Our Mr. Wrenn, the Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man eBook (2024)

Our Mr. Wrenn, the Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man by Sinclair Lewis

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Title: Our Mr. WrennThe Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man

Author: Sinclair Lewis

Release Date: January, 2004 [EBook #4961] [Yes,we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [Thisfile was first posted on April 4, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** Start of the project gutenbergEBOOK our Mr. Wrenn ***

This eBook was edited by Charles Aldarondo (www.aldarondo.net).

OUR MR. WRENN

THE ROMANTIC ADVENTURES OF A GENTLE MAN

BY

SINCLAIR LEWIS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

MCMXIV

TOGRACE LIVINGSTONE HEGGER

CHAPTER I

MR. WRENN IS LONELY

The ticket-taker of the Nickelorion Moving-PictureShow is a public personage, who stands out on FourteenthStreet, New York, wearing a gorgeous light-blue coatof numerous brass buttons. He nods to all thepatrons, and his nod is the most cordial in town. Mr. Wrenn used to trot down to Fourteenth Street,passing ever so many other shows, just to get thatcordial nod, because he had a lonely furnished roomfor evenings, and for daytime a tedious job that alwaysmade his head stuffy.

He stands out in the correspondence of the Souvenirand Art Novelty Company as “Our Mr. Wrenn,”who would be writing you directly and explaining everythingmost satisfactorily. At thirty-four Mr. Wrennwas the sales-entry clerk of the Souvenir Company. He was always bending over bills and columns of figuresat a desk behind the stock-room. He was a meeklittle bachlor—­a person of inconspicuousblue ready-made suits, and a small unsuccessful mustache.

To-day—­historians have established thedate as April 9, 1910—­there had been someconfusing mixed orders from the Wisconsin retailers,and Mr. Wrenn had been “called down” bythe office manager, Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle. He needed the friendly nod of the Nickelorion ticket-taker. He found Fourteenth Street, after office hours, sweptby a dusty wind that whisked the skirts of countlessplump Jewish girls, whose V-necked blouses showedsoft throats of a warm brown. Under the elevatedstation he secretly made believe that he was in Paris,for here beautiful Italian boys swayed with trays ofviolets; a tramp displayed crimson mechanical rabbits,which squeaked, on silvery leading-strings; and anewsstand was heaped with the orange and green andgold of magazine covers.

“Gee!” inarticulated Mr. Wrenn. “Lots of colors. Hope I see foreign stufflike that in the moving pictures.”

He came primly up to the Nickelorion, feeling in hisvest pockets for a nickel and peering around the boothat the friendly ticket-taker. But the latterwas thinking about buying Johnny’s pants. Should he get them at the Fourteenth Street Store,or Siegel-Cooper’s, or over at Aronson’s,near home? So ruminating, he twiddled his wheelmechanically, and Mr. Wrenn’s pasteboard slipwas indifferently received in the plate-glass gulletof the grinder without the taker’s even seeingthe clerk’s bow and smile.

Mr. Wrenn trembled into the door of the Nickelorion. He wanted to turn back and rebuke this fellow, butwas restrained by shyness. He had likedthe man’s “Fine evenin’, sir “—­rainor shine—­but he wouldn’t stand forbeing cut. Wasn’t he making nineteen dollarsa week, as against the ticket-taker’s ten ortwelve? He shook his head with the defiance ofa cornered mouse, fussed with his mustache, and regardedthe moving pictures gloomily.

They helped him. After a Selig domestic dramacame a stirring Vitagraph Western scene, “TheGoat of the Rancho,” which depicted with muchhumor and tumult the revolt of a ranch cook, a Chinaman. Mr. Wrenn was really seeing, not cow-punchers andsage-brush, but himself, defying the office manager’ssurliness and revolting against the ticket-man’srudeness. Now he was ready for the nearly overpoweringdelight of travel-pictures. He bounced slightlyas a Gaumont film presented Java.

He was a connoisseur of travel-pictures, for all hislife he had been planning a great journey. Thoughhe had done Staten Island and patronized an excursionto Bound Brook, neither of these was his grand tour. It was yet to be taken. In Mr. Wrenn, apparentlyfastened to New York like a domestic-minded barnacle,lay the possibilities of heroic roaming. He knewit. He, too, like the man who had taken theGaumont pictures, would saunter among dusky Javannatives in “markets with tiles on the roofsand temples and—­and—­uh, well—­places!” The scent of Oriental spices was in his broadenednostrils as he scampered out of the Nickelorion, withouta look at the ticket-taker, and headed for “home”—­forhis third-floor-front on West Sixteenth Street.He wanted to prowl through his collection of steamshipbrochures for a description of Java. But, ofcourse, when one’s landlady has both the sciaticaand a case of Patient Suffering one stops in the basem*ntdining-room to inquire how she is.

Mrs. Zapp was a fat landlady. When she sat downthere was a straight line from her chin to her knees. She was usually sitting down. When she movedshe groaned, and her apparel creaked. She groanedand creaked from bed to breakfast, and ate five griddle-cakes,two helpin’s of scrapple, an egg, some rump steak,and three cups of coffee, slowly and resentfully. She creaked and groaned from breakfast to her rocking-chair,and sat about wondering why Providence had inflictedupon her a weak digestion. Mr. Wrenn also wonderedwhy, sympathetically, but Mrs. Zapp was too conscientiouslydolorous to be much cheered by the sympathy of a nigg*r-lovin’Yankee, who couldn’t appreciate the subtle sorrowsof a Zapp of Zapp’s Bog, allied to all the FirstFamilies of Virginia.

Mr. Wrenn did nothing more presumptuous than sit still,in the stuffy furniture-crowded basem*nt room, whichsmelled of dead food and deader pride in a race thathad never existed. He sat still because thechair was broken. It had been broken now forfour years.

For the hundred and twenty-ninth time in those yearsMrs. Zapp said, in her rich corruption of Southernnegro dialect, which can only be indicated here, “Ahbeen meaning to get that chair mended, Mist’Wrenn.” He looked gratified and gazed uponthe crayon enlargements of Lee Theresa, the olderZapp daughter (who was forewoman in a factory), andof Godiva. Godiva Zapp was usually called “Goaty,”and many times a day was she called by Mrs. Zapp. A tamed child drudge was Goaty, with adenoids, whichMrs. Zapp had been meanin’ to have removed, andwhich she would continue to have benevolent meanin’sabout till it should be too late, and she should discoverthat Providence never would let Goaty go to school.

“Yes, Mist’ Wrenn, Ah told Goaty she wasto see the man about getting that chair fixed, butshe nev’ does nothing Ah tell her.”

In the kitchen was the noise of Goaty, ungovernableGoaty, aged eight, still snivelingly washing, thoughnot cleaning, the incredible pile of dinner dishes. With a trail of hesitating remarks on the sadnessof sciatica and windy evenings Mr. Wrenn sneaked forthfrom the august presence of Mrs. Zapp and mountedto paradise—­his third-floor-front.

It was an abjectly respectable room—­thebedspread patched; no two pieces of furniture fromthe same family; half-tones from the magazines pinnedon the wall. But on the old marble mantelpiecelived his friends, books from wanderland. Otherfriends the room had rarely known. It was hardenough for Mr. Wrenn to get acquainted with people,anyway, and Mrs. Zapp did not expect her gennulmanlodgers to entertain. So Mr. Wrenn had givenup asking even Charley Carpenter, the assistant bookkeeperat the Souvenir Company, to call. That left himthe books, which he now caressed with small eagerfinger-tips. He picked out a P. & O. circular,and hastily left for fairyland.

The April skies glowed with benevolence this Saturdaymorning. The Metropolitan Tower was singing,bright ivory tipped with gold, uplifted and intenselyglad of the morning. The buildings walling inMadison Square were jubilant; the honest red-brickfronts, radiant; the new marble, witty. The sparrowsin the middle of Fifth Avenue were all talking atonce, scandalously but cleverly. The polishedbrass of limousines threw off teethy smiles.At least so Mr. Wrenn fancied as he whisked up FifthAvenue, the skirts of his small blue double-breastedcoat wagging. He was going blocks out of hisway to the office; ready to defy time and eternity,yes, and even the office manager. He had awakenedwith Defiance as his bedfellow, and throughout breakfastat the hustler Dairy Lunch sunshine had flickeredover the dirty tessellated floor.

He pranced up to the Souvenir Company’s brickbuilding, on Twenty-eighth Street near Sixth Avenue. In the office he chuckled at his ink-well and theuntorn blotters on his orderly desk. Thoughhe sat under the weary unnatural brilliance of a mercury-vaporlight, he dashed into his work, and was too keen aboutthis business of living merrily to be much flusteredby the bustle of the lady buyer’s superior “Goodmorning.” Even up to ten-thirty he wasstill slamming down papers on his desk. Justlet any one try to stop his course, his readinessfor snapping fingers at The Job; just let them tryit, that was all he wanted!

Then he was shot out of his chair and four feet alongthe corridor, in reflex response to the surly “Bur-r-r-r-r”of the buzzer. Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, themanager, desired to see him. He scampered alongthe corridor and slid decorously through the manager’sdoorway into the long sun-bright room, ornate withrugs and souvenirs. Seven Novelties glitteredon the desk alone, including a large rococo Shakespeare-styleglass ink-well containing cloves and a small iron Pittsburg-styleone containing ink. Mr. Wrenn blinked like anoon-roused owlet in the brilliance. The managerdropped his fist on the desk, glared, smoothed hisflowered prairie of waistcoat, and growled, his redjowls quivering:

“Look here, Wrenn, what’s the matter withyou? The Bronx Emporium order for May Day noveltieswas filled twice, they write me.”

“They ordered twice, sir. By ’phone,”smiled Mr. Wrenn, in an agony of politeness.

“They ordered hell, sir! Twice—­thesame order?”

“Yes, sir; their buyer was prob—­”

“They say they’ve looked it up. Anyway, they won’t pay twice. I know, em. We’ll have to crawl down graceful, and all becauseyou—­I want to know why you ain’t morecareful!”

The announcement that Mr. Wrenn twice wriggled hishead, and once tossed it, would not half denote hiswrath. At last! It was here—­thetime for revolt, when he was going to be defiant.He had been careful; old Goglefogle was only barking;but why should he be barked at? Withhis voice palpitating and his heart thudding so thathe felt sick he declared:

“I’m sure, sir, about that order. I looked it up. Their buyer was drunk!”

It was done. And now would he be discharged? The manager was speaking:

“Probably. You looked it up, eh? Um! Send me in the two order-records. Well. But, anyway, I want you to be more carefulafter this, Wrenn. You’re pretty sloppy. Now get out. Expect me to make firms pay twicefor the same order, cause of your carelessness?”

Mr. Wrenn found himself outside in the dark corridor.
The manager hadn’t seemed much impressed byhis revolt.

The manager wasn’t. He called a stenographerand dictated:

“Bronx Emporium:

“Gentlemen:—­Our Mr. Wrenn hasagain (underline that `again,’ Miss Blaustein),again looked up your order for May Day novelties.As we wrote before, order certainly was duplicatedby ’phone. Our Mr. Wrenn is thoroughlyreliable, and we have his records of these two orders. We shall therefore have to push collection on both—­”

After all, Mr. Wrenn was thinking, the crafty managermight be merely concealing his hand. Perhapshe had understood the defiance. That gladdenedhim till after lunch. But at three, when hishead was again foggy with work and he had forgottenwhether there was still April anywhere, he began todread what the manager might do to him. Supposehe lost his job; The Job! He worked unnecessarilylate, hoping that the manager would learn of it.As he wavered home, drunk with weariness, his fearof losing The Job was almost equal to his desire toresign from The Job.

He had worked so late that when he awoke on Sundaymorning he was still in a whirl of figures. As he went out to his breakfast of coffee and whiskedwheat at the Hustler Lunch the lines between the blocksof the cement walk, radiant in a white flare of sunshine,irritatingly recalled the cross-lines of order-lists,with the narrow cement blocks at the curb standingfor unfilled column-headings. Even the ridgesof the Hustler Lunch’s imitation steel ceiling,running in parallel lines, jeered down at him thathe was a prosaic man whose path was a ruler.

He went clear up to the branch post-office after breakfastto get the Sunday mail, but the mail was a disappointment.He was awaiting a wonderful fully illustrated guideto the Land of the Midnight Sun, a suggestion of possibleand coyly improbable trips, whereas he got only aletter from his oldest acquaintance—­CousinJohn, of Parthenon, New York, the boy-who-comes-to-playof Mr. Wrenn’s back-yard days in Parthenon.Without opening the letter Mr. Wrenn tucked it intohis inside coat pocket, threw away his toothpick,and turned to Sunday wayfaring.

He jogged down Twenty-third Street to the North Riverferries afoot. Trolleys took money, and of courseone saves up for future great traveling. Overhim the April clouds were fetterless vagabonds whosegaiety made him shrug with excitement and take a curbwith a frisk as gambolsome as a Central Park lamb. There was no hint of sales-lists in the clouds, atleast. And with them Mr. Wrenn’s soulswept along, while his half-soled Cum-Fee-Best $3.80shoes were ambling past warehouses. Only oncedid he condescend to being really on Twenty-thirdStreet. At the Ninth Avenue corner, under thegrimy Elevated, he sighted two blocks down to theGeneral Theological Seminary’s brick Gothic andfound in a pointed doorway suggestions of alien beauty.

But his real object was to loll on a West and SouthRailroad in luxury, and go sailing out into the foamand perilous seas of North River. He passedthrough the smoking-cabin. He didn’t smoke—­thehabit used up travel-money. Once seated on theupper deck, he knew that at last he was outward-boundon a liner. True, there was no great motion,but Mr. Wrenn was inclined to let realism off easilyin this feature of his voyage. At least therewere undoubted life-preservers in the white racksoverhead; and everywhere the world, to his certainwitnessing, was turned to crusading, to setting forthin great ships as if it were again in the brisk morningof history when the joy of adventure possessed theArgonauts.

He wasn’t excited over the liners they passed. He was so experienced in all of travel, save thetraveling, as to have gained a calm interested knowledge. He knew the Campagnia three docks away, andexplained to a Harlem grocer her fine points, speakingearnestly of stacks and sticks, tonnage and knots.

Not excited, but—­where couldn’t hego if he were pulling out for Arcady on the Campagnia!Gee! What were even the building-block towersof the Metropolitan and Singer buildings and the Times’scream-stick compared with some old shrine in a cathedralclose that was misted with centuries!

All this he felt and hummed to himself, though notin words. He had never heard of Arcady, thoughfor many years he had been a citizen of that demesne.

Sure, he declared to himself, he was on the linernow; he was sliding up the muddy Mersey (see the W.S. Travel Notes for the source of his visions);he was off to St. George’s Square for an organ-recital(see the English Baedeker); then an express for Londonand—­Gee!

The ferryboat was entering her slip. Mr. Wrenntrotted toward the bow to thrill over the bump ofthe boat’s snub nose against the lofty swayingpiles and the swash of the brown waves heaped beforeher as she sidled into place. He was carriedby the herd on into the station.

He did not notice the individual people in his exultationas he heard the great chords of the station’spaean. The vast roof roared as the iron coursersstamped titanic hoofs of scorn at the little stay-at-home.

That is a washed-out hint of how the poets might describeMr. Wrenn’s passion. What he said was“Gee!”

He strolled by the lists of destinations hung on thetrack gates. Chicago (the plains! the Rockies!sunset over mining-camps!), Washington, and the magicSouthland—­thither the iron horses wouldbe galloping, their swarthy smoke manes whipped backby the whirlwind, pounding out with clamorous stronghoofs their sixty miles an hour. Very well. In time he also would mount upon the iron coursersand charge upon Chicago and the Southland; just assoon as he got ready.

Then he headed for Cortlandt Street; for Long Island,City. finally, the Navy Yard. Along his waywere the docks of the tramp steamers where he mightship as steward in the all-promising Sometime. He had never done anything so reckless as actuallyto ask a skipper for the chance to go a-sailing, buthe had once gone into a mission society’s freeshipping-office on West Street where a disapprovingelder had grumped at him, “Are you a sailor? No? Can’t do anything for you, my friend.Are you saved?” He wasn’t going to riskanother horror like that, yet when the golden morningof Sometime dawned he certainly was going to go cruisingoff to palm-bordered lagoons.

As he walked through Long Island City he contrivedconversations with the sailors he passed. Itwould have surprised a Norwegian bos’un’smate to learn that he was really a gun-runner, andthat, as a matter of fact, he was now telling yarnsof the Spanish Main to the man who slid deprecatinglyby him.

Mr. Wrenn envied the jackies on the training-shipand carelessly went to sea as the President’sguest in the admiral’s barge and was frightenedby the stare of a sauntering shop-girl and arrivedhome before dusk, to Mrs. Zapp’s straitened approval.

Dusk made incantations in his third-floor-front. Pleasantly fa*gged in those slight neat legs, afterhis walk, Mr. Wrenn sat in the wicker rocker by thewindow, patting his scrubby tan mustache and reviewingthe day’s wandering. When the gas waslighted he yearned over pictures in a geographicalmagazine for a happy hour, then yawned to himself,“Well-l-l, Willum, guess it’s time tocrawl into the downy.”

He undressed and smoothed his ready-made suit on therocking-chair back. Sitting on the edge of hisbed, quaint in his cotton night-gown, like a rarelittle bird of dull plumage, he rubbed his head sleepily. Um-m-m-m-m! How tired he was! He wentto open the window. Then his tamed heart leapedinto a waltz, and he forgot third-floor-fronts andsleepiness.

Through the window came the chorus of fog-horns onNorth River. “Boom-m-m!” That mustbe a giant liner, battling up through the fog. (Itwas a ferry.) A liner! She’d be roaringjust like that if she were off the Banks! Ifhe were only off the Banks! “Toot!Toot!” That was a tug. “Whawn-n-n!” Another liner. The tumultuous chorus repeatedto him all the adventures of the day.

He dropped upon the bed again and stared absentlyat his clothes. Out of the inside coat pocketstuck the unopened letter from Cousin John.

He read a paragraph of it. He sprang from thebed and danced a tarantella, pranced in his cottonynightgown like a drunken Yaqui. The letter announcedthat the flinty farm at Parthenon, left to Mr. Wrennby his father, had been sold. Its location ona river bluff had made it valuable to the ParthenonChautauqua Association. There was now to hiscredit in the Parthenon National Bank nine hundredand forty dollars!

He was wealthy, then. He had enough to stalkup and down the earth for many venturesome (but economical)months, till he should learn the trade of wandering,and its mysterious trick of living without a job ora salary.

He crushed his pillow with burrowing head and sobbedexcitedly, with a terrible stomach-sinking and a chillshaking. Then he laughed and wanted to—­butdidn’t—­rush into the adjacent hallroom and tell the total stranger there of this world-changingnews. He listened in the hall to learn whetherthe Zapps were up, but heard nothing; returned andcantered up and down, gloating on a map of the world.

“Gee! It’s happened. I couldtravel all the time. I guess I won’t be—­verymuch—­afraid of wrecks and stuff. . . . Things like that. . . . Gee! If I don’tget to bed I’ll be late at the office in themorning!”

Mr. Wrenn lay awake till three o’clock. Monday morning he felt rather ashamed of having doneso eccentric a thing. But he got to the officeon time. He was worried with the cares of wealth,with having to decide when to leave for his world-wanderings,but he was also very much aware that office managersare disagreeable if one isn’t on time. All morning he did nothing more reckless than balancehis new fortune, plus his savings, against steamshipfares on a waste half-sheet of paper.

The noon-hour was not The Job’s, but his, forexploration of the parlous lands of romance that liehard by Twenty-eighth Street and Sixth Avenue. But he had to go out to lunch with Charley Carpenter,the assistant bookkeeper, that he might tell the news.As for Charley, He needed frequently to have a confidantwho knew personally the tyrannous ways of the officemanager, Mr. Guilfogle.

Mr. Wrenn and Charley chose (that is to say, Charleychose) a table at Drubel’s Eating House. Mr. Wrenn timidly hinted, “I’ve got somebig news to tell you.”

But Charley interrupted, “Say, did you hearold Goglefogle light into me this morning? Iwon’t stand for it. Say, did you hearhim—­the old—­”

“What was the trouble, Charley?”

“Trouble? Nothing was the trouble. Except with old Goglefogle. I made one littlebreak in my accounts. Why, if old Gogie hadto keep track of seventy-’leven accounts andwatch every single last movement of a fool girl thatcan’t even run the adding-machine, why, he’dget green around the gills. He’d neverdo anything but make mistakes! Well,I guess the old codger must have had a bum breakfastthis morning. Wanted some exercise to digestit. Me, I was the exercise—­I was thegoat. He calls me in, and he calls me down,and me—­well, just lemme tell you, Wrenn,I calls his bluff!”

Charley Carpenter stopped his rapid tirade, deliveredwith quick head-shakes like those of palsy, to raisehis smelly cigarette to his mouth. Midway inthis slow gesture the memory of his wrongs again overpoweredhim. He flung his right hand back on the table,scattering cigarette ashes, jerked back his head withthe irritated patience of a nervous martyr, then wavedboth hands about spasmodically, while he snarled,with his cheaply handsome smooth face more flushedthan usual:

“Sure! You can just bet your bottom dollarI let him see from the way I looked at him that Iwasn’t going to stand for no more monkey business. You bet I did!... I’ll fix him, I will.You just watch me. (Hey, Drubel, got any lemonmerang? Bring me a hunk, will yuh?) Why, Wrenn,that cross-eyed double-jointed fat old slob, I’llslam him in the slats so hard some day—­Iwill, you just watch my smoke. If it wasn’tfor that messy wife of mine—­I ought todesert her, and I will some day, and—­”

“Yuh.” Mr. Wrenn was curt for asecond.... “I know how it is, Charley.But you’ll get over it, honest you will. Say, I’ve got some news. Some land thatmy dad left me has sold for nearly a thousand plunks.By the way, this lunch is on me. Let me pay forit, Charley.”

Charley promised to let him pay, quite readily. And, expanding, said:

“Great, Wrenn! Great! Lemme congratulateyou. Don’t know anybody I’d rather’vehad this happen to. You’re a meek littlebaa-lamb, but you’ve got lots of stuff in you,old Wrennski. Oh say, by the way, could. youlet me have fifty cents till Saturday? Thanks. I’ll pay it back sure. By golly! you’rethe only man around the office that ’preciateswhat a double duck-lined old fiend old Goglefogleis, the old—­”

“Aw, gee, Charley, I wish you wouldn’tjump on Guilfogle so hard. He’s alwaystreated me square.”

“Gogie—­square? Yuh, he’ssquare just like a hoop. You know it, too, Wrenn. Now that you’ve got enough money so’syou don’t need to be scared about the job you’llrealize it, and you’ll want to soak him, same’sI do. Say!” The impulse of a greatidea made him gleefully shake his fist sidewise. “Say! Why don’t you soakhim? They bank on you at the Souvenir Company. Darn’ sight more than you realize, lemme tellyou. Why, you do about half the stock-keeper’swork, sides your own. Tell you what you do. You go to old Goglefogle and tell him you want araise to twenty-five, and want it right now. Yes, by golly, thirty! You’re worth that,or pretty darn’ near it, but ’course oldGoglefogle’ll never give it to you. He’llthreaten to fire you if you say a thing more aboutit. You can tell him to go ahead, and then where’llhe be? Guess that’ll call his bluff some!”

“Yes, but, Charley, then if Guilfogle feelshe can’t pay me that much—­you knowhe’s responsible to the directors; he can’tdo everything he wants to—­why, he’lljust have to fire me, after I’ve talked to himlike that, whether he wants to or not. And that’dleave us—­that’d leave them—­withouta sales clerk, right in the busy season.”

“Why, sure, Wrenn; that’s what we wantto do. If you go it ’d leave ’emwithout just about two men. Bother ’emlike the deuce. It ’d bother Mr. MortimerX. Y. Guglefugle most of all, thank the Lord. He wouldn’t know where he was at—­tryingto break in a man right in the busy season. Here’s your chance. Come on, kid; don’tpass it up.”

“Oh gee, Charley, I can’t do that. You wouldn’t want me to try to hurtthe Souvenir Company after being there for—­lemmesee, it must be seven years.”

“Well, maybe you like to get your cutelittle nose rubbed on the grindstone! I supposeyou’d like to stay on at nineteen per for therest of your life.”

“Aw, Charley, don’t get sore; please don’t! I’d like to get off, all right—­liketo go traveling, and stuff like that. Gee! I’d like to wander round. But I can’tcut out right in the bus—­”

“But can’t you see, you poor nut, youwon’t be leaving ’em—­they’lleither pay you what they ought to or lose you.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Charley.

“Charley was making up for some uncertaintyas to his own logic by beaming persuasiveness, andMr. Wrenn was afraid of being hypnotized. “No,no!” he throbbed, rising.

“Well, all right!” snarled Charley, “ifyou like to be Gogie’s goat.... Oh, you’reall right, Wrennski. I suppose you had oughtto stay, if you feel you got to.... Well, solong. I’ve got to beat it over and buya pair of socks before I go back.”

Mr. Wrenn crept out of Drubel’s behind him,very melancholy. Even Charley admitted that he“had ought to stay,” then; and what chancewas there of persuading the dread Mr. Mortimer R.Guilfogle that he wished to be looked upon as one resigning?Where, then, any chance of globe-trotting; perhapsfor months he would remain in slavery, and he hadhoped just that morning—­ One dreadful quarter-hourwith Mr. Guilfogle and he might be free. He grinnedto himself as he admitted that this was like seeingEurope after merely swimming the mid-winter Atlantic.

Well, he had nine minutes more, by his two-dollarwatch; nine minutes of vagabondage. He gazedacross at a Greek restaurant with signs in real Greekletters like “ruins at—­well, at Aythens.”A Chinese chop-suey den with a red-and-yellow carveddragon, and at an upper window a squat Chinaman whomight easily be carrying a kris, “orwhatever them Chink knives are,” as he observedfor the hundredth time he had taken this journey.A rotisserie, before whose upright fender of scarletcoals whole ducks were happily roasting to a shinybrown. In a furrier’s window were Siberianfoxes’ skins (Siberia! huts of “awfulbrave convicks”; the steely Northern Sea; guardsin blouses, just as he’d seen them at an Academyof Music play) and a polar bear (meaning, to him,the Northern Lights, the long hike, and the iglooat night). And the florists! There wereorchids that (though he only half knew it, and thatall inarticulately) whispered to him of jungles where,in the hot hush, he saw the slumbering python and—­“Whatwas it in that poem, that, Mandalay, thing? wasit about jungles? Anyway:

“’Them garlicky smells,
And the sunshine and the palms and the bells.’”

He had to hurry back to the office. He stoppedonly to pat the head of a florist’s deliveryhorse that looked wistfully at him from the curb. “Poor old fella. What you thinking about?Want to be a circus horse and wander? Le’sbeat it together. You can’t, eh? Poor old fella!”

At three-thirty, the time when it seems to officepersons that the day’s work never will end,even by a miracle, Mr. Wrenn was shaky about his dutyto the firm. He was more so after an electricalinterview with the manager, who spent a few minutes,which he happened to have free, in roaring “Iwant to know why” at Mr. Wrenn. Therewas no particular “why” that he wantedto know; he was merely getting scientific efficiencyout of employees, a phrase which Mr. Guilfogle hadtaken from a business magazine that dilutes efficiencytheories for inefficient employers.

At five-twenty the manager summoned him, complimentedhim on nothing in particular, and suggested that hestay late with Charley Carpenter and the stock-keeperto inventory a line of desk-clocks which they wereclosing out.

As Mr. Wrenn returned to his desk he stopped at awindow on the corridor and coveted the bright lateafternoon. The cornices of lofty buildings glistened;the sunset shone fierily through the glass-inclosedlayer-like upper floors. He wanted to be outthere in the streets with the shopping crowds. Old Goglefogle didn’t consider him; why shouldhe consider the firm?

CHAPTER II

HE WALKS WITH MISS THERESA

As he left the Souvenir Company building after workinglate at taking inventory and roamed down toward FourteenthStreet, Mr. Wrenn felt forlornly aimless. Theworst of it all was that he could not go to the Nickelorionfor moving pictures; not after having been cut bythe ticket-taker. Then, there before him wasthe glaring sign of the Nickelorion tempting him; abill with “Great Train Robbery Film Tonight”made his heart thump like stair-climbing—­andhe dashed at the ticket-booth with a nickel doughtilyextended. He felt queer about the scalp as thecashier girl slid out a coupon. Why did she seemto be watching him so closely? As he droppedthe ticket in the chopper he tried to glance awayfrom the Brass-button Man. For one-nineteenthof a second he kept his head turned. It turnedback of itself; he stared full at the man, half bowed—­andreceived a hearty absent-minded nod and a “Fineevenin’.” He sang to himself a monotonoussong of great joy. When he stumbled over thefeet of a large German in getting to a seat, he apologizedas though he were accustomed to laugh easily withmany friends.

The train-robbery film was—­well, he keptrepeating “Gee!” to himself pantingly. How the masked men did sneak, simply sneak and sneak,behind the bushes! Mr. Wrenn shrank as one ofthem leered out of the picture at him. How gallantlythe train dashed toward the robbers, to the spirit-stirringroll of the snare-drum. The rush from the bushesfollowed; the battle with detectives concealed inthe express-car. Mr. Wrenn was standing sturdilyand shooting coolly with the slender hawk-faced Pinkertonman in puttees; with him he leaped to horse and followedthe robbers through the forest. He stayed throughthe whole program twice to see the train robbery again.

As he started to go out he found the ticket-takerchanging his long light-blue robe of state for a highlycommonplace sack-coat without brass buttons. In his astonishment at seeing how a Highness couldbe transformed into an every-day man, Mr. Wrenn stopped,and, having stopped, spoke:

“Uh—­that was quite a—­quitea picture—­that train robbery. Wasn’tit.”

“Yuh, I guess—­Now where’s thedevil and his wife flew away to with my hat? Them guys is always swiping it. Picture, mister? Why, I didn’t see it no more ’n—­Sayyou, Pink Eye, say you crab-footed usher, did youswipe my hat? Ain’t he the cut-up, mister!Ain’t both them ushers the jingling sheepsheads,though! Being cute and hiding my hat in the box-office.Picture? I don’t get no chance to seeany of ’em. Funny, ain’t it?—­mebarking for ’em like I was the grandmother ofthe guy that invented ’em, and not knowing whetherthe train robbery—­Now who stole my going-homeshoes?... Why, I don’t know whether thetrain did any robbing or not!”

He slapped Mr. Wrenn on the back, and the sales clerk’sheart bounded in comradeship. He was surprisedinto declaring:

“Say—­uh—­I bowed to youthe other night and you—­well, honestly,you acted like you never saw me.”

“Well, well, now, and that’s what happensto me for being the dad of five kids and a she-girland a tom-cat. Sure, I couldn’t ’veseen you. Me, I was probably that busy with famblycares—­I was probably thinking who was itet the lemon pie on me—­was it Pete or Johnny,or shall I lick ’em both together, or just biteme wife.”

Mr. Wrenn knew that the ticket-taker had never, neverreally considered biting his wife. He knew! His nod and grin and “That’s the idea!”were urbanely sophisticated. He urged:

“Oh yes, I’m sure you didn’t intendto hand me the icy mitt. Say! I’mthirsty. Come on over to Moje’s and I’llbuy you a drink.”

He was aghast at this abyss of money-spending intowhich he had leaped, and the Brass-button Man wassuspiciously wondering what this person wanted ofhim; but they crossed to the adjacent saloon, a NewYork corner saloon, which of course “glittered”with a large mirror, heaped glasses, and a long shiningfoot-rail on which, in bravado, Mr. Wrenn placed hisCum-Fee-Best shoe.

“Uh?” said the bartender.

“Rye, Jimmy,” said the Brass-button Man.

“Uh-h-h-h-h,” said Mr. Wrenn, in a frighteneddiminuendo, now that—­wealthy citizen thoughhe had become—­he was in danger of exposureas a mollycoddle who couldn’t choose his drinkproperly. “Stummick been hurting me. Guess I’d better just take a lemonade.”

“You’re the brother-in-law to a wise one,”commented the Brass-button Man. “Me, Iain’t never got the sense to do the trafficcop on the booze. The old woman she says to me,`Mory,’ she says, `if you was in heaven andthere was a pail of beer on one side and a gold harpon the other,’ she says, `and you was to haveyour pick, which would you take?’ And what ’dyuh think I answers her?”

“The beer,” said the bartender. “She had your number, all right.”

“Not on your tin-type,” declared the ticket-taker.

“`Me?’ I says to her. `Me? I’dpinch the harp and pawn it for ten growlers of Dutchbeer and some man-sized rum!’”

“Hee, hee hee!” grinned Mr. Wrenn.

“Ha, ha, ha!” grumbled the bartender.

“Well-l-l,” yawned the ticket-taker, “theold woman’ll be chasing me best pants aroundthe flat, if she don’t have me to chase, prettysoon. Guess I’d better beat it. Muchobliged for the drink, Mr. Uh. So long, Jimmy.”

Mr. Wrenn set off for home in a high state of exhilarationwhich, he noticed, exactly resembled driving an aeroplane,and went briskly up the steps of the Zapps’genteel but unexciting residence. He was muchnearer to heaven than West Sixteenth Street appearsto be to the outsider. For he was an explorerof the Arctic, a trusted man on the job, an associateof witty Bohemians. He was an army lieutenantwho had, with his friend the hawk-faced Pinkertonman, stood off bandits in an attack on a train. He opened and closed the door gaily.

He was an apologetic little Mr. Wrenn. His landladystood on the bottom step of the hall stairs in a bunchyMother Hubbard, groaning:

“Mist’ Wrenn, if you got to come in solate, Ah wish you wouldn’t just make all thenoise you can. Ah don’t see why Ah shouldhave to be kept awake all night. Ah suppose it’sthe will of the Lord that whenever Ah go out to seeMrs. Muzzy and just drink a drop of coffee Ah mustget insomina, but Ah don’t see why anybody thattries to be a gennulman should have to go and bangthe door and just rack mah nerves.”

He slunk up-stairs behind Mrs. Zapp’s lumberinggloom.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you,Mrs. Zapp—­something that’s happenedto me. That’s why I was out celebratinglast evening and got in so late.” Mr.Wrenn was diffidently sitting in the basem*nt.

“Yes,” dryly, “Ah noticed you wasout late, Mist’ Wrenn.”

“You see, Mrs. Zapp, I—­uh—­myfather left me some land, and it’s been soldfor about one thousand plunks.”

" Ah’m awful’ glad, Mist’ Wrenn,”she said, funereally. “Maybe you’dlike to take that hall room beside yours now. The two rooms’d make a nice apartment.” (She really said “nahs ‘pahtmun’,“you understand.)

“Why, I hadn’t thought much about thatyet.” He felt guilty, and was profuselycordial to Lee Theresa Zapp, the factory forewoman,who had just thumped down-stairs.

Miss Theresa was a large young lady with a bust, muchblack hair, and a handsome disdainful discontentedface. She waited till he had finished greetingher, then sniffed, and at her mother she snarled:

“Ma, they went and kept us late again to-night. I’m getting just about tired of having a bunchof Jews and Yankees think I’m a nigg*r. Uff! I hate them!”

“T’resa, Mist’ Wrenn’s justinherited two thousand dollars, and he’s goingto take that upper hall room.” Mrs. Zappbeamed with maternal fondness at the timid lodger.

But the gallant friend of Pinkertons faced her—­forthe first time. “Waste his travel-money?”he was inwardly exclaiming as he said:

“But I thought you had some one in that room. I heard som—­”

“That fellow! Oh, he ain’t goingto be perm’nent. And he promised me—­Soyou can have—­”

“I’m awful sorry, Mrs. Zapp, butI’m afraid I can’t take it. Factis, I may go traveling for a while.”

“Co’se you’ll keep your room ifyou do, Mist’ Wrenn?”

“Why, I’m afraid I’ll have to giveit up, but—­Oh, I may not be going for along long while yet; and of course I’ll be gladto come—­I’ll want to come back herewhen I get back to New York. I won’t begone for more than, oh, probably not more than a yearanyway, and—­”

“And Ah thought you said you was going to beperm’nent!” Mrs. Zapp began quietly, prefatoryto working herself up into hysterics. “Andhere Ah’ve gone and had your room fixed up justfor you, and new paper put in, and you’ve alwaysbeen talking such a lot about how you wanted yourfurniture arranged, and Ah’ve gone and madeall mah plans—­”

Mr. Wrenn had been a shyly paying guest of the Zappsfor four years. That famous new paper had beenput up two years before. So he spluttered: “Oh, I’m awfully sorry. Iwish—­uh—­I don’t—­”

“Ah’d thank you, Mist’ Wrenn,if you could conveniently let me knowbefore you go running off and leaving me with emptyrooms, with the landlord after the rent, and me turningaway people that ’d pay more for the room, becauseAh wanted to keep it for you. And people alwayscoming to see you and making me answer the door and—­”

Even the rooming-house worm was making small worm-likesounds that presaged turning. Lee Theresa snappedjust in time, “Oh, cut it out, Ma, will you!” She had been staring at the worm, for he had suddenlybecome interesting and adorable and, incidentally,an heir. “I don’t see why Mr. Wrennain’t giving us all the notice we can expect. He said he mightn’t be going for a long time.”

“Oh!” grunted Mrs. Zapp. “Somah own flesh and blood is going to turn against me!”

She rose. Her appearance of majesty was somewhatlessened by the creak of stays, but her instinct forunpleasantness was always good. She said nothingas she left them, and she plodded up-stairs with atrain of sighs.

Mr. Wrenn looked as though sudden illness had overpoweredhim. But Theresa laughed, and remarked: “You don’t want to let Ma get on herhigh horse, Mr. Wrenn. She’s a bluff.”

With much billowing of the lower, less stiff partof her garments, she sailed to the cloudy mirror overthe magazine-filled bookcase and inspected her capof false curls, with many prods of her large firmhands which flashed with Brazilian diamonds. Though he had heard the word “puffs,”he did not know that half her hair was false. He stared at it. Though in disgrace, he feltthe honor of knowing so ample and rustling a womanas Miss Lee Theresa.

“But, say, I wish I could ’ve let herknow I was going earlier, Miss Zapp. I didn’tknow it myself, but it does seem like a mean trick. I s’pose I ought to pay her something extra.”

“Why, child, you won’t do anything ofthe sort. Ma hasn’t got a bit of kickcoming. You’ve always been awful nice,far as I can see.” She smiled lavishly. “I went for a walk to-night.... I wishall those men wouldn’t stare at a girl so. I’m sure I don’t see why they shouldstare at me.”

Mr. Wrenn nodded, but that didn’t seem to bethe right comment, so he shook his head, then lookedfrightfully embarrassed.

“I went by that Armenian restaurant you weretelling me about, Mr. Wrenn. Some time I believeI’ll go dine there.” Again she paused.

He said only, “Yes, it is a nice place.”

Remarking to herself that there was no question aboutit, after all, he was a little fool, Theresacontinued the siege. “Do you dine thereoften?”

“Oh yes. It is a nice place.”

“Could a lady go there?”

“Why, yes, I—­”

“Yes!”

“I should think so,” he finished.

“Oh!... I do get so awfully tired of thegreasy stuff Ma and Goaty dish up. They thinka big stew that tastes like dish-water is a dinner,and if they do have anything I like they keep on havingthe same thing every day till I throw it in the sink. I wish I could go to a restaurant once in a whilefor a change, but of course—­I dunno’sit would be proper for a lady to go alone even there. What do you think? Oh dear!” She satbrooding sadly.

He had an inspiration. Perhaps Miss Theresacould be persuaded to go out to dinner with him sometime. He begged:

“Gee, I wish you’d let me take you upthere some evening, Miss Zapp.”

“Now, didn’t I tell you to call me `MissTheresa’? Well, I suppose you just don’twant to be friends with me. Nobody does.” She brooded again.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Honest I didn’t. I’ve always thoughtyou’d think I was fresh if I called you `MissTheresa,’ and so I—­”

“Why, I guess I could go up to the Armenianwith you, perhaps. When would you like to go? You know I’ve always got lots of dates butI—­um—­let’s see, I thinkI could go to-morrow evening.”

“Let’s do it! Shall I call for you,Miss—­uh—­Theresa?”

“Yes, you may if you’ll be a good boy. Good night.” She departed with an airof intimacy.

Mr. Wrenn scuttled to the Nickelorion, and admittedto the Brass-button Man that he was “feelingpretty good ’s evening.”

He had never supposed that a handsome creature likeMiss Theresa could ever endure such a “slowfellow” as himself. For about one minutehe considered with a chill the question of whethershe was agreeable because of his new wealth, but reprovedthe fiend who was making the suggestion; for had henot heard her mention with great scorn a second cousinwho had married an old Yankee for his money? That just settled that, he assured himself,and scowled at a passing messenger-boy for having thushinted, but hastily grimaced as the youngster showedsigns of loud displeasure.

The Armenian restaurant is peculiar, for it has foreignfood at low prices, and is below Thirtieth Street,yet it has not become Bohemian. Consequentlyit has no bad music and no crowd of persons from Missouriwhose women risk salvation for an evening by smokingcigarettes. Here prosperous Oriental merchants,of mild natures and bandit faces, drink semi-liquidTurkish coffee and discuss rugs and revolutions.

In fact, the place seemed so unartificial that Theresa,facing Mr. Wrenn, was bored. And the menu wasforeign without being Society viands. It suggestedrats’ tails and birds’ nests, she wasquite sure. She would gladly have experimentedwith pate de foie gras or alligator-pears,but what social prestige was there to be gained atthe factory by remarking that she “always didlike pahklava”? Mr. Wrenn did notsee that she was glancing about discontentedly, forhe was delightedly listening to a lanky young manat the next table who was remarking to his vis-a-vis,a pale slithey lady in black, with the lines of atorpedo-boat: “Try some of the stuffedvine-leaves, child of the angels, and some wheat pilafand some bourma. Your wheat pilafis a comfortable food and cheering to the stomach ofman. Simply won-derful. As for thebourma, he is a merry beast, a brown rose ofpastry with honey cunningly secreted between his petalsand—­Here! Waiter! Stuffed vine-leaves,wheat p’laf, bourm’—­twiceon the order and hustle it.”

“When you get through listening to that man—­hetalks like a bar of soap—­tell me what thereis on this bill of fare that’s safe to eat,”snorted Theresa.

“I thought he was real funny,” insistedMr. Wrenn.... “I’m sure you’lllike shish kebab and s—­”

“Shish kibub! Who ever heard of sucha thing! Haven’t they any—­oh,I thought they’d have stuff they call `TurkishDelight’ and things like that.”

“`Turkish Delights’ is cigarettes, I think.”

“Well, I know it isn’t, because I readabout it in a story in a magazine. And theywere eating it. On the terrace.... Whatis that shish kibub?”

“Kebab.... It’s lamb roastedon skewers. I know you’ll like it.”

“Well, I’m not going to trust any heathensto cook my meat. I’ll take some eggs andsome of that—­what was it the idiot wastalking about—­berma?”

“Bourma.... That’s awfulnice. With honey. And do try some of thestuffed peppers and rice.”

“All right,” said Theresa, gloomily.

Somehow Mr. Wrenn wasn’t vastly transformedeven by the possession of the two thousand dollarsher mother had reported. He was still “funnyand sort of scary,” not like the overpoweringSouthern gentlemen she supposed she remembered.Also, she was hungry. She listened with stolidglumness to Mr. Wrenn’s observation that thatwas “an awful big hat the lady with the funnyguy had on.”

He was chilled into quietness till Papa Gouroff, theowner of the restaurant, arrived from above-stairs. Papa Gouroff was a Russian Jew who had been a policespy in Poland and a hotel proprietor in Mogador, wherehe called himself Turkish and married a renegade Armenian. He had a nose like a sickle and a neck like a blue-gumnigg*r. He hoped that the place would degenerateinto a Bohemian restaurant where liberal clergymenwould think they were slumming, and barbers would thinkthey were entering society, so he always wore a fezand talked bad Arabic. He was local color, atmosphere,Bohemian flavor. Mr. Wrenn murmured to Theresa:

“Say, do you see that man? He’sSignor Gouroff, the owner. I’ve talkedto him a lot of times. Ain’t he great! Golly! look at that beak of his. Don’the make you think of kiosks and hyremsand stuff? Gee! What does he make you think—­”

“He’s got on a dirty collar.... That waiter’s awful slow.... Would youplease be so kind and pour me another glass of water?”

But when she reached the honied bourma shegrew tolerant toward Mr. Wrenn. She had twocups of cocoa and felt fat about the eyes and affectionate. She had mentioned that there were good shows in town. Now she resumed:

“Have you been to `The Gold Brick’ yet?”

“No, I—­uh—­I don’tgo to the theater much.”

“Gwendolyn Muzzy was telling me that this wasthe funniest show she’d ever seen. Tellshow two confidence men fooled one of those terriblelittle jay towns. Shows all the funny people,you know, like they have in jay towns.... I wishI could go to it, but of course I have to help outthe folks at home, so—­ Well.... Ohdear.”

“Say! I’d like to take you, if Icould. Let’s go—­this evening!” He quivered with the adventure of it.

“Why, I don’t know; I didn’t tellMa I was going to be out. But—­oh,I guess it would be all right if I was with you.”

“Let’s go right up and get some tickets.”

“All right.” Her assent was tooeager, but she immediately corrected that error byyawning, “I don’t suppose I’d oughtto go, but if you want to—­”

They were a very lively couple as they walked up. He trickled sympathy when she told of the selfishnessof the factory girls under her and the meanness ofthe superintendent over her, and he laughed severaltimes as she remarked that the superintendent “oughtto be boiled alive—­that’s what alllobsters ought to be,” so she repeated the epigramwith such increased jollity that they swung up tothe theater in a gale; and, once facing the ennuiedticket-seller, he demanded dollar seats just as thoughhe had not been doing sums all the way up to provethat seventy-five-cent seats were the best he couldafford.

The play was a glorification of Yankee smartness. Mr. Wrenn was disturbed by the fact that the swindlerheroes robbed quite all the others, but he was stirredby the brisk romance of money-making. The swindlerswere supermen—­blonde beasts with card indicesand options instead of clubs. Not that Mr. Wrennmade any observations regarding supermen. Butwhen, by way of commercial genius, the swindler robbeda young night clerk Mr. Wrenn whispered to Theresa,“Gee! he certainly does know how to jolly them,heh?”

