you butt in, or something'll be handed to you. Youse d - - settlers and
reformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have
got dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students
and professors rough-housing de soda-water stands and dem rubber-neck
coaches fillin' de streets, de folks down here are 'fraid to go out of
de houses. Now, you leave 'em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows
how to handle 'em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser
now, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit' Mike O'Grady for de Santa Claus
belt in dis district?"
Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph
Spraggins menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side.
To keep down his growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized
charity, presented the Y. M. C. A. of his native town with a $10,000
collection of butterflies, and sent a check to the famine sufferers
in China big enough to buy new emerald eyes and diamond-filled teeth
for all their gods. But none of these charitable acts seemed to bring
peace to the caliph's heart. He tried to get a personal note into his
benefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills. He got
well snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with
respect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out
an ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the
star part in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of
his cumbersome money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to
write letters to her. But she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while
his capital still kept piling up, and his _optikos needleorum
camelibus_ - or rich man's disease - was unrelieved.
In Caliph Spraggins's $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who
used to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in
Coketown, Pa., and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two
fingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back
from boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors
in the restaurant languages and those etudes and things.
Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist's delineation of her charms
on this very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized
description. She was a nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful,
brown-haired girl, with a sallow complexion, bright eyes, and a
perpetual smile. She had a wholesome, Spraggins-inherited love for plain
food, loose clothing, and the society of the lower classes. She had too
much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth. She had a wide mouth
that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail from the
slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle hornpipes. Keep
this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst.
Celia looked out of her window one day and gave her heart to the
grocer's young man. The receiver thereof was at that moment engaged
in conceding immortality to his horse and calling down upon him the
ultimate fate of the wicked; so he did not notice the transfer. A horse
should stand still when you are lifting a crate of strictly new-laid
eggs out of the wagon.
Young lady reader, you would have liked that grocer's young man
yourself. But you wouldn't have given him your heart, because you are
saving it for a riding-master, or a shoe-manufacturer with a torpid
liver, or something quiet but rich in gray tweeds at Palm Beach. Oh, I
know about it. So I am glad the grocer's young man was for Celia, and
not for you.
The grocer's young man was slim and straight and as confident and easy
in his movements as the man in the back of the magazines who wears the
new frictionless roller suspenders. He wore a gray bicycle cap on the
back of his head, and his hair was straw-colored and curly, and his
sunburned face looked like one that smiled a good deal when he was not
preaching the doctrine of everlasting punishment to delivery-wagon
horses. He slung imported A1 fancy groceries about as though they were
only the stuff he delivered at boarding-houses; and when he picked up
his whip, your mind instantly recalled Mr. Tackett and his air with the
buttonless foils.
Tradesmen delivered their goods at a side gate at the rear of the house.
The grocer's wagon came about ten in the morning. For three days Celia
watched the driver when he came, finding something new each time to
admire in the lofty and almost contemptuous way he had of tossing around
the choicest gifts of Pomona, Ceres, and the canning factories. Then she
consulted Annette.
To be explicit, Annette McCorkle, the second housemaid who deserves a
paragraph herself. Annette Fletcherized large numbers of romantic novels
which she obtained at a free public library branch (donated by one of
the biggest caliphs in the business). She was Celia's side-kicker and
chum, though Aunt Henrietta didn't know it, you may hazard a bean or
two.
"Oh, canary-bird seed!" exclaimed Annette. "Ain't it a corkin'
situation? You a heiress, and fallin' in love with him on sight! He's a
sweet boy, too, and above his business. But he ain't susceptible like
the common run of grocer's assistants. He never pays no attention to
me."
"He will to me," said Celia.
"Riches - " began Annette, unsheathing the not unjustifiable feminine
sting.
"Oh, you're not so beautiful," said Celia, with her wide, disarming
smile. "Neither am I; but he sha'n't know that there's any money mixed
up with my looks, such as they are. That's fair. Now, I want you to lend
me one of your caps and an apron, Annette."
"Oh, marshmallows!" cried Annette. "I see. Ain't it lovely? It's just
like 'Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole Maker's Wrongs.' I'll
bet he'll turn out to be a count."
There was a long hallway (or "passageway," as they call it in the land
of the Colonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the
house. The grocer's young man went through this to deliver his goods.
