Читать книгу The Woman Gives - Owen Johnson - Страница 5

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Flick Wilder was stretched on his back on the shadowy couch, hands under his head, legs crossed, and one foot pointed toward the skylight, against which the reflections of the opposite hotel cast a blurred glamour.

“Hello; you here?” said Tootles, in surprise.

“Mostly.”

“Sober?”

“Alas!”

“What are you mooning there on your back for?” said Tootles, turning on the pink and yellow lights.

“I’m laughing over a new joke,” said Wilder, in anything but an hilarious tone.

“Good Lord, Flick,” said Tootles, stopping short: “don’t tell me you are in the glums, too?”

“Who’re you talking to?” said Wilder, as though the question deserved no answer.

“Fellow down the hall.”

“The high-life gink who is moving into the corner studio?”

“No; O’Leary—fellow next to Lady Vere De Vere,” said Tootles, thus characterizing Miss Inga Sonderson, who had impressed him with her haughty aloofness.

“Oh!” Wilder slowly drew himself up and looked inquiringly at Tootles. “What time?”

“Dinner-time, naturally.”

“Art,” said Wilder severely, “there are some sacred words which you ought to respect.”

“I was just thinking how lovely it would be to sit down before a large, juicy beefsteak,” said Tootles incorrigibly. “You know the kind, browned on the outside, rare inside, melting in the mouth.”

Wilder flung a slipper across the room that missed Tootles’ head and clattered among the paint-brushes.

“Well, Literature, supposing there is an ice-box, is there anything in it?”

“You’re forgetting your English accent, Tootles,” said Wilder, as he bustled, whistling, over to the window-box.

“My word—so I am!” said Tootles, following and peering over his shoulder.

Wilder drew forth half a bottle of milk, an open tin of potted ham and several portions of bread.

“The sardines,” he said, “are for our Christmas dinner.”

“Don’t let’s overeat,” said Tootles seriously, trying to coax forth a smile. “Flick, the stomach must be empty when the brain is full.”

They sat down at the table, facing each other.

“What! No finger-bowls?” said Tootles facetiously, drumming a march on the table.

“Art, it’s no use,” said Wilder, shaking his head. “It’s a bum night. Damn Christmas anyhow!”

“Ah, but wait until Santa Claus comes,” said Tootles brightly.

At this moment, as though in answer, there came two sharp raps on the door that set the glass to rattling.

“Who’s that?” said Wilder, startled at the coincidence.

“Santa Claus,” said Tootles. “Well, come in if you’re good looking.”

The door opened immediately, and King O’Leary’s broad shoulders loomed out of the dusk. He stood there in his flannel shirt and loose tie, at ease from a long acquaintance with the freemasonry of men, peering in at the oddities of the studio, which seemed to amuse him immensely. Then he saluted, with the curious, fluttering salute of the English private, and exclaimed:

“Hello, neighbors! Am I butting in?”

“Not at all,” said Tootles cheerily. “What can we do for you?” He waved a hand toward Wilder, adding: “My collaborator, the Hope of Literature, Mr. Flick Wilder.”

“Glad to know you,” said the new arrival, shaking hands heartily, as though he were indeed delighted at the opportunity. “My name’s O’Leary.” And he added, grinning expectantly, “What do you collaborate in?”

“In the studio, of course,” said Tootles. “I pay the rent, and he occupies it.”

Wilder at once transferred this to his memorandum-book with an appreciative nod.

“Gentlemen, this place has sort of gotten on my nerves to-night,” said O’Leary, by way of explanation. “Christmas usually does, whether I’m in Singapore, Manila, or hoofing it up the Roo Royale. If I’m butting in, kick me out, but if you fellows have got it as bad as I have, what do you say to pooling our misery and grubbing together. It strikes me that’s better than chewing the cud in our corners.”

Wilder looked at Tootles, who said with gravity, in his best English manner:

“Your idea interests me strangely; but the fact is—well, we’ve been out so much in society lately that we thought we’d enjoy a quiet little supper at home—” King O’Leary glanced at the table; perceiving which, Tootles hastened to add, “No, that isn’t for the canary; that is just the hors d’œuvres.”

“Strapped?”

“That is a vulgar way of expressing the same idea.”