“Sh-h-h-h-h-h!” said Theresa.

Every one made millions, victims and all, in the lastact, as a proof of the social value of being a liveAmerican business man. As they oozed along withthe departing audience Mr. Wrenn gurgled:

“That makes me feel just like I’d beenmaking a million dollars.” Masterfully,he proposed, “Say, let’s go some placeand have something to eat.”

“All right.”

“Let’s—­I almost feel as ifI could afford Rector’s, after that play; but,anyway, let’s go to Allaire’s.”

Though he was ashamed of himself for it afterward,he was almost haughty toward his waiter, and orderedWelsh rabbits and beer quite as though he usuallybreakfasted on them. He may even have strutteda little as he hailed a car with an imaginary walking-stick. His parting with Miss Theresa was intimate; he shookher hand warmly.

As he undressed he hoped that he had not been tooabrupt with the waiter, “poor cuss.” But he lay awake to think of Theresa’s hairand hand-clasp; of polished desks and florid gentlemenwho curtly summoned bank-presidents and who had—­hetossed the bedclothes about in his struggle to getthe word—­who had a punch!

He would do that Great Traveling of his in the landof Big Business!

The five thousand princes of New York to protect themselvesagainst the four million ungrateful slaves had devisedthe sacred symbols of dress-coats, large houses, andautomobiles as the outward and visible signs of thevirtue of making money, to lure rebels into respectabilityand teach them the social value of getting a dollaraway from that inhuman, socially injurious fiend,Some One Else. That Our Mr. Wrenn should dreamfor dreaming’s sake was catastrophic; he mightdo things because he wanted to, not because they werefashionable; whereupon, police forces and the clergywould disband, Wall Street and Fifth Avenue wouldgo thundering down. Hence, for him were providedthose Y. M. C. A. night bookkeeping classes administeredby solemn earnest men of thirty for solemn credulousyouths of twenty-nine; those sermons on content; articleson “building up the rundown store by live advertising”;Kiplingesque stories about playing the game; and correspondence-schooladvertisem*nts that shrieked, “Mount the ladderto thorough knowledge—­the path to powerand to the fuller pay-envelope.”

To all these Mr. Wrenn had been indifferent, for theyshowed no imagination. But when he saw Big Businessglorified by a humorous melodrama, then The Job appearedto him as picaresque adventure, and he was in perilof his imagination.

The eight-o’clock sun, which usually found awildly shaving Mr. Wrenn, discovered him dreamingthat he was the manager of the Souvenir Company. But that was a complete misunderstanding of the case. The manager of the Souvenir Company was Mr. MortimerR. Guilfogle, and he called Mr. Wrenn in to acquainthim with that fact when the new magnate started hiscareer in Big Business by arriving at the office onehour late.

What made it worse, considered Mr. Guilfogle, wasthat this Wrenn had a higher average of punctualitythan any one else in the office, which proved thathe knew better. Worst of all, the Guilfoglefamily eggs had not been scrambled right at breakfast;they had been anemic. Mr. Guilfogle punched thebuzzer and set his face toward the door, with a scowlprepared.

Mr. Wrenn seemed weary, and not so intimidated asusual.

“Look here, Wrenn; you were just about two hourslate this morning. What do you think this officeis? A club or a reading-room for hoboes? Ever occur to you we’d like to have you favorus with a call now and then so’s we can learnhow you’re getting along at golf or whateveryou’re doing these days?”

There was a sample baby-shoe office pin-cushion onthe manager’s desk. Mr. Wrenn eyed this,and said nothing. The manager:

“Hear what I said? D’yuh think I’mtalking to give my throat exercise?”

Mr. Wrenn was stubborn. “I couldn’thelp it.”

“Couldn’t help—! And youcall that an explanation! I know just exactlywhat you’re thinking, Wrenn; you’re thinkingthat because I’ve let you have a lot of chancesto really work into the business lately you’renecessary to us, and not simply an expense—­”

“Oh no, Mr. Guilfogle; honest, I didn’tthink—­”

“Well, hang it, man, you want to think. What do you suppose we pay you a salary for? And just let me tell you, Wrenn, right here and now,that if you can’t condescend to spare us someof your valuable time, now and then, we can good andplenty get along without you.”

An old tale, oft told and never believed; but it interestedMr. Wrenn just now.

“I’m real glad you can get along withoutme. I’ve just inherited a big wad of money! I think I’ll resign! Right now!”

Whether he or Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle was the moreaghast at hearing him bawl this no one knows. The manager was so worried at the thought of breakingin a new man that his eye-glasses slipped off hispoor perspiring nose. He begged, in sudden tonesof old friendship:

“Why, you can’t be thinking of leavingus! Why, we expect to make a big man of you,Wrenn. I was joking about firing you. Youought to know that, after the talk we had at Mouquin’sthe other night. You can’t be thinkingof leaving us! There’s no end of possibilitieshere.”

“Sorry,” said the dogged soldier of dreams.

“Why—­” wailed that hurt andastonished victim of ingratitude, Mr. Guilfogle.

“I’ll leave the middle of June. That’s plenty of notice,” chirruped Mr.Wrenn.

At five that evening Mr. Wrenn dashed up to the Brass-buttonMan at his station before the Nickelorion, crying:

“Say! You come from Ireland, don’tyou?”

“Now what would you think? Me—­ohno; I’m a Chinaman from Oshkosh!”

“No, honest, straight, tell me. I’vegot a chance to travel. What d’yuh thinkof that? Ain’t it great! And I’mgoing right away. What I wanted to ask you was,what’s the best place in Ireland to see?”

“Donegal, o’ course. I was bornthere.”

Hauling from his pocket a pencil and a worn envelope,Mr. Wrenn joyously added the new point of interestto a list ranging from Delagoa Bay to Denver.

He skipped up-town, looking at the stars. Heshouted as he saw the stacks of a big Cunarder bulkingup at the end of Fourteenth Street. He stoppedto chuckle over a lithograph of the Parthenon at thewindow of a Greek bootblack’s stand. Stars—­steamer—­temples,all these were his. He owned them now.He was free.

Lee Theresa sat waiting for him in the basem*nt livingroomtill ten-thirty while he was flirting with trainboardsat the Grand Central. Then she went to bed,and, though he knew it not, that prince of wealthysuitors, Mr. Wrenn, had entirely lost the heart andhand of Miss Zapp of the F. F. V.

He stood before the manager’s god-like deskon June 14, 1910. Sadly:

“Good-by, Mr. Guilfogle. Leaving to-day. I wish—­Gee! I wish I could tell you,you know—­about how much I appreciate—­”

The manager moved a wire basket of carbon copies ofletters from the left side of his desk to the right,staring at them thoughtfully; rearranged his pencilsin a pile before his ink-well; glanced at the pointof an indelible pencil with a manner of startled examination;tapped his desk-blotter with his knuckles; then raisedhis eyes. He studied Mr. Wrenn, smiled, puton the look he used when inviting him out for a drink. Mr. Guilfogle was essentially an honest fellow, harshenedby The Job; a well-satisfied victim, with the imaginationclean gone out of him, so that he took follow-up lettersand the celerity of office-boys as the only seriousthings in the world. He was strong, alive, notat all a bad chap, merely efficient.

“Well, Wrenn, I suppose there’s no useof rubbing it in. Course you know what I thinkabout the whole thing. It strikes me you’rea fool to leave a good job. But, after all, that’syour business, not ours. We like you, and whenyou get tired of being just a bum, why, come back;we’ll always try to have a job open for you. Meanwhile I hope you’ll have a mighty good time,old man. Where you going? When d’yuhstart out?”

“Why, first I’m going to just kind ofwander round generally. Lots of things I’dlike to do. I think I’ll get away realsoon now.... Thank you awfully, Mr. Guilfogle,for keeping a place open for me. Course I prob’lywon’t need it, but gee! I sure do appreciateit.”

“Say, I don’t believe you’re soplumb crazy about leaving us, after all, now thatthe cards are all dole out. Straight now, areyou?”

“Yes, sir, it does make me feel a little blue—­beenhere so long. But it’ll be awful goodto get out at sea.”

“Yuh, I know, Wrenn. I’d like togo traveling myself—­I suppose you fellowsthink I wouldn’t care to go bumming around likeyou do and never have to worry about how the firm’sgoing to break even. But—­Well, good-by,old man, and don’t forget us. Drop mea line now and then and let me know how you’regetting along. Oh say, if you happen to see anynovelties that look good let us hear about them. But drop me a line, anyway. We’ll alwaysbe glad to hear from you. Well, good-by and goodluck. Sure and drop me a line.”

In the corner which had been his home for eight yearsMr. Wrenn could not devise any new and yet more improvedarrangement of the wire baskets and clips and deskreminders, so he cleaned a pen, blew some gray eraser-dustfrom under his iron ink-well standard, and decidedthat his desk was in order; reflecting:

He’d been there a long time. Now he couldnever come back to it, no matter how much he wantedto.... How good the manager had been to him. Gee! he hadn’t appreciated how considerut Guilfoglewas!

He started down the corridor on a round of farewellsto the boys. “Too bad he hadn’t nevergot better acquainted with them, but it was too latenow. Anyway, they were such fine jolly sports;they’d never miss a stupid guy like him.”

Just then he met them in the corridor, all of themexcept Guilfogle, headed by Rabin, the traveling salesman,and Charley Carpenter, who was bearing a box of handkerchiefswith a large green-and-crimson-paper label.

“Gov’nor Wrenn,” orated Charley,“upon this suspicious occasion we have the pleasureof showing by this small token of our esteem our ’preciationof your untiring efforts in the investigation of MortimerR. Gugglegiggle of the Graft Trust and—­

“Say, old man, joking aside, we’re mightysorry you’re going and—­uh—­well,we’d like to give you something to show we’re—­uh—­mightysorry you’re going. We thought of a boxof cigars, but you don’t smoke much; anyway,these han’k’chiefs’ll help to show—­Threecheers for Wrenn, fellows!”

Afterward, by his desk, alone, holding the box ofhandkerchiefs with the resplendent red-and-green label,Mr. Wrenn began to cry.

He was lying abed at eight-thirty on a morning oflate June, two weeks after leaving the Souvenir Company,deliberately hunting over his pillow for cool spots,very hot and restless in the legs and enormously depressedin the soul. He would have got up had therebeen anything to get up for. There was nothing,yet he felt uneasily guilty. For two weeks hehad been afraid of losing, by neglect, the job hehad already voluntarily given up. So there aremen whom the fear of death has driven to suicide.

Nearly every morning he had driven himself from bedand had finished shaving before he was quite satisfiedthat he didn’t have to get to the office ontime. As he wandered about during the day heremarked with frequency, “I’m scared asteacher’s pet playing hookey for the first time,like what we used to do in Parthenon.”All proper persons were at work of a week-day afternoon. What, then, was he doing walking along the streetwhen all morality demanded his sitting at a desk atthe Souvenir Company, being a little more careful,to win the divine favor of Mortimer R. Guilfogle?

He was sure that if he were already out on the GreatTraveling he would be able to “push the buzzeron himself and get up his nerve.” But hedid not know where to go. He had planned so manytrips these years that now he couldn’t keep anyone of them finally decided on for more than an hour. It rather stretched his short arms to embrace atonce a gay old dream of seeing Venice and the sterncivic duty of hunting abominably dangerous beastsin the Guatemala bush.

The expense bothered him, too. He had throughmany years so persistently saved money for the GreatTraveling that he begrudged money for that Travelingitself. Indeed, he planned to spend not morethan $300 of the $1,235.80 he had now accumulated,on his first venture, during which he hoped to learnthe trade of wandering.

He was always influenced by a sentence he had readsomewhere about “one of those globe-trottersyou meet carrying a monkey-wrench in Calcutta, thenin raiment and a monocle at the Athenaeum.” He would learn some Kiplingy trade that would teachhim the use of astonishingly technical tools, alsodaring and the location of smugglers’ haunts,copra islands, and whaling-stations with curious names.

He pictured himself shipping as third engineer atthe Manihiki Islands or engaged for taking movingpictures of an aeroplane flight in Algiers. He had to get away from Zappism. He hadto be out on the iron seas, where the battle-shipsand liners went by like a marching military band. But he couldn’t get started.

Once beyond Sandy Hook, he would immediately knowall about engines and fighting. It would help,he was certain, to be shanghaied. But no matterhow wistfully, no matter how late at night he timorouslyforced himself to loiter among unwashed English stokerson West Street, he couldn’t get himself molestedexcept by glib persons wishing ten cents “fora place to sleep.”

When he had dallied through breakfast that particularmorning he sat about. Once he had pictured sittingabout reading travel-books as a perfect occupation. But it concealed no exciting little surprises whenhe could be a Sunday loafer on any plain Monday. Furthermore, Goaty never made his bed till noon,and the gray-and-brown-patched coverlet seemed to trailall about the disordered room.

Midway in a paragraph he rose, threw One HundredWays to See California on the tumbled bed, andran away from Our Mr. Wrenn. But Our Mr. Wrennpursued him along the wharves, where the sun glaredon oily water. He had seen the wharves twelvetimes that fortnight. In fact, he even criedviciously that “he had seen too blame much ofthe blame wharves.”

Early in the afternoon he went to a moving-pictureshow, but the first sight of the white giant figuresbulking against the gray background was wearily unreal;and when the inevitable large-eyed black-braided Indianmaiden met the canonical cow-puncher he threshed aboutin his seat, was irritated by the nervous click ofthe machine and the hot stuffiness of the room, andran away just at the exciting moment when the Indianchief dashed into camp and summoned his braves tothe war-path.

Perhaps he could hide from thought at home.

As he came into his room he stood at gaze like a kittenof good family beholding a mangy mongrel asleep inits pink basket. For on his bed was Mrs. Zapp,her rotund curves stretching behind her large flatfeet, whose soles were toward him. She was noisilysomnolent; her stays creaked regularly as she breathed,except when she moved slightly and groaned.

Guiltily he tiptoed down-stairs and went snufflingalong the dusty unvaried brick side streets, wonderingwhere in all New York he could go. He read minutelya placard advertising an excursion to the Catskills,to start that evening. For an exhilarated momenthe resolved to go, but—­” oh, therewas a lot of them rich society folks up there.” He bought a morning American and, sittingin Union Square, gravely studied the humorous drawings.

He casually noticed the “Help Wanted”advertisem*nts.

They suggested an uninteresting idea that somehowhe might find it economical to go venturing as a waiteror farm-hand.

And so he came to the gate of paradise:

MEN WANTED. Free passage on cattle-boats to Liverpoolfeeding cattle. Low fee. Easy work. Fast boats. Apply International and AtlanticEmployment Bureau,—­Greenwich Street.

“Gee!” he cried, “I guess Providencehas picked out my first hike for me.”

CHAPTER III

HE STARTS FOR THE LAND OF ELSEWHERE

The International and Atlantic Employment Bureau isa long dirty room with the plaster cracked like theoutlines on a map, hung with steamship posters andthe laws of New York regarding employment offices,which are regarded as humorous by the proprietor,M. Baraieff, a short slender ejacul*tory person witha nervous black beard, lively blandness, and a knowledgeof all the incorrect usages of nine languages. Mr. Wrenn edged into this junk-heap of nationalitieswith interested wonder. M. Baraieff rubbed hissmooth wicked hands together and bowed a number oftimes.

Confidentially leaning across the counter, Mr. Wrennmurmured: “Say, I read your ad. about wantingcattlemen. I want to make a trip to Europe. How—?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, Mistaire. I feexyou up right away. Ten dollars pleas-s-s-s.”

“Well, what does that entitle me to?”

“I tole you I feex you up. Ha! Ha! I know it; you are a gentleman; you want a nice leetletrip on Europe. Sure. I feex you rightup. I send you off on a nice easy cattleboatwhere you won’t have to work much hardly any. Right away it goes. Ten dollars pleas-s-s-s.”

“But when does the boat start? Where doesit start from?” Mr. Wrenn was a bit confused. He had never met a man who grimaced so politely andso rapidly.

“Next Tuesday I send you right off.”

Mr. Wrenn regretfully exchanged ten dollars for acard informing Trubiggs, Atlantic Avenue, Boston,that Mr. “Ren” was to be “ship1st poss. catel boat right away and charge my acct.fee paid Baraieff.” Brightly declaring“I geef you a fine ship,” M. Baraieffadded, on the margin of the card, in copper-platescript, “Best ship, easy work.” Hecaroled, “Come early next Tuesday morning, “andbowed out Mr. Wrenn like a Parisian shopkeeper. The row of waiting servant-girls curtsied as thoughthey were a hedge swayed by the wind, while Mr. Wrennself-consciously hurried to get past them.

He was too excited to worry over the patient and quietsuffering with which Mrs. Zapp heard the announcementthat he was going. That Theresa laughed at himfor a cattleman, while Goaty, in the kitchen, audiblyobserved that “nobody but a Yankee would travelin a pig-pen, “merely increased his joy in movinghis belongings to a storage warehouse.

Tuesday morning, clad in a sweater-jacket, tennis-shoes,an old felt hat, a khaki shirt and corduroys, carryinga suit-case packed to bursting with clothes and Baedekers,with one hundred and fifty dollars in express-companydrafts craftily concealed, he dashed down to Baraieff’shole. Though it was only eight-thirty, he wasafraid he was going to be late.

Till 2 P.M. he sat waiting, then was sent to theJoy Steamship Line wharf with a ticket to Boston anda letter to Trubiggs’s shipping-office: “Give bearer Ren as per inclosed receet onetrip England catel boat charge my acct. SYLVESTREBARAIEFF, N. Y.”

Standing on the hurricane-deck of the Joy Line boat,with his suit-case guardedly beside him, he croonedto himself tuneless chants with the refrain, “Free,free, out to sea. Free, free, that’s me!”He had persuaded himself that there was practicallyno danger of the boat’s sinking or catching fire. Anyway, he just wasn’t going to be scared. As the steamer trudged up East River he watched thelate afternoon sun brighten the Manhattan factoriesand make soft the stretches of Westchester fields.(Of course, he “thrilled.”)

He had no state-room, but was entitled to a placein a twelve-berth room in the hold. Here largefarmers without their shoes were grumpily talkingall at once, so he returned to the deck; and the restof the night, while the other passengers snored, hesat modestly on a canvas stool, unblinkingly gloatingover a sea-fabric of frosty blue that was shot throughwith golden threads when they passed lighthouses orships. At dawn he was weary, peppery-eyed, buthe viewed the flooding light with approval.

At last, Boston.

The front part of the shipping-office on AtlanticAvenue was a glass-inclosed room littered with chairs,piles of circulars, old pictures of Cunarders, oldercalendars, and directories to be ranked as antiques. In the midst of these remains a red-headed Yankeeof forty, smoking a Pittsburg stogie, sat tilted backin a kitchen chair, reading the Boston American.Mr. Wrenn delivered M. Baraieff’s letter andstood waiting, holding his suit-case, ready to skipout and go aboard a cattle-boat immediately.

The shipping-agent glanced through the letter, thensnapped:

“Bryff’s crazy. Always sends ’emtoo early. Wrenn, you ought to come to me first. What j’yuh go to that Jew first for? Herehe goes and sends you a day late—­or coupledays too early. ’F you’d got herelast night I could ’ve sent you off this morningon a Dominion Line boat. All I got now is a Leylandboat that starts from Portland Saturday. Le’ssee; this is Wednesday. Thursday, Friday—­you’llhave to wait three days. Now you want me tofix you up, don’t you? I might not be ableto get you off till a week from now, but you’dlike to get off on a good boat Saturday instead, wouldn’tyou?”

“Oh yes; I would. I—­”

“Well, I’ll try to fix it. You cansee for yourself; boats ain’t leaving everyminute just to please Bryff. And it’s thebusy season. Bunches of rah-rah boys wantingto cross, and Canadians wanting to get back to England,and Jews beating it to Poland—­to slingbombs at the Czar, I guess. And lemme tell you,them Jews is all right. They’re willingto pay for a man’s time and trouble in getting’em fixed up, and so—­”

With dignity Mr. William Wrenn stated, “Ofcourse I’ll be glad to—­uh—­makeit worth your while.”

“I thought you was a gentleman. Hey, Al! Al!” An underfed boy withfew teeth, dusty and grown out of his trousers, appeared.“Clear off a chair for the gentleman. Stickthat valise on top my desk.... Sit down, Mr.Wrenn. You see, it’s like this: I’lltell you in confidence, you understand. Thisletter from Bryff ain’t worth the paper it’swritten on. He ain’t got any right tobe sending out men for cattle-boats. Me, I’mrunning that. I deal direct with all the Bostonand Portland lines. If you don’t believeit just go out in the back room and ask any of thecattlemen out there.”

“Yes, I see,” Mr. Wrenn observed, as thoughhe were ill, and toed an old almanac about the floor. “Uh—­Mr.—­Trubiggs, is it?”

“Yump. Yump, my boy. Trubiggs. Tru by name and true by nature. Heh?”

This last was said quite without conviction. It was evidently a joke which had come down fromearlier years. Mr. Wrenn ignored it and declared,as stoutly as he could:

“You see, Mr. Trubiggs, I’d be willingto pay you—­”

“I’ll tell you just how it is, Mr. Wrenn. I ain’t one of these Sheeny employment bureaus;I’m an American; I like to look out for Americans. Even if you didn’t come to me first I’llwatch out for your interests, same’s if theywas mine. Now, do you want to get fixed up witha nice fast boat that leaves Portland next Saturday,just a couple of days’ wait?”

“Oh yes, I do, Mr. Trubiggs.”

“Well, my list is really full—­menwaiting, too—­but if it ’d be worthfive dollars to you to—­”

“Here’s the five dollars.”

The shipping-agent was disgusted. He had estimatedfrom Mr. Wrenn’s cheap sweater-jacket and tennis-shoesthat he would be able to squeeze out only three orfour dollars, and here he might have made ten. More in sorrow than in anger:

“Of course you understand I may have a lot oftrouble working you in on the next boat, youcoming as late as this. Course five dollarsis less ’n what I usually get.” Hecontemptuously tossed the bill on his desk. “If you want me to slip a little something extrato the agents—­”

Mr. Wrenn was too head-achy to be customarily timid. “Let’s see that. Did I give youonly five dollars?” Receiving the bill, hefolded it with much primness, tucked it into the pocketof his shirt, and remarked:

“Now, you said you’d fix me up for fivedollars. Besides, that letter from Baraieffis a form with your name printed on it; so I knowyou do business with him right along. If fivedollars ain’t enough, why, then you can justgo to hell, Mr. Trubiggs; yes, sir, that’s whatyou can do. I’m just getting tired ofmonkeying around. If five is enough I’llgive this back to you Friday, when you send me offto Portland, if you give me a receipt. There!” He almost snarled, so weary and discouraged was he.

Now, Trubiggs was a warm-hearted rogue, and he likedthe society of what he called “white people.” He laughed, poked a Pittsburg stogie at Mr. Wrenn,and consented:

“All right. I’ll fix you up. Have a smoke. Pay me the five Friday, or payit to my foreman when he puts you on the cattle-boat. I don’t care a rap which. You’reall right. Can’t bluff you, eh?”

And, further bluffing Mr. Wrenn, he suggested to hima lodging-house for his two nights in Boston. “Tell the clerk that red-headed Trubiggs sentyou, and he’ll give you the best in the house. Tell him you’re a friend of mine.”

When Mr. Wrenn had gone Mr. Trubiggs remarked to someone, by telephone, “’Nother sucker coming,Blaugeld. Now don’t try to do me out ofmy bit or I’ll cap for some other joint, understand? Huh? Yuh, stick him for a thirty-five-cent bed.S’ long.”

The caravan of Trubiggs’s cattlemen who leftfor Portland by night steamer, Friday, was headedby a bulky-shouldered boss, who wore no coat and whosecorduroy vest swung cheerfully open. A motleytroupe were the cattlemen—­Jews with smalltrunks, large imitation-leather valises and assortedbundles, a stolid prophet-bearded procession of wearymen in tattered derbies and sweat-shop clothes.

There were Englishmen with rope-bound pine chests. A lewd-mouthed American named Tim, who said he wasa hatter out of work, and a loud-talking tough calledPete mingled with a straggle of hoboes.

The boss counted the group and selected his confidantsfor the trip to Portland—­Mr. Wrenn anda youth named Morton.

Morton was a square heavy-fleshed young man with stubbyhands, who, up to his eyes, was stolid and solid asa granite monument, but merry of eye and hinting friendlinessin his tousled soft-brown hair. He was alwayswielding a pipe and artfully blowing smoke throughhis nostrils.

Mr. Wrenn and he smiled at each other searchinglyas the Portland boat pulled out, and a wind sweptstraight from the Land of Elsewhere.

After dinner Morton, smoking a pipe shaped somewhatlike a golf-stick head and somewhat like a toad, atthe rail of the steamer, turned to Mr. Wrenn with:

“Classy bunch of cattlemen we’ve got togo with. Not!... My name’s Morton.”

“I’m awful glad to meet you, Mr. Morton. My name’s Wrenn.”

“Glad to be off at last, ain’t you?”

“Golly! I should say I am!”

“So’m I. Been waiting for this for years. I’m a clerk for the P. R. R. in N’ York.”

“I come from New York, too.”

“So? Lived there long?”

“Uh-huh, I—­” began Mr. Wrenn.

“Well, I been working for the Penn. for sevenyears now. Now I’ve got a vacation ofthree months. On me. Gives me a chanceto travel a little. Got ten plunks and a second-classticket back from Glasgow. But I’m goingto see England and France just the same. Prob’lyGermany, too.”

“Second class? Why don’t you gosteerage, and save?”

“Oh, got to come back like a gentleman. You know. You’re from New York, too,eh?”

“Yes, I’m with an art-novelty companyon Twenty-eighth Street. I been wanting to getaway for quite some time, too.... How are yougoing to travel on ten dollars?”

“Oh, work m’ way. Cinch. Alwaysland on my feet. Not on my uppers, at that. I’m only twenty-eight, but I’ve been onmy own, like the English fellow says, since I wastwelve.... Well, how about you? Travelingor going somewhere?”

“Just traveling. I’m glad we’regoing together, Mr. Morton. I don’t thinkmost of these cattlemen are very nice. Exceptfor the old Jews. They seem to be fine old coots. They make you think of—­oh—­youknow—­prophets and stuff. Watch ’em,over there, making tea. I suppose the steamergrub ain’t kosher. I seen one on the JoyLine saying his prayers—­I suppose he was—­ina kind of shawl.”

“Well, well! You don’t say so!”

Distinctly, Mr. Wrenn felt that he was one of thegentlemen who, in Kipling, stand at steamer railsexchanging observations on strange lands. Heuttered, cosmopolitanly:

“Gee! Look at that sunset. Ain’tthat grand!”

“Holy smoke! it sure is. I don’tsee how anybody could believe in religion after lookingat that.”

Shocked and confused at such a theory, yet excitedat finding that Morton apparently had thoughts, Mr.Wrenn piped: “Honestly, I don’t seethat at all. I don’t see how anybodycould disbelieve anything after a sunset like that. Makes me believe all sorts of thing—­getsme going—­I imagine I’m all sortsof places—­on the Nile and so on.”

“Sure! That’s just it. Everything’sso peaceful and natural. Just is. Gives the imagination enough to do, even by itself,without having to have religion.”

“Well,” reflected Mr. Wrenn, “Idon’t hardly ever go to church. I don’tbelieve much in all them highbrow sermons that don’tcome down to brass tacks—­ain’t gotnothing to do with real folks. But just thesame, I love to go up to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Why, I get real thrilled—­I hopeyou won’t think I’m trying to get high-browed,Mr. Morton.”

“Why, no. Cer’nly not. I understand. Gwan.”

“It gets me going when I look down the aisleat the altar and see the arches and so on. Andthe priests in their robes—­they look so—­soway up—­oh, I dunno just how to say it—­sokind of uplifted.”

“Sure, I know. Just the esthetic end ofthe game. Esthetic, you know—­thebeauty part of it.”

“Yuh, sure, that’s the word. ’Sthetic,that’s what it is. Yes, ’sthetic. But, just the same, it makes me feel’s thoughI believed in all sorts of things.”

“Tell you what I believe may happen, though,”exulted Morton. “This socialism, and maybeeven these here International Workers of the World,may pan out as a new kind of religion. I don’tknow much about it, I got to admit. But looksas though it might be that way. It’s deadcertain the old political parties are just gangs—­don’tstand for anything except the name. But thiscomrade business—­good stunt. Brotherhoodof man—­real brotherhood. My ideaof religion. One that is because it’s gotto be, not just because it always has been. Yessir, me for a religion of guys working togetherto make things easier for each other.”

“You bet!” commented Mr. Wrenn, and theysmote each other upon the shoulder and laughed togetherin a fine flame of shared hope.

“I wish I knew something about this socialismstuff,” mused Mr. Wrenn, with tilted head, examiningthe burnt-umber edges of the sunset.

“Great stuff. Not working for some lazycuss that’s inherited the right to boss you. And international brotherhood, not just neighborhoods. New thing.”

“Gee! I surely would like that, awfully,”sighed Mr. Wrenn.

He saw the processional of world brotherhood trampsteadily through the paling sunset; saffron-vesturedMandarin marching by flax-faced Norseman and languidSouth Sea Islander—­the diverse peoplestoward whom he had always yearned.

“But I don’t care so much for some ofthese ranting street-corner socialists, though,”mused Morton. “The kind that holler `Comeget saved our way or go to hell! Keepoff scab guides to prosperity.’”

“Yuh, sure. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Huh! huh!”

Morton soon had another thought. “Still,same time, us guys that do the work have got to workout something for ourselves. We can’t bankon the rah-rah boys that wear eye-glasses and condescendto like us, cause they think we ain’t entirelytoo dirty for ’em to associate with, and allthese writer guys and so on. That’s whereyou got to hand it to the street-corner shouters.”

“Yes, that’s so. Y’right there, I guess, all right.”

They looked at each other and laughed again; initiatedfriends; tasting each other’s souls. Theyshared sandwiches and confessions. When theother passengers had gone to bed and the sailors onwatch seemed lonely the two men were still declaring,shyly but delightedly, that “things is curious.”

In the damp discomfort of early morning the cattlemenshuffled from the steamer at Portland and were herdedto a lunch-room by the boss, who cheerfully smokedhis corn-cob and ejacul*ted to Mr. Wrenn and Mortonsuch interesting facts as:

“Trubiggs is a lobster. You don’twant to let the bosses bluff you aboard the Merian. They’ll try to chase you in where the steers’llgore you. The grub’ll be—­”

“What grub do you get?”

“Scouse and bread. And water.”

“What’s scouse?”

“Beef stew without the beef. Oh, the grub’llbe rotten. Trubiggs is a lobster. He wouldn’tbe nowhere if ’t wa’n’t for me.”

Mr. Wrenn appreciated England’s need of roastbeef, but he timidly desired not to be gored by steers,which seemed imminent, before breakfast coffee. The streets were coldly empty, and he was sleepy,and Morton was silent. At the restaurant, sittingon a high stool before a pine counter, he choked overan egg sandwich made with thick crumby slices of abread that had no personality to it. He rovedforlornly about Portland, beside the gloomy pipe-valiantMorton, fighting two fears: the company mightnot need all of them this trip, and he might haveto wait; secondly, if he incredibly did get shippedand started for England the steers might prove dreadfullydangerous. After intense thinking he ejacul*ted,“Gee! it’s be bored or get gored.”Which was much too good not to tell Morton, so theylaughed very much, and at ten o’clock were signedon for the trip and led, whooping, to the deck ofthe S.S. Merian.

Cattle were still struggling down the chutes fromthe dock. The dirty decks were confusingly litteredwith cordage and the cattlemen’s luggage. The Jewish elders stared sepulchrally at the wildernessof open hatches and rude passageways, as though theywere prophesying death.

But Mr. Wrenn, standing sturdily beside his suit-caseto guard it, fawned with romantic love upon the rustyiron sides of their pilgrims’ caravel; and asthe Merian left the wharf with no more handkerchief-wavingor tears than attends a ferry’s leaving he mumbled:

“Free, free, out to sea. Free, free, that’sme!”

Then, “Gee!... Gee whittakers!”

CHAPTER IV

HE BECOMES THE GREAT LITTLE BILL WRENN

When the Merian was three days out from Portlandthe frightened cattleman stiff known as “Wrennie”wanted to die, for he was now sure that the smellof the fo’c’sle, in which he was lyingon a thin mattress of straw covered with damp gunny-sacking,both could and would become daily a thicker smell,a stronger smell, a smell increasingly diverse anddeadly.

Though it was so late as eight bells of the evening,Pete, the tough factory hand, and Tim, the down-and-outhatter, were still playing seven-up at the dirty fo’c’sletable, while McGarver, under-boss of the Morris cattlegang, lay in his berth, heavily studying the gameand blowing sulphurous fumes of Lunch Pail Plug Cuttobacco up toward Wrennie.

Pete, the tough, was very evil. He sneered. He stole. He bullied. He was a drunkardand a person without cleanliness of speech. Tim, the hatter, was a loud-talking weakling, underPete’s domination. Tim wore a dirty rubbercollar without a tie, and his soul was like his neckware.

McGarver, the under-boss, was a good shepherd amongthe men, though he had recently lost the head foremanshipby a spree complicated with language and violence. He looked like one of the Merian bulls, withbroad short neck and short curly hair above a thick-skinneddeeply wrinkled low forehead. He never undressed,but was always seen, as now, in heavy shoes and blue-graywoolen socks tucked over the bottoms of his overalls.He was gruff and kind and tyrannical and honest.

Wrennie shook and drew his breath sharply as the foghornyawped out its “Whawn-n-n-n” again, remindinghim that they were still in the Bank fog; that atany moment they were likely to be stunned by a heart-stoppingcrash as some liner’s bow burst through thefo’c’sle’s walls in a collision. Bow-plates buckling in and shredding, the in-thrustof an enormous black bow, water flooding in, criesand—­However, the horn did at least showthat They were awake up there on the bridge to steerhim through the fog; and weren’t They experiencedseamen? Hadn’t They made this trip everso many times and never got killed? Wouldn’tThey take all sorts of pains on Their own account aswell as on his?

But—­just the same, would he really everget to England alive? And if he did, would hehave to go on holding his breath in terror for ninemore days? Would the fo’c’sle alwayskeep heaving up—­up—­up, likethis, then down—­down—­down, asthough it were going to sink?

“How do yuh like de fog-horn, Wrennie?”

Pete, the tough, spit the question up at him froma corner of his mouth. “Hope we don’trun into no ships.”

He winked at Tim, the weakling hatter, who took thecue and mourned:

“I’m kinda afraid we’re going to,ain’t you, Pete? The mate was tellingme he was scared we would.”

“Sures’ t’ing you know. Hey,Wrennie, wait till youse have to beat it down-stairsand tie up a bull in a storm. Hully gee!Youse’ll last quick on de game, Birdie!”

“Oh, shut up,” snapped Wrennie’sfriend Morton.

But Morton was seasick; and Pete, not heeding him,outlined other dangers which he was happily sure werethreatening them. Wrennie shivered to hear thatthe “grub ’d git worse.” Hewrithed under Pete’s loud questions about hisloss, in some cattle-pen, of the gray-and-scarletsweater-jacket which he had proudly and gaily purchasedin New York for his work on the ship. And thecard-players assured him that his suit-case, whichhe had intrusted to the Croac ship’s carpenter,would probably be stolen by “Satan.”

Satan! Wrennie shuddered still more. ForSatan, the gaunt-jawed hook-nosed rail-faced headforeman, diabolically smiling when angry, sardonicallysneering when calm, was a lean human whip-lash. Pete snigg*red. He dilated upon Satan’swrath at Wrennie for not “coming across”with ten dollars for a bribe as he, Pete, had done.

(He lied, of course. And his words have notbeen given literally. They were not beautifulwords.)

McGarver, the straw-boss, would always lie awake toenjoy a good brisk indecent story, but he liked Wrennie’sadmiration of him, so, lunging with his bull-likehead out of his berth, he snorted:

“Hey, you, Pete, it’s time to pound yourear. Cut it out.”

Wrennie called down, sternly, “I ain’tno theological student, Pete, and I don’t mindprofanity, but I wish you wouldn’t talk likea garbage-scow.”

“Hey, Poicy, did yuh bring your dictionary?” Pete bellowed to Tim, two feet distant from him. To Wrennie, “Say, Gladys, ain’t you afraidone of them long woids like, t’eological, willturn around and bite you right on the wrist?”

“Dry up!” irritatedly snapped a Canadian.

“Aw, cut it out, you—­,” groanedanother.

“Shut up,” added McGarver, the straw-boss. “Both of you.” Raging: “Gwanto bed, Pete, or I’ll beat your block clean off.I mean it, see? Hear me?”

Yes, Pete heard him. Doubtless the first officeron the bridge heard, too, and perhaps the inhabitantsof Newfoundland. But Pete took his time in scratchingthe back of his neck and stretching before he crawledinto his berth. For half an hour he talked softlyto Tim, for Wrennie’s benefit, stating his beliefthat Satan, the head boss, had once thrown overboarda Jew much like Wrennie, and was likely thus to serveWrennie, too. Tim pictured the result when, afterthe capsizing of the steamer which would undoubtedlyoccur if this long sickening motion kept up, Wrenniehad to take to a boat with Satan.

The fingers of Wrennie curled into shape for stranglingsome one.

When Pete was asleep he worried off into thin slumber.

Then, there was Satan, the head boss, jerking himout of his berth, stirring his cramped joints to anotherdawn of drudgery—­two hours of work andtwo of waiting before the daily eight-o’clockinsult called breakfast. He tugged on his shoes,marveling at Mr. Wrenn’s really being there,at his sitting in cramped stoop on the side of a berthin a dark filthy place that went up and down likea freight elevator, subject to the orders of personswhom he did not in the least like.

Through the damp gray sea-air he staggered hungrilyalong the gangway to the hatch amidships, and trembleddown the iron ladder to McGarver’s crew ’tween-decks.

First, watering the steers. Sickened by walkingbackward with pails of water he carried till he couldsee and think of nothing in the world save the water-butt,the puddle in front of it, and the cattlemen mercilesslydipping out pails there, through centuries that wouldnever end. How those steers did drink!

McGarver’s favorite bull, which he called “theGrenadier,” took ten pails and still persistedin leering with dripping gray mouth beyond the headboard,trying to reach more. As Wrennie was carryinga pail to the heifers beyond, the Grenadier’shorn caught and tore his overalls. The boatlurched. The pail whirled out of his hand. He grasped an iron stanchion and kicked the Grenadierin the jaw till the steer backed off, a reformed character.

McGarver cheered, for such kicks were a rule of thegame.

“Good work,” ironically remarked Tim,the weakling hatter.

“You go to hell,” snapped Wrennie, andTim looked much more respectful.

But Wrennie lost this credit before they had finishedfeeding out the hay, for he grew too dizzy to resentTim’s remarks.

Straining to pitch forkfuls into the pens while theboat rolled, slopping along the wet gangway, downby the bunkers of coal, where the heat seemed a close-woundchoking shroud and the darkness was made only a littlepale by light coming through dust-caked port-holes,he sneezed and coughed and grunted till he was exhausted. The floating bits of hay-dust were a thousand impishhands with poisoned nails scratching at the roof ofhis mouth. His skin prickled all over. He constantly discovered new and aching muscles. But he wabbled on until he finished the work, fifteenminutes after Tim had given out.

He crawled up to the main deck and huddled in theshelter of a pile of hay-bales where Pete was declaringto Tim and the rest that Satan “couldn’tnever get nothing on him.”

Morton broke into Pete’s publicity with thequestion, “Say, is it straight what they say,Pete, that you’re the guy that owns the LeylandLine and that’s why you know so much more thanthe rest of us poor lollops? Watson, the needle,quick!” [Applause and laughter.]

Wrennie felt personally grateful to Morton for this,but he went up to the aft top deck, where he couldlie alone on a pile of tarpaulins. He made himselfobserve the sea which, as Kipling and Jack Londonhad specifically promised him in their stories, surroundedhim, everywhere shining free; but he glanced at itonly once. To the north was a liner bound forhome.

Home! Gee! That was rubbing itin! While at work, whether he was sick or not,he could forget—­things. But the liner,fleeting on with bright ease, made the cattle-boatseem about as romantic as Mrs. Zapp’s kitchensink.

Why, he wondered—­“why had he beena chump? Him a wanderer? No; he was a hiredman on a sea-going dairy-farm. Well, he’dget onto this confounded job before he was throughwith it, but then—­gee! back to God’sCountry!”

While the Merian, eleven days out, pleasantlyrocked through the Irish Sea, with the moon revealingthe coast of Anglesey, one Bill Wrenn lay on the after-deck,condescending to the heavens. It was so warmthat they did not need to sleep below, and half adozen of the cattlemen had brought their mattressesup on deck. Beside Bill Wrenn lay the man whohad given him that name—­Tim, the hatter,who had become weakly alarmed and admiring as Wrennielearned to rise feeling like a boy in early vacation-time,and to find shouting exhilaration in sending a forkfulof hay fifteen good feet.

Morton, who lay near by, had also adopted the name“Bill Wrenn.” Most of the trip Mortonhad discussed Pete and Tim instead of the fact that“things is curious.” Mr. Wrenn hadbeen jealous at first, but when he learned from Mortonthe theory that even a Pete was a “victim of’vironment” he went out for knowing himquite systematically.

To McGarver he had been “Bill Wrenn” sincethe fifth day, when he had kept a hay-bale from slippingback into the hold on the boss’s head. Satan and Pete still called him “Wrennie,”but he was not thinking about them just now with Timlistening admiringly to his observations on socialism.

Tim fell asleep. Bill Wrenn lay quiet and letmemory color the sky above him. He recalledthe gardens of water which had flowered in foam forhim, strange ships and nomadic gulls, and the schoolsof sleekly black porpoises that, for him, had whiskedthrough violet waves. Most of all, he broughtback the yesterday’s long excitement and delightof seeing the Irish coast hills—­his firstforeign land—­whose faint sky fresco hadseemed magical with the elfin lore of Ireland, a countrythat had ever been to him the haunt not of potatoesand politicians, but of fays. He had wantedfays. They were not common on the asphalt ofWest Sixteenth Street. But now he had seen thembeckoning in Wanderland.

He was falling asleep under the dancing dome of thesky, a happy Mr. Wrenn, when he was aroused as a furiousBill, the cattleman. Pete was clogging near by,singing hoarsely, “Dey was a skoit and ’ername was Goity.”

“You shut up!” commanded Bill Wrenn.

“Say, be careful!” the awakened Tim imploredof him.
Pete snorted: “Who says to `shut up,’hey? Who was it, Satan?”

From the capstan, where he was still smoking, thehead foreman muttered: “What’s theodds? The little man won’t say it again.”

Pete stood by Bill Wrenn’s mattress. “Whosaid `shut up’?” sounded ominously.

Bill popped out of bed with what he regarded as avicious fighting-crouch. For he was too sleepyto be afraid. “I did! What you goingto do about it?” More mildly, as a fear of hisown courage began to form, “I want to sleep.”

“Oh! You want to sleep. Little mollycoddlewants to sleep, does he? Come here!”

The tough grabbed at Bill’s shirt-collar acrossthe mattress. Bill ducked, stuck out his armwildly, and struck Pete, half by accident. Roaring,Pete bunted him, and he went down, with Pete kneelingon his stomach and pounding him.

Morton and honest McGarver, the straw-boss, sprangto drag off Pete, while Satan, the panther, with thefirst interest they had ever seen in his eyes, snarled:“Let ’em fight fair. Rounds.You’re a’ right, Bill.”

“Right,” commended Morton.

Armored with Satan’s praise, firm but fearfulin his rubber sneakers, surprised and shocked to findhimself here doing this, Bill Wrenn squared at therowdy. The moon touched sadly the lightly sketchedAnglesey coast and the rippling wake, but Bill Wrenn,oblivious of dream moon and headland, faced his fellow-bruiser.

They circled. Pete stuck out his foot gently. Morton sprang in, bawling furiously, “Noneo’ them rough-and-tumble tricks.”

“Right-o,” added McGarver.

Pete scowled. He was left powerless. Hepuffed and grew dizzy as Bill Wrenn danced delicatelyabout him, for he could do nothing without back-streettactics. He did bloody the nose of Bill andpummel his ribs, but many cigarettes and much whiskytold, and he was ready to laugh foolishly and makepeace when, at the end of the sixth round, he feltBill’s neat little fist in a straight—­andentirely accidental—­rip to the point ofhis jaw.

Pete sent his opponent spinning with a back-handerwhich awoke all the cruelty of the terrible Bill. Silently Bill Wrenn plunged in with a smash! smash!smash! like a murderous savage, using every grainof his strength.

Let us turn from the lamentable luck of Pete. He had now got the idea that his supposed victimcould really fight. Dismayed, shocked, disgusted,he stumbled and sought to flee, and was sent flat.

This time it was the great little Bill who had tobe dragged off. McGarver held him, kicking andyammering, his mild mustache bristling like a battlingcat’s, till the next round, when Pete was knockedout by a clumsy whirlwind of fists.

He lay on the deck, with Bill standing over him anddemanding, “What’s my name, heh?”

“I t’ink it’s Bill now, all right,Wrennie, old hoss—­Bill, old hoss,”groaned Pete.

He was permitted to sneak off into oblivion.

Bill Wrenn went below. In the dark passage bythe fidley he fell to tremorous weeping. Butthe brackish hydrant water that stopped his nose-bleedsaved him from hysterics. He climbed to thetop deck, and now he could again see his brother pilgrim,the moon.

The stiffs and bosses were talking excitedly of thefight. Tim rushed up to gurgle: “Great,Bill, old man! You done just what I’d‘a’ done if he’d cussed me. I told you Pete was a bluffer.”

“Git out,” said Satan.

Tim fled.

Morton came up, looked at Bill Wrenn, pounded himon the shoulder, and went off to his mattress. The other stiffs slouched away, but McGarver andSatan were still discussing the fight.

Snuggling on the hard black pile of tarpaulins, Billtalked to them, warmed to them, and became Mr. Wrenn. He announced his determination to wander adown everyshining road of Europe.

“Nice work.” “Sure.” “You’ll make a snappy little ole globe-trotter.” “Sure; ought to be able to get the slickestkind of grub for four bits a day.” “Nicework,” Satan interjected from time to time,with smooth irony. “Sure. Go ahead. Like to hear your plans.”

