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[Lamp] Semanticate
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<h2 epub:type="title">A Harlem Tragedy</h2>
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<p>Harlem.</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink had dropped into <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy’s flat one flight below.</p>
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<p>“Ain’t it a beaut?” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy.</p>
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<p>She turned her face proudly for her friend <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink to see. One eye was nearly closed, with a great, greenish-purple bruise around it. Her lip was cut and bleeding a little and there were red finger-marks on each side of her neck.</p>
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<p>“My husband wouldn’t ever think of doing that to me,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink, concealing her envy.</p>
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<p>“I wouldn’t have a man,” declared <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy, “that didn’t beat me up at least once a week. Shows he thinks something of you. Say! but that last dose Jack gave me wasn’t no homeopathic one. I can see stars yet. But he’ll be the sweetest man in town for the rest of the week to make up for it. This eye is good for theater tickets and a silk shirt waist at the very least.”</p>
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<p>“I should hope,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink, assuming complacency, “that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fink is too much of a gentleman ever to raise his hand against me.”</p>
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<p>“Oh, go on, Maggie!” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy, laughing and applying witch hazel, “you’re only jealous. Your old man is too frappéd and slow to ever give you a punch. He just sits down and practises physical culture with a newspaper when he comes home—now ain’t that the truth?”</p>
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<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fink certainly peruses of the papers when he comes home,” acknowledged <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink, with a toss of her head; “but he certainly don’t ever make no Steve O’Donnell out of me just to amuse himself—that’s a sure thing.”</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy laughed the contented laugh of the guarded and happy matron. With the air of Cornelia exhibiting her jewels, she drew down the collar of her kimono and revealed another treasured bruise, maroon-colored, edged with olive and orange—a bruise now nearly well, but still to memory dear.</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink capitulated. The formal light in her eye softened to envious admiration. She and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy had been chums in the downtown paper-box factory before they had married, one year before. Now she and her man occupied the flat above Mame and her man. Therefore she could not put on airs with Mame.</p>
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<p>“Don’t it hurt when he soaks you?” asked <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink, curiously.</p>
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<p>“Hurt!”—<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy gave a soprano scream of delight. “Well, say—did you ever have a brick house fall on you?—well, that’s just the way it feels—just like when they’re digging you out of the ruins. Jack’s got a left that spells two matinees and a new pair of Oxfords—and his right!—well, it takes a trip to Coney and six pairs of openwork, silk lisle threads to make that good.”</p>
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<p>“But what does he beat you for?” inquired <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink, with wide-open eyes.</p>
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<p>“Silly!” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy, indulgently. “Why, because he’s full. It’s generally on Saturday nights.”</p>
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<p>“But what cause do you give him?” persisted the seeker after knowledge.</p>
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<p>“Why, didn’t I marry him? Jack comes in tanked up; and I’m here, ain’t I? Who else has he got a right to beat? I’d just like to catch him once beating anybody else! Sometimes it’s because supper ain’t ready; and sometimes it’s because it is. Jack ain’t particular about causes. He just lushes till he remembers he’s married, and then he makes for home and does me up. Saturday nights I just move the furniture with sharp corners out of the way, so I won’t cut my head when he gets his work in. He’s got a left swing that jars you! Sometimes I take the count in the first round; but when I feel like having a good time during the week or want some new rags I come up again for more punishment. That’s what I done last night. Jack knows I’ve been wanting a black silk waist for a month, and I didn’t think just one black eye would bring it. Tell you what, Mag, I’ll bet you the ice cream he brings it to-night.”</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink was thinking deeply.</p>
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<p>“My Mart,” she said, “never hit me a lick in his life. It’s just like you said, Mame; he comes in grouchy and ain’t got a word to say. He never takes me out anywhere. He’s a chair-warmer at home for fair. He buys me things, but he looks so glum about it that I never appreciate ’em.”</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy slipped an arm around her chum. “You poor thing!” she said. “But everybody can’t have a husband like Jack. Marriage wouldn’t be no failure if they was all like him. These discontented wives you hear about—what they need is a man to come home and kick their slats in once a week, and then make it up in kisses, and chocolate creams. That’d give ’em some interest in life. What I want is a masterful man that slugs you when he’s jagged and hugs you when he ain’t jagged. Preserve me from the man that ain’t got the sand to do neither!”</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink sighed.</p>
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<p>The hallways were suddenly filled with sound. The door flew open at the kick of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cassidy. His arms were occupied with bundles. Mame flew and hung about his neck. Her sound eye sparkled with the love light that shines in the eye of the Maori maid when she recovers consciousness in the hut of the wooer who has stunned and dragged her there.</p>
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<p>“Hello, old girl!” shouted <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cassidy. He shed his bundles and lifted her off her feet in a mighty hug. “I got tickets for Barnum & Bailey’s, and if you’ll bust the string of one of them bundles I guess you’ll find that silk waist—why, good evening, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink—I didn’t see you at first. How’s old Mart coming along?”</p>
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<p>“He’s very well, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cassidy—thanks,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink. “I must be going along up now. Mart’ll be home for supper soon. I’ll bring you down that pattern you wanted to-morrow, Mame.”</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink went up to her flat and had a little cry. It was a meaningless cry, the kind of cry that only a woman knows about, a cry from no particular cause, altogether an absurd cry; the most transient and the most hopeless cry in the repertory of grief. Why had Martin never thrashed her? He was as big and strong as Jack Cassidy. Did he not care for her at all? He never quarrelled; he came home and lounged about, silent, glum, idle. He was a fairly good provider, but he ignored the spices of life.</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink’s ship of dreams was becalmed. Her captain ranged between plum duff and his hammock. If only he would shiver his timbers or stamp his foot on the quarter-deck now and then! And she had thought to sail so merrily, touching at ports in the Delectable Isles! But now, to vary the figure, she was ready to throw up the sponge, tired out, without a scratch to show for all those tame rounds with her sparring partner. For one moment she almost hated Mame—Mame, with her cuts and bruises, her salve of presents and kisses; her stormy voyage with her fighting, brutal, loving mate.</p>
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<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fink came home at 7. He was permeated with the curse of domesticity. Beyond the portals of his cozy home he cared not to roam, to roam. He was the man who had caught the street car, the anaconda that had swallowed its prey, the tree that lay as it had fallen.</p>
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<p>“Like the supper, Mart?” asked <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink, who had striven over it.</p>
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<p>“M-m-m-yep,” grunted <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fink.</p>
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<p>After supper he gathered his newspapers to read. He sat in his stocking feet.</p>
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<p>Arise, some new Dante, and sing me the befitting corner of perdition for the man who sitteth in the house in his stockinged feet. Sisters of Patience who by reason of ties or duty have endured it in silk, yarn, cotton, lisle thread or woollen—does not the new canto belong?</p>
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<p>The next day was Labor Day. The occupations of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cassidy and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fink ceased for one passage of the sun. Labor, triumphant, would parade and otherwise disport itself.</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink took <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy’s pattern down early. Mame had on her new silk waist. Even her damaged eye managed to emit a holiday gleam. Jack was fruitfully penitent, and there was a hilarious scheme for the day afoot, with parks and picnics and Pilsener in it.</p>
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<p>A rising, indignant jealousy seized <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink as she returned to her flat above. Oh, happy Mame, with her bruises and her quick-following balm! But was Mame to have a monopoly of happiness? Surely Martin Fink was as good a man as Jack Cassidy. Was his wife to go always unbelabored and uncaressed? A sudden, brilliant, breathless idea came to <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink. She would show Mame that there were husbands as able to use their fists and perhaps to be as tender afterward as any Jack.</p>
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<p>The holiday promised to be a nominal one with the Finks. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink had the stationary washtubs in the kitchen filled with a two weeks’ wash that had been soaking overnight. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fink sat in his stockinged feet reading a newspaper. Thus Labor Day presaged to speed.</p>
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<p>Jealousy surged high in <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink’s heart, and higher still surged an audacious resolve. If her man would not strike her—if he would not so far prove his manhood, his prerogative and his interest in conjugal affairs, he must be prompted to his duty.</p>
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<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fink lit his pipe and peacefully rubbed an ankle with a stockinged toe. He reposed in the state of matrimony like a lump of unblended suet in a pudding. This was his level Elysium—to sit at ease vicariously girdling the world in print amid the wifely splashing of suds and the agreeable smells of breakfast dishes departed and dinner ones to come. Many ideas were far from his mind; but the furthest one was the thought of beating his wife.</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink turned on the hot water and set the washboards in the suds. Up from the flat below came the gay laugh of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy. It sounded like a taunt, a flaunting of her own happiness in the face of the unslugged bride above. Now was <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink’s time.</p>
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<p>Suddenly she turned like a fury upon the man reading.</p>
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<p>“You lazy loafer!” she cried, “must I work my arms off washing and toiling for the ugly likes of you? Are you a man or are you a kitchen hound?”</p>
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<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fink dropped his paper, motionless from surprise. She feared that he would not strike—that the provocation had been insufficient. She leaped at him and struck him fiercely in the face with her clenched hand. In that instant she felt a thrill of love for him such as she had not felt for many a day. Rise up, Martin Fink, and come into your kingdom! Oh, she must feel the weight of his hand now—just to show that he cared—just to show that he cared!</p>
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<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fink sprang to his feet—Maggie caught him again on the jaw with a wide swing of her other hand. She closed her eyes in that fearful, blissful moment before his blow should come—she whispered his name to herself—she leaned to the expected shock, hungry for it.</p>
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<p>In the flat below <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cassidy, with a shamed and contrite face was powdering Mame’s eye in preparation for their junket. From the flat above came the sound of a woman’s voice, high-raised, a bumping, a stumbling and a shuffling, a chair overturned—unmistakable sounds of domestic conflict.</p>
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<p>“Mart and Mag scrapping?” postulated <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cassidy. “Didn’t know they ever indulged. Shall I trot up and see if they need a sponge holder?”</p>
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<p>One of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy’s eyes sparkled like a diamond. The other twinkled at least like paste.</p>
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<p>“Oh, oh,” she said, softly and without apparent meaning, in the feminine ejaculatory manner. “I wonder if—wonder if! Wait, Jack, till I go up and see.”</p>
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<p>Up the stairs she sped. As her foot struck the hallway above out from the kitchen door of her flat wildly flounced <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink.</p>
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<p>“Oh, Maggie,” cried <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy, in a delighted whisper; “did he? Oh, did he?”</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink ran and laid her face upon her chum’s shoulder and sobbed hopelessly.</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cassidy took Maggie’s face between her hands and lifted it gently. Tear-stained it was, flushing and paling, but its velvety, pink-and-white, becomingly freckled surface was unscratched, unbruised, unmarred by the recreant fist of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fink.</p>
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<p>“Tell me, Maggie,” pleaded Mame, “or I’ll go in there and find out. What was it? Did he hurt you—what did he do?”</p>
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<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Fink’s face went down again despairingly on the bosom of her friend.</p>
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<p>“For God’s sake don’t open that door, Mame,” she sobbed. “And don’t ever tell nobody—keep it under your hat. He—he never touched me, and—he’s—oh, Gawd—he’s washin’ the clothes—he’s washin’ the clothes!”</p>
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<head>
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<title>Chapter 2</title>
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<title>A Madison Square Arabian Night</title>
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<h2>A MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHT</h2>
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<section id="a-madison-square-arabian-night" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">A Madison Square Arabian Night</h2>
|
||||
<p>To Carson Chalmers, in his apartment near the square, Phillips brought the evening mail. Beside the routine correspondence there were two items bearing the same foreign postmark.</p>
|
||||
<p>One of the incoming parcels contained a photograph of a woman. The other contained an interminable letter, over which Chalmers hung, absorbed, for a long time. The letter was from another woman; and it contained poisoned barbs, sweetly dipped in honey, and feathered with innuendoes concerning the photographed woman.</p>
|
||||
<p>Chalmers tore this letter into a thousand bits and began to wear out his expensive rug by striding back and forth upon it. Thus an animal from the jungle acts when it is caged, and thus a caged man acts when he is housed in a jungle of doubt.</p>
|
||||
@ -28,11 +28,11 @@
|
||||
<p>“My name is Plumer,” said the highway guest, in harsh and aggressive tones. “If you’re like me, you like to know the name of the party you’re dining with.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I was going on to say,” continued Chalmers somewhat hastily, “that mine is Chalmers. Will you sit opposite?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Plumer, of the ruffled plumes, bent his knee for Phillips to slide the chair beneath him. He had an air of having sat at attended boards before. Phillips set out the anchovies and olives.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Good!” barked Plumer; “going to be in courses, is it? All right, my jovial ruler of Bagdad. I’m your Scheherezade all the way to the toothpicks. You’re the first Caliph with a genuine Oriental flavor I’ve struck since frost. What luck! And I was forty-third in line. I finished counting, just as your welcome emissary arrived to bid me to the feast. I had about as much chance of getting a bed to-night as I have of being the next President. How will you have the sad story of my life, Mr. Al Raschid—a chapter with each course or the whole edition with the cigars and coffee?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Good!” barked Plumer; “going to be in courses, is it? All right, my jovial ruler of Bagdad. I’m your Scheherezade all the way to the toothpicks. You’re the first Caliph with a genuine Oriental flavor I’ve struck since frost. What luck! And I was forty-third in line. I finished counting, just as your welcome emissary arrived to bid me to the feast. I had about as much chance of getting a bed to-night as I have of being the next President. How will you have the sad story of my life, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Al Raschid—a chapter with each course or the whole edition with the cigars and coffee?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“The situation does not seem a novel one to you,” said Chalmers with a smile.</p>
|
||||
<p>“By the chin whiskers of the prophet—no!” answered the guest. “New York’s as full of cheap Haroun al Raschids as Bagdad is of fleas. I’ve been held up for my story with a loaded meal pointed at my head twenty times. Catch anybody in New York giving you something for nothing! They spell curiosity and charity with the same set of building blocks. Lots of ’em will stake you to a dime and chop-suey; and a few of ’em will play Caliph to the tune of a top sirloin; but every one of ’em will stand over you till they screw your autobiography out of you with foot notes, appendix and unpublished fragments. Oh, I know what to do when I see victuals coming toward me in little old Bagdad-on-the-Subway. I strike the asphalt three times with my forehead and get ready to spiel yarns for my supper. I claim descent from the late Tommy Tucker, who was forced to hand out vocal harmony for his pre-digested wheaterina and spoopju.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I do not ask your story,” said Chalmers. “I tell you frankly that it was a sudden whim that prompted me to send for some stranger to dine with me. I assure you you will not suffer through any curiosity of mine.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, fudge!” exclaimed the guest, enthusiastically tackling his soup; “I don’t mind it a bit. I’m a regular Oriental magazine with a red cover and the leaves cut when the Caliph walks abroad. In fact, we fellows in the bed line have a sort of union rate for things of this sort. Somebody’s always stopping and wanting to know what brought us down so low in the world. For a sandwich and a glass of beer I tell ’em that drink did it. For corned beef and cabbage and a cup of coffee I give ’em the hard-hearted-landlord—six-months-in-the-hospital-lost-job story. A sirloin steak and a quarter for a bed gets the Wall Street tragedy of the swept-away fortune and the gradual descent. This is the first spread of this kind I’ve stumbled against. I haven’t got a story to fit it. I’ll tell you what, Mr. Chalmers, I’m going to tell you the truth for this, if you’ll listen to it. It’ll be harder for you to believe than the made-up ones.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, fudge!” exclaimed the guest, enthusiastically tackling his soup; “I don’t mind it a bit. I’m a regular Oriental magazine with a red cover and the leaves cut when the Caliph walks abroad. In fact, we fellows in the bed line have a sort of union rate for things of this sort. Somebody’s always stopping and wanting to know what brought us down so low in the world. For a sandwich and a glass of beer I tell ’em that drink did it. For corned beef and cabbage and a cup of coffee I give ’em the hard-hearted-landlord—six-months-in-the-hospital-lost-job story. A sirloin steak and a quarter for a bed gets the Wall Street tragedy of the swept-away fortune and the gradual descent. This is the first spread of this kind I’ve stumbled against. I haven’t got a story to fit it. I’ll tell you what, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Chalmers, I’m going to tell you the truth for this, if you’ll listen to it. It’ll be harder for you to believe than the made-up ones.”</p>
|
||||
<p>An hour later the Arabian guest lay back with a sigh of satisfaction while Phillips brought the coffee and cigars and cleared the table.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Did you ever hear of Sherrard Plumer?” he asked, with a strange smile.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I remember the name,” said Chalmers. “He was a painter, I think, of a good deal of prominence a few years ago.”</p>
|
||||
@ -40,7 +40,7 @@
|
||||
<p>“What was the trouble?” Chalmers could not resist asking.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Funny thing,” answered Plumer, grimly. “Never quite understood it myself. For a while I swam like a cork. I broke into the swell crowd and got commissions right and left. The newspapers called me a fashionable painter. Then the funny things began to happen. Whenever I finished a picture people would come to see it, and whisper and look queerly at one another.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I soon found out what the trouble was. I had a knack of bringing out in the face of a portrait the hidden character of the original. I don’t know how I did it—I painted what I saw—but I know it did me. Some of my sitters were fearfully enraged and refused their pictures. I painted the portrait of a very beautiful and popular society dame. When it was finished her husband looked at it with a peculiar expression on his face, and the next week he sued for divorce.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I remember one case of a prominent banker who sat to me. While I had his portrait on exhibition in my studio an acquaintance of his came in to look at it. ‘Bless me,’ says he, ‘does he really look like that?” I told him it was considered a faithful likeness. ‘I never noticed that expression about his eyes before,’ said he; ‘I think I’ll drop downtown and change my bank account.’ He did drop down, but the bank account was gone and so was Mr. Banker.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I remember one case of a prominent banker who sat to me. While I had his portrait on exhibition in my studio an acquaintance of his came in to look at it. ‘Bless me,’ says he, ‘does he really look like that?” I told him it was considered a faithful likeness. ‘I never noticed that expression about his eyes before,’ said he; ‘I think I’ll drop downtown and change my bank account.’ He did drop down, but the bank account was gone and so was <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Banker.</p>
|
||||
<p>“It wasn’t long till they put me out of business. People don’t want their secret meannesses shown up in a picture. They can smile and twist their own faces and deceive you, but the picture can’t. I couldn’t get an order for another picture, and I had to give up. I worked as a newspaper artist for a while, and then for a lithographer, but my work with them got me into the same trouble. If I drew from a photograph my drawing showed up characteristics and expressions that you couldn’t find in the photo, but I guess they were in the original, all right. The customers raised lively rows, especially the women, and I never could hold a job long. So I began to rest my weary head upon the breast of Old Booze for comfort. And pretty soon I was in the free-bed line and doing oral fiction for hand-outs among the food bazaars. Does the truthful statement weary thee, O Caliph? I can turn on the Wall Street disaster stop if you prefer, but that requires a tear, and I’m afraid I can’t hustle one up after that good dinner.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“No, no,” said Chalmers, earnestly, “you interest me very much. Did all of your portraits reveal some unpleasant trait, or were there some that did not suffer from the ordeal of your peculiar brush?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Some? Yes,” said Plumer. “Children generally, a good many women and a sufficient number of men. All people aren’t bad, you know. When they were all right the pictures were all right. As I said, I don’t explain it, but I’m telling you facts.”</p>
|
||||
@ -49,11 +49,11 @@
|
||||
<p>Chalmers went as far as the door with him and slipped some bills into his hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh! I’ll take ’em,” said Plumer. “All that’s included in the fall. Thanks. And for the very good dinner. I shall sleep on feathers to-night and dream of Bagdad. I hope it won’t turn out to be a dream in the morning. Farewell, most excellent Caliph!”</p>
|
||||
<p>Again Chalmers paced restlessly upon his rug. But his beat lay as far from the table whereon lay the pastel sketch as the room would permit. Twice, thrice, he tried to approach it, but failed. He could see the dun and gold and brown of the colors, but there was a wall about it built by his fears that kept him at a distance. He sat down and tried to calm himself. He sprang up and rang for Phillips.</p>
|
||||
<p>“There is a young artist in this building,” he said. “—a Mr. Reineman—do you know which is his apartment?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“There is a young artist in this building,” he said. “—a <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Reineman—do you know which is his apartment?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Top floor, front, sir,” said Phillips.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Go up and ask him to favor me with his presence here for a few minutes.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Reineman came at once. Chalmers introduced himself.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Mr. Reineman,” said he, “there is a little pastel sketch on yonder table. I would be glad if you will give me your opinion of it as to its artistic merits and as a picture.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Reineman,” said he, “there is a little pastel sketch on yonder table. I would be glad if you will give me your opinion of it as to its artistic merits and as a picture.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The young artist advanced to the table and took up the sketch. Chalmers half turned away, leaning upon the back of a chair.</p>
|
||||
<p>“How—do—you find it?” he asked, slowly.</p>
|
||||
<p>“As a drawing,” said the artist, “I can’t praise it enough. It’s the work of a master—bold and fine and true. It puzzles me a little; I haven’t seen any pastel work near as good in years.”</p>
|
||||
@ -1,23 +1,29 @@
|
||||
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
|
||||
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 19</title>
|
||||
<title>A Midsummer Knight’s Dream</title>
|
||||
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="chapter-19" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>A MIDSUMMER KNIGHT’S DREAM</h2>
|
||||
<div class="center">
|
||||
<table cellpadding="3" style="margin: 0 auto">
|
||||
<tr>
|
||||
<td align="left">
|
||||
<p class="noindent">“<i>The knights are dead; Their swords are rust. Except a few who have to hust- Le all the time To raise the dust.</i>”</p>
|
||||
</td>
|
||||
</tr>
|
||||
</table>
|
||||
</div>
|
||||
<p class="noindent"><span class="smallcaps">Dear Reader</span>: It was summertime. The sun glared down upon the city with pitiless ferocity. It is difficult for the sun to be ferocious and exhibit compunction simultaneously. The heat was—oh, bother thermometers!—who cares for standard measures, anyhow? It was so hot that—</p>
|
||||
<section id="a-midsummer-knights-dream" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<header>
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">A Midsummer Knight’s Dream</h2>
|
||||
<blockquote epub:type="epigraph">
|
||||
<p>
|
||||
<span>“The knights are dead;</span>
|
||||
<br/>
|
||||
<span>Their swords are rust.</span>
|
||||
<br/>
|
||||
<span>Except a few who have to hust—</span>
|
||||
<br/>
|
||||
<span>Le all the time</span>
|
||||
<br/>
|
||||
<span>To raise the dust.”</span>
|
||||
</p>
|
||||
</blockquote>
|
||||
</header>
|
||||
<p><b>Dear Reader</b>: It was summertime. The sun glared down upon the city with pitiless ferocity. It is difficult for the sun to be ferocious and exhibit compunction simultaneously. The heat was—oh, bother thermometers!—who cares for standard measures, anyhow? It was so hot that—</p>
|
||||
<p>The roof gardens put on so many extra waiters that you could hope to get your gin fizz now—as soon as all the other people got theirs. The hospitals were putting in extra cots for bystanders. For when little, woolly dogs loll their tongues out and say “woof, woof!” at the fleas that bite ’em, and nervous old black bombazine ladies screech “Mad dog!” and policemen begin to shoot, somebody is going to get hurt. The man from Pompton, N.J., who always wears an overcoat in July, had turned up in a Broadway hotel drinking hot Scotches and enjoying his annual ray from the calcium. Philanthropists were petitioning the Legislature to pass a bill requiring builders to make tenement fire-escapes more commodious, so that families might die all together of the heat instead of one or two at a time. So many men were telling you about the number of baths they took each day that you wondered how they got along after the real lessee of the apartment came back to town and thanked ’em for taking such good care of it. The young man who called loudly for cold beef and beer in the restaurant, protesting that roast pullet and Burgundy was really too heavy for such weather, blushed when he met your eye, for you had heard him all winter calling, in modest tones, for the same ascetic viands. Soup, pocketbooks, shirt waists, actors and baseball excuses grew thinner. Yes, it was summertime.</p>
|
||||
<p>A man stood at Thirty-fourth street waiting for a downtown car. A man of forty, gray-haired, pink-faced, keen, nervous, plainly dressed, with a harassed look around the eyes. He wiped his forehead and laughed loudly when a fat man with an outing look stopped and spoke with him.</p>
|
||||
<p>“No, siree,” he shouted with defiance and scorn. “None of your old mosquito-haunted swamps and skyscraper mountains without elevators for me. When I want to get away from hot weather I know how to do it. New York, sir, is the finest summer resort in the country. Keep in the shade and watch your diet, and don’t get too far away from an electric fan. Talk about your Adirondacks and your Catskills! There’s more solid comfort in the borough of Manhattan than in all the rest of the country together. No, siree! No tramping up perpendicular cliffs and being waked up at 4 in the morning by a million flies, and eating canned goods straight from the city for me. Little old New York will take a few select summer boarders; comforts and conveniences of homes—that’s the ad. that I answer every time.”</p>