One morning he passed a girl in there with shining eyes, sallow
complexion, and wide, smiling mouth, wearing a maid's cap and apron. But
as he was cumbered with a basket of Early Drumhead lettuce and Trophy
tomatoes and three bunches of asparagus and six bottles of the most
expensive Queen olives, he saw no more than that she was one of the
maids.
But on his way out he came up behind her, and she was whistling
"Fisher's Hornpipe" so loudly and clearly that all the piccolos in the
world should have disjointed themselves and crept into their cases for
shame.
The grocer's young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on
his collar button behind.
"That's out o' sight, Kid," said he.
"My name is Celia, if you please," said the whistler, dazzling him with
a three-inch smile.
That's all right. I'm Thomas McLeod. What part of the house do you work
in?"
"I'm the - the second parlor maid."
"Do you know the 'Falling Waters'?"
"No," said Celia, "we don't know anybody. We got rich too quick - that
is, Mr. Spraggins did."
"I'll make you acquainted," said Thomas McLeod. "It's a strathspey - the
first cousin to a hornpipe."
If Celia's whistling put the piccolos out of commission, Thomas McLeod's
surely made the biggest flutes hunt their holes. He could actually
whistle _bass_.
When he stopped Celia was ready to jump into his delivery wagon and ride
with him clear to the end of the pier and on to the ferry-boat of the
Charon line.
"I'll be around to-morrow at 10:15," said Thomas, "with some spinach and
a case of carbonic."
"I'll practice that what-you-may-call-it," said Celia. "I can whistle a
fine second."
The processes of courtship are personal, and do not belong to general
literature. They should be chronicled in detail only in advertisements
of iron tonics and in the secret by-laws of the Woman's Auxiliary of
the Ancient Order of the Rat Trap. But genteel writing may contain a
description of certain stages of its progress without intruding upon
the province of the X-ray or of park policemen.
A day came when Thomas McLeod and Celia lingered at the end of the
latticed "passage."
"Sixteen a week isn't much," said Thomas, letting his cap rest on his
shoulder blades.
Celia looked through the lattice-work and whistled a dead march.
Shopping with Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for
a dozen handkerchiefs.
"Maybe I'll get a raise next month," said Thomas. "I'll be around
to-morrow at the same time with a bag of flour and the laundry soap."
"All right," said Celia. "Annette's married cousin pays only $20 a month
for a flat in the Bronx."
Never for a moment did she count on the Spraggins money. She knew Aunt
Henrietta's invincible pride of caste and pa's mightiness as a Colossus
of cash, and she understood that if she chose Thomas she and her
grocer's young man might go whistle for a living.
Another day came, Thomas violating the dignity of Nabob Avenue with
"The Devil's Dream," whistled keenly between his teeth.
"Raised to eighteen a week yesterday," he said. "Been pricing flats
around Morningside. You want to start untying those apron strings and
unpinning that cap, old girl."
"Oh, Tommy!" said Celia, with her broadest smile. "Won't that be enough?
I got Betty to show me how to make a cottage pudding. I guess we could
call it a flat pudding if we wanted to."
"And tell no lie," said Thomas.
"And I can sweep and polish and dust - of course, a parlor maid learns
that. And we could whistle duets of evenings."
"The old man said he'd raise me to twenty at Christmas if Bryan couldn't
think of any harder name to call a Republican than a 'postponer,'" said
the grocer's young man.
"I can sew," said Celia; "and I know that you must make the gas
company's man show his badge when he comes to look at the meter; and I
know how to put up quince jam and window curtains."
"Bully! you're all right, Cele. Yes, I believe we can pull it off on
eighteen."
As he was jumping into the wagon the second parlor maid braved discovery
by running swiftly to the gate.
"And, oh, Tommy, I forgot," she called, softly. "I believe I could make
your neckties."
"Forget it," said Thomas decisively.
"And another thing," she continued. "Sliced cucumbers at night will
drive away cockroaches."
"And sleep, too, you bet," said Mr. McLeod. "Yes, I believe if I have a
delivery to make on the West Side this afternoon I'll look in at a
furniture store I know over there."
It was just as the wagon dashed away that old Jacob Spraggins struck
the sideboard with his fist and made the mysterious remark about
ten thousand dollars that you perhaps remember. Which justifies the
reflection that some stories, as well as life, and puppies thrown into
wells, move around in circles. Painfully but briefly we must shed light
on Jacob's words.