“Stranger treats the crowd,” said O’Leary with an easy authority. “That’s the rule of the game wherever I have played. I’m asking you. Happen to have a little swelling in the pocket just at present. When it’s empty, which will be soon enough, why—your turn. How about it, neighbors? Suppose we look each other over and size it up?”

Half an hour later they deployed from the Arcade and set out for Healy’s, grimly determined on revelry and the conquest of the glums. Unfortunately, the Christmas crowds were still about them, homeward bound.

“They might get home at a decent hour,” said Flick, indignantly.

“No turkeys to-night,” said Tootles. “I’m against it. My word! The thought of all those birds, plucked and skinned, thousands and thousands”—he reflected a moment—“no, hundreds of thousands—think of it—hundreds of thousands of turkeys!”

“Confound them, they look happy,” said Flick, blowing the snow from his nostrils. “Well, anyhow, they’ll all be ill to-morrow!”

King O’Leary squared his shoulders and looked straight ahead, but he found a moment, as they were crossing the newsboys at the subway, to slip surreptitiously a shiny quarter into the fist of a pursuing urchin.

“No public stuff,” he said, as he entered by the bar entrance. “A quiet corner where men can lounge and spin a yarn as they like. Here’s a seat. Shove in.” He glanced at the rough-hewn crowd by the rail, and said grimly: “Mighty grateful to you fellows. Suppose I’d have had to pick up with one of those guys.”

They slipped into a padded nook with high backs, tucked away from the whirl of mirrors and the regimented bottles beyond the black, curved backs, and derbies pushed over the ears.

“What’ll it be?”

“No turkey,” said Tootles.

“And no cranberry sauce,” added Flick.

“No, no—forget all that!”

But at this moment, as though the spirit of the holiday were bent on pursuing them like a tantalizing imp, a stableman, affably inclined, saluted the room in his departure.

“Well, and good luck to youse all. A foine Christmas!”

“How about a steak?” said Tootles hastily.

“That hits me, and we’ll have it planked,” said O’Leary.

“Better look at the tax,” said Flick, in a burst of friendliness.

“Rot! We’ll make a night of it!” said King O’Leary, with the gesture of a millionaire toward Schnapps, the veteran waiter, who grinned down at them from his gobbler head.

“My word! If I ordered that, they’d make me show the goods,” said Tootles, in admiration. “Have you found a gold mine?”

“Hardly that.”

“Been away quite a bit, haven’t you?”

“Yep; just back.” He paused, and noting the curiosity written on the faces of his guests, said: “Suppose it’s up to me to give an account of myself.” Schnapps was back with a bottle. O’Leary poured out his glass of whisky, taking it neat, with a look of surprise at Tootles’ refusal. “Water-wagon? Always have been? Well, don’t know but what you have the advantage. Will say this, though, cottoned right up to you, boy, over there in that elevator. You got the first laugh out of me in a long blue day, and that’s more than I thought any one could do. Here’s to you! Kind of reckon we’ll hit it off. You’ll find me a different sort day after to-morrow—right there with the repartee and the jollying stuff. How!” He emptied the glass and pushed it away. “I say, we might as well start fair. I’m apt to get pretty down—not violent—just down. Savvy?”

“I’ve handled them before,” said Tootles cheerily, with a glance of tribute to Flick. “Go as far as you like. This is free soil.”

“What made you turn around there in the hall and wish me luck?” said King O’Leary slowly.

“Don’t know. Kind of felt how you felt, I suppose.”

“You hit it, all right. But that’s something we won’t talk about. Well, lads, I suppose you’re curious about me, same as I am about you. If I were to tell you all the scrapes I’ve been in and out of in thirty-seven years, we’d be sitting here at Easter. If any one should ask me what I did, suppose I’d have to answer—just circulate.

“That’s what I’ve been doing—for I’ve been doing everything, and some of it is worth the telling, as you’ll hear if we get to chumming. If you ask me what I like, I’d rather beat the box than eat. Don’t know anything about it, but just can’t help playing—natural ear. When I get short of funds, I wander in anywhere, café or vaudeville, and whip up the old pianner—All right, Schnapps, don’t annoy the bottle—Trouble with me, I suppose is, I got to roaming early. A habit now. Am never long in one spot before something comes tugging around at my shirt sleeve and I get to dreaming of fast expresses, or sailing into blue seas, or Piccadilly on Saturday night, or the little dog-sleds up in Alasky or something far-off and similar. Times there are when I think I’ve come to the point of driving a stake. Suppose it’ll strike me some time. I ain’t quite as restless as I used to be, but just at present, why, say—if you were to suggest skipping down to Coentes Slip and shipping for Honolulu or Madagascar, I’d beat you to it.”

