It does seem pretty hard," said Ann. "I don't know what to say." She -had a mental picture of the unknown fair one, going in and out of the -big Telephone Company's building on Dey Street, unaware of the admiring -glances of this bashful admirer. "I'll bet the men she knows aren't half -as nice as he is," she said to herself. - -"I happen to know that she reads your column," said Caldwell. "I suppose -there isn't any way I could get in touch with her through that?" - -"If there's any legitimate way I can help," Ann said, "I'll be glad to. -But I hardly see what I can do." - -"Well, thanks awfully," he said. "If I get a chance to meet her, will -you let me come in again and tell you about it? Perhaps you would let -me mention your name as a reference, in regard to my respectability I -mean?" - -"Surely you can give her better references than that? You see, I don't -know so very much about you, Mr. Caldwell." - -"In matters like this," he said, "I guess you're the Big Authority. And -by the way, do you ever do any book reviewing? I work for Fawcett and -Company, the publishers, and we'd like immensely to have your comment on -some of our love stories. Can I send you some books?" - -"I can't promise to review them," said Ann, rather pleased, because this -seemed to her a way to earn a little extra money. "But I'll speak to the -literary editor, and we'll see." - -"Suppose I send them to your home address," said Caldwell. "I know what -a newspaper office is, if I send them here someone else might snitch -them. Give me your street number, and you'll be spared the trouble of -taking them home to read." - -"That's very kind of you," said Ann. "Miss Ann Austin, 527 West 150th -Street. Well, you let me know what happens about your fair lady. I wish -you all sorts of luck!" - -When Arthur Caldwell got outside the office, he looked down Park Row to -where the great Telephone Building rose up behind the brown silhouette -of St. Paul's. - -"Caldwell," he said to himself, "you're an infernal liar! But it pays! -I'll figure out some way. While there's life there's dope." - -He set out for the subway, but paused again to meditate. - -"Ann Austin!" he said. "By George, she's a queen." - - - -II - -It is not the purpose of this tale to tell in detail how Arthur -Caldwell laid siege to Ann Austin. He was a cautious man, and for -some time he contented himself by presenting occasional reports of his -progress with the damsel of the Telephone Company. Ann, in her friendly -and unselfish way, was delighted to hear, a few days later, that he had -met his ideal. Then, averring that he needed further counsel, Arthur -persuaded her to have lunch with him one day; and Ann, convinced that -the young man was in love with someone else, saw no reason why this -should not be done. Perhaps it was a little odd that at their various -meetings they should have talked so much of themselves, their ambitions, -the books they had been reading, and so on; and so little of the -Telephone lady. But surely it was strictly a matter of business that -Arthur should send Miss Austin some of Fawcett's novels, for her to -review in the _Planet_; and equally a professional matter that he should -discuss with her her opinion of them. And then came the day when Arthur -called up to say that things were going so well with the Telephone -lady that he wanted Cynthia to meet her; and would she join them in St. -Paul's Churchyard at half-past twelve? Ann, with just a curious little -unanalyzed twinge in her heart, agreed to do so. - -But when she reached the bench in the graveyard, where a bright autumn -sunshine filled the clearing among those tremendous buildings, Arthur -was there alone. - -"Where's Alice?" said Ann, innocently--for such was the name Arthur had -always given the lady of the Telephone Company. - -"She couldn't come," he said. "But I want to show you her picture." - -They sat down on the bench, and he took out of his pocket a copy of -the noon edition of the _Planet_. He turned to the feature page, and -displayed the little cut of Cynthia at the head of the Lovelorn column. - -"There," he said, stoutly (though his heart was tremulous within him), -"there, you adorable little thing, there she is." - -It would be pleasant to linger over this scene, but, as I have just -said, this is not our _denouement,_ but only an incident. Ann, shot -through with delicious pangs of doubt and glory and anger, asked for -explanations. - -"And do you mean to say there never was any Alice, the beautiful -Telephone blonde?" she said. "What a fraud you are!" - -"Of course not," he said. "You dear, delightful innocent, I just had -to cook up some excuse for coming up to see you. And you can't be angry -with me now, Ann, because in your own answer to Sincerity's letter you -said the girl ought not to be offended. You told me to take a chance! -Just think what self-control I had, that first time I came up to see -you, not to blurt out the truth." And then he tore off a scrap of margin -from the newspaper and measured her finger for a ring. - - -III - -There were happy evenings that winter, when Ann, after finishing her -stint at the office, would hasten up their rendezvous at Piazza's little -Italian table d'hote. Here, over the minestrone soup and the spaghetti -and that strong Italian coffee that seems to have a greenish light round -the edges of the liquid (and an equally greenish taste), they would -discuss their plans and platitudes, just as lovers always have and -always will. As for Ann, the light of a mystical benevolence shone in -her as she conned her daily pile of broken hearts in the morning mail. -More than ever she felt that she, who had seen the true flame upon the -high altar, had a duty to all perplexed and random followers of the -gleam who had gone astray in their search. Aware more keenly that the -troubled appeals of "Tearful" and "Little Pal," however absurd, were -the pains of genuine heartache, she became more and more tender in her -comments, and her correspondence grew apace. Now that she knew that her -job need not go on forever she tried honestly to run the column with all -her might. How stern she was with the flirt and the vamp and the jilt; -how sympathetic with the wounded on Love's great battle-field. "Great -stuff, great stuff!" Mr. Sikes would cry, in his coarse way, and -complimented her on the increasing "kick" of her department. Knowing -that he attributed the accelerated pulse of the Lovelorn column to mere -cynicism on her part, she did not dare wear her ring in the office for -fear of being joked about it. She used to think sadly that because she -had made sympathy with lovers a matter of trade, she herself, now -she was in love, could hope for no understanding. Although she hardly -admitted it, she longed for the day when she could drop the whole thing. - -One evening Arthur met her at Piazza's, radiant. He was going off on a -long business trip for his publishing house, and they had promised him a -substantial raise when he returned. They sat down to dinner together in -the highest spirits. Arthur, in particular, was in a triumphant mood: -the publishing world, it seemed, lay under his feet. - -"Great news, hey?" he said. "We'll be able to get married in the spring, -and you can kick out of that miserable job." - -"But, Arthur," she said, "you know I have to take care of Mother. Don't -you think it would be wiser if I went on with the work for a while, -until your next raise comes? It would help a good deal, and we'd be able -to put a little away for a rainy day." - -"What?" he said. "Do you think I'm going to have my wife doing that -lovelorn stuff in the paper every day? It'd make me a laughing stock if -it ever got out. No, _sir!_ I haven't said much about it, because I knew -it couldn't be helped; but believe me, honey, that isn't the right kind -of job for you. I've often wondered you didn't feel that yourself." - -Ann was a little nettled that he should put it that way. Whatever her -private distaste for the Lovelorn column, it had served her well in a -difficult time, and had paid the doctor's bills at home. And she knew -how much honest devotion she had put into the task of trying to give -helpful counsel. - -"At any rate," she said, "it was through the column that we first met." - -What evil divinity sat upon Arthur's tongue that he could not see this -was the moment for a word of tenderness? But a young man flushed with -his first vision of business success, the feeling that now nothing can -prevent him from "making good," is likely to be obtuse to the finer -shades of intercourse. - -"Of course, dear, I could see you were different from the usual sob -sister of the press," he said. "I could see you didn't really fall for -that stuff. It's because I love you so, I want to get you out of that -cheap, degrading sensational work. Most of those letters you get are -only fakes, anyway. I think Love ought to be sacred, not used as mere -circulation bait for a newspaper." - -Ann was a high-spirited girl, and this blunt criticism touched her in -that vivid, quivering region of the mind where no woman stops to reason. -But she made an honest attempt to be patient. - -"But, Arthur," she said; "there's nothing really cheap and degraded in -trying to help others who haven't had the same advantages we have. I -know a lot of the letters I print are silly and absurd, but not more so -than some of the books you publish." - -"Now, listen," he said, loftily, "we won't quarrel about this. I don't -want you to go on with the job, that's all. It isn't fair to you. You -may take the work seriously, and put all sorts of idealism into it, but -it's not the right kind of job for a refined girl. How about the men in -the office? I'll bet I know what _they_ think of it. They probably think -it's a devil of a good joke, and laugh about it among themselves. Don't -you think I've seen that managing editor leering at you? That sort of -thing cheapens a girl among decent men. Every Lovelace in town feels he -has a right to send you mash-notes, I guess." - -Ann was furious. - -"Well, you're the only one I ever paid any attention to," she said, -blazing at him. "I'm sorry you think I've cheapened myself. I guess I -have, by letting you interfere with my affairs." - -She slipped the ring from her finger, and thrust it at him. Arthur saw, -too late, what he had done. She listened in scornful silence to his -miserable attempts to console her, which were doubly handicapped by the -old waiter hovering near. She was still adamant while he took her up -town. The only thing she said was when she reached the door of her -apartment. - -"I don't want you to cheapen yourself. You needn't come any more." - -By this time Arthur also was thoroughly angry. The next morning he went -away on his business trip, realizing for the first time that he who has -the pass key to a human heart treads among dangerous explosives. - - -IV - -How different the little room in the Planet office looked to Ann -when she returned, with a sick heart, to her work the next morning. -Everything was just the same--the geranium on its windowledge, that -seemed to survive both the eddying hot air from the steampipes beneath -it and the daily douche of iced drinking water; the noisily ticking -inaccurate little clock; the dusty typewriter. All were the same, and -there was the pile of morning letters from Love's battered henchmen. -To office boy and casual reporter Ann herself seemed the usual cheerful -charmer with her crisp little white collar and dark, alluring hair. -Her swift, capable hands sped over the pile of letters, slitting the -envelopes and sorting the outcries into some classification of her own. -Outwardly nothing had altered, but everything seemed to have lost its -meaning. What a desolate emptiness gaped beneath the firm routine of her -daily life. She was struck by the irony of the fact that the only one -in the office who seemed to notice that something was amiss was the -one person whom she disliked--Mr. Sikes. He came in about something or -other, and then stayed, looking at her intently. - -"You look sick," he said. "What's the matter, is the love feast getting -on your nerves?" - -With a queer twitching at the corners of her mouth, she forced herself -to say some trifling remark. He leaned over her and put his hand on -hers. She caught the strong cigarry whiff of his clothes, which sickened -her. - -"Too much love in the abstract," he said, insinuatingly. "What you need -is a little love in the concrete." - -If he--or any one--had spoken tenderly to her, she would have burst into -tears. But the boorishness of his words was just the tonic she needed. -She looked at him with flashing eyes, and was about to say: "Keep to -some topic you understand." Then she dared not say it, for now she could -not run the risk of losing her job. She faced him steadily, in angry -silence. He left the room, and the little green-tarnished mirror under -the pigeonholes saw tears for the first time. - -The irony of her position moved her cruelly when she began her task of -dealing with the correspondents. Here she was, giving helpful, cheery -advice, posing as all-wise in these matters, when her own love affair -had come so miserably to grief. In the ill-written scrawls on scented -and scalloped paper she could hear an echo of her own suffering. -"Hopeless" and "Uncertain" and "Miss Eighteen" got very tender -replies that day. And how she laid the lash upon "Beau Brummel" and -"Disillusioned," those self-assured young men, who had chosen that mail -to contribute their views on the flirtatious and unreliable qualities of -modern girls. - -The bitterness of her paradoxical task became dulled as the days went -on, but there were other troubles, too, to bother her. Her mother, -quick and querulous to detect unhappiness, fell into one of her nervous -spells, and the doctor had to be called in again. The woman-by-the-day -got blood-poisoning in her arm, and could not come. The landlord gave -notice of a coming raise in rent. A fat letter came from Arthur, and in -a flush of passion she destroyed it unread. If it hadn't been such a fat -letter, she said to herself, it wouldn't have annoyed her so to see it. -But she wasn't going to wade through pages of explanation of just what -he had meant. She was still cut to the quick when she remembered the -cavalier and easy way in which he had scoffed at her work. And then, as -time went by, she found herself moving into a new mood--no longer one of -exaggerated tenderness toward her clients, but a feeling almost cynical. -"They're all fools, just as I am," she said. - -One morning she found on her desk a note from the managing editor: - -_Dear Miss Cupid:_ - -_We've made some changes in our budget, and I've been authorized to -fatten your envelope $15 a week. I'm glad to do this, because the -Lovelorn stuff is going big. Just keep kidding them along and everything -will be fine. Maybe some day we can syndicate it. Hope this will cheer -you up, don't look so blue at your friends._ - -_Sikes._ - -There had been a time when the tone and phrasing of this note might -have seemed offensive, but in the numbness of despondency Ann had felt -lately, it was a fine burst of rosy warmth. Thank God, she said to -herself, something has broken my way at last! She wondered if she had -been mistaken in Sikes, after all? Perhaps he was really a friend of -hers, and she had misunderstood his odd ways. - -That day at noon she went down to the cashier's department to cash -a small check. There was no one in the cage, but in the adjoining -compartment, behind a wall of filing cases, she could hear two girls -talking. One of them said: - -"I see Sikes has put through a raise for Lovelorn. Pretty soft for her, -hey?" - -"She'll have to give value received, I guess," said the other. "Sikes -figures if he puts that over for her, she'll fall for him. She's been -stalling him for quite a while, but I suppose he's got her fixed now." - -She fled, aghast, ran down to another floor so as not to be seen, and -took the elevator. Out on the street she walked mechanically along Park -Row and found herself opposite St. Paul's. She wandered in and sat down -on a bench. It was a chilly day, and the churchyard was nearly empty. - -So this was Sikes's friendliness; and she, utterly innocent even in -thought, was already the subject of vulgar office gossip. For the first -time there broke in upon her, with bitter force, the knowledge that no -matter how easy it may be to counsel others, few of us are wise in our -own affairs. - -Pitiable paradox: she, the "sympathetic adviser in matters of the -heart," had made shipwreck of her own happiness. How right Arthur had -been, and how childish and mad she, to reject his just instinct. It was -true: she had made use of Love for mere newspaper circulation; and now -Love had died between her hands. Well, this was the end. No matter what -happened, she could not go on with the job. Cold and trembling with -nervousness, she returned to her desk, to finish her column for the next -day. - -On her typewriter lay some letters, which had come in while she was out. -She opened one, and read. - -_Dear Cynthia:_ - -_I am in great trouble, please help me. I am in love with a fellow -and know he is all right and we would be very happy together. We were -engaged to be married, and everything was lovely. But he objected to the -work I was doing, said it was not a good job for a girl and that I ought -to give it up. I knew he was right, but the way he said it made me mad. -I guess I am hot-tempered and stubborn--anyway, I told him to mind his -own business, and he went away. Now I am heart-broken, because I love -him and I know he loves me. Tell me what to do._ - -_Jessie._ - -Ann sat looking at the cheap blue paper with the initial J gaudily -embossed upon it in gilt. In the sprawling lines of unlettered -handwriting she saw an exact parallel to her own unhappy rupture with -Arthur. How much more clearly we can see the answer in others' tangles -than in our own! Jessie, with her pathetic pretentious gilt initial, -knew that she had been in the wrong, and was brave enough to want to -make amends. And she--had she not been less true to Love than Jessie? -Her false pride and obstinacy had brought their own punishment. Seeing -the situation through Jessie's eyes, she could read her duty plain. -Arthur, no doubt, was through with her forever, but she must play the -game no less. - -She put Jessie's letter at the head of the Lovelorn column for the next -day. Under it she wrote: - -_Certainly, dear Jessie, if you feel you were in the wrong, you ought -to take the first step toward making up. Probably he was tactless in -criticizing you, but I am sure he only did it because he had your true -interest at heart. So write him a nice letter and be happy together. -Your friend Cynthia hopes it will all come out all right, because she -has seen other cases like this where false pride caused great suffering. -If he is the right man, he will love you all the more after he gets your -letter._ - -Ann sent up her copy to the composing room, and then going to a -telephone booth she called up Fawcett and Company and asked for Mr. -Caldwell. - -"Mr. Caldwell's not here any longer," said the girl. - -"Serves me right," said Ann to herself. "Can you tell me where I can -find him?" she asked, wondering how it was that one so miserable could -still speak in such a pleasant and apparently unconcerned tone of voice. - -The Fawcett operator switched her to another wire. - -"I'm sorry," said a stenographer, "Mr. Fawcett left here about two weeks -ago. He's got a job out of town--in Boston, I think. I can find out for -you in the morning if you'll call again." - -"Never mind," said Ann. - -She had a horror of facing Mr. Sikes in her present wretchedness, so -before she went home she wrote him a note, resigning her job, and asking -permission to leave as soon as possible. - -The next day she had to nerve herself to face his protests, and the -friendly remarks of all the staff when the news spread. It was a hideous -ordeal, but she managed to get through it smiling. But by evening -she was inwardly a wreck. In her present mood, she had an instinctive -longing to revisit the shabby little restaurant where she and -Arthur had spent so many happy hours. She knew it would give her pain; -but she felt that pain was what she needed--sharp, clean, insistent -pain to ease the oppression and disgust of what she had been through. -Remorse, she felt, is surgical in action: it cuts away foul tissues -of the mind. She could not, without preparatory discipline, face her -mother's outcry at hearing she had given up her job. - - -V - -In the crisp blue evening air the bright front of Piazza's caf shone -with a warm and generous lustre. From sheer force of habit, her heart -lightened a little as she climbed the stairs and entered the familiar -place, where festoons of red and green paper decoration criss-crossed -above the warm, soup-flavoured, tobacco-fogged room. There was a clatter -of thick dishes and a clamour of talk. - -"One?" said the head waiter, his wiry black hair standing erect as -though in surprise. - -She nodded, and followed him down the narrow aisle. There was the little -table, in the corner under the stair, where they had always sat. A -man was there, reading a newspaper.... Her heart felt very strange, as -though it had dropped a long way below its usual place. It was -Arthur, and he was smiling at her as though nothing had happened. He was -getting up. . . he was shaking hands with her. . . how natural it all -seemed! - -Like all really great crises, it was over in a flash. She found herself -sitting at the little table, taking off her gloves in the most casual -fashion. Arthur was whispering outrageous things. How fine it is that -everybody talks so loud in Italian table d'htes, and the waiters crash -the dishes round so recklessly! - -Arthur's talk seemed to be in two different keys, partly for the benefit -of old Tonio, the waiter, and partly for her alone. - -"Well, here you are! I wondered how soon you'd get here.... _Have -you forgiven me, dearest?_. . . Do you want some minestrone?. . . _Why -didn't you answer my letters, brownest eyes?_ . . . Yes, and some of the -near-beer.. . . _Darling, it was all my fault. I wrote to tell you so. -Didn't you get my letter?_" - -After all, at such times there isn't much explaining done, A happy -reconciliation is the magic of a moment, and no explanations are -necessary. The trouble just drops away, and life begins again from the -last kind thing that was said. All Ann could do was whisper: - -"No, Arthur--it was I who was wrong. I--I've given up the Lovelorn." - -And then, after a sudden moisture of eye on both sides, the steaming -minestrone came on in its battered leaden tureen from which the silver -plating disappeared long ago, and under pretense of serving her soup -Arthur stretched out his hand. She put out hers to meet it, and found -the ring slipped deftly back on her finger. - -"But, Arthur," she said, presently, "I thought you were out of town." - -"I was," he said. "I've got a new job, with King and Company in Boston. -A good job, too, we can be married right away, and you don't need to -worry." - -"Well, how did you happen to come here tonight? You didn't know I was -going to be here. I didn't know it myself until an hour or so ago." - -"Perhaps I willed you to come, who knows?" he said, gaily. "Have you -been advising lovers all this while, and didn't know that they always -haunt the scenes of former felicity? I've been in town several days, and -came here every night." - -He produced a copy of the _Evening Planet_ which he had been reading -when she came in. - -"I had a special reason for thinking you might come here to-night," he -said. "This afternoon I read your column, and I saw Jessie's letter -and your answer. What you said made me think that perhaps you might be -willing to forgive me." Ann, once more safely enthroned on the shining -glory of her happiness, felt that she could afford to tease him just a -little. - -"Ah," she said, "so you admit that some of those letters people write me -_are_ genuine, and that the answers do some good?" - -He smiled at her and laid his hand over the ring, which outglittered -even the most newly nickeled of Piazza's cutlery. - -"Yes, honey," he said. "I admit it. And I knew that Jessie's letter was -genuine, because I wrote it myself." - - - - -THE CURIOUS CASE OF KENELM DIGBY - -WE HAD been dining together at the Hotel Ansonia, and as we walked up -the shining breezy channel of Broadwhat is the commonest phrase of the -detectives? To put two and two together. What else, I ask you, is the -poet doing all the time but putting two and two together--two rhymes, -and then two rhymes more, and making a quatrain. - -He swung his stick, puffed strongly at his cigar, and amorously surveyed -the deep blue of the night, against which the huge blocks of apartment -houses spread their random patterns of lighted windows. Between these -granolithic cliffs flowed a racing stream of bright motors, like the -rapids of a river of light hurrying downward to the whirlpool of Times -Square. - -My friend Dove Dulcet (the well-known poet and literary agent) -vigorously expounded a theorem which I afterward had occasion to -remember. - -"There is every reason," he cried, "why a poet should be the best of -detectives! My boy, there is a rhyme in events as well as in words. When -you see two separate and apparently unconnected happenings that seem (as -one might say) to rhyme together, you begin to suspect one author behind -them both. It is the function of the poet to have a quick and tender -apprehension of similarities. The root of poetry is nothing else than -describing things as being like other apparently quite different things. -The lady who compared herself to a bird in a gilded cage was chaffed for -her opulent and spendthrift imagination; but in that lively simile she -showed an understanding of the poetic principle. Look here: - -"Either for a poet or for a detective," he said, gaily, "this seems to -me the ideal region. I tell you, I walk about here suspecting the -most glorious crimes. When I see the number of banana splits that are -consumed in these glittering drugstores, I feel sure that somewhere, -in the purple silences of the night, hideous consequences must follow. -Those who feed so violently on that brutalizing mixture of banana, -chocolate ice cream, cherry syrup, and whipped marshmallow, must -certainly be gruesome at heart. I look out of my window late at night -toward the scattered lights of that vast pile of apartments, always -thinking to see them blaze some great golden symbol or letter into the -darkness, some terrible or obscene code that means death and terror." - -"Your analogy seems to have some sense," I said. "Certainly the minor -poet, like the law breaker, loves to linger about the scene of his -rhyme, or crime." - -"You are an amateur of puns," he replied. "Then let me tell you the -motto I have coined to express the spirit of this Little White Way--_Ein -feste bourgeois ist unser Gott_. This is the proud kingdom of the -triumphant middle class. It is a perilous country for a poet. If he were -found out, he would be martyred at the nearest subway station. But how -I love it! See how the quiet side streets cut across highways so richly -contrasting: West End Avenue, leafy, expensive, and genteel; Broadway, -so gloriously cruel and artificial; Amsterdam Avenue, so honestly and -poignantly real. My club is the Hartford Lunch Room, where they call an -omelet an _omulet_, and where the mystic word _Combo_ resounds through -the hatchway to the fat man in the kitchen. My church is the St. Agnes -branch of the Public Library, over on Amsterdam Avenue. In those -cool, quiet rooms, when I watch the pensive readers, I have a sense -of treading near an artery of fine human idealism. In all this various -neighbourhood I have a cheerful conviction that almost anything might -happen. In the late afternoons, when the crosswise streets end on a -glimpse of the Jersey bluffs that glow like smoky blue opals, and smell -like rotten apples, I feel myself on the very doorsill of the most -stunning outrages." - -We both laughed, and turned off on Seventy-seventh Street to the small -apartment house where Dulcet had a comfortable suite of two rooms and -bath. In his book-lined sitting room we lit our pipes and sat down for a -gossip. - -We had been talking at dinner of the extraordinary number of grievous -deaths of well-known authors that had happened that year. As it is -almost unnecessary to remind you, there was Dunraven Bleak, the humorous -essayist, who was found stark (in both senses) in his bathtub; and -Cynthia Carboy, the famous writer of bedtime stories, who fell down the -elevator shaft. In the case of Mrs. Carboy, the police were distracted -because her body was found at the top of the building, and the detective -bureau insisted that in some unexplainable manner she must have fallen -_up_ the shaft; but as Dulcet pointed out at the time of the Authors' -League inquiry, the body might have been carried upstairs after the -accident. Then there was Andrew Baffle, the psychological novelist, -whose end was peculiarly atrocious and miserable, because it seemed that -he had contracted tetanus from handling a typewriter ribbon that showed -signs of having been poisoned. Frank Lebanon, the brilliant short-story -writer, was stabbed in the fulness of his powers; and there were others -whom I do not recall at the moment. Mr. Dulcet had suffered severely by -these sad occurrences, for a number of these authors were his clients, -and the loss of the commissions on the sale of their works was a serious -item. The secret of these tragedies had never been discovered, and there -had been something of a panic among members of the Authors' League. The -rumour of a pogrom among bestselling writers was tactfully hushed. - -"What is your friend Kenelm Digby writing nowadays?" I asked, as I -looked along Dulcet's shelves. Digby, the brilliant novelist, was -probably Dulcet's most distinguished client, an eccentric fellow who, in -spite of his excellent royalties, lived a solitary and modest existence -in a boardinghouse somewhere in that part of the West Side. Outside his -own circle of intimates Dulcet was almost the only man whom Digby saw -much of, and many of us, who admired the novelist's work, had our only -knowledge of his person from hearing the agent talk of him. - -"By George, I'm glad you reminded me," said Dulcet. "Why, he has just -finished a story, and he telephoned me this afternoon asking me to stop -over at his house this evening to get the manuscript. He never has any -dealings with the editors on his own hook--likes me to attend to all -his business arrangements for him. I said I'd run over there about ten -o'clock." - -"That last book of his was a great piece of work," I said. "I've been -following his stuff for over ten years, and he looks to me about the -most promising fellow we've got. He has something of the Barrie touch, -it seems to me." - -"Yes, he's the real thing," said Dulcet, blowing a blue cloud of his -Cartesian Mixture. "I only wish he were not quite so eccentric. He lives -like a hermit-crab, over in a lodging-house near the Park. Even I, who -know him as well as most people, never feel like intruding on him except -when he asks me to. I can't help thinking it would be good for him to -get out more and see something of other men in his line of work. I tried -to get him to join The Snails, but he says that Amsterdam Avenue is his -only amusement. And Central Park seems to be his country club. I wonder -if you've noticed that in his tales whenever he wants to describe a bit -of country he takes it right out of the Park. I sometimes suspect that's -the only scenery he knows." - -"He has attained a very unusual status among writers," I said. "In my -rambles among bookshops I have noticed that his first editions bring -quite a good price. It's very seldom that a writer--at any rate an -American--gets 'collected' during his lifetime." - -"Did you ever see any of his manuscript?" asked Dulcet; and on my -shaking my head, he took out a thick packet of foolscap from a cabinet. - -"This is the original of 'Girlhood'," he explained. "Digby gave it to -me. It'll be worth a lot some day." - -I looked with interest at the neatly written sheets, thickly covered -with a small, beautiful, and rather crabbed penmanship. - -"Worth a lot!" I exclaimed. "Well, I should say so! Why the other day I -was browsing round in a bookshop and I found a lot of his first editions -marked at $15 each. It struck me as a very high price for I know I have -seen them listed for three or four dollars in catalogues." - -"Exorbitantly high," Dulcet said. "I'm afraid your bookseller is -profiteering. I admire Digby as much as any one, but that is an -artificial price. The firsts aren't rare enough to warrant any such -price as that. Still, I'm glad to know about it as it's a sign of -growing recognition. I remember the time when it was all I could do to -get any editors to look at his things. I'll have to tell him about that, -it will please him mightily." - -We sat for a while chatting about this and that and then Dulcet got up -and put on his hat. - -"Look here, old man," he said. "You squat here and be comfortable while -I run round to Digby. It won't take me more than a few minutes--he lives -on Eighty-second Street. I'll be back right speedily, and we can go on -with our talk." I heard him go down in the elevator, and then I refit my -pipe, and picked out a book from one of his shelves. I remember that it -was Brillat-Savarin's amusing "Gastronomy as a Fine Art". I smiled -at finding this in Dulcet's library, for I knew that the agent rather -prided himself on being something of a gourmet, and I was reading the -essays of the jovial French epicure with a good deal of relish when the -telephone rang. I went to it with that slight feeling of embarrassment -one always has in answering someone else's phone. - -To my surprise, it was Dulcet's voice. - -"Hullo?" he said. "That you, Ben? Listen, I want you to come round to -Digby's right away," and he gave the address. - -Thinking he had arranged a chance for me to meet Digby (I had long -wanted to do so), I felt hesitant about intruding; but he repeated -his message rather sharply. "Please come at once," he said. "It's -important." Again he gave the street number, made me promise to come -immediately, and rang off. - -It was nearly half-past ten, and the streets were fairly quiet as I -walked briskly along. The house was one of a row of old cocoa-coloured -stone dwellings, and evidently someone was watching for me, for while I -was trying to read the numbers a door opened and from a dark hall an arm -beckoned to me. I went up the tall steps and a stout woman, who seemed -to be in some agitation, whispered my name interrogatively. "Is this Mr. -Trovato?" she murmured. - -"Yes," I said, puzzled. - -"Third floor front," she said, and I creaked quietly up the stairs. - -I tapped at the front room on the top floor, and Dulcet opened. - -"Thank goodness you're here, Ben," he said. "Something has happened." - -It was a large, comfortable room, crowded with books on three walls, -furnished with easy chairs and a couch in one corner. A brilliant blaze -of light from several bulbs under a frosted hood poured upon a reading -table in the middle of the room. Sitting at this table, in a Windsor -chair, slumped down into the seat, was a short stout man whose head -lolled sideways over his chest. He was wearing a tweed suit and a soft -shirt, and looked as though he had fallen asleep at his work. In front -of him were some books and a can of tobacco. I recognized him, of -course, from the photographs I had often seen. It was Digby. - -I looked at Dulcet, aghast. But, as always at such moments, what was -uppermost in my mind was something trivial and irrelevant. I had an -intense desire to open a window. The air in that room was thick and -foggy, a sort of close, strangling frowst of venomously strong tobacco -and furnace gas. After the clear elixir of the wintry night it was -loathsome. It was the typical smell that hangs about the rooms of -literary bachelors, who work all day long in a room without ever -thinking of airing it. - -"Yes," he said. "He's dead. Pretty awful, isn't it? I found him like -this when I got here. No sign of injury as far as I can see." - -There was something profoundly dreadful in this first sight, as mere -sagging clay, of the brilliant and powerful writer whose books I had -so long admired, and whom I had thought of as one of the strong and -fortunate few who shape human perplexities to their own ends. I looked -down at him with a miserable blackness in my spirit, and laid a hand on -Dulcet's shoulder in sympathy. - -"I've sent for a doctor," he said. "Before he comes I want to get all -the information I can from the landlady. I wanted to have you here as a -witness. I haven't touched anything." - -The woman had followed me upstairs, and stood crying quietly in the -doorway. - -"Come in, Mrs. Barlow," said Dulcet. "Now please tell us everything -you can about where Mr. Digby went this evening, and anything that has -happened." - -Mrs. Barlow, who seemed to be a good-hearted, simple-minded creature, -snuffled wretchedly. "Oh, dear, oh dear," she said. "He was such a nice -gentleman, too. Let me see, he went out about seven, I suppose for his -supper, but he was always irregular about his meals, you never could -tell, sometimes he would eat in the middle of the afternoon, and -sometimes not till late at night. I always would urge him that he would -die of indigestion, but he was so kind-hearted." - -"You don't know where he went?" said Dulcet. "Perhaps he went round to -the laundry," she said, "for he had a parcel with him, which I took to -be his laundry because he usually took it out on Monday evenings because -by that time the clean shirt he put on on Sunday was ready to go to the -wash. I hate to think that in all the years he lived in this house his -laundry was the only thing we ever had a difference about, because I -used to have it done in the house for him but he said my washwoman tore -the buttons off his shirts or collars or something, so a little while -ago he started taking his things out to be done, but I don't know where -because he used to call for them himself." - -"You haven't any idea where he used to eat?" insisted Dulcet. - -"Oh, no, sir, he liked to go different places, you know yourself how -he was always a bit queer and concentric and he never talked much about -where he went, but always so nice and considerate. Oh, he _was_ a fine -gentleman." - -Mrs. Barlow, plainly much grieved, wept anew. "Please try to tell us -everything you can think of," said Dulcet, gently. "What time did he -come in, and did you notice anything unusual?" - -"Nothing out of the way that I can think of, but then I was down in the -basement most of the evening, for I let my maid go to the movies and -I had a deal to do. I suppose he went along Amsterdam Avenue, he was -always strolling up and down Amsterdam or Columbus, poor man, getting -ideas for his literature I guess. He came back about nine o'clock I -should say, because I heard the door about then. Just a few minutes -before he came in there was a man came to the door with a tin of tobacco -for him, which he said Mr. Digby had ordered sent around, and I took -it up and put it on his table, there it is now, poor man, Carter's -Mixture." - -Mrs. Barlow pointed to the tin of Cartesian Mixture that stood on the -table. Evidently it had only just been opened, for it was practically -full. - -"Yes," said Dulcet. "Here's his pipe lying on the floor under his -chair." He picked up the briar and glanced at it. "Only just begun to -smoke it, for the tobacco is hardly burned. He must have been smoking -when he.... There wasn't anything else you can think of?" - -The woman dried her eyes with her apron. "There was just one other thing -I noticed, but I suppose it's silly. But I took note of it special, -because I thought I had heard it before, lately. While he was out, and -a little before the man brought the tin of tobacco, I heard a sharp -tapping out on the street in front of the house. I noticed it special, -because I thought at first it was someone rapping on the door, and I -wondered if the bell was out of order again, but when I went I couldn't -see any one. But I wondered about it because I heard it two or three -times, a sharp kind of tapping, it sounded some way like hitting on -stone with a stick of some sort." - -Dulcet and I looked at each other rather blankly. - -"And after that," she went on, "I didn't think about anything one way or -another till you came in and I told you to go right up." - -There was a clear peal from the front door bell. "That's the doctor," -said Dulcet, and Mrs. Barlow hurried downstairs. - -I have never seen any one so brisk and matter of fact as that physician, -and after his arrival the affair seemed to pass out of Dulcet's hands -into the painful official machinery that takes charge in such events. -Dulcet, acting as the dead writer's literary representative, went into -the adjoining room, which was Digby's study, to look over the papers in -the desk for any manuscripts that he ought to take care of. He wrote out -a list of friends and relatives for me to send telegrams to and I went -out to attend to this. I don't know how they get wind of these affairs, -but the reporters were already beginning to arrive when I left. - -The next day, and for several days afterward, the papers all carried -long stories about poor Digby's brilliant career. Then the literary -weeklies took it up. At the libraries and bookshops everyone was asking -for his books, and I have never seen a more depressing illustration of -the familiar fact that a writer's real fame never comes until it is too -late to do him any good. Editors and people who had hardly been aware of -Digby's genius while he was alive now praised him fluently, speaking -of him as "America's most honest realist," and all that sort of thing. -Moving-picture people began inquiring about the film rights of his -novels. Some of the sensational newspapers tried to play up his death as -a mystery story, but the physicians asserted heart failure as the cause, -and this aspect of the matter soon subsided. - -Except at the funeral, which was attended by a great many literary -people, I did not see Dulcet for some days. I gathered from what I read -in the news that Digby's will had appointed him executor of his literary -property, and I knew that he must have much to attend to. But one -afternoon the telephone rang, and Dulcet asked me if I could knock off -work and come round to see him. As I was living up town at that time, -it only took me a few minutes to go round to his apartment. I found him -smoking a pipe as usual, and looking pale and fagged. He welcomed me -with his affectionate cordiality, and I sat down to hear what was on his -mind. - -"You must excuse me if I'm a little upset," he said. "I've just had an -interview with a ghoul. A fellow came in to see me who had heard that -I have a number of poor Digby's books and manuscripts. He wanted to buy -them from me, offered big prices for them. He said that since Digby's -death all his first editions and so on have gone up enormously in value. -Apparently he expected me to do trading over the dead body of a friend." - -He smoked awhile in silence, and then said: "Sorry not to have seen you -sooner, but to tell the truth I've had my hands full. His brother, -who was the nearest kin, couldn't come from Ohio on account of serious -illness, and everything fell on me. I had to pack up all his things and -ship them, all that sort of business. But I've been wanting to talk to -you about it, because I'm convinced there was something queer about the -whole affair. I'm not satisfied with that heart-failure verdict. That's -absurd. There was nothing wrong with his heart that I ever heard of. -It's very unfortunate that for the first few days I was too occupied -with urgent matters to be able to follow up the various angles of the -affair. But I've been turning it over in my mind, and I've got some -ideas I'd like to share with you. You remember what I told you, with -unfortunate levity, about the secret of detective work being ability -to notice the unsuspected rhymes in events? Well, there are one or two -features of this affair that seem to me to rhyme together in a very -sinister fashion. Wait a minute until I put on my other coat, and we'll -go out." - -He went into his bedroom. I had not liked to interrupt him, but I was -yearning for a smoke, for leaving my rooms in a hurry I had forgotten to -bring my pouch with me. On his mantelpiece I saw a tin of tobacco, and -began to fill my pipe. To my surprise, just as I was taking out a match -he darted out of the bedroom, uttered an exclamation, and snatched the -briar from my hand. - -"Sorry," he said, bluntly, "but you mustn't smoke that. It's something -very special." He opened his penknife, scraped out the weed I had put -in the bowl, and carefully put it back in the tin. He took the tin and -locked it in his desk. - -"Try some of this," he said, handing his pouch. I concluded that the -tension of the past days had troubled his nerves. This rudeness was so -unlike him that I knew there must be some explanation, but he offered -none. As we went down in the elevator he said: "The question is, can you -make a rhyme out of tobacco and collar buttons?" - -"No," I said, a little peevishly. "And I don't believe any one could, -except Edward Lear." - -"Well," he continued, "that's what we've got to do. And don't imagine -that it's merely a nonsense rhyme, any more than Lear's were. -Edward Lear was as great as King Lear, in his own way." He led me to -Eighty-second Street. The December afternoon was already dark as we -approached Mrs. Barlow's house. At the foot of her front steps he halted -and turned to me. - -"Is your pipe going?" he said. - -"No," I said, irritably. "It's out. And I haven't any tobacco." - -"Don't be surly, old chap; I'll give you some if you'll tell me what you -do when your pipe goes out." - -"Why, you idiot," I cried, "I do this." And I knocked out the ashes by -striking the bowl smartly against the palm of my hand. - -"Ah," he said. "But some people do this." - -He bent down and rapped his pipe against the stone ramp of the steps, -with a clear, sharp, hollow sound. - -"Yes, a good way to break a nice pipe," I was remarking, when the -basement door of the house flew open, and Mrs. Barlow darted out -into the sunken area just below the pavement level. In the pale -lemon-coloured glare of a near-by street lamp we could see that she was -strongly excited. - -"Good gracious," she panted. "Is it Mr. Dulcet? Oh, sir, you did give me -a turn. Oh, dear, that was just the tapping sound I heard the night poor -Mr. Digby died. What was it? Did you hear it?" - -"Like this?" said Dulcet, knocking his pipe again on the stone step. - -"That was it, exactly," she said. "What a fright, to be sure! Was it -only someone knocking his pipe like that? Oh, dear, it did bring back -that horrid evening, just as plain." - -"So much for the mysterious death rap," said Dulcet as we walked -back toward Amsterdam Avenue. "I can't claim much ingenuity for that, -however. You see, the morning after Digby's death I went round to Mrs. -Barlow's early, before she had been out to sweep her pavement. The first -thing I noticed, by the lowest step, was a little dottle of tobacco such -as falls from a halfsmoked pipe when it is knocked out. That seemed to -me to make a perfect couplet with Mrs. Barlow's tale of the tapping she -had heard. She heard it several times, you remember, in a short space of -time. That suggests to me someone standing on the street, or walking up -and down, in a state of nervousness, because he didn't smoke any of his -pipes through. When they were only half smoked he knocked them out, in -sheer impatience. Was he waiting for someone?" - -"Perhaps it was Digby himself?" I suggested. "I don't think so," he -said. "Because, in the first place, nervousness was the last thing I -would associate with his temperament, which was calm and collected in -the extreme. And also, he always smoked Brown Eyed Blend, and had done -so for years. That was the first thing that struck me as unusual the -night we were there--that tin of Cartesian on the table. He was a man of -fixed habits; why should he have made a change just that night? I picked -up the little wad of tobacco I found lying on the step, and took it -carefully home. It's Cartesian, or I'm a Dutchman. So item I in our -criminal rhyme-scheme is: Find me a nervous man smoking Cartesian." - -"It's a bit fanciful," I objected. - -"Of course it is," he cried. "But crime is a fanciful thing. Ever let -the fancy roam, as Keats said. What the deuce is the line that follows? -Suppose we stroll down Amsterdam Avenue and find a new place to have -dinner." - -"Poor old Digby," he said, as we walked along admiring the lighted -caves of the shopwindows. "How he enjoyed all this. You know, there is a -certain honest simplicity about Amsterdam Avenue's merchandising that is -pleasant to contemplate after the shining sophistications of Broadway. -In a Broadway delicatessen window you'll see such horrid luxuries as -jars of cocks' combs in jelly; whereas along here the groceries show -candid and heartening signs such, as this: 'Coming Back to The Old -Times, 17c lb. Sugar.' Amsterdam Avenue shopkeepers speak with engaging -directness about their traffic; for instance, there's a barber at the -corner of Eighty-first Street who embosses on his window the legend: -'Yes, We Do Buster Brown Hair Cutting.' That sort of thing is very -humane and genuine, that's why Digby was so fond of it. There's a -laundry along here somewhere that I have often noticed; it calls itself -the Fastidious Laundry----" - -"Speaking of laundries," I said, "what do you think of this?" We -stopped, and I pointed to a neatly lettered placard in a window which -had caught my eye. It said: - -_Notice to Artists and Authors_ - -_We Sew Buttons on Soft Collars Free of Charge_ - -"By Jove," I said, "there's a laundry that has the right idea. I think -I'll bring my----" - -I broke off when I saw my companion's face. He was leaning forward -toward the pane, and his eyes were bright but curiously empty, as though -in some way the mechanism of sight had been reversed, and he was looking -inward rather than out. - -"That's very odd," he said, presently. "I've been up and down this -street many times, but I never noticed that sign before." - -He turned and marched into the shop, and I followed. In the soft steamy -air several girls were ironing shirts, and a plump, pink-cheeked Hebrew -stood behind a counter wrapping up bundles. - -"I noticed your sign in the window," said Dulcet. "What do you charge -for laundering soft collars?" - -"Five cents each, but we mend them, too, and sew on the buttons." - -"That's a good idea," said Dulcet, genially. "I wish I'd known that -before; I'd have brought my collars round to you. How long have you been -doing that? I often go by here, but I never saw the sign before." - -"Only about a week," the man replied. "Let's see--a week ago last Monday -I put that sign up. You wouldn't believe how much new trade it has -brought in. I thought it would be a kind of a joke--the man next door -suggested it, and I put it in to please him. But 'most everybody wears -soft collars nowadays, and it seems good business." - -"The man next door?" said Dulcet, in a casual tone. - -"Sure, the cigar store." - -"Is his name Stork?" said Dulcet, reflectively. - -"Stork? Why, no, Basswood. What do you mean, Stork?" - -"I mean," said Dulcet, slowly, "does he ever stand on one leg?" - -"Quit your kidding," cried the laundryman, annoyed. - -"I assure you, I do not trifle," said Dulcet, gravely. "I'll bring you -in some collars to fix up for me. Much obliged." - -We went out again, and my companion stood for a moment in front of the -laundry window, looking thoughtfully at the sign. - -"While you ponder, old son," I said, "I'll run into Mr. Stork-Basswood's -and get some tobacco." - -He seized my arm in a firm and painful clutch and whispered, "Look at -the corner!" - -The laundry was the second shop from the corner. Under the lamp-post at -the angle of the street I saw, to my amazement, a man standing balanced -on one leg. Directly under the light, he was partly in shadow, and -I could only see him in silhouette, but the absurd profile of his -onelegged attitude afflicted me with a renewed sense of absurdity and -irritation. Dulcet, I thought, had evidently suffered some serious -stroke in the region of his wits. - -"Now," he said, softly, "can you see any rhyme between soft collars and -standing on one leg?" - -As he spoke, we both started, for somewhere near us on the street there -sounded a sharp tapping, a ringing hollow wooden sound. Evidently it -came from the one-legged man. This was too much for my composure. -I broke away from Dulcet and ran to the corner. As I got there the -one-legged creature put down a concealed limb and stood solidly on two -feet, in a state of normalcy, as an eminent statesman would say. I was -confused, and said angrily to the man: - -"Here, you mustn't stand like that, on the public street you know, on -one leg. It's setting a bad example." - -To my amazement he made no retort whatever, but turned and scuttled -hastily down the avenue, disappearing in the crowds that were doing -their evening marketing. - -"My dear fellow," said Dulcet, calmly, coming up to me, "you shouldn't -have done that. You've very nearly spoilt it all. Come on, let's go in -and get your tobacco." - -Basswood's proved to be one of those interesting combination tobacco, -stationery, toy, and bookshops which are so common on the upper West -Side. I have often noticed that these places are by no means unfruitful -as hunting ground for books, because the dealers are wholly ignorant of -literature and sometimes one may find on their shelves some forgotten -volume that has been there for years, and which they will gladly part -with for a song. A good many of these stores have, tucked away at the -back, a shabby stock of circulating library volumes that have come down -through many changes of proprietorship. Only the other day I saw in just -such a place first editions of Kenneth Grahame's "The Golden Age" -and Arthur Machen's "The Three Impostors," which the storekeeper was -delighted to sell for fifteen cents each. - -A dark young man was behind the tobacco counter, and from him I got a -packet of my usual blend. - -"Mr. Basswood in?" said Dulcet. - -"Just stepped out," said the young man. - -We lit our pipes and looked round the shop, glancing at the magazines -and the queer miscellany of books. As it was approaching Christmas time -there was a profuse assortment of those dreadful little bibelots that -go by the name of "gift books," among which were the usual copies of -"Recessional" and "Vampire," Thoreau's "Friendship," and "Ballads of -a Cheechako," bound in what the trade calls "padded ooze". I was -particularly heartened to observe that one of these atrocities, called -"As a Man Thinketh," was described on the box (for all such books come -in little cardboard cases) as being bound in antique yap. This pleased -me so much that I was about to call it to Dulcet's attention, when I saw -that he was looking at me from the rear of the store with a spark in -his eye. I approached and found that he was staring at a doorway partly -concealed by a pile of Christmas toys and novelties. Over this door was -a sign: J. Basswood, Rare Book Department. - -"Can we go in and look at the rare books?" said Dulcet. - -"Sure thing," said the young man. "Help yourself. The boss'll be back -soon, if you want to buy anything." - -Mr. Basswood was evidently a man of some literary discretion. To -our amazement we found, in a dark little room lined with shelves, a -judicious assortment of modern books, several hundred volumes, and all -first editions or autographed copies. The prices were marked in cipher, -so we could not tell whether there were any bargains among them, but I -know that I saw several particularly rare and desirable things which I -would have been glad to have. - -"Good heavens," I said to Dulcet, "friend Basswood is a real collector. -There isn't a thing here that isn't of prime value." - -He was staring at a shelf in the corner, and I went over to see what he -had found. - -"Upon my soul," I cried, "look at the Digbies! Not merely one copy of -each, but three or four! This man must have specialized in Digbies." - -"Not only that," said Dulcet, "but he has three of 'The Autogenesis of -a Novelist', the first thing that Digby wrote. It was privately printed, -and afterward suppressed. It's devilish rare; even I haven't got a copy. -I wish I knew what prices he asks for these things." - -"Look at this," I said. "Perhaps this will tell us." I picked up one of -a pile of pamphlets that were lying in a large sheet of wrapping -paper in a corner of the room. It was evidently a new catalogue of Mr. -Basswood's rare books, that had just come from the printer. - -"Here we are," I said, turning over the leaves. "Look at this." - -_Special Note_ - -_Fine Collection of Digbiana: J. Basswood wishes to call particular -attention to the Digbiana listed below. Anticipating the growing -interest in collectors' items of this great writer's work, J. Basswood -has taken pains to gather a stock of first editions and presentation -copies which is absolutely unique. The prices of these items, while -high, are a fair index of the appreciation in which this author's work -is held among connoisseurs. All are copies in good condition and their -authenticity is guaranteed._ - -_November 15, 19--_. - -Dulcet seized the catalogue and ran his eye down the pages. - -"'Girlhood,' first edition, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1901, $100," he -read. "'The Nuisance of Being Loved,' first edition, $75. 'The Princess -Quarrelsome,' $90. 'The Anatomy of Cheerfulness,' autographed copy, -$150. 'Distemper,' acting copy, signed by the author and Richard -Mansfield, $200. - -"Why," he cried, shrilly, "this is madness! I am in touch with all the -dealers in this sort of thing, and I know the proper prices. This man -has multiplied them by ten." He thrust the catalogue into his pocket and -glared round at the musty shelves. - -"I suppose it's due to poor Digby's death," I said. I saw that Dulcet -was overwrought, and suggested that we go out and get some supper. - -"Supper?" he said. "A good idea. I know a place on Broadway where we -can get some guinea pigs." He strode out of the store and I followed, -wondering what next. He seized my arm and hurried me along Seventy-ninth -Street to Broadway. - -In the clarid blue of the evening that blazing gully of light seemed to -foam and bubble with preposterous fire. Chop suey restaurants threw out -crawling streamers of red and yellow brilliance; against the -peacock green of the western sky the queer church at the corner of -Seventy-ninth, with the oriental pinnacle and truncated belfry rising -above its solid Baptist wings, seemed like the offspring of some -reckless marriage of two infatuated architects, one Jewish and one -Calvinist. It was a fitting silhouette, I thought, congruent with an -evening of such wild humours. Guinea pigs for supper, how original and -enlivening! "Are guinea pigs properly kosher?" I asked, sarcastically. - -Dulcet paid no heed, but, holding my arm, urged me along the pavement to -an animal shop on the western side of Broadway. The window was full of -puppies and long-haired cats. All down the aisle of the establishment -were tiers of birdcages, covered with curtains while the birds slept. -In lucid bowls persevering goldfish pursued their glittering and -improfitable round. - -"Those guinea pigs I ordered," said Dulcet to the man, "are they ready?" - -"All ready, sir," he said, and took out a cage from under the counter. -"Very fine pigs, sir, strong and hearty; they will stand a great deal." - -"Yes," I said, with a wild desire to shout with laughter. "But will they -stand being eaten? They will find that rather trying, I fancy." - -Dulcet tapped his forehead, and the dealer smiled indulgently. My -companion took the cage, paid some money, and sped outdoors again. - -I made no further comment and in a few minutes we were in Dulcet's -apartment. - -"You have no kitchenette here, have you?" I protested. "Or do we devour -them raw? Oh, I see, you have a camp oven. How ingenious!" - -He had put on the table a large tin box. With complete seriousness he -now produced a small spirit lamp, over which he fitted a little basket -of fine wire mesh. When the flame of the lamp was lit, it played upon -the basket, which was supported by legs at just the right height. He now -put the unsuspecting guinea pigs into the tin box, which was shaped like -a rural-free-delivery letter-box, with a hinged door opening at one -end. He took the spirit lamp with its attached basket and pushed the -contraption carefully into the box with the pigs. Then he opened both -windows in the room. - -"Admirable!" I exclaimed. "Like those much-advertised cigarettes, they -will be toasted. But won't it take a long time?" - -"Don't be an ass," he said. - -He went to his desk, and took out the tin of Cartesian Mixture he had -snatched away from me earlier in the evening. - -"Your mention of those cigarettes is apt," he said, "for in this case -also the fuel is tobacco. Please go over by the window, and stay there." - -I watched, somewhat impressed by the gravity of his manner. From the tin -of tobacco he took a small pinch of mixture and carefully placed it in -the mesh basket above the lamp. Reaching into the box, he lit the wick -of the lamp with a match, and hastily clapped to the hinged lid. The -guinea pigs seemed to be awed by these proceedings, for they remained -quiet. Dulcet joined me at the window, and remarked that fresh air was a -fine thing. - -We waited for about five minutes, while the guinea-pig oven stood -quietly on the table. - -"Well," said Dulcet, finally, "we ought to be able to see whether it -rhymes or not." - -He snatched open the door of the tin box, and skipped away from it in -a way that seemed to me perfectly insane. He picked up a pair of tongs -from the fireplace, and standing at a distance, lifted out the lamp. The -tobacco was smoking strongly in its mesh basket. Holding the lamp away -from him with the tongs, he carried it into the bathroom, and I heard -him turn on the water. Then, coming back, he inserted the tongs into the -tin box, and gingerly withdrew first one guinea pig and then the other. -Both were calm as possible, quite dead. Looking over the sill to see -that the pavement was clear, he threw the tin box into the street, where -it fell with a crash. - -"Surely they're not cooked already?" I said. - -"I haven't heard from the doctor yet," he said; "but he promised to ring -me up this evening. I'm awfully sorry to have delayed your dinner, old -man. Meet me at the Lucerne grill room, Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam -Avenue, to-morrow evening at seven o'clock and we'll eat together. -You've been a great help to me." - -"I hope the doctor is a mental specialist," I said; but he pushed me -gently out of the room. "We'll finish our rhyme at dinner to-morrow -evening." - -I went out into the night, and sorrowfully visited a Hartford Lunch. - -The next evening I was at the Lucerne grill promptly. This modest chop -house was one of Dulcet's favourite resorts, and I found him already -sitting in one of the alcoves studying the menu. He was in fine spirits, -and his quizzical blue eyes shone with a healthy lustre. - -"Are you armed?" he said, mysteriously. - -"What," I cried, "are we going to do some more guinea pigs to death? It -was cruel. I have scruples against taking innocent lives. Besides, your -experiment proved nothing. Those pigs would have died anyway, shut up in -an air-tight box like that." - -"Stuff!" he said. "The box was not hermetic. I had left small apertures: -there was plenty of oxygen. No, it was not the confinement in the -tin box that killed them. After you had gone, the chemist whom I had -consulted called me up. My suspicions were sound. Have you ever heard of -fumacetic acid?" - -This is going to be terrible, I thought to myself, and ordered -tenderloin steak, well done, with a double order of hashed brown -potatoes. - -"Have you ever heard of fumacetic acid?" he repeated, relentlessly. - -"No," I said, nervously. - -"It is a deadly and little-known drug," he said, "which (so the chemist -tells me) possesses the property that when vaporized the slightest whiff -of it causes instant death if inhaled into the lungs. The tobacco in -that tin had been doctored with it. I sent the chemist the pipe that -poor Digby was smoking when he died, and he analyzed what was left in -the bowl. There is no doubt whatever. He was poisoned in that way. I -tell you, my professional duty as a literary agent requires that in my -clients' interest I should sift this thing to the bottom. It may explain -some of those earlier deaths that baffled the Authors' League." - -"But Mrs. Carboy, surely, did not smoke," I was about to say; but I -checked myself in time. - -"Dove," I said, "you are superb. But I wish you would tell me how you -worked the thing out. What was it that first aroused your suspicions? If -it had not been for you, I should never have guessed anything wrong." - -"Of course," he said, grimly, "it was that murderous placard in the -laundry window, and that is to your credit, for you noticed it. That was -the one thing that made plain the whole complicated business. Naturally -I suspected the tobacco from the first, for (as I told you) it was a -mixture that Digby never smoked ordinarily. But when I heard that that -eccentric and damnable placard had been put there at the suggestion of -the tobacconist next door, and then found that the tobacconist was also -a bookseller, I knew the worst. I have spent to-day in rounding up the -threads, and I think I may say without vainglory that the miscreant is -in my power." - -"But the man standing on one leg?" I said, puzzled. "What was he up to, -and why did he run?" Dulcet's face shone with quiet triumph. - -"I told you," he said, "to look for a nervous man smoking Cartesian -Mixture. That tobacconist, Basswood, smokes Cartesian. It is a very -moist, sticky blend, as you know. It can only be shaken out of the pipe, -after smoking, by vigorously knocking the bowl on something hard. Very -well, and if there is no stone step or something of that sort handy, -what will a smoker tap his pipe on? Why, he will stand on one leg and -knock it out on the lifted heel of the other. And his running away when -you addressed him so whimsically, wasn't that a pretty good sign of -nervousness--and also of a guilty and doubtful spirit?" - -He finished his tumbler of the near-beer that has made Milwaukee -infamous, and leaned forward earnestly. - -"You know very well," he said, "that that laundryman would never have -thought of his grotesque notice, addressed to 'Artists and Authors', if -someone hadn't suggested it to him. Obviously he was only a gull. That -card was intended as a decoy, to lure Digby away from his room, so that -Basswood could leave the poisoned tobacco for him. Basswood had studied -Digby's habits, and must have known that the notice about the collars -would be sure to catch his eye. Now we had better be going. The police -will be at Basswood's shop at eight o'clock." - -I could have done with a little strong coffee, but he haled me out -of the restaurant, and we walked up Amsterdam Avenue. How little, I -reflected, did the passersby, hurrying about their kindly and innocent -concerns, suspect our dark and perilous errand. - -"The motive, of course," said Dulcet, "was to profit by the increase -of value Digby's death would give to his literary work. You will see a -proof of that in a moment. Here we are. Come on, this is no time to hang -back!" - -He strode into the brightly lighted shop, and I followed with a clumsy -assumption of carelessness. I must confess that my eye wandered in -search of suitable cover in case there should be any gun play. - -Mr. Basswood was behind his counter, smoking a battered-looking briar. -One side of the bowl was worn down nearly half an inch (from repeated -knocking out on stone steps, I suppose). He was a fat, cross-looking -person, with a black jut of moustache and a small, vindictive eye. - -"A friend told me about your bookshop," said Dulcet. "He said that you -sometimes buy books and manuscripts and that sort of thing." - -"Yes, sometimes," said Basswood, without enthusiasm. - -"I have an unpublished story of Kenelm Digby's," said Dulcet. "It is -about forty pages of manuscript. What would you give for that?" - -The dealer's eyes brightened. He took his pipe from his mouth, and -knocked it out smartly on his heel, tramping on the glowing cinders. -Dulcet looked at me gravely. - -"Let me see it," Basswood said, eagerly. - -"I haven't got it with me. But give me an idea what it would be worth to -you." - -"If it is genuine, and characteristic of Digby's genius," said Basswood, -slowly, "I would give you two hundred dollars for it." - -"Nonsense!" said Dulcet. "It isn't worth half that. I would not dream of -selling it for more than seventy-five." - -Basswood looked startled. - -"I guess you are not in touch with the market for such things," he said. -"There is more interest among collectors in Digby's work than in any -other recent writer. Perhaps you don't realize what a difference his sad -death has made in the prices of his editions. It is very regrettable, -but the death of a writer of that kind always puts a premium on -collectors' items, because there will never be any more of them." - -"Oh, I see," said Dulcet, politely. "It is his death that has made the -difference, is it?" - -"Exactly." - -"Well, then, I suppose this manuscript _is_ worth more than I thought. -By the way, I think the title of it will interest you. It is called 'The -Mystery of the Soft Collars' and deals with a murder that took place on -Eighty-second Street." - -I couldn't help admiring the glorious nonchalance with which Dulcet made -this remark, gazing the dealer straight in the eye. Basswood's face was -a study, and his cheek was pale and greasy. But he, too, was a man of -considerable nerve. - -"I don't believe it's genuine," he said. "That doesn't sound to me like -Digby's style." His voice shook a little, and he added: "However, if -it's as interesting as it sounds, I might pay even more than two hundred -for it." - -"You rascal!" shouted Dulcet. "Do you think you can buy me off? No! keep -your hands above the counter!" - -He had whipped out his revolver, and held it at the man's face. - -"Look here, Mr. Basswood," he said. "Even the cleverest of us make -mistakes. Let me call your attention to one thing. If it was Digby's -death that made the difference in the values of his books, how is it -that this bill from your printer, for that new catalogue of yours, is -dated ten days before Digby died? I picked it up in your back room the -other day. Doesn't that seem to show that you knew, ten days before the -event, that there was going to be a sudden boom in Digbiana? Ten days -before he died you were multiplying the prices of the items you had -gathered. Now, you dog, can you explain that?" - -Basswood shook, but still he clung to his hope. - -"I'll give you a thousand for that manuscript," he said. - -"Ben," said Dulcet to me, "just slip around the corner and whistle three -times. The police are waiting on Eighty-fifth Street." - -***** - -"There's still one thing that puzzles me," I said to Dulcet late that -night as we sat in his room for a final smoke. "I remember that before -we discovered that sign in the laundry you said that what we needed to -do was to find a rhyme between tobacco and collar buttons. Now what the -deuce started you off on collar buttons?" - -He smiled patiently. - -"When I had to pack up poor old Digby's belongings," he said, "I had -the sad task of going through his bureau drawers. You know the devilish -little buttons that the manufacturers insist on putting on soft collars. -They always come off after one or two washings, and then the collar -collapses round your neck into an object of slovenly reproach. Digby was -a bachelor, and there was no one to do any mending for him. And when I -found that every one of his soft collars had its little button neatly -sewed on, I knew there was something wrong. I ask you, wouldn't that -have aroused the alarm of the least suspicious?" - -Up to the present time, as far as I know, Basswood remains the only -bookseller who has ever been electrocuted. - - - - -GLORIA AND THE GARDEN OF SWEDEN - -IT WAS one of those gilded October days when the serene sunshine is as -soft and tawny as candle-light; when the air is thin and sharp in -the early mornings, but the noontime is as comfortably genial as the -radiance of a hearth reddened with hickory embers. Dove Dulcet and I -were strolling along Riverside Park, enjoying the blue elixir of the -afternoon, in which there was just a faint prick, a gently tangible barb -of the coming arrows of the North. - -"Winter sharpens her spearheads," said Dulcet. "Aye," was my reply. -Below us I saw the coaling-station at the Seventy-ninth Street pier. -"The merriest music the householder can hear nowadays is the roar of -coal going down the chute into the cellar." - -He sighed, and seemed touched by a sudden melancholy. - -"Ben," he said, "that coal-dump reminds me of Gloria Larsen. Did I ever -tell you about her?" - -"Never," I said. "Coal, I presume, made you think of diamonds; and -diamonds, of Miss Larsen. Were you engaged to her?" - -"I might have been," he said, sentimentally. Before us was an empty -bench, on a little knoll that looks out over the shining sweep of the -river. I drew him to it, and we filled our pipes. When you can get a -minor poet in an autobioloquacious mood, it is well to encourage him. -No one takes life so seriously as the minor poet, and consequently his -memoirs make fine sport for the disinterested bystander. - -"No," he said, blowing a waft of tobacco smoke into the soft, -sun-brimmed air, and settling down into the curve of the bench. "The -association was even more obvious than that of coal and diamonds. I -always think of Gloria when winter begins to come in." - -"Ah!" I said. "She was cold?" - -He meditated, ignoring my jocularity. - -***** - -"It was a good many years ago," he said at last; "before you knew me. -When I first came to town, you know, I had a fine ambition to be a -writer. I had just a little money, so I shut myself up in a hall room -at the top of a cheap lodging-house on Seventy-fifth Street, hired a -typewriter, and set about to butt my bead against all the walls that hem -in the beginner. - -"It was one of those old four-story dwellings that are now mostly -boarding-houses, and it was run by a good-hearted widow who would let -her rooms only to men, because she said they were less trouble than -women. Her house was clean and incredibly cheap, and almost all the -lodgers were young fellows like myself--students, or starveling artists, -or chaps with literary ambitions. That was how I had heard of the place, -through another fellow who lived there and had built up a little sort of -coterie in the house. He was Black-more. You know his name; he gave up -art long ago. He's now the art editor of the _Mother, Home, and Heaven -Magazine_. - -"Mrs. Vesey, our landlady, was quite a character. I was always rather -a favourite with her, because the very first day I came to her house -I happened to find her cat, which had wandered away some days before, -leaving her disconsolate. The cat's name, I remember, was Nemo. She had -called it so because, with that admirable virginity of mind that one -finds only in a childless married woman, she was uncertain of the -animal's sex. Anyway, it was a fine big creature, and the apple of Mrs. -Vesey's pie. She talked so much about it that we used to chaff her a -good deal on the subject, and say that we thought it was going to have -kittens, and all that sort of thing. Blackmore used to say, remembering -the title of some idiotic melodrama he had seen, that it was 'Neither -Maid, Wife, nor Widow.' He was right, for it was the kind of cat that -is not likely to be either a father or a mother without a miracle. But I -don't want to be indelicate. I only mention Nemo because it was through -him that I first talked with Gloria. - -"The first day I was at Mrs. Vesey's I heard her groaning about the -vanished cat. That evening I went out to supper, feeling rather lonely, -and dropped in at an eccentric-looking little restaurant on Amsterdam -Avenue. It was called Larsen's Physical Culture Chophouse, and I have -never seen a more amusing place. Old man Larsen was a Swede, and all the -Scandinavian fads ran riot in his head--vegetarian food, for instance. -He didn't absolutely condemn meat, for he would serve it if you -insisted, but all his joy was in weird combinations of calory, protose, -and vitamine, or whatever those things are called. Bean "cutlets," and -protose "steak" that turned out, on examination, to be made of chopped -walnuts and lentils, and the "Thousand-Calory Combination Dinner," of -which he made a specialty. When you sat down, if you were a regular -customer, old Larsen would come round and look you over and diagnose -from your complexion the kind and quantity of calories you needed for -that meal, and would give you combinations of spinach croquettes and -lentil pie that he warranted would purge the blood and compose the mind. -On the walls were charts of Swedish exercises and systems of -calisthenics, and he sold a little pamphlet that he himself had written -telling how to be strong and merry and full of physique. - -"Well, to come back to my first visit to Larsen's restaurant. I hadn't -been in there many minutes before I noticed the girl at the cashier's -desk. My, my, what a girl! My table was close to her little throne, and -I couldn't help watching her out of the end of my eye. I wondered if -she was raised entirely on protose and lentils, for I have never seen -anything so gloriously and vitally physical in my life. Great, bold blue -eyes, and crisp, sparkling golden hair, and blood that spoke delicately -through her skin, and a figure--well, just our old friend of Melos -over again, that lively combination of grace and strength. She was just -curves and waves and athletic softness--the kind of creature that makes -your arms tingle, you know. No corset, I suppose. In the old man's -booklet on physical culture he defended the gymnastic doctrine that -women should develop what he called a muscle corset by bending and -swaying from the hips a thousand times a day. He said it must be -done--well, _au naturel_, in front of an open window in one's bedroom in -the morning. I'd be ashamed to admit that we fellows at Mrs. Vesey's -used to set our alarm clocks at half-past six to go round the corner to -Amsterdam Avenue----" - -Dulcet paused a while and watched the river pensively. - -"But about the cat," I reminded him presently. - -"Yes," he said. "Well, that first night I was at the chop-house I -noticed a very fine, fat cat browsing about under the tables. I was -amused at the corpulence of the animal. I said to myself that a cat -as large as that must surely get some meat somewhere, because, while -vegetarian protose food may be all right for Swedes, a cat is a realist -in the matter of carnal meals. And when I went to the desk to pay my -check, wanting some excuse to get into talk with the superb Gloria--who -was, of course, the old man's daughter--I remarked on the sleek, healthy -appearance of her cat. - -"'Oh, it's not ours,' she said. 'It came in here yesterday. I don't know -whose he is.' - -"I'll bet I know whose it is," I said. - -I told her that Mrs. Vesey, who ran the bachelor lodging-house on -Seventy-Fifth Street, had lost her Nemo. She listened with interest, -those thrilling blue eyes sizing me up in a keen, humorous way. - -"'I shouldn't wonder it's hers,' she said. - -"Welcoming any pretext for prolonging the discussion, I borrowed the -phone at Gloria's elbow, and, studying the heart-rending curves of her -chin and cheek and throat, I called up Mrs. Vesey and told her I thought -I had found her pet. Mrs. Vesey hurried round to the restaurant, -and swept up the vagabond Nemo with cries of joy into her lean and -affectionate bosom. Nemo purred, and I escorted Mrs. Vesey home, -recapitulating in my mind the perfect contours of the girl's heavenly -form. My enthusiasm was even such that when the other men came in I -could not refrain from telling them all about her. I saw that I had made -a mistake, for instantly Blackmore swore he would get her to sit for -him. - -"Of course, from that time on, the Physical Culture Chophouse became the -nightly haunt of our little party. The other men had seen it many times, -but the vegetarian threats in the window had frightened them away. But -now, none of us dared to be absent very many dinners, for fear the -rest would gain some advantage with the girl. I cannot give you any -conception of the humorous glamour of that time unless I insist that she -was the most superbly luscious thing I have ever glimpsed; and one sees -a good many covetable creatures on the streets of New York. Some of them -said she was cold; that in spite of all the nutritious algebra printed -on old Larsen's menus (he used to put down all sorts of preposterous -formulas about starch, and albumen, and phosphorus, and proteids, and so -on)--she was lacking in calories. But I know that when we sat at table, -and she came round to ask if everything was all right, and leaned over -us with her clear eyes, as blue as a special-delivery stamp, and that -cream-white neck, and the faint glimmer of a blue ribbon shining through -the hilly slopes of her blouse-----Oh, well, Ben, we were young, and we -ate red meat for lunch, anyway. - -"I guess old man Larsen, who spent most of his time in the kitchen, -encouraged her to kid us along, for he never seemed to mind our open -admiration of his daughter. He probably saw that she was a bigger -business asset than any number of calory charts. Every now and then he -would come out and chin with us, for our party became a nightly event -in the caf. Before long we had sampled every kind of vegetarian -combination on the list, and had him busy inventing new ones. We used to -ask him if he had raised a girl like that on nothing but vegetables, and -he would laugh and swear that Gloria had never tasted blood until she -was sixteen. It seemed queer to us that the restaurant wasn't full of -her suitors. I should have thought, with a girl like her, they'd have -been standing in line waiting for a look at her. I suppose that people -who feed on nothing but vegetables are rather puny in such matters. -It's an odd thing, but I've always noticed that most of the people who -frequent these crank physical-culture and dietetic eating-places are a -queer, sick-looking lot--youths with rolling Adam's apples, and sallow, -soup-stained girls. Certainly our little gang, so very jovial and -fancy-free, made a quaint contrast to most of the patrons of the house. -In a few days we felt as if we owned the place, and had the old man -slide two tables together just underneath Gloria's cash register, where -we met every evening for dinner. - -"As for Larsen, he was a crank on many subjects but he was no fool. -He was an athletic, erect fellow with a bristling gray moustache and -cropped hair and a forcible gray eye. On the wall was a huge photo -of him in a kind of Sandow pose, with a leopard-skin apron round his -middle, showing terrific knotty biceps and back muscles. Gloria told us -that at one time he had been a physical instructor in the Swedish army, -and the head of a _Turnverein_, or something of that sort. There was a -certain physical and gymnastic candour about him that amused us. He was -awfully proud of Gloria, whom he had raised himself (being a widower) -according to his own hygienic and athletic principles. After we had all -bought his booklets, and promised to take up his system of calisthenics, -he became quite chummy and showed us a lot of photographs of Gloria at -different ages, doing her gymnastic exercises, beginning as a little -plump Venus and ending as a stunning profile in tights. We tried to -maintain an attitude of merely scientific detachment toward those -pictures, admiring them only as connoisseurs of physical culture; but we -ended by begging him for copies, insisting that they would be a useful -guide to us in our own private exercising. But Larsen said he -was keeping them to illustrate a new enlarged edition of his -physical-culture book. We told him that it would sell a million copies, -and I think we all volunteered to act as selling-agents for the book. -Annette Kellermann and Susanna Cocroft, we cried, were scarecrows -compared to Gloria. - -"To all this banter Gloria would listen calmly and unembarrassed, for -she had a magnificent unconsciousness of her own superb allure. We would -each try to get a moment alone with her to describe the exercises we -were taking, and to ask her advice about our muscular development. -I remember that Blackmore, after secret practice that we had not -suspected, took the wind out of our sails one evening when some of us -were bragging of our accomplishment in bending and touching the floor -while standing on tiptoe. He jumped up and caught hold of the lintel of -the doorway, and chinned himself on it a dozen times or so. We were -all crestfallen by this feat until Gloria came forward--all the other -customers had gone home--and did the same thing about twenty times. She -went back to her counter with a heavenly flush of pride, while Blackmore -dashed to a table and did a little sketch of her from memory, with the -lovely lines of her figure silhouetted against the doorway. - -"But it was I who was first to think of the subtlest compliment that any -one could pay her, which was to ask the privilege of feeling her biceps. -And what an arm she had! Not a great, fleshy, flabby washerwoman's -limb, but the rippling marble of a Greek statue brought to warm life! -Blackmore used to sit at meal-times neglecting his protose steak and -making sketches of her while she wasn't looking. The best I could do was -write verses about her. And while she played no favourites, I think -she really gave me a little the inside track, because I talked physical -culture with her more seriously than the others, who tried to make love -to her a little too baldly. - -"By this time she had us all doing calisthenics. The creaky floors of -Mrs. Vesey's house used to resound night and morning with the agonies -of our gymnastics. There was one exercise that Gloria told us she found -particularly helpful. It was to lie down with the feet under a bureau or -any other heavy piece of furniture, extend the arms behind the head, and -then raise and lower the body a hundred times, pivoting from the waist. -This was only one of fifty or more laborious accomplishments that we -undertook for the sake of our goddess. No woman was ever wooed with -more honest pangs, or with more repeated genuflections. As we lay on -the floor before going to bed, raising our legs in the air two hundred -times, or groaned in some sinew-cracking, twisting contortion devised -by the pitiless Swede, it was the vision of Gloria's beauty of snow and -rose that gave us courage. If any passer-by ever looked up at the front -of Mrs. Vesey's house in the early mornings, he must have been startled -to see a white figure near every window, furiously going through the -Swedish manual. One of us, we fondly thought, would some day spend a -healthy Swedish honeymoon performing these motions in ecstatic company -with Gloria; and we did not want to be shamed by her incomparable -perfection. If she worshipped bodily symmetry, our goal was nothing -less. We wanted to be lithe, supple, very panthers of elasticity and -grace. The evening I was able to stand on one leg in the restaurant and -proudly raise my other foot to touch a gas-jet some six feet from the -floor, I felt that Gloria might some day be mine." - -Dove paused again, and seemed to fall into a reminiscent reverie. -Unconsciously he stiffly extended one leg in front of him, and I divined -that he was inwardly rehearsing that act of calisthenic triumph. - -"By gracious!" he said, "I've never forgotten the night I got her -father's permission to take her to some gymnastic tournament, or -something of that sort, down at Madison Square Garden. How annoyed the -other men were when they went to the chop-house that night for their -evening penance of lentils, and found Gloria absent! Yes, it was an odd -wooing. I had found the measurements of the Venus de Milo in some Sunday -paper, and that night, when we became quite sentimental, I made her -promise to take her own dimensions, so that we could compare the -proportions of the two. And we had some very happy little jokes, quite -simple ones that she would understand, about her arms being much more -lovely than those of the statue, and that sort of thing. How deliciously -she blushed the next day when she gave me her list of measurements, -written out on a sheet of paper. Of course, I pretended not to -understand which was which. I wrote a little poem about them." - -"It seems to me," I said, "that you were getting on very well. What was -the trouble? You didn't marry her, did you?" - -"Old man Larsen," he continued, gravely, "had a number of other hobbies -besides vegetarianism and physical culture. He was a mechanical -genius in his way. I remember once, after we had expressed exaggerated -admiration of some atrocious compound of lentils and nuts and -fruit, Gloria took us through the kitchen to show us an ingenious -sandwich-making machine her father had contrived. You fed in loaves of -pumpernickel bread and pats of nut butter on one side, hard-boiled eggs -and lettuce and dressing on the other, and out came egg-salad sandwiches -through a slot, as neat as you could want to see. But the best of his -stunts was a sort of miniature vacuum cleaner which the waitresses used -for taking the crumbs off the tables. You've seen those little hot-air -pistols they use at swell shoe-shining stands to dry the liquid cleanser -off your shoes before they put on the polishing paste? Well, Larsen's -decrumbing machine, as we used to call it, looked rather like those. You -screwed a plug into an electric light socket, ran the little gun over -the table, and in a jiffy it sucked up crumbs and cigarette ashes and -spilled lentils and matches, and left the cloth neat. Larsen was so -proud of it he said he was going to patent it. - -"I never cared so very much for the old man, he was a little too -eccentric; and I began to think, after a while, that he used his -daughter a little too crudely as a business bait; but he was full of -ideas. He had a big motor-truck that he used to cruise around town, -visiting the markets himself, to get the pick of the vegetables; and he -was always tinkering with that truck, planning new mechanical tricks of -some kind. He had an insatiable curiosity, too. He used to sit down -at the table with us sometimes, late in the evening, and ask about our -work, and where we lived, and what Mrs. Vesey was like, and what time of -day we were home, and all sorts of fool questions like that. - -"Well, the time went on, and it began to be cold weather. I noticed this -sooner than the other fellows, I think, because whereas most of them -went to offices during the daytime, I stayed home at Mrs. Vesey's, -trying to write in my narrow coop of a top bedroom. You know how -depressing an instrument a typewriter is when your hands are cold. I -haven't forgotten some dreary vigils I had up there, struggling to write -short stories. Sometimes I used to give it up weakly, and go round to -Larsen's, where it was always warm and cozy, to drink herb coffee and -eat those brittle Swedish biscuits and chat with Gloria. I used to -complain to her about the cold in my room, and she would laugh and say -that I just ought to try a winter in Sweden. - -"'Swedish exercises,' she would say. 'That's the thing to stir up your -blood! They'll keep you warm.' - -"And then, in her enchanting way, she would tell me a new one, and if -there were no customers (as there generally weren't in the middle of -the afternoon) she would illustrate how it should be done. Sometimes she -would even allow me what she called a Swedish kiss--a very fleeting -and provocative embrace. And then I would show her my new perfection in -doing the backward stoop or some such muscular oddity, and return to my -cold citadel. - -"But in spite of the fact that we were all busy much of the time going -through our manual of exercises, presently the chill of Mrs. Vesey's -lodgings became severe. Mrs. Vesey was a rather obstinate and frugal old -dear, and she herself dwelt down in the kitchen, where her big gas-range -kept her comfortable. When we complained of the cold, she had all sorts -of excuses for postponing lighting the furnace. There was a big coal -strike that year, and she was quite right in suspecting that once her -present supply was exhausted it would be very hard to get more. Also, -she said, her furnace man had quit, but she was hunting for another. On -one pretext or another, she kept on putting us off, until finally it was -mid-November, and we were doing our exercises in rooms where our breath -showed like clouds of fog. And then one day Mrs. Vesey came up in great -glee to say that a coal man had called that very morning, of his own -accord, and had offered to give her five tons. She had promptly snapped -at the chance, and he had put the coal in the cellar; so we should have -heat the very next day, when the new furnace man was expected. - -"Naturally we were all cheered by this good news. We sped round to -Larsen's restaurant in high spirits, and adored our divinity with even -more than usual abandon. - -"'Now my fingers will be warm again, Gloria,' I said, 'I'll be able to -write some more poems about you.' - -"'Yes,' cried Blackmore, 'and now it will be warm enough for you to -come and pose for me in my lovely attic at Mrs. Vesey's. If you had come -before, I should have called my painting "The Chilblain Venus."' - -"'Silly boys!' said Gloria, with that delicious, soft Swedish accent -which I can't even try to imitate. 'You are hot-blooded enough as it is. -You don't need all that warming up. Look at us vegetarians; you make fun -of us, but our lentils keep our blood circulating. Try Brussels sprouts; -they are full of calories.' - -"'Ah!' we shouted. 'But you seem to keep this place warm enough.' - -"Old Larsen, who passed through the room just then, broke in crossly: - -"'We have to, for the sake of the customers,' he said. 'Gloria, stop -fooling with the gentlemen and attend to business.' He seemed in a bad -humour that night. - -"The next day must have been some sort of holiday, for I know we all -went out to see a football game. We got back about supper-time and found -the house perishing chill. With shouts and protests we called Mrs. Vesey -from her kitchen, but she explained that the expected furnace man had -not turned up. - -"'Well,' said Blackmore, 'this can't go on any longer, Mrs. Vesey. I'll -go down and light the fire myself. We'll take turns and keep it going -till your man comes.' - -"He ran down to the basement, but a minute later he was up again. - -"'Mrs. Vesey,' he shouted, 'what is all this nonsense? Are you kidding -us? There's no coal down there at all!' - -"'No coal?' she exclaimed. 'Why, there was a good three or four tons, -and the man said he put five tons more in yesterday. I heard him do -it--never heard such a noise in my life. I paid him ten dollars a ton. - -"'Impossible!' Blackmore cried, angrily. 'There's not enough down there -to fry Nemo with. About three shovelfuls, that's all. What is this--some -kind of a game to freeze us out?' - -"Mrs. Vesey wrung her hands, and we all ran down to the cellar. It was -as Blackmore had said. The bins were empty, save for a few lumps." - -Dove gazed down thoughtfully at the coal office on the pier below us, -where a wagon was loading. - -"On a mellow afternoon like this," he said, "coal doesn't seem quite -so pressing a concern; but I tell you, in a bleak boarding-house about -Thanksgiving time, with no heat of any sort available but a gas-jet, it -is a different matter. We were an angry and puzzled lot that night. Mrs. -Vesey protested so pitifully that there had been coal in the bins only -the day before, and asserted so repeatedly that she had heard the -noise of the new load going in, that we could not help believe her. She -promised to call up her coal man the first thing the next morning, and -we also agreed to go round and visit him in a body, to add our personal -appeals; but how on earth several tons of coal could have been stolen -out of the cellar without any one hearing it seemed to us a mystery. - -"The next morning we visited the coal-dealer _en masse_--in a coalition, -as Blackmore said--and by spirited imprecation and paying cash we -extracted a promise to have a couple of tons sent at once. His office -was some distance up on Columbus Avenue, and on our way back we passed -through one of the cross-streets--Eighty-Third, I think it was, because -one of us wanted to get some stamps at the post-office. As we came -along, we heard the rumble of coal passing down a chute, and saw a -coal-wagon in the distance. - -"'There's somebody in luck,' said one. - -"'But what an odd-looking coal-wagon,' said another, as we approached. - -"It was a large motor-truck with a hinged metal top, something like a -huge street-cleaning cart. The engine was throbbing, and the coal was -roaring noisily in the chute, which led down into the cellar window of -a brownstone dwelling. The chute, instead of being the customary shallow -trough, was a large circular pipe, so that we could not actually see the -coal pouring downward, but only hear it crashing through the metal -tube. That struck me as a good idea for preventing the coal-dust from -spreading over everything near. - -"But we were all interested not only in the odd appearance of the truck, -but in the extraordinary din it caused. Delivering coal is never a -silent job, naturally; but this racket was really terrific. The driver -seemed to have left his engine running full tilt, and the whole truck -quivered and shook with the power. We stood amazed at the furious rattle -and uproar. The noise was too great for spoken words to be caught, but I -pointed out the circular chute to Blackmore. It was made in telescoping -sections, to slide into itself, and was an interesting novelty. - -"It occurred to me that this dealer, whoever he might be--there was no -name on the truck--could perhaps let Mrs. Vesey have some coal. We could -see the feet of the driver, who was standing on the other side of the -truck, and I went round to speak to him. It was a stocky man with a -flowing bush of black beard and wearing a suit of very grimy overalls. -At the top of my voice I yelled: - -"'Got any coal to sell?' - -"He shook his head in a surly way and turned his back on me. - -"I could not tell from his gesture whether he had answered my question, -or was indicating that he could not hear; so I shouted at him again. - -"At the same time I noticed Blackmore and the others gathered at the -cellar window, looking in curiously over the slope of the delivery -pipe. The coal man seized a lever and shut off his power, for the engine -stopped, and after a little sliding and rumbling in the tube the racket -ceased. He picked up a shovel and ran to the group by the chute. - -"'Here, let that alone!' he cried, angrily. "'Keep your shirt on,' said -Blackmore. 'We're just looking at this outfit of yours. It makes a devil -of a noise. Regular public nuisance, I call it!' '"It's none of your -affair,' said the man. 'Keep out of what don't concern you.' - -"He returned to his truck, pulled a handle, and the roar of the coal -began again. I was standing near him, while the others were on the -opposite side of the wagon, so I was the only one to see a curious -thing. There were several revolving cogwheels at the side of the truck, -and in his irritation, I suppose the driver stooped over them too -closely. At any rate, his beard caught in the cogs, and I gave a cry of -dismay, thinking he would be cruelly hurt. To my amazement the beard was -whisked quickly from his face, and I saw that he was Larsen. He looked -at me with an expression of alarm and anger that was laughable. - -"'When did you turn coal-dealer?' I shouted. But at this moment -Blackmore, who was still bending over the chute, sprang up and ran round -to us. He, too, was staggered to see the identity of the driver. He -dragged me a few paces away and shouted in my ear. - -"'Damn queer business,' he said. 'That coal isn't going in. It's coming -out!' - -"'What the deuce do you mean?' I said. - -"'Just what I say. He's got some sort of a suction engine in that truck, -a kind of big vacuum cleaner, and he's simply siphoning the coal out of -somebody's cellar.' - -"Larsen ran at us with a big spanner in his hand, but we grappled with -him, and while three of us held him the others examined the truck. It -was perfectly true. By an ingenious gasoline pump installed in the wagon -he was drawing out the coal. Looking into the top of the wagon through a -little glass peephole, we could see the black nuggets coming swiftly up -out of the chute. By this time a little crowd had gathered, and the lady -of the house ran out to see what was happening. I think she thought we -were trying to seduce her coal supply. She explained angrily to us that -Larsen had driven up to her door half an hour before and offered to sell -her several tons of coal. Her cellar, like everyone else's, was none too -well stocked, and she had been delighted to agree. - -"While we were wondering just what to do, Larsen, who had been glaring -wickedly at us, broke away from our grasp and reversed his machinery -so that the coal began to thunder back honestly into the cellar. The -puzzled woman, not suspecting anything wrong, went back indoors after we -made some impromptu explanation for the fuss. Larsen's amputated black -beard whirled round and round, still adhering to the rolling cogs, as -we watched, while he stood by sullenly. We walked away down the block -to hold a council, and also to let the group of mystified onlookers -disperse. Of course, our first thought was to go for the police; but -then we thought of Gloria." - -Dove sighed, and tapped out his long-expired pipe. - -"Well," he said, "that's pretty near the end of the story. I'm afraid -association with Beauty blunts the sense of rectitude. No, we didn't do -anything about it, except see to it that Larsen put back that coal -in the cellar. I suppose we were really accessory to a misdemeanour, -because we gathered from some small paragraphs we saw in the papers that -a number of householders in that neighbourhood had been mysteriously -robbed of their coal. To tell you the truth, we couldn't bear the -thought of taking any action that would ruin Gloria's happiness. What -were a few tons of black, filthy coal compared to that serene and -golden-white beauty of hers, like some princess in a Norse fairy tale? -The old man was a lunatic, we supposed, and would come to grief sooner -or later. We were not going to be the ones to bring humiliation upon -him. - -"We walked back, stricken, to our lodgings; and as we passed the -Physical Culture Chophouse we looked furtively through the window. We -could see Gloria laying the tables for lunch, the tall, strong curve -of her back as she leaned over, her capable white hands smoothing the -cloth. None of us had the heart to go in. - -"We clubbed together to pay for Mrs. Vesey's new supply of coal, -although it broke our pocket-books for the next month or so. We were -too hard up, then, to go on eating at Larsen's. We had to patronize a -lunch-counter instead, where we gloomed over frankfurters and beans -and quarrelled with one another, in sheer misery, as to which one of us -Gloria had really liked best. We never saw her again, because about a -week later the Larsen caf shut up, and they disappeared." - -"And the calisthenics?" I said. "Did you go on with those?" - -"No," he said; "we were too melancholy. Also, as soon as Mrs. Vesey's -coal arrived, we didn't need to. That was the terrible part of it. You -see, Gloria had simply egged us on to do those exercises so that we -wouldn't feel the chill when her father stole the coal. I'm afraid she -was as guilty as he was, but we tried to convince ourselves that she was -only a tool." - -We got up from our bench, for the afternoon air was growing bleak. - -"Now you know," he said, "why that coal-dump down there reminded me of -Gloria. Well, it was wonderful while it lasted--until, as you might say, -the serpent drove us out of our Garden of Sweden." - - - - - -THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -IT WAS two days before Christmas, and Dove Dulcet had come down town -to have lunch with me. As he had arrived rather early, we were taking a -little stroll round the bright, windy streets before our meal, -enjoying the colour and movement of the scene. We stopped by St. Paul's -churchyard to note the curious contrast of the old chocolate spire -relieved against the huge glittering shaft of the Woolworth Building. At -the noon hour St. Paul's stands in the dark shadow of the great cliffs -to the south, while the Woolworth pinnacle leaps up like a spearhead -into the golden vacancy of day-long sunshine. - -"Saint Paul in the shadow, Saint Frank in the sun," said Dove with -gentle irony. "It seems to prove that ten cents put in the cash register -gets nearer Heaven than ten cents dropped in the collection plate." - -When Dove is philosophical, he is always full of quaint matter, but -I was hardly heeding what he said. My eye had been caught by a crowd -gathered at the corner of Church Street. Over the heads of the throng was -a winking spark of light that flashed this way and that as though spun -from a turning mirror. - -"Let's go and see what's doing," I said. My poet friend is always -docile, and he followed me down Fulton Street. - -"It looks to me like a silk hat," he said. - -And so it was. On the corner of the pavement stood a tall, stout, and -very well-nourished man with a ruddy face, wearing shabby but still -presentable cutaway coat and gray trousers, and crowned by a steep -and glittering stovepipe hat which twinkled like a heliograph in the -dazzling winter glare. But, most amazing, when we elbowed a passage -through the jocular crowd, we saw that this personable individual was -wearing, instead of an overcoat, two large sandwich boards vigorously -lettered as follows: - -THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -OPENS TO-DAY 59 Ann Street - -Celebrate the Merry Yuletide! - -One Prodigious Meal, - -$1 BUY A STRIP TICKET AND SAVE MONEY - -TO-DAY ONLY 100 meals for $10 - -This corpulent sandwich man was blithely answering the banter of those -who were not awed by the radiance of his headgear and the dignity of his -mien, and passing out printed cards to those nearest him. - -"Do all the hundred meals have to be eaten to-day?" asked Dulcet. "If -so, the task is beyond my powers." - -"Like the man in the Bible," I said, "he probably rented his garments. -But he couldn't rent that admirable abdomen that proclaims him a -well-fed man. It seems to me a very sound ad. for the chophouse." - -"Unquestionably," said my friend, gravely, "he is the man who put the ad -in adipose." - -The sandwich man, unabashed by these remarks, handed me one of his -cards, which Dulcet and I read together: - -_K. Jefferson Gastric, the best-fed man south of 42nd Street, takes this -importunity of urging you to become a steakholder in the Commutation -Chophouse. Why pay for overhead expense? In the Commutation Chophouse -all unnecessaries are discarded and you pay only for food, not for -finger-bowls and a lovely female cashier. No tips. To-day Only, the -Opening Day, to celebrate the jovial Yule, the management will sell -Strip Tickets entitling you to 100 Glorious Meals, for $10._ - -At this point a policeman politely urged Mr. Gastric to move on, and he -passed genially down Church Street, his resplendent hat glowing above a -trail of followers. - -"Come on," I said; "it's time to eat, anyway. Let's go over to Ann -Street and have a look at this philanthropic venture." - -"Well," said Dulcet, "since it's your turn to buy, far be it from me to -protest." - -The narrow channel of Ann Street is always crowded at the lunch hour, -but on that occasion it was doubly congested with patrons of the amusing -toyshops. We pushed patiently along, and passing Nassau Street moved -into a darker and shabbier region. A sound of music rose upon the air. -To our surprise, at the entrance to an unsuspected alley stood a fiddler -playing a merry jig. Beside him was another sandwich man, also stout and -well-favoured and in Fifth-Avenue attire, carrying boards which read: - -ENTRANCE TO THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -Eat Drink and Be Merry For To-morrow We Die - -To-day Only, for the Jocund Yule, - -Strip Tickets for 100 Square Meals, $10 - -"This is highly diverting," I said. "Apparently we go down this passage. -Come on, everyone seems bound the same way. We won't get a seat unless -we make haste." - -Dulcet was gazing reflectively at the sandwich boards. His blue eyes had -a quizzical twinkle. - -"For God, for country, and for Yule," he said. "Queer that this should -happen on Ann Street. I seem to remember----" - -"Queer that it should happen anywhere," I interrupted him. "It's a -clever advertising stunt, anyway--100 meals for $10. It seems too good -to be true." - -"The only thing I'm afraid of," he said, "is that it is literally true." - -"Walk in, gents, give us a try," cried the sandwich man. "Try anything -once, gents." - -"Come on, Dove," I said, seeing that others were crowding ahead of us -down the alley. "None of your paradoxes!" - -The narrow passage turned into a courtyard overlooked by old grimy -warehouses with iron-shuttered windows. In one corner was a fine -substantial brick building with a rounded front, and a long flight of -wooden stairs that seemed to lead up to a marine junk shop, for old -sea-boots and ships' lanterns and fenders hung along the wall. In a -basement was an iron foundry where we could see the bright glow of a -forge. Halfway down the little area was a low door with a huge stone -lintel-piece over which was a large canvas sign: _the commutation -chophouse_. - -***** - -I must confess to an irrational affection for quaint eating places, and -having explored downtown New York's crowded cafs and lunchrooms rather -carefully in quest of a congenial tavern, the Commutation Chophouse -struck me as highly original and pleasing. We stepped down into a very -large and rather dark cellar that apparently had previously been used as -a carpenter's shop, for a good many traces of the earlier tenancy were -still visible. The furnishings were of the plainest, consisting simply -of heavy wooden tables and benches. There was no linen on the tables, -but the wood had been scrubbed scrupulously clean and there were piles -of tissue napkins. From a door at the back waiters came rushing with -trays of food. A glorious clatter of knives and forks filled the air, -and it looked at first as though we would find no place to sit. As Dove -expressed it, the room was loaded to the muzzle; and a continuous stream -of patrons was coming down the alley, allured by the sandwich man and -the absurd thin gayety of the fiddle. By the front door stood a dark -young man, behind a small counter, selling tickets. - -"One meal for a dollar," he cried, repeatedly, as he took in money. "One -hundred meals for ten dollars. Get your commutation tickets here." - -"We'll try two single meals to begin with," I said, and put down a -ten-dollar bill. - -The young man rummaged in a drawer full of greasy notes to get the -change. "Better get a commutation," he said. "Tremendous saving." - -"I should think you'd need a cash register," said Dulcet. "Handling all -that kale, it would be useful in keeping the accounts straight." - -The young man looked up sharply. - -"Say," he retorted, "what are you, mister? Cash-register salesman? Step -along please, don't block the gangway. Next! Seats in the rear! No, -commutation tickets not transferable. Good only to the purchaser. Ten -dollars, please. Next!" - -"They seem to be coining money," said Dove, as we found places at last -in a rear corner. - -"Well," I said, "this is just the kind of place I like. By Jove, this -building must be well over a hundred years old. Look at those beams -in the ceiling. All they need is a few sporting prints and an open -fireplace. Lit by candles, too, you see. Well, well, this is the real -alehouse atmosphere. Why, it's as good as the Cheshire Cheese. This is -the kind of place where I can imagine Doctor Johnson and Charles Lamb -sitting in a corner." - -"You are an incurable sentimentalist," he said. "Besides, Lamb would -have had to sit on Johnson's knee, I expect. If I remember rightly, Lamb -was a very small urchin when Doctor Johnson died." - -"Why be so literal?" I protested. "Haven't you any sentiment for fine -antique flavour, and all that sort of thing?" - -"If there is one thing where sentiment plays no part with me," he said, -"it is food. At meal times I am distinctly a realist. Fine antique -flavour is rather upsetting when you find it in your meat. But still," -he continued, "I must admit this looks good." He beamed approvingly at -the thick chop and baked potatoes and beans and coffee the waiter had -put down in front of us. - -"Evidently you don't order your food," I said. "They give you the -standardized meal of the day. Fall to! These beans baked in cheese -strike me as excellent." - -I have never seen waiters rush around with such speed as they did in -that crowded cellar, where flickering candle-gleams cast a tawny light -over the crowded tables of men packed shoulder to shoulder. They flashed -in and out through the rear door like men possessed. They careered in -with trays of steaming viands, crashed them down on the bare tables, and -fled out again, napkins streaming behind them like pennants. Once they -had delivered your food it seemed impossible to catch their gaze, for we -tried to hail one to ask for ketchup. It was no use. He flew hither and -yon with frantic and single-minded energy. - -"These waiters speed like dervishes," I said. "Evidently the no-tip rule -does not lessen their zeal." - -"Perhaps they get a share in the profits of the enterprise," said -Dulcet, placidly. - -Just behind us was a small barred window looking out on a street. It -was at the ground level, and looking through the dusty pane I could see -horses' hoofs going by, and the feet of pedestrians. Suddenly there was -a great clang and crash outside, and I turned to look. - -"What's up?" said Dulcet, who was cheerfully disposing of his chop as -well as his neighbour's elbow would permit him. - -"They seem to have spilled some beans," I said, peering through the -dusky aperture. "There's a truck delivering food or something at the -back door. They've tipped over a can, I think." - -"Spilled some beans?" he said, with his first sign of real interest. -"That sounds symbolic. Let me have a look." - -He stood up on the bench and gazed outward. Presently he sat down again -and went on calmly with his meal. Some excellent cheese cake was brought -us as dessert. - -"That alley behind us," he said. "I suppose it communicates with Beekman -Street, doesn't it?" - -"I guess so. Why?" - -"Just wondering. Ben, I apologize for my skepticism. The food here is -jolly good. In fact, it's so good that I think I've tasted it before. I -am your debtor for a very enlarging experience. And now, as the crowd is -becoming almost oppressive, and I can see that there are others eager to -commute, suppose we smoke our cigars outdoors." - -"Right you are," I said. "And since the food is eatable, and I happen -to have the money with me, I think I'll invest in one of those strip -tickets. Everyone else seems to be doing it, and it looks to me a good -way to save money. A hundred lunches--why, that will see me through till -spring. I don't think I'll get tired of eating here, it's so amusing." - -"No," said Dove, as he picked up his hat, "I don't think you'll get -tired of eating here. Perhaps the money will be well spent." - -I bought my commutation, and we stood in the shabby old courtyard for a -few minutes watching the crowd stream in. A good many, I noticed, though -unable to find seats, still took advantage of the opening-day offer and -bought the hundred meal tickets for future consumption. - -"The only drawback about this place is the crowd," I said. "If this -keeps up, half of downtown New York will be eating here." - -"Look here," said Dove, "I think I shall be down this way again -to-morrow. It's my turn to buy. Will you lunch with me then? We'll -celebrate the jovial Yule together." - -"Fine," I said. "Meet you at the old red newspaper-box at the corner of -Broadway and Vesey to-morrow at 12 o'clock." - -***** - -We were both there punctually. - -"Have you got your appetite with you?" asked Dove. "It's a bit early for -feasting, but it'll give us time for a stroll after lunch." - -"Where do we eat?" I said. "Commutation again? It's all velvet to me, -anyway, all my lunches are paid for for the next three months." - -"There's a little place on Beekman Street I used to know," he said. -"Let's try that." - -We found a corner table in an odd old eating house at the corner of -Beekman and Gold streets, which I had never seen before. - -"I'm a great believer in tit for tat, fair play, and all that sort -of thing," said Dulcet when the waiter approached. "You gave me an -excellent lunch yesterday. I intend to give you the same lunch to-day, -if you can stand eating it again. Waiter! Mutton chop, baked potato, -baked beans, coffee, and cheese cake. For two." - -When the beans came, baked with cheese in a little brown dish, just as -they were served the day before, I must confess that I was startled. - -"Why, these beans are done exactly like those we had at the -Commutation," I said. "Are these people doing the cooking for the -chop-house?" - -"Perhaps you'll have to eat chop and beans for a hundred lunches," -Dulcet said. "Well, it's a hearty diet. After all, the sandwich boards -simply said a hundred meals. They didn't guarantee that they would be -different." - -I insisted that on our way back toward the office we should stop at the -Commutation Chophouse and find out from a customer what the bill of fare -had been on the second day. The vision of a hundred repetitions of any -meal, however good, is rather ghastly. - -"I don't hear the minstrel to-day," Dove observed as we drew near the -alley. - -"Oh, well," I said, "that was just to draw business for the opening." - -We turned down the passage at No. 59. Quite a crowd of patrons were -waiting their turn, I saw. They were standing in the courtyard by the -chop-house door, talking busily. - -"You see," I said, "it's still crowded." - -We reached the entrance. The door was closed. The sign over the doorway -now had additional lettering painted on it, and read: - -THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - -The Other 99 Meals Will Be Served In Augusta, Maine. - -"Come on, Ben," said Dulcet. "No use trying to break through a window. -There's no one there. I wonder what the fare is to Augusta?" - -"You rascal!" I cried. "If you suspected this, why the devil did you -encourage me to squander my $10?" - -"I simply said it would probably be well spent," he said, with a -clear blue humorous gaze. "If it helps to cauterize your magnificent -credulity, it will be." - -We sat down on a bench in St. Paul's churchyard to smoke a pipe together -while I performed some mental obsequies over my vanished Federal Reserve -certificate. Dove looked up at the sparkling gilded turret of the -Woolworth. - -***** - -"I daresay Frank Woolworth would have fallen for it, too," Dove said. -"The idea of a hundred meals for 10 cents each would have appealed to -him. But you know, old man, there are certain fixed and immutable laws -that the observant city dweller is accustomed to. My motto is, whenever -you find an apparent exception to those laws, look for an enigma in the -woodpile. I suspected something wrong when I saw that sandwich man -on Church Street. A man as fat as that doesn't generally take a job -sandwiching. Also I have doubts about people who insist on calling -Christmas 'Yule'. Moreover, a man doesn't generally take a job -sandwiching until his shirt is so ragged that he is ashamed to exhibit -it in public, when he is glad to cover it up with the boards. Those two -fat sandwicheers were members of the firm, I fear, for their linen was -O. K. And, secondly, what are the first things a man gets if he really -intends to start a restaurant? A cash register and a bunch of ketchup -bottles. There wasn't a cash register nor a ketchup bottle in sight in -the Commutation Chophouse. No, my dear; what you admired as carefully -arranged atmosphere of antiquity, the plain board tables and candles and -so on, was really stark cheapness. They weren't spending any money on -overhead; they said so themselves. - -"When you called my attention to the spilled beans, I was sure. For they -were not merely beans: they were baked beans; a far more significant -matter. When I looked out of the window I could see at once that there -was no kitchen attached to the Commutation