Читать книгу A Cool Million: The Dismantling of Lemuel Pitkin - Nathanael West - Страница 6

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When our hero regained consciousness, he found himself in a ditch alongside the path on which he had his set-to with Tom Baxter. It had grown quite dark, and he failed to notice Betty in some bushes on the other side of the path. He thought that she must have got safely away.

As he walked home his head cleared and he soon recovered his naturally high spirits. He forgot his unfortunate encounter with the bully and thought only of his coming departure for New York City.

He was greeted at the door of his humble home by his fond parent, who had been waiting anxiously for his return.

“Lem, Lem,” said Mrs. Pitkin, “where have you been?”

Although our hero was loth to lie, he did not want to worry his mother unduly, so he said, “Mr. Whipple kept me.”

The lad then told her what the ex-President had said. She was quite happy for her son and willingly signed the note for thirty dollars. Like all mothers, Mrs. Pitkin was certain that her child must succeed.

Bright and early the next morning, Lem took the note to Mr. Whipple and received thirty dollars minus twelve per cent interest in advance. He then bought a ticket for New York at the local depot, and waited there for the arrival of the steam cars.

Our hero was studying the fleeting scenery of New England when he heard someone address him.

“Papers, magazines, all the popular novels! Something to read, mister?”

It was the news butcher, a young boy with an honest, open countenance.

Our hero was eager to talk, so he spoke to the newsboy.

“I’m not a great one for reading novels,” he said. “My Aunt Nancy gave my ma one once but I didn’t find much in it. I like facts and I like to study, though.”

“I ain’t much on story reading either,” said the news butcher. “Where are you goin’?”

“To New York to make my fortune,” said Lem candidly.

“Well, if you can’t make money in New York, you can’t make money anywhere.” With this observation he began to hawk his reading matter farther down the aisle.

Lem again took up his study of the fleeting scenery. This time he was interrupted by a stylishly dressed young man who came forward and accosted him.

“Is this seat engaged?” the stranger asked.

“Not as I know of?” replied Lem with a friendly smile.

“Then with your kind permission I will occupy it,” said the over-dressed stranger.

“Why, of course,” said our hero.

“You are from the country, I presume,” he continued affably as he sank into the seat alongside our hero.

“Yes, I am. I live near Bennington in the town of Ottsville. Were you ever there?”

“No. I suppose you are taking a vacation trip to the big city?”

“Oh, no; I’m leaving home to make my fortune.”

“That’s nice. I hope you are successful. By the way, the Mayor of New York is my uncle.”

“My, is that so?” said Lem with awe.

“Yes indeed, my name is Wellington Mape.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mape. I’m Lemuel Pitkin.”

“Indeed! An aunt of mine married a Pitkin. Perhaps we’re related.”

Lem was quite elated at the thought that he might be kin to the Mayor of New York without knowing it. He decided that his new acquaintance must be rich because of his clothing and his extreme politeness.

“Are you in business, Mr. Mape?” he asked.

“Well, ahem!” was that suave individual’s rejoinder. “I’m afraid I’m rather an idler. My father left me a cool million, so I don’t feel the need of working.”

“A cool million!” ejaculated Lem. “Why, that’s ten times a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Just so,” said Mr. Mape, smiling at the lad’s enthusiasm.

“That’s an awful pile of money! I’d be satisfied if I had five thousand right now.”

“I’m afraid that five thousand wouldn’t last me very long,” said Mr. Mape with an amused smile.

“Gee! Where would anybody get such a pile of money unless they inherited it?”

“That’s easy,” said the stranger. “Why, I’ve made as much in one day in Wall Street.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yes, I do say. You can take my word for it.”

“I wish I could make some money,” said Lem wistfully, as he thought of the mortgage on his home.

“A man must have money to make money. If now, you had some money ...”

“I’ve got a little under thirty dollars,” said Lem.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all. I had to give Mr. Whipple a note to borrow it.”

“If that’s all the money you have, you’d better take good care of it. I regret to say that despite the efforts of the Mayor, my uncle, there are still many crooks in New York.”

“I intend to be careful.”

“Then you keep your money in a safe place?”

“I haven’t hidden it because a secret pocket is the first place a thief would look. I keep it loose in my trousers where nobody would think I carried so much money.”

“You are right. I can see that you are a man of the world.”

“Oh, I can take care of myself, I guess,” said Lem with the confidence of youth.

“That comes of being a Pitkin. I’m glad to know that we’re related. You must call on me in New York.”

“Where do you live?”

“At the Ritz. Just ask for Mr. Wellington Mape’s suite of rooms.”

“Is it a good place to live?”

“Why, yes. I pay three dollars a day for my board, and the incidentals carry my expenses up to as high as forty dollars a week.”

“Gee,” ejaculated Lem. “I could never afford it—that is, at first.” And our hero laughed with the incurable optimism of youth.

“You of course should find a boarding house where they give you plain but solid fare for a reasonable sum.... But I must bid you good morning, a friend is waiting for me in the next car.”

After the affable Mr. Wellington Mape had taken his departure, Lem turned again to his vigil at the car window.

The news butcher had changed his cap. “Apples, bananas, oranges!” he shouted as he came down the aisle with a basket of fruit on his arm.

Lem stopped his rapid progress to ask him the price of an orange. It was two cents, and he decided to buy one to eat with the hard-boiled egg his mother had given him. But when our hero thrust his hand into his pocket, a wild spasm contracted his features. He explored further, with growing trepidation, and a sickly pallor began to spread over his face.

“What’s the matter?” asked Steve, for that was the train boy’s name.

“I’ve been robbed! My money’s gone! All the money Mr. Whipple lent me has been stolen!”