McGarver broke in: “Cut that out, Marvin. You’re a `Satan’ all right. Quityour kidding the little man. He’s all right. And he done fine on the job last three-four days.”

Lying on his mattress, Bill stared at the networkof the ratlines against the brilliant sky. Thecrisscross lines made him think of the ruled order-blanksof the Souvenir Company.

“Gee!” he mused, “I’d liketo know if Jake is handling my work the way we—­they—­likeit. I’d like to see the old office again,and Charley Carpenter, just for a couple of minutes. Gee! I wish they could have seen me put it allover Pete to-night! That’s what I’mgoing to do to the blooming Englishmen if they don’tlike me.”

The S.S. Merian panted softly beside the landing-stageat Birkenhead, Liverpool’s Jersey City, restingin the sunshine after her voyage, while the cattlewere unloaded. They had encountered fog-banksat the mouth of the Mersey River. Mr. Wrennhad ecstatically watched the shores of England—­England!—­rideat him through the fog, and had panted over the linesof English villas among the dunes. It was likea dream, yet the shore had such amazingly safe solidcolors, real red and green and yellow, when contrastedwith the fog-wet deck unearthily glancing with mist-lights.

Now he was seeing his first foreign city, and to Morton,stolidly curious beside him, he could say nothing save“Gee!” With church-tower and swarthy domebehind dome, Liverpool lay across the Mersey. Up through the Liverpool streets that ran down tothe river, as though through peep-holes slashed straightback into the Middle Ages, his vision plunged, andit wandered unchecked through each street while hehummed:

“Free, free, in Eu-ro-pee, that’s me!”

The cattlemen were called to help unload the remaininghay. They made a game of it. Even Satansmiled, even the Jewish elders were lightly affableas they made pretendedly fierce gestures at the squatpatient hay-bales. Tim, the hatter, danced alimber foolish jig upon the deck, and McGarver bellowed,“The bon-nee bon-nee banks of Loch Lo-o-o-o-mond.”

The crowd bawled: “Come on, Bill Wrenn;your turn. Hustle up with that bale, Pete, orwe’ll sic Bill on you.”

Bill Wrenn, standing very dignified, piped: “I’m Colonel Armour. I own all thesecattle, ’cept the Morris uns, see? Gottado what I say, savvy? Tim, walk on your ear.”

The hatter laid his head on the deck and waved hisanemic legs in accordance with directions from ColonelArmour (late Wrenn).

The hay was off. The Merian tooted andheaded across the Mersey to the Huskinson Dock, inLiverpool, while the cattlemen played tag about thedeck. Whooping and laughing, they made lastsplashy toilets at the water-butts, dragged out theirluggage, and descended to the dock-house.

As the cattlemen passed Bill Wrenn and Morton, shoutingaffectionate good-bys in English or courteous Yiddish,Bill commented profanely to Morton on the fact thatthe solid stone floor of the great shed seemed tohave enough sea-motion to “make a guy sick.”It was nearly his last utterance as Bill Wrenn.He became Mr. Wrenn, absolute Mr. Wrenn, on the street,as he saw a real English bobby, a real English carter,and the sign, “Cocoa House. Tea Id.”

England!

“Now for some real grub!” cried Morton. “No more scouse and willow-leaf tea.”

Stretching out their legs under a table glorifiedwith toasted Sally Lunns and Melton Mowbrays, servedby a waitress who said “Thank you”with a rising inflection, they gazed at the line ofmirrors running Britishly all around the room overthe long lounge seat, and smiled with the triumphantcontent which comes to him whose hunger for dreamsand hunger for meat-pies are satisfied together.

CHAPTER V

HE FINDS MUCH QUAINT ENGLISH FLAVOR

Big wharves, all right. England sure is queenof the sea, heh? Busy town, Liverpool. But, say, there is a quaint English flavor to theseshops.... Look at that: `Red Lion Inn.’...`Overhead trams’ they call the elevated. Real flavor, all right. English as can be.... I sure like to wander around these little shops. Street crowd. That’s where you get thereal quaint flavor.”

Thus Morton, to the glowing Mr. Wrenn, as they turnedinto St. George’s Square, noting the Lipton’sTea establishment. Sir Thomas Lipton—­wasn’the a friend of the king? Anyway, he was somekind of a lord, and he owned big society racing-yachts.

In the grandiose square Mr. Wrenn prayerfully remarked,“Gee!”

“Greek temple. Fine,” agreed Morton.

“That’s St. George’s Hall, wherethey have big organ concerts,” explained Mr.Wrenn. “And there’s the art-galleryacross the Square, and here’s the Lime StreetStation.” He had studied his Baedekeras club women study the cyclopedia. “Let’sgo over and look at the trains.”

“Funny little boxes, ain’t they, Wrenn,them cars! Quaint things. What is it theycall ’em—­carriages? First, second,third class....”

“Just like in books.”

“Booking-office. That’s tickets.... Funny, eh?”

Mr. Wrenn insisted on paying for both their high teasat the cheap restaurant, timidly but earnestly. Morton was troubled. As they sat on a park bench,smoking those most Anglican cigarettes, “DaintyBits,” Mr. Wrenn begged:

“What’s the matter, old man?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking.”Morton smiled artificially. He added, presently: “Well, old Bill, got to make the break.Can’t go on living on you this way.”

“Aw, thunder! You ain’t living onme. Besides, I want you to. Honest I do. We can have a whole lot better time together, Morty.”

“Yes, but—­Nope; I can’t doit. Nice of you. Can’t do it, though. Got to go on my own, like the fellow says.”

“Aw, come on. Look here; it’s mymoney, ain’t it? I got a right to spendit the way I want to, haven’t I? Aw, comeon. We’ll bum along together, and thenwhen the money is gone we’ll get some kind ofjob together. Honest, I want you to.”

“Hunka. Don’t believe you’dcare for the kind of knockabout jobs I’ll haveto get.”

“Sure I would. Aw, come on, Morty. I—­”

“You’re too level-headed to like to bumaround like a fool hobo. You’d dam soonget tired of it.”

“What if I did? Morty, look here. I’ve been learning something on this trip. I’ve always wanted to just do one thing—­seeforeign places. Well, I want to do that justas much as ever. But there’s somethingthat’s a whole lot more important. Somehow,I ain’t ever had many friends. Some waysyou’re about the best friend I’ve everhad—­you ain’t neither too highbrowor too lowbrow. And this friendship business—­itmeans such an awful lot. It’s like whatI was reading about—­something by ElbertHubbard or—­thunder, I can’t rememberhis name, but, anyway, it’s one of those poetguys that writes for the back page of the Journal—­somethingabout a joyous adventure. That’swhat being friends is. Course you understandI wouldn’t want to say this to most people,but you’ll understand how I mean. It’s—­thisfriendship business is just like those old crusaders—­you know—­they’d start out on a finemorning—­you know; armor shining, all thatstuff. It wouldn’t make any dif. what theymet as long as they was fighting together. Rainynights with folks sneaking through the rain to getat ’em, and all sorts of things—­ready for anything, long as they just stuck together. That’s the way this friendship business is,I b’lieve. Just like it said in the Journal. Yump, sure is. Gee! it’s—­Chanceto tell folks what you think and really get some funout of seeing places together. And I ain’tever done it much. Course I don’t meanto say I’ve been living off on any blooming desertisland all my life, but, just the same, I’vealways been kind of alone—­not knowing manyfolks. You know how it is in a New York rooming-house. So now—­Aw, don’t slip up on me, Morty.Honestly, I don’t care what kind of work we doas long as we can stick together; I don’t carea hang if we don’t get anything better to dothan scrub floors!”

Morton patted his arm and did not answer for a while. Then:

“Yuh, I know how you mean. And it’sgood of you to like beating it around with me. But you sure got the exaggerated idee of me.And you’d get sick of the holes I’m likelyto land in.”

There was a certain pride which seemed dreadfullyto shut Mr. Wrenn out as Morton added:

“Why, man, I’m going to do all of Europe. From the Turkish jails to—­oh, St. Petersburg.... You made good on the Merian, all right. But you do like things shipshape.”

“Oh, I’d—­”

“We might stay friends if we busted up now andmet in New York again. But not if you get intoall sorts of bum places w—­”

“Why, look here, Morty—­”

“—­with me.... However, I’llthink it over. Let’s not talk about ittill to-morrow.”

“Oh, please do think it over, Morty, old man,won’t you? And to-night you’ll letme take you to a music-hall, won’t you?”

“Uh—­yes,” Morton hesitated.

A music-hall—­not mere vaudeville! Mr. Wrenn could hardly keep his feet on the pavementas they scampered to it and got ninepenny seats. He would have thought it absurd to pay eighteen centsfor a ticket, but pence—­They were out atnine-thirty. Happily tired, Mr. Wrenn suggestedthat they go to a temperance hotel at his expense,for he had read in Baedeker that temperance hotelswere respectable—­also cheap.

“No, no!” frowned Morton. “Tellyou what you do, Bill. You go to a hotel, andI’ll beat it down to a lodging-house on DukeStreet.... Juke Street!... Remember howI ran onto Pete on the street? He told me youcould get a cot down there for fourpence.”

“Aw, come on to a hotel. Please do! It ’d just hurt me to think of you sleepingin one of them holes. I wouldn’t sleepa bit if—­”

“Say, for the love of Mike, Wrenn, get wise! Get wise, son! I’m not going to spongeon you, and that’s all there is to it.”

Bill Wrenn strode into their company for a minute,and quoth the terrible Bill:

“Well, you don’t need to get so sore aboutit. I don’t go around asking folks canI give ’em a meal ticket all the time, let metell you, and when I do—­Oh rats! Say,I didn’t mean to get huffy, Morty. But,doggone you, old man, you can’t shake me thiseasy. I sye, old top, I’m peeved; yessir. We’ll go Dutch to a lodging-house, or evenwalk the streets.”

“All right, sir; all right. I’lltake you up on that. We’ll sleep in anareaway some place.”

They walked to the outskirts of Liverpool, questingthe desirable dark alley. Awed by the solidquietude and semigrandeur of the large private estates,through narrow streets where dim trees leaned overhigh walls whose long silent stretches were brokenonly by mysterious little doors, they tramped bashfully,inspecting, but always rejecting, nooks by lodge gates.

They came to a stone church with a porch easily reachedfrom the street, a large and airy stone porch, justsuited, Morton declared, “to a couple of hoboeslike us. If a bobby butts in, why, we’lljust slide under them seats. Then the bobby cango soak his head.”

Mr. Wrenn had never so far defied society as to steala place for sleeping. He felt very uneasy, likea man left naked on the street by robbers, as he rolledup his coat for a pillow and removed his shoes ina place that was perfectly open to the street. The paved floor was cold to his bare feet, and, ashe tried to go to sleep, it kept getting colder andcolder to his back. Reaching out his hand, hefretfully rubbed the cracks between stones. He scowled up at the ceiling of the porch. Hecouldn’t bear to look out through the door, forit framed the vicar’s house, with lamplightbodying forth latticed windows, suggesting soft bedsand laughter and comfortable books. All thewhile his chilled back was aching in new places.

He sprang up, put on his shoes, and paced the churchyard. It seemed a great waste of educational advantagesnot to study the tower of this foreign church, buthe thought much more about his aching shoulder-blades.

Morton came from the porch stiff but grinning. “Didn’t like it much, eh, Bill? Afraid you wouldn’t. Must say I didn’teither, though. Well, come on. Let’sbeat it around and see if we can’t find a betterplace.”

In a vacant lot they discovered a pile of hay. Mr. Wrenn hardly winced at the hearty slap Mortongave his back, and he pronounced, “Some Waldorf-Astoria,that stack!” as they sneaked into the lot. They had laid loving hands upon the hay, remarking,“Well, I guess!” when they heardfrom a low stable at the very back of the lot:

“I say, you chaps, what are you doing there?”

A reflective carter, who had been twisting two straws,ambled out of the shadow of the stable and preparedto do battle.

“Say, old man, can’t we sleep in yourhay just to-night?” argued Morton. “We’reAmericans. Came over on a cattle-boat. We ain’t got only enough money to last us forfood,” while Mr. Wrenn begged, “Aw, pleaselet us.”

“Oh! You’re Americans, are you? You seem decent enough. I’ve got a brotherin the States. He used to own this stable withme. In St. Cloud, Minnesota, he is, you know. Minnesota’s some kind of a shire. Eitherof you chaps been in Minnesota?”

“Sure,” lied Morton; “I’vehunted bear there.”

“Oh, I say, bear now! My brother’snever written m—­”

“Oh, that was way up in the northern part, inthe Big Woods. I’ve had some narrow escapes.”

Then Morton, who had never been west of Pittsburg,sang somewhat in this wise the epic of the huntinghe had never done:

Alone. Among the pines. Dead o’winter. Only one shell in his rifle. Coldof winter. Snow—­deep snow. Snow-shoes. Hiking along—­reg’lar mushing—­packinggrub to the lumber-camp. Way up near the Canadianborder. Cold, terrible cold. Stars lookedlike little bits of steel.

Mr. Wrenn thought he remembered the story. Hehad read it in a magazine. Morton was continuing:

Snow stretched out among the pines. He was wearinga Mackinaw and shoe-packs. Saw a bear lopingalong. He had—­Morton had—­a.44-.40 Marlin, but only one shell. Thrust themuzzle of his rifle right into the bear’s mouth. Scared for a minute. Almost fell off his snow-shoes. Hardest thing he ever did, to pull that trigger. Fired. Bear sort of jumped at him, then rolledover, clawing. Great place, those Minnesota Big—­

“What’s a shoe-pack?” the Englishmanstolidly interjected.

“Kind of a moccasin.... Great place, thosewoods. Hope your brother gets the chance toget up there.”

“I say, I wonder did you ever meet him? Scrabble is his name, Jock Scrabble.”

“Jock Scrabble—­no, but say! By golly, there was a fellow up in the Big Woodsthat came from St. Cl—­St. Cloud? Yes,that was it. He was telling us about the town. I remember he said your brother had great chancesthere.”

The Englishman meditatively accepted a bad cigar fromMr. Wrenn. Suddenly: “You chaps cansleep in the stable-loft if you’d like. But you must blooming well stop smoking.”

So in the dark odorous hay-mow Mr. Wrenn stretchedout his legs with an affectionate “good night”to Morton. He slept nine hours. When heawoke, at the sound of a chain clanking in the stablebelow, Morton was gone. This note was pinnedto his sleeve:

DEAR OLD MAN,—­I still feel sure that youwill not enjoy the hiking. Bumming is not muchfun for most people, I don’t think, even ifthey say it is. I do not want to live on you. I always did hate to graft on people. So Iam going to beat it off alone. But I hope Iwill see you in N Y & we will enjoy many a good laughtogether over our trip. If you will phone theP. R. R. you can find out when I get back & so on. As I do not know what your address will be. Please look me up & I hope you will have a good trip.
Yourstruly,
HARRYP. MORTON.

Mr. Wrenn lay listening to the unfriendly rattlingof the chain harness below for a long time. When he crawled languidly down from the hay-loft heglowered in a manner which was decidedly surly evenfor Bill Wrenn at a middle-aged English stranger whowas stooping over a cow’s hoof in a stall facingthe ladder.

“Wot you doing here?” asked the Englishman,raising his head and regarding Mr. Wrenn as a housewifedoes a co*ckroach in the salad-bowl.

Mr. Wrenn was bored. This seemed a very poorsort of man; a bloated co*ckney, with a dirty neck-cloth,vile cuffs of grayish black, and a waistcoat cut foolishlyhigh.

“The owner said I could sleep here,” hesnapped.

“Ow. ’E did, did ’e? ’E ayn’t been giving you any of the perishin’’osses, too, ’as ’e?”

It was sturdy old Bill Wrenn who snarled, “Oh,shut up!” Bill didn’t feel like standingmuch just then. He’d punch this fellowas he’d punched Pete, as soon as not—­oreven sooner.

“Ow.... It’s shut up, is it?... I’ve ’arf a mind to set the ’tecson you, but I’m lyte. I’ll just ’ityou on the bloody nowse.”

Bill Wrenn stepped off the ladder and squared at him. He was sorry that the co*ckney was smaller than Pete.

The co*ckney came over, feinted in an absent-mindedmanner, made swift and confusing circles with hisleft hand, and hit Bill Wrenn on the aforesaid bloodynose, which immediately became a bleeding nose. Bill Wrenn felt dizzy and, sitting on a grain-sack,listened amazedly to the co*ckney’s apologetic:

“I’m sorry I ayn’t got time to ’avethe law on you, but I could spare time to ’ityou again.”

Bill shook the blood from his nose and staggered atthe co*ckney, who seized his collar, set him down outsidethe stable with a jarring bump, and walked away, whistling:

“Come,oh come to our Sunday-school,
Ev-v-v-v-v-v-rySunday morn-ing.”

“Gee!” mourned Mr. William Wrenn, “andI thought I was getting this hobo business down pat.... Gee! I wonder if Pete was so hard tolick?”

CHAPTER VI

HE IS AN ORPHAN

Sadly clinging to the plan of the walking-trip hewas to have made with Morton, Mr. Wrenn crossed byferry to Birkenhead, quite unhappily, for he wantedto be discussing with Morton the quaintness of theuniformed functionaries. He looked for the Merianhalf the way over. As he walked through Birkenhead,bound for Chester, he pricked himself on to note red-brickhouse-rows, almost shocking in their lack of high frontstoops. Along the country road he reflected: “Wouldn’t Morty enjoy this! Farm-yardall paved. Haystack with a little roof on it.Kitchen stove stuck in a kind of fireplace. Foreignas the deuce.”

But Morton was off some place, in a darkness wherethere weren’t things to enjoy. Mr. Wrennhad lost him forever. Once he heard himselfwishing that even Tim, the hatter, or “good oldMcGarver” were along. A scene so Britishthat it seemed proper to enjoy it alone he did findin a real garden-party, with what appeared to be areal curate, out of a story in The Strand,passing teacups; but he passed out of that hot glowinto a cold plodding that led him to Chester and adull hotel which might as well have been in Bridgeportor Hoboken.

He somewhat timidly enjoyed Chester the early partof the next day, docilely following a guide aboutthe walls, gaping at the mill on the Dee and askingthe guide two intelligent questions about Roman remains. He snooped through the galleried streets, peeringup dark stairways set in heavy masonry that spoke ofhistoric sieges, and imagined that he was historicallybesieging. For a time Mr. Wrenn’s fanciescontented him.

He smiled as he addressed glossy red and green postcardsto Lee Theresa and Goaty, Cousin John and Mr. Guilfogle,writing on each a variation of “Having a splendidtrip. This is a very interesting old town. Wish you were here.” Pantingly, he founda panorama showing the hotel where he was staying—­orat least two of its chimneys—­and, markingit with a heavy cross and the announcement “Thisis my hotel where I am staying,” he sent itto Charley Carpenter.

He was at his nearest to greatness at Chester Cathedral.He chuckled aloud as he passed the remains of a refectoryof monastic days, in the close, where knights hadtied their romantically pawing chargers, “justlike he’d read about in a story about the oldentimes.” He was really there. He glancedabout and assured himself of it. He wasn’tin the office. He was in an English cathedralclose!

But shortly thereafter he was in an English temperancehotel, sitting still, almost weeping with the longingto see Morton. He walked abroad, feeling likean intruder on the lively night crowd; in a tap-roomhe drank a glass of English porter and tried to makehimself believe that he was acquainted with the othersin the room, to which theory they gave but littlesupport. All this while his loneliness shadowedhim.

Of that loneliness one could make many books; howit sat down with him; how he crouched in his chair,be-spelled by it, till he violently rose and fled,with loneliness for companion in his flight. He was lonely. He sighed that he was “lonelyas fits.” Lonely—­the word obsessedhim. Doubtless he was a bit mad, as are allthe isolated men who sit in distant lands longing forthe voices of friendship.

Next morning he hastened to take the train for Oxfordto get away from his loneliness, which lolled evillybeside him in the compartment. He tried to conveyto a stodgy North Countryman his interest in the waythe seats faced each other. The man said “Ohaye?” insultingly and returned to his Manchesternewspaper.

Feeling that he was so offensive that it was a matterof honor for him to keep his eyes away, Mr. Wrenndutifully stared out of the door till they reachedOxford.

There is a calm beauty to New College gardens. There is, Mr. Wrenn observed, “something simplyslick about all these old quatrangleses,”crossed by summering students in short flappy gowns. But he always returned to his exile’s room,where he now began to hear the new voice of shapelessnameless Fear—­fear of all this alien worldthat didn’t care whether he loved it or not.

He sat thinking of the cattle-boat as a home whichhe had loved but which he would never see again. He had to use force on himself to keep from hurryingback to Liverpool while there still was time to returnon the same boat.

No! He was going to “stick it out somehow,and get onto the hang of all this highbrow business.”

Then he said: “Oh, darn it all. I feel rotten. I wish I was dead!”

“Those, sir, are the windows of the apartmentonce occupied by Walter Pater,” said the culturedAmerican after whom he was trailing. Mr. Wrennviewed them attentively, and with shame rememberedthat he didn’t know who Walter Pater was. But—­oh yes, now he remembered; Walterwas the guy that ’d murdered his whole family. So, aloud, “Well, I guess Oxford’s sorryWalt ever come here, all right.”

“My dear sir, Mr. Pater was the most immaculategenius of the nineteenth century,” lecturedDr. Mittyford, the cultured American, severely.

Mr. Wrenn had met Mittyford, Ph.D., near the barges;had, upon polite request, still more politely lenthim a match, and seized the chance to confide in somebody. Mittyford had a bald head, neat eye-glasses, a fairfamily income, a chatty good-fellowship at the FacultyClub, and a chilly contemptuousness in his rhetoricclass-room at Leland Stanford, Jr., University. He wrote poetry, which he filed away under the letter“P” in his letter-file.

Dr. Mittyford grudgingly took Mr. Wrenn about, toteach him what not to enjoy. He pointed at Shelley’srooms as at a certificated angel’s feather,but Mr. Wrenn writhingly admitted that he had neverheard of Shelley, whose name he confused with MaxO’Rell’s, which Dr. Mittyford deemed anerror. Then, Pater’s window. Thedoctor shrugged. Oh well, what could you expectof the proletariat! Swinging his stick aloofly,he stalked to the Bodleian and vouchsafed, “That,sir, is the AEschylus Shelley had in his pocketwhen he was drowned.”

Though he heard with sincere regret the news thathis new idol was drowned, Mr. Wrenn found that AEschylusleft him cold. It seemed to be printed in aforeign language. But perhaps it was merelya very old book.

Standing before a case in which was an exquisite bookin a queer wrigglesome language, bearing the legendthat from this volume Fitzgerald had translated theRubaiyat, Dr. Mittyford waved his hand andlooked for thanks.

“Pretty book,” said Mr. Wrenn.

“And did you note who used it?”

“Uh—­yes.” He hastilyglanced at the placard. “Mr. Fitzgerald.Say, I think I read some of that Rubaiyat. Itwas something about a Persian kitten—­Idon’t remember exactly.”

Dr. Mittyford walked bitterly to the other end ofthe room.

About eight in the evening Mr. Wrenn’s landladyknocked with, “There’s a gentleman belowto see you, sir.”

“Me?” blurted Mr. Wrenn.

He galloped down-stairs, panting to himself that Mortonhad at last found him. He peered out and wasoverwhelmed by a motor-car, with Dr. Mittyford waitingin awesome fur coat, goggles, and gauntlets, centeredin the car-lamplight that loomed in the shivery eveningfog.

“Gee! just like a hero in a novel!” reflectedMr. Wrenn.

“Get on your things,” said the pedagogue. “I’m going to give you the time of yourlife.”

Mr. Wrenn obediently went up and put on his cap. He was excited, yet frightened and resentful at being“dragged into all this highbrow business”which he had resolutely been putting away the pasttwo hours.

As he stole into the car Dr. Mittyford seemed comparativelyhuman, remarking: “I feel bored this evening. I thought I would give you a nuit blanche. How would you like to go to the Red Unicorn at Brempton—­oneof the few untouched old inns?”

“That would be nice,” said Mr. Wrenn,unenthusiastically.

His chilliness impressed Dr. Mittyford, who promptlytold one of the best of his well-known whimsical yetscholarly stories.

“Ha! ha!” remarked Mr. Wrenn.

He had been saying to himself: “By golly! I ain’t going to even try to be a society guywith him no more. I’m just going to beme, and if he don’t like it he can goto the dickens.”

So he was gentle and sympathetic and talked West SixteenthStreet slang, to the rhetorician’s lofty amusem*nt.

The tap-room of the Red Unicorn was lighted by candlesand a fireplace. That is a simple thing to say,but it was not a simple thing for Mr. Wrenn to see. As he observed the trembling shadows on the sandedfloor he wriggled and excitedly murmured, “Gee!... Gee whittakers!”

The shadows slipped in arabesques over the dust-grayfloor and scampered as bravely among the rafters asthough they were in such a tale as men told in believingdays. Rustics in smocks drank ale from tankards;and in a corner was snoring an ear-ringed peddlerwith his beetle-black head propped on an oilclothpack.

Stamping in, chilly from the ride, Mr. Wrenn laughedaloud. With a comfortable feeling on the sidetoward the fire he stuck his slight legs straightout before the old-time settle, looked devil-may-care,made delightful ridges on the sanded floor with histoe, and clapped a pewter pot on his knee with a smallemphatic “Wop!” After about two and aquarter tankards he broke out, “Say, that peddlerguy there, don’t he look like he was a gipsy—­youknow—­sneaking through the hedges aroundthe manner-house to steal the earl’s daughter,huh?”

“Yes.... You’re a romanticist, then,I take it?”

“Yes, I guess I am. Kind of. Liketo read romances and stuff.” He staredat Mittyford beseechingly. “But, say—­say,I wonder why—­Somehow, I haven’t enjoyedOxford and the rest of the places like I ought to. See, I’d always thought I’d be simplynutty about the quatrangles and stuff, but I’mafraid they’re too highbrow for me. Ihate to own up, but sometimes I wonder if I can getaway with this traveling stunt.”

Mittyford, the magnificent, had mixed ale and whiskypunch. He was mellowly instructive:

“Do you know, I’ve been wondering justwhat you would get out of all this. Youreally have a very fine imagination of a sort, youknow, but of course you’re lacking in certainfactual bases. As I see it, your metierwould be to travel with a pleasant wife, the two ofyou hand in hand, so to speak, looking at the moreobvious public buildings and plesaunces—­avenuesand plesuances. There must be a certain portionof the tripper class which really has the ability`for to admire and for to see.’”

Dr. Mittyford finished his second toddy and with awave of his hand presented to Mr. Wrenn the worldand all the plesaunces thereof, for to see, thoughnot, of course, to admire Mittyfordianly.

“But—­what are you to do now aboutOxford? Well, I’m afraid you’retaken into captivity a bit late to be trained for thatsort of thing. Do about Oxford? Why, goback, master the world you understand. By theway, have you seen my book on Saxon Derivatives? Not that I’m prejudiced in its favor, but itmight give you a glimmering of what this difficilething `culture’ really is.”

The rustics were droning a church anthem. Theglow of the ale was in Mr. Wrenn. He leanedback, entirely happy, and it seemed confusedly tohim that what little he had heard of his learned andaffectionate friend’s advice gratefully confirmedhis own theory that what one wanted was friends—­a“nice wife”—­folks. “Yes,sir, by golly! It was awfully nice of the Doc.” He pictured a tender girl in golden brown back inthe New York he so much desired to see who would awaithim evenings with a smile that was kept for him. Homey—­that was what he was goingto be! He happily and thoughtfully ran his fingerabout the rim of his glass ten times.

“Time to go, I’ m afraid,” Dr. Mittyfordwas saying. Through the exquisite haze thatnow filled the room Mr. Wrenn saw him dimly, as atriangle of shirt-front and two gleaming ellipsesfor eyes.... His dear friend, the Doc!... As he walked through the room chairs got humorouslyin his way, but he good-naturedly picked a path amongthem, and fell asleep in the motor-car. Allthe ride back he made soft mouse-like sounds of snoring.

When he awoke in the morning with a headache and surveyedhis unchangeably dingy room he realized slowly, aftersmothering his head in the pillow to shut off thelight from his scorching eyeballs, that Dr. Mittyfordhad called him a fool for trying to wander. He protested, but not for long, for he hated to ventureout there among the dreadfully learned colleges andtry to understand stuff written in letters that looklike crow-tracks.

He packed his suit-case slowly, feeling that he wasvery wicked in leaving Oxford’s opportunities.

Mr. Wrenn rode down on a Tottenham Court Road bus,viewing the quaintness of London. Life was arosy ringing valiant pursuit, for he was about toship on a Mediterranean steamer laden chiefly withadventurous friends. The bus passed a victoriacontaining a man with a real monocle. A newsboysmiled up at him. The Strand roared with livelytraffic.

But the gray stonework and curtained windows of theAnglo-Southern Steamship Company’s office didnot invite any Mr. Wrenns to come in and ship, nordid the hall porter, a beefy person with a huge collarand sparse painfully sleek hair, whose eyes were likecold boiled mackerel as Mr. Wrenn yearned:

“Please—­uh—­please willyou be so kind and tell me where I can ship as a stewardfor the Med—­”

“None needed.”

“Or Spain? I just want to get any kindof a job at first. Peeling potatoes or—­Itdon’t make any difference—­”

“None needed, I said, my man.” Theporter examined the hall clock extensively.

Bill Wrenn suddenly popped into being and demanded: “Look here, you; I want to see somebody inauthority. I want to know what I canship as.”

The porter turned round and started. All hisfaith in mankind was destroyed by the shock of findingthe fellow still there. “Nothing, I toldyou. No one needed.”

“Look here; can I see somebody in authorityor not?”

The porter was privately esteemed a wit at his motherin-law’s.Waddling away, he answered, “Or not.”

Mr. Wrenn drooped out of the corridor. He hadplanned to see the Tate Gallery, but now he hadn’tthe courage to face the difficulties of enjoying pictures. He zig-zagged home, mourning: “What’sthe use. And I’ll be hung if I’lltry any other offices, either. The icy mitt,that’s what they hand you here. Some dayI’ll go down to the docks and try to ship there.Prob’ly. Gee! I feel rotten!”

Out of all this fog of unfriendliness appeared thewaitress at the St. Brasten Cocoa House; first, asa human being to whom he could talk, second, as awoman. She was ignorant and vulgar; she misusedEnglish cruelly; she wore greasy cotton garments,planted her large feet on the floor with firm clumsiness,and always laughed at the wrong cue in his diffidentjests. But she did laugh; she did listen whilehe stammered his ideas of meat-pies and St. Paul’sand aeroplanes and Shelley and fog and tan shoes. In fact, she supposed him to be a gentleman and scholar,not an American.

He went to the cocoa-house daily.

She let him know that he was a man and she a woman,young and kindly, clear-skinned and joyous-eyed. She touched him with warm elbow and plump hip, leaningagainst his chair as he gave his order. To thathe looked forward from meal to meal, though he neverceased harrowing over what he considered a shamefulintrigue.

That opinion of his actions did not keep him fromtingling one lunch-time when he suddenly understoodthat she was expecting to be tempted. He temptedher without the slightest delay, muttering, “Let’stake a walk this evening?”

She accepted. He was shivery and short of breathwhile he was trying to smile at her during the restof the meal, and so he remained all afternoon at theTower of London, though he very well knew that allthis history—­“kings and gwillotinesand stuff”—­demanded real Wrenn thrills.

They were to meet on a street-corner at eight. At seven-thirty he was waiting for her. Ateight-thirty he indignantly walked away, but he hastilyreturned, and stood there another half-hour. She did not come.

When he finally fled home he was glad to have escapedthe great mystery of life, then distressingly angryat the waitress, and desolate in the desert stillnessof his room.

He sat in his cold hygienic uncomfortable room onTavistock Place trying to keep his attention on the“tick, tick, tick, tick” of his two-dollarwatch, but really cowering before the vast shadowypresences that slunk in from the hostile city.

He didn’t in the least know what he was afraidof. The actual Englishman whom he passed onthe streets did not seem to threaten his life, yethis friendly watch and familiar suit-case seemed theonly things he could trust in all the menacing worldas he sat there, so vividly conscious of his fear andloneliness that he dared not move his cramped legs.

The tension could not last. For a time he wasable to laugh at himself, and he made pleasant pictures—­CharleyCarpenter telling him a story at Drubel’s; Mortoncompanionably smoking on the top deck; Lee Theresaflattering him during an evening walk. Most ofall he pictured the brown-eyed sweetheart he was goingto meet somewhere, sometime. He thought withsophom*oric shame of his futile affair with the waitress,then forgot her as he seemed almost to touch the comfortinghand of the brown-eyed girl.

“Friends, that’s what I want. Youbet!” That was the work he was going to do—­makeacquaintances. A girl who would understand him,with whom he could trot about, seeing department-storewindows and moving-picture shows.

It was then, probably, hunched up in the dowdy chairof faded upholstery, that he created the two phraseswhich became his formula for happiness. He desired“somebody to go home to evenings”; stillmore, “some one to work with and work for.”

It seemed to him that he had mapped out his wholelife. He sat back, satisfied, and caught thesound of emptiness in his room, emphasized by thestilly tick of his watch.

“Oh—­Morton—­” hecried.

He leaped up and raised the window. It was raining,but through the slow splash came the night rattleof hostile London. Staring down, he studiedthe desolate circle of light a street-lamp cast onthe wet pavement. A cat gray as dish-water, itsfur worn off in spots, lean and horrible, sneakedthrough the circle of light like the spirit of unhappiness,like London’s sneer at solitary Americans inRussell Square rooms.

Mr. Wrenn gulped. Through the light skippeda man and a girl, so little aware of him that theystopped, laughingly, wrestling for an umbrella, thendisappeared, and the street was like a forgotten tomb. A hansom swung by, the hoofbeats sharp and cheerless. The rain dripped. Nothing else. Mr. Wrennslammed down the window.

He smoothed the sides of his suit-case and reckonedthe number of miles it had traveled with him. He spun his watch about on the table, and listenedto its rapid mocking speech, “Friends, friends;friends, friends.”

Sobbing, he began to undress, laying down each garmentas though he were going to the scaffold. Whenthe room was dark the great shadowy forms of fearthronged unchecked about his narrow dingy bed.

Once during the night he woke. Some sound wasthreatening him. It was London, coming to gethim and torture him. The light in his room wasdusty, mottled, gray, lifeless. He saw his door,half ajar, and for some moments lay motionless, watchingstark and bodiless heads thrust themselves throughthe opening and withdraw with sinister alertness tillhe sprang up and opened the door wide.

But he did not even stop to glance down the hall forthe crowd of phantoms that had gathered there. Some hidden manful scorn of weakness made him sneeraloud, “Don’t be a baby even if you arelonely.”

His voice was deeper than usual, and he went to bedto sleep, throwing himself down with a coarse wholesomescorn of his nervousness.

He awoke after dawn, and for a moment curled in happywriggles of satisfaction over a good sleep. Then he remembered that he was in the cold and friendlessprison of England, and lay there panting with desireto get away, to get back to America, where he wouldbe safe.

He wanted to leap out of bed, dash for the Liverpooltrain, and take passage for America on the first boat. But perhaps the officials in charge of the emigrantsand the steerage (and of course a fellow would gosteerage to save money) would want to know his religionand the color of his hair—­as bad as tryingto ship. They might hold him up for a coupleof days. There were quarantines and customsand things, of which he had heard. Perhaps fortwo or even three days more he would have to stay inthis nauseating prison-land.

This was the morning of August 3, 1910, two weeksafter his arrival in London, and twenty-two days aftervictoriously reaching England, the land of romance.

CHAPTER VII

HE MEETS A TEMPERAMENT

Mr. Wrenn was sulkily breakfasting at Mrs. Cattermole’sTea House, which Mrs. Cattermole kept in a genteelfashion in a basem*nt three doors from his rooming-houseon Tavistock Place. After his night of fear andtragic portents he resented the general flowered-paper-napkinaspect of Mrs. Cattermole’s establishment. “Hungh!” he grunted, as he jabbed at thefringed doily under the silly pink-and-white tea-cupon the green-and-white lacquered tray brought himby a fat waitress in a frilly apron which must havebeen made for a Christmas pantomime fairy who wasnot fat. “Hurump!” he snorted atthe pictures of lambs and radishes and cathedralsand little duckies on Mrs. Cattermole’s pink-and-whitewall.

He wished it were possible—­which, of course,it was not—­to go back to the St. BrastenCocoa House, where he could talk to the honest flat-footedgalumping waitress, and cross his feet under his chair. For here he was daintily, yes, daintily, studied bythe tea-room habitues—­two bouncing and talkativedaughters of an American tourist, a slender pale-hairedEnglish girl student of Assyriology with large top-barredeye-glasses over her protesting eyes, and a sprinklingof people living along Tavistock Place, who lookedas though they wanted to know if your opinions onthe National Gallery and abstinence were sound.

His disapproval of the lambiness of Mrs. Cattermole’swas turned to a feeling of comradeship with the otherpatrons as he turned, with the rest, to stare hostilelyat a girl just entering. The talk in the roomhalted, startled.

Mr. Wrenn gasped. With his head solemnly revolving,his eyes followed the young woman about his tableto a table opposite. “A freak! Gee,what red hair!” was his private comment.

A slender girl of twenty-eight or twenty-nine, cladin a one-piece gown of sage-green, its lines unbrokenby either belt or collar-brooch, fitting her as thoughit had been pasted on, and showing the long beautifulsweep of her fragile thighs and long-curving breast. Her collar, of the material of the dress, was sohigh that it touched her delicate jaw, and it was setoff only by a fine silver chain, with a La Valliereof silver and carved Burmese jade. Her red hair,red as a poinsettia, parted and drawn severely back,made a sweep about the fair dead-white skin of herbored sensitive face. Bored blue-gray eyes, withpathetic crescents of faintly violet-hued wrinklesbeneath them, and a scarce noticeable web of tinierwrinkles at the side. Thin long cheeks, a delicatenose, and a straight strong mouth of thin but startlinglyred lips.

Such was the new patron of Mrs. Cattermole.

She stared about the tea-room like an officer inspectingraw recruits, sniffed at the stare of the thin girlstudent, ordered breakfast in a low voice, then languidlyconsidered her toast and marmalade. Once sheglanced about the room. Her heavy brows weredrawn close for a second, making a deep-cleft wrinkleof ennui over her nose, and two little indentations,like the impressions of a box corner, in her foreheadover her brows.

Mr. Wrenn’s gaze ran down the line of her bosomagain, and he wondered at her hands, which touchedthe heavy bread-and-butter knife as though it werea fine-point pen. Long hands, colored like ivory;the joint wrinkles etched into her skin; orange cigarettestains on the second finger; the nails—­

He stared at them. To himself he commented, “Gee! I never did see such freak finger-nailsin my life.” Instead of such smoothlyrounded nails as Theresa Zapp displayed, the new younglady had nails narrow and sharp-pointed, the ends likelittle triangles of stiff white writing-paper.

As she breakfasted she scanned Mr. Wrenn for a second. He was too obviously caught staring to be able todrop his eyes. She studied him all out, withalmost as much interest as a policeman gives to apassing trolley-car, yawned delicately, and forgothim.

Though you should penetrate Greenland or talk anarchismto the daughter of a millionaire grocer, never shallyou feel a more devouring chill than enveloped Mr.Wrenn as the new young lady glanced away from him,paid her check, rose slithily from her table, anddeparted. She rounded his table; not stalkingout of its way, as Theresa would have done, but bendingfrom the hips. Thus was it revealed to Mr. Wrennthat—­

He was almost too horrified to put it into words.... He had noticed that there was something kind of funnyin regard to her waist; he had had an impression ofremarkably smooth waist curves and an unjagged sweepof back. Now he saw that—­It was unheardof; not at all like Lee Theresa Zapp or ladies inthe Subway. For—­the freak girl wasn’twearing corsets!

When she had passed him he again studied her back,swiftly and covertly. No, sir. No questionabout it. It couldn’t be denied by anyone now that the girl was a freak, for, charitablethough Our Mr. Wrenn was, he had to admit that therewas no sign of the midback ridge and little roundedknobbinesses of corseted respectability. Andhe had a closer view of the texture of her sage-greencrash gown.

“Golly!” he said to himself; “ofall the doggone cloth for a dress! Reg’largunny-sacking. She’s skinny, too. Bright-red hair. She sure is the prize freak. Kind of good-looking, but—­get a brick!”

He hated to rule so clever-seeming a woman quite outof court. But he remembered her scissors glanceat him, and his soft little heart became very hard.

How brittle are our steel resolves! When Mr.Wrenn walked out of Mrs. Cattermole’s excellentestablishment and heavily inspected the quiet BloomsburyStreet, with a cat’s-meat-man stolidly cloppingalong the pavement, as loneliness rushed on him andhe wondered what in the world he could do, he mused, “Gee! I bet that red-headed lady wouldbe interestin’ to know.”

A day of furtive darts out from his room to do London,which glumly declined to be done. He went backto the Zoological Gardens and made friends with atiger which, though it presumably came from an Englishcolony, was the friendliest thing he had seen fora week. It did yawn, but it let him talk toit for a long while. He stood before the bars,peering in, and whenever no one else was about hemurmured: “Poor fella, they won’tlet you go, heh? You got a worse boss ’nGoglefogle, heh? Poor old fella.”

He didn’t at all mind the disorder and rancidsmell of the cage; he had no fear of the tiger’ssleek murderous power. But he was somewhat afraidof the sound of his own tremorous voice. He hadspoken aloud so little lately.

A man came, an Englishman in a high offensively well-fittingwaistcoat, and stood before the cage. Mr. Wrennslunk away, robbed of his new friend, the tiger, theforlornest person in all London, kicking at pebblesin the path.

As half-dusk made the quiet street even more detached,he sat on the steps of his rooming-house on TavistockPlace, keeping himself from the one definite thinghe wanted to do—­the thing he keenly imagineda happy Mr. Wrenn doing—­dashing over tothe Euston Station to find out how soon and wherehe could get a train for Liverpool and a boat forAmerica.

A girl was approaching the house. He viewedher carelessly, then intently. It was the freaklady of Mrs. Cattermole’s Tea House—­thecorsetless young woman of the tight-fitting crash gownand flame-colored hair. She was coming up thesteps of his house.

He made room for her with feverish courtesy. She lived in the same house—­He instantly,without a bit of encouragement from the uninterestedway in which she snipped the door to, made up a wholenovel about her. Gee! She was a Frenchcountess, who lived in a reg’lar chateau, andshe was staying in Bloomsbury incognito, seeing thesights. She was a noble. She was—­

Above him a window opened. He glanced up. The countess incog. was leaning out, scanning thestreet uncaringly. Why—­her windowswere next to his! He was living next room to anunusual person—­as unusual as Dr. Mittyford.

He hurried up-stairs with a fervid but vague planto meet her. Maybe she really was a French countessor somepun’. All evening, sitting by thewindow, he was comforted as he heard her move abouther room. He had a friend. He had startedthat great work of making friends—­well,not started, but started starting—­thenhe got confused, but the idea was a flame to warmthe fog-chilled spaces of the London street.

At his Cattermole breakfast he waited long. She did not come. Another day—­butwhy paint another day that was but a smear of flatdull slate? Yet another breakfast, and the ladyof mystery came. Before he knew he was doingit he had bowed to her, a slight uneasy bend of hisneck. She peered at him, unseeing, and sat downwith her back to him.

He got much good healthy human vindictive satisfactionin evicting her violently from the French chateauhe had given her, and remembering that, of course,she was just a “fool freak Englishwoman—­prob’lya bloomin’ stoodent” he scorned, and sosettled her! Also he told her, by telepathy,that her new gown was freakier than ever—­apale-green thing, with large white buttons.

As he was coming in that evening he passed her inthe hall. She was clad in what he called a bathrobe,and what she called an Arabian burnoose, ofblack embroidered with dull-gold crescents and stars,showing a V of exquisite flesh at her throat. A shred of tenuous lace straggled loose at the openingof the burnoose. Her radiant hair, tangledover her forehead, shone with a thousand various gleamsfrom the gas-light over her head as she moved backagainst the wall and stood waiting for him to pass. She smiled very doubtfully, distantly—­thesmile, he felt, of a great lady from Mayfair. He bobbed his head, lowered his eyes abashedly, andnoticed that along the shelf of her forearm, heldagainst her waist, she bore many silver toilet articles,and such a huge heavy fringed Turkish bath-towel ashe had never seen before.

He lay awake to picture her brilliant throat and shininghair. He rebuked himself for the lack of dignityin “thinking of that freak, when she wouldn’teven return a fellow’s bow.” Buther shimmering hair was the star of his dreams.

Napping in his room in the afternoon, Mr. Wrenn heardslight active sounds from her, next room. Hehurried down to the stoop.

She stood behind him on the door-step, glaring upand down the street, as bored and as ready to springas the Zoo tiger. Mr. Wrenn heard himself sayingto the girl, “Please, miss, do you mind tellingme—­I’m an American; I’m a strangerin London—­I want to go to a good play orsomething and what would I—­what would begood—­”

“I don’t know, reahlly,” she said,with much hauteur. “Everything’srather rotten this season, I fancy.” Hervoice ran fluting up and down the scale. Hera’s were very broad.

“Oh—­oh—­y-you areEnglish, then?”

“Yes!”

“Why—­uh—­”

“Yes!”

“Oh, I just had a fool idea maybe you mightbe French.”

“Perhaps I am, y’ know. I’mnot reahlly English,” she said, blandly.

“Why—­uh—­”

“What made you think I was French? Tellme; I’m interested.”

“Oh, I guess I was just—­well, itwas almost make-b’lieve—­how you hada castle in France—­just a kind of a foolgame.”

“Oh, don’t be ashamed of imagination,”she demanded, stamping her foot, while her voice fluttered,low and beautifully controlled, through half a dozennotes. “Tell me the rest of your storyabout me.”

She was sitting on the rail above him now. Ashe spoke she cupped her chin with the palm of herdelicate hand and observed him curiously.

“Oh, nothing much more. You were a countess—­”

“Please! Not just `were.’ Please, sir, mayn’t I be a countess now?”