Chophouse. The food was all -being delivered from that place on Beekman Street, whose name was on -the truck. A few ingenious rogues simply rented that old cellar, cheaply -enough I guess, put in a few tables, arranged to have grub shipped in -from near by, printed their commutation tickets, and sat down to collect -as many dollars as they could lure out of the open-handed Christmas -throng." - -"Well, of all infernal liars," I cried, "they certainly take the prize." - -"Not so," said Dulcet as we got up to go. "You should have read the -sandwich boards a little more carefully. Their ingenious author, -whom you chide as the Ann Street Ananias, really told the exact and -circumstantial truth." - -We stood at the gateway of the graveyard, and gazed across the roaring -traffic of Broadway. Dove smiled and said he must be starting on his -Christmas shopping. - -"I tried to warn you," he said, "but you wouldn't listen. As I was about -to say just before we visited the place, it was queer that it should -happen on Ann Street. Don't you remember that a certain famous gentleman -had his museum at the corner of Broadway and Ann? And it was he, I -think, who remarked that there's one born every minute. Well, Merry -Christmas!" - - - - - -THE PERT LITTLE HAT - -HEMMING had a home, and dearly he loved everything in it--with one -exception. He loved the furnace, and the kitchen range with its warm -ruddy glow, and the violet-coloured wafer of expensive aromatic soap -that always mysteriously appeared on the marble wash-basin when -visitors came. He loved the little glass towel racks, and the miniature -embroidered hand towels with Mrs. Hemming's maiden initials on them, -which also appeared, white and fragrant, whenever there was any special -festivity. Those little towels were to him a kind of symbol of the first -ecstatic days of their married life, and he could not bear to think of -the inevitable time when they would be frayed and discarded. He loved -the shelf over the fireplace where his brown-stained corncob pipe waited -for the after-supper smoke. He loved the little porch where the baby -carriage stood, and the tulip beds that he and Janet had planted -together, and the mission dining table, now blistered and scarred, that -had been their very first piece of furniture. - -But in the little den upstairs stood his desk, and how he hated it! - -Hemming, you see, had literary ambitions, and that desk meant to him -every circumstance, every long-drawn torment, of weariness and toil. It -had meant much pleasure, too, in hours when his writing had prospered; -but how the bitter outnumbered the sweet! How many hundred evenings he -had dragged himself to it, in lassitude and lethargy; had forced his -drowsy, unwilling mind to the task at hand. How many nights, nodding -over the typewriter, he had stumbled on and on. Over his desk he kept, -ironically, a letter he had once had from an editor, which said: _We -like stories. They have a joyous freshness. You write as though you -enjoyed it._ - -Hemming was no quick and easy composer. His stories emerged slowly, -painfully, hammered and wrenched from the stubborn tissues of a weary -brain. When his whole soul and body cried out for a comfortable stretch -on the couch, with pipe and book, and a gradual, blissful lapse into -slumber, he would throw off his coat, stick his head out of the window -for a dozen gulps of cool night air, and then sit down at the wheezy old -typewriter. - -Its yellow keys seemed a kind of doleful rosary on which he told long -petitions to whatever gods look down pityingly on young writers. He -would think how wonderful it would be if he could only do his writing -in the morning when he was fresh. To leap out of bed in the crisp early -air, to plunge into the cold bath where the water shimmered a pale green -by catching the tint of the big maple tree just outside the bathroom, to -swallow two cups of hot coffee, two slices of buttered toast, and then -sit down to his desk. In the zest and lustihood of the morning, how the -thoughts would throng, how the great empire of words would unroll before -him, far away to the blue hills where lived his unwritten poems! Such -was his daily thought as he hurried down the hill on bright mornings to -catch the 8.13 train to town. But to come back at night after a long day -at the office, and after helping Janet wash the dishes, and stoking the -furnace or mowing the lawn or planting bulbs in the garden--then to try -to write seemed tough indeed. - -Still, it had to be done, and Hemming threw his manhood into the task. -In his little den there was just space for a couch, his desk, and -his books, which were littered about the room. His only chance of -accomplishing anything was to get Janet safely installed on the couch, -for if he once lay down there work was impossible. She would curl up -under a steamer rug, tired out from a long day with the house and -the baby, reading a book or the evening paper. And then the stumbling -clatter of the typewriter would begin. - -After a while there always came what they humorously called "the -pathetic little moment." This was the time when Janet's book or paper -would slip from her hand, she would turn away from the light, and coast -down the long, smooth toboggan of sleep. Then Hemming would switch off -the reading lamp above her head (with the secret economic satisfaction -young householders always feel when they switch off a light), touch the -soft cheek with a friendly finger, and climb the keys once more. His -writing always seemed to go better after the "pathetic little moment" -was past. There was a kind of subconscious satisfaction in the feeling -that Janet was there, asleep, and that he was working for her. And Janet -used to affirm that there was no lullaby like the irregular thumping of -those keys and levers. - -There was another catchword they had, which also moved stealthily in the -back passages of his mind as he mulled over his manuscripts. Janet badly -needed a new bonnet--a "pert little hat," she liked to call it--and -Hemming had pledged himself to write something that would bring her the -saucy little ornament she craved in time for Christmas. She was a -slender, bright-faced creature, and no one could wear an innocently -tilted turban with more grace. But these had been hard days for small -incomes. Winter coal, and warm clothes for the Urchin, and the cook's -wages (when they had one), and Liberty Bonds--all these had taken -precedence over the pert little hat. It had been talked of so long, it -had become a kind of joyous legend, which Janet hardly expected to see -realized on her head. She used to say wistfully, as she coasted off to -sleep on the couch: "Would it be unpatriotic to think about the pert -little hat?" And her husband would vow that patriotism that excluded -pert little hats was no patriotism at all. So he had sworn that the -bonnet should be millinered on the clacking loom of his typewriter. They -used to laugh about it, and say that the little hat ought to be trimmed -with carbon typewriter ribbons. - -But Hemming did not know that Janet was not always asleep after the -so-called "pathetic moment" when she ostensibly gave up the struggle -with drowsiness. The twanging springs of the old couch made less noise -than the typewriter keys, but they, too, moved to a secret creative -refrain. There were times when Janet lay watching the lamplight on the -rows of books, and little pictures of stories that she would like -to write flashed into her head. They often used to come to her at -inopportune periods during the day, when the Urchin was in his bath or -when she was taking stock of the ice-box. Of course her husband was the -literary man of the family, and she had no thought of setting up her -simple imaginings against his more serious efforts. But one night, when -he was engrossed in some intractable plot, Janet slipped away into the -little guest room and shut herself in. With a stub pencil, on odd sheets -of notepaper, she began scribbling hotly. Two hours later, when Hemming -came back to earth and hunted her out, she was still at it. - -"What on earth are you up to, monk?" he asked. - -"Making out laundry lists," she said. - -More observant husbands might have wondered what occasion there would be -for a laundry list on Thursday evening, but Hemming was always drowned -in his dreams of literary fame. - -His story, on which he had laboured at night for two months, and hers, -which had taken the spare hours of three days, were finished almost at -the same time. After dinner one night, when he had read the manuscript -of his story aloud, Janet handed him her venture, with some trepidation. -At first he seemed a little nettled that she should have done such a -thing. - -"Look here, monk," he said, "you oughtn't to wear yourself out trying -to write. You have quite enough to do with the house and the baby. -Moreover, you don't know how discouraging it is. It takes years of -patient apprenticeship before one can get anything across with the -editors. This is my job, brownie." - -"But I enjoyed doing it," she said. - -"That's a bad sign. All really good stories take fearful effort. How -long did you spend on this?" - -"Oh, quite a while," she said, vaguely. She did not like to admit that -her little story had involved no "patient apprenticeship." - -He lit his pipe and began reading the sheets on which her quick pencil -had flashed with such enthusiasm. She sat with her sewing, watching him -shyly. - -"Very nice," was his comment; but privately he wondered how he was to -avoid hurting her feelings. It seemed to him that the story had all the -faults of the amateur. - -"Would you submit it anywhere?" she asked, eagerly. "Do you think any -magazine would buy it?" - -He evaded the question. "Would you like me to type it for you?" he said. - -"Oh, _would_ you?" - -"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said, "I'll be sending my manuscript to -Mr. Edwards to-morrow. I'll type yours and send it, too." - -Janet was delighted, and she fell asleep that night with the sweet music -of the thumping keys in her ears. As she heard the staccato clicking, -she thought: "I wonder how far he has got now? How good of him to take -all that trouble to copy my poor little story." - -Hemming sat up very late that night, copying Janet's manuscript and -planning what to say to Mr. Edwards, the editor of the _Colonial -Magazine_, who had been very cordial to him. He resisted the temptation -to alter Janet's nave phrasing here and there, to improve her technique -by recasting some of the situations in her story. It was long past -midnight when both manuscripts were ready to go into the stout manila -envelope. Then, after some meditation, Hemming added the following note: - -_Dear Mr. Edwards:_ - -_I am sending you herewith my new story, and hope you may like it. I am -also enclosing a manuscript from my wife. Of course she is an untrained -writer--this is her first attempt--but I think her story has a certain -charm. Won't you, if you can, give her any encouragement you feel -proper? If you would write her a personal note of comment it would mean -a great deal to her. You know how tenderly one feels toward one's maiden -effort._ - -_Sincerely yours,_ - -_Godfrey Hemming._ - -It was very late when Hemming folded the carefully typed sheets and -placed them in the precious envelope. He was utterly weary, which must -be the explanation of a curious error he made. It was his custom to type -his name and address on a separate sheet of paper which was clipped to -the story he was submitting. He put his own name on one sheet, and his -wife's on another. But in arranging the manuscripts for the envelope -he inadvertently put his name-page with his wife's manuscript, and vice -versa. Then he went to bed with the satisfaction of well-earned fatigue, -and wondering how soon he would be able to order the "pert little hat". - -It was two weeks later, and the Urchin had just murmured himself off -into his morning nap, when Janet heard the postman's whistle, and ran -down to receive an envelope with the name of the _Colonial Magazine_ -engraved upon it. Eagerly she tore it open. - -My Dear Mrs. Hemming: - -Your husband was good enough to send me the manuscript of your story, -which I have read with interest. It is an able piece of work, and shows -unusual technical skill for a beginner. But I must caution you not to -let your pen follow the track of your husband's method too closely. -Naturally enough, perhaps, your style seems to have modeled itself on -his: but this is a mistake, because it is quite evident that you have -ability enough to strike out on your own line. I wish you would study -carefully Mr. Hemming's last story, "Three Is Company," which shows a -freshness and spontaneous originality better than anything he has done -before. It has a touch of charming humour which is new to his work. -If you can do us something of that sort, we shall be only too happy to -publish it. - -I am returning your manuscript with many thanks. - -Faithfully yours - -Theodore Edwards. - -Janet looked at the editor's flowing signature in amazement. "Three -Is Company" was her own story. And there, in the _Colonial Magazine's_ -envelope, lay the revered pages of Godfrey's masterpiece, returned. -The "fresh and spontaneous originality" was hers! A flush of exultation -thrilled her: she could almost feel the pert little hat on her head. -Instinctively she looked at herself in the mirror over the hall -mantelpiece. Was it possible that she was a literary genius, and had -never known it? - -But then a pang of horror chilled her. What dreadful mistake had -happened? Alas, it was only too plain--the two stories had been -confused. The editor had thought that her story was Godfrey's. He had -read it expecting to find the skill of Godfrey's trained hand. And -now how was she to spare her husband the mortification of having his -painstaking work rejected, while her prentice sketch had won favour by -some fluke? Her loyal heart, entirely devoid of selfish satisfaction, -could not bear the thought of this grotesque and unhappy climax for her -innocent venture. It was all her fault for meddling with what did not -concern her. What business had she to write a better story than Godfrey, -anyway? She knew that her husband would be honestly proud of her success -and would not grudge her the triumph for an instant, but she felt that -the poignance of the situation would be intolerable for her. Much better -do without all the pert little hats on Chestnut Street than win one at -the expense of Godfrey's feelings. - -How could she prevent the bad tidings from reaching him? Even now it -might be too late. She flew to the telephone, and with pricking pulses -asked for the office of the _Colonial_. One nervous hand unconsciously -flew to her hair, as though she were about to enter the august sanctum -of the editor. - -"Is this Mr. Edwards? - -"Oh, Mr. Edwards, this is Mrs. Hemming, Mrs. Godfrey Hemming, the wife -of one of your authors---- - -"Why, there's been a terrible mistake about our manuscripts, Mr. -Edwards, the stories that Mr. Hemming sent you. I've just had your -letter, and that story you sent back wasn't mine at all, it was -Godfrey's---- - -"I don't see how you can have made the mistake-- - -"Yes, the story called 'Three Is Company' is mine, I wrote it, but -really it can't possibly be better than the other one because I wrote it -in such a hurry, it's my first attempt---- - -"You want to publish it? But, Mr. Edwards, you simply mustn't, -because---- - -"I can't explain over the telephone. I know you only like it because you -thought---- - -"Will you promise not to do anything about it, and not to tell Mr. -Hemming anything, until you get a letter from me? - -"You _will_ promise? Oh, thank you so much! I'll write at once. - -"Good-bye!" - -She hurried to the little white enamelled desk, the same desk where the -ill-starred "Three Is Company" had been written. - -"This will cure me of trying to write," she thought; "why, I never heard -of such a thing--to have one's first story accepted! Mr. Edwards must be -mad." - -Luckily there was one sheet of her engraved stationery left--the paper -that Godfrey had given her, she thought remorsefully. All about her were -evidences of his loving care, and she had repaid him by undermining his -prestige with the one editor who had been nice to him. A fine way for an -author's wife to behave! She seized her pen and wrote: - -Dear Mr. Edwards: - -As I just told you over the phone, there has been some horrible mistake. -How it happened I can't guess. The manuscript you sent back to me is -Mr. Hemming's story. The one you say you like and want me to study as a -model is my own story, "Three Is Company". I'm sorry you like it, I mean -I'm sorry you think it is better than Mr. Hemming's story, which can't -be so as it is the first story I ever tried to write. I have decided -to withdraw it, I don't want it published, so please send it back to -me instantly, and write me a letter saying how amateurish it is. I am -sending Mr. Hemming's story back to you, so that now you know who wrote -it you can reconsider it. Of course, if you thought it was by me, you -naturally considered it as the work of a beginner, and only a poor -imitation of Mr. Hemming's style. - -I don't want you ever to tell Mr. Hemming that I have written this -letter. Just tell him you sent my story back to me because it was not -good enough. - -Sincerely yours, - -Janet Colton Hemming. - -The importance Janet attached to this letter may be judged from the fact -that she left the baby alone in the house, asleep, while she hurried -down to the post-office to mail it, together with Godfrey's manuscript, -back to Mr. Edwards. And not even the sympathetic Mr. Edwards ever -guessed that on the first page, where Godfrey's careful typing ran in -neat lines, she had printed a good luck kiss. - -The editor was an honourable man, and though he chuckled a little over -Janet's breathless letter he really meant to keep the innocent secret. -We hope that no young wives will be lured to destruction by our telling -the truth, which was simply this, that Janet's little story was much -better than Godfrey's. It might not have happened again in a lifetime, -but the enthusiasm of her girlish zeal had carried her pen into a very -pretty and moving tale, which the _Colonial_ would have been glad to -print. But since she wanted it back, there was nothing for Mr. Edwards -to do but comply. Then, that very morning, while he was dictating a note -of polite refusal to accompany "Three Is Company" back to the suburbs, -who should call at the office but Godfrey, to know what the editor -thought of the two stories. The coincidence was too much for Edwards, -and thinking that it could do no harm to let Hemming know of his wife's -devotion--for young husbands are too likely to be selfish--he told him -the whole incident. And Godfrey, with a faint sensation of burning under -his eyelids, related the dream of a new bonnet that had inspired "Three -Is Company". - -"Well, now, look here," said Edwards, "I'm not so awfully keen on this -story of yours. It isn't anywhere near up to what you can do--or rather, -up to what Mrs. Hemming can do," he added, chuckling. "But you go home -and write me a yarn about the pert little hat, and I'll put it in the -January number. It'll come out just before Christmas, and I hope you'll -get that wife of yours the best bonnet in town on the proceeds. If all -writers had wives like yours, perhaps the magazines would make better -reading. But for heaven's sake don't tell Mrs. Hemming I gave her away. -Wait until she sees the story in the magazine, it'll be a Christmas -surprise for her." - -On the Saturday before Christmas Hemming took Janet to the city to -solemnize the purchase of the pert little hat. Any one who happened to -see her wearing it down Chestnut Street that bright winter afternoon -knew that the elated pink in her cheek was not all reflected from the -red bow on the bonnet's neat brim. As they sat down for a matine and -Janet removed the precious creation, giving it to Godfrey to hold for a -moment, he said admiringly: - -"Well, the old typing bus isn't such a bad milliner after all, hey, -monk?" - -And Janet, who would then have denied that such a story as "Three Is -Company" ever existed, replied innocently: - -"I'm so glad Mr. Edwards turned down my story, grump. I like the pert -little hat ever so much better because it came all from you." - -Even if the pert little hat should live to be a great-great-grandbonnet, -none of its descendants will ever give Janet such pleasure. - - - - - -URN BURIAL - -NEVER quarrel at breakfast is the first maxim for commuters and their -wives. Partings in anger mean day-long misery for both, and generally -involve telephone calls later in the day, and a box of chocolate-coated -maraschino cherries carried home on the 5.18. Marriage (say the -philosophers) is a subdivision of the penal code, dedicated to the -proposition that men and women are created equal. But the studious -observer of matrimonial feints and skirmishes sees very little to verify -that daring surmise. - -Harry Bennett sipped his breakfast coffee grimly. Its savour had -departed: for ninety seconds earlier Mrs. Bennett had fled upstairs in -a flush of anger and tears. In five minutes he would have to run for the -train; and what man can soothe an outraged wife in five minutes? He ate -his toast without relish, gazing sourly on the blue-and-white imitation -Copenhagen china, the pretty little porcelain marmalade pot, and the big -silver coffee-urn. - -The desperate inequality of married life pierced his heart. Why should -he have to accept in silence tart remarks uttered by his wife, while the -least savagery of his own was cause for tears? - -He rushed upstairs to say a few consoling words. The bedroom door was -locked. Compassion fled, and he growled furiously through the panels. -Then he ran hotly for the train. - -It seems unreasonable: but the lives of human beings are not guided by -reason. Harry had come to the conclusion that the silver coffee-urn was -at the bottom of all their squabbles. - -Before Elaine Addison surrendered herself into his capable hands, there -had been a competitor for the honour of surrounding her with sectional -bookcases, linen closets, potted hydrangeas, and the other authentic -trappings of a home. - -Aubrey Andrews was the rival warrior. He was the kind of man who always -has a lot of crisp greenbacks in a neat leather bill-fold. Harry's -hard-earned frogskins were always crumpled in a trousers pocket This may -seem trivial, but it distinguishes two totally different classes of men. -Aubrey was tall, dark, well groomed; he played billiards and belonged to -expensive clubs. It was supposed that his wife would be beyond the reach -of financial worries. He kept a horse and easy office hours. - -Harry--well, Harry was no aristocrat. He worked hard for what he got, -and didn't get much. He was neither tall, nor dark, nor well groomed. -But he was a fine, lovable, high-minded chap, and to everyone's -surprise, including his own, he got Elaine. - -Tennyson had a good deal to do with it, I think. Harry still read -Tennyson, although that excellent poet is no longer fashionable, and -kept on repeating what Tennyson said about Elaine. And finally Elaine -could not help saying, "My Lancelot!" and melting into his arms. - -Aubrey gave them a magnificent silver coffee-urn for a wedding present, -and presently enlisted for service, first on the Mexican border and then -in France, where he became a heroic and legendary figure, surrounded in -Elaine's mind by the prismatic glamour of girlhood days. - -That coffee-urn was a stunner! It was far the handsomest thing in the -little suburban house, except, of course, Elaine herself. Beneath its -shining caldron sat an alcohol lamp that rendered a blue flame and kept -the coffee hot. Elaine's initials--her maiden initials--were engraved -upon it, and those of the donor: E. A. A. A. The hand of the insidious -silversmith had twined the A's together very gracefully. - -Every time he looked at it, Harry felt subconsciously irritated, -although he hardly realized why. - -It stood on the little mission sideboard, outshining everything else in -the pretty dining room. It was Elaine's particular pride, and was used -only on special occasions. Often it was brought out for the little -celebrations that young married couples have every now and then. And, -curiously enough, these celebrations very often ended in tears. The -polished dazzle of those silver curves was only too apt to suggest to -Elaine's radiant little beauty-loving heart other handsome wares she -would like to have, or unlucky comparison of the relative beauty of the -wedding presents sent by _her_ friends and _his;_ or Harry would make -some blunt remark about his not being able to give her all that some -other husband might have. - -Alas! Something of the sardonic spirit of the black-browed Aubrey seemed -to radiate from his urn. Can a coffee-um hypnotize? Grotesque as it -appears, little by little they realized that the innocent piece of -silver was marring many an otherwise happy hour. - -***** - -All the way to town in the smoking car, Harry's mind rotated savagely -about their absurd tiff. - -Let's see, how was it? He had said: "I'm sorry, dearest; I shall have to -be rather late tonight. The head of my department is away, and I've -got an extra lot of work to do." She said: "Oh, dear--oh, dear! Then -we sha'n't be able to go to the theatre, shall we?" He said: "We can go -next week, Brownie." She said: "Something horrid always happens when we -have this coffee-urn on the table." - -(N. B. Right here, when the danger topic was introduced, he should have -put on an extra soft pedal. But did he? Not a bit. As soon as the urn -was mentioned his eyes began to flash.) - -"Well," he said, "don't let's have it on so often!" She said: "Any one -might think you were jealous of it. It's the only handsome piece of -silver I've got." - -Here he did make one honest effort to steer away from danger: - -"I'm awfully sorry about to-night, honey, but the work's just got to be -done." She said: "Why didn't you let me know sooner you were going to -work late? I could have arranged to go and see Mother." He said: "Oh, -well, everything I do is always wrong, anyway! I suppose if I could buy -you a roomful of silver like that old tureen, you wouldn't mind." - -And after that it was not far to the deluge. All conducted according -to the recognized technique of quarrelling, passing through the seven -stages of repartee outlined by Touchstone, which should never be -forgotten by those happily married: - - 1 The retort courteous - - 2 The quip modest - - 3 The reply churlish - - 4 The reproof valiant - - 5 The counter-check quarrelsome - - 6 The lie with circumstance - - 7 The lie direct - -All day both Mr. and Mrs. Bennett were unpleasantly conscious of their -undigested altercation lying black and gloomy in the back of their -minds. At lunch-time he tried to call her on the telephone; but the -wire did not answer. Indeed, she had gone to spend the day in town with -friends, and was to go to dinner and the theatre with them. She left no -message for Harry, and gave the cook permission to go out overnight. - -About nine o'clock he got home tired and eager to resume their usual -blissful companionship. The house was dark and untenanted. In a rage, he -threw away the box of candy he had brought, and got himself some bread -and cheese from the ice-box. - -In the dining room his eye fell upon the coffee-urn. He swore at it. -Just then Elaine called him up, and in a cool, distant voice told him -that she had decided to spend the night in town with her mother. - -The next morning Elaine came home about ten o'clock, humming a merry -little air as she walked down the quiet suburban street. She and Harry -had patched things up over the telephone at breakfast-time. - -The sun was shining brightly, and she was planning a specially nice -dinner for poor Harry that evening. After all, it wasn't the dear boy's -fault that he had to work so hard. It was horrible of her to run off and -desert him that way. Tonight she would show him how much she loved him. -They would have ice cream with hot chocolate sauce, and meringues and -chicken salad; and she would buy him a cigar and hide it in his napkin. -And the old coffee-um should go back in the glass cabinet. - -***** - -The cook, with a very grave face, opened the front door. - -"Heavens, Emily, what's the matter?" cried Mrs. Bennett. - -"Burgled!" said Emily, tragically. "Someone's been an' bruk in the -dining-room winder. Footpads, I guess." - -Mrs. Bennett gave a little shriek of dismay She ran to the dining room. - -One window stood an inch or two open, and one of the panes was broken. -She glanced round the room. Nothing was disarranged, but her glance fell -on the sideboard. - -The coffee-urn was gone! - -"Well," she said, "that's very extraordinary. Mr. Bennett slept here -last night, and he's a light sleeper. He always locks the windows before -he goes to bed. Is anything else missing?" - -"The apple pie's gone out o' the ice-box," said Emily. - -"Oh, well, that's Mr. Bennett, I'm sure," said Elaine. "I'll call up the -police right away, and see if they can do anything. My nice coffee-urn! -Why, it's the finest thing we had in the whole house." - -Before the police arrived, Mrs. Bennett herself took a careful look -round the outside of the house. She found nothing unusual except a -cigar butt lying on the ground near the broken window. She picked it up -gingerly. A section of the gilt band still adhered to the wrapper. She -could read the name, _Florona._ She carried the fragment into the cellar -and threw it into the ash-can. - -Two policemen arrived shortly, examined everything, and asked -innumerable questions. Mrs. Bennett gave them a careful description of -the coffee-urn. They departed, promising to do everything possible to -trace it. They said that a piece of silver so large and unusual would -not be hard to locate with the aid of the pawnbrokers. Then Mrs. Bennett -went upstairs to think. - -It seemed very strange that the thieves should take the urn and nothing -else, when there were other pieces of silver beside it on the sideboard. -She called up Harry, who was horrified to learn of the loss. He had -slept right through the night without hearing a sound. He offered to -come home if he could do anything to help; but she would not hear of it. - -That night Mrs. Bennett had a special little dinner waiting for her -husband: his favourite soup, a tender steak, fried potatoes, ice cream -with hot chocolate sauce. And after dinner they discussed the theft of -the urn. - -"I don't understand how it was that you didn't hear anything," said -Elaine. "You generally sleep so lightly. Did you sit up late?" - -"No," he said; "I sat in the dining room until about ten, eating cheese -and apple pie, and smoking a cigar. Then I went to bed----" - -"Oh, you just reminded me!" cried Elaine. "I bought you a nice cigar to -smoke after your dinner, and I forgot to give it to you." - -From the mantelpiece she gave him a cigar with a _Florona_ band. - -"Why, isn't that nice!" said he, "That's the kind I always smoke. I -didn't think you knew one brand from the other." - -"I know more than you think, old man," she said. - -When Harry came home the next night, he brought a bulky parcel with him. - -"I'm awfully sorry about the urn, Brownie," he said. "I went to see the -detectives to-day, and they think there's very little chance of getting -it back; so I brought you this to take its place." She opened the -package. It was a big China coffee-jug of rose-and-white porcelain, -flagrantly out of harmony with her silver and blue china. - -"Honey," she said, "I think it's just lovely. It's ever and ever so much -nicer than that old urn." - -A week later, in the afternoon, the local chief of police called up Mrs. -Bennett. - -"Come down here to the police station," he said. "We've found your -coffee-pot. The most extraordinary thing you ever heard of. We found it -buried in a haystack, back of Webster's barn. Why any one should leave -it there is more than I know. The thief must have been frightened and -hid it. Will you come down and identify it?" - -Mrs. Bennett hastened down to the police station. There on the -sergeant's table stood the famous urn, the pride of her heart. There was -no doubt about it: the initials were there--it was hers. Tarnished and -spotted by exposure, it was still the handsomest piece of silver she had -ever seen. Involuntarily she gave a cry of delight. Then she hesitated. -After all, compared to Harry's happiness and hers, what was a silver -urn? - -"Oh, captain," she said, "I'm so disappointed. That's not mine! It's -very much like it, but it isn't mine." - - - - - -THE BATTLE OF MANILA ENVELOPES - -MR. BIRDLIP was a good old man, of unimpeachable simplicity. He had -achieved enormous wealth in an honourable business, and then found (to -his mild distress) that the great traffic he had built up conducted -itself automatically. He had, in a way, been gently shouldered out of -his own nest by the capable men whose fortunes he had made. But his -zealous and frugal spirit required some sort of problem to feed upon, -and he delighted his heart by owning a newspaper. _The Evening Lens_ was -his toy and the child of his dotage. - -So the Persian rugs and walnut panelling of his private suite in the -huge Birdlip Building saw him rarely. He was supremely happy in the -dingy sanctum at the back of the old _Lens_ office, where the hum of the -presses and the racket of the city room (which he still, by an innocent -misunderstanding, called the "sitting room") delighted his guileless -heart. He would sit turning over the pages of each edition as it came -upstairs (putting his second finger up to his tongue before he turned -each leaf) and poring industriously over the market reports, the comics, -and the Woman's Page. With his pink cheeks, his dapper little figure in -a brown suit and cream-coloured waistcoat, and his eager, shy, chirping -manner, he was very like a robin. Although he was full of gigantic -schemes, which he broached naively in the editorial council every now -and then, he never wittingly interfered with his editor-in-chief, -in whom he had full confidence. But his gentle and jejune mind had a -disastrous effect on the paper no less. Almost unconsciously the Lens -was written and edited down to his standard, as a roomful of adults will -amiably prattle so as to carry along a child in the conversation. - -Mr. Birdlip's amazing success in his original field had been due partly -to his decent sagacity, honesty, and persistence, and partly to his -sheer fortune in finding (at the very outset of his enterprise) several -men of rugged ability, who became the pearls in his simple oyster-shell. -As a result of this, it had become his fixed mental habit to believe -that somewhere, some day, he would encounter the man or men who would -make the _Lens_ the greatest newspaper in the country. This, indeed, was -his candid ambition, and he never went anywhere without keeping his eyes -open for the anticipated messiah. - -He was greatly taken by broad primitive effects: when he noticed that a -Chicago daily always called itself "The World's Greatest Newspaper" he -was marvellously struck by the power of this slogan, and lamented that -he had not thought of it first. The question as to whether the slogan -were true or not never occurred to him. He liked to have the keynote -sentences in the leading editorial emphasized in blackface type, so that -there might be no danger of any one's missing the point. Desiring for -his beloved sheet "this man's art and that man's scope," as the sonnet -puts it, every now and then he thought he had discovered the prodigy, -and some new feature would be added to the paper at outrageous expense, -only to be quietly shovelled out six months or a year later. In the -meantime, the auditor was growing very gray, and even Mr. Birdlip's -quick blue eye was sometimes hazed with faint perplexity when he studied -the circulation charts. Perhaps it would have been kinder if someone -could have told him that a boyhood spent in splitting infinitives is -not sufficient training for one to become an Abraham Lincoln of the -newspaper business. - -As he trotted in and out of the _Lens_ office, with his rosy air of -confidence and his disarming simplicity (which made his white hair seem -a wanton cruelty on the part of Time, that would wither a man's cells -while his mind was still on all fours), Mr. Birdlip was the object of -furtive but very sharp study on the part of some cynical journalists -whom he hired. It was a genuine amazement to Sanford, the dramatic -critic, that the owner was so entirely unaware of his (Sanford's) -abilities, which certainly (he thought) called for a salary of more -than sixty dollars a week. Sanford often meditated about this, and not -entirely in secret. In fact, it was generally admitted among the younger -members of the staff, when they gathered at Ventriloquo's for lunch, -that the Old Man was immaculately ignorant of all phases of the -newspaper business. While the spaghetti and mushrooms cheered the -embittered gossips, merry and quaint were the quips sped toward the -unsuspecting target. Sanford's private grievance was that though for -over a year he had been doing signed critiques of plays, which were -really spirited and honest, not once had the Old Man condescended to -mention them, or to show any sign of uttering an _Ecce Homo_ in his -direction. As far as he was concerned, he felt that the weekly battle of -Manila Envelopes was a conspicuous rout, and he frequently rehearsed the -exact tone in which he would some day say to the managing editor: "You -may fire when ready, Gridley." Little did Sanford realize that the only -time Mr. Birdlip had attempted to read the "Exits and Entrances" column -he had met the name of schylus, had faltered, and retreated upon the -syndicated sermon by the Rev. Frank Crane. - -***** - -"I saw 'Ruddigore' the other evening," said Sanford to his cronies, as -they called for a second round of coffee. "There's a line in it that -describes old Birdie fore, aft, and amidships. Something like this: 'He -is that particular variety of good old man to whom the truth is always a -refreshing novelty'." - -They complauded. Rightly or wrongly, these high-spirited and -sophisticated young men had decided that Mr. Birdlip's navet was -so refreshingly complete that it gave them an aesthetic pleasure to -contemplate it. It had the exquisite beauty of any absolute perfection. -Their employer's latest venture, which had been to pay $200,000 for the -exclusive right to publish and syndicate the mysterious formulae of a -leading Memory Course, had shocked them very greatly. - -It touched them in a tender spot to know that there had been all that -money lying round the office, unused, which was now to be squandered (as -they put it) on charlatanry, when they felt that they might just as well -have had some of it. - -"The Old Man is always looking for some special stunt, and trying to -discover someone on the outside," said one. "He can't see the material -right under his nose." - -"It's really rather pathetic: he's crazy to get out a great newspaper, -but he hasn't the faintest idea how to do it." - -"Yes, give him credit for sincerity. It isn't just circulation he -wants." - -"Circulation's easy enough, if that's what you're after. The three -builders of circulation are Sordid, Sensational, and Sex--" - -"And the greatest of these is Sex." - -"Oh, he's decent enough. He won't pander." - -"He panders to stupidity. He's fallen for this Memory bunk. And when he -finds that's a flivver, he'll try something else, equally fatuous. He's -making the old _Lens_ ridiculous." - -They smoked awhile, meditatively. - -"What I would like to figure out," said Sanford, "is some way of making -an impression on the Old Man. I've got to get more money. The -trouble--some part of it is, I feel instinctively that he and I live in -different worlds. We hardly even talk the same language. Well, there's -no chance of his learning my way of thinking; so I suppose I'll have to -learn his." - -"He's the man who puts the nil in the Manila envelope," said one of the -others. - -"As far as we are concerned, yes. But there's plenty of the stuff going -round on Fridays for the kind of people he understands." - -"He seems to be an absent-minded old bird. When I talk to him, it's as -though I were trying to speak through a fog." - -"It looks to me as though his mind had overstayed its leave of absence." - -"He likes the kind of men who, as he says, 'have both feet on the -ground'." - -"Yes, but you've got to have at least one foot in the air if you're -going to get anywhere." - -"See here," said the literary editor, who was more tolerant than the -others. "What's the use of panning the Old Man? He's trying to put the -paper over, just as hard as we are. Maybe harder. But he doesn't know. -And I believe he knows he doesn't know. I think the chief trouble is, -they all knuckle down to him so. They're scared of him. They think the -only way they can hold their jobs is by agreeing with him. If someone -could only put him wise----" - -"But how _can_ you put him wise? He doesn't see anything unless it's -laid out for him in a strip cartoon or a full-page ad. The kind of thing -that interests him is the talk he hears in a Pullman smoker or club -car." - -"That's a fact. You know he always says he likes to go travelling, -because he picks up ideas from people on the train. 'Of course I -place you! Mr. Mowbray Monk of Seattle. And is your Rotary Club still -rotating?' That kind of talk." - -"I think you're right," said Sanford. "He doesn't see us because we have -too much protective colouring. We are only the patient drudges. We don't -talk that Pullman palaver about Big Business. We've got to learn to -talk his language. What is that phrase of Bacon's--we've got to bring -ourselves home to his business and bosom----" - -"Let's get back to the office," said the disillusioned literary editor. -"That's the way to bring home the bacon." - -***** - -A few days later Sanford was at his desk, clipping and pasting press -agents' flimsies for the Saturday Theatre Page. This was a task which he -hated above all others, and he was meditating sourly on the scarcity -of truth in human affairs. At this moment Mr. Birdlip happened to pass -along the corridor outside the editorial rooms. Sanford heard him say: - -"Miss Flaccus, will you get me a seat in the club car, ten o'clock -train to-morrow? I've got to run over to New York to take lunch with Mr. -Montaigne." - -Sanford put down his shears, relit his pipe, and began to pursue a -fugitive idea round the suburbs of his mind. Presently he drew out his -check book from a drawer and did some calculating on a sheet of paper. -"A hundred dollars," he said to himself. "I guess it's worth it." - -The following morning, dressed in a new suit and with shoes freshly -burnished, Sanford was at the terminal twenty minutes before train time. -With him was a young man carrying a leather portfolio. To observe the -respectful demeanour of this young man, no one would have suspected that -he was Sanford's young brother-in-law, rejoicing in cutting his classes -at college for a day's masquerading. Sanford bought some cigars (a form -of smoking which he detested) and carefully removed the bands from all -but one of them. - -Presently Mr. Birdlip appeared, cheerfully trotting up the stairs. -Sanford and his companion followed discreetly. As Mr. Birdlip went -through the gate, they were close behind. Entering the club car, Mr. -Birdlip sat down and opened a morning paper. Sanford and his companion -were prompt to take the two adjoining seats. Sanford began to look over -_System_ and _Printers' Ink_, and perhaps his interest in these vigorous -journals was not wholly unfeigned, for it was the first time he had -studied them. The young man beside him drew out a mass of papers from -his leather bag, and in a moment of stillness just before the train -started said in a clear voice: - -"Pardon, sir, but there is some important dictation here that ought to -be attended to." - -Sanford assumed the air of a man wearied with tremendous affairs. . - -"Very well, what comes first?" - -"The New York _Budget_ has wired for an answer in regard to their -proposition." - -Sanford blew a luxurious whiff of smoke. "Take this letter: My dear Mr. -Ralston. Replying to your inquiries as to whether I would be willing to -take charge of the editorial page of the _Budget_ for a few months, -to put the paper on its feet, I am willing to consider the matter, and -would be pleased to discuss it with you if you will run over to see me. -I am very busy just now, and could not possibly undertake the work -for some weeks. I have been retained in an advisory capacity by a big -Western syndicate which was badly in need of some circulation building; -and until I can put their paper up to a half-million figure I have not -much spare time. Their paper has gone up a couple of hundred thousand -since I mapped out a campaign for them, but I would not feel justified -in discontinuing my services to them until these gains are properly -consolidated. I will be in my office at ten o'clock next Tuesday morning -if you care to see me. Very truly yours." - -Mr. Birdlip was hidden behind his paper, but something in the angle at -which the sheets were held led Sanford to believe that the old gentleman -was listening. - -"Very well, Edwards," he said. "What's next?" - -"Here's this letter from Lord Southpeak of the London _Gazette_ asking -if he can see you when he comes over next month." - -"Cable Southpeak I shall be very happy to see him if he gets here before -the fifteenth. I am going on my vacation then." - -The attentive Edwards scribbled rapidly in his notebook. - -"Just pick out the most urgent stuff," said Sanford. "I don't care to -bother with anything that isn't really pressing. I've got an important -conference on in New York to-day, and I want to keep my mind clear. -Blackwit of the Associated Press has asked me to say a few words to his -directors on 'Journalism as a Function of Public Conscience'." - -Edwards ran rapidly through an imposing mass of documents. - -"That long-distance call from the Chicago _Vox_," he said. "You promised -to give Mr. Groton some word this morning." - -"Call him up when we get to Penn. Station," said Sanford. "Tell him I -can't give him any decision yet awhile. Tell him that loyalty to my own -city will keep me there for some time. You might tell him that I believe -the _Lens_ has great possibilities if properly handled. I should not -care to build up the property of a Chicago paper while there is a chance -of the _Lens_ becoming the great evening paper of the East." - -"Yes, sir," said Edwards, jotting down what, might pass for stenography. - -The train was running smoothly through level green country, and Mr. -Birdlip laid down his paper on his lap. Sanford was ready to catch his -eye. - -"Good morning, Mr. Birdlip," he said, genially. - -"Good morning," said the owner of the _Lens_, whose bright gaze -exhibited a lively tincture of interest. - -"Here are the typed notes of your remarks on 'Newspaper Circulation as a -Byproduct of the Multiplication Table'," said Edwards, in a loud voice. - -"You can let those wait," said Sanford, carelessly. "I don't want to -be bothered with anything else this morning. Give me a memorandum of -anything that needs to be attended to when we get to New York." He -turned to Mr. Birdlip. "I find that in these busy days one has to attend -to some of one's work even on the train. It is about the only place -where one is never interrupted." - -"Did I hear you say something about Circulation?" said Mr. Birdlip. "Are -you specially interested in that problem?" - -"I have given it a good deal of thought," said Sanford. "But I would -hardly dignify it by calling it a problem. It is perfectly simple. It -is purely a matter of taking the right attitude toward it. So many -newspaper proprietors regard it merely as a problem in addition. Now it -should be considered rather as a matter of multiplication. Instead of -trying to add ten to your figures, why not multiply by ten? The result -is so much more satisfactory." - -This sounded so plausible that Mr. Birdlip felt ashamed to ask how it -was to be done. - -"Will you have a cigar, sir?" asked Sanford, handing out the only one -with a band on it. Mr. Birdlip accepted it, and looked as though he were -about to ask a question. Sanford went on rapidly. - -"Speaking of circulation," he said, "when I am consulted I am always -surprised to note that newspaper proprietors are so prone to view -the matter merely as a question of distribution; of--well, of -merchandising," he added, as his eye fell upon that word in his copy -of _System_. "Indeed it rests upon quite another basis. The essence of -merchandising" (he repeated the word with relish, noting its soothing -effect on his employer) "is what?" - -He made a dramatic pause, and Mr. Birdlip, carried away, wondered what -indeed was the essence. - -"The essence of merchandising," said Sanford (he smote the arm of his -chair, and leaned forward in emphasis), "and by merchandising I mean of -course in the modern sense, merchandising on a big scale, is nothing but -Confidence. Confidence, an impalpable thing, a state of mind. Now, -sir, what is it that upbuilds circulation? It is Public Confidence. The -assurance on the part of the public that the newspaper is reliable. It -is a secret and inviolable conviction on the part of the reader that the -integrity and enterprise of the paper are beyond cavil, in other words, -unimpeachable. In order to create the Will-to-Purchase on the part of -the prospect, in order to beget that desirable state of mind, there must -be a state of mind in the paper itself. Note that word _Mind_. Now -what is the Mind of the paper? I always ask every newspaper owner who -consults me, what is the Mind of his paper?" - -Without waiting for Mr. Birdlip to be embarrassed by his inability to -answer this question, the ecstatic Sanford continued: - -"The Mind of the paper is, of course, the Editorial Department. How -subtle, how delicate, how momentous, is that function of commenting on -the great affairs of the world! As I said in an address to a Rotary -club recently, of what use to have all the mechanical perfections ever -invented unless your editors are the right men? Walter Whitman, the -efficiency engineer, said: 'Produce great persons: the rest follows.' -That is the kind of production that counts most. Get great personalities -for your editors, and watch the circulation rise. Of course the right -kind of editors must be very highly paid." - -This was a strange doctrine to Mr. Birdlip, who never read the editorial -page of his own paper, and secretly wondered how the editors found so -much to write about. - -"The great error that so many newspaper owners make," said Sanford, -sonorously, "is to think of their product as they would of any other -article of commerce which is turned out day by day, in standardized -units, from a factory. A newspaper is not standardized. It is born anew -every issue. It is not a manufacturing routine that puts it together: -it is a human organism, built up out of human brains. Every unit -is different. It depends not primarily on machinery but on human -personalities. I cannot understand why it is that newspaper owners yearn -for the finest and most modern presses, and yet are often content to -staff their journals with second-rate men." - -"I agree with you," said Mr. Birdlip. "It is all a question of getting -the right man. That is one reason why I am so fond of travelling; I -always meet up with new ideas. Now, sir (I am sorry I do not know your -name, for your face is rather familiar; I think I must have met you -at some Rotary club), you seem to me a man of forceful and aggressive -character. You are the kind of man I should like to have on the _Lens_, -I heard you mention the paper to your secretary awhile back; you must be -interested in it." - -Sanford was perfectly cool. "I might consider it," he said. - -"I think you would find the _Lens_ a pleasant paper to work on," said -Mr. Birdlip. "I flatter myself that the staff is a capable one, for the -most part." - -"I should insist on being given a free hand," said Sanford. "Perhaps the -position of circulation manager----?" - -"Let me think a moment," said Mr. Birdlip. "I suppose I ought to visit -with my editor-in-chief before firing any one to make room for you. But I -must say I like the way you talk, straight from the shoulder, like that -Dr. Cranium, you know. That's the sort of stuff we need." - -"Right!" cried Sanford. "If you always talk straight from the shoulder, -you'll never talk through your hat." - -Mr. Birdlip relished this impromptu aphorism. "Well, now, let me see," -he said, pondering. "The editor-in-chief, the managing editor, the -editorial writers--they're all pretty good men." - -"Of course I shouldn't care for a merely routine position," said -Sanford. "The only position I would consider would be one in which I -could really build up circulation for you." He was wondering inwardly -whether to stand out for a ten thousand salary. - -"Quite so," said Mr. Birdlip. "I think I have it. How would you care -to run a column? 'Straight From the Shoulder'--wouldn't that be a fine -title?" - -"Fine!" said Sanford, but not without a secret shudder. Still, he -thought, gold can assuage anything; and he reflected on the rich, -sedentary, and care-free life of a syndicated philosopher. - -"Very well," said the owner. "I've been looking around for a man with -both feet on the ground----" - -("Both feet on the pay envelope is my idea," said Sanford to himself.) - -"And I think you're just the man I want. There's only one place in the -paper I can think of that really needs a change. There's a fellow on -the staff called Sanford, runs a kind of column, terrible stuff. I don't -think he amounts to much. Now why couldn't you take his job?" - -Sanford has never forgiven his brother-in-law for that curious strangled -sound he emitted. - - - - - -THE CLIMACTERIC - -MR. EUSTACE VEAL was a manufacturer of cuspidors. His beautiful factory -was one of the finest of its kind, equipped with complete automatic -sprinklers, wire-glass windows, cafeteria on the top floor, pensions for -superannuated employees, rosewood directors' dining room, mottoes from -Orison Swett Marden on the weekly pay envelopes, and a clever young man -in tortoise-shell spectacles hired at eighty dollars a week to write the -house-organ (which was called _El Cuspidorado_). - -Mr. Veal lived in the exclusive and clean-shaven suburb of Mandrake -Park, where he had built a stucco mansion with Venetian blinds, a -croquet lawn with a revolving spray on it on hot days, and a mansard -butler. Here Mrs. Veal and the two Veal girls, Dora and Petunia, led the -blameless life of the _embonpoint_ classes. The electric lights in the -bedrooms were turned on promptly at ten o'clock every night, except on -the sixteen winter evenings when the Veals occupied their box at the -opera. During "Rigoletto" or "Pagliacci" the uncomplaining Mr. Veal -would sit in silence with his head against the thick red velvet curtain -at the back of the box, thinking up new ways to get an order for ten -thousand nickel-plated seamless number 13's from the Pullman Company. - -Mr. Veal, hampered as he was by the restrictions of success, was still -full of the enjoyment of life. He had written a little brochure on "The -Cuspidor: Its Use and Abuse Since the Times of the Pharaohs," which -was very well spoken of in the trade. A morocco-bound copy lay on -the console table in Mrs. Veal's salon. It was he who invented the -papier-mach spittoon, and the collapsible paper "companion" for -travelling salesmen. It was he who had presented a solid silver spittoon -de luxe to the King of Siam when that worthy visited the United States. -And it was his idea, too, to name the beautiful shining brass model, -especially recommended for hotel lobbies, El Cuspidorado. This was -a stroke of imaginative genius, and several rival manufacturers wept -because they had not thought of it first. - -The spittoon magnate's habits were regular and sane. He rose by alarm -clock at seven. He bathed, shaved, brushed his teeth with the vertical -motion recommended by the toothbrush advertisers, breakfasted on cereal -and cream and poached eggs, with one cup of strong coffee; walked -leisurely to the station, bought a paper, and caught the 8.13 train. He -avoided the other men who wanted him to sit with them, took the fifth -chair on the left-hand side of the smoking car, and just as the train -started he lit his first cigar. His commutation ticket was always ready -for the conductor to punch. He never kept others waiting, just as he -hated to be kept waiting himself. After his ticket had been punched -and put back into an alligator-hide pocketbook, he opened the paper and -studied it faithfully until the train got to the terminal. - -At the factory Mr. Veal's routine was equally well-ordered and uniform. -At nine o'clock he reached his private office, greeted his secretary, -and ran over the morning mail, which had been opened and lay on his -desk. Then he went through his dictation, which was carefully (even if -not grammatically) accomplished. The sales reports for the preceding day -were brought to him. Then he discussed any matters requiring attention -with his department heads, calling them in one by one. At a quarter -after twelve he walked up to the Manufacturers' Club for lunch, after -which he played one game of pool. - -He was back at the office by half-past two, and gave his passionate -and devoted attention to the salivary needs of the nation until five -o'clock. He caught the 5.23 train back to Mandrake Park, sitting on the -right-hand side of the smoker where the setting sun would not dazzle on -his newspaper. - -But one day, about the time of the March equinox, when young ladies put -furry pussywillows on their typewriter desks, and bank tellers crack the -shells of spring jokes through the brass railings, Mr. Veal's behaviour -was so peculiar as to cause anxiety among his associates. - -He had ridden on the train as usual, without showing any abnormal -symptoms. But when he was next observed, walking down Vincent Street, -there was a red spot on his cheekbones and his expression was savage. -He entered a haberdasher's shop and asked to see some neckties. When the -clerk put out a tray of silk scarves in rich, sober colours, such as are -commonly worn by successful and middle-aged merchants, Mr. Veal swore -and dashed them aside. - -"Good Lord!" he cried, "I'm not going to a funeral! Things like that are -worn by Civil War veterans. What do you think I am, seventy years old? -Give me something with some snap to it!" - -And he chose a lemon-tinted cravat with vorticist patterns of brown -and purple. He tore off the dark gray tie he had on and substituted the -gaudy new one. - -At the next corner he passed a shoe-shop. He hesitated a moment at the -plate-glass window, then he entered and glared at the brisk young puppet -who came forward with a smirk. He displayed his elastic-sided boots -of the floorwalker type (which he had worn for years on account of his -corns) and asked to have them removed. When they were off his feet -he threw them to the other end of the long, narrow room. "I want some -russet shoes with cloth tops," he said. "And some silk socks to match, -the kind the men wear in the magazine ads." - -When he left the shop, his feet might have been taken for those of -Charley Chaplin, or of an assistant advertising manager of a department -store. - -***** - -Mr. Veal reached his office nearly two hours late, and one of his office -boys was instantly discharged for asking him whom he wanted to see. -Indeed, in a new suit of violent black-and-white checks, and with a -crush hat of velvety substance, he was almost unrecognizable. As he -passed through the filing department a hush fell over the young ladies -there. His secretary, looking nervously from her corner outside the -private office, felt a tingling _scherzo_ run up and down the keyboard -of her spine. Never before had she seen Mr. Veal wear flowers in his -buttonhole, and as he swung the door of his office behind him, she -sniffed the vibrating air. In the rich wake of cigar-fragrance always -exhaled by her employer her sharp nostrils detected a new tang--the -sweet scent of mignonette. Heavens! Was Mr. Veal using perfume? - -Miss Stafford was an acute young woman. She had long been waiting the -adroit moment to push her employer for a raise, which was indeed due -her. She determined that this was the psychological day. When the sign -of the Ram is ascendant in the zodiac, let employers tremble. This -is when even the most faithful and long-enduring wage-earner dreams -seditiously of a fatter manila envelope. Miss Stafford's typewriter -had sung like a zither for a number of years, she had orchestrated many -curious harmonies on it, and now she had reached the point where she -was almost as indispensable to the business as Mr. Veal himself. She was -carrying what the efficiency dopesters call the peak load. - -The buzzer buzzed, and Miss Stafford hastened to the private office, -nerving herself to throw cantilevers across the Rubicon. - -To her surprise, Mr. Veal, instead of sitting glowering over the morning -mail, was standing by the window, throwing a paper-weight in the air -and failing to catch it. The sunlight blazing through the large windows -seemed to surround his emphatic clothes with a prismatic fringe. To -her amazement, instead of the customary brief and reserved greeting, he -said: - -"Hullo, Miss Stafford. Great weather, eh? Sorry I'm late, but I just -couldn't keep my schedule this morning. Went out to buy myself some golf -clubs. I think I'd better take up the game, don't you?" - -He made a swing at an imaginary golf ball, and slipped on the polished -floor, nearly falling down. He recovered himself. - -"Here's some flowers for you," he said, taking a bunch of daffodils from -the desk. "Daffy-down-dillies, as the poets call 'em. Lovely flowers, -hey? Now comes in the sweet of the year. What ho!" - -He advanced toward her, and for one extraordinary moment she thought he -was about to chuck her under the chin. - -"Ask Mr. Foster to come in," he said. - -"Mr. Veal," she said, nervously, "there's just one thing--I wanted to -ask you about, my salary, don't you think, er, I think, it seems to me -about time I had a raise. I've been here----" - -"Bless my soul," he said. "I never thought of it. Why, of course, you're -right. Miss Stafford, how old would you say I am?" - -Miss Stafford knew perfectly well that he was fifty-five, but she had -learned the cunning of all women who have to manage men, whether those -men be husbands, employers, or ticket scalpers. - -"Why, Mr. Veal, in a good light and in your new suit, I should say about -thirty-nine." - -"What are you getting now, Miss Stafford?" - -"Thirty dollars." - -"Tell Mr. Mason to double it." - -The feminine mind moves in rapid zigzags, and Miss Stafford's first -conscious and coherent thought was of a certain woollen sports suit she -had seen in a window on Vincent Street marked $50.00. - -"And by the way," said Mr. Veal, "when you see Mr. Mason, tell him I've -got a new motto for next week's pay envelopes. Here it is; I found it -in the paper this morning. I don't know who wrote it--better have him -credit it to Orison Swett Marden." - -He handed her a slip of paper, on which he had copied out: - - Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; - - For in my youth I never did apply - - Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood: - - Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo - - The means of weakness and debility. - - --Orison Swett Marden (?) - -"Before you call Mr. Foster," said the secretary, "Mr. Schmaltz of the -Pullman Company is here to see you; he arrived just before you came in. -He says he wants to place a large order for the cuspidorados." - -"Send him in," said Mr. Veal, chuckling. "Hello, Schmaltz," he cried, as -the customer entered. "How's this for weather?" - -"Great stuff!" said Schmaltz. "Makes us old fellows feel almost young -again, doesn't it?" - -Mr. Veal's face grew dark. He aged ten years in the instant. He pointed -morosely to a chair. - -"Mr. Veal," said the other, "we want to place an order for ten thousand -of the cuspidorados. Can you give us the old price?" - -"I can _not_," said Mr. Veal, shortly. "Materials have gone to the sky. -I can't give you the--the old price. I'll give you a young price, a very -young one indeed, based on the present state of the market. Eighteen and -a quarter cents is the best I can do." - -Mr. Schmaltz raised racial hands. "Heavens!" he said, "you used to let -us have them for fourteen and a half. Why, in the old days----" - -Mr. Veal pounded the desk with his fist. - -"If you use that world _old_ again, I'll assassinate you with a dish -of ham!" he roared. "Great pigs' knuckles, what do you think this is, a -home for the aged?" - -***** - -After Mr. Schmaltz had gone Mr. Veal sent for Foster, the foreman of the -manufacturing department. - -"Well," he said, "how about those machines?" - -"Mr. Veal," said Foster, "we'll have to replace at least six of those -Victor stampers. They're so old they simply can't do the work. You know -when one of those machines is over five years old----" - -Mr. Veal was pointing to the door. - -"Get out!" he said. - -At lunch-time Mr. Veal went up to the club as usual. Swinging up the -street, in the bright sun and pellucid air, he felt quite cheerful, and -stopped to buy himself a rhinoceros cane. In the dining room of the club -he met Edwards, and they sat down together. - -"Hello, old man," said Edwards. "You're looking chipper for a veteran. -Played any golf yet this year?" - -"I don't play," said Mr. Veal. - -"Don't you? That's a mistake. It's the only game for us older fellows. -Of course we can't score like the youngsters; but still we can get round -and have a deal of fun----" - -Mr. Veal clenched his fists. Spilling his soup, he leaped up and rushed -from the room. He seized his coat and hat, forgetting the new cane, and -fled to the nearest Turkish bath. - -***** - -And all because, when going downstairs in the railway terminal that -morning, he had heard a man behind him say to another: - -"There goes Veal! He's beginning to look old, isn't he?" - -It was the first time in his life Mr. Veal had heard the damnable -adjective applied to himself in earnest. - -Wait until _your_ turn comes! - - - - - -PUNCH AND JUDY - -WHEN Judy Cronin first saw the topless towers of Manhattan rising into -the lilac vagueness of a foggy winter morning she passed into a numb -and frightened daze. Standing on the steerage deck of the _Celtic_, -she peered tremulously at those fantastic impossible profiles of stone. -Perhaps you don't know what it is to be thrown, ignorant and timid, into -a place where everything is utterly strange--particularly a place as -huge, violent, and hasty as New York. Judy, aged twenty-one, from a -little village near Queenstown, was incapable of distinguishing, in the -roaring voice of the city, that undertone of helpful kindness that -is really there. On the same steamer came the widow of a famous Irish -recusant and hungerstriker, and there were ten thousand people massed -in West Street to cheer her. Judy heard the shouts of the crowd, and -saw the lines of policemen on the pier. There was some of that quiet -but menacing scuffling with which the various branches of the -English-speaking world show their esteem for each other. Judy was not -familiar with that definition of a patriot as one who makes trouble for -his harmless fellow-citizens; but it looked as though she was blundering -into some more of the tribulations they had had at home. - -At last her sister Connie found her, sitting white and miserable on her -very small trunk, clutching her imitation-silver coin-purse. Connie had -been in New York for a couple of years, and it gave her a homesick throb -to see that coin-purse--one of those little metal pocketbooks with slots -to hold gold sovereigns and half-sovereigns. Father Daly had given it to -Judy, years ago, but it had never had gold in the little sockets until -Connie sent over the passage money to bring Judy to New York. - -The city flashed by like a current-events film. Judy found herself in a -friendly lodging-house in Brooklyn, kept by an Irishwoman who had been -kind to Connie. Her sister then explained matters. Her own employers, -with whom she had a position too good to abandon, had arranged to -go South for the latter part of the winter. They had already delayed -leaving so that Connie could meet her sister and get her settled. They -had given Connie a few days' holiday for that purpose. - -Therefore Judy must get a place as soon as possible. And that very -afternoon the sisters (Judy still in a kind of dreadful dream) went to -the office of a Brooklyn newspaper to insert an advertisement. - -A great many people were watching the _Situations Wanted_ columns, -and the next evening, at supper-time, Mrs. Leland called up the -lodging-house number, which had been given in the ad. Connie went to the -telephone. Mrs. Leland had a pleasant voice and "talked like gentry", -Connie said. She lived in Heathwood, Long Island, which is some twenty -miles from town, and wanted a nurse to take care of two children. Connie -agreed to take Judy out to Heathwood the next morning, to see if they -could come to terms. Judy was inexperienced, but Mrs. Leland liked her -looks. In short: by the time Judy had been in America three days, she -was installed at Mrs. Leland's home in the country; and a few days later -Connie had gone off to Florida. - -Now Judy was really very fortunate in these random proceedings, for -she had found a good home under an exceptionally kind and understanding -mistress. And therefore perhaps it was unreasonable of her to be so -unhappy. But no one has ever demonstrated that human affairs are much -controlled by reason. Judy was dumbly and piteously miserable. She was -homesick and lonely, and half-mad with strangeness. She was not really -slow-witted; but the confusion of her spirits put her into a kind of -black stupor. Everything was uncouth to her: steam heat, electric light, -gas-stove, telephone--even the alarm clock in her bedroom. Not knowing -how to turn off her radiator, and having the simple person's distrust -of opening windows in a strange place, the first few nights she was sick -with heat and suffocation. In her sleep she cried out indistinguishable -words about being shot. In spite of Mrs. Leland's patient tuition, she -made every possible kind of mistake. The children, with the quickness of -youth, realized her inexperience and uncertainty, and played a thousand -impish pranks. Mrs. Leland could see that the girl had been through -distresses at home, and kept the evening papers, with their headlines -about Ireland, out of sight. But one evening, in the kitchen, Judy came -upon a Sunday rotogravure section with pictures of burnt streets in -Cork. The look of the people in those photographs went through her -heart. The men wearing caps, the women in shawls, something even in the -shape of trouser legs and heavy shoes, reminded Judy how far she was -from all that she understood. It's the little things you take for -granted at home that come back to hurt you when you're away. That night, -sitting in her bedroom next the nursery, she shook herself ill with -sobs. - -One who might have helped her greatly took pains to add to her -bewilderment. Hattie, Mrs. Leland's coloured cook, a retainer of long -standing, was sharply disgruntled at this new addition to the household. -Jealousy was the root of Hattie's irritation, and it shot up a rapid -foliage of poison ivy. The previous nurse, a bosom friend of Hattie's -own race, had been discharged in December for incompetence. Moreover, -Hattie had not forgotten poor nave Judy's startled look when they first -encountered. Judy had hardly seen a coloured person before, and was -honestly alarmed. Hattie, though loyal to Mrs. Leland in her own -primitive fashion, deeply resented this interloper. The invasion proved -that Mrs. Leland was no longer entirely dependent on the particular -clique of Heathwood coloured society in which Hattie moved. The -cook's logic was narrow but rigorous. The sooner the intruder could be -discouraged out of the house, the sooner the Black Hussars (as Heathwood -ladies called the coloured colony on whom they largely relied for -assistance) would resume undivided sway. Mrs. Leland had had a Polish -girl as a stop-gap for a few days after the coloured nurse left; and -observing the cook's demeanour toward this unfortunate, Mr. Leland had -remarked that Hattie was working for a black Christmas. - -So Hattie, who was sharp-tongued and very capable, hectored Judy -whenever she entered the kitchen, and by all the black arts at her -command (which were many) added to the girl's distress. Judy, in spite -of her mistress's kindness, grew more and more wretched. As Mr. Leland -said in private (pursuing the train of his previous pun), the maids were -black and blue. Mrs. Leland, much goaded by domestic management and the -care of a very small baby, began to wonder whether she had not added -another child to look after rather than lightening her burdens. And then -she saw that Judy was on the verge of nervous collapse. She tried to -hearten the girl by giving her an extra holiday. Judy was given some -money, packed off to the station in a taxi, and sent on her maiden trip -to town in the hope that city sights and shop windows would revive her -interest in life. Mrs. Flaherty, the lodging-house lady in Brooklyn, was -telephoned to, and promised to send her small boy to meet the girl at -the station. - -It happened to be the eve of the genial Saint Valentine's Day. Shop -windows were gay with pleasantly exaggerated symbols of his romantic -power. Winter afternoons in the city are cruel to the unfortunate, -for the throng of the streets the light and lure of the scene, make -loneliness all the worse if there is trouble in your heart. - -Judy sat in the waiting room of the Long Island terminal in Brooklyn, -and tears were on her face. She had somehow missed Mrs. Flaherty's lad. -Then she had tried to find her way to the lodging-house, but grew more -and more frightened and bewildered as she strayed. Giving that up, she -had gone into a movie, and there, for a while, she had been happy. The -favourites of the screen are the true internationalists: they speak -a language, crude though it often is, which is known from Brooklyn to -Bombay. But then pictures were shown of scenes in Ireland. She came -out with cold hands, and wandered vaguely along the streets until dusk. -Finally, in despair, she groped back to the station at Flatbush Avenue, -and sat forlornly on a bench, too weary and sorry even to ask how to get -home. - -With the unerring instinct of the stranger for choosing the wrong place, -she had blundered into the downstairs station, by the train-gates, -missing the waiting room above where departures are duly announced by -orotund men in blue and silver. In that chilly cavern she sat, dumbly -watching the press of homeward commuters laden with parcels and papers. -Red signboards clattered up and down over the iron gates, and she -puzzled doubtfully over such names as _Speonk_, and _Far Rockaway_. The -last somehow recalled a nursery rhyme and made her feel even more lost -and homesick. Occasionally, with a gentle groan and rumble, an electric -train slid up to the railing and stared at her with two fierce hostile -eyes. The soda fountain in the corner was doing a big business: timidly -she went over, feeling cold, and asked for tea. To her amazement, there -were no hot drinks to be had. The people, all gulping iced mixtures, -stared at her curiously. Sure, this is a mad country, she thought. The -clock telling the time was the only thing she could properly understand. - -So it was the clock, at last, that brought her to startled action. It -was getting late. A tall, good-looking fellow in a blue uniform came out -of a room at the back of the station, carrying two lighted lanterns. He -halted not far from where she was sitting, and compared his watch with -the Western Union clock. Of all the hundreds she had seen, he was the -first who looked easily questionable. With a sudden impulse Judy got up, -clutching her coin-purse. - -"If you please, where will I be after taking the train to Heathwood?" -she said, nervously. - -"Heathwood? The 6:18 makes Heathwood. Right over there, the gate's just -opening. Change at Jamaica." - -He looked down at her, wondering but kindly. He was puzzled at the -frightened way she was staring at his coat-collar; he could hardly have -guessed that to wet eyes the embroidered letters had at first seemed -to be _liar_. Her puny, pinched face was streaked with tears, the red -knitted muffler made her pallor even whiter. The little imitation fur -trimmings on her coat sleeves and collar were worn and shabby. - -"Thank you," she said, blindly, and started off for the wrong gate. - -"Hey!" he called, and overtook her in a few long strides. "This way, -miss. Got your ticket?" - -In a sudden panic she opened her purse, and could not find it. - -"Oh, surely I've lost it," she cried. "Where's the booking office?" - -"The booking office?" he said. "D'you mean the news-stand? Here you -are." He picked up the ticket, which she had dropped in her nervousness. - -"That's all right," he said, encouragingly. "This train, over here. I'm -one of the crew. I'll see you get there. Don't worry." - -He escorted her through the gate, and found her a seat on the train, -beside a stout commuter half buried in parcels. - -"Now you stay right here," he said. "I'll tell you when we get to -Jamaica, and show you the Heathwood train." He smiled genially, and left -her. - -Judy got out her wet handkerchief and wiped her face. As the train ran -through the tunnel, she wished she had been on the inside of the seat, -for the dark window would have been useful as a mirror. "He saw me -crying," she kept repeating to herself. The man beside her blanketed -himself with a newspaper, and the pile of packages on his knees kept -sliding over onto her lap, but she was oblivious. She was thinking of -the tall man in blue with the queer cap. How kind he had been. The first -real kindness she had met in all that nightmare afternoon. - -Presently he came through the car. She could see him far down the aisle, -leaning courteously over each seat. At first she thought he was just -saying a friendly word to all the passengers. Sure, that's like him, she -said to herself: he has a grand way with him. Then she saw that he was -punching tickets with a silver clipper. Glory, it's the Guard himself, -she thought. I wonder will he speak to me again? - -The man beside her thrust an arm out from his mass of bundles and held a -large oblong of red-striped cardboard across in front of her face. -This reminded Judy of her own ticket, which was so different from her -neighbour's that she worried for a moment lest it should not be valid. -Here was her friend, bending above her with a smile. - -"Everything all right?" he said. "The next stop's Jamaica. That's where -you get off. Watch for me at this door, and I'll show you the Heath-wood -train." Click, click: the two tickets were punched, and he went on. Judy -shut up her coin purse with a snap, and began to notice the hat worn by -the lady in the seat in front. - -At Jamaica she found him in the vestibule, his head overtopping the -pushing crowd. "This way," he said, and led her quickly across the -platform. "Jack," he said to the brakeman on the other train, "tell this -lady when you get to Heathwood." - -"Well, Judy," said Mrs. Leland when her nursemaid got back to the house. -"How much better you look! Did you have a good time?" - -"Oh, a grand time," said Judy. Her face had a touch of colour and indeed -even her awkward bog-trotting gait seemed lighter and more sprightly. -"That's good," said her mistress. "You'd better run down and get some -supper before Hattie puts everything away. You can put Jack to bed after -you've had something to eat." - -"Pretty late for supper," grumbled Hattie, as Judy came into the -kitchen. "Doan' you think I got nothing to do but wait on you?" - -"I'll get my own supper," said Judy, politely. "Don't you bother." - -"You've got a head on your shoulders," said Hattie, banging some dishes -on to the kitchen table. "Whyn't you use it and get back on time?" - -"The black banshee's up in arms again," said Judy to herself. "I'll hold -my peace." - -"That's the trouble with foreigners," growled Hattie. "They ain't got no -sense. These Irish micks come over here, puttin' on airs, where nobody -wants 'em." - -Judy's sallow cheek began to burn a darker tint. - -"Ah, nabocklish!" she said. "There's somebody loves me, at any rate." - -She hurried through supper, and ran upstairs to put Jack to bed. The -six-year-old was amusing himself by snapping open and shut something -that gleamed in the lamplight. - -"Here!" she said. "What are you doing with Judy's purse?" - -Jack looked up in surprise. It was the first time that he had heard that -note of command in the meek Judy's voice. - -"I found it on your bureau," he said. - -"Well, leave it be, darlin'." She took it from him. "Glory above, what's -become of----?" - -She fell on her knees on the floor and began searching. - -"Ah, here,'tis!" she cried, gladly. From the rug she picked up a tiny -red cardboard heart, and replaced it carefully in one of the sockets of -her purse. - -"What is it?" said Jack, yawning. - -"Sure, it's my Valentine!" said Judy. "It ain't many girls that gets -a Valentine from a big handsome man like that the first time he sees -them." - -I have often wondered how many of the Long Island trainmen use a -heart-shaped punch. - - - - - -REFERRED TO THE AUTHOR - -YES, "Obedience" is a fine play. I'm glad they've revived it. Did you -know that the first time it was produced, Morgan Edwards played the part -of Dunbar? It's rather an odd story. - -I never think of Edwards without remembering the dark, creaky stairs in -that boarding-house on Seventy-third Street. That was where I first met -him. We had a comical habit of always encountering on the stairs. We -would pass with that rather ridiculous murmur and sidling obeisance -of two people who don't know each other but want to be polite. I was -interested in him at once. Even on the shadowy stairway I could see that -he had a fine head, and there was something curiously attractive about -his pale, preoccupied face. There was a touch of the unworldly about -him, and a touch of the tragic, too. You know how you divine things -about people. "He has troubles of his own" was the banal phrase that -came into my mind. Also there was something queerly familiar about him. -I wondered if I had seen Him before, or only imagined him. I was busy -writing, at that time, and my mind was peopled with energetic phantoms. -The thought struck me that perhaps he was someone I had invented for a -story, but had never given life to. I wondered, was this pale and rather -reproachful spectre going to haunt me until the tale was written? At any -rate, whatever the story was, I had forgotten it. - -One day, as I creaked up the first flight, I saw that he was standing at -the head of the stairs, waiting for me to pass. A door was open -behind him, and there was light enough to see him clearly. Tall, thin, -beautifully shaven on a fine angular jaw that would not be easy to -shave, I was surprised to see an air of sudden cheerfulness about him -that was almost incongruous. Having thought of him only as a sort -of melancholy hallucination living on a dingy stairway, it was quite -startling to see him with his face lit up like a lyric poet's, a glow of -mundane exhilaration in his eyes. For the first time in our meetings -he looked as though to speak to him would not break in upon his secret -thoughts. He was the kind of chap, you know, who usually looked as -though he was busy thinking. I remember what I said because it was so -inane. Some people don't like to cross on the stairs. I looked up as I -came to the turn in the steps, and said, "Superstitious?" He smiled and -said "No, I guess not!" - -"Only in the literal sense, at this moment," I said. An absurd remark, -and a horrible pun which I regretted at once, for I thought I would have -to explain it. Nothing more humiliating than having to explain a bad -pun. But if I didn't explain it, it would seem rude. He looked puzzled, -then his face lit up charmingly. "Superstitious--standing above you, eh? -I never thought of the meaning before!" - -I came up the last steps. "Pardon the vile pun," I said. Then I knew -where I had seen him before, and recognized him. "Aren't you Morgan -Edwards?" I asked. "Yes," he said. - -"I thought so. I remember you in 'After Dinner'. I wrote the notice in -the _Observer_ ." - -"By Jove, did you? I _am_ glad to meet you. I think that was the nicest -thing any one ever said." His gaunt and pensive face showed a quick -flash of that direct and honest friendliness which is so appealing. We -found that we were both living on the fourth floor. For similar reasons, -undoubtedly. I'm afraid he thought, at first, that I was a dramatic -critic of standing. Afterward I explained that the "After Dinner" notice -had been only a fluke. I was on the _Observer_ when the show was put on, -and one of the dramatic men happened to be ill. - -Wait a minute: give me a chance! I'll tell it exactly as it came to -me, in snips and shreds. At first I didn't pay much attention. I had -problems of my own that summer. You know what a fourth-floor hall -bedroom is in hot weather. I had given up my newspaper job, and was -trying to finish a novel. I couldn't work late at night, when it was -cool, because if I kept my typewriter going after nine-thirty the old -maid in the next room used to pound on the partition. I didn't get on -very well with the work, and the money was running low. Every now and -then I would meet Edwards in the hall. He looked ill and worried, and -I used to think there was a touching pathos in his careful neatness. -My own habits run the other way--my Palm Beach suit was a wreck, I -remember--but Edwards was always immaculate. I could see--having made -it my business to observe details--how cunningly he had mended his cuffs -and soft collars. Poor devil! I used to see him going out about noon, -with his cane and Panama hat. I dare say he scrubbed his hat with his -toothbrush. Summer is a hard time for an actor who hasn't had a job -all spring. Of course there are the pictures, and summer stock, but I -gathered that he had been ill, and then had turned down several offers -of that sort on account of something coming along that he had great -hopes for. I remembered his really outstanding work in "After Dinner", -that satiric comedy that fell dead the winter before. Most of the -critics gave it a good roasting, but knowing what I do now I expect the -real trouble was poor direction. Fagan was the director, and what did he -know of sophisticated comedy? As I say, I had reviewed the piece for -the _Observer_, and had been greatly struck by Edwards's playing. Not a -leading part, but exquisitely done. - -But just at that time I was absorbed in my own not-too-successful -affairs. For several years I had been saying to myself that I would do -great stuff if I could only get away from the newspaper grind for a few -months. And then, when I had saved up five hundred dollars, and buried -myself there on Seventy-third Street to write, I couldn't seem to make -any headway. I got half through the novel, and then saw that it was -paltry stuff. It was flashy, spurious, and raw. One warm evening I was -sitting at my window, smoking mournfully and watching some girls who -were laughing and talking in a big apartment house that loomed over our -lodgings like an ocean liner beside a tugboat. There was a tap at the -door. Edwards asked if he could come in. I was surprised, and pleased. -He kept very much to himself. - -"Glad to see you," I said. "Sit down and have a pipe." - -"I didn't want to intrude," he said. "I just wanted to ask you -something. You're a literary man. Do you know anything about Arthur -Sampson?" - -I had to confess that I had never heard the name. No one had, at that -time, you remember. - -"He's written a play," Edwards said. "A perfectly lovely piece of work. -I've got a part in it. By heaven, it seems too good to be true--after a -summer like this: illness, the actors' strike, and all that--to get into -something so fine. I've just read the whole script. I'm so keen about -it, I'm eager to know who the author is. I thought perhaps you might -know something about him." - -"I guess he's a new man," I said. "What's the play called?" - -"'Obedience.' You know, I've never had such a stroke of luck--it's as if -the part had been written for me." - -"Splendid," I said, and I was honestly pleased to hear of his good -fortune. "Is it the lead?" - -"Oh, no. Of course they want a big name for that. Brooks is the man. My -part is only the foil--provides the contrast, you know--on the payroll -as well as on the stage." He laughed, a little cynically. - -"Who's producing it?" - -"Upton." - -"You don't mean to tell me Upton's got anything good?" I knew little -enough about theatrical matters, but even outsiders know Upton's sort -of producing, which mostly consists of musical shows where an atrocious -libretto is pulled through by an opulent chorus and plenty of eccentric -dancing. "A chorus that outstrips them all" was one of his favourite -advertising slogans. - -"That's why I was wondering about the author, Sampson. This must be his -first, or he'd never have given it to Upton. Or is Upton going to turn -over a new leaf?" - -"The only leaves Upton is likely to turn over are figleaves," I said, -brutally. Upton's previous production had been called "The Figleaf -Lady". - -"That's the amazing part of it," said Edwards. "This thing is -really exquisite. It is beautifully written: quiet, telling, nothing -irrelevant, not a false note. What will happen to it in Upton's hands, -God knows. But he seems enthusiastic. He's a likable cutthroat: let's -hope for the best. You're busy--forgive me for breaking in." - -***** - -Well, of course some of you have seen "Obedience" since that time, and -you know that what Edwards told me was true. The play _was_ lovely; not -even Upton could kill it altogether. It was Sampson's first. Have any of -you read it in printed form? It reads as well as it plays. And the part -that Edwards was cast for--Dunbar--is, to any competent spectator, the -centre of the action. You remember the lead: the cold, hard, successful -hypocrite; and then Dunbar, the blundering, kindly simpleton whose -forlorn attempts to create happiness for all about him only succeed in -bringing disaster to the one he loves best. It's a great picture of a -fine mind and heart, a life of rich, generous possibilities, frittered -and wasted and worn out by the needless petty obstinacies of destiny. -And all the tragedy (this was the superb touch) because the wretched -soul never had courage enough to be unkind. What was it St. Paul, or -somebody, said about not being disobedient to the heavenly vision? -Dunbar, in the play, was obedient enough, and his heavenly vision made -his life a hell. It was the old question of conflicting loyalties. How -are you going to solve that? - -I suppose the tragic farce is the most perfect conception of man's -mind--outside the higher mathematics, I dare say. Everyone knows -Sampson's touch now, but it was new then. Some of his situations came -pretty close to the nerve-roots. The pitiful absurdity of people in a -crisis, exquisite human idiocy where one can't smile because grotesque -tragedy is so close... those were the scenes that Upton's director -thought needed "working up". But I'm getting ahead of my story. - -Well, now, let me see. I'd better be a little chronological. It must -have been September, because I know I took Labour Day off and went to -Long Beach for a swim. I had just about come to the conclusion that my -novel was worthless, and that I'd better get a job of some sort. At the -far end of the boardwalk, you remember, there's a quiet hotel where one -gets away from the crowd, and where you see quite nice-looking people. -After I'd had my swim, I thought I'd stroll up that way and have supper -there. It's not a cheap place, but I had been living on lunch-counter -food all summer, and I felt I owed myself a little extravagance. I was -on my way along the boardwalk, enjoying the cool, strong whiff that -comes off the ocean toward sunset, when I saw Edwards, on the other side -of the promenade, walking with a girl. My eye caught his, and we raised -our hats. I was going on, thinking that perhaps he wasn't so badly off -as I had imagined, when to my surprise he ran after me. He looked very -haggard and ill, and seemed embarrassed. - -"Look here," he said, "it's frightfully awkward: I must have had my -pocket picked somehow. I've lost my railroad tickets and everything. -Could you possibly lend me enough to get back to town? I've got a lady -with me, too." - -I didn't need to count my money to know how much I had. It was just -about five dollars, and, as you know, that doesn't go far at Long Beach. -I told him how I stood. "I can give you enough for the railroad fares, -and glad to," I said. "But how about supper?" - -"Oh, we're not hungry," he said; "we had a big lunch." I knew this was -probably bravado, but I liked him for saying it. While I was feeling -in my pocket for some bills, and wondering how to pass them over to him -unobtrusively, he said, "I'd like to introduce you to Miss Cunningham. -We're going to be married in the autumn." - -You may have seen Sylvia Cunningham? If so, you know how lovely she is. -Not pretty but with the simple charm that beauty can't---- - -Well, that's trite! She'll never be a great actress, but in the rle of -Sylvia Cunningham she's perfect. I hate to call her slender--it's -such an overworked word, but what other is there? Dark hair and clear, -amberlucent brown eyes, and a slow, searching way of talking, as if she -were really trying to put thought into speech. She, too, poor child, had -had a bad summer, I guessed: there was a neat little mend in her glove. -She was very friendly--I think Edwards must have told her about that -_Observer_ notice. I saw that they were both much humiliated at their -mishap, and I judged that genial frankness would carry off the situation -best. - -"Life among the artists!" I said. "What are our assets?" - -"I've got seventeen cents," said Edwards. It was a mark of fine -breeding, I thought, that he did not insist upon saying how much it was -that he had lost. - -Miss Cunningham began to open her purse. "I have----" - -"Nonsense!" I said. "What you have doesn't enter into the audit. In -the vulgar phrase, your money's no good. I've got five dollars and a -quarter. Now I suggest we go to Jamaica and get supper there, and then -go back to town by trolley. It'll be an adventure." - -Well, that was what we did, and very jolly it was. You know how it is: -artists and actors and manicure girls and newspapermen are accustomed to -ups and downs of pocket; and when they have a misery in the right-hand -trouser they make up for it in a spirit of genial comradeship. Jamaica -is an entertaining place. In a little lunchroom, which I remembered from -a time when I covered a story out that way, we had excellent ham and -eggs, and a good talk. - -As we sat in that little white-tiled restaurant, I couldn't help -watching Edwards. I don't know how to make this plain to you, but our -talk, which was cheerful enough, was the least important part of the -occasion. Talk tells so little, anyway: most of it's a mere stumbling -in an almost foreign tongue when it comes to expressing the inward pangs -and certainties that make up life. I had a feeling, as I saw those -two, that I was coming closer than ever before to something urgent and -fundamental in the human riddle. I thought that I had never seen a man -so completely in love. When he looked at her there was a sort of--well, -a sort of possession upon him, an enthusiasm, in the true sense of that -strange word. I thought to myself that Keats must have looked at Fanny -Brawne in just that way. And--you know what writers are--I must confess -that my observation of these two began to turn into "copy" in my mind. -I was wondering whether they might not give me a hint for my stalled -novel. - -There are some engaged couples that make it a point of honour to be a -bit off-hand and jocose when any one else is with them. Just to show, -I suppose, how sure they are of each other. And somehow I had expected -actors, to whom the outward gestures of passion are a mere professional -accomplishment, to be a little blas or polished in such matters. But -there was a perfect candour and simplicity about them that touched -me keenly. Their relation seemed a lovely thing. Too lovely, and too -intense perhaps, to be entirely happy, I thought, for I could see in -Edwards's face that his whole life and mind were wrapped up in it. I may -have been fanciful, but at that time I was seeing the human panorama not -for itself but as a reflection of my own amateurish scribblings. In -my novel I had been working on the theory--not an original one, of -course--that the essence of tragedy is fixing one's passion too deeply -on anything in life. In other words, that happiness only comes to those -who do not take life too seriously. Destiny, determined not to give up -its secrets, always maims or destroys those who press it too closely. As -we laughed and enjoyed ourselves over our meal, I was wondering whether -Edwards, with his strange air of honourable sorrow, was a proof of my -doctrine. - -Of course we talked about the new play. Edwards had persuaded Upton to -give Miss Cunningham a place in the cast, and she was radiant about it. -Her eyes were like pansies as she spoke of it. I remember one thing she -said: - -"Isn't it wonderful? Morgan and I are together again. You know how -much it means to us, for if the show has a run we can get married this -winter." - -"This fall," Edwards amended. - -"Morgan's part is fine," she went on, after a look at him that made even -a hardened reporter feel that he had no right to be there. "It's really -the big thing in the play for any one who can understand. It's just made -for him." - -She was thoughtful a moment, and then added: "It's _too much_ made for -him, that's the only trouble. You're living with him, Mr. Roberts. Don't -let him take it too hard. He thinks of nothing else." - -I made some jocular remark, I forget what. Edwards was silent for a -minute. Then he said: "If you knew how I've longed for a part like -that--a part that I could really lose myself in." - -"I shouldn't care," I said, "to lose myself in a part. Suppose I -couldn't find myself again when the time came?" - -He turned to me earnestly. - -"You're not an actor, Roberts, so perhaps you hardly understand what it -means to find a play that's _real_--more real than everyday life. What -I mean is this: everyday life is so damned haphazard, troubled by a -thousand distractions and subject to every sort of cruel chance. We just -fumble along and never know what's coming next. But in a play, a good -play, it's all worked out beforehand, you can see the action progressing -under clear guidance. What a relief it is to be able to sink yourself in -your part, to live it and breathe it and get away for awhile from this -pitiless self-consciousness that tags around with us. You remember what -they used to say about Booth: that it wasn't Booth playing Hamlet, but -Hamlet playing Booth." - -***** - -The next day, I remember, I tied up my manuscript neatly in a brown -paper parcel, marked it _Literary Remains of Leonard Roberts_ (I was -childish enough to think that the alliteration would please my literary -executor, if there should be such a person), put it away in my trunk, -and went down to Park Row to see if there were any jobs to be had. -Of course it was the usual story. I had been out of the game for -six months, and Park Row seemed to have survived the blow with great -courage. At the _Observer_ office they charitably gave me some books to -review. As I came uptown on the subway I was reflecting on the change a -few hours had made in my condition. That morning I had been an author, a -novelist if you please; and now I was not even a reporter, but that -most deplorable of all Grub Street figures, a hack reviewer. It was -mid-afternoon, and I hadn't had any lunch yet. In a fit of sulks I -went into Browne's, sat down in a corner, and ordered a chop and some -shandygaff. As I ate, I looked over the books with a peevish eye. Never -mind, I said to myself, I will write such brilliant, withering, and -scorching reviews that in six months the Authors' League will be -offering me hush money. I was framing the opening paragraph of my first -article when Johnson, whom I had known on the _Observer_, stopped at my -table. He was one of the newspaper men who had left Park Row to go into -professional publicity work. There had been a time when I sneered at -such a declension. - -"Hullo, Leonard," he said. "What are you doing nowadays?" - -I told him, irritably, that I was writing a serial for one of the -women's magazines. There is no statement that puts envious awe into a -newspaper man so surely as that. But I also admitted that if he knew of -a good job I might be persuaded to listen to details. - -"As it happens," he said, "I do. Upton, the theatrical producer, is -looking for a press agent. He tells me he's got something unusual under -way, and he wants a highbrow blurb-artist. He says his regular roughneck -is no good for this kind of show. Something by a new writer, rather out -of Upton's ordinary line, I guess." - -"Is it 'Obedience'?" - -"That's it. I couldn't remember the name." As soon as I had finished -my lunch I went round to Upton's office. It was high up in a building -overlooking Longacre Square, where the elevators were crowded with the -people of that quaint and spurious world. The men I found particularly -fascinating--you know the type, so very young in figure, often so old -and hard and dry in face, with their lively tweeds, starched blue or -green collars, silver-gray ties, and straight-brushed, purply-black -hair. It was my first introduction to the realms of theatrical -producing, and I must confess that I found Mr. Upton's office very -entertaining with its air of elaborate and transparent bunkum. I sat -underneath a coloured enlarged photo of the Garden of Eden ballet in -"The Figleaf Lady" and surveyed the small anteroom. It was all intensely -unreal. Those framed photographs, on which were scrawled _To Harry -Upton, the Best of His Kind_, or some such inscriptions, and signed by -dramatists I had never heard of; the typist pounding out contracts; -the architect's drawing of the projected Upton Theatre at Broadway and -Fiftieth Street, showing a line of people at the box office--all this, I -knew by instinct, meant nothing. The dramatists whose photographs I saw -would never write a real play; the Upton Theatre, even if it should be -built, would not house anything but "burlettas," and the typed contracts -were not worth so much carbon paper. As for Mr. Upton himself, one -couldn't help loving him: he was such a disarming, enthusiastic, shrewd, -unreliable bandit. To abbreviate, he took me on as a member of his -"publicity staff" (consisting of myself and a typewriter, as far as I -could see) at one hundred dollars a week. His private office had three -ingenious exits; going out by one of them, I found myself in a little -alcove with the typewriter and plenty of stationery. Rehearsals of -"Obedience" had started that morning, Upton had told me; so before I -went home that afternoon I had typed and sent off the following pregnant -paragraph for the next day's papers: - -Henry Upton's first dramatic production of the season, "Obedience," -by Arthur Sampson, began making elbow room for itself at rehearsals -yesterday. Keith Brooks will play the leading rle, supported by Lillian -Llewellyn, Sylvia Cunningham, Morgan Edwards, and other distinguished -players. - -I had a feeling of cheerfulness that evening. The cursed novel was no -longer on my mind, there would be a hundred dollars due me the next -week, and I was about to satisfy my long-standing curiosity to know -something about the theatre from the inside. It was one of those typical -evenings of New York loveliness: a rich, tawny, lingering light, a dry, -clear air, warm enough to be pleasantly soft and yet with a sharp tingle -in the breeze. I strolled about that bright jolly neighbourhood round -the hideous Verdi statue, bought a volume of Pinero's plays at one -of those combination book, cigar, and toy shops, and as I sat in my -favourite Milwaukee Lunch I believe (if I must be frank) that some idea -of writing a play was flitting through my mind. I got back to my room -about ten o'clock. I had just sat down to read Pinero when Edwards -tapped at the door. My mouth was open to tell him my surprising news -when I saw that he was unpleasantly agitated. First he insisted on -returning my loan, although I begged him to believe that there need be -no hurry about it. - -"Rehearsals began to-day," he said. He sat down on the bed and looked -very sombre. "The worst possible has happened," he said. "Fagan's -directing." - -I tried to console him. Perhaps I felt that if Upton had shown such good -sense in his choice of a press representative his judgment in directors -couldn't be altogether wrong. - -"Oh, well," I said, "if the play's as good as you say, he can't hurt it -much. Upton believes in it, he won't let Fagan chop it about, will he? -And he's got a good cast--they won't need much direction: they know how -to handle that kind of thing." - -"It's plain you don't know the game," he said. "If Upton had combed -Broadway from Herald Square to Reisenweber's, he couldn't have found -a man so superbly equipped to kill the piece. As for poor Sampson, God -help him. Fagan is a typical Broadway hanger-on, with plenty of debased -cunning of his own; not a fool at all; but the last man for this kind of -show, which needs imagination, atmosphere, delicate tone and tempo. -But that's not all of it. Fagan hates me personally. He'll get me out of -the company if he possibly can. He can do it, of course: he has Upton's -ear." - -He sat a moment, one eyebrow twitching nervously. Suddenly he cried out, -in a quivering, passionate voice which horrified and frightened me: -"I've _got_ to play Dunbar! It's my only chance. _Everything_ depends -upon it." - -Such an outcry, in a man usually so trained a master of himself, was -pitiful. I was truly shocked, and yet I was almost on the verge of -nervous laughter, I remember, when the idiotic old spinster in the -next room pounded lustily on the wall. I suppose she thought we were -revelling. I could see that he needed to talk. I tried to soothe him -with some commonplace words and a cigarette. - -"No," he said, "I know what I'm talking about. Fagan hates me. No need -to go into details. He directed 'After Dinner,' you know--and massacred -it. We had a row then... he tried to bully a girl in the company... I -threatened to thrash him. He hasn't forgotten, of course. He passed the -word round then that I ruined the show. If this were any other play -I'd have walked out as soon as I saw him. But this piece is different. -I--I've set my heart on it. My God, I'm just _meant_ for that part----" - -In the hope of calming him, I asked what had happened at the first -rehearsal. - -"Oh, the usual thing. We went through the first act, with the sides. -I knew my lines perfectly, the only one who did (I ought to, I've been -over them incessantly these few weeks--the thing haunts me). That seemed -to annoy Fagan. Sampson was there--a quiet little man with a bright, -thoughtful eye. For his benefit, evidently, Fagan got off his old tosh -about Victor Hugo and the preface to 'Hernani'. It's a bit of patter he -picked up somewhere, and uses to impress people with. In the middle of -it, he suddenly realized that I had heard it all before. That made him -mad. So he cut it short, and reasserted himself by saying that the first -act would have to be cut a great deal. Sampson looked pretty groggy, -but said nothing. Sampson, I can see, is my only hope. Fagan will try to -force me out of the show by hounding me until I lose my temper and quit. -He began by telling me how to cross the stage. A man who learned the -business under Frank Benson doesn't need to be taught how to walk!" - -I ventured some mild sedative opinion, because I saw it did him good to -pour out his perplexity. - -"You don't know," he said, "how the actor is at the mercy of the -director. The director is appointed by the manager and is responsible -only to him. If the director takes a dislike to one of the cast, he can -tell the manager he 'can't work with him', and get him fired that way; -or he can make the man's position impossible by ridicule and perpetual -criticism at rehearsals. He remarked to-day that I was miscast. The -fool! I've never had such a part." - -Well, we talked until after midnight, and only stopped then because I -was afraid that the spinster might begin to hammer again. In the end I -got him fairly well pacified. He was delighted when I told him that I -was going to be press agent, and I pleased him by making some memoranda -of his previous career, which I thought I could work up into a Sunday -story. To tell the truth, I did not, then, take all his distress at its -face value. I knew he had had a difficult summer, and was in a nervous, -high-strung state. I thought that his trouble was partly what we -call "actors' disease," or (to put it more humanely) oversensitized -selfconsciousness. I promised to get round to the rehearsal the next -day. - -As a matter of fact, it was several days before I was able to attend a -rehearsal. For the next morning Upton asked me to go to Atlantic City, -where he had a musical show opening, to collect data for publicity. His -regular press man was ill, and it was evident that he expected me to do -plenty of work for my hundred a week. However, it was a new and amusing -job, and I was keen to absorb as much local colour as possible. I went -to Atlantic City on the train with the "Jazz You Like It" company, took -notes of all their life histories, went in swimming with the Blandishing -Blondes quartette that afternoon, had them photographed on the sand, -took care to see that they were arrested in their one-piece suits, -bailed them out, and by dinner-time had collected enough material to -fill the trashiest Sunday paper. In the evening the show opened, and -I saw what seemed to me the most appallingly vulgar and brutally silly -spectacle that had ever disgraced a stage. I wondered how a company of -quite intelligent and amusing people could ever have been drilled -into such laborious and glittering stupidity. The gallery fell for -the Blondes, but the rest of the house suffered for the most part in -silence, and I expected to see Upton crushed to earth. When I met him -in the lobby afterward I was wondering how to condole with him. To my -surprise he was radiant. "Well, I guess we've got a knockout," he said. -"This'll sell to the roof on Broadway." He was right, too. Well, this -is out of the story. I simply wanted to explain that I was away from New -York for several days. - -When I got back to Upton's office I was busy most of the day sending -out stuff to the papers. Then I asked the imperial young lady who -was alternately typing letters and attending to the little telephone -switchboard, where "Obedience" was rehearsing. At the Stratford, she -replied. Wondering how many of Mr. Upton's amusing and discreditable -problems were bestowed under her magnificent rippling coiffure (she was -really a stunning creature), I went round to that theatre. The middle -door was open and I slipped in. The house was dark, on the tall, naked -stage the rehearsal was proceeding. It was my first experience of this -sort of thing, and I found it extremely interesting. The stage was set -out with chairs to indicate exits and essentials of furniture; at the -back hung a huge canvas sea-scene, used in some revue that had opened -at the Stratford the night before. The electricians were tinkering -with their illuminating effects, great blazes and shafts of light -criss-crossed about the place as the rehearsal went on, much to the -annoyance of the actors. Little electric stars winked in the painted sky -portion of the blue back-drop, and men in overalls walked about gazing -at their tasks. - -I sat down quietly in the gloom, about halfway down the middle aisle. -Two or three other people, whose identity I could not conjecture, sat -singly down toward the front. In the orchestra row, in shirtsleeves, -with his feet on the brass rail and a cigar in his mouth, sat a person -who, I saw, must be the renowned Fagan. Downstage were Brooks, Edwards, -and a charming creature in summery costume who was obviously the -original of the multitudinous photographs of Lillian Llewellyn. The rest -of the company were sitting about at the back, off the scene. Edwards, -who was very pale in the violent downpour of a huge bulb hanging from a -wire just overhead, was speaking as I took my seat. - -"Wait a minute, folks--_wait a minute!_" cried Fagan, sharply. "Now! -You've got your situation planted, let's nail it to the cross. Mr. -Edwards!" - -The actors turned, wearily, and Miss Llewellyn sat down on a chair. -Brooks stood waiting with a kind of dogged endurance. At the back of the -stage a workman was hammering on a piece of metal. Fagan pulled his legs -off the rail and climbed halfway up the little steps leading from the -orchestra pit to the proscenium. - -"Mr. Edwards!" he shouted, "you're letting it drop. It's dead. Give it -to Mr. Brooks so he can pick it up and do something with it. You've got -to lift it into the domain of comedy! My God!" he cried, throwing his -cigar stub into the orchestra well, "that whole act is terrible. Take it -again from Miss Llewellyn's entrance. Mr. Edwards, try to put a little -more stuff into it. This isn't amateur theatricals." - -Edwards turned as though about to speak, but he clenched his fist and -kept silent. Brooks, however, was less patient. - -"Pardon me, Mr. Fagan," he said, in a clear, ironical tone. "But I -should like to ask a question, if you will allow me. You speak, very -forcibly, of lifting it into the domain of comedy. That seems a curious -phrase for this scene. Is it intended to be comic? If so, I must have -misconstrued the author's directions in the script." - -Brooks was too well-known a performer for Fagan to bully. Brooks was "on -the lights"--in other words, when the show's electric signboard went -up, it would carry his name. Around his presence hung the mystic aura -of five hundred dollars a week, quite enough in itself to make Fagan -respectful. The director seemed a little startled by the star's caustic -accent. As a matter of fact, I don't suppose he had ever read the script -as a whole. I remembered that after the first rehearsal Edwards told me -that Fagan had admitted not having read the play. He said he preferred -to "pick up the dialogue as they went along". This reference to the -author must have seemed to him unaccountably eccentric. I daresay he had -forgotten that there was such a person. - -He threw up his hands in mock surrender. "All right, all right, if -that's the way you take it, I've got nothing to say. Play it your own -way, folks. Mr. Edwards, you're killing Mr. Brooks's scene there. Give -him time to come down and get his effect." - -Again I saw Edwards lift his head as though about to retort, but Brooks -whispered something to him. Fagan came back to his seat in the front row -and lit a fresh cigar. "Take it from Miss Llewellyn's first entrance," -he shouted. - -Miss Cunningham and a third man came forward and the five regrouped -themselves. The rehearsal resumed. I watched with a curious tingle of -excitement. The dialogue meant little to me, plunging in at the middle -of the act, but I could not miss the passionate quality of Edwards's -playing. Even Brooks, a polished but very cold actor, caught the warmth. -Their speeches had the rich vibrance of anger. I was really startled -at the power and velocity of the performance, considering that they had -only rehearsed a week. As I watched, someone leaned over my shoulder -from behind and whispered: "What do you think of Dunbar?" - -My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. I turned and saw a little man -with a thin face and lifted eyebrows which gave him a quaint expression -of perpetual surprise. I was so absorbed in the scene that at first I -hardly understood. - -"Dunbar--? Oh, Edwards?" I whispered. "I think he's corking--fine." - -At that moment Edwards was in the middle of a speech. Miss Cunningham -had just said something. Edwards, going toward her, had put his hand on -her shoulder and was replying in a tone of peculiar tenderness. Fagan's -loud voice broke in. - -"Dunbar! Mr. Edwards! I can't let you do it like that. You make me hold -up this scene every time. Now get it right. This is a bit of comedy, not -sob stuff. Try to be a bit facetious, if you can. You're not making love -to the girl--not yet!" - -There was a moment of silence. Those on the stage stood still, oddly -like children halted in the middle of a game. I don't suppose Fagan's -words were deliberately intended as a personal insult, but seemed to -himself a legitimate comment on the action of the piece. I think his -offences came more often from boorish obtuseness than calculated -malice. But the brutal interruption, coming after a long and difficult -afternoon, strained the players' nerves to snapping. Brooks sat down -with an air of calculated nonchalance and took out a cigarette. Then a -tinkling hammering began again somewhere up in the flies. Edwards was -flushed. - -"For God's sake stop that infernal racket up there," he cried. Then, -coming down to the unlit gutter of footlights, he said quietly: - -"Mr. Fagan, I've studied this part rather more carefully than you have. -If the author is in the house, I'd like to appeal to him as to whether -my conception is correct." - -There was such a quiver of passion in his voice that even Fagan seemed -taken aback. - -"What's got into you folks to-day?" he growled. "Oh, very well. Is Mr. -Sampson here?" - -The little man behind me got up and walked down the aisle in an -embarrassed way. - -"Mr. Author," said Fagan, "have you been watching the rehearsal?" - -Sampson murmured something. - -"Is Mr. Edwards doing the part as you want it done?" - -"Mr. Edwards is perfectly right," said Sampson. - -"Thank you, sir," said Edwards from the stage. "Fagan, when you are -ready to conduct rehearsals like a gentleman, I will be here." He turned -and walked off the stage. - -Brooks snapped his cigarette case to, and the sharp click seemed to -bring the scene to an end. Fagan picked up his coat from the seat beside -him. "Bolshevism!" he said. "All right, folks, ten o'clock to-morrow, -here. Miss Cunningham, will you tell Mr. Edwards ten o'clock tomorrow?" - -This last might be taken either as a surly apology, or as an added -insult. Rather subtle for Fagan, I thought. As I was getting out of my -seat, the director and a venomous-looking young man whom I had seen in -and out of Upton's office walked up the aisle together. Sampson was just -behind them. I could see that the director was either furiously angry, -or else (more likely) deemed it his duty to pretend to be. - -"This show's no good as long as Edwards is in it," he said, loudly, -spitting out fragments of cigar-wrapper. "That fellow's breaking up the -company. I sha'n't be able to handle 'em at all, pretty soon. This kind -of thing puts an omen on a show." - -***** - -Well, that was my introduction to "Obedience". I watched Fagan and the -hanger-on of Upton's office--one of those innumerable black-haired young -infidels who run errands for a man like Upton, hobnob with the ticket -speculators in the enigmatic argot of the box office, and seem to look -out upon the world from behind a little grill of brass railings. They -moved up the velvet slope of the passage, arguing hoarsely. Sampson -faded gently away into the darkness and disappeared through the thick -blue curtains of the foyer. An idea struck me, and I ran behind to see -the stage manager, Cervaux, who was playing one of the minor parts. I -cajoled his own copy of the script away from him, promising to return it -to the office the next morning. I wanted to read the play entire. Going -out toward the stage door, behind a big flat of scenery I came upon Miss -Cunningham. She was sitting in a rolling chair, one of those things you -see on the boardwalk at Atlantic City. There was a whole fleet of them -drawn up in the wings, they were used in that idiotic revue playing -at the Stratford. It added to the curiously unreal atmosphere of the -occasion to see her crouching there, crying, alone in the half light, -among those absurd vehicles of joy. - -I intended to pass as though I hadn't seen her, but she called out to -me. If Upton could have seen her then, her honey-brown eyes glazed with -tears, black rings in her poor little pale face, he would have raised -her salary--or else fired her, I don't know which. - -"Mr. Roberts," she said, slowly and tremulously--"I don't know who else -to ask. Will you try to help Morgan?" - -"Why of course," I said. "Anything I can do----" - -"You were at the rehearsal? Then you saw how Fagan treats him. It's been -like that every day. The brute! It's abominable! You know how we had set -our hearts on playing this together, Morgan and I.... Now I've almost -come to pray that Morgan will throw it up. That's what Fagan wants, of -course, but I don't care. All I want is his happiness. I said something -to him about giving up the part, but he... Mr. Roberts, I'm _worried_. -I've never seen Morgan so strange before. He's not himself. I don't know -what's the matter, I have a feeling that something-----" - -The electricians were still fooling about with their spotlights, and a -great arrow of brilliance sliced across the stage and groped about us. -It blazed brutally upon her tear-stained face, and then see-sawed among -the little flock of rolling chairs. It was that shaft of light that -dispelled, once for all, the feeling I had had that this was all some -sort of theatrical gibberish, pantomime stuff intended to impress the -greenhorn press agent. For when she recoiled under the blow of that -sudden stroke of brightness I could read unquestionable trouble on her -face. There was not only perplexity, there was fear. - -She was silent, turning her face away. Then she stepped down from the -chair, in a blind sort of way. - -"I begged him to give it up," she said, quietly. "He said that no -one but the author could take him out of this part. I wish the author -would.