|
||||
@ -28,13 +34,7 @@
|
||||
<p>In his office the upholder of urban midsummer joys dived, headforemost, into the swimming pool of business. Adkins, his clerk, came and added a spray of letters, memoranda and telegrams.</p>
|
||||
<p>At 5 o’clock in the afternoon the busy man leaned back in his office chair, put his feet on the desk and mused aloud:</p>
|
||||
<p>“I wonder what kind of bait Harding used.”</p>
|
||||
<div class="center">
|
||||
<table cellpadding="3" style="margin: 0 auto">
|
||||
<tr>
|
||||
<td align="center"> * <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> </td>
|
||||
</tr>
|
||||
</table>
|
||||
</div>
|
||||
<hr/>
|
||||
<p>She was all in white that day; and thereby Compton lost a bet to Gaines. Compton had wagered she would wear light blue, for she knew that was his favorite color, and Compton was a millionaire’s son, and that almost laid him open to the charge of betting on a sure thing. But white was her choice, and Gaines held up his head with twenty-five’s lordly air.</p>
|
||||
<p>The little summer hotel in the mountains had a lively crowd that year. There were two or three young college men and a couple of artists and a young naval officer on one side. On the other there were enough beauties among the young ladies for the correspondent of a society paper to refer to them as a “bevy.” But the moon among the stars was Mary Sewell. Each one of the young men greatly desired to arrange matters so that he could pay her millinery bills, and fix the furnace, and have her do away with the “Sewell” part of her name forever. Those who could stay only a week or two went away hinting at pistols and blighted hearts. But Compton stayed like the mountains themselves, for he could afford it. And Gaines stayed because he was a fighter and wasn’t afraid of millionaire’s sons, and—well, he adored the country.</p>
|
||||
<p>“What do you think, Miss Mary?” he said once. “I knew a duffer in New York who claimed to like it in the summer time. Said you could keep cooler there than you could in the woods. Wasn’t he an awful silly? I don’t think I could breathe on Broadway after the 1st of June.”</p>
|
||||
@ -49,23 +49,17 @@
|
||||
<p>“You are a gallant knight,” said Miss Mary.</p>
|
||||
<p>“If I could be your true knight always,” began Gaines, but Miss Mary laughed him dumb, for Compton scrambled over the edge of the rock one minute behind time.</p>
|
||||
<p>What a twilight that was when they drove back to the hotel! The opal of the valley turned slowly to purple, the dark woods framed the lake as a mirror, the tonic air stirred the very soul in one. The first pale stars came out over the mountain tops where yet a faint glow of—</p>
|
||||
<div class="center">
|
||||
<table cellpadding="3" style="margin: 0 auto">
|
||||
<tr>
|
||||
<td align="center"> * <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> </td>
|
||||
</tr>
|
||||
</table>
|
||||
</div>
|
||||
<p>“I beg your pardon, Mr. Gaines,” said Adkins.</p>
|
||||
<hr/>
|
||||
<p>“I beg your pardon, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gaines,” said Adkins.</p>
|
||||
<p>The man who believed New York to be the finest summer resort in the world opened his eyes and kicked over the mucilage bottle on his desk.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I—I believe I was asleep,” he said.</p>
|
||||
<p>“It’s the heat,” said Adkins. “It’s something awful in the city these”—</p>
|
||||
<p>“Nonsense!” said the other. “The city beats the country ten to one in summer. Fools go out tramping in muddy brooks and wear themselves out trying to catch little fish as long as your finger. Stay in town and keep comfortable—that’s my idea.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Some letters just came,” said Adkins. “I thought you might like to glance at them before you go.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Let us look over his shoulder and read just a few lines of one of them:</p>
|
||||
<blockquote>
|
||||
<p class="noindent"><span class="smallcaps">My Dear, Dear Husband</span>: Just received your letter ordering us to stay another month. … Rita’s cough is almost gone. … Johnny has simply gone wild like a little Indian … Will be the making of both children … work so hard, and I know that your business can hardly afford to keep us here so long … best man that ever … you always pretend that you like the city in summer … trout fishing that you used to be so fond of … and all to keep us well and happy … come to you if it were not doing the babies so much good. … I stood last evening on Chimney Rock in exactly the same spot where I was when you put the wreath of roses on my head … through all the world … when you said you would be my true knight … fifteen years ago, dear, just think! … have always been that to me … ever and ever,</p>
|
||||
<p class="ind18"><span class="smallcaps">Mary</span>.</p>
|
||||
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
|
||||
<p><span epub:type="salutation">My Dear, Dear Husband</span>: Just received your letter ordering us to stay another month. … Rita’s cough is almost gone. … Johnny has simply gone wild like a little Indian … Will be the making of both children … work so hard, and I know that your business can hardly afford to keep us here so long … best man that ever … you always pretend that you like the city in summer … trout fishing that you used to be so fond of … and all to keep us well and happy … come to you if it were not doing the babies so much good. … I stood last evening on Chimney Rock in exactly the same spot where I was when you put the wreath of roses on my head … through all the world … when you said you would be my true knight … fifteen years ago, dear, just think! … have always been that to me … ever and ever,</p>
|
||||
<p epub:type="z3998:signature">Mary.</p>
|
||||
</blockquote>
|
||||
<p>The man who said he thought New York the finest summer resort in the country dropped into a café on his way home and had a glass of beer under an electric fan.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Wonder what kind of a fly old Harding used,” he said to himself.</p>
|
||||
@ -1,13 +1,13 @@
|
||||
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|
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 18</title>
|
||||
<title>According to Their Lights</title>
|
||||
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="chapter-18" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS</h2>
|
||||
<section id="according-to-their-lights" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">According to Their Lights</h2>
|
||||
<p>Somewhere in the depths of the big city, where the unquiet dregs are forever being shaken together, young Murray and the Captain had met and become friends. Both were at the lowest ebb possible to their fortunes; both had fallen from at least an intermediate Heaven of respectability and importance, and both were typical products of the monstrous and peculiar social curriculum of their overweening and bumptious civic alma mater.</p>
|
||||
<p>The captain was no longer a captain. One of those sudden moral cataclysms that sometimes sweep the city had hurled him from a high and profitable position in the Police Department, ripping off his badge and buttons and washing into the hands of his lawyers the solid pieces of real estate that his frugality had enabled him to accumulate. The passing of the flood left him low and dry. One month after his dishabilitation a saloon-keeper plucked him by the neck from his free-lunch counter as a tabby plucks a strange kitten from her nest, and cast him asphaltward. This seems low enough. But after that he acquired a pair of cloth top, button Congress gaiters and wrote complaining letters to the newspapers. And then he fought the attendant at the Municipal Lodging House who tried to give him a bath. When Murray first saw him he was holding the hand of an Italian woman who sold apples and garlic on Essex street, and quoting the words of a song book ballad.</p>
|
||||
<p>Murray’s fall had been more Luciferian, if less spectacular. All the pretty, tiny little kickshaws of Gotham had once been his. The megaphone man roars out at you to observe the house of his uncle on a grand and revered avenue. But there had been an awful row about something, and the prince had been escorted to the door by the butler, which, in said avenue, is equivalent to the impact of the avuncular shoe. A weak Prince Hal, without inheritance or sword, he drifted downward to meet his humorless Falstaff, and to pick the crusts of the streets with him.</p>
|
||||
@ -1,25 +1,25 @@
|
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 9</title>
|
||||
<title>Brickdust Row</title>
|
||||
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="chapter-9" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>BRICKDUST ROW</h2>
|
||||
<section id="brickdust-row" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">Brickdust Row</h2>
|
||||
<p>Blinker was displeased. A man of less culture and poise and wealth would have sworn. But Blinker always remembered that he was a gentleman—a thing that no gentleman should do. So he merely looked bored and sardonic while he rode in a hansom to the center of disturbance, which was the Broadway office of Lawyer Oldport, who was agent for the Blinker estate.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I don’t see,” said Blinker, “why I should be always signing confounded papers. I am packed, and was to have left for the North Woods this morning. Now I must wait until to-morrow morning. I hate night trains. My best razors are, of course, at the bottom of some unidentifiable trunk. It is a plot to drive me to bay rum and a monologueing, thumb-handed barber. Give me a pen that doesn’t scratch. I hate pens that scratch.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Sit down,” said double-chinned, gray Lawyer Oldport. “The worst has not been told you. Oh, the hardships of the rich! The papers are not yet ready to sign. They will be laid before you to-morrow at eleven. You will miss another day. Twice shall the barber tweak the helpless nose of a Blinker. Be thankful that your sorrows do not embrace a haircut.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“If,” said Blinker, rising, “the act did not involve more signing of papers I would take my business out of your hands at once. Give me a cigar, please.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“If,” said Lawyer Oldport, “I had cared to see an old friend’s son gulped down at one mouthful by sharks I would have ordered you to take it away long ago. Now, let’s quit fooling, Alexander. Besides the grinding task of signing your name some thirty times to-morrow, I must impose upon you the consideration of a matter of business—of business, and I may say humanity or right. I spoke to you about this five years ago, but you would not listen—you were in a hurry for a coaching trip, I think. The subject has come up again. The property—”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, property!” interrupted Blinker. “Dear Mr. Oldport, I think you mentioned to-morrow. Let’s have it all at one dose to-morrow—signatures and property and snappy rubber bands and that smelly sealing-wax and all. Have luncheon with me? Well, I’ll try to remember to drop in at eleven to-morrow. Morning.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, property!” interrupted Blinker. “Dear <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Oldport, I think you mentioned to-morrow. Let’s have it all at one dose to-morrow—signatures and property and snappy rubber bands and that smelly sealing-wax and all. Have luncheon with me? Well, I’ll try to remember to drop in at eleven to-morrow. Morning.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The Blinker wealth was in lands, tenements and hereditaments, as the legal phrase goes. Lawyer Oldport had once taken Alexander in his little pulmonary gasoline runabout to see the many buildings and rows of buildings that he owned in the city. For Alexander was sole heir. They had amused Blinker very much. The houses looked so incapable of producing the big sums of money that Lawyer Oldport kept piling up in banks for him to spend.</p>
|
||||
<p>In the evening Blinker went to one of his clubs, intending to dine. Nobody was there except some old fogies playing whist who spoke to him with grave politeness and glared at him with savage contempt. Everybody was out of town. But here he was kept in like a schoolboy to write his name over and over on pieces of paper. His wounds were deep.</p>
|
||||
<p>Blinker turned his back on the fogies, and said to the club steward who had come forward with some nonsense about cold fresh salmon roe:</p>
|
||||
<p>“Symons, I’m going to Coney Island.” He said it as one might say: “All’s off; I’m going to jump into the river.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The joke pleased Symons. He laughed within a sixteenth of a note of the audibility permitted by the laws governing employees.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Certainly, sir,” he tittered. “Of course, sir, I think I can see you at Coney, Mr. Blinker.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Certainly, sir,” he tittered. “Of course, sir, I think I can see you at Coney, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Blinker.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Blinker got a pager and looked up the movements of Sunday steamboats. Then he found a cab at the first corner and drove to a North River pier. He stood in line, as democratic as you or I, and bought a ticket, and was trampled upon and shoved forward until, at last, he found himself on the upper deck of the boat staring brazenly at a girl who sat alone upon a camp stool. But Blinker did not intend to be brazen; the girl was so wonderfully good looking that he forgot for one minute that he was the prince incog, and behaved just as he did in society.</p>
|
||||
<p>She was looking at him, too, and not severely. A puff of wind threatened Blinker’s straw hat. He caught it warily and settled it again. The movement gave the effect of a bow. The girl nodded and smiled, and in another instant he was seated at her side. She was dressed all in white, she was paler than Blinker imagined milkmaids and girls of humble stations to be, but she was as tidy as a cherry blossom, and her steady, supremely frank gray eyes looked out from the intrepid depths of an unshadowed and untroubled soul.</p>
|
||||
<p>“How dare you raise your hat to me?” she asked, with a smile-redeemed severity.</p>
|
||||
@ -71,7 +71,7 @@
|
||||
<p>“Everything,” he answered, almost savagely. “Why don’t you entertain your company in the house where you live? Is it necessary to pick up Tom, Dick and Harry on the streets?”</p>
|
||||
<p>She kept her absolutely ingenuous eyes upon his. “If you could see the place where I live you wouldn’t ask that. I live in Brickdust Row. They call it that because there’s red dust from the bricks crumbling over everything. I’ve lived there for more than four years. There’s no place to receive company. You can’t have anybody come to your room. What else is there to do? A girl has got to meet the men, hasn’t she?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Yes,” he said, hoarsely. “A girl has got to meet a—has got to meet the men.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“The first time one spoke to me on the street,” she continued, “I ran home and cried all night. But you get used to it. I meet a good many nice fellows at church. I go on rainy days and stand in the vestibule until one comes up with an umbrella. I wish there was a parlor, so I could ask you to call, Mr. Blinker—are you really sure it isn’t ‘Smith,’ now?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“The first time one spoke to me on the street,” she continued, “I ran home and cried all night. But you get used to it. I meet a good many nice fellows at church. I go on rainy days and stand in the vestibule until one comes up with an umbrella. I wish there was a parlor, so I could ask you to call, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Blinker—are you really sure it isn’t ‘Smith,’ now?”</p>
|
||||
<p>The boat landed safely. Blinker had a confused impression of walking with the girl through quiet crosstown streets until she stopped at a corner and held out her hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I live just one more block over,” she said. “Thank you for a very pleasant afternoon.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Blinker muttered something and plunged northward till he found a cab. A big, gray church loomed slowly at his right. Blinker shook his fist at it through the window.</p>
|
||||
@ -1,66 +0,0 @@
|
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<title>Chapter 16</title>
|
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<section id="chapter-16" epub:type="chapter">
|
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<h2>A HARLEM TRAGEDY</h2>
|
||||
<p>Harlem.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Fink had dropped into Mrs. Cassidy’s flat one flight below.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Ain’t it a beaut?” said Mrs. Cassidy.</p>
|
||||
<p>She turned her face proudly for her friend Mrs. Fink to see. One eye was nearly closed, with a great, greenish-purple bruise around it. Her lip was cut and bleeding a little and there were red finger-marks on each side of her neck.</p>
|
||||
<p>“My husband wouldn’t ever think of doing that to me,” said Mrs. Fink, concealing her envy.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I wouldn’t have a man,” declared Mrs. Cassidy, “that didn’t beat me up at least once a week. Shows he thinks something of you. Say! but that last dose Jack gave me wasn’t no homeopathic one. I can see stars yet. But he’ll be the sweetest man in town for the rest of the week to make up for it. This eye is good for theater tickets and a silk shirt waist at the very least.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I should hope,” said Mrs. Fink, assuming complacency, “that Mr. Fink is too much of a gentleman ever to raise his hand against me.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, go on, Maggie!” said Mrs. Cassidy, laughing and applying witch hazel, “you’re only jealous. Your old man is too frappéd and slow to ever give you a punch. He just sits down and practises physical culture with a newspaper when he comes home—now ain’t that the truth?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Mr. Fink certainly peruses of the papers when he comes home,” acknowledged Mrs. Fink, with a toss of her head; “but he certainly don’t ever make no Steve O’Donnell out of me just to amuse himself—that’s a sure thing.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Cassidy laughed the contented laugh of the guarded and happy matron. With the air of Cornelia exhibiting her jewels, she drew down the collar of her kimono and revealed another treasured bruise, maroon-colored, edged with olive and orange—a bruise now nearly well, but still to memory dear.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Fink capitulated. The formal light in her eye softened to envious admiration. She and Mrs. Cassidy had been chums in the downtown paper-box factory before they had married, one year before. Now she and her man occupied the flat above Mame and her man. Therefore she could not put on airs with Mame.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Don’t it hurt when he soaks you?” asked Mrs. Fink, curiously.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Hurt!”—Mrs. Cassidy gave a soprano scream of delight. “Well, say—did you ever have a brick house fall on you?—well, that’s just the way it feels—just like when they’re digging you out of the ruins. Jack’s got a left that spells two matinees and a new pair of Oxfords—and his right!—well, it takes a trip to Coney and six pairs of openwork, silk lisle threads to make that good.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“But what does he beat you for?” inquired Mrs. Fink, with wide-open eyes.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Silly!” said Mrs. Cassidy, indulgently. “Why, because he’s full. It’s generally on Saturday nights.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“But what cause do you give him?” persisted the seeker after knowledge.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Why, didn’t I marry him? Jack comes in tanked up; and I’m here, ain’t I? Who else has he got a right to beat? I’d just like to catch him once beating anybody else! Sometimes it’s because supper ain’t ready; and sometimes it’s because it is. Jack ain’t particular about causes. He just lushes till he remembers he’s married, and then he makes for home and does me up. Saturday nights I just move the furniture with sharp corners out of the way, so I won’t cut my head when he gets his work in. He’s got a left swing that jars you! Sometimes I take the count in the first round; but when I feel like having a good time during the week or want some new rags I come up again for more punishment. That’s what I done last night. Jack knows I’ve been wanting a black silk waist for a month, and I didn’t think just one black eye would bring it. Tell you what, Mag, I’ll bet you the ice cream he brings it to-night.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Fink was thinking deeply.</p>
|
||||
<p>“My Mart,” she said, “never hit me a lick in his life. It’s just like you said, Mame; he comes in grouchy and ain’t got a word to say. He never takes me out anywhere. He’s a chair-warmer at home for fair. He buys me things, but he looks so glum about it that I never appreciate ’em.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Cassidy slipped an arm around her chum. “You poor thing!” she said. “But everybody can’t have a husband like Jack. Marriage wouldn’t be no failure if they was all like him. These discontented wives you hear about—what they need is a man to come home and kick their slats in once a week, and then make it up in kisses, and chocolate creams. That’d give ’em some interest in life. What I want is a masterful man that slugs you when he’s jagged and hugs you when he ain’t jagged. Preserve me from the man that ain’t got the sand to do neither!”</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Fink sighed.</p>
|
||||
<p>The hallways were suddenly filled with sound. The door flew open at the kick of Mr. Cassidy. His arms were occupied with bundles. Mame flew and hung about his neck. Her sound eye sparkled with the love light that shines in the eye of the Maori maid when she recovers consciousness in the hut of the wooer who has stunned and dragged her there.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Hello, old girl!” shouted Mr. Cassidy. He shed his bundles and lifted her off her feet in a mighty hug. “I got tickets for Barnum & Bailey’s, and if you’ll bust the string of one of them bundles I guess you’ll find that silk waist—why, good evening, Mrs. Fink—I didn’t see you at first. How’s old Mart coming along?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“He’s very well, Mr. Cassidy—thanks,” said Mrs. Fink. “I must be going along up now. Mart’ll be home for supper soon. I’ll bring you down that pattern you wanted to-morrow, Mame.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Fink went up to her flat and had a little cry. It was a meaningless cry, the kind of cry that only a woman knows about, a cry from no particular cause, altogether an absurd cry; the most transient and the most hopeless cry in the repertory of grief. Why had Martin never thrashed her? He was as big and strong as Jack Cassidy. Did he not care for her at all? He never quarrelled; he came home and lounged about, silent, glum, idle. He was a fairly good provider, but he ignored the spices of life.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Fink’s ship of dreams was becalmed. Her captain ranged between plum duff and his hammock. If only he would shiver his timbers or stamp his foot on the quarter-deck now and then! And she had thought to sail so merrily, touching at ports in the Delectable Isles! But now, to vary the figure, she was ready to throw up the sponge, tired out, without a scratch to show for all those tame rounds with her sparring partner. For one moment she almost hated Mame—Mame, with her cuts and bruises, her salve of presents and kisses; her stormy voyage with her fighting, brutal, loving mate.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Fink came home at 7. He was permeated with the curse of domesticity. Beyond the portals of his cozy home he cared not to roam, to roam. He was the man who had caught the street car, the anaconda that had swallowed its prey, the tree that lay as it had fallen.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Like the supper, Mart?” asked Mrs. Fink, who had striven over it.</p>
|
||||
<p>“M-m-m-yep,” grunted Mr. Fink.</p>
|
||||
<p>After supper he gathered his newspapers to read. He sat in his stocking feet.</p>
|
||||
<p>Arise, some new Dante, and sing me the befitting corner of perdition for the man who sitteth in the house in his stockinged feet. Sisters of Patience who by reason of ties or duty have endured it in silk, yarn, cotton, lisle thread or woollen—does not the new canto belong?</p>
|
||||
<p>The next day was Labor Day. The occupations of Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Fink ceased for one passage of the sun. Labor, triumphant, would parade and otherwise disport itself.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Fink took Mrs. Cassidy’s pattern down early. Mame had on her new silk waist. Even her damaged eye managed to emit a holiday gleam. Jack was fruitfully penitent, and there was a hilarious scheme for the day afoot, with parks and picnics and Pilsener in it.</p>
|
||||
<p>A rising, indignant jealousy seized Mrs. Fink as she returned to her flat above. Oh, happy Mame, with her bruises and her quick-following balm! But was Mame to have a monopoly of happiness? Surely Martin Fink was as good a man as Jack Cassidy. Was his wife to go always unbelabored and uncaressed? A sudden, brilliant, breathless idea came to Mrs. Fink. She would show Mame that there were husbands as able to use their fists and perhaps to be as tender afterward as any Jack.</p>
|
||||
<p>The holiday promised to be a nominal one with the Finks. Mrs. Fink had the stationary washtubs in the kitchen filled with a two weeks’ wash that had been soaking overnight. Mr. Fink sat in his stockinged feet reading a newspaper. Thus Labor Day presaged to speed.</p>
|
||||
<p>Jealousy surged high in Mrs. Fink’s heart, and higher still surged an audacious resolve. If her man would not strike her—if he would not so far prove his manhood, his prerogative and his interest in conjugal affairs, he must be prompted to his duty.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Fink lit his pipe and peacefully rubbed an ankle with a stockinged toe. He reposed in the state of matrimony like a lump of unblended suet in a pudding. This was his level Elysium—to sit at ease vicariously girdling the world in print amid the wifely splashing of suds and the agreeable smells of breakfast dishes departed and dinner ones to come. Many ideas were far from his mind; but the furthest one was the thought of beating his wife.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Fink turned on the hot water and set the washboards in the suds. Up from the flat below came the gay laugh of Mrs. Cassidy. It sounded like a taunt, a flaunting of her own happiness in the face of the unslugged bride above. Now was Mrs. Fink’s time.</p>
|
||||
<p>Suddenly she turned like a fury upon the man reading.</p>
|
||||
<p>“You lazy loafer!” she cried, “must I work my arms off washing and toiling for the ugly likes of you? Are you a man or are you a kitchen hound?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Fink dropped his paper, motionless from surprise. She feared that he would not strike—that the provocation had been insufficient. She leaped at him and struck him fiercely in the face with her clenched hand. In that instant she felt a thrill of love for him such as she had not felt for many a day. Rise up, Martin Fink, and come into your kingdom! Oh, she must feel the weight of his hand now—just to show that he cared—just to show that he cared!</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Fink sprang to his feet—Maggie caught him again on the jaw with a wide swing of her other hand. She closed her eyes in that fearful, blissful moment before his blow should come—she whispered his name to herself—she leaned to the expected shock, hungry for it.</p>
|
||||
<p>In the flat below Mr. Cassidy, with a shamed and contrite face was powdering Mame’s eye in preparation for their junket. From the flat above came the sound of a woman’s voice, high-raised, a bumping, a stumbling and a shuffling, a chair overturned—unmistakable sounds of domestic conflict.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Mart and Mag scrapping?” postulated Mr. Cassidy. “Didn’t know they ever indulged. Shall I trot up and see if they need a sponge holder?”</p>
|
||||
<p>One of Mrs. Cassidy’s eyes sparkled like a diamond. The other twinkled at least like paste.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, oh,” she said, softly and without apparent meaning, in the feminine ejaculatory manner. “I wonder if—wonder if! Wait, Jack, till I go up and see.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Up the stairs she sped. As her foot struck the hallway above out from the kitchen door of her flat wildly flounced Mrs. Fink.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, Maggie,” cried Mrs. Cassidy, in a delighted whisper; “did he? Oh, did he?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Fink ran and laid her face upon her chum’s shoulder and sobbed hopelessly.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Cassidy took Maggie’s face between her hands and lifted it gently. Tear-stained it was, flushing and paling, but its velvety, pink-and-white, becomingly freckled surface was unscratched, unbruised, unmarred by the recreant fist of Mr. Fink.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Tell me, Maggie,” pleaded Mame, “or I’ll go in there and find out. What was it? Did he hurt you—what did he do?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Mrs. Fink’s face went down again despairingly on the bosom of her friend.</p>
|
||||
<p>“For God’s sake don’t open that door, Mame,” she sobbed. “And don’t ever tell nobody—keep it under your hat. He—he never touched me, and—he’s—oh, Gawd—he’s washin’ the clothes—he’s washin’ the clothes!”</p>
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<head>
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<title>Chapter 25</title>
|
||||
<title>Elsie in New York</title>
|
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<h2>ELSIE IN NEW YORK</h2>
|
||||
<section id="elsie-in-new-york" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
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<h2 epub:type="title">Elsie in New York</h2>
|
||||
<p>No, bumptious reader, this story is not a continuation of the Elsie series. But if your Elsie had lived over here in our big city there might have been a chapter in her books not very different from this.</p>
|
||||
<p>Especially for the vagrant feet of youth are the roads of Manhattan beset “with pitfall and with gin.” But the civic guardians of the young have made themselves acquainted with the snares of the wicked, and most of the dangerous paths are patrolled by their agents, who seek to turn straying ones away from the peril that menaces them. And this will tell you how they guided my Elsie safely through all peril to the goal that she was seeking.</p>
|
||||
<p>Elsie’s father had been a cutter for Fox & Otter, cloaks and furs, on lower Broadway. He was an old man, with a slow and limping gait, so a pot-hunter of a newly licensed chauffeur ran him down one day when livelier game was scarce. They took the old man home, where he lay on his bed for a year and then died, leaving $2.50 in cash and a letter from Mr. Otter offering to do anything he could to help his faithful old employee. The old cutter regarded this letter as a valuable legacy to his daughter, and he put it into her hands with pride as the shears of the dread Cleaner and Repairer snipped off his thread of life.</p>
|
||||
<p>That was the landlord’s cue; and forth he came and did his part in the great eviction scene. There was no snowstorm ready for Elsie to steal out into, drawing her little red woollen shawl about her shoulders, but she went out, regardless of the unities. And as for the red shawl—back to Blaney with it! Elsie’s fall tan coat was cheap, but it had the style and fit of the best at Fox & Otter’s. And her lucky stars had given her good looks, and eyes as blue and innocent as the new shade of note paper, and she had $1 left of the $2.50. And the letter from Mr. Otter. Keep your eye on the letter from Mr. Otter. That is the clue. I desire that everything be made plain as we go. Detective stories are so plentiful now that they do not sell.</p>
|
||||
<p>And so we find Elsie, thus equipped, starting out in the world to seek her fortune. One trouble about the letter from Mr. Otter was that it did not bear the new address of the firm, which had moved about a month before. But Elsie thought she could find it. She had heard that policemen, when politely addressed, or thumbscrewed by an investigation committee, will give up information and addresses. So she boarded a downtown car at One Hundred and Seventy-seventh street and rode south to Forty-second, which she thought must surely be the end of the island. There she stood against the wall undecided, for the city’s roar and dash was new to her. Up where she had lived was rural New York, so far out that the milkmen awaken you in the morning by the squeaking of pumps instead of the rattling of cans.</p>