The foundation of his fortune was made when he was twenty. A poor
coal-digger (ever hear of a rich one?) had saved a dollar or two and
bought a small tract of land on a hillside on which he tried to raise
corn. Not a nubbin. Jacob, whose nose was a divining-rod, told him there
was a vein of coal beneath. He bought the land from the miner for $125
and sold it a month afterward for $10,000. Luckily the miner had enough
left of his sale money to drink himself into a black coat opening in the
back, as soon as he heard the news.
And so, for forty years afterward, we find Jacob illuminated with the
sudden thought that if he could make restitution of this sum of money
to the heirs or assigns of the unlucky miner, respite and Nepenthe might
be his.
And now must come swift action, for we have here some four thousand
words and not a tear shed and never a pistol, joke, safe, nor bottle
cracked.
Old Jacob hired a dozen private detectives to find the heirs, if any
existed, of the old miner, Hugh McLeod.
Get the point? Of course I know as well as you do that Thomas is going
to be the heir. I might have concealed the name; but why always hold
back your mystery till the end? I say, let it come near the middle so
people can stop reading there if they want to.
After the detectives had trailed false clues about three thousand
dollars - I mean miles - they cornered Thomas at the grocery and got his
confession that Hugh McLeod had been his grandfather, and that there
were no other heirs. They arranged a meeting for him and old Jacob one
morning in one of their offices.
Jacob liked the young man very much. He liked the way he looked straight
at him when he talked, and the way he threw his bicycle cap over the top
of a rose-colored vase on the centre-table.
There was a slight flaw in Jacob's system of restitution. He did not
consider that the act, to be perfect, should include confession. So he
represented himself to be the agent of the purchaser of the land who had
sent him to refund the sale price for the ease of his conscience.
"Well, sir," said Thomas, "this sounds to me like an illustrated
post-card from South Boston with 'We're having a good time here' written
on it. I don't know the game. Is this ten thousand dollars money, or do
I have to save so many coupons to get it?"
Old Jacob counted out to him twenty five-hundred-dollar bills.
That was better, he thought, than a check. Thomas put them thoughtfully
into his pocket.
"Grandfather's best thanks," he said, "to the party who sends it."
Jacob talked on, asking him about his work, how he spent his leisure
time, and what his ambitions were. The more he saw and heard of Thomas,
the better he liked him. He had not met many young men in Bagdad so
frank and wholesome.
"I would like to have you visit my house," he said. "I might help you in
investing or laying out your money. I am a very wealthy man. I have a
daughter about grown, and I would like for you to know her. There are
not many young men I would care to have call on her."
"I'm obliged," said Thomas. "I'm not much at making calls. It's
generally the side entrance for mine. And, besides, I'm engaged to a
girl that has the Delaware peach crop killed in the blossom. She's a
parlor maid in a house where I deliver goods. She won't be working
there much longer, though. Say, don't forget to give your friend my
grandfather's best regards. You'll excuse me now; my wagon's outside
with a lot of green stuff that's got to be delivered. See you again,
sir."
At eleven Thomas delivered some bunches of parsley and lettuce at the
Spraggins mansion. Thomas was only twenty-two; so, as he came back,
he took out the handful of five-hundred-dollar bills and waved them
carelessly. Annette took a pair of eyes as big as creamed onion to the
cook.
"I told you he was a count," she said, after relating. "He never would
carry on with me."
"But you say he showed money," said the cook.
"Hundreds of thousands," said Annette. "Carried around loose in his
pockets. And he never would look at me."
"It was paid to me to-day," Thomas was explaining to Celia outside. "It
came from my grandfather's estate. Say, Cele, what's the use of waiting
now? I'm going to quit the job to-night. Why can't we get married next
week?"
"Tommy," said Celia. "I'm no parlor maid. I've been fooling you. I'm
Miss Spraggins - Celia Spraggins. The newspapers say I'll be worth forty
million dollars some day."
Thomas pulled his cap down straight on his head for the first time since
we have known him.
"I suppose then," said he, "I suppose then you'll not be marrying me
next week. But you _can_ whistle."
"No," said Celia, "I'll not be marrying you next week. My father would
never let me marry a grocer's clerk. But I'll marry you to-night, Tommy,
if you say so."
Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make
of it you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you unsubsidized
fiction; had it been a street car I could have told you its voltage
and the number of wheels it had. Jacob called for his daughter; he had
bought a ruby necklace for her, and wanted to hear her say what a kind,
thoughtful, dear old dad he was.