“Do you feel that way?” said Flick, opening his eyes with delight. “Shake! You’re my long-lost brother.”

“However, we’re not shipping before the mast,” said Tootles anxiously, who saw the dinner arriving with relief. “We’re eating a nice, ripe, juicy steak with friend Santa Claus.”

“Where have you come from now?” said Flick, waking up.

“Had a try at Alasky, sunk it all in a bum mine and a phony partner,” said O’Leary. “Got as far as Kansas City and got trimmed by a pickpocket while I snoozed. Boys, I certainly was up against it there. Had to take a job as a coachman. Mighty little I had to go on, but luck was with me. Usually is, wherever I tumble. The horses were a couple of baa-lambs that an infant could have harnessed, let alone driven. That was all right, I bluffed through that. But the old lady was a terror. The old man had struck it sudden, and she was wallowing in that carriage. She was fierce. She was a fat woman, and she swore like a mule-driver. I tell you, that month was something awful. I stood it until she drove down to the bank and paid me off, jabbing me in the back with her parasol and swearing directions under her breath. I’ve stood a good deal in my little canters around this globe, but I can’t stand being sworn at by a fat woman on a public street.”

“What did you do?” said Tootles, adding a curling strip of brown potatoes, smothered onions, and splashes of beans, peas, and carrots to each plate.

“With fifty dollars tucked away, I laid for her until out she came with a final poke in the ribs. Then I hauled in my horses, took off my livery, made her a bow, and handed it over to her with the reins, right there in the main street. By jingo, it was worth it to see her face!”

“What’s the queerest job you ever landed?” said Flick, savoring the steak with gratitude.

“Queerest?” said O’Leary, scratching his head and seeming to return over a long and grotesque line. “I’ve done some funny things in my time.”

“Tell you what I did over in Chattanooga—in red-hot midsummer, too,” said Flick, in a burst of confidence. “I was a dog-catcher.”

“That certainly is going down for it,” said O’Leary, grinning. “But I’ve got you beat. I subbed in a face-parlor.”

“A what?”

“Painted out black eyes and that sort of thing. Fact—out in Chicago.”

“My word!” said Tootles, overjoyed to see a beam of good humor breaking through the clouds. “I wonder that I associate with such persons.”

“Leaving out the dog-catcher,” said O’Leary, falling with gusto to the attack of his heaped-up plate, “I do believe, with the exception of preaching and tooth-extracting, I’ve tried them all. I’ve run a country paper. There’s a story there I’ll give you some day. Lord! I even taught school in the Philippines to the pesky heathen. Have mined for gold, silver, copper, diamonds, and zinc, from Cripple Creek to Kimberley. I’ve traded and sold everything from a thousand cattle to peddling collar-buttons at the Queen’s Jubilee. I’ve been a bartender in Paree, and into a peck of trouble, too. I’ve run a steam laundry in Porto Ricky and had the whole danged business washed away in a hurricane. I’ve dipped into a few spring revolutions in South Americky, and I rode out with Jameson in the raid that kicked out the whole African mess. Got in and out of Kimberley, and joined the Rough Riders with Teddy—here’s to him! Never was much of a sailor, but I’ve seen my time before the mast through the Southern seas (that’s how I appreciated your nautical terms, boy) when I stowed away for Chiny and Calcutta. Lord, where haven’t I been?”

“O’Leary, you’re either a hell of a big liar or a regular fellow,” said Flick, cheerfully, “and either way, I’m for you.”

“Maybe I’m blowing too much,” said O’Leary quietly. “But it’s sort o’ whistling in the wind to keep your courage up. However, I’ve laid my cards on the table. That’s me. Well, this is starting good enough to keep it going. What do you say to taking in a show? There’s something in the line of vaudeville over at the Colonial?”

“Is there so much money in the world?” said Tootles doubtfully.

“Boy, a taxi!” said King O’Leary, pounding on the table gorgeously.