“Oh yes, of course you are!” he cried,delight submerging timidity. “And yourfather was sick with somepun’ mysterious, andall the docs shook their heads and said `Gee! we dunnowhat it is,’ and so you sneaked down to thetreasure-chamber—­you see, your dad—­yourfather, I should say—­he was a cranky oldFrenchman—­just in the story, you know. He didn’t think you could do anything yourselfabout him being mysteriously sick. So one nightyou—­”

“Oh, was it dark? Very very dark? And silent? And my footsteps rang on the hollowflagstones? And I swiped the gold and went forthinto the night?”

“Yes, yes! That’s it.”

“But why did I swipe it?”

“I’m just coming to that,” he said,sternly.

“Oh, please, sir, I’m awful sorry I interrupted.”

“It was like this: You wanted to comeover here and study medicine so’s you couldcure your father.”

“But please, sir,” said the girl, withimmense gravity, “mayn’t I let him die,and not find out what’s ailing him, so I canmarry the maire?”

“Nope,” firmly, “you got to—­Say,gee! I didn’t expect to tell you allthis make-b’lieve.... I’m afraidyou’ll think it’s awful fresh of me.”

“Oh, I loved it—­really I did—­becauseyou liked to make it up about poor Istra. (My nameis Istra Nash.) I’m sorry to say I’mnot reahlly”—­her two “reallys”were quite different—­“a countess,you know. Tell me—­you live in thissame house, don’t you? Please tell me thatyou’re not an interesting Person. Please!”

“I—­gee! I guess I don’tquite get you.”

“Why, stupid, an Interesting Person is a writeror an artist or an editor or a girl who’s beenin Holloway Jail or Canongate for suffraging, or anyone else who depends on an accident to be tolerable.”

“No, I’m afraid not; I’m just akind of clerk.”

“Good! Good! My dear sir—­whomI’ve never seen before—­have I?By the way, please don’t think I usually pickup stray gentlemen and talk to them about my purewhite soul. But you, you know, made storiesabout me.... I was saying: If you couldonly know how I loathe and hate and despise InterestingPeople just now! I’ve seen so much of them. They talk and talk and talk—­they’rejust like Kipling’s bandar-log—­Whatis it?

“Seeus rise in a flung festoon
Half-wayup to the jealous moon.
Don’tyou wish you—­

could know all about art and economics as we do?’ That’s what they say. Umph!”

Then she wriggled her fingers in the air like whitebutterflies, shrugged her shoulders elaborately, rosefrom the rail, and sat down beside him on the steps,quite matter-of-factly.

He gould feel his temple-pulses beat with excitement.

She turned her pale sensitive vivid face slowly towardhim.

“When did you see me—­to make up thestory?”

“Breakfasts. At Mrs. Cattermole’s.”

“Oh yes.... How is it you aren’tout sight-seeing? Or is it blessedly possiblethat you aren’t a tripper—­a tourist?”

“Why, I dunno.” He hunted uneasilyfor the right answer. “Not exactly. I tried a stunt—­coming over on a cattle-boat.”

“That’s good. Much better.”

She sat silent while, with enormous and self-betrayingpains to avoid detection, he studied her firm thinbrilliantly red lips. At last he tried:

“Please tell me something about London. Some of you English—­ Oh, I dunno. I can’t get acquainted easily.”

“My dear child, I’m not English! I’m quite as American as yourself. Iwas born in California. I never saw England tilltwo years ago, on my way to Paris. I’man art student.... That’s why my accentis so perishin’ English—­I can’tafford to be just ordinary British, y’know.”

Her laugh had an October tang of bitterness in it.

“Well, I’ll—­say, what do youknow about that!” he said, weakly.

“Tell me about yourself—­since apparentlywe’re now acquainted.... Unless you wantto go to that music-hall?”

“Oh no, no, no! Gee, I was just crazyto have somebody to talk to—­somebody nice—­Iwas just about nutty, I was so lonely,” allin a burst. He finished, hesitatingly, “Iguess the English are kinda hard to get acquaintedwith.”

“Lonely, eh?” she mused, abrupt and blufflykind as a man, for all her modulating woman’svoice. “You don’t know any of thepeople here in the house?”

“No’m. Say, I guess we got roomsnext to each other.”

“How romantic!” she mocked.

“Wrenn’s my name; William Wrenn. I work for—­I used to work for the Souvenirand Art Novelty Company. In New York.”

“Oh. I see. Novelties? Nicelittle ash-trays with `Love from the Erie Station’? And woggly pin-cushions?”

“Yes! And fat pug-dogs with black eyes.”

“Oh no-o-o! Please not black! Palesympathetic blue eyes—­nice honest blueeyes!”

“Nope. Black. Awful black.... Say, gee, I ain’t talking too nutty, am I?”

“`Nutty’? You mean `idiotically’? The slang’s changed since—­Oh yes,of course; you’ve succeeded in talking quitenice and `idiotic.’”

“Oh, say, gee, I didn’t mean to—­Whenyou been so nice and all to me—­”

“Don’t apologize!” Istra Nash demanded,savagely. “Haven’t they taught youthat?”

“Yes’m,” he mumbled, apologetically.

She sat silent again, apparently not at all satisfiedwith the architecture of the opposite side of TavistockPlace. Diffidently he edged into speech:

“Honest, I did think you was English. You came from California? Oh, say, I wonder ifyou’ve ever heard of Dr. Mittyford. He’ssome kind of school-teacher. I think he teachesin Leland Stamford College.”

“Leland Stanford? You know him?” She dropped into interested familiarity.

“I met him at Oxford.”

“Really?... My brother was at Stanford. I think I’ve heard him speak of—­Ohyes. He said that Mittyford was a cultural climber,if you know what I mean; rather—­oh, howshall I express it?—­oh, shall we put it,finicky about things people have just told him tobe finicky about.”

“Yes!” glowed Mr. Wrenn.

To the luxury of feeling that he knew the unusualMiss Istra Nash he sacrificed Dr. Mittyford, scholarshipand eye-glasses and Shelley and all, without mercy.

“Yes, he was awfully funny. Gee!I didn’t care much for him.”

“Of course you know he’s a great man,however?” Istra was as bland as though shehad meant that all along, which left Mr. Wrenn nowhereat all when it came to deciding what she meant.

Without warning she rose from the steps, flung athim “G’ night,” and was off downthe street.

Sitting alone, all excited happiness, Mr. Wrenn muttered: “Ain’t she a wonder! Gee! she’sstriking-lookin’! Gee whittakers!”

Some hours later he said aloud, tossing about in bed: “I wonder if I was too fresh. I hopeI wasn’t. I ought to be careful.”

He was so worried about it that he got up and smokeda cigarette, remembered that he was breaking stillanother rule by smoking too much, then got angry andsnapped defiantly at his suit-case: “Well,what do I care if I am smoking too much?And I’ll be as fresh as I want to.”He threw a newspaper at the censorious suit-case and,much relieved, went to bed to dream that he was arabbit making enormously amusing jests, at which helaughed rollickingly in half-dream, till he realizedthat he was being awakened by the sound of long sobsfrom the room of Istra Nash.

Afternoon; Mr. Wrenn in his room. Miss Nashwas back from tea, but there was not a sound to beheard from her room, though he listened with mouthopen, bent forward in his chair, his hands clutchingthe wooden seat, his finger-tips rubbing nervouslyback and forth over the rough under-surface of thewood. He wanted to help her—­the wonderfullady who had been sobbing in the night. He hada plan, in which he really believed, to say to her,“Please let me help you, princess, jus’like I was a knight.”

At last he heard her moving about. He rusheddownstairs and waited on the stoop.

When she came out she glanced down and smiled contentedly.He was flutteringly sure that she expected to see himthere. But all his plan of proffering assistancevanished as he saw her impatient eyes and her splendorsof dress—­another tight-fitting gown, ofsmoky gray, with faint silvery lights gliding alongthe fabric.

She sat on the rail above him, immediately, unhesitatingly,and answered his “Evenin’” cheerfully.

He wanted so much to sit beside her, to be friendswith her. But, he felt, it took courage to sitbeside her. She was likely to stare haughtilyat him. However, he did go up to the rail andsit, shyly kicking his feet, beside her, and she didnot stare haughtily. Instead she moved overan inch or two, glanced at him almost as though theywere sharing a secret, and said, quietly:

“I thought quite a bit about you last evening. I believe you really have an imagination, even thoughyou are a salesman—­I mean so many don’t;you know how it is.”

“Oh yes.”

You see, Mr. Wrenn didn’t know he was commonplace.

“After I left here last night I went over toOlympia Johns’, and she dragged me off to aplay. I thought of you at it because there wasan imaginative butler in it. You don’tmind my comparing you to a butler, do you? Hewas really quite the nicest person in the play, y’know. Most of it was gorgeously rotten. It used to be a French farce, but they sent it toSunday-school and gave it a nice fresh frock. It seemed that a gentleman-tabby had been tryingto make a match between his nephew and his ward. The ward arted. Personally I think it was bytonsorial art. But, anyway, the uncle knew thatnothing brings people together so well as hating thesame person. You know, like hating the cousin,when you’re a kiddy, hating the cousin thatalways keeps her nails clean?”

“Yes! That’s so!”

“So he turned nasty, and of course the nephewand ward clinched till death did them part—­which,I’m very sorry to have to tell you, death wasn’tdecent enough to do on the stage. If the playcould only have ended with everybody’s funeralI should have called it a real happy ending.”

Mr. Wrenn laughed gratefully, though uncertainly. He knew that she had made jokes for him, but he didn’texactly know what they were.

“The imaginative butler, he was rather good. But the rest—­Ugh!”

“That must have been a funny play,” hesaid, politely.

She looked at him sidewise and confided, “Willyou do me a favor?”

“Oh yes, I—­”

“Ever been married?”

He was frightfully startled. His “No”sounded as though he couldn’t quite remember.

She seemed much amused. You wouldn’t havebelieved that this superior quizzical woman who tappedher fingers carelessly on her slim exquisite kneehad ever sobbed in the night.

“Oh, that wasn’t a personal question,”she said. “I just wanted to know whatyou’re like. Don’t you ever collectpeople? I do—­chloroform ’emquite cruelly and pin their poor little corpses outon nice clean corks.... You live alone in NewYork, do you?”

“Y-yes.”

“Who do you play with—­know?”

“Not—­not much of anybody. Exceptmaybe Charley Carpenter. He’s assistantbookkeeper for the Souvenir Company. “Hehad wanted to, and immediately decided not to, inventgrandes mondes whereof he was an intimate.

“What do—­oh, you know—­peoplein New York who don’t go to parties or readmuch—­what do they do for amusem*nt? I’m so interested in types.”

“Well—­” said he.

That was all he could say till he had digested a pairof thoughts: Just what did she mean by “types”? Had it something to do with printing stories? And what could he say about the people, anyway? He observed:

“Oh, I don’t know—­just talkabout—­oh, cards and jobs and folks andthings and—­oh, you know; go to moving picturesand vaudeville and go to Coney Island and—­oh,sleep.”

“But you—?”

“Well, I read a good deal. Quite a little. Shakespeare and geography and a lot of stuff. I like reading.”

“And how do you place Nietzsche?” shegravely desired to know.

“?”

“Nietzsche. You know—­the Germanhumorist.”

“Oh yes—­uh—­let me seenow; he’s—­uh—­”

“Why, you remember, don’t you? Haeckeland he wrote the great musical comedy of the century. And Matisse did the music—­Matisse andRodin.”

“I haven’t been to it,” he said,vaguely. “...I don’t know much German. Course I know a few words, like Spricken Sie Dutchand Bitty, sir, that Rabin at the Souvenir Company—­he’sa German Jew, I guess—­learnt me.... But, say, isn’t Kipling great! Gee! whenI read Kim I can imagine I’m hiking alongone of those roads in India just like I was there—­youknow, all those magicians and so on.... Readin’swonderful, ain’t it!”

“Um. Yes.”

“I bet you read an awful lot.”

“Very little. Oh—­D’Annunzioand some Turgenev and a little Tourgenieff.... That last was a joke, you know.”

“Oh yes,” disconcertedly.

“What sorts of plays do you go to, Mr. Wrenn?”

“Moving pictures mostly,” he said, easily,then bitterly wished he hadn’t confessed solow-life a habit.

“Well—­tell me, my dear—­Oh,I didn’t mean that; artists use it a good deal;it just means `old chap.’ You don’tmind my asking such beastly personal questions, doyou? I’m interested in people.... And now I must go up and write a letter. I wasgoing over to Olympia’s—­she’sone of the Interesting People I spoke of—­butyou see you have been much more amusing. Goodnight. You’re lonely in London, aren’tyou? We’ll have to go sightseeing someday.”

“Yes, I am lonely!” he exploded. Then, meekly: “Oh, thank you! Ish’d be awful pleased to.... Have you seenthe Tower, Miss Nash?”

“No. Never. Have you?”

“No. You see, I thought it ’d bekind of a gloomy thing to see all alone. Isthat why you haven’t never been there, too?”

“My dear man, I see I shall have to educateyou. Shall I? I’ve been taken inhand by so many people—­it would be a pleasureto pass on the implied slur. Shall I?”

“Please do.”

“One simply doesn’t go and see the Tower,because that’s what trippers do. Don’tyou understand, my dear? (Pardon the `my dear’again.) The Tower is the sort of thing school superintendentssee and then go back and lecture on in school assembly-roomand the G. A. R. hall. I’ll take you tothe Tate Gallery.” Then, very abruptly,“G’ night,” and she was gone.

He stared after her smooth back, thinking: “Gee!I wonder if she got sore at something I said. I don’t think I was fresh this time. But she beat it so quick.... Them lips of hers—­Inever knew there was such red lips. And an artist—­paintspictures!... Read a lot—­Nitchy—­Germanmusical comedy. Wonder if that’s that`Merry Widow’ thing?... That gray dressof hers makes me think of fog. Cur’ous.”

In her room Istra Nash inspected her nose in a mirror,powdered, and sat down to write, on thick creamy paper:

Skilly dear, I’m in a fierce Bloomsbury boarding-house—­bores—­except for a Phe-nomenon—­littleman of 35 or 40 with embryonic imagination & a virginsoul. I’ll try to keep from planting radicalthoughts in the virgin soul, but I’m tempted.

Oh Skilly dear I’m lonely as the devil. Would it be too bromid. to say I wish you were here? I put out my hand in the darkness, & yours wasn’tthere. My dear, my dear, how desolate—­Ohyou understand it only too well with your superciliousgrin & your superior eye-glasses & your beatific Oxonianignorance of poor eager America.

I suppose I am just a barbarous Californiankiddy. It’s just as Pere Dureon said atthe atelier, “You haf a’ onderstandingof the ’igher immorality, but I ’ope youcan cook—­paint you cannot.”

He wins. I can’t sell a single thing tothe art editors here or get one single order. One horrid eye-glassed earnest youth who Sees Peopleat a magazine, he vouchsafed that they “didn’tuse any Outsiders.” Outsiders! Andhis hair was nearly as red as my wretched mop. So I came home & howled & burned Milan tapers beforeyour picture. I did. Though you don’tdeserve it.

Oh damn it, am I getting sentimental? You’llread this at Petit
Monsard over your drip & grin at your poor unnietzscheanbarbarian.
I.N.

CHAPTER VIII

HE TIFFINS

Mr. Wrenn, chewing and chewing and chewing the cudof thought in his room next evening, after an hourhad proved two things; thus:

(a) The only thing he wanted to do was to go backto America at once, because England was a countrywhere every one—­native or American—­wasso unfriendly and so vastly wise that he could neverunderstand them.

(b) The one thing in the world that he wanted to dowas to be right here, for the most miraculous eventof which he had ever heard was meeting Miss Nash. First one, then the other, these thoughts swashedback and forth like the swinging tides. He gotaway from them only long enough to rejoice that somehow—­hedidn’t know how—­he was going to beher most intimate friend, because they were both Americansin a strange land and because they both could make-believe.

Then he was proving that Istra would, and would not,be the perfect comrade among women when some one knockedat his door.

Electrified, his cramped body shot up from its crouch,and he darted to the door.

Istra Nash stood there, tapping her foot on the sillwith apologetic haste in her manner. Abruptlyshe said:

“So sorry to bother you. I just wonderedif you could let me have a match? I’mall out.”

“Oh yes! Here’s a whole box. Please take ’em. I got plenty more.”[Which was absolutely untrue.]

“Thank you. S’ good o’ you,”she said, hurriedly. “G’ night.”

She turned away, but he followed her into the hall,bashfully urging: “Have you been to anothershow? Gee! I hope you draw a better onenext time ’n the one about the guy with the nephew.”

“Thank you.”

She glanced back in the half dark hall from her door—­somefifteen feet from his. He was scratching at thewall-paper with a diffident finger, hopeful for atalk.

“Won’t you come in?” she said, hesitatingly.

“Oh, thank you, but I guess I hadn’t better.”

Suddenly she flashed out the humanest of smiles, herblue-gray eyes crinkling with cheery friendship. “Come in, come in, child.” As hehesitatingly entered she warbled: “Needn’tboth be so lonely all the time, after all, need we? Even if you don’t like poor Istra. You don’t—­do you?” Seeminglyshe didn’t expect an answer to her question,for she was busy lighting a Russian cigarette. It was the first time in his life that he had seena woman smoke.

With embarrassed politeness he glanced away from heras she threw back her head and inhaled deeply. He blushingly scrutinized the room.

In the farther corner two trunks stood open. One had the tray removed, and out of the lower parthung a confusion of lacey things from which he turnedaway uncomfortable eyes. He recognized the black-and-goldburnoose, which was tumbled on the bed, with a nightgownof lace insertions and soft wrinkles in the lawn,a green book with a paper label bearing the titleThree Plays for Puritans, a red slipper, andan open box of chocolates.

On the plain kitchen-ware table was spread a clothof Reseda green, like a dull old leaf in color. On it lay a gold-mounted fountain-pen, huge and stub-pointed;a medley of papers and torn envelopes, a bottle ofCreme Yvette, and a silver-framed portrait of a leansmiling man with a single eye-glass.

Mr. Wrenn did not really see all these details, buthe had an impression of luxury and high artistic success. He considered the Yvette flask the largest bottleof perfume he’d ever seen; and remarked thatthere was “some guy’s picture on the table.”He had but a moment to reconnoiter, for she was astonishinglysaying:

“So you were lonely when I knocked?”

“Why, how—­”

“Oh, I could see it. We all get lonely,don’t we? I do, of course. Justnow I’m getting sorer and sorer on InterestingPeople. I think I’ll go back to Paris. There even the Interesting People are—­why,they’re interesting. Savvy—­yousee I am an American—­savvy?”

“Why—­uh—­uh—­uh—­Id-don’t exactly get what you mean. Howdo you mean about `Interesting People’?”

“My dear child, of course you don’t getme.” She went to the mirror and pattedher hair, then curled on the bed, with an offhand “Won’t you sit down?” and smokedelaborately, blowing the blue tendrils toward theceiling as she continued: “Of course youdon’t get it. You’re a nice sensibleclerk who’ve had enough real work to do to keepyou from being afraid that other people will thinkyou’re commonplace. You don’t haveto coddle yourself into working enough to earn a livingby talking about temperament.

“Why, these Interesting People—­Youfind ’em in London and New York and San Franciscojust the same. They’re convinced they’rethe wisest people on earth. There’s a fewartists and a bum novelist or two always, and somesocial workers. The particular bunch that itamuses me to hate just now—­and that I apparentlycan’t do without—­they gather aroundOlympia Johns, who makes a kind of salon out of herrooms on Great James Street, off Theobald’sRoad.... They might just as well be in New York;but they’re even stodgier. They don’tget sick of the game of being on intellectual heightsas soon as New-Yorkers do.

“I’ll have to take you there. It’sa cheery sensation, you know, to find a man who hassome imagination, but who has been unspoiled by InterestingPeople, and take him to hear them wamble. Theysit around and growl and rush the growler—­Ihope you know growler-rushing—­and rejoicethat they’re free spirits. Being Free,of course, they’re not allowed to go and playwith nice people, for when a person is Free, you know,he is never free to be anything but Free. Thatmay seem confusing, but they understand it at Olympia’s.

“Of course there’s different sorts ofintellectuals, and each cult despises all the others. Mostly, each cult consists of one person, but sometimesthere’s two—­a talker and an audience—­oreven three. For instance, you may be a militantand a vegetarian, but if some one is a militant andhas a good figure, why then—­oof!... That’s what I mean by `Interesting People.’I loathe them! So, of course, being one of them,I go from one bunch to another, and, upon my honor,every single time I think that the new bunch isinteresting!”

Then she smoked in gloomy silence, while Mr. Wrennremarked, after some mental labor, “I guessthey’re like cattlemen—­the cattle-ierthey are, the more romantic they look, and then whenyou get to know them the chief trouble with them isthat they’re cattlemen.”

“Yes, that’s it. They’re—­why,they’re—­Oh, poor dear, there, there,there! It sha’n’t have somuch intellekchool discussion, shall it!... I think you’re a very nice person, and I’lltell you what we’ll do. We’ll havea small fire, shall we? In the fireplace.”

“Yes!”

She pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord, and the old-fashionedNorth Country landlady came—­tall, thin,parchment-faced, musty-looking as though she had beendressed up in Victorian garments in 1880 and leftto stand in an unaired parlor ever since. Sheglowered silent disapproval at the presence of Mr.Wrenn in Istra’s room, but sent a slavey tomake the fire—­“saxpence uxtry.”Mr. Wrenn felt guilty till the coming of the slavey,a perfect Christmas-story-book slavey, a small andmerry lump of soot, who sang out, “Chilly t’-night,ayn’t it?” and made a fire that was soonsinging “Chilly t’-night,” likethe slavey.

Istra sat on the floor before the fire, Turk-wise,her quick delicate fingers drumming excitedly on herknees.

“Come sit by me. You, with your senseof the romantic, ought to appreciate sitting by thefire. You know it’s always done.”

He slumped down by her, clasping his knees and tryingto appear the dignified American business man in hiscountry-house.

She smiled at him intimately, and quizzed:

“Tell me about the last time you sat with agirl by the fire. Tell poor Istra the dark secret. Was she the perfect among pink faces?”

“I’ve—­never—­sat—­before—­any—­fireplace—­with—­any—­one! Except when Iwas about nine—­one Hallowe’en—­ata party in Parthenon—­little town up YorkState.”

“Really? Poor kiddy!”

She reached out her hand and took his. He wasterrifically conscious of the warm smoothness of herfingers playing a soft tattoo on the back of his hand,while she said:

“But you have been in love? Drefful inlove?”

“I never have.”

“Dear child, you’ve missed so much ofthe tea and cakes of life, haven’t you? And you have an interest in life. Do you know,when I think of the jaded Interesting People I’vemet—­Why do I leave you to be spoiled bysome shop-girl in a flowered hat? She’ddrag you to moving-picture shows.... Oh! You didn’t tell me that you went to movingpictures, did you?”

“No!” he lied, fervently, then, feelingguilty, “I used to, but no more.”

“It shall go to the nice moving picturesif it wants to! It shall take me, too. We’ll forget there are any syndicalists orbroken-colorists for a while, won’t we? We’ll let the robins cover us with leaves.”

“You mean like the babes in the woods? But, say, I’m afraid you ain’t just ababe in the woods! You’re the first personwith brains I ever met, ’cept, maybe, Dr. Mittyford;and the Doc never would play games, I don’tbelieve. The very first one, really.”

“Thank you!” Her warm pressure on hishand tightened. His heart was making the maddestgladdest leaps, and timidly, with a feeling of historicdaring, he ventured to explore with his thumb-tipthe fine lines of the side of her hand.... Itactually was he, sitting here with a princess, andhe actually did feel the softness of her hand, hepantingly assured himself.

Suddenly she gave his hand a parting pressure andsprang up.

“Come. We’ll have tiffin, and thenI’ll send you away, and to-morrow we’llgo see the Tate Gallery.”

While Istra was sending the slavey for cakes and apint of light wine Mr. Wrenn sat in a chair—­justsat in it; he wanted to show that he could be dignifiedand not take advantage of Miss Nash’s kindnessby slouchin’ round. Having read much Kipling,he had an idea that tiffin was some kind of lunchin the afternoon, but of course if Miss Nash usedthe word for evening supper, then he had been wrong.

Istra whisked the writing-table with the Reseda-greencover over before the fire, chucked its papers onthe bed, and placed a bunch of roses on one end, movingthe small blue vase two inches to the right, thentwo inches forward.

The wine she poured into a decanter. Wine wasdistinctly a problem to him. He was excitedover his sudden rise into a society where one tookwine as a matter of course. Mrs. Zapp wouldn’ttake it as a matter of course. He rejoiced thathe wasn’t narrow-minded, like Mrs. Zapp. He worked so hard at not being narrow-minded likeMrs. Zapp that he started when he was called out ofhis day-dream by a mocking voice:

“But you might look at the cakes. Justonce, anyway. They are very nice cakes.”

“Uh—­”

“Yes, I know the wine is wine. Beastlyof it.”

“Say, Miss Nash, I did get you this time.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that my presiding goddessshipis over already.”

“Uh—­sure! Now I’m goingto be a cruel boss.”

“Dee-lighted! Are you going to be a caveman?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t quiteget you on that.”

“That’s too bad, isn’t it. I think I’d rather like to meet a caveman.”

“Oh say, I know about that caveman—­JackLondon’s guys. I’m afraid I ain’tone. Still—­on the cattle-boat—­Say,I wish you could of seen it when the gang were tyingup the bulls, before starting. Dark close place’tween-decks, with the steers bellowin’and all parked tight together, and the stiffs gettin’seasick—­so seasick we just kind of staggeredaround; and we’d get hold of a head rope andyank and then let go, and the bosses, d yell, `Pull,or I’ll brain you.’ And then thefo’c’sle—­men packed in likeherrings.”

She was leaning over the table, making a labyrinthwith the currants from a cake and listening intently. He stopped politely, feeling that he was talkingtoo much. But, “Go on, please do,”she commanded, and he told simply, seeing it moreand more, of Satan and the Grenadier, of the fairieswho had beckoned to him from the Irish coast hills,and the comradeship of Morton.

She interrupted only once, murmuring, “My dear,it’s a good thing you’re articulate, anyway—­”which didn’t seem to have any bearing on hay-bales.

She sent him away with a light “It’sbeen a good party, hasn’t it, caveman? (Ifyou are a caveman.) Call for me tomorrow atthree. We’ll go to the Tate Gallery.”

She touched his hand in the fleetingest of grasps.

“Yes. Good night, Miss Nash,” hequavered.

A morning of planning his conduct so that in accompanyingIstra Nash to the Tate Gallery he might be the faithfulshadow and beautiful transcript of Mittyford, Ph.D. As a result, when he stood before the large canvasesof Mr. Watts at the Tate he was so heavy and correctlyappreciative, so ready not to enjoy the stories inthe pictures of Millais, that Istra suddenly demanded:

“Oh, my dear child, I have taken a great dealon my hands. You’ve got to learn to play. You don’t know how to play. Come.I shall teach you. I don’t know why I should,either. But—­come.”

She explained as they left the gallery: “First,the art of riding on the buses. Oh, it is anart, you know. You must appreciate the flower-girlsand the gr-r-rand young bobbies. You must learnto watch for the blossoms on the restaurant terracesand roll on the grass in the parks. You’remuch too respectable to roll on the grass, aren’tyou? I’ll try ever so hard to teach younot to be. And we’ll go to tea. Howmany kinds of tea are there?”

“Oh, Ceylon and English Breakfast and—­oh—­Chinese.”

“B—­”

“And golf tees!” he added, excitedly,as they took a seat in front atop the bus.

“Puns are a beginning at least,” she reflected.

“But how many kinds of tea are there,Istra?... Oh say, I hadn’t ought to—­”

“Course; call me Istra or anything else. Only, you mustn’t call my bluff. Whatdo I know about tea? All of us who play arebluffers, more or less, and we are ever so polite inpretending not to know the others are bluffing.... There’s lots of kinds of tea. In theNew York Chinatown I saw once—­Do you knowChinatown? Being a New-Yorker, I don’tsuppose you do.”

“Oh yes. And Italiantown. I usedto wander round there.”

“Well, down at the Seven Flowery Kingdoms ChopSuey and American Cooking there’s tea at fivedollars a cup that they advertise is grown on `cloud-coveredmountain-tops.’ I suppose when the topsaren’t cloud-covered they only charge three dollarsa cup.... But, serious-like, there’s reallyonly two kinds of teas—­those you go toto meet the man you love and ought to hate, and thoseyou give to spite the women you hate but ought to—­hate! Isn’t that lovely and complicated? That’splaying. With words. My aged parent callsit `talking too much and not saying anything.’Note that last—­not saying anything! It’s one of the rules in playing that mustn’tbe broken.”

He understood that better than most of the thingsshe said. “Why,” he exclaimed, “it’skind of talking sideways.”

“Why, yes. Of course. Talking sideways. Don’t you see now?”

Gallant gentleman as he was, he let her think shehad invented the phrase.

She said many other things; things implying such vastlearning that he made gigantic resolves to “readlike thunder.”

Her great lesson was the art of taking tea. He found, surprisedly, that they weren’t reallygoing to endanger their clothes by rolling on parkgrass. Instead, she led him to a tea-room behinda candy-shop on Tottenham Court Road, a low room withwhite wicker chairs, colored tiles set in the wall,and green Sedji-ware jugs with irregular bunches ofwhite roses. A waitress with wild-rose cheeksand a busy step brought Orange Pekoe and lemon forher, Ceylon and Russian Caravan tea and a jug of clottedcream for him, with a pile of cinnamon buns.

“But—­” said Istra. “Isn’tthis like Alice in Wonderland! But you must learnthe buttering of English muffins most of all.If you get to be very good at it the flunkies willlet you take tea at the Carleton. They are suchhypercritical flunkies, and the one that brings thegold butter-measuring rod to test your skill, why,he always wears knee-breeches of silver gray.So you can see, Billy, how careful you have to be. And eat them without buttering your nose. Forif you butter your nose they’ll think you’rea Greek professor. And you wouldn’t likethat, would you, honey?” He learned how to patthe butter into the comfortable brown insides of themuffins that looked so cold and floury without. But Istra seemed to have lost interest; and he didn’tin the least follow her when she observed:

“Doubtless it was the best butter. But where, where, dear dormouse, are the hatter andhare? Especially the sweet bunny rabbit thatwriggled his ears and loved Gralice, the princessed’ outre-mer.

“Where,where are the hatter and hare,
Andwhere is the best butter gone?”

Presently: “Come on. Let’sbeat it down to Soho for dinner. Or—­no! Now you shall lead me. Show me where you’dgo for dinner. And you shall take me to a music-hall,and make me enjoy it. Now you teach meto play.”

“Gee! I’m afraid I don’t knowa single thing to teach you.”

“Yes, but—­See here! We aretwo lonely Western barbarians in a strange land. We’ll play together for a little while. We’re not used to each other’s sort ofplay, but that will break up the monotony of lifeall the more. I don’t know how long we’llplay or—­Shall we?”

“Oh yes!”

“Now show me how you play.”

“I don’t believe I ever did much, really.”

“Well, you shall take me to your kind of a restaurant.”

“I don’t believe you’d care muchfor penny meat-pies.”

“Little meat-pies?”

“Um-huh.”

“Little crispy ones? With flakycovers?”

“Um-huh.”

“Why, course I would! And ha’p’nytea? Lead me to it, O brave knight! Andto a vaudeville.”

He found that this devoted attendant of theaters hadnever seen the beautiful Italians who pounce uponprotesting zylophones with small clubs, or the side-splittingjuggler’s assistant who breaks up piles andpiles of plates. And as to the top hat thatturns into an accordion and produces much melody, shewas ecstatic.

At after-theater supper he talked of Theresa and SouthBeach, of
Charley Carpenter and Morton—­Morton—­Morton.

They sat, at midnight, on the steps of the house inTavistock Place.

“I do know you now, “she mused. “It’s curious how any two babes in a strange-enoughwoods get acquainted. You are a lonelychild, aren’t you?” Her voice was mother-soft. “We will play just a little—­”

“I wish I had some games to teach. Butyou know so much.”

“And I’m a perfect beauty, too, aren’tI?” she said, gravely.

“Yes, you are!” stoutly.

“You would be loyal.... And I need someone’s admiration.... Mostly, Paris andLondon hold their sides laughing at poor Istra.”

He caught her hand. “Oh, don’t!They must ’preciate you. I’dlike to kill anybody that didn’t!”

“Thanks.” She gave his hand a returnpressure and hastily withdrew her own. “You’llbe good to some sweet pink face.... And I’llgo on being discontented. Oh, isn ’t lifethe fiercest proposition!... We seem different,you and I, but maybe it’s mostly surface—­downdeep we’re alike in being desperately unhappybecause we never know what we’re unhappy about. Well—­”

He wanted to put his head down on her knees and restthere. But he sat still, and presently theircold hands snuggled together.

After a silence, in which they were talking of themselves,he burst out: “But I don’t see howParis could help ’preciating you. I’llbet you’re one of the best artists they eversaw.... The way you made up a picture in yourmind about that juggler!”

“Nope. Sorry. Can’t paintat all.”

“Ah, stuff!” with a rudeness quite masterful. “I’ll bet your pictures are corkers.”

“Um.”

“Please, would you let me see some of them sometime. I suppose it would bother—­”

“Come up-stairs. I feel inspired. You are about to hear some great though nasty criticismson the works of the unfortunate Miss Nash.”

She led the way, laughing to herself over something. She gave him no time to blush and hesitate over theimpropriety of entering a lady’s room at midnight,but stalked ahead with a brief “Come in.”

She opened a large portfolio covered with green-veinedblack paper and yanked out a dozen unframed pastelsand wash-drawings which she scornfully tossed on thebed, saying, as she pointed to a mass of Marseillesroofs:

“Do you see this sketch? The only goodthing about it is the thing that last art editor,that red-headed youth, probably didn’t like. Don’t you hate red hair? You see theseridiculous glaring purple shadows under the clocher?”

She stared down at the picture interestedly, forgettinghim, pinching her chin thoughtfully, while she murmured: “They’re rather nice. Rather good. Rather good.”

Then, quickly twisting her shoulders about, she pouredout:

“But look at this. Consider this arch. It’s miserably out of drawing. And seehow I’ve faked this figure? It isn’ta real person at all. Don’t you noticehow I’ve juggled with this stairway? Why,my dear man, every bit of the drawing in this thingwould disgrace a seventh-grade drawing-class in DosPuentes. And regard the bunch of lombardies inthis other picture. They look like umbrellasupside down in a silly wash-basin. Uff! It’s terrible. Affreux! Don’tact as though you liked them. You really needn’t,you know. Can’t you see now that they’rehideously out of drawing?”

Mr. Wrenn’s fancy was walking down a green laneof old France toward a white cottage with orange-treesgleaming against its walls. In her pictureshe had found the land of all his forsaken dreams.

“I—­I—­I—­”was all he could say, but admiration pulsed in it.

“Thank you.... Yes, we will play. Good night. To-morrow!”

CHAPTER IX

HE ENCOUNTERS THE INTELLECTUALS

He wanted to find a cable office, stalk in, and nonchalantlysend to his bank for more money. He could seehimself doing it. Maybe the cable clerk wouldthink he was a rich American. What did he careif he spent all he had? A guy, he admonishedhimself, just had to have coin when he was goin’with a girl like Miss Istra. At least seventimes he darted up from the door-step, where he wason watch for her, and briskly trotted as far as thecorner. Each time his courage melted, and heslumped back to the door-step. Sending for money—­gee,he groaned, that was pretty dangerous.

Besides, he didn’t wish to go away. Istramight come down and play with him.

For three hours he writhed on that door-step, tillhe came to hate it; it was as much a prison as hisroom at the Zapps’ had been. He hatedthe areaway grill, and a big brown spot on the pavement,and, as a truck-driver hates a motorman, so did hehate a pudgy woman across the street who peeped outfrom a second-story window and watched him with cynicalinterest. He finally could endure no longer theworld’s criticism, as expressed by the womanopposite. He started as though he were goingto go right now to some place he had been intendingto go to all the time, and stalked away, ignoringthe woman.

He caught a bus, then another, then walked a while. Now that he was moving, he was agonizedly consideringhis problem: What was Istra to him, really? What could he be to her? He was justa clerk. She could never love him. “Andof course,” he explained to himself, “youhadn’t oughta love a person without you expectedto marry them; you oughtn’t never even touchher hand.” Yet he did want to touch hers. He suddenly threw his chin back, high and firm, indefiance. He didn’t care if he was wicked,he declared. He wanted to shout to Istra acrossall the city: Let us be great lovers! Letus be mad! Let us stride over the hilltops. Though that was not at all the way he phrased it.

Then he bumped into a knot of people standing on thewalk, and came down from the hilltops in one swoop.

A crowd was collecting before Rothsey Hall, whichbore the sign:

GLORY—­GLORY—­GLORY

SPECIAL SALVATION ARMY JUBILEE MEETING

EXPERIENCES OF ADJUTANT CRABBENTHWAITE IN AFRICA

He gaped at the sign. A Salvationist in thecrowd, trim and well set up, his red-ribboned SalvationArmy cap at a jaunty angle, said, “Won’tyou come in, brother?”

Mr. Wrenn meekly followed into the hall. BillWrenn was nowhere in sight.

Now it chanced that Adjutant Crabbenthwaite told muchof Houssas and the N’Gombi, of saraweks andweek-long treks, but Mr. Wrenn’s imaginationwas not for a second drawn to Africa, nor did he evenglance at the sun-bonneted Salvationist women packedin the hall. He was going over and over the Adjutant’sdenunciations of the Englishmen and Englishwomen whoflirt on the mail-boats.

Suppose it had been himself and his madness over Istra—­atthe moment he quite called it madness—­thatthe Adjutant had denounced!

A Salvationist near by was staring at him most accusingly....

He walked away from the jubilee reflectively. He ate his dinner with a grave courtesy toward thefood and the waiter. He was positively courtlyto his fork. For he was just reformed. He was going to “steer clear” of mad artistwomen—­of all but nice good girls whom youcould marry. He remembered the Adjutant’sthundered words:

“Flirting you call it—­flirting! Look into your hearts. God Himself hath lookedinto them and found flirtation the gateway to hell. And I tell you that these army officers and the bedizenedwomen, with their wine and cigarettes, with theirdevil’s calling-cards and their jewels, withtheir hell-lighted talk of the sacrilegious folliesof socialism and art and horse-racing, O my brothers,it was all but a cloak for looking upon one anotherto lust after one another. Rotten is this empire,and shall fall when our soldiers seek flirtation insteadof kneeling in prayer like the iron men of Cromwell.”

Istra.... Card-playing.... Talk of socialismand art. Mr. Wrenn felt very guilty. Istra.... Smoking and drinking wine.... But his moralreflections brought the picture of Istra the moreclearly before him—­the persuasive warmthof her perfect fingers; the curve of her backward-bentthroat as she talked in her melodious voice of allthe beautiful things made by the wise hands of greatmen.

He dashed out of the restaurant. No matter whathappened, good or bad, he had to see her. Whilehe was climbing to the upper deck of a bus he wastrying to invent an excuse for seeing her.... Of course one couldn’t “go and call onladies in their rooms without havin’ some specialexcuse; they would think that was awful fresh.”

He left the bus midway, at the sign of a periodicalshop, and purchased a Blackwood’s anda Nineteenth Century. Morton had toldhim these were the chief English “highbrow magazines.”

He carried them to his room, rubbed his thumb in thelampblack on the gas-fixture, and smeared the magazinecovers, then cut the leaves and ruffled the marginsto make the magazines look dog-eared with much reading;not because he wanted to appear to have read them,but because he felt that Istra would not permit himto buy things just for her.

All this business with details so calmed him thathe wondered if he really cared to see her at all. Besides, it was so late—­after half-pasteight.

“Rats! Hang it all! I wish I wasdead. I don’t know what I do want to do,”he groaned, and cast himself upon his bed. Hewas sure of nothing but the fact that he was unhappy. He considered suicide in a dignified manner, butnot for long enough to get much frightened about it.

He did not know that he was the toy of forces which,working on him through the strangeness of passionatewomanhood, could have made him a great cad or a pettyhero as easily as they did make him confusedly sorryfor himself. That he wasn’t very much ofa cad or anything of a hero is a detail, an accidentresulting from his thirty-five or thirty-six yearsof stodgy environment. Cad or hero, filling scandalcolumns or histories, he would have been the sameWilliam Wrenn.

He was thinking of Istra as he lay on his bed. In a few minutes he dashed to his bureau and brushedhis thinning hair so nervously that he had to trythree times for a straight parting. While brushinghis eyebrows and mustache he solemnly contemplatedhimself in the mirror.

“I look like a damn rabbit,” he scorned,and marched half-way to Istra’s room. He went back to change his tie to a navy-blue bowwhich made him appear younger. He was feelingrather resentful at everything, including Istra, ashe finally knocked and heard her “Yes? Come in.”

There was in her room a wonderful being lolling ina wing-chair, one leg over the chair-arm; a youngyoung man, with broken brown teeth, always seen inhis perpetual grin, but a godlike Grecian nose, ahigh forehead, and bristly yellow hair. The beingwore large round tortoise-shell spectacles, a softshirt with a gold-plated collar-pin, and delicatelygray garments.

Istra was curled on the bed in a leaf-green silk kimonowith a great gold-mounted medallion pinned at herbreast. Mr. Wrenn tried not to be shocked atthe kimono.

She had been frowning as he came in and fingeringa long thin green book of verses, but she glowed atMr. Wrenn as though he were her most familiar friend,murmuring, “Mouse dear, I’m soglad you could come in.”

Mr. Wrenn stood there awkwardly. He hadn’texpected to find another visitor. He seemedto have heard her call him “Mouse.”Yes, but what did Mouse mean? It wasn’this name at all. This was all very confusing. But how awful glad she was to see him!

“Mouse dear, this is one of our best littleindecent poets, Mr. Carson Haggerty. From America—­California—­too. Mr. Hag’ty, Mr. Wrenn.”

“Pleased meet you,” said both men in thesame tone of annoyance.

Mr. Wrenn implored: “I—­uh—­Ithought you might like to look at these magazines. Just dropped in to give them to you.” He was ready to go.

“Thank you—­so good of you. Pleasesit down. Carson and I were only fighting—­he’sgoing pretty soon. We knew each other at artschool in Berkeley. Now he knows all the toffsin London.”

“Mr. Wrenn,” said the best little poet,“I hope you’ll back up my contention. Izzy says th—­”

“Carson, I have told you just about enough timesthat I do not intend to stand for `Izzy’ anymore! I should think that even you wouldbe able to outgrow the standard of wit that obtainsin first-year art class at Berkeley.”

Mr. Haggerty showed quite all of his ragged teethin a noisy joyous grin and went on, unperturbed: “Miss Nash says that the best European thought,personally gathered in the best salons, shows thatthe Rodin vogue is getting the pickle-eye from allthe real yearners. What is your opinion?”

Mr. Wrenn turned to Istra for protection. Shepromptly announced: “Mr. Wrenn absolutelyagrees with me. By the way, he’s doinga big book on the recrudescence of Kipling, after hisslump, and—­”

“Oh, come off, now! Kipling! Blatantimperialist, anti-Stirner!” cried Carson Haggerty,kicking out each word with the assistance of his swingingleft foot.

Much relieved that the storm-center had passed overhim, Mr. Wrenn sat on the front edge of a cane-seatedchair, with the magazines between his hands, and hishands pressed between his forward-co*cked knees. Always, in the hundreds of times he went over thescene in that room afterward, he remembered how cooland smooth the magazine covers felt to the palms ofhis flattened hands. For he associated the paperysurfaces with the apprehension he then had that Istramight give him up to the jag-toothed grin of CarsonHaggerty, who would laugh him out of the room andout of Istra’s world.

He hated the poetic youth, and would gladly have brokenall of Carson’s teeth short off. Yet thedread of having to try the feat himself made him admirethe manner in which Carson tossed about long creepy-soundingwords, like a bush-ape playing with scarlet spiders. He talked insultingly of Yeats and the commutationof sex-energy and Isadora Duncan and the poetry ofCarson Haggerty.

Istra yawned openly on the bed, kicking a pillow,but she was surprised into energetic discussion nowand then, till Haggerty intentionally called her Izzyagain, when she sat up and remarked to Mr. Wrenn: “Oh, don’t go yet. You can tellme about the article when Carson goes. DearCarson said he was only going to stay till ten.”

Mr. Wrenn hadn’t had any intention of going,so he merely smiled and bobbed his head to the roomin general, and stammered “Y-yes,” whilehe tried to remember what he had told her about somearticle. Article. Perhaps it was a SouvenirCompany novelty article. Great idea! Perhapsshe wanted to design a motto for them. He decidedlyhoped that he could fix it up for her—­he’dsure do his best. He’d be glad to writeover to Mr. Guilfogle about it. Anyway, sheseemed willing to have him stick here.

Yet when dear Carson had jauntily departed, leavingthe room still loud with the smack of his grin, Istraseemed to have forgotten that Mr. Wrenn was alive. She was scowling at a book on the bed as though ithad said things to her. So he sat quiet andcrushed the magazine covers more closely till the silencechoked him, and he dared, “Mr. Carson is an awfulwell-educated man.”

“He’s a bounder,” she snapped. She softened her voice as she continued: “Hewas in the art school in California when I was there,and he presumes on that.... It was good of youto stay and help me get rid of him.... I’mgetting—­I’m sorry I’m so dullto-night. I suppose I’ll get sent off tobed right now, if I can’t be more entertaining. It was sweet of you to come in, Mouse.... Youdon’t mind my calling you `Mouse,’ do you? I won’t, if you do mind.”

He awkwardly walked over and laid the magazines onthe bed. “Why, it’s all right.... What was it about some novelty—­some article? If there’s anything I could do—­anything—­”

“Article?”

“Why, yes. That you wanted to see me about.”

“Oh! Oh, that was just to get rid of Carson.... His insufferable familiarity! The penaltyfor my having been a naive kiddy, hungry for friendship,once. And now, good n—. Oh, Mouse,he says my eyes—­even with this green kimonoon—­ Come here, dear. tell me what colormy eyes are.”

She moved with a quick swing to the side of her bed. Thrusting out her two arms, she laid ivory handsclutchingly on his shoulder. He stood quaking,forgetting every one of the Wrennish rules by whichhe had edged a shy polite way through life. He fearfully reached out his hands toward her shouldersin turn, but his arms were shorter than hers, and hishands rested on the sensitive warmth of her upperarms. He peered at those dear gray-blue eyesof hers, but he could not calm himself enough to tellwhether they were china-blue or basalt-black.