There was a brief search in the house for her, and then came Annette,
glowing with the pure flame of truth and loyalty well mixed with envy
and histrionics.
"Oh, sir," said she, wondering if she should kneel, "Miss Celia's just
this minute running away out of the side gate with a young man to be
married. I couldn't stop her, sir. They went in a cab."
"What young man?" roared old Jacob.
"A millionaire, if you please, sir - a rich nobleman in disguise. He
carries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only
to blind us, sir. He never did seem to take to me."
Jacob rushed out in time to catch his car. The chauffeur had been
delayed by trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
"Here, Gaston, or Mike, or whatever you call yourself, scoot around the
corner quicker than blazes and see if you can see a cab. If you do, run
it down."
There was a cab in sight a block away. Gaston, or Mike, with his eyes
half shut and his mind on his cigarette, picked up the trail, neatly
crowded the cab to the curb and pocketed it.
"What t'ell you doin'?" yelled the cabman.
"Pa!" shrieked Celia.
"Grandfather's remorseful friend's agent!" said Thomas. "Wonder what's
on his conscience now."
"A thousand thunders," said Gaston, or Mike. "I have no other match."
"Young man," said old Jacob, severely, "how about that parlor maid you
were engaged to?"
A couple of years afterward old Jacob went into the office of his
private secretary.
"The Amalgamated Missionary Society solicits a contribution of $30,000
toward the conversion of the Koreans," said the secretary.
"Pass 'em up," said Jacob.
"The University of Plumville writes that its yearly endowment fund of
$50,000 that you bestowed upon it is past due."
"Tell 'em it's been cut out."
"The Scientific Society of Clam Cove, Long Island, asks for $10,000 to
buy alcohol to preserve specimens."
"Waste basket."
"The Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls wants
$20,000 from you to lay out a golf course."
"Tell 'em to see an undertaker."
"Cut 'em all out," went on Jacob. "I've quit being a good thing. I need
every dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors
of every company that I'm interested in and recommend a 10 per cent. cut
in salaries. And say - I noticed half a cake of soap lying in a corner of
the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the scrubwoman about
waste. I've got no money to throw away. And say - we've got vinegar
pretty well in hand, haven't we?'
"The Globe Spice & Seasons Company," said secretary, "controls the
market at present."
"Raise vinegar two cents a gallon. Notify all our branches."
Suddenly Jacob Spraggins's plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He
walked over to the secretary's desk and showed a small red mark on his
thick forefinger.
"Bit it," he said, "darned if he didn't, and he ain't had the tooth
three weeks - Jaky McLeod, my Celia's kid. He'll be worth a hundred
millions by the time he's twenty-one if I can pile it up for him."
As he was leaving, old Jacob turned at the door, and said:
"Better make that vinegar raise three cents instead of two. I'll be back
in an hour and sign the letters."
The true history of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid relates that toward the
end of his reign he wearied of philanthropy, and caused to be beheaded
all his former favorites and companions of his "Arabian Nights" rambles.
Happy are we in these days of enlightenment, when the only death warrant
the caliphs can serve on us is in the form of a tradesman's bill.
XVIII
THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
HABIT - a tendency or aptitude acquired by custom or frequent
repetition.
The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that
one we are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the masters
of old they gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we
strove to set forth real life they reproached us for trying to imitate
Henry George, George Washington, Washington Irving, and Irving
Bacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and they accused us
of both Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our heart - and they
said something about a disordered liver. We took a text from Matthew
or - er - yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers were hammering away at the
inspiration idea before we could get into type. So, driven to the wall,
we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral, unassailable
vade mecum - the unabridged dictionary.
Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle's. Hinkle's is one of the big
downtown restaurants. It is in what the papers call the "financial
district." Each day from 12 o'clock to 2 Hinkle's was full of hungry
customers - messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining
stock, promoters, inventors with patents pending - and also people with
money.
The cashiership at Hinkle's was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted
and griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched
(as good a word as "dined") many more. It might be said that Hinkle's
breakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted
to a horde.
Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a
strong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at
the bottom you thrust your waiter's check and the money, while your
heart went pit-a-pat.
For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of
a $2 bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could - Next! - lost
your chance - please don't shove. She could keep cool and collected while
she collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart,
indicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent better
than Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes to pepper
an egg with one of Hinkle's casters.