“I’m beginning to feel like the Fourth of July,” said Flick, who gave in completely with this last display of magnificence.

“That’s what we’ll make it,” said King O’Leary. “Schnapps, steal the change. Come on.”

The visit to the theater was the undoing of all the good work accomplished, nor could the result have been foreseen. The orchestra was comfortably filled with an indiscriminate scattering of transients, plainly marooned, and the three friends, being resolved to laughter, applauded the opening numbers with such zest that they woke up the torpid house and had the entertainers gratefully aiming their shafts in the direction of their box for the pure joy of rousing King O’Leary’s soul-filling, rumbling laughter, to hear which was infection itself. The outer world, the season, and the calendar had been shut away as they roared over the grotesque tumbles and trippings of a comic acrobat who gyrated fearfully on a bicycle the size of a house, when the curtain went down and up again on the Lovibond Sisters. “Sweet Singers from the South,” who, according to the program, “would introduce sentimental favorites.”

All their mirth vanished. They waited glumly through “Annie Laurie,” and fidgeted as the quartet quavered into “Way Down Upon the Suwanee River,” but when “My Old Kentucky Home” began, with moonlight effects on the back drop and cowbells tinkling, O’Leary got up suddenly and said:

“Hell! Let’s beat it.”

They emerged glumly on the sidewalk, while Flick swore copiously for the crowd and led the way down the avenue to Campeau’s, where they found a table in a noisy gathering thundered over by a dynamic orchestra.

“O’Leary, it’s no use,” said Flick; “we can’t get away from it.”

“Guess you’re right.”

They stayed there a long while, passing into the confidential stage, while Tootles consumed large quantities of ginger ale and sought desperately to stem the rising tide, which came rolling in blackly. They had yielded to their depression, reveling in it. While King O’Leary listened, jerking at his fingers, Flick reminisced of forgotten days in a little Western town, of white Christmases when the relations gathered in jingling sleighs and the table was crowned with a wild turkey at one end and a crackling pig at the other.

“With a roast apple in his snout, and a ribbon—a blue—no, a pink ribbon decorating his ornery little tail. King, I can taste that pig yet—fact—good pig—good old pig! What did we use to call him? Can’t remember.” He went off into a foggy search, dipping his finger in a puddle of water on the table and seeking to reconstruct it in the shape of his remembered idol. “Looked like that—just so. There’s the tail—see? We used to fight to get that tail, Lem, Minnie, and me—” He suddenly looked up, as though conscious of O’Leary’s staring silence. “I say, did you used to have pig—roast pig? No? Well, what sort of Christmas did you have?”

“There was only one that counted,” said King O’Leary, frowning stubbornly, “and that, son, we won’t talk about.”

“Why not?” said Flick indignantly. He added, as though in his clouded brain he had found the answer, “Secret sorrow—that it?”

“Call it that.”

The news seemed further to depress Flick. He contemplated the shining plate with deep commiseration, shaking his head.

“All right. Sorry—mighty sorry. Felt that right off about you. Fact! Shake—shake hands.”

Tootles watched Flick, a little maudlin, silently offer his hand to King O’Leary, who took it glumly and abruptly arose as though shaking off a leaden weight, saying:

“Well, I’ve had enough of this place. Beat it again.”

They began to wander, east and west, up-town and down-town, seeking memory’s oblivion, finding it always dogging their heels—a rapid, confused passage through lighted restaurants and noisy cafés, with momentary junctions in casual parties. They ended up in an all-night restaurant, where King O’Leary took possession of the piano, Tootles conducting the orchestra, while Flick, with pompous dignity, singled out the fattest and oldest ladies and made them a bow, saying with terrific dignity:

“Madam, will you accord me the honor of this dance? No? I am sorry—very sorry, but thank you, thank you perfectly jus’ same.”

Tootles, finally, in the wee hours, coaxed them back to the Arcade (after many a slip), and woke up Sassafras, whose fee for such gala performances was half a dollar. But on the threshold of the elevator King O’Leary suddenly remembered the alarming ascent of the afternoon and hastily imparted the information to Flick, saying:

“Wouldn’t have it harm a hair of your head, not a hair. Understand? Like you, boy. No harm!”

“Must be careful, very careful,” said Flick solemnly. “Won’t stand great strain, see? That’s the idea.”

“I see,” said King O’Leary, “but how?”