“Tell me,” she demanded; “aren’tthey green?”

“Yes,” he quavered.

“You’re sweet,” she said.

Leaning out from the side of her bed, she kissed him. She sprang up, and hastened to the window, laughingnervously, and deploring: “I shouldn’thave done that! I shouldn’t! Forgiveme!” Plaintively, like a child: “Istrawas so bad, so bad. Now you must go.” As she turned back to him her eyes had the peaceof an old friend’s.

Because he had wished to be kind to people, becausehe had been pitiful toward Goaty Zapp, Mr. Wrenn wasable to understand that she was trying to be a kindlybig sister to him, and he said “Good night,Istra,” and smiled in a lively way and walkedout. He got out the smile by wrenching his nerves,for which he paid in agony as he knelt by his bed,acknowledging that Istra would never love him andthat therefore he was not to love, would be a foolto love, never would love her—­and seeingagain her white arms softly shadowed by her greenkimono sleeves.

No sight of Istra, no scent of her hair, no soundof her always-changing voice for two days. Twice,seeing a sliver of light under her door as he cameup the darkened stairs, he knocked, but there wasno answer, and he marched into his room with the dignityof fury.

Numbers of times he quite gave her up, decided hewanted never to see her again. But after oneof the savagest of these renunciations, while he wasstamping defiantly down Tottenham Court Road, he sawin a window a walking-stick that he was sure she wouldlike his carrying. And it cost only two-and-six.Hastily, before he changed his mind, he rushed in andslammed down his money. It was a very beautifulstick indeed, and of a modesty to commend itself toIstra, just a plain straight stick with a cap of metalcuriously like silver. He was conscious thatthe whole world was leering at him, demanding “What’reyou carrying a cane for?” but he—­themisunderstood—­was willing to wait for thereward of this martyrdom in Istra’s approval.

The third night, as he stood at the window watchingtwo children playing in the dusk, there was a knock. It was Istra. She stood at his door, smartand inconspicuous in a black suit with a small toquethat hid the flare of her red hair.

“Come,” she said, abruptly. “Iwant you to take me to Olympia’s—­OlympiaJohns’ flat. I’ve been reading allthe Balzac there is. I want to talk. Canyou come?”

“Oh, of course—­”

“Hurry, then!”

He seized his small foolishly round hat, and he tuckedhis new walking-stick under his arm without displayingit too proudly, waiting for her comment.

She led the way down-stairs and across the quiet streetsand squares of Bloomsbury to Great James Street. She did not even see the stick.

She said scarce a word beyond:

“I’m sick of Olympia’s bunch—­Inever want to dine in Soho with an inhibition anda varietistic sex instinct again—­jamaisde la vie. But one has to play with somebody.”

Then he was so cheered that he tapped the pavementsboldly with his stick and delicately touched her armas they crossed the street. For she added:

“We’ll just run in and see them for alittle while, and then you can take me out and buyme a Rhine wine and seltzer.... Poor Mouse,it shall have its play!”

Olympia Johns’ residence consisted of four smallrooms. When Istra opened the door, after tapping,the living-room was occupied by seven people, allinterrupting one another and drinking fourpenny ale;seven people and a fog of cigarette smoke and a tangleof papers and books and hats. A swamp of unwasheddishes appeared on a large table in the room justbeyond, divided off from the living-room by a burlapcurtain to which were pinned suffrage buttons andmedallions. This last he remembered afterward,thinking over the room, for the medals’ glitteringpoints of light relieved his eyes from the intolerableglances of the people as he was hastily introducedto them. He was afraid that he would be draggedinto a discussion, and sat looking away from themto the medals, and to the walls, on which were posters,showing mighty fists with hammers and flaming torches,or hog-like men lolling on the chests of workmen,which they seemed to enjoy more than the workmen. By and by he ventured to scan the group.

Carson Haggerty, the American poet, was there. But the center of them all was Olympia Johns herself—­spinster,thirty-four, as small and active and excitedly energeticas an ant trying to get around a match. Shehad much of the ant’s brownness and slimness,too. Her pale hair was always falling from underher fillet of worn black velvet (with the dingy underside of the velvet showing curled up at the edges). A lock would tangle in front of her eyes, and shewould impatiently shove it back with a jab of herthin rough hands, never stopping in her machine-gunvolley of words.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” she would pour out. “Don’t you see? We must do something. I tell you the conditions are intolerable, simplyintolerable. We must do something.”

The conditions were, it seemed, intolerable in theseveral branches of education of female infants, waterrates in Bloomsbury, the cutlery industry, and ballad-singing.

And mostly she was right. Only her rightnesswas so demanding, so restless, that it left Mr. Wrenngasping.

Olympia depended on Carson Haggerty for most of the“Yes, that’s so’s,” thoughhe seemed to be trying to steal glances at anotherwoman, a young woman, a lazy smiling pretty girl oftwenty, who, Istra told Mr. Wrenn, studied Greek archaeologyat the Museum. No one knew why she studied it. She seemed peacefully ignorant of everything buther kissable lips, and she adorably poked at thingswith lazy graceful fingers, and talked the LittleLanguage to Carson Haggerty, at which Olympia shruggedher shoulders and turned to the others.

There were a Mr. and Mrs. Stettinius—­shea poet; he a bleached man, with goatish whiskers anda sanctimonious white neck-cloth, who was Puritanically,ethically, gloomily, religiously atheistic. Items in the room were a young man who taught in Mr.Jeney’s Select School and an Established Churchmission worker from Whitechapel, who loved to be shocked.

It was Mr. Wrenn who was really shocked, however,not by the noise and odor; not by the smoking of thewomen; not by the demand that “we” teardown the state; no, not by these was Our Mr. Wrennof the Souvenir Company shocked, but by his own fascinatedinterest in the frank talk of sex. He had alwayshad a quite undefined supposition that it was wickedto talk of sex unless one made a joke of it.

Then came the superradicals, to confuse the radicalswho confused Mr. Wrenn.

For always there is a greater rebellion; and thoughyou sell your prayer-book to buy Bakunine, and esteemyourself revolutionary to a point of madness, youshall find one who calls you reactionary. Thescorners came in together—­Moe Tchatzsky,the syndicalist and direct actionist, and Jane Schott,the writer of impressionistic prose—­andthey sat silently sneering on a couch.

Istra rose, nodded at Mr. Wrenn, and departed, despiteOlympia’s hospitable shrieks after them of “Oh stay! It’s only a little afterten. Do stay and have something to eat.”

Istra shut the door resolutely. The hall wasdark. It was gratefully quiet. She snatchedup Mr. Wrenn’s hand and held it to her breast.

“Oh, Mouse dear, I’m so bored! Iwant some real things. They talk and talk inthere, and every night they settle all the fate ofall the nations, always the same way. I don’tsuppose there’s ever been a bunch that knewmore things incorrectly. You hated them, didn’tyou?”

“Why, I don’t think you ought to talkabout them so severe,” he implored, as theystarted down-stairs. “I don’t meanthey’re like you. They don’t savvylike you do. I mean it! But I was awfulint’rested in what that Miss Johns said aboutkids in school getting crushed into a mold. Gee! that’s so; ain’t it? Never thoughtof it before. And that Mrs. Stettinius talkedabout Yeats so beautiful.”

“Oh, my dear, you make my task so much harder. I want you to be different. Can’t yousee your cattle-boat experience is realer than anyof the things those half-baked thinkers have done? I know. I’m half-baked myself.”

“Oh, I’ve never done nothing.”

“But you’re ready to. Oh, I don’tknow. I want—­I wish Jock Seton—­thefilibuster I met in San Francisco—­I wishhe were here. Mouse, maybe I can make a filibusterof you. I’ve got to create something. Oh, those people! If you just knew them! That fool Mary Stettinius is mad about that Tchatzskyperson, and her husband invites him to teas. Stettinius is mad about Olympia, who’ll probablytake Carson out and marry him, and he’ll keepon hanging about the Greek girl. Ungh!”

“I don’t know—­I don’tknow—­”

But as he didn’t know what he didn’t knowshe merely patted his arm and said, soothingly: “I won’t criticize your first specimensof radicals any more. They are trying to do something,anyway.” Then she added, in an irrelevanttone, “You’re exactly as tall as I am. Mouse dear, you ought to be taller.”

They were entering the drab stretch of Tavistock Place,after a silence as drab, when she exclaimed: “Mouse, I am so sick of everything. I want to get out, away, anywhere, and do something,anything, just so’s it’s different. Even the country. I’d like—­Whycouldn’t we?”

“Let’s go out on a picnic to-morrow, Istra.”

“A picnic picnic? With pickles and a pillowcushion and several kinds of cake?... I’mafraid the Bois Boulogne has spoiled me for that.... Let me think.”

She drooped down on the steps of their house. Her head back, her supple strong throat arched withthe passion of hating boredom, she devoured the starlightdim over the stale old roofs across the way.

“Stars,” she said. “Out onthe moors they would come down by you.... Whatis your adventure—­your formula forit?... Let’s see; you take common roadsidethings seriously; you’d be dear and excitedover a Red Lion Inn.”

“Are there more than one Red Li—­”

“My dear Mouse, England is a menagerie of RedLions and White Lions and fuzzy Green Unicorns.... Why not, why not, why not! Let’s walkto Aengusmere. It’s a fool colony of artistsand so on, up in Suffolk; but they have gotsome beautiful cottages, and they’re more Celtthan Dublin.... Start right now; take a trainto Chelmsford, say, and tramp all night. Takea couple of days or so to get there. Think ofit! Tramping through dawn, past English fields. Think of it, Yankee. And not caring what anybodyin the world thinks. Gipsies. Shall we?”

“Wh-h-h-h-y—­” He was sureshe was mad. Tramping all night! He couldn’tlet her do this.

She sprang up. She stared down at him in revulsion,her hands clenched. Her voice was hostile asshe demanded:

“What? Don’t you want to? With me?”

He was up beside her, angry, dignified; a man.

“Look here. You know I want to. You’re the elegantest—­I mean you’re—­Oh,you ought to know! Can’t you see how Ifeel about you? Why, I’d rather do thisthan anything I ever heard of in my life. Ijust don’t want to do anything that would getpeople to talking about you.”

“Who would know? Besides, my dear man,I don’t regard it as exactly wicked to walkdecently along a country road.”

“Oh, it isn’t that. Oh, please,Istra, don’t look at me like that—­likeyou hated me.”

She calmed at once, drummed on his arm, sat down onthe railing, and drew him to a seat beside her.

“Of course, Mouse. It’s silly tobe angry. Yes, I do believe you want to takecare of me. But don’t worry.... Come! Shall we go?”

“But wouldn’t you rather wait till to-morrow?”

“No. The whole thing’s so mad thatif I wait till then I’ll never want to do it. And you’ve got to come, so that I’ll havesome one to quarrel with.... I hate the smugnessof London, especially the smugness of the anti-smuganti-bourgeois radicals, so that I have the finestmad mood! Come. We’ll go.”

Even this logical exposition had not convinced him,but he did not gainsay as they entered the hall andIstra rang for the landlady. His knees grewsick and old and quavery as he heard the landlady’svoice loud below-stairs: “Now wot do theywant? It’s eleven o’clock. Aren’t they ever done a-ringing and a-ringing?”

The landlady, the tired thin parchment-faced NorthCountrywoman, whose god was Respectability of Lodgings,listened in a frightened way to Istra’s blandlysuperior statement: “Mr. Wrenn and I havebeen invited to join an excursion out of town thatleaves to-night. We’ll pay our rent andleave our things here.”

“Going off together—­”

“My good woman, we are going to Aengusmere. Here’s two pound. Don’t allow anyone in my room. And I may send for my thingsfrom out of town. Be ready to pack them in mytrunks and send them to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, miss, but—­”

“My good woman, do you realize that your `buts’are insulting?”

“Oh, I didn’t go to be insulting—­”

“Then that’s all.... Hurry now,Mouse!”

On the stairs, ascending, she whispered, with theexcitement not of a tired woman, but of a tennis-and-dancing-madgirl: “We’re off! Just takea tooth-brush. Put on an outing suit—­anyold thing—­and an old cap.”

She darted into her room.

Now Mr. Wrenn had, for any old thing, as well as forafternoon and evening dress, only the sturdy undistinguishedclothes he was wearing, so he put on a cap, and hopedshe wouldn’t notice. She didn’t. She came knocking in fifteen minutes, trim in a khakisuit, with low thick boots and a jolly tousled bluetam-o’-shanter.

“Come on. There’s a train for Chelmsfordin half an hour, my time-table confided to me. I feel like singing.”

CHAPTER X

HE GOES A-GIPSYING

They rode out of London in a third-class compartment,opposite a curate and two stodgy people who were justpeople and defied you (Istra cheerfully explainedto Mr. Wrenn) to make anything of them but just people.

“Wouldn’t they stare if they knew whatidiocy we’re up to!” she suggested.

Mr. Wrenn bobbed his head in entire agreement. He was trying, without any slightest success, tomake himself believe that Mr. William Wrenn, Our Mr.Wrenn, late of the Souvenir Company, was startingout for a country tramp at midnight with an artistgirl.

The night foreman of the station, a person of bedizenmentand pride, stared at them as they alighted at Chelmsfordand glanced around like strangers. Mr. Wrennstared back defiantly and marched with Istra fromthe station, through the sleeping town, past its raggededges, into the country.

They tramped on, a bit wearily. Mr. Wrenn wasbeginning to wonder if they’d better go backto Chelmsford. Mist was dripping and blind andsilent about them, weaving its heavy gray with thenight. Suddenly Istra caught his arm at the gateto a farm-yard, and cried, “Look!”

“Gee!... Gee! we’re in England. We’re abroad!”

“Yes—­abroad.”

A paved courtyard with farm outbuildings thatchedand ancient was lit faintly by a lantern hung froma post that was thumbed to a soft smoothness by centuries.

“That couldn’t be America,” he exulted. “Gee! I’m just gettin’ it! I’m so darn glad we came.... Here’sreal England. No tourists. It’s whatI’ve always wanted—­a country that’sold. And different.... Thatched houses!... And pretty soon it’ll be dawn, summer dawn;with you, with Istra! Gee! It’s thedarndest adventure.”

“Yes.... Come on. Let’s walkfast or we’ll get sleepy, and then your romanticheroine will be a grouchy Interesting People!... Listen! There’s a sleepy dog barking,a million miles away.... I feel like tellingyou about myself. You don’t know me. Or do you?”

“I dunno just how you mean.”

“Oh, it shall have its romance! But sometime I’ll tell you—­perhaps I will—­howI’m not really a clever person at all, but justa savage from outer darkness, who pretends to understandLondon and Paris and Munich, and gets frightfullyscared of them.... Wait! Listen! Hear the mist drip from that tree. Are you niceand drowned?”

“Uh—­kind of. But I been worryingabout you being soaked.”

“Let me see. Why, your sleeve is wet clearthrough. This khaki of mine keeps out the waterbetter.... But I don’t mind getting wet. All I mind is being bored. I’d like torun up this hill without a thing on—­justfeeling the good healthy real mist on my skin. But I’m afraid it isn’t done.”

Mile after mile. Mostly she talked of the boulevardsand Pere Dureon, of Debussy and artichokes, in littlelaughing sentences that sprang like fire out of thedimness of the mist.

Dawn came. From a hilltop they made out theroofs of a town and stopped to wonder at its silence,as though through long ages past no happy footstephad echoed there. The fog lifted. Themorning was new-born and clean, and they fairly sangas they clattered up to an old coaching inn and demandedbreakfast of an amazed rustic pottering about theinn yard in a smock. He did not know that toa “thrilling” Mr. Wrenn he—­orperhaps it was his smock—­was the hero inan English melodrama. Nor, doubtless, did theEnglish crisp bacon and eggs which a sleepy housemaidprepared know that they were theater properties. Why, they were English eggs, served at dawn in anEnglish inn—­a stone-floored raftered roomwith a starling hanging in a little cage of withesoutside the latticed window. And there were notrippers to bother them! (Mr. Wrenn really used theword “trippers” in his cogitations; hehad it from Istra.)

When he informed her of this occult fact she laughed, “You know mighty well, Mouse, that you havea sneaking wish there were one Yankee stranger hereto see our glory.”

“I guess that’s right.”

“But maybe I’m just as bad.”

For once their tones had not been those of teacherand pupil, but of comrades. They set out fromthe inn through the brightening morning like livelyboys on a vacation tramp.

The sun crept out, with the warmth and the dust, andIstra’s steps lagged. As they passed theoutlying corner of a farm where a straw-stack wassecluded in a clump of willows Istra smiled and sighed: “I’m pretty tired, dear. I’mgoing to sleep in that straw-stack. I’vealways wanted to sleep in a straw-stack. It’scomme il faut for vagabonds in the best set,you know. And one can burrow. Exciting,eh?”

She made a pillow of her khaki jacket, while he dugdown to a dry place for her. He found anotherden on the other side of the stack.

It was afternoon when he awoke. He sprang upand rushed around the stack. Istra was stillasleep, curled in a pathetically small childish heap,her tired face in repose against the brown-yellowof her khaki jacket. Her red hair had come downand shone about her shoulders.

She looked so frail that he was frightened. Surely, too, she’d be very angry with him forletting her come on this jaunt.

He scribbled on a leaf from his address-book—­religiouslycarried for six years, but containing only four addresses—­thisnote:

Gone to get stuff for bxfst be right back.—­W.W.

and, softly crawling up the straw, left the note byher head. He hastened to a farm-house. The farm-wife was inclined to be curious. Ocurious farm-wife, you of the cream-thick Essex speechand the shuffling feet, you were brave indeed to faceBill Wrenn the Great, with his curt self-possession,for he was on a mission for Istra, and he cared notfor the goggling eyes of all England. What thoughhe was a bunny-faced man with an innocuous mustache? Istra would be awakening hungry. That was whyhe bullied you into selling him a stew-pan and a bundleof fa*ggots along with the tea and eggs and a breadloaf and a jar of the marmalade your husband’sfarm had been making these two hundred years. And you should have had coffee for him, not tea,woman of Essex.

When he returned to their outdoor inn the late afternoonglow lay along the rich fields that sloped down fromtheir well-concealed nook. Istra was still asleep,but her cheek now lay wistfully on the crook of herthin arm. He looked at the auburn-framed palenessof her face, its lines of thought and ambition, unmasked,unprotected by the swift changes of expression whichdefended her while she was awake. He sobbed.If he could only make her happy! But he was afraidof her moods.

He built a fire by a brooklet beyond the willows,boiled the eggs and toasted the bread and made thetea, with cream ready in a jar. He rememberedboyhood camping days in Parthenon and old camp lore. He returned to the stack and called, “Istra—­oh,Is-tra!”

She shook her head, nestled closer into the straw,then sat up, her hair about her shoulders. Shesmiled and called down: “Good morning. Why, it’s afternoon! Did you sleep well,dear?”

“Yes. Did you? Gee, I hope you did!”

“Never better in my life. I’m sosleepy yet. But comfy. I needed a quietsleep outdoors, and it’s so peaceful here.Breakfast! I roar for breakfast! Where’sthe nearest house?”

“Got breakfast all ready.”

“You’re a dear!”

She went to wash in the brook, and came back witheyes dancing and hair trim, and they laughed overbreakfast, glancing down the slope of golden hazyfields. Only once did Istra pass out of theland of their intimacy into some hinterland of analysis—­whenshe looked at him as he drank his tea aloud out ofthe stew-pan, and wondered: “Is this reallyyou here with me? But you aren’ta boulevardier. I must say I don’t understandwhat you’re doing here at all.... Nor acaveman, either. I don’t understand it.... But you sha’n’t be worried bybad Istra. Let’s see; we went to grammar-schooltogether.”

“Yes, and we were in college. Don’tyou remember when I was baseball captain? Youdon’t? Gee, you got a bad memory!”

At which she smiled properly, and they were away forSuffolk again.

“I suppose now it’ll go and rain,”said Istra, viciously, at dusk. It was the firsttime she had spoken for a mile. Then, afteranother quarter-mile: “Please don’tmind my being silent. I’m sort of stiff,and my feet hurt most unromantically. You won’tmind, will you?”

Of course he did mind, and of course he said he didn’t.He artfully skirted the field of conversation by veryWest Sixteenth Street observations on a town throughwhich they passed, while she merely smiled wearily,and at best remarked “Yes, that’s so,”whether it was so or not.

He was reflecting: “Istra’s terribletired. I ought to take care of her.” He stopped at the wood-pillared entrance of a temperanceinn and commanded: “Come! We’llhave something to eat here.” To the astonishmentof both of them, she meekly obeyed with “Ifyou wish.”

It cannot be truthfully said that Mr. Wrenn provedhimself a person of savoir faire in choosinga temperance hotel for their dinner. Istra didn’tseem so much to mind the fact that the table-clothwas coarse and the water-glasses thick, and that everywherethe elbow ran into a superfluity of greasy pepper andsalt castors. But when she raised her head wearilyto peer around the room she started, glared at Mr.Wrenn, and accused: “Are you by any chanceaware of the fact that this place is crowded withtourists? There are two family parties fromDavenport or Omaha; I know they are!”

“Oh, they ain’t such bad-looking people,”protested Mr. Wrenn.... Just because he hadinduced her to stop for dinner the poor man thoughthis masculine superiority had been recognized.

“Oh, they’re terrible! Can’tyou see it? Oh, you’re hopeless.”

“Why, that big guy—­that big man withthe rimless spectacles looks like he might be a goodcivil engineer, and I think that lady opposite him—­”

“They’re Americans.”

“So’re we!”

“I’m not.”

“I thought—­why—­”

“Of course I was born there, but—­”

“Well, just the same, I think they’renice people.”

“Now see here. Must I argue with you? Can I have no peace, tired as I am? Those trippersare speaking of `quaint English flavor.’ Can you want anything more than that to damn them? And they’ve been touring by motor—­seeingevery inn on the road.”

“Maybe it’s fun for—­”

“Now don’t argue with me. I know what I’m talking about. Why doI have to explain everything? They’re hopeless!”

Mr. Wrenn felt a good wholesome desire to spank her,but he said, most politely: “You’reawful tired. Don’t you want to stay heretonight? Or maybe some other hotel; and I’llstay here.”

“No. Don’t want to stay any place. Want to get away from myself,” she said, exactlylike a naughty child.

So they tramped on again.

Darkness was near. They had plunged into a countrywhich in the night seemed to be a stretch of desolatemoorlands. As they were silently plodding upa hill the rain came. It came with a roar, apitiless drenching against which they fought uselessly,soaking them, slapping their faces, blinding theireyes. He caught her arm and dragged her ahead. She would be furious with him because it rained,of course, but this was no time to think of that;he had to get her to a dry place.

Istra laughed: “Oh, isn’t this great! We’re real vagabonds now.”

“Why! Doesn’t that khaki soak through? Aren’t you wet?”

“To the skin!” she shouted, gleefully. “And I don’t care! We’re doingsomething. Poor dear, is it worried? I’llrace you to the top of the hill.”

The dark bulk of a building struck their sight atthe top, and they ran to it. Just now Mr. Wrennwas ready to devour alive any irate householder whomight try to turn them out. He found the buildingto be a ruined stable—­the door off the hinges,the desolate thatch falling in. He struck amatch and, holding it up, standing straight, the master,all unconscious for once in his deprecating life ofthe Wrennishness of Mr. Wrenn, he discovered thatthe thatch above the horse-manger was fairly waterproof.

“Come on! Up on the edge of the manger,Istra,” he ordered.

“This is a perfectly good place for a murder,”she grinned, as they sat swinging their legs.

He could fancy her grinning. He was sure aboutit, and well content.

“Have I been so very grouchy, Mouse? Don’tyou want to murder me? I’ll try to findyou a long pin.”

“Nope; I don’t think so, much. Iguess we can get along without it this time.”

“Oh dear, dear! This is very dreadful. You’re so used to me now that you aren’teven scared of me any more.”

“Gee! I guess I’ll be scared ofyou all right as soon as I get you into a dry place,but I ain’t got time now. Sitting on amanger! Ain’t this the funniest place!... Now I must beat it out and find a house. Thereought to be one somewheres near here.”

“And leave me here in the darknesses and wetnesses? Not a chance. The rain’ll soon be over,anyway. Really, I don’t mind a bit.I think it’s rather fun.”

Her voice was natural again, natural and companionableand brave. She laughed as she stroked her wetshoulder and held his hand, sitting quietly and biddinghim listen to the soft forlorn sound of the rain onthe thatch.

But the rain was not soon over, and their danglingposition was very much like riding a rail.

“I’m so uncomfortable!” frettedIstra.

“See here, Istra, please, I think I’dbetter go see if I can’t find a house for youto get dry in.”

“I feel too wretched to go any place. Too wretched to move.”

“Well, then, I’ll make a fire here. There ain’t much danger.”

“The place will catch fire,” she began,querulously.

But he interrupted her. “Oh, letthe darn place catch fire! I’m going tomake a fire, I tell you!”

“I don’t want to move. It’lljust be another kind of discomfort, that’s all. Why couldn’t you try and take a little bitof care of me, anyway?”

“Oh, hon-ey!” he wailed, in youthful bewilderment. “I did try to get you to stay at that hotelin town and get some rest.”

“Well, you ought to have made me. Don’tyou realize that I took you along to take care ofme?”

“Uh—­”

“Now don’t argue about it. I can’tstand argument all the time.”

He thought instantly of Lee Theresa Zapp quarrelingwith her mother, but he said nothing. He gatheredthe driest bits of thatch and wood he could find inthe litter on the stable floor and kindled a fire,while she sat sullenly glaring at him, her face wrinkledand tired in the wan firelight. When the blazewas going steadily, a compact and safe little fire,he spread his coat as a seat for her, and called,cheerily, “Come on now, honey; here’sa regular home and hearthstone for you.”

She slipped down from the manger edge and stood infront of him, looking into his eyes—­whichwere level with her own.

“You are good to me,” she halfwhispered, and smoothed his cheek, then slipped downon the outspread coat, and murmured, “Come;sit here by me, and we’ll both get warm.”

All night the rain dribbled, but no one came to drivethem away from the fire, and they dozed side by side,their hands close and their garments steaming. Istra fell asleep, and her head drooped on his shoulder. He straightened to bear its weight, though his backtwinged with stiffness, and there he sat unmoving,through an hour of pain and happiness and confusedmeditation, studying the curious background—­thedark roof of broken thatch, the age-corroded walls,the littered earthen floor. His hand pressedlightly the clammy smoothness of the wet khaki ofher shoulder; his wet sleeve stuck to his arm, andhe wanted to pull it free. His eyes stung. But he sat tight, while his mind ran round in circles,considering that he loved Istra, and that he wouldnot be entirely sorry when he was no longer the slaveto her moods; that this adventure was the strangestand most romantic, also the most idiotic and useless,in history.

Toward dawn she stirred, and, slipping stiffly fromhis position, he moved her so that her back, whichwas still wet, faced the fire. He built up thefire again, and sat brooding beside her, dozing andstarting awake, till morning. Then his headbobbed, and he was dimly awake again, to find her sittingup straight, looking at him in amazement.

“It simply can’t be, that’s all.... Did you curl me up? I’m nice and dryall over now. It was very good of you. You’ve been a most commendable person.... But I think we’ll take a train for the restof our pilgrimage. It hasn’t been entirelysuccessful, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps we’d better.”

For a moment he hated her, with her smooth politeness,after a night when she had been unbearable and humanby turns. He hated her bedraggled hair and tiredface. Then he could have wept, so deeply didhe desire to pull her head down on his shoulder andsmooth the wrinkles of weariness out of her dear face,the dearer because they had endured the wearinesstogether. But he said, “Well, let’stry to get some breakfast first, Istra.”

With their garments wrinkled from rain, half asleepand rather cross, they arrived at the esthetic butrespectable colony of Aengusmere by the noon train.

CHAPTER XI

HE BUYS AN ORANGE TIE

The Aengusmere Caravanserai is so unyieldingly cheerfuland artistic that it makes the ordinary person longfor a dingy old-fashioned room in which he can playsolitaire and chew gum without being rebuked withexasperating patience by the wall stencils and cleveretchings and polished brasses. It is adjectiferous. The common room (which is uncommon for hotel parlor)is all in superlatives and chintzes.

Istra had gone up to her room to sleep, bidding Mr.Wrenn do likewise and avoid the wrong bunch at theCaravanserai; for besides the wrong bunch of InterestingPeople there were, she explained, a right bunch, ofworking artists. But he wanted to get some newclothes, to replace his rain-wrinkled ready-mades.He was tottering through the common room, wonderingwhether he could find a clothing-shop in Aengusmere,when a shrill gurgle from a wing-chair by the rough-brickfireplace halted him.

“Oh-h-h-h, Mister Wrenn; Mr. Wrenn!”There sat Mrs. Stettinius, the poet-lady of Olympia’srooms on Great James Street.

“Oh-h-h-h, Mr. Wrenn, you bad man, docome sit down and tell me all about your wonderfultrek with Istra Nash. I just met dearIstra in the upper hall. Poor dear, she was socrumpled, but her hair was like a sunset over mountainpeaks—­you know, as Yeats says:

“Astormy sunset were her lips,
Astormy sunset on doomed ships,

only of course this was her hair and not herlips—­and she told me that you hadtramped all the way from London. I’venever heard of anything so romantic—­or no,I won’t say `romantic’—­I doagree with dear Olympia—­isn’tshe a mag_nificent_ woman—­so fearlessand progressive—­didn’t you adoremeeting her?—­she is our modern Joan of Arc—­sucha noble figure—­I do agreewith her that romantic love is passe,that we have entered the era of glorious companionshipthat regards varietism as exactly as romanticas monogamy. But—­but—­wherewas I?—­I think your gipsying down from Londonwas most exciting. Now do tellus all about it, Mr. Wrenn. First, I want youto meet Miss Saxonby and Mr. Gutch and dearYilyena Dourschetsky and Mr. Howard Banco*ck Binch—­ofcourse you know his poetry.”

And then she drew a breath and flopped back into thewing-chair’s muffling depths.

During all this Mr. Wrenn had stood, frightened andunprotected and rain-wrinkled, before the gatheringby the fireless fireplace, wondering how Mrs. Stettiniuscould get her nose so blue and yet so powdery. Despite her encouragement he gave no fuller accountof the “gipsying” than, “Why—­uh—­wejust tramped down,” till Russian-Jewish Yilyenarolled her ebony eyes at him and insisted, “Yez,you mus’ tale us about it.”

Now, Yilyena had a pretty neck, colored like a cigarof mild flavor, and a trick of smiling. Shewas accustomed to having men obey her. Mr. Wrennstammered:

“Why—­uh—­we just walked,and we got caught in the rain. Say, Miss Nashwas a wonder. She never peeped when she got soakedthrough—­she just laughed and beat it likeeverything. And we saw a lot of quaint Englishplaces along the road—­got away from allthem tourists—­trippers—­you know.”

A perfectly strange person, a heavy old man with hornspectacles and a soft shirt, who had joined the groupunbidden, cleared his throat and interrupted:

“Is it not a strange paradox that in traveling,the most observant of all pursuits, one should haveto encounter the eternal bourgeoisie!”

From the co*ckney Greek chorus about the unlightedfire:

“Yes!”

“Everywhere.”

“Uh—­” began Mr. Gutch. He apparently had something to say. But thechorus went on:

“And just as swelteringly monogamic in PortSaid as in Brum.”

“Yes, that’s so.”

“Mr. Wr-r-renn,” thrilled Mrs. Stettinius,the lady poet, “didn’t you notice thatthey were perfectly oblivious of all economic movements;that their observations never post-dated ruins?”

“I guess they wanted to make sure they wereadmirin’ the right things,” ventured Mr.Wrenn, with secret terror.

“Yes, that’s so,” came so approvinglyfrom the Greek chorus that the personal pupil of Mittyford,Ph.D., made his first epigram:

“It isn’t so much what you like as whatyou don’t like that shows if you’re wise.”

“Yes,” they gurgled; and Mr. Wrenn, muchpleased with himself, smiled au prince uponhis new friends.

Mrs. Stettinius was getting into her stride for afew remarks upon the poetry of industrialism whenMr. Gutch, who had been “Uh—­“ingfor some moments, trying to get in his remark, winkedwith sly rudeness at Miss Saxonby and observed:

“I fancy romance isn’t quite dead yet,y’ know. Our friends here seem to havehad quite a ro-mantic little journey.” Thenhe winked again.

“Say, what do you mean?” demanded BillWrenn, hot-eyed, fists clenched, but very quiet.

“Oh, I’m not blaming you and MissNash—­quite the reverse!” titteredthe Gutch person, wagging his head sagely.

Then Bill Wrenn, with his fist at Mr. Gutch’snose, spoke his mind:

“Say, you white-faced unhealthy dirty-mindedlump, I ain’t much of a fighter, but I’mgoing to muss you up so’s you can’t findyour ears if you don’t apologize for those insinuations.”

“Oh, Mr. Wrenn—­”

“He didn’t mean—­”

“I didn’t mean—­”

“He was just spoofing—­”

“I was just spoofing—­”

Bill Wrenn, watching the dramatization of himselfas hero, was enjoying the drama. “Youapologize, then?”

“Why certainly, Mr. Wrenn. Let me explain—­”

“Oh, don’t explain,” snortled MissSaxonby.

“Yes!” from Mr. Banco*ck Binch, “explanationsare so conventional, old chap.”

Do you see them?—­Mr. Wrenn, self-consciousand ready to turn into a blind belligerent Bill Wrennat the first disrespect; the talkers sitting aboutand assassinating all the princes and proprietiesand, poor things, taking Mr. Wrenn quite seriouslybecause he had uncovered the great truth that the importantthing in sight-seeing is not to see sights. Hewas most unhappy, Mr. Wrenn was, and wanted to beaway from there. He darted as from a spring whenhe heard Istra’s voice, from the edge of thegroup, calling, “Come here a sec’, Billy.”

She was standing with a chair-back for support, tiredbut smiling.

“I can’t get to sleep yet. Don’tyou want me to show you some of the buildings here?”

“Oh yes!”

“If Mrs. Stettinius can spare you!”

This by way of remarking on the fact that the femalepoet was staring volubly.

“G-g-g-g-g-g—­” said Mrs. Stettinius,which seemed to imply perfect consent.

Istra took him to the belvedere on a little slopeoverlooking the lawns of Aengusmere, scattered withlow bungalows and rose-gardens.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it? Perhapsone could be happy here—­if one could killall the people except the architect,” she mused.

“Oh, it is,” he glowed.

Standing there beside her, happiness enveloping them,looking across the marvelous sward, Bill Wrenn wasat the climax of his comedy of triumph. Admittedto a world of lawns and bungalows and big studio windows,standing in a belvedere beside Istra Nash as her friend—­

“Mouse dear,” she said, hesitatingly,“the reason why I wanted to have you come outhere, why I couldn’t sleep, I wanted to tellyou how ashamed I am for having been peevish, beingpetulant, last night. I’m so sorry, becauseyou were very patient with me, you were very goodto me. I don’t want you to think of mejust as a crochety woman who didn’t appreciateyou. You are very kind, and when I hear thatyou’re married to some nice girl I’llbe as happy as can be.”

“Oh, Istra,” he cried, grasping her arm,“I don’t want any girl in the world—­Imean—­oh, I just want to be let go ’roundwith you when you’ll let me—­”

“No, no, dear. You must have seen lastnight; that’s impossible. Please don’targue about it now; I’m too tired. I justwanted to tell you I appreciated—­And whenyou get back to America you won’t be any theworse for playing around with poor Istra because shetold you about different things from what you’veplayed with, about rearing children as individualsand painting in tempera and all those things? And—­and I don’t want you to gettoo fond of me, because we’re—­different....But we have had an adventure, even if it was a littlemoist.” She paused; then, cheerily: “Well, I’m going to beat it back andtry to sleep again. Good-by, Mouse dear. No, don’t come back to the Cara-advanced-serai. Play around and see the animiles. G’-by.”

He watched her straight swaying figure swing acrossthe lawn and up the steps of the half-timbered inn. He watched her enter the door before he hastenedto the shops which clustered about the railway-station,outside of the poetic preserves of the colony proper.

He noticed, as he went, that the men crossing thegreen were mostly clad in Norfolk jackets and knickers,so he purchased the first pair of unrespectable un-ankle-concealingtrousers he had owned since small boyhood, and a jacketof rough serge, with a gaudy buckle on the belt. Also, he actually dared an orange tie!

He wanted something for Istra at dinner—­“as’prise,” he whispered under his breath,with fond babying. For the first time in hislife he entered a florist’s shop.... Normally,you know, the poor of the city cannot afford flowerstill they are dead, and then for but one day.... He came out with a bunch of orchids, and rememberedthe days when he had envied the people he had seenin florists’ shops actually buying flowers. When he was almost at the Caravanserai he wantedto go back and change the orchids for simpler flowers,roses or carnations, but he got himself not to.

The linen and glassware and silver of the Caravanseraiwere almost as coarse as those of a temperance hotel,for all the raftered ceiling and the etchings in thedining-room. Hunting up the stewardess of theinn, a bustling young woman who was reading Keatsenergetically at an office-like desk, Mr. Wrenn begged: “I wonder could I get some special cups andplates and stuff for high tea tonight. I gota kind of party—­”

“How many?” The stewardess issued thewords as though he had put a penny in the slot.

“Just two. Kind of a birthday party.” Mendacious Mr. Wrenn!

“Certainly. Of course there’s asmall extra charge. I have a Royal Satsuma tea-service—­practicallyRoyal Satsuma, at least—­and some specialLimoges.”

“I think Royal Sats’ma would be nice. And some silverware?”

“Surely.”

“And could we get some special stuff to eat?”

“What would you like?”

“Why—­”

Mendacious Mr. Wrenn! as we have commented. He put his head on one side, rubbed his chin withnice consideration, and condescended, “Whatwould you suggest?”

“For a party high tea? Why, perhaps consommeand omelet Bergerac and a salad and a sweet and cafediable. We have a chef who does French eggsrather remarkably. That would be simple, but—­”

“Yes, that would be very good,” gravelygranted the patron of cuisine. “At six;for two.”

As he walked away he grinned within. “Gee!I talked to that omelet Berg’ rac like I’dknown it all my life!”

Other s’prises for Istra’s party he sought. Let’s see; suppose it really were her birthday,wouldn’t she like to have a letter from someimportant guy? he queried of himself. He’dwrite her a make-b’lieve letter from a duke. Which he did. Purchasing a stamp, he humpedover a desk in the common room and with infinite painshe inked the stamp in imitation of a postmark andaddressed the letter to “Lady Istra Nash, MouseCastle, Suffolk.”

Some one sat down at the desk opposite him, and hejealously carried the task upstairs to his room. He rang for pen and ink as regally as though he hadnever sat at the wrong end of a buzzer. Afterhalf an hour of trying to visualize a duke writinga letter he produced this:

LADY ISTRA NASH,
MouseCastle.

DEAR MADAM,—­We hear from our friend SirWilliam Wrenn that some folks are saying that to-dayis not your birthday & want to stop your celebration,so if you should need somebody to make them believeto-day is your birthday we have sent our secretary,Sir Percival Montague. Sir William Wrenn willhide him behind his chair, and if they bother youjust call for Sir Percival and he will tell them. Permit us, dear Lady Nash, to wish you all the greetingsof the season, and in close we beg to remain, as ever,
Yourssincerely,
DUKEVERE DE VERE.

He was very tired. When he lay down for a minute,with a pillow tucked over his head, he was almostasleep in ten seconds. But he sprang up, washedhis prickly eyes with cold water, and began to dress. He was shy of the knickers and golf-stockings, butit was the orange tie that gave him real alarm. He dared it, though, and went downstairs to makesure they were setting the table with glory befittingthe party.

As he went through the common room he watched thethree or four groups scattered through it. Theyseemed to take his clothes as a matter of course. He was glad. He wanted so much to be a creditto Istra.

Returning from the dining-room to the common room,he passed a group standing in a window recess andlooking away from him. He overheard:

“Who is the remarkable new person with the orangetie and the rococo buckle on his jacket belt—­theone that just went through? Did you ever seeanything so funny! His collar didn’t comewithin an inch and a half of fitting his neck. He must be a poet. I wonder if his verses areas jerry-built as his garments!”

Mr. Wrenn stopped.

Another voice:

“And the beautiful lack of development of hislegs! It’s like the good old cycling days,when every draper’s assistant went bank-holidaying.... I don’t know him, but I suppose he’s sometuppeny-ha’p’ny illustrator.”

“Or perhaps he has convictions about fried bananas,and dines on a bean saute. O Aengusmere! Shades of Aengus!”

“Not at all. When they look as gentleas he they always hate the capitalists as a militanthates a cabinet minister. He probably dineson the left ear of a South-African millionaire everyevening before exercise at the barricades.... I say, look over there; there’s a real artistgoing across the green. You can tell he’sa real artist because he’s dressed like a navvyand—­”

Mr. Wrenn was walking away, across the common room,quite sure that every one was eying him with amusem*nt. And it was too late to change his clothes. It was six already.

He stuck out his jaw, and remembered that he had plannedto hide the “letter from the duke” inIstra’s napkin that it might be the greatersurprise. He sat down at their table. Hetucked the letter into the napkin folds. Hemoved the vase of orchids nearer the center of thetable, and the table nearer the open window givingon the green. He rebuked himself for not beingable to think of something else to change. Heforgot his clothes, and was happy.

At six-fifteen he summoned a boy and sent him up witha message that Mr. Wrenn was waiting and high teaready.

The boy came back muttering, “Miss Nash leftthis note for you, sir, the stewardess says.”

Mr. Wrenn opened the green-and-white Caravanserailetter excitedly. Perhaps Istra, too, was dressingfor the party! He loved all s’prises justthen. He read:

Mouse dear, I’m sorrier than I can tell you,but you know I warrned you that bad Istra was a creatureof moods, and just now my mood orders me to beat itfor Paris, which I’m doing, on the 5.17 train. I won’t say good-by—­I hate good-bys,they’re so stupid, don’t you think? Write me some time, better make it care Amer.Express Co., Paris, because I don’t know yetjust where I’ll be. And please don’tlook me up in Paris, because it’s always betterto end up an affair without explanations, don’tyou think? You have been wonderfully kind tome, and I’ll send you some good thought-forms,shall I?
I.N.

He walked to the office of the Caravanserai, blindly,quietly. He paid his bill, and found that hehad only fifty dollars left. He could not gethimself to eat the waiting high tea. There wasa seven-fourteen train for London. He took it. Meantime he wrote out a cable to his New York bankfor a hundred and fifty dollars. To keep fromthinking in the train he talked gravely and gentlyto an old man about the brave days of England, whenmen threw quoits. He kept thinking over and over,to the tune set by the rattling of the train trucks: “Friends... I got to make friends, nowI know what they are.... Funny some guys don’tmake friends. Mustn’t forget. Gotto make lots of ’em in New York. Learnhow to make ’em.”

He arrived at his room on Tavistock Place about eleven,and tried to think for the rest of the night of howdeeply he was missing Morton of the cattle-boat nowthat—­now that he had no friend in all thehostile world.

In a London A. B. C. restaurant Mr. Wrenn was talkingto an American who had a clipped mustache, brisk manners,a Knight-of-Pythias pin, and a mind for duck-shooting,hardware-selling, and cigars.

“No more England for mine,” the Americansnapped, good-humoredly. “I’m goingto get out of this foggy hole and get back to God’scountry just as soon as I can. I want to findout what’s doing at the store, and I want tosit down to a plate of flapjacks. I’mgood and plenty sick of tea and marmalade. Why,I wouldn’t take this fool country for a gift. No, sir! Me for God’s country—­SleepyEye, Brown County, Minnesota. You bet!”

“You don’t like England much, then?”Mr. Wrenn carefully reasoned.

“Like it? Like this damp crowded hole,where they can’t talk English, and have a foolcoinage—­Say, that’s a great system,that metric system they’ve got over in France,but here—­why, they don’t know whetherKansas City is in Kansas or Missouri or both.... `Rightas rain’—­that’s what a fellowsaid to me for `all right’! Ever hearsuch nonsense?.... And tea for breakfast!Not for me! No, sir! I’m going totake the first steamer!”

With a gigantic smoke-puff of disgust the man fromSleepy Eye stalked out, jingling the keys in his trouserspocket, co*cking up his cigar, and looking as thoughhe owned the restaurant.

Mr. Wrenn, picturing him greeting the Singer Towerfrom an incoming steamer, longed to see the tower.

“Gee! I’ll do it!”

He rose and, from that table in the basem*nt of anA. B. C. restaurant, he fled to America.

He dashed up-stairs, fidgeted while the cashier madehis change, rang for a bus, whisked into his room,slammed his things into his suit-case, announced toit wildly that they were going home, and scamperedto the Northwestem Station. He walked nervouslyup and down till the Liverpool train departed. “Suppose Istra wanted to make up, and cameback to London?” was a terrifying thought thathounded him. He dashed into the waiting-roomand wrote to her, on a souvenir post-card showingthe Abbey: “Called back to America—­willwrite. Address care of Souvenir Company, Twenty-eighthStreet.” But he didn’t mail the card.

Once settled in a second-class compartment, with thetrain in motion, he seemed already much nearer America,and, humming, to the great annoyance of a lady withbangs, he planned his new great work—­themaking of friends; the discovery, some day, if Istrashould not relent, of “somebody to go home to.” There was no end to the “societies and lodgesand stuff” he was going to join directly helanded.

At Liverpool he suddenly stopped at a post-box andmailed his card to Istra. That ended his debate. Of course after that he had to go back to America.

He sailed exultantly, one month and seventeen daysafter leaving Portland.

CHAPTER XII

HE DISCOVERS AMERICA

In his white-painted steerage berth Mr. Wrenn lay,with a scratch-pad on his raised knees and a smallmean pillow doubled under his head, writing samplefollow-up letters to present to the Souvenir and ArtNovelty Company, interrupting his work at intervalsto add to a list of the books which, beginning aboutfive minutes after he landed in New York, he was goingto master. He puzzled over Marie Corelli. Morton liked Miss Corelli so much; but would herworks appeal to Istra Nash?

He had worked for many hours on a letter to Istrain which he avoided mention of such indecent mattersas steerages and immigrants. He was grateful,he told her, for “all you learned me,”and he had thought that Aengusmere was a beautifulplace, though he now saw “what you meant aboutthem interesting people,” and his New York addresswould be the Souvenir Company.