--Oh, I don't know what to wish! Morgan's making himself ill -fighting against Fagan." - -We walked across Fortieth Street together, and I escorted her as far as -a Fifth Avenue bus. As we waited for the bus she said: - -"You'll probably see him to-night. Tell him about rehearsal to-morrow, -ten o'clock. He had gone before I could speak to him. You see, he's not -himself. We were to have taken supper together." - -She added something that I have never forgotten: - -"The worst tragedy in the world is when lovely things get in the hands -of people who don't understand them. If you see Mr. Sampson, you might -tell him that. Some day he may write another play." - -When I got up to Seventy-third Street I tapped at Edwards's door. He was -at his table, writing. I had intended to ask him to take dinner with me, -thinking that perhaps I could help him, but his manner showed plainly -that he wanted to be alone. If I had been an old friend of his, perhaps -I could have done something; but I did not feel I knew him well enough -to force myself upon his mood. - -"Fagan sent you word, rehearsal to-morrow at ten," I said. "It sounds to -me like an apology." - -He looked at me steadily. - -"You were there to-day? You will understand a little, then." - -"I understand that Fagan is a ruffian." - -"Fagan--Oh, I don't mean Fagan." He paused and looked at the wet -point of his pen. "I was just writing a note to Sampson," he said. He -hesitated a moment, and then tore the written sheet across several times -and dropped it in the basket. - -"Oh, hell," he said. "I can't appeal to Sampson again. I'll have to work -it out myself.--Don't imagine I take Fagan too seriously. Fagan is only -an accident. A tragic accident. That's part of my weird, as the Scotch -say. I mean, you'll understand better about Dunbar." - -I didn't quite understand, and said nothing. - -"I wouldn't let a man like Fagan stand between me and Dunbar," he said. -"It's in the hands of the author now. You heard what he said. He put -Dunbar into the play, he's the only one who can take him out of it." - -The next morning Upton broke the news to me that I was to go out as -advance man. The opening was set for Providence, only ten days later. -There was to be a two-weeks' tour of three-night engagements, and I had -to arrange for the publicity, poster-printing, accommodations for the -company, and so on. This did not appeal to me very strongly, but I -scrambled together a lot of photographs, interviewed the cast as to -their preferences in hotel rooms, and set off. I got back a week later. -We were then only three days away from the opening. They were rehearsing -with the sets, Upton's telephone blonde told me, and I hurried round to -the Stratford to see how the scenic artist had done the job. - -They had just knocked off for lunch when I got there, and at the stage -door I met Edwards coming out with Miss Cunningham. He looked very white -and tired. - -"Hullo," I said; "just in time to have lunch with me! Come on, we'll go -to Maxim's. I've still got some of Upton's expense money." - -"I've got to rush round to the modiste for a fitting," said Miss -Cunningham. "The gowns are just finished. You take Morgan and give him a -good talking-to. He needs it." I did not quite understand the appeal in -her eyes, but I saw that she wanted me to talk with Edwards alone. She -went toward Bryant Park, and we turned down to Thirty-eighth. Edwards -stood a moment at the corner looking after her. - -"Sylvia says I'm a fool," he said, wearily. "I don't know: most of us -are, one way or another.--You know I told you that I put my confidence -in the author." - -"Quite right," I said. "I myself heard Sampson say he thought you were -corking." - -"Well, I wonder if he's double-crossing me?" said Edwards, slowly, as -though to himself. - -"In what way?" - -"Yesterday, when I was coming down to rehearsal, there was a tie-up of -some kind on the subway. The train stood still for a long time, and -then the lights went out. We stayed in the dark for I don't know how -long--everybody got nervous. It was pitch black, and awfully hot and -stuffy. The women began to scream. I felt pretty queer myself--you know -I haven't been well--and as we sat there I went off into a kind of doze -or something. Then, just as everybody was on the edge of a panic, the -lights came on and we went ahead. When we got to Times Square I think I -must have been a bit off colour, for the damned rehearsal went out of -my head entirely. Suddenly I realized I was in a drugstore drinking some -headache fizz when I was over an hour late at the theatre. My God! I -hustled down there as fast as I could go. Queer thing. I went in through -the stage door, and as I came round behind the set I heard voices on the -stage. They were rehearsing, of course. Naturally, they couldn't wait -all morning for me. But this is what I'm getting at. You know that scene -in the second act where I say to Brooks: _It's all very well for you to -say that. Ah, hah! I see! But suppose you had been in my place---_ - -"You know that's a turning point in the act. There's a particular -inflection I give that speech--the way I say the 'Ah, hah! I see!' that -makes the point clear to the audience and gets it over. Well, they were -rehearsing that scene, and from behind the canvas I heard that speech. -And what I heard was my own voice." - -"What on earth do you mean?" I said. - -He hesitated. He was sitting, his lunch almost untasted, with one elbow -on the table and his forehead leaning on his hand. Under his long, -sinewy fingers I could see his brows tightened and frowning downward -upon his plate. - -"Exactly what I say. It was my own voice. Or, if you prefer, Dunbar's -voice. I heard that speech uttered, tone for tone, as I had been saying -it. It was the precise accent and pitch of ironical comment which I had -thought appropriate for Dunbar at that point in the action. The sudden -change of tone, the pause, the placing of the emphasis--the words were -just as if they had come out of my own mouth. I stopped, instinctively. -I said to myself, has Fagan got someone else to play the part, and been -coaching him on the side? Someone who's been sitting in at rehearsals -and has picked up my conception of Dunbar? And at that moment I heard -Fagan sing out 'All right, folks, the carpenter wants to work on this -set. We'll quit until after lunch.' - -"I tell you, I was staggered. If I was out, I was out, but they might -have been straight with me. It was a matter for the Equity, I thought. I -didn't want to chin it over with the others just then, and I heard them -coming off, so I slipped through the door that opens into the passage -behind the stage box. I meant to tell Fagan what I thought about it. -There was Sampson sitting in one of the boxes. He saw me, and got up. He -said: 'By Jove, Mr. Edwards, you were fine this morning. I've never seen -you do it so well. It was bully, all through. Keep it like that, and -you're the hit of the play.' - -"I thought at first he was making fun of me. I was about to make some -sarcastic retort, when he put out his hand in the friendliest way, and -said: - -"'I want to thank you for what you're doing for that part, and I know it -hasn't been easy. I've never seen anything so beautifully done, and just -want to tell you that if the play is a success it will be largely due to -you.' - -"This, on the heels of the other, astounded me so that I didn't know -what to say. I made some automatic reply, and he left. I sat down in the -cool darkness of the box to rest, for I was feeling very seedy. My head -went round and round--touch of the sun, I dare say, or that foul air in -the crowded subway car. I was still there when they came back, an hour -later, for the afternoon rehearsal. I tried to talk to Sylvia about it, -but all she would say was that I ought to go to a doctor." - -"I think she's right," I said. "Look here, have you had any sleep -lately?" - -"You seem to have forgotten Dunbar's line," he said. "'_There'll be -'plenty of time to sleep by and bye._'" - -"For God's sake forget about Dunbar," I said. "Man, dear, you're on the -tip of a nervous breakdown. Now listen. This is Friday. Dress rehearsal -to-morrow. Sunday you'll have all day off. Take Miss Cunningham and go -away into the country somewhere and rest. Put the damned play out of -your mind and give her a good time. You both need it." - -I didn't see him again until Monday morning. - -I went up to Providence on the train with the company. As I passed -through one of the Pullmans looking for a seat in a smoking compartment, -I found Miss Cunningham and Edwards sitting in adjoining chairs. To my -delight, they seemed very cheerful, and smiled up at me charmingly. - -"Took your advice yesterday," he said. "We went down to Long Beach -again. Had a lovely day, not even a pickpocket to spoil it." - -"What an unfortunate remark!" said Sylvia, laughing. "He means, not a -pickpocket to bring us a friend in need and give us a jolly evening in -Jamaica." - -"I spoke the speech trippingly," he admitted. - -"And we left Dunbar behind!" said Sylvia. She flashed me a grateful -little look that showed she knew I had tried to help. - -"Have you decided where to spend the honeymoon?" I asked, greatly -pleased to see them so happy. - -"Hush!" she said. "We'll wait till we see what sort of notices the show -gets." - -"Think of the poor press agent. I've used up all my dope. Get spliced -while we're in Providence and it'll give me a nice little story. You -know the kind of thing--'_Critics' Praise Brings Pair to Altar; Press -Clippings Cupid's Aid_'." - -"You're getting as vulgar as a regular press agent," she said, merrily. -"They don't think of anything except in terms of good stories for the -paper." - -"Oh," I said, "the press agent has his tragedies, too. Think how many -stories he knows that he can't tell." - -I felt that this remark was not very happily inspired, and went -on through the car calling myself a clumsy idiot. In the smoking -compartment, as luck would have it, were both Upton and Fagan, smoking -huge cigars and talking together. I sat down and lit my pipe. Fagan, in -his usual way, was trying to impress Upton with his own sagacity. There -was another musical horror of Upton's scheduled to begin rehearsal -shortly, and probably Fagan was hoping to land the job as director. - -"What did you think of Edwards at the dress rehearsal?" said Fagan. - -Upton grunted. He had a way of retaining his ideas until others had -committed themselves. - -"I've been telling you right along, he's impossible," said Fagan. "No -one can work with him. He's too damned upstage. Now I got Billy Mitford -to promise he'd run up and see the opening. Billy is the man you need -for that part. I had him in at the dress, and he'll be there tonight. -I've given him a line on the part, and if Edwards falls down we can -start rehearsing Billy right away. He could get set in a week, and open -with the show in New York." - -"Four hundred a week," was Upton's comment, seemingly addressed to the -end of his cigar. - -"All right, he's worth it. He's got a following. This guy Edwards is -dear at any price. He'll kill the show. He doesn't get his stuff over. -God knows I've worked on him. And he crabs Brooks's work more'n half the -time. What you want is one of these birds that gets the women climbing -over the orchestra rail. Billy is your one best bet, take it from me." - -"Well, we'll open her up and see what we got," said Upton. "Is Sampson -along?" - -"No. Scared. Said he was too nervous to come. He'll learn to write -a play afterwhile. What a mess that script was until I got her -straightened out." - -When we got to Providence I had several jobs to do around town. I -visited the newspaper offices, stopped in at the theatre where the stage -crew were busy unloading scenery, and when I returned to the hotel I -lay down in my room and had a good nap, I was awakened late in the -afternoon--about five o'clock, because I looked at my watch--by a -knocking at the door. I got up and opened. It was Edwards. To my dismay, -his cheerfulness had vanished. He had gone back to the old pallid and -anxious mood. - -"Nervous, old man?" I said. When I had booked the rooms for the company -I had arranged that he and I should be next door to each other, so that -I could keep an eye on him. - -"Nervous?" he said. "I'm ill. Had another of those damned swimming -spells in my head. Haven't got any brandy, have you?" - -I hadn't, but offered to go in search of some. He wouldn't let me. - -"Don't go," he said. "Look here, I saw Mit-ford in the lobby just now. -What the devil is he doing here?" - -"Perhaps there's some other show on," I suggested, miserably. - -"I told you they were trying to double-cross me," he said. "I know -perfectly well what he's here for. Fagan is trying to razz me into a -breakdown. Then he'll put Mitford in as Dunbar. But I tell you, I'll -play this thing in spite of hell and high water." - -He paced feverishly up and down, and I tried to ease his mind. - -"By God, they sha'n't!" he cried. "I'll put this thing up to the author. -Where's Sampson?" - -"He's not here. For heaven's sake, man, don't get in a state. -Everything's all right." - -"Everything's all right!" he repeated, bitterly. "Yes, everything's -lovely. Let's 'lift it into the domain of comedy'. But if you see Fagan, -tell him to keep away from me." - -I begged him to rest until dinner-time. I went into his room with him, -made him lie down on the bed, rang for a bottle of ice water, and left -him there. Then I went downstairs and wrote a couple of letters. I was -just leaving the hotel when I met Fagan coming in. He stopped me to ask -if I had taken care to put his name on the playbill as director. I -had. If the show was a flop, I at least wanted his name attached as a -participial cause. - -I wandered uneasily about the busy streets until theatre time. I -couldn't have been more nervous if I had been going on the boards -myself. I spent part of the time prowling about trying to see how much -"Obedience" paper I could find on the billboards and in shop windows. I -stopped in at a lunchroom and had some supper. The place reminded me -of the little caf in Jamaica where Sylvia and Edwards and I had eaten -together. - -My mind was full of the picture of the two, and his face as he leaned -across the table toward her. I thought that I had never seen a couple -who so deserved happiness, or who had fought harder to earn it. What was -the subtle appeal in this play that made it react so strangely upon -him? The tragedy of Dunbar in the piece, the sacrifice of the poor, -well-meaning fellow whose virtue always seemed to turn and rend him, did -this echo some secret experience in his own life? I wondered whether -an actor's career was really the gay business I had conceived it. -It occurred to me that perhaps the actor's profession is doomed to -suffering, because it takes the most dangerous explosives in life and -plays with them. Love, ambition, jealousy, hatred, those are the things -actors deal with. You can't play with those without one of them going -off every now and then. They go off with a bang, and somebody gets hurt. - -I suppose I'm sentimental. I wanted those two to win out. It seemed to -me that a defeat for their fine and honourable passion would be a defeat -for Love everywhere, and for all who believe in the worthy aspirations -of the heart. I don't suppose any press agent ever pondered more -generous philosophies than I did that night, over my lunch-counter -supper. - -Time went so fast that it was after eight when I got to the theatre. I -went in and took a seat in the last row. The house, to my surprise, was -crowded. I could see Upton's big bald head, well down in front, beside -a massively carved lady, all bust and beads, whom I supposed to be Mrs. -Upton. The lite of Providence were out in force, for Brooks's name -is always a drawing card. Some of them, I feared, were going to be -disappointed. It is all very well to introduce a new Barrie or a new -Pinero to the playgoing public, but you've got to remember that it is -bound to be grievous for those who prefer the other sort of thing. - -The curtain, of course, was late, and I gave a sigh of relief when I saw -it go up. Edwards, waiting carefully for the hush, had the house with -him in three speeches. I have never seen better work, before or since. -It was noticeable that at his first exit he got a bigger hand than -Brooks at his carefully prepared entrance. The only thing that seemed -to me out of the way was his extreme pallor. The silly ass, I said to -myself, he hasn't made himself up properly. Then it struck me that it -was probably a sound touch of realism, for certainly Dunbar would not be -described as a full-blooded creature. I had read the play carefully, and -had seen it in rehearsal; but I had never known how much there was in -it. Strangely enough, Edwards was the only one who showed no trace of -nervousness. All the others, even Brooks, seemed unaccountably at a loss -now and then, trampled on their lines, and smothered their points. At -first the house was inclined to applaud, but as the action tightened, -they hushed into the perfect and passionate silence that is the -playwright's dream. There were six curtains at the end of the first act. -I could tell by the tilt of old Upton's pink pate that he was in fine -spirits. I looked about for Fagan in the lobby, as I was keen to see how -he was taking it, but missed him in the arguing and shifting crowd. - -By the time the third act was under way it was plain that we had a -sure-fire success. Novice as I was, I could read the signs when I -saw Upton scribbling telegrams at the box-office window in the second -intermission, and observed the face of Mr. Mitford. The usual slips that -always happen on first nights were there, of course. In the third act, -when Edwards had to take Sylvia in his arms, she seemed to trip and -almost fell; and I noticed that Brooks crossed the stage and helped her -off, which was not in the script; but these things were not marked by -most of the audience. Dunbar, you remember, makes his final exit several -minutes before the end of the third act. When he went off there was a -little stir among the audience--far more eloquent than applause would -have been. That beautiful delineation of a blundering high-minded -failure had made its appeal. - -After Edwards's last exit I felt my way out, quietly, and went round -through the street and up the alley to the stage door. I wanted to be -the first to congratulate him on his splendid triumph. I did not want to -break in too soon, so I waited near the door until I heard the crash of -hands that followed the curtain. The canvas rose and fell repeatedly as -the players took their calls, while the house shook with applause. From -where I stood, by the switches and buttons on the control board, I could -see them lined up in the orange glare of the gutter, bowing and smiling. -There were cries of "Dunbar! Dunbar!" and a rumbling of feet in the -gallery. It is the only time I have ever seen an audience crowd down the -aisles and stand by the orchestra rail, applauding. Then I saw why they -lingered. Edwards had not taken his call. - -The curtain fell again, and Cervaux, the stage manager, came running -off, the perspiration streaming down over his grease-paint. - -"Christ!" he cried. "Where's that fool Edwards?" - -As soon as the curtain finally shut off the house I could see the actors -turn to each other as though in dismay. Miss Cunningham came off, and I -ran to shake her hand. To my amazement she looked at me blankly, with a -dreadful face, and sat down on a trunk. - -Brooks strode across the stage. "Where's Edwards?" he shouted, angrily. -"Tell him to take this call with me, the house is crazy." - -"Where's the author?" said someone. "They want the author, too." - -Several hurried upstairs to the men's dressing rooms, and I followed. -The door of number 3, on which Edwards's name was scrawled in chalk, -stood open. Cervaux stood stupidly on the sill. The room was empty. - -"He's gone," said Cervaux. "What do you know about that?" - -We could still hear the tumult of the house. - -"Take the curtain, Mr. Brooks," said Cervaux. "Tell them he's ill." - -I looked round number 3 dressing room. - -There was a taxi standing outside the stage door. I don't know how it -happened to be there, or who had ordered it, but I shouted to the driver -and jumped in. I have a faint impression that just as the engine started -Sylvia appeared at the door, with a cloak thrown over her stage gown, -and cried something, but I am not sure. - -When I got to the hotel, the door of the room next to mine was locked, -but the house detective got it open without any noise. There were two -men in the room. In the far corner lay Fagan, unconscious, with a broken -jaw, one arm hideously twisted under him, and a shattered water bottle -beside his bloody head. Sprawled against the bed, kneeling, with his -arms flung out across the counterpane, was Edwards.--The doctor said it -was heart disease. 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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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Tales From a Rolltop Desk - -Author: Christopher Morley - -Illustrator: Walter Jack Duncan - -Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51957] -Last Updated: March 16, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK - </h1> - <h2> - By Christopher Morley - </h2> - <h3> - Illustrated By Walter Jack Duncan - </h3> - <h4> - Garden City, N. Y., And Toronto - </h4> - <h4> - Doubleday, Page & Company - </h4> - <h3> - 1921 - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0008.jpg" alt="0008 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0008.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0009.jpg" alt="0009 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0009.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <h3> - A LETTER OF DEDICATION - </h3> - <h3> - TO - </h3> - <h3> - FRANK NELSON DOUBLEDAY - </h3> - <p> - Dear Effendi: - </p> - <p> - I take the liberty of dedicating these little stories to you, with - affection and respect. They have all grown, in one mood or another, out of - the various life of Grub Street, suggested by adventures with publishers, - booksellers, magazine editors, newspaper men, theatrical producers, - commuters, and poets major and minor. If they have any appeal at all, it - must be as an honest (though perhaps sometimes too jocular) picture of the - excitements that gratify the career of young men who embark upon the ocean - of ink, and (let us not forget) those much-enduring Titanias who consent - to share their vicissitudes. You have been the best of friends and - counsellors to many such young men, and I assure you that they look back - upon the time spent under your shrewd and humorous magistracy with special - loyalty and regard. You will understand that in these irresponsible - stories no personal identifications are to be presumed. - </p> - <p> - I think you remember—I know you do, because you have often - charitably chuckled over the incident—that rather too eager young - man who came to call on you one day in September, 1913, saying that he - simply must have a job. And how you, in your inimitable way, said “Well, - what kind of a job would you like best to have around this place?” And he - cried “Yours!” And you justly punctured the creature by saying “All right, - go to work and get it.” (There was more youthful palpitation than intended - impertinence in the young man's outcry, so he has assured me.) And then, - still tremulous with ambition, this misguided freshman pulled out of his - pocket a bulky memorandum on which he had inscribed his pet scheme for the - regeneration and stimulus of the publishing business, and laid it before - you. How hospitably you considered his programme, and how tenderly you - must have smiled, inwardly, at his odd mixture of earnestness and - excitement! At any rate, you set him to work that afternoon, with the - assurance that he might have your job as soon as he could qualify. - </p> - <p> - Well, he did not get it; nor will he ever, for he knows (by this time) - what a rare complex of instincts and sagacities is needed in the head of a - great publishing house; and his own ambition has proved to be a little - different. But he can never be enough grateful for the patience and - humorous tolerance with which you brooded upon his various antics, - condoned his many absurdities, welcomed and encouraged his enthusiasms. In - nearly four years in your “shop” he learned (so he insists) more than any - college could ever teach: and how much he had to unlearn, too! And the - surprising part of it was, it was all such extraordinarily good fun. The - greatest moments of all, I suppose, were when this young man was invited - by one of your partners (on occasions that seemed so interminably far - apart!) to “walk in the garden,” that being the cheerful tradition of the - Country Life Press. There, after some embarrassing chat about the peonies - and the sun dial, the victim meanwhile groaning to know whether it was, - this time, hail or farewell, there would come tidings of one of those - five-dollar raises that were so hotly desiderated. That paternal function - (so this young man and his fellow small fry observed) was rightly a little - beneath the dignity of the Effendi: you, they noted, only walked in the - garden with paper merchants and people like Booth Tarkington and Ellen - Glasgow and good Mr. Grosset of Grosset and Dunlap! - </p> - <p> - Many young men (O Effendi), from Frank Norris down, have found your house - a wonderful training-school for writers and publishers and booksellers. - There are great names, of permanent honour in literature, that owe much to - your wisdom and patience. But among all those who know you in your trebled - capacity as employer, publisher, and friend, there is none who has more - reason to be grateful, or who has done less to deserve it, than the young - man I have described. And so you will forgive him if he thus publicly and - selfishly pleases himself by trying to express his sense of gratitude, and - signs himself - </p> - <p> - Faithfully yours - </p> - <p> - Christopher Morley. - </p> - <p> - Roslyn, Long Island January, 1921. - </p> - <h3> - ACKNOWLEDGMENT - </h3> - <p> - The original responsibility for some of these stories—or at any rate - the original copyright—was allotted as follows: “The Prize Package,” - Collier's Weekly (1918); “Urn Burial,” Every Week (1918); “The - Climacteric,” The Smart Set (1918); “The Pert Little Hat,” The - Metropolitan (1919); “The Battle of Manila Envelopes,” The Bookman (1920); - “The Commutation Chop-house,” The New York Evening Post (1920); “The - Curious Case of Kenelm Digby,” The Bookman (1921); “Gloria and the Garden - of Sweden,” Munsey's (1921); “Punch and Judy,” The Outlook (1921). - </p> - <p> - All but one of these publications are still in existence. To their editors - and owners the author expresses his indebtedness and his congratulation. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK</b> </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE PRIZE PACKAGE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ADVICE TO TO LOVELORN </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE CURIOUS CASE OF KENELM DIGBY </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> GLORIA AND THE GARDEN OF SWEDEN </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE PERT LITTLE HAT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> URN BURIAL </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE BATTLE OF MANILA ENVELOPES </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE CLIMACTERIC </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> PUNCH AND JUDY </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> REFERRED TO THE AUTHOR </a> - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK - </h1> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE PRIZE PACKAGE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ESTER VALIANT came - back from Oxford with the degree of B. Litt., some unpaid tailors' bills, - and the conviction that the world owed him a living because he had been - suffered within the sacred precincts of Balliol College for three years. A - Rhodes scholarship is one of the most bounteous gifts the world holds for - a young man; but in Lester's case Oxford piled upon Harvard left him with - a perilous lot to unlearn. You can tell a lot about a man when you know - what he is proud of; and Lester was really proud of having worn a wrist - watch and a dinner jacket with blue silk lapels three or four years before - they became habitual in the region of Herald Square. But let us be just: - he was also proud of his first editions of Conrad and George Moore; for he - was much afflicted with literature. - </p> - <p> - Lester originated in the yonder part of Indiana, but when he returned from - Oxford he made up his mind to live in New York. He felt it appropriate - that he should be connected in some way with the production of literature, - and after hiring a bedroom on the fourth floor of an old house on Madison - Avenue, where two friends of his were living, he set out to visit the - publishers. - </p> - <p> - There is a third-rate club in London called the Litterateurs' Club. A few - years ago it was in urgent need of funds, and a brilliant idea struck the - managing committee. Every writer listed in the American “Who's Who” was - circularized and received a very flattering letter saying that, owing to - the distinction of his contributions to contemporary letters, the - Litterateurs' Club of London would be very much pleased to welcome him as - a member, upon a nominal payment of five guineas. About seven hundred - guileless persons complied, and transatlantic travel became appreciably - denser on account of these men of letters crossing to England to revel in - their importance as members of a club of which no one in London has ever - heard. And by some fluke the managing committee had got hold of the name - of Lester Valiant, then at Oxford—perhaps because he had once - published a story in the <i>Cantharides Magazine</i>. Probably they bought - a mailing list from some firm in Tottenham Court Road. - </p> - <p> - Cecil Rhodes's executors paid his five guineas, and he had his cards - engraved: - </p> - <h3> - LESTER G. P. VALIANT - </h3> - <p> - The Litterateurs' Club, London - </p> - <p> - The use of these pasteboards brought him ready entrée in the offices of - New York publishers. If he had not been so eager to impress the gentlemen - he interviewed with his literary connoisseurship, undoubtedly he would - have landed a job much sooner. But publishers are justly suspicious of - anything that savours of literature, and Lester's innocent allusions to - George Moore and Chelsea did much to alarm them. At length, however, Mr. - Arundel, the president of the Arundel Company, took pity on the young man - and gave him a desk in his editorial department and fifteen dollars a - week. Mr. Arundel had once walked through the quadrangle of Balliol, and - he was not disposed to be too severe toward Lester's naïve mannerisms. - </p> - <p> - To his amazement and dismay, Lester found his occupation not even faintly - flavoured with literature. He was set to work writing press notes about - authors of whom he had never heard at Oxford and whose books he soon - discovered to be amateurish or worse. He had been nourishing himself upon - the English conception of a publisher's office: a quaint, dingy rookery - somewhere in Clifford's Inn, where gentlemen in spats and monocles - discuss, over cups of tea and platters of anchovy toast, realism and the - latest freak of the Spasmodists. - </p> - <p> - The Arundel office was a wilderness of light walnut desks and filing - cases, throbbing with typewriters, adding machines, and hoarse cries from - the shipping room at the rear. Here sat Lester, gloomily writing blurbs - for literary editors, and wondering how long it would be before he would - earn forty dollars a week. He reckoned that was what one ought to get - before incurring matrimony. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Like all young men of twenty-three, Lester thought a good deal about - marriage, although he had not yet chosen his quarry. The feeling that he - could marry almost anybody was delicious to him. But this heavenly - eclecticism endures such a short time! For youth abhors generalities and - seeks the concrete instance. Also, much reading of George Moore sets the - mind brooding on these things. Lester used to stroll in Madison Square at - dusk before going back to his room, and his visions were often of a - dark-panelled apartment in the Gramercy Park neighbourhood where an open - fire would be burning and someone sitting in silk stockings to endear him - as he returned from the office. - </p> - <p> - His arrival caused something of an upheaval in the placid breasts of the - two old college friends whose sitting room he shared on Madison Avenue. - They were sturdy and steady creatures, more familiar with Edward Earle - Purinton and Orison Swett Marden than with Swinburne and Crackanthorpe and - Mallarmé. To his secret annoyance, Lester learned that both Jack Hulbert - and Harry Hanover were earning more than thirty dollars a week, and he - even had an uneasy suspicion that they were saving some of it. When he - spoke about Beardsley or Will Rothenstein or the Grafton Galleries they - were apt to turn the talk upon Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker. When he showed - them his greatest treasure, a plaster life mask of himself that a - sculpturing friend in Chelsea had made, they were frankly ribald. Jack was - in the circulation department of a popular magazine, and Harry performed - some unexplained tasks in the office of a tea importer. Lester was fond of - them both, but it seemed to him a bitter travesty that these simple-minded - Philistines should possess so much higher earning power than he. So he - thought of taking a garret in Greenwich Village, but in the Madison Avenue - house he was sharing a big sitting room at little expense. So he spread - his books about, hung up his framed letter from Przybyszewski, put his - hammered brass tea caddy on the reading table, and made the best of the - situation. - </p> - <p> - Even on fifteen dollars a week a young man may have a very amusing time in - New York. For his room and breakfast Lester paid six dollars a week; for - his other meals he used to hunt out the little table-d'hôte restaurants of - which there are so many in the crosstown streets between the Avenue and - Broadway. To come in from the snowy street on a winter evening, sit down - to a tureen of Moretti's hot minestrone, open a new packet of ten-cent - cigarettes, and prop up a copy of the <i>Oblique Review</i> against the - cruet stand, seemed to Lester the prismatic fringe of all that was <i>je - ne sais quoi</i> and <i>ne plus ultra</i>. The dandruffians in the little - orchestra under the stairs would hammer out some braying operatic strains, - and Lester would lean back in a swirl of acrid tobacco smoke and survey - his surroundings with great content. - </p> - <p> - It was while he was conjugating the verb <i>to live</i> in this manner, - and sowing (as someone has said) a notable crop of wild table d'hôtes, - that he first realized the importance of Pearl Denver. Miss Pearl was Mr. - Arundel's personal stenographer, a young woman remarkable in her - profession by the fact that she never exposed the details of her camisole - to the public gaze; also when the boss dictated she was able to rescue his - subordinate clauses from the airy vacancy in which they hung suspended, - and hook them up into new sentences capable of grammatical analysis. As a - stenog she was distinctly above par, but not above parsing. - </p> - <p> - Lester, of course, had a speaking acquaintance with Miss Denver, but her - existence had never really penetrated the warm aura of egocentric thoughts - that enhaloed him. He knew her simply as one of the contingents of the - office; and the office had proved a great disappointment to him. Not one - of the “firm” (he called them “directors”) wore spats; not one of them had - shown the faintest interest in his suggestion that they publish a volume - of Clara Tice's drawings. Lester must be pardoned for having dismissed - Miss Denver, if he had thought of her at all, as not <i>generis.</i> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - We now proceed more rapidly. Entering the hallway of Moretti's on - Thirty-fifth Street, about half past one cocktail of a winter evening, he - found the cramped vestibule crowded by several persons taking off their - wraps. A copy of the <i>Oblique Review</i>, unmistakable in its - garlic-green cover, fell at his feet. Thinking it his own, he picked it up - and was about to pocket it when a red tarn o'shan-ter in front of him - turned round. He saw the bobbed brown hair and gray eyes of Miss Denver. - “Well, Mr. Valiant, what are you doing with my magazine?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—why—I beg your pardon! I thought it was mine! I'm awfully - sorry!” He was keenly embarrassed, and pulled his own copy out of his - overcoat pocket as an evidence of good faith. - </p> - <p> - She laughed. “I don't wonder you made the mistake,” she said. “Probably - you thought you were the only person in New York reading the Oblique!” - </p> - <p> - He felt the alarm that every shy or cautious youth experiences in the - presence of beauty, and, with a mumbled apology, fled hastily to a little - table in a corner. There, pretending to read some preposterous farrago of - free verse, he watched Miss Denver meet another girl who was evidently - waiting for her. The two chattered with such abandon, smoked so many - cigarettes, and seemed so thoroughly at home that Lester envied them their - savoir. Manoeuvring his spaghetti and parmesan, his gaze passed as direct - as the cartoonist's dotted line to the charming contour of the - stenographer's cheek and neck. His equanimity was quite overset. Never - before had he gazed with seeing eye upon the demure creature sorting out - Mr. Arundel's mind into paragraphs. Human nature is what it is; let - Lester's first thought be confessed: “I wonder if she knows what my salary - is?” - </p> - <p> - At last, after smoking many cigarettes and skimming over the <i>Oblique - Review</i>, Lester felt it was his move. He walked down the room, looking - at his wrist watch with a slight frown as he passed her table. At the door - he saw by the reflection in a mirror that she had not even looked up. He - hurried back to Madison Avenue, pausing to sniff the crystal frosty air. - At the corner of Fifth he stood for a moment, inhaling the miraculous - clearness of the night and pondering on the relative values of free verse - and ordered rhythms as modes of self-expression. - </p> - <p> - In spite of a certain bumptiousness among males, Lester was painfully shy - with nubile women, and it was several days before he had opportunity for - further speech with Miss Denver. Moretti's is a fifty-cent table d'hôte, - and his regimen was calculated on a forty-cent limit for dinner; but after - this meeting with the <i>Oblique Review's</i> fairest <i>abonnée</i> he - haunted the place for some evenings. Then one day, taking in some copy for - a book jacket to be approved by the sales manager, he encountered Miss - Denver in the sample room. During working hours she was “strictly - business,” and he admired the trim white blouse, the satin-smooth neck, - and the small, capable hands jotting pothooks in her notebook as she took - a long telephone call. She put down the receiver, and smiled pleasantly at - him. - </p> - <p> - “Don't you go to Moretti's any more?” he asked, and then regretted the - brusqueness of the question. - </p> - <p> - “Sometimes,” she said. “Usually when I buy the <i>Oblique</i> I go to a - Hartford Lunch. I can sit there as long as I want and read, with doughnuts - and coffee.” - </p> - <p> - Lester had a curious feeling of oscillation somewhere to the left of his - middle waistcoat button. As the little girl said on the Coney Island - switchback, he felt as though he had freckles on his stomach. - </p> - <p> - “Will you come to Moretti's with me some night?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “I'd love to,” she said. “I must hurry now. Mr. Arundel's waiting for this - phone call.” - </p> - <p> - A little later in the day, after a good deal of heartburning, Lester - called her up from his desk. “How about to-morrow night?” he said, and she - accepted. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Coursing back to his chamber the next evening, Lester was a little worried - about the ceremonial demanded by the occasion. Should he put on white - linen and a dinner jacket, becoming the conquering male of the upper - classes? But the recollection of the <i>Oblique Review</i> suggested that - a touch of négligée would be more appropriate. A clean, soft collar and a - bow tie of lavender silk were his concessions to unconvention. He was - about to scrub out a minute soup stain on the breast of his coat, but - concluded that as a badge of graceful carelessness this might remain. At a - tobacconist's he bought a package of cheap Russian cigarettes, such as he - imagined a Bolshevik might smoke. - </p> - <p> - There she came, tripping along the street, with something of the quick, - alcaic motion of an Undersmith on high. He waved gayly. She depressed her - shift key and reversed the ribbon. He double-spaced, and they entered the - restaurant together. - </p> - <p> - Lester felt an intellectual tremor as they sat down at a corner table. - Never had his mind seemed so relentlessly clear, so keen to leap upon the - problems of life and tessellate them. It was as though all his past - experience had cumulated and led up to this peak of existence. “Now for a - close analysis of Female Mind,” was his secret thought as he settled in - his chair. He felt almost sorry for this gay, defenceless little shred of - humanity who had cast herself under his domineering gaze. A masculine - awareness of size and power filled him. And yet—she seemed quite - unterrified. - </p> - <p> - As they began on the antipasto he thought to himself: “I must start very - gently. Women like men to veil their power.” So he said: - </p> - <p> - “That was funny, my picking up your magazine the other night, wasn't it? - You know I thought it was my copy.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, the dear old <i>Oblique!</i> Isn't it a scream? I read myself to - sleep with it every night. We'll have to make the most of it while we can, - because Mr. Arundel says it can't pay its paper bill much longer.” - </p> - <p> - This irreverence rather startled Lester, who was writing an article “On - the Art of Clara Tice” which he had been hoping the Oblique would buy. In - fact, he was startled quite out of the careful conversational paradigm he - had planned. He found himself getting a little ahead of his barrage. “Does - Mr. Arundel read it?” he asked. “Heavens, no!” cried Miss Denver, and - effervesced with laughter. “He would rather face a firing squad than read - that kind of stuff. But he has an interest in the concern that supplies - their paper.” The matter of paper had never occurred to Lester before. Of - course he knew a magazine had to have something to print on, but he had - never thought of the editors of a radical review being embarrassed by such - a paltry consideration. - </p> - <p> - “Is Mr. Arundel literary?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - Miss Denver found this very whimsical. “Say, are you kidding me?” she - said, with tilted eyebrows. “The chief says literature is the curse of the - publishing business. Every time somebody puts over some highbrow stuff on - him we lose money on it. The only kind of literature that gets under his - ribs is reports from the sales department.” - </p> - <p> - “That's very Philistine, isn't it?” - </p> - <p> - “Sure it is, but it puts the frogs in the pay envelopes, so what of it?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I should expect the head of a big publishing house to be at least - interested in some form of literary expression.” - </p> - <p> - “You should worry! That's what we hires for. Besides he <i>has</i> a - literary passion, too—Walt Mason. He thinks Walt is the greatest - poet in the world.” - </p> - <p> - “Walter Mason?” murmured Lester. “I don't think I know his work.” - </p> - <p> - “Hasn't Walt made Oxford yet?” asked Miss Denver. “He writes the prose - poems in the evening papers, syndicate stuff, you know. Printed to look - like prose, just the opposite of the free-verse gag.” She smiled - reminiscently, and quoted: - </p> - <p> - <i>When I am as dry as a fish up a tree, then I to the hydrant repair, and - fill myself up, without ticket or fee, with the water that's eddying - there. I drink all I want—half a gallon or more—and then I lie - down on my couch; when I rise in the morning my head isn't sore and I - don't wear a dark brindle grouch——”</i> - </p> - <p> - “Is there any free-verse stuff that can cover that?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - Lester was somewhat disconcerted. His assessment of Female Mind did not - seem to be proceeding methodically. He played for time. - </p> - <p> - “I thought you enjoyed the <i>Oblique</i>?” - </p> - <p> - “As a joke, yes: I laugh myself giddy over it. But I know darn well that - kind of junk won't last. By and by the ghost'll quit putting up and the - editors will get jobs as ticket choppers. I guess I'm a Philistine!” - </p> - <p> - With this deliciously impudent creature beaming at him, Lester felt - himself cursedly at a disadvantage. Neither Harvard nor Balliol had - informed him about this Walter Mason, and though he had seven hundred - quips and anecdotes indexed in a scrapbook marked <i>Jocoseria</i>, none - of them seemed to bubble up just now. Darn the girl, her mind wouldn't - stand still long enough for him to take its temperature. It was like - trying to write captions for the movies while the film was running. He - blew a cloud of blue Russian vapour across the board, and smiled at her in - a tolerant, <i>veni-vidi-Bolsheviki</i> kind of way. Behind his forehead - he was fighting desperately to catch up. - </p> - <p> - As they wrestled with the spaghetti he remembered that someone had told - him that publishers usually depend on the literary judgment of their - wives. Perhaps that was the case with Mr. Arundel? But Miss Denver laughed - aloud at the suggestion. - </p> - <p> - “Wrong again!” she said. “He's not married. Petunia Veal, the author of - 'Sveltschmerz,' has been angling for him for years, and lots of other lady - authors, too. He's so sentimental, he's escaped 'em all so far.” - </p> - <p> - She bubbled and chuckled and gurgled her way through the rest of Moretti's - menu, amazing him more and more by the spontaneity, sophistication, and - charm of her wit. He escorted her home, and then stood under a lamp-post - for three minutes removing the soup stain with a handkerchief. “She's - immense!” he said to himself. “Why she's—she's a poem by William - Butler Yeats!” As an afterthought, he made a mental memorandum to visit - the library and look up the work of Walter Mason. - </p> - <p> - A few days later Mr. Arundel sent for Lester, who hurried to the private - office with visions of a raise in salary. The president was sitting at his - desk turning over some papers; he motioned Lester to a chair and seemed - curiously loath to begin conversation. At last he turned, saying: - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Valiant, your life at Oxford did a great deal to mitigate your - literary sensibilities?” Lester hardly knew what to say, and murmured some - meaningless syllables. - </p> - <p> - “I think that your abilities can be of very great service to us,” - continued Mr. Arundel, “and as an evidence of that I am asking the cashier - to raise your salary five dollars a week.” - </p> - <p> - Lester bowed gently; he was not capable of articulate speech. - </p> - <p> - “I want to ask you a rather delicate question,” pursued the president, who - seemed as much embarrassed as his visitor. “Do you ever write poetry?” - </p> - <p> - Lester's voice was amazingly hoarse and choky, but in a spasm of - puzzlement and gratification he ejaculated: “Sometimes!” - </p> - <p> - “What I really mean,” said Mr. Arundel, “is this: do you ever write verses - of a sentimental nature—hum—what might be called endearments?” - </p> - <p> - The young man sat speechless in surprise and embarrassment. As a matter of - fact, he had been trolling some amatory staves in secret, in honour of - Miss Denver; and he imagined they had come in some way under his - employer's eye. - </p> - <p> - “Please do not be alarmed,” said Mr. Arundel, seeing his discomfiture. - “This is purely a matter of business. As it happens, I have a need for - some poems of an intimately sentimental character, and, being totally - unfitted to produce them myself, I wondered if you would sell me some? I - would be glad to pay market rates for them.” - </p> - <p> - Still Lester could do no more than bow. - </p> - <p> - “I shall have to be frank,” said Mr. Arundel, “and I must beg you to keep - this matter absolutely confidential. I have your word of honour in that - regard?” - </p> - <p> - “Absolutely,” said Lester, quite vanquished by amazement. - </p> - <p> - The president's sense of humour seemed to have mastered his diffidence. A - quaint smile lurked behind the furrows that years of royalties had carved - on his face. - </p> - <p> - “I want to do some wooing in rhyme; and I want you to turn out some verses - for me of a superlatively lyric sort, it being understood that I purchase - all rights in these poems, including that of authorship. Would you be - willing to do me half a dozen, at say ten dollars each?” - </p> - <p> - Lester, although staggered by the proposal, was still able to multiply six - by ten, and his answer was affirmative and speedy. - </p> - <p> - “I do not wish to give you any specifications as to the object of your - vicarious amour,” said the president. “It is a lady, of course; young and - fair. How soon can you despoil the English language of half a dozen songs - of passion worthy of the best Oxford traditions?” - </p> - <p> - Jack and Harry found Lester good company that evening. When they got back - to the sitting room on Madison Avenue he was lying on a couch, nursing a - large calabash and contemplating the ceiling with dreamy brow. As they - entered, stripping off their overcoats and chucking the night extras - across the room at him, he smiled the rich, tolerant smile of Alexander at - the Macedon polo grounds. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Lester,” said Jack, “why the Cheshire-cat grin?” - </p> - <p> - “I've sold sixty dollars' worth of verse,” said Lester, benignly; “also - I've had a raise.” - </p> - <p> - “My God!” said Harry. “Think how many starving cubists you could endow on - that! There'll be a riot in Greenwich Village.” - </p> - <p> - “Pity the poor bartenders on a night like this!” cried Jack. Then they - went to Browne's chop-house for dinner. After a three-finger steak and - several beakers of dog's nose, Lester was readily persuaded to enounce the - first number of his sonnet sequence, which had accreted or (as its author - expressed it) nucleolated, while he was walking home from the office. - </p> - <p> - “Sonnet, in the Petrarchan mode, item No. 1,” he proclaimed: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Upon a trellis, bending toward the south, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I set my heart, a yearning rose, to climb; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - It pullulates and blooms in sultry rhyme, - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - It spires and speeds aloft, in spite of drouth. - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - And seeking for that sweeter rose, your mouth, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - That beckons from some balcony sublime, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - It heeds no whit the tick-tack-tock of Time - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - And with its sweetness all the night endow'th. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn! - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - O velvet petals unsmutched of the mire! - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - For this my life was manifestly born, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - To climb toward thy lips, and never tire! - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Now ope thy shutter in the flood of mom— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Lean out, and smile, and pluck thy heart's desire. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “Seems strange,” said Harry, “that a man can buy a good meal with a thing - like that!” - </p> - <p> - “What is a petrarch, anyway?” said Jack. “Gee, you'll have to brush your - hair to keep it out of your eyebrows,” said Harry. “Herod was petrarch of - Galilee, don't you remember? It's a kind of comptroller or efficiency - expert.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense,” said Harry. “Herod was patriarch of Galilee, not petrarch.” - </p> - <p> - At this moment Lester was busy multiplying twenty by fifty-two, and adding - sixty, and he did not attempt to put Laura's friend right in the eyes of - his companions. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The next morning, at the office, Lester took occasion to stroll over to - the corner where Miss Denver was tickling the keys. Her delicious, able - fingers flashed like the boreal aurora; the incomparable smoothness of her - neck and throat fascinated him; her clear, blue-washed gray eyes startled - him with their merry archness. Wambling inwardly, he met her gaze as - coolly as he might. - </p> - <p> - “Come to Moretti's to-night?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “I'm sorry; I've got a date to-night.” - </p> - <p> - He ached in spirit. “To-morrow night?” - </p> - <p> - She hesitated a moment, tapping the desk with a rosy finger nail. Then her - face brightened. “I'd love to.” - </p> - <p> - As he returned to his desk and the dull routine of writing press notes for - Petunia Veal's latest novel, he uttered a phrase that he had caught from - Harry Hanover. It was the first sign of his emancipation from Mallarmé and - the Oxford Movement, for certainly that phrase had never been heard on the - quilted lawns of Balliol: “She's a prize package, all right, all right!” - </p> - <p> - Ten days elapsed. All six sonnets had been delivered and paid for, and Mr. - Arundel had bargained for a few extra rondeaux, at five dollars each. - </p> - <p> - Antipasto, minestrone, breadsticks, force-meat balls, and here we are - again at the spaghetti and Hackensack Chianti. Lester had mailed his MS. - on “Clara Tice and the Pleinaerists of Greenwich Village” to the <i>Oblique - Review</i> that afternoon, and had calculated that the editors could not - in any decency offer him less than fifty—or perhaps forty—dollars - for it. This, added to 20 by 52 plus 60 plus the rondeaux and other - probable increments, would certainly support two in a garret for some - time. He also had hopes of selling some obscenarios for the movies. Pearl - would probably want to go on with her work, for a while at any rate. She - was so independent! But those clear eyes of hers, like a March sky with - teasings of April in it, how tender and laughing they were! A few nights - ago they had taken a long bus ride together, and she had forgotten her - muff. She let him warm her hands instead. He went home that night feeling - strong enough to bite lamp-posts in two, and had waked up Jack and Harry - to put them right about Petrarch. - </p> - <p> - Pearl was teaching Lester to twirl up his spaghetti with fork and spoon, - instead of draping it out of his mouth like Spanish moss. Suddenly she - laughed. - </p> - <p> - “What did I tell you!” she said. “The dear old <i>Oblique</i> has gone - blooie! Mr. Arundel called up the editor to-day and told him the Barmecide - Company won't supply him with any more paper until he pays his bills. Of - course that means he'll have to quit.” - </p> - <p> - Lester was touched in two vital spots: his own private hopes, and his zeal - for fly-specked literature. “Shades of Frank Harris!” he cried. “If that - isn't just like Arundel! Why, that man is pure and simple <i>bourgeois!</i> - I never heard of such a thing. Has he no feeling at all for art?” Pearl - laughed—the pure, musical laugh of careless girlishness, but the - recording angel caught in the nimble chords a faint overtone of something - else—like the tinkle of ice in a misty tumbler. “Oh, he has his own - ideas about art,” she said. “He's taken to writing poetry himself. You - never heard such stuff—I've been meaning to tell you. What does - 'pullulate' mean?” - </p> - <p> - Lester's valiant heart, Lester's manly hands that had acted as a muff on a - Riverside Drive bus, trembled and stiffened. “<i>It 'pullulates and blooms - in sultry rhyme</i>,” she quoted gayly. “Now what do you make of that, as - referring to Mr. Arundel's heart? Sultry is right, too!” Lion-hearted - Harvard, oak-bosomed Balliol, and all the mature essences of manhood were - needed to keep Lester calm. How had she seen these secret strains? She - must have been peeping into the chief's private correspondence. He - hesitated during six inches of spaghetti. “Search me!” he said. “Is it in - Walter Mason?” - </p> - <p> - “No, it's his own stuff, I tell you. <i>O beauteous rose! O shrub without - a thorn!</i>” she chanted, and her laughter popped like a champagne cork. - The horrid truth burst upon him. The boss was courting the angel of the - office with the very ammunition that Lester himself had furnished, and his - vow of secrecy forbade him to disclose the truth. Oh, the paltry meanness - of fate, the villainy of circumstance! It is impossible to describe the - pangs it cost him to dissemble, cloak, disguise, and conceal the anguish - he felt. But dissemble, cloak, disguise, and conceal he did, and though - his heart glowed like an angry cigar stub, he reached home at last. - </p> - <p> - There he sat down at his table, and amid the healthy snores of his - roommates he concocted a fine piece of literary ordnance. Late and grimly - he toiled and contrived. At length he had fashioned a sonnet which would - be the golden sum and substance of the previous sequence; a cry of the - heart so splendidly forensic that Mr. Arundel would pounce upon it, - yielding his crisp steel engraving in return. But see, the asp concealed - in the basket of fruit, the adder in the woodpile! Read Lester's sonnet as - an acrostic: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Over that trellis where the moon distills - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - My heart is climbing like a rambler rose: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - You lean and listen to the whippoorwills, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Heedless of how the fragrant blossom grows! - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn! - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - When wilt thou realize my love in sooth? - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I touch the windowsill with heart forlorn, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Hoping the guerdon of thy bounteous youth. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - After the grief and teen of bitter days, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Troubled by woes that cicatrize and burn, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Ever at eventide I seek thy praise, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Yearning thy maiden bliss—I yearn, I yearn! - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Over the rotten fruit of buried years - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Unbar the bolt—have pity on my tears! - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The discerning reader will spot the glittering falchion of malice lurking - in the initial letters. Read them downward, they convey: <i>o my how I - hate you!</i> Lester had but to convey this poisoned comfit to his chief: - then, playing upon the artless Pearl, persuade her to show it to him—point - out the murderous duplicity of the love token; and she would recoil into - his arms. Greenwich Village would sound the timbrel of joy, and even the - <i>Oblique</i> might find a softer-hearted papyrus vendor. <i>Vos - plaudite!</i> With such thoughts, amid the wailing matin song of - boarding-house steam pipes, our hero fell into a brief slumber. - </p> - <p> - That morning Lester hastened to the office. He waited feverishly until the - hour when the chief usually arrived, then visited the private office. - There he found the vice-president going over the morning mail. “Is—is - Mr. Arundel in?” he stammered. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Arundel isn't here to-day,” said the vicepresident. “He will be away - two weeks.” - </p> - <p> - Lester retired queasily, and hurried to the corner sacred to Miss Denver. - Here he found one of the other stenographers using Pearl's machine. - </p> - <p> - “Where's Miss Denver?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - The young lady, of humorous turn, looked at her wrist watch. “Getting - ready to go over the top,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Haven't you heard? She marries the boss this morning.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - ADVICE TO TO LOVELORN - </h2> - <h3> - I - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>ISS ANN AUSTIN - came briskly into her little cupboard of a room at the back of the <i>Evening - Planet</i> office. She hung up her hat and coat, opened her rolltop desk, - put her small handbag carefully in a drawer, and looked at herself in a - greenish mirror that hung secretly on a hook in the recess under the - pigeonholes. She took the rubber hood off her typewriter, poured three - paper cupfuls of drinking water on the potted geranium on the windowledge, - wound up the cheap clock on top of the desk, and moved it forward ten - minutes to compensate for what it had lost during the night. Now she was - ready for work. As she wound up the clock, the usual thought occurred to - her—when would she be able to buy herself the handsome little wrist - watch she coveted? There were a lot of them in the jeweller's shop on Park - Row, and she admired them every morning on her way to the office. But when - one is supporting one's self and an invalid mother in an uptown apartment, - and has to pay for a woman to come in during the day to lend a hand, all - on fifty dollars a week, in an era of post-bellum prices, wrist watches - have to wait. However, as Ann made the daily correction in her laggard - clock she used to say to herself: “There's a better time coming.” She was - not devoid of humour, you see. - </p> - <p> - Then the office boy would bring in the big pile of morning mail, grinning - as he laid it on the pullout slide of her desk. He may be excused for - grinning, because Ann was the kind of creature who would bring a smile to - the surliest face. She was just a nice size, with a face that was both - charming and sensible, and merry brown eyes (when it wasn't too close to - the first of the month). Also, that pile of mail <i>was</i> rather - amusing. Those letters, so many of them written on cheap pink or blue - stationery and addressed in unsophisticated handwriting, were not directed - to Miss Ann Austin, but to “Cynthia,” and the office boy knew pretty well - the kind of messages that were in them. For Ann, under the pseudonym of - “Cynthia,” conducted the <i>Planet's</i> department of Advice to the - Lovelorn, and daily several score of puzzled or distracted beings bared - their hearts to her. The pile of letters was growing bigger, too. The <i>Planet</i>, - which was not a very flourishing paper just at that time, had started the - Advice to the Lovelorn department a few months before, and had put Ann in - charge of it because she had done so well writing sob stories. It was - beginning to “pull” quite surprisingly as a circulation feature, - especially since her smiling little picture, vignetted in a cut with a - border of tiny hearts, had been put at the head of the column. Under the - cut was the legend: “Cynthia, a Sympathetic Adviser in Matters of the - Heart.” Ann didn't know whether to be pleased or not at the growing - popularity of her feature. This was not quite the kind of thing she had - hoped for when she entered the newspaper world. But—the more letters - there were from the lovelorn, the sooner she might get that needed raise. - </p> - <p> - With a little sigh she got out her penknife, began slitting the envelopes, - ceased to be Ann Austin and became Cynthia, the sage and gentle arbiter - over her troubled parliament of love. - </p> - <p> - It was a task that required no small discretion and tact, because Cynthia, - whatever her private misgivings, tried to perform it with some honest - idealism. In the first place, the letters that were obviously merely - humorous, or were amorous attempts to inveigle her into private - correspondence, were discarded. Then the letters to be used in the next - day's column had to be selected, and laid aside to be printed with her - comment on the ethical or sociological problems involved. The remaining - letters had all to be answered, and data noted down that would be useful - in compiling the pamphlet “1001 Problems of Courtship” that the managing - editor insisted on her preparing. He said it would be great circulation - dope. Ann didn't care much for the managing editor, Mr. Sikes. He had a - way of coming into her room, closing the door behind him, leaning over her - desk, and saying: “Well, how's little Miss Cupid?” If it hadn't been for - that habit of his, Ann would have spoken to him about a raise before now. - But she had an uneasy feeling that it would not be pleasing to put herself - in the position of asking him favours. She would have been still more - disturbed if she had known that some of the boys in the city room used to - talk about “Cupid and Sikey” when they saw him visit her room. They said - it angrily, because Ann was a general office favourite. Even the coloured - elevator man had brought his wooing problems to her one day, wanting to be - reassured as to his technique. - </p> - <p> - It is all very well for you to scoff, superior reader, but letters such as - Ann had to read every morning bring an honest pang to an understanding - heart; particularly when that heart is in collaboration with twenty-two - years of bright, brown-eyed, high-spirited girlhood. Perhaps you don't - realize how many of us are young and ignorant and at work in offices, and - absorbed, out of working hours, in the universal passion. A good many make - shift to be cynical and worldly-wise in public, but who knows how - ravishingly sentimental we are in private? Some say that Doctor Freud - didn't tell the half of it. As that waggish poet Keith Preston has - remarked, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Love, lay thy phobias to rest, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Inhibit thy taboo! - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - We twain shall share, forever blest, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A complex built for two! - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - A complex built for two was the ambition of most of Ann's correspondents; - but mainly her letters exhibited the seamy side of Love's purple mantle. - You see, when lovers are perfectly happy, they don't write to the papers - about it. And when she pondered gravely over “Brokenhearted's” letter - saying that she has just learned that a perfectly splendid fellow she is - so infatuated with has a wife and three children in Detroit; or over - “Puzzled's” inquiry as to whether she is “a bum sport” because she - wouldn't let the dark young man kiss her good-night, she sometimes said to - herself that Napoleon was right. Napoleon, you remember, remarked that - Love causes more unhappiness than anything else in the world. And then she - would turn to her typewriter, and put under “Puzzled's” inquiry: - </p> - <p> - <i>No, “Puzzled,” do not let him kiss you unless you are betrothed. If any - one is a “bum sport” it is he for wanting to do so. If he “always kisses - the girls good-night when he has had a good time,” he is not your sort. A - man that does not respect a girl before marriage will certainly not - respect her afterward.</i> - </p> - <p> - After she had typed these replies she always hastily took the paper out of - her typewriter and tucked it away in her desk. She did not like the idea - of Mr. Sikes coming in and reading it over her shoulder, as he had done - once. That was the time she had used the quotation “Pains of Love are - sweeter far than all other pleasures are” in answering “Desolate.” The - managing editor had repeated the verse in a way that both angered and - alarmed her. - </p> - <p> - This particular morning, among the other letters was one that interested - her both by the straightforward simplicity of its statement and by the - clear, vigorous handwriting on sensible plain notepaper. It ran thus: - </p> - <p> - <i>Dear Cynthia:</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>I am a young business man, very much in love, and I need your help. I - have fallen in love with a girl who does not know me. I do not even know - her name but I know her by sight, and I know where she works. She looks - like the only one for me, but I don't want to do anything disrespectful. - Would it be a mistake for me to call at her office and try to get a chance - to meet her? Do you think she would be offended? She looks very adorable. - Please tell me honestly what you think.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>Respectfully yours,</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>Sincerity.</i> - </p> - <p> - Wearied by the maunderings of many idiotic flappers and baby vamps, this - appeal attracted her. She put it into the column for the following day, - writing underneath it: - </p> - <p> - <i>You never can tell, “Sincerity”! It all depends upon you. If you are - the right kind of man, she ought not to be offended. Why not take a - chance? Faint heart never won fair lady.</i> - </p> - <p> - It was trying enough, Ann used to think, to have to pore over the troubles - of her lovelorn clients on paper; but the worst times were when they came - to call on her at the office. Fortunately this did not happen very often, - for the stricken maidens and young Lochinvars who make up the chief - support of such columns as hers are safely and busily shut up among - typewriters and filing cases during the daytime; their wounds do not begin - to burn intolerably until about five-thirty p.m. But now and then some - forlorn and baffled creature would find his or her way to “Cynthia” and - ask her advice. She would listen sympathetically, apply such homely - febrifuge as her inexperienced but wise heart suggested to her, and after - the patient had gone she would add the case to her list of 1001 Problems. - The material for the pamphlet was growing rapidly. - </p> - <p> - One morning, while the managing editor was in her room asking her how soon - the booklet would be ready, the office boy brought in a card neatly - engraved <i>Mr. Arthur Caldwell</i>. Now as a rule Cynthia did not see - masculine visitors, because (after one or two trying experiences) she had - found that they were inclined to transfer to her the heart that someone - else had bruised. But in this case she welcomed the caller because Mr. - Sikes was being annoyingly facetious. He had looked over her laboriously - gathered data for the 1001 Problems, and had said: “Well, you're getting - to be quite an experienced little girl in these matters, hey?” He had - seemed disposed to linger on the topic with pleasure. Therefore Cynthia - told the office boy to send Mr. Caldwell in, though the name meant nothing - to her. Mr. Sikes went out, and the caller was introduced. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Caldwell proved to be a young man, quite as nice-looking as the - collar-advertising young men without being so desperately handsome. - Cynthia liked him from the first glance. There was something that seemed - very genuine about his soft collar and his candid, clean-shaven face and - the little brown brief-case he carried. He had on brown woollen socks, - too, she noticed, in one of those quick feminine observations. He seemed - very embarrassed, and his face suddenly went ruby red. - </p> - <p> - “Is this Cynthia?” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Ann, pushing aside a mass of lovelorn correspondence, and - wondering what the trouble could be. - </p> - <p> - “My name's Caldwell,” he said. “Look here, I suppose you'll think me an - awful idiot, but I wanted to ask your advice. I—I wrote you a letter - the other day, and your answer in the column made me think that perhaps - you wouldn't mind giving me some help. I wrote that letter signed - 'Sincerity'.” - </p> - <p> - He was obviously ill at ease, and Ann tried to help him out. - </p> - <p> - “I remember the letter perfectly,” she said. “Did you take my advice?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I'm a bit uncertain about it,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “I just wanted to explain to you a little more fully, and see what you - think. You see I happened to see this girl one day, going into her office. - I suppose the idea about love at first sight is all exploded, but I had a - hunch as soon as I saw her that——Oh, well, that I would like - to know her. I've seen her going in and out of the building, but she has - never seen me, never even heard of me. I don't know any one who can - introduce me to her, and I can't just walk up to her and tell her I'm - crazy about her. They don't do that except in Shakespeare. I don't know - much about girls and I thought maybe you could suggest some way in which I - could meet her without frightening her.” - </p> - <p> - Ann pondered. She liked the young man's way of putting his problem, and it - was plain from his genuine embarrassment that he was sincere. - </p> - <p> - “I'd love to help you, if I could,” she said. “It seems to me that the - only way to go about it is to arrange some business with the firm she - works for, and try to meet her that way. Couldn't that be done?” - </p> - <p> - “She's secretary to one of the big bugs in the Telephone Company,” he - said. “I'm in the publishing business. I don't see any way in which I - could fake up a business connection there. The worst of it is, there may - be a dozen fellows in love with her already, for all I know. I suppose I - might get a job with the Telephone Company, but by the time I had worked - up far enough to have an excuse for going into the vice-president's office - where she works, someone else might have married her.” He laughed, a - boyish, ingratiating chuckle. - </p> - <p> - “It does seem pretty hard,” said Ann. “I don't know what to say.” She had - a mental picture of the unknown fair one, going in and out of the big - Telephone Company's building on Dey Street, unaware of the admiring - glances of this bashful admirer. “I'll bet the men she knows aren't half - as nice as he is,” she said to herself. - </p> - <p> - “I happen to know that she reads your column,” said Caldwell. “I suppose - there isn't any way I could get in touch with her through that?” - </p> - <p> - “If there's any legitimate way I can help,” Ann said, “I'll be glad to. - But I hardly see what I can do.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, thanks awfully,” he said. “If I get a chance to meet her, will you - let me come in again and tell you about it? Perhaps you would let me - mention your name as a reference, in regard to my respectability I mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Surely you can give her better references than that? You see, I don't - know so very much about you, Mr. Caldwell.” - </p> - <p> - “In matters like this,” he said, “I guess you're the Big Authority. And by - the way, do you ever do any book reviewing? I work for Fawcett and - Company, the publishers, and we'd like immensely to have your comment on - some of our love stories. Can I send you some books?” - </p> - <p> - “I can't promise to review them,” said Ann, rather pleased, because this - seemed to her a way to earn a little extra money. “But I'll speak to the - literary editor, and we'll see.” - </p> - <p> - “Suppose I send them to your home address,” said Caldwell. “I know what a - newspaper office is, if I send them here someone else might snitch them. - Give me your street number, and you'll be spared the trouble of taking - them home to read.” - </p> - <p> - “That's very kind of you,” said Ann. “Miss Ann Austin, 527 West 150th - Street. Well, you let me know what happens about your fair lady. I wish - you all sorts of luck!” - </p> - <p> - When Arthur Caldwell got outside the office, he looked down Park Row to - where the great Telephone Building rose up behind the brown silhouette of - St. Paul's. - </p> - <p> - “Caldwell,” he said to himself, “you're an infernal liar! But it pays! - I'll figure out some way. While there's life there's dope.” - </p> - <p> - He set out for the subway, but paused again to meditate. - </p> - <p> - “Ann Austin!” he said. “By George, she's a queen.” - </p> - <h3> - II - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t is not the - purpose of this tale to tell in detail how Arthur Caldwell laid siege to - Ann Austin. He was a cautious man, and for some time he contented himself - by presenting occasional reports of his progress with the damsel of the - Telephone Company. Ann, in her friendly and unselfish way, was delighted - to hear, a few days later, that he had met his ideal. Then, averring that - he needed further counsel, Arthur persuaded her to have lunch with him one - day; and Ann, convinced that the young man was in love with someone else, - saw no reason why this should not be done. Perhaps it was a little odd - that at their various meetings they should have talked so much of - themselves, their ambitions, the books they had been reading, and so on; - and so little of the Telephone lady. But surely it was strictly a matter - of business that Arthur should send Miss Austin some of Fawcett's novels, - for her to review in the <i>Planet</i>; and equally a professional matter - that he should discuss with her her opinion of them. And then came the day - when Arthur called up to say that things were going so well with the - Telephone lady that he wanted Cynthia to meet her; and would she join them - in St. Paul's Churchyard at half-past twelve? Ann, with just a curious - little unanalyzed twinge in her heart, agreed to do so. - </p> - <p> - But when she reached the bench in the graveyard, where a bright autumn - sunshine filled the clearing among those tremendous buildings, Arthur was - there alone. - </p> - <p> - “Where's Alice?” said Ann, innocently—for such was the name Arthur - had always given the lady of the Telephone Company. - </p> - <p> - “She couldn't come,” he said. “But I want to show you her picture.” - </p> - <p> - They sat down on the bench, and he took out of his pocket a copy of the - noon edition of the <i>Planet</i>. He turned to the feature page, and - displayed the little cut of Cynthia at the head of the Lovelorn column. - </p> - <p> - “There,” he said, stoutly (though his heart was tremulous within him), - “there, you adorable little thing, there she is.” - </p> - <p> - It would be pleasant to linger over this scene, but, as I have just said, - this is not our <i>denouement,</i> but only an incident. Ann, shot through - with delicious pangs of doubt and glory and anger, asked for explanations. - </p> - <p> - “And do you mean to say there never was any Alice, the beautiful Telephone - blonde?” she said. “What a fraud you are!” - </p> - <p> - “Of course not,” he said. “You dear, delightful innocent, I just had to - cook up some excuse for coming up to see you. And you can't be angry with - me now, Ann, because in your own answer to Sincerity's letter you said the - girl ought not to be offended. You told me to take a chance! Just think - what self-control I had, that first time I came up to see you, not to - blurt out the truth.” And then he tore off a scrap of margin from the - newspaper and measured her finger for a ring. - </p> - <h3> - III - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here were happy - evenings that winter, when Ann, after finishing her stint at the office, - would hasten up their rendezvous at Piazza's little Italian table d'hote. - Here, over the minestrone soup and the spaghetti and that strong Italian - coffee that seems to have a greenish light round the edges of the liquid - (and an equally greenish taste), they would discuss their plans and - platitudes, just as lovers always have and always will. As for Ann, the - light of a mystical benevolence shone in her as she conned her daily pile - of broken hearts in the morning mail. More than ever she felt that she, - who had seen the true flame upon the high altar, had a duty to all - perplexed and random followers of the gleam who had gone astray in their - search. Aware more keenly that the troubled appeals of “Tearful” and - “Little Pal,” however absurd, were the pains of genuine heartache, she - became more and more tender in her comments, and her correspondence grew - apace. Now that she knew that her job need not go on forever she tried - honestly to run the column with all her might. How stern she was with the - flirt and the vamp and the jilt; how sympathetic with the wounded on - Love's great battle-field. “Great stuff, great stuff!” Mr. Sikes would - cry, in his coarse way, and complimented her on the increasing “kick” of - her department. Knowing that he attributed the accelerated pulse of the - Lovelorn column to mere cynicism on her part, she did not dare wear her - ring in the office for fear of being joked about it. She used to think - sadly that because she had made sympathy with lovers a matter of trade, - she herself, now she was in love, could hope for no understanding. - Although she hardly admitted it, she longed for the day when she could - drop the whole thing. - </p> - <p> - One evening Arthur met her at Piazza's, radiant. He was going off on a - long business trip for his publishing house, and they had promised him a - substantial raise when he returned. They sat down to dinner together in - the highest spirits. Arthur, in particular, was in a triumphant mood: the - publishing world, it seemed, lay under his feet. - </p> - <p> - “Great news, hey?” he said. “We'll be able to get married in the spring, - and you can kick out of that miserable job.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Arthur,” she said, “you know I have to take care of Mother. Don't - you think it would be wiser if I went on with the work for a while, until - your next raise comes? It would help a good deal, and we'd be able to put - a little away for a rainy day.” - </p> - <p> - “What?” he said. “Do you think I'm going to have my wife doing that - lovelorn stuff in the paper every day? It'd make me a laughing stock if it - ever got out. No, <i>sir!</i> I haven't said much about it, because I knew - it couldn't be helped; but believe me, honey, that isn't the right kind of - job for you. I've often wondered you didn't feel that yourself.” - </p> - <p> - Ann was a little nettled that he should put it that way. Whatever her - private distaste for the Lovelorn column, it had served her well in a - difficult time, and had paid the doctor's bills at home. And she knew how - much honest devotion she had put into the task of trying to give helpful - counsel. - </p> - <p> - “At any rate,” she said, “it was through the column that we first met.” - </p> - <p> - What evil divinity sat upon Arthur's tongue that he could not see this was - the moment for a word of tenderness? But a young man flushed with his - first vision of business success, the feeling that now nothing can prevent - him from “making good,” is likely to be obtuse to the finer shades of - intercourse. - </p> - <p> - “Of course, dear, I could see you were different from the usual sob sister - of the press,” he said. “I could see you didn't really fall for that - stuff. It's because I love you so, I want to get you out of that cheap, - degrading sensational work. Most of those letters you get are only fakes, - anyway. I think Love ought to be sacred, not used as mere circulation bait - for a newspaper.” - </p> - <p> - Ann was a high-spirited girl, and this blunt criticism touched her in that - vivid, quivering region of the mind where no woman stops to reason. But - she made an honest attempt to be patient. - </p> - <p> - “But, Arthur,” she said; “there's nothing really cheap and degraded in - trying to help others who haven't had the same advantages we have. I know - a lot of the letters I print are silly and absurd, but not more so than - some of the books you publish.” - </p> - <p> - “Now, listen,” he said, loftily, “we won't quarrel about this. I don't - want you to go on with the job, that's all. It isn't fair to you. You may - take the work seriously, and put all sorts of idealism into it, but it's - not the right kind of job for a refined girl. How about the men in the - office? I'll bet I know what <i>they</i> think of it. They probably think - it's a devil of a good joke, and laugh about it among themselves. Don't - you think I've seen that managing editor leering at you? That sort of - thing cheapens a girl among decent men. Every Lovelace in town feels he - has a right to send you mash-notes, I guess.” - </p> - <p> - Ann was furious. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you're the only one I ever paid any attention to,” she said, - blazing at him. “I'm sorry you think I've cheapened myself. I guess I - have, by letting you interfere with my affairs.” - </p> - <p> - She slipped the ring from her finger, and thrust it at him. Arthur saw, - too late, what he had done. She listened in scornful silence to his - miserable attempts to console her, which were doubly handicapped by the - old waiter hovering near. She was still adamant while he took her up town. - The only thing she said was when she reached the door of her apartment. - </p> - <p> - “I don't want you to cheapen yourself. You needn't come any more.” - </p> - <p> - By this time Arthur also was thoroughly angry. The next morning he went - away on his business trip, realizing for the first time that he who has - the pass key to a human heart treads among dangerous explosives. - </p> - <h3> - IV - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>ow different the - little room in the Planet office looked to Ann when she returned, with a - sick heart, to her work the next morning. Everything was just the same—the - geranium on its windowledge, that seemed to survive both the eddying hot - air from the steampipes beneath it and the daily douche of iced drinking - water; the noisily ticking inaccurate little clock; the dusty typewriter. - All were the same, and there was the pile of morning letters from Love's - battered henchmen. To office boy and casual reporter Ann herself seemed - the usual cheerful charmer with her crisp little white collar and dark, - alluring hair. Her swift, capable hands sped over the pile of letters, - slitting the envelopes and sorting the outcries into some classification - of her own. Outwardly nothing had altered, but everything seemed to have - lost its meaning. What a desolate emptiness gaped beneath the firm routine - of her daily life. She was struck by the irony of the fact that the only - one in the office who seemed to notice that something was amiss was the - one person whom she disliked—Mr. Sikes. He came in about something - or other, and then stayed, looking at her intently. - </p> - <p> - “You look sick,” he said. “What's the matter, is the love feast getting on - your nerves?” - </p> - <p> - With a queer twitching at the corners of her mouth, she forced herself to - say some trifling remark. He leaned over her and put his hand on hers. She - caught the strong cigarry whiff of his clothes, which sickened her. - </p> - <p> - “Too much love in the abstract,” he said, insinuatingly. “What you need is - a little love in the concrete.” - </p> - <p> - If he—or any one—had spoken tenderly to her, she would have - burst into tears. But the boorishness of his words was just the tonic she - needed. She looked at him with flashing eyes, and was about to say: “Keep - to some topic you understand.” Then she dared not say it, for now she - could not run the risk of losing her job. She faced him steadily, in angry - silence. He left the room, and the little green-tarnished mirror under the - pigeonholes saw tears for the first time. - </p> - <p> - The irony of her position moved her cruelly when she began her task of - dealing with the correspondents. Here she was, giving helpful, cheery - advice, posing as all-wise in these matters, when her own love affair had - come so miserably to grief. In the ill-written scrawls on scented and - scalloped paper she could hear an echo of her own suffering. “Hopeless” - and “Uncertain” and “Miss Eighteen” got very tender replies that day. And - how she laid the lash upon “Beau Brummel” and “Disillusioned,” those - self-assured young men, who had chosen that mail to contribute their views - on the flirtatious and unreliable qualities of modern girls. - </p> - <p> - The bitterness of her paradoxical task became dulled as the days went on, - but there were other troubles, too, to bother her. Her mother, quick and - querulous to detect unhappiness, fell into one of her nervous spells, and - the doctor had to be called in again. The woman-by-the-day got - blood-poisoning in her arm, and could not come. The landlord gave notice - of a coming raise in rent. A fat letter came from Arthur, and in a flush - of passion she destroyed it unread. If it hadn't been such a fat letter, - she said to herself, it wouldn't have annoyed her so to see it. But she - wasn't going to wade through pages of explanation of just what he had - meant. She was still cut to the quick when she remembered the cavalier and - easy way in which he had scoffed at her work. And then, as time went by, - she found herself moving into a new mood—no longer one of - exaggerated tenderness toward her clients, but a feeling almost cynical. - “They're all fools, just as I am,” she said. - </p> - <p> - One morning she found on her desk a note from the managing editor: - </p> - <p> - <i>Dear Miss Cupid:</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>We've made some changes in our budget, and I've been authorized to - fatten your envelope $15 a week. I'm glad to do this, because the Lovelorn - stuff is going big. Just keep kidding them along and everything will be - fine. Maybe some day we can syndicate it. Hope this will cheer you up, - don't look so blue at your friends.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>Sikes.</i> - </p> - <p> - There had been a time when the tone and phrasing of this note might have - seemed offensive, but in the numbness of despondency Ann had felt lately, - it was a fine burst of rosy warmth. Thank God, she said to herself, - something has broken my way at last! She wondered if she had been mistaken - in Sikes, after all? Perhaps he was really a friend of hers, and she had - misunderstood his odd ways. - </p> - <p> - That day at noon she went down to the cashier's department to cash a small - check. There was no one in the cage, but in the adjoining compartment, - behind a wall of filing cases, she could hear two girls talking. One of - them said: - </p> - <p> - “I see Sikes has put through a raise for Lovelorn. Pretty soft for her, - hey?” - </p> - <p> - “She'll have to give value received, I guess,” said the other. “Sikes - figures if he puts that over for her, she'll fall for him. She's been - stalling him for quite a while, but I suppose he's got her fixed now.” - </p> - <p> - She fled, aghast, ran down to another floor so as not to be seen, and took - the elevator. Out on the street she walked mechanically along Park Row and - found herself opposite St. Paul's. She wandered in and sat down on a - bench. It was a chilly day, and the churchyard was nearly empty. - </p> - <p> - So this was Sikes's friendliness; and she, utterly innocent even in - thought, was already the subject of vulgar office gossip. For the first - time there broke in upon her, with bitter force, the knowledge that no - matter how easy it may be to counsel others, few of us are wise in our own - affairs. - </p> - <p> - Pitiable paradox: she, the “sympathetic adviser in matters of the heart,” - had made shipwreck of her own happiness. How right Arthur had been, and - how childish and mad she, to reject his just instinct. It was true: she - had made use of Love for mere newspaper circulation; and now Love had died - between her hands. Well, this was the end. No matter what happened, she - could not go on with the job. Cold and trembling with nervousness, she - returned to her desk, to finish her column for the next day. - </p> - <p> - On her typewriter lay some letters, which had come in while she was out. - She opened one, and read. - </p> - <p> - <i>Dear Cynthia:</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>I am in great trouble, please help me. I am in love with a fellow and - know he is all right and we would be very happy together. We were engaged - to be married, and everything was lovely. But he objected to the work I - was doing, said it was not a good job for a girl and that I ought to give - it up. I knew he was right, but the way he said it made me mad. I guess I - am hot-tempered and stubborn—anyway, I told him to mind his own - business, and he went away. Now I am heart-broken, because I love him and - I know he loves me. Tell me what to do.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>Jessie.</i> - </p> - <p> - Ann sat looking at the cheap blue paper with the initial J gaudily - embossed upon it in gilt. In the sprawling lines of unlettered handwriting - she saw an exact parallel to her own unhappy rupture with Arthur. How much - more clearly we can see the answer in others' tangles than in our own! - Jessie, with her pathetic pretentious gilt initial, knew that she had been - in the wrong, and was brave enough to want to make amends. And she—had - she not been less true to Love than Jessie? Her false pride and obstinacy - had brought their own punishment. Seeing the situation through Jessie's - eyes, she could read her duty plain. Arthur, no doubt, was through with - her forever, but she must play the game no less. - </p> - <p> - She put Jessie's letter at the head of the Lovelorn column for the next - day. Under it she wrote: - </p> - <p> - <i>Certainly, dear Jessie, if you feel you were in the wrong, you ought to - take the first step toward making up. Probably he was tactless in - criticizing you, but I am sure he only did it because he had your true - interest at heart. So write him a nice letter and be happy together. Your - friend Cynthia hopes it will all come out all right, because she has seen - other cases like this where false pride caused great suffering. If he is - the right man, he will love you all the more after he gets your letter.</i> - </p> - <p> - Ann sent up her copy to the composing room, and then going to a telephone - booth she called up Fawcett and Company and asked for Mr. Caldwell. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Caldwell's not here any longer,” said the girl. - </p> - <p> - “Serves me right,” said Ann to herself. “Can you tell me where I can find - him?” she asked, wondering how it was that one so miserable could still - speak in such a pleasant and apparently unconcerned tone of voice. - </p> - <p> - The Fawcett operator switched her to another wire. - </p> - <p> - “I'm sorry,” said a stenographer, “Mr. Fawcett left here about two weeks - ago. He's got a job out of town—in Boston, I think. I can find out - for you in the morning if you'll call again.” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind,” said Ann. - </p> - <p> - She had a horror of facing Mr. Sikes in her present wretchedness, so - before she went home she wrote him a note, resigning her job, and asking - permission to leave as soon as possible. - </p> - <p> - The next day she had to nerve herself to face his protests, and the - friendly remarks of all the staff when the news spread. It was a hideous - ordeal, but she managed to get through it smiling. But by evening she was - inwardly a wreck. In her present mood, she had an instinctive longing to - revisit the shabby little restaurant where she and Arthur had spent so - many happy hours. She knew it would give her pain; but she felt that pain - was what she needed—sharp, clean, insistent pain to ease the - oppression and disgust of what she had been through. Remorse, she felt, is - surgical in action: it cuts away foul tissues of the mind. She could not, - without preparatory discipline, face her mother's outcry at hearing she - had given up her job. - </p> - <h3> - V - </h3> - <p> - In the crisp blue evening air the bright front of Piazza's café shone with - a warm and generous lustre. From sheer force of habit, her heart lightened - a little as she climbed the stairs and entered the familiar place, where - festoons of red and green paper decoration criss-crossed above the warm, - soup-flavoured, tobacco-fogged room. There was a clatter of thick dishes - and a clamour of talk. - </p> - <p> - “One?” said the head waiter, his wiry black hair standing erect as though - in surprise. - </p> - <p> - She nodded, and followed him down the narrow aisle. There was the little - table, in the corner under the stair, where they had always sat. A man was - there, reading a newspaper.... Her heart felt very strange, as though it - had dropped a long way below its usual place. It was Arthur, and he was - smiling at her as though nothing had happened. He was getting up. . . he - was shaking hands with her. . . how natural it all seemed! - </p> - <p> - Like all really great crises, it was over in a flash. She found herself - sitting at the little table, taking off her gloves in the most casual - fashion. Arthur was whispering outrageous things. How fine it is that - everybody talks so loud in Italian table d'hôtes, and the waiters crash - the dishes round so recklessly! - </p> - <p> - Arthur's talk seemed to be in two different keys, partly for the benefit - of old Tonio, the waiter, and partly for her alone. - </p> - <p> - “Well, here you are! I wondered how soon you'd get here.... <i>Have you - forgiven me, dearest?</i>. . . Do you want some minestrone?. . . <i>Why - didn't you answer my letters, brownest eyes?</i> . . . Yes, and some of - the near-beer.. . . <i>Darling, it was all my fault. I wrote to tell you - so. Didn't you get my letter?</i>” - </p> - <p> - After all, at such times there isn't much explaining done, A happy - reconciliation is the magic of a moment, and no explanations are - necessary. The trouble just drops away, and life begins again from the - last kind thing that was said. All Ann could do was whisper: - </p> - <p> - “No, Arthur—it was I who was wrong. I—I've given up the - Lovelorn.” - </p> - <p> - And then, after a sudden moisture of eye on both sides, the steaming - minestrone came on in its battered leaden tureen from which the silver - plating disappeared long ago, and under pretense of serving her soup - Arthur stretched out his hand. She put out hers to meet it, and found the - ring slipped deftly back on her finger. - </p> - <p> - “But, Arthur,” she said, presently, “I thought you were out of town.” - </p> - <p> - “I was,” he said. “I've got a new job, with King and Company in Boston. A - good job, too, we can be married right away, and you don't need to worry.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, how did you happen to come here tonight? You didn't know I was - going to be here. I didn't know it myself until an hour or so ago.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I willed you to come, who knows?” he said, gaily. “Have you been - advising lovers all this while, and didn't know that they always haunt the - scenes of former felicity? I've been in town several days, and came here - every night.” - </p> - <p> - He produced a copy of the <i>Evening Planet</i> which he had been reading - when she came in. - </p> - <p> - “I had a special reason for thinking you might come here to-night,” he - said. “This afternoon I read your column, and I saw Jessie's letter and - your answer. What you said made me think that perhaps you might be willing - to forgive me.” Ann, once more safely enthroned on the shining glory of - her happiness, felt that she could afford to tease him just a little. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” she said, “so you admit that some of those letters people write me - <i>are</i> genuine, and that the answers do some good?” - </p> - <p> - He smiled at her and laid his hand over the ring, which outglittered even - the most newly nickeled of Piazza's cutlery. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, honey,” he said. “I admit it. And I knew that Jessie's letter was - genuine, because I wrote it myself.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE CURIOUS CASE OF KENELM DIGBY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>E HAD been dining - together at the Hotel Ansonia, and as we walked up the shining breezy - channel of Broadwhat is the commonest phrase of the detectives? To put two - and two together. What else, I ask you, is the poet doing all the time but - putting two and two together—two rhymes, and then two rhymes more, - and making a quatrain. - </p> - <p> - He swung his stick, puffed strongly at his cigar, and amorously surveyed - the deep blue of the night, against which the huge blocks of apartment - houses spread their random patterns of lighted windows. Between these - granolithic cliffs flowed a racing stream of bright motors, like the - rapids of a river of light hurrying downward to the whirlpool of Times - Square. - </p> - <p> - My friend Dove Dulcet (the well-known poet and literary agent) vigorously - expounded a theorem which I afterward had occasion to remember. - </p> - <p> - “There is every reason,” he cried, “why a poet should be the best of - detectives! My boy, there is a rhyme in events as well as in words. When - you see two separate and apparently unconnected happenings that seem (as - one might say) to rhyme together, you begin to suspect one author behind - them both. It is the function of the poet to have a quick and tender - apprehension of similarities. The root of poetry is nothing else than - describing things as being like other apparently quite different things. - The lady who compared herself to a bird in a gilded cage was chaffed for - her opulent and spendthrift imagination; but in that lively simile she - showed an understanding of the poetic principle. Look here: - </p> - <p> - “Either for a poet or for a detective,” he said, gaily, “this seems to me - the ideal region. I tell you, I walk about here suspecting the most - glorious crimes. When I see the number of banana splits that are consumed - in these glittering drugstores, I feel sure that somewhere, in the purple - silences of the night, hideous consequences must follow. Those who feed so - violently on that brutalizing mixture of banana, chocolate ice cream, - cherry syrup, and whipped marshmallow, must certainly be gruesome at - heart. I look out of my window late at night toward the scattered lights - of that vast pile of apartments, always thinking to see them blaze some - great golden symbol or letter into the darkness, some terrible or obscene - code that means death and terror.” - </p> - <p> - “Your analogy seems to have some sense,” I said. “Certainly the minor - poet, like the law breaker, loves to linger about the scene of his rhyme, - or crime.” - </p> - <p> - “You are an amateur of puns,” he replied. “Then let me tell you the motto - I have coined to express the spirit of this Little White Way—<i>Ein - feste bourgeois ist unser Gott</i>. This is the proud kingdom of the - triumphant middle class. It is a perilous country for a poet. If he were - found out, he would be martyred at the nearest subway station. But how I - love it! See how the quiet side streets cut across highways so richly - contrasting: West End Avenue, leafy, expensive, and genteel; Broadway, so - gloriously cruel and artificial; Amsterdam Avenue, so honestly and - poignantly real. My club is the Hartford Lunch Room, where they call an - omelet an <i>omulet</i>, and where the mystic word <i>Combo</i> resounds - through the hatchway to the fat man in the kitchen. My church is the St. - Agnes branch of the Public Library, over on Amsterdam Avenue. In those - cool, quiet rooms, when I watch the pensive readers, I have a sense of - treading near an artery of fine human idealism. In all this various - neighbourhood I have a cheerful conviction that almost anything might - happen. In the late afternoons, when the crosswise streets end on a - glimpse of the Jersey bluffs that glow like smoky blue opals, and smell - like rotten apples, I feel myself on the very doorsill of the most - stunning outrages.” - </p> - <p> - We both laughed, and turned off on Seventy-seventh Street to the small - apartment house where Dulcet had a comfortable suite of two rooms and - bath. In his book-lined sitting room we lit our pipes and sat down for a - gossip. - </p> - <p> - We had been talking at dinner of the extraordinary number of grievous - deaths of well-known authors that had happened that year. As it is almost - unnecessary to remind you, there was Dunraven Bleak, the humorous - essayist, who was found stark (in both senses) in his bathtub; and Cynthia - Carboy, the famous writer of bedtime stories, who fell down the elevator - shaft. In the case of Mrs. Carboy, the police were distracted because her - body was found at the top of the building, and the detective bureau - insisted that in some unexplainable manner she must have fallen <i>up</i> - the shaft; but as Dulcet pointed out at the time of the Authors' League - inquiry, the body might have been carried upstairs after the accident. - Then there was Andrew Baffle, the psychological novelist, whose end was - peculiarly atrocious and miserable, because it seemed that he had - contracted tetanus from handling a typewriter ribbon that showed signs of - having been poisoned. Frank Lebanon, the brilliant short-story writer, was - stabbed in the fulness of his powers; and there were others whom I do not - recall at the moment. Mr. Dulcet had suffered severely by these sad - occurrences, for a number of these authors were his clients, and the loss - of the commissions on the sale of their works was a serious item. The - secret of these tragedies had never been discovered, and there had been - something of a panic among members of the Authors' League. The rumour of a - pogrom among bestselling writers was tactfully hushed. - </p> - <p> - “What is your friend Kenelm Digby writing nowadays?” I asked, as I looked - along Dulcet's shelves. Digby, the brilliant novelist, was probably - Dulcet's most distinguished client, an eccentric fellow who, in spite of - his excellent royalties, lived a solitary and modest existence in a - boardinghouse somewhere in that part of the West Side. Outside his own - circle of intimates Dulcet was almost the only man whom Digby saw much of, - and many of us, who admired the novelist's work, had our only knowledge of - his person from hearing the agent talk of him. - </p> - <p> - “By George, I'm glad you reminded me,” said Dulcet. “Why, he has just - finished a story, and he telephoned me this afternoon asking me to stop - over at his house this evening to get the manuscript. He never has any - dealings with the editors on his own hook—likes me to attend to all - his business arrangements for him. I said I'd run over there about ten - o'clock.” - </p> - <p> - “That last book of his was a great piece of work,” I said. “I've been - following his stuff for over ten years, and he looks to me about the most - promising fellow we've got. He has something of the Barrie touch, it seems - to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, he's the real thing,” said Dulcet, blowing a blue cloud of his - Cartesian Mixture. “I only wish he were not quite so eccentric. He lives - like a hermit-crab, over in a lodging-house near the Park. Even I, who - know him as well as most people, never feel like intruding on him except - when he asks me to. I can't help thinking it would be good for him to get - out more and see something of other men in his line of work. I tried to - get him to join The Snails, but he says that Amsterdam Avenue is his only - amusement. And Central Park seems to be his country club. I wonder if - you've noticed that in his tales whenever he wants to describe a bit of - country he takes it right out of the Park. I sometimes suspect that's the - only scenery he knows.” - </p> - <p> - “He has attained a very unusual status among writers,” I said. “In my - rambles among bookshops I have noticed that his first editions bring quite - a good price. It's very seldom that a writer—at any rate an American—gets - 'collected' during his lifetime.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever see any of his manuscript?” asked Dulcet; and on my shaking - my head, he took out a thick packet of foolscap from a cabinet. - </p> - <p> - “This is the original of 'Girlhood',” he explained. “Digby gave it to me. - It'll be worth a lot some day.” - </p> - <p> - I looked with interest at the neatly written sheets, thickly covered with - a small, beautiful, and rather crabbed penmanship. - </p> - <p> - “Worth a lot!” I exclaimed. “Well, I should say so! Why the other day I - was browsing round in a bookshop and I found a lot of his first editions - marked at $15 each. It struck me as a very high price for I know I have - seen them listed for three or four dollars in catalogues.” - </p> - <p> - “Exorbitantly high,” Dulcet said. “I'm afraid your bookseller is - profiteering. I admire Digby as much as any one, but that is an artificial - price. The firsts aren't rare enough to warrant any such price as that. - Still, I'm glad to know about it as it's a sign of growing recognition. I - remember the time when it was all I could do to get any editors to look at - his things. I'll have to tell him about that, it will please him - mightily.” - </p> - <p> - We sat for a while chatting about this and that and then Dulcet got up and - put on his hat. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, old man,” he said. “You squat here and be comfortable while I - run round to Digby. It won't take me more than a few minutes—he - lives on Eighty-second Street. I'll be back right speedily, and we can go - on with our talk.” I heard him go down in the elevator, and then I refit - my pipe, and picked out a book from one of his shelves. I remember that it - was Brillat-Savarin's amusing “Gastronomy as a Fine Art”. I smiled at - finding this in Dulcet's library, for I knew that the agent rather prided - himself on being something of a gourmet, and I was reading the essays of - the jovial French epicure with a good deal of relish when the telephone - rang. I went to it with that slight feeling of embarrassment one always - has in answering someone else's phone. - </p> - <p> - To my surprise, it was Dulcet's voice. - </p> - <p> - “Hullo?” he said. “That you, Ben? Listen, I want you to come round to - Digby's right away,” and he gave the address. - </p> - <p> - Thinking he had arranged a chance for me to meet Digby (I had long wanted - to do so), I felt hesitant about intruding; but he repeated his message - rather sharply. “Please come at once,” he said. “It's important.” Again he - gave the street number, made me promise to come immediately, and rang off. - </p> - <p> - It was nearly half-past ten, and the streets were fairly quiet as I walked - briskly along. The house was one of a row of old cocoa-coloured stone - dwellings, and evidently someone was watching for me, for while I was - trying to read the numbers a door opened and from a dark hall an arm - beckoned to me. I went up the tall steps and a stout woman, who seemed to - be in some agitation, whispered my name interrogatively. “Is this Mr. - Trovato?” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I said, puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “Third floor front,” she said, and I creaked quietly up the stairs. - </p> - <p> - I tapped at the front room on the top floor, and Dulcet opened. - </p> - <p> - “Thank goodness you're here, Ben,” he said. “Something has happened.” - </p> - <p> - It was a large, comfortable room, crowded with books on three walls, - furnished with easy chairs and a couch in one corner. A brilliant blaze of - light from several bulbs under a frosted hood poured upon a reading table - in the middle of the room. Sitting at this table, in a Windsor chair, - slumped down into the seat, was a short stout man whose head lolled - sideways over his chest. He was wearing a tweed suit and a soft shirt, and - looked as though he had fallen asleep at his work. In front of him were - some books and a can of tobacco. I recognized him, of course, from the - photographs I had often seen. It was Digby. - </p> - <p> - I looked at Dulcet, aghast. But, as always at such moments, what was - uppermost in my mind was something trivial and irrelevant. I had an - intense desire to open a window. The air in that room was thick and foggy, - a sort of close, strangling frowst of venomously strong tobacco and - furnace gas. After the clear elixir of the wintry night it was loathsome. - It was the typical smell that hangs about the rooms of literary bachelors, - who work all day long in a room without ever thinking of airing it. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said. “He's dead. Pretty awful, isn't it? I found him like this - when I got here. No sign of injury as far as I can see.” - </p> - <p> - There was something profoundly dreadful in this first sight, as mere - sagging clay, of the brilliant and powerful writer whose books I had so - long admired, and whom I had thought of as one of the strong and fortunate - few who shape human perplexities to their own ends. I looked down at him - with a miserable blackness in my spirit, and laid a hand on Dulcet's - shoulder in sympathy. - </p> - <p> - “I've sent for a doctor,” he said. “Before he comes I want to get all the - information I can from the landlady. I wanted to have you here as a - witness. I haven't touched anything.” - </p> - <p> - The woman had followed me upstairs, and stood crying quietly in the - doorway. - </p> - <p> - “Come in, Mrs. Barlow,” said Dulcet. “Now please tell us everything you - can about where Mr. Digby went this evening, and anything that has - happened.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Barlow, who seemed to be a good-hearted, simple-minded creature, - snuffled wretchedly. “Oh, dear, oh dear,” she said. “He was such a nice - gentleman, too. Let me see, he went out about seven, I suppose for his - supper, but he was always irregular about his meals, you never could tell, - sometimes he would eat in the middle of the afternoon, and sometimes not - till late at night. I always would urge him that he would die of - indigestion, but he was so kind-hearted.” - </p> - <p> - “You don't know where he went?” said Dulcet. “Perhaps he went round to the - laundry,” she said, “for he had a parcel with him, which I took to be his - laundry because he usually took it out on Monday evenings because by that - time the clean shirt he put on on Sunday was ready to go to the wash. I - hate to think that in all the years he lived in this house his laundry was - the only thing we ever had a difference about, because I used to have it - done in the house for him but he said my washwoman tore the buttons off - his shirts or collars or something, so a little while ago he started - taking his things out to be done, but I don't know where because he used - to call for them himself.” - </p> - <p> - “You haven't any idea where he used to eat?” insisted Dulcet. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, sir, he liked to go different places, you know yourself how he - was always a bit queer and concentric and he never talked much about where - he went, but always so nice and considerate. Oh, he <i>was</i> a fine - gentleman.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Barlow, plainly much grieved, wept anew. “Please try to tell us - everything you can think of,” said Dulcet, gently. “What time did he come - in, and did you notice anything unusual?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing out of the way that I can think of, but then I was down in the - basement most of the evening, for I let my maid go to the movies and I had - a deal to do. I suppose he went along Amsterdam Avenue, he was always - strolling up and down Amsterdam or Columbus, poor man, getting ideas for - his literature I guess. He came back about nine o'clock I should say, - because I heard the door about then. Just a few minutes before he came in - there was a man came to the door with a tin of tobacco for him, which he - said Mr. Digby had ordered sent around, and I took it up and put it on his - table, there it is now, poor man, Carter's Mixture.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Barlow pointed to the tin of Cartesian Mixture that stood on the - table. Evidently it had only just been opened, for it was practically - full. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Dulcet. “Here's his pipe lying on the floor under his chair.” - He picked up the briar and glanced at it. “Only just begun to smoke it, - for the tobacco is hardly burned. He must have been smoking when he.... - There wasn't anything else you can think of?” - </p> - <p> - The woman dried her eyes with her apron. “There was just one other thing I - noticed, but I suppose it's silly. But I took note of it special, because - I thought I had heard it before, lately. While he was out, and a little - before the man brought the tin of tobacco, I heard a sharp tapping out on - the street in front of the house. I noticed it special, because I thought - at first it was someone rapping on the door, and I wondered if the bell - was out of order again, but when I went I couldn't see any one. But I - wondered about it because I heard it two or three times, a sharp kind of - tapping, it sounded some way like hitting on stone with a stick of some - sort.” - </p> - <p> - Dulcet and I looked at each other rather blankly. - </p> - <p> - “And after that,” she went on, “I didn't think about anything one way or - another till you came in and I told you to go right up.” - </p> - <p> - There was a clear peal from the front door bell. “That's the doctor,” said - Dulcet, and Mrs. Barlow hurried downstairs. - </p> - <p> - I have never seen any one so brisk and matter of fact as that physician, - and after his arrival the affair seemed to pass out of Dulcet's hands into - the painful official machinery that takes charge in such events. Dulcet, - acting as the dead writer's literary representative, went into the - adjoining room, which was Digby's study, to look over the papers in the - desk for any manuscripts that he ought to take care of. He wrote out a - list of friends and relatives for me to send telegrams to and I went out - to attend to this. I don't know how they get wind of these affairs, but - the reporters were already beginning to arrive when I left. - </p> - <p> - The next day, and for several days afterward, the papers all carried long - stories about poor Digby's brilliant career. Then the literary weeklies - took it up. At the libraries and bookshops everyone was asking for his - books, and I have never seen a more depressing illustration of the - familiar fact that a writer's real fame never comes until it is too late - to do him any good. Editors and people who had hardly been aware of - Digby's genius while he was alive now praised him fluently, speaking of - him as “America's most honest realist,” and all that sort of thing. - Moving-picture people began inquiring about the film rights of his novels. - Some of the sensational newspapers tried to play up his death as a mystery - story, but the physicians asserted heart failure as the cause, and this - aspect of the matter soon subsided. - </p> - <p> - Except at the funeral, which was attended by a great many literary people, - I did not see Dulcet for some days. I gathered from what I read in the - news that Digby's will had appointed him executor of his literary - property, and I knew that he must have much to attend to. But one - afternoon the telephone rang, and Dulcet asked me if I could knock off - work and come round to see him. As I was living up town at that time, it - only took me a few minutes to go round to his apartment. I found him - smoking a pipe as usual, and looking pale and fagged. He welcomed me with - his affectionate cordiality, and I sat down to hear what was on his mind. - </p> - <p> - “You must excuse me if I'm a little upset,” he said. “I've just had an - interview with a ghoul. A fellow came in to see me who had heard that I - have a number of poor Digby's books and manuscripts. He wanted to buy them - from me, offered big prices for them. He said that since Digby's death all - his first editions and so on have gone up enormously in value. Apparently - he expected me to do trading over the dead body of a friend.” - </p> - <p> - He smoked awhile in silence, and then said: “Sorry not to have seen you - sooner, but to tell the truth I've had my hands full. His brother, who was - the nearest kin, couldn't come from Ohio on account of serious illness, - and everything fell on me. I had to pack up all his things and ship them, - all that sort of business. But I've been wanting to talk to you about it, - because I'm convinced there was something queer about the whole affair. - I'm not satisfied with that heart-failure verdict. That's absurd. There - was nothing wrong with his heart that I ever heard of. It's very - unfortunate that for the first few days I was too occupied with urgent - matters to be able to follow up the various angles of the affair. But I've - been turning it over in my mind, and I've got some ideas I'd like to share - with you. You remember what I told you, with unfortunate levity, about the - secret of detective work being ability to notice the unsuspected rhymes in - events? Well, there are one or two features of this affair that seem to me - to rhyme together in a very sinister fashion. Wait a minute until I put on - my other coat, and we'll go out.” - </p> - <p> - He went into his bedroom. I had not liked to interrupt him, but I was - yearning for a smoke, for leaving my rooms in a hurry I had forgotten to - bring my pouch with me. On his mantelpiece I saw a tin of tobacco, and - began to fill my pipe. To my surprise, just as I was taking out a match he - darted out of the bedroom, uttered an exclamation, and snatched the briar - from my hand. - </p> - <p> - “Sorry,” he said, bluntly, “but you mustn't smoke that. It's something - very special.” He opened his penknife, scraped out the weed I had put in - the bowl, and carefully put it back in the tin. He took the tin and locked - it in his desk. - </p> - <p> - “Try some of this,” he said, handing his pouch. I concluded that the - tension of the past days had troubled his nerves. This rudeness was so - unlike him that I knew there must be some explanation, but he offered - none. As we went down in the elevator he said: “The question is, can you - make a rhyme out of tobacco and collar buttons?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” I said, a little peevishly. “And I don't believe any one could, - except Edward Lear.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he continued, “that's what we've got to do. And don't imagine that - it's merely a nonsense rhyme, any more than Lear's were. Edward Lear was - as great as King Lear, in his own way.” He led me to Eighty-second Street. - The December afternoon was already dark as we approached Mrs. Barlow's - house. At the foot of her front steps he halted and turned to me. - </p> - <p> - “Is your pipe going?” he said. - </p> - <p> - “No,” I said, irritably. “It's out. And I haven't any tobacco.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't be surly, old chap; I'll give you some if you'll tell me what you - do when your pipe goes out.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, you idiot,” I cried, “I do this.” And I knocked out the ashes by - striking the bowl smartly against the palm of my hand. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” he said. “But some people do this.” - </p> - <p> - He bent down and rapped his pipe against the stone ramp of the steps, with - a clear, sharp, hollow sound. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, a good way to break a nice pipe,” I was remarking, when the basement - door of the house flew open, and Mrs. Barlow darted out into the sunken - area just below the pavement level. In the pale lemon-coloured glare of a - near-by street lamp we could see that she was strongly excited. - </p> - <p> - “Good gracious,” she panted. “Is it Mr. Dulcet? Oh, sir, you did give me a - turn. Oh, dear, that was just the tapping sound I heard the night poor Mr. - Digby died. What was it? Did you hear it?” - </p> - <p> - “Like this?” said Dulcet, knocking his pipe again on the stone step. - </p> - <p> - “That was it, exactly,” she said. “What a fright, to be sure! Was it only - someone knocking his pipe like that? Oh, dear, it did bring back that - horrid evening, just as plain.” - </p> - <p> - “So much for the mysterious death rap,” said Dulcet as we walked back - toward Amsterdam Avenue. “I can't claim much ingenuity for that, however. - You see, the morning after Digby's death I went round to Mrs. Barlow's - early, before she had been out to sweep her pavement. The first thing I - noticed, by the lowest step, was a little dottle of tobacco such as falls - from a halfsmoked pipe when it is knocked out. That seemed to me to make a - perfect couplet with Mrs. Barlow's tale of the tapping she had heard. She - heard it several times, you remember, in a short space of time. That - suggests to me someone standing on the street, or walking up and down, in - a state of nervousness, because he didn't smoke any of his pipes through. - When they were only half smoked he knocked them out, in sheer impatience. - Was he waiting for someone?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps it was Digby himself?” I suggested. “I don't think so,” he said. - “Because, in the first place, nervousness was the last thing I would - associate with his temperament, which was calm and collected in the - extreme. And also, he always smoked Brown Eyed Blend, and had done so for - years. That was the first thing that struck me as unusual the night we - were there—that tin of Cartesian on the table. He was a man of fixed - habits; why should he have made a change just that night? I picked up the - little wad of tobacco I found lying on the step, and took it carefully - home. It's Cartesian, or I'm a Dutchman. So item I in our criminal - rhyme-scheme is: Find me a nervous man smoking Cartesian.” - </p> - <p> - “It's a bit fanciful,” I objected. - </p> - <p> - “Of course it is,” he cried. “But crime is a fanciful thing. Ever let the - fancy roam, as Keats said. What the deuce is the line that follows? - Suppose we stroll down Amsterdam Avenue and find a new place to have - dinner.” - </p> - <p> - “Poor old Digby,” he said, as we walked along admiring the lighted caves - of the shopwindows. “How he enjoyed all this. You know, there is a certain - honest simplicity about Amsterdam Avenue's merchandising that is pleasant - to contemplate after the shining sophistications of Broadway. In a - Broadway delicatessen window you'll see such horrid luxuries as jars of - cocks' combs in jelly; whereas along here the groceries show candid and - heartening signs such, as this: 'Coming Back to The Old Times, 17c lb. - Sugar.' Amsterdam Avenue shopkeepers speak with engaging directness about - their traffic; for instance, there's a barber at the corner of - Eighty-first Street who embosses on his window the legend: 'Yes, We Do - Buster Brown Hair Cutting.' That sort of thing is very humane and genuine, - that's why Digby was so fond of it. There's a laundry along here somewhere - that I have often noticed; it calls itself the Fastidious Laundry——” - </p> - <p> - “Speaking of laundries,” I said, “what do you think of this?” We stopped, - and I pointed to a neatly lettered placard in a window which had caught my - eye. It said: - </p> - <p> - <i>Notice to Artists and Authors</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>We Sew Buttons on Soft Collars Free of Charge</i> - </p> - <p> - “By Jove,” I said, “there's a laundry that has the right idea. I think - I'll bring my——” - </p> - <p> - I broke off when I saw my companion's face. He was leaning forward toward - the pane, and his eyes were bright but curiously empty, as though in some - way the mechanism of sight had been reversed, and he was looking inward - rather than out. - </p> - <p> - “That's very odd,” he said, presently. “I've been up and down this street - many times, but I never noticed that sign before.” - </p> - <p> - He turned and marched into the shop, and I followed. In the soft steamy - air several girls were ironing shirts, and a plump, pink-cheeked Hebrew - stood behind a counter wrapping up bundles. - </p> - <p> - “I noticed your sign in the window,” said Dulcet. “What do you charge for - laundering soft collars?” - </p> - <p> - “Five cents each, but we mend them, too, and sew on the buttons.” - </p> - <p> - “That's a good idea,” said Dulcet, genially. “I wish I'd known that - before; I'd have brought my collars round to you. How long have you been - doing that? I often go by here, but I never saw the sign before.” - </p> - <p> - “Only about a week,” the man replied. “Let's see—a week ago last - Monday I put that sign up. You wouldn't believe how much new trade it has - brought in. I thought it would be a kind of a joke—the man next door - suggested it, and I put it in to please him. But 'most everybody wears - soft collars nowadays, and it seems good business.” - </p> - <p> - “The man next door?” said Dulcet, in a casual tone. - </p> - <p> - “Sure, the cigar store.” - </p> - <p> - “Is his name Stork?” said Dulcet, reflectively. - </p> - <p> - “Stork? Why, no, Basswood. What do you mean, Stork?” - </p> - <p> - “I mean,” said Dulcet, slowly, “does he ever stand on one leg?” - </p> - <p> - “Quit your kidding,” cried the laundryman, annoyed. - </p> - <p> - “I assure you, I do not trifle,” said Dulcet, gravely. “I'll bring you in - some collars to fix up for me. Much obliged.” - </p> - <p> - We went out again, and my companion stood for a moment in front of the - laundry window, looking thoughtfully at the sign. - </p> - <p> - “While you ponder, old son,” I said, “I'll run into Mr. Stork-Basswood's - and get some tobacco.” - </p> - <p> - He seized my arm in a firm and painful clutch and whispered, “Look at the - corner!” - </p> - <p> - The laundry was the second shop from the corner. Under the lamp-post at - the angle of the street I saw, to my amazement, a man standing balanced on - one leg. Directly under the light, he was partly in shadow, and I could - only see him in silhouette, but the absurd profile of his onelegged - attitude afflicted me with a renewed sense of absurdity and irritation. - Dulcet, I thought, had evidently suffered some serious stroke in the - region of his wits. - </p> - <p> - “Now,” he said, softly, “can you see any rhyme between soft collars and - standing on one leg?” - </p> - <p> - As he spoke, we both started, for somewhere near us on the street there - sounded a sharp tapping, a ringing hollow wooden sound. Evidently it came - from the one-legged man. This was too much for my composure. I broke away - from Dulcet and ran to the corner. As I got there the one-legged creature - put down a concealed limb and stood solidly on two feet, in a state of - normalcy, as an eminent statesman would say. I was confused, and said - angrily to the man: - </p> - <p> - “Here, you mustn't stand like that, on the public street you know, on one - leg. It's setting a bad example.” - </p> - <p> - To my amazement he made no retort whatever, but turned and scuttled - hastily down the avenue, disappearing in the crowds that were doing their - evening marketing. - </p> - <p> - “My dear fellow,” said Dulcet, calmly, coming up to me, “you shouldn't - have done that. You've very nearly spoilt it all. Come on, let's go in and - get your tobacco.” - </p> - <p> - Basswood's proved to be one of those interesting combination tobacco, - stationery, toy, and bookshops which are so common on the upper West Side. - I have often noticed that these places are by no means unfruitful as - hunting ground for books, because the dealers are wholly ignorant of - literature and sometimes one may find on their shelves some forgotten - volume that has been there for years, and which they will gladly part with - for a song. A good many of these stores have, tucked away at the back, a - shabby stock of circulating library volumes that have come down through - many changes of proprietorship. Only the other day I saw in just such a - place first editions of Kenneth Grahame's “The Golden Age” and Arthur - Machen's “The Three Impostors,” which the storekeeper was delighted to - sell for fifteen cents each. - </p> - <p> - A dark young man was behind the tobacco counter, and from him I got a - packet of my usual blend. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Basswood in?” said Dulcet. - </p> - <p> - “Just stepped out,” said the young man. - </p> - <p> - We lit our pipes and looked round the shop, glancing at the magazines and - the queer miscellany of books. As it was approaching Christmas time there - was a profuse assortment of those dreadful little bibelots that go by the - name of “gift books,” among which were the usual copies of “Recessional” - and “Vampire,” Thoreau's “Friendship,” and “Ballads of a Cheechako,” bound - in what the trade calls “padded ooze”. I was particularly heartened to - observe that one of these atrocities, called “As a Man Thinketh,” was - described on the box (for all such books come in little cardboard cases) - as being bound in antique yap. This pleased me so much that I was about to - call it to Dulcet's attention, when I saw that he was looking at me from - the rear of the store with a spark in his eye. I approached and found that - he was staring at a doorway partly concealed by a pile of Christmas toys - and novelties. Over this door was a sign: J. Basswood, Rare Book - Department. - </p> - <p> - “Can we go in and look at the rare books?” said Dulcet. - </p> - <p> - “Sure thing,” said the young man. “Help yourself. The boss'll be back - soon, if you want to buy anything.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Basswood was evidently a man of some literary discretion. To our - amazement we found, in a dark little room lined with shelves, a judicious - assortment of modern books, several hundred volumes, and all first - editions or autographed copies. The prices were marked in cipher, so we - could not tell whether there were any bargains among them, but I know that - I saw several particularly rare and desirable things which I would have - been glad to have. - </p> - <p> - “Good heavens,” I said to Dulcet, “friend Basswood is a real collector. - There isn't a thing here that isn't of prime value.” - </p> - <p> - He was staring at a shelf in the corner, and I went over to see what he - had found. - </p> - <p> - “Upon my soul,” I cried, “look at the Digbies! Not merely one copy of - each, but three or four! This man must have specialized in Digbies.” - </p> - <p> - “Not only that,” said Dulcet, “but he has three of 'The Autogenesis of a - Novelist', the first thing that Digby wrote. It was privately printed, and - afterward suppressed. It's devilish rare; even I haven't got a copy. I - wish I knew what prices he asks for these things.” - </p> - <p> - “Look at this,” I said. “Perhaps this will tell us.” I picked up one of a - pile of pamphlets that were lying in a large sheet of wrapping paper in a - corner of the room. It was evidently a new catalogue of Mr. Basswood's - rare books, that had just come from the printer. - </p> - <p> - “Here we are,” I said, turning over the leaves. “Look at this.” - </p> - <p> - <i>Special Note</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>Fine Collection of Digbiana: J. Basswood wishes to call particular - attention to the Digbiana listed below. Anticipating the growing interest - in collectors' items of this great writer's work, J. Basswood has taken - pains to gather a stock of first editions and presentation copies which is - absolutely unique. The prices of these items, while high, are a fair index - of the appreciation in which this author's work is held among - connoisseurs. All are copies in good condition and their authenticity is - guaranteed.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>November 15, 19—</i>. - </p> - <p> - Dulcet seized the catalogue and ran his eye down the pages. - </p> - <p> - “'Girlhood,' first edition, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1901, $100,” he - read. “'The Nuisance of Being Loved,' first edition, $75. 'The Princess - Quarrelsome,' $90. 'The Anatomy of Cheerfulness,' autographed copy, $150. - 'Distemper,' acting copy, signed by the author and Richard Mansfield, - $200. - </p> - <p> - “Why,” he cried, shrilly, “this is madness! I am in touch with all the - dealers in this sort of thing, and I know the proper prices. This man has - multiplied them by ten.” He thrust the catalogue into his pocket and - glared round at the musty shelves. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it's due to poor Digby's death,” I said. I saw that Dulcet was - overwrought, and suggested that we go out and get some supper. - </p> - <p> - “Supper?” he said. “A good idea. I know a place on Broadway where we can - get some guinea pigs.” He strode out of the store and I followed, - wondering what next. He seized my arm and hurried me along Seventy-ninth - Street to Broadway. - </p> - <p> - In the clarid blue of the evening that blazing gully of light seemed to - foam and bubble with preposterous fire. Chop suey restaurants threw out - crawling streamers of red and yellow brilliance; against the peacock green - of the western sky the queer church at the corner of Seventy-ninth, with - the oriental pinnacle and truncated belfry rising above its solid Baptist - wings, seemed like the offspring of some reckless marriage of two - infatuated architects, one Jewish and one Calvinist. It was a fitting - silhouette, I thought, congruent with an evening of such wild humours. - Guinea pigs for supper, how original and enlivening! “Are guinea pigs - properly kosher?” I asked, sarcastically. - </p> - <p> - Dulcet paid no heed, but, holding my arm, urged me along the pavement to - an animal shop on the western side of Broadway. The window was full of - puppies and long-haired cats. All down the aisle of the establishment were - tiers of birdcages, covered with curtains while the birds slept. In lucid - bowls persevering goldfish pursued their glittering and improfitable - round. - </p> - <p> - “Those guinea pigs I ordered,” said Dulcet to the man, “are they ready?” - </p> - <p> - “All ready, sir,” he said, and took out a cage from under the counter. - “Very fine pigs, sir, strong and hearty; they will stand a great deal.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I said, with a wild desire to shout with laughter. “But will they - stand being eaten? They will find that rather trying, I fancy.” - </p> - <p> - Dulcet tapped his forehead, and the dealer smiled indulgently. My - companion took the cage, paid some money, and sped outdoors again. - </p> - <p> - I made no further comment and in a few minutes we were in Dulcet's - apartment. - </p> - <p> - “You have no kitchenette here, have you?” I protested. “Or do we devour - them raw? Oh, I see, you have a camp oven. How ingenious!” - </p> - <p> - He had put on the table a large tin box. With complete seriousness he now - produced a small spirit lamp, over which he fitted a little basket of fine - wire mesh. When the flame of the lamp was lit, it played upon the basket, - which was supported by legs at just the right height. He now put the - unsuspecting guinea pigs into the tin box, which was shaped like a - rural-free-delivery letter-box, with a hinged door opening at one end. He - took the spirit lamp with its attached basket and pushed the contraption - carefully into the box with the pigs. Then he opened both windows in the - room. - </p> - <p> - “Admirable!” I exclaimed. “Like those much-advertised cigarettes, they - will be toasted. But won't it take a long time?” - </p> - <p> - “Don't be an ass,” he said. - </p> - <p> - He went to his desk, and took out the tin of Cartesian Mixture he had - snatched away from me earlier in the evening. - </p> - <p> - “Your mention of those cigarettes is apt,” he said, “for in this case also - the fuel is tobacco. Please go over by the window, and stay there.” - </p> - <p> - I watched, somewhat impressed by the gravity of his manner. From the tin - of tobacco he took a small pinch of mixture and carefully placed it in the - mesh basket above the lamp. Reaching into the box, he lit the wick of the - lamp with a match, and hastily clapped to the hinged lid. The guinea pigs - seemed to be awed by these proceedings, for they remained quiet. Dulcet - joined me at the window, and remarked that fresh air was a fine thing. - </p> - <p> - We waited for about five minutes, while the guinea-pig oven stood quietly - on the table. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Dulcet, finally, “we ought to be able to see whether it - rhymes or not.” - </p> - <p> - He snatched open the door of the tin box, and skipped away from it in a - way that seemed to me perfectly insane. He picked up a pair of tongs from - the fireplace, and standing at a distance, lifted out the lamp. The - tobacco was smoking strongly in its mesh basket. Holding the lamp away - from him with the tongs, he carried it into the bathroom, and I heard him - turn on the water. Then, coming back, he inserted the tongs into the tin - box, and gingerly withdrew first one guinea pig and then the other. Both - were calm as possible, quite dead. Looking over the sill to see that the - pavement was clear, he threw the tin box into the street, where it fell - with a crash. - </p> - <p> - “Surely they're not cooked already?” I said. - </p> - <p> - “I haven't heard from the doctor yet,” he said; “but he promised to ring - me up this evening. I'm awfully sorry to have delayed your dinner, old - man. Meet me at the Lucerne grill room, Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam - Avenue, to-morrow evening at seven o'clock and we'll eat together. You've - been a great help to me.” - </p> - <p> - “I hope the doctor is a mental specialist,” I said; but he pushed me - gently out of the room. “We'll finish our rhyme at dinner to-morrow - evening.” - </p> - <p> - I went out into the night, and sorrowfully visited a Hartford Lunch. - </p> - <p> - The next evening I was at the Lucerne grill promptly. This modest chop - house was one of Dulcet's favourite resorts, and I found him already - sitting in one of the alcoves studying the menu. He was in fine spirits, - and his quizzical blue eyes shone with a healthy lustre. - </p> - <p> - “Are you armed?” he said, mysteriously. - </p> - <p> - “What,” I cried, “are we going to do some more guinea pigs to death? It - was cruel. I have scruples against taking innocent lives. Besides, your - experiment proved nothing. Those pigs would have died anyway, shut up in - an air-tight box like that.” - </p> - <p> - “Stuff!” he said. “The box was not hermetic. I had left small apertures: - there was plenty of oxygen. No, it was not the confinement in the tin box - that killed them. After you had gone, the chemist whom I had consulted - called me up. My suspicions were sound. Have you ever heard of fumacetic - acid?” - </p> - <p> - This is going to be terrible, I thought to myself, and ordered tenderloin - steak, well done, with a double order of hashed brown potatoes. - </p> - <p> - “Have you ever heard of fumacetic acid?” he repeated, relentlessly. - </p> - <p> - “No,” I said, nervously. - </p> - <p> - “It is a deadly and little-known drug,” he said, “which (so the chemist - tells me) possesses the property that when vaporized the slightest whiff - of it causes instant death if inhaled into the lungs. The tobacco in that - tin had been doctored with it. I sent the chemist the pipe that poor Digby - was smoking when he died, and he analyzed what was left in the bowl. There - is no doubt whatever. He was poisoned in that way. I tell you, my - professional duty as a literary agent requires that in my clients' - interest I should sift this thing to the bottom. It may explain some of - those earlier deaths that baffled the Authors' League.” - </p> - <p> - “But Mrs. Carboy, surely, did not smoke,” I was about to say; but I - checked myself in time. - </p> - <p> - “Dove,” I said, “you are superb. But I wish you would tell me how you - worked the thing out. What was it that first aroused your suspicions? If - it had not been for you, I should never have guessed anything wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” he said, grimly, “it was that murderous placard in the - laundry window, and that is to your credit, for you noticed it. That was - the one thing that made plain the whole complicated business. Naturally I - suspected the tobacco from the first, for (as I told you) it was a mixture - that Digby never smoked ordinarily. But when I heard that that eccentric - and damnable placard had been put there at the suggestion of the - tobacconist next door, and then found that the tobacconist was also a - bookseller, I knew the worst. I have spent to-day in rounding up the - threads, and I think I may say without vainglory that the miscreant is in - my power.” - </p> - <p> - “But the man standing on one leg?” I said, puzzled. “What was he up to, - and why did he run?” Dulcet's face shone with quiet triumph. - </p> - <p> - “I told you,” he said, “to look for a nervous man smoking Cartesian - Mixture. That tobacconist, Basswood, smokes Cartesian. It is a very moist, - sticky blend, as you know. It can only be shaken out of the pipe, after - smoking, by vigorously knocking the bowl on something hard. Very well, and - if there is no stone step or something of that sort handy, what will a - smoker tap his pipe on? Why, he will stand on one leg and knock it out on - the lifted heel of the other. And his running away when you addressed him - so whimsically, wasn't that a pretty good sign of nervousness—and - also of a guilty and doubtful spirit?” - </p> - <p> - He finished his tumbler of the near-beer that has made Milwaukee infamous, - and leaned forward earnestly. - </p> - <p> - “You know very well,” he said, “that that laundryman would never have - thought of his grotesque notice, addressed to 'Artists and Authors', if - someone hadn't suggested it to him. Obviously he was only a gull. That - card was intended as a decoy, to lure Digby away from his room, so that - Basswood could leave the poisoned tobacco for him. Basswood had studied - Digby's habits, and must have known that the notice about the collars - would be sure to catch his eye. Now we had better be going. The police - will be at Basswood's shop at eight o'clock.” - </p> - <p> - I could have done with a little strong coffee, but he haled me out of the - restaurant, and we walked up Amsterdam Avenue. How little, I reflected, - did the passersby, hurrying about their kindly and innocent concerns, - suspect our dark and perilous errand. - </p> - <p> - “The motive, of course,” said Dulcet, “was to profit by the increase of - value Digby's death would give to his literary work. You will see a proof - of that in a moment. Here we are. Come on, this is no time to hang back!” - </p> - <p> - He strode into the brightly lighted shop, and I followed with a clumsy - assumption of carelessness. I must confess that my eye wandered in search - of suitable cover in case there should be any gun play. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Basswood was behind his counter, smoking a battered-looking briar. One - side of the bowl was worn down nearly half an inch (from repeated knocking - out on stone steps, I suppose). He was a fat, cross-looking person, with a - black jut of moustache and a small, vindictive eye. - </p> - <p> - “A friend told me about your bookshop,” said Dulcet. “He said that you - sometimes buy books and manuscripts and that sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sometimes,” said Basswood, without enthusiasm. - </p> - <p> - “I have an unpublished story of Kenelm Digby's,” said Dulcet. “It is about - forty pages of manuscript. What would you give for that?” - </p> - <p> - The dealer's eyes brightened. He took his pipe from his mouth, and knocked - it out smartly on his heel, tramping on the glowing cinders. Dulcet looked - at me gravely. - </p> - <p> - “Let me see it,” Basswood said, eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “I haven't got it with me. But give me an idea what it would be worth to - you.” - </p> - <p> - “If it is genuine, and characteristic of Digby's genius,” said Basswood, - slowly, “I would give you two hundred dollars for it.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense!” said Dulcet. “It isn't worth half that. I would not dream of - selling it for more than seventy-five.” - </p> - <p> - Basswood looked startled. - </p> - <p> - “I guess you are not in touch with the market for such things,” he said. - “There is more interest among collectors in Digby's work than in any other - recent writer. Perhaps you don't realize what a difference his sad death - has made in the prices of his editions. It is very regrettable, but the - death of a writer of that kind always puts a premium on collectors' items, - because there will never be any more of them.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I see,” said Dulcet, politely. “It is his death that has made the - difference, is it?” - </p> - <p> - “Exactly.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, I suppose this manuscript <i>is</i> worth more than I - thought. By the way, I think the title of it will interest you. It is - called 'The Mystery of the Soft Collars' and deals with a murder that took - place on Eighty-second Street.” - </p> - <p> - I couldn't help admiring the glorious nonchalance with which Dulcet made - this remark, gazing the dealer straight in the eye. Basswood's face was a - study, and his cheek was pale and greasy. But he, too, was a man of - considerable nerve. - </p> - <p> - “I don't believe it's genuine,” he said. “That doesn't sound to me like - Digby's style.” His voice shook a little, and he added: “However, if it's - as interesting as it sounds, I might pay even more than two hundred for - it.” - </p> - <p> - “You rascal!” shouted Dulcet. “Do you think you can buy me off? No! keep - your hands above the counter!” - </p> - <p> - He had whipped out his revolver, and held it at the man's face. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, Mr. Basswood,” he said. “Even the cleverest of us make - mistakes. Let me call your attention to one thing. If it was Digby's death - that made the difference in the values of his books, how is it that this - bill from your printer, for that new catalogue of yours, is dated ten days - before Digby died? I picked it up in your back room the other day. Doesn't - that seem to show that you knew, ten days before the event, that there was - going to be a sudden boom in Digbiana? Ten days before he died you were - multiplying the prices of the items you had gathered. Now, you dog, can - you explain that?” - </p> - <p> - Basswood shook, but still he clung to his hope. - </p> - <p> - “I'll give you a thousand for that manuscript,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Ben,” said Dulcet to me, “just slip around the corner and whistle three - times. The police are waiting on Eighty-fifth Street.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - “There's still one thing that puzzles me,” I said to Dulcet late that - night as we sat in his room for a final smoke. “I remember that before we - discovered that sign in the laundry you said that what we needed to do was - to find a rhyme between tobacco and collar buttons. Now what the deuce - started you off on collar buttons?” - </p> - <p> - He smiled patiently. - </p> - <p> - “When I had to pack up poor old Digby's belongings,” he said, “I had the - sad task of going through his bureau drawers. You know the devilish little - buttons that the manufacturers insist on putting on soft collars. They - always come off after one or two washings, and then the collar collapses - round your neck into an object of slovenly reproach. Digby was a bachelor, - and there was no one to do any mending for him. And when I found that - every one of his soft collars had its little button neatly sewed on, I - knew there was something wrong. I ask you, wouldn't that have aroused the - alarm of the least suspicious?” - </p> - <p> - Up to the present time, as far as I know, Basswood remains the only - bookseller who has ever been electrocuted. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - GLORIA AND THE GARDEN OF SWEDEN - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T WAS one of those - gilded October days when the serene sunshine is as soft and tawny as - candle-light; when the air is thin and sharp in the early mornings, but - the noontime is as comfortably genial as the radiance of a hearth reddened - with hickory embers. Dove Dulcet and I were strolling along Riverside - Park, enjoying the blue elixir of the afternoon, in which there was just a - faint prick, a gently tangible barb of the coming arrows of the North. - </p> - <p> - “Winter sharpens her spearheads,” said Dulcet. “Aye,” was my reply. Below - us I saw the coaling-station at the Seventy-ninth Street pier. “The - merriest music the householder can hear nowadays is the roar of coal going - down the chute into the cellar.” - </p> - <p> - He sighed, and seemed touched by a sudden melancholy. - </p> - <p> - “Ben,” he said, “that coal-dump reminds me of Gloria Larsen. Did I ever - tell you about her?” - </p> - <p> - “Never,” I said. “Coal, I presume, made you think of diamonds; and - diamonds, of Miss Larsen. Were you engaged to her?” - </p> - <p> - “I might have been,” he said, sentimentally. Before us was an empty bench, - on a little knoll that looks out over the shining sweep of the river. I - drew him to it, and we filled our pipes. When you can get a minor poet in - an autobioloquacious mood, it is well to encourage him. No one takes life - so seriously as the minor poet, and consequently his memoirs make fine - sport for the disinterested bystander. - </p> - <p> - “No,” he said, blowing a waft of tobacco smoke into the soft, sun-brimmed - air, and settling down into the curve of the bench. “The association was - even more obvious than that of coal and diamonds. I always think of Gloria - when winter begins to come in.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” I said. “She was cold?” - </p> - <p> - He meditated, ignoring my jocularity. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - “It was a good many years ago,” he said at last; “before you knew me. When - I first came to town, you know, I had a fine ambition to be a writer. I - had just a little money, so I shut myself up in a hall room at the top of - a cheap lodging-house on Seventy-fifth Street, hired a typewriter, and set - about to butt my bead against all the walls that hem in the beginner. - </p> - <p> - “It was one of those old four-story dwellings that are now mostly - boarding-houses, and it was run by a good-hearted widow who would let her - rooms only to men, because she said they were less trouble than women. Her - house was clean and incredibly cheap, and almost all the lodgers were - young fellows like myself—students, or starveling artists, or chaps - with literary ambitions. That was how I had heard of the place, through - another fellow who lived there and had built up a little sort of coterie - in the house. He was Black-more. You know his name; he gave up art long - ago. He's now the art editor of the <i>Mother, Home, and Heaven Magazine</i>. - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Vesey, our landlady, was quite a character. I was always rather a - favourite with her, because the very first day I came to her house I - happened to find her cat, which had wandered away some days before, - leaving her disconsolate. The cat's name, I remember, was Nemo. She had - called it so because, with that admirable virginity of mind that one finds - only in a childless married woman, she was uncertain of the animal's sex. - Anyway, it was a fine big creature, and the apple of Mrs. Vesey's pie. She - talked so much about it that we used to chaff her a good deal on the - subject, and say that we thought it was going to have kittens, and all - that sort of thing. Blackmore used to say, remembering the title of some - idiotic melodrama he had seen, that it was 'Neither Maid, Wife, nor - Widow.' He was right, for it was the kind of cat that is not likely to be - either a father or a mother without a miracle. But I don't want to be - indelicate. I only mention Nemo because it was through him that I first - talked with Gloria. - </p> - <p> - “The first day I was at Mrs. Vesey's I heard her groaning about the - vanished cat. That evening I went out to supper, feeling rather lonely, - and dropped in at an eccentric-looking little restaurant on Amsterdam - Avenue. It was called Larsen's Physical Culture Chophouse, and I have - never seen a more amusing place. Old man Larsen was a Swede, and all the - Scandinavian fads ran riot in his head—vegetarian food, for - instance. He didn't absolutely condemn meat, for he would serve it if you - insisted, but all his joy was in weird combinations of calory, protose, - and vitamine, or whatever those things are called. Bean “cutlets,” and - protose “steak” that turned out, on examination, to be made of chopped - walnuts and lentils, and the “Thousand-Calory Combination Dinner,” of - which he made a specialty. When you sat down, if you were a regular - customer, old Larsen would come round and look you over and diagnose from - your complexion the kind and quantity of calories you needed for that - meal, and would give you combinations of spinach croquettes and lentil pie - that he warranted would purge the blood and compose the mind. On the walls - were charts of Swedish exercises and systems of calisthenics, and he sold - a little pamphlet that he himself had written telling how to be strong and - merry and full of physique. - </p> - <p> - “Well, to come back to my first visit to Larsen's restaurant. I hadn't - been in there many minutes before I noticed the girl at the cashier's - desk. My, my, what a girl! My table was close to her little throne, and I - couldn't help watching her out of the end of my eye. I wondered if she was - raised entirely on protose and lentils, for I have never seen anything so - gloriously and vitally physical in my life. Great, bold blue eyes, and - crisp, sparkling golden hair, and blood that spoke delicately through her - skin, and a figure—well, just our old friend of Melos over again, - that lively combination of grace and strength. She was just curves and - waves and athletic softness—the kind of creature that makes your - arms tingle, you know. No corset, I suppose. In the old man's booklet on - physical culture he defended the gymnastic doctrine that women should - develop what he called a muscle corset by bending and swaying from the - hips a thousand times a day. He said it must be done—well, <i>au - naturel</i>, in front of an open window in one's bedroom in the morning. - I'd be ashamed to admit that we fellows at Mrs. Vesey's used to set our - alarm clocks at half-past six to go round the corner to Amsterdam Avenue——” - </p> - <p> - Dulcet paused a while and watched the river pensively. - </p> - <p> - “But about the cat,” I reminded him presently. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said. “Well, that first night I was at the chop-house I noticed - a very fine, fat cat browsing about under the tables. I was amused at the - corpulence of the animal. I said to myself that a cat as large as that - must surely get some meat somewhere, because, while vegetarian protose - food may be all right for Swedes, a cat is a realist in the matter of - carnal meals. And when I went to the desk to pay my check, wanting some - excuse to get into talk with the superb Gloria—who was, of course, - the old man's daughter—I remarked on the sleek, healthy appearance - of her cat. - </p> - <p> - “'Oh, it's not ours,' she said. 'It came in here yesterday. I don't know - whose he is.' - </p> - <p> - “I'll bet I know whose it is,” I said. - </p> - <p> - I told her that Mrs. Vesey, who ran the bachelor lodging-house on - Seventy-Fifth Street, had lost her Nemo. She listened with interest, those - thrilling blue eyes sizing me up in a keen, humorous way. - </p> - <p> - “'I shouldn't wonder it's hers,' she said. - </p> - <p> - “Welcoming any pretext for prolonging the discussion, I borrowed the phone - at Gloria's elbow, and, studying the heart-rending curves of her chin and - cheek and throat, I called up Mrs. Vesey and told her I thought I had - found her pet. Mrs. Vesey hurried round to the restaurant, and swept up - the vagabond Nemo with cries of joy into her lean and affectionate bosom. - Nemo purred, and I escorted Mrs. Vesey home, recapitulating in my mind the - perfect contours of the girl's heavenly form. My enthusiasm was even such - that when the other men came in I could not refrain from telling them all - about her. I saw that I had made a mistake, for instantly Blackmore swore - he would get her to sit for him. - </p> - <p> - “Of course, from that time on, the Physical Culture Chophouse became the - nightly haunt of our little party. The other men had seen it many times, - but the vegetarian threats in the window had frightened them away. But - now, none of us dared to be absent very many dinners, for fear the rest - would gain some advantage with the girl. I cannot give you any conception - of the humorous glamour of that time unless I insist that she was the most - superbly luscious thing I have ever glimpsed; and one sees a good many - covetable creatures on the streets of New York. Some of them said she was - cold; that in spite of all the nutritious algebra printed on old Larsen's - menus (he used to put down all sorts of preposterous formulas about - starch, and albumen, and phosphorus, and proteids, and so on)—she - was lacking in calories. But I know that when we sat at table, and she - came round to ask if everything was all right, and leaned over us with her - clear eyes, as blue as a special-delivery stamp, and that cream-white - neck, and the faint glimmer of a blue ribbon shining through the hilly - slopes of her blouse——-Oh, well, Ben, we were young, and we - ate red meat for lunch, anyway. - </p> - <p> - “I guess old man Larsen, who spent most of his time in the kitchen, - encouraged her to kid us along, for he never seemed to mind our open - admiration of his daughter. He probably saw that she was a bigger business - asset than any number of calory charts. Every now and then he would come - out and chin with us, for our party became a nightly event in the café. - Before long we had sampled every kind of vegetarian combination on the - list, and had him busy inventing new ones. We used to ask him if he had - raised a girl like that on nothing but vegetables, and he would laugh and - swear that Gloria had never tasted blood until she was sixteen. It seemed - queer to us that the restaurant wasn't full of her suitors. I should have - thought, with a girl like her, they'd have been standing in line waiting - for a look at her. I suppose that people who feed on nothing but - vegetables are rather puny in such matters. It's an odd thing, but I've - always noticed that most of the people who frequent these crank - physical-culture and dietetic eating-places are a queer, sick-looking lot—youths - with rolling Adam's apples, and sallow, soup-stained girls. Certainly our - little gang, so very jovial and fancy-free, made a quaint contrast to most - of the patrons of the house. In a few days we felt as if we owned the - place, and had the old man slide two tables together just underneath - Gloria's cash register, where we met every evening for dinner. - </p> - <p> - “As for Larsen, he was a crank on many subjects but he was no fool. He was - an athletic, erect fellow with a bristling gray moustache and cropped hair - and a forcible gray eye. On the wall was a huge photo of him in a kind of - Sandow pose, with a leopard-skin apron round his middle, showing terrific - knotty biceps and back muscles. Gloria told us that at one time he had - been a physical instructor in the Swedish army, and the head of a <i>Turnverein</i>, - or something of that sort. There was a certain physical and gymnastic - candour about him that amused us. He was awfully proud of Gloria, whom he - had raised himself (being a widower) according to his own hygienic and - athletic principles. After we had all bought his booklets, and promised to - take up his system of calisthenics, he became quite chummy and showed us a - lot of photographs of Gloria at different ages, doing her gymnastic - exercises, beginning as a little plump Venus and ending as a stunning - profile in tights. We tried to maintain an attitude of merely scientific - detachment toward those pictures, admiring them only as connoisseurs of - physical culture; but we ended by begging him for copies, insisting that - they would be a useful guide to us in our own private exercising. But - Larsen said he was keeping them to illustrate a new enlarged edition of - his physical-culture book. We told him that it would sell a million - copies, and I think we all volunteered to act as selling-agents for the - book. Annette Kellermann and Susanna Cocroft, we cried, were scarecrows - compared to Gloria. - </p> - <p> - “To all this banter Gloria would listen calmly and unembarrassed, for she - had a magnificent unconsciousness of her own superb allure. We would each - try to get a moment alone with her to describe the exercises we were - taking, and to ask her advice about our muscular development. I remember - that Blackmore, after secret practice that we had not suspected, took the - wind out of our sails one evening when some of us were bragging of our - accomplishment in bending and touching the floor while standing on tiptoe. - He jumped up and caught hold of the lintel of the doorway, and chinned - himself on it a dozen times or so. We were all crestfallen by this feat - until Gloria came forward—all the other customers had gone home—and - did the same thing about twenty times. She went back to her counter with a - heavenly flush of pride, while Blackmore dashed to a table and did a - little sketch of her from memory, with the lovely lines of her figure - silhouetted against the doorway. - </p> - <p> - “But it was I who was first to think of the subtlest compliment that any - one could pay her, which was to ask the privilege of feeling her biceps. - And what an arm she had! Not a great, fleshy, flabby washerwoman's limb, - but the rippling marble of a Greek statue brought to warm life! Blackmore - used to sit at meal-times neglecting his protose steak and making sketches - of her while she wasn't looking. The best I could do was write verses - about her. And while she played no favourites, I think she really gave me - a little the inside track, because I talked physical culture with her more - seriously than the others, who tried to make love to her a little too - baldly. - </p> - <p> - “By this time she had us all doing calisthenics. The creaky floors of Mrs. - Vesey's house used to resound night and morning with the agonies of our - gymnastics. There was one exercise that Gloria told us she found - particularly helpful. It was to lie down with the feet under a bureau or - any other heavy piece of furniture, extend the arms behind the head, and - then raise and lower the body a hundred times, pivoting from the waist. - This was only one of fifty or more laborious accomplishments that we - undertook for the sake of our goddess. No woman was ever wooed with more - honest pangs, or with more repeated genuflections. As we lay on the floor - before going to bed, raising our legs in the air two hundred times, or - groaned in some sinew-cracking, twisting contortion devised by the - pitiless Swede, it was the vision of Gloria's beauty of snow and rose that - gave us courage. If any passer-by ever looked up at the front of Mrs. - Vesey's house in the early mornings, he must have been startled to see a - white figure near every window, furiously going through the Swedish - manual. One of us, we fondly thought, would some day spend a healthy - Swedish honeymoon performing these motions in ecstatic company with - Gloria; and we did not want to be shamed by her incomparable perfection. - If she worshipped bodily symmetry, our goal was nothing less. We wanted to - be lithe, supple, very panthers of elasticity and grace. The evening I was - able to stand on one leg in the restaurant and proudly raise my other foot - to touch a gas-jet some six feet from the floor, I felt that Gloria might - some day be mine.” - </p> - <p> - Dove paused again, and seemed to fall into a reminiscent reverie. - Unconsciously he stiffly extended one leg in front of him, and I divined - that he was inwardly rehearsing that act of calisthenic triumph. - </p> - <p> - “By gracious!” he said, “I've never forgotten the night I got her father's - permission to take her to some gymnastic tournament, or something of that - sort, down at Madison Square Garden. How annoyed the other men were when - they went to the chop-house that night for their evening penance of - lentils, and found Gloria absent! Yes, it was an odd wooing. I had found - the measurements of the Venus de Milo in some Sunday paper, and that - night, when we became quite sentimental, I made her promise to take her - own dimensions, so that we could compare the proportions of the two. And - we had some very happy little jokes, quite simple ones that she would - understand, about her arms being much more lovely than those of the - statue, and that sort of thing. How deliciously she blushed the next day - when she gave me her list of measurements, written out on a sheet of - paper. Of course, I pretended not to understand which was which. I wrote a - little poem about them.” - </p> - <p> - “It seems to me,” I said, “that you were getting on very well. What was - the trouble? You didn't marry her, did you?” - </p> - <p> - “Old man Larsen,” he continued, gravely, “had a number of other hobbies - besides vegetarianism and physical culture. He was a mechanical genius in - his way. I remember once, after we had expressed exaggerated admiration of - some atrocious compound of lentils and nuts and fruit, Gloria took us - through the kitchen to show us an ingenious sandwich-making machine her - father had contrived. You fed in loaves of pumpernickel bread and pats of - nut butter on one side, hard-boiled eggs and lettuce and dressing on the - other, and out came egg-salad sandwiches through a slot, as neat as you - could want to see. But the best of his stunts was a sort of miniature - vacuum cleaner which the waitresses used for taking the crumbs off the - tables. You've seen those little hot-air pistols they use at swell - shoe-shining stands to dry the liquid cleanser off your shoes before they - put on the polishing paste? Well, Larsen's decrumbing machine, as we used - to call it, looked rather like those. You screwed a plug into an electric - light socket, ran the little gun over the table, and in a jiffy it sucked - up crumbs and cigarette ashes and spilled lentils and matches, and left - the cloth neat. Larsen was so proud of it he said he was going to patent - it. - </p> - <p> - “I never cared so very much for the old man, he was a little too - eccentric; and I began to think, after a while, that he used his daughter - a little too crudely as a business bait; but he was full of ideas. He had - a big motor-truck that he used to cruise around town, visiting the markets - himself, to get the pick of the vegetables; and he was always tinkering - with that truck, planning new mechanical tricks of some kind. He had an - insatiable curiosity, too. He used to sit down at the table with us - sometimes, late in the evening, and ask about our work, and where we - lived, and what Mrs. Vesey was like, and what time of day we were home, - and all sorts of fool questions like that. - </p> - <p> - “Well, the time went on, and it began to be cold weather. I noticed this - sooner than the other fellows, I think, because whereas most of them went - to offices during the daytime, I stayed home at Mrs. Vesey's, trying to - write in my narrow coop of a top bedroom. You know how depressing an - instrument a typewriter is when your hands are cold. I haven't forgotten - some dreary vigils I had up there, struggling to write short stories. - Sometimes I used to give it up weakly, and go round to Larsen's, where it - was always warm and cozy, to drink herb coffee and eat those brittle - Swedish biscuits and chat with Gloria. I used to complain to her about the - cold in my room, and she would laugh and say that I just ought to try a - winter in Sweden. - </p> - <p> - “'Swedish exercises,' she would say. 'That's the thing to stir up your - blood! They'll keep you warm.' - </p> - <p> - “And then, in her enchanting way, she would tell me a new one, and if - there were no customers (as there generally weren't in the middle of the - afternoon) she would illustrate how it should be done. Sometimes she would - even allow me what she called a Swedish kiss—a very fleeting and - provocative embrace. And then I would show her my new perfection in doing - the backward stoop or some such muscular oddity, and return to my cold - citadel. - </p> - <p> - “But in spite of the fact that we were all busy much of the time going - through our manual of exercises, presently the chill of Mrs. Vesey's - lodgings became severe. Mrs. Vesey was a rather obstinate and frugal old - dear, and she herself dwelt down in the kitchen, where her big gas-range - kept her comfortable. When we complained of the cold, she had all sorts of - excuses for postponing lighting the furnace. There was a big coal strike - that year, and she was quite right in suspecting that once her present - supply was exhausted it would be very hard to get more. Also, she said, - her furnace man had quit, but she was hunting for another. On one pretext - or another, she kept on putting us off, until finally it was mid-November, - and we were doing our exercises in rooms where our breath showed like - clouds of fog. And then one day Mrs. Vesey came up in great glee to say - that a coal man had called that very morning, of his own accord, and had - offered to give her five tons. She had promptly snapped at the chance, and - he had put the coal in the cellar; so we should have heat the very next - day, when the new furnace man was expected. - </p> - <p> - “Naturally we were all cheered by this good news. We sped round to - Larsen's restaurant in high spirits, and adored our divinity with even - more than usual abandon. - </p> - <p> - “'Now my fingers will be warm again, Gloria,' I said, 'I'll be able to - write some more poems about you.' - </p> - <p> - “'Yes,' cried Blackmore, 'and now it will be warm enough for you to come - and pose for me in my lovely attic at Mrs. Vesey's. If you had come - before, I should have called my painting “The Chilblain Venus.”' - </p> - <p> - “'Silly boys!' said Gloria, with that delicious, soft Swedish accent which - I can't even try to imitate. 'You are hot-blooded enough as it is. You - don't need all that warming up. Look at us vegetarians; you make fun of - us, but our lentils keep our blood circulating. Try Brussels sprouts; they - are full of calories.' - </p> - <p> - “'Ah!' we shouted. 'But you seem to keep this place warm enough.' - </p> - <p> - “Old Larsen, who passed through the room just then, broke in crossly: - </p> - <p> - “'We have to, for the sake of the customers,' he said. 'Gloria, stop - fooling with the gentlemen and attend to business.' He seemed in a bad - humour that night. - </p> - <p> - “The next day must have been some sort of holiday, for I know we all went - out to see a football game. We got back about supper-time and found the - house perishing chill. With shouts and protests we called Mrs. Vesey from - her kitchen, but she explained that the expected furnace man had not - turned up. - </p> - <p> - “'Well,' said Blackmore, 'this can't go on any longer, Mrs. Vesey. I'll go - down and light the fire myself. We'll take turns and keep it going till - your man comes.' - </p> - <p> - “He ran down to the basement, but a minute later he was up again. - </p> - <p> - “'Mrs. Vesey,' he shouted, 'what is all this nonsense? Are you kidding us? - There's no coal down there at all!' - </p> - <p> - “'No coal?' she exclaimed. 'Why, there was a good three or four tons, and - the man said he put five tons more in yesterday. I heard him do it—never - heard such a noise in my life. I paid him ten dollars a ton. - </p> - <p> - “'Impossible!' Blackmore cried, angrily. 'There's not enough down there to - fry Nemo with. About three shovelfuls, that's all. What is this—some - kind of a game to freeze us out?' - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Vesey wrung her hands, and we all ran down to the cellar. It was as - Blackmore had said. The bins were empty, save for a few lumps.” - </p> - <p> - Dove gazed down thoughtfully at the coal office on the pier below us, - where a wagon was loading. - </p> - <p> - “On a mellow afternoon like this,” he said, “coal doesn't seem quite so - pressing a concern; but I tell you, in a bleak boarding-house about - Thanksgiving time, with no heat of any sort available but a gas-jet, it is - a different matter. We were an angry and puzzled lot that night. Mrs. - Vesey protested so pitifully that there had been coal in the bins only the - day before, and asserted so repeatedly that she had heard the noise of the - new load going in, that we could not help believe her. She promised to - call up her coal man the first thing the next morning, and we also agreed - to go round and visit him in a body, to add our personal appeals; but how - on earth several tons of coal could have been stolen out of the cellar - without any one hearing it seemed to us a mystery. - </p> - <p> - “The next morning we visited the coal-dealer <i>en masse</i>—in a - coalition, as Blackmore said—and by spirited imprecation and paying - cash we extracted a promise to have a couple of tons sent at once. His - office was some distance up on Columbus Avenue, and on our way back we - passed through one of the cross-streets—Eighty-Third, I think it - was, because one of us wanted to get some stamps at the post-office. As we - came along, we heard the rumble of coal passing down a chute, and saw a - coal-wagon in the distance. - </p> - <p> - “'There's somebody in luck,' said one. - </p> - <p> - “'But what an odd-looking coal-wagon,' said another, as we approached. - </p> - <p> - “It was a large motor-truck with a hinged metal top, something like a huge - street-cleaning cart. The engine was throbbing, and the coal was roaring - noisily in the chute, which led down into the cellar window of a - brownstone dwelling. The chute, instead of being the customary shallow - trough, was a large circular pipe, so that we could not actually see the - coal pouring downward, but only hear it crashing through the metal tube. - That struck me as a good idea for preventing the coal-dust from spreading - over everything near. - </p> - <p> - “But we were all interested not only in the odd appearance of the truck, - but in the extraordinary din it caused. Delivering coal is never a silent - job, naturally; but this racket was really terrific. The driver seemed to - have left his engine running full tilt, and the whole truck quivered and - shook with the power. We stood amazed at the furious rattle and uproar. - The noise was too great for spoken words to be caught, but I pointed out - the circular chute to Blackmore. It was made in telescoping sections, to - slide into itself, and was an interesting novelty. - </p> - <p> - “It occurred to me that this dealer, whoever he might be—there was - no name on the truck—could perhaps let Mrs. Vesey have some coal. We - could see the feet of the driver, who was standing on the other side of - the truck, and I went round to speak to him. It was a stocky man with a - flowing bush of black beard and wearing a suit of very grimy overalls. At - the top of my voice I yelled: - </p> - <p> - “'Got any coal to sell?' - </p> - <p> - “He shook his head in a surly way and turned his back on me. - </p> - <p> - “I could not tell from his gesture whether he had answered my question, or - was indicating that he could not hear; so I shouted at him again. - </p> - <p> - “At the same time I noticed Blackmore and the others gathered at the - cellar window, looking in curiously over the slope of the delivery pipe. - The coal man seized a lever and shut off his power, for the engine - stopped, and after a little sliding and rumbling in the tube the racket - ceased. He picked up a shovel and ran to the group by the chute. - </p> - <p> - “'Here, let that alone!' he cried, angrily. “'Keep your shirt on,' said - Blackmore. 'We're just looking at this outfit of yours. It makes a devil - of a noise. Regular public nuisance, I call it!' '“It's none of your - affair,' said the man. 'Keep out of what don't concern you.' - </p> - <p> - “He returned to his truck, pulled a handle, and the roar of the coal began - again. I was standing near him, while the others were on the opposite side - of the wagon, so I was the only one to see a curious thing. There were - several revolving cogwheels at the side of the truck, and in his - irritation, I suppose the driver stooped over them too closely. At any - rate, his beard caught in the cogs, and I gave a cry of dismay, thinking - he would be cruelly hurt. To my amazement the beard was whisked quickly - from his face, and I saw that he was Larsen. He looked at me with an - expression of alarm and anger that was laughable. - </p> - <p> - “'When did you turn coal-dealer?' I shouted. But at this moment Blackmore, - who was still bending over the chute, sprang up and ran round to us. He, - too, was staggered to see the identity of the driver. He dragged me a few - paces away and shouted in my ear. - </p> - <p> - “'Damn queer business,' he said. 'That coal isn't going in. It's coming - out!' - </p> - <p> - “'What the deuce do you mean?' I said. - </p> - <p> - “'Just what I say. He's got some sort of a suction engine in that truck, a - kind of big vacuum cleaner, and he's simply siphoning the coal out of - somebody's cellar.' - </p> - <p> - “Larsen ran at us with a big spanner in his hand, but we grappled with - him, and while three of us held him the others examined the truck. It was - perfectly true. By an ingenious gasoline pump installed in the wagon he - was drawing out the coal. Looking into the top of the wagon through a - little glass peephole, we could see the black nuggets coming swiftly up - out of the chute. By this time a little crowd had gathered, and the lady - of the house ran out to see what was happening. I think she thought we - were trying to seduce her coal supply. She explained angrily to us that - Larsen had driven up to her door half an hour before and offered to sell - her several tons of coal. Her cellar, like everyone else's, was none too - well stocked, and she had been delighted to agree. - </p> - <p> - “While we were wondering just what to do, Larsen, who had been glaring - wickedly at us, broke away from our grasp and reversed his machinery so - that the coal began to thunder back honestly into the cellar. The puzzled - woman, not suspecting anything wrong, went back indoors after we made some - impromptu explanation for the fuss. Larsen's amputated black beard whirled - round and round, still adhering to the rolling cogs, as we watched, while - he stood by sullenly. We walked away down the block to hold a council, and - also to let the group of mystified onlookers disperse. Of course, our - first thought was to go for the police; but then we thought of Gloria.” - </p> - <p> - Dove sighed, and tapped out his long-expired pipe. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he said, “that's pretty near the end of the story. I'm afraid - association with Beauty blunts the sense of rectitude. No, we didn't do - anything about it, except see to it that Larsen put back that coal in the - cellar. I suppose we were really accessory to a misdemeanour, because we - gathered from some small paragraphs we saw in the papers that a number of - householders in that neighbourhood had been mysteriously robbed of their - coal. To tell you the truth, we couldn't bear the thought of taking any - action that would ruin Gloria's happiness. What were a few tons of black, - filthy coal compared to that serene and golden-white beauty of hers, like - some princess in a Norse fairy tale? The old man was a lunatic, we - supposed, and would come to grief sooner or later. We were not going to be - the ones to bring humiliation upon him. - </p> - <p> - “We walked back, stricken, to our lodgings; and as we passed the Physical - Culture Chophouse we looked furtively through the window. We could see - Gloria laying the tables for lunch, the tall, strong curve of her back as - she leaned over, her capable white hands smoothing the cloth. None of us - had the heart to go in. - </p> - <p> - “We clubbed together to pay for Mrs. Vesey's new supply of coal, although - it broke our pocket-books for the next month or so. We were too hard up, - then, to go on eating at Larsen's. We had to patronize a lunch-counter - instead, where we gloomed over frankfurters and beans and quarrelled with - one another, in sheer misery, as to which one of us Gloria had really - liked best. We never saw her again, because about a week later the Larsen - café shut up, and they disappeared.” - </p> - <p> - “And the calisthenics?” I said. “Did you go on with those?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” he said; “we were too melancholy. Also, as soon as Mrs. Vesey's coal - arrived, we didn't need to. That was the terrible part of it. You see, - Gloria had simply egged us on to do those exercises so that we wouldn't - feel the chill when her father stole the coal. I'm afraid she was as - guilty as he was, but we tried to convince ourselves that she was only a - tool.” - </p> - <p> - We got up from our bench, for the afternoon air was growing bleak. - </p> - <p> - “Now you know,” he said, “why that coal-dump down there reminded me of - Gloria. Well, it was wonderful while it lasted—until, as you might - say, the serpent drove us out of our Garden of Sweden.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T WAS two days - before Christmas, and Dove Dulcet had come down town to have lunch with - me. As he had arrived rather early, we were taking a little stroll round - the bright, windy streets before our meal, enjoying the colour and - movement of the scene. We stopped by St. Paul's churchyard to note the - curious contrast of the old chocolate spire relieved against the huge - glittering shaft of the Woolworth Building. At the noon hour St. Paul's - stands in the dark shadow of the great cliffs to the south, while the - Woolworth pinnacle leaps up like a spearhead into the golden vacancy of - day-long sunshine. - </p> - <p> - “Saint Paul in the shadow, Saint Frank in the sun,” said Dove with gentle - irony. “It seems to prove that ten cents put in the cash register gets - nearer Heaven than ten cents dropped in the collection plate.” - </p> - <p> - When Dove is philosophical, he is always full of quaint matter, but I was - hardly heeding what he said. My eye had been caught by a crowd gathered at - the corner of Church Street. Over the heads of the throng was a winking - spark of light that flashed this way and that as though spun from a - turning mirror. - </p> - <p> - “Let's go and see what's doing,” I said. My poet friend is always docile, - and he followed me down Fulton Street. - </p> - <p> - “It looks to me like a silk hat,” he said. - </p> - <p> - And so it was. On the corner of the pavement stood a tall, stout, and very - well-nourished man with a ruddy face, wearing shabby but still presentable - cutaway coat and gray trousers, and crowned by a steep and glittering - stovepipe hat which twinkled like a heliograph in the dazzling winter - glare. But, most amazing, when we elbowed a passage through the jocular - crowd, we saw that this personable individual was wearing, instead of an - overcoat, two large sandwich boards vigorously lettered as follows: - </p> - <h3> - THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - </h3> - <p> - OPENS TO-DAY 59 Ann Street - </p> - <p> - Celebrate the Merry Yuletide! - </p> - <p> - One Prodigious Meal, - </p> - <h3> - $1 BUY A STRIP TICKET AND SAVE MONEY - </h3> - <p> - TO-DAY ONLY 100 meals for $10 - </p> - <p> - This corpulent sandwich man was blithely answering the banter of those who - were not awed by the radiance of his headgear and the dignity of his mien, - and passing out printed cards to those nearest him. - </p> - <p> - “Do all the hundred meals have to be eaten to-day?” asked Dulcet. “If so, - the task is beyond my powers.” - </p> - <p> - “Like the man in the Bible,” I said, “he probably rented his garments. But - he couldn't rent that admirable abdomen that proclaims him a well-fed man. - It seems to me a very sound ad. for the chophouse.” - </p> - <p> - “Unquestionably,” said my friend, gravely, “he is the man who put the ad - in adipose.” - </p> - <p> - The sandwich man, unabashed by these remarks, handed me one of his cards, - which Dulcet and I read together: - </p> - <p> - <i>K. Jefferson Gastric, the best-fed man south of 42nd Street, takes this - importunity of urging you to become a steakholder in the Commutation - Chophouse. Why pay for overhead expense? In the Commutation Chophouse all - unnecessaries are discarded and you pay only for food, not for - finger-bowls and a lovely female cashier. No tips. To-day Only, the - Opening Day, to celebrate the jovial Yule, the management will sell Strip - Tickets entitling you to 100 Glorious Meals, for $10.</i> - </p> - <p> - At this point a policeman politely urged Mr. Gastric to move on, and he - passed genially down Church Street, his resplendent hat glowing above a - trail of followers. - </p> - <p> - “Come on,” I said; “it's time to eat, anyway. Let's go over to Ann Street - and have a look at this philanthropic venture.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Dulcet, “since it's your turn to buy, far be it from me to - protest.” - </p> - <p> - The narrow channel of Ann Street is always crowded at the lunch hour, but - on that occasion it was doubly congested with patrons of the amusing - toyshops. We pushed patiently along, and passing Nassau Street moved into - a darker and shabbier region. A sound of music rose upon the air. To our - surprise, at the entrance to an unsuspected alley stood a fiddler playing - a merry jig. Beside him was another sandwich man, also stout and - well-favoured and in Fifth-Avenue attire, carrying boards which read: - </p> - <h3> - ENTRANCE TO THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - </h3> - <p> - Eat Drink and Be Merry For To-morrow We Die - </p> - <p> - To-day Only, for the Jocund Yule, - </p> - <p> - Strip Tickets for 100 Square Meals, $10 - </p> - <p> - “This is highly diverting,” I said. “Apparently we go down this passage. - Come on, everyone seems bound the same way. We won't get a seat unless we - make haste.” - </p> - <p> - Dulcet was gazing reflectively at the sandwich boards. His blue eyes had a - quizzical twinkle. - </p> - <p> - “For God, for country, and for Yule,” he said. “Queer that this should - happen on Ann Street. I seem to remember——” - </p> - <p> - “Queer that it should happen anywhere,” I interrupted him. “It's a clever - advertising stunt, anyway—100 meals for $10. It seems too good to be - true.” - </p> - <p> - “The only thing I'm afraid of,” he said, “is that it is literally true.” - </p> - <p> - “Walk in, gents, give us a try,” cried the sandwich man. “Try anything - once, gents.” - </p> - <p> - “Come on, Dove,” I said, seeing that others were crowding ahead of us down - the alley. “None of your paradoxes!” - </p> - <p> - The narrow passage turned into a courtyard overlooked by old grimy - warehouses with iron-shuttered windows. In one corner was a fine - substantial brick building with a rounded front, and a long flight of - wooden stairs that seemed to lead up to a marine junk shop, for old - sea-boots and ships' lanterns and fenders hung along the wall. In a - basement was an iron foundry where we could see the bright glow of a - forge. Halfway down the little area was a low door with a huge stone - lintel-piece over which was a large canvas sign: <i>the commutation - chophouse</i>. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - I must confess to an irrational affection for quaint eating places, and - having explored downtown New York's crowded cafés and lunchrooms rather - carefully in quest of a congenial tavern, the Commutation Chophouse struck - me as highly original and pleasing. We stepped down into a very large and - rather dark cellar that apparently had previously been used as a - carpenter's shop, for a good many traces of the earlier tenancy were still - visible. The furnishings were of the plainest, consisting simply of heavy - wooden tables and benches. There was no linen on the tables, but the wood - had been scrubbed scrupulously clean and there were piles of tissue - napkins. From a door at the back waiters came rushing with trays of food. - A glorious clatter of knives and forks filled the air, and it looked at - first as though we would find no place to sit. As Dove expressed it, the - room was loaded to the muzzle; and a continuous stream of patrons was - coming down the alley, allured by the sandwich man and the absurd thin - gayety of the fiddle. By the front door stood a dark young man, behind a - small counter, selling tickets. - </p> - <p> - “One meal for a dollar,” he cried, repeatedly, as he took in money. “One - hundred meals for ten dollars. Get your commutation tickets here.” - </p> - <p> - “We'll try two single meals to begin with,” I said, and put down a - ten-dollar bill. - </p> - <p> - The young man rummaged in a drawer full of greasy notes to get the change. - “Better get a commutation,” he said. “Tremendous saving.” - </p> - <p> - “I should think you'd need a cash register,” said Dulcet. “Handling all - that kale, it would be useful in keeping the accounts straight.” - </p> - <p> - The young man looked up sharply. - </p> - <p> - “Say,” he retorted, “what are you, mister? Cash-register salesman? Step - along please, don't block the gangway. Next! Seats in the rear! No, - commutation tickets not transferable. Good only to the purchaser. Ten - dollars, please. Next!” - </p> - <p> - “They seem to be coining money,” said Dove, as we found places at last in - a rear corner. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” I said, “this is just the kind of place I like. By Jove, this - building must be well over a hundred years old. Look at those beams in the - ceiling. All they need is a few sporting prints and an open fireplace. Lit - by candles, too, you see. Well, well, this is the real alehouse - atmosphere. Why, it's as good as the Cheshire Cheese. This is the kind of - place where I can imagine Doctor Johnson and Charles Lamb sitting in a - corner.” - </p> - <p> - “You are an incurable sentimentalist,” he said. “Besides, Lamb would have - had to sit on Johnson's knee, I expect. If I remember rightly, Lamb was a - very small urchin when Doctor Johnson died.” - </p> - <p> - “Why be so literal?” I protested. “Haven't you any sentiment for fine - antique flavour, and all that sort of thing?” - </p> - <p> - “If there is one thing where sentiment plays no part with me,” he said, - “it is food. At meal times I am distinctly a realist. Fine antique flavour - is rather upsetting when you find it in your meat. But still,” he - continued, “I must admit this looks good.” He beamed approvingly at the - thick chop and baked potatoes and beans and coffee the waiter had put down - in front of us. - </p> - <p> - “Evidently you don't order your food,” I said. “They give you the - standardized meal of the day. Fall to! These beans baked in cheese strike - me as excellent.” - </p> - <p> - I have never seen waiters rush around with such speed as they did in that - crowded cellar, where flickering candle-gleams cast a tawny light over the - crowded tables of men packed shoulder to shoulder. They flashed in and out - through the rear door like men possessed. They careered in with trays of - steaming viands, crashed them down on the bare tables, and fled out again, - napkins streaming behind them like pennants. Once they had delivered your - food it seemed impossible to catch their gaze, for we tried to hail one to - ask for ketchup. It was no use. He flew hither and yon with frantic and - single-minded energy. - </p> - <p> - “These waiters speed like dervishes,” I said. “Evidently the no-tip rule - does not lessen their zeal.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps they get a share in the profits of the enterprise,” said Dulcet, - placidly. - </p> - <p> - Just behind us was a small barred window looking out on a street. It was - at the ground level, and looking through the dusty pane I could see - horses' hoofs going by, and the feet of pedestrians. Suddenly there was a - great clang and crash outside, and I turned to look. - </p> - <p> - “What's up?” said Dulcet, who was cheerfully disposing of his chop as well - as his neighbour's elbow would permit him. - </p> - <p> - “They seem to have spilled some beans,” I said, peering through the dusky - aperture. “There's a truck delivering food or something at the back door. - They've tipped over a can, I think.” - </p> - <p> - “Spilled some beans?” he said, with his first sign of real interest. “That - sounds symbolic. Let me have a look.” - </p> - <p> - He stood up on the bench and gazed outward. Presently he sat down again - and went on calmly with his meal. Some excellent cheese cake was brought - us as dessert. - </p> - <p> - “That alley behind us,” he said. “I suppose it communicates with Beekman - Street, doesn't it?” - </p> - <p> - “I guess so. Why?” - </p> - <p> - “Just wondering. Ben, I apologize for my skepticism. The food here is - jolly good. In fact, it's so good that I think I've tasted it before. I am - your debtor for a very enlarging experience. And now, as the crowd is - becoming almost oppressive, and I can see that there are others eager to - commute, suppose we smoke our cigars outdoors.” - </p> - <p> - “Right you are,” I said. “And since the food is eatable, and I happen to - have the money with me, I think I'll invest in one of those strip tickets. - Everyone else seems to be doing it, and it looks to me a good way to save - money. A hundred lunches—why, that will see me through till spring. - I don't think I'll get tired of eating here, it's so amusing.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Dove, as he picked up his hat, “I don't think you'll get tired - of eating here. Perhaps the money will be well spent.” - </p> - <p> - I bought my commutation, and we stood in the shabby old courtyard for a - few minutes watching the crowd stream in. A good many, I noticed, though - unable to find seats, still took advantage of the opening-day offer and - bought the hundred meal tickets for future consumption. - </p> - <p> - “The only drawback about this place is the crowd,” I said. “If this keeps - up, half of downtown New York will be eating here.” - </p> - <p> - “Look here,” said Dove, “I think I shall be down this way again to-morrow. - It's my turn to buy. Will you lunch with me then? We'll celebrate the - jovial Yule together.” - </p> - <p> - “Fine,” I said. “Meet you at the old red newspaper-box at the corner of - Broadway and Vesey to-morrow at 12 o'clock.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - We were both there punctually. - </p> - <p> - “Have you got your appetite with you?” asked Dove. “It's a bit early for - feasting, but it'll give us time for a stroll after lunch.” - </p> - <p> - “Where do we eat?” I said. “Commutation again? It's all velvet to me, - anyway, all my lunches are paid for for the next three months.” - </p> - <p> - “There's a little place on Beekman Street I used to know,” he said. “Let's - try that.” - </p> - <p> - We found a corner table in an odd old eating house at the corner of - Beekman and Gold streets, which I had never seen before. - </p> - <p> - “I'm a great believer in tit for tat, fair play, and all that sort of - thing,” said Dulcet when the waiter approached. “You gave me an excellent - lunch yesterday. I intend to give you the same lunch to-day, if you can - stand eating it again. Waiter! Mutton chop, baked potato, baked beans, - coffee, and cheese cake. For two.” - </p> - <p> - When the beans came, baked with cheese in a little brown dish, just as - they were served the day before, I must confess that I was startled. - </p> - <p> - “Why, these beans are done exactly like those we had at the Commutation,” - I said. “Are these people doing the cooking for the chop-house?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps you'll have to eat chop and beans for a hundred lunches,” Dulcet - said. “Well, it's a hearty diet. After all, the sandwich boards simply - said a hundred meals. They didn't guarantee that they would be different.” - </p> - <p> - I insisted that on our way back toward the office we should stop at the - Commutation Chophouse and find out from a customer what the bill of fare - had been on the second day. The vision of a hundred repetitions of any - meal, however good, is rather ghastly. - </p> - <p> - “I don't hear the minstrel to-day,” Dove observed as we drew near the - alley. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well,” I said, “that was just to draw business for the opening.” - </p> - <p> - We turned down the passage at No. 59. Quite a crowd of patrons were - waiting their turn, I saw. They were standing in the courtyard by the - chop-house door, talking busily. - </p> - <p> - “You see,” I said, “it's still crowded.” - </p> - <p> - We reached the entrance. The door was closed. The sign over the doorway - now had additional lettering painted on it, and read: - </p> - <h3> - THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE - </h3> - <p> - The Other 99 Meals Will Be Served In Augusta, Maine. - </p> - <p> - “Come on, Ben,” said Dulcet. “No use trying to break through a window. - There's no one there. I wonder what the fare is to Augusta?” - </p> - <p> - “You rascal!” I cried. “If you suspected this, why the devil did you - encourage me to squander my $10?” - </p> - <p> - “I simply said it would probably be well spent,” he said, with a clear - blue humorous gaze. “If it helps to cauterize your magnificent credulity, - it will be.” - </p> - <p> - We sat down on a bench in St. Paul's churchyard to smoke a pipe together - while I performed some mental obsequies over my vanished Federal Reserve - certificate. Dove looked up at the sparkling gilded turret of the - Woolworth. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - “I daresay Frank Woolworth would have fallen for it, too,” Dove said. “The - idea of a hundred meals for 10 cents each would have appealed to him. But - you know, old man, there are certain fixed and immutable laws that the - observant city dweller is accustomed to. My motto is, whenever you find an - apparent exception to those laws, look for an enigma in the woodpile. I - suspected something wrong when I saw that sandwich man on Church Street. A - man as fat as that doesn't generally take a job sandwiching. Also I have - doubts about people who insist on calling Christmas 'Yule'. Moreover, a - man doesn't generally take a job sandwiching until his shirt is so ragged - that he is ashamed to exhibit it in public, when he is glad to cover it up - with the boards. Those two fat sandwicheers were members of the firm, I - fear, for their linen was O. K. And, secondly, what are the first things a - man gets if he really intends to start a restaurant? A cash register and a - bunch of ketchup bottles. There wasn't a cash register nor a ketchup - bottle in sight in the Commutation Chophouse. No, my dear; what you - admired as carefully arranged atmosphere of antiquity, the plain board - tables and candles and so on, was really stark cheapness. They weren't - spending any money on overhead; they said so themselves. - </p> - <p> - “When you called my attention to the spilled beans, I was sure. For they - were not merely beans: they were baked beans; a far more significant - matter. When I looked out of the window I could see at once that there was - no kitchen attached to the Commutation Chophouse. The food was all being - delivered from that place on Beekman Street, whose name was on the truck. - A few ingenious rogues simply rented that old cellar, cheaply enough I - guess, put in a few tables, arranged to have grub shipped in from near by, - printed their commutation tickets, and sat down to collect as many dollars - as they could lure out of the open-handed Christmas throng.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, of all infernal liars,” I cried, “they certainly take the prize.” - </p> - <p> - “Not so,” said Dulcet as we got up to go. “You should have read the - sandwich boards a little more carefully. Their ingenious author, whom you - chide as the Ann Street Ananias, really told the exact and circumstantial - truth.” - </p> - <p> - We stood at the gateway of the graveyard, and gazed across the roaring - traffic of Broadway. Dove smiled and said he must be starting on his - Christmas shopping. - </p> - <p> - “I tried to warn you,” he said, “but you wouldn't listen. As I was about - to say just before we visited the place, it was queer that it should - happen on Ann Street. Don't you remember that a certain famous gentleman - had his museum at the corner of Broadway and Ann? And it was he, I think, - who remarked that there's one born every minute. Well, Merry Christmas!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE PERT LITTLE HAT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>EMMING had a home, - and dearly he loved everything in it—with one exception. He loved - the furnace, and the kitchen range with its warm ruddy glow, and the - violet-coloured wafer of expensive aromatic soap that always mysteriously - appeared on the marble wash-basin when visitors came. He loved the little - glass towel racks, and the miniature embroidered hand towels with Mrs. - Hemming's maiden initials on them, which also appeared, white and - fragrant, whenever there was any special festivity. Those little towels - were to him a kind of symbol of the first ecstatic days of their married - life, and he could not bear to think of the inevitable time when they - would be frayed and discarded. He loved the shelf over the fireplace where - his brown-stained corncob pipe waited for the after-supper smoke. He loved - the little porch where the baby carriage stood, and the tulip beds that he - and Janet had planted together, and the mission dining table, now - blistered and scarred, that had been their very first piece of furniture. - </p> - <p> - But in the little den upstairs stood his desk, and how he hated it! - </p> - <p> - Hemming, you see, had literary ambitions, and that desk meant to him every - circumstance, every long-drawn torment, of weariness and toil. It had - meant much pleasure, too, in hours when his writing had prospered; but how - the bitter outnumbered the sweet! How many hundred evenings he had dragged - himself to it, in lassitude and lethargy; had forced his drowsy, unwilling - mind to the task at hand. How many nights, nodding over the typewriter, he - had stumbled on and on. Over his desk he kept, ironically, a letter he had - once had from an editor, which said: <i>We like stories. They have a - joyous freshness. You write as though you enjoyed it.</i> - </p> - <p> - Hemming was no quick and easy composer. His stories emerged slowly, - painfully, hammered and wrenched from the stubborn tissues of a weary - brain. When his whole soul and body cried out for a comfortable stretch on - the couch, with pipe and book, and a gradual, blissful lapse into slumber, - he would throw off his coat, stick his head out of the window for a dozen - gulps of cool night air, and then sit down at the wheezy old typewriter. - </p> - <p> - Its yellow keys seemed a kind of doleful rosary on which he told long - petitions to whatever gods look down pityingly on young writers. He would - think how wonderful it would be if he could only do his writing in the - morning when he was fresh. To leap out of bed in the crisp early air, to - plunge into the cold bath where the water shimmered a pale green by - catching the tint of the big maple tree just outside the bathroom, to - swallow two cups of hot coffee, two slices of buttered toast, and then sit - down to his desk. In the zest and lustihood of the morning, how the - thoughts would throng, how the great empire of words would unroll before - him, far away to the blue hills where lived his unwritten poems! Such was - his daily thought as he hurried down the hill on bright mornings to catch - the 8.13 train to town. But to come back at night after a long day at the - office, and after helping Janet wash the dishes, and stoking the furnace - or mowing the lawn or planting bulbs in the garden—then to try to - write seemed tough indeed. - </p> - <p> - Still, it had to be done, and Hemming threw his manhood into the task. In - his little den there was just space for a couch, his desk, and his books, - which were littered about the room. His only chance of accomplishing - anything was to get Janet safely installed on the couch, for if he once - lay down there work was impossible. She would curl up under a steamer rug, - tired out from a long day with the house and the baby, reading a book or - the evening paper. And then the stumbling clatter of the typewriter would - begin. - </p> - <p> - After a while there always came what they humorously called “the pathetic - little moment.” This was the time when Janet's book or paper would slip - from her hand, she would turn away from the light, and coast down the - long, smooth toboggan of sleep. Then Hemming would switch off the reading - lamp above her head (with the secret economic satisfaction young - householders always feel when they switch off a light), touch the soft - cheek with a friendly finger, and climb the keys once more. His writing - always seemed to go better after the “pathetic little moment” was past. - There was a kind of subconscious satisfaction in the feeling that Janet - was there, asleep, and that he was working for her. And Janet used to - affirm that there was no lullaby like the irregular thumping of those keys - and levers. - </p> - <p> - There was another catchword they had, which also moved stealthily in the - back passages of his mind as he mulled over his manuscripts. Janet badly - needed a new bonnet—a “pert little hat,” she liked to call it—and - Hemming had pledged himself to write something that would bring her the - saucy little ornament she craved in time for Christmas. She was a slender, - bright-faced creature, and no one could wear an innocently tilted turban - with more grace. But these had been hard days for small incomes. Winter - coal, and warm clothes for the Urchin, and the cook's wages (when they had - one), and Liberty Bonds—all these had taken precedence over the pert - little hat. It had been talked of so long, it had become a kind of joyous - legend, which Janet hardly expected to see realized on her head. She used - to say wistfully, as she coasted off to sleep on the couch: “Would it be - unpatriotic to think about the pert little hat?” And her husband would vow - that patriotism that excluded pert little hats was no patriotism at all. - So he had sworn that the bonnet should be millinered on the clacking loom - of his typewriter. They used to laugh about it, and say that the little - hat ought to be trimmed with carbon typewriter ribbons. - </p> - <p> - But Hemming did not know that Janet was not always asleep after the - so-called “pathetic moment” when she ostensibly gave up the struggle with - drowsiness. The twanging springs of the old couch made less noise than the - typewriter keys, but they, too, moved to a secret creative refrain. There - were times when Janet lay watching the lamplight on the rows of books, and - little pictures of stories that she would like to write flashed into her - head. They often used to come to her at inopportune periods during the - day, when the Urchin was in his bath or when she was taking stock of the - ice-box. Of course her husband was the literary man of the family, and she - had no thought of setting up her simple imaginings against his more - serious efforts. But one night, when he was engrossed in some intractable - plot, Janet slipped away into the little guest room and shut herself in. - With a stub pencil, on odd sheets of notepaper, she began scribbling - hotly. Two hours later, when Hemming came back to earth and hunted her - out, she was still at it. - </p> - <p> - “What on earth are you up to, monk?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Making out laundry lists,” she said. - </p> - <p> - More observant husbands might have wondered what occasion there would be - for a laundry list on Thursday evening, but Hemming was always drowned in - his dreams of literary fame. - </p> - <p> - His story, on which he had laboured at night for two months, and hers, - which had taken the spare hours of three days, were finished almost at the - same time. After dinner one night, when he had read the manuscript of his - story aloud, Janet handed him her venture, with some trepidation. At first - he seemed a little nettled that she should have done such a thing. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, monk,” he said, “you oughtn't to wear yourself out trying to - write. You have quite enough to do with the house and the baby. Moreover, - you don't know how discouraging it is. It takes years of patient - apprenticeship before one can get anything across with the editors. This - is my job, brownie.” - </p> - <p> - “But I enjoyed doing it,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “That's a bad sign. All really good stories take fearful effort. How long - did you spend on this?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, quite a while,” she said, vaguely. She did not like to admit that her - little story had involved no “patient apprenticeship.” - </p> - <p> - He lit his pipe and began reading the sheets on which her quick pencil had - flashed with such enthusiasm. She sat with her sewing, watching him shyly. - </p> - <p> - “Very nice,” was his comment; but privately he wondered how he was to - avoid hurting her feelings. It seemed to him that the story had all the - faults of the amateur. - </p> - <p> - “Would you submit it anywhere?” she asked, eagerly. “Do you think any - magazine would buy it?” - </p> - <p> - He evaded the question. “Would you like me to type it for you?” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, <i>would</i> you?” - </p> - <p> - “I'll tell you what I'll do,” he said, “I'll be sending my manuscript to - Mr. Edwards to-morrow. I'll type yours and send it, too.” - </p> - <p> - Janet was delighted, and she fell asleep that night with the sweet music - of the thumping keys in her ears. As she heard the staccato clicking, she - thought: “I wonder how far he has got now? How good of him to take all - that trouble to copy my poor little story.” - </p> - <p> - Hemming sat up very late that night, copying Janet's manuscript and - planning what to say to Mr. Edwards, the editor of the <i>Colonial - Magazine</i>, who had been very cordial to him. He resisted the temptation - to alter Janet's naïve phrasing here and there, to improve her technique - by recasting some of the situations in her story. It was long past - midnight when both manuscripts were ready to go into the stout manila - envelope. Then, after some meditation, Hemming added the following note: - </p> - <p> - <i>Dear Mr. Edwards:</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>I am sending you herewith my new story, and hope you may like it. I am - also enclosing a manuscript from my wife. Of course she is an untrained - writer—this is her first attempt—but I think her story has a - certain charm. Won't you, if you can, give her any encouragement you feel - proper? If you would write her a personal note of comment it would mean a - great deal to her. You know how tenderly one feels toward one's maiden - effort.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>Sincerely yours,</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>Godfrey Hemming.</i> - </p> - <p> - It was very late when Hemming folded the carefully typed sheets and placed - them in the precious envelope. He was utterly weary, which must be the - explanation of a curious error he made. It was his custom to type his name - and address on a separate sheet of paper which was clipped to the story he - was submitting. He put his own name on one sheet, and his wife's on - another. But in arranging the manuscripts for the envelope he - inadvertently put his name-page with his wife's manuscript, and vice - versa. Then he went to bed with the satisfaction of well-earned fatigue, - and wondering how soon he would be able to order the “pert little hat”. - </p> - <p> - It was two weeks later, and the Urchin had just murmured himself off into - his morning nap, when Janet heard the postman's whistle, and ran down to - receive an envelope with the name of the <i>Colonial Magazine</i> engraved - upon it. Eagerly she tore it open. - </p> - <p> - My Dear Mrs. Hemming: - </p> - <p> - Your husband was good enough to send me the manuscript of your story, - which I have read with interest. It is an able piece of work, and shows - unusual technical skill for a beginner. But I must caution you not to let - your pen follow the track of your husband's method too closely. Naturally - enough, perhaps, your style seems to have modeled itself on his: but this - is a mistake, because it is quite evident that you have ability enough to - strike out on your own line. I wish you would study carefully Mr. - Hemming's last story, “Three Is Company,” which shows a freshness and - spontaneous originality better than anything he has done before. It has a - touch of charming humour which is new to his work. If you can do us - something of that sort, we shall be only too happy to publish it. - </p> - <p> - I am returning your manuscript with many thanks. - </p> - <p> - Faithfully yours - </p> - <p> - Theodore Edwards. - </p> - <p> - Janet looked at the editor's flowing signature in amazement. “Three Is - Company” was her own story. And there, in the <i>Colonial Magazine's</i> - envelope, lay the revered pages of Godfrey's masterpiece, returned. The - “fresh and spontaneous originality” was hers! A flush of exultation - thrilled her: she could almost feel the pert little hat on her head. - Instinctively she looked at herself in the mirror over the hall - mantelpiece. Was it possible that she was a literary genius, and had never - known it? - </p> - <p> - But then a pang of horror chilled her. What dreadful mistake had happened? - Alas, it was only too plain—the two stories had been confused. The - editor had thought that her story was Godfrey's. He had read it expecting - to find the skill of Godfrey's trained hand. And now how was she to spare - her husband the mortification of having his painstaking work rejected, - while her prentice sketch had won favour by some fluke? Her loyal heart, - entirely devoid of selfish satisfaction, could not bear the thought of - this grotesque and unhappy climax for her innocent venture. It was all her - fault for meddling with what did not concern her. What business had she to - write a better story than Godfrey, anyway? She knew that her husband would - be honestly proud of her success and would not grudge her the triumph for - an instant, but she felt that the poignance of the situation would be - intolerable for her. Much better do without all the pert little hats on - Chestnut Street than win one at the expense of Godfrey's feelings. - </p> - <p> - How could she prevent the bad tidings from reaching him? Even now it might - be too late. She flew to the telephone, and with pricking pulses asked for - the office of the <i>Colonial</i>. One nervous hand unconsciously flew to - her hair, as though she were about to enter the august sanctum of the - editor. - </p> - <p> - “Is this Mr. Edwards? - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Mr. Edwards, this is Mrs. Hemming, Mrs. Godfrey Hemming, the wife of - one of your authors—— - </p> - <p> - “Why, there's been a terrible mistake about our manuscripts, Mr. Edwards, - the stories that Mr. Hemming sent you. I've just had your letter, and that - story you sent back wasn't mine at all, it was Godfrey's—— - </p> - <p> - “I don't see how you can have made the mistake— - </p> - <p> - “Yes, the story called 'Three Is Company' is mine, I wrote it, but really - it can't possibly be better than the other one because I wrote it in such - a hurry, it's my first attempt—— - </p> - <p> - “You want to publish it? But, Mr. Edwards, you simply mustn't, because—— - </p> - <p> - “I can't explain over the telephone. I know you only like it because you - thought—— - </p> - <p> - “Will you promise not to do anything about it, and not to tell Mr. Hemming - anything, until you get a letter from me? - </p> - <p> - “You <i>will</i> promise? Oh, thank you so much! I'll write at once. - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye!” - </p> - <p> - She hurried to the little white enamelled desk, the same desk where the - ill-starred “Three Is Company” had been written. - </p> - <p> - “This will cure me of trying to write,” she thought; “why, I never heard - of such a thing—to have one's first story accepted! Mr. Edwards must - be mad.” - </p> - <p> - Luckily there was one sheet of her engraved stationery left—the - paper that Godfrey had given her, she thought remorsefully. All about her - were evidences of his loving care, and she had repaid him by undermining - his prestige with the one editor who had been nice to him. A fine way for - an author's wife to behave! She seized her pen and wrote: - </p> - <p> - Dear Mr. Edwards: - </p> - <p> - As I just told you over the phone, there has been some horrible mistake. - How it happened I can't guess. The manuscript you sent back to me is Mr. - Hemming's story. The one you say you like and want me to study as a model - is my own story, “Three Is Company”. I'm sorry you like it, I mean I'm - sorry you think it is better than Mr. Hemming's story, which can't be so - as it is the first story I ever tried to write. I have decided to withdraw - it, I don't want it published, so please send it back to me instantly, and - write me a letter saying how amateurish it is. I am sending Mr. Hemming's - story back to you, so that now you know who wrote it you can reconsider - it. Of course, if you thought it was by me, you naturally considered it as - the work of a beginner, and only a poor imitation of Mr. Hemming's style. - </p> - <p> - I don't want you ever to tell Mr. Hemming that I have written this letter. - Just tell him you sent my story back to me because it was not good enough. - </p> - <p> - Sincerely yours, - </p> - <p> - Janet Colton Hemming. - </p> - <p> - The importance Janet attached to this letter may be judged from the fact - that she left the baby alone in the house, asleep, while she hurried down - to the post-office to mail it, together with Godfrey's manuscript, back to - Mr. Edwards. And not even the sympathetic Mr. Edwards ever guessed that on - the first page, where Godfrey's careful typing ran in neat lines, she had - printed a good luck kiss. - </p> - <p> - The editor was an honourable man, and though he chuckled a little over - Janet's breathless letter he really meant to keep the innocent secret. We - hope that no young wives will be lured to destruction by our telling the - truth, which was simply this, that Janet's little story was much better - than Godfrey's. It might not have happened again in a lifetime, but the - enthusiasm of her girlish zeal had carried her pen into a very pretty and - moving tale, which the <i>Colonial</i> would have been glad to print. But - since she wanted it back, there was nothing for Mr. Edwards to do but - comply. Then, that very morning, while he was dictating a note of polite - refusal to accompany “Three Is Company” back to the suburbs, who should - call at the office but Godfrey, to know what the editor thought of the two - stories. The coincidence was too much for Edwards, and thinking that it - could do no harm to let Hemming know of his wife's devotion—for - young husbands are too likely to be selfish—he told him the whole - incident. And Godfrey, with a faint sensation of burning under his - eyelids, related the dream of a new bonnet that had inspired “Three Is - Company”. - </p> - <p> - “Well, now, look here,” said Edwards, “I'm not so awfully keen on this - story of yours. It isn't anywhere near up to what you can do—or - rather, up to what Mrs. Hemming can do,” he added, chuckling. “But you go - home and write me a yarn about the pert little hat, and I'll put it in the - January number. It'll come out just before Christmas, and I hope you'll - get that wife of yours the best bonnet in town on the proceeds. If all - writers had wives like yours, perhaps the magazines would make better - reading. But for heaven's sake don't tell Mrs. Hemming I gave her away. - Wait until she sees the story in the magazine, it'll be a Christmas - surprise for her.” - </p> - <p> - On the Saturday before Christmas Hemming took Janet to the city to - solemnize the purchase of the pert little hat. Any one who happened to see - her wearing it down Chestnut Street that bright winter afternoon knew that - the elated pink in her cheek was not all reflected from the red bow on the - bonnet's neat brim. As they sat down for a matinée and Janet removed the - precious creation, giving it to Godfrey to hold for a moment, he said - admiringly: - </p> - <p> - “Well, the old typing bus isn't such a bad milliner after all, hey, monk?” - </p> - <p> - And Janet, who would then have denied that such a story as “Three Is - Company” ever existed, replied innocently: - </p> - <p> - “I'm so glad Mr. Edwards turned down my story, grump. I like the pert - little hat ever so much better because it came all from you.” - </p> - <p> - Even if the pert little hat should live to be a great-great-grandbonnet, - none of its descendants will ever give Janet such pleasure. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - URN BURIAL - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>EVER quarrel at - breakfast is the first maxim for commuters and their wives. Partings in - anger mean day-long misery for both, and generally involve telephone calls - later in the day, and a box of chocolate-coated maraschino cherries - carried home on the 5.18. Marriage (say the philosophers) is a subdivision - of the penal code, dedicated to the proposition that men and women are - created equal. But the studious observer of matrimonial feints and - skirmishes sees very little to verify that daring surmise. - </p> - <p> - Harry Bennett sipped his breakfast coffee grimly. Its savour had departed: - for ninety seconds earlier Mrs. Bennett had fled upstairs in a flush of - anger and tears. In five minutes he would have to run for the train; and - what man can soothe an outraged wife in five minutes? He ate his toast - without relish, gazing sourly on the blue-and-white imitation Copenhagen - china, the pretty little porcelain marmalade pot, and the big silver - coffee-urn. - </p> - <p> - The desperate inequality of married life pierced his heart. Why should he - have to accept in silence tart remarks uttered by his wife, while the - least savagery of his own was cause for tears? - </p> - <p> - He rushed upstairs to say a few consoling words. The bedroom door was - locked. Compassion fled, and he growled furiously through the panels. Then - he ran hotly for the train. - </p> - <p> - It seems unreasonable: but the lives of human beings are not guided by - reason. Harry had come to the conclusion that the silver coffee-urn was at - the bottom of all their squabbles. - </p> - <p> - Before Elaine Addison surrendered herself into his capable hands, there - had been a competitor for the honour of surrounding her with sectional - bookcases, linen closets, potted hydrangeas, and the other authentic - trappings of a home. - </p> - <p> - Aubrey Andrews was the rival warrior. He was the kind of man who always - has a lot of crisp greenbacks in a neat leather bill-fold. Harry's - hard-earned frogskins were always crumpled in a trousers pocket This may - seem trivial, but it distinguishes two totally different classes of men. - Aubrey was tall, dark, well groomed; he played billiards and belonged to - expensive clubs. It was supposed that his wife would be beyond the reach - of financial worries. He kept a horse and easy office hours. - </p> - <p> - Harry—well, Harry was no aristocrat. He worked hard for what he got, - and didn't get much. He was neither tall, nor dark, nor well groomed. But - he was a fine, lovable, high-minded chap, and to everyone's surprise, - including his own, he got Elaine. - </p> - <p> - Tennyson had a good deal to do with it, I think. Harry still read - Tennyson, although that excellent poet is no longer fashionable, and kept - on repeating what Tennyson said about Elaine. And finally Elaine could not - help saying, “My Lancelot!” and melting into his arms. - </p> - <p> - Aubrey gave them a magnificent silver coffee-urn for a wedding present, - and presently enlisted for service, first on the Mexican border and then - in France, where he became a heroic and legendary figure, surrounded in - Elaine's mind by the prismatic glamour of girlhood days. - </p> - <p> - That coffee-urn was a stunner! It was far the handsomest thing in the - little suburban house, except, of course, Elaine herself. Beneath its - shining caldron sat an alcohol lamp that rendered a blue flame and kept - the coffee hot. Elaine's initials—her maiden initials—were - engraved upon it, and those of the donor: E. A. A. A. The hand of the - insidious silversmith had twined the A's together very gracefully. - </p> - <p> - Every time he looked at it, Harry felt subconsciously irritated, although - he hardly realized why. - </p> - <p> - It stood on the little mission sideboard, outshining everything else in - the pretty dining room. It was Elaine's particular pride, and was used - only on special occasions. Often it was brought out for the little - celebrations that young married couples have every now and then. And, - curiously enough, these celebrations very often ended in tears. The - polished dazzle of those silver curves was only too apt to suggest to - Elaine's radiant little beauty-loving heart other handsome wares she would - like to have, or unlucky comparison of the relative beauty of the wedding - presents sent by <i>her</i> friends and <i>his;</i> or Harry would make - some blunt remark about his not being able to give her all that some other - husband might have. - </p> - <p> - Alas! Something of the sardonic spirit of the black-browed Aubrey seemed - to radiate from his urn. Can a coffee-um hypnotize? Grotesque as it - appears, little by little they realized that the innocent piece of silver - was marring many an otherwise happy hour. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - All the way to town in the smoking car, Harry's mind rotated savagely - about their absurd tiff. - </p> - <p> - Let's see, how was it? He had said: “I'm sorry, dearest; I shall have to - be rather late tonight. The head of my department is away, and I've got an - extra lot of work to do.” She said: “Oh, dear—oh, dear! Then we - sha'n't be able to go to the theatre, shall we?” He said: “We can go next - week, Brownie.” She said: “Something horrid always happens when we have - this coffee-urn on the table.” - </p> - <p> - (N. B. Right here, when the danger topic was introduced, he should have - put on an extra soft pedal. But did he? Not a bit. As soon as the urn was - mentioned his eyes began to flash.) - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he said, “don't let's have it on so often!” She said: “Any one - might think you were jealous of it. It's the only handsome piece of silver - I've got.” - </p> - <p> - Here he did make one honest effort to steer away from danger: - </p> - <p> - “I'm awfully sorry about to-night, honey, but the work's just got to be - done.” She said: “Why didn't you let me know sooner you were going to work - late? I could have arranged to go and see Mother.” He said: “Oh, well, - everything I do is always wrong, anyway! I suppose if I could buy you a - roomful of silver like that old tureen, you wouldn't mind.” - </p> - <p> - And after that it was not far to the deluge. All conducted according to - the recognized technique of quarrelling, passing through the seven stages - of repartee outlined by Touchstone, which should never be forgotten by - those happily married: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - 1 The retort courteous - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - 2 The quip modest - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - 3 The reply churlish - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - 4 The reproof valiant - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - 5 The counter-check quarrelsome - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - 6 The lie with circumstance - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - 7 The lie direct - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - All day both Mr. and Mrs. Bennett were unpleasantly conscious of their - undigested altercation lying black and gloomy in the back of their minds. - At lunch-time he tried to call her on the telephone; but the wire did not - answer. Indeed, she had gone to spend the day in town with friends, and - was to go to dinner and the theatre with them. She left no message for - Harry, and gave the cook permission to go out overnight. - </p> - <p> - About nine o'clock he got home tired and eager to resume their usual - blissful companionship. The house was dark and untenanted. In a rage, he - threw away the box of candy he had brought, and got himself some bread and - cheese from the ice-box. - </p> - <p> - In the dining room his eye fell upon the coffee-urn. He swore at it. Just - then Elaine called him up, and in a cool, distant voice told him that she - had decided to spend the night in town with her mother. - </p> - <p> - The next morning Elaine came home about ten o'clock, humming a merry - little air as she walked down the quiet suburban street. She and Harry had - patched things up over the telephone at breakfast-time. - </p> - <p> - The sun was shining brightly, and she was planning a specially nice dinner - for poor Harry that evening. After all, it wasn't the dear boy's fault - that he had to work so hard. It was horrible of her to run off and desert - him that way. Tonight she would show him how much she loved him. They - would have ice cream with hot chocolate sauce, and meringues and chicken - salad; and she would buy him a cigar and hide it in his napkin. And the - old coffee-um should go back in the glass cabinet. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The cook, with a very grave face, opened the front door. - </p> - <p> - “Heavens, Emily, what's the matter?” cried Mrs. Bennett. - </p> - <p> - “Burgled!” said Emily, tragically. “Someone's been an' bruk in the - dining-room winder. Footpads, I guess.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Bennett gave a little shriek of dismay She ran to the dining room. - </p> - <p> - One window stood an inch or two open, and one of the panes was broken. She - glanced round the room. Nothing was disarranged, but her glance fell on - the sideboard. - </p> - <p> - The coffee-urn was gone! - </p> - <p> - “Well,” she said, “that's very extraordinary. Mr. Bennett slept here last - night, and he's a light sleeper. He always locks the windows before he - goes to bed. Is anything else missing?” - </p> - <p> - “The apple pie's gone out o' the ice-box,” said Emily. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well, that's Mr. Bennett, I'm sure,” said Elaine. “I'll call up the - police right away, and see if they can do anything. My nice coffee-urn! - Why, it's the finest thing we had in the whole house.” - </p> - <p> - Before the police arrived, Mrs. Bennett herself took a careful look round - the outside of the house. She found nothing unusual except a cigar butt - lying on the ground near the broken window. She picked it up gingerly. A - section of the gilt band still adhered to the wrapper. She could read the - name, <i>Florona.</i> She carried the fragment into the cellar and threw - it into the ash-can. - </p> - <p> - Two policemen arrived shortly, examined everything, and asked innumerable - questions. Mrs. Bennett gave them a careful description of the coffee-urn. - They departed, promising to do everything possible to trace it. They said - that a piece of silver so large and unusual would not be hard to locate - with the aid of the pawnbrokers. Then Mrs. Bennett went upstairs to think. - </p> - <p> - It seemed very strange that the thieves should take the urn and nothing - else, when there were other pieces of silver beside it on the sideboard. - She called up Harry, who was horrified to learn of the loss. He had slept - right through the night without hearing a sound. He offered to come home - if he could do anything to help; but she would not hear of it. - </p> - <p> - That night Mrs. Bennett had a special little dinner waiting for her - husband: his favourite soup, a tender steak, fried potatoes, ice cream - with hot chocolate sauce. And after dinner they discussed the theft of the - urn. - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand how it was that you didn't hear anything,” said - Elaine. “You generally sleep so lightly. Did you sit up late?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” he said; “I sat in the dining room until about ten, eating cheese - and apple pie, and smoking a cigar. Then I went to bed——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you just reminded me!” cried Elaine. “I bought you a nice cigar to - smoke after your dinner, and I forgot to give it to you.” - </p> - <p> - From the mantelpiece she gave him a cigar with a <i>Florona</i> band. - </p> - <p> - “Why, isn't that nice!” said he, “That's the kind I always smoke. I didn't - think you knew one brand from the other.” - </p> - <p> - “I know more than you think, old man,” she said. - </p> - <p> - When Harry came home the next night, he brought a bulky parcel with him. - </p> - <p> - “I'm awfully sorry about the urn, Brownie,” he said. “I went to see the - detectives to-day, and they think there's very little chance of getting it - back; so I brought you this to take its place.” She opened the package. It - was a big China coffee-jug of rose-and-white porcelain, flagrantly out of - harmony with her silver and blue china. - </p> - <p> - “Honey,” she said, “I think it's just lovely. It's ever and ever so much - nicer than that old urn.” - </p> - <p> - A week later, in the afternoon, the local chief of police called up Mrs. - Bennett. - </p> - <p> - “Come down here to the police station,” he said. “We've found your - coffee-pot. The most extraordinary thing you ever heard of. We found it - buried in a haystack, back of Webster's barn. Why any one should leave it - there is more than I know. The thief must have been frightened and hid it. - Will you come down and identify it?” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Bennett hastened down to the police station. There on the sergeant's - table stood the famous urn, the pride of her heart. There was no doubt - about it: the initials were there—it was hers. Tarnished and spotted - by exposure, it was still the handsomest piece of silver she had ever - seen. Involuntarily she gave a cry of delight. Then she hesitated. After - all, compared to Harry's happiness and hers, what was a silver urn? - </p> - <p> - “Oh, captain,” she said, “I'm so disappointed. That's not mine! It's very - much like it, but it isn't mine.