|
||||
<p>Elsie’s father had been a cutter for Fox & Otter, cloaks and furs, on lower Broadway. He was an old man, with a slow and limping gait, so a pot-hunter of a newly licensed chauffeur ran him down one day when livelier game was scarce. They took the old man home, where he lay on his bed for a year and then died, leaving $2.50 in cash and a letter from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter offering to do anything he could to help his faithful old employee. The old cutter regarded this letter as a valuable legacy to his daughter, and he put it into her hands with pride as the shears of the dread Cleaner and Repairer snipped off his thread of life.</p>
|
||||
<p>That was the landlord’s cue; and forth he came and did his part in the great eviction scene. There was no snowstorm ready for Elsie to steal out into, drawing her little red woollen shawl about her shoulders, but she went out, regardless of the unities. And as for the red shawl—back to Blaney with it! Elsie’s fall tan coat was cheap, but it had the style and fit of the best at Fox & Otter’s. And her lucky stars had given her good looks, and eyes as blue and innocent as the new shade of note paper, and she had $1 left of the $2.50. And the letter from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter. Keep your eye on the letter from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter. That is the clue. I desire that everything be made plain as we go. Detective stories are so plentiful now that they do not sell.</p>
|
||||
<p>And so we find Elsie, thus equipped, starting out in the world to seek her fortune. One trouble about the letter from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter was that it did not bear the new address of the firm, which had moved about a month before. But Elsie thought she could find it. She had heard that policemen, when politely addressed, or thumbscrewed by an investigation committee, will give up information and addresses. So she boarded a downtown car at One Hundred and Seventy-seventh street and rode south to Forty-second, which she thought must surely be the end of the island. There she stood against the wall undecided, for the city’s roar and dash was new to her. Up where she had lived was rural New York, so far out that the milkmen awaken you in the morning by the squeaking of pumps instead of the rattling of cans.</p>
|
||||
<p>A kind-faced, sunburned young man in a soft-brimmed hat went past Elsie into the Grand Central Depot. That was Hank Ross, of the Sunflower Ranch, in Idaho, on his way home from a visit to the East. Hank’s heart was heavy, for the Sunflower Ranch was a lonesome place, lacking the presence of a woman. He had hoped to find one during his visit who would congenially share his prosperity and home, but the girls of Gotham had not pleased his fancy. But, as he passed in, he noted, with a jumping of his pulses, the sweet, ingenuous face of Elsie and her pose of doubt and loneliness. With true and honest Western impulse he said to himself that here was his mate. He could love her, he knew; and he would surround her with so much comfort, and cherish her so carefully that she would be happy, and make two sunflowers grow on the ranch where there grew but one before.</p>
|
||||
<p>Hank turned and went back to her. Backed by his never before questioned honesty of purpose, he approached the girl and removed his soft-brimmed hat. Elsie had but time to sum up his handsome frank face with one shy look of modest admiration when a burly cop hurled himself upon the ranchman, seized him by the collar and backed him against the wall. Two blocks away a burglar was coming out of an apartment-house with a bag of silverware on his shoulder; but that is neither here nor there.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Carry on yez mashin’ tricks right before me eyes, will yez?” shouted the cop. “I’ll teach yez to speak to ladies on me beat that ye’re not acquainted with. Come along.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Elsie turned away with a sigh as the ranchman was dragged away. She had liked the effect of his light blue eyes against his tanned complexion. She walked southward, thinking herself already in the district where her father used to work, and hoping to find some one who could direct her to the firm of Fox & Otter.</p>
|
||||
<p>But did she want to find Mr. Otter? She had inherited much of the old cutter’s independence. How much better it would be if she could find work and support herself without calling on him for aid!</p>
|
||||
<p>But did she want to find <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter? She had inherited much of the old cutter’s independence. How much better it would be if she could find work and support herself without calling on him for aid!</p>
|
||||
<p>Elsie saw a sign “Employment Agency” and went in. Many girls were sitting against the wall in chairs. Several well-dressed ladies were looking them over. One white-haired, kind-faced old lady in rustling black silk hurried up to Elsie.</p>
|
||||
<p>“My dear,” she said in a sweet, gentle voice, “are you looking for a position? I like your face and appearance so much. I want a young woman who will be half maid and half companion to me. You will have a good home and I will pay you $30 a month.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Before Elsie could stammer forth her gratified acceptance, a young woman with gold glasses on her bony nose and her hands in her jacket pockets seized her arm and drew her aside.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I am Miss Ticklebaum,” said she, “of the Association for the Prevention of Jobs Being Put Up on Working Girls Looking for Jobs. We prevented forty-seven girls from securing positions last week. I am here to protect you. Beware of any one who offers you a job. How do you know that this woman does not want to make you work as a breaker-boy in a coal mine or murder you to get your teeth? If you accept work of any kind without permission of our association you will be arrested by one of our agents.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“But what am I to do?” asked Elsie. “I have no home or money. I must do something. Why am I not allowed to accept this kind lady’s offer?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I do not know,” said Miss Ticklebaum. “That is the affair of our Committee on the Abolishment of Employers. It is my duty simply to see that you do not get work. You will give me your name and address and report to our secretary every Thursday. We have 600 girls on the waiting list who will in time be allowed to accept positions as vacancies occur on our roll of Qualified Employers, which now comprises twenty-seven names. There is prayer, music and lemonade in our chapel the third Sunday of every month.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Elsie hurried away after thanking Miss Ticklebaum for her timely warning and advice. After all, it seemed that she must try to find Mr. Otter.</p>
|
||||
<p>Elsie hurried away after thanking Miss Ticklebaum for her timely warning and advice. After all, it seemed that she must try to find <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter.</p>
|
||||
<p>But after walking a few blocks she saw a sign, “Cashier wanted,” in the window of a confectionery store. In she went and applied for the place, after casting a quick glance over her shoulder to assure herself that the job-preventer was not on her trail.</p>
|
||||
<p>The proprietor of the confectionery was a benevolent old man with a peppermint flavor, who decided, after questioning Elsie pretty closely, that she was the very girl he wanted. Her services were needed at once, so Elsie, with a thankful heart, drew off her tan coat and prepared to mount the cashier’s stool.</p>
|
||||
<p>But before she could do so a gaunt lady wearing steel spectacles and black mittens stood before her, with a long finger pointing, and exclaimed: “Young woman, hesitate!”</p>
|
||||
@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
|
||||
<p>“Decline the position,” said the lady, “and come with me. I will tell you what to do.”</p>
|
||||
<p>After Elsie had told the confectioner that she had changed her mind about the cashiership she put on her coat and followed the lady to the sidewalk, where awaited an elegant victoria.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Seek some other work,” said the black-and-steel lady, “and assist in crushing the hydra-headed demon rum.” And she got into the victoria and drove away.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I guess that puts it up to Mr. Otter again,” said Elsie, ruefully, turning down the street. “And I’m sorry, too, for I’d much rather make my way without help.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I guess that puts it up to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter again,” said Elsie, ruefully, turning down the street. “And I’m sorry, too, for I’d much rather make my way without help.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Near Fourteenth street Elsie saw a placard tacked on the side of a doorway that read: “Fifty girls, neat sewers, wanted immediately on theatrical costumes. Good pay.”</p>
|
||||
<p>She was about to enter, when a solemn man, dressed all in black, laid his hand on her arm.</p>
|
||||
<p>“My dear girl,” he said, “I entreat you not to enter that dressing-room of the devil.”</p>
|
||||
@ -53,16 +53,16 @@
|
||||
<p>“Now don’t do it,” said the girl. “I’m chairman of our Scab Committee. There’s 400 of us girls locked out just because we demanded 50 cents a week raise in wages, and ice water, and for the foreman to shave off his mustache. You’re too nice a looking girl to be a scab. Wouldn’t you please help us along by trying to find a job somewhere else, or would you’se rather have your face pushed in?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I’ll try somewhere else,” said Elsie.</p>
|
||||
<p>She walked aimlessly eastward on Broadway, and there her heart leaped to see the sign, “Fox & Otter,” stretching entirely across the front of a tall building. It was as though an unseen guide had led her to it through the by-ways of her fruitless search for work.</p>
|
||||
<p>She hurried into the store and sent in to Mr. Otter by a clerk her name and the letter he had written her father. She was shown directly into his private office.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Otter arose from his desk as Elsie entered and took both hands with a hearty smile of welcome. He was a slightly corpulent man of nearly middle age, a little bald, gold spectacled, polite, well dressed, radiating.</p>
|
||||
<p>She hurried into the store and sent in to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter by a clerk her name and the letter he had written her father. She was shown directly into his private office.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter arose from his desk as Elsie entered and took both hands with a hearty smile of welcome. He was a slightly corpulent man of nearly middle age, a little bald, gold spectacled, polite, well dressed, radiating.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Well, well, and so this is Beatty’s little daughter! Your father was one of our most efficient and valued employees. He left nothing? Well, well. I hope we have not forgotten his faithful services. I am sure there is a vacancy now among our models. Oh, it is easy work—nothing easier.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Otter struck a bell. A long-nosed clerk thrust a portion of himself inside the door.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Send Miss Hawkins in,” said Mr. Otter. Miss Hawkins came.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Miss Hawkins,” said Mr. Otter, “bring for Miss Beatty to try on one of those Russian sable coats and—let’s see—one of those latest model black tulle hats with white tips.”</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter struck a bell. A long-nosed clerk thrust a portion of himself inside the door.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Send Miss Hawkins in,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter. Miss Hawkins came.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Miss Hawkins,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter, “bring for Miss Beatty to try on one of those Russian sable coats and—let’s see—one of those latest model black tulle hats with white tips.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Elsie stood before the full-length mirror with pink cheeks and quick breath. Her eyes shone like faint stars. She was beautiful. Alas! she was beautiful.</p>
|
||||
<p>I wish I could stop this story here. Confound it! I will. No; it’s got to run it out. I didn’t make it up. I’m just repeating it.</p>
|
||||
<p>I’d like to throw bouquets at the wise cop, and the lady who rescues Girls from Jobs, and the prohibitionist who is trying to crush brandy balls, and the sky pilot who objects to costumes for stage people (there are others), and all the thousands of good people who are at work protecting young people from the pitfalls of a great city; and then wind up by pointing out how they were the means of Elsie reaching her father’s benefactor and her kind friend and rescuer from poverty. This would make a fine Elsie story of the old sort. I’d like to do this; but there’s just a word or two to follow.</p>
|
||||
<p>While Elsie was admiring herself in the mirror, Mr. Otter went to the telephone booth and called up some number. Don’t ask me what it was.</p>
|
||||
<p>While Elsie was admiring herself in the mirror, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Otter went to the telephone booth and called up some number. Don’t ask me what it was.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oscar,” said he, “I want you to reserve the same table for me this evening. … What? Why, the one in the Moorish room to the left of the shrubbery. … Yes; two. … Yes, the usual brand; and the ’85 Johannisburger with the roast. If it isn’t the right temperature I’ll break your neck. … No; not her … No, indeed … A new one—a peacherino, Oscar, a peacherino!”</p>
|
||||
<p>Tired and tiresome reader, I will conclude, if you please, with a paraphrase of a few words that you will remember were written by him—by him of Gad’s Hill, before whom, if you doff not your hat, you shall stand with a covered pumpkin—aye, sir, a pumpkin.</p>
|
||||
<p>Lost, Your Excellency. Lost Associations and Societies. Lost, Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Lost, Reformers and Lawmakers, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts, but with the reverence of money in your souls. And lost thus around us every day.</p>
|
||||
@ -1,15 +1,15 @@
|
||||
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
|
||||
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 6</title>
|
||||
<title>The Assessor of Success</title>
|
||||
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|
||||
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|
||||
<section id="chapter-6" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESS</h2>
|
||||
<section id="the-assessor-of-success" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Assessor of Success</h2>
|
||||
<p>Hastings Beauchamp Morley sauntered across Union Square with a pitying look at the hundreds that lolled upon the park benches. They were a motley lot, he thought; the men with stolid, animal, unshaven faces; the women wriggling and self-conscious, twining and untwining their feet that hung four inches above the gravelled walks.</p>
|
||||
<p>Were I Mr. Carnegie or Mr. Rockefeller I would put a few millions in my inside pocket and make an appointment with all the Park Commissioners (around the corner, if necessary), and arrange for benches in all the parks of the world low enough for women to sit upon, and rest their feet upon the ground. After that I might furnish libraries to towns that would pay for ’em, or build sanitariums for crank professors, and call ’em colleges, if I wanted to.</p>
|
||||
<p>Were I <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Carnegie or <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rockefeller I would put a few millions in my inside pocket and make an appointment with all the Park Commissioners (around the corner, if necessary), and arrange for benches in all the parks of the world low enough for women to sit upon, and rest their feet upon the ground. After that I might furnish libraries to towns that would pay for ’em, or build sanitariums for crank professors, and call ’em colleges, if I wanted to.</p>
|
||||
<p>Women’s rights societies have been laboring for many years after equality with man. With what result? When they sit on a bench they must twist their ankles together and uncomfortably swing their highest French heels clear of earthly support. Begin at the bottom, ladies. Get your feet on the ground, and then rise to theories of mental equality.</p>
|
||||
<p>Hastings Beauchamp Morley was carefully and neatly dressed. That was the result of an instinct due to his birth and breeding. It is denied us to look further into a man’s bosom than the starch on his shirt front; so it is left to us only to recount his walks and conversation.</p>
|
||||
<p>Morley had not a cent in his pockets; but he smiled pityingly at a hundred grimy, unfortunate ones who had no more, and who would have no more when the sun’s first rays yellowed the tall paper-cutter building on the west side of the square. But Morley would have enough by then. Sundown had seen his pockets empty before; but sunrise had always seen them lined.</p>
|
||||
@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
|
||||
<p>On the sidewalk, twenty steps from the clergyman’s door, a pale-faced, fat man huskily enveloped him with a raised, red fist and the voice of a bell buoy, demanding payment of an old score.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Why, Bergman, man,” sang Morley, dulcetly, “is this you? I was just on my way up to your place to settle up. That remittance from my aunt arrived only this morning. Wrong address was the trouble. Come up to the corner and I’ll square up. Glad to see you. Saves me a walk.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Four drinks placated the emotional Bergman. There was an air about Morley when he was backed by money in hand that would have stayed off a call loan at Rothschilds’. When he was penniless his bluff was pitched half a tone lower, but few are competent to detect the difference in the notes.</p>
|
||||
<p>“You gum to mine blace and bay me to-morrow, Mr. Morley,” said Bergman. “Oxcuse me dat I dun you on der street. But I haf not seen you in dree mont’. Pros’t!”</p>
|
||||
<p>“You gum to mine blace and bay me to-morrow, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Morley,” said Bergman. “Oxcuse me dat I dun you on der street. But I haf not seen you in dree mont’. Pros’t!”</p>
|
||||
<p>Morley walked away with a crooked smile on his pale, smooth face. The credulous, drink-softened German amused him. He would have to avoid Twenty-ninth street in the future. He had not been aware that Bergman ever went home by that route.</p>
|
||||
<p>At the door of a darkened house two squares to the north Morley knocked with a peculiar sequence of raps. The door opened to the length of a six-inch chain, and the pompous, important black face of an African guardian imposed itself in the opening. Morley was admitted.</p>
|
||||
<p>In a third-story room, in an atmosphere opaque with smoke, he hung for ten minutes above a roulette wheel. Then downstairs he crept, and was out-sped by the important negro, jingling in his pocket the 40 cents in silver that remained to him of his five-dollar capital. At the corner he lingered, undecided.</p>
|
||||
@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
|
||||
<p>“Now, now, now!” said Morley. “Such a big man you are to be doing errands for mamma. I must go along with my little man to see that the cars don’t run over him. And on the way we’ll have some chocolates. Or would he rather have lemon drops?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Morley entered the drug store leading the child by the hand. He presented the prescription that had been wrapped around the money.</p>
|
||||
<p>On his face was a smile, predatory, parental, politic, profound.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Aqua pura, one pint,” said he to the druggist. “Sodium chloride, ten grains. Fiat solution. And don’t try to skin me, because I know all about the number of gallons of H<span class="vsmall">2</span>O in the Croton reservoir, and I always use the other ingredient on my potatoes.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Aqua pura, one pint,” said he to the druggist. “Sodium chloride, ten grains. Fiat solution. And don’t try to skin me, because I know all about the number of gallons of H<sub>2</sub>O in the Croton reservoir, and I always use the other ingredient on my potatoes.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Fifteen cents,” said the druggist, with a wink after he had compounded the order. “I see you understand pharmacy. A dollar is the regular price.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“To gulls,” said Morley, smilingly.</p>
|
||||
<p>He settled the wrapped bottle carefully in the child’s arms and escorted him to the corner. In his own pocket he dropped the 85 cents accruing to him by virtue of his chemical knowledge.</p>
|
||||
@ -54,7 +54,7 @@
|
||||
<p>“Smothers not Smithers,” interrupted the old man hopefully. “A heavy-set man, sandy complected, about twenty-nine, two front teeth out, about five foot”—</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, ‘Smothers!’ ” exclaimed Morley. “Sol Smothers? Why, he lives in the next house to me. I thought you said ‘Smithers.’ ”</p>
|
||||
<p>Morley looked at his watch. You must have a watch. You can do it for a dollar. Better go hungry than forego a gunmetal or the ninety-eight-cent one that the railroads—according to these watchmakers—are run by.</p>
|
||||
<p>“The Bishop of Long Island,” said Morley, “was to meet me here at 8 to dine with me at the Kingfishers’ Club. But I can’t leave the father of my friend Sol Smothers alone on the street. By St. Swithin, Mr. Smothers, we Wall street men have to work! Tired is no name for it! I was about to step across to the other corner and have a glass of ginger ale with a dash of sherry when you approached me. You must let me take you to Sol’s house, Mr. Smothers. But, before we take the car I hope you will join me in”—</p>
|
||||
<p>“The Bishop of Long Island,” said Morley, “was to meet me here at 8 to dine with me at the Kingfishers’ Club. But I can’t leave the father of my friend Sol Smothers alone on the street. By <abbr>St.</abbr> Swithin, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Smothers, we Wall street men have to work! Tired is no name for it! I was about to step across to the other corner and have a glass of ginger ale with a dash of sherry when you approached me. You must let me take you to Sol’s house, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Smothers. But, before we take the car I hope you will join me in”—</p>
|
||||
<p>An hour later Morley seated himself on the end of a quiet bench in Madison Square, with a twenty-five-cent cigar between his lips and $140 in deeply creased bills in his inside pocket. Content, light-hearted, ironical, keenly philosophic, he watched the moon drifting in and out amidst a maze of flying clouds. An old, ragged man with a low-bowed head sat at the other end of the bench.</p>
|
||||
<p>Presently the old man stirred and looked at his bench companion. In Morley’s appearance he seemed to recognize something superior to the usual nightly occupants of the benches.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Kind sir,” he whined, “if you could spare a dime or even a few pennies to one who”—</p>
|
||||
@ -1,13 +1,13 @@
|
||||
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
|
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 8</title>
|
||||
<title>The Badge of Policeman O’roon</title>
|
||||
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="chapter-8" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE BADGE OF POLICEMAN O’ROON</h2>
|
||||
<section id="the-badge-of-policeman-oroon" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Badge of Policeman O’roon</h2>
|
||||
<p>It cannot be denied that men and women have looked upon one another for the first time and become instantly enamored. It is a risky process, this love at first sight, before she has seen him in Bradstreet or he has seen her in curl papers. But these things do happen; and one instance must form a theme for this story—though not, thank Heaven, to the overshadowing of more vital and important subjects, such as drink, policemen, horses and earldoms.</p>
|
||||
<p>During a certain war a troop calling itself the Gentle Riders rode into history and one or two ambuscades. The Gentle Riders were recruited from the aristocracy of the wild men of the West and the wild men of the aristocracy of the East. In khaki there is little telling them one from another, so they became good friends and comrades all around.</p>
|
||||
<p>Ellsworth Remsen, whose old Knickerbocker descent atoned for his modest rating at only ten millions, ate his canned beef gayly by the campfires of the Gentle Riders. The war was a great lark to him, so that he scarcely regretted polo and planked shad.</p>
|
||||
@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
|
||||
<p>“I’m stewed, Remsen,” said O’Roon to his friend. “Why do they build hotels that go round and round like catherine wheels? They’ll take away my shield and break me. I can think and talk con-con-consec-sec-secutively, but I s-s-stammer with my feet. I’ve got to go on duty in three hours. The jig is up, Remsen. The jig is up, I tell you.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Look at me,” said Remsen, who was his smiling self, pointing to his own face; “whom do you see here?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Goo’ fellow,” said O’Roon, dizzily, “Goo’ old Remsen.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Not so,” said Remsen. “You see Mounted Policeman O’Roon. Look at your face—no; you can’t do that without a glass—but look at mine, and think of yours. How much alike are we? As two French <i>table d’hote</i> dinners. With your badge, on your horse, in your uniform, will I charm nurse-maids and prevent the grass from growing under people’s feet in the Park this day. I will have your badge and your honor, besides having the jolliest lark I’ve been blessed with since we licked Spain.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Not so,” said Remsen. “You see Mounted Policeman O’Roon. Look at your face—no; you can’t do that without a glass—but look at mine, and think of yours. How much alike are we? As two French table d’hote dinners. With your badge, on your horse, in your uniform, will I charm nurse-maids and prevent the grass from growing under people’s feet in the Park this day. I will have your badge and your honor, besides having the jolliest lark I’ve been blessed with since we licked Spain.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Promptly on time the counterfeit presentment of Mounted Policeman O’Roon single-footed into the Park on his chestnut steed. In a uniform two men who are unlike will look alike; two who somewhat resemble each other in feature and figure will appear as twin brothers. So Remsen trotted down the bridle paths, enjoying himself hugely, so few real pleasures do ten-millionaires have.</p>
|
||||
<p>Along the driveway in the early morning spun a victoria drawn by a pair of fiery bays. There was something foreign about the affair, for the Park is rarely used in the morning except by unimportant people who love to be healthy, poor and wise. In the vehicle sat an old gentleman with snowy side-whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which could not be worn while driving except by a personage. At his side sat the lady of Remsen’s heart—the lady who looked like pomegranate blossoms and the gibbous moon.</p>
|
||||
<p>Remsen met them coming. At the instant of their passing her eyes looked into his, and but for the ever coward’s heart of a true lover he could have sworn that she flushed a faint pink. He trotted on for twenty yards, and then wheeled his horse at the sound of runaway hoofs. The bays had bolted.</p>
|
||||
@ -36,9 +36,9 @@
|
||||
<p>Who was he? Mounted Policeman O’Roon. The badge and the honor of his comrade were in his hands. If Ellsworth Remsen, ten-millionaire and Knickerbocker, had just rescued pomegranate blossoms and Scotch cap from possible death, where was Policeman O’Roon? Off his beat, exposed, disgraced, discharged. Love had come, but before that there had been something that demanded precedence—the fellowship of men on battlefields fighting an alien foe.</p>
|
||||
<p>Remsen touched his cap, looked between the chestnut’s ears, and took refuge in vernacularity.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Don’t mention it,” he said stolidly. “We policemen are paid to do these things. It’s our duty.”</p>
|
||||
<p>And he rode away—rode away cursing <i>noblesse oblige</i>, but knowing he could never have done anything else.</p>
|
||||
<p>And he rode away—rode away cursing noblesse oblige, but knowing he could never have done anything else.</p>
|
||||
<p>At the end of the day Remsen sent the chestnut to his stable and went to O’Roon’s room. The policeman was again a well set up, affable, cool young man who sat by the window smoking cigars.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I wish you and the rest of the police force and all badges, horses, brass buttons and men who can’t drink two glasses of <i>brut</i> without getting upset were at the devil,” said Remsen feelingly.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I wish you and the rest of the police force and all badges, horses, brass buttons and men who can’t drink two glasses of brut without getting upset were at the devil,” said Remsen feelingly.</p>
|
||||
<p>O’Roon smiled with evident satisfaction.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Good old Remsen,” he said, affably, “I know all about it. They trailed me down and cornered me here two hours ago. There was a little row at home, you know, and I cut sticks just to show them. I don’t believe I told you that my Governor was the Earl of Ardsley. Funny you should bob against them in the Park. If you damaged that horse of mine I’ll never forgive you. I’m going to buy him and take him back with me. Oh, yes, and I think my sister—Lady Angela, you know—wants particularly for you to come up to the hotel with me this evening. Didn’t lose my badge, did you, Remsen? I’ve got to turn that in at Headquarters when I resign.”</p>
|
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</section>
|
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@ -1,13 +1,13 @@
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<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 7</title>
|
||||
<title>The Buyer from Cactus City</title>
|
||||
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<section id="chapter-7" epub:type="chapter">
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<h2>THE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITY</h2>
|
||||
<section id="the-buyer-from-cactus-city" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Buyer from Cactus City</h2>
|
||||
<p>It is well that hay fever and colds do not obtain in the healthful vicinity of Cactus City, Texas, for the dry goods emporium of Navarro & Platt, situated there, is not to be sneezed at.</p>
|
||||
<p>Twenty thousand people in Cactus City scatter their silver coin with liberal hands for the things that their hearts desire. The bulk of this semiprecious metal goes to Navarro & Platt. Their huge brick building covers enough ground to graze a dozen head of sheep. You can buy of them a rattlesnake-skin necktie, an automobile or an eighty-five dollar, latest style, ladies’ tan coat in twenty different shades. Navarro & Platt first introduced pennies west of the Colorado River. They had been ranchmen with business heads, who saw that the world did not necessarily have to cease its revolutions after free grass went out.</p>
|
||||
<p>Every Spring, Navarro, senior partner, fifty-five, half Spanish, cosmopolitan, able, polished, had “gone on” to New York to buy goods. This year he shied at taking up the long trail. He was undoubtedly growing older; and he looked at his watch several times a day before the hour came for his siesta.</p>
|
||||
@ -16,30 +16,30 @@
|
||||
<p>“I’m told,” said he, “that New York is a plumb dead town; but I’ll go. I can take a whirl in San Antone for a few days on my way and have some fun.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Two weeks later a man in a Texas full dress suit—black frock coat, broad-brimmed soft white hat, and lay-down collar 3–4 inch high, with black, wrought iron necktie—entered the wholesale cloak and suit establishment of Zizzbaum & Son, on lower Broadway.</p>
|
||||
<p>Old Zizzbaum had the eye of an osprey, the memory of an elephant and a mind that unfolded from him in three movements like the puzzle of the carpenter’s rule. He rolled to the front like a brunette polar bear, and shook Platt’s hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>“And how is the good Mr. Navarro in Texas?” he said. “The trip was too long for him this year, so? We welcome Mr. Platt instead.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“And how is the good <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Navarro in Texas?” he said. “The trip was too long for him this year, so? We welcome <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Platt instead.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“A bull’s eye,” said Platt, “and I’d give forty acres of unirrigated Pecos County land to know how you did it.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I knew,” grinned Zizzbaum, “just as I know that the rainfall in El Paso for the year was 28.5 inches, or an increase of 15 inches, and that therefore Navarro & Platt will buy a $15,000 stock of suits this spring instead of $10,000, as in a dry year. But that will be to-morrow. There is first a cigar in my private office that will remove from your mouth the taste of the ones you smuggle across the Rio Grande and like—because they are smuggled.”</p>
