Читать книгу The Woman Gives - Owen Johnson - Страница 6

“That’s it. How?”

“Six—all six at once—too much. Dangerous,” said King O’Leary sadly. “And, son, I wouldn’t have ’em harm a hair of your head, not a hair.”

“I’ve got idea,” said Flick, all at once. “No strain—you’ll see—coax elevator.”

Tootles, who always remained in the picture, solemnly led King O’Leary into the elevator, saying in a soothing manner,

“It’s all right, King; we all trust Flick.”

Wilder was so touched by this burst of confidence that he momentarily forgot his happy thought. But all at once, as they waited anxiously and expectantly, he woke up and said firmly:

“Up one!”

The elevator groaned and lumbered to the first floor.

“What now?” said Tootles.

“Out!”

The three filed forth.

“Down!”

He led the way down to the ground floor, while they followed him, mystified, and into the elevator again.

“Up two!” said Flick, with the gleam of a field-marshal in his eyes. “Out! Down!”

A third time they entered the elevator, mounted to the third floor and solemnly, like the King of France and all his men, descended three flights and again rose to the fourth. Again at the bottom, Flick condescended to explain:

“One flight at time—see? No strain. Always be kind to elevators—see? Coax elevators.”

“Absolutely,” said King O’Leary, with the dignity of an archbishop.

Tootles, inwardly convulsed, maintained a grave face, assuming the tense gravity of his two friends, mounting to the fifth floor and carefully descending the long stone flights, his hands on King O’Leary’s shoulders, whose hands in turn reposed on Flick’s scrawny back, which stiffened with the sense of responsibility of a chosen leader. They waited solemnly for Sassafras, standing in dusky line, for all the world like a vat, a walking-stick, and a peanut, until the elevator sank, gleaming, to the level. Then they entered, rose to the sixth floor, and congratulated Flick.

Back in the windy corridor, with two dusky spots of light overhead and empty milk-bottles before the doors, King O’Leary was seized with a new emotion, an overflowing love of mankind, and a longing to cheer blighted existences.

“Poor things,—poor miserable things!” he said, contemplating the row of shadowy doors. “No Christmas cheer.”

“No peace on earth, no good-will to men,” said Flick, seeing the idea and almost moved to tears.

“Son, we never thought—did we?—never thought of that.”

“Never,” said Flick.

“We must.”

“Absolutely,” said Flick, who had been struck by the word, and he frowned and asked, “What should we think?”

“We should think—” began King O’Leary, and stopped, lost in conjecture. He repeated: “We should think,” and turned, looking to Flick for relief. “I say, what was the thing—the thing I told you we should think about?”

Wilder, thus appealed to, shook his head mournfully, and Tootles had visions of crowning the last two hours’ labors with the blissful prospect of getting them safely into the studio and to bed, when, as luck would have it, King O’Leary’s foot came in contact with a milk bottle. The rolling sound revived his memory.

“We must cheer—bring cheer—bring presents,” said King O’Leary, getting at length to his thought. “Every one must have presents—Christmas presents.”

Tootles here interposed hastily, with the irritation of the sober pilot who sees the harbor of rest escaping.

“To-morrow. Good idea! To-morrow we’ll get presents for them all—fine—but to-morrow! Now bedtime.”

This ending was unfortunate, as Tootles felt the moment he had uttered it.

“Never bedtime,” said Flick indignantly.

“Presents—now—Christmas Eve—Santa Claus,” said King O’Leary, with equal firmness. “Go right down—now.”

“All right, then; go and get them,” said Tootles, in despair, and, at the end of his patience, he entered the studio and shut the door. “Well, they’ll come back in about a week, I suppose,” he said angrily. “Three o’clock! Lord! I’ve got to get some sleep.”

But to his surprise, in about half an hour he heard them returning, having accomplished the upper trip by the same gradual process. He peered cautiously out and perceived them laden with paper bags, solemnly and reverently passing from door to door and placing before each one orange, one hazel nut, and one raisin. They entered with the satisfied serenity of good Samaritans, and, perceiving Tootles in pajamas, were immediately struck by the same idea.

“We must put the child to bed,” said King O’Leary.

“Absolutely. Christmas eve. Children should be asleep—all children.”

They addressed him affectionately, lifted him up tenderly, and placed him in bed (Tootles was wise enough to submit), tucked him in solicitously, and chuckling over some plotted joke, got out three stockings, which they hung up with difficulty and filled from the bags.

Tootles, peeping over the coverlet, laughed to himself at their grotesque efforts and air of concentrated seriousness, waiting until they had fallen asleep on the couches. He arose, listened to the heavy breathing a moment, and, being of an economical trend, passed into the hall to collect the oranges. At O’Leary’s door he perceived the end of an envelope and drew it forth.

“That’s queer,” he said to himself, examining it. “It’s neither a bill nor an advertisement.” This in itself, was an event in the Arcade. “How strange!”

He placed it between his teeth and continued on his mission. But as he reached the further end of the hall, fronting Broadway, he perceived, to his amazement, that the oranges which should be there had disappeared. He stopped, with ear on edge, listening for a sound, but no sound returned. Then he went along on tiptoe, vastly intrigued. There was the door of Lorenzo P. Drinkwater, counsellor-at-law. But there was no sign of any one’s being up. Neither there, nor at the next, which bore the names of Miss Belle Shaler and Miss Pansy Hartmann, with the placard:

Out for lunch. Leave messages with elevator-man.

Miss Angelica Quirley’s room was likewise dark, as was the next of Miss Millie Brewster. But opposite, through the foggy glass door inscribed “Aristide Jean-Marie Cornelius” a faint blur was showing—a telltale streak of yellow under the door.

“By Jove, it’s the baron!” he said to himself, and he remained a long moment, stock-still, in surprise. “Wonder if the poor devil is actually hungry. Well, if he is—” He yielded to the good impulse, softly placed three oranges in line, and withdrew on tiptoe.

Back in the studio, he took the letter from his lips, scanned it curiously, and then inserted it in the stocking which was King O’Leary’s by right of a desperate scrawl. He approached the two sleepers, drew a blanket over each and stood a moment studying the new friend who had dropped in on their existence as though he had fallen like the rain-drip through the skylight, drawing his own conclusions, neither judge nor sinner but wise young philosopher.

King O’Leary lay with his head on an outstretched arm, which showed the green tracings of a tattoo, the shock of hair well off the clear and friendly forehead, the face flushed and contracted in a painful frown, as though still under the fever of tormenting recollections.

“Not the sort that bats for nothing,” thought Tootles. “The kind that drinks to forget. Wonder what the deuce is back of it all, old boy. Well, you wouldn’t make a bad Santa Claus at that!”

He put out the lights slowly, one by one—the great green Chinese dragon floating in mid-air, where it had swallowed a bulb which gleamed through its belly; the twin yellow shades on either side of the door, held up by brass statues of Liberty, sadly tarnished—until only the four yellow eyes of the owls remained glowing out of the upper darkness. Then he cautiously withdrew the electric button from Flick’s relaxed fingers and extinguishing these in turn, tiptoed over and went gratefully to bed.