He tore up the several pages that repeated that oldestmost melancholy cry of the lover, which rang amongthe deodars, from viking ships, from the moonlit courtyardsof Provence, the cry which always sounded about Mr.Wrenn as he walked the deck: “I want youso much; I miss you so unendingly; I am so lonely foryou, dear.” For no more clearly, no morenobly did the golden Aucassin or lean Dante word thatcry in their thoughts than did Mr. William Wrenn,Our Mr. Wrenn.

A third-class steward with a mangy mustache and setter-liketan eyes came teetering down-stairs, each step likea nervous pencil tap on a table, and peered over theside of Mr. Wrenn’s berth. He loved Mr.Wrenn, who was proven a scholar by the reading ofreal bound books—­an English history anda second-hand copy of Haunts of Historic EnglishWriters, purchased in Liverpool—­andwho was willing to listen to the steward’s serialstory of how his woman, Mrs. Wargle, faithlessly consortedwith Foddle, the cat’s-meat man, when the stewardwas away, and, when he was home, cooked for him lightsand liver that unquestionably were purchased from thesame cat’s-meat man. He now leered witha fond and watery gaze upon Mr. Wrenn’s scholarlypursuits, and announced in a whisper:

“They’ve sighted land.”

“Land?”

“Oh aye.”

Mr. Wrenn sat up so vigorously that he bumped hishead. He chucked his papers beneath the pillowwith his right hand, while the left was feeling forthe side of the berth. “Land!” hebellowed to drowsing cabin-mates as he vaulted out.

The steerage promenade-deck, iron-sided, black-floored,ending in the iron approaches to the galley at oneend and the iron superstructures about a hatch atthe other, was like a grim swart oilily clean machine-shopaisle, so inclosed, so over-roofed, that the sidetoward the sea seemed merely a long factory window. But he loved it and, except when he had guiltilyremembered the books he had to read, he had stayedon deck, worshiping the naive bright attire of immigrantsand the dark roll and glory of the sea.

Now, out there was a blue shading, made by a magicpencil; land, his land, where he was going to becomethe beloved comrade of all the friends whose likenesseshe saw in the white-caps flashing before him.

Humming, he paraded down to the buffet, where smallbeer and smaller tobacco were sold, to buy anotherpound of striped candy for the offspring of the RussianJews.

The children knew he was coming. “Fatrascals,” he chuckled, touching their dark cheeks,pretending to be frightened as they pounded soft fistsagainst the iron side of the ship or rolled unregardedin the scuppers. Their shawled mothers knew him,too, and as he shyly handed about the candy the chatteringstately line of Jewish elders nodded their beards likethe forest primeval in a breeze, saying words of blessingin a strange tongue.

He smiled back and made gestures, and shouted “Land! Land!” with several variations in key, to makeit sound foreign.

But he withdrew for the sacred moment of seeing theLand of Promise he was newly discovering—­theLong Island shore; the grass-clad redouts at FortWadsworth; the vast pile of New York sky-scrapers,standing in a mist like an enormous burned forest.

“Singer Tower.... Butterick Building,”he murmured, as they proceeded toward their dock. “That’s something like.... Let’ssee; yes, sir, by golly, right up there between theMet. Tower and the Times—­goodold Souvenir Company office. Jiminy! `One Dollarto Albany’—­something like asign, that is—­good old dollar! Tothunder with their darn shillings. Home!... Gee! there’s where I used to moon on a wharf!... Gosh! the old town looks good.”

And all this was his to conquer, for friendship’ssake.

He went to a hotel. While he had to go backto the Zapps’, of course, he did not wish, bymeeting those old friends, to spoil his first day. No, it was cheerfuler to stand at a window of hischeap hotel on Seventh Avenue, watching the “goodold American crowd”—­Germans, Irishmen,Italians, and Jews. He went to the Nickelorionand grasped the hand of the ticket-taker, the Brass-buttonMan, ejacul*ting: “How are you? Well,how’s things going with the old show?... I been away couple of months.”

“Fine and dandy! Been away, uh? Well, it’s good to get back to the old town,heh? Summer hotel?”

“Unk?”

“Why, you’re the waiter at Pat Maloney’s,ain’t you?”

Next morning Mr. Wrenn made himself go to the Souvenirand Art Novelty Company. He wanted to get theteasing, due him for staying away so short a time,over as soon as possible. The office girl, addressingcirculars, seemed surprised when he stepped from theelevator, and blushed her usual shy gratitude to themen of the office for allowing her to exist and takeaway six dollars weekly.

Then into the entry-room ran Rabin, one of the travelingsalesmen.

“Why, hul-lo, Wrenn! Wondered if thatcould be you. Back so soon? Thought youwere going to Europe.”

“Just got back. Couldn’t stand itaway from you, old scout!”

“You must have been learning to sass back realsmart, in the Old Country, heh? Going to bewith us again? Well, see you again soon. Glad see you back.”

He was not madly excited at seeing Rabin; still, thedrummer was part of the good old Souvenir Company,the one place in the world on which he could absolutelydepend, the one place where they always wanted him.

He had been absently staring at the sample-tables,noting new novelties. The office girl, speakingsweetly, but as to an outsider, inquired, “Whodid you wish to see, Mr. Wrenn?”

“Why! Mr. Guilfogle.”

“He’s busy, but if you’ll sit downI think you can see him in a few minutes.”

Mr. Wrenn felt like the prodigal son, with no calfin sight, at having to wait on the callers’bench, but he shook with faint excited gurgles ofmirth at the thought of the delightful surprise Mr.Mortimer R. Guilfogle, the office manager, was goingto have. He kept an eye out for Charley Carpenter.If Charley didn’t come through the entry-roomhe’d go into the bookkeeping-room, and—­“talkabout your surprises—­”

“Mr. Guilfogle will see you now,” saidthe office girl.

As he entered the manager’s office Mr. Guilfoglemade much of glancing up with busy amazement.

“Well, well, Wrenn! Back so soon? Thought you were going to be gone quite a while.”

“Couldn’t keep away from the office, Mr.Guilfogle,” with an uneasy smile.

“Have a good trip?”

“Yes, a dandy.”

“How’d you happen to get back so soon?”

“Oh, I wanted to—­Say, Mr. Guilfogle,I really wanted to get back to the office again. I’m awfully glad to see it again.”

“Glad see you. Well, where didyou go? I got the card you sent me from Chestertonwith the picture of the old church on it.”

“Why, I went to Liverpool and Oxford and Londonand—­well—­Kew and Ealing andplaces and—­And I tramped through Essex andSuffolk—­all through—­on foot. Aengusmere and them places.”

“Just a moment. (Well, Rabin, what is it? Why certainly. I’ve told you that alreadyabout five times. Yes, I said—­that’swhat I had the samples made up for. I wish you’dbe a little more careful, d’ ye hear?) You wentto London, did you, Wrenn? Say, did you noticeany novelties we could copy?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t, Mr. Guilfogle. I’m awfully sorry. I hunted around, butI couldn’t find a thing we could use. Imean I couldn’t find anything that began tocome up to our line. Them English are prettyslow.”

“Didn’t, eh? Well, what’syour plans now?”

“Why—­uh—­I kind of thought—­Honestly,Mr. Guilfogle, I’d like to get back on my oldjob. You remember—­it was to be fixedso—­”

“Afraid there’s nothing doing just now,Wrenn. Not a thing. Course I can’ttell what may happen, and you want to keep in touchwith us, but we’re pretty well filled up justnow. Jake is getting along better than we thought. He’s learning—­” Not one wordregarding Jake’s excellence did Mr. Wrenn hear.

Not get the job back? He sat down and stammered:

“Gee! I hadn’t thought of that. I’d kind of banked on the Souvenir Company,Mr. Guilfogle.”

“Well, you know I told you I thought you werean idiot to go. I warned you.”

He timidly agreed, mourning: “Yes, thatso; I know you did. But uh—­well—­”

“Sorry, Wrenn. That’s the way itgoes in business, though. If you will go beatingit around—­A rolling stone don’t gatherany moss. Well, cheer up! Possibly theremay be something doing in—­”

“Tr-r-r-r-r-r-r,” said the telephone.

Mr. Guilfogle remarked into it: “Hello. Yes, it’s me. Well, who did you thinkit was? The cat? Yuh. Sure. No. Well, to-morrow, probably. All right. Good-by.”

Then he glanced at his watch and up at Mr. Wrenn impatiently.

“Say, Mr. Guilfogle, you say there’llbe—­when will there be likely to be an opening?”

“Now, how can I tell, my boy? We’llwork you in if we can—­you ain’t abad clerk; or at least you wouldn’t be if you’dbe a little more careful. By the way, of courseyou understand that if we try to work you in it’lltake lots of trouble, and we’ll expect you tonot go flirting round with other firms, looking fora job. Understand that?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“All right. We appreciate your work allright, but of course you can ’t expect us tofire any of our present force just because you takethe notion to come back whenever you want to.... Hiking off to Europe, leaving a good job!... You didn’t get on the Continent, did you?”

“No, I—­”

“Well.... Oh, say, how’s the grubin London? Cheaper than it is here? Thewife was saying this morning we’d have to stopeating if the high cost of living goes on going up.”

“Yes, it’s quite a little cheaper. You can get fine tea for two and three cents a cup. Clothes is cheaper, too. But I don’tcare much for the English, though there is all sortsof quaint places with a real flavor.... Say,Mr. Guilfogle, you know I inherited a little money,and I can wait awhile, and you’ll kind of keepme in mind for a place if one—­”

“Didn’t I say I would?”

“Yes, but—­”

“You come around and see me a week from now. And leave your address with Rosey. I don’tknow, though, as we can afford to pay you quite thesame salary at first, even if we can work you in—­theseason’s been very slack. But I’lldo what I can for you. Come in and see me inabout a week. Goo’ day.”

Rabin, the salesman, waylaid Mr. Wrenn in the corridor.

“You look kind of peeked, Wrenn. Old Goglefoglebeen lighting into you? Say, I ought to havetold you first. I forgot it. The old rat,he’s been planning to stick the knife into youall the while. ’Bout two weeks ago meand him had a couple of co*cktails at Mouquin’s. You know how chummy he always gets after a coupleof smiles. Well, he was talking about—­Iwas saying you’re a good man and hoping youwere having a good time—­and he said, `Yes,’he says, `he’s a good man, but he sure did layhimself wide open by taking this trip. I’vegot him dead to rights,’ he says to me. `I’vegot a hunch he’ll be back here in three or fourmonths,’ he says to me. `And do you think he’llwalk in and get what he wants? Not him. I’ll keep him waiting a month before I givehim back his job, and then you watch, Rabin,’he says to me, `you’ll see he’ll be tickledto death to go back to work at less salary than hewas getting, and he’ll have sense enough tonot try this stunt of getting off the job again afterthat. And the trip’ll be good for him,anyway—­he’ll do better work—­vacationat his own expense—­save us money all round. I tell you, Rabin,’ he says to me, `if anyof you boys think you can get the best of the companyor me you just want to try it, that’s all.’Yessir, that’s what the old rat told me. You want to watch out for him.”

“Oh, I will; indeed I will—­”

“Did he spring any of this fairy tale just now?”

“Well, kind of. Say, thanks, I’mawful obliged to—­”

“Say, for the love of Mike, don’t lethim know I told you.”

“No, no, I sure won’t.”

They parted. Eager though he was for the greatmoment of again seeing his comrade, Charley Carpenter,Mr. Wrenn dribbled toward the bookkeeping-room mournfully,planning to tell Charley of Guilfogle’s wickedness.

The head bookkeeper shook his head at Mr. Wrenn’sinquiry:

“Charley ain’t here any longer.”

“Ain’t here?”

“No. He got through. He got to boozingpretty bad, and one morning about three weeks ago,when he had a pretty bad hang-over, he told Guilfoglewhat he thought of him, so of course Guilfogle firedhim.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Say,you don’t know his address, do you?”

“—­East a Hundred and Eighteenth.... Well, I’m glad to see you back, Wrenn. Didn’t expect to see you back so soon, butalways glad to see you. Going to be with us?”

“I ain’t sure,” said Mr. Wrenn,crabbedly, then shook hands warmly with the bookkeeper,to show there was nothing personal in his snippishness.

For nearly a hundred blocks Mr. Wrenn scowled at anadvertisem*nt of Corn Flakes in the Third Avenue Elevatedwithout really seeing it.... Should he go backto the Souvenir Company at all?

Yes. He would. That was the best way tostart making friends. But he would “getour friend Guilfogle at recess,” he assuredhimself, with an out-thrust of the jaw like that ofthe great Bill Wrenn. He knew Guilfogle’slead now, and he would show that gentleman that hecould play the game. He’d take that lowersalary and pretend to be frightened, but when he gotthe chance—­

He did not proclaim even to himself what dreadfulthing he was going to do, but as he left the Elevatedhe said over and over, shaking his closed fist insidehis coat pocket:

“When I get the chance—­when I getit—­”

The flat-building where Charley Carpenter lived wasone of hundreds of pressed-brick structures, apparentlyall turned out of the same mold. It was filledwith the smells of steamy washing and fried fish. Languid with the heat, Mr. Wrenn crawled up an infinityof iron steps and knocked three times at Charley’sdoor. No answer. He crawled down againand sought out the janitress, who stopped watchingan ice-wagon in the street to say:

“I guess you’ll be finding him asleepup there, sir. He do be lying there drunk mostof the day. His wife’s left him. The landlord’s give him notice to quit, endof August. Warm day, sir. Be you a bill-collector? Mostly, it’s bill-collectors that—­”

“Yes, it is hot.”

Superior in manner, but deeply dejected, Mr. Wrennrang the down-stairs bell long enough to wake Charley,pantingly got himself up the interminable stairs,and kicked the door till Charley’s voice quaveredinside:

“Who zhat?”

“It’s me, Charley. Wrenn.”

“You’re in Yurp. Can’t foolme. G’ ’way from there.”

Three other doors on the same landing were now partlyopen and blocked with the heads of frowsy inquisitivewomen. The steamy smell was thicker in the darkness. Mr. Wrenn felt prickly, then angry at this curiosity,and again demanded:

“Lemme in, I say.”

“Tell you it ain’t you. I know you!”

Charley Carpenter’s pale face leered out. His tousled hair was stuck to his forehead by perspiration;his eyes were red and vaguely staring. His clotheswere badlv wrinkled. He wore a collarless shirtwith a frilled bosom of virulent pink, its cuffs grimyand limp.

“It’s ol’ Wrenn. C’min. C’m in quick. Collectors alwayshanging around. They can’t catch me. You bet.”

He closed the door and wabbled swiftly down the longdrab hall of the “railroad flat,” evidentlytrying to walk straight. The reeking stiflingmain room at the end of the hall was terrible as Charley’seyes. Flies boomed everywhere. The oaktable, which Charley and his bride had once spentfour happy hours in selecting, was littered with halfa dozen empty whisky-flasks, collars, torn sensationalnewspapers, dirty plates and coffee-cups. Thecheap brocade cover, which a bride had once joyedto embroider with red and green roses, was half pulledoff and dragged on the floor amid the cigarette butts,Durham tobacco, and bacon rinds which covered thegreen-and-yellow carpet-rug.

This much Mr. Wrenn saw. Then he set himselfto the hard task of listening to Charley, who wasmuttering:

“Back quick, ain’t you, ol’ Wrenn? You come up to see me, didn’t you? You’rem’ friend, ain’t you, eh? I got anawful hang-over, ain’t I? You don’tcare, do you, ol’ Wrenn?”

Mr. Wrenn stared at him weakly, but only for a minute.Perhaps it was his cattle-boat experience which nowmade him deal directly with such drunkenness as wouldhave nauseated him three months before; perhaps hisattendance on a weary Istra.

“Come now, Charley, you got to buck up,”he crooned.

“All ri’.”

“What’s the trouble? How did youget going like this?”

“Wife left me. I was drinking. Youthink I’m drunk, don’t you? But Iain’t. She went off with her sister—­alwayshated me. She took my money out of savings-bank—­threehundred; all money I had ’cept fifty dollars. I’ll fix her. I’ll kill her. Took to hitting the booze. Goglefogle firedme. Don’t care. Drink all I want. Keep young fellows from getting it! Say, godown and get me pint. Just finished up pint. Got to have one-die of thirst. Bourbon. Get—­”

“I’ll go and get you a drink, Charley—­justone drink, savvy?—­if you’ll promiseto get cleaned up, like I tell you, afterward.”

“All ri’.”

Mr. Wrenn hastened out with a whisky-flask, muttering,feverishly, “Gee! I got to save him.”Returning, he poured out one drink, as though it weremedicine for a refractory patient, and said, soothingly:

“Now we’ll take a cold bath, heh? andget cleaned up and sobered up. Then we’lltalk about a job, heh?”

“Aw, don’t want a bath. Say, I feelbetter now. Let’s go out and have a drink. Gimme that flask. Where j’ yuh put it?”

Mr. Wrenn went to the bathroom, turned on the cold-watertap, returned, and undressed Charley, who struggledand laughed and let his whole inert weight rest againstMr. Wrenn’s shoulder. Though normally Charleycould have beaten three Mr. Wrenns, he was run intothe bath-room and poked into the tub.

Instantly he began to splash, throwing up water inhandfuls, singing. The water poured over theside of the tub. Mr. Wrenn tried to hold himstill, but the wet sleek shoulders slipped throughhis hand like a wet platter. Wholesomely vexed,he turned off the water and slammed the bathroom door.

In the bedroom he found an unwrinkled winter-weightsuit and one clean shirt. In the living-roomhe hung up his coat, covering it with a newspaper,pulled the broom from under the table, and preparedto sweep.

The disorder was so great that he made one of theinevitable discoveries of every housekeeper, and admittedto himself that he “didn’t know whereto begin.” He stumblingly lugged a heavypile of dishes from the center-table to the kitchen,shook and beat and folded the table-cover, stuck thechairs atop the table, and began to sweep.

At the door a shining wet naked figure stood, bellowing:

“Hey! What d’ yuh think you’redoing? Cut it out.”

“Just sweeping, Charley,” from Mr. Wrenn,and an uninterrupted “Tuff, tuff, tuff”from the broom.

“Cut it out, I said. Whose house isthis?”

“Gwan back in the bath-tub, Charley.”

“Say, d’ yuh think you can run me? Get out of this, or I’ll throw you out. Got house way I want it.”

Bill Wrenn, the cattleman, rushed at him, smackedhim with the broom, drove him back into the tub, andwaited. He laughed. It was all a good joke;his friend Charley and he were playing a little game. Charley also laughed and splashed some more.Then he wept and said that the water was cold, andthat he was now deserted by his only friend.

“Oh, shut up,” remarked Bill Wrenn, andswept the bathroom floor.

Charley stopped swashing about to sneer:

“Li’l ministering angel, ain’t you? You think you’re awful good, don’t you? Come up here and bother me. When I ain’twell. Salvation Army. You——. Aw, lemme ’lone, will you?” BillWrenn kept on sweeping. “Get out, you——.”

There was enough energy in Charley’s voice toindicate that he was getting sober. Bill Wrennsoused him under once more, so thoroughly that hisown cuffs were reduced to a state of flabbiness. He dragged Charley out, helped him dry himself, anddrove him to bed.

He went out and bought dish-towels, soap, washing-powder,and collars of Charley’s size, which was aninch larger than his own. He finished sweepingand dusting and washing the dishes—­allof them. He—­who had learned to comfortIstra—­he really enjoyed it. His senseof order made it a pleasure to see a plate yellowwith dried egg glisten iridescently and flash intoshining whiteness; or a room corner filled with dustand tobacco flakes become again a “nice squareclean corner with the baseboard shining, gee! justlike it was new.”

An irate grocer called with a bill for fifteen dollars. Mr. Wrenn blandly heard his threats all through,pretending to himself that this was his home, whosehonor was his honor. He paid the man eight dollarson account and loftily dismissed him. He satdown to wait for Charley, reading a newspaper mostof the time, but rising to pursue stray flies furiously,stumbling over chairs, and making murderous flappingswith a folded newspaper.

When Charley awoke, after three hours, clear of mindbut not at all clear as regards the roof of his mouth,Mr. Wrenn gave him a very little whisky, with considerablecoffee, toast, and bacon. The toast was not bad.

“Now, Charley,” he said, cheerfully, “yourbat’s over, ain’t it, old man?”

“Say, you been darn’ decent to me, oldman. Lord! how you’ve been sweeping up! How was I—­was I pretty soused?”

“Honest, you were fierce. You will soberup, now, won’t you?”

“Well, it’s no wonder I had a classy hang-over,Wrenn. I was at the Amusieren Rathskeller tillfour this morning, and then I had a couple of nipsbefore breakfast, and then I didn’t have anybreakfast. But sa-a-a-ay, man, I sure did havesome fiesta last night. There was a little peroxideblonde that—­”

“Now you look here, Carpenter; you listen tome. You’re sober now. Have you triedto find another job?”

“Yes, I did. But I got down in the mouth. Didn’t feel like I had a friend left.”

“Well, you h—­”

“But I guess I have now, old Wrennski.”

“Look here, Charley, you know I don’twant to pull off no Charity Society stunt or talklike I was a preacher. But I like you so darnmuch I want to see you sober up and get another job.Honestly I do, Charley. Are you broke?”

“Prett’ nearly. Only got about tendollars to my name.... I will take a brace,old man. I know you ain’t no preacher.Course if you came around with any `holierthan-thou’stunt I’d have to go right out and get sousedon general principles.... Yuh—­I’lltry to get a job.”

“Here’s ten dollars. Please takeit—­aw—­please, Charley.”

“All right; anything to oblige.”

“What ’ve you got in sight in the jobline?”

“Well, there’s a chance at night clerkingin a little hotel where I was a bell-hop long timeago. The night clerk’s going to get through,but I don’t know just when—­prob’lyin a week or two.”

“Well, keep after it. And pleasecome down to see me—­the old place—­WestSixteenth Street.”

“What about the old girl with the ingrowinggrouch? What’s her name? She ain’tstuck on me.”

“Mrs. Zapp? Oh—­hope she chokes. She can just kick all she wants to. I’mjust going to have all the visitors I want to.”

“All right. Say, tell us something aboutyour trip.”

“Oh, I had a great time. Lots of nicefellows on the cattle-boat. I went over on one,you know. Fellow named Morton—­awfullynice fellow. Say, Charley, you ought to seenme being butler to the steers. Handing ’emhay. But say, the sea was fine; all kinds ofcolors. Awful dirty on the cattle-boat, though.”

“Hard work?”

“Yuh—­kind of hard. Oh, notso very.”

“What did you see in England?”

“Oh, a lot of different places. Say, Iseen some great vaudeville in Liverpool, Charley,with Morton—­he’s a slick fellow; worksfor the Pennsylvania, here in town. I got tolook him up. Say, I wish we had an agency forcollege sofa-pillows and banners and souvenir stuffin Oxford. There’s a whole bunch of collegesthere, all right in the same town. I met a prof.there from some American college—­he hiredan automobubble and took me down to a reg’larold inn—­”

“Well, well!”

“—­like you read about; sanded floor!”

“Get to London?”

“Yuh. Gee! it’s a big place. Say, that Westminster Abbey’s a great place. I was in there a couple of times. More darntombs of kings and stuff. And I see a bishop,with leggins on! But I got kind of lonely. I thought of you a lot of times. Wished wecould go out and get an ale together. Maybepick up a couple of pretty girls.”

“Oh, you sport!... Say, didn’t getover to gay Paree, did you?”

“Nope.... Well, I guess I’d betterbeat it now. Got to move in—­I’mat a hotel. You will come down and see me to-night,won’t you?”

“So you thought of me, eh?... Yuh—­sure,old socks.
I’ll be down to-night. And I’llget right after that job.”

It is doubtful whether Mr. Wrenn would ever have returnedto the Zapps’ had he not promised to see Charleythere. Even while he was carrying his suit-casedown West Sixteenth, broiling by degrees in the sunshine,he felt like rushing up to Charley’s and tellinghim to come to the hotel instead.

Lee Theresa, taking the day off with a headache,answered the bell, and ejacul*ted:

“Well! So it’s you, is it?”

“I guess it is.”

“What, are you back so soon? Why, youain’t been gone more than a month and a half,have you?”

Beware, daughter of Southern pride! The littleYankee is regarding your full-blown curves and emptyeyes with rebellion, though he says, ever so meekly:

“Yes, I guess it is about that, Miss Theresa.”

“Well, I just knew you couldn’t standit away from us. I suppose you’ll wantyour room back. Ma, here’s Mr. Wrenn backagain—­Mr. Wrenn! Ma!”

“Oh-h-h-h!” sounded Goaty Zapp’svoice, in impish disdain, below. “Mr.Wrenn’s back. Hee, hee! Couldn’tstand it. Ain’t that like a Yankee!”

A slap, a wail, then Mrs. Zapp’s elephantineslowness on the stairs from the basem*nt. Sheappeared, buttoning her collar, smiling almost pleasantly,for she disliked Mr. Wrenn less than she did any otherof her lodgers.

“Back already, Mist’ Wrenn? Ah declare,Ah was saying to Lee Theresa just yest’day,Ah just knew you’d be wishing you was back withus. Won’t you come in?”

He edged into the parlor with, “How is the sciatica,Mrs. Zapp?”

“Ah ain’t feeling right smart.”

“My room occupied yet?”

He was surveying the airless parlor rather heavily,and his curt manner was not pleasing to the head ofthe house of Zapp, who remarked, funereally:

“It ain’t taken just now, Mist’Wrenn, but Ah dunno. There was a gennulman a-lookingat it just yesterday, and he said he’d be permanentif he came. Ah declare, Mist’ Wrenn, Ahdunno’s Ah like to have my gennulmen just getup and go without giving me notice.”

Lee Theresa scowled at her.

Mr. Wrenn retorted, “I did give you notice.”

“Ah know, but—­well, Ah reckon Ahcan let you have it, but Ah’ll have to havefour and a half a week instead of four. Pricesis all going up so, Ah declare, Ah was just sayingto Lee T’resa Ah dunno what we’re allgoing to do if the dear Lord don’t look outfor us. And, Mist’ Wrenn, Ah dunno’sAh like to have you coming in so late nights. But Ah reckon Ah can accommodate you.”

“It’s a good deal of a favor, isn’tit, Mrs. Zapp?”

Mr. Wrenn was dangerously polite. Let gentilitylook out for the sharp practices of the Yankee.

“Yes, but—­”

It was our hero, our madman of the seven and seventyseas, our revolutionist friend of Istra, who leapedstraight from the salt-incrusted decks of his laboringsteamer to the musty parlor and declared, quietlybut unmovably-practically unmovably—­“Well,then, I guess I’d better not take it at all.”

“So that’s the way you’re goingto treat us!” bellowed Mrs. Zapp. “Yougo off and leave us with an unoccupied room and—­Oh! You poor white trash—­you—­”

“Ma! You shut up and go down-stairs-s-s-s-s!”Theresa hissed. “Go on.”

Mrs. Zapp wabbled regally out. Lee Theresa spoketo Mr. Wrenn:

“Ma ain’t feeling a bit well this afternoon. I’m sorry she talked like that. You willcome back, won’t you?” She showed allher teeth in a genuine smile, and in her anxiety reachedhis heart. “Remember, you promised youwould.”

“Well, I will, but—­”

Bill Wrenn was fading, an affrighted specter. The “but” was the last glimpse of him,and that Theresa overlooked, as she bustlingly chirruped: “I knew you would understand. I’llskip right up and look at the room and put on freshsheets.”

One month, one hot New York month, passed before theimperial Mr. Guilfogle gave him back The Job, andthen at seventeen dollars and fifty cents a week insteadof his former nineteen dollars. Mr. Wrenn refused,upon pretexts, to go out with the manager for a drink,and presented him with twenty suggestions for newnovelties and circular letters. He rearrangedthe unsystematic methods of Jake, the cub, and twodays later he was at work as though he had never inhis life been farther from the Souvenir Company thanNewark.

CHAPTER XIII

HE IS “OUR MR. WRENN”

DEAR ISTRA,—­I am back in New York feelingvery well & hope this finds you the same. Ihave been wanting to write to you for quite a whilenow but there has not been much news of any kind &so I have not written to you. But now I am backworking for the Souvenir Company. I hope youare having a good time in Paris it must be a verypretty city & I have often wished to be there perhapssome day I shall go. I [several erasures here]have been reading quite a few books since I got back& think now I shall get on better with my reading. You told me so many things about books & so on &I do appreciate it. In closing, I am yours verysincerely,
WILLIAMWRENN.

There was nothing else he could say. But therewere a terrifying number of things he could thinkas he crouched by the window overlooking West SixteenthStreet, whose dull hue had not changed during thecenturies while he had been tramping England.Her smile he remembered—­and he cried, “Oh,I want to see her so much.” Her gallantdash through the rain—­and again the cry.

At last he cursed himself, “Why don’tyou do something that ’d count for her,and not sit around yammering for her like a fool?”

He worked on his plan to “bring the South intoline”—­the Souvenir Company’sline. Again and again he sprang up from thewriting-table in his hot room when the presence ofIstra came and stood compellingly by his chair. But he worked.

The Souvenir Company salesmen had not been able toget from the South the business which the companydeserved if right and justice were to prevail. On the steamer from England Mr. Wrenn had conceivedthe idea that a Dixieland Ink-well, with the Confederateand Union flags draped in graceful cast iron, wouldmake an admirable present with which to draw the attentionof the Southem trade. The ink-well was to befollowed by a series of letters, sent on the slightestprovocation, on order or re-order, tactfully hopingthe various healths of the Southland were good andthe baseball season important; all to insure a welcometo the salesmen on the Southem route.

He drew up his letters; he sketched his ink-well;he got up the courage to talk with the office manager.... To forget love and the beloved, men have ascendedin aeroplanes and conquered African tribes. To forget love, a new, busy, much absorbed Mr. Wrenn,very much Ours, bustled into Mr. Guilfogle’soffice, slapped down his papers on the desk, and demanded: “Here’s that plan about gettin’the South interested that I was telling you about. Say, honest, I’d like awful much to try it on. I’d just have to have part time of one stenographer.”

“Well, you know our stenographers are prettywell crowded. But you can leave the outline withme. I’ll look it over,” said Mr.Guilfogle.

That same afternoon the manager enthusiastically O.K.’d the plan. To enthusiastically—­O.K. is an office technology for saying, gloomily, “Well, I don’t suppose it ’d hurtto try it, anyway, but for the love of Mike be careful,and let me see any letters you send out.”

So Mr. Wrenn dictated a letter to each of their Southernmerchants, sending him a Dixieland Ink-well and inquiringabout the crops. He had a stenographer, an efficientintolerant young woman who wrote down his haltingwords as though they were examples of bad Englishshe wanted to show her friends, and waited for thenext word with cynical amusem*nt.

“By gosh!” growled Bill Wrenn, the cattleman,“I’ll show her I’m running this. I’ll show her she’s got another thinkcoming.” But he dictated so busily andwas so hot to get results that he forgot the girl’sair of high-class martyrdom.

He watched the Southern baseball results in the papers. He seized on every salesman on the Southern routeas he came in, and inquired about the religion andpolitics of the merchants in his district. Heeven forgot to worry about his next rise in salary,and found it much more exciting to rush back for animportant letter after a quick lunch than to watchthe time and make sure that he secured every minuteof his lunch-hour.

When October came—­October of the vagabond,with the leaves brilliant out on the Palisades, andSixth Avenue moving-picture palaces cool again andgay—­Mr. Wrenn stayed late, under the mercury-vaporlights, making card cross-files of the Southern merchants,their hobbies and prejudices, and whistling as heworked, stopping now and then to slap the desk andmutter, “By gosh! I’m gettin’’em—­gettin’ ’em.”

He rarely thought of Istra till he was out on thestreet again, proud of having worked so late thathis eyes ached. In fact, his chief troublesthese days came when Mr. Guilfogle wouldn’t“let him put through an idea.”

Their first battle was over Mr. Wrenn’s signingthe letters personally; for the letters, the officemanager felt, were as much Ours as was Mr. Wrenn,and should be signed by the firm. After somedifficulty Mr. Wrenn persuaded him that one of thebest ways to handle a personal letter was to make itpersonal. They nearly cursed each other beforeMr. Wrenn was allowed to use his own judgment.

It’s not at all certain that Mr. Guilfogle shouldhave yielded. What’s the use of a managerif his underlings use judgment?

The next battle Mr. Wrenn lost. He had demandeda monthly holiday for his stenographer. Mr.Guilfogle pointed out that she’d merely be theworse off for a holiday, that it ’d make herdiscontented, that it was a kindness to her to keepher mind occupied. Mr. Wrenn was, however, granteda new typewriter, in a manner which revealed the factthat the Souvenir Company was filled with almost toomuch mercy in permitting an employee to follow hisown selfish and stubborn desires.

You cannot trust these employees. Mr. Wrennwas getting so absorbed in his work that he didn’teven act as though it was a favor when Mr. Guilfogleallowed him to have his letters to the trade copiedby carbon paper instead of having them blurred bythe wet tissue-paper of a copy-book. The managerdid grant the request, but he was justly indignantat the curt manner of the rascal, whereupon our bumptiousrevolutionist, our friend to anarchists and red-headedartists, demanded a “raise” and said thathe didn’t care a hang if the [qualified] lettersnever went out. The kindness of chiefs! For Mr. Guilfogle apologized and raised the madman’swage from seventeen dollars and fifty cents a weekto his former nineteen dollars. [He had expectedeighteen dollars; he had demanded twenty-two dollarsand fifty cents; he was worth on the labor marketfrom twenty-five to thirty dollars; while the profitto the Souvenir Company from his work was about sixtydollars minus whatever salary he got.]

Not only that. Mr. Guilfogle slapped him onthe back and said: “You’re doinggood work, old man. It’s fine. Ijust don’t want you to be too reckless.”

That night Wrenn worked till eight.

After his raise he could afford to go to the theater,since he was not saving money for travel. Hewrote small letters to Istra and read the books hebelieved she would approve—­a Paris Baedekerand the second volume of Tolstoi’s War andPeace, which he bought at a second-hand book-stallfor five cents. He became interested in popularand inaccurate French and English histories, and secretedany amount of footnote anecdotes about Guy Fawkesand rush-lights and the divine right of kings.He thought almost every night about making friends,which he intended—­just as much as ever—­todo as soon as Sometime arrived.

On the day on which one of the Southern merchantswrote him about his son—­“fine youngfellow, sir—­has every chance of risingto a lieutenancy on the Atlanta police force”—­Mr.Wrenn’s eyes were moist. Here was a friendalready. Sure. He would make friends. Then there was the cripple with the Capitol CornerNews and Souvenir Stand in Austin, Texas. Mr.Wrenn secreted two extra Dixieland Ink-wells and aYale football banner and sent them to the cripplefor his brothers, who were in the Agricultural College.

The orders—­yes, they were growing larger. The Southern salesmen took him out to dinner sometimes. But he was shy of them. They were so knowingand had so many smoking-room stories. He stillhad not found the friends he desired.

Miggleton’s restaurant, on Forty-second Street,was a romantic discovery. Though it had “popularprices”—­plain omelet, fifteen cents—­ithad red and green bracket lights, mission-style tables,and music played by a sparrowlike pianist and a violinist. Mr. Wrenn never really heard the music, but whileit was quavering he had a happier appreciation of theSilk-Hat-Harry humorous pictures in the Journal,which he always propped up against an oil-cruet. [That never caused him inconvenience; he had no convictionsin regard to salads.] He would drop the paper to lookout of the window at the Lazydays Improvement Company’selectric sign, showing gardens of paradise on theinstalment plan, and dream of—­well, he hadn’tthe slightest idea what—­something distantand deliciously likely to become intimate. Onceor twice he knew that he was visioning the girl insoft brown whom he would “go home to,”and who, in a Lazydays suburban residence, would playjust such music for him and the friends who livednear by. She would be as clever as Istra, but“oh, more so’s you can go regular placeswith her."... Often he got good ideas aboutletters South, to be jotted down on envelope backs,from that music.

At last comes the historic match-box incident.

On that October evening in 1910 he dined early atMiggleton’s. The thirty-cent table d’hotewas perfect. The cream-of-corn soup was, hewent so far as to remark to the waitress, “simplyslick”; the Waldorf salad had two whole walnutsin his portion alone.

The fat man with the white waistcoat, whom he hadoften noted as dining in this same corner of the restaurant,smiled at him and said “Pleasant evening”as he sat down opposite Mr. Wrenn and smoothed thetwo sleek bangs which decorated the front of his nearlybald head.

The music included a “potpourri of airs from`The Merry Widow,’” which set his foottapping. All the while he was conscious thathe’d made the Seattle Novelty and StationeryCorner Store come through with a five-hundred-dollarorder on one of his letters.

The Journal contained an editorial essay on“Friendship” which would have been, andwas, a credit to Cicero.

He laid down the paper, stirred his large cup of coffee,and stared at the mother-of-pearl buttons on the waistcoatof the fat man, who was now gulping down soup, oppositehim. “My land!” he was thinking,“friendship! I ain’t even begun tomake all those friends I was going to. Haven’tdone a thing. Oh, I will; I must!”

“Nice night,” said the fat man.

“Yuh—­it sure is,” brightlyagreed Mr. Wrenn.

“Reg’lar Indian-Summer weather.”

“Yes, isn’t it! I feel like takinga walk on Riverside Drive—­b’lieveI will.”

“Wish I had time. But I gotta get downto the store—­cigar-store. I’mon nights, three times a week.”

“Yuh. I’ve seen you here most everytime I eat early,” Mr. Wrenn purred.

“Yuh. The rest of the time I eat at theboarding-house.”

Silence. But Mr. Wrenn was fighting for thingsto say, means of approach, for the chance to becomeacquainted with a new person, for all the friendlyhuman ways he had desired in nights of loneliness.

“Wonder when they’ll get the Grand Centraldone?” asked the fat man.

“I s’pose it’ll take quite a fewyears,” said Mr. Wrenn, conversationally.

“Yuh. I s’pose it will.”

Silence.

Mr. Wrenn sat trying to think of something else tosay. Lonely people in city restaurants simplydo not get acquainted. Yet he did manage toobserve, “Great building that’ll be,”in the friendliest manner.

Silence.

Then the fat man went on:

“Wonder what Wolgast will do in his mill? Don’t believe he can stand up.”

Wolgast was, Mr. Wrenn seemed to remember, a pugilist. He agreed vaguely:

“Pretty hard, all right.”

“Go out to the areoplane meet?” askedthe fat man.

“No. But I’d like to see it. Gee! there must be kind of—­kind of adventurein them things, heh?”

“Yuh—­sure is. First machineI saw, though—­I was just getting off thetrain at Belmont Park, and there was an areoplane upin the air, and it looked like one of them big mechanicalbeetles these fellows sell on the street buzzing aroundup there. I was kind of disappointed. But what do you think? It was that J. A. D.McCurdy, in a Curtiss biplane—­I think itwas—­and by golly! he got to circling aroundand racing and tipping so’s I thought I’dloose my hat off, I was so excited. And, say,what do you think? I see McCurdy himself, afterward,standing near one of the—­the handgars—­handsomeyoung chap, not over twenty-eight or thirty, builtlike a half-miler. And then I see Ralph Johnstoneand Arch Hoxey—­”

“Gee!” Mr. Wrenn was breathing.

“—­dipping and doing the—­whatdo you call it?—­Dutch sausage-roll or somethinglike that. Yelled my head off.”

“Oh, it must have been great to see ’em,and so close, too.”

“Yuh—­it sure was.”

There seemed to be no other questions to settle. Mr. Wrenn slowly folded up his paper, pursued hischeck under three plates and the menu-card to itshiding-place beyond the catsup-bottle, and left thetable with a regretful “Good night.”

At the desk of the cashier, a decorative blonde, heput a cent in the machine which good-naturedly dropsout boxes of matches. No box dropped this time,though he worked the lever noisily.

“Out of order?” asked the cashier lady. “Here’s two boxes of matches. Guessyou’ve earned them.”

“Well, well, well, well!” sounded thevoice of his friend, the fat man, who stood at thedesk paying his bill. “Pretty easy, heh? Two boxes for one cent! Sting the restaurant.” co*cking his head, he carefully inserted a cent inthe slot and clattered the lever, turning to grinat Mr. Wrenn, who grinned back as the machine failedto work.

“Let me try it,” caroled Mr. Wrenn, andpounded the lever with the enthusiasm of comradeship.

“Nothing doing, lady,” crowed the fatman to the cashier.

“I guess I draw two boxes, too, eh? And I’m in a cigar-store. How’sthat for stinging your competitors, heh? Ho,ho, ho!”

The cashier handed him two boxes, with an embarrassedsimper, and the fat man clapped Mr. Wrenn’sshoulder joyously.

“My turn!” shouted a young man in a fuzzygreen hat and a bright-brown suit, who had been watchingwith the sudden friendship which unites a crowd broughttogether by an accident.

Mr. Wrenn was glowing. “No, it ain’t—­it’smine,” he achieved. “I invented thisgame.” Never had he so stood forth in acrowd. He was a Bill Wrenn with the cosmopolitanpolish of a floor-walker. He stood beside thefat man as a friend of sorts, a person to be takenperfectly seriously.

It is true that he didn’t add to this spiritualtriumph the triumph of getting two more boxes of matches,for the cashier-girl exclaimed, “No indeedy;it’s my turn!” and lifted the match machineto a high shelf behind her. But Mr. Wrenn wentout of the restaurant with his old friend, the fatman, saying to him quite as would a wit, “Iguess we get stung, eh?”

“Yuh!” gurgled the fat man.

Walking down to your store?”

“Yuh—­sure—­won’tyou walk down a piece?”

“Yes, I would like to. Which way is it?”

“Fourth Avenue and Twenty-eighth.”

“Walk down with you.”

“Fine!”

And the fat man seemed to mean it. He confidedto Mr. Wrenn that the fishing was something elegantat Trulen, New Jersey; that he was some punkins atthe casting of flies in fishing; that he wished exceedinglyto be at Trulen fishing with flies, but was preventedby the manager of the cigar-store; that the managerwas an old devil; that his (the fat man’s own)name was Tom Poppins; that the store had a slick newbrand of Manila cigars, kept in a swell new humidorbought upon the advice of himself (Mr. Poppins); thatone of the young clerks in the store had done finein the Modified Marathon; that the Cubs had had agreat team this year; that he’d be glad to giveMr.—­Mr. Wrenn, eh?—­one of thoseManila cigars—­great cigars they were, too;and that he hadn’t “laughed so much fora month of Sundays as he had over the way they stungMiggleton’s on them matches.”

All this in the easy, affectionate, slightly wistfulmanner of fat men. Mr. Poppins’s largeround friendly childish eyes were never sarcastic. He was the man who makes of a crowd in the Pullmansmoking-room old friends in half an hour. Inturn, Mr. Wrenn did not shy off; he hinted at mostof his lifelong ambitions and a fair number of hissorrows and, when they reached the store, not onlycalmly accepted, but even sneezingly ignited one ofthe “slick new Manila cigars.”

As he left the store he knew that the golden age hadbegun.
He had a friend!

He was to see Tom Poppins the coming Thursday at Miggleton’s.And now he was going to find Morton! He laughedso loudly that the policeman at Thirty-fourth Streetlooked self-conscious and felt secretively to findout what was the matter with his uniform. Now,this evening, he’d try to get on the track ofMorton. Well, perhaps not this evening—­thePennsylvania offices wouldn’t be open, but sometime this week, anyway.

Two nights later, as he waited for Tom Poppins atMiggleton’s, he lashed himself with the thoughtthat he had not started to find Morton; good old Mortonof the cattle-boat. But that was forgotten inthe wonder of Tom Poppins’s account of Mrs. Arty’s,a boarding-house “where all the folks likes eachother.”

“You’ve never fed at a boarding-house,eh?” said Tom. “Well, I guess mostof ’em are pretty poor feed. And prettysad bunch. But Mrs. Arty’s is about asnear like home as most of us poor bachelors ever gets. Nice crowd there. If Mrs. Arty—­Mrs.R. T. Ferrard is her name, but we always call herMrs. Arty—­if she don’t take to youshe don’t mind letting you know she won’ttake you in at all; but if she does she’ll worryover the holes in your socks as if they was her husband’s. All the bunch there drop into the parlor when theycome in, pretty near any time clear up till twelve-thirty,and talk and laugh and rush the growler and play FiveHundred. Just like home!

“Mrs. Arty’s nearly as fat as I am, butshe can be pretty spry if there’s somethingshe can do for you. Nice crowd there, too exceptthat Teddem—­he’s one of these hereWilly-boy actors, always out of work; I guess Mrs.Arty is kind of sorry for him. Say, Wrenn—­youseem to me like a good fellow—­why don’tyou get acquainted with the bunch? Maybe you’dlike to move up there some time. You was tellingme about what a cranky old party your landlady is. Anyway, come on up there to dinner. On me.Got anything on for next Monday evening?”

“N-no.”

“Come on up then——­East Thirtieth.”

“Gee, I’d like to!”

“Well, why don’t you, then? Getthere about six. Ask for me. Monday. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I don’t have toget to the store evenings. Come on; you’llfind out if you like the place.”

“By jiminy, I will!” Mr. Wrenn slappedthe table, socially.

At last he was “through, just throughwith loafing around and not getting acquainted,”he told himself. He was tired of Zapps. There was nothing to Zapps. He would go up toMrs. Arty’s and now—­he was goingto find Morton. Next morning, marveling at himselffor not having done this easy task before, he telephonedto the Pennsylvania Railroad offices, asked for Morton,and in one-half minute heard:

“Yes? This is Harry Morton.”

“Hullo, Mr. Morton! I’ll just betyou can’t guess who this is.”

“I guess you’ve got me.”

“Well, who do you think it—­”

“Jack?”

“Hunka.”

“Uncle Henry?”

“Nope.” Mr. Wrenn felt lonely atfinding himself so completely outside Morton’sown world that he was not thought of. He hastenedto claim a part in that world:

“Say, Mr. Morton, I wonder if you’ve everheard of a cattle-boat called the Merian?”

“I—­Say! Is this Bill Wrenn?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well, well! Where areyou? When’d you get back?”

“Oh, I been back quite a little while, Morty. Tried to get hold of you—­almost calledup couple of times. I’m in my office—­SouvenirCompany—­now. Back on the old job. Say, I’d like to see you.”