There is an old and dignified allusion to the "fierce light that beats
upon a throne." The light that beats upon the young lady cashier's cage
is also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the slang.
Every male patron of Hinkle's, from the A. D. T. boys up to the
curbstone brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks
they wooed her with every wile known to Cupid's art. Between the meshes
of the brass railing went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows,
invitations to dinner, sighs, languishing looks and merry banter that
was wafted pointedly back by the gifted Miss Merriam.
There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young
lady cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce; she
is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and coin,
leading lady of love and luncheon. You take from her a smile and a
Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining. You count the cheery
word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures; and
you pocket the change for a five uncomputed. Perhaps the brass-bound
inaccessibility multiplies her charms - anyhow, she is a shirt-waisted
angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive, bright-eyed, ready,
alert - Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you from your
circulating medium after your sirloin medium.
The young men who broke bread at Hinkle's never settled with the cashier
without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of them went
to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre tickets
and chocolates. The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms,
generally withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem
flats. One broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss
Merriam more regularly than he ate.
During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam's conversation, while she took
money for checks, would run something like this:
"Good morning, Mr. Haskins - sir? - it's natural, thank you - don't be
quite so fresh . . . Hello, Johnny - ten, fifteen, twenty - chase along
now or they'll take the letters off your cap . . . Beg pardon - count
it again, please - Oh, don't mention it . . . Vaudeville? - thanks;
not on your moving picture - I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on
Wednesday night with Mr. Simmons . . . 'Scuse me, I thought that
was a quarter . . . Twenty-five and seventy-five's a dollar - got
that ham-and-cabbage habit yet. I see, Billy . . . Who are you
addressing? - say - you'll get all that's coming to you in a
minute . . . Oh, fudge! Mr. Bassett - you're always fooling - no - ?
Well, maybe I'll marry you some day - three, four and sixty-five
is five . . . Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you
please . . . Ten cents? - 'scuse me; the check calls for seventy - well,
maybe it is a one instead of a seven . . . Oh, do you like it that
way, Mr. Saunders? - some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de
Merody does suit refined features . . . and ten is fifty . . . Hike
along there, buddy; don't take this for a Coney Island ticket
booth . . . Huh? - why, Macy's - don't it fit nice? Oh, no, it isn't too
cool - these light-weight fabrics is all the go this season . . . Come
again, please - that's the third time you've tried to - what? - forget
it - that lead quarter is an old friend of mine . . . Sixty-five? - must
have had your salary raised, Mr. Wilson . . . I seen you on Sixth
Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De Forest - swell? - oh, my! - who
is she? . . . What's the matter with it? - why, it ain't
money - what? - Columbian half? - well, this ain't South
America . . . Yes, I like the mixed best - Friday? - awfully
sorry, but I take my jiu-jitsu lesson on Friday - Thursday,
then . . . Thanks - that's sixteen times I've been told that this
morning - I guess I must be beautiful . . . Cut that out, please - who
do you think I am? . . . Why, Mr. Westbrook - do you really think
so? - the idea! - one - eighty and twenty's a dollar - thank you ever so
much, but I don't ever go automobile riding with gentlemen - your
aunt? - well, that's different - perhaps . . . Please don't get
fresh - your check was fifteen cents, I believe - kindly step aside and
let . . . Hello, Ben - coming around Thursday evening? - there's a
gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty
and sixty is a dollar, and one is two . . ."
About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo - whose other
name is Fortune - suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker
while he was walking past Hinkle's, on his way to a street car. A
wealthy and eccentric banker who rides in street cars is - move up,
please; there are others.
A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the
spot lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle's restaurant.
When the aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a
beautiful vision bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing
his forehead with beef tea and chafing his hands with something frappe
out of a chafing-dish. Mr. McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed
with deep gratitude upon his fair preserveress, and then recovered
consciousness.
To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance! Banker
McRamsey had an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward
Miss Merriam were fatherly. He talked to her for half an hour with
interest - not the kind that went with his talks during business hours.
The next day he brought Mrs. McRamsey down to see her. The old couple
were childless - they had only a married daughter living in Brooklyn.
To make a short story shorter, the beautiful cashier won the hearts
of the good old couple. They came to Hinkle's again and again; they
invited her to their old-fashioned but splendid home in one of the East
Seventies. Miss Merriam's winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and
impulsive heart took them by storm. They said a hundred times that Miss
Merriam reminded them so much of their lost daughter. The Brooklyn
matron, nee Ramsey, had the figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal
of an art photographer. Miss Merriam was a combination of curves,
smiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic posters. Enough of the
fatuity of parents.