|
||||
<p>It was late in the afternoon and business for the day had ended, Zizzbaum left Platt with a half-smoked cigar, and came out of the private office to Son, who was arranging his diamond scarfpin before a mirror, ready to leave.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Abey,” he said, “you will have to take Mr. Platt around to-night and show him things. They are customers for ten years. Mr. Navarro and I we played chess every moment of spare time when he came. That is good, but Mr. Platt is a young man and this is his first visit to New York. He should amuse easily.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“All right,” said Abey, screwing the guard tightly on his pin. “I’ll take him on. After he’s seen the Flatiron and the head waiter at the Hotel Astor and heard the phonograph play ‘Under the Old Apple Tree’ it’ll be half past ten, and Mr. Texas will be ready to roll up in his blanket. I’ve got a supper engagement at 11:30, but he’ll be all to the Mrs. Winslow before then.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Abey,” he said, “you will have to take <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Platt around to-night and show him things. They are customers for ten years. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Navarro and I we played chess every moment of spare time when he came. That is good, but <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Platt is a young man and this is his first visit to New York. He should amuse easily.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“All right,” said Abey, screwing the guard tightly on his pin. “I’ll take him on. After he’s seen the Flatiron and the head waiter at the Hotel Astor and heard the phonograph play ‘Under the Old Apple Tree’ it’ll be half past ten, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Texas will be ready to roll up in his blanket. I’ve got a supper engagement at 11:30, but he’ll be all to the <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Winslow before then.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The next morning at 10 Platt walked into the store ready to do business. He had a bunch of hyacinths pinned on his lapel. Zizzbaum himself waited on him. Navarro & Platt were good customers, and never failed to take their discount for cash.</p>
|
||||
<p>“And what did you think of our little town?” asked Zizzbaum, with the fatuous smile of the Manhattanite.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I shouldn’t care to live in it,” said the Texan. “Your son and I knocked around quite a little last night. You’ve got good water, but Cactus City is better lit up.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“We’ve got a few lights on Broadway, don’t you think, Mr. Platt?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“We’ve got a few lights on Broadway, don’t you think, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Platt?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“And a good many shadows,” said Platt. “I think I like your horses best. I haven’t seen a crow-bait since I’ve been in town.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Zizzbaum led him up stairs to show the samples of suits.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Ask Miss Asher to come,” he said to a clerk.</p>
|
||||
<p>Miss Asher came, and Platt, of Navarro & Platt, felt for the first time the wonderful bright light of romance and glory descend upon him. He stood still as a granite cliff above the cañon of the Colorado, with his wide-open eyes fixed upon her. She noticed his look and flushed a little, which was contrary to her custom.</p>
|
||||
<p>Miss Asher was the crack model of Zizzbaum & Son. She was of the blond type known as “medium,” and her measurements even went the required 38–25-42 standard a little better. She had been at Zizzbaum’s two years, and knew her business. Her eye was bright, but cool; and had she chosen to match her gaze against the optic of the famed basilisk, that fabulous monster’s gaze would have wavered and softened first. Incidentally, she knew buyers.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Now, Mr. Platt,” said Zizzbaum, “I want you to see these princess gowns in the light shades. They will be the thing in your climate. This first, if you please, Miss Asher.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Miss Asher was the crack model of Zizzbaum & Son. She was of the blond type known as “medium,” and her measurements even went the required 38–25–42 standard a little better. She had been at Zizzbaum’s two years, and knew her business. Her eye was bright, but cool; and had she chosen to match her gaze against the optic of the famed basilisk, that fabulous monster’s gaze would have wavered and softened first. Incidentally, she knew buyers.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Platt,” said Zizzbaum, “I want you to see these princess gowns in the light shades. They will be the thing in your climate. This first, if you please, Miss Asher.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Swiftly in and out of the dressing-room the prize model flew, each time wearing a new costume and looking more stunning with every change. She posed with absolute self-possession before the stricken buyer, who stood, tongue-tied and motionless, while Zizzbaum orated oilily of the styles. On the model’s face was her faint, impersonal professional smile that seemed to cover something like weariness or contempt.</p>
|
||||
<p>When the display was over Platt seemed to hesitate. Zizzbaum was a little anxious, thinking that his customer might be inclined to try elsewhere. But Platt was only looking over in his mind the best building sites in Cactus City, trying to select one on which to build a house for his wife-to-be—who was just then in the dressing-room taking off an evening gown of lavender and tulle.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Take your time, Mr. Platt,” said Zizzbaum. “Think it over to-night. You won’t find anybody else meet our prices on goods like these. I’m afraid you’re having a dull time in New York, Mr. Platt. A young man like you—of course, you miss the society of the ladies. Wouldn’t you like a nice young lady to take out to dinner this evening? Miss Asher, now, is a very nice young lady; she will make it agreeable for you.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Take your time, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Platt,” said Zizzbaum. “Think it over to-night. You won’t find anybody else meet our prices on goods like these. I’m afraid you’re having a dull time in New York, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Platt. A young man like you—of course, you miss the society of the ladies. Wouldn’t you like a nice young lady to take out to dinner this evening? Miss Asher, now, is a very nice young lady; she will make it agreeable for you.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Why, she doesn’t know me,” said Platt, wonderingly. “She doesn’t know anything about me. Would she go? I’m not acquainted with her.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Would she go?” repeated Zizzbaum, with uplifted eyebrows. “Sure, she would go. I will introduce you. Sure, she would go.”</p>
|
||||
<p>He called Miss Asher loudly.</p>
|
||||
<p>She came, calm and slightly contemptuous, in her white shirt waist and plain black skirt.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Mr. Platt would like the pleasure of your company to dinner this evening,” said Zizzbaum, walking away.</p>
|
||||
<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Platt would like the pleasure of your company to dinner this evening,” said Zizzbaum, walking away.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Sure,” said Miss Asher, looking at the ceiling. “I’d be much pleased. Nine-eleven West Twentieth street. What time?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Say seven o’clock.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“All right, but please don’t come ahead of time. I room with a school teacher, and she doesn’t allow any gentlemen to call in the room. There isn’t any parlor, so you’ll have to wait in the hall. I’ll be ready.”</p>
|
||||
@ -58,7 +58,7 @@
|
||||
<p>He flicked a two-carat diamond solitaire ring across the table. Miss Asher flipped it back to him with her fork.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Don’t get fresh,” she said, severely.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I’m worth a hundred thousand dollars,” said Platt. “I’ll build you the finest house in West Texas.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“You can’t buy me, Mr. Buyer,” said Miss Asher, “if you had a hundred million. I didn’t think I’d have to call you down. You didn’t look like the others to me at first, but I see you’re all alike.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“You can’t buy me, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Buyer,” said Miss Asher, “if you had a hundred million. I didn’t think I’d have to call you down. You didn’t look like the others to me at first, but I see you’re all alike.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“All who?” asked Platt.</p>
|
||||
<p>“All you buyers. You think because we girls have to go out to dinner with you or lose our jobs that you’re privileged to say what you please. Well, forget it. I thought you were different from the others, but I see I was mistaken.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Platt struck his fingers on the table with a gesture of sudden, illuminating satisfaction.</p>
|
||||
@ -67,7 +67,7 @@
|
||||
<p>“Do you mean to tell me,” said Platt, “that you go out this way with customers, and they all—they all talk to you like I have?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“They all make plays,” said Miss Asher. “But I must say that you’ve got ’em beat in one respect. They generally talk diamonds, while you’ve actually dug one up.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“How long have you been working, Helen?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Got my name pat, haven’t you? I’ve been supporting myself for eight years. I was a cash girl and a wrapper and then a shop girl until I was grown, and then I got to be a suit model. Mr. Texas Man, don’t you think a little wine would make this dinner a little less dry?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Got my name pat, haven’t you? I’ve been supporting myself for eight years. I was a cash girl and a wrapper and then a shop girl until I was grown, and then I got to be a suit model. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Texas Man, don’t you think a little wine would make this dinner a little less dry?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“You’re not going to drink wine any more, dear. It’s awful to think how—I’ll come to the store to-morrow and get you. I want you to pick out an automobile before we leave. That’s all we need to buy here.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, cut that out. If you knew how sick I am of hearing such talk.”</p>
|
||||
<p>After the dinner they walked down Broadway and came upon Diana’s little wooded park. The trees caught Platt’s eye at once, and he must turn along under the winding walk beneath them. The lights shone upon two bright tears in the model’s eyes.</p>
|
||||
@ -75,7 +75,7 @@
|
||||
<p>“Don’t you mind,” said Miss Asher. “Well, it’s because—well, I didn’t think you were that kind when I first saw you. But you are all like. And now will you take me home, or will I have to call a cop?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Platt took her to the door of her boarding-house. They stood for a minute in the vestibule. She looked at him with such scorn in her eyes that even his heart of oak began to waver. His arm was half way around her waist, when she struck him a stinging blow on the face with her open hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>As he stepped back a ring fell from somewhere and bounded on the tiled floor. Platt groped for it and found it.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Now, take your useless diamond and go, Mr. Buyer,” she said.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Now, take your useless diamond and go, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Buyer,” she said.</p>
|
||||
<p>“This was the other one—the wedding ring,” said the Texan, holding the smooth gold band on the palm of his hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>Miss Asher’s eyes blazed upon him in the half darkness.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Was that what you meant?—did you”—</p>
|
||||
@ -1,45 +1,45 @@
|
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|
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<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 21</title>
|
||||
<title>The Count and the Wedding Guest</title>
|
||||
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|
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|
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
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<section id="chapter-21" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUEST</h2>
|
||||
<p>One evening when Andy Donovan went to dinner at his Second Avenue boarding-house, Mrs. Scott introduced him to a new boarder, a young lady, Miss Conway. Miss Conway was small and unobtrusive. She wore a plain, snuffy-brown dress, and bestowed her interest, which seemed languid, upon her plate. She lifted her diffident eyelids and shot one perspicuous, judicial glance at Mr. Donovan, politely murmured his name, and returned to her mutton. Mr. Donovan bowed with the grace and beaming smile that were rapidly winning for him social, business and political advancement, and erased the snuffy-brown one from the tablets of his consideration.</p>
|
||||
<section id="the-count-and-the-wedding-guest" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Count and the Wedding Guest</h2>
|
||||
<p>One evening when Andy Donovan went to dinner at his Second Avenue boarding-house, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Scott introduced him to a new boarder, a young lady, Miss Conway. Miss Conway was small and unobtrusive. She wore a plain, snuffy-brown dress, and bestowed her interest, which seemed languid, upon her plate. She lifted her diffident eyelids and shot one perspicuous, judicial glance at <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan, politely murmured his name, and returned to her mutton. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan bowed with the grace and beaming smile that were rapidly winning for him social, business and political advancement, and erased the snuffy-brown one from the tablets of his consideration.</p>
|
||||
<p>Two weeks later Andy was sitting on the front steps enjoying his cigar. There was a soft rustle behind and above him, and Andy turned his head—and had his head turned.</p>
|
||||
<p>Just coming out the door was Miss Conway. She wore a night-black dress of <i>crêpe de</i>—<i>crêpe de</i>—oh, this thin black goods. Her hat was black, and from it drooped and fluttered an ebon veil, filmy as a spider’s web. She stood on the top step and drew on black silk gloves. Not a speck of white or a spot of color about her dress anywhere. Her rich golden hair was drawn, with scarcely a ripple, into a shining, smooth knot low on her neck. Her face was plain rather than pretty, but it was now illuminated and made almost beautiful by her large gray eyes that gazed above the houses across the street into the sky with an expression of the most appealing sadness and melancholy.</p>
|
||||
<p>Gather the idea, girls—all black, you know, with the preference for <i>crêpe de</i>—oh, <i>crêpe de Chine</i>—that’s it. All black, and that sad, faraway look, and the hair shining under the black veil (you have to be a blonde, of course), and try to look as if, although your young life had been blighted just as it was about to give a hop-skip-and-a-jump over the threshold of life, a walk in the park might do you good, and be sure to happen out the door at the right moment, and—oh, it’ll fetch ’em every time. But it’s fierce, now, how cynical I am, ain’t it?—to talk about mourning costumes this way.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Donovan suddenly reinscribed Miss Conway upon the tablets of his consideration. He threw away the remaining inch-and-a-quarter of his cigar, that would have been good for eight minutes yet, and quickly shifted his center of gravity to his low cut patent leathers.</p>
|
||||
<p>Just coming out the door was Miss Conway. She wore a night-black dress of crêpe de—crêpe de—oh, this thin black goods. Her hat was black, and from it drooped and fluttered an ebon veil, filmy as a spider’s web. She stood on the top step and drew on black silk gloves. Not a speck of white or a spot of color about her dress anywhere. Her rich golden hair was drawn, with scarcely a ripple, into a shining, smooth knot low on her neck. Her face was plain rather than pretty, but it was now illuminated and made almost beautiful by her large gray eyes that gazed above the houses across the street into the sky with an expression of the most appealing sadness and melancholy.</p>
|
||||
<p>Gather the idea, girls—all black, you know, with the preference for crêpe de—oh, crêpe de Chine—that’s it. All black, and that sad, faraway look, and the hair shining under the black veil (you have to be a blonde, of course), and try to look as if, although your young life had been blighted just as it was about to give a hop-skip-and-a-jump over the threshold of life, a walk in the park might do you good, and be sure to happen out the door at the right moment, and—oh, it’ll fetch ’em every time. But it’s fierce, now, how cynical I am, ain’t it?—to talk about mourning costumes this way.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan suddenly reinscribed Miss Conway upon the tablets of his consideration. He threw away the remaining inch-and-a-quarter of his cigar, that would have been good for eight minutes yet, and quickly shifted his center of gravity to his low cut patent leathers.</p>
|
||||
<p>“It’s a fine, clear evening, Miss Conway,” he said; and if the Weather Bureau could have heard the confident emphasis of his tones it would have hoisted the square white signal, and nailed it to the mast.</p>
|
||||
<p>“To them that has the heart to enjoy it, it is, Mr. Donovan,” said Miss Conway, with a sigh.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Donovan, in his heart, cursed fair weather. Heartless weather! It should hail and blow and snow to be consonant with the mood of Miss Conway.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I hope none of your relatives—I hope you haven’t sustained a loss?” ventured Mr. Donovan.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Death has claimed,” said Miss Conway, hesitating—“not a relative, but one who—but I will not intrude my grief upon you, Mr. Donovan.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Intrude?” protested Mr. Donovan. “Why, say, Miss Conway, I’d be delighted, that is, I’d be sorry—I mean I’m sure nobody could sympathize with you truer than I would.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“To them that has the heart to enjoy it, it is, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan,” said Miss Conway, with a sigh.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan, in his heart, cursed fair weather. Heartless weather! It should hail and blow and snow to be consonant with the mood of Miss Conway.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I hope none of your relatives—I hope you haven’t sustained a loss?” ventured <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Death has claimed,” said Miss Conway, hesitating—“not a relative, but one who—but I will not intrude my grief upon you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Intrude?” protested <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan. “Why, say, Miss Conway, I’d be delighted, that is, I’d be sorry—I mean I’m sure nobody could sympathize with you truer than I would.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Miss Conway smiled a little smile. And oh, it was sadder than her expression in repose.</p>
|
||||
<p>“ ‘Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and they give you the laugh,’ ” she quoted. “I have learned that, Mr. Donovan. I have no friends or acquaintances in this city. But you have been kind to me. I appreciate it highly.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“ ‘Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and they give you the laugh,’ ” she quoted. “I have learned that, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan. I have no friends or acquaintances in this city. But you have been kind to me. I appreciate it highly.”</p>
|
||||
<p>He had passed her the pepper twice at the table.</p>
|
||||
<p>“It’s tough to be alone in New York—that’s a cinch,” said Mr. Donovan. “But, say—whenever this little old town does loosen up and get friendly it goes the limit. Say you took a little stroll in the park, Miss Conway—don’t you think it might chase away some of your mullygrubs? And if you’d allow me—”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Thanks, Mr. Donovan. I’d be pleased to accept of your escort if you think the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could be anyways agreeable to you.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“It’s tough to be alone in New York—that’s a cinch,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan. “But, say—whenever this little old town does loosen up and get friendly it goes the limit. Say you took a little stroll in the park, Miss Conway—don’t you think it might chase away some of your mullygrubs? And if you’d allow me—”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Thanks, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan. I’d be pleased to accept of your escort if you think the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could be anyways agreeable to you.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Through the open gates of the iron-railed, old, downtown park, where the elect once took the air, they strolled, and found a quiet bench.</p>
|
||||
<p>There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old age: youth’s burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares; old age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same.</p>
|
||||
<p>“He was my fiance,” confided Miss Conway, at the end of an hour. “We were going to be married next spring. I don’t want you to think that I am stringing you, Mr. Donovan, but he was a real Count. He had an estate and a castle in Italy. Count Fernando Mazzini was his name. I never saw the beat of him for elegance. Papa objected, of course, and once we eloped, but papa overtook us, and took us back. I thought sure papa and Fernando would fight a duel. Papa has a livery business—in P’kipsee, you know.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“He was my fiance,” confided Miss Conway, at the end of an hour. “We were going to be married next spring. I don’t want you to think that I am stringing you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan, but he was a real Count. He had an estate and a castle in Italy. Count Fernando Mazzini was his name. I never saw the beat of him for elegance. Papa objected, of course, and once we eloped, but papa overtook us, and took us back. I thought sure papa and Fernando would fight a duel. Papa has a livery business—in P’kipsee, you know.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Finally, papa came ’round, all right, and said we might be married next spring. Fernando showed him proofs of his title and wealth, and then went over to Italy to get the castle fixed up for us. Papa’s very proud, and when Fernando wanted to give me several thousand dollars for my trousseau he called him down something awful. He wouldn’t even let me take a ring or any presents from him. And when Fernando sailed I came to the city and got a position as cashier in a candy store.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Three days ago I got a letter from Italy, forwarded from P’kipsee, saying that Fernando had been killed in a gondola accident.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“That is why I am in mourning. My heart, Mr. Donovan, will remain forever in his grave. I guess I am poor company, Mr. Donovan, but I cannot take any interest in no one. I should not care to keep you from gayety and your friends who can smile and entertain you. Perhaps you would prefer to walk back to the house?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Now, girls, if you want to observe a young man hustle out after a pick and shovel, just tell him that your heart is in some other fellow’s grave. Young men are grave-robbers by nature. Ask any widow. Something must be done to restore that missing organ to weeping angels in <i>crêpe de Chine</i>. Dead men certainly get the worst of it from all sides.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I’m awfully sorry,” said Mr. Donovan, gently. “No, we won’t walk back to the house just yet. And don’t say you haven’t no friends in this city, Miss Conway. I’m awful sorry, and I want you to believe I’m your friend, and that I’m awful sorry.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I’ve got his picture here in my locket,” said Miss Conway, after wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “I never showed it to anybody; but I will to you, Mr. Donovan, because I believe you to be a true friend.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Donovan gazed long and with much interest at the photograph in the locket that Miss Conway opened for him. The face of Count Mazzini was one to command interest. It was a smooth, intelligent, bright, almost a handsome face—the face of a strong, cheerful man who might well be a leader among his fellows.</p>
|
||||
<p>“That is why I am in mourning. My heart, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan, will remain forever in his grave. I guess I am poor company, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan, but I cannot take any interest in no one. I should not care to keep you from gayety and your friends who can smile and entertain you. Perhaps you would prefer to walk back to the house?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Now, girls, if you want to observe a young man hustle out after a pick and shovel, just tell him that your heart is in some other fellow’s grave. Young men are grave-robbers by nature. Ask any widow. Something must be done to restore that missing organ to weeping angels in crêpe de Chine. Dead men certainly get the worst of it from all sides.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I’m awfully sorry,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan, gently. “No, we won’t walk back to the house just yet. And don’t say you haven’t no friends in this city, Miss Conway. I’m awful sorry, and I want you to believe I’m your friend, and that I’m awful sorry.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I’ve got his picture here in my locket,” said Miss Conway, after wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “I never showed it to anybody; but I will to you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan, because I believe you to be a true friend.”</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan gazed long and with much interest at the photograph in the locket that Miss Conway opened for him. The face of Count Mazzini was one to command interest. It was a smooth, intelligent, bright, almost a handsome face—the face of a strong, cheerful man who might well be a leader among his fellows.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I have a larger one, framed, in my room,” said Miss Conway. “When we return I will show you that. They are all I have to remind me of Fernando. But he ever will be present in my heart, that’s a sure thing.”</p>
|
||||
<p>A subtle task confronted Mr. Donovan—that of supplanting the unfortunate Count in the heart of Miss Conway. This his admiration for her determined him to do. But the magnitude of the undertaking did not seem to weigh upon his spirits. The sympathetic but cheerful friend was the rôle he essayed; and he played it so successfully that the next half-hour found them conversing pensively across two plates of ice-cream, though yet there was no diminution of the sadness in Miss Conway’s large gray eyes.</p>
|
||||
<p>Before they parted in the hall that evening she ran upstairs and brought down the framed photograph wrapped lovingly in a white silk scarf. Mr. Donovan surveyed it with inscrutable eyes.</p>
|
||||
<p>A subtle task confronted <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan—that of supplanting the unfortunate Count in the heart of Miss Conway. This his admiration for her determined him to do. But the magnitude of the undertaking did not seem to weigh upon his spirits. The sympathetic but cheerful friend was the rôle he essayed; and he played it so successfully that the next half-hour found them conversing pensively across two plates of ice-cream, though yet there was no diminution of the sadness in Miss Conway’s large gray eyes.</p>
|
||||
<p>Before they parted in the hall that evening she ran upstairs and brought down the framed photograph wrapped lovingly in a white silk scarf. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan surveyed it with inscrutable eyes.</p>
|
||||
<p>“He gave me this the night he left for Italy,” said Miss Conway. “I had the one for the locket made from this.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“A fine-looking man,” said Mr. Donovan, heartily. “How would it suit you, Miss Conway, to give me the pleasure of your company to Coney next Sunday afternoon?”</p>
|
||||
<p>A month later they announced their engagement to Mrs. Scott and the other boarders. Miss Conway continued to wear black.</p>
|
||||
<p>“A fine-looking man,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Donovan, heartily. “How would it suit you, Miss Conway, to give me the pleasure of your company to Coney next Sunday afternoon?”</p>
|
||||
<p>A month later they announced their engagement to <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Scott and the other boarders. Miss Conway continued to wear black.</p>
|
||||
<p>A week after the announcement the two sat on the same bench in the downtown park, while the fluttering leaves of the trees made a dim kinetoscopic picture of them in the moonlight. But Donovan had worn a look of abstracted gloom all day. He was so silent to-night that love’s lips could not keep back any longer the questions that love’s heart propounded.</p>
|
||||
<p>“What’s the matter, Andy, you are so solemn and grouchy to-night?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Nothing, Maggie.”</p>
|
||||
@ -55,7 +55,7 @@
|
||||
<p>“There’s a reason why I can’t,” said Andy, sadly. “There’s a reason why he mustn’t be there. Don’t ask me what it is, for I can’t tell you.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, I don’t care,” said Maggie. “It’s something about politics, of course. But it’s no reason why you can’t smile at me.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Maggie,” said Andy, presently, “do you think as much of me as you did of your—as you did of the Count Mazzini?”</p>
|
||||
<p>He waited a long time, but Maggie did not reply. And then, suddenly she leaned against his shoulder and began to cry—to cry and shake with sobs, holding his arm tightly, and wetting the <i>crêpe de Chine</i> with tears.</p>
|
||||
<p>He waited a long time, but Maggie did not reply. And then, suddenly she leaned against his shoulder and began to cry—to cry and shake with sobs, holding his arm tightly, and wetting the crêpe de Chine with tears.</p>
|
||||
<p>“There, there, there!” soothed Andy, putting aside his own trouble. “And what is it, now?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Andy,” sobbed Maggie. “I’ve lied to you, and you’ll never marry me, or love me any more. But I feel that I’ve got to tell. Andy, there never was so much as the little finger of a count. I never had a beau in my life. But all the other girls had; and they talked about ’em; and that seemed to make the fellows like ’em more. And, Andy, I look swell in black—you know I do. So I went out to a photograph store and bought that picture, and had a little one made for my locket, and made up all that story about the Count, and about his being killed, so I could wear black. And nobody can love a liar, and you’ll shake me, Andy, and I’ll die for shame. Oh, there never was anybody I liked but you—and that’s all.”</p>
|
||||
<p>But instead of being pushed away, she found Andy’s arm folding her closer. She looked up and saw his face cleared and smiling.</p>
|
||||
@ -1,39 +1,39 @@
|
||||
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|
||||
<title>Chapter 22</title>
|
||||
<title>The Country of Elusion</title>
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<section id="chapter-22" epub:type="chapter">
|
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<h2>THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION</h2>
|