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE BATTLE OF MANILA ENVELOPES - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>R. BIRDLIP was a - good old man, of unimpeachable simplicity. He had achieved enormous wealth - in an honourable business, and then found (to his mild distress) that the - great traffic he had built up conducted itself automatically. He had, in a - way, been gently shouldered out of his own nest by the capable men whose - fortunes he had made. But his zealous and frugal spirit required some sort - of problem to feed upon, and he delighted his heart by owning a newspaper. - <i>The Evening Lens</i> was his toy and the child of his dotage. - </p> - <p> - So the Persian rugs and walnut panelling of his private suite in the huge - Birdlip Building saw him rarely. He was supremely happy in the dingy - sanctum at the back of the old <i>Lens</i> office, where the hum of the - presses and the racket of the city room (which he still, by an innocent - misunderstanding, called the “sitting room”) delighted his guileless - heart. He would sit turning over the pages of each edition as it came - upstairs (putting his second finger up to his tongue before he turned each - leaf) and poring industriously over the market reports, the comics, and - the Woman's Page. With his pink cheeks, his dapper little figure in a - brown suit and cream-coloured waistcoat, and his eager, shy, chirping - manner, he was very like a robin. Although he was full of gigantic - schemes, which he broached naively in the editorial council every now and - then, he never wittingly interfered with his editor-in-chief, in whom he - had full confidence. But his gentle and jejune mind had a disastrous - effect on the paper no less. Almost unconsciously the Lens was written and - edited down to his standard, as a roomful of adults will amiably prattle - so as to carry along a child in the conversation. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Birdlip's amazing success in his original field had been due partly to - his decent sagacity, honesty, and persistence, and partly to his sheer - fortune in finding (at the very outset of his enterprise) several men of - rugged ability, who became the pearls in his simple oyster-shell. As a - result of this, it had become his fixed mental habit to believe that - somewhere, some day, he would encounter the man or men who would make the - <i>Lens</i> the greatest newspaper in the country. This, indeed, was his - candid ambition, and he never went anywhere without keeping his eyes open - for the anticipated messiah. - </p> - <p> - He was greatly taken by broad primitive effects: when he noticed that a - Chicago daily always called itself “The World's Greatest Newspaper” he was - marvellously struck by the power of this slogan, and lamented that he had - not thought of it first. The question as to whether the slogan were true - or not never occurred to him. He liked to have the keynote sentences in - the leading editorial emphasized in blackface type, so that there might be - no danger of any one's missing the point. Desiring for his beloved sheet - “this man's art and that man's scope,” as the sonnet puts it, every now - and then he thought he had discovered the prodigy, and some new feature - would be added to the paper at outrageous expense, only to be quietly - shovelled out six months or a year later. In the meantime, the auditor was - growing very gray, and even Mr. Birdlip's quick blue eye was sometimes - hazed with faint perplexity when he studied the circulation charts. - Perhaps it would have been kinder if someone could have told him that a - boyhood spent in splitting infinitives is not sufficient training for one - to become an Abraham Lincoln of the newspaper business. - </p> - <p> - As he trotted in and out of the <i>Lens</i> office, with his rosy air of - confidence and his disarming simplicity (which made his white hair seem a - wanton cruelty on the part of Time, that would wither a man's cells while - his mind was still on all fours), Mr. Birdlip was the object of furtive - but very sharp study on the part of some cynical journalists whom he - hired. It was a genuine amazement to Sanford, the dramatic critic, that - the owner was so entirely unaware of his (Sanford's) abilities, which - certainly (he thought) called for a salary of more than sixty dollars a - week. Sanford often meditated about this, and not entirely in secret. In - fact, it was generally admitted among the younger members of the staff, - when they gathered at Ventriloquo's for lunch, that the Old Man was - immaculately ignorant of all phases of the newspaper business. While the - spaghetti and mushrooms cheered the embittered gossips, merry and quaint - were the quips sped toward the unsuspecting target. Sanford's private - grievance was that though for over a year he had been doing signed - critiques of plays, which were really spirited and honest, not once had - the Old Man condescended to mention them, or to show any sign of uttering - an <i>Ecce Homo</i> in his direction. As far as he was concerned, he felt - that the weekly battle of Manila Envelopes was a conspicuous rout, and he - frequently rehearsed the exact tone in which he would some day say to the - managing editor: “You may fire when ready, Gridley.” Little did Sanford - realize that the only time Mr. Birdlip had attempted to read the “Exits - and Entrances” column he had met the name of Æschylus, had faltered, and - retreated upon the syndicated sermon by the Rev. Frank Crane. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - “I saw 'Ruddigore' the other evening,” said Sanford to his cronies, as - they called for a second round of coffee. “There's a line in it that - describes old Birdie fore, aft, and amidships. Something like this: 'He is - that particular variety of good old man to whom the truth is always a - refreshing novelty'.” - </p> - <p> - They complauded. Rightly or wrongly, these high-spirited and sophisticated - young men had decided that Mr. Birdlip's naïveté was so refreshingly - complete that it gave them an aesthetic pleasure to contemplate it. It had - the exquisite beauty of any absolute perfection. Their employer's latest - venture, which had been to pay $200,000 for the exclusive right to publish - and syndicate the mysterious formulae of a leading Memory Course, had - shocked them very greatly. - </p> - <p> - It touched them in a tender spot to know that there had been all that - money lying round the office, unused, which was now to be squandered (as - they put it) on charlatanry, when they felt that they might just as well - have had some of it. - </p> - <p> - “The Old Man is always looking for some special stunt, and trying to - discover someone on the outside,” said one. “He can't see the material - right under his nose.” - </p> - <p> - “It's really rather pathetic: he's crazy to get out a great newspaper, but - he hasn't the faintest idea how to do it.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, give him credit for sincerity. It isn't just circulation he wants.” - </p> - <p> - “Circulation's easy enough, if that's what you're after. The three - builders of circulation are Sordid, Sensational, and Sex—” - </p> - <p> - “And the greatest of these is Sex.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, he's decent enough. He won't pander.” - </p> - <p> - “He panders to stupidity. He's fallen for this Memory bunk. And when he - finds that's a flivver, he'll try something else, equally fatuous. He's - making the old <i>Lens</i> ridiculous.” - </p> - <p> - They smoked awhile, meditatively. - </p> - <p> - “What I would like to figure out,” said Sanford, “is some way of making an - impression on the Old Man. I've got to get more money. The trouble—some - part of it is, I feel instinctively that he and I live in different - worlds. We hardly even talk the same language. Well, there's no chance of - his learning my way of thinking; so I suppose I'll have to learn his.” - </p> - <p> - “He's the man who puts the nil in the Manila envelope,” said one of the - others. - </p> - <p> - “As far as we are concerned, yes. But there's plenty of the stuff going - round on Fridays for the kind of people he understands.” - </p> - <p> - “He seems to be an absent-minded old bird. When I talk to him, it's as - though I were trying to speak through a fog.” - </p> - <p> - “It looks to me as though his mind had overstayed its leave of absence.” - </p> - <p> - “He likes the kind of men who, as he says, 'have both feet on the - ground'.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, but you've got to have at least one foot in the air if you're going - to get anywhere.” - </p> - <p> - “See here,” said the literary editor, who was more tolerant than the - others. “What's the use of panning the Old Man? He's trying to put the - paper over, just as hard as we are. Maybe harder. But he doesn't know. And - I believe he knows he doesn't know. I think the chief trouble is, they all - knuckle down to him so. They're scared of him. They think the only way - they can hold their jobs is by agreeing with him. If someone could only - put him wise——” - </p> - <p> - “But how <i>can</i> you put him wise? He doesn't see anything unless it's - laid out for him in a strip cartoon or a full-page ad. The kind of thing - that interests him is the talk he hears in a Pullman smoker or club car.” - </p> - <p> - “That's a fact. You know he always says he likes to go travelling, because - he picks up ideas from people on the train. 'Of course I place you! Mr. - Mowbray Monk of Seattle. And is your Rotary Club still rotating?' That - kind of talk.” - </p> - <p> - “I think you're right,” said Sanford. “He doesn't see us because we have - too much protective colouring. We are only the patient drudges. We don't - talk that Pullman palaver about Big Business. We've got to learn to talk - his language. What is that phrase of Bacon's—we've got to bring - ourselves home to his business and bosom——” - </p> - <p> - “Let's get back to the office,” said the disillusioned literary editor. - “That's the way to bring home the bacon.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - A few days later Sanford was at his desk, clipping and pasting press - agents' flimsies for the Saturday Theatre Page. This was a task which he - hated above all others, and he was meditating sourly on the scarcity of - truth in human affairs. At this moment Mr. Birdlip happened to pass along - the corridor outside the editorial rooms. Sanford heard him say: - </p> - <p> - “Miss Flaccus, will you get me a seat in the club car, ten o'clock train - to-morrow? I've got to run over to New York to take lunch with Mr. - Montaigne.” - </p> - <p> - Sanford put down his shears, relit his pipe, and began to pursue a - fugitive idea round the suburbs of his mind. Presently he drew out his - check book from a drawer and did some calculating on a sheet of paper. “A - hundred dollars,” he said to himself. “I guess it's worth it.” - </p> - <p> - The following morning, dressed in a new suit and with shoes freshly - burnished, Sanford was at the terminal twenty minutes before train time. - With him was a young man carrying a leather portfolio. To observe the - respectful demeanour of this young man, no one would have suspected that - he was Sanford's young brother-in-law, rejoicing in cutting his classes at - college for a day's masquerading. Sanford bought some cigars (a form of - smoking which he detested) and carefully removed the bands from all but - one of them. - </p> - <p> - Presently Mr. Birdlip appeared, cheerfully trotting up the stairs. Sanford - and his companion followed discreetly. As Mr. Birdlip went through the - gate, they were close behind. Entering the club car, Mr. Birdlip sat down - and opened a morning paper. Sanford and his companion were prompt to take - the two adjoining seats. Sanford began to look over <i>System</i> and <i>Printers' - Ink</i>, and perhaps his interest in these vigorous journals was not - wholly unfeigned, for it was the first time he had studied them. The young - man beside him drew out a mass of papers from his leather bag, and in a - moment of stillness just before the train started said in a clear voice: - </p> - <p> - “Pardon, sir, but there is some important dictation here that ought to be - attended to.” - </p> - <p> - Sanford assumed the air of a man wearied with tremendous affairs. . - </p> - <p> - “Very well, what comes first?” - </p> - <p> - “The New York <i>Budget</i> has wired for an answer in regard to their - proposition.” - </p> - <p> - Sanford blew a luxurious whiff of smoke. “Take this letter: My dear Mr. - Ralston. Replying to your inquiries as to whether I would be willing to - take charge of the editorial page of the <i>Budget</i> for a few months, - to put the paper on its feet, I am willing to consider the matter, and - would be pleased to discuss it with you if you will run over to see me. I - am very busy just now, and could not possibly undertake the work for some - weeks. I have been retained in an advisory capacity by a big Western - syndicate which was badly in need of some circulation building; and until - I can put their paper up to a half-million figure I have not much spare - time. Their paper has gone up a couple of hundred thousand since I mapped - out a campaign for them, but I would not feel justified in discontinuing - my services to them until these gains are properly consolidated. I will be - in my office at ten o'clock next Tuesday morning if you care to see me. - Very truly yours.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Birdlip was hidden behind his paper, but something in the angle at - which the sheets were held led Sanford to believe that the old gentleman - was listening. - </p> - <p> - “Very well, Edwards,” he said. “What's next?” - </p> - <p> - “Here's this letter from Lord Southpeak of the London <i>Gazette</i> - asking if he can see you when he comes over next month.” - </p> - <p> - “Cable Southpeak I shall be very happy to see him if he gets here before - the fifteenth. I am going on my vacation then.” - </p> - <p> - The attentive Edwards scribbled rapidly in his notebook. - </p> - <p> - “Just pick out the most urgent stuff,” said Sanford. “I don't care to - bother with anything that isn't really pressing. I've got an important - conference on in New York to-day, and I want to keep my mind clear. - Blackwit of the Associated Press has asked me to say a few words to his - directors on 'Journalism as a Function of Public Conscience'.” - </p> - <p> - Edwards ran rapidly through an imposing mass of documents. - </p> - <p> - “That long-distance call from the Chicago <i>Vox</i>,” he said. “You - promised to give Mr. Groton some word this morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Call him up when we get to Penn. Station,” said Sanford. “Tell him I - can't give him any decision yet awhile. Tell him that loyalty to my own - city will keep me there for some time. You might tell him that I believe - the <i>Lens</i> has great possibilities if properly handled. I should not - care to build up the property of a Chicago paper while there is a chance - of the <i>Lens</i> becoming the great evening paper of the East.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir,” said Edwards, jotting down what, might pass for stenography. - </p> - <p> - The train was running smoothly through level green country, and Mr. - Birdlip laid down his paper on his lap. Sanford was ready to catch his - eye. - </p> - <p> - “Good morning, Mr. Birdlip,” he said, genially. - </p> - <p> - “Good morning,” said the owner of the <i>Lens</i>, whose bright gaze - exhibited a lively tincture of interest. - </p> - <p> - “Here are the typed notes of your remarks on 'Newspaper Circulation as a - Byproduct of the Multiplication Table',” said Edwards, in a loud voice. - </p> - <p> - “You can let those wait,” said Sanford, carelessly. “I don't want to be - bothered with anything else this morning. Give me a memorandum of anything - that needs to be attended to when we get to New York.” He turned to Mr. - Birdlip. “I find that in these busy days one has to attend to some of - one's work even on the train. It is about the only place where one is - never interrupted.” - </p> - <p> - “Did I hear you say something about Circulation?” said Mr. Birdlip. “Are - you specially interested in that problem?” - </p> - <p> - “I have given it a good deal of thought,” said Sanford. “But I would - hardly dignify it by calling it a problem. It is perfectly simple. It is - purely a matter of taking the right attitude toward it. So many newspaper - proprietors regard it merely as a problem in addition. Now it should be - considered rather as a matter of multiplication. Instead of trying to add - ten to your figures, why not multiply by ten? The result is so much more - satisfactory.” - </p> - <p> - This sounded so plausible that Mr. Birdlip felt ashamed to ask how it was - to be done. - </p> - <p> - “Will you have a cigar, sir?” asked Sanford, handing out the only one with - a band on it. Mr. Birdlip accepted it, and looked as though he were about - to ask a question. Sanford went on rapidly. - </p> - <p> - “Speaking of circulation,” he said, “when I am consulted I am always - surprised to note that newspaper proprietors are so prone to view the - matter merely as a question of distribution; of—well, of - merchandising,” he added, as his eye fell upon that word in his copy of <i>System</i>. - “Indeed it rests upon quite another basis. The essence of merchandising” - (he repeated the word with relish, noting its soothing effect on his - employer) “is what?” - </p> - <p> - He made a dramatic pause, and Mr. Birdlip, carried away, wondered what - indeed was the essence. - </p> - <p> - “The essence of merchandising,” said Sanford (he smote the arm of his - chair, and leaned forward in emphasis), “and by merchandising I mean of - course in the modern sense, merchandising on a big scale, is nothing but - Confidence. Confidence, an impalpable thing, a state of mind. Now, sir, - what is it that upbuilds circulation? It is Public Confidence. The - assurance on the part of the public that the newspaper is reliable. It is - a secret and inviolable conviction on the part of the reader that the - integrity and enterprise of the paper are beyond cavil, in other words, - unimpeachable. In order to create the Will-to-Purchase on the part of the - prospect, in order to beget that desirable state of mind, there must be a - state of mind in the paper itself. Note that word <i>Mind</i>. Now what is - the Mind of the paper? I always ask every newspaper owner who consults me, - what is the Mind of his paper?” - </p> - <p> - Without waiting for Mr. Birdlip to be embarrassed by his inability to - answer this question, the ecstatic Sanford continued: - </p> - <p> - “The Mind of the paper is, of course, the Editorial Department. How - subtle, how delicate, how momentous, is that function of commenting on the - great affairs of the world! As I said in an address to a Rotary club - recently, of what use to have all the mechanical perfections ever invented - unless your editors are the right men? Walter Whitman, the efficiency - engineer, said: 'Produce great persons: the rest follows.' That is the - kind of production that counts most. Get great personalities for your - editors, and watch the circulation rise. Of course the right kind of - editors must be very highly paid.” - </p> - <p> - This was a strange doctrine to Mr. Birdlip, who never read the editorial - page of his own paper, and secretly wondered how the editors found so much - to write about. - </p> - <p> - “The great error that so many newspaper owners make,” said Sanford, - sonorously, “is to think of their product as they would of any other - article of commerce which is turned out day by day, in standardized units, - from a factory. A newspaper is not standardized. It is born anew every - issue. It is not a manufacturing routine that puts it together: it is a - human organism, built up out of human brains. Every unit is different. It - depends not primarily on machinery but on human personalities. I cannot - understand why it is that newspaper owners yearn for the finest and most - modern presses, and yet are often content to staff their journals with - second-rate men.” - </p> - <p> - “I agree with you,” said Mr. Birdlip. “It is all a question of getting the - right man. That is one reason why I am so fond of travelling; I always - meet up with new ideas. Now, sir (I am sorry I do not know your name, for - your face is rather familiar; I think I must have met you at some Rotary - club), you seem to me a man of forceful and aggressive character. You are - the kind of man I should like to have on the <i>Lens</i>, I heard you - mention the paper to your secretary awhile back; you must be interested in - it.” - </p> - <p> - Sanford was perfectly cool. “I might consider it,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “I think you would find the <i>Lens</i> a pleasant paper to work on,” said - Mr. Birdlip. “I flatter myself that the staff is a capable one, for the - most part.” - </p> - <p> - “I should insist on being given a free hand,” said Sanford. “Perhaps the - position of circulation manager——?” - </p> - <p> - “Let me think a moment,” said Mr. Birdlip. “I suppose I ought to visit - with my editor-in-chief before firing any one to make room for you. But I - must say I like the way you talk, straight from the shoulder, like that - Dr. Cranium, you know. That's the sort of stuff we need.” - </p> - <p> - “Right!” cried Sanford. “If you always talk straight from the shoulder, - you'll never talk through your hat.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Birdlip relished this impromptu aphorism. “Well, now, let me see,” he - said, pondering. “The editor-in-chief, the managing editor, the editorial - writers—they're all pretty good men.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I shouldn't care for a merely routine position,” said Sanford. - “The only position I would consider would be one in which I could really - build up circulation for you.” He was wondering inwardly whether to stand - out for a ten thousand salary. - </p> - <p> - “Quite so,” said Mr. Birdlip. “I think I have it. How would you care to - run a column? 'Straight From the Shoulder'—wouldn't that be a fine - title?” - </p> - <p> - “Fine!” said Sanford, but not without a secret shudder. Still, he thought, - gold can assuage anything; and he reflected on the rich, sedentary, and - care-free life of a syndicated philosopher. - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” said the owner. “I've been looking around for a man with both - feet on the ground——” - </p> - <p> - (“Both feet on the pay envelope is my idea,” said Sanford to himself.) - </p> - <p> - “And I think you're just the man I want. There's only one place in the - paper I can think of that really needs a change. There's a fellow on the - staff called Sanford, runs a kind of column, terrible stuff. I don't think - he amounts to much. Now why couldn't you take his job?” - </p> - <p> - Sanford has never forgiven his brother-in-law for that curious strangled - sound he emitted. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE CLIMACTERIC - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>R. EUSTACE VEAL - was a manufacturer of cuspidors. His beautiful factory was one of the - finest of its kind, equipped with complete automatic sprinklers, - wire-glass windows, cafeteria on the top floor, pensions for superannuated - employees, rosewood directors' dining room, mottoes from Orison Swett - Marden on the weekly pay envelopes, and a clever young man in - tortoise-shell spectacles hired at eighty dollars a week to write the - house-organ (which was called <i>El Cuspidorado</i>). - </p> - <p> - Mr. Veal lived in the exclusive and clean-shaven suburb of Mandrake Park, - where he had built a stucco mansion with Venetian blinds, a croquet lawn - with a revolving spray on it on hot days, and a mansard butler. Here Mrs. - Veal and the two Veal girls, Dora and Petunia, led the blameless life of - the <i>embonpoint</i> classes. The electric lights in the bedrooms were - turned on promptly at ten o'clock every night, except on the sixteen - winter evenings when the Veals occupied their box at the opera. During - “Rigoletto” or “Pagliacci” the uncomplaining Mr. Veal would sit in silence - with his head against the thick red velvet curtain at the back of the box, - thinking up new ways to get an order for ten thousand nickel-plated - seamless number 13's from the Pullman Company. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Veal, hampered as he was by the restrictions of success, was still - full of the enjoyment of life. He had written a little brochure on “The - Cuspidor: Its Use and Abuse Since the Times of the Pharaohs,” which was - very well spoken of in the trade. A morocco-bound copy lay on the console - table in Mrs. Veal's salon. It was he who invented the papier-maché - spittoon, and the collapsible paper “companion” for travelling salesmen. - It was he who had presented a solid silver spittoon de luxe to the King of - Siam when that worthy visited the United States. And it was his idea, too, - to name the beautiful shining brass model, especially recommended for - hotel lobbies, El Cuspidorado. This was a stroke of imaginative genius, - and several rival manufacturers wept because they had not thought of it - first. - </p> - <p> - The spittoon magnate's habits were regular and sane. He rose by alarm - clock at seven. He bathed, shaved, brushed his teeth with the vertical - motion recommended by the toothbrush advertisers, breakfasted on cereal - and cream and poached eggs, with one cup of strong coffee; walked - leisurely to the station, bought a paper, and caught the 8.13 train. He - avoided the other men who wanted him to sit with them, took the fifth - chair on the left-hand side of the smoking car, and just as the train - started he lit his first cigar. His commutation ticket was always ready - for the conductor to punch. He never kept others waiting, just as he hated - to be kept waiting himself. After his ticket had been punched and put back - into an alligator-hide pocketbook, he opened the paper and studied it - faithfully until the train got to the terminal. - </p> - <p> - At the factory Mr. Veal's routine was equally well-ordered and uniform. At - nine o'clock he reached his private office, greeted his secretary, and ran - over the morning mail, which had been opened and lay on his desk. Then he - went through his dictation, which was carefully (even if not - grammatically) accomplished. The sales reports for the preceding day were - brought to him. Then he discussed any matters requiring attention with his - department heads, calling them in one by one. At a quarter after twelve he - walked up to the Manufacturers' Club for lunch, after which he played one - game of pool. - </p> - <p> - He was back at the office by half-past two, and gave his passionate and - devoted attention to the salivary needs of the nation until five o'clock. - He caught the 5.23 train back to Mandrake Park, sitting on the right-hand - side of the smoker where the setting sun would not dazzle on his - newspaper. - </p> - <p> - But one day, about the time of the March equinox, when young ladies put - furry pussywillows on their typewriter desks, and bank tellers crack the - shells of spring jokes through the brass railings, Mr. Veal's behaviour - was so peculiar as to cause anxiety among his associates. - </p> - <p> - He had ridden on the train as usual, without showing any abnormal - symptoms. But when he was next observed, walking down Vincent Street, - there was a red spot on his cheekbones and his expression was savage. He - entered a haberdasher's shop and asked to see some neckties. When the - clerk put out a tray of silk scarves in rich, sober colours, such as are - commonly worn by successful and middle-aged merchants, Mr. Veal swore and - dashed them aside. - </p> - <p> - “Good Lord!” he cried, “I'm not going to a funeral! Things like that are - worn by Civil War veterans. What do you think I am, seventy years old? - Give me something with some snap to it!” - </p> - <p> - And he chose a lemon-tinted cravat with vorticist patterns of brown and - purple. He tore off the dark gray tie he had on and substituted the gaudy - new one. - </p> - <p> - At the next corner he passed a shoe-shop. He hesitated a moment at the - plate-glass window, then he entered and glared at the brisk young puppet - who came forward with a smirk. He displayed his elastic-sided boots of the - floorwalker type (which he had worn for years on account of his corns) and - asked to have them removed. When they were off his feet he threw them to - the other end of the long, narrow room. “I want some russet shoes with - cloth tops,” he said. “And some silk socks to match, the kind the men wear - in the magazine ads.” - </p> - <p> - When he left the shop, his feet might have been taken for those of Charley - Chaplin, or of an assistant advertising manager of a department store. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Mr. Veal reached his office nearly two hours late, and one of his office - boys was instantly discharged for asking him whom he wanted to see. - Indeed, in a new suit of violent black-and-white checks, and with a crush - hat of velvety substance, he was almost unrecognizable. As he passed - through the filing department a hush fell over the young ladies there. His - secretary, looking nervously from her corner outside the private office, - felt a tingling <i>scherzo</i> run up and down the keyboard of her spine. - Never before had she seen Mr. Veal wear flowers in his buttonhole, and as - he swung the door of his office behind him, she sniffed the vibrating air. - In the rich wake of cigar-fragrance always exhaled by her employer her - sharp nostrils detected a new tang—the sweet scent of mignonette. - Heavens! Was Mr. Veal using perfume? - </p> - <p> - Miss Stafford was an acute young woman. She had long been waiting the - adroit moment to push her employer for a raise, which was indeed due her. - She determined that this was the psychological day. When the sign of the - Ram is ascendant in the zodiac, let employers tremble. This is when even - the most faithful and long-enduring wage-earner dreams seditiously of a - fatter manila envelope. Miss Stafford's typewriter had sung like a zither - for a number of years, she had orchestrated many curious harmonies on it, - and now she had reached the point where she was almost as indispensable to - the business as Mr. Veal himself. She was carrying what the efficiency - dopesters call the peak load. - </p> - <p> - The buzzer buzzed, and Miss Stafford hastened to the private office, - nerving herself to throw cantilevers across the Rubicon. - </p> - <p> - To her surprise, Mr. Veal, instead of sitting glowering over the morning - mail, was standing by the window, throwing a paper-weight in the air and - failing to catch it. The sunlight blazing through the large windows seemed - to surround his emphatic clothes with a prismatic fringe. To her - amazement, instead of the customary brief and reserved greeting, he said: - </p> - <p> - “Hullo, Miss Stafford. Great weather, eh? Sorry I'm late, but I just - couldn't keep my schedule this morning. Went out to buy myself some golf - clubs. I think I'd better take up the game, don't you?” - </p> - <p> - He made a swing at an imaginary golf ball, and slipped on the polished - floor, nearly falling down. He recovered himself. - </p> - <p> - “Here's some flowers for you,” he said, taking a bunch of daffodils from - the desk. “Daffy-down-dillies, as the poets call 'em. Lovely flowers, hey? - Now comes in the sweet of the year. What ho!” - </p> - <p> - He advanced toward her, and for one extraordinary moment she thought he - was about to chuck her under the chin. - </p> - <p> - “Ask Mr. Foster to come in,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Veal,” she said, nervously, “there's just one thing—I wanted to - ask you about, my salary, don't you think, er, I think, it seems to me - about time I had a raise. I've been here——” - </p> - <p> - “Bless my soul,” he said. “I never thought of it. Why, of course, you're - right. Miss Stafford, how old would you say I am?” - </p> - <p> - Miss Stafford knew perfectly well that he was fifty-five, but she had - learned the cunning of all women who have to manage men, whether those men - be husbands, employers, or ticket scalpers. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Mr. Veal, in a good light and in your new suit, I should say about - thirty-nine.” - </p> - <p> - “What are you getting now, Miss Stafford?” - </p> - <p> - “Thirty dollars.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell Mr. Mason to double it.” - </p> - <p> - The feminine mind moves in rapid zigzags, and Miss Stafford's first - conscious and coherent thought was of a certain woollen sports suit she - had seen in a window on Vincent Street marked $50.00. - </p> - <p> - “And by the way,” said Mr. Veal, “when you see Mr. Mason, tell him I've - got a new motto for next week's pay envelopes. Here it is; I found it in - the paper this morning. I don't know who wrote it—better have him - credit it to Orison Swett Marden.” - </p> - <p> - He handed her a slip of paper, on which he had copied out: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - For in my youth I never did apply - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - The means of weakness and debility. - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - —Orison Swett Marden (?) - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “Before you call Mr. Foster,” said the secretary, “Mr. Schmaltz of the - Pullman Company is here to see you; he arrived just before you came in. He - says he wants to place a large order for the cuspidorados.” - </p> - <p> - “Send him in,” said Mr. Veal, chuckling. “Hello, Schmaltz,” he cried, as - the customer entered. “How's this for weather?” - </p> - <p> - “Great stuff!” said Schmaltz. “Makes us old fellows feel almost young - again, doesn't it?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Veal's face grew dark. He aged ten years in the instant. He pointed - morosely to a chair. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Veal,” said the other, “we want to place an order for ten thousand of - the cuspidorados. Can you give us the old price?” - </p> - <p> - “I can <i>not</i>,” said Mr. Veal, shortly. “Materials have gone to the - sky. I can't give you the—the old price. I'll give you a young - price, a very young one indeed, based on the present state of the market. - Eighteen and a quarter cents is the best I can do.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Schmaltz raised racial hands. “Heavens!” he said, “you used to let us - have them for fourteen and a half. Why, in the old days——” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Veal pounded the desk with his fist. - </p> - <p> - “If you use that world <i>old</i> again, I'll assassinate you with a dish - of ham!” he roared. “Great pigs' knuckles, what do you think this is, a - home for the aged?” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - After Mr. Schmaltz had gone Mr. Veal sent for Foster, the foreman of the - manufacturing department. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he said, “how about those machines?” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Veal,” said Foster, “we'll have to replace at least six of those - Victor stampers. They're so old they simply can't do the work. You know - when one of those machines is over five years old——” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Veal was pointing to the door. - </p> - <p> - “Get out!” he said. - </p> - <p> - At lunch-time Mr. Veal went up to the club as usual. Swinging up the - street, in the bright sun and pellucid air, he felt quite cheerful, and - stopped to buy himself a rhinoceros cane. In the dining room of the club - he met Edwards, and they sat down together. - </p> - <p> - “Hello, old man,” said Edwards. “You're looking chipper for a veteran. - Played any golf yet this year?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't play,” said Mr. Veal. - </p> - <p> - “Don't you? That's a mistake. It's the only game for us older fellows. Of - course we can't score like the youngsters; but still we can get round and - have a deal of fun——” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Veal clenched his fists. Spilling his soup, he leaped up and rushed - from the room. He seized his coat and hat, forgetting the new cane, and - fled to the nearest Turkish bath. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - And all because, when going downstairs in the railway terminal that - morning, he had heard a man behind him say to another: - </p> - <p> - “There goes Veal! He's beginning to look old, isn't he?” - </p> - <p> - It was the first time in his life Mr. Veal had heard the damnable - adjective applied to himself in earnest. - </p> - <p> - Wait until <i>your</i> turn comes! - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - PUNCH AND JUDY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN Judy Cronin - first saw the topless towers of Manhattan rising into the lilac vagueness - of a foggy winter morning she passed into a numb and frightened daze. - Standing on the steerage deck of the <i>Celtic</i>, she peered tremulously - at those fantastic impossible profiles of stone. Perhaps you don't know - what it is to be thrown, ignorant and timid, into a place where everything - is utterly strange—particularly a place as huge, violent, and hasty - as New York. Judy, aged twenty-one, from a little village near Queenstown, - was incapable of distinguishing, in the roaring voice of the city, that - undertone of helpful kindness that is really there. On the same steamer - came the widow of a famous Irish recusant and hungerstriker, and there - were ten thousand people massed in West Street to cheer her. Judy heard - the shouts of the crowd, and saw the lines of policemen on the pier. There - was some of that quiet but menacing scuffling with which the various - branches of the English-speaking world show their esteem for each other. - Judy was not familiar with that definition of a patriot as one who makes - trouble for his harmless fellow-citizens; but it looked as though she was - blundering into some more of the tribulations they had had at home. - </p> - <p> - At last her sister Connie found her, sitting white and miserable on her - very small trunk, clutching her imitation-silver coin-purse. Connie had - been in New York for a couple of years, and it gave her a homesick throb - to see that coin-purse—one of those little metal pocketbooks with - slots to hold gold sovereigns and half-sovereigns. Father Daly had given - it to Judy, years ago, but it had never had gold in the little sockets - until Connie sent over the passage money to bring Judy to New York. - </p> - <p> - The city flashed by like a current-events film. Judy found herself in a - friendly lodging-house in Brooklyn, kept by an Irishwoman who had been - kind to Connie. Her sister then explained matters. Her own employers, with - whom she had a position too good to abandon, had arranged to go South for - the latter part of the winter. They had already delayed leaving so that - Connie could meet her sister and get her settled. They had given Connie a - few days' holiday for that purpose. - </p> - <p> - Therefore Judy must get a place as soon as possible. And that very - afternoon the sisters (Judy still in a kind of dreadful dream) went to the - office of a Brooklyn newspaper to insert an advertisement. - </p> - <p> - A great many people were watching the <i>Situations Wanted</i> columns, - and the next evening, at supper-time, Mrs. Leland called up the - lodging-house number, which had been given in the ad. Connie went to the - telephone. Mrs. Leland had a pleasant voice and “talked like gentry”, - Connie said. She lived in Heathwood, Long Island, which is some twenty - miles from town, and wanted a nurse to take care of two children. Connie - agreed to take Judy out to Heathwood the next morning, to see if they - could come to terms. Judy was inexperienced, but Mrs. Leland liked her - looks. In short: by the time Judy had been in America three days, she was - installed at Mrs. Leland's home in the country; and a few days later - Connie had gone off to Florida. - </p> - <p> - Now Judy was really very fortunate in these random proceedings, for she - had found a good home under an exceptionally kind and understanding - mistress. And therefore perhaps it was unreasonable of her to be so - unhappy. But no one has ever demonstrated that human affairs are much - controlled by reason. Judy was dumbly and piteously miserable. She was - homesick and lonely, and half-mad with strangeness. She was not really - slow-witted; but the confusion of her spirits put her into a kind of black - stupor. Everything was uncouth to her: steam heat, electric light, - gas-stove, telephone—even the alarm clock in her bedroom. Not - knowing how to turn off her radiator, and having the simple person's - distrust of opening windows in a strange place, the first few nights she - was sick with heat and suffocation. In her sleep she cried out - indistinguishable words about being shot. In spite of Mrs. Leland's - patient tuition, she made every possible kind of mistake. The children, - with the quickness of youth, realized her inexperience and uncertainty, - and played a thousand impish pranks. Mrs. Leland could see that the girl - had been through distresses at home, and kept the evening papers, with - their headlines about Ireland, out of sight. But one evening, in the - kitchen, Judy came upon a Sunday rotogravure section with pictures of - burnt streets in Cork. The look of the people in those photographs went - through her heart. The men wearing caps, the women in shawls, something - even in the shape of trouser legs and heavy shoes, reminded Judy how far - she was from all that she understood. It's the little things you take for - granted at home that come back to hurt you when you're away. That night, - sitting in her bedroom next the nursery, she shook herself ill with sobs. - </p> - <p> - One who might have helped her greatly took pains to add to her - bewilderment. Hattie, Mrs. Leland's coloured cook, a retainer of long - standing, was sharply disgruntled at this new addition to the household. - Jealousy was the root of Hattie's irritation, and it shot up a rapid - foliage of poison ivy. The previous nurse, a bosom friend of Hattie's own - race, had been discharged in December for incompetence. Moreover, Hattie - had not forgotten poor naïve Judy's startled look when they first - encountered. Judy had hardly seen a coloured person before, and was - honestly alarmed. Hattie, though loyal to Mrs. Leland in her own primitive - fashion, deeply resented this interloper. The invasion proved that Mrs. - Leland was no longer entirely dependent on the particular clique of - Heathwood coloured society in which Hattie moved. The cook's logic was - narrow but rigorous. The sooner the intruder could be discouraged out of - the house, the sooner the Black Hussars (as Heathwood ladies called the - coloured colony on whom they largely relied for assistance) would resume - undivided sway. Mrs. Leland had had a Polish girl as a stop-gap for a few - days after the coloured nurse left; and observing the cook's demeanour - toward this unfortunate, Mr. Leland had remarked that Hattie was working - for a black Christmas. - </p> - <p> - So Hattie, who was sharp-tongued and very capable, hectored Judy whenever - she entered the kitchen, and by all the black arts at her command (which - were many) added to the girl's distress. Judy, in spite of her mistress's - kindness, grew more and more wretched. As Mr. Leland said in private - (pursuing the train of his previous pun), the maids were black and blue. - Mrs. Leland, much goaded by domestic management and the care of a very - small baby, began to wonder whether she had not added another child to - look after rather than lightening her burdens. And then she saw that Judy - was on the verge of nervous collapse. She tried to hearten the girl by - giving her an extra holiday. Judy was given some money, packed off to the - station in a taxi, and sent on her maiden trip to town in the hope that - city sights and shop windows would revive her interest in life. Mrs. - Flaherty, the lodging-house lady in Brooklyn, was telephoned to, and - promised to send her small boy to meet the girl at the station. - </p> - <p> - It happened to be the eve of the genial Saint Valentine's Day. Shop - windows were gay with pleasantly exaggerated symbols of his romantic - power. Winter afternoons in the city are cruel to the unfortunate, for the - throng of the streets the light and lure of the scene, make loneliness all - the worse if there is trouble in your heart. - </p> - <p> - Judy sat in the waiting room of the Long Island terminal in Brooklyn, and - tears were on her face. She had somehow missed Mrs. Flaherty's lad. Then - she had tried to find her way to the lodging-house, but grew more and more - frightened and bewildered as she strayed. Giving that up, she had gone - into a movie, and there, for a while, she had been happy. The favourites - of the screen are the true internationalists: they speak a language, crude - though it often is, which is known from Brooklyn to Bombay. But then - pictures were shown of scenes in Ireland. She came out with cold hands, - and wandered vaguely along the streets until dusk. Finally, in despair, - she groped back to the station at Flatbush Avenue, and sat forlornly on a - bench, too weary and sorry even to ask how to get home. - </p> - <p> - With the unerring instinct of the stranger for choosing the wrong place, - she had blundered into the downstairs station, by the train-gates, missing - the waiting room above where departures are duly announced by orotund men - in blue and silver. In that chilly cavern she sat, dumbly watching the - press of homeward commuters laden with parcels and papers. Red signboards - clattered up and down over the iron gates, and she puzzled doubtfully over - such names as <i>Speonk</i>, and <i>Far Rockaway</i>. The last somehow - recalled a nursery rhyme and made her feel even more lost and homesick. - Occasionally, with a gentle groan and rumble, an electric train slid up to - the railing and stared at her with two fierce hostile eyes. The soda - fountain in the corner was doing a big business: timidly she went over, - feeling cold, and asked for tea. To her amazement, there were no hot - drinks to be had. The people, all gulping iced mixtures, stared at her - curiously. Sure, this is a mad country, she thought. The clock telling the - time was the only thing she could properly understand. - </p> - <p> - So it was the clock, at last, that brought her to startled action. It was - getting late. A tall, good-looking fellow in a blue uniform came out of a - room at the back of the station, carrying two lighted lanterns. He halted - not far from where she was sitting, and compared his watch with the - Western Union clock. Of all the hundreds she had seen, he was the first - who looked easily questionable. With a sudden impulse Judy got up, - clutching her coin-purse. - </p> - <p> - “If you please, where will I be after taking the train to Heathwood?” she - said, nervously. - </p> - <p> - “Heathwood? The 6:18 makes Heathwood. Right over there, the gate's just - opening. Change at Jamaica.” - </p> - <p> - He looked down at her, wondering but kindly. He was puzzled at the - frightened way she was staring at his coat-collar; he could hardly have - guessed that to wet eyes the embroidered letters had at first seemed to be - <i>liar</i>. Her puny, pinched face was streaked with tears, the red - knitted muffler made her pallor even whiter. The little imitation fur - trimmings on her coat sleeves and collar were worn and shabby. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” she said, blindly, and started off for the wrong gate. - </p> - <p> - “Hey!” he called, and overtook her in a few long strides. “This way, miss. - Got your ticket?” - </p> - <p> - In a sudden panic she opened her purse, and could not find it. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, surely I've lost it,” she cried. “Where's the booking office?” - </p> - <p> - “The booking office?” he said. “D'you mean the news-stand? Here you are.” - He picked up the ticket, which she had dropped in her nervousness. - </p> - <p> - “That's all right,” he said, encouragingly. “This train, over here. I'm - one of the crew. I'll see you get there. Don't worry.” - </p> - <p> - He escorted her through the gate, and found her a seat on the train, - beside a stout commuter half buried in parcels. - </p> - <p> - “Now you stay right here,” he said. “I'll tell you when we get to Jamaica, - and show you the Heathwood train.” He smiled genially, and left her. - </p> - <p> - Judy got out her wet handkerchief and wiped her face. As the train ran - through the tunnel, she wished she had been on the inside of the seat, for - the dark window would have been useful as a mirror. “He saw me crying,” - she kept repeating to herself. The man beside her blanketed himself with a - newspaper, and the pile of packages on his knees kept sliding over onto - her lap, but she was oblivious. She was thinking of the tall man in blue - with the queer cap. How kind he had been. The first real kindness she had - met in all that nightmare afternoon. - </p> - <p> - Presently he came through the car. She could see him far down the aisle, - leaning courteously over each seat. At first she thought he was just - saying a friendly word to all the passengers. Sure, that's like him, she - said to herself: he has a grand way with him. Then she saw that he was - punching tickets with a silver clipper. Glory, it's the Guard himself, she - thought. I wonder will he speak to me again? - </p> - <p> - The man beside her thrust an arm out from his mass of bundles and held a - large oblong of red-striped cardboard across in front of her face. This - reminded Judy of her own ticket, which was so different from her - neighbour's that she worried for a moment lest it should not be valid. - Here was her friend, bending above her with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “Everything all right?” he said. “The next stop's Jamaica. That's where - you get off. Watch for me at this door, and I'll show you the Heath-wood - train.” Click, click: the two tickets were punched, and he went on. Judy - shut up her coin purse with a snap, and began to notice the hat worn by - the lady in the seat in front. - </p> - <p> - At Jamaica she found him in the vestibule, his head overtopping the - pushing crowd. “This way,” he said, and led her quickly across the - platform. “Jack,” he said to the brakeman on the other train, “tell this - lady when you get to Heathwood.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, Judy,” said Mrs. Leland when her nursemaid got back to the house. - “How much better you look! Did you have a good time?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, a grand time,” said Judy. Her face had a touch of colour and indeed - even her awkward bog-trotting gait seemed lighter and more sprightly. - “That's good,” said her mistress. “You'd better run down and get some - supper before Hattie puts everything away. You can put Jack to bed after - you've had something to eat.” - </p> - <p> - “Pretty late for supper,” grumbled Hattie, as Judy came into the kitchen. - “Doan' you think I got nothing to do but wait on you?” - </p> - <p> - “I'll get my own supper,” said Judy, politely. “Don't you bother.” - </p> - <p> - “You've got a head on your shoulders,” said Hattie, banging some dishes on - to the kitchen table. “Whyn't you use it and get back on time?” - </p> - <p> - “The black banshee's up in arms again,” said Judy to herself. “I'll hold - my peace.” - </p> - <p> - “That's the trouble with foreigners,” growled Hattie. “They ain't got no - sense. These Irish micks come over here, puttin' on airs, where nobody - wants 'em.” - </p> - <p> - Judy's sallow cheek began to burn a darker tint. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, nabocklish!” she said. “There's somebody loves me, at any rate.” - </p> - <p> - She hurried through supper, and ran upstairs to put Jack to bed. The - six-year-old was amusing himself by snapping open and shut something that - gleamed in the lamplight. - </p> - <p> - “Here!” she said. “What are you doing with Judy's purse?” - </p> - <p> - Jack looked up in surprise. It was the first time that he had heard that - note of command in the meek Judy's voice. - </p> - <p> - “I found it on your bureau,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Well, leave it be, darlin'.” She took it from him. “Glory above, what's - become of——?” - </p> - <p> - She fell on her knees on the floor and began searching. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, here, 'tis!” she cried, gladly. From the rug she picked up a tiny red - cardboard heart, and replaced it carefully in one of the sockets of her - purse. - </p> - <p> - “What is it?” said Jack, yawning. - </p> - <p> - “Sure, it's my Valentine!” said Judy. “It ain't many girls that gets a - Valentine from a big handsome man like that the first time he sees them.” - </p> - <p> - I have often wondered how many of the Long Island trainmen use a - heart-shaped punch. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - REFERRED TO THE AUTHOR - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>ES, “Obedience” is - a fine play. I'm glad they've revived it. Did you know that the first time - it was produced, Morgan Edwards played the part of Dunbar? It's rather an - odd story. - </p> - <p> - I never think of Edwards without remembering the dark, creaky stairs in - that boarding-house on Seventy-third Street. That was where I first met - him. We had a comical habit of always encountering on the stairs. We would - pass with that rather ridiculous murmur and sidling obeisance of two - people who don't know each other but want to be polite. I was interested - in him at once. Even on the shadowy stairway I could see that he had a - fine head, and there was something curiously attractive about his pale, - preoccupied face. There was a touch of the unworldly about him, and a - touch of the tragic, too. You know how you divine things about people. “He - has troubles of his own” was the banal phrase that came into my mind. Also - there was something queerly familiar about him. I wondered if I had seen - Him before, or only imagined him. I was busy writing, at that time, and my - mind was peopled with energetic phantoms. The thought struck me that - perhaps he was someone I had invented for a story, but had never given - life to. I wondered, was this pale and rather reproachful spectre going to - haunt me until the tale was written? At any rate, whatever the story was, - I had forgotten it. - </p> - <p> - One day, as I creaked up the first flight, I saw that he was standing at - the head of the stairs, waiting for me to pass. A door was open behind - him, and there was light enough to see him clearly. Tall, thin, - beautifully shaven on a fine angular jaw that would not be easy to shave, - I was surprised to see an air of sudden cheerfulness about him that was - almost incongruous. Having thought of him only as a sort of melancholy - hallucination living on a dingy stairway, it was quite startling to see - him with his face lit up like a lyric poet's, a glow of mundane - exhilaration in his eyes. For the first time in our meetings he looked as - though to speak to him would not break in upon his secret thoughts. He was - the kind of chap, you know, who usually looked as though he was busy - thinking. I remember what I said because it was so inane. Some people - don't like to cross on the stairs. I looked up as I came to the turn in - the steps, and said, “Superstitious?” He smiled and said “No, I guess - not!” - </p> - <p> - “Only in the literal sense, at this moment,” I said. An absurd remark, and - a horrible pun which I regretted at once, for I thought I would have to - explain it. Nothing more humiliating than having to explain a bad pun. But - if I didn't explain it, it would seem rude. He looked puzzled, then his - face lit up charmingly. “Superstitious—standing above you, eh? I - never thought of the meaning before!” - </p> - <p> - I came up the last steps. “Pardon the vile pun,” I said. Then I knew where - I had seen him before, and recognized him. “Aren't you Morgan Edwards?” I - asked. “Yes,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “I thought so. I remember you in 'After Dinner'. I wrote the notice in the - <i>Observer</i> .” - </p> - <p> - “By Jove, did you? I <i>am</i> glad to meet you. I think that was the - nicest thing any one ever said.” His gaunt and pensive face showed a quick - flash of that direct and honest friendliness which is so appealing. We - found that we were both living on the fourth floor. For similar reasons, - undoubtedly. I'm afraid he thought, at first, that I was a dramatic critic - of standing. Afterward I explained that the “After Dinner” notice had been - only a fluke. I was on the <i>Observer</i> when the show was put on, and - one of the dramatic men happened to be ill. - </p> - <p> - Wait a minute: give me a chance! I'll tell it exactly as it came to me, in - snips and shreds. At first I didn't pay much attention. I had problems of - my own that summer. You know what a fourth-floor hall bedroom is in hot - weather. I had given up my newspaper job, and was trying to finish a - novel. I couldn't work late at night, when it was cool, because if I kept - my typewriter going after nine-thirty the old maid in the next room used - to pound on the partition. I didn't get on very well with the work, and - the money was running low. Every now and then I would meet Edwards in the - hall. He looked ill and worried, and I used to think there was a touching - pathos in his careful neatness. My own habits run the other way—my - Palm Beach suit was a wreck, I remember—but Edwards was always - immaculate. I could see—having made it my business to observe - details—how cunningly he had mended his cuffs and soft collars. Poor - devil! I used to see him going out about noon, with his cane and Panama - hat. I dare say he scrubbed his hat with his toothbrush. Summer is a hard - time for an actor who hasn't had a job all spring. Of course there are the - pictures, and summer stock, but I gathered that he had been ill, and then - had turned down several offers of that sort on account of something coming - along that he had great hopes for. I remembered his really outstanding - work in “After Dinner”, that satiric comedy that fell dead the winter - before. Most of the critics gave it a good roasting, but knowing what I do - now I expect the real trouble was poor direction. Fagan was the director, - and what did he know of sophisticated comedy? As I say, I had reviewed the - piece for the <i>Observer</i>, and had been greatly struck by Edwards's - playing. Not a leading part, but exquisitely done. - </p> - <p> - But just at that time I was absorbed in my own not-too-successful affairs. - For several years I had been saying to myself that I would do great stuff - if I could only get away from the newspaper grind for a few months. And - then, when I had saved up five hundred dollars, and buried myself there on - Seventy-third Street to write, I couldn't seem to make any headway. I got - half through the novel, and then saw that it was paltry stuff. It was - flashy, spurious, and raw. One warm evening I was sitting at my window, - smoking mournfully and watching some girls who were laughing and talking - in a big apartment house that loomed over our lodgings like an ocean liner - beside a tugboat. There was a tap at the door. Edwards asked if he could - come in. I was surprised, and pleased. He kept very much to himself. - </p> - <p> - “Glad to see you,” I said. “Sit down and have a pipe.” - </p> - <p> - “I didn't want to intrude,” he said. “I just wanted to ask you something. - You're a literary man. Do you know anything about Arthur Sampson?” - </p> - <p> - I had to confess that I had never heard the name. No one had, at that - time, you remember. - </p> - <p> - “He's written a play,” Edwards said. “A perfectly lovely piece of work. - I've got a part in it. By heaven, it seems too good to be true—after - a summer like this: illness, the actors' strike, and all that—to get - into something so fine. I've just read the whole script. I'm so keen about - it, I'm eager to know who the author is. I thought perhaps you might know - something about him.” - </p> - <p> - “I guess he's a new man,” I said. “What's the play called?” - </p> - <p> - “'Obedience.' You know, I've never had such a stroke of luck—it's as - if the part had been written for me.” - </p> - <p> - “Splendid,” I said, and I was honestly pleased to hear of his good - fortune. “Is it the lead?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no. Of course they want a big name for that. Brooks is the man. My - part is only the foil—provides the contrast, you know—on the - payroll as well as on the stage.” He laughed, a little cynically. - </p> - <p> - “Who's producing it?” - </p> - <p> - “Upton.” - </p> - <p> - “You don't mean to tell me Upton's got anything good?” I knew little - enough about theatrical matters, but even outsiders know Upton's sort of - producing, which mostly consists of musical shows where an atrocious - libretto is pulled through by an opulent chorus and plenty of eccentric - dancing. “A chorus that outstrips them all” was one of his favourite - advertising slogans. - </p> - <p> - “That's why I was wondering about the author, Sampson. This must be his - first, or he'd never have given it to Upton. Or is Upton going to turn - over a new leaf?” - </p> - <p> - “The only leaves Upton is likely to turn over are figleaves,” I said, - brutally. Upton's previous production had been called “The Figleaf Lady”. - </p> - <p> - “That's the amazing part of it,” said Edwards. “This thing is really - exquisite. It is beautifully written: quiet, telling, nothing irrelevant, - not a false note. What will happen to it in Upton's hands, God knows. But - he seems enthusiastic. He's a likable cutthroat: let's hope for the best. - You're busy—forgive me for breaking in.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Well, of course some of you have seen “Obedience” since that time, and you - know that what Edwards told me was true. The play <i>was</i> lovely; not - even Upton could kill it altogether. It was Sampson's first. Have any of - you read it in printed form? It reads as well as it plays. And the part - that Edwards was cast for—Dunbar—is, to any competent - spectator, the centre of the action. You remember the lead: the cold, - hard, successful hypocrite; and then Dunbar, the blundering, kindly - simpleton whose forlorn attempts to create happiness for all about him - only succeed in bringing disaster to the one he loves best. It's a great - picture of a fine mind and heart, a life of rich, generous possibilities, - frittered and wasted and worn out by the needless petty obstinacies of - destiny. And all the tragedy (this was the superb touch) because the - wretched soul never had courage enough to be unkind. What was it St. Paul, - or somebody, said about not being disobedient to the heavenly vision? - Dunbar, in the play, was obedient enough, and his heavenly vision made his - life a hell. It was the old question of conflicting loyalties. How are you - going to solve that? - </p> - <p> - I suppose the tragic farce is the most perfect conception of man's mind—outside - the higher mathematics, I dare say. Everyone knows Sampson's touch now, - but it was new then. Some of his situations came pretty close to the - nerve-roots. The pitiful absurdity of people in a crisis, exquisite human - idiocy where one can't smile because grotesque tragedy is so close... - those were the scenes that Upton's director thought needed “working up”. - But I'm getting ahead of my story. - </p> - <p> - Well, now, let me see. I'd better be a little chronological. It must have - been September, because I know I took Labour Day off and went to Long - Beach for a swim. I had just about come to the conclusion that my novel - was worthless, and that I'd better get a job of some sort. At the far end - of the boardwalk, you remember, there's a quiet hotel where one gets away - from the crowd, and where you see quite nice-looking people. After I'd had - my swim, I thought I'd stroll up that way and have supper there. It's not - a cheap place, but I had been living on lunch-counter food all summer, and - I felt I owed myself a little extravagance. I was on my way along the - boardwalk, enjoying the cool, strong whiff that comes off the ocean toward - sunset, when I saw Edwards, on the other side of the promenade, walking - with a girl. My eye caught his, and we raised our hats. I was going on, - thinking that perhaps he wasn't so badly off as I had imagined, when to my - surprise he ran after me. He looked very haggard and ill, and seemed - embarrassed. - </p> - <p> - “Look here,” he said, “it's frightfully awkward: I must have had my pocket - picked somehow. I've lost my railroad tickets and everything. Could you - possibly lend me enough to get back to town? I've got a lady with me, - too.” - </p> - <p> - I didn't need to count my money to know how much I had. It was just about - five dollars, and, as you know, that doesn't go far at Long Beach. I told - him how I stood. “I can give you enough for the railroad fares, and glad - to,” I said. “But how about supper?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, we're not hungry,” he said; “we had a big lunch.” I knew this was - probably bravado, but I liked him for saying it. While I was feeling in my - pocket for some bills, and wondering how to pass them over to him - unobtrusively, he said, “I'd like to introduce you to Miss Cunningham. - We're going to be married in the autumn.” - </p> - <p> - You may have seen Sylvia Cunningham? If so, you know how lovely she is. - Not pretty but with the simple charm that beauty can't—— - </p> - <p> - Well, that's trite! She'll never be a great actress, but in the rôle of - Sylvia Cunningham she's perfect. I hate to call her slender—it's - such an overworked word, but what other is there? Dark hair and clear, - amberlucent brown eyes, and a slow, searching way of talking, as if she - were really trying to put thought into speech. She, too, poor child, had - had a bad summer, I guessed: there was a neat little mend in her glove. - She was very friendly—I think Edwards must have told her about that - <i>Observer</i> notice. I saw that they were both much humiliated at their - mishap, and I judged that genial frankness would carry off the situation - best. - </p> - <p> - “Life among the artists!” I said. “What are our assets?” - </p> - <p> - “I've got seventeen cents,” said Edwards. It was a mark of fine breeding, - I thought, that he did not insist upon saying how much it was that he had - lost. - </p> - <p> - Miss Cunningham began to open her purse. “I have——” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense!” I said. “What you have doesn't enter into the audit. In the - vulgar phrase, your money's no good. I've got five dollars and a quarter. - Now I suggest we go to Jamaica and get supper there, and then go back to - town by trolley. It'll be an adventure.” - </p> - <p> - Well, that was what we did, and very jolly it was. You know how it is: - artists and actors and manicure girls and newspapermen are accustomed to - ups and downs of pocket; and when they have a misery in the right-hand - trouser they make up for it in a spirit of genial comradeship. Jamaica is - an entertaining place. In a little lunchroom, which I remembered from a - time when I covered a story out that way, we had excellent ham and eggs, - and a good talk. - </p> - <p> - As we sat in that little white-tiled restaurant, I couldn't help watching - Edwards. I don't know how to make this plain to you, but our talk, which - was cheerful enough, was the least important part of the occasion. Talk - tells so little, anyway: most of it's a mere stumbling in an almost - foreign tongue when it comes to expressing the inward pangs and - certainties that make up life. I had a feeling, as I saw those two, that I - was coming closer than ever before to something urgent and fundamental in - the human riddle. I thought that I had never seen a man so completely in - love. When he looked at her there was a sort of—well, a sort of - possession upon him, an enthusiasm, in the true sense of that strange - word. I thought to myself that Keats must have looked at Fanny Brawne in - just that way. And—you know what writers are—I must confess - that my observation of these two began to turn into “copy” in my mind. I - was wondering whether they might not give me a hint for my stalled novel. - </p> - <p> - There are some engaged couples that make it a point of honour to be a bit - off-hand and jocose when any one else is with them. Just to show, I - suppose, how sure they are of each other. And somehow I had expected - actors, to whom the outward gestures of passion are a mere professional - accomplishment, to be a little blasé or polished in such matters. But - there was a perfect candour and simplicity about them that touched me - keenly. Their relation seemed a lovely thing. Too lovely, and too intense - perhaps, to be entirely happy, I thought, for I could see in Edwards's - face that his whole life and mind were wrapped up in it. I may have been - fanciful, but at that time I was seeing the human panorama not for itself - but as a reflection of my own amateurish scribblings. In my novel I had - been working on the theory—not an original one, of course—that - the essence of tragedy is fixing one's passion too deeply on anything in - life. In other words, that happiness only comes to those who do not take - life too seriously. Destiny, determined not to give up its secrets, always - maims or destroys those who press it too closely. As we laughed and - enjoyed ourselves over our meal, I was wondering whether Edwards, with his - strange air of honourable sorrow, was a proof of my doctrine. - </p> - <p> - Of course we talked about the new play. Edwards had persuaded Upton to - give Miss Cunningham a place in the cast, and she was radiant about it. - Her eyes were like pansies as she spoke of it. I remember one thing she - said: - </p> - <p> - “Isn't it wonderful? Morgan and I are together again. You know how much it - means to us, for if the show has a run we can get married this winter.” - </p> - <p> - “This fall,” Edwards amended. - </p> - <p> - “Morgan's part is fine,” she went on, after a look at him that made even a - hardened reporter feel that he had no right to be there. “It's really the - big thing in the play for any one who can understand. It's just made for - him.” - </p> - <p> - She was thoughtful a moment, and then added: “It's <i>too much</i> made - for him, that's the only trouble. You're living with him, Mr. Roberts. - Don't let him take it too hard. He thinks of nothing else.” - </p> - <p> - I made some jocular remark, I forget what. Edwards was silent for a - minute. Then he said: “If you knew how I've longed for a part like that—a - part that I could really lose myself in.” - </p> - <p> - “I shouldn't care,” I said, “to lose myself in a part. Suppose I couldn't - find myself again when the time came?” - </p> - <p> - He turned to me earnestly. - </p> - <p> - “You're not an actor, Roberts, so perhaps you hardly understand what it - means to find a play that's <i>real</i>—more real than everyday - life. What I mean is this: everyday life is so damned haphazard, troubled - by a thousand distractions and subject to every sort of cruel chance. We - just fumble along and never know what's coming next. But in a play, a good - play, it's all worked out beforehand, you can see the action progressing - under clear guidance. What a relief it is to be able to sink yourself in - your part, to live it and breathe it and get away for awhile from this - pitiless self-consciousness that tags around with us. You remember what - they used to say about Booth: that it wasn't Booth playing Hamlet, but - Hamlet playing Booth.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The next day, I remember, I tied up my manuscript neatly in a brown paper - parcel, marked it <i>Literary Remains of Leonard Roberts</i> (I was - childish enough to think that the alliteration would please my literary - executor, if there should be such a person), put it away in my trunk, and - went down to Park Row to see if there were any jobs to be had. Of course - it was the usual story. I had been out of the game for six months, and - Park Row seemed to have survived the blow with great courage. At the <i>Observer</i> - office they charitably gave me some books to review. As I came uptown on - the subway I was reflecting on the change a few hours had made in my - condition. That morning I had been an author, a novelist if you please; - and now I was not even a reporter, but that most deplorable of all Grub - Street figures, a hack reviewer. It was mid-afternoon, and I hadn't had - any lunch yet. In a fit of sulks I went into Browne's, sat down in a - corner, and ordered a chop and some shandygaff. As I ate, I looked over - the books with a peevish eye. Never mind, I said to myself, I will write - such brilliant, withering, and scorching reviews that in six months the - Authors' League will be offering me hush money. I was framing the opening - paragraph of my first article when Johnson, whom I had known on the <i>Observer</i>, - stopped at my table. He was one of the newspaper men who had left Park Row - to go into professional publicity work. There had been a time when I - sneered at such a declension. - </p> - <p> - “Hullo, Leonard,” he said. “What are you doing nowadays?” - </p> - <p> - I told him, irritably, that I was writing a serial for one of the women's - magazines. There is no statement that puts envious awe into a newspaper - man so surely as that. But I also admitted that if he knew of a good job I - might be persuaded to listen to details. - </p> - <p> - “As it happens,” he said, “I do. Upton, the theatrical producer, is - looking for a press agent. He tells me he's got something unusual under - way, and he wants a highbrow blurb-artist. He says his regular roughneck - is no good for this kind of show. Something by a new writer, rather out of - Upton's ordinary line, I guess.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it 'Obedience'?” - </p> - <p> - “That's it. I couldn't remember the name.” As soon as I had finished my - lunch I went round to Upton's office. It was high up in a building - overlooking Longacre Square, where the elevators were crowded with the - people of that quaint and spurious world. The men I found particularly - fascinating—you know the type, so very young in figure, often so old - and hard and dry in face, with their lively tweeds, starched blue or green - collars, silver-gray ties, and straight-brushed, purply-black hair. It was - my first introduction to the realms of theatrical producing, and I must - confess that I found Mr. Upton's office very entertaining with its air of - elaborate and transparent bunkum. I sat underneath a coloured enlarged - photo of the Garden of Eden ballet in “The Figleaf Lady” and surveyed the - small anteroom. It was all intensely unreal. Those framed photographs, on - which were scrawled <i>To Harry Upton, the Best of His Kind</i>, or some - such inscriptions, and signed by dramatists I had never heard of; the - typist pounding out contracts; the architect's drawing of the projected - Upton Theatre at Broadway and Fiftieth Street, showing a line of people at - the box office—all this, I knew by instinct, meant nothing. The - dramatists whose photographs I saw would never write a real play; the - Upton Theatre, even if it should be built, would not house anything but - “burlettas,” and the typed contracts were not worth so much carbon paper. - As for Mr. Upton himself, one couldn't help loving him: he was such a - disarming, enthusiastic, shrewd, unreliable bandit. To abbreviate, he took - me on as a member of his “publicity staff” (consisting of myself and a - typewriter, as far as I could see) at one hundred dollars a week. His - private office had three ingenious exits; going out by one of them, I - found myself in a little alcove with the typewriter and plenty of - stationery. Rehearsals of “Obedience” had started that morning, Upton had - told me; so before I went home that afternoon I had typed and sent off the - following pregnant paragraph for the next day's papers: - </p> - <p> - Henry Upton's first dramatic production of the season, “Obedience,” by - Arthur Sampson, began making elbow room for itself at rehearsals - yesterday. Keith Brooks will play the leading rôle, supported by Lillian - Llewellyn, Sylvia Cunningham, Morgan Edwards, and other distinguished - players. - </p> - <p> - I had a feeling of cheerfulness that evening. The cursed novel was no - longer on my mind, there would be a hundred dollars due me the next week, - and I was about to satisfy my long-standing curiosity to know something - about the theatre from the inside. It was one of those typical evenings of - New York loveliness: a rich, tawny, lingering light, a dry, clear air, - warm enough to be pleasantly soft and yet with a sharp tingle in the - breeze. I strolled about that bright jolly neighbourhood round the hideous - Verdi statue, bought a volume of Pinero's plays at one of those - combination book, cigar, and toy shops, and as I sat in my favourite - Milwaukee Lunch I believe (if I must be frank) that some idea of writing a - play was flitting through my mind. I got back to my room about ten - o'clock. I had just sat down to read Pinero when Edwards tapped at the - door. My mouth was open to tell him my surprising news when I saw that he - was unpleasantly agitated. First he insisted on returning my loan, - although I begged him to believe that there need be no hurry about it. - </p> - <p> - “Rehearsals began to-day,” he said. He sat down on the bed and looked very - sombre. “The worst possible has happened,” he said. “Fagan's directing.” - </p> - <p> - I tried to console him. Perhaps I felt that if Upton had shown such good - sense in his choice of a press representative his judgment in directors - couldn't be altogether wrong. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well,” I said, “if the play's as good as you say, he can't hurt it - much. Upton believes in it, he won't let Fagan chop it about, will he? And - he's got a good cast—they won't need much direction: they know how - to handle that kind of thing.” - </p> - <p> - “It's plain you don't know the game,” he said. “If Upton had combed - Broadway from Herald Square to Reisenweber's, he couldn't have found a man - so superbly equipped to kill the piece. As for poor Sampson, God help him. - Fagan is a typical Broadway hanger-on, with plenty of debased cunning of - his own; not a fool at all; but the last man for this kind of show, which - needs imagination, atmosphere, delicate tone and tempo. But that's not all - of it. Fagan hates me personally. He'll get me out of the company if he - possibly can. He can do it, of course: he has Upton's ear.” - </p> - <p> - He sat a moment, one eyebrow twitching nervously. Suddenly he cried out, - in a quivering, passionate voice which horrified and frightened me: “I've - <i>got</i> to play Dunbar! It's my only chance. <i>Everything</i> depends - upon it.” - </p> - <p> - Such an outcry, in a man usually so trained a master of himself, was - pitiful. I was truly shocked, and yet I was almost on the verge of nervous - laughter, I remember, when the idiotic old spinster in the next room - pounded lustily on the wall. I suppose she thought we were revelling. I - could see that he needed to talk. I tried to soothe him with some - commonplace words and a cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “No,” he said, “I know what I'm talking about. Fagan hates me. No need to - go into details. He directed 'After Dinner,' you know—and massacred - it. We had a row then... he tried to bully a girl in the company... I - threatened to thrash him. He hasn't forgotten, of course. He passed the - word round then that I ruined the show. If this were any other play I'd - have walked out as soon as I saw him. But this piece is different. I—I've - set my heart on it. My God, I'm just <i>meant</i> for that part——” - </p> - <p> - In the hope of calming him, I asked what had happened at the first - rehearsal. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, the usual thing. We went through the first act, with the sides. I - knew my lines perfectly, the only one who did (I ought to, I've been over - them incessantly these few weeks—the thing haunts me). That seemed - to annoy Fagan. Sampson was there—a quiet little man with a bright, - thoughtful eye. For his benefit, evidently, Fagan got off his old tosh - about Victor Hugo and the preface to 'Hernani'. It's a bit of patter he - picked up somewhere, and uses to impress people with. In the middle of it, - he suddenly realized that I had heard it all before. That made him mad. So - he cut it short, and reasserted himself by saying that the first act would - have to be cut a great deal. Sampson looked pretty groggy, but said - nothing. Sampson, I can see, is my only hope. Fagan will try to force me - out of the show by hounding me until I lose my temper and quit. He began - by telling me how to cross the stage. A man who learned the business under - Frank Benson doesn't need to be taught how to walk!” - </p> - <p> - I ventured some mild sedative opinion, because I saw it did him good to - pour out his perplexity. - </p> - <p> - “You don't know,” he said, “how the actor is at the mercy of the director. - The director is appointed by the manager and is responsible only to him. - If the director takes a dislike to one of the cast, he can tell the - manager he 'can't work with him', and get him fired that way; or he can - make the man's position impossible by ridicule and perpetual criticism at - rehearsals. He remarked to-day that I was miscast. The fool! I've never - had such a part.” - </p> - <p> - Well, we talked until after midnight, and only stopped then because I was - afraid that the spinster might begin to hammer again. In the end I got him - fairly well pacified. He was delighted when I told him that I was going to - be press agent, and I pleased him by making some memoranda of his previous - career, which I thought I could work up into a Sunday story. To tell the - truth, I did not, then, take all his distress at its face value. I knew he - had had a difficult summer, and was in a nervous, high-strung state. I - thought that his trouble was partly what we call “actors' disease,” or (to - put it more humanely) oversensitized selfconsciousness. I promised to get - round to the rehearsal the next day. - </p> - <p> - As a matter of fact, it was several days before I was able to attend a - rehearsal. For the next morning Upton asked me to go to Atlantic City, - where he had a musical show opening, to collect data for publicity. His - regular press man was ill, and it was evident that he expected me to do - plenty of work for my hundred a week. However, it was a new and amusing - job, and I was keen to absorb as much local colour as possible. I went to - Atlantic City on the train with the “Jazz You Like It” company, took notes - of all their life histories, went in swimming with the Blandishing Blondes - quartette that afternoon, had them photographed on the sand, took care to - see that they were arrested in their one-piece suits, bailed them out, and - by dinner-time had collected enough material to fill the trashiest Sunday - paper. In the evening the show opened, and I saw what seemed to me the - most appallingly vulgar and brutally silly spectacle that had ever - disgraced a stage. I wondered how a company of quite intelligent and - amusing people could ever have been drilled into such laborious and - glittering stupidity. The gallery fell for the Blondes, but the rest of - the house suffered for the most part in silence, and I expected to see - Upton crushed to earth. When I met him in the lobby afterward I was - wondering how to condole with him. To my surprise he was radiant. “Well, I - guess we've got a knockout,” he said. “This'll sell to the roof on - Broadway.” He was right, too. Well, this is out of the story. I simply - wanted to explain that I was away from New York for several days. - </p> - <p> - When I got back to Upton's office I was busy most of the day sending out - stuff to the papers. Then I asked the imperial young lady who was - alternately typing letters and attending to the little telephone - switchboard, where “Obedience” was rehearsing. At the Stratford, she - replied. Wondering how many of Mr. Upton's amusing and discreditable - problems were bestowed under her magnificent rippling coiffure (she was - really a stunning creature), I went round to that theatre. The middle door - was open and I slipped in. The house was dark, on the tall, naked stage - the rehearsal was proceeding. It was my first experience of this sort of - thing, and I found it extremely interesting. The stage was set out with - chairs to indicate exits and essentials of furniture; at the back hung a - huge canvas sea-scene, used in some revue that had opened at the Stratford - the night before. The electricians were tinkering with their illuminating - effects, great blazes and shafts of light criss-crossed about the place as - the rehearsal went on, much to the annoyance of the actors. Little - electric stars winked in the painted sky portion of the blue back-drop, - and men in overalls walked about gazing at their tasks. - </p> - <p> - I sat down quietly in the gloom, about halfway down the middle aisle. Two - or three other people, whose identity I could not conjecture, sat singly - down toward the front. In the orchestra row, in shirtsleeves, with his - feet on the brass rail and a cigar in his mouth, sat a person who, I saw, - must be the renowned Fagan. Downstage were Brooks, Edwards, and a charming - creature in summery costume who was obviously the original of the - multitudinous photographs of Lillian Llewellyn. The rest of the company - were sitting about at the back, off the scene. Edwards, who was very pale - in the violent downpour of a huge bulb hanging from a wire just overhead, - was speaking as I took my seat. - </p> - <p> - “Wait a minute, folks—<i>wait a minute!</i>” cried Fagan, sharply. - “Now! You've got your situation planted, let's nail it to the cross. Mr. - Edwards!” - </p> - <p> - The actors turned, wearily, and Miss Llewellyn sat down on a chair. Brooks - stood waiting with a kind of dogged endurance. At the back of the stage a - workman was hammering on a piece of metal. Fagan pulled his legs off the - rail and climbed halfway up the little steps leading from the orchestra - pit to the proscenium. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Edwards!” he shouted, “you're letting it drop. It's dead. Give it to - Mr. Brooks so he can pick it up and do something with it. You've got to - lift it into the domain of comedy! My God!” he cried, throwing his cigar - stub into the orchestra well, “that whole act is terrible. Take it again - from Miss Llewellyn's entrance. Mr. Edwards, try to put a little more - stuff into it. This isn't amateur theatricals.” - </p> - <p> - Edwards turned as though about to speak, but he clenched his fist and kept - silent. Brooks, however, was less patient. - </p> - <p> - “Pardon me, Mr. Fagan,” he said, in a clear, ironical tone. “But I should - like to ask a question, if you will allow me. You speak, very forcibly, of - lifting it into the domain of comedy. That seems a curious phrase for this - scene. Is it intended to be comic? If so, I must have misconstrued the - author's directions in the script.” - </p> - <p> - Brooks was too well-known a performer for Fagan to bully. Brooks was “on - the lights”—in other words, when the show's electric signboard went - up, it would carry his name. Around his presence hung the mystic aura of - five hundred dollars a week, quite enough in itself to make Fagan - respectful. The director seemed a little startled by the star's caustic - accent. As a matter of fact, I don't suppose he had ever read the script - as a whole. I remembered that after the first rehearsal Edwards told me - that Fagan had admitted not having read the play. He said he preferred to - “pick up the dialogue as they went along”. This reference to the author - must have seemed to him unaccountably eccentric. I daresay he had - forgotten that there was such a person. - </p> - <p> - He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right, if that's - the way you take it, I've got nothing to say. Play it your own way, folks. - Mr. Edwards, you're killing Mr. Brooks's scene there. Give him time to - come down and get his effect.” - </p> - <p> - Again I saw Edwards lift his head as though about to retort, but Brooks - whispered something to him. Fagan came back to his seat in the front row - and lit a fresh cigar. “Take it from Miss Llewellyn's first entrance,” he - shouted. - </p> - <p> - Miss Cunningham and a third man came forward and the five regrouped - themselves. The rehearsal resumed. I watched with a curious tingle of - excitement. The dialogue meant little to me, plunging in at the middle of - the act, but I could not miss the passionate quality of Edwards's playing. - Even Brooks, a polished but very cold actor, caught the warmth. Their - speeches had the rich vibrance of anger. I was really startled at the - power and velocity of the performance, considering that they had only - rehearsed a week. As I watched, someone leaned over my shoulder from - behind and whispered: “What do you think of Dunbar?” - </p> - <p> - My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. I turned and saw a little man - with a thin face and lifted eyebrows which gave him a quaint expression of - perpetual surprise. I was so absorbed in the scene that at first I hardly - understood. - </p> - <p> - “Dunbar—? Oh, Edwards?” I whispered. “I think he's corking—fine.” - </p> - <p> - At that moment Edwards was in the middle of a speech. Miss Cunningham had - just said something. Edwards, going toward her, had put his hand on her - shoulder and was replying in a tone of peculiar tenderness. Fagan's loud - voice broke in. - </p> - <p> - “Dunbar! Mr. Edwards! I can't let you do it like that. You make me hold up - this scene every time. Now get it right. This is a bit of comedy, not sob - stuff. Try to be a bit facetious, if you can. You're not making love to - the girl—not yet!” - </p> - <p> - There was a moment of silence. Those on the stage stood still, oddly like - children halted in the middle of a game. I don't suppose Fagan's words - were deliberately intended as a personal insult, but seemed to himself a - legitimate comment on the action of the piece. I think his offences came - more often from boorish obtuseness than calculated malice. But the brutal - interruption, coming after a long and difficult afternoon, strained the - players' nerves to snapping. Brooks sat down with an air of calculated - nonchalance and took out a cigarette. Then a tinkling hammering began - again somewhere up in the flies. Edwards was flushed. - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake stop that infernal racket up there,” he cried. Then, - coming down to the unlit gutter of footlights, he said quietly: - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Fagan, I've studied this part rather more carefully than you have. If - the author is in the house, I'd like to appeal to him as to whether my - conception is correct.” - </p> - <p> - There was such a quiver of passion in his voice that even Fagan seemed - taken aback. - </p> - <p> - “What's got into you folks to-day?” he growled. “Oh, very well. Is Mr. - Sampson here?” - </p> - <p> - The little man behind me got up and walked down the aisle in an - embarrassed way. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Author,” said Fagan, “have you been watching the rehearsal?” - </p> - <p> - Sampson murmured something. - </p> - <p> - “Is Mr. Edwards doing the part as you want it done?” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Edwards is perfectly right,” said Sampson. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, sir,” said Edwards from the stage. “Fagan, when you are ready - to conduct rehearsals like a gentleman, I will be here.” He turned and - walked off the stage. - </p> - <p> - Brooks snapped his cigarette case to, and the sharp click seemed to bring - the scene to an end. Fagan picked up his coat from the seat beside him. - “Bolshevism!” he said. “All right, folks, ten o'clock to-morrow, here. - Miss Cunningham, will you tell Mr. Edwards ten o'clock tomorrow?” - </p> - <p> - This last might be taken either as a surly apology, or as an added insult. - Rather subtle for Fagan, I thought. As I was getting out of my seat, the - director and a venomous-looking young man whom I had seen in and out of - Upton's office walked up the aisle together. Sampson was just behind them. - I could see that the director was either furiously angry, or else (more - likely) deemed it his duty to pretend to be. - </p> - <p> - “This show's no good as long as Edwards is in it,” he said, loudly, - spitting out fragments of cigar-wrapper. “That fellow's breaking up the - company. I sha'n't be able to handle 'em at all, pretty soon. This kind of - thing puts an omen on a show.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Well, that was my introduction to “Obedience”. I watched Fagan and the - hanger-on of Upton's office—one of those innumerable black-haired - young infidels who run errands for a man like Upton, hobnob with the - ticket speculators in the enigmatic argot of the box office, and seem to - look out upon the world from behind a little grill of brass railings. They - moved up the velvet slope of the passage, arguing hoarsely. Sampson faded - gently away into the darkness and disappeared through the thick blue - curtains of the foyer. An idea struck me, and I ran behind to see the - stage manager, Cervaux, who was playing one of the minor parts. I cajoled - his own copy of the script away from him, promising to return it to the - office the next morning. I wanted to read the play entire. Going out - toward the stage door, behind a big flat of scenery I came upon Miss - Cunningham. She was sitting in a rolling chair, one of those things you - see on the boardwalk at Atlantic City. There was a whole fleet of them - drawn up in the wings, they were used in that idiotic revue playing at the - Stratford. It added to the curiously unreal atmosphere of the occasion to - see her crouching there, crying, alone in the half light, among those - absurd vehicles of joy. - </p> - <p> - I intended to pass as though I hadn't seen her, but she called out to me. - If Upton could have seen her then, her honey-brown eyes glazed with tears, - black rings in her poor little pale face, he would have raised her salary—or - else fired her, I don't know which. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Roberts,” she said, slowly and tremulously—“I don't know who - else to ask. Will you try to help Morgan?” - </p> - <p> - “Why of course,” I said. “Anything I can do——” - </p> - <p> - “You were at the rehearsal? Then you saw how Fagan treats him. It's been - like that every day. The brute! It's abominable! You know how we had set - our hearts on playing this together, Morgan and I.... Now I've almost come - to pray that Morgan will throw it up. That's what Fagan wants, of course, - but I don't care. All I want is his happiness. I said something to him - about giving up the part, but he... Mr. Roberts, I'm <i>worried</i>. I've - never seen Morgan so strange before. He's not himself. I don't know what's - the matter, I have a feeling that something——-” - </p> - <p> - The electricians were still fooling about with their spotlights, and a - great arrow of brilliance sliced across the stage and groped about us. It - blazed brutally upon her tear-stained face, and then see-sawed among the - little flock of rolling chairs. It was that shaft of light that dispelled, - once for all, the feeling I had had that this was all some sort of - theatrical gibberish, pantomime stuff intended to impress the greenhorn - press agent. For when she recoiled under the blow of that sudden stroke of - brightness I could read unquestionable trouble on her face. There was not - only perplexity, there was fear. - </p> - <p> - She was silent, turning her face away. Then she stepped down from the - chair, in a blind sort of way. - </p> - <p> - “I begged him to give it up,” she said, quietly. “He said that no one but - the author could take him out of this part. I wish the author would.—Oh, - I don't know what to wish! Morgan's making himself ill fighting against - Fagan.” - </p> - <p> - We walked across Fortieth Street together, and I escorted her as far as a - Fifth Avenue bus. As we waited for the bus she said: - </p> - <p> - “You'll probably see him to-night. Tell him about rehearsal to-morrow, ten - o'clock. He had gone before I could speak to him. You see, he's not - himself. We were to have taken supper together.” - </p> - <p> - She added something that I have never forgotten: - </p> - <p> - “The worst tragedy in the world is when lovely things get in the hands of - people who don't understand them. If you see Mr. Sampson, you might tell - him that. Some day he may write another play.” - </p> - <p> - When I got up to Seventy-third Street I tapped at Edwards's door. He was - at his table, writing. I had intended to ask him to take dinner with me, - thinking that perhaps I could help him, but his manner showed plainly that - he wanted to be alone. If I had been an old friend of his, perhaps I could - have done something; but I did not feel I knew him well enough to force - myself upon his mood. - </p> - <p> - “Fagan sent you word, rehearsal to-morrow at ten,” I said. “It sounds to - me like an apology.” - </p> - <p> - He looked at me steadily. - </p> - <p> - “You were there to-day? You will understand a little, then.” - </p> - <p> - “I understand that Fagan is a ruffian.” - </p> - <p> - “Fagan—Oh, I don't mean Fagan.” He paused and looked at the wet - point of his pen. “I was just writing a note to Sampson,” he said. He - hesitated a moment, and then tore the written sheet across several times - and dropped it in the basket. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, hell,” he said. “I can't appeal to Sampson again. I'll have to work - it out myself.—Don't imagine I take Fagan too seriously. Fagan is - only an accident. A tragic accident. That's part of my weird, as the - Scotch say. I mean, you'll understand better about Dunbar.” - </p> - <p> - I didn't quite understand, and said nothing. - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn't let a man like Fagan stand between me and Dunbar,” he said. - “It's in the hands of the author now. You heard what he said. He put - Dunbar into the play, he's the only one who can take him out of it.” - </p> - <p> - The next morning Upton broke the news to me that I was to go out as - advance man. The opening was set for Providence, only ten days later. - There was to be a two-weeks' tour of three-night engagements, and I had to - arrange for the publicity, poster-printing, accommodations for the - company, and so on. This did not appeal to me very strongly, but I - scrambled together a lot of photographs, interviewed the cast as to their - preferences in hotel rooms, and set off. I got back a week later. We were - then only three days away from the opening. They were rehearsing with the - sets, Upton's telephone blonde told me, and I hurried round to the - Stratford to see how the scenic artist had done the job. - </p> - <p> - They had just knocked off for lunch when I got there, and at the stage - door I met Edwards coming out with Miss Cunningham. He looked very white - and tired. - </p> - <p> - “Hullo,” I said; “just in time to have lunch with me! Come on, we'll go to - Maxim's. I've still got some of Upton's expense money.” - </p> - <p> - “I've got to rush round to the modiste for a fitting,” said Miss - Cunningham. “The gowns are just finished. You take Morgan and give him a - good talking-to. He needs it.” I did not quite understand the appeal in - her eyes, but I saw that she wanted me to talk with Edwards alone. She - went toward Bryant Park, and we turned down to Thirty-eighth. Edwards - stood a moment at the corner looking after her. - </p> - <p> - “Sylvia says I'm a fool,” he said, wearily. “I don't know: most of us are, - one way or another.—You know I told you that I put my confidence in - the author.” - </p> - <p> - “Quite right,” I said. “I myself heard Sampson say he thought you were - corking.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I wonder if he's double-crossing me?” said Edwards, slowly, as - though to himself. - </p> - <p> - “In what way?” - </p> - <p> - “Yesterday, when I was coming down to rehearsal, there was a tie-up of - some kind on the subway. The train stood still for a long time, and then - the lights went out. We stayed in the dark for I don't know how long—everybody - got nervous. It was pitch black, and awfully hot and stuffy. The women - began to scream. I felt pretty queer myself—you know I haven't been - well—and as we sat there I went off into a kind of doze or - something. Then, just as everybody was on the edge of a panic, the lights - came on and we went ahead. When we got to Times Square I think I must have - been a bit off colour, for the damned rehearsal went out of my head - entirely. Suddenly I realized I was in a drugstore drinking some headache - fizz when I was over an hour late at the theatre. My God! I hustled down - there as fast as I could go. Queer thing. I went in through the stage - door, and as I came round behind the set I heard voices on the stage. They - were rehearsing, of course. Naturally, they couldn't wait all morning for - me. But this is what I'm getting at. You know that scene in the second act - where I say to Brooks: <i>It's all very well for you to say that. Ah, hah! - I see! But suppose you had been in my place—-</i> - </p> - <p> - “You know that's a turning point in the act. There's a particular - inflection I give that speech—the way I say the 'Ah, hah! I see!' - that makes the point clear to the audience and gets it over. Well, they - were rehearsing that scene, and from behind the canvas I heard that - speech. And what I heard was my own voice.” - </p> - <p> - “What on earth do you mean?” I said. - </p> - <p> - He hesitated. He was sitting, his lunch almost untasted, with one elbow on - the table and his forehead leaning on his hand. Under his long, sinewy - fingers I could see his brows tightened and frowning downward upon his - plate. - </p> - <p> - “Exactly what I say. It was my own voice. Or, if you prefer, Dunbar's - voice. I heard that speech uttered, tone for tone, as I had been saying - it. It was the precise accent and pitch of ironical comment which I had - thought appropriate for Dunbar at that point in the action. The sudden - change of tone, the pause, the placing of the emphasis—the words - were just as if they had come out of my own mouth. I stopped, - instinctively. I said to myself, has Fagan got someone else to play the - part, and been coaching him on the side? Someone who's been sitting in at - rehearsals and has picked up my conception of Dunbar? And at that moment I - heard Fagan sing out 'All right, folks, the carpenter wants to work on - this set. We'll quit until after lunch.' - </p> - <p> - “I tell you, I was staggered. If I was out, I was out, but they might have - been straight with me. It was a matter for the Equity, I thought. I didn't - want to chin it over with the others just then, and I heard them coming - off, so I slipped through the door that opens into the passage behind the - stage box. I meant to tell Fagan what I thought about it. There was - Sampson sitting in one of the boxes. He saw me, and got up. He said: 'By - Jove, Mr. Edwards, you were fine this morning. I've never seen you do it - so well. It was bully, all through. Keep it like that, and you're the hit - of the play.' - </p> - <p> - “I thought at first he was making fun of me. I was about to make some - sarcastic retort, when he put out his hand in the friendliest way, and - said: - </p> - <p> - “'I want to thank you for what you're doing for that part, and I know it - hasn't been easy. I've never seen anything so beautifully done, and just - want to tell you that if the play is a success it will be largely due to - you.' - </p> - <p> - “This, on the heels of the other, astounded me so that I didn't know what - to say. I made some automatic reply, and he left. I sat down in the cool - darkness of the box to rest, for I was feeling very seedy. My head went - round and round—touch of the sun, I dare say, or that foul air in - the crowded subway car. I was still there when they came back, an hour - later, for the afternoon rehearsal. I tried to talk to Sylvia about it, - but all she would say was that I ought to go to a doctor.” - </p> - <p> - “I think she's right,” I said. “Look here, have you had any sleep lately?” - </p> - <p> - “You seem to have forgotten Dunbar's line,” he said. “'<i>There'll be - 'plenty of time to sleep by and bye.</i>'” - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake forget about Dunbar,” I said. “Man, dear, you're on the - tip of a nervous breakdown. Now listen. This is Friday. Dress rehearsal - to-morrow. Sunday you'll have all day off. Take Miss Cunningham and go - away into the country somewhere and rest. Put the damned play out of your - mind and give her a good time. You both need it.” - </p> - <p> - I didn't see him again until Monday morning. - </p> - <p> - I went up to Providence on the train with the company. As I passed through - one of the Pullmans looking for a seat in a smoking compartment, I found - Miss Cunningham and Edwards sitting in adjoining chairs. To my delight, - they seemed very cheerful, and smiled up at me charmingly. - </p> - <p> - “Took your advice yesterday,” he said. “We went down to Long Beach again. - Had a lovely day, not even a pickpocket to spoil it.” - </p> - <p> - “What an unfortunate remark!” said Sylvia, laughing. “He means, not a - pickpocket to bring us a friend in need and give us a jolly evening in - Jamaica.” - </p> - <p> - “I spoke the speech trippingly,” he admitted. - </p> - <p> - “And we left Dunbar behind!” said Sylvia. She flashed me a grateful little - look that showed she knew I had tried to help. - </p> - <p> - “Have you decided where to spend the honeymoon?” I asked, greatly pleased - to see them so happy. - </p> - <p> - “Hush!” she said. “We'll wait till we see what sort of notices the show - gets.” - </p> - <p> - “Think of the poor press agent. I've used up all my dope. Get spliced - while we're in Providence and it'll give me a nice little story. You know - the kind of thing—'<i>Critics' Praise Brings Pair to Altar; Press - Clippings Cupid's Aid</i>'.” - </p> - <p> - “You're getting as vulgar as a regular press agent,” she said, merrily. - “They don't think of anything except in terms of good stories for the - paper.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” I said, “the press agent has his tragedies, too. Think how many - stories he knows that he can't tell.” - </p> - <p> - I felt that this remark was not very happily inspired, and went on through - the car calling myself a clumsy idiot. In the smoking compartment, as luck - would have it, were both Upton and Fagan, smoking huge cigars and talking - together. I sat down and lit my pipe. Fagan, in his usual way, was trying - to impress Upton with his own sagacity. There was another musical horror - of Upton's scheduled to begin rehearsal shortly, and probably Fagan was - hoping to land the job as director. - </p> - <p> - “What did you think of Edwards at the dress rehearsal?” said Fagan. - </p> - <p> - Upton grunted. He had a way of retaining his ideas until others had - committed themselves. - </p> - <p> - “I've been telling you right along, he's impossible,” said Fagan. “No one - can work with him. He's too damned upstage. Now I got Billy Mitford to - promise he'd run up and see the opening. Billy is the man you need for - that part. I had him in at the dress, and he'll be there tonight. I've - given him a line on the part, and if Edwards falls down we can start - rehearsing Billy right away. He could get set in a week, and open with the - show in New York.” - </p> - <p> - “Four hundred a week,” was Upton's comment, seemingly addressed to the end - of his cigar. - </p> - <p> - “All right, he's worth it. He's got a following. This guy Edwards is dear - at any price. He'll kill the show. He doesn't get his stuff over. God - knows I've worked on him. And he crabs Brooks's work more'n half the time. - What you want is one of these birds that gets the women climbing over the - orchestra rail. Billy is your one best bet, take it from me.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, we'll open her up and see what we got,” said Upton. “Is Sampson - along?” - </p> - <p> - “No. Scared. Said he was too nervous to come. He'll learn to write a play - afterwhile. What a mess that script was until I got her straightened out.” - </p> - <p> - When we got to Providence I had several jobs to do around town. I visited - the newspaper offices, stopped in at the theatre where the stage crew were - busy unloading scenery, and when I returned to the hotel I lay down in my - room and had a good nap, I was awakened late in the afternoon—about - five o'clock, because I looked at my watch—by a knocking at the - door. I got up and opened. It was Edwards. To my dismay, his cheerfulness - had vanished. He had gone back to the old pallid and anxious mood. - </p> - <p> - “Nervous, old man?” I said. When I had booked the rooms for the company I - had arranged that he and I should be next door to each other, so that I - could keep an eye on him. - </p> - <p> - “Nervous?” he said. “I'm ill. Had another of those damned swimming spells - in my head. Haven't got any brandy, have you?” - </p> - <p> - I hadn't, but offered to go in search of some. He wouldn't let me. - </p> - <p> - “Don't go,” he said. “Look here, I saw Mit-ford in the lobby just now. - What the devil is he doing here?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps there's some other show on,” I suggested, miserably. - </p> - <p> - “I told you they were trying to double-cross me,” he said. “I know - perfectly well what he's here for. Fagan is trying to razz me into a - breakdown. Then he'll put Mitford in as Dunbar. But I tell you, I'll play - this thing in spite of hell and high water.” - </p> - <p> - He paced feverishly up and down, and I tried to ease his mind. - </p> - <p> - “By God, they sha'n't!” he cried. “I'll put this thing up to the author. - Where's Sampson?” - </p> - <p> - “He's not here. For heaven's sake, man, don't get in a state. Everything's - all right.” - </p> - <p> - “Everything's all right!” he repeated, bitterly. “Yes, everything's - lovely. Let's 'lift it into the domain of comedy'. But if you see Fagan, - tell him to keep away from me.” - </p> - <p> - I begged him to rest until dinner-time. I went into his room with him, - made him lie down on the bed, rang for a bottle of ice water, and left him - there. Then I went downstairs and wrote a couple of letters. I was just - leaving the hotel when I met Fagan coming in. He stopped me to ask if I - had taken care to put his name on the playbill as director. I had. If the - show was a flop, I at least wanted his name attached as a participial - cause. - </p> - <p> - I wandered uneasily about the busy streets until theatre time. I couldn't - have been more nervous if I had been going on the boards myself. I spent - part of the time prowling about trying to see how much “Obedience” paper I - could find on the billboards and in shop windows. I stopped in at a - lunchroom and had some supper. The place reminded me of the little café in - Jamaica where Sylvia and Edwards and I had eaten together. - </p> - <p> - My mind was full of the picture of the two, and his face as he leaned - across the table toward her. I thought that I had never seen a couple who - so deserved happiness, or who had fought harder to earn it. What was the - subtle appeal in this play that made it react so strangely upon him? The - tragedy of Dunbar in the piece, the sacrifice of the poor, well-meaning - fellow whose virtue always seemed to turn and rend him, did this echo some - secret experience in his own life? I wondered whether an actor's career - was really the gay business I had conceived it. It occurred to me that - perhaps the actor's profession is doomed to suffering, because it takes - the most dangerous explosives in life and plays with them. Love, ambition, - jealousy, hatred, those are the things actors deal with. You can't play - with those without one of them going off every now and then. They go off - with a bang, and somebody gets hurt. - </p> - <p> - I suppose I'm sentimental. I wanted those two to win out. It seemed to me - that a defeat for their fine and honourable passion would be a defeat for - Love everywhere, and for all who believe in the worthy aspirations of the - heart. I don't suppose any press agent ever pondered more generous - philosophies than I did that night, over my lunch-counter supper. - </p> - <p> - Time went so fast that it was after eight when I got to the theatre. I - went in and took a seat in the last row. The house, to my surprise, was - crowded. I could see Upton's big bald head, well down in front, beside a - massively carved lady, all bust and beads, whom I supposed to be Mrs. - Upton. The élite of Providence were out in force, for Brooks's name is - always a drawing card. Some of them, I feared, were going to be - disappointed. It is all very well to introduce a new Barrie or a new - Pinero to the playgoing public, but you've got to remember that it is - bound to be grievous for those who prefer the other sort of thing. - </p> - <p> - The curtain, of course, was late, and I gave a sigh of relief when I saw - it go up. Edwards, waiting carefully for the hush, had the house with him - in three speeches. I have never seen better work, before or since. It was - noticeable that at his first exit he got a bigger hand than Brooks at his - carefully prepared entrance. The only thing that seemed to me out of the - way was his extreme pallor. The silly ass, I said to myself, he hasn't - made himself up properly. Then it struck me that it was probably a sound - touch of realism, for certainly Dunbar would not be described as a - full-blooded creature. I had read the play carefully, and had seen it in - rehearsal; but I had never known how much there was in it. Strangely - enough, Edwards was the only one who showed no trace of nervousness. All - the others, even Brooks, seemed unaccountably at a loss now and then, - trampled on their lines, and smothered their points. At first the house - was inclined to applaud, but as the action tightened, they hushed into the - perfect and passionate silence that is the playwright's dream. There were - six curtains at the end of the first act. I could tell by the tilt of old - Upton's pink pate that he was in fine spirits. I looked about for Fagan in - the lobby, as I was keen to see how he was taking it, but missed him in - the arguing and shifting crowd. - </p> - <p> - By the time the third act was under way it was plain that we had a - sure-fire success. Novice as I was, I could read the signs when I saw - Upton scribbling telegrams at the box-office window in the second - intermission, and observed the face of Mr. Mitford. The usual slips that - always happen on first nights were there, of course. In the third act, - when Edwards had to take Sylvia in his arms, she seemed to trip and almost - fell; and I noticed that Brooks crossed the stage and helped her off, - which was not in the script; but these things were not marked by most of - the audience. Dunbar, you remember, makes his final exit several minutes - before the end of the third act. When he went off there was a little stir - among the audience—far more eloquent than applause would have been. - That beautiful delineation of a blundering high-minded failure had made - its appeal. - </p> - <p> - After Edwards's last exit I felt my way out, quietly, and went round - through the street and up the alley to the stage door. I wanted to be the - first to congratulate him on his splendid triumph. I did not want to break - in too soon, so I waited near the door until I heard the crash of hands - that followed the curtain. The canvas rose and fell repeatedly as the - players took their calls, while the house shook with applause. From where - I stood, by the switches and buttons on the control board, I could see - them lined up in the orange glare of the gutter, bowing and smiling. There - were cries of “Dunbar! Dunbar!” and a rumbling of feet in the gallery. It - is the only time I have ever seen an audience crowd down the aisles and - stand by the orchestra rail, applauding. Then I saw why they lingered. - Edwards had not taken his call. - </p> - <p> - The curtain fell again, and Cervaux, the stage manager, came running off, - the perspiration streaming down over his grease-paint. - </p> - <p> - “Christ!” he cried. “Where's that fool Edwards?” - </p> - <p> - As soon as the curtain finally shut off the house I could see the actors - turn to each other as though in dismay. Miss Cunningham came off, and I - ran to shake her hand. To my amazement she looked at me blankly, with a - dreadful face, and sat down on a trunk. - </p> - <p> - Brooks strode across the stage. “Where's Edwards?” he shouted, angrily. - “Tell him to take this call with me, the house is crazy.” - </p> - <p> - “Where's the author?” said someone. “They want the author, too.” - </p> - <p> - Several hurried upstairs to the men's dressing rooms, and I followed. The - door of number 3, on which Edwards's name was scrawled in chalk, stood - open. Cervaux stood stupidly on the sill. The room was empty. - </p> - <p> - “He's gone,” said Cervaux. “What do you know about that?” - </p> - <p> - We could still hear the tumult of the house. - </p> - <p> - “Take the curtain, Mr. Brooks,” said Cervaux. “Tell them he's ill.” - </p> - <p> - I looked round number 3 dressing room. - </p> - <p> - There was a taxi standing outside the stage door. I don't know how it - happened to be there, or who had ordered it, but I shouted to the driver - and jumped in. I have a faint impression that just as the engine started - Sylvia appeared at the door, with a cloak thrown over her stage gown, and - cried something, but I am not sure. - </p> - <p> - When I got to the hotel, the door of the room next to mine was locked, but - the house detective got it open without any noise. There were two men in - the room. In the far corner lay Fagan, unconscious, with a broken jaw, one - arm hideously twisted under him, and a shattered water bottle beside his - bloody head. Sprawled against the bed, kneeling, with his arms flung out - across the counterpane, was Edwards.—The doctor said it was heart - disease. He had been dead since six o'clock. - </p> - <h3> - THE END - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales From a Rolltop Desk, by Christopher Morley - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK *** - -***** This file should be named 51957-h.htm or 51957-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/5/51957/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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-<pre>
-
-Project Gutenberg's Tales From a Rolltop Desk, by Christopher Morley
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-Title: Tales From a Rolltop Desk
-
-Author: Christopher Morley
-
-Illustrator: Walter Jack Duncan
-
-Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51957]
-Last Updated: March 16, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by the Internet Archive
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
- <div style="height: 8em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK
- </h1>
- <h2>
- By Christopher Morley
- </h2>
- <h3>
- Illustrated By Walter Jack Duncan
- </h3>
- <h4>
- Garden City, N. Y., And Toronto
- </h4>
- <h4>
- Doubleday, Page & Company
- </h4>
- <h3>
- 1921
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
- </h5>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/0008.jpg" alt="0008 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0008.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
- </h5>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/0009.jpg" alt="0009 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0009.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
- </h5>
- <h3>
- A LETTER OF DEDICATION
- </h3>
- <h3>
- TO
- </h3>
- <h3>
- FRANK NELSON DOUBLEDAY
- </h3>
- <p>
- Dear Effendi:
- </p>
- <p>
- I take the liberty of dedicating these little stories to you, with
- affection and respect. They have all grown, in one mood or another, out of
- the various life of Grub Street, suggested by adventures with publishers,
- booksellers, magazine editors, newspaper men, theatrical producers,
- commuters, and poets major and minor. If they have any appeal at all, it
- must be as an honest (though perhaps sometimes too jocular) picture of the
- excitements that gratify the career of young men who embark upon the ocean
- of ink, and (let us not forget) those much-enduring Titanias who consent
- to share their vicissitudes. You have been the best of friends and
- counsellors to many such young men, and I assure you that they look back
- upon the time spent under your shrewd and humorous magistracy with special
- loyalty and regard. You will understand that in these irresponsible
- stories no personal identifications are to be presumed.