A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam, she
stood before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership.
"They're going to adopt me," she told the bereft restaurateur. "They're
funny old people, but regular dears. And the swell home they have got!
Say, Hinkle, there isn't any use of talking - I'm on the a la carte to
wear brown duds and goggles in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least.
Still, I somehow hate to break out of the old cage. I've been cashiering
so long I feel funny doing anything else. I'll miss joshing the fellows
awfully when they line up to pay for the buckwheats and. But I can't let
this chance slide. And they're awfully good, Hinkle; I know I'll have a
swell time. You owe me nine-sixty-two and a half for the week. Cut out
the half if it hurts you, Hinkle."
And they did. Miss Merriam became Miss Rosa McRamsey. And she graced the
transition. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near to
the skin. Nerve - but just here will you oblige by perusing again the
quotation with which this story begins?
The McRamseys poured out money like domestic champagne to polish their
adopted one. Milliners, dancing masters and private tutors got it.
Miss - er - McRamsey was grateful, loving, and tried to forget Hinkle's.
To give ample credit to the adaptability of the American girl, Hinkle's
did fade from her memory and speech most of the time.
Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to East
Seventy - - Street, America. He was only a fair-to-medium earl, without
debts, and he created little excitement. But you will surely remember
the evening when the Daughters of Benevolence held their bazaar in the
W - - f-A - - a Hotel. For you were there, and you wrote a note to Fannie
on the hotel paper, and mailed it, just to show her that - you did not?
Very well; that was the evening the baby was sick, of course.
At the bazaar the McRamseys were prominent. Miss Mer - er - McRamsey was
exquisitely beautiful. The Earl of Hitesbury had been very attentive to
her since he dropped in to have a look at America. At the charity bazaar
the affair was supposed to be going to be pulled off to a finish. An
earl is as good as a duke. Better. His standing may be lower, but his
outstanding accounts are also lower.
Our ex-young-lady-cashier was assigned to a booth. She was expected to
sell worthless articles to nobs and snobs at exorbitant prices. The
proceeds of the bazaar were to be used for giving the poor children of
the slums a Christmas din - - Say! did you ever wonder where they get the
other 364?
Miss McRamsey - beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming,
radiant - fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with
a little arched opening, fenced her in.
Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring - admiring
greatly, and faced the open wicket.
"You look chawming, you know - 'pon my word you do - my deah," he said,
beguilingly.
Miss McRamsey whirled around.
"Cut that joshing out," she said, coolly and briskly. "Who do you think
you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy! - "
Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a
certain booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond
and puzzled whisker.
"Miss McRamsey has fainted," some one explained.
XIX
PROOF OF THE PUDDING
Spring winked a vitreous optic at Editor Westbrook of the _Minerva
Magazine_, and deflected him from his course. He had lunched in his
favorite corner of a Broadway hotel, and was returning to his office
when his feet became entangled in the lure of the vernal coquette. Which
is by way of saying that he turned eastward in Twenty-sixth Street,
safely forded the spring freshet of vehicles in Fifth Avenue, and
meandered along the walks of budding Madison Square.
The lenient air and the settings of the little park almost formed a
pastoral; the color motif was green - the presiding shade at the creation
of man and vegetation.
The callow grass between the walks was the color of verdigris, a
poisonous green, reminiscent of the horde of derelict humans that had
breathed upon the soil during the summer and autumn. The bursting tree
buds looked strangely familiar to those who had botanized among the
garnishings of the fish course of a forty-cent dinner. The sky above
was of that pale aquamarine tint that ballroom poets rhyme with "true"
and "Sue" and "coo." The one natural and frank color visible was the
ostensible green of the newly painted benches - a shade between the color
of a pickled cucumber and that of a last year's fast-black cravenette
raincoat. But, to the city-bred eye of Editor Westbrook, the landscape
appeared a masterpiece.
And now, whether you are of those who rush in, or of the gentle
concourse that fears to tread, you must follow in a brief invasion of
the editor's mind.
