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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<article id="the-social-triangle" epub:type="se:short-story">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Social Triangle</h2>
<p>At the stroke of six Ikey Snigglafreetz laid down his goose. Ikey was a tailor’s apprentice. Are there tailor’s apprentices nowadays?</p>
<p>At the stroke of six Ikey Snigglefritz laid down his goose. Ikey was a tailor’s apprentice. Are there tailor’s apprentices nowadays?</p>
<p>At any rate, Ikey toiled and snipped and basted and pressed and patched and sponged all day in the steamy fetor of a tailor-shop. But when work was done Ikey hitched his wagon to such stars as his firmament let shine.</p>
<p>It was Saturday night, and the boss laid twelve begrimed and begrudged dollars in his hand. Ikey dabbled discreetly in water, donned coat, hat and collar with its frazzled tie and chalcedony pin, and set forth in pursuit of his ideals.</p>
<p>For each of us, when our day’s work is done, must seek our ideal, whether it be love or pinochle or lobster à la Newburg, or the sweet silence of the musty bookshelves.</p>
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<p>Ikey’s legs carried him to and into that famous place of entertainment known as the Café Maginnis⁠—famous because it was the rendezvous of Billy McMahan, the greatest man, the most wonderful man, Ikey thought, that the world had ever produced.</p>
<p>Billy McMahan was the district leader. Upon him the Tiger purred, and his hand held manna to scatter. Now, as Ikey entered, McMahan stood, flushed and triumphant and mighty, the centre of a huzzaing concourse of his lieutenants and constituents. It seems there had been an election; a signal victory had been won; the city had been swept back into line by a resistless besom of ballots.</p>
<p>Ikey slunk along the bar and gazed, breath-quickened, at his idol.</p>
<p>How magnificent was Billy McMahan, with his great, smooth, laughing face; his gray eye, shrewd as a chicken hawk’s; his diamond ring, his voice like a bugle call, his prince’s air, his plump and active roll of money, his clarion call to friend and comrade⁠—oh, what a king of men he was! How he obscured his lieutenants, though they themselves loomed large and serious, blue of chin and important of mien, with hands buried deep in the pockets of their short overcoats! But Billy⁠—oh, what small avail are words to paint for you his glory as seen by Ikey Snigglafreetz!</p>
<p>The Café Maginnis rang to the note of victory. The white-coated bartenders threw themselves featfully upon bottle, cork and glass. From a score of clear Havanas the air received its paradox of clouds. The leal and the hopeful shook Billy McMahan’s hand. And there was born suddenly in the worshipful soul of Ikey Snigglafreetz an audacious, thrilling impulse.</p>
<p>How magnificent was Billy McMahan, with his great, smooth, laughing face; his gray eye, shrewd as a chicken hawk’s; his diamond ring, his voice like a bugle call, his prince’s air, his plump and active roll of money, his clarion call to friend and comrade⁠—oh, what a king of men he was! How he obscured his lieutenants, though they themselves loomed large and serious, blue of chin and important of mien, with hands buried deep in the pockets of their short overcoats! But Billy⁠—oh, what small avail are words to paint for you his glory as seen by Ikey Snigglefritz!</p>
<p>The Café Maginnis rang to the note of victory. The white-coated bartenders threw themselves featfully upon bottle, cork and glass. From a score of clear Havanas the air received its paradox of clouds. The leal and the hopeful shook Billy McMahan’s hand. And there was born suddenly in the worshipful soul of Ikey Snigglefritz an audacious, thrilling impulse.</p>
<p>He stepped forward into the little cleared space in which majesty moved, and held out his hand.</p>
<p>Billy McMahan grasped it unhesitatingly, shook it and smiled.</p>
<p>Made mad now by the gods who were about to destroy him, Ikey threw away his scabbard and charged upon Olympus.</p>
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<p>He had shaken the hand of Billy McMahan.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Billy McMahan had a wife, and upon her visiting cards was engraved the name “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> William Darragh McMahan.” And there was a certain vexation attendant upon these cards; for, small as they were, there were houses in which they could not be inserted. Billy McMahan was a dictator in politics, a four-walled tower in business, a mogul, dreaded, loved and obeyed among his own people. He was growing rich; the daily papers had a dozen men on his trail to chronicle his every word of wisdom; he had been honored in caricature holding the Tiger cringing in leash.</p>
<p>But the heart of Billy was sometimes sore within him. There was a race of men from which he stood apart but that he viewed with the eye of Moses looking over into the promised land. He, too, had ideals, even as had Ikey Snigglafreetz; and sometimes, hopeless of attaining them, his own solid success was as dust and ashes in his mouth. And <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> William Darragh McMahan wore a look of discontent upon her plump but pretty face, and the very rustle of her silks seemed a sigh.</p>
<p>But the heart of Billy was sometimes sore within him. There was a race of men from which he stood apart but that he viewed with the eye of Moses looking over into the promised land. He, too, had ideals, even as had Ikey Snigglefritz; and sometimes, hopeless of attaining them, his own solid success was as dust and ashes in his mouth. And <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> William Darragh McMahan wore a look of discontent upon her plump but pretty face, and the very rustle of her silks seemed a sigh.</p>
<p>There was a brave and conspicuous assemblage in the dining saloon of a noted hostelry where Fashion loves to display her charms. At one table sat Billy McMahan and his wife. Mostly silent they were, but the accessories they enjoyed little needed the endorsement of speech. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> McMahan’s diamonds were outshone by few in the room. The waiter bore the costliest brands of wine to their table. In evening dress, with an expression of gloom upon his smooth and massive countenance, you would look in vain for a more striking figure than Billy’s.</p>
<p>Four tables away sat alone a tall, slender man, about thirty, with thoughtful, melancholy eyes, a Van Dyke beard and peculiarly white, thin hands. He was dining on filet mignon, dry toast and apollinaris. That man was Cortlandt Van Duyckink, a man worth eighty millions, who inherited and held a sacred seat in the exclusive inner circle of society.</p>
<p>Billy McMahan spoke to no one around him, because he knew no one. Van Duyckink kept his eyes on his plate because he knew that everyone present was hungry to catch his. He could bestow knighthood and prestige by a nod, and he was chary of creating a too extensive nobility.</p>
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<p>Obeying a sudden impulse, Van Duyckink stepped out and warmly grasped the hand of what seemed to him a living rebuke.</p>
<p>“I want to know you people,” he said, sincerely. “I am going to help you as much as I can. We shall be friends.”</p>
<p>As the auto crept carefully away Cortlandt Van Duyckink felt an unaccustomed glow about his heart. He was near to being a happy man.</p>
<p>He had shaken the hand of Ikey Snigglafreetz.</p>
<p>He had shaken the hand of Ikey Snigglefritz.</p>
</article>
</body>
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