- </p>
- <p>
- I think you remember—I know you do, because you have often
- charitably chuckled over the incident—that rather too eager young
- man who came to call on you one day in September, 1913, saying that he
- simply must have a job. And how you, in your inimitable way, said “Well,
- what kind of a job would you like best to have around this place?” And he
- cried “Yours!” And you justly punctured the creature by saying “All right,
- go to work and get it.” (There was more youthful palpitation than intended
- impertinence in the young man's outcry, so he has assured me.) And then,
- still tremulous with ambition, this misguided freshman pulled out of his
- pocket a bulky memorandum on which he had inscribed his pet scheme for the
- regeneration and stimulus of the publishing business, and laid it before
- you. How hospitably you considered his programme, and how tenderly you
- must have smiled, inwardly, at his odd mixture of earnestness and
- excitement! At any rate, you set him to work that afternoon, with the
- assurance that he might have your job as soon as he could qualify.
- </p>
- <p>
- Well, he did not get it; nor will he ever, for he knows (by this time)
- what a rare complex of instincts and sagacities is needed in the head of a
- great publishing house; and his own ambition has proved to be a little
- different. But he can never be enough grateful for the patience and
- humorous tolerance with which you brooded upon his various antics,
- condoned his many absurdities, welcomed and encouraged his enthusiasms. In
- nearly four years in your “shop” he learned (so he insists) more than any
- college could ever teach: and how much he had to unlearn, too! And the
- surprising part of it was, it was all such extraordinarily good fun. The
- greatest moments of all, I suppose, were when this young man was invited
- by one of your partners (on occasions that seemed so interminably far
- apart!) to “walk in the garden,” that being the cheerful tradition of the
- Country Life Press. There, after some embarrassing chat about the peonies
- and the sun dial, the victim meanwhile groaning to know whether it was,
- this time, hail or farewell, there would come tidings of one of those
- five-dollar raises that were so hotly desiderated. That paternal function
- (so this young man and his fellow small fry observed) was rightly a little
- beneath the dignity of the Effendi: you, they noted, only walked in the
- garden with paper merchants and people like Booth Tarkington and Ellen
- Glasgow and good Mr. Grosset of Grosset and Dunlap!
- </p>
- <p>
- Many young men (O Effendi), from Frank Norris down, have found your house
- a wonderful training-school for writers and publishers and booksellers.
- There are great names, of permanent honour in literature, that owe much to
- your wisdom and patience. But among all those who know you in your trebled
- capacity as employer, publisher, and friend, there is none who has more
- reason to be grateful, or who has done less to deserve it, than the young
- man I have described. And so you will forgive him if he thus publicly and
- selfishly pleases himself by trying to express his sense of gratitude, and
- signs himself
- </p>
- <p>
- Faithfully yours
- </p>
- <p>
- Christopher Morley.
- </p>
- <p>
- Roslyn, Long Island January, 1921.
- </p>
- <h3>
- ACKNOWLEDGMENT
- </h3>
- <p>
- The original responsibility for some of these stories—or at any rate
- the original copyright—was allotted as follows: “The Prize Package,”
- Collier's Weekly (1918); “Urn Burial,” Every Week (1918); “The
- Climacteric,” The Smart Set (1918); “The Pert Little Hat,” The
- Metropolitan (1919); “The Battle of Manila Envelopes,” The Bookman (1920);
- “The Commutation Chop-house,” The New York Evening Post (1920); “The
- Curious Case of Kenelm Digby,” The Bookman (1921); “Gloria and the Garden
- of Sweden,” Munsey's (1921); “Punch and Judy,” The Outlook (1921).
- </p>
- <p>
- All but one of these publications are still in existence. To their editors
- and owners the author expresses his indebtedness and his congratulation.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- <b>CONTENTS</b>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK</b> </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE PRIZE PACKAGE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ADVICE TO TO LOVELORN </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE CURIOUS CASE OF KENELM DIGBY </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> GLORIA AND THE GARDEN OF SWEDEN </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE PERT LITTLE HAT </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> URN BURIAL </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE BATTLE OF MANILA ENVELOPES </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE CLIMACTERIC </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> PUNCH AND JUDY </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> REFERRED TO THE AUTHOR </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK
- </h1>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE PRIZE PACKAGE
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ESTER VALIANT came
- back from Oxford with the degree of B. Litt., some unpaid tailors' bills,
- and the conviction that the world owed him a living because he had been
- suffered within the sacred precincts of Balliol College for three years. A
- Rhodes scholarship is one of the most bounteous gifts the world holds for
- a young man; but in Lester's case Oxford piled upon Harvard left him with
- a perilous lot to unlearn. You can tell a lot about a man when you know
- what he is proud of; and Lester was really proud of having worn a wrist
- watch and a dinner jacket with blue silk lapels three or four years before
- they became habitual in the region of Herald Square. But let us be just:
- he was also proud of his first editions of Conrad and George Moore; for he
- was much afflicted with literature.
- </p>
- <p>
- Lester originated in the yonder part of Indiana, but when he returned from
- Oxford he made up his mind to live in New York. He felt it appropriate
- that he should be connected in some way with the production of literature,
- and after hiring a bedroom on the fourth floor of an old house on Madison
- Avenue, where two friends of his were living, he set out to visit the
- publishers.
- </p>
- <p>
- There is a third-rate club in London called the Litterateurs' Club. A few
- years ago it was in urgent need of funds, and a brilliant idea struck the
- managing committee. Every writer listed in the American “Who's Who” was
- circularized and received a very flattering letter saying that, owing to
- the distinction of his contributions to contemporary letters, the
- Litterateurs' Club of London would be very much pleased to welcome him as
- a member, upon a nominal payment of five guineas. About seven hundred
- guileless persons complied, and transatlantic travel became appreciably
- denser on account of these men of letters crossing to England to revel in
- their importance as members of a club of which no one in London has ever
- heard. And by some fluke the managing committee had got hold of the name
- of Lester Valiant, then at Oxford—perhaps because he had once
- published a story in the <i>Cantharides Magazine</i>. Probably they bought
- a mailing list from some firm in Tottenham Court Road.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cecil Rhodes's executors paid his five guineas, and he had his cards
- engraved:
- </p>
- <h3>
- LESTER G. P. VALIANT
- </h3>
- <p>
- The Litterateurs' Club, London
- </p>
- <p>
- The use of these pasteboards brought him ready entrée in the offices of
- New York publishers. If he had not been so eager to impress the gentlemen
- he interviewed with his literary connoisseurship, undoubtedly he would
- have landed a job much sooner. But publishers are justly suspicious of
- anything that savours of literature, and Lester's innocent allusions to
- George Moore and Chelsea did much to alarm them. At length, however, Mr.
- Arundel, the president of the Arundel Company, took pity on the young man
- and gave him a desk in his editorial department and fifteen dollars a
- week. Mr. Arundel had once walked through the quadrangle of Balliol, and
- he was not disposed to be too severe toward Lester's naïve mannerisms.
- </p>
- <p>
- To his amazement and dismay, Lester found his occupation not even faintly
- flavoured with literature. He was set to work writing press notes about
- authors of whom he had never heard at Oxford and whose books he soon
- discovered to be amateurish or worse. He had been nourishing himself upon
- the English conception of a publisher's office: a quaint, dingy rookery
- somewhere in Clifford's Inn, where gentlemen in spats and monocles
- discuss, over cups of tea and platters of anchovy toast, realism and the
- latest freak of the Spasmodists.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Arundel office was a wilderness of light walnut desks and filing
- cases, throbbing with typewriters, adding machines, and hoarse cries from
- the shipping room at the rear. Here sat Lester, gloomily writing blurbs
- for literary editors, and wondering how long it would be before he would
- earn forty dollars a week. He reckoned that was what one ought to get
- before incurring matrimony.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Like all young men of twenty-three, Lester thought a good deal about
- marriage, although he had not yet chosen his quarry. The feeling that he
- could marry almost anybody was delicious to him. But this heavenly
- eclecticism endures such a short time! For youth abhors generalities and
- seeks the concrete instance. Also, much reading of George Moore sets the
- mind brooding on these things. Lester used to stroll in Madison Square at
- dusk before going back to his room, and his visions were often of a
- dark-panelled apartment in the Gramercy Park neighbourhood where an open
- fire would be burning and someone sitting in silk stockings to endear him
- as he returned from the office.
- </p>
- <p>
- His arrival caused something of an upheaval in the placid breasts of the
- two old college friends whose sitting room he shared on Madison Avenue.
- They were sturdy and steady creatures, more familiar with Edward Earle
- Purinton and Orison Swett Marden than with Swinburne and Crackanthorpe and
- Mallarmé. To his secret annoyance, Lester learned that both Jack Hulbert
- and Harry Hanover were earning more than thirty dollars a week, and he
- even had an uneasy suspicion that they were saving some of it. When he
- spoke about Beardsley or Will Rothenstein or the Grafton Galleries they
- were apt to turn the talk upon Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker. When he showed
- them his greatest treasure, a plaster life mask of himself that a
- sculpturing friend in Chelsea had made, they were frankly ribald. Jack was
- in the circulation department of a popular magazine, and Harry performed
- some unexplained tasks in the office of a tea importer. Lester was fond of
- them both, but it seemed to him a bitter travesty that these simple-minded
- Philistines should possess so much higher earning power than he. So he
- thought of taking a garret in Greenwich Village, but in the Madison Avenue
- house he was sharing a big sitting room at little expense. So he spread
- his books about, hung up his framed letter from Przybyszewski, put his
- hammered brass tea caddy on the reading table, and made the best of the
- situation.
- </p>
- <p>
- Even on fifteen dollars a week a young man may have a very amusing time in
- New York. For his room and breakfast Lester paid six dollars a week; for
- his other meals he used to hunt out the little table-d'hôte restaurants of
- which there are so many in the crosstown streets between the Avenue and
- Broadway. To come in from the snowy street on a winter evening, sit down
- to a tureen of Moretti's hot minestrone, open a new packet of ten-cent
- cigarettes, and prop up a copy of the <i>Oblique Review</i> against the
- cruet stand, seemed to Lester the prismatic fringe of all that was <i>je
- ne sais quoi</i> and <i>ne plus ultra</i>. The dandruffians in the little
- orchestra under the stairs would hammer out some braying operatic strains,
- and Lester would lean back in a swirl of acrid tobacco smoke and survey
- his surroundings with great content.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was while he was conjugating the verb <i>to live</i> in this manner,
- and sowing (as someone has said) a notable crop of wild table d'hôtes,
- that he first realized the importance of Pearl Denver. Miss Pearl was Mr.
- Arundel's personal stenographer, a young woman remarkable in her
- profession by the fact that she never exposed the details of her camisole
- to the public gaze; also when the boss dictated she was able to rescue his
- subordinate clauses from the airy vacancy in which they hung suspended,
- and hook them up into new sentences capable of grammatical analysis. As a
- stenog she was distinctly above par, but not above parsing.
- </p>
- <p>
- Lester, of course, had a speaking acquaintance with Miss Denver, but her
- existence had never really penetrated the warm aura of egocentric thoughts
- that enhaloed him. He knew her simply as one of the contingents of the
- office; and the office had proved a great disappointment to him. Not one
- of the “firm” (he called them “directors”) wore spats; not one of them had
- shown the faintest interest in his suggestion that they publish a volume
- of Clara Tice's drawings. Lester must be pardoned for having dismissed
- Miss Denver, if he had thought of her at all, as not <i>generis.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- We now proceed more rapidly. Entering the hallway of Moretti's on
- Thirty-fifth Street, about half past one cocktail of a winter evening, he
- found the cramped vestibule crowded by several persons taking off their
- wraps. A copy of the <i>Oblique Review</i>, unmistakable in its
- garlic-green cover, fell at his feet. Thinking it his own, he picked it up
- and was about to pocket it when a red tarn o'shan-ter in front of him
- turned round. He saw the bobbed brown hair and gray eyes of Miss Denver.
- “Well, Mr. Valiant, what are you doing with my magazine?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh—why—I beg your pardon! I thought it was mine! I'm awfully
- sorry!” He was keenly embarrassed, and pulled his own copy out of his
- overcoat pocket as an evidence of good faith.
- </p>
- <p>
- She laughed. “I don't wonder you made the mistake,” she said. “Probably
- you thought you were the only person in New York reading the Oblique!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt the alarm that every shy or cautious youth experiences in the
- presence of beauty, and, with a mumbled apology, fled hastily to a little
- table in a corner. There, pretending to read some preposterous farrago of
- free verse, he watched Miss Denver meet another girl who was evidently
- waiting for her. The two chattered with such abandon, smoked so many
- cigarettes, and seemed so thoroughly at home that Lester envied them their
- savoir. Manoeuvring his spaghetti and parmesan, his gaze passed as direct
- as the cartoonist's dotted line to the charming contour of the
- stenographer's cheek and neck. His equanimity was quite overset. Never
- before had he gazed with seeing eye upon the demure creature sorting out
- Mr. Arundel's mind into paragraphs. Human nature is what it is; let
- Lester's first thought be confessed: “I wonder if she knows what my salary
- is?”
- </p>
- <p>
- At last, after smoking many cigarettes and skimming over the <i>Oblique
- Review</i>, Lester felt it was his move. He walked down the room, looking
- at his wrist watch with a slight frown as he passed her table. At the door
- he saw by the reflection in a mirror that she had not even looked up. He
- hurried back to Madison Avenue, pausing to sniff the crystal frosty air.
- At the corner of Fifth he stood for a moment, inhaling the miraculous
- clearness of the night and pondering on the relative values of free verse
- and ordered rhythms as modes of self-expression.
- </p>
- <p>
- In spite of a certain bumptiousness among males, Lester was painfully shy
- with nubile women, and it was several days before he had opportunity for
- further speech with Miss Denver. Moretti's is a fifty-cent table d'hôte,
- and his regimen was calculated on a forty-cent limit for dinner; but after
- this meeting with the <i>Oblique Review's</i> fairest <i>abonnée</i> he
- haunted the place for some evenings. Then one day, taking in some copy for
- a book jacket to be approved by the sales manager, he encountered Miss
- Denver in the sample room. During working hours she was “strictly
- business,” and he admired the trim white blouse, the satin-smooth neck,
- and the small, capable hands jotting pothooks in her notebook as she took
- a long telephone call. She put down the receiver, and smiled pleasantly at
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't you go to Moretti's any more?” he asked, and then regretted the
- brusqueness of the question.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sometimes,” she said. “Usually when I buy the <i>Oblique</i> I go to a
- Hartford Lunch. I can sit there as long as I want and read, with doughnuts
- and coffee.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Lester had a curious feeling of oscillation somewhere to the left of his
- middle waistcoat button. As the little girl said on the Coney Island
- switchback, he felt as though he had freckles on his stomach.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you come to Moretti's with me some night?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'd love to,” she said. “I must hurry now. Mr. Arundel's waiting for this
- phone call.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A little later in the day, after a good deal of heartburning, Lester
- called her up from his desk. “How about to-morrow night?” he said, and she
- accepted.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Coursing back to his chamber the next evening, Lester was a little worried
- about the ceremonial demanded by the occasion. Should he put on white
- linen and a dinner jacket, becoming the conquering male of the upper
- classes? But the recollection of the <i>Oblique Review</i> suggested that
- a touch of négligée would be more appropriate. A clean, soft collar and a
- bow tie of lavender silk were his concessions to unconvention. He was
- about to scrub out a minute soup stain on the breast of his coat, but
- concluded that as a badge of graceful carelessness this might remain. At a
- tobacconist's he bought a package of cheap Russian cigarettes, such as he
- imagined a Bolshevik might smoke.
- </p>
- <p>
- There she came, tripping along the street, with something of the quick,
- alcaic motion of an Undersmith on high. He waved gayly. She depressed her
- shift key and reversed the ribbon. He double-spaced, and they entered the
- restaurant together.
- </p>
- <p>
- Lester felt an intellectual tremor as they sat down at a corner table.
- Never had his mind seemed so relentlessly clear, so keen to leap upon the
- problems of life and tessellate them. It was as though all his past
- experience had cumulated and led up to this peak of existence. “Now for a
- close analysis of Female Mind,” was his secret thought as he settled in
- his chair. He felt almost sorry for this gay, defenceless little shred of
- humanity who had cast herself under his domineering gaze. A masculine
- awareness of size and power filled him. And yet—she seemed quite
- unterrified.
- </p>
- <p>
- As they began on the antipasto he thought to himself: “I must start very
- gently. Women like men to veil their power.” So he said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “That was funny, my picking up your magazine the other night, wasn't it?
- You know I thought it was my copy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, the dear old <i>Oblique!</i> Isn't it a scream? I read myself to
- sleep with it every night. We'll have to make the most of it while we can,
- because Mr. Arundel says it can't pay its paper bill much longer.”
- </p>
- <p>
- This irreverence rather startled Lester, who was writing an article “On
- the Art of Clara Tice” which he had been hoping the Oblique would buy. In
- fact, he was startled quite out of the careful conversational paradigm he
- had planned. He found himself getting a little ahead of his barrage. “Does
- Mr. Arundel read it?” he asked. “Heavens, no!” cried Miss Denver, and
- effervesced with laughter. “He would rather face a firing squad than read
- that kind of stuff. But he has an interest in the concern that supplies
- their paper.” The matter of paper had never occurred to Lester before. Of
- course he knew a magazine had to have something to print on, but he had
- never thought of the editors of a radical review being embarrassed by such
- a paltry consideration.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is Mr. Arundel literary?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Denver found this very whimsical. “Say, are you kidding me?” she
- said, with tilted eyebrows. “The chief says literature is the curse of the
- publishing business. Every time somebody puts over some highbrow stuff on
- him we lose money on it. The only kind of literature that gets under his
- ribs is reports from the sales department.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's very Philistine, isn't it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sure it is, but it puts the frogs in the pay envelopes, so what of it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I should expect the head of a big publishing house to be at least
- interested in some form of literary expression.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You should worry! That's what we hires for. Besides he <i>has</i> a
- literary passion, too—Walt Mason. He thinks Walt is the greatest
- poet in the world.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Walter Mason?” murmured Lester. “I don't think I know his work.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hasn't Walt made Oxford yet?” asked Miss Denver. “He writes the prose
- poems in the evening papers, syndicate stuff, you know. Printed to look
- like prose, just the opposite of the free-verse gag.” She smiled
- reminiscently, and quoted:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>When I am as dry as a fish up a tree, then I to the hydrant repair, and
- fill myself up, without ticket or fee, with the water that's eddying
- there. I drink all I want—half a gallon or more—and then I lie
- down on my couch; when I rise in the morning my head isn't sore and I
- don't wear a dark brindle grouch——”</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is there any free-verse stuff that can cover that?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Lester was somewhat disconcerted. His assessment of Female Mind did not
- seem to be proceeding methodically. He played for time.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought you enjoyed the <i>Oblique</i>?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “As a joke, yes: I laugh myself giddy over it. But I know darn well that
- kind of junk won't last. By and by the ghost'll quit putting up and the
- editors will get jobs as ticket choppers. I guess I'm a Philistine!”
- </p>
- <p>
- With this deliciously impudent creature beaming at him, Lester felt
- himself cursedly at a disadvantage. Neither Harvard nor Balliol had
- informed him about this Walter Mason, and though he had seven hundred
- quips and anecdotes indexed in a scrapbook marked <i>Jocoseria</i>, none
- of them seemed to bubble up just now. Darn the girl, her mind wouldn't
- stand still long enough for him to take its temperature. It was like
- trying to write captions for the movies while the film was running. He
- blew a cloud of blue Russian vapour across the board, and smiled at her in
- a tolerant, <i>veni-vidi-Bolsheviki</i> kind of way. Behind his forehead
- he was fighting desperately to catch up.
- </p>
- <p>
- As they wrestled with the spaghetti he remembered that someone had told
- him that publishers usually depend on the literary judgment of their
- wives. Perhaps that was the case with Mr. Arundel? But Miss Denver laughed
- aloud at the suggestion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wrong again!” she said. “He's not married. Petunia Veal, the author of
- 'Sveltschmerz,' has been angling for him for years, and lots of other lady
- authors, too. He's so sentimental, he's escaped 'em all so far.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She bubbled and chuckled and gurgled her way through the rest of Moretti's
- menu, amazing him more and more by the spontaneity, sophistication, and
- charm of her wit. He escorted her home, and then stood under a lamp-post
- for three minutes removing the soup stain with a handkerchief. “She's
- immense!” he said to himself. “Why she's—she's a poem by William
- Butler Yeats!” As an afterthought, he made a mental memorandum to visit
- the library and look up the work of Walter Mason.
- </p>
- <p>
- A few days later Mr. Arundel sent for Lester, who hurried to the private
- office with visions of a raise in salary. The president was sitting at his
- desk turning over some papers; he motioned Lester to a chair and seemed
- curiously loath to begin conversation. At last he turned, saying:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Valiant, your life at Oxford did a great deal to mitigate your
- literary sensibilities?” Lester hardly knew what to say, and murmured some
- meaningless syllables.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think that your abilities can be of very great service to us,”
- continued Mr. Arundel, “and as an evidence of that I am asking the cashier
- to raise your salary five dollars a week.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Lester bowed gently; he was not capable of articulate speech.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I want to ask you a rather delicate question,” pursued the president, who
- seemed as much embarrassed as his visitor. “Do you ever write poetry?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Lester's voice was amazingly hoarse and choky, but in a spasm of
- puzzlement and gratification he ejaculated: “Sometimes!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What I really mean,” said Mr. Arundel, “is this: do you ever write verses
- of a sentimental nature—hum—what might be called endearments?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The young man sat speechless in surprise and embarrassment. As a matter of
- fact, he had been trolling some amatory staves in secret, in honour of
- Miss Denver; and he imagined they had come in some way under his
- employer's eye.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Please do not be alarmed,” said Mr. Arundel, seeing his discomfiture.
- “This is purely a matter of business. As it happens, I have a need for
- some poems of an intimately sentimental character, and, being totally
- unfitted to produce them myself, I wondered if you would sell me some? I
- would be glad to pay market rates for them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Still Lester could do no more than bow.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall have to be frank,” said Mr. Arundel, “and I must beg you to keep
- this matter absolutely confidential. I have your word of honour in that
- regard?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Absolutely,” said Lester, quite vanquished by amazement.
- </p>
- <p>
- The president's sense of humour seemed to have mastered his diffidence. A
- quaint smile lurked behind the furrows that years of royalties had carved
- on his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I want to do some wooing in rhyme; and I want you to turn out some verses
- for me of a superlatively lyric sort, it being understood that I purchase
- all rights in these poems, including that of authorship. Would you be
- willing to do me half a dozen, at say ten dollars each?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Lester, although staggered by the proposal, was still able to multiply six
- by ten, and his answer was affirmative and speedy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do not wish to give you any specifications as to the object of your
- vicarious amour,” said the president. “It is a lady, of course; young and
- fair. How soon can you despoil the English language of half a dozen songs
- of passion worthy of the best Oxford traditions?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Jack and Harry found Lester good company that evening. When they got back
- to the sitting room on Madison Avenue he was lying on a couch, nursing a
- large calabash and contemplating the ceiling with dreamy brow. As they
- entered, stripping off their overcoats and chucking the night extras
- across the room at him, he smiled the rich, tolerant smile of Alexander at
- the Macedon polo grounds.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, Lester,” said Jack, “why the Cheshire-cat grin?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I've sold sixty dollars' worth of verse,” said Lester, benignly; “also
- I've had a raise.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My God!” said Harry. “Think how many starving cubists you could endow on
- that! There'll be a riot in Greenwich Village.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pity the poor bartenders on a night like this!” cried Jack. Then they
- went to Browne's chop-house for dinner. After a three-finger steak and
- several beakers of dog's nose, Lester was readily persuaded to enounce the
- first number of his sonnet sequence, which had accreted or (as its author
- expressed it) nucleolated, while he was walking home from the office.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sonnet, in the Petrarchan mode, item No. 1,” he proclaimed:
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Upon a trellis, bending toward the south,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- I set my heart, a yearning rose, to climb;
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- It pullulates and blooms in sultry rhyme,
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- It spires and speeds aloft, in spite of drouth.
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- And seeking for that sweeter rose, your mouth,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- That beckons from some balcony sublime,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- It heeds no whit the tick-tack-tock of Time
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- And with its sweetness all the night endow'th.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn!
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- O velvet petals unsmutched of the mire!
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- For this my life was manifestly born,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- To climb toward thy lips, and never tire!
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Now ope thy shutter in the flood of mom—
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Lean out, and smile, and pluck thy heart's desire.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “Seems strange,” said Harry, “that a man can buy a good meal with a thing
- like that!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is a petrarch, anyway?” said Jack. “Gee, you'll have to brush your
- hair to keep it out of your eyebrows,” said Harry. “Herod was petrarch of
- Galilee, don't you remember? It's a kind of comptroller or efficiency
- expert.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense,” said Harry. “Herod was patriarch of Galilee, not petrarch.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At this moment Lester was busy multiplying twenty by fifty-two, and adding
- sixty, and he did not attempt to put Laura's friend right in the eyes of
- his companions.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- The next morning, at the office, Lester took occasion to stroll over to
- the corner where Miss Denver was tickling the keys. Her delicious, able
- fingers flashed like the boreal aurora; the incomparable smoothness of her
- neck and throat fascinated him; her clear, blue-washed gray eyes startled
- him with their merry archness. Wambling inwardly, he met her gaze as
- coolly as he might.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come to Moretti's to-night?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm sorry; I've got a date to-night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He ached in spirit. “To-morrow night?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She hesitated a moment, tapping the desk with a rosy finger nail. Then her
- face brightened. “I'd love to.”
- </p>
- <p>
- As he returned to his desk and the dull routine of writing press notes for
- Petunia Veal's latest novel, he uttered a phrase that he had caught from
- Harry Hanover. It was the first sign of his emancipation from Mallarmé and
- the Oxford Movement, for certainly that phrase had never been heard on the
- quilted lawns of Balliol: “She's a prize package, all right, all right!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ten days elapsed. All six sonnets had been delivered and paid for, and Mr.
- Arundel had bargained for a few extra rondeaux, at five dollars each.
- </p>
- <p>
- Antipasto, minestrone, breadsticks, force-meat balls, and here we are
- again at the spaghetti and Hackensack Chianti. Lester had mailed his MS.
- on “Clara Tice and the Pleinaerists of Greenwich Village” to the <i>Oblique
- Review</i> that afternoon, and had calculated that the editors could not
- in any decency offer him less than fifty—or perhaps forty—dollars
- for it. This, added to 20 by 52 plus 60 plus the rondeaux and other
- probable increments, would certainly support two in a garret for some
- time. He also had hopes of selling some obscenarios for the movies. Pearl
- would probably want to go on with her work, for a while at any rate. She
- was so independent! But those clear eyes of hers, like a March sky with
- teasings of April in it, how tender and laughing they were! A few nights
- ago they had taken a long bus ride together, and she had forgotten her
- muff. She let him warm her hands instead. He went home that night feeling
- strong enough to bite lamp-posts in two, and had waked up Jack and Harry
- to put them right about Petrarch.
- </p>
- <p>
- Pearl was teaching Lester to twirl up his spaghetti with fork and spoon,
- instead of draping it out of his mouth like Spanish moss. Suddenly she
- laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What did I tell you!” she said. “The dear old <i>Oblique</i> has gone
- blooie! Mr. Arundel called up the editor to-day and told him the Barmecide
- Company won't supply him with any more paper until he pays his bills. Of
- course that means he'll have to quit.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Lester was touched in two vital spots: his own private hopes, and his zeal
- for fly-specked literature. “Shades of Frank Harris!” he cried. “If that
- isn't just like Arundel! Why, that man is pure and simple <i>bourgeois!</i>
- I never heard of such a thing. Has he no feeling at all for art?” Pearl
- laughed—the pure, musical laugh of careless girlishness, but the
- recording angel caught in the nimble chords a faint overtone of something
- else—like the tinkle of ice in a misty tumbler. “Oh, he has his own
- ideas about art,” she said. “He's taken to writing poetry himself. You
- never heard such stuff—I've been meaning to tell you. What does
- 'pullulate' mean?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Lester's valiant heart, Lester's manly hands that had acted as a muff on a
- Riverside Drive bus, trembled and stiffened. “<i>It 'pullulates and blooms
- in sultry rhyme</i>,” she quoted gayly. “Now what do you make of that, as
- referring to Mr. Arundel's heart? Sultry is right, too!” Lion-hearted
- Harvard, oak-bosomed Balliol, and all the mature essences of manhood were
- needed to keep Lester calm. How had she seen these secret strains? She
- must have been peeping into the chief's private correspondence. He
- hesitated during six inches of spaghetti. “Search me!” he said. “Is it in
- Walter Mason?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, it's his own stuff, I tell you. <i>O beauteous rose! O shrub without
- a thorn!</i>” she chanted, and her laughter popped like a champagne cork.
- The horrid truth burst upon him. The boss was courting the angel of the
- office with the very ammunition that Lester himself had furnished, and his
- vow of secrecy forbade him to disclose the truth. Oh, the paltry meanness
- of fate, the villainy of circumstance! It is impossible to describe the
- pangs it cost him to dissemble, cloak, disguise, and conceal the anguish
- he felt. But dissemble, cloak, disguise, and conceal he did, and though
- his heart glowed like an angry cigar stub, he reached home at last.
- </p>
- <p>
- There he sat down at his table, and amid the healthy snores of his
- roommates he concocted a fine piece of literary ordnance. Late and grimly
- he toiled and contrived. At length he had fashioned a sonnet which would
- be the golden sum and substance of the previous sequence; a cry of the
- heart so splendidly forensic that Mr. Arundel would pounce upon it,
- yielding his crisp steel engraving in return. But see, the asp concealed
- in the basket of fruit, the adder in the woodpile! Read Lester's sonnet as
- an acrostic:
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Over that trellis where the moon distills
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- My heart is climbing like a rambler rose:
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- You lean and listen to the whippoorwills,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Heedless of how the fragrant blossom grows!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn!
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- When wilt thou realize my love in sooth?
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- I touch the windowsill with heart forlorn,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Hoping the guerdon of thy bounteous youth.
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- After the grief and teen of bitter days,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Troubled by woes that cicatrize and burn,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Ever at eventide I seek thy praise,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Yearning thy maiden bliss—I yearn, I yearn!
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Over the rotten fruit of buried years
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Unbar the bolt—have pity on my tears!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- The discerning reader will spot the glittering falchion of malice lurking
- in the initial letters. Read them downward, they convey: <i>o my how I
- hate you!</i> Lester had but to convey this poisoned comfit to his chief:
- then, playing upon the artless Pearl, persuade her to show it to him—point
- out the murderous duplicity of the love token; and she would recoil into
- his arms. Greenwich Village would sound the timbrel of joy, and even the
- <i>Oblique</i> might find a softer-hearted papyrus vendor. <i>Vos
- plaudite!</i> With such thoughts, amid the wailing matin song of
- boarding-house steam pipes, our hero fell into a brief slumber.
- </p>
- <p>
- That morning Lester hastened to the office. He waited feverishly until the
- hour when the chief usually arrived, then visited the private office.
- There he found the vice-president going over the morning mail. “Is—is
- Mr. Arundel in?” he stammered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Arundel isn't here to-day,” said the vicepresident. “He will be away
- two weeks.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Lester retired queasily, and hurried to the corner sacred to Miss Denver.
- Here he found one of the other stenographers using Pearl's machine.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where's Miss Denver?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- The young lady, of humorous turn, looked at her wrist watch. “Getting
- ready to go over the top,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Haven't you heard? She marries the boss this morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- ADVICE TO TO LOVELORN
- </h2>
- <h3>
- I
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>ISS ANN AUSTIN
- came briskly into her little cupboard of a room at the back of the <i>Evening
- Planet</i> office. She hung up her hat and coat, opened her rolltop desk,
- put her small handbag carefully in a drawer, and looked at herself in a
- greenish mirror that hung secretly on a hook in the recess under the
- pigeonholes. She took the rubber hood off her typewriter, poured three
- paper cupfuls of drinking water on the potted geranium on the windowledge,
- wound up the cheap clock on top of the desk, and moved it forward ten
- minutes to compensate for what it had lost during the night. Now she was
- ready for work. As she wound up the clock, the usual thought occurred to
- her—when would she be able to buy herself the handsome little wrist
- watch she coveted? There were a lot of them in the jeweller's shop on Park
- Row, and she admired them every morning on her way to the office. But when
- one is supporting one's self and an invalid mother in an uptown apartment,
- and has to pay for a woman to come in during the day to lend a hand, all
- on fifty dollars a week, in an era of post-bellum prices, wrist watches
- have to wait. However, as Ann made the daily correction in her laggard
- clock she used to say to herself: “There's a better time coming.” She was
- not devoid of humour, you see.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then the office boy would bring in the big pile of morning mail, grinning
- as he laid it on the pullout slide of her desk. He may be excused for
- grinning, because Ann was the kind of creature who would bring a smile to
- the surliest face. She was just a nice size, with a face that was both
- charming and sensible, and merry brown eyes (when it wasn't too close to
- the first of the month). Also, that pile of mail <i>was</i> rather
- amusing. Those letters, so many of them written on cheap pink or blue
- stationery and addressed in unsophisticated handwriting, were not directed
- to Miss Ann Austin, but to “Cynthia,” and the office boy knew pretty well
- the kind of messages that were in them. For Ann, under the pseudonym of
- “Cynthia,” conducted the <i>Planet's</i> department of Advice to the
- Lovelorn, and daily several score of puzzled or distracted beings bared
- their hearts to her. The pile of letters was growing bigger, too. The <i>Planet</i>,
- which was not a very flourishing paper just at that time, had started the
- Advice to the Lovelorn department a few months before, and had put Ann in
- charge of it because she had done so well writing sob stories. It was
- beginning to “pull” quite surprisingly as a circulation feature,
- especially since her smiling little picture, vignetted in a cut with a
- border of tiny hearts, had been put at the head of the column. Under the
- cut was the legend: “Cynthia, a Sympathetic Adviser in Matters of the
- Heart.” Ann didn't know whether to be pleased or not at the growing
- popularity of her feature. This was not quite the kind of thing she had
- hoped for when she entered the newspaper world. But—the more letters
- there were from the lovelorn, the sooner she might get that needed raise.
- </p>
- <p>
- With a little sigh she got out her penknife, began slitting the envelopes,
- ceased to be Ann Austin and became Cynthia, the sage and gentle arbiter
- over her troubled parliament of love.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a task that required no small discretion and tact, because Cynthia,
- whatever her private misgivings, tried to perform it with some honest
- idealism. In the first place, the letters that were obviously merely
- humorous, or were amorous attempts to inveigle her into private
- correspondence, were discarded. Then the letters to be used in the next
- day's column had to be selected, and laid aside to be printed with her
- comment on the ethical or sociological problems involved. The remaining
- letters had all to be answered, and data noted down that would be useful
- in compiling the pamphlet “1001 Problems of Courtship” that the managing
- editor insisted on her preparing. He said it would be great circulation
- dope. Ann didn't care much for the managing editor, Mr. Sikes. He had a
- way of coming into her room, closing the door behind him, leaning over her
- desk, and saying: “Well, how's little Miss Cupid?” If it hadn't been for
- that habit of his, Ann would have spoken to him about a raise before now.
- But she had an uneasy feeling that it would not be pleasing to put herself
- in the position of asking him favours. She would have been still more
- disturbed if she had known that some of the boys in the city room used to
- talk about “Cupid and Sikey” when they saw him visit her room. They said
- it angrily, because Ann was a general office favourite. Even the coloured
- elevator man had brought his wooing problems to her one day, wanting to be
- reassured as to his technique.
- </p>
- <p>
- It is all very well for you to scoff, superior reader, but letters such as
- Ann had to read every morning bring an honest pang to an understanding
- heart; particularly when that heart is in collaboration with twenty-two
- years of bright, brown-eyed, high-spirited girlhood. Perhaps you don't
- realize how many of us are young and ignorant and at work in offices, and
- absorbed, out of working hours, in the universal passion. A good many make
- shift to be cynical and worldly-wise in public, but who knows how
- ravishingly sentimental we are in private? Some say that Doctor Freud
- didn't tell the half of it. As that waggish poet Keith Preston has
- remarked,
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Love, lay thy phobias to rest,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Inhibit thy taboo!
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- We twain shall share, forever blest,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- A complex built for two!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- A complex built for two was the ambition of most of Ann's correspondents;
- but mainly her letters exhibited the seamy side of Love's purple mantle.
- You see, when lovers are perfectly happy, they don't write to the papers
- about it. And when she pondered gravely over “Brokenhearted's” letter
- saying that she has just learned that a perfectly splendid fellow she is
- so infatuated with has a wife and three children in Detroit; or over
- “Puzzled's” inquiry as to whether she is “a bum sport” because she
- wouldn't let the dark young man kiss her good-night, she sometimes said to
- herself that Napoleon was right. Napoleon, you remember, remarked that
- Love causes more unhappiness than anything else in the world. And then she
- would turn to her typewriter, and put under “Puzzled's” inquiry:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>No, “Puzzled,” do not let him kiss you unless you are betrothed. If any
- one is a “bum sport” it is he for wanting to do so. If he “always kisses
- the girls good-night when he has had a good time,” he is not your sort. A
- man that does not respect a girl before marriage will certainly not
- respect her afterward.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- After she had typed these replies she always hastily took the paper out of
- her typewriter and tucked it away in her desk. She did not like the idea
- of Mr. Sikes coming in and reading it over her shoulder, as he had done
- once. That was the time she had used the quotation “Pains of Love are
- sweeter far than all other pleasures are” in answering “Desolate.” The
- managing editor had repeated the verse in a way that both angered and
- alarmed her.
- </p>
- <p>
- This particular morning, among the other letters was one that interested
- her both by the straightforward simplicity of its statement and by the
- clear, vigorous handwriting on sensible plain notepaper. It ran thus:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Dear Cynthia:</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>I am a young business man, very much in love, and I need your help. I
- have fallen in love with a girl who does not know me. I do not even know
- her name but I know her by sight, and I know where she works. She looks
- like the only one for me, but I don't want to do anything disrespectful.
- Would it be a mistake for me to call at her office and try to get a chance
- to meet her? Do you think she would be offended? She looks very adorable.
- Please tell me honestly what you think.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Respectfully yours,</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Sincerity.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- Wearied by the maunderings of many idiotic flappers and baby vamps, this
- appeal attracted her. She put it into the column for the following day,
- writing underneath it:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>You never can tell, “Sincerity”! It all depends upon you. If you are
- the right kind of man, she ought not to be offended. Why not take a
- chance? Faint heart never won fair lady.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- It was trying enough, Ann used to think, to have to pore over the troubles
- of her lovelorn clients on paper; but the worst times were when they came
- to call on her at the office. Fortunately this did not happen very often,
- for the stricken maidens and young Lochinvars who make up the chief
- support of such columns as hers are safely and busily shut up among
- typewriters and filing cases during the daytime; their wounds do not begin
- to burn intolerably until about five-thirty p.m. But now and then some
- forlorn and baffled creature would find his or her way to “Cynthia” and
- ask her advice. She would listen sympathetically, apply such homely
- febrifuge as her inexperienced but wise heart suggested to her, and after
- the patient had gone she would add the case to her list of 1001 Problems.
- The material for the pamphlet was growing rapidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- One morning, while the managing editor was in her room asking her how soon
- the booklet would be ready, the office boy brought in a card neatly
- engraved <i>Mr. Arthur Caldwell</i>. Now as a rule Cynthia did not see
- masculine visitors, because (after one or two trying experiences) she had
- found that they were inclined to transfer to her the heart that someone
- else had bruised. But in this case she welcomed the caller because Mr.
- Sikes was being annoyingly facetious. He had looked over her laboriously
- gathered data for the 1001 Problems, and had said: “Well, you're getting
- to be quite an experienced little girl in these matters, hey?” He had
- seemed disposed to linger on the topic with pleasure. Therefore Cynthia
- told the office boy to send Mr. Caldwell in, though the name meant nothing
- to her. Mr. Sikes went out, and the caller was introduced.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Caldwell proved to be a young man, quite as nice-looking as the
- collar-advertising young men without being so desperately handsome.
- Cynthia liked him from the first glance. There was something that seemed
- very genuine about his soft collar and his candid, clean-shaven face and
- the little brown brief-case he carried. He had on brown woollen socks,
- too, she noticed, in one of those quick feminine observations. He seemed
- very embarrassed, and his face suddenly went ruby red.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is this Cynthia?” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said Ann, pushing aside a mass of lovelorn correspondence, and
- wondering what the trouble could be.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My name's Caldwell,” he said. “Look here, I suppose you'll think me an
- awful idiot, but I wanted to ask your advice. I—I wrote you a letter
- the other day, and your answer in the column made me think that perhaps
- you wouldn't mind giving me some help. I wrote that letter signed
- 'Sincerity'.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was obviously ill at ease, and Ann tried to help him out.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I remember the letter perfectly,” she said. “Did you take my advice?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I'm a bit uncertain about it,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I just wanted to explain to you a little more fully, and see what you
- think. You see I happened to see this girl one day, going into her office.
- I suppose the idea about love at first sight is all exploded, but I had a
- hunch as soon as I saw her that——Oh, well, that I would like
- to know her. I've seen her going in and out of the building, but she has
- never seen me, never even heard of me. I don't know any one who can
- introduce me to her, and I can't just walk up to her and tell her I'm
- crazy about her. They don't do that except in Shakespeare. I don't know
- much about girls and I thought maybe you could suggest some way in which I
- could meet her without frightening her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ann pondered. She liked the young man's way of putting his problem, and it
- was plain from his genuine embarrassment that he was sincere.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'd love to help you, if I could,” she said. “It seems to me that the
- only way to go about it is to arrange some business with the firm she
- works for, and try to meet her that way. Couldn't that be done?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She's secretary to one of the big bugs in the Telephone Company,” he
- said. “I'm in the publishing business. I don't see any way in which I
- could fake up a business connection there. The worst of it is, there may
- be a dozen fellows in love with her already, for all I know. I suppose I
- might get a job with the Telephone Company, but by the time I had worked
- up far enough to have an excuse for going into the vice-president's office
- where she works, someone else might have married her.” He laughed, a
- boyish, ingratiating chuckle.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It does seem pretty hard,” said Ann. “I don't know what to say.” She had
- a mental picture of the unknown fair one, going in and out of the big
- Telephone Company's building on Dey Street, unaware of the admiring
- glances of this bashful admirer. “I'll bet the men she knows aren't half
- as nice as he is,” she said to herself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I happen to know that she reads your column,” said Caldwell. “I suppose
- there isn't any way I could get in touch with her through that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If there's any legitimate way I can help,” Ann said, “I'll be glad to.
- But I hardly see what I can do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, thanks awfully,” he said. “If I get a chance to meet her, will you
- let me come in again and tell you about it? Perhaps you would let me
- mention your name as a reference, in regard to my respectability I mean?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Surely you can give her better references than that? You see, I don't
- know so very much about you, Mr. Caldwell.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “In matters like this,” he said, “I guess you're the Big Authority. And by
- the way, do you ever do any book reviewing? I work for Fawcett and
- Company, the publishers, and we'd like immensely to have your comment on
- some of our love stories. Can I send you some books?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't promise to review them,” said Ann, rather pleased, because this
- seemed to her a way to earn a little extra money. “But I'll speak to the
- literary editor, and we'll see.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Suppose I send them to your home address,” said Caldwell. “I know what a
- newspaper office is, if I send them here someone else might snitch them.
- Give me your street number, and you'll be spared the trouble of taking
- them home to read.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's very kind of you,” said Ann. “Miss Ann Austin, 527 West 150th
- Street. Well, you let me know what happens about your fair lady. I wish
- you all sorts of luck!”
- </p>
- <p>
- When Arthur Caldwell got outside the office, he looked down Park Row to
- where the great Telephone Building rose up behind the brown silhouette of
- St. Paul's.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Caldwell,” he said to himself, “you're an infernal liar! But it pays!
- I'll figure out some way. While there's life there's dope.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He set out for the subway, but paused again to meditate.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ann Austin!” he said. “By George, she's a queen.”
- </p>
- <h3>
- II
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t is not the
- purpose of this tale to tell in detail how Arthur Caldwell laid siege to
- Ann Austin. He was a cautious man, and for some time he contented himself
- by presenting occasional reports of his progress with the damsel of the
- Telephone Company. Ann, in her friendly and unselfish way, was delighted
- to hear, a few days later, that he had met his ideal. Then, averring that
- he needed further counsel, Arthur persuaded her to have lunch with him one
- day; and Ann, convinced that the young man was in love with someone else,
- saw no reason why this should not be done. Perhaps it was a little odd
- that at their various meetings they should have talked so much of
- themselves, their ambitions, the books they had been reading, and so on;
- and so little of the Telephone lady. But surely it was strictly a matter
- of business that Arthur should send Miss Austin some of Fawcett's novels,
- for her to review in the <i>Planet</i>; and equally a professional matter
- that he should discuss with her her opinion of them. And then came the day
- when Arthur called up to say that things were going so well with the
- Telephone lady that he wanted Cynthia to meet her; and would she join them
- in St. Paul's Churchyard at half-past twelve? Ann, with just a curious
- little unanalyzed twinge in her heart, agreed to do so.
- </p>
- <p>
- But when she reached the bench in the graveyard, where a bright autumn
- sunshine filled the clearing among those tremendous buildings, Arthur was
- there alone.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where's Alice?” said Ann, innocently—for such was the name Arthur
- had always given the lady of the Telephone Company.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She couldn't come,” he said. “But I want to show you her picture.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They sat down on the bench, and he took out of his pocket a copy of the
- noon edition of the <i>Planet</i>. He turned to the feature page, and
- displayed the little cut of Cynthia at the head of the Lovelorn column.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There,” he said, stoutly (though his heart was tremulous within him),
- “there, you adorable little thing, there she is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It would be pleasant to linger over this scene, but, as I have just said,
- this is not our <i>denouement,</i> but only an incident. Ann, shot through
- with delicious pangs of doubt and glory and anger, asked for explanations.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And do you mean to say there never was any Alice, the beautiful Telephone
- blonde?” she said. “What a fraud you are!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course not,” he said. “You dear, delightful innocent, I just had to
- cook up some excuse for coming up to see you. And you can't be angry with
- me now, Ann, because in your own answer to Sincerity's letter you said the
- girl ought not to be offended. You told me to take a chance! Just think
- what self-control I had, that first time I came up to see you, not to
- blurt out the truth.” And then he tore off a scrap of margin from the
- newspaper and measured her finger for a ring.
- </p>
- <h3>
- III
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here were happy
- evenings that winter, when Ann, after finishing her stint at the office,
- would hasten up their rendezvous at Piazza's little Italian table d'hote.
- Here, over the minestrone soup and the spaghetti and that strong Italian
- coffee that seems to have a greenish light round the edges of the liquid
- (and an equally greenish taste), they would discuss their plans and
- platitudes, just as lovers always have and always will. As for Ann, the
- light of a mystical benevolence shone in her as she conned her daily pile
- of broken hearts in the morning mail. More than ever she felt that she,
- who had seen the true flame upon the high altar, had a duty to all
- perplexed and random followers of the gleam who had gone astray in their
- search. Aware more keenly that the troubled appeals of “Tearful” and
- “Little Pal,” however absurd, were the pains of genuine heartache, she
- became more and more tender in her comments, and her correspondence grew
- apace. Now that she knew that her job need not go on forever she tried
- honestly to run the column with all her might. How stern she was with the
- flirt and the vamp and the jilt; how sympathetic with the wounded on
- Love's great battle-field. “Great stuff, great stuff!” Mr. Sikes would
- cry, in his coarse way, and complimented her on the increasing “kick” of
- her department. Knowing that he attributed the accelerated pulse of the
- Lovelorn column to mere cynicism on her part, she did not dare wear her
- ring in the office for fear of being joked about it. She used to think
- sadly that because she had made sympathy with lovers a matter of trade,
- she herself, now she was in love, could hope for no understanding.
- Although she hardly admitted it, she longed for the day when she could
- drop the whole thing.
- </p>
- <p>
- One evening Arthur met her at Piazza's, radiant. He was going off on a
- long business trip for his publishing house, and they had promised him a
- substantial raise when he returned. They sat down to dinner together in
- the highest spirits. Arthur, in particular, was in a triumphant mood: the
- publishing world, it seemed, lay under his feet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Great news, hey?” he said. “We'll be able to get married in the spring,
- and you can kick out of that miserable job.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, Arthur,” she said, “you know I have to take care of Mother. Don't
- you think it would be wiser if I went on with the work for a while, until
- your next raise comes? It would help a good deal, and we'd be able to put
- a little away for a rainy day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What?” he said. “Do you think I'm going to have my wife doing that
- lovelorn stuff in the paper every day? It'd make me a laughing stock if it
- ever got out. No, <i>sir!</i> I haven't said much about it, because I knew
- it couldn't be helped; but believe me, honey, that isn't the right kind of
- job for you. I've often wondered you didn't feel that yourself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ann was a little nettled that he should put it that way. Whatever her
- private distaste for the Lovelorn column, it had served her well in a
- difficult time, and had paid the doctor's bills at home. And she knew how
- much honest devotion she had put into the task of trying to give helpful
- counsel.
- </p>
- <p>
- “At any rate,” she said, “it was through the column that we first met.”
- </p>
- <p>
- What evil divinity sat upon Arthur's tongue that he could not see this was
- the moment for a word of tenderness? But a young man flushed with his
- first vision of business success, the feeling that now nothing can prevent
- him from “making good,” is likely to be obtuse to the finer shades of
- intercourse.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course, dear, I could see you were different from the usual sob sister
- of the press,” he said. “I could see you didn't really fall for that
- stuff. It's because I love you so, I want to get you out of that cheap,
- degrading sensational work. Most of those letters you get are only fakes,
- anyway. I think Love ought to be sacred, not used as mere circulation bait
- for a newspaper.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ann was a high-spirited girl, and this blunt criticism touched her in that
- vivid, quivering region of the mind where no woman stops to reason. But
- she made an honest attempt to be patient.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, Arthur,” she said; “there's nothing really cheap and degraded in
- trying to help others who haven't had the same advantages we have. I know
- a lot of the letters I print are silly and absurd, but not more so than
- some of the books you publish.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, listen,” he said, loftily, “we won't quarrel about this. I don't
- want you to go on with the job, that's all. It isn't fair to you. You may
- take the work seriously, and put all sorts of idealism into it, but it's
- not the right kind of job for a refined girl. How about the men in the
- office? I'll bet I know what <i>they</i> think of it. They probably think
- it's a devil of a good joke, and laugh about it among themselves. Don't
- you think I've seen that managing editor leering at you? That sort of
- thing cheapens a girl among decent men. Every Lovelace in town feels he
- has a right to send you mash-notes, I guess.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ann was furious.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, you're the only one I ever paid any attention to,” she said,
- blazing at him. “I'm sorry you think I've cheapened myself. I guess I
- have, by letting you interfere with my affairs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She slipped the ring from her finger, and thrust it at him. Arthur saw,
- too late, what he had done. She listened in scornful silence to his
- miserable attempts to console her, which were doubly handicapped by the
- old waiter hovering near. She was still adamant while he took her up town.
- The only thing she said was when she reached the door of her apartment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't want you to cheapen yourself. You needn't come any more.”
- </p>
- <p>
- By this time Arthur also was thoroughly angry. The next morning he went
- away on his business trip, realizing for the first time that he who has
- the pass key to a human heart treads among dangerous explosives.
- </p>
- <h3>
- IV
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>ow different the
- little room in the Planet office looked to Ann when she returned, with a
- sick heart, to her work the next morning. Everything was just the same—the
- geranium on its windowledge, that seemed to survive both the eddying hot
- air from the steampipes beneath it and the daily douche of iced drinking
- water; the noisily ticking inaccurate little clock; the dusty typewriter.
- All were the same, and there was the pile of morning letters from Love's
- battered henchmen. To office boy and casual reporter Ann herself seemed
- the usual cheerful charmer with her crisp little white collar and dark,
- alluring hair. Her swift, capable hands sped over the pile of letters,
- slitting the envelopes and sorting the outcries into some classification
- of her own. Outwardly nothing had altered, but everything seemed to have
- lost its meaning. What a desolate emptiness gaped beneath the firm routine
- of her daily life. She was struck by the irony of the fact that the only
- one in the office who seemed to notice that something was amiss was the
- one person whom she disliked—Mr. Sikes. He came in about something
- or other, and then stayed, looking at her intently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You look sick,” he said. “What's the matter, is the love feast getting on
- your nerves?”
- </p>
- <p>
- With a queer twitching at the corners of her mouth, she forced herself to
- say some trifling remark. He leaned over her and put his hand on hers. She
- caught the strong cigarry whiff of his clothes, which sickened her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Too much love in the abstract,” he said, insinuatingly. “What you need is
- a little love in the concrete.”
- </p>
- <p>
- If he—or any one—had spoken tenderly to her, she would have
- burst into tears. But the boorishness of his words was just the tonic she
- needed. She looked at him with flashing eyes, and was about to say: “Keep
- to some topic you understand.” Then she dared not say it, for now she
- could not run the risk of losing her job. She faced him steadily, in angry
- silence. He left the room, and the little green-tarnished mirror under the
- pigeonholes saw tears for the first time.
- </p>
- <p>
- The irony of her position moved her cruelly when she began her task of
- dealing with the correspondents. Here she was, giving helpful, cheery
- advice, posing as all-wise in these matters, when her own love affair had
- come so miserably to grief. In the ill-written scrawls on scented and
- scalloped paper she could hear an echo of her own suffering. “Hopeless”
- and “Uncertain” and “Miss Eighteen” got very tender replies that day. And
- how she laid the lash upon “Beau Brummel” and “Disillusioned,” those
- self-assured young men, who had chosen that mail to contribute their views
- on the flirtatious and unreliable qualities of modern girls.
- </p>
- <p>
- The bitterness of her paradoxical task became dulled as the days went on,
- but there were other troubles, too, to bother her. Her mother, quick and
- querulous to detect unhappiness, fell into one of her nervous spells, and
- the doctor had to be called in again. The woman-by-the-day got
- blood-poisoning in her arm, and could not come. The landlord gave notice
- of a coming raise in rent. A fat letter came from Arthur, and in a flush
- of passion she destroyed it unread. If it hadn't been such a fat letter,
- she said to herself, it wouldn't have annoyed her so to see it. But she
- wasn't going to wade through pages of explanation of just what he had
- meant. She was still cut to the quick when she remembered the cavalier and
- easy way in which he had scoffed at her work. And then, as time went by,
- she found herself moving into a new mood—no longer one of
- exaggerated tenderness toward her clients, but a feeling almost cynical.
- “They're all fools, just as I am,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- One morning she found on her desk a note from the managing editor:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Dear Miss Cupid:</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>We've made some changes in our budget, and I've been authorized to
- fatten your envelope $15 a week. I'm glad to do this, because the Lovelorn
- stuff is going big. Just keep kidding them along and everything will be
- fine. Maybe some day we can syndicate it. Hope this will cheer you up,
- don't look so blue at your friends.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Sikes.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- There had been a time when the tone and phrasing of this note might have
- seemed offensive, but in the numbness of despondency Ann had felt lately,
- it was a fine burst of rosy warmth. Thank God, she said to herself,
- something has broken my way at last! She wondered if she had been mistaken
- in Sikes, after all? Perhaps he was really a friend of hers, and she had
- misunderstood his odd ways.
- </p>
- <p>
- That day at noon she went down to the cashier's department to cash a small
- check. There was no one in the cage, but in the adjoining compartment,
- behind a wall of filing cases, she could hear two girls talking. One of
- them said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I see Sikes has put through a raise for Lovelorn. Pretty soft for her,
- hey?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She'll have to give value received, I guess,” said the other. “Sikes
- figures if he puts that over for her, she'll fall for him. She's been
- stalling him for quite a while, but I suppose he's got her fixed now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She fled, aghast, ran down to another floor so as not to be seen, and took
- the elevator. Out on the street she walked mechanically along Park Row and
- found herself opposite St. Paul's. She wandered in and sat down on a
- bench. It was a chilly day, and the churchyard was nearly empty.
- </p>
- <p>
- So this was Sikes's friendliness; and she, utterly innocent even in
- thought, was already the subject of vulgar office gossip. For the first
- time there broke in upon her, with bitter force, the knowledge that no
- matter how easy it may be to counsel others, few of us are wise in our own
- affairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- Pitiable paradox: she, the “sympathetic adviser in matters of the heart,”
- had made shipwreck of her own happiness. How right Arthur had been, and
- how childish and mad she, to reject his just instinct. It was true: she
- had made use of Love for mere newspaper circulation; and now Love had died
- between her hands. Well, this was the end. No matter what happened, she
- could not go on with the job. Cold and trembling with nervousness, she
- returned to her desk, to finish her column for the next day.
- </p>
- <p>
- On her typewriter lay some letters, which had come in while she was out.
- She opened one, and read.
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Dear Cynthia:</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>I am in great trouble, please help me. I am in love with a fellow and
- know he is all right and we would be very happy together. We were engaged
- to be married, and everything was lovely. But he objected to the work I
- was doing, said it was not a good job for a girl and that I ought to give
- it up. I knew he was right, but the way he said it made me mad. I guess I
- am hot-tempered and stubborn—anyway, I told him to mind his own
- business, and he went away. Now I am heart-broken, because I love him and
- I know he loves me. Tell me what to do.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Jessie.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- Ann sat looking at the cheap blue paper with the initial J gaudily
- embossed upon it in gilt. In the sprawling lines of unlettered handwriting
- she saw an exact parallel to her own unhappy rupture with Arthur. How much
- more clearly we can see the answer in others' tangles than in our own!
- Jessie, with her pathetic pretentious gilt initial, knew that she had been
- in the wrong, and was brave enough to want to make amends. And she—had
- she not been less true to Love than Jessie? Her false pride and obstinacy
- had brought their own punishment. Seeing the situation through Jessie's
- eyes, she could read her duty plain. Arthur, no doubt, was through with
- her forever, but she must play the game no less.
- </p>
- <p>
- She put Jessie's letter at the head of the Lovelorn column for the next
- day. Under it she wrote:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Certainly, dear Jessie, if you feel you were in the wrong, you ought to
- take the first step toward making up. Probably he was tactless in
- criticizing you, but I am sure he only did it because he had your true
- interest at heart. So write him a nice letter and be happy together. Your
- friend Cynthia hopes it will all come out all right, because she has seen
- other cases like this where false pride caused great suffering. If he is
- the right man, he will love you all the more after he gets your letter.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- Ann sent up her copy to the composing room, and then going to a telephone
- booth she called up Fawcett and Company and asked for Mr. Caldwell.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Caldwell's not here any longer,” said the girl.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Serves me right,” said Ann to herself. “Can you tell me where I can find
- him?” she asked, wondering how it was that one so miserable could still
- speak in such a pleasant and apparently unconcerned tone of voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Fawcett operator switched her to another wire.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm sorry,” said a stenographer, “Mr. Fawcett left here about two weeks
- ago. He's got a job out of town—in Boston, I think. I can find out
- for you in the morning if you'll call again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never mind,” said Ann.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had a horror of facing Mr. Sikes in her present wretchedness, so
- before she went home she wrote him a note, resigning her job, and asking
- permission to leave as soon as possible.
- </p>
- <p>
- The next day she had to nerve herself to face his protests, and the
- friendly remarks of all the staff when the news spread. It was a hideous
- ordeal, but she managed to get through it smiling. But by evening she was
- inwardly a wreck. In her present mood, she had an instinctive longing to
- revisit the shabby little restaurant where she and Arthur had spent so
- many happy hours. She knew it would give her pain; but she felt that pain
- was what she needed—sharp, clean, insistent pain to ease the
- oppression and disgust of what she had been through. Remorse, she felt, is
- surgical in action: it cuts away foul tissues of the mind. She could not,
- without preparatory discipline, face her mother's outcry at hearing she
- had given up her job.
- </p>
- <h3>
- V
- </h3>
- <p>
- In the crisp blue evening air the bright front of Piazza's café shone with
- a warm and generous lustre. From sheer force of habit, her heart lightened
- a little as she climbed the stairs and entered the familiar place, where
- festoons of red and green paper decoration criss-crossed above the warm,
- soup-flavoured, tobacco-fogged room. There was a clatter of thick dishes
- and a clamour of talk.
- </p>
- <p>
- “One?” said the head waiter, his wiry black hair standing erect as though
- in surprise.
- </p>
- <p>
- She nodded, and followed him down the narrow aisle. There was the little
- table, in the corner under the stair, where they had always sat. A man was
- there, reading a newspaper.... Her heart felt very strange, as though it
- had dropped a long way below its usual place. It was Arthur, and he was
- smiling at her as though nothing had happened. He was getting up. . . he
- was shaking hands with her. . . how natural it all seemed!
- </p>
- <p>
- Like all really great crises, it was over in a flash. She found herself
- sitting at the little table, taking off her gloves in the most casual
- fashion. Arthur was whispering outrageous things. How fine it is that
- everybody talks so loud in Italian table d'hôtes, and the waiters crash
- the dishes round so recklessly!
- </p>
- <p>
- Arthur's talk seemed to be in two different keys, partly for the benefit
- of old Tonio, the waiter, and partly for her alone.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, here you are! I wondered how soon you'd get here.... <i>Have you
- forgiven me, dearest?</i>. . . Do you want some minestrone?. . . <i>Why
- didn't you answer my letters, brownest eyes?</i> . . . Yes, and some of
- the near-beer.. . . <i>Darling, it was all my fault. I wrote to tell you
- so. Didn't you get my letter?</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- After all, at such times there isn't much explaining done, A happy
- reconciliation is the magic of a moment, and no explanations are
- necessary. The trouble just drops away, and life begins again from the
- last kind thing that was said. All Ann could do was whisper:
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, Arthur—it was I who was wrong. I—I've given up the
- Lovelorn.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And then, after a sudden moisture of eye on both sides, the steaming
- minestrone came on in its battered leaden tureen from which the silver
- plating disappeared long ago, and under pretense of serving her soup
- Arthur stretched out his hand. She put out hers to meet it, and found the
- ring slipped deftly back on her finger.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, Arthur,” she said, presently, “I thought you were out of town.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was,” he said. “I've got a new job, with King and Company in Boston. A
- good job, too, we can be married right away, and you don't need to worry.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, how did you happen to come here tonight? You didn't know I was
- going to be here. I didn't know it myself until an hour or so ago.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps I willed you to come, who knows?” he said, gaily. “Have you been
- advising lovers all this while, and didn't know that they always haunt the
- scenes of former felicity? I've been in town several days, and came here
- every night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He produced a copy of the <i>Evening Planet</i> which he had been reading
- when she came in.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I had a special reason for thinking you might come here to-night,” he
- said. “This afternoon I read your column, and I saw Jessie's letter and
- your answer. What you said made me think that perhaps you might be willing
- to forgive me.” Ann, once more safely enthroned on the shining glory of
- her happiness, felt that she could afford to tease him just a little.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” she said, “so you admit that some of those letters people write me
- <i>are</i> genuine, and that the answers do some good?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He smiled at her and laid his hand over the ring, which outglittered even
- the most newly nickeled of Piazza's cutlery.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, honey,” he said. “I admit it. And I knew that Jessie's letter was
- genuine, because I wrote it myself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE CURIOUS CASE OF KENELM DIGBY
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>E HAD been dining
- together at the Hotel Ansonia, and as we walked up the shining breezy
- channel of Broadwhat is the commonest phrase of the detectives? To put two
- and two together. What else, I ask you, is the poet doing all the time but
- putting two and two together—two rhymes, and then two rhymes more,
- and making a quatrain.
- </p>
- <p>
- He swung his stick, puffed strongly at his cigar, and amorously surveyed
- the deep blue of the night, against which the huge blocks of apartment
- houses spread their random patterns of lighted windows. Between these
- granolithic cliffs flowed a racing stream of bright motors, like the
- rapids of a river of light hurrying downward to the whirlpool of Times
- Square.
- </p>
- <p>
- My friend Dove Dulcet (the well-known poet and literary agent) vigorously
- expounded a theorem which I afterward had occasion to remember.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is every reason,” he cried, “why a poet should be the best of
- detectives! My boy, there is a rhyme in events as well as in words. When
- you see two separate and apparently unconnected happenings that seem (as
- one might say) to rhyme together, you begin to suspect one author behind
- them both. It is the function of the poet to have a quick and tender
- apprehension of similarities. The root of poetry is nothing else than
- describing things as being like other apparently quite different things.
- The lady who compared herself to a bird in a gilded cage was chaffed for
- her opulent and spendthrift imagination; but in that lively simile she
- showed an understanding of the poetic principle. Look here:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Either for a poet or for a detective,” he said, gaily, “this seems to me
- the ideal region. I tell you, I walk about here suspecting the most
- glorious crimes. When I see the number of banana splits that are consumed
- in these glittering drugstores, I feel sure that somewhere, in the purple
- silences of the night, hideous consequences must follow. Those who feed so
- violently on that brutalizing mixture of banana, chocolate ice cream,
- cherry syrup, and whipped marshmallow, must certainly be gruesome at
- heart. I look out of my window late at night toward the scattered lights
- of that vast pile of apartments, always thinking to see them blaze some
- great golden symbol or letter into the darkness, some terrible or obscene
- code that means death and terror.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your analogy seems to have some sense,” I said. “Certainly the minor
- poet, like the law breaker, loves to linger about the scene of his rhyme,
- or crime.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are an amateur of puns,” he replied. “Then let me tell you the motto
- I have coined to express the spirit of this Little White Way—<i>Ein
- feste bourgeois ist unser Gott</i>. This is the proud kingdom of the
- triumphant middle class. It is a perilous country for a poet. If he were
- found out, he would be martyred at the nearest subway station. But how I
- love it! See how the quiet side streets cut across highways so richly
- contrasting: West End Avenue, leafy, expensive, and genteel; Broadway, so
- gloriously cruel and artificial; Amsterdam Avenue, so honestly and
- poignantly real. My club is the Hartford Lunch Room, where they call an
- omelet an <i>omulet</i>, and where the mystic word <i>Combo</i> resounds
- through the hatchway to the fat man in the kitchen. My church is the St.
- Agnes branch of the Public Library, over on Amsterdam Avenue. In those
- cool, quiet rooms, when I watch the pensive readers, I have a sense of
- treading near an artery of fine human idealism. In all this various
- neighbourhood I have a cheerful conviction that almost anything might
- happen. In the late afternoons, when the crosswise streets end on a
- glimpse of the Jersey bluffs that glow like smoky blue opals, and smell
- like rotten apples, I feel myself on the very doorsill of the most
- stunning outrages.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We both laughed, and turned off on Seventy-seventh Street to the small
- apartment house where Dulcet had a comfortable suite of two rooms and
- bath. In his book-lined sitting room we lit our pipes and sat down for a
- gossip.
- </p>
- <p>
- We had been talking at dinner of the extraordinary number of grievous
- deaths of well-known authors that had happened that year. As it is almost
- unnecessary to remind you, there was Dunraven Bleak, the humorous
- essayist, who was found stark (in both senses) in his bathtub; and Cynthia
- Carboy, the famous writer of bedtime stories, who fell down the elevator
- shaft. In the case of Mrs. Carboy, the police were distracted because her
- body was found at the top of the building, and the detective bureau
- insisted that in some unexplainable manner she must have fallen <i>up</i>
- the shaft; but as Dulcet pointed out at the time of the Authors' League
- inquiry, the body might have been carried upstairs after the accident.
- Then there was Andrew Baffle, the psychological novelist, whose end was
- peculiarly atrocious and miserable, because it seemed that he had
- contracted tetanus from handling a typewriter ribbon that showed signs of
- having been poisoned. Frank Lebanon, the brilliant short-story writer, was
- stabbed in the fulness of his powers; and there were others whom I do not
- recall at the moment. Mr. Dulcet had suffered severely by these sad
- occurrences, for a number of these authors were his clients, and the loss
- of the commissions on the sale of their works was a serious item. The
- secret of these tragedies had never been discovered, and there had been
- something of a panic among members of the Authors' League. The rumour of a
- pogrom among bestselling writers was tactfully hushed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is your friend Kenelm Digby writing nowadays?” I asked, as I looked
- along Dulcet's shelves. Digby, the brilliant novelist, was probably
- Dulcet's most distinguished client, an eccentric fellow who, in spite of
- his excellent royalties, lived a solitary and modest existence in a
- boardinghouse somewhere in that part of the West Side. Outside his own
- circle of intimates Dulcet was almost the only man whom Digby saw much of,
- and many of us, who admired the novelist's work, had our only knowledge of
- his person from hearing the agent talk of him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By George, I'm glad you reminded me,” said Dulcet. “Why, he has just
- finished a story, and he telephoned me this afternoon asking me to stop
- over at his house this evening to get the manuscript. He never has any
- dealings with the editors on his own hook—likes me to attend to all
- his business arrangements for him. I said I'd run over there about ten
- o'clock.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That last book of his was a great piece of work,” I said. “I've been
- following his stuff for over ten years, and he looks to me about the most
- promising fellow we've got. He has something of the Barrie touch, it seems
- to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, he's the real thing,” said Dulcet, blowing a blue cloud of his
- Cartesian Mixture. “I only wish he were not quite so eccentric. He lives
- like a hermit-crab, over in a lodging-house near the Park. Even I, who
- know him as well as most people, never feel like intruding on him except
- when he asks me to. I can't help thinking it would be good for him to get
- out more and see something of other men in his line of work. I tried to
- get him to join The Snails, but he says that Amsterdam Avenue is his only
- amusement. And Central Park seems to be his country club. I wonder if
- you've noticed that in his tales whenever he wants to describe a bit of
- country he takes it right out of the Park. I sometimes suspect that's the
- only scenery he knows.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He has attained a very unusual status among writers,” I said. “In my
- rambles among bookshops I have noticed that his first editions bring quite
- a good price. It's very seldom that a writer—at any rate an American—gets
- 'collected' during his lifetime.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you ever see any of his manuscript?” asked Dulcet; and on my shaking
- my head, he took out a thick packet of foolscap from a cabinet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is the original of 'Girlhood',” he explained. “Digby gave it to me.
- It'll be worth a lot some day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I looked with interest at the neatly written sheets, thickly covered with
- a small, beautiful, and rather crabbed penmanship.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Worth a lot!” I exclaimed. “Well, I should say so! Why the other day I
- was browsing round in a bookshop and I found a lot of his first editions
- marked at $15 each. It struck me as a very high price for I know I have
- seen them listed for three or four dollars in catalogues.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Exorbitantly high,” Dulcet said. “I'm afraid your bookseller is
- profiteering. I admire Digby as much as any one, but that is an artificial
- price. The firsts aren't rare enough to warrant any such price as that.
- Still, I'm glad to know about it as it's a sign of growing recognition. I
- remember the time when it was all I could do to get any editors to look at
- his things. I'll have to tell him about that, it will please him
- mightily.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We sat for a while chatting about this and that and then Dulcet got up and
- put on his hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look here, old man,” he said. “You squat here and be comfortable while I
- run round to Digby. It won't take me more than a few minutes—he
- lives on Eighty-second Street. I'll be back right speedily, and we can go
- on with our talk.” I heard him go down in the elevator, and then I refit
- my pipe, and picked out a book from one of his shelves. I remember that it
- was Brillat-Savarin's amusing “Gastronomy as a Fine Art”. I smiled at
- finding this in Dulcet's library, for I knew that the agent rather prided
- himself on being something of a gourmet, and I was reading the essays of
- the jovial French epicure with a good deal of relish when the telephone
- rang. I went to it with that slight feeling of embarrassment one always
- has in answering someone else's phone.
- </p>
- <p>
- To my surprise, it was Dulcet's voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hullo?” he said. “That you, Ben? Listen, I want you to come round to
- Digby's right away,” and he gave the address.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thinking he had arranged a chance for me to meet Digby (I had long wanted
- to do so), I felt hesitant about intruding; but he repeated his message
- rather sharply. “Please come at once,” he said. “It's important.” Again he
- gave the street number, made me promise to come immediately, and rang off.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was nearly half-past ten, and the streets were fairly quiet as I walked
- briskly along. The house was one of a row of old cocoa-coloured stone
- dwellings, and evidently someone was watching for me, for while I was
- trying to read the numbers a door opened and from a dark hall an arm
- beckoned to me. I went up the tall steps and a stout woman, who seemed to
- be in some agitation, whispered my name interrogatively. “Is this Mr.
- Trovato?” she murmured.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” I said, puzzled.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Third floor front,” she said, and I creaked quietly up the stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- I tapped at the front room on the top floor, and Dulcet opened.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank goodness you're here, Ben,” he said. “Something has happened.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a large, comfortable room, crowded with books on three walls,
- furnished with easy chairs and a couch in one corner. A brilliant blaze of
- light from several bulbs under a frosted hood poured upon a reading table
- in the middle of the room. Sitting at this table, in a Windsor chair,
- slumped down into the seat, was a short stout man whose head lolled
- sideways over his chest. He was wearing a tweed suit and a soft shirt, and
- looked as though he had fallen asleep at his work. In front of him were
- some books and a can of tobacco. I recognized him, of course, from the
- photographs I had often seen. It was Digby.
- </p>
- <p>
- I looked at Dulcet, aghast. But, as always at such moments, what was
- uppermost in my mind was something trivial and irrelevant. I had an
- intense desire to open a window. The air in that room was thick and foggy,
- a sort of close, strangling frowst of venomously strong tobacco and
- furnace gas. After the clear elixir of the wintry night it was loathsome.
- It was the typical smell that hangs about the rooms of literary bachelors,
- who work all day long in a room without ever thinking of airing it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” he said. “He's dead. Pretty awful, isn't it? I found him like this
- when I got here. No sign of injury as far as I can see.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was something profoundly dreadful in this first sight, as mere
- sagging clay, of the brilliant and powerful writer whose books I had so
- long admired, and whom I had thought of as one of the strong and fortunate
- few who shape human perplexities to their own ends. I looked down at him
- with a miserable blackness in my spirit, and laid a hand on Dulcet's
- shoulder in sympathy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I've sent for a doctor,” he said. “Before he comes I want to get all the
- information I can from the landlady. I wanted to have you here as a
- witness. I haven't touched anything.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The woman had followed me upstairs, and stood crying quietly in the
- doorway.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come in, Mrs. Barlow,” said Dulcet. “Now please tell us everything you
- can about where Mr. Digby went this evening, and anything that has
- happened.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Barlow, who seemed to be a good-hearted, simple-minded creature,
- snuffled wretchedly. “Oh, dear, oh dear,” she said. “He was such a nice
- gentleman, too. Let me see, he went out about seven, I suppose for his
- supper, but he was always irregular about his meals, you never could tell,
- sometimes he would eat in the middle of the afternoon, and sometimes not
- till late at night. I always would urge him that he would die of
- indigestion, but he was so kind-hearted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't know where he went?” said Dulcet. “Perhaps he went round to the
- laundry,” she said, “for he had a parcel with him, which I took to be his
- laundry because he usually took it out on Monday evenings because by that
- time the clean shirt he put on on Sunday was ready to go to the wash. I
- hate to think that in all the years he lived in this house his laundry was
- the only thing we ever had a difference about, because I used to have it
- done in the house for him but he said my washwoman tore the buttons off
- his shirts or collars or something, so a little while ago he started
- taking his things out to be done, but I don't know where because he used
- to call for them himself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You haven't any idea where he used to eat?” insisted Dulcet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, sir, he liked to go different places, you know yourself how he
- was always a bit queer and concentric and he never talked much about where
- he went, but always so nice and considerate. Oh, he <i>was</i> a fine
- gentleman.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Barlow, plainly much grieved, wept anew. “Please try to tell us
- everything you can think of,” said Dulcet, gently. “What time did he come
- in, and did you notice anything unusual?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nothing out of the way that I can think of, but then I was down in the
- basement most of the evening, for I let my maid go to the movies and I had
- a deal to do. I suppose he went along Amsterdam Avenue, he was always
- strolling up and down Amsterdam or Columbus, poor man, getting ideas for
- his literature I guess. He came back about nine o'clock I should say,
- because I heard the door about then. Just a few minutes before he came in
- there was a man came to the door with a tin of tobacco for him, which he
- said Mr. Digby had ordered sent around, and I took it up and put it on his
- table, there it is now, poor man, Carter's Mixture.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Barlow pointed to the tin of Cartesian Mixture that stood on the
- table. Evidently it had only just been opened, for it was practically
- full.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said Dulcet. “Here's his pipe lying on the floor under his chair.”
- He picked up the briar and glanced at it. “Only just begun to smoke it,
- for the tobacco is hardly burned. He must have been smoking when he....
- There wasn't anything else you can think of?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The woman dried her eyes with her apron. “There was just one other thing I
- noticed, but I suppose it's silly. But I took note of it special, because
- I thought I had heard it before, lately. While he was out, and a little
- before the man brought the tin of tobacco, I heard a sharp tapping out on
- the street in front of the house. I noticed it special, because I thought
- at first it was someone rapping on the door, and I wondered if the bell
- was out of order again, but when I went I couldn't see any one. But I
- wondered about it because I heard it two or three times, a sharp kind of
- tapping, it sounded some way like hitting on stone with a stick of some
- sort.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dulcet and I looked at each other rather blankly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And after that,” she went on, “I didn't think about anything one way or
- another till you came in and I told you to go right up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a clear peal from the front door bell. “That's the doctor,” said
- Dulcet, and Mrs. Barlow hurried downstairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- I have never seen any one so brisk and matter of fact as that physician,
- and after his arrival the affair seemed to pass out of Dulcet's hands into
- the painful official machinery that takes charge in such events. Dulcet,
- acting as the dead writer's literary representative, went into the
- adjoining room, which was Digby's study, to look over the papers in the
- desk for any manuscripts that he ought to take care of. He wrote out a
- list of friends and relatives for me to send telegrams to and I went out
- to attend to this. I don't know how they get wind of these affairs, but
- the reporters were already beginning to arrive when I left.
- </p>
- <p>
- The next day, and for several days afterward, the papers all carried long
- stories about poor Digby's brilliant career. Then the literary weeklies
- took it up. At the libraries and bookshops everyone was asking for his
- books, and I have never seen a more depressing illustration of the
- familiar fact that a writer's real fame never comes until it is too late
- to do him any good. Editors and people who had hardly been aware of
- Digby's genius while he was alive now praised him fluently, speaking of
- him as “America's most honest realist,” and all that sort of thing.
- Moving-picture people began inquiring about the film rights of his novels.
- Some of the sensational newspapers tried to play up his death as a mystery
- story, but the physicians asserted heart failure as the cause, and this
- aspect of the matter soon subsided.