Editor Westbrook's spirit was contented and serene. The April number of
the _Minerva_ had sold its entire edition before the tenth day of the
month - a newsdealer in Keokuk had written that he could have sold fifty
copies more if he had 'em. The owners of the magazine had raised his
(the editor's) salary; he had just installed in his home a jewel of a
recently imported cook who was afraid of policemen; and the morning
papers had published in full a speech he had made at a publishers'
banquet. Also there were echoing in his mind the jubilant notes of a
splendid song that his charming young wife had sung to him before he
left his up-town apartment that morning. She was taking enthusiastic
interest in her music of late, practising early and diligently. When
he had complimented her on the improvement in her voice she had fairly
hugged him for joy at his praise. He felt, too, the benign, tonic
medicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly adown the wards
of the convalescent city.
While Editor Westbrook was sauntering between the rows of park benches
(already filling with vagrants and the guardians of lawless childhood)
he felt his sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be
panhandled, he turned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his
captor was - Dawe - Shackleford Dawe, dingy, almost ragged, the genteel
scarcely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby.
While the editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flashlight
biography of Dawe is offered.
He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook's old acquaintances.
At one time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had
some money in those days, and lived in a decent apartment house near
Westbrook's. The two families often went to theatres and dinners
together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs. Westbrook became "dearest" friends.
Then one day a little tentacle of the octopus, just to amuse itself,
ingurgitated Dawe's capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park
neighborhood where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one's
trunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite Carrara marble
mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to live
by writing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many
to Westbrook. The _Minerva_ printed one or two of them; the rest were
returned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter
with each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons
for considering it unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear
conception of what constituted good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was
mainly concerned about the constituents of the scanty dishes of food
that she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting to
her about the excellencies of certain French writers. At dinner they sat
down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have encompassed at a gulp.
Dawe commented.
"It's Maupassant hash," said Mrs. Dawe. "It may not be art, but I do
wish you would do a five-course Marion Crawford serial with an Ella
Wheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I'm hungry."
As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor
Westbrook's sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first time the editor
had seen Dawe in several months.
"Why, Shack, is this you?" said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for the
form of his phrase seemed to touch upon the other's changed appearance.
"Sit down for a minute," said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve. "This is my
office. I can't come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down - you won't
be disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the other benches will take
you for a swell porch-climber. They won't know you are only an editor."
"Smoke, Shack?" said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the
virulent green bench. He always yielded gracefully when he did yield.
Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or a girl
pecks at a chocolate cream.
"I have just - " began the editor.
"Oh, I know; don't finish," said Dawe. "Give me a match. You have just
ten minutes to spare. How did you manage to get past my office-boy and
invade my sanctum? There he goes now, throwing his club at a dog that
couldn't read the 'Keep off the Grass' signs."
"How goes the writing?" asked the editor.
"Look at me," said Dawe, "for your answer. Now don't put on that
embarrassed, friendly-but-honest look and ask me why I don't get a job
as a wine agent or a cab driver. I'm in the fight to a finish. I know I
can write good fiction and I'll force you fellows to admit it yet. I'll
make you change the spelling of 'regrets' to 'c-h-e-q-u-e' before I'm
done with you."
Editor Westbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly
sorrowful, omniscient, sympathetic, skeptical expression - the
copyrighted expression of the editor beleagured by the unavailable
contributor.
"Have you read the last story I sent you - 'The Alarum of the Soul'?"
asked Dawe.
"Carefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had
some good points. I was writing you a letter to send with it when it
goes back to you. I regret - "
"Never mind the regrets," said Dawe, grimly. "There's neither salve nor
sting in 'em any more. What I want to know is _why_. Come now; out with
the good points first."
"The story," said Westbrook, deliberately, after a suppressed sigh, "is
written around an almost original plot. Characterization - the best you
have done. Construction - almost as good, except for a few weak joints
which might be strengthened by a few changes and touches. It was a good
story, except - "
"I can write English, can't I?" interrupted Dawe.
"I have always told you," said the editor, "that you had a style."
"Then the trouble is - "
"Same old thing," said Editor Westbrook. "You work up to your climax
like an artist. And then you turn yourself into a photographer. I don't
know what form of obstinate madness possesses you, but that is what you
do with everything that you write. No, I will retract the comparison
with the photographer. Now and then photography, in spite of its
impossible perspective, manages to record a fleeting glimpse of truth.
But you spoil every denouement by those flat, drab, obliterating strokes
of your brush that I have so often complained of. If you would rise to
the literary pinnacle of your dramatic senses, and paint them in the