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|
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Country of Elusion</h2>
|
||||
<p>The cunning writer will choose an indefinable subject, for he can then set down his theory of what it is; and next, at length, his conception of what it is not—and lo! his paper is covered. Therefore let us follow the prolix and unmapable trail into that mooted country, Bohemia.</p>
|
||||
<p>Grainger, sub-editor of <i>Doc’s Magazine</i>, closed his roll-top desk, put on his hat, walked into the hall, punched the “down” button, and waited for the elevator.</p>
|
||||
<p>Grainger, sub-editor of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Doc’s Magazine</i>, closed his roll-top desk, put on his hat, walked into the hall, punched the “down” button, and waited for the elevator.</p>
|
||||
<p>Grainger’s day had been trying. The chief had tried to ruin the magazine a dozen times by going against Grainger’s ideas for running it. A lady whose grandfather had fought with McClellan had brought a portfolio of poems in person.</p>
|
||||
<p>Grainger was curator of the Lion’s House of the magazine. That day he had “lunched” an Arctic explorer, a short-story writer, and the famous conductor of a slaughter-house expose. Consequently his mind was in a whirl of icebergs, Maupassant, and trichinosis.</p>
|
||||
<p>But there was a surcease and a recourse; there was Bohemia. He would seek distraction there; and, let’s see—he would call by for Mary Adrian.</p>
|
||||
<p>Half an hour later he threaded his way like a Brazilian orchid-hunter through the palm forest in the tiled entrance hall of the “Idealia” apartment-house. One day the christeners of apartment-houses and the cognominators of sleeping-cars will meet, and there will be some jealous and sanguinary knifing.</p>
|
||||
<p>The clerk breathed Grainger’s name so languidly into the house telephone that it seemed it must surely drop, from sheer inertia, down to the janitor’s regions. But, at length, it soared dilatorily up to Miss Adrian’s ear. Certainly, Mr. Grainger was to come up immediately.</p>
|
||||
<p>The clerk breathed Grainger’s name so languidly into the house telephone that it seemed it must surely drop, from sheer inertia, down to the janitor’s regions. But, at length, it soared dilatorily up to Miss Adrian’s ear. Certainly, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Grainger was to come up immediately.</p>
|
||||
<p>A colored maid with an Eliza-crossing-the-ice expression opened the door of the apartment for him. Grainger walked sideways down the narrow hall. A bunch of burnt umber hair and a sea-green eye appeared in the crack of a door. A long, white, undraped arm came out, barring the way.</p>
|
||||
<p>“So glad you came, Ricky, instead of any of the others,” said the eye. “Light a cigarette and give it to me. Going to take me to dinner? Fine. Go into the front room till I finish dressing. But don’t sit in your usual chair. There’s pie in it—Meringue. Kappelman threw it at Reeves last evening while he was reciting. Sophy has just come to straighten up. Is it lit? Thanks. There’s Scotch on the mantel—oh, no, it isn’t—that’s chartreuse. Ask Sophy to find you some. I won’t be long.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Grainger escaped the meringue. As he waited his spirits sank still lower. The atmosphere of the room was as vapid as a zephyr wandering over a Vesuvian lava-bed. Relics of some feast lay about the room, scattered in places where even a prowling cat would have been surprised to find them. A straggling cluster of deep red roses in a marmalade jar bowed their heads over tobacco ashes and unwashed goblets. A chafing-dish stood on the piano; a leaf of sheet music supported a stack of sandwiches in a chair.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mary came in, dressed and radiant. Her gown was of that thin, black fabric whose name through the change of a single vowel seems to summon visions ranging between the extremes of man’s experience. Spelled with an “ê” it belongs to Gallic witchery and diaphanous dreams; with an “a” it drapes lamentation and woe.</p>
|
||||
<p>That evening they went to the Café André. And, as people would confide to you in a whisper that André’s was the only truly Bohemian restaurant in town, it may be well to follow them.</p>
|
||||
<p>André began his professional career as a waiter in a Bowery ten-cent eating-house. Had you seen him there you would have called him tough—to yourself. Not aloud, for he would have “soaked” you as quickly as he would have soaked his thumb in your coffee. He saved money and started a basement <i>table d’hote</i> in Eighth (or Ninth) Street. One afternoon André drank too much absinthe. He announced to his startled family that he was the Grand Llama of Thibet, therefore requiring an empty audience hall in which to be worshiped. He moved all the tables and chairs from the restaurant into the back yard, wrapped a red table-cloth around himself, and sat on a step-ladder for a throne. When the diners began to arrive, madame, in a flurry of despair, laid cloths and ushered them, trembling, outside. Between the tables clothes-lines were stretched, bearing the family wash. A party of Bohemia hunters greeted the artistic innovation with shrieks and acclamations of delight. That week’s washing was not taken in for two years. When André came to his senses he had the menu printed on stiffly starched cuffs, and served the ices in little wooden tubs. Next he took down his sign and darkened the front of the house. When you went there to dine you fumbled for an electric button and pressed it. A lookout slid open a panel in the door, looked at you suspiciously, and asked if you were acquainted with Senator Herodotus Q. McMilligan, of the Chickasaw Nation. If you were, you were admitted and allowed to dine. If you were not, you were admitted and allowed to dine. There you have one of the abiding principles of Bohemia. When André had accumulated $20,000 he moved up-town, near Broadway, in the fierce light that beats upon the thrown-down. There we find him and leave him, with customers in pearls and automobile veils, striving to catch his excellently graduated nod of recognition.</p>
|
||||
<p>There is a large round table in the northeast corner of André’s at which six can sit. To this table Grainger and Mary Adrian made their way. Kappelman and Reeves were already there. And Miss Tooker, who designed the May cover for the <i>Ladies’ Notathome Magazine</i>. And Mrs. Pothunter, who never drank anything but black and white highballs, being in mourning for her husband, who—oh, I’ve forgotten what he did—died, like as not.</p>
|
||||
<p>André began his professional career as a waiter in a Bowery ten-cent eating-house. Had you seen him there you would have called him tough—to yourself. Not aloud, for he would have “soaked” you as quickly as he would have soaked his thumb in your coffee. He saved money and started a basement table d’hote in Eighth (or Ninth) Street. One afternoon André drank too much absinthe. He announced to his startled family that he was the Grand Llama of Thibet, therefore requiring an empty audience hall in which to be worshiped. He moved all the tables and chairs from the restaurant into the back yard, wrapped a red table-cloth around himself, and sat on a step-ladder for a throne. When the diners began to arrive, madame, in a flurry of despair, laid cloths and ushered them, trembling, outside. Between the tables clothes-lines were stretched, bearing the family wash. A party of Bohemia hunters greeted the artistic innovation with shrieks and acclamations of delight. That week’s washing was not taken in for two years. When André came to his senses he had the menu printed on stiffly starched cuffs, and served the ices in little wooden tubs. Next he took down his sign and darkened the front of the house. When you went there to dine you fumbled for an electric button and pressed it. A lookout slid open a panel in the door, looked at you suspiciously, and asked if you were acquainted with Senator Herodotus Q. McMilligan, of the Chickasaw Nation. If you were, you were admitted and allowed to dine. If you were not, you were admitted and allowed to dine. There you have one of the abiding principles of Bohemia. When André had accumulated $20,000 he moved up-town, near Broadway, in the fierce light that beats upon the thrown-down. There we find him and leave him, with customers in pearls and automobile veils, striving to catch his excellently graduated nod of recognition.</p>
|
||||
<p>There is a large round table in the northeast corner of André’s at which six can sit. To this table Grainger and Mary Adrian made their way. Kappelman and Reeves were already there. And Miss Tooker, who designed the May cover for the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.magazine">Ladies’ Notathome Magazine</i>. And <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pothunter, who never drank anything but black and white highballs, being in mourning for her husband, who—oh, I’ve forgotten what he did—died, like as not.</p>
|
||||
<p>Spaghetti-weary reader, wouldst take one penny-in-the-slot peep into the fair land of Bohemia? Then look; and when you think you have seen it you have not. And it is neither thimbleriggery nor astigmatism.</p>
|
||||
<p>The walls of the Café André were covered with original sketches by the artists who furnished much of the color and sound of the place. Fair woman furnished the theme for the bulk of the drawings. When you say “sirens and siphons” you come near to estimating the alliterative atmosphere of André’s.</p>
|
||||
<p>First, I want you to meet my friend, Miss Adrian. Miss Tooker and Mrs. Pothunter you already know. While she tucks in the fingers of her elbow gloves you shall have her daguerreotype. So faint and uncertain shall the portrait be:</p>
|
||||
<p>First, I want you to meet my friend, Miss Adrian. Miss Tooker and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pothunter you already know. While she tucks in the fingers of her elbow gloves you shall have her daguerreotype. So faint and uncertain shall the portrait be:</p>
|
||||
<p>Age, somewhere between twenty-seven and highneck evening dresses. Camaraderie in large bunches—whatever the fearful word may mean. Habitat—anywhere from Seattle to Terra del Fuego. Temperament uncharted—she let Reeves squeeze her hand after he recited one of his poems; but she counted the change after sending him out with a dollar to buy some pickled pig’s feet. Deportment 75 out of a possible 100. Morals 100.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mary was one of the princesses of Bohemia. In the first place, it was a royal and a daring thing to have been named Mary. There are twenty Fifines and Heloises to one Mary in the Country of Elusion.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now her gloves are tucked in. Miss Tooker has assumed a June poster pose; Mrs. Pothunter has bitten her lips to make the red show; Reeves has several times felt his coat to make sure that his latest poem is in the pocket. (It had been neatly typewritten; but he has copied it on the backs of letters with a pencil.) Kappelman is underhandedly watching the clock. It is ten minutes to nine. When the hour comes it is to remind him of a story. Synopsis: A French girl says to her suitor: “Did you ask my father for my hand at nine o’clock this morning, as you said you would?” “I did not,” he. replies. “At nine o’clock I was fighting a duel with swords in the Bois de Boulogne.” “Coward!” she hisses.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now her gloves are tucked in. Miss Tooker has assumed a June poster pose; <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pothunter has bitten her lips to make the red show; Reeves has several times felt his coat to make sure that his latest poem is in the pocket. (It had been neatly typewritten; but he has copied it on the backs of letters with a pencil.) Kappelman is underhandedly watching the clock. It is ten minutes to nine. When the hour comes it is to remind him of a story. Synopsis: A French girl says to her suitor: “Did you ask my father for my hand at nine o’clock this morning, as you said you would?” “I did not,” he. replies. “At nine o’clock I was fighting a duel with swords in the Bois de Boulogne.” “Coward!” she hisses.</p>
|
||||
<p>The dinner was ordered. You know how the Bohemian feast of reason keeps up with the courses. Humor with the oysters; wit with the soup; repartee with the entrée; brag with the roast; knocks for Whistler and Kipling with the salad; songs with the coffee; the slapsticks with the cordials.</p>
|
||||
<p>Between Miss Adrian’s eyebrows was the pucker that shows the intense strain it requires to be at ease in Bohemia. Pat must come each sally, <i>mot</i>, and epigram. Every second of deliberation upon a reply costs you a bay leaf. Fine as a hair, a line began to curve from her nostrils to her mouth. To hold her own not a chance must be missed. A sentence addressed to her must be as a piccolo, each word of it a stop, which she must be prepared to seize upon and play. And she must always be quicker than a Micmac Indian to paddle the light canoe of conversation away from the rocks in the rapids that flow from the Pierian spring. For, plodding reader, the handwriting on the wall in the banquet hall of Bohemia is “<i>Laisser faire</i>.” The gray ghost that sometimes peeps through the rings of smoke is that of slain old King Convention. Freedom is the tyrant that holds them in slavery.</p>
|
||||
<p>Between Miss Adrian’s eyebrows was the pucker that shows the intense strain it requires to be at ease in Bohemia. Pat must come each sally, mot, and epigram. Every second of deliberation upon a reply costs you a bay leaf. Fine as a hair, a line began to curve from her nostrils to her mouth. To hold her own not a chance must be missed. A sentence addressed to her must be as a piccolo, each word of it a stop, which she must be prepared to seize upon and play. And she must always be quicker than a Micmac Indian to paddle the light canoe of conversation away from the rocks in the rapids that flow from the Pierian spring. For, plodding reader, the handwriting on the wall in the banquet hall of Bohemia is “Laisser faire.” The gray ghost that sometimes peeps through the rings of smoke is that of slain old King Convention. Freedom is the tyrant that holds them in slavery.</p>
|
||||
<p>As the dinner waned, hands reached for the pepper cruet rather than for the shaker of Attic salt. Miss Tooker, with an elbow to business, leaned across the table toward Grainger, upsetting her glass of wine.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Now while you are fed and in good humor,” she said, “I want to make a suggestion to you about a new cover.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“A good idea,” said Grainger, mopping the tablecloth with his napkin. “I’ll speak to the waiter about it.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Kappelman, the painter, was the cut-up. As a piece of delicate Athenian wit he got up from his chair and waltzed down the room with a waiter. That dependent, no doubt an honest, pachydermatous, worthy, tax-paying, art-despising biped, released himself from the unequal encounter, carried his professional smile back to the dumb-waiter and dropped it down the shaft to eternal oblivion. Reeves began to make Keats turn in his grave. Mrs. Pothunter told the story of the man who met the widow on the train. Miss Adrian hummed what is still called a <i>chanson</i> in the cafés of Bridgeport. Grainger edited each individual effort with his assistant editor’s smile, which meant: “Great! but you’ll have to send them in through the regular channels. If I were the chief now—but you know how it is.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Kappelman, the painter, was the cut-up. As a piece of delicate Athenian wit he got up from his chair and waltzed down the room with a waiter. That dependent, no doubt an honest, pachydermatous, worthy, tax-paying, art-despising biped, released himself from the unequal encounter, carried his professional smile back to the dumb-waiter and dropped it down the shaft to eternal oblivion. Reeves began to make Keats turn in his grave. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pothunter told the story of the man who met the widow on the train. Miss Adrian hummed what is still called a chanson in the cafés of Bridgeport. Grainger edited each individual effort with his assistant editor’s smile, which meant: “Great! but you’ll have to send them in through the regular channels. If I were the chief now—but you know how it is.”</p>
|
||||
<p>And soon the head waiter bowed before them, desolated to relate that the closing hour had already become chronologically historical; so out all trooped into the starry midnight, filling the street with gay laughter, to be barked at by hopeful cabmen and enviously eyed by the dull inhabitants of an uninspired world.</p>
|
||||
<p>Grainger left Mary at the elevator in the trackless palm forest of the Idealia. After he had gone she came down again carrying a small hand-bag, ‘phoned for a cab, drove to the Grand Central Station, boarded a 12.55 commuter’s train, rode four hours with her burnt-umber head bobbing against the red-plush back of the seat, and landed during a fresh, stinging, glorious sunrise at a deserted station, the size of a peach crate, called Crocusville.</p>
|
||||
<p>She walked a mile and clicked the latch of a gate. A bare, brown cottage stood twenty yards back; an old man with a pearl-white, Calvinistic face and clothes dyed blacker than a raven in a coal-mine was washing his hands in a tin basin on the front porch.</p>
|
||||
@ -47,12 +47,12 @@
|
||||
<p>“It is my custom,” said the old man, “on the Sabbath day to read aloud from the great work entitled the ‘Apology for Authorized and Set Forms of Liturgy,’ by the ecclesiastical philosopher and revered theologian, Jeremy Taylor.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I know it,” said Mary blissfully, folding her hands.</p>
|
||||
<p>For two hours the numbers of the great Jeremy rolled forth like the notes of an oratorio played on the violoncello. Mary sat gloating in the new sensation of racking physical discomfort that the wooden chair brought her. Perhaps there is no happiness in life so perfect as the martyr’s. Jeremy’s minor chords soothed her like the music of a tom-tom. “Why, oh why,” she said to herself, “does some one not write words to it?”</p>
|
||||
<p>At eleven they went to church in Crocusville. The back of the pine bench on which she sat had a penitential forward tilt that would have brought St. Simeon down, in jealousy, from his pillar. The preacher singled her out, and thundered upon her vicarious head the damnation of the world. At each side of her an adamant parent held her rigidly to the bar of judgment. An ant crawled upon her neck, but she dared not move. She lowered her eyes before the congregation—a hundred-eyed Cerberus that watched the gates through which her sins were fast thrusting her. Her soul was filled with a delirious, almost a fanatic joy. For she was out of the clutch of the tyrant, Freedom. Dogma and creed pinioned her with beneficent cruelty, as steel braces bind the feet of a crippled child. She was hedged, adjured, shackled, shored up, strait-jacketed, silenced, ordered. When they came out the minister stopped to greet them. Mary could only hang her head and answer “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” to his questions. When she saw that the other women carried their hymn-books at their waists with their left hands, she blushed and moved hers there, too, from her right.</p>
|
||||
<p>At eleven they went to church in Crocusville. The back of the pine bench on which she sat had a penitential forward tilt that would have brought <abbr>St.</abbr> Simeon down, in jealousy, from his pillar. The preacher singled her out, and thundered upon her vicarious head the damnation of the world. At each side of her an adamant parent held her rigidly to the bar of judgment. An ant crawled upon her neck, but she dared not move. She lowered her eyes before the congregation—a hundred-eyed Cerberus that watched the gates through which her sins were fast thrusting her. Her soul was filled with a delirious, almost a fanatic joy. For she was out of the clutch of the tyrant, Freedom. Dogma and creed pinioned her with beneficent cruelty, as steel braces bind the feet of a crippled child. She was hedged, adjured, shackled, shored up, strait-jacketed, silenced, ordered. When they came out the minister stopped to greet them. Mary could only hang her head and answer “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” to his questions. When she saw that the other women carried their hymn-books at their waists with their left hands, she blushed and moved hers there, too, from her right.</p>
|
||||
<p>She took the three-o’clock train back to the city. At nine she sat at the round table for dinner in the Café André. Nearly the same crowd was there.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Where have you been to-day?” asked Mrs. Pothunter. “I ‘phoned to you at twelve.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Where have you been to-day?” asked <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pothunter. “I ‘phoned to you at twelve.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I have been away in Bohemia,” answered Mary, with a mystic smile.</p>
|
||||
<p>There! Mary has given it away. She has spoiled my climax. For I was to have told you that Bohemia is nothing more than the little country in which you do not live. If you try to obtain citizenship in it, at once the court and retinue pack the royal archives and treasure and move away beyond the hills. It is a hillside that you turn your head to peer at from the windows of the Through Express.</p>
|
||||
<p>At exactly half past eleven Kappelman, deceived by a new softness and slowness of riposte and parry in Mary Adrian, tried to kiss her. Instantly she slapped his face with such strength and cold fury that he shrank down, sobered, with the flaming red print of a hand across his leering features. And all sounds ceased, as when the shadows of great wings come upon a flock of chattering sparrows. One had broken the paramount law of sham-Bohemia—the law of “<i>Laisser faire</i>.” The shock came not from the blow delivered, but from the blow received. With the effect of a schoolmaster entering the play-room of his pupils was that blow administered. Women pulled down their sleeves and laid prim hands against their ruffled side locks. Men looked at their watches. There was nothing of the effect of a brawl about it; it was purely the still panic produced by the sound of the ax of the fly cop, Conscience hammering at the gambling-house doors of the Heart.</p>
|
||||
<p>At exactly half past eleven Kappelman, deceived by a new softness and slowness of riposte and parry in Mary Adrian, tried to kiss her. Instantly she slapped his face with such strength and cold fury that he shrank down, sobered, with the flaming red print of a hand across his leering features. And all sounds ceased, as when the shadows of great wings come upon a flock of chattering sparrows. One had broken the paramount law of sham-Bohemia—the law of “Laisser faire.” The shock came not from the blow delivered, but from the blow received. With the effect of a schoolmaster entering the play-room of his pupils was that blow administered. Women pulled down their sleeves and laid prim hands against their ruffled side locks. Men looked at their watches. There was nothing of the effect of a brawl about it; it was purely the still panic produced by the sound of the ax of the fly cop, Conscience hammering at the gambling-house doors of the Heart.</p>
|
||||
<p>With their punctilious putting on of cloaks, with their exaggerated pretense of not having seen or heard, with their stammering exchange of unaccustomed formalities, with their false show of a light-hearted exit I must take leave of my Bohemian party. Mary has robbed me of my climax; and she may go.</p>
|
||||
<p>But I am not defeated. Somewhere there exists a great vault miles broad and miles long—more capacious than the champagne caves of France. In that vault are stored the anticlimaxes that should have been tagged to all the stories that have been told in the world. I shall cheat that vault of one deposit.</p>
|
||||
<p>Minnie Brown, with her aunt, came from Crocusville down to the city to see the sights. And because she had escorted me to fishless trout streams and exhibited to me open-plumbed waterfalls and broken my camera while I Julyed in her village, I must escort her to the hives containing the synthetic clover honey of town.</p>
|
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<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 23</title>
|
||||
<title>The Ferry of Unfulfilment</title>
|
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<section id="chapter-23" epub:type="chapter">
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<h2>THE FERRY OF UNFULFILMENT</h2>
|
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<section id="the-ferry-of-unfulfilment" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Ferry of Unfulfilment</h2>
|
||||
<p>At the street corner, as solid as granite in the “rush-hour” tide of humanity, stood the Man from Nome. The Arctic winds and sun had stained him berry-brown. His eye still held the azure glint of the glaciers.</p>
|
||||
<p>He was as alert as a fox, as tough as a caribou cutlet and as broad-gauged as the aurora borealis. He stood sprayed by a Niagara of sound—the crash of the elevated trains, clanging cars, pounding of rubberless tires and the antiphony of the cab and truck-drivers indulging in scarifying repartee. And so, with his gold dust cashed in to the merry air of a hundred thousand, and with the cakes and ale of one week in Gotham turning bitter on his tongue, the Man from Nome sighed to set foot again in Chilkoot, the exit from the land of street noises and Dead Sea apple pies.</p>
|
||||
<p>Up Sixth avenue, with the tripping, scurrying, chattering, bright-eyed, homing tide came the Girl from Sieber-Mason’s. The Man from Nome looked and saw, first, that she was supremely beautiful after his own conception of beauty; and next, that she moved with exactly the steady grace of a dog sled on a level crust of snow. His third sensation was an instantaneous conviction that he desired her greatly for his own. This quickly do men from Nome make up their minds. Besides, he was going back to the North in a short time, and to act quickly was no less necessary.</p>
|
||||
<p>A thousand girls from the great department store of Sieber-Mason flowed along the sidewalk, making navigation dangerous to men whose feminine field of vision for three years has been chiefly limited to Siwash and Chilkat squaws. But the Man from Nome, loyal to her who had resurrected his long cached heart, plunged into the stream of pulchritude and followed her.</p>
|
||||
<p>Down Twenty-third street she glided swiftly, looking to neither side; no more flirtatious than the bronze Diana above the Garden. Her fine brown hair was neatly braided; her neat waist and unwrinkled black skirt were eloquent of the double virtues—taste and economy. Ten yards behind followed the smitten Man from Nome.</p>
|
||||
<p>Miss Claribel Colby, the Girl from Sieber-Mason’s, belonged to that sad company of mariners known as Jersey commuters. She walked into the waiting-room of the ferry, and up the stairs, and by a marvellous swift, little run, caught the ferry-boat that was just going out. The Man from Nome closed up his ten yards in three jumps and gained the deck close beside her.</p>
|
||||
<p>Miss Colby chose a rather lonely seat on the outside of the upper-cabin. The night was not cold, and she desired to be away from the curious eyes and tedious voices of the passengers. Besides, she was extremely weary and drooping from lack of sleep. On the previous night she had graced the annual ball and oyster fry of the West Side Wholesale Fish Dealers’ Assistants’ Social Club No. 2, thus reducing her usual time of sleep to only three hours.</p>
|
||||
<p>Miss Colby chose a rather lonely seat on the outside of the upper-cabin. The night was not cold, and she desired to be away from the curious eyes and tedious voices of the passengers. Besides, she was extremely weary and drooping from lack of sleep. On the previous night she had graced the annual ball and oyster fry of the West Side Wholesale Fish Dealers’ Assistants’ Social Club <abbr>No.</abbr> 2, thus reducing her usual time of sleep to only three hours.</p>
|
||||
<p>And the day had been uncommonly troublous. Customers had been inordinately trying; the buyer in her department had scolded her roundly for letting her stock run down; her best friend, Mamie Tuthill, had snubbed her by going to lunch with that Dockery girl.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Girl from Sieber-Mason’s was in that relaxed, softened mood that often comes to the independent feminine wage-earner. It is a mood most propitious for the man who would woo her. Then she has yearnings to be set in some home and heart; to be comforted, and to hide behind some strong arm and rest, rest. But Miss Claribel Colby was also very sleepy.</p>
|
||||
<p>There came to her side a strong man, browned and dressed carelessly in the best of clothes, with his hat in his hand.</p>
|
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|
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|
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<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 14</title>
|
||||
<title>The Foreign Policy of Company 99</title>
|
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="chapter-14" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE FOREIGN POLICY OF COMPANY 99</h2>
|
||||
<p>John Byrnes, hose-cart driver of Engine Company No. 99, was afflicted with what his comrades called Japanitis.</p>
|
||||
<section id="the-foreign-policy-of-company-99" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Foreign Policy of Company 99</h2>
|
||||
<p>John Byrnes, hose-cart driver of Engine Company <abbr>No.</abbr> 99, was afflicted with what his comrades called Japanitis.</p>
|
||||
<p>Byrnes had a war map spread permanently upon a table in the second story of the engine-house, and he could explain to you at any hour of the day or night the exact positions, conditions and intentions of both the Russian and Japanese armies. He had little clusters of pins stuck in the map which represented the opposing forces, and these he moved about from day to day in conformity with the war news in the daily papers.</p>
|
||||
<p>Wherever the Japs won a victory John Byrnes would shift his pins, and then he would execute a war dance of delight, and the other firemen would hear him yell: “Go it, you blamed little, sawed-off, huckleberry-eyed, monkey-faced hot tamales! Eat ’em up, you little sleight-o’-hand, bow-legged bull terriers—give ’em another of them Yalu looloos, and you’ll eat rice in St. Petersburg. Talk about your Russians—say, wouldn’t they give you a painsky when it comes to a scrapovitch?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Not even on the fair island of Nippon was there a more enthusiastic champion of the Mikado’s men. Supporters of the Russian cause did well to keep clear of Engine-House No. 99.</p>
|
||||
<p>Wherever the Japs won a victory John Byrnes would shift his pins, and then he would execute a war dance of delight, and the other firemen would hear him yell: “Go it, you blamed little, sawed-off, huckleberry-eyed, monkey-faced hot tamales! Eat ’em up, you little sleight-o’-hand, bow-legged bull terriers—give ’em another of them Yalu looloos, and you’ll eat rice in <abbr>St.</abbr> Petersburg. Talk about your Russians—say, wouldn’t they give you a painsky when it comes to a scrapovitch?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Not even on the fair island of Nippon was there a more enthusiastic champion of the Mikado’s men. Supporters of the Russian cause did well to keep clear of Engine-House <abbr>No.</abbr> 99.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sometimes all thoughts of the Japs left John Byrnes’s head. That was when the alarm of fire had sounded and he was strapped in his driver’s seat on the swaying cart, guiding Erebus and Joe, the finest team in the whole department—according to the crew of 99.</p>
|
||||
<p>Of all the codes adopted by man for regulating his actions toward his fellow-mortals, the greatest are these—the code of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table, the Constitution of the United States and the unwritten rules of the New York Fire Department. The Round Table methods are no longer practicable since the invention of street cars and breach-of-promise suits, and our Constitution is being found more and more unconstitutional every day, so the code of our firemen must be considered in the lead, with the Golden Rule and Jeffries’s new punch trying for place and show.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Constitution says that one man is as good as another; but the Fire Department says he is better. This is a too generous theory, but the law will not allow itself to be construed otherwise. All of which comes perilously near to being a paradox, and commends itself to the attention of the S. P. C. A.</p>
|
||||
<p>One of the transatlantic liners dumped out at Ellis Island a lump of protozoa which was expected to evolve into an American citizen. A steward kicked him down the gangway, a doctor pounced upon his eyes like a raven, seeking for trachoma or ophthalmia; he was hustled ashore and ejected into the city in the name of Liberty—perhaps, theoretically, thus inoculating against kingocracy with a drop of its own virus. This hypodermic injection of Europeanism wandered happily into the veins of the city with the broad grin of a pleased child. It was not burdened with baggage, cares or ambitions. Its body was lithely built and clothed in a sort of foreign fustian; its face was brightly vacant, with a small, flat nose, and was mostly covered by a thick, ragged, curling beard like the coat of a spaniel. In the pocket of the imported Thing were a few coins—denarii—scudi—kopecks—pfennigs—pilasters—whatever the financial nomenclature of his unknown country may have been.</p>