- </p>
- <p>
- Except at the funeral, which was attended by a great many literary people,
- I did not see Dulcet for some days. I gathered from what I read in the
- news that Digby's will had appointed him executor of his literary
- property, and I knew that he must have much to attend to. But one
- afternoon the telephone rang, and Dulcet asked me if I could knock off
- work and come round to see him. As I was living up town at that time, it
- only took me a few minutes to go round to his apartment. I found him
- smoking a pipe as usual, and looking pale and fagged. He welcomed me with
- his affectionate cordiality, and I sat down to hear what was on his mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must excuse me if I'm a little upset,” he said. “I've just had an
- interview with a ghoul. A fellow came in to see me who had heard that I
- have a number of poor Digby's books and manuscripts. He wanted to buy them
- from me, offered big prices for them. He said that since Digby's death all
- his first editions and so on have gone up enormously in value. Apparently
- he expected me to do trading over the dead body of a friend.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He smoked awhile in silence, and then said: “Sorry not to have seen you
- sooner, but to tell the truth I've had my hands full. His brother, who was
- the nearest kin, couldn't come from Ohio on account of serious illness,
- and everything fell on me. I had to pack up all his things and ship them,
- all that sort of business. But I've been wanting to talk to you about it,
- because I'm convinced there was something queer about the whole affair.
- I'm not satisfied with that heart-failure verdict. That's absurd. There
- was nothing wrong with his heart that I ever heard of. It's very
- unfortunate that for the first few days I was too occupied with urgent
- matters to be able to follow up the various angles of the affair. But I've
- been turning it over in my mind, and I've got some ideas I'd like to share
- with you. You remember what I told you, with unfortunate levity, about the
- secret of detective work being ability to notice the unsuspected rhymes in
- events? Well, there are one or two features of this affair that seem to me
- to rhyme together in a very sinister fashion. Wait a minute until I put on
- my other coat, and we'll go out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He went into his bedroom. I had not liked to interrupt him, but I was
- yearning for a smoke, for leaving my rooms in a hurry I had forgotten to
- bring my pouch with me. On his mantelpiece I saw a tin of tobacco, and
- began to fill my pipe. To my surprise, just as I was taking out a match he
- darted out of the bedroom, uttered an exclamation, and snatched the briar
- from my hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sorry,” he said, bluntly, “but you mustn't smoke that. It's something
- very special.” He opened his penknife, scraped out the weed I had put in
- the bowl, and carefully put it back in the tin. He took the tin and locked
- it in his desk.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Try some of this,” he said, handing his pouch. I concluded that the
- tension of the past days had troubled his nerves. This rudeness was so
- unlike him that I knew there must be some explanation, but he offered
- none. As we went down in the elevator he said: “The question is, can you
- make a rhyme out of tobacco and collar buttons?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” I said, a little peevishly. “And I don't believe any one could,
- except Edward Lear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” he continued, “that's what we've got to do. And don't imagine that
- it's merely a nonsense rhyme, any more than Lear's were. Edward Lear was
- as great as King Lear, in his own way.” He led me to Eighty-second Street.
- The December afternoon was already dark as we approached Mrs. Barlow's
- house. At the foot of her front steps he halted and turned to me.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is your pipe going?” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” I said, irritably. “It's out. And I haven't any tobacco.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't be surly, old chap; I'll give you some if you'll tell me what you
- do when your pipe goes out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, you idiot,” I cried, “I do this.” And I knocked out the ashes by
- striking the bowl smartly against the palm of my hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” he said. “But some people do this.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He bent down and rapped his pipe against the stone ramp of the steps, with
- a clear, sharp, hollow sound.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, a good way to break a nice pipe,” I was remarking, when the basement
- door of the house flew open, and Mrs. Barlow darted out into the sunken
- area just below the pavement level. In the pale lemon-coloured glare of a
- near-by street lamp we could see that she was strongly excited.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good gracious,” she panted. “Is it Mr. Dulcet? Oh, sir, you did give me a
- turn. Oh, dear, that was just the tapping sound I heard the night poor Mr.
- Digby died. What was it? Did you hear it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Like this?” said Dulcet, knocking his pipe again on the stone step.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That was it, exactly,” she said. “What a fright, to be sure! Was it only
- someone knocking his pipe like that? Oh, dear, it did bring back that
- horrid evening, just as plain.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So much for the mysterious death rap,” said Dulcet as we walked back
- toward Amsterdam Avenue. “I can't claim much ingenuity for that, however.
- You see, the morning after Digby's death I went round to Mrs. Barlow's
- early, before she had been out to sweep her pavement. The first thing I
- noticed, by the lowest step, was a little dottle of tobacco such as falls
- from a halfsmoked pipe when it is knocked out. That seemed to me to make a
- perfect couplet with Mrs. Barlow's tale of the tapping she had heard. She
- heard it several times, you remember, in a short space of time. That
- suggests to me someone standing on the street, or walking up and down, in
- a state of nervousness, because he didn't smoke any of his pipes through.
- When they were only half smoked he knocked them out, in sheer impatience.
- Was he waiting for someone?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps it was Digby himself?” I suggested. “I don't think so,” he said.
- “Because, in the first place, nervousness was the last thing I would
- associate with his temperament, which was calm and collected in the
- extreme. And also, he always smoked Brown Eyed Blend, and had done so for
- years. That was the first thing that struck me as unusual the night we
- were there—that tin of Cartesian on the table. He was a man of fixed
- habits; why should he have made a change just that night? I picked up the
- little wad of tobacco I found lying on the step, and took it carefully
- home. It's Cartesian, or I'm a Dutchman. So item I in our criminal
- rhyme-scheme is: Find me a nervous man smoking Cartesian.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's a bit fanciful,” I objected.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course it is,” he cried. “But crime is a fanciful thing. Ever let the
- fancy roam, as Keats said. What the deuce is the line that follows?
- Suppose we stroll down Amsterdam Avenue and find a new place to have
- dinner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor old Digby,” he said, as we walked along admiring the lighted caves
- of the shopwindows. “How he enjoyed all this. You know, there is a certain
- honest simplicity about Amsterdam Avenue's merchandising that is pleasant
- to contemplate after the shining sophistications of Broadway. In a
- Broadway delicatessen window you'll see such horrid luxuries as jars of
- cocks' combs in jelly; whereas along here the groceries show candid and
- heartening signs such, as this: 'Coming Back to The Old Times, 17c lb.
- Sugar.' Amsterdam Avenue shopkeepers speak with engaging directness about
- their traffic; for instance, there's a barber at the corner of
- Eighty-first Street who embosses on his window the legend: 'Yes, We Do
- Buster Brown Hair Cutting.' That sort of thing is very humane and genuine,
- that's why Digby was so fond of it. There's a laundry along here somewhere
- that I have often noticed; it calls itself the Fastidious Laundry——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Speaking of laundries,” I said, “what do you think of this?” We stopped,
- and I pointed to a neatly lettered placard in a window which had caught my
- eye. It said:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Notice to Artists and Authors</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>We Sew Buttons on Soft Collars Free of Charge</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- “By Jove,” I said, “there's a laundry that has the right idea. I think
- I'll bring my——”
- </p>
- <p>
- I broke off when I saw my companion's face. He was leaning forward toward
- the pane, and his eyes were bright but curiously empty, as though in some
- way the mechanism of sight had been reversed, and he was looking inward
- rather than out.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's very odd,” he said, presently. “I've been up and down this street
- many times, but I never noticed that sign before.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned and marched into the shop, and I followed. In the soft steamy
- air several girls were ironing shirts, and a plump, pink-cheeked Hebrew
- stood behind a counter wrapping up bundles.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I noticed your sign in the window,” said Dulcet. “What do you charge for
- laundering soft collars?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Five cents each, but we mend them, too, and sew on the buttons.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's a good idea,” said Dulcet, genially. “I wish I'd known that
- before; I'd have brought my collars round to you. How long have you been
- doing that? I often go by here, but I never saw the sign before.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Only about a week,” the man replied. “Let's see—a week ago last
- Monday I put that sign up. You wouldn't believe how much new trade it has
- brought in. I thought it would be a kind of a joke—the man next door
- suggested it, and I put it in to please him. But 'most everybody wears
- soft collars nowadays, and it seems good business.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The man next door?” said Dulcet, in a casual tone.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sure, the cigar store.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is his name Stork?” said Dulcet, reflectively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stork? Why, no, Basswood. What do you mean, Stork?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I mean,” said Dulcet, slowly, “does he ever stand on one leg?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Quit your kidding,” cried the laundryman, annoyed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I assure you, I do not trifle,” said Dulcet, gravely. “I'll bring you in
- some collars to fix up for me. Much obliged.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We went out again, and my companion stood for a moment in front of the
- laundry window, looking thoughtfully at the sign.
- </p>
- <p>
- “While you ponder, old son,” I said, “I'll run into Mr. Stork-Basswood's
- and get some tobacco.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He seized my arm in a firm and painful clutch and whispered, “Look at the
- corner!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The laundry was the second shop from the corner. Under the lamp-post at
- the angle of the street I saw, to my amazement, a man standing balanced on
- one leg. Directly under the light, he was partly in shadow, and I could
- only see him in silhouette, but the absurd profile of his onelegged
- attitude afflicted me with a renewed sense of absurdity and irritation.
- Dulcet, I thought, had evidently suffered some serious stroke in the
- region of his wits.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now,” he said, softly, “can you see any rhyme between soft collars and
- standing on one leg?”
- </p>
- <p>
- As he spoke, we both started, for somewhere near us on the street there
- sounded a sharp tapping, a ringing hollow wooden sound. Evidently it came
- from the one-legged man. This was too much for my composure. I broke away
- from Dulcet and ran to the corner. As I got there the one-legged creature
- put down a concealed limb and stood solidly on two feet, in a state of
- normalcy, as an eminent statesman would say. I was confused, and said
- angrily to the man:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here, you mustn't stand like that, on the public street you know, on one
- leg. It's setting a bad example.”
- </p>
- <p>
- To my amazement he made no retort whatever, but turned and scuttled
- hastily down the avenue, disappearing in the crowds that were doing their
- evening marketing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear fellow,” said Dulcet, calmly, coming up to me, “you shouldn't
- have done that. You've very nearly spoilt it all. Come on, let's go in and
- get your tobacco.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Basswood's proved to be one of those interesting combination tobacco,
- stationery, toy, and bookshops which are so common on the upper West Side.
- I have often noticed that these places are by no means unfruitful as
- hunting ground for books, because the dealers are wholly ignorant of
- literature and sometimes one may find on their shelves some forgotten
- volume that has been there for years, and which they will gladly part with
- for a song. A good many of these stores have, tucked away at the back, a
- shabby stock of circulating library volumes that have come down through
- many changes of proprietorship. Only the other day I saw in just such a
- place first editions of Kenneth Grahame's “The Golden Age” and Arthur
- Machen's “The Three Impostors,” which the storekeeper was delighted to
- sell for fifteen cents each.
- </p>
- <p>
- A dark young man was behind the tobacco counter, and from him I got a
- packet of my usual blend.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Basswood in?” said Dulcet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just stepped out,” said the young man.
- </p>
- <p>
- We lit our pipes and looked round the shop, glancing at the magazines and
- the queer miscellany of books. As it was approaching Christmas time there
- was a profuse assortment of those dreadful little bibelots that go by the
- name of “gift books,” among which were the usual copies of “Recessional”
- and “Vampire,” Thoreau's “Friendship,” and “Ballads of a Cheechako,” bound
- in what the trade calls “padded ooze”. I was particularly heartened to
- observe that one of these atrocities, called “As a Man Thinketh,” was
- described on the box (for all such books come in little cardboard cases)
- as being bound in antique yap. This pleased me so much that I was about to
- call it to Dulcet's attention, when I saw that he was looking at me from
- the rear of the store with a spark in his eye. I approached and found that
- he was staring at a doorway partly concealed by a pile of Christmas toys
- and novelties. Over this door was a sign: J. Basswood, Rare Book
- Department.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can we go in and look at the rare books?” said Dulcet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sure thing,” said the young man. “Help yourself. The boss'll be back
- soon, if you want to buy anything.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Basswood was evidently a man of some literary discretion. To our
- amazement we found, in a dark little room lined with shelves, a judicious
- assortment of modern books, several hundred volumes, and all first
- editions or autographed copies. The prices were marked in cipher, so we
- could not tell whether there were any bargains among them, but I know that
- I saw several particularly rare and desirable things which I would have
- been glad to have.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good heavens,” I said to Dulcet, “friend Basswood is a real collector.
- There isn't a thing here that isn't of prime value.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was staring at a shelf in the corner, and I went over to see what he
- had found.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Upon my soul,” I cried, “look at the Digbies! Not merely one copy of
- each, but three or four! This man must have specialized in Digbies.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not only that,” said Dulcet, “but he has three of 'The Autogenesis of a
- Novelist', the first thing that Digby wrote. It was privately printed, and
- afterward suppressed. It's devilish rare; even I haven't got a copy. I
- wish I knew what prices he asks for these things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look at this,” I said. “Perhaps this will tell us.” I picked up one of a
- pile of pamphlets that were lying in a large sheet of wrapping paper in a
- corner of the room. It was evidently a new catalogue of Mr. Basswood's
- rare books, that had just come from the printer.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here we are,” I said, turning over the leaves. “Look at this.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Special Note</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Fine Collection of Digbiana: J. Basswood wishes to call particular
- attention to the Digbiana listed below. Anticipating the growing interest
- in collectors' items of this great writer's work, J. Basswood has taken
- pains to gather a stock of first editions and presentation copies which is
- absolutely unique. The prices of these items, while high, are a fair index
- of the appreciation in which this author's work is held among
- connoisseurs. All are copies in good condition and their authenticity is
- guaranteed.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>November 15, 19—</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dulcet seized the catalogue and ran his eye down the pages.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Girlhood,' first edition, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1901, $100,” he
- read. “'The Nuisance of Being Loved,' first edition, $75. 'The Princess
- Quarrelsome,' $90. 'The Anatomy of Cheerfulness,' autographed copy, $150.
- 'Distemper,' acting copy, signed by the author and Richard Mansfield,
- $200.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why,” he cried, shrilly, “this is madness! I am in touch with all the
- dealers in this sort of thing, and I know the proper prices. This man has
- multiplied them by ten.” He thrust the catalogue into his pocket and
- glared round at the musty shelves.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose it's due to poor Digby's death,” I said. I saw that Dulcet was
- overwrought, and suggested that we go out and get some supper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Supper?” he said. “A good idea. I know a place on Broadway where we can
- get some guinea pigs.” He strode out of the store and I followed,
- wondering what next. He seized my arm and hurried me along Seventy-ninth
- Street to Broadway.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the clarid blue of the evening that blazing gully of light seemed to
- foam and bubble with preposterous fire. Chop suey restaurants threw out
- crawling streamers of red and yellow brilliance; against the peacock green
- of the western sky the queer church at the corner of Seventy-ninth, with
- the oriental pinnacle and truncated belfry rising above its solid Baptist
- wings, seemed like the offspring of some reckless marriage of two
- infatuated architects, one Jewish and one Calvinist. It was a fitting
- silhouette, I thought, congruent with an evening of such wild humours.
- Guinea pigs for supper, how original and enlivening! “Are guinea pigs
- properly kosher?” I asked, sarcastically.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dulcet paid no heed, but, holding my arm, urged me along the pavement to
- an animal shop on the western side of Broadway. The window was full of
- puppies and long-haired cats. All down the aisle of the establishment were
- tiers of birdcages, covered with curtains while the birds slept. In lucid
- bowls persevering goldfish pursued their glittering and improfitable
- round.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Those guinea pigs I ordered,” said Dulcet to the man, “are they ready?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All ready, sir,” he said, and took out a cage from under the counter.
- “Very fine pigs, sir, strong and hearty; they will stand a great deal.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” I said, with a wild desire to shout with laughter. “But will they
- stand being eaten? They will find that rather trying, I fancy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dulcet tapped his forehead, and the dealer smiled indulgently. My
- companion took the cage, paid some money, and sped outdoors again.
- </p>
- <p>
- I made no further comment and in a few minutes we were in Dulcet's
- apartment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have no kitchenette here, have you?” I protested. “Or do we devour
- them raw? Oh, I see, you have a camp oven. How ingenious!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He had put on the table a large tin box. With complete seriousness he now
- produced a small spirit lamp, over which he fitted a little basket of fine
- wire mesh. When the flame of the lamp was lit, it played upon the basket,
- which was supported by legs at just the right height. He now put the
- unsuspecting guinea pigs into the tin box, which was shaped like a
- rural-free-delivery letter-box, with a hinged door opening at one end. He
- took the spirit lamp with its attached basket and pushed the contraption
- carefully into the box with the pigs. Then he opened both windows in the
- room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Admirable!” I exclaimed. “Like those much-advertised cigarettes, they
- will be toasted. But won't it take a long time?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't be an ass,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went to his desk, and took out the tin of Cartesian Mixture he had
- snatched away from me earlier in the evening.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your mention of those cigarettes is apt,” he said, “for in this case also
- the fuel is tobacco. Please go over by the window, and stay there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I watched, somewhat impressed by the gravity of his manner. From the tin
- of tobacco he took a small pinch of mixture and carefully placed it in the
- mesh basket above the lamp. Reaching into the box, he lit the wick of the
- lamp with a match, and hastily clapped to the hinged lid. The guinea pigs
- seemed to be awed by these proceedings, for they remained quiet. Dulcet
- joined me at the window, and remarked that fresh air was a fine thing.
- </p>
- <p>
- We waited for about five minutes, while the guinea-pig oven stood quietly
- on the table.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” said Dulcet, finally, “we ought to be able to see whether it
- rhymes or not.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He snatched open the door of the tin box, and skipped away from it in a
- way that seemed to me perfectly insane. He picked up a pair of tongs from
- the fireplace, and standing at a distance, lifted out the lamp. The
- tobacco was smoking strongly in its mesh basket. Holding the lamp away
- from him with the tongs, he carried it into the bathroom, and I heard him
- turn on the water. Then, coming back, he inserted the tongs into the tin
- box, and gingerly withdrew first one guinea pig and then the other. Both
- were calm as possible, quite dead. Looking over the sill to see that the
- pavement was clear, he threw the tin box into the street, where it fell
- with a crash.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Surely they're not cooked already?” I said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I haven't heard from the doctor yet,” he said; “but he promised to ring
- me up this evening. I'm awfully sorry to have delayed your dinner, old
- man. Meet me at the Lucerne grill room, Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam
- Avenue, to-morrow evening at seven o'clock and we'll eat together. You've
- been a great help to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope the doctor is a mental specialist,” I said; but he pushed me
- gently out of the room. “We'll finish our rhyme at dinner to-morrow
- evening.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I went out into the night, and sorrowfully visited a Hartford Lunch.
- </p>
- <p>
- The next evening I was at the Lucerne grill promptly. This modest chop
- house was one of Dulcet's favourite resorts, and I found him already
- sitting in one of the alcoves studying the menu. He was in fine spirits,
- and his quizzical blue eyes shone with a healthy lustre.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you armed?” he said, mysteriously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What,” I cried, “are we going to do some more guinea pigs to death? It
- was cruel. I have scruples against taking innocent lives. Besides, your
- experiment proved nothing. Those pigs would have died anyway, shut up in
- an air-tight box like that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stuff!” he said. “The box was not hermetic. I had left small apertures:
- there was plenty of oxygen. No, it was not the confinement in the tin box
- that killed them. After you had gone, the chemist whom I had consulted
- called me up. My suspicions were sound. Have you ever heard of fumacetic
- acid?”
- </p>
- <p>
- This is going to be terrible, I thought to myself, and ordered tenderloin
- steak, well done, with a double order of hashed brown potatoes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you ever heard of fumacetic acid?” he repeated, relentlessly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” I said, nervously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is a deadly and little-known drug,” he said, “which (so the chemist
- tells me) possesses the property that when vaporized the slightest whiff
- of it causes instant death if inhaled into the lungs. The tobacco in that
- tin had been doctored with it. I sent the chemist the pipe that poor Digby
- was smoking when he died, and he analyzed what was left in the bowl. There
- is no doubt whatever. He was poisoned in that way. I tell you, my
- professional duty as a literary agent requires that in my clients'
- interest I should sift this thing to the bottom. It may explain some of
- those earlier deaths that baffled the Authors' League.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But Mrs. Carboy, surely, did not smoke,” I was about to say; but I
- checked myself in time.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dove,” I said, “you are superb. But I wish you would tell me how you
- worked the thing out. What was it that first aroused your suspicions? If
- it had not been for you, I should never have guessed anything wrong.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course,” he said, grimly, “it was that murderous placard in the
- laundry window, and that is to your credit, for you noticed it. That was
- the one thing that made plain the whole complicated business. Naturally I
- suspected the tobacco from the first, for (as I told you) it was a mixture
- that Digby never smoked ordinarily. But when I heard that that eccentric
- and damnable placard had been put there at the suggestion of the
- tobacconist next door, and then found that the tobacconist was also a
- bookseller, I knew the worst. I have spent to-day in rounding up the
- threads, and I think I may say without vainglory that the miscreant is in
- my power.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But the man standing on one leg?” I said, puzzled. “What was he up to,
- and why did he run?” Dulcet's face shone with quiet triumph.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I told you,” he said, “to look for a nervous man smoking Cartesian
- Mixture. That tobacconist, Basswood, smokes Cartesian. It is a very moist,
- sticky blend, as you know. It can only be shaken out of the pipe, after
- smoking, by vigorously knocking the bowl on something hard. Very well, and
- if there is no stone step or something of that sort handy, what will a
- smoker tap his pipe on? Why, he will stand on one leg and knock it out on
- the lifted heel of the other. And his running away when you addressed him
- so whimsically, wasn't that a pretty good sign of nervousness—and
- also of a guilty and doubtful spirit?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He finished his tumbler of the near-beer that has made Milwaukee infamous,
- and leaned forward earnestly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know very well,” he said, “that that laundryman would never have
- thought of his grotesque notice, addressed to 'Artists and Authors', if
- someone hadn't suggested it to him. Obviously he was only a gull. That
- card was intended as a decoy, to lure Digby away from his room, so that
- Basswood could leave the poisoned tobacco for him. Basswood had studied
- Digby's habits, and must have known that the notice about the collars
- would be sure to catch his eye. Now we had better be going. The police
- will be at Basswood's shop at eight o'clock.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I could have done with a little strong coffee, but he haled me out of the
- restaurant, and we walked up Amsterdam Avenue. How little, I reflected,
- did the passersby, hurrying about their kindly and innocent concerns,
- suspect our dark and perilous errand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The motive, of course,” said Dulcet, “was to profit by the increase of
- value Digby's death would give to his literary work. You will see a proof
- of that in a moment. Here we are. Come on, this is no time to hang back!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He strode into the brightly lighted shop, and I followed with a clumsy
- assumption of carelessness. I must confess that my eye wandered in search
- of suitable cover in case there should be any gun play.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Basswood was behind his counter, smoking a battered-looking briar. One
- side of the bowl was worn down nearly half an inch (from repeated knocking
- out on stone steps, I suppose). He was a fat, cross-looking person, with a
- black jut of moustache and a small, vindictive eye.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A friend told me about your bookshop,” said Dulcet. “He said that you
- sometimes buy books and manuscripts and that sort of thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sometimes,” said Basswood, without enthusiasm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have an unpublished story of Kenelm Digby's,” said Dulcet. “It is about
- forty pages of manuscript. What would you give for that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The dealer's eyes brightened. He took his pipe from his mouth, and knocked
- it out smartly on his heel, tramping on the glowing cinders. Dulcet looked
- at me gravely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me see it,” Basswood said, eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I haven't got it with me. But give me an idea what it would be worth to
- you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If it is genuine, and characteristic of Digby's genius,” said Basswood,
- slowly, “I would give you two hundred dollars for it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense!” said Dulcet. “It isn't worth half that. I would not dream of
- selling it for more than seventy-five.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Basswood looked startled.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I guess you are not in touch with the market for such things,” he said.
- “There is more interest among collectors in Digby's work than in any other
- recent writer. Perhaps you don't realize what a difference his sad death
- has made in the prices of his editions. It is very regrettable, but the
- death of a writer of that kind always puts a premium on collectors' items,
- because there will never be any more of them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I see,” said Dulcet, politely. “It is his death that has made the
- difference, is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Exactly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, then, I suppose this manuscript <i>is</i> worth more than I
- thought. By the way, I think the title of it will interest you. It is
- called 'The Mystery of the Soft Collars' and deals with a murder that took
- place on Eighty-second Street.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I couldn't help admiring the glorious nonchalance with which Dulcet made
- this remark, gazing the dealer straight in the eye. Basswood's face was a
- study, and his cheek was pale and greasy. But he, too, was a man of
- considerable nerve.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't believe it's genuine,” he said. “That doesn't sound to me like
- Digby's style.” His voice shook a little, and he added: “However, if it's
- as interesting as it sounds, I might pay even more than two hundred for
- it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You rascal!” shouted Dulcet. “Do you think you can buy me off? No! keep
- your hands above the counter!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He had whipped out his revolver, and held it at the man's face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look here, Mr. Basswood,” he said. “Even the cleverest of us make
- mistakes. Let me call your attention to one thing. If it was Digby's death
- that made the difference in the values of his books, how is it that this
- bill from your printer, for that new catalogue of yours, is dated ten days
- before Digby died? I picked it up in your back room the other day. Doesn't
- that seem to show that you knew, ten days before the event, that there was
- going to be a sudden boom in Digbiana? Ten days before he died you were
- multiplying the prices of the items you had gathered. Now, you dog, can
- you explain that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Basswood shook, but still he clung to his hope.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll give you a thousand for that manuscript,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ben,” said Dulcet to me, “just slip around the corner and whistle three
- times. The police are waiting on Eighty-fifth Street.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “There's still one thing that puzzles me,” I said to Dulcet late that
- night as we sat in his room for a final smoke. “I remember that before we
- discovered that sign in the laundry you said that what we needed to do was
- to find a rhyme between tobacco and collar buttons. Now what the deuce
- started you off on collar buttons?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He smiled patiently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When I had to pack up poor old Digby's belongings,” he said, “I had the
- sad task of going through his bureau drawers. You know the devilish little
- buttons that the manufacturers insist on putting on soft collars. They
- always come off after one or two washings, and then the collar collapses
- round your neck into an object of slovenly reproach. Digby was a bachelor,
- and there was no one to do any mending for him. And when I found that
- every one of his soft collars had its little button neatly sewed on, I
- knew there was something wrong. I ask you, wouldn't that have aroused the
- alarm of the least suspicious?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Up to the present time, as far as I know, Basswood remains the only
- bookseller who has ever been electrocuted.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- GLORIA AND THE GARDEN OF SWEDEN
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T WAS one of those
- gilded October days when the serene sunshine is as soft and tawny as
- candle-light; when the air is thin and sharp in the early mornings, but
- the noontime is as comfortably genial as the radiance of a hearth reddened
- with hickory embers. Dove Dulcet and I were strolling along Riverside
- Park, enjoying the blue elixir of the afternoon, in which there was just a
- faint prick, a gently tangible barb of the coming arrows of the North.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Winter sharpens her spearheads,” said Dulcet. “Aye,” was my reply. Below
- us I saw the coaling-station at the Seventy-ninth Street pier. “The
- merriest music the householder can hear nowadays is the roar of coal going
- down the chute into the cellar.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He sighed, and seemed touched by a sudden melancholy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ben,” he said, “that coal-dump reminds me of Gloria Larsen. Did I ever
- tell you about her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never,” I said. “Coal, I presume, made you think of diamonds; and
- diamonds, of Miss Larsen. Were you engaged to her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I might have been,” he said, sentimentally. Before us was an empty bench,
- on a little knoll that looks out over the shining sweep of the river. I
- drew him to it, and we filled our pipes. When you can get a minor poet in
- an autobioloquacious mood, it is well to encourage him. No one takes life
- so seriously as the minor poet, and consequently his memoirs make fine
- sport for the disinterested bystander.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” he said, blowing a waft of tobacco smoke into the soft, sun-brimmed
- air, and settling down into the curve of the bench. “The association was
- even more obvious than that of coal and diamonds. I always think of Gloria
- when winter begins to come in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah!” I said. “She was cold?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He meditated, ignoring my jocularity.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was a good many years ago,” he said at last; “before you knew me. When
- I first came to town, you know, I had a fine ambition to be a writer. I
- had just a little money, so I shut myself up in a hall room at the top of
- a cheap lodging-house on Seventy-fifth Street, hired a typewriter, and set
- about to butt my bead against all the walls that hem in the beginner.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was one of those old four-story dwellings that are now mostly
- boarding-houses, and it was run by a good-hearted widow who would let her
- rooms only to men, because she said they were less trouble than women. Her
- house was clean and incredibly cheap, and almost all the lodgers were
- young fellows like myself—students, or starveling artists, or chaps
- with literary ambitions. That was how I had heard of the place, through
- another fellow who lived there and had built up a little sort of coterie
- in the house. He was Black-more. You know his name; he gave up art long
- ago. He's now the art editor of the <i>Mother, Home, and Heaven Magazine</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mrs. Vesey, our landlady, was quite a character. I was always rather a
- favourite with her, because the very first day I came to her house I
- happened to find her cat, which had wandered away some days before,
- leaving her disconsolate. The cat's name, I remember, was Nemo. She had
- called it so because, with that admirable virginity of mind that one finds
- only in a childless married woman, she was uncertain of the animal's sex.
- Anyway, it was a fine big creature, and the apple of Mrs. Vesey's pie. She
- talked so much about it that we used to chaff her a good deal on the
- subject, and say that we thought it was going to have kittens, and all
- that sort of thing. Blackmore used to say, remembering the title of some
- idiotic melodrama he had seen, that it was 'Neither Maid, Wife, nor
- Widow.' He was right, for it was the kind of cat that is not likely to be
- either a father or a mother without a miracle. But I don't want to be
- indelicate. I only mention Nemo because it was through him that I first
- talked with Gloria.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The first day I was at Mrs. Vesey's I heard her groaning about the
- vanished cat. That evening I went out to supper, feeling rather lonely,
- and dropped in at an eccentric-looking little restaurant on Amsterdam
- Avenue. It was called Larsen's Physical Culture Chophouse, and I have
- never seen a more amusing place. Old man Larsen was a Swede, and all the
- Scandinavian fads ran riot in his head—vegetarian food, for
- instance. He didn't absolutely condemn meat, for he would serve it if you
- insisted, but all his joy was in weird combinations of calory, protose,
- and vitamine, or whatever those things are called. Bean “cutlets,” and
- protose “steak” that turned out, on examination, to be made of chopped
- walnuts and lentils, and the “Thousand-Calory Combination Dinner,” of
- which he made a specialty. When you sat down, if you were a regular
- customer, old Larsen would come round and look you over and diagnose from
- your complexion the kind and quantity of calories you needed for that
- meal, and would give you combinations of spinach croquettes and lentil pie
- that he warranted would purge the blood and compose the mind. On the walls
- were charts of Swedish exercises and systems of calisthenics, and he sold
- a little pamphlet that he himself had written telling how to be strong and
- merry and full of physique.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, to come back to my first visit to Larsen's restaurant. I hadn't
- been in there many minutes before I noticed the girl at the cashier's
- desk. My, my, what a girl! My table was close to her little throne, and I
- couldn't help watching her out of the end of my eye. I wondered if she was
- raised entirely on protose and lentils, for I have never seen anything so
- gloriously and vitally physical in my life. Great, bold blue eyes, and
- crisp, sparkling golden hair, and blood that spoke delicately through her
- skin, and a figure—well, just our old friend of Melos over again,
- that lively combination of grace and strength. She was just curves and
- waves and athletic softness—the kind of creature that makes your
- arms tingle, you know. No corset, I suppose. In the old man's booklet on
- physical culture he defended the gymnastic doctrine that women should
- develop what he called a muscle corset by bending and swaying from the
- hips a thousand times a day. He said it must be done—well, <i>au
- naturel</i>, in front of an open window in one's bedroom in the morning.
- I'd be ashamed to admit that we fellows at Mrs. Vesey's used to set our
- alarm clocks at half-past six to go round the corner to Amsterdam Avenue——”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dulcet paused a while and watched the river pensively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But about the cat,” I reminded him presently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” he said. “Well, that first night I was at the chop-house I noticed
- a very fine, fat cat browsing about under the tables. I was amused at the
- corpulence of the animal. I said to myself that a cat as large as that
- must surely get some meat somewhere, because, while vegetarian protose
- food may be all right for Swedes, a cat is a realist in the matter of
- carnal meals. And when I went to the desk to pay my check, wanting some
- excuse to get into talk with the superb Gloria—who was, of course,
- the old man's daughter—I remarked on the sleek, healthy appearance
- of her cat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Oh, it's not ours,' she said. 'It came in here yesterday. I don't know
- whose he is.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll bet I know whose it is,” I said.
- </p>
- <p>
- I told her that Mrs. Vesey, who ran the bachelor lodging-house on
- Seventy-Fifth Street, had lost her Nemo. She listened with interest, those
- thrilling blue eyes sizing me up in a keen, humorous way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'I shouldn't wonder it's hers,' she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Welcoming any pretext for prolonging the discussion, I borrowed the phone
- at Gloria's elbow, and, studying the heart-rending curves of her chin and
- cheek and throat, I called up Mrs. Vesey and told her I thought I had
- found her pet. Mrs. Vesey hurried round to the restaurant, and swept up
- the vagabond Nemo with cries of joy into her lean and affectionate bosom.
- Nemo purred, and I escorted Mrs. Vesey home, recapitulating in my mind the
- perfect contours of the girl's heavenly form. My enthusiasm was even such
- that when the other men came in I could not refrain from telling them all
- about her. I saw that I had made a mistake, for instantly Blackmore swore
- he would get her to sit for him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course, from that time on, the Physical Culture Chophouse became the
- nightly haunt of our little party. The other men had seen it many times,
- but the vegetarian threats in the window had frightened them away. But
- now, none of us dared to be absent very many dinners, for fear the rest
- would gain some advantage with the girl. I cannot give you any conception
- of the humorous glamour of that time unless I insist that she was the most
- superbly luscious thing I have ever glimpsed; and one sees a good many
- covetable creatures on the streets of New York. Some of them said she was
- cold; that in spite of all the nutritious algebra printed on old Larsen's
- menus (he used to put down all sorts of preposterous formulas about
- starch, and albumen, and phosphorus, and proteids, and so on)—she
- was lacking in calories. But I know that when we sat at table, and she
- came round to ask if everything was all right, and leaned over us with her
- clear eyes, as blue as a special-delivery stamp, and that cream-white
- neck, and the faint glimmer of a blue ribbon shining through the hilly
- slopes of her blouse——-Oh, well, Ben, we were young, and we
- ate red meat for lunch, anyway.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I guess old man Larsen, who spent most of his time in the kitchen,
- encouraged her to kid us along, for he never seemed to mind our open
- admiration of his daughter. He probably saw that she was a bigger business
- asset than any number of calory charts. Every now and then he would come
- out and chin with us, for our party became a nightly event in the café.
- Before long we had sampled every kind of vegetarian combination on the
- list, and had him busy inventing new ones. We used to ask him if he had
- raised a girl like that on nothing but vegetables, and he would laugh and
- swear that Gloria had never tasted blood until she was sixteen. It seemed
- queer to us that the restaurant wasn't full of her suitors. I should have
- thought, with a girl like her, they'd have been standing in line waiting
- for a look at her. I suppose that people who feed on nothing but
- vegetables are rather puny in such matters. It's an odd thing, but I've
- always noticed that most of the people who frequent these crank
- physical-culture and dietetic eating-places are a queer, sick-looking lot—youths
- with rolling Adam's apples, and sallow, soup-stained girls. Certainly our
- little gang, so very jovial and fancy-free, made a quaint contrast to most
- of the patrons of the house. In a few days we felt as if we owned the
- place, and had the old man slide two tables together just underneath
- Gloria's cash register, where we met every evening for dinner.
- </p>
- <p>
- “As for Larsen, he was a crank on many subjects but he was no fool. He was
- an athletic, erect fellow with a bristling gray moustache and cropped hair
- and a forcible gray eye. On the wall was a huge photo of him in a kind of
- Sandow pose, with a leopard-skin apron round his middle, showing terrific
- knotty biceps and back muscles. Gloria told us that at one time he had
- been a physical instructor in the Swedish army, and the head of a <i>Turnverein</i>,
- or something of that sort. There was a certain physical and gymnastic
- candour about him that amused us. He was awfully proud of Gloria, whom he
- had raised himself (being a widower) according to his own hygienic and
- athletic principles. After we had all bought his booklets, and promised to
- take up his system of calisthenics, he became quite chummy and showed us a
- lot of photographs of Gloria at different ages, doing her gymnastic
- exercises, beginning as a little plump Venus and ending as a stunning
- profile in tights. We tried to maintain an attitude of merely scientific
- detachment toward those pictures, admiring them only as connoisseurs of
- physical culture; but we ended by begging him for copies, insisting that
- they would be a useful guide to us in our own private exercising. But
- Larsen said he was keeping them to illustrate a new enlarged edition of
- his physical-culture book. We told him that it would sell a million
- copies, and I think we all volunteered to act as selling-agents for the
- book. Annette Kellermann and Susanna Cocroft, we cried, were scarecrows
- compared to Gloria.
- </p>
- <p>
- “To all this banter Gloria would listen calmly and unembarrassed, for she
- had a magnificent unconsciousness of her own superb allure. We would each
- try to get a moment alone with her to describe the exercises we were
- taking, and to ask her advice about our muscular development. I remember
- that Blackmore, after secret practice that we had not suspected, took the
- wind out of our sails one evening when some of us were bragging of our
- accomplishment in bending and touching the floor while standing on tiptoe.
- He jumped up and caught hold of the lintel of the doorway, and chinned
- himself on it a dozen times or so. We were all crestfallen by this feat
- until Gloria came forward—all the other customers had gone home—and
- did the same thing about twenty times. She went back to her counter with a
- heavenly flush of pride, while Blackmore dashed to a table and did a
- little sketch of her from memory, with the lovely lines of her figure
- silhouetted against the doorway.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it was I who was first to think of the subtlest compliment that any
- one could pay her, which was to ask the privilege of feeling her biceps.
- And what an arm she had! Not a great, fleshy, flabby washerwoman's limb,
- but the rippling marble of a Greek statue brought to warm life! Blackmore
- used to sit at meal-times neglecting his protose steak and making sketches
- of her while she wasn't looking. The best I could do was write verses
- about her. And while she played no favourites, I think she really gave me
- a little the inside track, because I talked physical culture with her more
- seriously than the others, who tried to make love to her a little too
- baldly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By this time she had us all doing calisthenics. The creaky floors of Mrs.
- Vesey's house used to resound night and morning with the agonies of our
- gymnastics. There was one exercise that Gloria told us she found
- particularly helpful. It was to lie down with the feet under a bureau or
- any other heavy piece of furniture, extend the arms behind the head, and
- then raise and lower the body a hundred times, pivoting from the waist.
- This was only one of fifty or more laborious accomplishments that we
- undertook for the sake of our goddess. No woman was ever wooed with more
- honest pangs, or with more repeated genuflections. As we lay on the floor
- before going to bed, raising our legs in the air two hundred times, or
- groaned in some sinew-cracking, twisting contortion devised by the
- pitiless Swede, it was the vision of Gloria's beauty of snow and rose that
- gave us courage. If any passer-by ever looked up at the front of Mrs.
- Vesey's house in the early mornings, he must have been startled to see a
- white figure near every window, furiously going through the Swedish
- manual. One of us, we fondly thought, would some day spend a healthy
- Swedish honeymoon performing these motions in ecstatic company with
- Gloria; and we did not want to be shamed by her incomparable perfection.
- If she worshipped bodily symmetry, our goal was nothing less. We wanted to
- be lithe, supple, very panthers of elasticity and grace. The evening I was
- able to stand on one leg in the restaurant and proudly raise my other foot
- to touch a gas-jet some six feet from the floor, I felt that Gloria might
- some day be mine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dove paused again, and seemed to fall into a reminiscent reverie.
- Unconsciously he stiffly extended one leg in front of him, and I divined
- that he was inwardly rehearsing that act of calisthenic triumph.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By gracious!” he said, “I've never forgotten the night I got her father's
- permission to take her to some gymnastic tournament, or something of that
- sort, down at Madison Square Garden. How annoyed the other men were when
- they went to the chop-house that night for their evening penance of
- lentils, and found Gloria absent! Yes, it was an odd wooing. I had found
- the measurements of the Venus de Milo in some Sunday paper, and that
- night, when we became quite sentimental, I made her promise to take her
- own dimensions, so that we could compare the proportions of the two. And
- we had some very happy little jokes, quite simple ones that she would
- understand, about her arms being much more lovely than those of the
- statue, and that sort of thing. How deliciously she blushed the next day
- when she gave me her list of measurements, written out on a sheet of
- paper. Of course, I pretended not to understand which was which. I wrote a
- little poem about them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It seems to me,” I said, “that you were getting on very well. What was
- the trouble? You didn't marry her, did you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Old man Larsen,” he continued, gravely, “had a number of other hobbies
- besides vegetarianism and physical culture. He was a mechanical genius in
- his way. I remember once, after we had expressed exaggerated admiration of
- some atrocious compound of lentils and nuts and fruit, Gloria took us
- through the kitchen to show us an ingenious sandwich-making machine her
- father had contrived. You fed in loaves of pumpernickel bread and pats of
- nut butter on one side, hard-boiled eggs and lettuce and dressing on the
- other, and out came egg-salad sandwiches through a slot, as neat as you
- could want to see. But the best of his stunts was a sort of miniature
- vacuum cleaner which the waitresses used for taking the crumbs off the
- tables. You've seen those little hot-air pistols they use at swell
- shoe-shining stands to dry the liquid cleanser off your shoes before they
- put on the polishing paste? Well, Larsen's decrumbing machine, as we used
- to call it, looked rather like those. You screwed a plug into an electric
- light socket, ran the little gun over the table, and in a jiffy it sucked
- up crumbs and cigarette ashes and spilled lentils and matches, and left
- the cloth neat. Larsen was so proud of it he said he was going to patent
- it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never cared so very much for the old man, he was a little too
- eccentric; and I began to think, after a while, that he used his daughter
- a little too crudely as a business bait; but he was full of ideas. He had
- a big motor-truck that he used to cruise around town, visiting the markets
- himself, to get the pick of the vegetables; and he was always tinkering
- with that truck, planning new mechanical tricks of some kind. He had an
- insatiable curiosity, too. He used to sit down at the table with us
- sometimes, late in the evening, and ask about our work, and where we
- lived, and what Mrs. Vesey was like, and what time of day we were home,
- and all sorts of fool questions like that.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, the time went on, and it began to be cold weather. I noticed this
- sooner than the other fellows, I think, because whereas most of them went
- to offices during the daytime, I stayed home at Mrs. Vesey's, trying to
- write in my narrow coop of a top bedroom. You know how depressing an
- instrument a typewriter is when your hands are cold. I haven't forgotten
- some dreary vigils I had up there, struggling to write short stories.
- Sometimes I used to give it up weakly, and go round to Larsen's, where it
- was always warm and cozy, to drink herb coffee and eat those brittle
- Swedish biscuits and chat with Gloria. I used to complain to her about the
- cold in my room, and she would laugh and say that I just ought to try a
- winter in Sweden.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Swedish exercises,' she would say. 'That's the thing to stir up your
- blood! They'll keep you warm.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “And then, in her enchanting way, she would tell me a new one, and if
- there were no customers (as there generally weren't in the middle of the
- afternoon) she would illustrate how it should be done. Sometimes she would
- even allow me what she called a Swedish kiss—a very fleeting and
- provocative embrace. And then I would show her my new perfection in doing
- the backward stoop or some such muscular oddity, and return to my cold
- citadel.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But in spite of the fact that we were all busy much of the time going
- through our manual of exercises, presently the chill of Mrs. Vesey's
- lodgings became severe. Mrs. Vesey was a rather obstinate and frugal old
- dear, and she herself dwelt down in the kitchen, where her big gas-range
- kept her comfortable. When we complained of the cold, she had all sorts of
- excuses for postponing lighting the furnace. There was a big coal strike
- that year, and she was quite right in suspecting that once her present
- supply was exhausted it would be very hard to get more. Also, she said,
- her furnace man had quit, but she was hunting for another. On one pretext
- or another, she kept on putting us off, until finally it was mid-November,
- and we were doing our exercises in rooms where our breath showed like
- clouds of fog. And then one day Mrs. Vesey came up in great glee to say
- that a coal man had called that very morning, of his own accord, and had
- offered to give her five tons. She had promptly snapped at the chance, and
- he had put the coal in the cellar; so we should have heat the very next
- day, when the new furnace man was expected.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Naturally we were all cheered by this good news. We sped round to
- Larsen's restaurant in high spirits, and adored our divinity with even
- more than usual abandon.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Now my fingers will be warm again, Gloria,' I said, 'I'll be able to
- write some more poems about you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Yes,' cried Blackmore, 'and now it will be warm enough for you to come
- and pose for me in my lovely attic at Mrs. Vesey's. If you had come
- before, I should have called my painting “The Chilblain Venus.”'
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Silly boys!' said Gloria, with that delicious, soft Swedish accent which
- I can't even try to imitate. 'You are hot-blooded enough as it is. You
- don't need all that warming up. Look at us vegetarians; you make fun of
- us, but our lentils keep our blood circulating. Try Brussels sprouts; they
- are full of calories.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Ah!' we shouted. 'But you seem to keep this place warm enough.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “Old Larsen, who passed through the room just then, broke in crossly:
- </p>
- <p>
- “'We have to, for the sake of the customers,' he said. 'Gloria, stop
- fooling with the gentlemen and attend to business.' He seemed in a bad
- humour that night.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The next day must have been some sort of holiday, for I know we all went
- out to see a football game. We got back about supper-time and found the
- house perishing chill. With shouts and protests we called Mrs. Vesey from
- her kitchen, but she explained that the expected furnace man had not
- turned up.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Well,' said Blackmore, 'this can't go on any longer, Mrs. Vesey. I'll go
- down and light the fire myself. We'll take turns and keep it going till
- your man comes.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “He ran down to the basement, but a minute later he was up again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Mrs. Vesey,' he shouted, 'what is all this nonsense? Are you kidding us?
- There's no coal down there at all!'
- </p>
- <p>
- “'No coal?' she exclaimed. 'Why, there was a good three or four tons, and
- the man said he put five tons more in yesterday. I heard him do it—never
- heard such a noise in my life. I paid him ten dollars a ton.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Impossible!' Blackmore cried, angrily. 'There's not enough down there to
- fry Nemo with. About three shovelfuls, that's all. What is this—some
- kind of a game to freeze us out?'
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mrs. Vesey wrung her hands, and we all ran down to the cellar. It was as
- Blackmore had said. The bins were empty, save for a few lumps.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dove gazed down thoughtfully at the coal office on the pier below us,
- where a wagon was loading.
- </p>
- <p>
- “On a mellow afternoon like this,” he said, “coal doesn't seem quite so
- pressing a concern; but I tell you, in a bleak boarding-house about
- Thanksgiving time, with no heat of any sort available but a gas-jet, it is
- a different matter. We were an angry and puzzled lot that night. Mrs.
- Vesey protested so pitifully that there had been coal in the bins only the
- day before, and asserted so repeatedly that she had heard the noise of the
- new load going in, that we could not help believe her. She promised to
- call up her coal man the first thing the next morning, and we also agreed
- to go round and visit him in a body, to add our personal appeals; but how
- on earth several tons of coal could have been stolen out of the cellar
- without any one hearing it seemed to us a mystery.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The next morning we visited the coal-dealer <i>en masse</i>—in a
- coalition, as Blackmore said—and by spirited imprecation and paying
- cash we extracted a promise to have a couple of tons sent at once. His
- office was some distance up on Columbus Avenue, and on our way back we
- passed through one of the cross-streets—Eighty-Third, I think it
- was, because one of us wanted to get some stamps at the post-office. As we
- came along, we heard the rumble of coal passing down a chute, and saw a
- coal-wagon in the distance.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'There's somebody in luck,' said one.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'But what an odd-looking coal-wagon,' said another, as we approached.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was a large motor-truck with a hinged metal top, something like a huge
- street-cleaning cart. The engine was throbbing, and the coal was roaring
- noisily in the chute, which led down into the cellar window of a
- brownstone dwelling. The chute, instead of being the customary shallow
- trough, was a large circular pipe, so that we could not actually see the
- coal pouring downward, but only hear it crashing through the metal tube.
- That struck me as a good idea for preventing the coal-dust from spreading
- over everything near.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But we were all interested not only in the odd appearance of the truck,
- but in the extraordinary din it caused. Delivering coal is never a silent
- job, naturally; but this racket was really terrific. The driver seemed to
- have left his engine running full tilt, and the whole truck quivered and
- shook with the power. We stood amazed at the furious rattle and uproar.
- The noise was too great for spoken words to be caught, but I pointed out
- the circular chute to Blackmore. It was made in telescoping sections, to
- slide into itself, and was an interesting novelty.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It occurred to me that this dealer, whoever he might be—there was
- no name on the truck—could perhaps let Mrs. Vesey have some coal. We
- could see the feet of the driver, who was standing on the other side of
- the truck, and I went round to speak to him. It was a stocky man with a
- flowing bush of black beard and wearing a suit of very grimy overalls. At
- the top of my voice I yelled:
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Got any coal to sell?'
- </p>
- <p>
- “He shook his head in a surly way and turned his back on me.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I could not tell from his gesture whether he had answered my question, or
- was indicating that he could not hear; so I shouted at him again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “At the same time I noticed Blackmore and the others gathered at the
- cellar window, looking in curiously over the slope of the delivery pipe.
- The coal man seized a lever and shut off his power, for the engine
- stopped, and after a little sliding and rumbling in the tube the racket
- ceased. He picked up a shovel and ran to the group by the chute.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Here, let that alone!' he cried, angrily. “'Keep your shirt on,' said
- Blackmore. 'We're just looking at this outfit of yours. It makes a devil
- of a noise. Regular public nuisance, I call it!' '“It's none of your
- affair,' said the man. 'Keep out of what don't concern you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “He returned to his truck, pulled a handle, and the roar of the coal began
- again. I was standing near him, while the others were on the opposite side
- of the wagon, so I was the only one to see a curious thing. There were
- several revolving cogwheels at the side of the truck, and in his
- irritation, I suppose the driver stooped over them too closely. At any
- rate, his beard caught in the cogs, and I gave a cry of dismay, thinking
- he would be cruelly hurt. To my amazement the beard was whisked quickly
- from his face, and I saw that he was Larsen. He looked at me with an
- expression of alarm and anger that was laughable.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'When did you turn coal-dealer?' I shouted. But at this moment Blackmore,
- who was still bending over the chute, sprang up and ran round to us. He,
- too, was staggered to see the identity of the driver. He dragged me a few
- paces away and shouted in my ear.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Damn queer business,' he said. 'That coal isn't going in. It's coming
- out!'
- </p>
- <p>
- “'What the deuce do you mean?' I said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Just what I say. He's got some sort of a suction engine in that truck, a
- kind of big vacuum cleaner, and he's simply siphoning the coal out of
- somebody's cellar.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “Larsen ran at us with a big spanner in his hand, but we grappled with
- him, and while three of us held him the others examined the truck. It was
- perfectly true. By an ingenious gasoline pump installed in the wagon he
- was drawing out the coal. Looking into the top of the wagon through a
- little glass peephole, we could see the black nuggets coming swiftly up
- out of the chute. By this time a little crowd had gathered, and the lady
- of the house ran out to see what was happening. I think she thought we
- were trying to seduce her coal supply. She explained angrily to us that
- Larsen had driven up to her door half an hour before and offered to sell
- her several tons of coal. Her cellar, like everyone else's, was none too
- well stocked, and she had been delighted to agree.
- </p>
- <p>
- “While we were wondering just what to do, Larsen, who had been glaring
- wickedly at us, broke away from our grasp and reversed his machinery so
- that the coal began to thunder back honestly into the cellar. The puzzled
- woman, not suspecting anything wrong, went back indoors after we made some
- impromptu explanation for the fuss. Larsen's amputated black beard whirled
- round and round, still adhering to the rolling cogs, as we watched, while
- he stood by sullenly. We walked away down the block to hold a council, and
- also to let the group of mystified onlookers disperse. Of course, our
- first thought was to go for the police; but then we thought of Gloria.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dove sighed, and tapped out his long-expired pipe.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” he said, “that's pretty near the end of the story. I'm afraid
- association with Beauty blunts the sense of rectitude. No, we didn't do
- anything about it, except see to it that Larsen put back that coal in the
- cellar. I suppose we were really accessory to a misdemeanour, because we
- gathered from some small paragraphs we saw in the papers that a number of
- householders in that neighbourhood had been mysteriously robbed of their
- coal. To tell you the truth, we couldn't bear the thought of taking any
- action that would ruin Gloria's happiness. What were a few tons of black,
- filthy coal compared to that serene and golden-white beauty of hers, like
- some princess in a Norse fairy tale? The old man was a lunatic, we
- supposed, and would come to grief sooner or later. We were not going to be
- the ones to bring humiliation upon him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We walked back, stricken, to our lodgings; and as we passed the Physical
- Culture Chophouse we looked furtively through the window. We could see
- Gloria laying the tables for lunch, the tall, strong curve of her back as
- she leaned over, her capable white hands smoothing the cloth. None of us
- had the heart to go in.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We clubbed together to pay for Mrs. Vesey's new supply of coal, although
- it broke our pocket-books for the next month or so. We were too hard up,
- then, to go on eating at Larsen's. We had to patronize a lunch-counter
- instead, where we gloomed over frankfurters and beans and quarrelled with
- one another, in sheer misery, as to which one of us Gloria had really
- liked best. We never saw her again, because about a week later the Larsen
- café shut up, and they disappeared.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the calisthenics?” I said. “Did you go on with those?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” he said; “we were too melancholy. Also, as soon as Mrs. Vesey's coal
- arrived, we didn't need to. That was the terrible part of it. You see,
- Gloria had simply egged us on to do those exercises so that we wouldn't
- feel the chill when her father stole the coal. I'm afraid she was as
- guilty as he was, but we tried to convince ourselves that she was only a
- tool.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We got up from our bench, for the afternoon air was growing bleak.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now you know,” he said, “why that coal-dump down there reminded me of
- Gloria. Well, it was wonderful while it lasted—until, as you might
- say, the serpent drove us out of our Garden of Sweden.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T WAS two days
- before Christmas, and Dove Dulcet had come down town to have lunch with
- me. As he had arrived rather early, we were taking a little stroll round
- the bright, windy streets before our meal, enjoying the colour and
- movement of the scene. We stopped by St. Paul's churchyard to note the
- curious contrast of the old chocolate spire relieved against the huge
- glittering shaft of the Woolworth Building. At the noon hour St. Paul's
- stands in the dark shadow of the great cliffs to the south, while the
- Woolworth pinnacle leaps up like a spearhead into the golden vacancy of
- day-long sunshine.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Saint Paul in the shadow, Saint Frank in the sun,” said Dove with gentle
- irony. “It seems to prove that ten cents put in the cash register gets
- nearer Heaven than ten cents dropped in the collection plate.”
- </p>
- <p>
- When Dove is philosophical, he is always full of quaint matter, but I was
- hardly heeding what he said. My eye had been caught by a crowd gathered at
- the corner of Church Street. Over the heads of the throng was a winking
- spark of light that flashed this way and that as though spun from a
- turning mirror.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let's go and see what's doing,” I said. My poet friend is always docile,
- and he followed me down Fulton Street.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It looks to me like a silk hat,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- And so it was. On the corner of the pavement stood a tall, stout, and very
- well-nourished man with a ruddy face, wearing shabby but still presentable
- cutaway coat and gray trousers, and crowned by a steep and glittering
- stovepipe hat which twinkled like a heliograph in the dazzling winter
- glare. But, most amazing, when we elbowed a passage through the jocular
- crowd, we saw that this personable individual was wearing, instead of an
- overcoat, two large sandwich boards vigorously lettered as follows:
- </p>
- <h3>
- THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE
- </h3>
- <p>
- OPENS TO-DAY 59 Ann Street
- </p>
- <p>
- Celebrate the Merry Yuletide!
- </p>
- <p>
- One Prodigious Meal,
- </p>
- <h3>
- $1 BUY A STRIP TICKET AND SAVE MONEY
- </h3>
- <p>
- TO-DAY ONLY 100 meals for $10
- </p>
- <p>
- This corpulent sandwich man was blithely answering the banter of those who
- were not awed by the radiance of his headgear and the dignity of his mien,
- and passing out printed cards to those nearest him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do all the hundred meals have to be eaten to-day?” asked Dulcet. “If so,
- the task is beyond my powers.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Like the man in the Bible,” I said, “he probably rented his garments. But
- he couldn't rent that admirable abdomen that proclaims him a well-fed man.
- It seems to me a very sound ad. for the chophouse.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Unquestionably,” said my friend, gravely, “he is the man who put the ad
- in adipose.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The sandwich man, unabashed by these remarks, handed me one of his cards,
- which Dulcet and I read together:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>K. Jefferson Gastric, the best-fed man south of 42nd Street, takes this
- importunity of urging you to become a steakholder in the Commutation
- Chophouse. Why pay for overhead expense? In the Commutation Chophouse all
- unnecessaries are discarded and you pay only for food, not for
- finger-bowls and a lovely female cashier. No tips. To-day Only, the
- Opening Day, to celebrate the jovial Yule, the management will sell Strip
- Tickets entitling you to 100 Glorious Meals, for $10.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- At this point a policeman politely urged Mr. Gastric to move on, and he
- passed genially down Church Street, his resplendent hat glowing above a
- trail of followers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come on,” I said; “it's time to eat, anyway. Let's go over to Ann Street
- and have a look at this philanthropic venture.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” said Dulcet, “since it's your turn to buy, far be it from me to
- protest.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The narrow channel of Ann Street is always crowded at the lunch hour, but
- on that occasion it was doubly congested with patrons of the amusing
- toyshops. We pushed patiently along, and passing Nassau Street moved into
- a darker and shabbier region. A sound of music rose upon the air. To our
- surprise, at the entrance to an unsuspected alley stood a fiddler playing
- a merry jig. Beside him was another sandwich man, also stout and
- well-favoured and in Fifth-Avenue attire, carrying boards which read:
- </p>
- <h3>
- ENTRANCE TO THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE
- </h3>
- <p>
- Eat Drink and Be Merry For To-morrow We Die
- </p>
- <p>
- To-day Only, for the Jocund Yule,
- </p>
- <p>
- Strip Tickets for 100 Square Meals, $10
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is highly diverting,” I said. “Apparently we go down this passage.
- Come on, everyone seems bound the same way. We won't get a seat unless we
- make haste.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dulcet was gazing reflectively at the sandwich boards. His blue eyes had a
- quizzical twinkle.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For God, for country, and for Yule,” he said. “Queer that this should
- happen on Ann Street. I seem to remember——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Queer that it should happen anywhere,” I interrupted him. “It's a clever
- advertising stunt, anyway—100 meals for $10. It seems too good to be
- true.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The only thing I'm afraid of,” he said, “is that it is literally true.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Walk in, gents, give us a try,” cried the sandwich man. “Try anything
- once, gents.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come on, Dove,” I said, seeing that others were crowding ahead of us down
- the alley. “None of your paradoxes!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The narrow passage turned into a courtyard overlooked by old grimy
- warehouses with iron-shuttered windows. In one corner was a fine
- substantial brick building with a rounded front, and a long flight of
- wooden stairs that seemed to lead up to a marine junk shop, for old
- sea-boots and ships' lanterns and fenders hung along the wall. In a
- basement was an iron foundry where we could see the bright glow of a
- forge. Halfway down the little area was a low door with a huge stone
- lintel-piece over which was a large canvas sign: <i>the commutation
- chophouse</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- I must confess to an irrational affection for quaint eating places, and
- having explored downtown New York's crowded cafés and lunchrooms rather
- carefully in quest of a congenial tavern, the Commutation Chophouse struck
- me as highly original and pleasing. We stepped down into a very large and
- rather dark cellar that apparently had previously been used as a
- carpenter's shop, for a good many traces of the earlier tenancy were still
- visible. The furnishings were of the plainest, consisting simply of heavy
- wooden tables and benches. There was no linen on the tables, but the wood
- had been scrubbed scrupulously clean and there were piles of tissue
- napkins. From a door at the back waiters came rushing with trays of food.
- A glorious clatter of knives and forks filled the air, and it looked at
- first as though we would find no place to sit. As Dove expressed it, the
- room was loaded to the muzzle; and a continuous stream of patrons was
- coming down the alley, allured by the sandwich man and the absurd thin
- gayety of the fiddle. By the front door stood a dark young man, behind a
- small counter, selling tickets.
- </p>
- <p>
- “One meal for a dollar,” he cried, repeatedly, as he took in money. “One
- hundred meals for ten dollars. Get your commutation tickets here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We'll try two single meals to begin with,” I said, and put down a
- ten-dollar bill.
- </p>
- <p>
- The young man rummaged in a drawer full of greasy notes to get the change.
- “Better get a commutation,” he said. “Tremendous saving.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should think you'd need a cash register,” said Dulcet. “Handling all
- that kale, it would be useful in keeping the accounts straight.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The young man looked up sharply.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Say,” he retorted, “what are you, mister? Cash-register salesman? Step
- along please, don't block the gangway. Next! Seats in the rear! No,
- commutation tickets not transferable. Good only to the purchaser. Ten
- dollars, please. Next!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They seem to be coining money,” said Dove, as we found places at last in
- a rear corner.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” I said, “this is just the kind of place I like. By Jove, this
- building must be well over a hundred years old. Look at those beams in the
- ceiling. All they need is a few sporting prints and an open fireplace. Lit
- by candles, too, you see. Well, well, this is the real alehouse
- atmosphere. Why, it's as good as the Cheshire Cheese. This is the kind of
- place where I can imagine Doctor Johnson and Charles Lamb sitting in a
- corner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are an incurable sentimentalist,” he said. “Besides, Lamb would have
- had to sit on Johnson's knee, I expect. If I remember rightly, Lamb was a
- very small urchin when Doctor Johnson died.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why be so literal?” I protested. “Haven't you any sentiment for fine
- antique flavour, and all that sort of thing?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If there is one thing where sentiment plays no part with me,” he said,
- “it is food. At meal times I am distinctly a realist. Fine antique flavour
- is rather upsetting when you find it in your meat. But still,” he
- continued, “I must admit this looks good.” He beamed approvingly at the
- thick chop and baked potatoes and beans and coffee the waiter had put down
- in front of us.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Evidently you don't order your food,” I said. “They give you the
- standardized meal of the day. Fall to! These beans baked in cheese strike
- me as excellent.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I have never seen waiters rush around with such speed as they did in that
- crowded cellar, where flickering candle-gleams cast a tawny light over the
- crowded tables of men packed shoulder to shoulder. They flashed in and out
- through the rear door like men possessed. They careered in with trays of
- steaming viands, crashed them down on the bare tables, and fled out again,
- napkins streaming behind them like pennants. Once they had delivered your
- food it seemed impossible to catch their gaze, for we tried to hail one to
- ask for ketchup. It was no use. He flew hither and yon with frantic and
- single-minded energy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “These waiters speed like dervishes,” I said. “Evidently the no-tip rule
- does not lessen their zeal.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps they get a share in the profits of the enterprise,” said Dulcet,
- placidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Just behind us was a small barred window looking out on a street. It was
- at the ground level, and looking through the dusty pane I could see
- horses' hoofs going by, and the feet of pedestrians. Suddenly there was a
- great clang and crash outside, and I turned to look.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What's up?” said Dulcet, who was cheerfully disposing of his chop as well
- as his neighbour's elbow would permit him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They seem to have spilled some beans,” I said, peering through the dusky
- aperture. “There's a truck delivering food or something at the back door.
- They've tipped over a can, I think.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Spilled some beans?” he said, with his first sign of real interest. “That
- sounds symbolic. Let me have a look.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood up on the bench and gazed outward. Presently he sat down again
- and went on calmly with his meal. Some excellent cheese cake was brought
- us as dessert.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That alley behind us,” he said. “I suppose it communicates with Beekman
- Street, doesn't it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I guess so. Why?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just wondering. Ben, I apologize for my skepticism. The food here is
- jolly good. In fact, it's so good that I think I've tasted it before. I am
- your debtor for a very enlarging experience. And now, as the crowd is
- becoming almost oppressive, and I can see that there are others eager to
- commute, suppose we smoke our cigars outdoors.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Right you are,” I said. “And since the food is eatable, and I happen to
- have the money with me, I think I'll invest in one of those strip tickets.
- Everyone else seems to be doing it, and it looks to me a good way to save
- money. A hundred lunches—why, that will see me through till spring.
- I don't think I'll get tired of eating here, it's so amusing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” said Dove, as he picked up his hat, “I don't think you'll get tired
- of eating here. Perhaps the money will be well spent.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I bought my commutation, and we stood in the shabby old courtyard for a
- few minutes watching the crowd stream in. A good many, I noticed, though
- unable to find seats, still took advantage of the opening-day offer and
- bought the hundred meal tickets for future consumption.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The only drawback about this place is the crowd,” I said. “If this keeps
- up, half of downtown New York will be eating here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look here,” said Dove, “I think I shall be down this way again to-morrow.
- It's my turn to buy. Will you lunch with me then? We'll celebrate the
- jovial Yule together.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Fine,” I said. “Meet you at the old red newspaper-box at the corner of
- Broadway and Vesey to-morrow at 12 o'clock.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- We were both there punctually.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you got your appetite with you?” asked Dove. “It's a bit early for
- feasting, but it'll give us time for a stroll after lunch.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where do we eat?” I said. “Commutation again? It's all velvet to me,
- anyway, all my lunches are paid for for the next three months.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There's a little place on Beekman Street I used to know,” he said. “Let's
- try that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We found a corner table in an odd old eating house at the corner of
- Beekman and Gold streets, which I had never seen before.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm a great believer in tit for tat, fair play, and all that sort of
- thing,” said Dulcet when the waiter approached. “You gave me an excellent
- lunch yesterday. I intend to give you the same lunch to-day, if you can
- stand eating it again. Waiter! Mutton chop, baked potato, baked beans,
- coffee, and cheese cake. For two.”
- </p>
- <p>
- When the beans came, baked with cheese in a little brown dish, just as
- they were served the day before, I must confess that I was startled.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, these beans are done exactly like those we had at the Commutation,”
- I said. “Are these people doing the cooking for the chop-house?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps you'll have to eat chop and beans for a hundred lunches,” Dulcet
- said. “Well, it's a hearty diet. After all, the sandwich boards simply
- said a hundred meals. They didn't guarantee that they would be different.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I insisted that on our way back toward the office we should stop at the
- Commutation Chophouse and find out from a customer what the bill of fare
- had been on the second day. The vision of a hundred repetitions of any
- meal, however good, is rather ghastly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't hear the minstrel to-day,” Dove observed as we drew near the
- alley.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, well,” I said, “that was just to draw business for the opening.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We turned down the passage at No. 59. Quite a crowd of patrons were
- waiting their turn, I saw. They were standing in the courtyard by the
- chop-house door, talking busily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You see,” I said, “it's still crowded.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We reached the entrance. The door was closed. The sign over the doorway
- now had additional lettering painted on it, and read:
- </p>
- <h3>
- THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE
- </h3>
- <p>
- The Other 99 Meals Will Be Served In Augusta, Maine.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come on, Ben,” said Dulcet. “No use trying to break through a window.
- There's no one there. I wonder what the fare is to Augusta?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You rascal!” I cried. “If you suspected this, why the devil did you
- encourage me to squander my $10?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I simply said it would probably be well spent,” he said, with a clear
- blue humorous gaze. “If it helps to cauterize your magnificent credulity,
- it will be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We sat down on a bench in St. Paul's churchyard to smoke a pipe together
- while I performed some mental obsequies over my vanished Federal Reserve
- certificate. Dove looked up at the sparkling gilded turret of the
- Woolworth.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “I daresay Frank Woolworth would have fallen for it, too,” Dove said. “The
- idea of a hundred meals for 10 cents each would have appealed to him. But
- you know, old man, there are certain fixed and immutable laws that the
- observant city dweller is accustomed to. My motto is, whenever you find an
- apparent exception to those laws, look for an enigma in the woodpile. I
- suspected something wrong when I saw that sandwich man on Church Street. A
- man as fat as that doesn't generally take a job sandwiching. Also I have
- doubts about people who insist on calling Christmas 'Yule'. Moreover, a
- man doesn't generally take a job sandwiching until his shirt is so ragged
- that he is ashamed to exhibit it in public, when he is glad to cover it up
- with the boards. Those two fat sandwicheers were members of the firm, I
- fear, for their linen was O. K. And, secondly, what are the first things a
- man gets if he really intends to start a restaurant? A cash register and a
- bunch of ketchup bottles. There wasn't a cash register nor a ketchup
- bottle in sight in the Commutation Chophouse. No, my dear; what you
- admired as carefully arranged atmosphere of antiquity, the plain board
- tables and candles and so on, was really stark cheapness. They weren't
- spending any money on overhead; they said so themselves.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When you called my attention to the spilled beans, I was sure. For they
- were not merely beans: they were baked beans; a far more significant
- matter. When I looked out of the window I could see at once that there was
- no kitchen attached to the Commutation Chophouse. The food was all being
- delivered from that place on Beekman Street, whose name was on the truck.
- A few ingenious rogues simply rented that old cellar, cheaply enough I
- guess, put in a few tables, arranged to have grub shipped in from near by,
- printed their commutation tickets, and sat down to collect as many dollars
- as they could lure out of the open-handed Christmas throng.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, of all infernal liars,” I cried, “they certainly take the prize.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not so,” said Dulcet as we got up to go. “You should have read the
- sandwich boards a little more carefully. Their ingenious author, whom you
- chide as the Ann Street Ananias, really told the exact and circumstantial
- truth.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We stood at the gateway of the graveyard, and gazed across the roaring
- traffic of Broadway. Dove smiled and said he must be starting on his
- Christmas shopping.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I tried to warn you,” he said, “but you wouldn't listen. As I was about
- to say just before we visited the place, it was queer that it should
- happen on Ann Street. Don't you remember that a certain famous gentleman
- had his museum at the corner of Broadway and Ann? And it was he, I think,
- who remarked that there's one born every minute. Well, Merry Christmas!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE PERT LITTLE HAT
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>EMMING had a home,
- and dearly he loved everything in it—with one exception. He loved
- the furnace, and the kitchen range with its warm ruddy glow, and the
- violet-coloured wafer of expensive aromatic soap that always mysteriously
- appeared on the marble wash-basin when visitors came. He loved the little
- glass towel racks, and the miniature embroidered hand towels with Mrs.
- Hemming's maiden initials on them, which also appeared, white and
- fragrant, whenever there was any special festivity. Those little towels
- were to him a kind of symbol of the first ecstatic days of their married
- life, and he could not bear to think of the inevitable time when they
- would be frayed and discarded. He loved the shelf over the fireplace where
- his brown-stained corncob pipe waited for the after-supper smoke. He loved
- the little porch where the baby carriage stood, and the tulip beds that he
- and Janet had planted together, and the mission dining table, now
- blistered and scarred, that had been their very first piece of furniture.
- </p>
- <p>
- But in the little den upstairs stood his desk, and how he hated it!
- </p>
- <p>
- Hemming, you see, had literary ambitions, and that desk meant to him every
- circumstance, every long-drawn torment, of weariness and toil. It had
- meant much pleasure, too, in hours when his writing had prospered; but how
- the bitter outnumbered the sweet! How many hundred evenings he had dragged
- himself to it, in lassitude and lethargy; had forced his drowsy, unwilling
- mind to the task at hand. How many nights, nodding over the typewriter, he
- had stumbled on and on. Over his desk he kept, ironically, a letter he had
- once had from an editor, which said: <i>We like stories. They have a
- joyous freshness. You write as though you enjoyed it.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- Hemming was no quick and easy composer. His stories emerged slowly,
- painfully, hammered and wrenched from the stubborn tissues of a weary
- brain. When his whole soul and body cried out for a comfortable stretch on
- the couch, with pipe and book, and a gradual, blissful lapse into slumber,
- he would throw off his coat, stick his head out of the window for a dozen
- gulps of cool night air, and then sit down at the wheezy old typewriter.
- </p>
- <p>
- Its yellow keys seemed a kind of doleful rosary on which he told long
- petitions to whatever gods look down pityingly on young writers. He would
- think how wonderful it would be if he could only do his writing in the
- morning when he was fresh. To leap out of bed in the crisp early air, to
- plunge into the cold bath where the water shimmered a pale green by
- catching the tint of the big maple tree just outside the bathroom, to
- swallow two cups of hot coffee, two slices of buttered toast, and then sit
- down to his desk. In the zest and lustihood of the morning, how the
- thoughts would throng, how the great empire of words would unroll before
- him, far away to the blue hills where lived his unwritten poems! Such was
- his daily thought as he hurried down the hill on bright mornings to catch
- the 8.13 train to town. But to come back at night after a long day at the
- office, and after helping Janet wash the dishes, and stoking the furnace
- or mowing the lawn or planting bulbs in the garden—then to try to
- write seemed tough indeed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Still, it had to be done, and Hemming threw his manhood into the task. In
- his little den there was just space for a couch, his desk, and his books,
- which were littered about the room. His only chance of accomplishing
- anything was to get Janet safely installed on the couch, for if he once
- lay down there work was impossible. She would curl up under a steamer rug,
- tired out from a long day with the house and the baby, reading a book or
- the evening paper. And then the stumbling clatter of the typewriter would
- begin.
- </p>
- <p>
- After a while there always came what they humorously called “the pathetic
- little moment.” This was the time when Janet's book or paper would slip
- from her hand, she would turn away from the light, and coast down the
- long, smooth toboggan of sleep. Then Hemming would switch off the reading
- lamp above her head (with the secret economic satisfaction young
- householders always feel when they switch off a light), touch the soft
- cheek with a friendly finger, and climb the keys once more. His writing
- always seemed to go better after the “pathetic little moment” was past.
- There was a kind of subconscious satisfaction in the feeling that Janet
- was there, asleep, and that he was working for her. And Janet used to
- affirm that there was no lullaby like the irregular thumping of those keys
- and levers.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was another catchword they had, which also moved stealthily in the
- back passages of his mind as he mulled over his manuscripts. Janet badly
- needed a new bonnet—a “pert little hat,” she liked to call it—and
- Hemming had pledged himself to write something that would bring her the
- saucy little ornament she craved in time for Christmas. She was a slender,
- bright-faced creature, and no one could wear an innocently tilted turban
- with more grace. But these had been hard days for small incomes. Winter
- coal, and warm clothes for the Urchin, and the cook's wages (when they had
- one), and Liberty Bonds—all these had taken precedence over the pert
- little hat. It had been talked of so long, it had become a kind of joyous
- legend, which Janet hardly expected to see realized on her head. She used
- to say wistfully, as she coasted off to sleep on the couch: “Would it be
- unpatriotic to think about the pert little hat?” And her husband would vow
- that patriotism that excluded pert little hats was no patriotism at all.
- So he had sworn that the bonnet should be millinered on the clacking loom
- of his typewriter. They used to laugh about it, and say that the little
- hat ought to be trimmed with carbon typewriter ribbons.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Hemming did not know that Janet was not always asleep after the
- so-called “pathetic moment” when she ostensibly gave up the struggle with
- drowsiness. The twanging springs of the old couch made less noise than the
- typewriter keys, but they, too, moved to a secret creative refrain. There
- were times when Janet lay watching the lamplight on the rows of books, and
- little pictures of stories that she would like to write flashed into her
- head. They often used to come to her at inopportune periods during the
- day, when the Urchin was in his bath or when she was taking stock of the
- ice-box. Of course her husband was the literary man of the family, and she
- had no thought of setting up her simple imaginings against his more
- serious efforts. But one night, when he was engrossed in some intractable
- plot, Janet slipped away into the little guest room and shut herself in.
- With a stub pencil, on odd sheets of notepaper, she began scribbling
- hotly. Two hours later, when Hemming came back to earth and hunted her
- out, she was still at it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What on earth are you up to, monk?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Making out laundry lists,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- More observant husbands might have wondered what occasion there would be
- for a laundry list on Thursday evening, but Hemming was always drowned in
- his dreams of literary fame.
- </p>
- <p>
- His story, on which he had laboured at night for two months, and hers,
- which had taken the spare hours of three days, were finished almost at the
- same time. After dinner one night, when he had read the manuscript of his
- story aloud, Janet handed him her venture, with some trepidation. At first
- he seemed a little nettled that she should have done such a thing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look here, monk,” he said, “you oughtn't to wear yourself out trying to
- write. You have quite enough to do with the house and the baby. Moreover,
- you don't know how discouraging it is. It takes years of patient
- apprenticeship before one can get anything across with the editors. This
- is my job, brownie.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I enjoyed doing it,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's a bad sign. All really good stories take fearful effort. How long
- did you spend on this?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, quite a while,” she said, vaguely. She did not like to admit that her
- little story had involved no “patient apprenticeship.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He lit his pipe and began reading the sheets on which her quick pencil had
- flashed with such enthusiasm. She sat with her sewing, watching him shyly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very nice,” was his comment; but privately he wondered how he was to
- avoid hurting her feelings. It seemed to him that the story had all the
- faults of the amateur.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you submit it anywhere?” she asked, eagerly. “Do you think any
- magazine would buy it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He evaded the question. “Would you like me to type it for you?” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, <i>would</i> you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll tell you what I'll do,” he said, “I'll be sending my manuscript to
- Mr. Edwards to-morrow. I'll type yours and send it, too.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Janet was delighted, and she fell asleep that night with the sweet music
- of the thumping keys in her ears. As she heard the staccato clicking, she
- thought: “I wonder how far he has got now? How good of him to take all
- that trouble to copy my poor little story.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Hemming sat up very late that night, copying Janet's manuscript and
- planning what to say to Mr. Edwards, the editor of the <i>Colonial
- Magazine</i>, who had been very cordial to him. He resisted the temptation
- to alter Janet's naïve phrasing here and there, to improve her technique
- by recasting some of the situations in her story. It was long past
- midnight when both manuscripts were ready to go into the stout manila
- envelope. Then, after some meditation, Hemming added the following note:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Dear Mr. Edwards:</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>I am sending you herewith my new story, and hope you may like it. I am
- also enclosing a manuscript from my wife. Of course she is an untrained
- writer—this is her first attempt—but I think her story has a
- certain charm. Won't you, if you can, give her any encouragement you feel
- proper? If you would write her a personal note of comment it would mean a
- great deal to her. You know how tenderly one feels toward one's maiden
- effort.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Sincerely yours,</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Godfrey Hemming.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- It was very late when Hemming folded the carefully typed sheets and placed
- them in the precious envelope. He was utterly weary, which must be the
- explanation of a curious error he made. It was his custom to type his name
- and address on a separate sheet of paper which was clipped to the story he
- was submitting. He put his own name on one sheet, and his wife's on
- another. But in arranging the manuscripts for the envelope he
- inadvertently put his name-page with his wife's manuscript, and vice
- versa. Then he went to bed with the satisfaction of well-earned fatigue,
- and wondering how soon he would be able to order the “pert little hat”.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was two weeks later, and the Urchin had just murmured himself off into
- his morning nap, when Janet heard the postman's whistle, and ran down to
- receive an envelope with the name of the <i>Colonial Magazine</i> engraved
- upon it. Eagerly she tore it open.
- </p>
- <p>
- My Dear Mrs. Hemming:
- </p>
- <p>
- Your husband was good enough to send me the manuscript of your story,
- which I have read with interest. It is an able piece of work, and shows
- unusual technical skill for a beginner. But I must caution you not to let
- your pen follow the track of your husband's method too closely. Naturally
- enough, perhaps, your style seems to have modeled itself on his: but this
- is a mistake, because it is quite evident that you have ability enough to
- strike out on your own line. I wish you would study carefully Mr.
- Hemming's last story, “Three Is Company,” which shows a freshness and
- spontaneous originality better than anything he has done before. It has a
- touch of charming humour which is new to his work. If you can do us
- something of that sort, we shall be only too happy to publish it.
- </p>
- <p>
- I am returning your manuscript with many thanks.
- </p>
- <p>
- Faithfully yours
- </p>
- <p>
- Theodore Edwards.
- </p>
- <p>
- Janet looked at the editor's flowing signature in amazement. “Three Is
- Company” was her own story. And there, in the <i>Colonial Magazine's</i>
- envelope, lay the revered pages of Godfrey's masterpiece, returned. The
- “fresh and spontaneous originality” was hers! A flush of exultation
- thrilled her: she could almost feel the pert little hat on her head.
- Instinctively she looked at herself in the mirror over the hall
- mantelpiece. Was it possible that she was a literary genius, and had never
- known it?
- </p>
- <p>
- But then a pang of horror chilled her. What dreadful mistake had happened?
- Alas, it was only too plain—the two stories had been confused. The
- editor had thought that her story was Godfrey's. He had read it expecting
- to find the skill of Godfrey's trained hand. And now how was she to spare
- her husband the mortification of having his painstaking work rejected,
- while her prentice sketch had won favour by some fluke? Her loyal heart,
- entirely devoid of selfish satisfaction, could not bear the thought of
- this grotesque and unhappy climax for her innocent venture. It was all her
- fault for meddling with what did not concern her. What business had she to
- write a better story than Godfrey, anyway? She knew that her husband would
- be honestly proud of her success and would not grudge her the triumph for
- an instant, but she felt that the poignance of the situation would be
- intolerable for her. Much better do without all the pert little hats on
- Chestnut Street than win one at the expense of Godfrey's feelings.
- </p>
- <p>
- How could she prevent the bad tidings from reaching him? Even now it might
- be too late. She flew to the telephone, and with pricking pulses asked for
- the office of the <i>Colonial</i>. One nervous hand unconsciously flew to
- her hair, as though she were about to enter the august sanctum of the
- editor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is this Mr. Edwards?
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Mr. Edwards, this is Mrs. Hemming, Mrs. Godfrey Hemming, the wife of
- one of your authors——
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, there's been a terrible mistake about our manuscripts, Mr. Edwards,
- the stories that Mr. Hemming sent you. I've just had your letter, and that
- story you sent back wasn't mine at all, it was Godfrey's——
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't see how you can have made the mistake—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, the story called 'Three Is Company' is mine, I wrote it, but really
- it can't possibly be better than the other one because I wrote it in such
- a hurry, it's my first attempt——
- </p>
- <p>
- “You want to publish it? But, Mr. Edwards, you simply mustn't, because——
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't explain over the telephone. I know you only like it because you
- thought——
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you promise not to do anything about it, and not to tell Mr. Hemming
- anything, until you get a letter from me?
- </p>
- <p>
- “You <i>will</i> promise? Oh, thank you so much! I'll write at once.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-bye!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She hurried to the little white enamelled desk, the same desk where the
- ill-starred “Three Is Company” had been written.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This will cure me of trying to write,” she thought; “why, I never heard
- of such a thing—to have one's first story accepted! Mr. Edwards must
- be mad.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Luckily there was one sheet of her engraved stationery left—the
- paper that Godfrey had given her, she thought remorsefully. All about her
- were evidences of his loving care, and she had repaid him by undermining
- his prestige with the one editor who had been nice to him. A fine way for
- an author's wife to behave! She seized her pen and wrote:
- </p>
- <p>
- Dear Mr. Edwards:
- </p>
- <p>
- As I just told you over the phone, there has been some horrible mistake.
- How it happened I can't guess. The manuscript you sent back to me is Mr.
- Hemming's story. The one you say you like and want me to study as a model
- is my own story, “Three Is Company”. I'm sorry you like it, I mean I'm
- sorry you think it is better than Mr. Hemming's story, which can't be so
- as it is the first story I ever tried to write. I have decided to withdraw
- it, I don't want it published, so please send it back to me instantly, and
- write me a letter saying how amateurish it is. I am sending Mr. Hemming's
- story back to you, so that now you know who wrote it you can reconsider
- it. Of course, if you thought it was by me, you naturally considered it as
- the work of a beginner, and only a poor imitation of Mr. Hemming's style.
- </p>
- <p>
- I don't want you ever to tell Mr. Hemming that I have written this letter.
- Just tell him you sent my story back to me because it was not good enough.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sincerely yours,
- </p>
- <p>
- Janet Colton Hemming.
- </p>
- <p>
- The importance Janet attached to this letter may be judged from the fact
- that she left the baby alone in the house, asleep, while she hurried down
- to the post-office to mail it, together with Godfrey's manuscript, back to
- Mr. Edwards. And not even the sympathetic Mr. Edwards ever guessed that on
- the first page, where Godfrey's careful typing ran in neat lines, she had
- printed a good luck kiss.
- </p>
- <p>
- The editor was an honourable man, and though he chuckled a little over
- Janet's breathless letter he really meant to keep the innocent secret. We
- hope that no young wives will be lured to destruction by our telling the
- truth, which was simply this, that Janet's little story was much better
- than Godfrey's. It might not have happened again in a lifetime, but the
- enthusiasm of her girlish zeal had carried her pen into a very pretty and
- moving tale, which the <i>Colonial</i> would have been glad to print. But
- since she wanted it back, there was nothing for Mr. Edwards to do but
- comply. Then, that very morning, while he was dictating a note of polite
- refusal to accompany “Three Is Company” back to the suburbs, who should
- call at the office but Godfrey, to know what the editor thought of the two
- stories. The coincidence was too much for Edwards, and thinking that it
- could do no harm to let Hemming know of his wife's devotion—for
- young husbands are too likely to be selfish—he told him the whole
- incident. And Godfrey, with a faint sensation of burning under his
- eyelids, related the dream of a new bonnet that had inspired “Three Is
- Company”.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, now, look here,” said Edwards, “I'm not so awfully keen on this
- story of yours. It isn't anywhere near up to what you can do—or
- rather, up to what Mrs. Hemming can do,” he added, chuckling. “But you go
- home and write me a yarn about the pert little hat, and I'll put it in the
- January number. It'll come out just before Christmas, and I hope you'll
- get that wife of yours the best bonnet in town on the proceeds. If all
- writers had wives like yours, perhaps the magazines would make better
- reading. But for heaven's sake don't tell Mrs. Hemming I gave her away.
- Wait until she sees the story in the magazine, it'll be a Christmas
- surprise for her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- On the Saturday before Christmas Hemming took Janet to the city to
- solemnize the purchase of the pert little hat. Any one who happened to see
- her wearing it down Chestnut Street that bright winter afternoon knew that
- the elated pink in her cheek was not all reflected from the red bow on the
- bonnet's neat brim. As they sat down for a matinée and Janet removed the
- precious creation, giving it to Godfrey to hold for a moment, he said
- admiringly:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, the old typing bus isn't such a bad milliner after all, hey, monk?”
- </p>
- <p>
- And Janet, who would then have denied that such a story as “Three Is
- Company” ever existed, replied innocently:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm so glad Mr. Edwards turned down my story, grump. I like the pert
- little hat ever so much better because it came all from you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Even if the pert little hat should live to be a great-great-grandbonnet,
- none of its descendants will ever give Janet such pleasure.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- URN BURIAL
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>EVER quarrel at
- breakfast is the first maxim for commuters and their wives. Partings in
- anger mean day-long misery for both, and generally involve telephone calls
- later in the day, and a box of chocolate-coated maraschino cherries
- carried home on the 5.18. Marriage (say the philosophers) is a subdivision
- of the penal code, dedicated to the proposition that men and women are
- created equal. But the studious observer of matrimonial feints and
- skirmishes sees very little to verify that daring surmise.
- </p>
- <p>
- Harry Bennett sipped his breakfast coffee grimly. Its savour had departed:
- for ninety seconds earlier Mrs. Bennett had fled upstairs in a flush of
- anger and tears. In five minutes he would have to run for the train; and
- what man can soothe an outraged wife in five minutes? He ate his toast
- without relish, gazing sourly on the blue-and-white imitation Copenhagen
- china, the pretty little porcelain marmalade pot, and the big silver
- coffee-urn.
- </p>
- <p>
- The desperate inequality of married life pierced his heart. Why should he
- have to accept in silence tart remarks uttered by his wife, while the
- least savagery of his own was cause for tears?
- </p>
- <p>
- He rushed upstairs to say a few consoling words. The bedroom door was
- locked. Compassion fled, and he growled furiously through the panels. Then
- he ran hotly for the train.
- </p>
- <p>
- It seems unreasonable: but the lives of human beings are not guided by
- reason. Harry had come to the conclusion that the silver coffee-urn was at
- the bottom of all their squabbles.
- </p>
- <p>
- Before Elaine Addison surrendered herself into his capable hands, there
- had been a competitor for the honour of surrounding her with sectional
- bookcases, linen closets, potted hydrangeas, and the other authentic
- trappings of a home.
- </p>
- <p>
- Aubrey Andrews was the rival warrior. He was the kind of man who always
- has a lot of crisp greenbacks in a neat leather bill-fold. Harry's
- hard-earned frogskins were always crumpled in a trousers pocket This may
- seem trivial, but it distinguishes two totally different classes of men.
- Aubrey was tall, dark, well groomed; he played billiards and belonged to
- expensive clubs. It was supposed that his wife would be beyond the reach
- of financial worries. He kept a horse and easy office hours.
- </p>
- <p>
- Harry—well, Harry was no aristocrat. He worked hard for what he got,
- and didn't get much. He was neither tall, nor dark, nor well groomed. But
- he was a fine, lovable, high-minded chap, and to everyone's surprise,
- including his own, he got Elaine.
- </p>
- <p>
- Tennyson had a good deal to do with it, I think. Harry still read
- Tennyson, although that excellent poet is no longer fashionable, and kept
- on repeating what Tennyson said about Elaine. And finally Elaine could not
- help saying, “My Lancelot!” and melting into his arms.
- </p>
- <p>
- Aubrey gave them a magnificent silver coffee-urn for a wedding present,
- and presently enlisted for service, first on the Mexican border and then
- in France, where he became a heroic and legendary figure, surrounded in
- Elaine's mind by the prismatic glamour of girlhood days.
- </p>
- <p>
- That coffee-urn was a stunner! It was far the handsomest thing in the
- little suburban house, except, of course, Elaine herself. Beneath its
- shining caldron sat an alcohol lamp that rendered a blue flame and kept
- the coffee hot. Elaine's initials—her maiden initials—were
- engraved upon it, and those of the donor: E. A. A. A. The hand of the
- insidious silversmith had twined the A's together very gracefully.
- </p>
- <p>
- Every time he looked at it, Harry felt subconsciously irritated, although
- he hardly realized why.
- </p>
- <p>
- It stood on the little mission sideboard, outshining everything else in
- the pretty dining room. It was Elaine's particular pride, and was used
- only on special occasions. Often it was brought out for the little
- celebrations that young married couples have every now and then. And,
- curiously enough, these celebrations very often ended in tears. The
- polished dazzle of those silver curves was only too apt to suggest to
- Elaine's radiant little beauty-loving heart other handsome wares she would
- like to have, or unlucky comparison of the relative beauty of the wedding
- presents sent by <i>her</i> friends and <i>his;</i> or Harry would make
- some blunt remark about his not being able to give her all that some other
- husband might have.
- </p>
- <p>
- Alas! Something of the sardonic spirit of the black-browed Aubrey seemed
- to radiate from his urn. Can a coffee-um hypnotize? Grotesque as it
- appears, little by little they realized that the innocent piece of silver
- was marring many an otherwise happy hour.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- All the way to town in the smoking car, Harry's mind rotated savagely
- about their absurd tiff.
- </p>
- <p>
- Let's see, how was it? He had said: “I'm sorry, dearest; I shall have to
- be rather late tonight. The head of my department is away, and I've got an
- extra lot of work to do.” She said: “Oh, dear—oh, dear! Then we
- sha'n't be able to go to the theatre, shall we?” He said: “We can go next
- week, Brownie.” She said: “Something horrid always happens when we have
- this coffee-urn on the table.”
- </p>
- <p>
- (N. B. Right here, when the danger topic was introduced, he should have
- put on an extra soft pedal. But did he? Not a bit. As soon as the urn was
- mentioned his eyes began to flash.)
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” he said, “don't let's have it on so often!” She said: “Any one
- might think you were jealous of it. It's the only handsome piece of silver
- I've got.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Here he did make one honest effort to steer away from danger:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm awfully sorry about to-night, honey, but the work's just got to be
- done.” She said: “Why didn't you let me know sooner you were going to work
- late? I could have arranged to go and see Mother.” He said: “Oh, well,
- everything I do is always wrong, anyway! I suppose if I could buy you a
- roomful of silver like that old tureen, you wouldn't mind.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And after that it was not far to the deluge. All conducted according to
- the recognized technique of quarrelling, passing through the seven stages
- of repartee outlined by Touchstone, which should never be forgotten by
- those happily married:
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- 1 The retort courteous
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- 2 The quip modest
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- 3 The reply churlish
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- 4 The reproof valiant
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- 5 The counter-check quarrelsome
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- 6 The lie with circumstance
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- 7 The lie direct
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- All day both Mr. and Mrs. Bennett were unpleasantly conscious of their
- undigested altercation lying black and gloomy in the back of their minds.
- At lunch-time he tried to call her on the telephone; but the wire did not
- answer. Indeed, she had gone to spend the day in town with friends, and
- was to go to dinner and the theatre with them. She left no message for
- Harry, and gave the cook permission to go out overnight.
- </p>
- <p>
- About nine o'clock he got home tired and eager to resume their usual
- blissful companionship. The house was dark and untenanted. In a rage, he
- threw away the box of candy he had brought, and got himself some bread and
- cheese from the ice-box.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the dining room his eye fell upon the coffee-urn. He swore at it. Just
- then Elaine called him up, and in a cool, distant voice told him that she
- had decided to spend the night in town with her mother.
- </p>
- <p>
- The next morning Elaine came home about ten o'clock, humming a merry
- little air as she walked down the quiet suburban street. She and Harry had
- patched things up over the telephone at breakfast-time.
- </p>
- <p>
- The sun was shining brightly, and she was planning a specially nice dinner
- for poor Harry that evening. After all, it wasn't the dear boy's fault
- that he had to work so hard. It was horrible of her to run off and desert
- him that way. Tonight she would show him how much she loved him. They
- would have ice cream with hot chocolate sauce, and meringues and chicken
- salad; and she would buy him a cigar and hide it in his napkin. And the
- old coffee-um should go back in the glass cabinet.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- The cook, with a very grave face, opened the front door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Heavens, Emily, what's the matter?” cried Mrs. Bennett.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Burgled!” said Emily, tragically. “Someone's been an' bruk in the
- dining-room winder. Footpads, I guess.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Bennett gave a little shriek of dismay She ran to the dining room.
- </p>
- <p>
- One window stood an inch or two open, and one of the panes was broken. She
- glanced round the room. Nothing was disarranged, but her glance fell on
- the sideboard.
- </p>
- <p>
- The coffee-urn was gone!
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” she said, “that's very extraordinary. Mr. Bennett slept here last
- night, and he's a light sleeper. He always locks the windows before he
- goes to bed. Is anything else missing?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The apple pie's gone out o' the ice-box,” said Emily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, well, that's Mr. Bennett, I'm sure,” said Elaine. “I'll call up the
- police right away, and see if they can do anything. My nice coffee-urn!
- Why, it's the finest thing we had in the whole house.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Before the police arrived, Mrs. Bennett herself took a careful look round
- the outside of the house. She found nothing unusual except a cigar butt
- lying on the ground near the broken window. She picked it up gingerly. A
- section of the gilt band still adhered to the wrapper. She could read the
- name, <i>Florona.</i> She carried the fragment into the cellar and threw
- it into the ash-can.
- </p>
- <p>
- Two policemen arrived shortly, examined everything, and asked innumerable
- questions. Mrs. Bennett gave them a careful description of the coffee-urn.
- They departed, promising to do everything possible to trace it. They said
- that a piece of silver so large and unusual would not be hard to locate
- with the aid of the pawnbrokers. Then Mrs. Bennett went upstairs to think.
- </p>
- <p>
- It seemed very strange that the thieves should take the urn and nothing
- else, when there were other pieces of silver beside it on the sideboard.
- She called up Harry, who was horrified to learn of the loss. He had slept
- right through the night without hearing a sound. He offered to come home
- if he could do anything to help; but she would not hear of it.
- </p>
- <p>
- That night Mrs. Bennett had a special little dinner waiting for her
- husband: his favourite soup, a tender steak, fried potatoes, ice cream
- with hot chocolate sauce. And after dinner they discussed the theft of the
- urn.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't understand how it was that you didn't hear anything,” said
- Elaine. “You generally sleep so lightly. Did you sit up late?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” he said; “I sat in the dining room until about ten, eating cheese
- and apple pie, and smoking a cigar. Then I went to bed——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you just reminded me!” cried Elaine. “I bought you a nice cigar to
- smoke after your dinner, and I forgot to give it to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- From the mantelpiece she gave him a cigar with a <i>Florona</i> band.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, isn't that nice!” said he, “That's the kind I always smoke. I didn't
- think you knew one brand from the other.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know more than you think, old man,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Harry came home the next night, he brought a bulky parcel with him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm awfully sorry about the urn, Brownie,” he said. “I went to see the
- detectives to-day, and they think there's very little chance of getting it
- back; so I brought you this to take its place.” She opened the package. It
- was a big China coffee-jug of rose-and-white porcelain, flagrantly out of
- harmony with her silver and blue china.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Honey,” she said, “I think it's just lovely. It's ever and ever so much
- nicer than that old urn.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A week later, in the afternoon, the local chief of police called up Mrs.
- Bennett.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come down here to the police station,” he said. “We've found your
- coffee-pot. The most extraordinary thing you ever heard of. We found it
- buried in a haystack, back of Webster's barn. Why any one should leave it
- there is more than I know. The thief must have been frightened and hid it.
- Will you come down and identify it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Bennett hastened down to the police station. There on the sergeant's
- table stood the famous urn, the pride of her heart. There was no doubt
- about it: the initials were there—it was hers. Tarnished and spotted
- by exposure, it was still the handsomest piece of silver she had ever
- seen. Involuntarily she gave a cry of delight. Then she hesitated. After
- all, compared to Harry's happiness and hers, what was a silver urn?