“Well, I’d like to see you, oldBill!”

“Got a date for dinner this evening, Morty?”

“N-no. No, I don’t thinkI’ve got anything on.” Morton’svoice seemed to sound a doubt. Mr. Wrenn reflectedthat Morton must be a society person; and he madehis invitation highly polite:

“Well, say, old man, I’d be awful happyif you could come over and feed on me. Can’tyou come over and meet me, Morty?”

“Y-yes, I guess I can. Yes, I’lldo it. Where’ll I meet you?”

“How about Twenty-eighth and Sixth Avenue?”

“That’ll be all right, Bill. ’Boutsix o’clock?”

“Fine! Be awful nice to see you again,old Morty.”

“Same here. Goo’-by.”

Gazing across the table at Miggleton’s, Mr.Wrenn saw, in the squat familiar body and sturdy faceof Morton of the cattle-boat, a stranger, slightlyuneasy and very quiet, wearing garments that had nothingwhatever to do with the cattle-boats—­a crimsonscarf with a horseshoe-pin of “Brazilian diamonds,”and sleek brown ready-made clothes with ornately curvedcuffs and pocket flaps.

Morton would say nothing of his wanderings after theirparting in Liverpool beyond: “Oh, I justbummed around. Places.... Warm to-night. For this time of year.” Thrice he explained,“I was kind of afraid you’d be sore atme for the way I left you; that’s why I’venever looked you up.” Thrice Mr. Wrenndeclared that he had not been “sore,”then ceased trying to make himself understood.

Their talk wilted. Both of them played withtheir knives a good deal. Morton built a setof triangles out of toothpicks while pretending togive hushed attention to the pianist’s renditionof “Mammy’s Little Cootsie Bootsie Coon,”while Mr. Wrenn stared out of the window as thoughhe expected to see the building across get afire immediately. When either of them invented something to say theystarted chattering with guilty haste, and each agreedhectically with any opinion the other advanced.

Mr. Wrenn surprised himself in the thought that Mortonhadn’t anything very new to say, which madehim feel so disloyal that he burst out, effusively:

“Say, come on now, old man; I just got to hearabout what you did after you left Liverpool.”

“I—­”

“Well—­”

“I never got out of Liverpool! Workedin a restaurant.... But next time—! I’ll go clean to Constantinople!” Mortonexploded. “And I did see a lot of Englishlife in Liverpool.”

Mr. Wrenn talked long and rapidly of the world’sbaseball series, and Regal vs. Walkover shoes.

He tried to think of something they could do. Suddenly:

“Say, Morty, I know an awful nice guy down herein a cigar-store. Let’s go down and seehim.”

“All right.”

Tom Poppins was very cordial to them. He draggedbrown canvas stools out of the tobacco-scented roomwhere cigars were made, and the three of them squattedin the back of the store, while Tom gossiped of theJuarez races, Taft, cigar-wrappers, and Jews.Morton was aroused to tell the time-mellowed storyof the judge and the darky. He was cheerfuland laughed much and frequently said “Ah there,cull!” in general commendation. But hekept looking at the clock on the jog in the wall overthe watercooler. Just at ten he rose abashedly,hesitated, and murmured, “Well, I guess I’llhave to be beating it home.”

From Mr. Wrenn: “Oh, Morty! So early?”

Tom: “What’s the big hurry?”

“I’ve got to run clear over to JerseyCity.” Morton was cordial, but not convincing.

“Say—­uh—­Morton,”said Tom, kindly of face, his bald head shining behindhis twin bangs, as he rose, “I’m goingto have Wrenn up to dinner at my boarding-house nextMonday. Like to have you come along. It’sa fine place—­Mrs. Arty—­she’sthe landlady—­she’s a wonder. There’s going to be a vacant room there—­maybeyou two fellows could frame it up to take it, heh?Understand, I don’t get no rake-off on this,but we all like to do what we can for M—­”

“No, no!” said Morton. “Sorry. Couldn’t do it. Staying with my brother-in-law—­costsme only ’bout half as much as it would I don’tdo much chasing around when I’m in town.... I’m going to save up enough money for a goodlong hike. I’m going clean to St. Petersburg!... But I’ve had a good time to-night.”

“Glad. Great stuff about you fellows onthe cattle-ship,” said Tom.

Morton hastened on, protectively, a bit critically: “You fellows sport around a good deal, don’tyou?... I can’t afford to.... Well,good night. Glad to met you, Mr. Poppins. G’ night, old Wr—­”

“Going to the ferry? For Jersey? I’ll walk over with you,” said Mr. Wrenn.

Their walk was quiet and, for Mr. Wrenn, tragicallysad. He saw Morton (presumably) doing the wanderinghe had once planned. He felt that, while makinghis vast new circle of friends, he was losing allthe wild adventurousness of Bill Wrenn. And hewas parting with his first friend.

At the ferry-house Morton pronounced his “Well,so long, old fellow” with an affection thatmeant finality.

Mr. Wrenn fled back to Tom Poppins’s store. On the way he was shocked to find himself relievedat having parted with Morton. The cigar-storewas closed.

At home Mrs. Zapp waylaid him for his rent (a dayoverdue), and he was very curt. That was tokeep back the “O God, how rotten I feel!”with which, in his room, he voiced the desolation ofloneliness.

The ghost of Morton, dead and forgotten, was withhim all next day, till he got home and unbelievablyfound on the staid black-walnut Zapp hat-rack a letterfrom Paris, in a gray foreign-appearing envelope withIstra’s intensely black scrawl on it.

He put off the luxury of opening the letter till afterthe rites of brushing his teeth, putting on his slippers,pounding his rocking-chair cushion into softness. Panting with the joy to come, he stared out of thewindow at a giant and glorious figure of Istra—­thelaughing Istra of breakfast camp-fire—­whichtowered from the street below. He sighed joyouslyand read:

Mouse dear, just a word to let you know I haven’tforgotten you and am very glad indeed to get yourletters. Not much to write about. Frightfullybusy with work and fool parties. You area dear good soul and I hope you’ll keep on writingme. In haste,
I.N.
Longer letter next time.

He came to the end so soon. Istra was gone again.

CHAPTER XIV

HE ENTERS SOCIETY

England, in all its Istra-ness, scarce gave Mr. Wrenna better thrill for his collection than the thrillhe received on the November evening when he saw thewhite doorway of Mrs. R. T. Ferrard, in a decorousrow of houses on Thirtieth Street near Lexington Avenue.

It is a block where the citizens have civic pride. A newspaper has not the least chance of lying abouton the asphalt—­some householder with afrequently barbered mustache will indignantly pounceupon it inside of an hour. No awe. is causedby the sight of vestibules floored with marble inalternate black and white tiles, scrubbed not by landladies,but by maids. There are dotted Swiss curtainsat the basem*nt windows and Irish point curtains onthe first floors. There are two polished brassdoorplates in a stretch of less than eight houses.Distinctly, it is not a quarter where children fillthe street with shouting and little sticks.

Occasionally a taxicab drives up to some door withouta crowd of small boys gathering; and young men inevening clothes are not infrequently seen to takeout young ladies wearing tight-fitting gowns of black,and light scarfs over their heads. A MiddleWestern college fraternity has a club-house in theblock, and four of the houses are private—­oneof them belonging to a police inspector and one toa school principal who wears spats.

It is a block that is satisfied with itself; as differentfrom the Zapp district, where landladies in ginghamrun out to squabble with berry-venders, as the Zappdistrict is from the Ghetto.

Mrs. Arty Ferrard’s house is a poor relationto most of the residences there. The black areawayrail is broken, and the basem*nt-door grill is rusty. But at the windows are red-and-white-figured chintzcurtains, with a $2.98 bisque figurine of an unclothedlady between them; the door is of spotless white,with a bell-pull of polished brass.

Mr. Wrenn yanked this bell-pull with an urbane brisknesswhich, he hoped, would conceal his nervousness anddelight in dining out. For he was one of thelonely men in New York. He had dined out fourtimes in eight years.

The woman of thirty-five or thirty-eight who openedthe door to him was very fat, two-thirds as fat asMrs. Zapp, but she had young eyes. Her mouthwas small, arched, and quivering in a grin.

“This is Mr. Wrenn, isn’t it?” shegurgled, and leaned against the doorpost, merry, apparentlyindolent. “I’m Mrs. Ferrard.Mr. Poppins told me you were coming, and he said youwere a terribly nice man, and I was to be sure andwelcome you. Come right in.”

Her indolence turned to energy as she charged downthe hall to the large double door on the right andthrew it open, revealing to him a scene of splendorand revelry by night.

Several persons [they seemed dozens, in their liveliness]were singing and shouting to piano music, in the midstof a general redness and brightness of furnishings—­redpaper and worn red carpet and a high ceiling withcircular moldings tinted in pink. Hand-paintedpictures of old mills and ladies brooding over salmonsunsets, and an especially hand-painted Christmas scenewith snow of inlaid mother-of-pearl, animated the walls. On a golden-oak center-table was a large lamp witha mosaic shade, and through its mingled bits of greenand red and pearl glass stormed the brilliance ofa mantle-light.

The room was crowded with tufted plush and imitation-leatherchairs, side-tables and corner brackets, a couch anda “lady’s desk.” Green andred and yellow vases adorned with figures of youthfullovers crammed the top of the piano at the fartherend of the room and the polished black-marble mantelof the fireplace. The glaring gas raced thehearth-fire for snap and glare and excitement. The profusion of furniture was like a tumult; theredness and oakness and polishedness of furniturewas a dizzying activity; and it was all overwhelminglymagnified by the laughter and singing about the piano.

Tom Poppins lumbered up from a couch of terrificallynew and red leather, and Mr. Wrenn was introducedto the five new people in the room with dismayingswiftness. There seemed to be fifty times fiveunapproachable and magnificent strangers from whomhe wanted to flee. Of them all he was sure ofonly two—­a Miss Nelly somebody and whatsounded like Horatio Hood Tem (Teddem it was).

He wished that he had caught Miss Nelly’s lastname (which, at dinner, proved to be Croubel), forhe was instantly taken by her sweetness as she smiled,held out a well-shaped hand, and said, “So pleasedmeet you, Mr. Wrenn.”

She returned to the front of the room and went ontalking to a lank spinster about ruchings, but Mr.Wrenn felt that he had known her long and as intimatelyas it was possible to know so clever a young woman.

Nelly Croubel gave him the impression of a delicateprettiness, a superior sort of prettiness, like thatof the daughter of the Big White House on the Hill,the Squire’s house, at Parthenon; though Nellywas not unusually pretty. Indeed, her mouth wastoo large, her hair of somewhat ordinary brown. But her face was always changing with emotions ofkindliness and life. Her skin was perfect; herfeatures fine, rather Greek; her smile, quick yetsensitive. She was several inches shorter thanMr. Wrenn, and all curves. Her blouse of whitesilk lay tenderly along the adorably smooth softnessof her young shoulders. A smart patent-leatherbelt encircled her sleek waist. Thin black lislestockings showed a modestly arched and rather smallfoot in a black pump.

She looked as though she were trained for business;awake, self-reliant, self-respecting, expecting tohave to get things done, all done, yet she seemedindestructibly gentle, indestructibly good and believing,and just a bit shy.

Nelly Croubel was twenty-four or twenty-five in years,older in business, and far younger in love. She was born in Upton’s Grove, Pennsylvania. There, for eighteen years, she had played Skip toMalue at parties, hid away the notes with which theboys invited her to picnics at Baptist Beach, readmuch Walter Scott, and occasionally taught Sunday-school. Her parents died when she was beginning her fourthyear in high school, and she came to New York to workin Wanamacy’s toy department at six dollarsa week during the holiday rush. Her patiencewith fussy old shoppers and her large sales-totalshad gained her a permanent place in the store.

She had loftily climbed to the position of secondassistant buyer in the lingerie department, at fourteendollars and eighty cents a week That was quite allof her history except that she attended a Presbyterianchurch nearly every Sunday. The only personshe hated was Horatio Hood Teddem, the cheap actorwho was playing the piano at Mr. Wrenn’s entrance.

Just now Horatio was playing ragtime with amazingrapidity, stamping his foot and turning his head tosmirk at the others.

Mrs. Arty led her chattering flock to the basem*ntdining-room, which had pink wall-paper and a mountainoussideboard. Mr. Wrenn was placed between Mrs.Arty and Nelly Croubel. Out of the mist of strangenesspresently emerged the personality of Miss Mary Proudfoot,a lively but religious spinster of forty who madedoilies for the Dorcas Women’s Exchange and hadtwo hundred dollars a year family income. Tothe right of the red-glass pickle-dish were the elderlyEbbitts—­Samuel Ebbitt, Esq., also Mrs.Ebbitt. Mr. Ebbitt had come from Hartford fiveyears before, but he always seemed just to have comefrom there. He was in a real-estate office; hewas gray, ill-tempered, impatiently honest, and addictedto rheumatism and the newspapers. Mrs. Ebbittwas addicted only to Mr. Ebbitt.

Across the table was felt the presence of James T.Duncan, who looked like a dignified red-mustachedSunday-school superintendent, but who traveled fora cloak and suit house, gambled heavily on poker andauction pinochle, and was esteemed for his straightback and knowledge of trains.

Which is all of them.

As soon as Mrs. Arty had guided Annie, the bashfulmaid, in serving the vegetable soup, and had coaxedher into bringing Mr. Wrenn a napkin, she took chargeof the conversation, a luxury which she would neverhave intrusted to her flock’s amateurish efforts. Mr. Poppins, said she, had spoken of meeting a friendof Mr. Wrenn’s; Mr. Morton, was it not? A very nice man, she understood. Was it truethat Mr. Wrenn and Mr. Morton had gone clear acrossthe Atlantic on a cattle-boat? It really was?

“Oh, how interesting!” contributed prettyNelly Croubel, beside Mr. Wrenn, her young eyes filledwith an admiration which caused him palpitation anddifficulty in swallowing his soup. He was confusedby hearing old Samuel Ebbitt state:

“Uh-h-h-h—­back in 18—­uh—­1872the vessel Prissie—­no, it was 1873;no, it must have been ’72—­”

“It was 1872, father,” said Mrs. Ebbitt.

“1873. I was on a coasting-vessel, youngman. But we didn’t carry cattle.” Mr. Ebbitt inspected Horatio Hood Teddem darkly,clicked his spectacle case sharply shut, and fell toeating, as though he had settled all this nonsense.

With occasional witty interruptions from the actor,Mr. Wrenn told of pitching hay, of the wit of Morton,and the wickedness of Satan, the boss.

“But you haven’t told us about the bravethings you did,” cooed Mrs. Arty. She appealed to Nelly Croubel: “I’llbet he was a cool one. Don’t you thinkhe was, Nelly?”

“I’m sure he was.” Nelly’svoice was like a flute.

Mr. Wrenn knew that there was just one thing in theworld that he wanted to do; to persuade Miss NellyCroubel that (though he was a solid business man,indeed yes, and honorable) he was a cool one, whohad chosen, in wandering o’er this world so wide,the most perilous and cattle-boaty places. Hetried to think of something modest yet striking tosay, while Tom was arguing with Miss Mary Proudfoot,the respectable spinster, about the ethics of givingaway street-car transfers.

As they finished their floating custard Mr. Wrennachieved, “Do you come from New York, Miss Croubel?”and listened to the tale of sleighing-parties in Upton’sGrove, Pennsylvania. He was absolutely happy.

“This is like getting home,” he thought. “And they’re classy folks to get hometo—­now that I can tell ’em apart. Gee! Miss Croubel is a peach. And brains—­golly!”

He had a frightened hope that after dinner he wouldbe able to get into a corner and talk with Nelly,but Tom Poppins conferred with Horatio Hood Teddenmand called Mr. Wrenn aside. Teddem had beenacting with a moving-picture company for a week, andhad three passes to the celebrated Waldorf PhotoplayTheater.

Mr. Wrenn had bloodthirstily disapproved Horatio Hood’seffeminate remarks, such as “Tee hee!”and “Oh, you naughty man,” but when heheard that this molly-coddle had shared in the gloryof making moving pictures he went proudly forth withhim and Tom. He had no chance to speak to Mrs.Arty about taking the room to be vacated.

He wished that Charley Carpenter or the Zapps couldsee him sitting right beside an actor who was shownin the pictures miraculously there before them, askinghim how they made movies, just as friendly as thoughthey had known each other always.

He wanted to do something to entertain his friendsbeyond taking them out for a drink. He invitedthem down to his room, and they came.

Teddem was in wonderful form; he mimicked every onethey saw so amiably that Tom Poppins knew the actorwanted to borrow money. The party were lovinglyhumming the popular song of the time—­“AnyLittle Girl That’s a Nice Little Girl is theRight Little Girl for Me”—­as theyfrisked up the gloomy steps of the Zapps. Entering,Poppins and Teddem struck attitudes on the insidestairs and sang aloud.

Mr. Wrenn felt enormously conscious of Mrs. Zapp downbelow. He kept listening, as he led them up-stairsand lighted the gas. But Teddem so imitated ColonelRoosevelt, with two water-glasses for eye-glassesand a small hat-brush for mustache, that Mr. Wrennwas moved wrigglingly to exclaim: “Say,I’m going out and get some beer. Or ’dyou rather have something else? Some cheesesandwiches? How about ’em?”

“Fine,” said Tom and Teddem together.

Not only did Mr. Wrenn buy a large newspaper-coveredbundle of bottles of beer and Swiss-cheese sandwiches,but also a small can of caviar and salty crackers. In his room he spread a clean towel, then two cleantowels, on the bureau, and arrayed the feast, withtwo water-glasses and a shaving-mug for cups.

Horatio Hood Teddem, spreading caviar on a sandwich,and loudly singing his masterpiece, “Waal Iswan,” stopped short and fixed amazed eyes onthe door of the room.

Mr. Wrenn hastily turned. The light fell—­ason a cliff of crumbly gray rock—­on Mrs.Zapp, in the open door, vast in her ungirdled graywrapper, her arms folded, glowering speechlessly.

“Mist’ Wrenn,” she began, in a highvoice that promised to burst into passion.

But she was addressing the formidable adventurer,Bill Wrenn. He had to protect his friends. He sprang up and walked across to her.

He said, quietly, “I didn’t hear you knock,Mrs. Zapp.”

“Ah didn’t knock, and Ah want youshould—­”

“Then please do knock, unless you want me togive notice.”

He was quivering. His voice was shrill.

From the hall below Theresa called up, “Ma,come down here. Ma!”

But Mrs. Zapp was too well started. “Ifyou think Ah’m going to stand for a lazy sneakinglittle drunkard keeping the whole street awake, andhere it is prett’ nearly midnight—­”

Just then Mr. William Wrenn saw and heard the mostastounding thing of his life, and became an etemalslave to Tom Poppins.

Tom’s broad face became hard, his voice businesslike. He shouted at Mrs. Zapp:

“Beat it or I’ll run you in. Troublewith you is, you old hag, you don’t appreciatea nice quiet little chap like Wrenn, and you try tobully him—­and him here for years. Get out or I’ll put you out. I’mno lamb, and I won’t stand for any of your monkey-shines. Get out. This ain’t your room; he’srented it—­he’s paid the rent—­it’shis room. Get out!”

Kindly Tom Poppins worked in a cigar-store and wasaccustomed to talk back to drunken men six feet tall. His voice was tremendous, and he was fatly immovable;he didn’t a bit mind the fact that Mrs. Zappwas still “glaring speechless.”

But behold an ally to the forlorn lady. WhenTheresa, in the hall below, heard Tom, she knew thatMr. Wrenn would room here no more. She gallopedup-stairs and screeched over her mother’s shoulder:

“You will pick on a lady, will you, you drunkenscum—­you—­you cads—­I’llhave you arrested so quick you—­”

“Look here, lady,” said Tom, gently. “I’m a plain-clothes man, a detective.” His large voice purred like a tiger-tabby’s. “I don’t want to run you in, but I willif you don’t get out of here and shut that door. Or you might go down and call the cop on this block. He’ll run you in—­for breaking Code2762 of the Penal Law! Trespass and flotsam—­that’swhat it is!”

Uneasy, frightened, then horrified, Mrs. Zapp swungbulkily about and slammed the door.

Sick, guilty, banished from home though he felt, Mr.Wrenn’s voice quavered, with an attempt at dignity:

“I’m awful sorry she butted in while youfellows was here. I don’t know how to apologize”

“Forget it, old man,” rolled out Tom’sbass. “Come on, let’s go up to Mrs.Arty’s.”

“But, gee! it’s nearly a quarter to eleven.”

“That’s all right. We can get upthere by a little after, and Mrs. Arty stays up playingcards till after twelve.”

“Golly!” Mr. Wrenn agitatedly ejacul*tedunder his breath, as they noisily entered Mrs. Arty’s—­thoughnot noisily on his part.

The parlor door was open. Mrs. Arty’sbroad back was toward them, and she was announcingto James T. Duncan and Miss Proudfoot, with whom shewas playing three-handed Five Hundred, “Well,I’ll just bid seven on hearts if you’regoing to get so set up.” She glanced back,nodded, said, “Come in, children,” pickedup the “widow,” and discarded with quicktwitches of the cards. The frightened Mr. Wrenn,feeling like a shipwrecked land-lubber, compared thisgaming smoking woman unfavorably with the intenserespectability of his dear lost patron, Mrs. Zapp.He sat uneasy till the hand of cards was finished,feeling as though they were only tolerating him. And Nelly Croubel was nowhere in sight.

Suddenly said Mrs. Arty, “And now you wouldlike to look at that room, Mr. Wrenn, unless I’mwrong.”

“Why—­uh—­yes, I guess Iwould like to.”

“Come with me, child,” she said, in pretendedseverity. “Tom, you take my hand in thegame, and don’t let me hear you’ve beenbidding ten on no suit without the joker.” She led Mr. Wrenn to the settee hat-rack in the hall. “The third-floor-back will be vacant in twoweeks, Mr. Wrenn. We can go up and look at itnow if you’d like to. The man who hasit now works nights—­he’s some kindof a head waiter at Rector’s, or something likethat, and he’s out till three or four. Come.”

When he saw that third-floor-back, the room that thesmart people at Mrs. Arty’s were really willingto let him have, he felt like a man just engaged. It was all in soft green—­grass-green matting,pale-green walls, chairs of white wicker with greencushions; the bed, a couch with a denim cover andfour sofa pillows. It gave him the impressionof being a guest on Fifth Avenue.

“It’s kind of a plain room,” Mrs.Arty said, doubtfully. “The furnitureis kind of plain. But my head-waiter man—­itwas furnished for a friend of his—­he sayshe likes it better than any other room in the house. It is comfortable, and you get lots of sunlightand—­”

“I’ll take—­How much is it,please, with board?”

She spoke with a take-it-or-leave-it defiance. “Eleven-fifty a week.”

It was a terrible extravagance; much like marryinga sick woman on a salary of ten a week, he reflected;nine-teen minus eleven-fifty left him only seven-fiftyfor clothes and savings and things and—­but—­”I’ll take it,” he said, hastily. He was frightened at himself, but glad, very glad. He was to live in this heaven; he was going to beaway from that Zapp woman; and Nelly Croubel—­Wasshe engaged to some man? he wondered.

Mrs. Arty was saying: “First, I want toask you some questions, though. Please sit down.” As she creaked into one of the wicker chairs shesuddenly changed from the cigarette-rolling chaffingcard-player to a woman dignified, reserved, commanding. “Mr. Wrenn, you see, Miss Proudfoot and MissCroubel are on this floor. Miss Proudfoot cantake care of herself, all right, but Nelly is sucha trusting little thing—­She’s likemy daughter. She’s the only one I’veever given a reduced rate to—­and I sworeI never would to anybody!... Do you—­uh—­drink—­drinkmuch, I mean?”

Nelly on this floor! Near him! Now! He had to have this room. He forced himselfto speak directly.

“I know how you mean, Mrs. Ferrard. No,I don’t drink much of any—­hardlyat all; just a glass of beer now and then; sometimesI don’t even touch that a week at a time. And I don’t gamble and—­and I dotry to keep—­er—­straight—­andall that sort of thing.”

“That’s good.”

“I work for the Souvenir and Art Novelty Companyon Twenty-eighth Street. If you want to callthem up I guess the manager’ll give me a prettygood recommend.”

“I don’t believe I’ll need it, Mr.Wrenn. It’s my business to find out whatsort of animiles men are by just talking to them.”She rose, smiled, plumped out her hand. “Youwill be nice to Nelly, won’t you! I’m going to fire that Teddem out—­don’ttell him, but I am—­because he gets toofresh with her.”

“Yes!”

She suddenly broke into laughter, and ejacul*ted: “Say, that was hard work! Don’tyou hate to have to be serious? Let’strot down, and I’ll make Tom or Duncan rushus a growler of beer to welcome you to our midst.... I’ll bet your socks aren’t darned properly. I’m going to sneak in and take a look at them,once I get you caged up here.... But I won’tread your love-letters! Now let’s go downby the fire, where it’s comfy.”

CHAPTER XV

HE STUDIES FIVE HUNDRED, SAVOUIR FAIRE, AND LOTSA-SNAP OFFICE MOTTOES

On a couch of glossy red leather with glossy blackbuttons and stiff fringes also of glossy red leather,Mr. William Wrenn sat upright and was very confidingto Miss Nelly Croubel, who was curled among the satinpillows with her skirts drawn carefully about herankles. He had been at Mrs. Arty’s fortwo weeks now. He wore a new light-blue tie,and his trousers were pressed like sheet steel.

“Yes, I suppose you’re engaged to someone, Miss Nelly, and you’ll go off and leaveus—­go off to that blamed Upton’s Groveor some place.”

“I am not engaged. I’ve toldyou so. Who would want to marry me? Youstop teasing me—­you’re mean as canbe; I’ll just have to get Tom to protect me!”

“Course you’re engaged.”

“Ain’t.”

“Are.”

“Ain’t. Who would want to marrypoor little me?”

“Why, anybody, of course.”

“You stop teasing me.... Besides,probably you’re in love with twenty girls.”

“I am not. Why, I’ve neverhardly known but just two girls in my life. One was just a girl I went to theaters with once ortwice—­she was the daughter of the landladyI used to have before I came here.”

“Ifyou don’t make love to the landlady’s daughter
Youwon’t get a second piece of pie!”

quoted Nelly, out of the treasure-house of literature.

“Sure. That’s it. But I betyou—­”

“Who was the other girl?”

“Oh! She.... She was a—­anartist. I liked her—­a lot. Butshe was—­oh, awful highbrow. Gee! if—­But—­”

A sympathetic silence, which Nelly broke with:

“Yes, they’re funny people. Artists.... Do you have your lesson in Five Hundred tonight? Your very first one?”

“I think so. Say, is it much like thishere bridge-whist? Oh say, Miss Nelly, why dothey call it Five Hundred?”

“That’s what you have to make to go out. No, I guess it isn’t very much like bridge;though, to tell the truth, I haven’t ever playedbridge. . My! it must be a nice game, though.”

“Oh, I thought prob’ly you could playit. You can do ’most everything. Honest, I’ve never seen nothing like it.”

“Now you stop, Mr. Wrenn. I know I’ma—­what was it Mr. Teddem used to call me? A minx. But—­”

“Miss Nelly! You aren’ta minx!”

“Well—­”

“Or a mink, either. You’re a—­let’ssee—­an antelope.”

“I am not! Even if I can wriggle my noselike a rabbit. Besides, it sounds like a muskmelon. But, anyway, the head buyer said I was crazy to-day.”

“If I heard him say you were crazy—­”

“Would you beat him for me?” She cuddleda cushion and smiled gratefully. Her big eyesseemed to fill with light.

He caught himself wanting to kiss the softness ofher shoulder, but he said only, “Well, I ain’tmuch of a scrapper, but I’d try to make it interestingfor him.”

“Tell me, did you ever have a fight? Whenyou were a boy? Were you such a bad boy?”

“I never did when I was a boy, but—­well—­Idid have a couple of fights when I was on the cattle-boatand in England. Neither of them amounted tovery much, though, I guess. I was scared stiff!”

“Don’t believe it!”

“Sure I was.”

“I don’t believe you’d be scared. You’re too earnest.”

“Me, Miss Nelly? Why, I’m a regularcut-up.”

“You stop making fun of yourself! I likeit when you’re earnest—­like whenyou saw that beautiful snowfall last night.... Oh dear, isn’t it hard to have to miss so manybeautiful things here in the city—­there’sjust the parks, and even there there aren’tany birds, real wild birds, like we used to have inPennsylvania.”

“Yes, isn’t it! Isn’t it hard!” Mr. Wrenn drew nearer and looked sympathy.

“I’m afraid I’m getting gushy. Miss Hartenstein—­she’s in my department—­she’dlaugh at me.... But I do love birds and squirrelsand puss*-willows and all those things. In summerI love to go on picnics on Staten Island or tramp inVan Cortlandt Park.”

“Would you go on a picnic with me some day nextspring?” Hastily, “I mean with Miss Proudfootand Mrs. Arty and me?”

“I should be pleased to.” She wasprim but trusting about it. “Oh, listen,Mr. Wrenn; did you ever tramp along the Palisadesas far as Englewood? It’s lovely there—­thewoods and the river and all those funny little tugspuffing along, way way down below you—­why,I could lie on the rocks up there and just dream anddream for hours. After I’ve spent Sundayup there”—­she was dreaming now, hesaw, and his heart was passionately tender towardher—­“I don’t hardly mind a bithaving to go back to the store Monday morning.... You’ve been up along there, haven’t you?”

“Me? Why, I guess I’m the guy thatdiscovered the Palisades!... Yes, it is won-derfulup there!”

“Oh, you are, are you? I read about thatin American history!... But honestly, Mr. Wrenn,I do believe you care for tramps and things—­notlike that Teddem or Mr. Duncan—­they alwayswant to just stay in town—­or even Tom,though he’s an old dear.”

Mr. Wrenn looked jealous, with a small hot jealousy. She hastened on with: “Of course, I meanhe’s just like a big brother. To all ofus.”

It was sweet to both of them, to her to declare andto him to hear, that neither Tom nor any other possessedher heart. Their shy glances were like an outreachof tenderly touching hands as she confided, “Mrs.Arty and he get up picnics, and when we’re outon the Palisades he says to me—­you know,sometimes he almost makes me think he is sleepy,though I do believe he just sneaks off under a treeand talks to Mrs. Arty or reads a magazine—­butI was saying: he always says to me, ’Well,sister, I suppose you want to mousey round and dreamby yourself—­you won’t talk to a growlyold bear like me. Well, I’m glad of it.I want to sleep. I don’t want to be botheredby you and your everlasting chatter. Get out!’I b’lieve he just says that ’cause heknows I wouldn’t want to run off by myself ifthey didn’t think it was proper.”

As he heard her lively effort to imitate Tom’sbass Mr. Wrenn laughed and pounded his knee and agreed: “Yes, Tom’s an awfully fine fellow, isn’the!... I love to get out some place by myself,too. I like to wander round places and make upthe doggondest fool little stories to myself aboutthem; just as bad as a kiddy, that way.”

“And you read such an awful lot, Mr. Wrenn! My! Oh, tell me, have you ever read anythingby Harold Bell Wright or Myrtle Reed, Mr. Wrenn? They write such sweet stories.”

He had not, but he expressed an unconquerable resolveso to do, and with immediateness. She went on:

“Mrs. Arty told me you had a real big library—­nearlya hundred books and—­Do you mind? I went in your room and peeked at them.”

“No, course I don’t mind! If there’sany of them you’d like to borrow any time, MissNelly, I would be awful glad to lend them to you.... But, rats! Why, I haven’t got hardly anybooks.”

“That’s why you haven’t wasted anytime learning Five Hundred and things, isn’tit? Because you’ve been so busy readingand so on?”

“Yes, kind of.” Mr. Wrenn lookedmodest.

“Haven’t you always been lots of—­oh,haven’t you always ’magined lots?”

She really seemed to care.

Mr. Wrenn felt excitedly sure of that, and imparted: “Yes, I guess I have.... And I’vealways wanted to travel a lot.”

“So have I! Isn’t it wonderful togo around and see new places!”

“Yes, isn’t it!” he breathed. “It was great to be in England—­thoughthe people there are kind of chilly some ways.Even when I’m on a wharf here in New York I feeljust like I was off in China or somewheres. I’d like to see China. And India.... Gee! when I hear the waves down at Coney Island orsome place—­you know how the waves soundwhen they come in. Well, sometimes I almost feellike they was talking to a guy—­you know—­tellingabout ships. And, oh say, you know the whitecaps—­aren’tthey just like the waves was motioning at you—­theywant you to come and beat it with you—­overto China and places.”

“Why, Mr. Wrenn, you’re a regular poet!”

He looked doubtful.

“Honest; I’m not teasing you; you area poet. And I think it’s fine that Mr.Teddem was saying that nobody could be a poet or likethat unless they drank an awful lot and—­uh—­oh,not be honest and be on a job. But you aren’tlike that. Are you?”

He looked self-conscious and mumbled, earnestly, “Well,I try not to be.”

“But I am going to make you go to church. You’ll be a socialist or something like thatif you get to be too much of a poet and don’t—­”

“Miss Nelly, please may I go to churchwith you?”

“Why—­”

“Next Sunday?”

“Why, yes, I should be pleased. Are youa Presbyterian, though?”

“Why—­uh—­I guess I’mkind of a Congregationalist; but still, they’reall so much alike.”

“Yes, they really are. And besides, whatdoes it matter if we all believe the same and tryto do right; and sometimes that’s hard, whenyou’re poor, and it seems like—­like—­”

“Seems like what?” Mr. Wrenn insisted.

“Oh—­nothing.... My, you’llhave to get up awful early Sunday morning if you’dlike to go with me. My church starts at ten-thirty.”

“Oh, I’d get up at five to go with you.”

“Stupid! Now you’re just tryingto jolly me; you are; because you men aren’tas fond of church as all that, I know you aren’t. You’re real lazy Sunday mornings, and just wantto sit around and read the papers and leave the poorwomen—­But please tell me some more aboutyour reading and all that.”

“Well, I’ll be all ready to go at nine-thirty.... I don’t know; why, I haven’t done muchreading. But I would like to travel and—­Say,wouldn’t it be great to—­I supposeI’m sort of a kid about it; of course, a guyhas to tend right to business, but it would be great—­Saya man was in Europe with—­with—­afriend, and they both knew a lot of history—­say,they both knew a lot about Guy Fawkes (he was theguy that tried to blow up the English Parliament),and then when they were there in London they couldalmost think they saw him, and they could go roundtogether and look at Shelley’s window—­hewas a poet at Oxford—­Oh, it would be greatwith a—­with a friend.”

“Yes, wouldn’t it?... I wanted towork in the book department one time. It’sso nice your being—­”

“Ready for Five Hundred?” bellowed TomPoppins in the hall below. “Ready partner—­you,Wrenn?”

Tom was to initiate Mr. Wrenn into the game, playingwith him against Mrs. Arty and Miss Mary Proudfoot.

Mrs. Arty sounded the occasion’s pitch of highmerriment by delivering from the doorway the sacredold saying, “Well, the ladies against the men,eh?”

A general grunt that might be spelled “Hmmmmhm”assented.

“I’m a good suffragette,” she added. “Watch us squat the men, Mary.”

“Like to smash windows? Let’s see—­it’sred fours, black fives up?” remarked Tom, ashe prepared the pack of cards for playing.

“Yes, I would! It makes me so tired,”asseverated Mrs. Arty, “to think of the oldgoats that men put up for candidates when they knowthey’re solemn old fools! I’d justlike to get out and vote my head off.”

“Well, I think the woman’s place is inthe home,” sniffed Miss Proudfoot, decisively,tucking away a doily she was finishing for the Women’sExchange and jabbing at her bangs.

They settled themselves about the glowing, glancing,glittering, golden-oak center-table. Miss Proudfootshuffled sternly. Mr. Wrenn sat still and frightened,like a shipwrecked professor on a raft with two gamblersand a press-agent, though Nelly was smiling encouraginglyat him from the couch where she had started her embroidery—­alarge Christmas lamp mat for the wife of the Presbyterianpastor at Upton’s Grove.

“Don’t you wish your little friend HoratioHood Teddem was here to play with you?” remarkedTom.

“I do not,” declared Mrs. Arty. “Still, there was one thing about Horatio. I never had to look up his account to find out howmuch he owed me. He stopped calling me, LittleButtercup, when he owed me ten dollars, and he evenstopped slamming the front door when he got up totwenty. O Mr. Wrenn, did I ever tell you aboutthe time I asked him if he wanted to have Annie sweep—­”

“Gerty!” protested Miss Proudfoot, whileNelly, on the couch, ejacul*ted mechanically, “Thatstory!” but Mrs. Arty chuckled fatly, and continued:

“I asked him if he wanted me to have Annie sweephis nightshirt when she swept his room. He changedit next day.”

“Your bid, Mr. Poppins, “said Miss Proudfoot,severely.

“First, I want to tell Wrenn how to play. You see, Wrenn, here’s the schedule. We play Avondale Schedule, you know.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Wrenn, timorously.... He had once heard of Carbondale—­in NewJersey or Pennsylvania or somewhere—­butthat didn’t seem to help much.

“Well, you see, you either make or go back,”continued Tom. “Plus and minus, you know. Joker is high, then right bower, left, and ace. Then—­uh—­let’s see; highbid takes the cat—­widdie, you know—­anddiscards. Ten tricks. Follow suit likewhist, of course. I guess that’s all—­thatought to give you the hang of it, anyway. Ibid six on no trump.”

As Tom Poppins finished these instructions, givenin the card-player’s rapid don’t-ask-me-any-more-fool-questionsmanner, Mr. Wrenn felt that he was choking. He craned up his neck, trying to ease his stiff collar. So, then, he was a failure, a social outcast already.

So, then, he couldn’t learn Five Hundred!And he had been very proud of knowing one card fromanother perfectly, having played a number of gamesof two-handed poker with Tim on the cattle-boat.But what the dickens did “left—­cat—­followsuit” mean?

And to fail with Nelly watching him! He pulledat his collar again.

Thus he reflected while Mrs. Arty and Tom were carryingon the following brilliant but cryptic society-dialogue:

Mrs. Arty: Well, I don’t know.

Tom: Not failure, but low bid is crime, littleone.

Mrs. Arty: Mary, shall I make—­

Tom: Hey! No talking ’cross table!

Mrs. Arty: Um—­let—­me—­see.

Tom: Bid up, bid up! Bid a little sevenon hearts?

Mrs. Arty: Just for that I will bidseven on hearts, smarty!

Tom: Oh, how we will squat you!... Whatyou bidding, Wrenn?

Behind Mr. Wrenn, Nelly Croubel whispered to him: “Bid seven on no suit. You’ve gotthe joker.” Her delicate forefinger, itsnail shining, was pointing at a curious card in hishand.

“Seven nosut,” he mumbled.

“Eight hearts,” snapped Miss Proudfoot.

Nelly drew up a chair behind Mr. Wrenn’s. He listened to her soft explanations with the desperaterespect and affection which a green subaltern wouldgive to a general in battle.

Tom and he won the hand. He glanced back atNelly with awe, then clutched his new hand, fearfully,dizzily, staring at it as though it might concealone of those malevolent deceivers of which Nelly hadjust warned him—­a left bower.

“Good! Spades—­see,” saidNelly.

Fifteen minutes later Mr. Wrenn felt that Tom washoping he would lead a club. He played one,and the whole table said: “That’sright. Fine!”

On his shoulder he felt a light tap, and he blushedlike a sunset as he peeped back at Nelly.

Mr. Wrenn, the society light, was Our Mr. Wrenn ofthe Souvenir Company all this time. Indeed,at present he intended to keep on taking The Job seriouslyuntil that most mistily distant time, which we allawait, “when something turns up.” His fondling of the Southern merchants was showingsuch results that he had grown from an interest inwhatever papers were on his desk to a belief in thedivine necessity of The Job as a whole. Not now,as of old, did he keep the personal letters in hisdesk tied up, ready for a sudden departure for Viennaor Kamchatka. Also, he wished to earn much moremoney for his new career of luxury. Mr. Guilfoglehad assured him that there might be chances ahead—­businesshad been prospering, two new road salesmen and a city-trademan had been added to the staff, and whereas the firmhad formerly been jobbers only, buying their noveltiesfrom manufacturers, now they were having printed forthem their own Lotsa-Snap Cardboard Office Mottoes,which were making a big hit with the trade.

Through his friend Rabin, the salesman, Mr. Wrenngot better acquainted with two great men—­Mr.L. J. Glover, the purchasing agent of the SouvenirCompany, and John Hensen, the newly engaged head ofmotto manufacturing. He “wanted to getonto all the different lines of the business so’she could step right in anywhere”; and from thesem*n he learned the valuable secrets of business wherewiththe marts of trade build up prosperity for all ofus: how to seat a selling agent facing the light,so you can see his face better than he can see yours.How much ahead of time to telephone the motto-printerthat “we’ve simply got to have proof thisafternoon; what’s the matter with you, downthere? Don’t you want our business anymore?” He also learned something of the variouskinds of cardboard and ink-well glass, though these,of course, were merely matters of knowledge, not ofbrilliant business tactics, and far less importantthan what Tom Poppins and Rabin called “handingout a snappy line of talk.”

“Say, you’re getting quite chummy lately—­reg’larsociety leader,” Rabin informed him.

Mr. Wrenn’s answer was in itself a proof ofthe soundness of Rabin’s observation:

“Sure—­I’m going to borrow somemoney from you fellows. Got to make an impression,see?”

A few hours after this commendation came Istra’ssecond letter:

Mouse dear, I’m so glad to hear about the simpaticoboarding-house. Yes indeed I would like tohear about the people in it. And you are readinghistory? That’s good. I’m gettingsick of Paris and some day I’m going to stopan absinthe on the boulevard and slap its face toshow I’m a sturdy moving-picture Western Amurricanand then leap to saddle and pursue the bandit.I’m working like the devil but what’s theuse. That is I mean unless one is doing thejob well, as I’m glad you are. My Dear,keep it up. You know I want you to be realwhatever you are. I didn’t mean to preachbut you know I hate people who aren’t real—­that’swhy I haven’t much of a flair for myself.
Aurecrire,
I.N.

After he had read her letter for the third time hewas horribly shocked and regarded himself as a traitor,because he found that he was only pretending to beenjoyably excited over it.... It seemed so detachedfrom himself. “Flair”—­“aurecrire.” Now, what did those mean? And Istra was always so discontented. “What’d she do if she had to be on the job like Nelly?... Oh, Istra is wonderful. But—­gee!—­Idunno—­”

And when he who has valorously loved says “But—­gee!—­Idunno—­” love flees in panic.

He walked home thoughtfully.

After dinner he said abruptly to Nelly, “I hada letter from Paris to-day.”

“Honestly? Who is she?”

“G-g-g-g—­”

“Oh, it’s always a she.”

“Why—­uh—­it is froma girl. I started to tell you about her oneday. She’s an artist, and once we tooka long tramp in the country. I met her—­shewas staying at the same place as I was in London. But—­oh, gee! I dunno; she’sso blame literary. She is a fineperson—­Do you think you’d like a girllike that?”

“Maybe I would.”

“If she was a man?”

“Oh, yes-s! Artists are so romantic.”

“But they ain’t on the job more ’nhalf the time,” he said, jealously.

“Yes, that’s so.”

His hand stole secretly, craftily skirting a cushion,to touch hers—­which she withdrew, laughing:

“Hump-a! You go hold your artist’shand!”

“Oh, Miss Nelly! When I told youabout her myself!”

“Oh yes, of course.”

She was contrite, and they played Five Hundred animatedlyall evening.

CHAPTER XVI

HE BECOMES MILDLY RELIGIOUS AND HIGHLY LITERARY

The hero of the one-act play at Hammerstein’sVictoria vaudeville theater on that December eveningwas, it appeared, a wealthy young mine-owner in disguise. He was working for the “fake mine promoter”because he loved the promoter’s daughter witha love that passed all understanding except that ofthe girls in the gallery. When the postal authoritieswere about to arrest the promoter our young hero savedhim by giving him a real mine, and the ensuing kissof the daughter ended the suspense in which Mr. Wrennand Nelly, Mrs. Arty and Tom had watched the playfrom the sixth row of the balcony.

Sighing happily, Nelly cried to the group: “Wasn’tthat grand? I got so excited! Wasn’tthat young miner a dear?”

“Awfully nice,” said Mr. Wrenn. “And, gee! wasn’t that great, that officescene—­with that safe and the rest of thestuff—­just like you was in a real office. But, say, they wouldn’t have a copying-pressin an office like that; those fake mine promoterssend out such swell letters; they’d use carboncopies and not muss the letters all up.”

“By gosh, that’s right!” and Tomnodded his chin toward his right shoulder in approval. Nelly cried, “That’s so; they would”; while Mrs. Arty, not knowing what a copying-presswas, appeared highly commendatory, and said nothingat all.

During the moving pictures that followed, Mr. Wrennfelt proudly that he was taken seriously, though hehad known them but little over a month. He followedup his conversational advantage by leading the chorusin wondering, “which one of them two actorsthe heroine was married to?” and “how mucha week they get for acting in that thing?” It was Tom who invited them to Miggleton’s forcoffee and fried oysters. Mr. Wrenn was silentfor a while. But as they were stamping throughthe rivulets of wheel-tracks that crisscrossed ona slushy street-crossing Mr. Wrenn regained his advantageby crying, “Say, don’t you think thatplay ’d have been better if the promoter ’dhad an awful grouch on the young miner and ’dhad to crawfish when the miner saved him?”

“Why, yes; it would!” Nelly glowed athim.

“Wouldn’t wonder if it would,” agreedTom, kicking the December slush off his feet and pattingMr. Wrenn’s back.

“Well, look here,” said Mr. Wrenn, asthey left Broadway, with its crowds betokening theapproach of Christmas, and stamped to the quieterside of Forty-second, “why wouldn’t thismake a slick play: say there’s an awfullyrich old guy; say he’s a railway president orsomething, d’ you see? Well, he’sgot a secretary there in the office—­onthe stage, see? The scene is his office. Well, this guy’s—­the rich old guy’s—­daughtercomes in and says she’s married to a poor manand she won’t tell his name, but she wants somemoney from her dad. You see, her dad’sbeen planning for her to marry a marquise or some kindof a lord, and he’s sore as can be, and he won’tlisten to her, and he just cusses her out somethingfierce, see? Course he doesn’t reallycuss, but he’s awful sore; and she tells himdidn’t he marry her mother when he was a pooryoung man; but he won’t listen. Then thesecretary butts in—­my idea is he’sbeen kind of keeping in the background, see—­andhe’s the daughter’s husband allthe while, see? and he tells the old codger how he’sgot some of his—­some of the old fellow’s—­papersthat give it away how he done something that was crooked—­somekind of deal—­rebates and stuff, see howI mean?—­and the secretary’s goingto spring this stuff on the newspapers if the old mandon’t come through and forgive them; so of coursethe president has to forgive them, see?”