|
||||
<p>Prattling to himself, always broadly grinning, pleased by the roar and movement of the barbarous city into which the steamship cut-rates had shunted him, the alien strayed away from the sea, which he hated, as far as the district covered by Engine Company No. 99. Light as a cork, he was kept bobbing along by the human tide, the crudest atom in all the silt of the stream that emptied into the reservoir of Liberty.</p>
|
||||
<p>Prattling to himself, always broadly grinning, pleased by the roar and movement of the barbarous city into which the steamship cut-rates had shunted him, the alien strayed away from the sea, which he hated, as far as the district covered by Engine Company <abbr>No.</abbr> 99. Light as a cork, he was kept bobbing along by the human tide, the crudest atom in all the silt of the stream that emptied into the reservoir of Liberty.</p>
|
||||
<p>While crossing Third avenue he slowed his steps, enchanted by the thunder of the elevated trains above him and the soothing crash of the wheels on the cobbles. And then there was a new, delightful chord in the uproar—the musical clanging of a gong and a great shining juggernaut belching fire and smoke, that people were hurrying to see.</p>
|
||||
<p>This beautiful thing, entrancing to the eye, dashed past, and the protoplasmic immigrant stepped into the wake of it with his broad, enraptured, uncomprehending grin. And so stepping, stepped into the path of No. 99’s flying hose-cart, with John Byrnes gripping, with arms of steel, the reins over the plunging backs of Erebus and Joe.</p>
|
||||
<p>This beautiful thing, entrancing to the eye, dashed past, and the protoplasmic immigrant stepped into the wake of it with his broad, enraptured, uncomprehending grin. And so stepping, stepped into the path of <abbr>No.</abbr> 99’s flying hose-cart, with John Byrnes gripping, with arms of steel, the reins over the plunging backs of Erebus and Joe.</p>
|
||||
<p>The unwritten constitutional code of the fireman has no exceptions or amendments. It is a simple thing—as simple as the rule of three. There was the heedless unit in the right of way; there was the hose-cart and the iron pillar of the elevated railroad.</p>
|
||||
<p>John Byrnes swung all his weight and muscle on the left rein. The team and cart swerved that way and crashed like a torpedo into the pillar. The men on the cart went flying like skittles. The driver’s strap burst, the pillar rang with the shock, and John Byrnes fell on the car track with a broken shoulder twenty feet away, while Erebus—beautiful, raven-black, best-loved Erebus—lay whickering in his harness with a broken leg.</p>
|
||||
<p>In consideration for the feelings of Engine Company No. 99 the details will be lightly touched. The company does not like to be reminded of that day. There was a great crowd, and hurry calls were sent in; and while the ambulance gong was clearing the way the men of No. 99 heard the crack of the S. P. C. A. agent’s pistol, and turned their heads away, not daring to look toward Erebus again.</p>
|
||||
<p>In consideration for the feelings of Engine Company <abbr>No.</abbr> 99 the details will be lightly touched. The company does not like to be reminded of that day. There was a great crowd, and hurry calls were sent in; and while the ambulance gong was clearing the way the men of <abbr>No.</abbr> 99 heard the crack of the S. P. C. A. agent’s pistol, and turned their heads away, not daring to look toward Erebus again.</p>
|
||||
<p>When the firemen got back to the engine-house they found that one of them was dragging by the collar the cause of their desolation and grief. They set it in the middle of the floor and gathered grimly about it. Through its whiskers the calamitous object chattered effervescently and waved its hands.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Sounds like a seidlitz powder,” said Mike Dowling, disgustedly, “and it makes me sicker than one. Call that a man!—that hoss was worth a steamer full of such two-legged animals. It’s a immigrant—that’s what it is.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Look at the doctor’s chalk mark on its coat,” said Reilly, the desk man. “It’s just landed. It must be a kind of a Dago or a Hun or one of them Finns, I guess. That’s the kind of truck that Europe unloads onto us.”</p>
|
||||
@ -40,12 +40,12 @@
|
||||
<p>Taking by the wing the alien fowl that had fluttered into the nest of Liberty, Mike led him to the door of the engine-house and bestowed upon him a kick hearty enough to convey the entire animus of Company 99. Demetre Svangvsk hustled away down the sidewalk, turning once to show his ineradicable grin to the aggrieved firemen.</p>
|
||||
<p>In three weeks John Byrnes was back at his post from the hospital. With great gusto he proceeded to bring his war map up to date. “My money on the Japs every time,” he declared. “Why, look at them Russians—they’re nothing but wolves. Wipe ’em out, I say—and the little old jiu jitsu gang are just the cherry blossoms to do the trick, and don’t you forget it!”</p>
|
||||
<p>The second day after Byrnes’s reappearance came Demetre Svangvsk, the unidentified, to the engine-house, with a broader grin than ever. He managed to convey the idea that he wished to congratulate the hose-cart driver on his recovery and to apologize for having caused the accident. This he accomplished by so many extravagant gestures and explosive noises that the company was diverted for half an hour. Then they kicked him out again, and on the next day he came back grinning. How or where he lived no one knew. And then John Byrnes’s nine-year-old son, Chris, who brought him convalescent delicacies from home to eat, took a fancy to Svangvsk, and they allowed him to loaf about the door of the engine-house occasionally.</p>
|
||||
<p>One afternoon the big drab automobile of the Deputy Fire Commissioner buzzed up to the door of No. 99 and the Deputy stepped inside for an informal inspection. The men kicked Svangvsk out a little harder than usual and proudly escorted the Deputy around 99, in which everything shone like my lady’s mirror.</p>
|
||||
<p>One afternoon the big drab automobile of the Deputy Fire Commissioner buzzed up to the door of <abbr>No.</abbr> 99 and the Deputy stepped inside for an informal inspection. The men kicked Svangvsk out a little harder than usual and proudly escorted the Deputy around 99, in which everything shone like my lady’s mirror.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Deputy respected the sorrow of the company concerning the loss of Erebus, and he had come to promise it another mate for Joe that would do him credit. So they let Joe out of his stall and showed the Deputy how deserving he was of the finest mate that could be in horsedom.</p>
|
||||
<p>While they were circling around Joe confabbing, Chris climbed into the Deputy’s auto and threw the power full on. The men heard a monster puffing and a shriek from the lad, and sprang out too late. The big auto shot away, luckily taking a straight course down the street. The boy knew nothing of its machinery; he sat clutching the cushions and howling. With the power on nothing could have stopped that auto except a brick house, and there was nothing for Chris to gain by such a stoppage.</p>
|
||||
<p>Demetre Svangvsk was just coming in again with a grin for another kick when Chris played his merry little prank. While the others sprang for the door Demetre sprang for Joe. He glided upon the horse’s bare back like a snake and shouted something at him like the crack of a dozen whips. One of the firemen afterward swore that Joe answered him back in the same language. Ten seconds after the auto started the big horse was eating up the asphalt behind it like a strip of macaroni.</p>
|
||||
<p>Some people two blocks and a half away saw the rescue. They said that the auto was nothing but a drab noise with a black speck in the middle of it for Chris, when a big bay horse with a lizard lying on its back cantered up alongside of it, and the lizard reached over and picked the black speck out of the noise.</p>
|
||||
<p>Only fifteen minutes after Svangvsk’s last kicking at the hands—or rather the feet—of Engine Company No. 99 he rode Joe back through the door with the boy safe, but acutely conscious of the licking he was going to receive.</p>
|
||||
<p>Only fifteen minutes after Svangvsk’s last kicking at the hands—or rather the feet—of Engine Company <abbr>No.</abbr> 99 he rode Joe back through the door with the boy safe, but acutely conscious of the licking he was going to receive.</p>
|
||||
<p>Svangvsk slipped to the floor, leaned his head against Joe’s and made a noise like a clucking hen. Joe nodded and whistled loudly through his nostrils, putting to shame the knowledge of Sloviski, of the delicatessen.</p>
|
||||
<p>John Byrnes walked up to Svangvsk, who grinned, expecting to be kicked. Byrnes gripped the outlander so strongly by the hand that Demetre grinned anyhow, conceiving it to be a new form of punishment.</p>
|
||||
<p>“The heathen rides like a Cossack,” remarked a fireman who had seen a Wild West show—“they’re the greatest riders in the world.”</p>
|
||||
@ -1,13 +1,13 @@
|
||||
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 17</title>
|
||||
<title>“The Guilty Party”</title>
|
||||
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|
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<section id="chapter-17" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>“THE GUILTY PARTY”</h2>
|
||||
<section id="the-guilty-party" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">“The Guilty Party”</h2>
|
||||
<p>A Red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sat in a rocking chair by a window. He had just lighted a pipe, and was puffing blue clouds with great satisfaction. He had removed his shoes and donned a pair of blue, faded carpet-slippers. With the morbid thirst of the confirmed daily news drinker, he awkwardly folded back the pages of an evening paper, eagerly gulping down the strong, black headlines, to be followed as a chaser by the milder details of the smaller type.</p>
|
||||
<p>In an adjoining room a woman was cooking supper. Odors from strong bacon and boiling coffee contended against the cut-plug fumes from the vespertine pipe.</p>
|
||||
<p>Outside was one of those crowded streets of the east side, in which, as twilight falls, Satan sets up his recruiting office. A mighty host of children danced and ran and played in the street. Some in rags, some in clean white and beribboned, some wild and restless as young hawks, some gentle-faced and shrinking, some shrieking rude and sinful words, some listening, awed, but soon, grown familiar, to embrace—here were the children playing in the corridors of the House of Sin. Above the playground forever hovered a great bird. The bird was known to humorists as the stork. But the people of Chrystie street were better ornithologists. They called it a vulture.</p>
|
||||
@ -18,13 +18,7 @@
|
||||
<p>The woman who was cooking came to the door.</p>
|
||||
<p>“John,” she said, “I don’t like for Lizzie to play in the street. They learn too much there that ain’t good for ’em. She’s been in the house all day long. It seems that you might give up a little of your time to amuse her when you come home.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Let her go out and play like the rest of ’em if she wants to be amused,” said the red-haired, unshaven, untidy man, “and don’t bother me.”</p>
|
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|
||||
<td align="center"> * <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> </td>
|
||||
</tr>
|
||||
</table>
|
||||
</div>
|
||||
<hr/>
|
||||
<p>“You’re on,” said Kid Mullaly. “Fifty dollars to $25 I take Annie to the dance. Put up.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The Kid’s black eyes were snapping with the fire of the baited and challenged. He drew out his “roll” and slapped five tens upon the bar. The three or four young fellows who were thus “taken” more slowly produced their stake. The bartender, ex-officio stakeholder, took the money, laboriously wrapped it, recorded the bet with an inch-long pencil and stuffed the whole into a corner of the cash register.</p>
|
||||
<p>“And, oh, what’ll be done to you’ll be a plenty,” said a bettor, with anticipatory glee.</p>
|
||||
@ -59,19 +53,13 @@
|
||||
<p>And then followed the big city’s biggest shame, its most ancient and rotten surviving canker, its pollution and disgrace, its blight and perversion, its forever infamy and guilt, fostered, unreproved and cherished, handed down from a long-ago century of the basest barbarity—the Hue and Cry. Nowhere but in the big cities does it survive, and here most of all, where the ultimate perfection of culture, citizenship and alleged superiority joins, bawling, in the chase.</p>
|
||||
<p>They pursued—a shrieking mob of fathers, mothers, lovers and maidens—howling, yelling, calling, whistling, crying for blood. Well may the wolf in the big city stand outside the door. Well may his heart, the gentler, falter at the siege.</p>
|
||||
<p>Knowing her way, and hungry for her surcease, she darted down the familiar ways until at last her feet struck the dull solidity of the rotting pier. And then it was but a few more panting steps—and good mother East River took Liz to her bosom, soothed her muddily but quickly, and settled in five minutes the problem that keeps lights burning o’ nights in thousands of pastorates and colleges.</p>
|
||||
<div class="center">
|
||||
<table cellpadding="3" style="margin: 0 auto">
|
||||
<tr>
|
||||
<td align="center"> * <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> </td>
|
||||
</tr>
|
||||
</table>
|
||||
</div>
|
||||
<hr/>
|
||||
<p>It’s mighty funny what kind of dreams one has sometimes. Poets call them visions, but a vision is only a dream in blank verse. I dreamed the rest of this story.</p>
|
||||
<p>I thought I was in the next world. I don’t know how I got there; I suppose I had been riding on the Ninth avenue elevated or taking patent medicine or trying to pull Jim Jeffries’s nose, or doing some such little injudicious stunt. But, anyhow, there I was, and there was a great crowd of us outside the courtroom where the judgments were going on. And every now and then a very beautiful and imposing court-officer angel would come outside the door and call another case.</p>
|
||||
<p>While I was considering my own worldly sins and wondering whether there would be any use of my trying to prove an alibi by claiming that I lived in New Jersey, the bailiff angel came to the door and sang out:</p>
|
||||
<p>“Case No. 99,852,743.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Case <abbr>No.</abbr> 99,852,743.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Up stepped a plain-clothes man—there were lots of ’em there, dressed exactly like preachers and hustling us spirits around just like cops do on earth—and by the arm he dragged—whom, do you think? Why, Liz!</p>
|
||||
<p>The court officer took her inside and closed the door. I went up to Mr. Fly-Cop and inquired about the case.</p>
|
||||
<p>The court officer took her inside and closed the door. I went up to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Fly-Cop and inquired about the case.</p>
|
||||
<p>“A very sad one,” says he, laying the points of his manicured fingers together. “An utterly incorrigible girl. I am Special Terrestrial Officer the Reverend Jones. The case was assigned to me. The girl murdered her fiance and committed suicide. She had no defense. My report to the court relates the facts in detail, all of which are substantiated by reliable witnesses. The wages of sin is death. Praise the Lord.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The court officer opened the door and stepped out.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Poor girl,” said Special Terrestrial Officer the Reverend Jones, with a tear in his eye. “It was one of the saddest cases that I ever met with. Of course she was”—</p>
|
||||
@ -1,18 +1,18 @@
|
||||
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
|
||||
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 20</title>
|
||||
<title>The Last Leaf</title>
|
||||
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="chapter-20" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE LAST LEAF</h2>
|
||||
<section id="the-last-leaf" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Last Leaf</h2>
|
||||
<p>In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called “places.” These “places” make strange angles and curves. One street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!</p>
|
||||
<p>So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth avenue, and became a “colony.”</p>
|
||||
<p>At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. “Johnsy” was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the <i>table d’hote</i> of an Eighth street “Delmonico’s,” and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.</p>
|
||||
<p>At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. “Johnsy” was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d’hote of an Eighth street “Delmonico’s,” and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.</p>
|
||||
<p>That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown “places.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.</p>
|
||||
<p>One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.</p>
|
||||
<p>“She has one chance in—let us say, ten,” he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. “And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-up on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she’s not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“She—she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day,” said Sue.</p>
|
||||
@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
|
||||
<p>Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy’s fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.</p>
|
||||
<p>Old Behrman, with his red eyes, plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Vass!” he cried. “Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der prain of her? Ach, dot poor lettle Miss Johnsy.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“She is very ill and weak,” said Sue, “and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn’t. But I think you are a horrid old—old flibbertigibbet.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“She is very ill and weak,” said Sue, “and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn’t. But I think you are a horrid old—old flibbertigibbet.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“You are just like a woman!” yelled Behrman. “Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit-miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.</p>
|
||||
<p>When Sue awoke from an hour’s sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.</p>
|
||||
@ -62,7 +62,7 @@
|
||||
<p>“Even chances,” said the doctor, taking Sue’s thin, shaking hand in his. “With good nursing you’ll win. And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is—some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The next day the doctor said to Sue: “She’s out of danger. You’ve won. Nutrition and care now—that’s all.”</p>
|
||||
<p>And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woolen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I have something to tell you, white mouse,” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn’t imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and—look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn’t you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it’s Behrman’s masterpiece—he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I have something to tell you, white mouse,” she said. “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn’t imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and—look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn’t you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it’s Behrman’s masterpiece—he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.”</p>
|
||||
</section>
|
||||
</body>
|
||||
</html>
|
||||
@ -1,13 +1,13 @@
|
||||
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
|
||||
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 15</title>
|
||||
<title>The Lost Blend</title>
|
||||
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="chapter-15" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE LOST BLEND</h2>
|
||||
<section id="the-lost-blend" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Lost Blend</h2>
|
||||
<p>Since the bar has been blessed by the clergy, and cocktails open the dinners of the elect, one may speak of the saloon. Teetotalers need not listen, if they choose; there is always the slot restaurant, where a dime dropped into the cold bouillon aperture will bring forth a dry Martini.</p>
|
||||
<p>Con Lantry worked on the sober side of the bar in Kenealy’s café. You and I stood, one-legged like geese, on the other side and went into voluntary liquidation with our week’s wages. Opposite danced Con, clean, temperate, clear-headed, polite, white-jacketed, punctual, trustworthy, young, responsible, and took our money.</p>
|
||||
<p>The saloon (whether blessed or cursed) stood in one of those little “places” which are parallelograms instead of streets, and inhabited by laundries, decayed Knickerbocker families and Bohemians who have nothing to do with either.</p>
|
||||
@ -16,7 +16,7 @@
|
||||
<p>There came to Kenealy’s two sunburned men, Riley and McQuirk. They had conference with Kenealy; and then they took possession of a back room which they filled with bottles and siphons and jugs and druggist’s measuring glasses. All the appurtenances and liquids of a saloon were there, but they dispensed no drinks. All day long the two sweltered in there pouring and mixing unknown brews and decoctions from the liquors in their store. Riley had the education, and he figured on reams of paper, reducing gallons to ounces and quarts to fluid drams. McQuirk, a morose man with a red eye, dashed each unsuccessful completed mixture into the waste pipes with curses gentle, husky and deep. They labored heavily and untiringly to achieve some mysterious solution like two alchemists striving to resolve gold from the elements.</p>
|
||||
<p>Into this back room one evening when his watch was done sauntered Con. His professional curiosity had been stirred by these occult bartenders at whose bar none drank, and who daily drew upon Kenealy’s store of liquors to follow their consuming and fruitless experiments.</p>
|
||||
<p>Down the back stairs came Katherine with her smile like sunrise on Gweebarra Bay.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Good evening, Mr. Lantry,” says she. “And what is the news to-day, if you please?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Good evening, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Lantry,” says she. “And what is the news to-day, if you please?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“It looks like r-rain,” stammered the shy one, backing to the wall.</p>
|
||||
<p>“It couldn’t do better,” said Katherine. “I’m thinking there’s nothing the worse off for a little water.” In the back room Riley and McQuirk toiled like bearded witches over their strange compounds. From fifty bottles they drew liquids carefully measured after Riley’s figures, and shook the whole together in a great glass vessel. Then McQuirk would dash it out, with gloomy profanity, and they would begin again.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Sit down,” said Riley to Con, “and I’ll tell you.</p>
|
||||
@ -41,13 +41,13 @@
|
||||
<p>A police patrol wagon stood at the side door. Three able cops were half carrying, half hustling Riley and McQuirk up its rear steps. The eyes and faces of each bore the bruises and cuts of sanguinary and assiduous conflict. Yet they whooped with strange joy, and directed upon the police the feeble remnants of their pugnacious madness.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Began fighting each other in the back room,” explained Kenealy to Con. “And singing! That was worse. Smashed everything pretty much up. But they’re good men. They’ll pay for everything. Trying to invent some new kind of cocktail, they was. I’ll see they come out all right in the morning.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Con sauntered into the back room to view the battlefield. As he went through the hall Katherine was just coming down the stairs.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Good evening again, Mr. Lantry,” said she. “And is there no news from the weather yet?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Good evening again, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Lantry,” said she. “And is there no news from the weather yet?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Still threatens r-rain,” said Con, slipping past with red in his smooth, pale cheek.</p>
|
||||
<p>Riley and McQuirk had indeed waged a great and friendly battle. Broken bottles and glasses were everywhere. The room was full of alcohol fumes; the floor was variegated with spirituous puddles.</p>
|
||||
<p>On the table stood a 32-ounce glass graduated measure. In the bottom of it were two tablespoonfuls of liquid—a bright golden liquid that seemed to hold the sunshine a prisoner in its auriferous depths.</p>
|
||||
<p>Con smelled it. He tasted it. He drank it.</p>
|
||||
<p>As he returned through the hall Katherine was just going up the stairs.</p>
|
||||
<p>“No news yet, Mr. Lantry?” she asked with her teasing laugh.</p>
|
||||
<p>“No news yet, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Lantry?” she asked with her teasing laugh.</p>
|
||||
<p>Con lifted her clear from the floor and held her there.</p>
|
||||
<p>“The news is,” he said, “that we’re to be married.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Put me down, sir!” she cried indignantly, “or I will—Oh, Con, where, oh, wherever did you get the nerve to say it?”</p>
|
||||
@ -1,17 +1,17 @@
|
||||
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
|
||||
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 10</title>
|
||||
<title>The Making of a New Yorker</title>
|
||||
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="chapter-10" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE MAKING OF A NEW YORKER</h2>
|
||||
<section id="the-making-of-a-new-yorker" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Making of a New Yorker</h2>
|
||||
<p>Besides many other things, Raggles was a poet. He was called a tramp; but that was only an elliptical way of saying that he was a philosopher, an artist, a traveller, a naturalist and a discoverer. But most of all he was a poet. In all his life he never wrote a line of verse; he lived his poetry. His Odyssey would have been a Limerick, had it been written. But, to linger with the primary proposition, Raggles was a poet.</p>
|
||||
<p>Raggles’s specialty, had he been driven to ink and paper, would have been sonnets to the cities. He studied cities as women study their reflections in mirrors; as children study the glue and sawdust of a dislocated doll; as the men who write about wild animals study the cages in the zoo. A city to Raggles was not merely a pile of bricks and mortar, peopled by a certain number of inhabitants; it was a thing with a soul characteristic and distinct; an individual conglomeration of life, with its own peculiar essence, flavor and feeling. Two thousand miles to the north and south, east and west, Raggles wandered in poetic fervor, taking the cities to his breast. He footed it on dusty roads, or sped magnificently in freight cars, counting time as of no account. And when he had found the heart of a city and listened to its secret confession, he strayed on, restless, to another. Fickle Raggles!—but perhaps he had not met the civic corporation that could engage and hold his critical fancy.</p>
|
||||
<p>Through the ancient poets we have learned that the cities are feminine. So they were to poet Raggles; and his mind carried a concrete and clear conception of the figure that symbolized and typified each one that he had wooed.</p>
|
||||
<p>Chicago seemed to swoop down upon him with a breezy suggestion of Mrs. Partington, plumes and patchouli, and to disturb his rest with a soaring and beautiful song of future promise. But Raggles would awake to a sense of shivering cold and a haunting impression of ideals lost in a depressing aura of potato salad and fish.</p>
|
||||
<p>Chicago seemed to swoop down upon him with a breezy suggestion of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Partington, plumes and patchouli, and to disturb his rest with a soaring and beautiful song of future promise. But Raggles would awake to a sense of shivering cold and a haunting impression of ideals lost in a depressing aura of potato salad and fish.</p>
|
||||
<p>Thus Chicago affected him. Perhaps there is a vagueness and inaccuracy in the description; but that is Raggles’s fault. He should have recorded his sensations in magazine poems.</p>
|
||||
<p>Pittsburg impressed him as the play of “Othello” performed in the Russian language in a railroad station by Dockstader’s minstrels. A royal and generous lady this Pittsburg, though—homely, hearty, with flushed face, washing the dishes in a silk dress and white kid slippers, and bidding Raggles sit before the roaring fireplace and drink champagne with his pigs’ feet and fried potatoes.</p>
|
||||
<p>New Orleans had simply gazed down upon him from a balcony. He could see her pensive, starry eyes and catch the flutter of her fan, and that was all. Only once he came face to face with her. It was at dawn, when she was flushing the red bricks of the banquette with a pail of water. She laughed and hummed a chansonette and filled Raggles’s shoes with ice-cold water. Allons!</p>
|
||||
@ -20,7 +20,7 @@
|
||||
<p>One day Raggles came and laid siege to the heart of the great city of Manhattan. She was the greatest of all; and he wanted to learn her note in the scale; to taste and appraise and classify and solve and label her and arrange her with the other cities that had given him up the secret of their individuality. And here we cease to be Raggles’s translator and become his chronicler.</p>
|
||||
<p>Raggles landed from a ferry-boat one morning and walked into the core of the town with the blasée air of a cosmopolite. He was dressed with care to play the rôle of an “unidentified man.” No country, race, class, clique, union, party clan or bowling association could have claimed him. His clothing, which had been donated to him piece-meal by citizens of different height, but same number of inches around the heart, was not yet as uncomfortable to his figure as those speciments of raiment, self-measured, that are railroaded to you by transcontinental tailors with a suit case, suspenders, silk handkerchief and pearl studs as a bonus. Without money—as a poet should be—but with the ardor of an astronomer discovering a new star in the chorus of the milky way, or a man who has seen ink suddenly flow from his fountain pen, Raggles wandered into the great city.</p>
|
||||
<p>Late in the afternoon he drew out of the roar and commotion with a look of dumb terror on his countenance. He was defeated, puzzled, discomfited, frightened. Other cities had been to him as long primer to read; as country maidens quickly to fathom; as send-price-of-subscription-with-answer rebuses to solve; as oyster cocktails to swallow; but here was one as cold, glittering, serene, impossible as a four-carat diamond in a window to a lover outside fingering damply in his pocket his ribbon-counter salary.</p>
|
||||
<p>The greetings of the other cities he had known—their homespun kindliness, their human gamut of rough charity, friendly curses, garrulous curiosity and easily estimated credulity or indifference. This city of Manhattan gave him no clue; it was walled against him. Like a river of adamant it flowed past him in the streets. Never an eye was turned upon him; no voice spoke to him. His heart yearned for the clap of Pittsburg’s sooty hand on his shoulder; for Chicago’s menacing but social yawp in his ear; for the pale and eleemosynary stare through the Bostonian eyeglass—even for the precipitate but unmalicious boot-toe of Louisville or St. Louis.</p>
|
||||
<p>The greetings of the other cities he had known—their homespun kindliness, their human gamut of rough charity, friendly curses, garrulous curiosity and easily estimated credulity or indifference. This city of Manhattan gave him no clue; it was walled against him. Like a river of adamant it flowed past him in the streets. Never an eye was turned upon him; no voice spoke to him. His heart yearned for the clap of Pittsburg’s sooty hand on his shoulder; for Chicago’s menacing but social yawp in his ear; for the pale and eleemosynary stare through the Bostonian eyeglass—even for the precipitate but unmalicious boot-toe of Louisville or <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis.</p>
|
||||
<p>On Broadway Raggles, successful suitor of many cities, stood, bashful, like any country swain. For the first time he experienced the poignant humiliation of being ignored. And when he tried to reduce this brilliant, swiftly changing, ice-cold city to a formula he failed utterly. Poet though he was, it offered him no color similes, no points of comparison, no flaw in its polished facets, no handle by which he could hold it up and view its shape and structure, as he familiarly and often contemptuously had done with other towns. The houses were interminable ramparts loopholed for defense; the people were bright but bloodless spectres passing in sinister and selfish array.</p>