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, captain,” she said, “I'm so disappointed. That's not mine! It's very
- much like it, but it isn't mine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE BATTLE OF MANILA ENVELOPES
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>R. BIRDLIP was a
- good old man, of unimpeachable simplicity. He had achieved enormous wealth
- in an honourable business, and then found (to his mild distress) that the
- great traffic he had built up conducted itself automatically. He had, in a
- way, been gently shouldered out of his own nest by the capable men whose
- fortunes he had made. But his zealous and frugal spirit required some sort
- of problem to feed upon, and he delighted his heart by owning a newspaper.
- <i>The Evening Lens</i> was his toy and the child of his dotage.
- </p>
- <p>
- So the Persian rugs and walnut panelling of his private suite in the huge
- Birdlip Building saw him rarely. He was supremely happy in the dingy
- sanctum at the back of the old <i>Lens</i> office, where the hum of the
- presses and the racket of the city room (which he still, by an innocent
- misunderstanding, called the “sitting room”) delighted his guileless
- heart. He would sit turning over the pages of each edition as it came
- upstairs (putting his second finger up to his tongue before he turned each
- leaf) and poring industriously over the market reports, the comics, and
- the Woman's Page. With his pink cheeks, his dapper little figure in a
- brown suit and cream-coloured waistcoat, and his eager, shy, chirping
- manner, he was very like a robin. Although he was full of gigantic
- schemes, which he broached naively in the editorial council every now and
- then, he never wittingly interfered with his editor-in-chief, in whom he
- had full confidence. But his gentle and jejune mind had a disastrous
- effect on the paper no less. Almost unconsciously the Lens was written and
- edited down to his standard, as a roomful of adults will amiably prattle
- so as to carry along a child in the conversation.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Birdlip's amazing success in his original field had been due partly to
- his decent sagacity, honesty, and persistence, and partly to his sheer
- fortune in finding (at the very outset of his enterprise) several men of
- rugged ability, who became the pearls in his simple oyster-shell. As a
- result of this, it had become his fixed mental habit to believe that
- somewhere, some day, he would encounter the man or men who would make the
- <i>Lens</i> the greatest newspaper in the country. This, indeed, was his
- candid ambition, and he never went anywhere without keeping his eyes open
- for the anticipated messiah.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was greatly taken by broad primitive effects: when he noticed that a
- Chicago daily always called itself “The World's Greatest Newspaper” he was
- marvellously struck by the power of this slogan, and lamented that he had
- not thought of it first. The question as to whether the slogan were true
- or not never occurred to him. He liked to have the keynote sentences in
- the leading editorial emphasized in blackface type, so that there might be
- no danger of any one's missing the point. Desiring for his beloved sheet
- “this man's art and that man's scope,” as the sonnet puts it, every now
- and then he thought he had discovered the prodigy, and some new feature
- would be added to the paper at outrageous expense, only to be quietly
- shovelled out six months or a year later. In the meantime, the auditor was
- growing very gray, and even Mr. Birdlip's quick blue eye was sometimes
- hazed with faint perplexity when he studied the circulation charts.
- Perhaps it would have been kinder if someone could have told him that a
- boyhood spent in splitting infinitives is not sufficient training for one
- to become an Abraham Lincoln of the newspaper business.
- </p>
- <p>
- As he trotted in and out of the <i>Lens</i> office, with his rosy air of
- confidence and his disarming simplicity (which made his white hair seem a
- wanton cruelty on the part of Time, that would wither a man's cells while
- his mind was still on all fours), Mr. Birdlip was the object of furtive
- but very sharp study on the part of some cynical journalists whom he
- hired. It was a genuine amazement to Sanford, the dramatic critic, that
- the owner was so entirely unaware of his (Sanford's) abilities, which
- certainly (he thought) called for a salary of more than sixty dollars a
- week. Sanford often meditated about this, and not entirely in secret. In
- fact, it was generally admitted among the younger members of the staff,
- when they gathered at Ventriloquo's for lunch, that the Old Man was
- immaculately ignorant of all phases of the newspaper business. While the
- spaghetti and mushrooms cheered the embittered gossips, merry and quaint
- were the quips sped toward the unsuspecting target. Sanford's private
- grievance was that though for over a year he had been doing signed
- critiques of plays, which were really spirited and honest, not once had
- the Old Man condescended to mention them, or to show any sign of uttering
- an <i>Ecce Homo</i> in his direction. As far as he was concerned, he felt
- that the weekly battle of Manila Envelopes was a conspicuous rout, and he
- frequently rehearsed the exact tone in which he would some day say to the
- managing editor: “You may fire when ready, Gridley.” Little did Sanford
- realize that the only time Mr. Birdlip had attempted to read the “Exits
- and Entrances” column he had met the name of Æschylus, had faltered, and
- retreated upon the syndicated sermon by the Rev. Frank Crane.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “I saw 'Ruddigore' the other evening,” said Sanford to his cronies, as
- they called for a second round of coffee. “There's a line in it that
- describes old Birdie fore, aft, and amidships. Something like this: 'He is
- that particular variety of good old man to whom the truth is always a
- refreshing novelty'.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They complauded. Rightly or wrongly, these high-spirited and sophisticated
- young men had decided that Mr. Birdlip's naïveté was so refreshingly
- complete that it gave them an aesthetic pleasure to contemplate it. It had
- the exquisite beauty of any absolute perfection. Their employer's latest
- venture, which had been to pay $200,000 for the exclusive right to publish
- and syndicate the mysterious formulae of a leading Memory Course, had
- shocked them very greatly.
- </p>
- <p>
- It touched them in a tender spot to know that there had been all that
- money lying round the office, unused, which was now to be squandered (as
- they put it) on charlatanry, when they felt that they might just as well
- have had some of it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The Old Man is always looking for some special stunt, and trying to
- discover someone on the outside,” said one. “He can't see the material
- right under his nose.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's really rather pathetic: he's crazy to get out a great newspaper, but
- he hasn't the faintest idea how to do it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, give him credit for sincerity. It isn't just circulation he wants.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Circulation's easy enough, if that's what you're after. The three
- builders of circulation are Sordid, Sensational, and Sex—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the greatest of these is Sex.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, he's decent enough. He won't pander.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He panders to stupidity. He's fallen for this Memory bunk. And when he
- finds that's a flivver, he'll try something else, equally fatuous. He's
- making the old <i>Lens</i> ridiculous.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They smoked awhile, meditatively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What I would like to figure out,” said Sanford, “is some way of making an
- impression on the Old Man. I've got to get more money. The trouble—some
- part of it is, I feel instinctively that he and I live in different
- worlds. We hardly even talk the same language. Well, there's no chance of
- his learning my way of thinking; so I suppose I'll have to learn his.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's the man who puts the nil in the Manila envelope,” said one of the
- others.
- </p>
- <p>
- “As far as we are concerned, yes. But there's plenty of the stuff going
- round on Fridays for the kind of people he understands.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He seems to be an absent-minded old bird. When I talk to him, it's as
- though I were trying to speak through a fog.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It looks to me as though his mind had overstayed its leave of absence.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He likes the kind of men who, as he says, 'have both feet on the
- ground'.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, but you've got to have at least one foot in the air if you're going
- to get anywhere.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “See here,” said the literary editor, who was more tolerant than the
- others. “What's the use of panning the Old Man? He's trying to put the
- paper over, just as hard as we are. Maybe harder. But he doesn't know. And
- I believe he knows he doesn't know. I think the chief trouble is, they all
- knuckle down to him so. They're scared of him. They think the only way
- they can hold their jobs is by agreeing with him. If someone could only
- put him wise——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But how <i>can</i> you put him wise? He doesn't see anything unless it's
- laid out for him in a strip cartoon or a full-page ad. The kind of thing
- that interests him is the talk he hears in a Pullman smoker or club car.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's a fact. You know he always says he likes to go travelling, because
- he picks up ideas from people on the train. 'Of course I place you! Mr.
- Mowbray Monk of Seattle. And is your Rotary Club still rotating?' That
- kind of talk.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think you're right,” said Sanford. “He doesn't see us because we have
- too much protective colouring. We are only the patient drudges. We don't
- talk that Pullman palaver about Big Business. We've got to learn to talk
- his language. What is that phrase of Bacon's—we've got to bring
- ourselves home to his business and bosom——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let's get back to the office,” said the disillusioned literary editor.
- “That's the way to bring home the bacon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- A few days later Sanford was at his desk, clipping and pasting press
- agents' flimsies for the Saturday Theatre Page. This was a task which he
- hated above all others, and he was meditating sourly on the scarcity of
- truth in human affairs. At this moment Mr. Birdlip happened to pass along
- the corridor outside the editorial rooms. Sanford heard him say:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miss Flaccus, will you get me a seat in the club car, ten o'clock train
- to-morrow? I've got to run over to New York to take lunch with Mr.
- Montaigne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sanford put down his shears, relit his pipe, and began to pursue a
- fugitive idea round the suburbs of his mind. Presently he drew out his
- check book from a drawer and did some calculating on a sheet of paper. “A
- hundred dollars,” he said to himself. “I guess it's worth it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The following morning, dressed in a new suit and with shoes freshly
- burnished, Sanford was at the terminal twenty minutes before train time.
- With him was a young man carrying a leather portfolio. To observe the
- respectful demeanour of this young man, no one would have suspected that
- he was Sanford's young brother-in-law, rejoicing in cutting his classes at
- college for a day's masquerading. Sanford bought some cigars (a form of
- smoking which he detested) and carefully removed the bands from all but
- one of them.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently Mr. Birdlip appeared, cheerfully trotting up the stairs. Sanford
- and his companion followed discreetly. As Mr. Birdlip went through the
- gate, they were close behind. Entering the club car, Mr. Birdlip sat down
- and opened a morning paper. Sanford and his companion were prompt to take
- the two adjoining seats. Sanford began to look over <i>System</i> and <i>Printers'
- Ink</i>, and perhaps his interest in these vigorous journals was not
- wholly unfeigned, for it was the first time he had studied them. The young
- man beside him drew out a mass of papers from his leather bag, and in a
- moment of stillness just before the train started said in a clear voice:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pardon, sir, but there is some important dictation here that ought to be
- attended to.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sanford assumed the air of a man wearied with tremendous affairs. .
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well, what comes first?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The New York <i>Budget</i> has wired for an answer in regard to their
- proposition.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sanford blew a luxurious whiff of smoke. “Take this letter: My dear Mr.
- Ralston. Replying to your inquiries as to whether I would be willing to
- take charge of the editorial page of the <i>Budget</i> for a few months,
- to put the paper on its feet, I am willing to consider the matter, and
- would be pleased to discuss it with you if you will run over to see me. I
- am very busy just now, and could not possibly undertake the work for some
- weeks. I have been retained in an advisory capacity by a big Western
- syndicate which was badly in need of some circulation building; and until
- I can put their paper up to a half-million figure I have not much spare
- time. Their paper has gone up a couple of hundred thousand since I mapped
- out a campaign for them, but I would not feel justified in discontinuing
- my services to them until these gains are properly consolidated. I will be
- in my office at ten o'clock next Tuesday morning if you care to see me.
- Very truly yours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Birdlip was hidden behind his paper, but something in the angle at
- which the sheets were held led Sanford to believe that the old gentleman
- was listening.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well, Edwards,” he said. “What's next?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here's this letter from Lord Southpeak of the London <i>Gazette</i>
- asking if he can see you when he comes over next month.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Cable Southpeak I shall be very happy to see him if he gets here before
- the fifteenth. I am going on my vacation then.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The attentive Edwards scribbled rapidly in his notebook.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just pick out the most urgent stuff,” said Sanford. “I don't care to
- bother with anything that isn't really pressing. I've got an important
- conference on in New York to-day, and I want to keep my mind clear.
- Blackwit of the Associated Press has asked me to say a few words to his
- directors on 'Journalism as a Function of Public Conscience'.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Edwards ran rapidly through an imposing mass of documents.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That long-distance call from the Chicago <i>Vox</i>,” he said. “You
- promised to give Mr. Groton some word this morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Call him up when we get to Penn. Station,” said Sanford. “Tell him I
- can't give him any decision yet awhile. Tell him that loyalty to my own
- city will keep me there for some time. You might tell him that I believe
- the <i>Lens</i> has great possibilities if properly handled. I should not
- care to build up the property of a Chicago paper while there is a chance
- of the <i>Lens</i> becoming the great evening paper of the East.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sir,” said Edwards, jotting down what, might pass for stenography.
- </p>
- <p>
- The train was running smoothly through level green country, and Mr.
- Birdlip laid down his paper on his lap. Sanford was ready to catch his
- eye.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good morning, Mr. Birdlip,” he said, genially.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good morning,” said the owner of the <i>Lens</i>, whose bright gaze
- exhibited a lively tincture of interest.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here are the typed notes of your remarks on 'Newspaper Circulation as a
- Byproduct of the Multiplication Table',” said Edwards, in a loud voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can let those wait,” said Sanford, carelessly. “I don't want to be
- bothered with anything else this morning. Give me a memorandum of anything
- that needs to be attended to when we get to New York.” He turned to Mr.
- Birdlip. “I find that in these busy days one has to attend to some of
- one's work even on the train. It is about the only place where one is
- never interrupted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did I hear you say something about Circulation?” said Mr. Birdlip. “Are
- you specially interested in that problem?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have given it a good deal of thought,” said Sanford. “But I would
- hardly dignify it by calling it a problem. It is perfectly simple. It is
- purely a matter of taking the right attitude toward it. So many newspaper
- proprietors regard it merely as a problem in addition. Now it should be
- considered rather as a matter of multiplication. Instead of trying to add
- ten to your figures, why not multiply by ten? The result is so much more
- satisfactory.”
- </p>
- <p>
- This sounded so plausible that Mr. Birdlip felt ashamed to ask how it was
- to be done.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you have a cigar, sir?” asked Sanford, handing out the only one with
- a band on it. Mr. Birdlip accepted it, and looked as though he were about
- to ask a question. Sanford went on rapidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Speaking of circulation,” he said, “when I am consulted I am always
- surprised to note that newspaper proprietors are so prone to view the
- matter merely as a question of distribution; of—well, of
- merchandising,” he added, as his eye fell upon that word in his copy of <i>System</i>.
- “Indeed it rests upon quite another basis. The essence of merchandising”
- (he repeated the word with relish, noting its soothing effect on his
- employer) “is what?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He made a dramatic pause, and Mr. Birdlip, carried away, wondered what
- indeed was the essence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The essence of merchandising,” said Sanford (he smote the arm of his
- chair, and leaned forward in emphasis), “and by merchandising I mean of
- course in the modern sense, merchandising on a big scale, is nothing but
- Confidence. Confidence, an impalpable thing, a state of mind. Now, sir,
- what is it that upbuilds circulation? It is Public Confidence. The
- assurance on the part of the public that the newspaper is reliable. It is
- a secret and inviolable conviction on the part of the reader that the
- integrity and enterprise of the paper are beyond cavil, in other words,
- unimpeachable. In order to create the Will-to-Purchase on the part of the
- prospect, in order to beget that desirable state of mind, there must be a
- state of mind in the paper itself. Note that word <i>Mind</i>. Now what is
- the Mind of the paper? I always ask every newspaper owner who consults me,
- what is the Mind of his paper?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Without waiting for Mr. Birdlip to be embarrassed by his inability to
- answer this question, the ecstatic Sanford continued:
- </p>
- <p>
- “The Mind of the paper is, of course, the Editorial Department. How
- subtle, how delicate, how momentous, is that function of commenting on the
- great affairs of the world! As I said in an address to a Rotary club
- recently, of what use to have all the mechanical perfections ever invented
- unless your editors are the right men? Walter Whitman, the efficiency
- engineer, said: 'Produce great persons: the rest follows.' That is the
- kind of production that counts most. Get great personalities for your
- editors, and watch the circulation rise. Of course the right kind of
- editors must be very highly paid.”
- </p>
- <p>
- This was a strange doctrine to Mr. Birdlip, who never read the editorial
- page of his own paper, and secretly wondered how the editors found so much
- to write about.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The great error that so many newspaper owners make,” said Sanford,
- sonorously, “is to think of their product as they would of any other
- article of commerce which is turned out day by day, in standardized units,
- from a factory. A newspaper is not standardized. It is born anew every
- issue. It is not a manufacturing routine that puts it together: it is a
- human organism, built up out of human brains. Every unit is different. It
- depends not primarily on machinery but on human personalities. I cannot
- understand why it is that newspaper owners yearn for the finest and most
- modern presses, and yet are often content to staff their journals with
- second-rate men.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I agree with you,” said Mr. Birdlip. “It is all a question of getting the
- right man. That is one reason why I am so fond of travelling; I always
- meet up with new ideas. Now, sir (I am sorry I do not know your name, for
- your face is rather familiar; I think I must have met you at some Rotary
- club), you seem to me a man of forceful and aggressive character. You are
- the kind of man I should like to have on the <i>Lens</i>, I heard you
- mention the paper to your secretary awhile back; you must be interested in
- it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sanford was perfectly cool. “I might consider it,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think you would find the <i>Lens</i> a pleasant paper to work on,” said
- Mr. Birdlip. “I flatter myself that the staff is a capable one, for the
- most part.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should insist on being given a free hand,” said Sanford. “Perhaps the
- position of circulation manager——?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me think a moment,” said Mr. Birdlip. “I suppose I ought to visit
- with my editor-in-chief before firing any one to make room for you. But I
- must say I like the way you talk, straight from the shoulder, like that
- Dr. Cranium, you know. That's the sort of stuff we need.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Right!” cried Sanford. “If you always talk straight from the shoulder,
- you'll never talk through your hat.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Birdlip relished this impromptu aphorism. “Well, now, let me see,” he
- said, pondering. “The editor-in-chief, the managing editor, the editorial
- writers—they're all pretty good men.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course I shouldn't care for a merely routine position,” said Sanford.
- “The only position I would consider would be one in which I could really
- build up circulation for you.” He was wondering inwardly whether to stand
- out for a ten thousand salary.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Quite so,” said Mr. Birdlip. “I think I have it. How would you care to
- run a column? 'Straight From the Shoulder'—wouldn't that be a fine
- title?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Fine!” said Sanford, but not without a secret shudder. Still, he thought,
- gold can assuage anything; and he reflected on the rich, sedentary, and
- care-free life of a syndicated philosopher.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well,” said the owner. “I've been looking around for a man with both
- feet on the ground——”
- </p>
- <p>
- (“Both feet on the pay envelope is my idea,” said Sanford to himself.)
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I think you're just the man I want. There's only one place in the
- paper I can think of that really needs a change. There's a fellow on the
- staff called Sanford, runs a kind of column, terrible stuff. I don't think
- he amounts to much. Now why couldn't you take his job?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sanford has never forgiven his brother-in-law for that curious strangled
- sound he emitted.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE CLIMACTERIC
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>R. EUSTACE VEAL
- was a manufacturer of cuspidors. His beautiful factory was one of the
- finest of its kind, equipped with complete automatic sprinklers,
- wire-glass windows, cafeteria on the top floor, pensions for superannuated
- employees, rosewood directors' dining room, mottoes from Orison Swett
- Marden on the weekly pay envelopes, and a clever young man in
- tortoise-shell spectacles hired at eighty dollars a week to write the
- house-organ (which was called <i>El Cuspidorado</i>).
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Veal lived in the exclusive and clean-shaven suburb of Mandrake Park,
- where he had built a stucco mansion with Venetian blinds, a croquet lawn
- with a revolving spray on it on hot days, and a mansard butler. Here Mrs.
- Veal and the two Veal girls, Dora and Petunia, led the blameless life of
- the <i>embonpoint</i> classes. The electric lights in the bedrooms were
- turned on promptly at ten o'clock every night, except on the sixteen
- winter evenings when the Veals occupied their box at the opera. During
- “Rigoletto” or “Pagliacci” the uncomplaining Mr. Veal would sit in silence
- with his head against the thick red velvet curtain at the back of the box,
- thinking up new ways to get an order for ten thousand nickel-plated
- seamless number 13's from the Pullman Company.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Veal, hampered as he was by the restrictions of success, was still
- full of the enjoyment of life. He had written a little brochure on “The
- Cuspidor: Its Use and Abuse Since the Times of the Pharaohs,” which was
- very well spoken of in the trade. A morocco-bound copy lay on the console
- table in Mrs. Veal's salon. It was he who invented the papier-maché
- spittoon, and the collapsible paper “companion” for travelling salesmen.
- It was he who had presented a solid silver spittoon de luxe to the King of
- Siam when that worthy visited the United States. And it was his idea, too,
- to name the beautiful shining brass model, especially recommended for
- hotel lobbies, El Cuspidorado. This was a stroke of imaginative genius,
- and several rival manufacturers wept because they had not thought of it
- first.
- </p>
- <p>
- The spittoon magnate's habits were regular and sane. He rose by alarm
- clock at seven. He bathed, shaved, brushed his teeth with the vertical
- motion recommended by the toothbrush advertisers, breakfasted on cereal
- and cream and poached eggs, with one cup of strong coffee; walked
- leisurely to the station, bought a paper, and caught the 8.13 train. He
- avoided the other men who wanted him to sit with them, took the fifth
- chair on the left-hand side of the smoking car, and just as the train
- started he lit his first cigar. His commutation ticket was always ready
- for the conductor to punch. He never kept others waiting, just as he hated
- to be kept waiting himself. After his ticket had been punched and put back
- into an alligator-hide pocketbook, he opened the paper and studied it
- faithfully until the train got to the terminal.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the factory Mr. Veal's routine was equally well-ordered and uniform. At
- nine o'clock he reached his private office, greeted his secretary, and ran
- over the morning mail, which had been opened and lay on his desk. Then he
- went through his dictation, which was carefully (even if not
- grammatically) accomplished. The sales reports for the preceding day were
- brought to him. Then he discussed any matters requiring attention with his
- department heads, calling them in one by one. At a quarter after twelve he
- walked up to the Manufacturers' Club for lunch, after which he played one
- game of pool.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was back at the office by half-past two, and gave his passionate and
- devoted attention to the salivary needs of the nation until five o'clock.
- He caught the 5.23 train back to Mandrake Park, sitting on the right-hand
- side of the smoker where the setting sun would not dazzle on his
- newspaper.
- </p>
- <p>
- But one day, about the time of the March equinox, when young ladies put
- furry pussywillows on their typewriter desks, and bank tellers crack the
- shells of spring jokes through the brass railings, Mr. Veal's behaviour
- was so peculiar as to cause anxiety among his associates.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had ridden on the train as usual, without showing any abnormal
- symptoms. But when he was next observed, walking down Vincent Street,
- there was a red spot on his cheekbones and his expression was savage. He
- entered a haberdasher's shop and asked to see some neckties. When the
- clerk put out a tray of silk scarves in rich, sober colours, such as are
- commonly worn by successful and middle-aged merchants, Mr. Veal swore and
- dashed them aside.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good Lord!” he cried, “I'm not going to a funeral! Things like that are
- worn by Civil War veterans. What do you think I am, seventy years old?
- Give me something with some snap to it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And he chose a lemon-tinted cravat with vorticist patterns of brown and
- purple. He tore off the dark gray tie he had on and substituted the gaudy
- new one.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the next corner he passed a shoe-shop. He hesitated a moment at the
- plate-glass window, then he entered and glared at the brisk young puppet
- who came forward with a smirk. He displayed his elastic-sided boots of the
- floorwalker type (which he had worn for years on account of his corns) and
- asked to have them removed. When they were off his feet he threw them to
- the other end of the long, narrow room. “I want some russet shoes with
- cloth tops,” he said. “And some silk socks to match, the kind the men wear
- in the magazine ads.”
- </p>
- <p>
- When he left the shop, his feet might have been taken for those of Charley
- Chaplin, or of an assistant advertising manager of a department store.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Veal reached his office nearly two hours late, and one of his office
- boys was instantly discharged for asking him whom he wanted to see.
- Indeed, in a new suit of violent black-and-white checks, and with a crush
- hat of velvety substance, he was almost unrecognizable. As he passed
- through the filing department a hush fell over the young ladies there. His
- secretary, looking nervously from her corner outside the private office,
- felt a tingling <i>scherzo</i> run up and down the keyboard of her spine.
- Never before had she seen Mr. Veal wear flowers in his buttonhole, and as
- he swung the door of his office behind him, she sniffed the vibrating air.
- In the rich wake of cigar-fragrance always exhaled by her employer her
- sharp nostrils detected a new tang—the sweet scent of mignonette.
- Heavens! Was Mr. Veal using perfume?
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Stafford was an acute young woman. She had long been waiting the
- adroit moment to push her employer for a raise, which was indeed due her.
- She determined that this was the psychological day. When the sign of the
- Ram is ascendant in the zodiac, let employers tremble. This is when even
- the most faithful and long-enduring wage-earner dreams seditiously of a
- fatter manila envelope. Miss Stafford's typewriter had sung like a zither
- for a number of years, she had orchestrated many curious harmonies on it,
- and now she had reached the point where she was almost as indispensable to
- the business as Mr. Veal himself. She was carrying what the efficiency
- dopesters call the peak load.
- </p>
- <p>
- The buzzer buzzed, and Miss Stafford hastened to the private office,
- nerving herself to throw cantilevers across the Rubicon.
- </p>
- <p>
- To her surprise, Mr. Veal, instead of sitting glowering over the morning
- mail, was standing by the window, throwing a paper-weight in the air and
- failing to catch it. The sunlight blazing through the large windows seemed
- to surround his emphatic clothes with a prismatic fringe. To her
- amazement, instead of the customary brief and reserved greeting, he said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hullo, Miss Stafford. Great weather, eh? Sorry I'm late, but I just
- couldn't keep my schedule this morning. Went out to buy myself some golf
- clubs. I think I'd better take up the game, don't you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He made a swing at an imaginary golf ball, and slipped on the polished
- floor, nearly falling down. He recovered himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here's some flowers for you,” he said, taking a bunch of daffodils from
- the desk. “Daffy-down-dillies, as the poets call 'em. Lovely flowers, hey?
- Now comes in the sweet of the year. What ho!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He advanced toward her, and for one extraordinary moment she thought he
- was about to chuck her under the chin.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ask Mr. Foster to come in,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Veal,” she said, nervously, “there's just one thing—I wanted to
- ask you about, my salary, don't you think, er, I think, it seems to me
- about time I had a raise. I've been here——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bless my soul,” he said. “I never thought of it. Why, of course, you're
- right. Miss Stafford, how old would you say I am?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Stafford knew perfectly well that he was fifty-five, but she had
- learned the cunning of all women who have to manage men, whether those men
- be husbands, employers, or ticket scalpers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, Mr. Veal, in a good light and in your new suit, I should say about
- thirty-nine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What are you getting now, Miss Stafford?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thirty dollars.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell Mr. Mason to double it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The feminine mind moves in rapid zigzags, and Miss Stafford's first
- conscious and coherent thought was of a certain woollen sports suit she
- had seen in a window on Vincent Street marked $50.00.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And by the way,” said Mr. Veal, “when you see Mr. Mason, tell him I've
- got a new motto for next week's pay envelopes. Here it is; I found it in
- the paper this morning. I don't know who wrote it—better have him
- credit it to Orison Swett Marden.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He handed her a slip of paper, on which he had copied out:
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- For in my youth I never did apply
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood:
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- The means of weakness and debility.
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- —Orison Swett Marden (?)
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “Before you call Mr. Foster,” said the secretary, “Mr. Schmaltz of the
- Pullman Company is here to see you; he arrived just before you came in. He
- says he wants to place a large order for the cuspidorados.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Send him in,” said Mr. Veal, chuckling. “Hello, Schmaltz,” he cried, as
- the customer entered. “How's this for weather?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Great stuff!” said Schmaltz. “Makes us old fellows feel almost young
- again, doesn't it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Veal's face grew dark. He aged ten years in the instant. He pointed
- morosely to a chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Veal,” said the other, “we want to place an order for ten thousand of
- the cuspidorados. Can you give us the old price?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can <i>not</i>,” said Mr. Veal, shortly. “Materials have gone to the
- sky. I can't give you the—the old price. I'll give you a young
- price, a very young one indeed, based on the present state of the market.
- Eighteen and a quarter cents is the best I can do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Schmaltz raised racial hands. “Heavens!” he said, “you used to let us
- have them for fourteen and a half. Why, in the old days——”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Veal pounded the desk with his fist.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you use that world <i>old</i> again, I'll assassinate you with a dish
- of ham!” he roared. “Great pigs' knuckles, what do you think this is, a
- home for the aged?”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- After Mr. Schmaltz had gone Mr. Veal sent for Foster, the foreman of the
- manufacturing department.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” he said, “how about those machines?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Veal,” said Foster, “we'll have to replace at least six of those
- Victor stampers. They're so old they simply can't do the work. You know
- when one of those machines is over five years old——”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Veal was pointing to the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Get out!” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- At lunch-time Mr. Veal went up to the club as usual. Swinging up the
- street, in the bright sun and pellucid air, he felt quite cheerful, and
- stopped to buy himself a rhinoceros cane. In the dining room of the club
- he met Edwards, and they sat down together.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hello, old man,” said Edwards. “You're looking chipper for a veteran.
- Played any golf yet this year?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't play,” said Mr. Veal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't you? That's a mistake. It's the only game for us older fellows. Of
- course we can't score like the youngsters; but still we can get round and
- have a deal of fun——”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Veal clenched his fists. Spilling his soup, he leaped up and rushed
- from the room. He seized his coat and hat, forgetting the new cane, and
- fled to the nearest Turkish bath.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- And all because, when going downstairs in the railway terminal that
- morning, he had heard a man behind him say to another:
- </p>
- <p>
- “There goes Veal! He's beginning to look old, isn't he?”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was the first time in his life Mr. Veal had heard the damnable
- adjective applied to himself in earnest.
- </p>
- <p>
- Wait until <i>your</i> turn comes!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- PUNCH AND JUDY
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN Judy Cronin
- first saw the topless towers of Manhattan rising into the lilac vagueness
- of a foggy winter morning she passed into a numb and frightened daze.
- Standing on the steerage deck of the <i>Celtic</i>, she peered tremulously
- at those fantastic impossible profiles of stone. Perhaps you don't know
- what it is to be thrown, ignorant and timid, into a place where everything
- is utterly strange—particularly a place as huge, violent, and hasty
- as New York. Judy, aged twenty-one, from a little village near Queenstown,
- was incapable of distinguishing, in the roaring voice of the city, that
- undertone of helpful kindness that is really there. On the same steamer
- came the widow of a famous Irish recusant and hungerstriker, and there
- were ten thousand people massed in West Street to cheer her. Judy heard
- the shouts of the crowd, and saw the lines of policemen on the pier. There
- was some of that quiet but menacing scuffling with which the various
- branches of the English-speaking world show their esteem for each other.
- Judy was not familiar with that definition of a patriot as one who makes
- trouble for his harmless fellow-citizens; but it looked as though she was
- blundering into some more of the tribulations they had had at home.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last her sister Connie found her, sitting white and miserable on her
- very small trunk, clutching her imitation-silver coin-purse. Connie had
- been in New York for a couple of years, and it gave her a homesick throb
- to see that coin-purse—one of those little metal pocketbooks with
- slots to hold gold sovereigns and half-sovereigns. Father Daly had given
- it to Judy, years ago, but it had never had gold in the little sockets
- until Connie sent over the passage money to bring Judy to New York.
- </p>
- <p>
- The city flashed by like a current-events film. Judy found herself in a
- friendly lodging-house in Brooklyn, kept by an Irishwoman who had been
- kind to Connie. Her sister then explained matters. Her own employers, with
- whom she had a position too good to abandon, had arranged to go South for
- the latter part of the winter. They had already delayed leaving so that
- Connie could meet her sister and get her settled. They had given Connie a
- few days' holiday for that purpose.
- </p>
- <p>
- Therefore Judy must get a place as soon as possible. And that very
- afternoon the sisters (Judy still in a kind of dreadful dream) went to the
- office of a Brooklyn newspaper to insert an advertisement.
- </p>
- <p>
- A great many people were watching the <i>Situations Wanted</i> columns,
- and the next evening, at supper-time, Mrs. Leland called up the
- lodging-house number, which had been given in the ad. Connie went to the
- telephone. Mrs. Leland had a pleasant voice and “talked like gentry”,
- Connie said. She lived in Heathwood, Long Island, which is some twenty
- miles from town, and wanted a nurse to take care of two children. Connie
- agreed to take Judy out to Heathwood the next morning, to see if they
- could come to terms. Judy was inexperienced, but Mrs. Leland liked her
- looks. In short: by the time Judy had been in America three days, she was
- installed at Mrs. Leland's home in the country; and a few days later
- Connie had gone off to Florida.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now Judy was really very fortunate in these random proceedings, for she
- had found a good home under an exceptionally kind and understanding
- mistress. And therefore perhaps it was unreasonable of her to be so
- unhappy. But no one has ever demonstrated that human affairs are much
- controlled by reason. Judy was dumbly and piteously miserable. She was
- homesick and lonely, and half-mad with strangeness. She was not really
- slow-witted; but the confusion of her spirits put her into a kind of black
- stupor. Everything was uncouth to her: steam heat, electric light,
- gas-stove, telephone—even the alarm clock in her bedroom. Not
- knowing how to turn off her radiator, and having the simple person's
- distrust of opening windows in a strange place, the first few nights she
- was sick with heat and suffocation. In her sleep she cried out
- indistinguishable words about being shot. In spite of Mrs. Leland's
- patient tuition, she made every possible kind of mistake. The children,
- with the quickness of youth, realized her inexperience and uncertainty,
- and played a thousand impish pranks. Mrs. Leland could see that the girl
- had been through distresses at home, and kept the evening papers, with
- their headlines about Ireland, out of sight. But one evening, in the
- kitchen, Judy came upon a Sunday rotogravure section with pictures of
- burnt streets in Cork. The look of the people in those photographs went
- through her heart. The men wearing caps, the women in shawls, something
- even in the shape of trouser legs and heavy shoes, reminded Judy how far
- she was from all that she understood. It's the little things you take for
- granted at home that come back to hurt you when you're away. That night,
- sitting in her bedroom next the nursery, she shook herself ill with sobs.
- </p>
- <p>
- One who might have helped her greatly took pains to add to her
- bewilderment. Hattie, Mrs. Leland's coloured cook, a retainer of long
- standing, was sharply disgruntled at this new addition to the household.
- Jealousy was the root of Hattie's irritation, and it shot up a rapid
- foliage of poison ivy. The previous nurse, a bosom friend of Hattie's own
- race, had been discharged in December for incompetence. Moreover, Hattie
- had not forgotten poor naïve Judy's startled look when they first
- encountered. Judy had hardly seen a coloured person before, and was
- honestly alarmed. Hattie, though loyal to Mrs. Leland in her own primitive
- fashion, deeply resented this interloper. The invasion proved that Mrs.
- Leland was no longer entirely dependent on the particular clique of
- Heathwood coloured society in which Hattie moved. The cook's logic was
- narrow but rigorous. The sooner the intruder could be discouraged out of
- the house, the sooner the Black Hussars (as Heathwood ladies called the
- coloured colony on whom they largely relied for assistance) would resume
- undivided sway. Mrs. Leland had had a Polish girl as a stop-gap for a few
- days after the coloured nurse left; and observing the cook's demeanour
- toward this unfortunate, Mr. Leland had remarked that Hattie was working
- for a black Christmas.
- </p>
- <p>
- So Hattie, who was sharp-tongued and very capable, hectored Judy whenever
- she entered the kitchen, and by all the black arts at her command (which
- were many) added to the girl's distress. Judy, in spite of her mistress's
- kindness, grew more and more wretched. As Mr. Leland said in private
- (pursuing the train of his previous pun), the maids were black and blue.
- Mrs. Leland, much goaded by domestic management and the care of a very
- small baby, began to wonder whether she had not added another child to
- look after rather than lightening her burdens. And then she saw that Judy
- was on the verge of nervous collapse. She tried to hearten the girl by
- giving her an extra holiday. Judy was given some money, packed off to the
- station in a taxi, and sent on her maiden trip to town in the hope that
- city sights and shop windows would revive her interest in life. Mrs.
- Flaherty, the lodging-house lady in Brooklyn, was telephoned to, and
- promised to send her small boy to meet the girl at the station.
- </p>
- <p>
- It happened to be the eve of the genial Saint Valentine's Day. Shop
- windows were gay with pleasantly exaggerated symbols of his romantic
- power. Winter afternoons in the city are cruel to the unfortunate, for the
- throng of the streets the light and lure of the scene, make loneliness all
- the worse if there is trouble in your heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- Judy sat in the waiting room of the Long Island terminal in Brooklyn, and
- tears were on her face. She had somehow missed Mrs. Flaherty's lad. Then
- she had tried to find her way to the lodging-house, but grew more and more
- frightened and bewildered as she strayed. Giving that up, she had gone
- into a movie, and there, for a while, she had been happy. The favourites
- of the screen are the true internationalists: they speak a language, crude
- though it often is, which is known from Brooklyn to Bombay. But then
- pictures were shown of scenes in Ireland. She came out with cold hands,
- and wandered vaguely along the streets until dusk. Finally, in despair,
- she groped back to the station at Flatbush Avenue, and sat forlornly on a
- bench, too weary and sorry even to ask how to get home.
- </p>
- <p>
- With the unerring instinct of the stranger for choosing the wrong place,
- she had blundered into the downstairs station, by the train-gates, missing
- the waiting room above where departures are duly announced by orotund men
- in blue and silver. In that chilly cavern she sat, dumbly watching the
- press of homeward commuters laden with parcels and papers. Red signboards
- clattered up and down over the iron gates, and she puzzled doubtfully over
- such names as <i>Speonk</i>, and <i>Far Rockaway</i>. The last somehow
- recalled a nursery rhyme and made her feel even more lost and homesick.
- Occasionally, with a gentle groan and rumble, an electric train slid up to
- the railing and stared at her with two fierce hostile eyes. The soda
- fountain in the corner was doing a big business: timidly she went over,
- feeling cold, and asked for tea. To her amazement, there were no hot
- drinks to be had. The people, all gulping iced mixtures, stared at her
- curiously. Sure, this is a mad country, she thought. The clock telling the
- time was the only thing she could properly understand.
- </p>
- <p>
- So it was the clock, at last, that brought her to startled action. It was
- getting late. A tall, good-looking fellow in a blue uniform came out of a
- room at the back of the station, carrying two lighted lanterns. He halted
- not far from where she was sitting, and compared his watch with the
- Western Union clock. Of all the hundreds she had seen, he was the first
- who looked easily questionable. With a sudden impulse Judy got up,
- clutching her coin-purse.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you please, where will I be after taking the train to Heathwood?” she
- said, nervously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Heathwood? The 6:18 makes Heathwood. Right over there, the gate's just
- opening. Change at Jamaica.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked down at her, wondering but kindly. He was puzzled at the
- frightened way she was staring at his coat-collar; he could hardly have
- guessed that to wet eyes the embroidered letters had at first seemed to be
- <i>liar</i>. Her puny, pinched face was streaked with tears, the red
- knitted muffler made her pallor even whiter. The little imitation fur
- trimmings on her coat sleeves and collar were worn and shabby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you,” she said, blindly, and started off for the wrong gate.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hey!” he called, and overtook her in a few long strides. “This way, miss.
- Got your ticket?”
- </p>
- <p>
- In a sudden panic she opened her purse, and could not find it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, surely I've lost it,” she cried. “Where's the booking office?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The booking office?” he said. “D'you mean the news-stand? Here you are.”
- He picked up the ticket, which she had dropped in her nervousness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's all right,” he said, encouragingly. “This train, over here. I'm
- one of the crew. I'll see you get there. Don't worry.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He escorted her through the gate, and found her a seat on the train,
- beside a stout commuter half buried in parcels.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now you stay right here,” he said. “I'll tell you when we get to Jamaica,
- and show you the Heathwood train.” He smiled genially, and left her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Judy got out her wet handkerchief and wiped her face. As the train ran
- through the tunnel, she wished she had been on the inside of the seat, for
- the dark window would have been useful as a mirror. “He saw me crying,”
- she kept repeating to herself. The man beside her blanketed himself with a
- newspaper, and the pile of packages on his knees kept sliding over onto
- her lap, but she was oblivious. She was thinking of the tall man in blue
- with the queer cap. How kind he had been. The first real kindness she had
- met in all that nightmare afternoon.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently he came through the car. She could see him far down the aisle,
- leaning courteously over each seat. At first she thought he was just
- saying a friendly word to all the passengers. Sure, that's like him, she
- said to herself: he has a grand way with him. Then she saw that he was
- punching tickets with a silver clipper. Glory, it's the Guard himself, she
- thought. I wonder will he speak to me again?
- </p>
- <p>
- The man beside her thrust an arm out from his mass of bundles and held a
- large oblong of red-striped cardboard across in front of her face. This
- reminded Judy of her own ticket, which was so different from her
- neighbour's that she worried for a moment lest it should not be valid.
- Here was her friend, bending above her with a smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Everything all right?” he said. “The next stop's Jamaica. That's where
- you get off. Watch for me at this door, and I'll show you the Heath-wood
- train.” Click, click: the two tickets were punched, and he went on. Judy
- shut up her coin purse with a snap, and began to notice the hat worn by
- the lady in the seat in front.
- </p>
- <p>
- At Jamaica she found him in the vestibule, his head overtopping the
- pushing crowd. “This way,” he said, and led her quickly across the
- platform. “Jack,” he said to the brakeman on the other train, “tell this
- lady when you get to Heathwood.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, Judy,” said Mrs. Leland when her nursemaid got back to the house.
- “How much better you look! Did you have a good time?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, a grand time,” said Judy. Her face had a touch of colour and indeed
- even her awkward bog-trotting gait seemed lighter and more sprightly.
- “That's good,” said her mistress. “You'd better run down and get some
- supper before Hattie puts everything away. You can put Jack to bed after
- you've had something to eat.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pretty late for supper,” grumbled Hattie, as Judy came into the kitchen.
- “Doan' you think I got nothing to do but wait on you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll get my own supper,” said Judy, politely. “Don't you bother.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You've got a head on your shoulders,” said Hattie, banging some dishes on
- to the kitchen table. “Whyn't you use it and get back on time?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The black banshee's up in arms again,” said Judy to herself. “I'll hold
- my peace.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's the trouble with foreigners,” growled Hattie. “They ain't got no
- sense. These Irish micks come over here, puttin' on airs, where nobody
- wants 'em.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Judy's sallow cheek began to burn a darker tint.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, nabocklish!” she said. “There's somebody loves me, at any rate.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She hurried through supper, and ran upstairs to put Jack to bed. The
- six-year-old was amusing himself by snapping open and shut something that
- gleamed in the lamplight.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here!” she said. “What are you doing with Judy's purse?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Jack looked up in surprise. It was the first time that he had heard that
- note of command in the meek Judy's voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I found it on your bureau,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, leave it be, darlin'.” She took it from him. “Glory above, what's
- become of——?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She fell on her knees on the floor and began searching.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, here, 'tis!” she cried, gladly. From the rug she picked up a tiny red
- cardboard heart, and replaced it carefully in one of the sockets of her
- purse.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is it?” said Jack, yawning.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sure, it's my Valentine!” said Judy. “It ain't many girls that gets a
- Valentine from a big handsome man like that the first time he sees them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I have often wondered how many of the Long Island trainmen use a
- heart-shaped punch.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- REFERRED TO THE AUTHOR
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>ES, “Obedience” is
- a fine play. I'm glad they've revived it. Did you know that the first time
- it was produced, Morgan Edwards played the part of Dunbar? It's rather an
- odd story.
- </p>
- <p>
- I never think of Edwards without remembering the dark, creaky stairs in
- that boarding-house on Seventy-third Street. That was where I first met
- him. We had a comical habit of always encountering on the stairs. We would
- pass with that rather ridiculous murmur and sidling obeisance of two
- people who don't know each other but want to be polite. I was interested
- in him at once. Even on the shadowy stairway I could see that he had a
- fine head, and there was something curiously attractive about his pale,
- preoccupied face. There was a touch of the unworldly about him, and a
- touch of the tragic, too. You know how you divine things about people. “He
- has troubles of his own” was the banal phrase that came into my mind. Also
- there was something queerly familiar about him. I wondered if I had seen
- Him before, or only imagined him. I was busy writing, at that time, and my
- mind was peopled with energetic phantoms. The thought struck me that
- perhaps he was someone I had invented for a story, but had never given
- life to. I wondered, was this pale and rather reproachful spectre going to
- haunt me until the tale was written? At any rate, whatever the story was,
- I had forgotten it.
- </p>
- <p>
- One day, as I creaked up the first flight, I saw that he was standing at
- the head of the stairs, waiting for me to pass. A door was open behind
- him, and there was light enough to see him clearly. Tall, thin,
- beautifully shaven on a fine angular jaw that would not be easy to shave,
- I was surprised to see an air of sudden cheerfulness about him that was
- almost incongruous. Having thought of him only as a sort of melancholy
- hallucination living on a dingy stairway, it was quite startling to see
- him with his face lit up like a lyric poet's, a glow of mundane
- exhilaration in his eyes. For the first time in our meetings he looked as
- though to speak to him would not break in upon his secret thoughts. He was
- the kind of chap, you know, who usually looked as though he was busy
- thinking. I remember what I said because it was so inane. Some people
- don't like to cross on the stairs. I looked up as I came to the turn in
- the steps, and said, “Superstitious?” He smiled and said “No, I guess
- not!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Only in the literal sense, at this moment,” I said. An absurd remark, and
- a horrible pun which I regretted at once, for I thought I would have to
- explain it. Nothing more humiliating than having to explain a bad pun. But
- if I didn't explain it, it would seem rude. He looked puzzled, then his
- face lit up charmingly. “Superstitious—standing above you, eh? I
- never thought of the meaning before!”
- </p>
- <p>
- I came up the last steps. “Pardon the vile pun,” I said. Then I knew where
- I had seen him before, and recognized him. “Aren't you Morgan Edwards?” I
- asked. “Yes,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought so. I remember you in 'After Dinner'. I wrote the notice in the
- <i>Observer</i> .”
- </p>
- <p>
- “By Jove, did you? I <i>am</i> glad to meet you. I think that was the
- nicest thing any one ever said.” His gaunt and pensive face showed a quick
- flash of that direct and honest friendliness which is so appealing. We
- found that we were both living on the fourth floor. For similar reasons,
- undoubtedly. I'm afraid he thought, at first, that I was a dramatic critic
- of standing. Afterward I explained that the “After Dinner” notice had been
- only a fluke. I was on the <i>Observer</i> when the show was put on, and
- one of the dramatic men happened to be ill.
- </p>
- <p>
- Wait a minute: give me a chance! I'll tell it exactly as it came to me, in
- snips and shreds. At first I didn't pay much attention. I had problems of
- my own that summer. You know what a fourth-floor hall bedroom is in hot
- weather. I had given up my newspaper job, and was trying to finish a
- novel. I couldn't work late at night, when it was cool, because if I kept
- my typewriter going after nine-thirty the old maid in the next room used
- to pound on the partition. I didn't get on very well with the work, and
- the money was running low. Every now and then I would meet Edwards in the
- hall. He looked ill and worried, and I used to think there was a touching
- pathos in his careful neatness. My own habits run the other way—my
- Palm Beach suit was a wreck, I remember—but Edwards was always
- immaculate. I could see—having made it my business to observe
- details—how cunningly he had mended his cuffs and soft collars. Poor
- devil! I used to see him going out about noon, with his cane and Panama
- hat. I dare say he scrubbed his hat with his toothbrush. Summer is a hard
- time for an actor who hasn't had a job all spring. Of course there are the
- pictures, and summer stock, but I gathered that he had been ill, and then
- had turned down several offers of that sort on account of something coming
- along that he had great hopes for. I remembered his really outstanding
- work in “After Dinner”, that satiric comedy that fell dead the winter
- before. Most of the critics gave it a good roasting, but knowing what I do
- now I expect the real trouble was poor direction. Fagan was the director,
- and what did he know of sophisticated comedy? As I say, I had reviewed the
- piece for the <i>Observer</i>, and had been greatly struck by Edwards's
- playing. Not a leading part, but exquisitely done.
- </p>
- <p>
- But just at that time I was absorbed in my own not-too-successful affairs.
- For several years I had been saying to myself that I would do great stuff
- if I could only get away from the newspaper grind for a few months. And
- then, when I had saved up five hundred dollars, and buried myself there on
- Seventy-third Street to write, I couldn't seem to make any headway. I got
- half through the novel, and then saw that it was paltry stuff. It was
- flashy, spurious, and raw. One warm evening I was sitting at my window,
- smoking mournfully and watching some girls who were laughing and talking
- in a big apartment house that loomed over our lodgings like an ocean liner
- beside a tugboat. There was a tap at the door. Edwards asked if he could
- come in. I was surprised, and pleased. He kept very much to himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Glad to see you,” I said. “Sit down and have a pipe.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I didn't want to intrude,” he said. “I just wanted to ask you something.
- You're a literary man. Do you know anything about Arthur Sampson?”
- </p>
- <p>
- I had to confess that I had never heard the name. No one had, at that
- time, you remember.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's written a play,” Edwards said. “A perfectly lovely piece of work.
- I've got a part in it. By heaven, it seems too good to be true—after
- a summer like this: illness, the actors' strike, and all that—to get
- into something so fine. I've just read the whole script. I'm so keen about
- it, I'm eager to know who the author is. I thought perhaps you might know
- something about him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I guess he's a new man,” I said. “What's the play called?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Obedience.' You know, I've never had such a stroke of luck—it's as
- if the part had been written for me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Splendid,” I said, and I was honestly pleased to hear of his good
- fortune. “Is it the lead?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no. Of course they want a big name for that. Brooks is the man. My
- part is only the foil—provides the contrast, you know—on the
- payroll as well as on the stage.” He laughed, a little cynically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who's producing it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Upton.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't mean to tell me Upton's got anything good?” I knew little
- enough about theatrical matters, but even outsiders know Upton's sort of
- producing, which mostly consists of musical shows where an atrocious
- libretto is pulled through by an opulent chorus and plenty of eccentric
- dancing. “A chorus that outstrips them all” was one of his favourite
- advertising slogans.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's why I was wondering about the author, Sampson. This must be his
- first, or he'd never have given it to Upton. Or is Upton going to turn
- over a new leaf?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The only leaves Upton is likely to turn over are figleaves,” I said,
- brutally. Upton's previous production had been called “The Figleaf Lady”.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's the amazing part of it,” said Edwards. “This thing is really
- exquisite. It is beautifully written: quiet, telling, nothing irrelevant,
- not a false note. What will happen to it in Upton's hands, God knows. But
- he seems enthusiastic. He's a likable cutthroat: let's hope for the best.
- You're busy—forgive me for breaking in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Well, of course some of you have seen “Obedience” since that time, and you
- know that what Edwards told me was true. The play <i>was</i> lovely; not
- even Upton could kill it altogether. It was Sampson's first. Have any of
- you read it in printed form? It reads as well as it plays. And the part
- that Edwards was cast for—Dunbar—is, to any competent
- spectator, the centre of the action. You remember the lead: the cold,
- hard, successful hypocrite; and then Dunbar, the blundering, kindly
- simpleton whose forlorn attempts to create happiness for all about him
- only succeed in bringing disaster to the one he loves best. It's a great
- picture of a fine mind and heart, a life of rich, generous possibilities,
- frittered and wasted and worn out by the needless petty obstinacies of
- destiny. And all the tragedy (this was the superb touch) because the
- wretched soul never had courage enough to be unkind. What was it St. Paul,
- or somebody, said about not being disobedient to the heavenly vision?
- Dunbar, in the play, was obedient enough, and his heavenly vision made his
- life a hell. It was the old question of conflicting loyalties. How are you
- going to solve that?
- </p>
- <p>
- I suppose the tragic farce is the most perfect conception of man's mind—outside
- the higher mathematics, I dare say. Everyone knows Sampson's touch now,
- but it was new then. Some of his situations came pretty close to the
- nerve-roots. The pitiful absurdity of people in a crisis, exquisite human
- idiocy where one can't smile because grotesque tragedy is so close...
- those were the scenes that Upton's director thought needed “working up”.
- But I'm getting ahead of my story.
- </p>
- <p>
- Well, now, let me see. I'd better be a little chronological. It must have
- been September, because I know I took Labour Day off and went to Long
- Beach for a swim. I had just about come to the conclusion that my novel
- was worthless, and that I'd better get a job of some sort. At the far end
- of the boardwalk, you remember, there's a quiet hotel where one gets away
- from the crowd, and where you see quite nice-looking people. After I'd had
- my swim, I thought I'd stroll up that way and have supper there. It's not
- a cheap place, but I had been living on lunch-counter food all summer, and
- I felt I owed myself a little extravagance. I was on my way along the
- boardwalk, enjoying the cool, strong whiff that comes off the ocean toward
- sunset, when I saw Edwards, on the other side of the promenade, walking
- with a girl. My eye caught his, and we raised our hats. I was going on,
- thinking that perhaps he wasn't so badly off as I had imagined, when to my
- surprise he ran after me. He looked very haggard and ill, and seemed
- embarrassed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look here,” he said, “it's frightfully awkward: I must have had my pocket
- picked somehow. I've lost my railroad tickets and everything. Could you
- possibly lend me enough to get back to town? I've got a lady with me,
- too.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I didn't need to count my money to know how much I had. It was just about
- five dollars, and, as you know, that doesn't go far at Long Beach. I told
- him how I stood. “I can give you enough for the railroad fares, and glad
- to,” I said. “But how about supper?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, we're not hungry,” he said; “we had a big lunch.” I knew this was
- probably bravado, but I liked him for saying it. While I was feeling in my
- pocket for some bills, and wondering how to pass them over to him
- unobtrusively, he said, “I'd like to introduce you to Miss Cunningham.
- We're going to be married in the autumn.”
- </p>
- <p>
- You may have seen Sylvia Cunningham? If so, you know how lovely she is.
- Not pretty but with the simple charm that beauty can't——
- </p>
- <p>
- Well, that's trite! She'll never be a great actress, but in the rôle of
- Sylvia Cunningham she's perfect. I hate to call her slender—it's
- such an overworked word, but what other is there? Dark hair and clear,
- amberlucent brown eyes, and a slow, searching way of talking, as if she
- were really trying to put thought into speech. She, too, poor child, had
- had a bad summer, I guessed: there was a neat little mend in her glove.
- She was very friendly—I think Edwards must have told her about that
- <i>Observer</i> notice. I saw that they were both much humiliated at their
- mishap, and I judged that genial frankness would carry off the situation
- best.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Life among the artists!” I said. “What are our assets?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I've got seventeen cents,” said Edwards. It was a mark of fine breeding,
- I thought, that he did not insist upon saying how much it was that he had
- lost.
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Cunningham began to open her purse. “I have——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense!” I said. “What you have doesn't enter into the audit. In the
- vulgar phrase, your money's no good. I've got five dollars and a quarter.
- Now I suggest we go to Jamaica and get supper there, and then go back to
- town by trolley. It'll be an adventure.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Well, that was what we did, and very jolly it was. You know how it is:
- artists and actors and manicure girls and newspapermen are accustomed to
- ups and downs of pocket; and when they have a misery in the right-hand
- trouser they make up for it in a spirit of genial comradeship. Jamaica is
- an entertaining place. In a little lunchroom, which I remembered from a
- time when I covered a story out that way, we had excellent ham and eggs,
- and a good talk.
- </p>
- <p>
- As we sat in that little white-tiled restaurant, I couldn't help watching
- Edwards. I don't know how to make this plain to you, but our talk, which
- was cheerful enough, was the least important part of the occasion. Talk
- tells so little, anyway: most of it's a mere stumbling in an almost
- foreign tongue when it comes to expressing the inward pangs and
- certainties that make up life. I had a feeling, as I saw those two, that I
- was coming closer than ever before to something urgent and fundamental in
- the human riddle. I thought that I had never seen a man so completely in
- love. When he looked at her there was a sort of—well, a sort of
- possession upon him, an enthusiasm, in the true sense of that strange
- word. I thought to myself that Keats must have looked at Fanny Brawne in
- just that way. And—you know what writers are—I must confess
- that my observation of these two began to turn into “copy” in my mind. I
- was wondering whether they might not give me a hint for my stalled novel.
- </p>
- <p>
- There are some engaged couples that make it a point of honour to be a bit
- off-hand and jocose when any one else is with them. Just to show, I
- suppose, how sure they are of each other. And somehow I had expected
- actors, to whom the outward gestures of passion are a mere professional
- accomplishment, to be a little blasé or polished in such matters. But
- there was a perfect candour and simplicity about them that touched me
- keenly. Their relation seemed a lovely thing. Too lovely, and too intense
- perhaps, to be entirely happy, I thought, for I could see in Edwards's
- face that his whole life and mind were wrapped up in it. I may have been
- fanciful, but at that time I was seeing the human panorama not for itself
- but as a reflection of my own amateurish scribblings. In my novel I had
- been working on the theory—not an original one, of course—that
- the essence of tragedy is fixing one's passion too deeply on anything in
- life. In other words, that happiness only comes to those who do not take
- life too seriously. Destiny, determined not to give up its secrets, always
- maims or destroys those who press it too closely. As we laughed and
- enjoyed ourselves over our meal, I was wondering whether Edwards, with his
- strange air of honourable sorrow, was a proof of my doctrine.
- </p>
- <p>
- Of course we talked about the new play. Edwards had persuaded Upton to
- give Miss Cunningham a place in the cast, and she was radiant about it.
- Her eyes were like pansies as she spoke of it. I remember one thing she
- said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Isn't it wonderful? Morgan and I are together again. You know how much it
- means to us, for if the show has a run we can get married this winter.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “This fall,” Edwards amended.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Morgan's part is fine,” she went on, after a look at him that made even a
- hardened reporter feel that he had no right to be there. “It's really the
- big thing in the play for any one who can understand. It's just made for
- him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She was thoughtful a moment, and then added: “It's <i>too much</i> made
- for him, that's the only trouble. You're living with him, Mr. Roberts.
- Don't let him take it too hard. He thinks of nothing else.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I made some jocular remark, I forget what. Edwards was silent for a
- minute. Then he said: “If you knew how I've longed for a part like that—a
- part that I could really lose myself in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shouldn't care,” I said, “to lose myself in a part. Suppose I couldn't
- find myself again when the time came?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned to me earnestly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're not an actor, Roberts, so perhaps you hardly understand what it
- means to find a play that's <i>real</i>—more real than everyday
- life. What I mean is this: everyday life is so damned haphazard, troubled
- by a thousand distractions and subject to every sort of cruel chance. We
- just fumble along and never know what's coming next. But in a play, a good
- play, it's all worked out beforehand, you can see the action progressing
- under clear guidance. What a relief it is to be able to sink yourself in
- your part, to live it and breathe it and get away for awhile from this
- pitiless self-consciousness that tags around with us. You remember what
- they used to say about Booth: that it wasn't Booth playing Hamlet, but
- Hamlet playing Booth.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- The next day, I remember, I tied up my manuscript neatly in a brown paper
- parcel, marked it <i>Literary Remains of Leonard Roberts</i> (I was
- childish enough to think that the alliteration would please my literary
- executor, if there should be such a person), put it away in my trunk, and
- went down to Park Row to see if there were any jobs to be had. Of course
- it was the usual story. I had been out of the game for six months, and
- Park Row seemed to have survived the blow with great courage. At the <i>Observer</i>
- office they charitably gave me some books to review. As I came uptown on
- the subway I was reflecting on the change a few hours had made in my
- condition. That morning I had been an author, a novelist if you please;
- and now I was not even a reporter, but that most deplorable of all Grub
- Street figures, a hack reviewer. It was mid-afternoon, and I hadn't had
- any lunch yet. In a fit of sulks I went into Browne's, sat down in a
- corner, and ordered a chop and some shandygaff. As I ate, I looked over
- the books with a peevish eye. Never mind, I said to myself, I will write
- such brilliant, withering, and scorching reviews that in six months the
- Authors' League will be offering me hush money. I was framing the opening
- paragraph of my first article when Johnson, whom I had known on the <i>Observer</i>,
- stopped at my table. He was one of the newspaper men who had left Park Row
- to go into professional publicity work. There had been a time when I
- sneered at such a declension.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hullo, Leonard,” he said. “What are you doing nowadays?”
- </p>
- <p>
- I told him, irritably, that I was writing a serial for one of the women's
- magazines. There is no statement that puts envious awe into a newspaper
- man so surely as that. But I also admitted that if he knew of a good job I
- might be persuaded to listen to details.
- </p>
- <p>
- “As it happens,” he said, “I do. Upton, the theatrical producer, is
- looking for a press agent. He tells me he's got something unusual under
- way, and he wants a highbrow blurb-artist. He says his regular roughneck
- is no good for this kind of show. Something by a new writer, rather out of
- Upton's ordinary line, I guess.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is it 'Obedience'?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's it. I couldn't remember the name.” As soon as I had finished my
- lunch I went round to Upton's office. It was high up in a building
- overlooking Longacre Square, where the elevators were crowded with the
- people of that quaint and spurious world. The men I found particularly
- fascinating—you know the type, so very young in figure, often so old
- and hard and dry in face, with their lively tweeds, starched blue or green
- collars, silver-gray ties, and straight-brushed, purply-black hair. It was
- my first introduction to the realms of theatrical producing, and I must
- confess that I found Mr. Upton's office very entertaining with its air of
- elaborate and transparent bunkum. I sat underneath a coloured enlarged
- photo of the Garden of Eden ballet in “The Figleaf Lady” and surveyed the
- small anteroom. It was all intensely unreal. Those framed photographs, on
- which were scrawled <i>To Harry Upton, the Best of His Kind</i>, or some
- such inscriptions, and signed by dramatists I had never heard of; the
- typist pounding out contracts; the architect's drawing of the projected
- Upton Theatre at Broadway and Fiftieth Street, showing a line of people at
- the box office—all this, I knew by instinct, meant nothing. The
- dramatists whose photographs I saw would never write a real play; the
- Upton Theatre, even if it should be built, would not house anything but
- “burlettas,” and the typed contracts were not worth so much carbon paper.
- As for Mr. Upton himself, one couldn't help loving him: he was such a
- disarming, enthusiastic, shrewd, unreliable bandit. To abbreviate, he took
- me on as a member of his “publicity staff” (consisting of myself and a
- typewriter, as far as I could see) at one hundred dollars a week. His
- private office had three ingenious exits; going out by one of them, I
- found myself in a little alcove with the typewriter and plenty of
- stationery. Rehearsals of “Obedience” had started that morning, Upton had
- told me; so before I went home that afternoon I had typed and sent off the
- following pregnant paragraph for the next day's papers:
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry Upton's first dramatic production of the season, “Obedience,” by
- Arthur Sampson, began making elbow room for itself at rehearsals
- yesterday. Keith Brooks will play the leading rôle, supported by Lillian
- Llewellyn, Sylvia Cunningham, Morgan Edwards, and other distinguished
- players.
- </p>
- <p>
- I had a feeling of cheerfulness that evening. The cursed novel was no
- longer on my mind, there would be a hundred dollars due me the next week,
- and I was about to satisfy my long-standing curiosity to know something
- about the theatre from the inside. It was one of those typical evenings of
- New York loveliness: a rich, tawny, lingering light, a dry, clear air,
- warm enough to be pleasantly soft and yet with a sharp tingle in the
- breeze. I strolled about that bright jolly neighbourhood round the hideous
- Verdi statue, bought a volume of Pinero's plays at one of those
- combination book, cigar, and toy shops, and as I sat in my favourite
- Milwaukee Lunch I believe (if I must be frank) that some idea of writing a
- play was flitting through my mind. I got back to my room about ten
- o'clock. I had just sat down to read Pinero when Edwards tapped at the
- door. My mouth was open to tell him my surprising news when I saw that he
- was unpleasantly agitated. First he insisted on returning my loan,
- although I begged him to believe that there need be no hurry about it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Rehearsals began to-day,” he said. He sat down on the bed and looked very
- sombre. “The worst possible has happened,” he said. “Fagan's directing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I tried to console him. Perhaps I felt that if Upton had shown such good
- sense in his choice of a press representative his judgment in directors
- couldn't be altogether wrong.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, well,” I said, “if the play's as good as you say, he can't hurt it
- much. Upton believes in it, he won't let Fagan chop it about, will he? And
- he's got a good cast—they won't need much direction: they know how
- to handle that kind of thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's plain you don't know the game,” he said. “If Upton had combed
- Broadway from Herald Square to Reisenweber's, he couldn't have found a man
- so superbly equipped to kill the piece. As for poor Sampson, God help him.
- Fagan is a typical Broadway hanger-on, with plenty of debased cunning of
- his own; not a fool at all; but the last man for this kind of show, which
- needs imagination, atmosphere, delicate tone and tempo. But that's not all
- of it. Fagan hates me personally. He'll get me out of the company if he
- possibly can. He can do it, of course: he has Upton's ear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat a moment, one eyebrow twitching nervously. Suddenly he cried out,
- in a quivering, passionate voice which horrified and frightened me: “I've
- <i>got</i> to play Dunbar! It's my only chance. <i>Everything</i> depends
- upon it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Such an outcry, in a man usually so trained a master of himself, was
- pitiful. I was truly shocked, and yet I was almost on the verge of nervous
- laughter, I remember, when the idiotic old spinster in the next room
- pounded lustily on the wall. I suppose she thought we were revelling. I
- could see that he needed to talk. I tried to soothe him with some
- commonplace words and a cigarette.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” he said, “I know what I'm talking about. Fagan hates me. No need to
- go into details. He directed 'After Dinner,' you know—and massacred
- it. We had a row then... he tried to bully a girl in the company... I
- threatened to thrash him. He hasn't forgotten, of course. He passed the
- word round then that I ruined the show. If this were any other play I'd
- have walked out as soon as I saw him. But this piece is different. I—I've
- set my heart on it. My God, I'm just <i>meant</i> for that part——”
- </p>
- <p>
- In the hope of calming him, I asked what had happened at the first
- rehearsal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, the usual thing. We went through the first act, with the sides. I
- knew my lines perfectly, the only one who did (I ought to, I've been over
- them incessantly these few weeks—the thing haunts me). That seemed
- to annoy Fagan. Sampson was there—a quiet little man with a bright,
- thoughtful eye. For his benefit, evidently, Fagan got off his old tosh
- about Victor Hugo and the preface to 'Hernani'. It's a bit of patter he
- picked up somewhere, and uses to impress people with. In the middle of it,
- he suddenly realized that I had heard it all before. That made him mad. So
- he cut it short, and reasserted himself by saying that the first act would
- have to be cut a great deal. Sampson looked pretty groggy, but said
- nothing. Sampson, I can see, is my only hope. Fagan will try to force me
- out of the show by hounding me until I lose my temper and quit. He began
- by telling me how to cross the stage. A man who learned the business under
- Frank Benson doesn't need to be taught how to walk!”
- </p>
- <p>
- I ventured some mild sedative opinion, because I saw it did him good to
- pour out his perplexity.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't know,” he said, “how the actor is at the mercy of the director.
- The director is appointed by the manager and is responsible only to him.
- If the director takes a dislike to one of the cast, he can tell the
- manager he 'can't work with him', and get him fired that way; or he can
- make the man's position impossible by ridicule and perpetual criticism at
- rehearsals. He remarked to-day that I was miscast. The fool! I've never
- had such a part.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Well, we talked until after midnight, and only stopped then because I was
- afraid that the spinster might begin to hammer again. In the end I got him
- fairly well pacified. He was delighted when I told him that I was going to
- be press agent, and I pleased him by making some memoranda of his previous
- career, which I thought I could work up into a Sunday story. To tell the
- truth, I did not, then, take all his distress at its face value. I knew he
- had had a difficult summer, and was in a nervous, high-strung state. I
- thought that his trouble was partly what we call “actors' disease,” or (to
- put it more humanely) oversensitized selfconsciousness. I promised to get
- round to the rehearsal the next day.
- </p>
- <p>
- As a matter of fact, it was several days before I was able to attend a
- rehearsal. For the next morning Upton asked me to go to Atlantic City,
- where he had a musical show opening, to collect data for publicity. His
- regular press man was ill, and it was evident that he expected me to do
- plenty of work for my hundred a week. However, it was a new and amusing
- job, and I was keen to absorb as much local colour as possible. I went to
- Atlantic City on the train with the “Jazz You Like It” company, took notes
- of all their life histories, went in swimming with the Blandishing Blondes
- quartette that afternoon, had them photographed on the sand, took care to
- see that they were arrested in their one-piece suits, bailed them out, and
- by dinner-time had collected enough material to fill the trashiest Sunday
- paper. In the evening the show opened, and I saw what seemed to me the
- most appallingly vulgar and brutally silly spectacle that had ever
- disgraced a stage. I wondered how a company of quite intelligent and
- amusing people could ever have been drilled into such laborious and
- glittering stupidity. The gallery fell for the Blondes, but the rest of
- the house suffered for the most part in silence, and I expected to see
- Upton crushed to earth. When I met him in the lobby afterward I was
- wondering how to condole with him. To my surprise he was radiant. “Well, I
- guess we've got a knockout,” he said. “This'll sell to the roof on
- Broadway.” He was right, too. Well, this is out of the story. I simply
- wanted to explain that I was away from New York for several days.
- </p>
- <p>
- When I got back to Upton's office I was busy most of the day sending out
- stuff to the papers. Then I asked the imperial young lady who was
- alternately typing letters and attending to the little telephone
- switchboard, where “Obedience” was rehearsing. At the Stratford, she
- replied. Wondering how many of Mr. Upton's amusing and discreditable
- problems were bestowed under her magnificent rippling coiffure (she was
- really a stunning creature), I went round to that theatre. The middle door
- was open and I slipped in. The house was dark, on the tall, naked stage
- the rehearsal was proceeding. It was my first experience of this sort of
- thing, and I found it extremely interesting. The stage was set out with
- chairs to indicate exits and essentials of furniture; at the back hung a
- huge canvas sea-scene, used in some revue that had opened at the Stratford
- the night before. The electricians were tinkering with their illuminating
- effects, great blazes and shafts of light criss-crossed about the place as
- the rehearsal went on, much to the annoyance of the actors. Little
- electric stars winked in the painted sky portion of the blue back-drop,
- and men in overalls walked about gazing at their tasks.
- </p>
- <p>
- I sat down quietly in the gloom, about halfway down the middle aisle. Two
- or three other people, whose identity I could not conjecture, sat singly
- down toward the front. In the orchestra row, in shirtsleeves, with his
- feet on the brass rail and a cigar in his mouth, sat a person who, I saw,
- must be the renowned Fagan. Downstage were Brooks, Edwards, and a charming
- creature in summery costume who was obviously the original of the
- multitudinous photographs of Lillian Llewellyn. The rest of the company
- were sitting about at the back, off the scene. Edwards, who was very pale
- in the violent downpour of a huge bulb hanging from a wire just overhead,
- was speaking as I took my seat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wait a minute, folks—<i>wait a minute!</i>” cried Fagan, sharply.
- “Now! You've got your situation planted, let's nail it to the cross. Mr.
- Edwards!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The actors turned, wearily, and Miss Llewellyn sat down on a chair. Brooks
- stood waiting with a kind of dogged endurance. At the back of the stage a
- workman was hammering on a piece of metal. Fagan pulled his legs off the
- rail and climbed halfway up the little steps leading from the orchestra
- pit to the proscenium.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Edwards!” he shouted, “you're letting it drop. It's dead. Give it to
- Mr. Brooks so he can pick it up and do something with it. You've got to
- lift it into the domain of comedy! My God!” he cried, throwing his cigar
- stub into the orchestra well, “that whole act is terrible. Take it again
- from Miss Llewellyn's entrance. Mr. Edwards, try to put a little more
- stuff into it. This isn't amateur theatricals.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Edwards turned as though about to speak, but he clenched his fist and kept
- silent. Brooks, however, was less patient.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pardon me, Mr. Fagan,” he said, in a clear, ironical tone. “But I should
- like to ask a question, if you will allow me. You speak, very forcibly, of
- lifting it into the domain of comedy. That seems a curious phrase for this
- scene. Is it intended to be comic? If so, I must have misconstrued the
- author's directions in the script.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Brooks was too well-known a performer for Fagan to bully. Brooks was “on
- the lights”—in other words, when the show's electric signboard went
- up, it would carry his name. Around his presence hung the mystic aura of
- five hundred dollars a week, quite enough in itself to make Fagan
- respectful. The director seemed a little startled by the star's caustic
- accent. As a matter of fact, I don't suppose he had ever read the script
- as a whole. I remembered that after the first rehearsal Edwards told me
- that Fagan had admitted not having read the play. He said he preferred to
- “pick up the dialogue as they went along”. This reference to the author
- must have seemed to him unaccountably eccentric. I daresay he had
- forgotten that there was such a person.
- </p>
- <p>
- He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right, if that's
- the way you take it, I've got nothing to say. Play it your own way, folks.
- Mr. Edwards, you're killing Mr. Brooks's scene there. Give him time to
- come down and get his effect.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Again I saw Edwards lift his head as though about to retort, but Brooks
- whispered something to him. Fagan came back to his seat in the front row
- and lit a fresh cigar. “Take it from Miss Llewellyn's first entrance,” he
- shouted.
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Cunningham and a third man came forward and the five regrouped
- themselves. The rehearsal resumed. I watched with a curious tingle of
- excitement. The dialogue meant little to me, plunging in at the middle of
- the act, but I could not miss the passionate quality of Edwards's playing.
- Even Brooks, a polished but very cold actor, caught the warmth. Their
- speeches had the rich vibrance of anger. I was really startled at the
- power and velocity of the performance, considering that they had only
- rehearsed a week. As I watched, someone leaned over my shoulder from
- behind and whispered: “What do you think of Dunbar?”
- </p>
- <p>
- My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. I turned and saw a little man
- with a thin face and lifted eyebrows which gave him a quaint expression of
- perpetual surprise. I was so absorbed in the scene that at first I hardly
- understood.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dunbar—? Oh, Edwards?” I whispered. “I think he's corking—fine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At that moment Edwards was in the middle of a speech. Miss Cunningham had
- just said something. Edwards, going toward her, had put his hand on her
- shoulder and was replying in a tone of peculiar tenderness. Fagan's loud
- voice broke in.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dunbar! Mr. Edwards! I can't let you do it like that. You make me hold up
- this scene every time. Now get it right. This is a bit of comedy, not sob
- stuff. Try to be a bit facetious, if you can. You're not making love to
- the girl—not yet!”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a moment of silence. Those on the stage stood still, oddly like
- children halted in the middle of a game. I don't suppose Fagan's words
- were deliberately intended as a personal insult, but seemed to himself a
- legitimate comment on the action of the piece. I think his offences came
- more often from boorish obtuseness than calculated malice. But the brutal
- interruption, coming after a long and difficult afternoon, strained the
- players' nerves to snapping. Brooks sat down with an air of calculated
- nonchalance and took out a cigarette. Then a tinkling hammering began
- again somewhere up in the flies. Edwards was flushed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For God's sake stop that infernal racket up there,” he cried. Then,
- coming down to the unlit gutter of footlights, he said quietly:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Fagan, I've studied this part rather more carefully than you have. If
- the author is in the house, I'd like to appeal to him as to whether my
- conception is correct.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was such a quiver of passion in his voice that even Fagan seemed
- taken aback.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What's got into you folks to-day?” he growled. “Oh, very well. Is Mr.
- Sampson here?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The little man behind me got up and walked down the aisle in an
- embarrassed way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Author,” said Fagan, “have you been watching the rehearsal?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sampson murmured something.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is Mr. Edwards doing the part as you want it done?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Edwards is perfectly right,” said Sampson.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you, sir,” said Edwards from the stage. “Fagan, when you are ready
- to conduct rehearsals like a gentleman, I will be here.” He turned and
- walked off the stage.
- </p>
- <p>
- Brooks snapped his cigarette case to, and the sharp click seemed to bring
- the scene to an end. Fagan picked up his coat from the seat beside him.
- “Bolshevism!” he said. “All right, folks, ten o'clock to-morrow, here.
- Miss Cunningham, will you tell Mr. Edwards ten o'clock tomorrow?”
- </p>
- <p>
- This last might be taken either as a surly apology, or as an added insult.
- Rather subtle for Fagan, I thought. As I was getting out of my seat, the
- director and a venomous-looking young man whom I had seen in and out of
- Upton's office walked up the aisle together. Sampson was just behind them.
- I could see that the director was either furiously angry, or else (more
- likely) deemed it his duty to pretend to be.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This show's no good as long as Edwards is in it,” he said, loudly,
- spitting out fragments of cigar-wrapper. “That fellow's breaking up the
- company. I sha'n't be able to handle 'em at all, pretty soon. This kind of
- thing puts an omen on a show.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Well, that was my introduction to “Obedience”. I watched Fagan and the
- hanger-on of Upton's office—one of those innumerable black-haired
- young infidels who run errands for a man like Upton, hobnob with the
- ticket speculators in the enigmatic argot of the box office, and seem to
- look out upon the world from behind a little grill of brass railings. They
- moved up the velvet slope of the passage, arguing hoarsely. Sampson faded
- gently away into the darkness and disappeared through the thick blue
- curtains of the foyer. An idea struck me, and I ran behind to see the
- stage manager, Cervaux, who was playing one of the minor parts. I cajoled
- his own copy of the script away from him, promising to return it to the
- office the next morning. I wanted to read the play entire. Going out
- toward the stage door, behind a big flat of scenery I came upon Miss
- Cunningham. She was sitting in a rolling chair, one of those things you
- see on the boardwalk at Atlantic City. There was a whole fleet of them
- drawn up in the wings, they were used in that idiotic revue playing at the
- Stratford. It added to the curiously unreal atmosphere of the occasion to
- see her crouching there, crying, alone in the half light, among those
- absurd vehicles of joy.
- </p>
- <p>
- I intended to pass as though I hadn't seen her, but she called out to me.
- If Upton could have seen her then, her honey-brown eyes glazed with tears,
- black rings in her poor little pale face, he would have raised her salary—or
- else fired her, I don't know which.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Roberts,” she said, slowly and tremulously—“I don't know who
- else to ask. Will you try to help Morgan?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why of course,” I said. “Anything I can do——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You were at the rehearsal? Then you saw how Fagan treats him. It's been
- like that every day. The brute! It's abominable! You know how we had set
- our hearts on playing this together, Morgan and I.... Now I've almost come
- to pray that Morgan will throw it up. That's what Fagan wants, of course,
- but I don't care. All I want is his happiness. I said something to him
- about giving up the part, but he... Mr. Roberts, I'm <i>worried</i>. I've
- never seen Morgan so strange before. He's not himself. I don't know what's
- the matter, I have a feeling that something——-”
- </p>
- <p>
- The electricians were still fooling about with their spotlights, and a
- great arrow of brilliance sliced across the stage and groped about us. It
- blazed brutally upon her tear-stained face, and then see-sawed among the
- little flock of rolling chairs. It was that shaft of light that dispelled,
- once for all, the feeling I had had that this was all some sort of
- theatrical gibberish, pantomime stuff intended to impress the greenhorn
- press agent. For when she recoiled under the blow of that sudden stroke of
- brightness I could read unquestionable trouble on her face. There was not
- only perplexity, there was fear.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was silent, turning her face away. Then she stepped down from the
- chair, in a blind sort of way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I begged him to give it up,” she said, quietly. “He said that no one but
- the author could take him out of this part. I wish the author would.—Oh,
- I don't know what to wish! Morgan's making himself ill fighting against
- Fagan.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We walked across Fortieth Street together, and I escorted her as far as a
- Fifth Avenue bus. As we waited for the bus she said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “You'll probably see him to-night. Tell him about rehearsal to-morrow, ten
- o'clock. He had gone before I could speak to him. You see, he's not
- himself. We were to have taken supper together.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She added something that I have never forgotten:
- </p>
- <p>
- “The worst tragedy in the world is when lovely things get in the hands of
- people who don't understand them. If you see Mr. Sampson, you might tell
- him that. Some day he may write another play.”
- </p>
- <p>
- When I got up to Seventy-third Street I tapped at Edwards's door. He was
- at his table, writing. I had intended to ask him to take dinner with me,
- thinking that perhaps I could help him, but his manner showed plainly that
- he wanted to be alone. If I had been an old friend of his, perhaps I could
- have done something; but I did not feel I knew him well enough to force
- myself upon his mood.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Fagan sent you word, rehearsal to-morrow at ten,” I said. “It sounds to
- me like an apology.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at me steadily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You were there to-day? You will understand a little, then.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I understand that Fagan is a ruffian.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Fagan—Oh, I don't mean Fagan.” He paused and looked at the wet
- point of his pen. “I was just writing a note to Sampson,” he said. He
- hesitated a moment, and then tore the written sheet across several times
- and dropped it in the basket.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, hell,” he said. “I can't appeal to Sampson again. I'll have to work
- it out myself.—Don't imagine I take Fagan too seriously. Fagan is
- only an accident. A tragic accident. That's part of my weird, as the
- Scotch say. I mean, you'll understand better about Dunbar.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I didn't quite understand, and said nothing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wouldn't let a man like Fagan stand between me and Dunbar,” he said.
- “It's in the hands of the author now. You heard what he said. He put
- Dunbar into the play, he's the only one who can take him out of it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The next morning Upton broke the news to me that I was to go out as
- advance man. The opening was set for Providence, only ten days later.
- There was to be a two-weeks' tour of three-night engagements, and I had to
- arrange for the publicity, poster-printing, accommodations for the
- company, and so on. This did not appeal to me very strongly, but I
- scrambled together a lot of photographs, interviewed the cast as to their
- preferences in hotel rooms, and set off. I got back a week later. We were
- then only three days away from the opening. They were rehearsing with the
- sets, Upton's telephone blonde told me, and I hurried round to the
- Stratford to see how the scenic artist had done the job.
- </p>
- <p>
- They had just knocked off for lunch when I got there, and at the stage
- door I met Edwards coming out with Miss Cunningham. He looked very white
- and tired.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hullo,” I said; “just in time to have lunch with me! Come on, we'll go to
- Maxim's. I've still got some of Upton's expense money.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I've got to rush round to the modiste for a fitting,” said Miss
- Cunningham. “The gowns are just finished. You take Morgan and give him a
- good talking-to. He needs it.” I did not quite understand the appeal in
- her eyes, but I saw that she wanted me to talk with Edwards alone. She
- went toward Bryant Park, and we turned down to Thirty-eighth. Edwards
- stood a moment at the corner looking after her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sylvia says I'm a fool,” he said, wearily. “I don't know: most of us are,
- one way or another.—You know I told you that I put my confidence in
- the author.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Quite right,” I said. “I myself heard Sampson say he thought you were
- corking.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I wonder if he's double-crossing me?” said Edwards, slowly, as
- though to himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “In what way?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yesterday, when I was coming down to rehearsal, there was a tie-up of
- some kind on the subway. The train stood still for a long time, and then
- the lights went out. We stayed in the dark for I don't know how long—everybody
- got nervous. It was pitch black, and awfully hot and stuffy. The women
- began to scream. I felt pretty queer myself—you know I haven't been
- well—and as we sat there I went off into a kind of doze or
- something. Then, just as everybody was on the edge of a panic, the lights
- came on and we went ahead. When we got to Times Square I think I must have
- been a bit off colour, for the damned rehearsal went out of my head
- entirely. Suddenly I realized I was in a drugstore drinking some headache
- fizz when I was over an hour late at the theatre. My God! I hustled down
- there as fast as I could go. Queer thing. I went in through the stage
- door, and as I came round behind the set I heard voices on the stage. They
- were rehearsing, of course. Naturally, they couldn't wait all morning for
- me. But this is what I'm getting at. You know that scene in the second act
- where I say to Brooks: <i>It's all very well for you to say that. Ah, hah!
- I see! But suppose you had been in my place—-</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know that's a turning point in the act. There's a particular
- inflection I give that speech—the way I say the 'Ah, hah! I see!'
- that makes the point clear to the audience and gets it over. Well, they
- were rehearsing that scene, and from behind the canvas I heard that
- speech. And what I heard was my own voice.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What on earth do you mean?” I said.
- </p>
- <p>
- He hesitated. He was sitting, his lunch almost untasted, with one elbow on
- the table and his forehead leaning on his hand. Under his long, sinewy
- fingers I could see his brows tightened and frowning downward upon his
- plate.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Exactly what I say. It was my own voice. Or, if you prefer, Dunbar's
- voice. I heard that speech uttered, tone for tone, as I had been saying
- it. It was the precise accent and pitch of ironical comment which I had
- thought appropriate for Dunbar at that point in the action. The sudden
- change of tone, the pause, the placing of the emphasis—the words
- were just as if they had come out of my own mouth. I stopped,
- instinctively. I said to myself, has Fagan got someone else to play the
- part, and been coaching him on the side? Someone who's been sitting in at
- rehearsals and has picked up my conception of Dunbar? And at that moment I
- heard Fagan sing out 'All right, folks, the carpenter wants to work on
- this set. We'll quit until after lunch.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “I tell you, I was staggered. If I was out, I was out, but they might have
- been straight with me. It was a matter for the Equity, I thought. I didn't
- want to chin it over with the others just then, and I heard them coming
- off, so I slipped through the door that opens into the passage behind the
- stage box. I meant to tell Fagan what I thought about it. There was
- Sampson sitting in one of the boxes. He saw me, and got up. He said: 'By
- Jove, Mr. Edwards, you were fine this morning. I've never seen you do it
- so well. It was bully, all through. Keep it like that, and you're the hit
- of the play.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought at first he was making fun of me. I was about to make some
- sarcastic retort, when he put out his hand in the friendliest way, and
- said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “'I want to thank you for what you're doing for that part, and I know it
- hasn't been easy. I've never seen anything so beautifully done, and just
- want to tell you that if the play is a success it will be largely due to
- you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “This, on the heels of the other, astounded me so that I didn't know what
- to say. I made some automatic reply, and he left. I sat down in the cool
- darkness of the box to rest, for I was feeling very seedy. My head went
- round and round—touch of the sun, I dare say, or that foul air in
- the crowded subway car. I was still there when they came back, an hour
- later, for the afternoon rehearsal. I tried to talk to Sylvia about it,
- but all she would say was that I ought to go to a doctor.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think she's right,” I said. “Look here, have you had any sleep lately?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You seem to have forgotten Dunbar's line,” he said. “'<i>There'll be
- 'plenty of time to sleep by and bye.</i>'”
- </p>
- <p>
- “For God's sake forget about Dunbar,” I said. “Man, dear, you're on the
- tip of a nervous breakdown. Now listen. This is Friday. Dress rehearsal
- to-morrow. Sunday you'll have all day off. Take Miss Cunningham and go
- away into the country somewhere and rest. Put the damned play out of your
- mind and give her a good time. You both need it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I didn't see him again until Monday morning.
- </p>
- <p>
- I went up to Providence on the train with the company. As I passed through
- one of the Pullmans looking for a seat in a smoking compartment, I found
- Miss Cunningham and Edwards sitting in adjoining chairs. To my delight,
- they seemed very cheerful, and smiled up at me charmingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Took your advice yesterday,” he said. “We went down to Long Beach again.
- Had a lovely day, not even a pickpocket to spoil it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What an unfortunate remark!” said Sylvia, laughing. “He means, not a
- pickpocket to bring us a friend in need and give us a jolly evening in
- Jamaica.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I spoke the speech trippingly,” he admitted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And we left Dunbar behind!” said Sylvia. She flashed me a grateful little
- look that showed she knew I had tried to help.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you decided where to spend the honeymoon?” I asked, greatly pleased
- to see them so happy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hush!” she said. “We'll wait till we see what sort of notices the show
- gets.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Think of the poor press agent. I've used up all my dope. Get spliced
- while we're in Providence and it'll give me a nice little story. You know
- the kind of thing—'<i>Critics' Praise Brings Pair to Altar; Press
- Clippings Cupid's Aid</i>'.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're getting as vulgar as a regular press agent,” she said, merrily.
- “They don't think of anything except in terms of good stories for the
- paper.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh,” I said, “the press agent has his tragedies, too. Think how many
- stories he knows that he can't tell.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I felt that this remark was not very happily inspired, and went on through
- the car calling myself a clumsy idiot. In the smoking compartment, as luck
- would have it, were both Upton and Fagan, smoking huge cigars and talking
- together. I sat down and lit my pipe. Fagan, in his usual way, was trying
- to impress Upton with his own sagacity. There was another musical horror
- of Upton's scheduled to begin rehearsal shortly, and probably Fagan was
- hoping to land the job as director.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What did you think of Edwards at the dress rehearsal?” said Fagan.
- </p>
- <p>
- Upton grunted. He had a way of retaining his ideas until others had
- committed themselves.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I've been telling you right along, he's impossible,” said Fagan. “No one
- can work with him. He's too damned upstage. Now I got Billy Mitford to
- promise he'd run up and see the opening. Billy is the man you need for
- that part. I had him in at the dress, and he'll be there tonight. I've
- given him a line on the part, and if Edwards falls down we can start
- rehearsing Billy right away. He could get set in a week, and open with the
- show in New York.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Four hundred a week,” was Upton's comment, seemingly addressed to the end
- of his cigar.
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right, he's worth it. He's got a following. This guy Edwards is dear
- at any price. He'll kill the show. He doesn't get his stuff over. God
- knows I've worked on him. And he crabs Brooks's work more'n half the time.
- What you want is one of these birds that gets the women climbing over the
- orchestra rail. Billy is your one best bet, take it from me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, we'll open her up and see what we got,” said Upton. “Is Sampson
- along?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. Scared. Said he was too nervous to come. He'll learn to write a play
- afterwhile. What a mess that script was until I got her straightened out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- When we got to Providence I had several jobs to do around town. I visited
- the newspaper offices, stopped in at the theatre where the stage crew were
- busy unloading scenery, and when I returned to the hotel I lay down in my
- room and had a good nap, I was awakened late in the afternoon—about
- five o'clock, because I looked at my watch—by a knocking at the
- door. I got up and opened. It was Edwards. To my dismay, his cheerfulness
- had vanished. He had gone back to the old pallid and anxious mood.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nervous, old man?” I said. When I had booked the rooms for the company I
- had arranged that he and I should be next door to each other, so that I
- could keep an eye on him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nervous?” he said. “I'm ill. Had another of those damned swimming spells
- in my head. Haven't got any brandy, have you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- I hadn't, but offered to go in search of some. He wouldn't let me.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't go,” he said. “Look here, I saw Mit-ford in the lobby just now.
- What the devil is he doing here?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps there's some other show on,” I suggested, miserably.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I told you they were trying to double-cross me,” he said. “I know
- perfectly well what he's here for. Fagan is trying to razz me into a
- breakdown. Then he'll put Mitford in as Dunbar. But I tell you, I'll play
- this thing in spite of hell and high water.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He paced feverishly up and down, and I tried to ease his mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By God, they sha'n't!” he cried. “I'll put this thing up to the author.
- Where's Sampson?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's not here. For heaven's sake, man, don't get in a state. Everything's
- all right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Everything's all right!” he repeated, bitterly. “Yes, everything's
- lovely. Let's 'lift it into the domain of comedy'. But if you see Fagan,
- tell him to keep away from me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I begged him to rest until dinner-time. I went into his room with him,
- made him lie down on the bed, rang for a bottle of ice water, and left him
- there. Then I went downstairs and wrote a couple of letters. I was just
- leaving the hotel when I met Fagan coming in. He stopped me to ask if I
- had taken care to put his name on the playbill as director. I had. If the
- show was a flop, I at least wanted his name attached as a participial
- cause.
- </p>
- <p>
- I wandered uneasily about the busy streets until theatre time. I couldn't
- have been more nervous if I had been going on the boards myself. I spent
- part of the time prowling about trying to see how much “Obedience” paper I
- could find on the billboards and in shop windows. I stopped in at a
- lunchroom and had some supper. The place reminded me of the little café in
- Jamaica where Sylvia and Edwards and I had eaten together.
- </p>
- <p>
- My mind was full of the picture of the two, and his face as he leaned
- across the table toward her. I thought that I had never seen a couple who
- so deserved happiness, or who had fought harder to earn it. What was the
- subtle appeal in this play that made it react so strangely upon him? The
- tragedy of Dunbar in the piece, the sacrifice of the poor, well-meaning
- fellow whose virtue always seemed to turn and rend him, did this echo some
- secret experience in his own life? I wondered whether an actor's career
- was really the gay business I had conceived it. It occurred to me that
- perhaps the actor's profession is doomed to suffering, because it takes
- the most dangerous explosives in life and plays with them. Love, ambition,
- jealousy, hatred, those are the things actors deal with. You can't play
- with those without one of them going off every now and then. They go off
- with a bang, and somebody gets hurt.
- </p>
- <p>
- I suppose I'm sentimental. I wanted those two to win out. It seemed to me
- that a defeat for their fine and honourable passion would be a defeat for
- Love everywhere, and for all who believe in the worthy aspirations of the
- heart. I don't suppose any press agent ever pondered more generous
- philosophies than I did that night, over my lunch-counter supper.
- </p>
- <p>
- Time went so fast that it was after eight when I got to the theatre. I
- went in and took a seat in the last row. The house, to my surprise, was
- crowded. I could see Upton's big bald head, well down in front, beside a
- massively carved lady, all bust and beads, whom I supposed to be Mrs.
- Upton. The élite of Providence were out in force, for Brooks's name is
- always a drawing card. Some of them, I feared, were going to be
- disappointed. It is all very well to introduce a new Barrie or a new
- Pinero to the playgoing public, but you've got to remember that it is
- bound to be grievous for those who prefer the other sort of thing.
- </p>
- <p>
- The curtain, of course, was late, and I gave a sigh of relief when I saw
- it go up. Edwards, waiting carefully for the hush, had the house with him
- in three speeches. I have never seen better work, before or since. It was
- noticeable that at his first exit he got a bigger hand than Brooks at his
- carefully prepared entrance. The only thing that seemed to me out of the
- way was his extreme pallor. The silly ass, I said to myself, he hasn't
- made himself up properly. Then it struck me that it was probably a sound
- touch of realism, for certainly Dunbar would not be described as a
- full-blooded creature. I had read the play carefully, and had seen it in
- rehearsal; but I had never known how much there was in it. Strangely
- enough, Edwards was the only one who showed no trace of nervousness. All
- the others, even Brooks, seemed unaccountably at a loss now and then,
- trampled on their lines, and smothered their points. At first the house
- was inclined to applaud, but as the action tightened, they hushed into the
- perfect and passionate silence that is the playwright's dream. There were
- six curtains at the end of the first act. I could tell by the tilt of old
- Upton's pink pate that he was in fine spirits. I looked about for Fagan in
- the lobby, as I was keen to see how he was taking it, but missed him in
- the arguing and shifting crowd.
- </p>
- <p>
- By the time the third act was under way it was plain that we had a
- sure-fire success. Novice as I was, I could read the signs when I saw
- Upton scribbling telegrams at the box-office window in the second
- intermission, and observed the face of Mr. Mitford. The usual slips that
- always happen on first nights were there, of course. In the third act,
- when Edwards had to take Sylvia in his arms, she seemed to trip and almost
- fell; and I noticed that Brooks crossed the stage and helped her off,
- which was not in the script; but these things were not marked by most of
- the audience. Dunbar, you remember, makes his final exit several minutes
- before the end of the third act. When he went off there was a little stir
- among the audience—far more eloquent than applause would have been.
- That beautiful delineation of a blundering high-minded failure had made
- its appeal.
- </p>
- <p>
- After Edwards's last exit I felt my way out, quietly, and went round
- through the street and up the alley to the stage door. I wanted to be the
- first to congratulate him on his splendid triumph. I did not want to break
- in too soon, so I waited near the door until I heard the crash of hands
- that followed the curtain. The canvas rose and fell repeatedly as the
- players took their calls, while the house shook with applause. From where
- I stood, by the switches and buttons on the control board, I could see
- them lined up in the orange glare of the gutter, bowing and smiling. There
- were cries of “Dunbar! Dunbar!” and a rumbling of feet in the gallery. It
- is the only time I have ever seen an audience crowd down the aisles and
- stand by the orchestra rail, applauding. Then I saw why they lingered.
- Edwards had not taken his call.
- </p>
- <p>
- The curtain fell again, and Cervaux, the stage manager, came running off,
- the perspiration streaming down over his grease-paint.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Christ!” he cried. “Where's that fool Edwards?”
- </p>
- <p>
- As soon as the curtain finally shut off the house I could see the actors
- turn to each other as though in dismay. Miss Cunningham came off, and I
- ran to shake her hand. To my amazement she looked at me blankly, with a
- dreadful face, and sat down on a trunk.
- </p>
- <p>
- Brooks strode across the stage. “Where's Edwards?” he shouted, angrily.
- “Tell him to take this call with me, the house is crazy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where's the author?” said someone. “They want the author, too.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Several hurried upstairs to the men's dressing rooms, and I followed. The
- door of number 3, on which Edwards's name was scrawled in chalk, stood
- open. Cervaux stood stupidly on the sill. The room was empty.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's gone,” said Cervaux. “What do you know about that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- We could still hear the tumult of the house.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Take the curtain, Mr. Brooks,” said Cervaux. “Tell them he's ill.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I looked round number 3 dressing room.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a taxi standing outside the stage door. I don't know how it
- happened to be there, or who had ordered it, but I shouted to the driver
- and jumped in. I have a faint impression that just as the engine started
- Sylvia appeared at the door, with a cloak thrown over her stage gown, and
- cried something, but I am not sure.
- </p>
- <p>
- When I got to the hotel, the door of the room next to mine was locked, but
- the house detective got it open without any noise. There were two men in
- the room. In the far corner lay Fagan, unconscious, with a broken jaw, one
- arm hideously twisted under him, and a shattered water bottle beside his
- bloody head. Sprawled against the bed, kneeling, with his arms flung out
- across the counterpane, was Edwards.—The doctor said it was heart
- disease. He had been dead since six o'clock.
- </p>
- <h3>
- THE END
- </h3>
- <div style="height: 6em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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