|
||||
<p>The thing that weighed heaviest on Raggles’s soul and clogged his poet’s fancy was the spirit of absolute egotism that seemed to saturate the people as toys are saturated with paint. Each one that he considered appeared a monster of abominable and insolent conceit. Humanity was gone from them; they were toddling idols of stone and varnish, worshipping themselves and greedy for though oblivious of worship from their fellow graven images. Frozen, cruel, implacable, impervious, cut to an identical pattern, they hurried on their ways like statues brought by some miracles to motion, while soul and feeling lay unaroused in the reluctant marble.</p>
|
||||
<p>Gradually Raggles became conscious of certain types. One was an elderly gentleman with a snow-white, short beard, pink, unwrinkled face and stony, sharp blue eyes, attired in the fashion of a gilded youth, who seemed to personify the city’s wealth, ripeness and frigid unconcern. Another type was a woman, tall, beautiful, clear as a steel engraving, goddess-like, calm, clothed like the princesses of old, with eyes as coldly blue as the reflection of sunlight on a glacier. And another was a by-product of this town of marionettes—a broad, swaggering, grim, threateningly sedate fellow, with a jowl as large as a harvested wheat field, the complexion of a baptized infant and the knuckles of a prize-fighter. This type leaned against cigar signs and viewed the world with frappéd contumely.</p>
|
||||
@ -1,30 +1,29 @@
|
||||
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 4</title>
|
||||
<title>The Pendulum</title>
|
||||
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|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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|
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="chapter-4" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE PENDULUM</h2>
|
||||
<section id="the-pendulum" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Pendulum</h2>
|
||||
<p>“Eighty-first street—let ’em out, please,” yelled the shepherd in blue.</p>
|
||||
<p>A flock of citizen sheep scrambled out and another flock scrambled aboard. Ding-ding! The cattle cars of the Manhattan Elevated rattled away, and John Perkins drifted down the stairway of the station with the released flock.</p>
|
||||
<p>John walked slowly toward his flat. Slowly, because in the lexicon of his daily life there was no such word as “perhaps.” There are no surprises awaiting a man who has been married two years and lives in a flat. As he walked John Perkins prophesied to himself with gloomy and downtrodden cynicism the foregone conclusions of the monotonous day.</p>
|
||||
<p>Katy would meet him at the door with a kiss flavored with cold cream and butter-scotch. He would remove his coat, sit upon a macadamized lounge and read, in the evening paper, of Russians and Japs slaughtered by the deadly linotype. For dinner there would be pot roast, a salad flavored with a dressing warranted not to crack or injure the leather, stewed rhubarb and the bottle of strawberry marmalade blushing at the certificate of chemical purity on its label. After dinner Katy would show him the new patch in her crazy quilt that the iceman had cut for her off the end of his four-in-hand. At half-past seven they would spread newspapers over the furniture to catch the pieces of plastering that fell when the fat man in the flat overhead began to take his physical culture exercises. Exactly at eight Hickey & Mooney, of the vaudeville team (unbooked) in the flat across the hall, would yield to the gentle influence of delirium tremens and begin to overturn chairs under the delusion that Hammerstein was pursuing them with a five-hundred-dollar-a-week contract. Then the gent at the window across the air-shaft would get out his flute; the nightly gas leak would steal forth to frolic in the highways; the dumbwaiter would slip off its trolley; the janitor would drive Mrs. Zanowitski’s five children once more across the Yalu, the lady with the champagne shoes and the Skye terrier would trip downstairs and paste her Thursday name over her bell and letter-box—and the evening routine of the Frogmore flats would be under way.</p>
|
||||
<p>Katy would meet him at the door with a kiss flavored with cold cream and butter-scotch. He would remove his coat, sit upon a macadamized lounge and read, in the evening paper, of Russians and Japs slaughtered by the deadly linotype. For dinner there would be pot roast, a salad flavored with a dressing warranted not to crack or injure the leather, stewed rhubarb and the bottle of strawberry marmalade blushing at the certificate of chemical purity on its label. After dinner Katy would show him the new patch in her crazy quilt that the iceman had cut for her off the end of his four-in-hand. At half-past seven they would spread newspapers over the furniture to catch the pieces of plastering that fell when the fat man in the flat overhead began to take his physical culture exercises. Exactly at eight Hickey & Mooney, of the vaudeville team (unbooked) in the flat across the hall, would yield to the gentle influence of delirium tremens and begin to overturn chairs under the delusion that Hammerstein was pursuing them with a five-hundred-dollar-a-week contract. Then the gent at the window across the air-shaft would get out his flute; the nightly gas leak would steal forth to frolic in the highways; the dumbwaiter would slip off its trolley; the janitor would drive <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Zanowitski’s five children once more across the Yalu, the lady with the champagne shoes and the Skye terrier would trip downstairs and paste her Thursday name over her bell and letter-box—and the evening routine of the Frogmore flats would be under way.</p>
|
||||
<p>John Perkins knew these things would happen. And he knew that at a quarter past eight he would summon his nerve and reach for his hat, and that his wife would deliver this speech in a querulous tone:</p>
|
||||
<p>“Now, where are you going, I’d like to know, John Perkins?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Thought I’d drop up to McCloskey’s,” he would answer, “and play a game or two of pool with the fellows.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Of late such had been John Perkins’s habit. At ten or eleven he would return. Sometimes Katy would be asleep; sometimes waiting up, ready to melt in the crucible of her ire a little more gold plating from the wrought steel chains of matrimony. For these things Cupid will have to answer when he stands at the bar of justice with his victims from the Frogmore flats.</p>
|
||||
<p>To-night John Perkins encountered a tremendous upheaval of the commonplace when he reached his door. No Katy was there with her affectionate, confectionate kiss. The three rooms seemed in portentous disorder. All about lay her things in confusion. Shoes in the middle of the floor, curling tongs, hair bows, kimonos, powder box, jumbled together on dresser and chairs—this was not Katy’s way. With a sinking heart John saw the comb with a curling cloud of her brown hair among its teeth. Some unusual hurry and perturbation must have possessed her, for she always carefully placed these combings in the little blue vase on the mantel to be some day formed into the coveted feminine “rat.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Hanging conspicuously to the gas jet by a string was a folded paper. John seized it. It was a note from his wife running thus:</p>
|
||||
<blockquote>
|
||||
<p class="noindent">
|
||||
<i>Dear John: I just had a telegram saying mother is very sick. I am going to take the 4.30 train. Brother Sam is going to meet me at the depot there. There is cold mutton in the ice box. I hope it isn’t her quinzy again. Pay the milkman 50 cents. She had it bad last spring. Don’t forget to write to the company about the gas meter, and your good socks are in the top drawer. I will write to-morrow.</i>
|
||||
</p>
|
||||
<p class="ind8">
|
||||
<i>Hastily,<span class="ind8">KATY.</span></i>
|
||||
</p>
|
||||
<blockquote epub:type="letter">
|
||||
<p><span epub:type="salutation">Dear John</span>: I just had a telegram saying mother is very sick. I am going to take the 4.30 train. Brother Sam is going to meet me at the depot there. There is cold mutton in the ice box. I hope it isn’t her quinzy again. Pay the milkman 50 cents. She had it bad last spring. Don’t forget to write to the company about the gas meter, and your good socks are in the top drawer. I will write to-morrow.</p>
|
||||
<p>
|
||||
<span epub:type="valediction">Hastily,</span>
|
||||
<span class="signature">KATY.</span>
|
||||
</p>
|
||||
</blockquote>
|
||||
<p>Never during their two years of matrimony had he and Katy been separated for a night. John read the note over and over in a dumbfounded way. Here was a break in a routine that had never varied, and it left him dazed.</p>
|
||||
<p>There on the back of a chair hung, pathetically empty and formless, the red wrapper with black dots that she always wore while getting the meals. Her week-day clothes had been tossed here and there in her haste. A little paper bag of her favorite butter-scotch lay with its string yet unwound. A daily paper sprawled on the floor, gaping rectangularly where a railroad time-table had been clipped from it. Everything in the room spoke of a loss, of an essence gone, of its soul and life departed. John Perkins stood among the dead remains with a queer feeling of desolation in his heart.</p>
|
||||
@ -1,13 +1,13 @@
|
||||
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 13</title>
|
||||
<title>The Purple Dress</title>
|
||||
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
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<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="chapter-13" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE PURPLE DRESS</h2>
|
||||
<section id="the-purple-dress" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Purple Dress</h2>
|
||||
<p>We are to consider the shade known as purple. It is a color justly in repute among the sons and daughters of man. Emperors claim it for their especial dye. Good fellows everywhere seek to bring their noses to the genial hue that follows the commingling of the red and blue. We say of princes that they are born to the purple; and no doubt they are, for the colic tinges their faces with the royal tint equally with the snub-nosed countenance of a woodchopper’s brat. All women love it—when it is the fashion.</p>
|
||||
<p>And now purple is being worn. You notice it on the streets. Of course other colors are quite stylish as well—in fact, I saw a lovely thing the other day in olive green albatross, with a triple-lapped flounce skirt trimmed with insert squares of silk, and a draped fichu of lace opening over a shirred vest and double puff sleeves with a lace band holding two gathered frills—but you see lots of purple too. Oh, yes, you do; just take a walk down Twenty-third street any afternoon.</p>
|
||||
<p>Therefore Maida—the girl with the big brown eyes and cinnamon-colored hair in the Bee-Hive Store—said to Grace—the girl with the rhinestone brooch and peppermint-pepsin flavor to her speech—“I’m going to have a purple dress—a tailor-made purple dress—for Thanksgiving.”</p>
|
||||
@ -17,17 +17,17 @@
|
||||
<p>“—soutache braid over a surpliced white vest; and a plaited basque and—”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Sly boots—sly boots!” repeated Grace.</p>
|
||||
<p>“—plaited gigot sleeves with a drawn velvet ribbon over an inside cuff. What do you mean by saying that?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“You think Mr. Ramsay likes purple. I heard him say yesterday he thought some of the dark shades of red were stunning.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“You think <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay likes purple. I heard him say yesterday he thought some of the dark shades of red were stunning.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I don’t care,” said Maida. “I prefer purple, and them that don’t like it can just take the other side of the street.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Which suggests the thought that after all, the followers of purple may be subject to slight delusions. Danger is near when a maiden thinks she can wear purple regardless of complexions and opinions; and when Emperors think their purple robes will wear forever.</p>
|
||||
<p>Maida had saved $18 after eight months of economy; and this had bought the goods for the purple dress and paid Schlegel $4 on the making of it. On the day before Thanksgiving she would have just enough to pay the remaining $4. And then for a holiday in a new dress—can earth offer anything more enchanting?</p>
|
||||
<p>Old Bachman, the proprietor of the Bee-Hive Store, always gave a Thanksgiving dinner to his employees. On every one of the subsequent 364 days, excusing Sundays, he would remind them of the joys of the past banquet and the hopes of the coming ones, thus inciting them to increased enthusiasm in work. The dinner was given in the store on one of the long tables in the middle of the room. They tacked wrapping paper over the front windows; and the turkeys and other good things were brought in the back way from the restaurant on the corner. You will perceive that the Bee-Hive was not a fashionable department store, with escalators and pompadours. It was almost small enough to be called an emporium; and you could actually go in there and get waited on and walk out again. And always at the Thanksgiving dinners Mr. Ramsay—</p>
|
||||
<p>Oh, bother! I should have mentioned Mr. Ramsay first of all. He is more important than purple or green, or even the red cranberry sauce.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Ramsay was the head clerk; and as far as I am concerned I am for him. He never pinched the girls’ arms when he passed them in dark corners of the store; and when he told them stories when business was dull and the girls giggled and said: “Oh, pshaw!” it wasn’t G. Bernard they meant at all. Besides being a gentleman, Mr. Ramsay was queer and original in other ways. He was a health crank, and believed that people should never eat anything that was good for them. He was violently opposed to anybody being comfortable, and coming in out of snow storms, or wearing overshoes, or taking medicine, or coddling themselves in any way. Every one of the ten girls in the store had little pork-chop-and-fried-onion dreams every night of becoming Mrs. Ramsay. For, next year old Bachman was going to take him in for a partner. And each one of them knew that if she should catch him she would knock those cranky health notions of his sky high before the wedding cake indigestion was over.</p>
|
||||
<p>Mr. Ramsay was master of ceremonies at the dinners. Always they had two Italians in to play a violin and harp and had a little dance in the store.</p>
|
||||
<p>Old Bachman, the proprietor of the Bee-Hive Store, always gave a Thanksgiving dinner to his employees. On every one of the subsequent 364 days, excusing Sundays, he would remind them of the joys of the past banquet and the hopes of the coming ones, thus inciting them to increased enthusiasm in work. The dinner was given in the store on one of the long tables in the middle of the room. They tacked wrapping paper over the front windows; and the turkeys and other good things were brought in the back way from the restaurant on the corner. You will perceive that the Bee-Hive was not a fashionable department store, with escalators and pompadours. It was almost small enough to be called an emporium; and you could actually go in there and get waited on and walk out again. And always at the Thanksgiving dinners <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay—</p>
|
||||
<p>Oh, bother! I should have mentioned <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay first of all. He is more important than purple or green, or even the red cranberry sauce.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay was the head clerk; and as far as I am concerned I am for him. He never pinched the girls’ arms when he passed them in dark corners of the store; and when he told them stories when business was dull and the girls giggled and said: “Oh, pshaw!” it wasn’t G. Bernard they meant at all. Besides being a gentleman, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay was queer and original in other ways. He was a health crank, and believed that people should never eat anything that was good for them. He was violently opposed to anybody being comfortable, and coming in out of snow storms, or wearing overshoes, or taking medicine, or coddling themselves in any way. Every one of the ten girls in the store had little pork-chop-and-fried-onion dreams every night of becoming <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Ramsay. For, next year old Bachman was going to take him in for a partner. And each one of them knew that if she should catch him she would knock those cranky health notions of his sky high before the wedding cake indigestion was over.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay was master of ceremonies at the dinners. Always they had two Italians in to play a violin and harp and had a little dance in the store.</p>
|
||||
<p>And here were two dresses being conceived to charm Ramsay—one purple and the other red. Of course, the other eight girls were going to have dresses too, but they didn’t count. Very likely they’d wear some shirt-waist-and-black-skirt-affairs—nothing as resplendent as purple or red.</p>
|
||||
<p>Grace had saved her money, too. She was going to buy her dress ready-made. Oh, what’s the use of bothering with a tailor—when you’ve got a figger it’s easy to get a fit—the ready-made are intended for a perfect figger—except I have to have ’em all taken in at the waist—the average figger is so large waisted.</p>
|
||||
<p>The night before Thanksgiving came. Maida hurried home, keen and bright with the thoughts of the blessed morrow. Her thoughts were of purple, but they were white themselves—the joyous enthusiasm of the young for the pleasures that youth must have or wither. She knew purple would become her, and—for the thousandth time she tried to assure herself that it was purple Mr. Ramsay said he liked and not red. She was going home first to get the $4 wrapped in a piece of tissue paper in the bottom drawer of her dresser, and then she was going to pay Schlegel and take the dress home herself.</p>
|
||||
<p>The night before Thanksgiving came. Maida hurried home, keen and bright with the thoughts of the blessed morrow. Her thoughts were of purple, but they were white themselves—the joyous enthusiasm of the young for the pleasures that youth must have or wither. She knew purple would become her, and—for the thousandth time she tried to assure herself that it was purple <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay said he liked and not red. She was going home first to get the $4 wrapped in a piece of tissue paper in the bottom drawer of her dresser, and then she was going to pay Schlegel and take the dress home herself.</p>
|
||||
<p>Grace lived in the same house. She occupied the hall room above Maida’s.</p>
|
||||
<p>At home Maida found clamor and confusion. The landlady’s tongue clattering sourly in the halls like a churn dasher dabbing in buttermilk. And then Grace come down to her room crying with eyes as red as any dress.</p>
|
||||
<p>“She says I’ve got to get out,” said Grace. “The old beast. Because I owe her $4. She’s put my trunk in the hall and locked the door. I can’t go anywhere else. I haven’t got a cent of money.”</p>
|
||||
@ -42,7 +42,7 @@
|
||||
<p>“My dress didn’t get finished in time,” said Maida. “I’m not going to the dinner.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“That’s too bad. Why, I’m awfully sorry, Maida. Why don’t you put on anything and come along—it’s just the store folks, you know, and they won’t mind.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I was set on my purple,” said Maida. “If I can’t have it I won’t go at all. Don’t bother about me. Run along or you’ll be late. You look awful nice in red.”</p>
|
||||
<p>At her window Maida sat through the long morning and past the time of the dinner at the store. In her mind she could hear the girls shrieking over a pull-bone, could hear old Bachman’s roar over his own deeply-concealed jokes, could see the diamonds of fat Mrs. Bachman, who came to the store only on Thanksgiving days, could see Mr. Ramsay moving about, alert, kindly, looking to the comfort of all.</p>
|
||||
<p>At her window Maida sat through the long morning and past the time of the dinner at the store. In her mind she could hear the girls shrieking over a pull-bone, could hear old Bachman’s roar over his own deeply-concealed jokes, could see the diamonds of fat <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bachman, who came to the store only on Thanksgiving days, could see <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay moving about, alert, kindly, looking to the comfort of all.</p>
|
||||
<p>At four in the afternoon, with an expressionless face and a lifeless air she slowly made her way to Schlegel’s shop and told him she could not pay the $4 due on the dress.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Gott!” cried Schlegel, angrily. “For what do you look so glum? Take him away. He is ready. Pay me some time. Haf I not seen you pass mine shop every day in two years? If I make clothes is it that I do not know how to read beoples because? You will pay me some time when you can. Take him away. He is made goot; and if you look bretty in him all right. So. Pay me when you can.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Maida breathed a millionth part of the thanks in her heart, and hurried away with her dress. As she left the shop a smart dash of rain struck upon her face. She smiled and did not feel it.</p>
|
||||
@ -50,7 +50,7 @@
|
||||
<p>At five o’clock she went out upon the street wearing her purple dress. The rain had increased, and it beat down upon her in a steady, wind-blown pour. People were scurrying home and to cars with close-held umbrellas and tight buttoned raincoats. Many of them turned their heads to marvel at this beautiful, serene, happy-eyed girl in the purple dress walking through the storm as though she were strolling in a garden under summer skies.</p>
|
||||
<p>I say you do not understand it, ladies of the full purse and varied wardrobe. You do not know what it is to live with a perpetual longing for pretty things—to starve eight months in order to bring a purple dress and a holiday together. What difference if it rained, hailed, blew, snowed, cycloned?</p>
|
||||
<p>Maida had no umbrella nor overshoes. She had her purple dress and she walked abroad. Let the elements do their worst. A starved heart must have one crumb during a year. The rain ran down and dripped from her fingers.</p>
|
||||
<p>Some one turned a corner and blocked her way. She looked up into Mr. Ramsay’s eyes, sparkling with admiration and interest.</p>
|
||||
<p>Some one turned a corner and blocked her way. She looked up into <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ramsay’s eyes, sparkling with admiration and interest.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Why, Miss Maida,” said he, “you look simply magnificent in your new dress. I was greatly disappointed not to see you at our dinner. And of all the girls I ever knew, you show the greatest sense and intelligence. There is nothing more healthful and invigorating than braving the weather as you are doing. May I walk with you?”</p>
|
||||
<p>And Maida blushed and sneezed.</p>
|
||||
</section>
|
||||
@ -1,13 +1,13 @@
|
||||
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
|
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 3</title>
|
||||
<title>The Rubaiyat of a Scotch Highball</title>
|
||||
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="chapter-3" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALL</h2>
|
||||
<section id="the-rubaiyat-of-a-scotch-highball" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Rubaiyat of a Scotch Highball</h2>
|
||||
<p>This document is intended to strike somewhere between a temperance lecture and the “Bartender’s Guide.” Relative to the latter, drink shall swell the theme and be set forth in abundance. Agreeably to the former, not an elbow shall be crooked.</p>
|
||||
<p>Bob Babbitt was “off the stuff.” Which means—as you will discover by referring to the unabridged dictionary of Bohemia—that he had “cut out the booze;” that he was “on the water wagon.” The reason for Bob’s sudden attitude of hostility toward the “demon rum”—as the white ribboners miscall whiskey (see the “Bartender’s Guide”), should be of interest to reformers and saloon-keepers.</p>
|
||||
<p>There is always hope for a man who, when sober, will not concede or acknowledge that he was ever drunk. But when a man will say (in the apt words of the phrase-distiller), “I had a beautiful skate on last night,” you will have to put stuff in his coffee as well as pray for him.</p>
|
||||
@ -22,9 +22,9 @@
|
||||
<p>It began away up in Sullivan County, where so many rivers and so much trouble begins—or begin; how would you say that? It was July, and Jessie was a summer boarder at the Mountain Squint Hotel, and Bob, who was just out of college, saw her one day—and they were married in September. That’s the tabloid novel—one swallow of water, and it’s gone.</p>
|
||||
<p>But those July days!</p>
|
||||
<p>Let the exclamation point expound it, for I shall not. For particulars you might read up on “Romeo and Juliet,” and Abraham Lincoln’s thrilling sonnet about “You can fool some of the people,” &c., and Darwin’s works.</p>
|
||||
<p>But one thing I must tell you about. Both of them were mad over Omar’s Rubaiyat. They knew every verse of the old bluffer by heart—not consecutively, but picking ’em out here and there as you fork the mushrooms in a fifty-cent steak à la Bordelaise. Sullivan County is full of rocks and trees; and Jessie used to sit on them, and—please be good—used to sit on the rocks; and Bob had a way of standing behind her with his hands over her shoulders holding her hands, and his face close to hers, and they would repeat over and over their favorite verses of the old tent-maker. They saw only the poetry and philosophy of the lines then—indeed, they agreed that the Wine was only an image, and that what was meant to be celebrated was some divinity, or maybe Love or Life. However, at that time neither of them had tasted the stuff that goes with a sixty-cent <i>table d’hote</i>.</p>
|
||||
<p>But one thing I must tell you about. Both of them were mad over Omar’s Rubaiyat. They knew every verse of the old bluffer by heart—not consecutively, but picking ’em out here and there as you fork the mushrooms in a fifty-cent steak à la Bordelaise. Sullivan County is full of rocks and trees; and Jessie used to sit on them, and—please be good—used to sit on the rocks; and Bob had a way of standing behind her with his hands over her shoulders holding her hands, and his face close to hers, and they would repeat over and over their favorite verses of the old tent-maker. They saw only the poetry and philosophy of the lines then—indeed, they agreed that the Wine was only an image, and that what was meant to be celebrated was some divinity, or maybe Love or Life. However, at that time neither of them had tasted the stuff that goes with a sixty-cent table d’hote.</p>
|
||||
<p>Where was I? Oh, they married and came to New York. Bob showed his college diploma, and accepted a position filling inkstands in a lawyer’s office at $15 a week. At the end of two years he had worked up to $50, and gotten his first taste of Bohemia—the kind that won’t stand the borax and formaldehyde tests.</p>
|
||||
<p>They had two furnished rooms and a little kitchen. To Jess, accustomed to the mild but beautiful savor of a country town, the dreggy Bohemia was sugar and spice. She hung fish seines on the walls of her rooms, and bought a rakish-looking sideboard, and learned to play the banjo. Twice or thrice a week they dined at French or Italian <i>tables d’hote</i> in a cloud of smoke, and brag and unshorn hair. Jess learned to drink a cocktail in order to get the cherry. At home she smoked a cigarette after dinner. She learned to pronounce Chianti, and leave her olive stones for the waiter to pick up. Once she essayed to say la, la, la! in a crowd but got only as far as the second one. They met one or two couples while dining out and became friendly with them. The sideboard was stocked with Scotch and rye and a liqueur. They had their new friends in to dinner and all were laughing at nothing by 1 A. M. Some plastering fell in the room below them, for which Bob had to pay $4.50. Thus they footed it merrily on the ragged frontiers of the country that has no boundary lines or government.</p>
|
||||
<p>They had two furnished rooms and a little kitchen. To Jess, accustomed to the mild but beautiful savor of a country town, the dreggy Bohemia was sugar and spice. She hung fish seines on the walls of her rooms, and bought a rakish-looking sideboard, and learned to play the banjo. Twice or thrice a week they dined at French or Italian tables d’hote in a cloud of smoke, and brag and unshorn hair. Jess learned to drink a cocktail in order to get the cherry. At home she smoked a cigarette after dinner. She learned to pronounce Chianti, and leave her olive stones for the waiter to pick up. Once she essayed to say la, la, la! in a crowd but got only as far as the second one. They met one or two couples while dining out and became friendly with them. The sideboard was stocked with Scotch and rye and a liqueur. They had their new friends in to dinner and all were laughing at nothing by 1 A. M. Some plastering fell in the room below them, for which Bob had to pay $4.50. Thus they footed it merrily on the ragged frontiers of the country that has no boundary lines or government.</p>
|
||||
<p>And soon Bob fell in with his cronies and learned to keep his foot on the little rail six inches above the floor for an hour or so every afternoon before he went home. Drink always rubbed him the right way, and he would reach his rooms as jolly as a sandboy. Jessie would meet him at the door, and generally they would dance some insane kind of a rigadoon about the floor by way of greeting. Once when Bob’s feet became confused and he tumbled headlong over a foot-stool Jessie laughed so heartily and long that he had to throw all the couch pillows at her to make her hush.</p>
|
||||
<p>In such wise life was speeding for them on the day when Bob Babbitt first felt the power that the giftie gi’ed him.</p>
|
||||
<p>But let us get back to our lamb and mint sauce.</p>
|
||||
@ -53,42 +53,42 @@
|
||||
<p>She took up a book and sat in her little willow rocker on the other side of the table. Neither of them spoke for half an hour.</p>
|
||||
<p>And then Bob laid down his paper and got up with a strange, absent look on his face and went behind her chair and reached over her shoulders, taking her hands in his, and laid his face close to hers.</p>
|
||||
<p>In a moment to Jessie the walls of the seine-hung room vanished, and she saw the Sullivan County hills and rills. Bob felt her hands quiver in his as he began the verse from old Omar:</p>
|
||||
<div class="center">
|
||||
<table cellpadding="3" style="margin: 0 auto">
|
||||
<tr>
|
||||
<td align="left">
|
||||
<p class="noindent">“Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing!”</p>
|
||||
</td>
|
||||
</tr>
|
||||
</table>
|
||||
</div>
|
||||
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
|
||||
<p>
|
||||
<span>“Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring</span>
|
||||
<br/>
|
||||
<span>The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:</span>
|
||||
<br/>
|
||||
<span>The Bird of Time has but a little way</span>
|
||||
<br/>
|
||||
<span>To fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing!”</span>
|
||||
</p>
|
||||
</blockquote>
|
||||
<p>And then he walked to the table and poured a stiff drink of Scotch into a glass.</p>
|
||||
<p>But in that moment a mountain breeze had somehow found its way in and blown away the mist of the false Bohemia.</p>
|
||||
<p>Jessie leaped and with one fierce sweep of her hand sent the bottle and glasses crashing to the floor. The same motion of her arm carried it around Bob’s neck, where it met its mate and fastened tight.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, my God, Bobbie—not that verse—I see now. I wasn’t always such a fool, was I? The other one, boy—the one that says: ‘Remould it to the Heart’s Desire.’ Say that one—‘to the Heart’s Desire.’ ”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I know that one,” said Bob. “It goes:</p>
|
||||
<div class="center">
|
||||
<table cellpadding="3" style="margin: 0 auto">
|
||||
<tr>
|
||||
<td align="left">
|
||||
<p class="noindent">“ ‘Ah! Love, could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire Would not we—’ ”</p>
|
||||
</td>
|
||||
</tr>
|
||||
</table>
|
||||
</div>
|
||||
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
|
||||
<p>
|
||||
<span>“ ‘Ah! Love, could you and I with Him conspire</span>
|
||||
<br/>
|
||||
<span>To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire</span>
|
||||
<br/>
|
||||
<span>Would not we—’ ”</span>
|
||||
</p>
|
||||
</blockquote>
|
||||
<p>“Let me finish it,” said Jessie.</p>
|
||||
<div class="center">
|
||||
<table cellpadding="3" style="margin: 0 auto">
|
||||
<tr>
|
||||
<td align="left">
|
||||
<p class="noindent">“ ‘Would not we shatter it to bits—and then Remould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!’ ”</p>
|
||||
</td>
|
||||
</tr>
|
||||
</table>
|
||||
</div>
|
||||
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
|
||||
<p>
|
||||
<span>“ ‘Would not we shatter it to bits—and then<span>
|
||||
<br/>
|
||||
<span>Remould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!’ ”</span>
|
||||
</p>
|
||||
</blockquote>
|
||||
<p>“It’s shattered all right,” said Bob, crunching some glass under his heel.</p>
|
||||
<p>In some dungeon below the accurate ear of Mrs. Pickens, the landlady, located the smash.</p>
|
||||
<p>“It’s that wild Mr. Babbitt coming home soused again,” she said. “And he’s got such a nice little wife, too!”</p>
|
||||
<p>In some dungeon below the accurate ear of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Pickens, the landlady, located the smash.</p>
|
||||
<p>“It’s that wild <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Babbitt coming home soused again,” she said. “And he’s got such a nice little wife, too!”</p>
|
||||
</section>
|
||||
</body>
|
||||
</html>
|
||||
@ -1,13 +1,13 @@
|
||||
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
|
||||
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 12</title>
|
||||
<title>The Social Triangle</title>
|
||||
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
</head>
|
||||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section id="chapter-12" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE SOCIAL TRIANGLE</h2>
|
||||
<section id="the-social-triangle" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Social Triangle</h2>
|
||||
<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>
|
||||
@ -31,35 +31,23 @@
|
||||
<p>He went down Hester street and up Chrystie, and down Delancey to where he lived. And there his women folk, a bibulous mother and three dingy sisters, pounced upon him for his wages. And at his confession they shrieked and objurgated him in the pithy rhetoric of the locality.</p>
|
||||
<p>But even as they plucked at him and struck him Ikey remained in his ecstatic trance of joy. His head was in the clouds; the star was drawing his wagon. Compared with what he had achieved the loss of wages and the bray of women’s tongues were slight affairs.</p>
|
||||
<p>He had shaken the hand of Billy McMahan.</p>
|
||||
<div class="center">
|
||||
<table cellpadding="3" style="margin: 0 auto">
|
||||
<tr>
|
||||
<td align="center"> * <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> </td>
|
||||
</tr>
|
||||
</table>
|
||||
</div>
|
||||
<p>Billy McMahan had a wife, and upon her visiting cards was engraved the name “Mrs. 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 Snigglefritz; and sometimes, hopeless of attaining them, his own solid success was as dust and ashes in his mouth. And Mrs. 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 indorsement of speech. Mrs. 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>
|
||||
<hr/>
|
||||
<p>Billy McMahan had a wife, and upon her visiting cards was engraved the name “<abbr>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 Snigglefritz; and sometimes, hopeless of attaining them, his own solid success was as dust and ashes in his mouth. And <abbr>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 indorsement of speech. <abbr>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 every one 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>
|
||||
<p>And then Billy McMahan conceived and accomplished the most startling and audacious act of his life. He rose deliberately and walked over to Cortlandt Van Duyckink’s table and held out his hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Say, Mr. Van Duyckink,” he said, “I’ve heard you was talking about starting some reforms among the poor people down in my district. I’m McMahan, you know. Say, now, if that’s straight I’ll do all I can to help you. And what I says goes in that neck of the woods, don’t it? Oh, say, I rather guess it does.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Say, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Van Duyckink,” he said, “I’ve heard you was talking about starting some reforms among the poor people down in my district. I’m McMahan, you know. Say, now, if that’s straight I’ll do all I can to help you. And what I says goes in that neck of the woods, don’t it? Oh, say, I rather guess it does.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Van Duyckink’s rather sombre eyes lighted up. He rose to his lank height and grasped Billy McMahan’s hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Thank you, Mr. McMahan,” he said, in his deep, serious tones. “I have been thinking of doing some work of that sort. I shall be glad of your assistance. It pleases me to have become acquainted with you.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Billy walked back to his seat. His shoulder was tingling from the accolade bestowed by royalty. A hundred eyes were now turned upon him in envy and new admiration. Mrs. William Darragh McMahan trembled with ecstasy, so that her diamonds smote the eye almost with pain. And now it was apparent that at many tables there were those who suddenly remembered that they enjoyed Mr. McMahan’s acquaintance. He saw smiles and bows about him. He became enveloped in the aura of dizzy greatness. His campaign coolness deserted him.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Thank you, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McMahan,” he said, in his deep, serious tones. “I have been thinking of doing some work of that sort. I shall be glad of your assistance. It pleases me to have become acquainted with you.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Billy walked back to his seat. His shoulder was tingling from the accolade bestowed by royalty. A hundred eyes were now turned upon him in envy and new admiration. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> William Darragh McMahan trembled with ecstasy, so that her diamonds smote the eye almost with pain. And now it was apparent that at many tables there were those who suddenly remembered that they enjoyed <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McMahan’s acquaintance. He saw smiles and bows about him. He became enveloped in the aura of dizzy greatness. His campaign coolness deserted him.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Wine for that gang!” he commanded the waiter, pointing with his finger. “Wine over there. Wine to those three gents by that green bush. Tell ’em it’s on me. D––––n it! Wine for everybody!”</p>
|
||||
<p>The waiter ventured to whisper that it was perhaps inexpedient to carry out the order, in consideration of the dignity of the house and its custom.</p>
|
||||
<p>“All right,” said Billy, “if it’s against the rules. I wonder if ’twould do to send my friend Van Duyckink a bottle? No? Well, it’ll flow all right at the caffy to-night, just the same. It’ll be rubber boots for anybody who comes in there any time up to 2 A. M.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Billy McMahan was happy.</p>
|
||||
<p>He had shaken the hand of Cortlandt Van Duyckink.</p>
|
||||
<div class="center">
|
||||
<table cellpadding="3" style="margin: 0 auto">
|
||||
<tr>
|
||||
<td align="center"> * <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> <span class="ind4">*</span> </td>
|
||||
</tr>
|
||||
</table>
|
||||
</div>
|
||||
<hr/>
|
||||
<p>The big pale-gray auto with its shining metal work looked out of place moving slowly among the push carts and trash-heaps on the lower east side. So did Cortlandt Van Duyckink, with his aristocratic face and white, thin hands, as he steered carefully between the groups of ragged, scurrying youngsters in the streets. And so did Miss Constance Schuyler, with her dim, ascetic beauty, seated at his side.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, Cortlandt,” she breathed, “isn’t it sad that human beings have to live in such wretchedness and poverty? And you—how noble it is of you to think of them, to give your time and money to improve their condition!”</p>
|
||||
<p>Van Duyckink turned his solemn eyes upon her.</p>
|
||||
@ -1,16 +1,16 @@
|
||||
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 24</title>
|
||||
<title>The Tale of a Tainted Tenner</title>
|
||||
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
|
||||
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
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<section id="chapter-24" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h2>THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER</h2>
|
||||
<p>Money talks. But you may think that the conversation of a little old ten-dollar bill in New York would be nothing more than a whisper. Oh, very well! Pass up this <i>sotto voce</i> autobiography of an X if you like. If you are one of the kind that prefers to listen to John D’s checkbook roar at you through a megaphone as it passes by, all right. But don’t forget that small change can say a word to the point now and then. The next time you tip your grocer’s clerk a silver quarter to give you extra weight of his boss’s goods read the four words above the lady’s head. How are they for repartee?</p>
|
||||
<p>I am a ten-dollar Treasury note, series of 1901. You may have seen one in a friend’s hand. On my face, in the centre, is a picture of the bison Americanus, miscalled a buffalo by fifty or sixty millions of Americans. The heads of Capt. Lewis and Capt. Clark adorn the ends. On my back is the graceful figure of Liberty or Ceres or Maxine Elliot standing in the centre of the stage on a conservatory plant. My references is—or are—Section 3,588, Revised Statutes. Ten cold, hard dollars—I don’t say whether silver, gold, lead or iron—Uncle Sam will hand you over his counter if you want to cash me in.</p>
|
||||
<p>I beg you will excuse any conversational breaks that I make—thanks, I knew you would—got that sneaking little respect and agreeable feeling toward even an X, haven’t you? You see, a tainted bill doesn’t have much chance to acquire a correct form of expression. I never knew a really cultured and educated person that could afford to hold a ten-spot any longer than it would take to do an Arthur Duffy to the nearest That’s All! sign or delicatessen store.</p>
|
||||
<section id="the-tale-of-a-tainted-tenner" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
|
||||
<h2 epub:type="title">The Tale of a Tainted Tenner</h2>
|
||||
<p>Money talks. But you may think that the conversation of a little old ten-dollar bill in New York would be nothing more than a whisper. Oh, very well! Pass up this sotto voce autobiography of an <span epub:type="z3998:roman">X</span> if you like. If you are one of the kind that prefers to listen to John D’s checkbook roar at you through a megaphone as it passes by, all right. But don’t forget that small change can say a word to the point now and then. The next time you tip your grocer’s clerk a silver quarter to give you extra weight of his boss’s goods read the four words above the lady’s head. How are they for repartee?</p>
|
||||
<p>I am a ten-dollar Treasury note, series of 1901. You may have seen one in a friend’s hand. On my face, in the centre, is a picture of the bison Americanus, miscalled a buffalo by fifty or sixty millions of Americans. The heads of <abbr>Capt.</abbr> Lewis and <abbr>Capt.</abbr> Clark adorn the ends. On my back is the graceful figure of Liberty or Ceres or Maxine Elliot standing in the centre of the stage on a conservatory plant. My references is—or are—Section 3,588, Revised Statutes. Ten cold, hard dollars—I don’t say whether silver, gold, lead or iron—Uncle Sam will hand you over his counter if you want to cash me in.</p>
|
||||
<p>I beg you will excuse any conversational breaks that I make—thanks, I knew you would—got that sneaking little respect and agreeable feeling toward even an <span epub:type="z3998:roman">X</span>, haven’t you? You see, a tainted bill doesn’t have much chance to acquire a correct form of expression. I never knew a really cultured and educated person that could afford to hold a ten-spot any longer than it would take to do an Arthur Duffy to the nearest That’s All! sign or delicatessen store.</p>
|
||||
<p>For a six-year-old, I’ve had a lively and gorgeous circulation. I guess I’ve paid as many debts as the man who dies. I’ve been owned by a good many kinds of people. But a little old ragged, damp, dingy five-dollar silver certificate gave me a jar one day. I was next to it in the fat and bad-smelling purse of a butcher.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Hey, you Sitting Bull,” says I, “don’t scrouge so. Anyhow, don’t you think it’s about time you went in on a customs payment and got reissued? For a series of 1899 you’re a sight.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, don’t get crackly just because you’re a Buffalo bill,” says the fiver. “You’d be limp, too, if you’d been stuffed down in a thick cotton-and-lisle-thread under an elastic all day, and the thermometer not a degree under 85 in the store.”</p>
|
||||
@ -1,13 +1,13 @@
|
||||
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|
||||
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|
||||
<head>
|
||||
<title>Chapter 1</title>
|
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<title>The Trimmed Lamp</title>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="chapter-1" epub:type="chapter">
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<h2>THE TRIMMED LAMP</h2>
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<section id="the-trimmed-lamp" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">The Trimmed Lamp</h2>
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<p>Of course there are two sides to the question. Let us look at the other. We often hear “shop-girls” spoken of. No such persons exist. There are girls who work in shops. They make their living that way. But why turn their occupation into an adjective? Let us be fair. We do not refer to the girls who live on Fifth Avenue as “marriage-girls.”</p>
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<p>Lou and Nancy were chums. They came to the big city to find work because there was not enough to eat at their homes to go around. Nancy was nineteen; Lou was twenty. Both were pretty, active, country girls who had no ambition to go on the stage.</p>
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<p>The little cherub that sits up aloft guided them to a cheap and respectable boarding-house. Both found positions and became wage-earners. They remained chums. It is at the end of six months that I would beg you to step forward and be introduced to them. Meddlesome Reader: My Lady friends, Miss Nancy and Miss Lou. While you are shaking hands please take notice—cautiously—of their attire. Yes, cautiously; for they are as quick to resent a stare as a lady in a box at the horse show is.</p>
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@ -20,14 +20,14 @@
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<p>“Why, that’s where I met Dan,” said Lou, triumphantly. “He came in for his Sunday shirt and collars and saw me at the first board, ironing. We all try to get to work at the first board. Ella Maginnis was sick that day, and I had her place. He said he noticed my arms first, how round and white they was. I had my sleeves rolled up. Some nice fellows come into laundries. You can tell ’em by their bringing their clothes in suit cases; and turning in the door sharp and sudden.”</p>
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<p>“How can you wear a waist like that, Lou?” said Nancy, gazing down at the offending article with sweet scorn in her heavy-lidded eyes. “It shows fierce taste.”</p>
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<p>“This waist?” cried Lou, with wide-eyed indignation. “Why, I paid $16. for this waist. It’s worth twenty-five. A woman left it to be laundered, and never called for it. The boss sold it to me. It’s got yards and yards of hand embroidery on it. Better talk about that ugly, plain thing you’ve got on.”</p>
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<p>“This ugly, plain thing,” said Nancy, calmly, “was copied from one that Mrs. Van Alstyne Fisher was wearing. The girls say her bill in the store last year was $12,000. I made mine, myself. It cost me $1.50. Ten feet away you couldn’t tell it from hers.”</p>
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<p>“This ugly, plain thing,” said Nancy, calmly, “was copied from one that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Van Alstyne Fisher was wearing. The girls say her bill in the store last year was $12,000. I made mine, myself. It cost me $1.50. Ten feet away you couldn’t tell it from hers.”</p>
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<p>“Oh, well,” said Lou, good-naturedly, “if you want to starve and put on airs, go ahead. But I’ll take my job and good wages; and after hours give me something as fancy and attractive to wear as I am able to buy.”</p>
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<p>But just then Dan came—a serious young man with a ready-made necktie, who had escaped the city’s brand of frivolity—an electrician earning 30 dollars per week who looked upon Lou with the sad eyes of Romeo, and thought her embroidered waist a web in which any fly should delight to be caught.</p>
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<p>“My friend, Mr. Owens—shake hands with Miss Danforth,” said Lou.</p>
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<p>“My friend, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Owens—shake hands with Miss Danforth,” said Lou.</p>
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<p>“I’m mighty glad to know you, Miss Danforth,” said Dan, with outstretched hand. “I’ve heard Lou speak of you so often.”</p>
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<p>“Thanks,” said Nancy, touching his fingers with the tips of her cool ones, “I’ve heard her mention you—a few times.”</p>
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<p>Lou giggled.</p>
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<p>“Did you get that handshake from Mrs. Van Alstyne Fisher, Nance?” she asked.</p>
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<p>“Did you get that handshake from <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Van Alstyne Fisher, Nance?” she asked.</p>
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<p>“If I did, you can feel safe in copying it,” said Nancy.</p>
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<p>“Oh, I couldn’t use it, at all. It’s too stylish for me. It’s intended to set off diamond rings, that high shake is. Wait till I get a few and then I’ll try it.”</p>
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<p>“Learn it first,” said Nancy wisely, “and you’ll be more likely to get the rings.”</p>
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@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
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<p>The faithful squire took his place close to the curb; Lou next, a little peacocky in her bright and pretty clothes; Nancy on the inside, slender, and soberly clothed as the sparrow, but with the true Van Alstyne Fisher walk—thus they set out for their evening’s moderate diversion.</p>
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<p>I do not suppose that many look upon a great department store as an educational institution. But the one in which Nancy worked was something like that to her. She was surrounded by beautiful things that breathed of taste and refinement. If you live in an atmosphere of luxury, luxury is yours whether your money pays for it, or another’s.</p>
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<p>The people she served were mostly women whose dress, manners, and position in the social world were quoted as criterions. From them Nancy began to take toll—the best from each according to her view.</p>
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<p>From one she would copy and practice a gesture, from another an eloquent lifting of an eyebrow, from others, a manner of walking, of carrying a purse, of smiling, of greeting a friend, of addressing “inferiors in station.” From her best beloved model, Mrs. Van Alstyne Fisher, she made requisition for that excellent thing, a soft, low voice as clear as silver and as perfect in articulation as the notes of a thrush. Suffused in the aura of this high social refinement and good breeding, it was impossible for her to escape a deeper effect of it. As good habits are said to be better than good principles, so, perhaps, good manners are better than good habits. The teachings of your parents may not keep alive your New England conscience; but if you sit on a straight-back chair and repeat the words “prisms and pilgrims” forty times the devil will flee from you. And when Nancy spoke in the Van Alstyne Fisher tones she felt the thrill of <i>noblesse oblige</i> to her very bones.</p>
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<p>From one she would copy and practice a gesture, from another an eloquent lifting of an eyebrow, from others, a manner of walking, of carrying a purse, of smiling, of greeting a friend, of addressing “inferiors in station.” From her best beloved model, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Van Alstyne Fisher, she made requisition for that excellent thing, a soft, low voice as clear as silver and as perfect in articulation as the notes of a thrush. Suffused in the aura of this high social refinement and good breeding, it was impossible for her to escape a deeper effect of it. As good habits are said to be better than good principles, so, perhaps, good manners are better than good habits. The teachings of your parents may not keep alive your New England conscience; but if you sit on a straight-back chair and repeat the words “prisms and pilgrims” forty times the devil will flee from you. And when Nancy spoke in the Van Alstyne Fisher tones she felt the thrill of noblesse oblige to her very bones.</p>
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<p>There was another source of learning in the great departmental school. Whenever you see three or four shop-girls gather in a bunch and jingle their wire bracelets as an accompaniment to apparently frivolous conversation, do not think that they are there for the purpose of criticizing the way Ethel does her back hair. The meeting may lack the dignity of the deliberative bodies of man; but it has all the importance of the occasion on which Eve and her first daughter first put their heads together to make Adam understand his proper place in the household. It is Woman’s Conference for Common Defense and Exchange of Strategical Theories of Attack and Repulse upon and against the World, which is a Stage, and Man, its Audience who Persists in Throwing Bouquets Thereupon. Woman, the most helpless of the young of any animal—with the fawn’s grace but without its fleetness; with the bird’s beauty but without its power of flight; with the honey-bee’s burden of sweetness but without its—Oh, let’s drop that simile—some of us may have been stung.</p>
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<p>During this council of war they pass weapons one to another, and exchange stratagems that each has devised and formulated out of the tactics of life.</p>
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<p>“I says to ’im,” says Sadie, “ain’t you the fresh thing! Who do you suppose I am, to be addressing such a remark to me? And what do you think he says back to me?”</p>
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@ -71,7 +71,7 @@
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<p>“That’s because you don’t know any. The only difference between swells and other people is you have to watch ’em closer. Don’t you think that red silk lining is just a little bit too bright for that coat, Lou?”</p>
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<p>Lou looked at the plain, dull olive jacket of her friend.</p>
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<p>“Well, no I don’t—but it may seem so beside that faded-looking thing you’ve got on.”</p>
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<p>“This jacket,” said Nancy, complacently, “has exactly the cut and fit of one that Mrs. Van Alstyne Fisher was wearing the other day. The material cost me $3.98. I suppose hers cost about $100. more.”</p>
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<p>“This jacket,” said Nancy, complacently, “has exactly the cut and fit of one that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Van Alstyne Fisher was wearing the other day. The material cost me $3.98. I suppose hers cost about $100. more.”</p>
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<p>“Oh, well,” said Lou lightly, “it don’t strike me as millionaire bait. Shouldn’t wonder if I catch one before you do, anyway.”</p>
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<p>Truly it would have taken a philosopher to decide upon the values of the theories held by the two friends. Lou, lacking that certain pride and fastidiousness that keeps stores and desks filled with girls working for the barest living, thumped away gaily with her iron in the noisy and stifling laundry. Her wages supported her even beyond the point of comfort; so that her dress profited until sometimes she cast a sidelong glance of impatience at the neat but inelegant apparel of Dan—Dan the constant, the immutable, the undeviating.</p>
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<p>As for Nancy, her case was one of tens of thousands. Silk and jewels and laces and ornaments and the perfume and music of the fine world of good-breeding and taste—these were made for woman; they are her equitable portion. Let her keep near them if they are a part of life to her, and if she will. She is no traitor to herself, as Esau was; for she keeps her birthright and the pottage she earns is often very scant.</p>
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<head>
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<title>Chapter 5</title>
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<title>Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen</title>
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section id="chapter-5" epub:type="chapter">
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<h2>TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN</h2>
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<section id="two-thanksgiving-day-gentlemen" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen</h2>
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<p>There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives it to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don’t just remember who they were. Bet we can lick ’em, anyhow, if they try to land again. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar. Lots of us have had to come down to hens since the Turkey Trust got its work in. But somebody in Washington is leaking out advance information to ’em about these Thanksgiving proclamations.</p>
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<p>The big city east of the cranberry bogs has made Thanksgiving Day an institution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in the year on which it recognizes the part of America lying across the ferries. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration, exclusively American.</p>
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<p>And now for the story which is to prove to you that we have traditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older at a much rapider rate than those of England are—thanks to our git-up and enterprise.</p>
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<head>
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<title>Chapter 11</title>
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<title>Vanity and Some Sables</title>
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<section id="chapter-11" epub:type="chapter">
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<h2>VANITY AND SOME SABLES</h2>
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<section id="vanity-and-some-sables" epub:type="volume se:short-story">
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<h2 epub:type="title">Vanity and Some Sables</h2>
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<p>When “Kid” Brady was sent to the rope by Molly McKeever’s blue-black eyes he withdrew from the Stovepipe Gang. So much for the power of a colleen’s blanderin’ tongue and stubborn true-heartedness. If you are a man who read this, may such an influence be sent you before 2 o’clock to-morrow; if you are a woman, may your Pomeranian greet you this morning with a cold nose—a sign of doghealth and your happiness.</p>
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<p>The Stovepipe Gang borrowed its name from a sub-district of the city called the “Stovepipe,” which is a narrow and natural extension of the familiar district known as “Hell’s Kitchen.” The “Stovepipe” strip of town runs along Eleventh and Twelfth avenues on the river, and bends a hard and sooty elbow around little, lost homeless DeWitt Clinton park. Consider that a stovepipe is an important factor in any kitchen and the situation is analyzed. The chefs in “Hell’s Kitchen” are many, and the “Stovepipe” gang, wears the cordon blue.</p>
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<p>The members of this unchartered but widely known brotherhood appeared to pass their time on street corners arrayed like the lilies of the conservatory and busy with nail files and penknives. Thus displayed as a guarantee of good faith, they carried on an innocuous conversation in a 200-word vocabulary, to the casual observer as innocent and immaterial as that heard in clubs seven blocks to the east.</p>
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@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
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<p>Eight months went by as smoothly and surely as though they had “elapsed” on a theater program. The Kid worked away at his pipes and solder with no symptoms of backsliding. The Stovepipe gang continued its piracy on the high avenues, cracked policemen’s heads, held up late travelers, invented new methods of peaceful plundering, copied Fifth avenue’s cut of clothes and neckwear fancies and comported itself according to its lawless bylaws. But the Kid stood firm and faithful to his Molly, even though the polish was gone from his fingernails and it took him 15 minutes to tie his purple silk ascot so that the worn places would not show.</p>
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<p>One evening he brought a mysterious bundle with him to Molly’s house.</p>
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<p>“Open that, Moll!” he said in his large, quiet way. “It’s for you.”</p>
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<p>Molly’s eager fingers tore off the wrappings. She shrieked aloud, and in rushed a sprinkling of little McKeevers, and Ma McKeever, dishwashy, but an undeniable relative of the late Mrs. Eve.</p>
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<p>Molly’s eager fingers tore off the wrappings. She shrieked aloud, and in rushed a sprinkling of little McKeevers, and Ma McKeever, dishwashy, but an undeniable relative of the late <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Eve.</p>
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<p>Again Molly shrieked, and something dark and long and sinuous flew and enveloped her neck like an anaconda.</p>
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<p>“Russian sables,” said the Kid, pridefully, enjoying the sight of Molly’s round cheek against the clinging fur. “The real thing. They don’t grow anything in Russia too good for you, Moll.”</p>
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<p>Molly plunged her hands into the muff, overturned a row of the family infants and flew to the mirror. Hint for the beauty column. To make bright eyes, rosy checks and a bewitching smile: Recipe—one set Russian sables. Apply.</p>
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@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
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<p>“He’s workin’, all right,” said the red sweater, “but—say, sport, are you trailin’ anything in the fur line? A job in a plumbin’ shop don’ match wid dem skins de Kid’s girl’s got on.”</p>
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<p>Ransom overtook the strolling couple on an empty street near the river bank. He touched the Kid’s arm from behind.</p>
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<p>“Let me see you a moment, Brady,” he said, quietly. His eye rested for a second on the long fur scarf thrown stylishly back over Molly’s left shoulder. The Kid, with his old-time police hating frown on his face, stepped a yard or two aside with the detective.</p>
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<p>“Did you go to Mrs. Hethcote’s on West 7—th street yesterday to fix a leaky water pipe?” asked Ransom.</p>
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<p>“Did you go to <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Hethcote’s on West 7—th street yesterday to fix a leaky water pipe?” asked Ransom.</p>
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<p>“I did,” said the Kid. “What of it?”</p>
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<p>“The lady’s $1,000 set of Russian sables went out of the house about the same time you did. The description fits the ones this lady has on.”</p>
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<p>“To h—Harlem with you,” cried the Kid, angrily. “You know I’ve cut out that sort of thing, Ransom. I bought them sables yesterday at—”</p>
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