“You mean the secretary was the daughter’shusband all along, and he heard what the presidentsaid right there?” Nelly panted, stopping outsideMiggleton’s, in the light from the oyster-filledwindow.

“Yes; and he heard it all.”

“Why, I think that’s just a fineidea,” declared Nelly, as they entered the restaurant. Though her little manner of dignity and even restraintwas evident as ever, she seemed keenly joyous overhis genius.

“Say, that’s a corking idea for a play,Wrenn,” exclaimed Tom, at their table, gallantlyremoving the ladies’ wraps.

“It surely is,” agreed Mrs. Arty.

“Why don’t you write it?” askedNelly.

“Aw—­I couldn’t write it!”

“Why, sure you could, Bill,” insistedTom. “Straight; you ought to write it. (Hey, waiter! Four fries and coffee!) You oughtto write it. Why, it’s a wonder; it ’dmake a dev—­ ’Scuse me, ladies. It’d make a howling hit. You might makea lot of money out of it.”

The renewed warmth of their wet feet on the red-tilefloor, the scent of fried oysters, the din of “AnyLittle Girl” on the piano, these added colorto this moment of Mr. Wrenn’s great resolve. The four stared at one another excitedly. Mr.Wrenn’s eyelids fluttered. Tom broughthis hand down on the table with a soft flat “plob”and declared: “Say, there might be a lotof money in it. Why, I’ve heard that HarrySmith—­writes the words for these musicalcomedies—­makes a mint of money.”

“Mr. Poppins ought to help you in it—­he’sseen such a lot of plays,” Mrs. Arty anxiouslyadvised.

“That’s a good idea,” said Mr. Wrenn. It had, apparently, been ordained that he was towrite it. They were now settling important details. So when Nelly cried, “I think it’s justa fine idea; I knew you had lots of imagination,”Tom interrupted her with:

“No; you write it, Bill. I’ll helpyou all I can, of course.... Tell you what youought to do: get hold of Teddem—­he’shad a lot of stage experience; he’d help youabout seeing the managers. That ’d be thehard part—­you can write it, all right, butyou’d have to get next to the guys on the inside,and Teddem—­Say, you cer_tain_ly ought towrite this thing, Bill. Might make a lot ofmoney.”

“Oh, a lot!” breathed Nelly.

“Heard about a fellow,” continued Tom—­”fellow named Gene Wolf, I think it was—­thatwas so broke he was sleeping in Bryant Park, and hemade a hundred thousand dollars on his firstplay—­or, no; tell you how it was: hesold it outright for ten thousand—­somethinglike that, anyway. I got that right from a fellowthat’s met him.”

“Still, an author’s got to go to collegeand stuff like that.” Mr. Wrenn spoke asthough he would be pleased to have the objection overruledat once, which it was with a universal:

“Oh, rats!”

Crunching oysters in a brown jacket of flour, whoseevery lump was a crisp delight, hearing his geniuslauded and himself called Bill thrice in a quarter-hour,Mr. Wrenn was beatified. He asked the waiterfor some paper, and while the four hotly discussedthings which “it would be slick to have thepresident’s daughter do” he drew up a listof characters on a sheet of paper he still keeps. It is headed, “Miggleton’s Forty-secondStreet Branch.” At the bottom appear numerousscribblings of the name Nelly.

{the full page is covered with doodling as well}

“I think I’ll call the heroine `Nelly,’”he mused.

Nelly Croubel blushed. Mrs. Arty and Tom glancedat each other. Mr. Wrenn realized that he had,even at this moment of social triumph, “madea break.”

He said, hastily; “I always liked that name. I—­I had an aunt named that!”

“Oh—­” started Nelly.

“She was fine to me when I was a kid, “Mr.Wrenn added, trying to remember whether it was rightto lie when in such need.

“Oh, it’s a horrid name,” declaredNelly. “Why don’t you call her somethingnice, like Hazel—­or—­oh—­Dolores.”

“Nope; Nelly’s an elegant name—­anelegant name.”

He walked with Nelly behind the others, along Forty-secondStreet. To the outsider’s eye he was asmall respectable clerk, slightly stooped, with apolite mustache and the dignity that comes from knowingwell a narrow world; wearing an overcoat too lightfor winter; too busily edging out of the way of peopleand guiding the nice girl beside him into clear spacesby diffidently touching her elbow, too pettily busyto cast a glance out of the crowd and spy the passingpoet or king, or the iron night sky. He wasas undistinguishable a bit of the evening street lifeas any of the file of street-cars slashing throughthe wet snow. Yet, he was the chivalrous squireto the greatest lady of all his realm; he was a societyauthor, and a man of great prospective wealth andpower over mankind!

“Say, we’ll have the grandest dinner youever saw if I get away with the play,” he wassaying. “Will you come, Miss Nelly?”

“Indeed I will! Oh, you sha’n’tleave me out! Wasn’t I there when—­”

“Indeed you were! Oh, we’ll havea reg’lar feast at the Astor—­artichokesand truffles and all sorts of stuff.... Would—­wouldyou like it if I sold the play?”

“Course I would, silly!”

“I’d buy the business and make Rabin manager—­theSouvenir Company.

So he came to relate all those intimacies of The Job;and he was overwhelmed at the ease with which she“got onto old Goglefogle.”

His preparations for writing the play were elaborate.

He paced Tom’s room till twelve-thirty, consultingas to whether he had to plan the stage-setting; smokingcigarettes in attitudes on chair arms. Nextmorning in the office he made numerous plans of thesetting on waste half-sheets of paper. At noonhe was telephoning at Tom regarding the question ofwhether there ought to be one desk or two on the stage.

He skipped the evening meal at Mrs. Arty’s,dining with literary pensiveness at the Armenian,for he had subtle problems to meditate. He boughta dollar fountain-pen, which had large gold-like bandsand a rather scratchy pen-point, and a box of fairlylarge sheets of paper. Pressing his literaryimpedimenta tenderly under his arm, he attended fourmoving-picture and vaudeville theaters. By elevenhe had seen three more one-act plays and a dramaticplaylet.

He slipped by the parlor door at Mrs. Arty’s.

His room was quiet. The lamplight on the delicatelygreen walls was like that of a regular author’sden, he was quite sure. He happily tested thefountain-pen by writing the names Nelly and WilliamWrenn on a bit of wrapping-paper (which he guiltilyburned in an ash-tray); washed his face with waterwhich he let run for a minute to cool; sat down beforehis table with a grunt of content; went back and washedhis hands; fiercely threw off the bourgeois encumbrancesof coat and collar; sat down again; got up to straightena picture; picked up his pen; laid it down, and glowedas he thought of Nelly, slumbering there, near athand, her exquisite cheek nestling silkenly againsther arm, perhaps, and her white dreams—­

Suddenly he roared at himself, “Get on the jobthere, will yuh?” He picked up the pen and wrote:

THE MILLIONAIRE’SDAUGHTER

A ONE ACT DRAMATIC PLAYLET
by

WILLIAM WRENN

CHARACTERS

John Warrington, a railway president; quiterich. Nelty Warrington, Mr. Warrington’sdaughter. Reginald Thorne, his secretary.

He was jubilant. His pen whined at top speed,scattering a shower of tiny drops of ink.

Stage Scene: An office. Very expensive. Mr. Warrington and Mr. Thorne are sitting there. Miss Warrington comes in. She says:

He stopped. He thought. He held his head. He went over to the stationary bowl and soaked hishair with water. He lay on the bed and kickedhis heels, slowly and gravely smoothing his mustache. Fifty minutes later he gave a portentous groan andwent to bed.

He hadn’t been able to think of what Miss Warringtonsays beyond “I have come to tell you that Iam married, papa,” and that didn’t soundjust right; not for a first line it didn’t, anyway.

At dinner next night—­Saturday—­Tomwas rather inclined to make references to “ourauthor,” and to remark: “Well, Iknow where somebody was last night, but of courseI won’t tell. Say, them authors are awild lot.”

Mr. Wrenn, who had permitted the teasing of even Tim,the hatter, “wasn’t going to stand forno kidding from nobody—­not when Nelly wasthere,” and he called for a glass of water withthe air of a Harvard assistant professor forced toeat in a lunch-wagon and slapped on the back by thecook.

Nelly soothed him. “The play isgoing well, isn’t it?”

When he had, with a detached grandeur of which hewas immediately ashamed, vouchsafed that he was already“getting right down to brass tacks on it,”that he had already investigated four more plays andbegun the actual writing, every one looked awed andasked him assorted questions.

At nine-thirty that evening he combed and tightlybrushed his hair, which he had been pawing angrilyfor an hour and a half, went down the hall to Nelly’shall bedroom, and knocked with: “It’sMr. Wrenn. May I ask you something about theplay?”

“Just a moment,” he heard her say.

He waited, panting softly, his lips apart. Thiswas to be the first time he had ever seen Nelly’sroom. She opened the door part way, smilingshyly, timidly, holding her pale-blue dressing-gownclose. The pale blueness was a modestly brilliantspot against the whiteness of the room—­whitebureau, hung with dance programs and a yellow Upton’sGrove High School banner, white tiny rocker, pale-yellowmatting, white-and-silver wall-paper, and a glimpseof a white soft bed.

He was dizzy with the exaltation of that purity, buthe got himself to say:

“I’m kind of stuck on the first part ofthe play, Miss Nelly. Please tell me how youthink the heroine would speak to her dad. Wouldshe call him `papa’ or `sir,’ do you think?”

“Why—­let me see—­”

“They’re such awful high society—­”

“Yes, that’s so. Why, I should thinkshe’d say `sir.’ Maybe oh, whatwas it I heard in a play at the Academy of Music?`Father, I have come back to you!’”

“Sa-a-ay, that’s a fine line! That’llget the crowd going right from the first.... I told you you’d help me a lot.”

“I’m awfully glad if I have helpedyou,” she said, earnestly. Good night—­andgood, “awfully glad, but luck with the play.Good night.”

“Good night. Thank you a lot, Miss Nelly. Church in the morning, remember! Good night.”

“Good night.”

As it is well known that all playwrights labor withtoy theaters before them for working models, Mr. Wrennran to earth a fine unbroken pasteboard box in whicha ninety-eight-cent alarm-clock had recently arrived. He went out for some glue and three small corks. Setting up his box stage, he glued a pill-box anda match-box on the floor—­the side of thebox it had always been till now—­and therehe had the mahogany desks. He thrust three matchesinto the corks, and behold three graceful actors—­gracefulfor corks, at least. There was fascination inhaving them enter, through holes punched in the backof the box, frisk up to their desks and deliver magicemotional speeches that would cause any audience toweep; speeches regarding which he knew everythingbut the words; a detail of which he was still quiteignorant after half an hour of playing with his marionettes.

Before he went despairingly to bed that Saturday nighthe had added to his manuscript:

Mr. Thorne says: Here are the papers,sir. As a great railway president you should—­

The rest of that was to be filled in later. How the dickens could he let the public know how trulygreat his president was?

(Daughter, Miss Nelly, comes in.)

Miss Nelly: Father, I have come back to you,sir.

Mr. Warrington: My Daughter!

Nelly: Father, I have something to tell you;something—­

Breakfast at Mrs. Arty’s was always an inspiration. In contrast to the lonely dingy meal at the HustlerDairy Lunch of his Zapp days, he sat next to a trimlyshirtwaisted Nelly, fresh and enthusiastic after ninehours’ sleep. So much for ordinary days. But Sunday morning—­that was paradise! The oil-stove glowed and purred like a large tinpuss* cat; it toasted their legs into dreamy comfort,while they methodically stuffed themselves with toastand waffles and coffee. Nelly and he alwaysfelt gently superior to Tom Poppins, who would bea-sleeping late, as they talked of the joy of not havingto go to the office, of approaching Christmas, andof the superiority of Upton’s Grove and Parthenon.

This morning was to be Mr. Wrenn’s first attendanceat church with Nelly. The previous time theyhad planned to go, Mr. Wrenn had spent Sunday morningin unreligious fervor at the Chelsea Dental Parlorswith a young man in a white jacket instead of at churchwith Nelly.

This was also the first time that he had attendeda church service in nine years, except for mass atSt. Patrick’s, which he regarded not as church,but as beauty. He felt tremendously reformed,set upon new paths of virtue and achievement. He thought slightingly of those lonely bachelors,Morton and Mittyford, Ph. D. They just didn’tknow what it meant to a fellow to be going to churchwith a girl like Miss Nelly, he reflected, as he rebrushed his hair after breakfast.

He walked proudly beside her, and made much of thegentility of entering the church, as one of the well-to-doand intensely bathed congregation. He even bowedto an almost painfully washed and brushed young usherwith gold-rimmed eye-glasses. He thought scornfullyof his salad days, when he had bowed to the Brass-buttonMan at the Nickelorion.

The church interior was as comfortable as Sunday-morningtoast and marmalade—­half a block of redcarpet in the aisles; shiny solid-oak pews, gorgeousstained-glass windows, and a general polite creakingof ladies’ best stays and gentlemen’s stiffshirt-bosoms, and an odor of the best cologne and moth-balls.

It lacked but six days till Christmas. Mr. Wrenn’sheart was a little garden, and his eyes were moist,and he peeped tenderly at Nelly as he saw the hollyand ivy and the frosted Christmas mottoes, “Peaceon Earth, Good Will to Men,” and the rest, thatbrightened the spaces between windows.

Christmas—­happy homes—­laughter.... Since, as a boy, he had attended the Christmas festivitiesof the Old Church Sunday-school at Parthenon, andgot highly colored candy in a net bag, his holidayshad been celebrated by buying himself plum puddingat lonely Christmas dinners at large cheap restaurants,where there was no one to wish him “Merry Christmas”except his waiter, whom he would quite probably neversee again, nor ever wish to see.

But this Christmas—­he surprised himselfand Nelly suddenly by hotly thrusting out his handand touching her sleeve with the searching finger-tipsof a child comforted from night fears.

During the sermon he had an idea. What was itNelly had told him about “Peter Pan”? Oh yes; somebody in it had said “Do you believein fairies?” Say, why wouldn’t itbe great to have the millionaire’s daughtersay to her father, “Do you believe in love?”

“Gee, I believe in love!” he yearnedto himself, as he felt Nelly’s arm unconsciouslytouch his.

Tom Poppins had Horatio Hood Teddem in that afternoonfor a hot toddy. Horatio looked very boyish,very confiding, and borrowed five dollars from Mr.Wrenn almost painlessly, so absorbed was Mr. Wrennin learning from Horatio how to sell a play. To know the address of the firm of Wendelbaum & Schirtz,play-brokers, located in a Broadway theater building,seemed next door to knowing a Broadway manager.

When Horatio had gone Tom presented an idea whichhe had ponderously conceived during his Sunday noon-hourat the cigar-store.

“Why not have three of us—­say meand you and Mrs. Arty—­talk the play, justlike we was acting it?”

He enthusiastically forced the plan on Mr. Wrenn. He pounded down-stairs and brought up Mrs. Arty. He dashed about the room, shouting directions. He dragged out his bureau for the railroad-president’sdesk, and a table for the secretary, and, after someconsideration and much rubbing of his chin, with twoslams and a bang he converted his hard green Morris-chairinto an office safe.

The play was on. Mr. T. Poppins, in the roleof the president, entered, with a stern high expressionon his face, threw a “Good morning, Thorne,”at Wrenn, his secretary, and peeled off his gloves.(Mr. Wrenn noted the gloves; they were a Touch.)

Mr. Wrenn approached diffidently, his face expressionless,lest Mrs. Arty laugh at him. “Here—­

“Say, what do you think would be a good wayfor the secretary to tell the crowd that the otherguy is the president? Say, how about this: `The vice-president of the railway would like tohave you sign these, sir, as president’?”

“That’s fine!” exclaimed Mrs. Arty,whose satin dress was carefully spread over her swellingknees, as she sat in the oak rocker, like a cheerfulbronze monument to Sunday propriety. “Butdon’t you think he’d say, `when it’sconvenient to you, sir’?”

“Gee, that’s dandy!”

The play was on.

It ended at seven. Mr. Wrenn took but fifteenminutes for Sunday supper, and wrote till one of themorning, finishing the first draft of his manuscript.

Revision was delightful, for it demanded many conferenceswith Nelly, sitting at the parlor table, with shouldersconfidentially touching. They were the more intimatebecause Tom had invited Mr. Wrenn, Nelly, and Mrs.Arty to the Grand Christmas Eve Ball of the Cigar-Makers’Union at Melpomene Hall. Nelly asked of Mr. Wrenn,almost as urgently as of Mrs. Arty, whether she shouldwear her new white mull or her older rose-coloredChina silk.

Two days before Christmas he timidly turned over theplay for typing to a haughty public stenographer wholooked like Lee Theresa Zapp. She yawned athim when he begged her to be careful of the manuscript. The gloriously pink-bound and red-underlined typedmanuscript of the play was mailed to Messrs. Wendelbaum& Schirtz, play-brokers, at 6.15 P.M., Christmas Eve.

The four walked down Sixth Avenue to the Cigar-Makers’Ball. They made an Indian file through the Christmasshopping crowds, and stopped frequently and noisilybefore the street-booths’ glamour of tinseland teddy-bears. They shrieked all with onerotund mad laughter as Tom Poppins capered over andbought for seven cents a pink bisque doll, which hepinned to the lapel of his plaid overcoat. Theydrank hot chocolate at the Olympic Confectionery Store,pretending to each other that they were shiveringwith cold.

It was here that Nelly reached up and patted Mr. Wrenn’spale-blue tie into better lines. In her hairwas the scent which he had come to identify as hers. Her white furs brushed against his overcoat.

The cigar-makers, with seven of them in full evening-dressand two in dinner-coats, were already dancing on thewaxy floor of Melpomene Hall when they arrived. A full orchestra was pounding and scraping itselfinto an hysteria of merriment on the platform underthe red stucco-fronted balcony, and at the bar behindthe balcony there was a spirit of beer and revelryby night.

Mr. Wrenn embarrassedly passed large groups of prettygirls. He felt very light and insecure in hisnew gun-metal-finish pumps now that he had taken offhis rubbers and essayed the slippery floor. He tried desperately not to use his handkerchief tooconspicuously, though he had a cold.

It was not till the choosing of partners for the nextdance, when Tom Poppins stood up beside Nelly, theirarms swaying a little, their feet tapping, that Mr.Wrenn quite got the fact that he could not dance.

He had casually said to the others, a week before,that he knew only the square dances which, as a boy,he had learned at parties at Parthenon. Butthey had reassured him: “Oh, come on—­we’llteach you how to dance at the ball—­it won’tbe formal. Besides, we’ll give you somelessons before we go.” Playwriting andplaying Five Hundred had prevented their giving himthe lessons. So he now sat terrified as a two-stepbegan and he saw what seemed to be thousands of glitteringyouths and maidens whirling deftly in a most involvedcourse, getting themselves past each other in a waywhich he was sure he could never imitate. Theorchestra yearned over music as rich and smooth asmilk chocolate, which made him intensely lonely forNelly, though she was only across the room from him.

Tom Poppins immediately introduced Nelly to a facetiouscigar salesman, who introduced her to three of thebeaux in evening clothes, while Tom led out Mrs. Arty. Mr. Wrenn, sitting in a row of persons who were notat all interested in his sorrows, glowered out acrossthe hall, and wished, oh! so bitterly, to flee home. Nelly came up, glowing, laughing, with black-mustachedand pearl-waistcoated men, and introduced him to them,but he glanced at them disapprovingly; and always shewas carried off to dance again.

She found and hopefully introduced to Mr. Wrenn awallflower who came from Yonkers and had never heardof Tom Poppins or aeroplanes or Oxford or any othertopic upon which Mr. Wrenn uneasily tried to discourseas he watched Nelly waltz and smile up at her partners. Presently the two sat silent. The wallflowerexcused herself and went back to her mama from Yonkers.

Mr. Wrenn sat sulking, hating his friends for havingbrought him, hating the sweetness of Nelly Croubel,and saying to himself, “Oh—­sure—­shedances with all those other men—­me, I’monly the poor fool that talks to her when she’stired and tries to cheer her up.”

He did not answer when Tom came and told him a newstory he had just heard in the barroom.

Once Nelly landed beside him and bubblingly insistedon his coming out and trying to learn to dance. He brightened, but shyly remarked, “Oh no,I don’t think I’d better.” Just then the blackest-mustached and pearl-waistcoatedestof all the cigar salesmen came begging for a dance,and she was gone, with only: “Now get upyour courage. I’m going to makeyou dance.”

At the intermission he watched her cross the floorwith the hateful cigar salesman, slender in her tightcrisp new white mull, flourishing her fan and talkingwith happy rapidity. She sat down beside him. He said nothing; he still stared out across the glassyfloor. She peeped at him curiously several times,and made a low tapping with her fan on the side ofher chair.

She sighed a little. Cautiously, but very casually,she said, “Aren’t you going to take meout for some refreshments, Mr. Wrenn?”

“Oh sure—­I’m good enough tobuy refreshments for her!” he said to himself.

Poor Mr. Wrenn; he had not gone to enough partiesin Parthenon, and he hadn’t gone to any in NewYork. At nearly forty he was just learning thedrab sulkiness and churlishness and black jealousyof the lover.... To her: “Why didn’tyou go out with that guy with the black mustache?” He still stared straight ahead.

She was big-eyed, a tear showing. “Why,Billy—­” was all she answered.

He clenched his hands to keep from bursting out withall the pitiful tears which were surging in his eyes. But he said nothing.

“Billy, what—­”

He turned shyly around to her; his hand touched herssoftly.

“Oh, I’m a beast,” he said, rapidly,low, his undertone trembling to her ears through thelaughter of a group next to them. “I didn’tmean that, but I was—­I felt like such amutt—­not being able to dance. Oh,Nelly, I’m awfully sorry. You know I didn’tmean—­Come on! Let’s go getsomething to eat!”

As they consumed ice-cream, fudge, doughnuts, andchicken sandwiches at the refreshment counter theywere very intimate, resenting the presence of others. Tom and Mrs. Arty joined them. Tom made Nellylight her first cigarette. Mr. Wrenn admiredthe shy way in which, taking the tiniest of puffs,she kept drawing out her cigarette with little poutsand nose wriggles and pretended sneezes, but he felta lofty gladness when she threw it away after a minute,declaring that she’d never smoke again, andthat she was going to make all three of her companionsstop smoking, “now that she knew how horrid andsneezy it was, so there!”

With what he intended to be deep subtlety Mr. Wrenndrew her away to the barroom, and these two children,over two glasses of ginger-ale, looked their innocentand rustic love so plainly that Mrs. Arty and Tomsneaked away. Nelly cut out a dance, which shehad promised to a cigar-maker, and started homewardwith Mr. Wrenn.

“Let’s not take a car—­I wantsome fresh air after that smoky place,” shesaid. “But it was grand.... Let’s walk up Fifth Avenue.”

“Fine.... Tired, Nelly?”

“A little.”

He thought her voice somewhat chilly.

“Nelly—­I’m so sorry—­Ididn’t really have the chance to tell you inthere how sorry I was for the way I spoke to you.Gee! it was fierce of me—­but I felt—­Icouldn’t dance, and—­oh—­”

No answer.

“And you did mind it, didn’t you?”

“Why, I didn’t think you were so verynice about it—­when I’d tried so hardto have you have a good time—­”

“Oh, Nelly, I’m so sorry—­”

There was tragedy in his voice. His shoulders,which he always tried to keep as straight as thoughthey were in a vise when he walked with her, weredrooping.

She touched his glove. “Oh don’t,Billy; it’s all right now. I understand. Let’s forget—­”

“Oh, you’re too good to me!”

Silence.

As they crossed Twenty-third on Fifth Avenue she tookhis arm. He squeezed her hand. Suddenlythe world was all young and beautiful and wonderful. It was the first time in his life that he had everwalked thus, with the arm of a girl for whom he caredcuddled in his. He glanced down at her cheapwhite furs. Snowflakes, tremulous on the fur,were turned into diamond dust in the light from astreet-lamp which showed as well a tiny place whereher collar had been torn and mended ever so carefully. Then, in a millionth of a second, he who had beena wanderer in the lonely gray regions of a detachedman’s heart knew the pity of love, all its emotion,and the infinite care for the beloved that makes aman of a rusty sales-clerk. He lifted a faceof adoration to the misty wonder of the bare trees,whose tracery of twigs filled Madison Square; to theMetropolitan Tower, with its vast upward stretch towardthe ruddy sky of the city’s winter night. All these mysteries he knew and sang. Whathe said was:

“Gee, those trees look like a reg’larpicture!... The Tower just kind of fades away. Don’t it?”

“Yes, it is pretty,” she said, doubtfully,but with a pressure of his arm.

Then they talked like a summer-time brook, planningthat he was to buy a Christmas bough of evergreen,which she would smuggle to breakfast in the morning. Through their chatter persisted the new intimacywhich had been born in the pain of their misunderstanding.

On January 10th the manuscript of “The Millionaire’sDaughter” was returned by play-brokers Wendelbaum& Schirtz with this letter:

DEAR SIR,—­We regret to say that we do notfind play available. We inclose our reader’sreport on the same. Also inclose bill for tendollars for reading-fee, which kindly remit at earlyconvenience.

He stood in the hall at Mrs. Arty’s just beforedinner. He reread the letter and slowly openedthe reader’s report, which announced:

“Millionaire’s Daughter.” One-act vlle. Utterly impos. Amateurishto the limit. Dialogue sounds like burlesqueof Laura Jean Libbey. Can it.

Nelly was coming down-stairs. He handed herthe letter and report, then tried to stick out hisjaw. She read them. Her hand slipped intohis. He went quickly toward the basem*nt andmade himself read the letter—­though notthe report—­to the tableful. He burnedthe manuscript of his play before going to bed. The next morning he waded into The Job as he neverhad before. He was gloomily certain that hewould never get away from The Job. But he thoughtof Nelly a hundred times a day and hoped that sometime,some spring night of a burning moon, he might darethe great adventure and kiss her. Istra—­Theoretically, he remembered her as a great experience.But what nebulous bodies these theories are!

That slow but absolutely accurate Five-Hundred player,Mr. William Wrenn, known as Billy, glanced triumphantlyat Miss Proudfoot, who was his partner against Mrs.Arty and James T. Duncan, the traveling-man, on thatnight of late February. His was the last bidin the crucial hand of the rubber game. The otherswaited respectfully. Confidently, he bid “Nineon no trump.”

“Good Lord, Billl” exclaimed James T.Duncan.

“I’ll make it.”

And he did. He arose a victor. There wasno uneasiness, but rather all the social polish ofMrs. Arty’s at its best, in his manner, as hecrossed to Mrs. Ebbitt’s chair and asked: “How is Mr. Ebbitt to-night? Pretty rheumatic?” Miss Proudfoot offered him a lime tablet, and heaccepted it judicially. “I believe thesetablets are just about as good as Park & Tilford’s,”he said, co*cking his head. “Say, Dunk,I’ll match you to see who rushes a growler ofbeer. Tom’ll be here pretty soon—­storeought to be closed by now. We’ll have someready for him.”

“Right, Bill,” agreed James T. Duncan.

Mr. Wrenn lost. He departed, after secretivelyobtaining not one, but two pitchers, in one of whichhe got a “pint of dark” and in the othera surprise. He bawled upstairs to Nelly, “Comeon down, Nelly, can’t you? Got a growlerof ice-cream soda for the ladies!”

It is true that when Tom arrived and fell to conversationalblows with James T. Duncan over the merits of a TomCollins Mr. Wrenn was not brilliant, for the reasonthat he took Tom Collins to be a man instead of thedrink he really is.

Yet, as they went up-stairs Miss Proudfoot said toNelly: “Mr. Wrenn is quiet, but I do thinkin some ways he’s one of the nicest men I’veseen in the house for years. And he is so earnest.And I think he’ll make a good pinochle player,besides Five Hundred.”

“Yes,” said Nelly.

“I think he was a little shy at first.... Iwas always shy.... But he likes us, and I likefolks that like folks.”

“Yes!” said Nelly.

CHAPTER XVII

HE IS BLOWN BY THE WHIRLWIND

“He was blown by the whirlwind and followeda wandering flame through perilous seas to a happyshore.”—­Quoth Francois.

On an April Monday evening, when a small moon passedshyly over the city and the streets were filled withthe sound of hurdy-gurdies and the spring cries ofdancing children, Mr. Wrenn pranced down to the basem*ntdining-room early, for Nelly Croubel would be downthere talking to Mrs. Arty, and he gaily wanted tomake plans for a picnic to occur the coming Sunday.He had a shy unacknowledged hope that he might kissNelly after such a picnic; he even had the notionthat he might some day—­well, other fellowshad been married; why not?

Miss Mary Proudfoot was mending a rent in the currenttable-cloth with delicate swift motions of her silvery-skinnedhands. She informed him: “Mr. Duncanwill be back from his Southern trip in five days. We’ll have to have a grand closing progressiveFive Hundred tournament.” Mr. Wrenn wastoo much absorbed in wondering whether Miss Proudfootwould make some of her celebrated—­and justlycelebrated—­minced-ham sandwiches for thepicnic to be much interested. He was not muchmore interested when she said, “Mrs. Ferrard’sgot a letter or something for you.”

Then, as dinner began, Mrs. Ferrard rushed in dramaticallyand said, “There’s a telegram for you,Mr. Wrenn!”

Was it death? Whose death? The table panted,Mr. Wrenn with them.... That’s what atelegram meant to them.

Their eyes were like a circle of charging bayonetsas he opened and read the message—­a ship’swireless.

Meet me Hesperida.—­ISTRA.

“It’s just—­a—­a businessmessage,” he managed to say, and splashed hissoup. This was not the place to take the feelingsout of his thumping heart and examine them.

Dinner was begun. Picnics were conversationallyconsidered in all their more important phases—­historical,dietetical, and social. Mr. Wrenn talked muchand a little wildly. After dinner he gallopedout to buy a paper. The S.S. Hesperiidawas due at ten next morning.

It was an evening of frightened confusion. Hetottered along Lexington Avenue on a furtive walk. He knew only that he was very fond of Nelly, yetpantingly eager to see Istra. He damned himself—­“damned”is literal—­every other minute for a cad,a double-faced traitor, and all the other horrifyingthings a man is likely to declare himself to be formaking the discovery that two women may be differentand yet equally likable. And every other minutehe reveled in an adventurous gladness that he wasgoing to see Istra—­actually, incrediblygoing to see her, just the next day! He returnedto find Nelly sitting on the steps of Mrs. Arty’s.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

Both good sound observations, and all they could sayfor a time, while Mr. Wrenn examined the under sideof the iron steps rail minutely.

“Billy—­was it something serious,the telegram?”

“No, it was—­Miss Nash, the artistI told you about, asked me to meet her at the boat. I suppose she wants me to help her with her baggageand the customs and all them things. She’sjust coming from Paris.”

“Oh yes, I see.”

So lacking in jealousy was Nelly that Mr. Wrenn wasdisappointed, though he didn’t know why. It always hurts to have one’s thunderous tragediesturn out realistic dialogues.

“I wonder if you would like to meet her. She’s awful well educated, but I dunno—­maybeshe’d strike you as kind of snobbish. But she dresses I don’t think I ever seen anybodyso elegant. In dressing, I mean. Course”—­hastily—­“she’sgot money, and so she can afford to. But she’s—­oh,awful nice, some ways. I hope you like—­Ihope she won’t—­”

“Oh, I sha’n’t mind if she’sa snob. Of course a lady gets used to that,working in a department store,” she said, chillily;then repented swiftly and begged: “Oh,I didn’t mean to be snippy, Billy. Forgive me! I’m sure Miss Nash will bereal nice. Does she live here in New York?”

“No—­in California.... I don’tknow how long she’s going to stay here.”

“Well—­well—­hum-m-m. I’m getting so sleepy. I guessI’d better go up to bed. Good night.”

Uneasy because he was away from the office, displeasedbecause he had to leave his beloved letters to theSouthern trade, angry because he had had difficultyin getting a pass to the wharf, and furious, finally,because he hadn’t slept, Mr. Wrenn nursed allthese cumulative emotions attentively and waited forthe coming of the Hesperida. He was wonderingif he’d want to see Istra at all. He couldn’tremember just how she looked. Would he likeher?

The great steamer swung side-to and was coaxed alongsidethe wharf. Peering out between rows of crowdingshoulders, Mr. Wrenn coldly inspected the passengerslining the decks. Istra was not in sight. Then he knew that he was wildly agitated about her. Suppose something had happened to her!

The smallish man who had been edging into the crowdso politely suddenly dashed to the group forming atthe gang-plank and pushed his way rudely into thefront rank. His elbow dug into the proper waistcoatof a proper plump old gentleman, but he didn’tknow it. He stood grasping the rope rail of theplank, gazing goggle-eyed while the plank was liftedto the steamer’s deck and the long line of smilingand waving passengers disembarked. Then he sawher—­tall, graceful, nonchalant, uninterested,in a smart check suit with a lively hat of black straw,carrying a new Gladstone bag.

He stared at her. “Gee!” he gasped. “I’m crazy about her. I am, allright.”

She saw him, and their smiles of welcome made themone. She came from the plank and hastily kissedhim.

“Really here!” she laughed.

“Well, well, well, well! I’m so gladto see you!”

“Glad to see you, Mouse dear.”

“Have good tr—­”

“Don’t ask me about it! There wasa married man sans wife who persecuted me allthe way over. I’m glad you aren’tgoing to fall in love with me.”

“Why—­uh—­”

“Let’s hustle over and get through thecustoms as soon as we can. Where’s N? Oh, how clever of it, it’s right by M. There’sone of my trunks already. How are you, Mousedear?”

But she didn’t seem really to care so very much,and the old bewilderment she always caused was overhim.

“It is good to get back after all, and—­Mousedear, I know you won’t mind finding me a placeto live the next few days, will you?” She quitetook it for granted. “We’ll finda place this morning, n’est-ce pas? Not too expensive. I’ve got just aboutenough to get back to California.”

Man fashion, he saw with acute clearness the pileof work on his desk, and, man fashion, responded, “No; be glad tuh.”

“How about the place where you’re living? You spoke about its being so clean and all.”

The thought of Nelly and Istra together frightenedhim.

“Why, I don’t know as you’d likeit so very much.”

“Oh, it’ll be all right for a few days,anyway. Is there a room vacant.”

He was sulky about it. He saw much trouble ahead.

“Why, yes, I suppose there is.”

“Mouse dear!” Istra plumped down on atrunk in the confused billows of incoming baggage,customs officials, and indignant passengers that surgedabout them on the rough floor of the vast dock-house. She stared up at him with real sorrow in her fineeyes.

“Why, Mouse! I thought you’d beglad to see me. I’ve never rowed withyou, have I? I’ve tried not to be temperamentalwith you. That’s why I wired you, whenthere are others I’ve known for years.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to seem grouchy; Ididn’t! I just wondered if you’dlike the house.”

He could have knelt in repentance before his goddess,what time she was but a lonely girl in the clatterof New York. He went on:

“And we’ve got kind of separated, andI didn’t know—­But I guess I’llalways—­oh—­kind of worship you.”

“It’s all right, Mouse. It’s—­Here’sthe customs men.”

Now Istra Nash knew perfectly that the customs personswere not ready to examine her baggage as yet. But the discussion was ended, and they seemed tounderstand each other.

“Gee, there’s a lot of rich Jew ladiescoming back this time!” said he.

“Yes. They had diamonds three times aday,” she assented.

“Gee, this is a big place!”

“Yes.” So did they testify to fixityof friendship till they reached the house and Istrawas welcomed to “that Teddem’s” roomas a new guest.

Dinner began with the ceremony due Mrs. Arty. There was no lack of the sacred old jokes. Tom Poppins did not fail to bellow “Bring onthe dish-water,” nor Miss Mary Proudfoot to cheepdemurely “Don’t y’ knaow” ina tone which would have been recognized as fascinatinglyEnglish anywhere on the American stage. Thenthe talk stopped dead as Istra Nash stood agaze inthe doorway—­pale and intolerant, her redhair twisted high on her head, tall and slim and uncorsetedin a gray tight-fitting gown. Every head turnedas on a pivot, first to Istra, then to Mr. Wrenn. He blushed and bowed as if he had been called on fora speech, stumblingly arose, and said: “Uh—­uh—­uh—­youmet Mrs. Ferrard, didn’t you, Istra? She’llintroduce you to the rest.”

He sat down, wondering why the deuce he’d stoodup, and unhappily realized that Nelly was examiningIstra and himself with cool hostility. In aflurry he glowered at Istra as she nonchalantly satdown opposite him, beside Mrs. Arty, and incuriouslyunfolded her napkin. He thought that in hercheerful face there was an expression of devilish amusem*nt.

He blushed. He furiously buttered his breadas Mrs. Arty remarked to the assemblage:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I want you all to meetMiss Istra Nash. Miss Nash—­you’vemet Mr. Wrenn; Miss Nelly Croubel, our baby; Tom Poppins,the great Five-Hundred player; Mrs. Ebbitt, Mr. Ebbitt,Miss Proudfoot.”

Istra Nash lifted her bowed eyes with what seemedshyness, hesitated, said “Thank you” ina clear voice with a precise pronunciation, and returnedto her soup, as though her pleasant communion withit had been unpleasantly interrupted.

The others began talking and eating very fast andrather noisily. Miss Mary Proudfoot’s thinvoice pierced the clamor:

“I hear you have just come to New York, MissNash.”

“Yes.”

“Is this your first visit to—­”

“No.”

Miss Proudfoot rancorously took a long drink of water.

Nelly attempted, bravely:

“Do you like New York, Miss Nash?”

“Yes.”

Nelly and Miss Proudfoot and Tom Poppins began discussingshoe-stores, all at once and very rapidly, while hotand uncomfortable Mr. Wrenn tried to think of somethingto say.... Good Lord, suppose Istra “queered”him at Mrs. Arty’s!... Then he was angryat himself and all of them for not appreciating her. How exquisite she looked, with her tired white face!

As the soup-plates were being removed by Annie, themaid, with an elaborate confusion and a general passingof plates down the line, Istra Nash peered at themaid petulantly. Mrs. Arty frowned, then grewartificially pleasant and said:

“Miss Nash has just come back from Paris. She’s a regular European traveler, just likeMr. Wrenn.”

Mrs. Samuel Ebbitt piped: “Mr. Ebbittwas to Europe. In 1882.”

“No ’twa’n’t, Fannie; ’twasin 1881,” complained Mr. Ebbitt.

Miss Nash waited for the end of this interruptionas though it were a noise which merely had to be endured,like the Elevated.

Twice she drew in her breath to speak, and the wholetable laid its collective knife and fork down to listen. All she said was:

“Oh, will you pardon me if I speak of it now,Mrs. Ferrard, but would you mind letting me have mybreakfast in my room to-morrow? About nine? Just something simple—­a canteloupe andsome shirred eggs and chocolate?”

“Oh no; why, yes, certainly, “mumbledMrs. Arty, while the table held its breaths and underneaththem gasped:

“Chocolate!”

“A canteloupe!”

“Shirred eggs!”

“In her room—­at nine!”

All this was very terrible to Mr. Wrenn. Hefound himself in the position of a man scheduled toaddress the Brewers’ Association and the W.C. T. U. at the same hour. Valiantly he attempted:

“Miss Nash oughta be a good person for our picnics. She’s a regular shark for outdoor tramping.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Wrenn and I tramped most all nightin England one time,” said Istra, innocently.

The eyes of the table asked Mr. Wrenn what he meantby it. He tried to look at Nelly, but somethinghurt inside him.

“Yes,” he mumbled. “Quitea long walk.”

Miss Mary Proudfoot tried again:

“is it pleasant to study in Paris? Mrs.Arty said you were an artist.”

“No.”

Then they were all silent, and the rest of the dinnerMr. Wrenn alternately discussed Olympia Johns withIstra and picnics with Nelly. There was an undertoneof pleading in his voice which made Nelly glance athim and even become kind. With quiet insistenceshe dragged Istra into a discussion of rue de la Paixfashions which nearly united the shattered table andwon Mr. Wrenn’s palpitating thankfulness.

After dessert Istra slowly drew a plain gold cigarette-casefrom a brocade bag of silvery gray. She tookout a match and a thin Russian cigarette, which shecarefully lighted. She sat smoking in one ofher best attitudes, pointed elbows on the table, coollycontemplating a huge picture called “Huntingthe Stag” on the wall behind Mr. Wrenn.

Mrs. Arty snapped to the servant, “Annie, bringme my cigarettes.” But Mrs. Artyalways was penitent when she had been nasty, and—­thoughIstra did not at once seem to know that the landladyhad been nasty—­Mrs. Arty invitedher up to the parlor for after-dinner so cordiallythat Istra could but grant “Perhaps I will,”and she even went so far as to say, “I thinkyou’re all to be envied, having such a happyfamily.”

“Yes, that’s so,” reflected Mrs.Arty.

“Yes,” added Mr. Wrenn.

And Nelly: “That’s so.”

The whole table nodded gravely, “Yes, that’sso.”

“I’m sure”—­Istra smiledat Mrs. Arty—­“that it’s becausea woman is running things. Now think what cat-and-doglives you’d lead if Mr. Wrenn or Mr.—­Popple,was it?—­were ruling.”

They applauded. They felt that she had beenhumorous. She was again and publicly invitedup to the parlor, and she came, though she said, rathershortly, that she didn’t play Five Hundred,but only bumblepuppy bridge, a variety of whist whichMr. Wrenn instantly resolved to learn. She reclined("reclined” is perfectly accurate) on the red-leathercouch, among the pillows, and smoked two cigarettes,relapsing into “No?"’s for conversation.

Mr. Wrenn said to himself, almost spitefully, as shesnubbed Nelly, “Too good for us, is she?” But he couldn’t keep away from her. Therealization that Istra was in the room made him forgetmost of his melds at pinochle; and when Miss Proudfootinquired his opinion as to whether the coming picnicshould be held on Staten island or the Palisades hesaid, vaguely, “Yes, I guess that would be better.”

For he was wanting to sit down beside Istra Nash,just be near her; he had to be! So heventured over and was instantly regarding all therest as outsiders whom his wise comrade and himselfwere studying.

“Tell me, Mouse dear, why do you like the peoplehere? The peepul, I mean. They don’tseem so very remarkable. Enlighten poor Istra.”

“Well, they’re awful kind. I’vealways lived in a house where the folks didn’thardly know each other at all, except Mrs. Zapp—­shewas the landlady—­and I didn’t likeher very much. But here Tom Poppins and Mrs.Arty and—­the rest—­they reallylike folks, and they make it just like a home.... Miss Croubel is a very nice girl. She worksfor Wanamacy’s—­she has quite a bigjob there. She is assistant buyer in the—­”

He stopped in horror. He had nearly said “inthe lingery department.” He changed itto “in the clothing department,” and wenton, doubtfully: “Mr. Duncan is a traveling-man. He’s away on a trip.”

“Which one do you play with? So Nellylikes to—­well, make b’lieve—­’magine?”

“How did you—­”

“Oh, I watched her looking at you. I thinkshe’s a terribly nice pink-face. And justnow you’re comparing her and me.”

“Gee!” he said.

She was immensely pleased with herself. “Tellme, what do these people think about; at least, whatdo you talk about?”

“Say!”

“’S-s-s-h! Not so loud, my dear.”

“Say, I know how you mean. You feel somethinglike what I did in England. You can’tget next to what the folks are thinking, and it makesyou sort of lonely.”

“Well, I—­”

Just then Tom Poppins rolled jovially up to the couch. He had carried his many and perspiring pounds overto Third Avenue because Miss Proudfoot reflected,“I’ve got a regular sweet tooth to-night.” He stood before Istra and Mr. Wrenn theatricallyholding out a bag of chocolate drops in one hand andpeanut brittle in the other; and grandiloquently:

“Which shall it be, your Highness? Nobodyloves a fat man, so he has to buy candy so’sthey’ll let him stick around. Le’ssee; you take chocolates, Bill. Name your drink,Miss Nash.” She looked up at him, gravelyand politely—­too gravely and politely. She didn’t seem to consider him a nice person.

“Neither, thank you,” sharply, as he stillstood there. He moved away, hurt, bewildered.

Istra was going on, “I haven’t been herelong enough to be lonely yet, but in any case—­”when Mr. Wrenn interrupted:

“You’ve hurt Tom’s feelings by nottaking any candy; and, gee, he’s awful kind!”

“Have I?” mockingly.

“Yes, you have. And there ain’tany too many kind people in this world.”

“Oh yes, of course you’ re right. I am sorry, really I am.”

She dived after Tom’s retreat and cheerfullyaddressed him:

“Oh, I do want some of those chocolates. Will you let me change my mind? Please do.”

“Yes ma’am, you sure can!”said broad Tom, all one pleased chuckle, poking outthe two bags.

Istra stopped beside the Five-Hundred table to smilein a lordly way down at Mrs. Arty and say, quite humanly:

“I’m so sorry I can’t play a decentgame of cards. I’m afraid I’m toostupid to learn. You are very lucky, I think.”

Mr. Wrenn on the couch was horribly agitated.... Wasn’t Istra coming back?

She was. She detached herself from the hubbubof invitations to learn to play Five Hundred and wanderedback to the couch, murmuring: “Was badIstra good? Am I forgiven? Mouse dear,I didn’t mean to be rude to your friends.”

As the bubbles rise through water in a cooking-pot,as the surface writhes, and then, after the long wait,suddenly the water is aboil, so was the emotion ofMr. Wrenn now that Istra, the lordly, had actuallydone something he suggested.

“Istra—­” That was all he couldsay, but from his eyes had gone all reserve.

Her glance back was as frank as his—­onlyit had more of the mother in it; it was like a kindlypat on the head; and she was the mother as she mused:

“So you have missed me, then?”

“Missed you—­”

“Did you think of me after you came here? Oh, I know—­I was forgotten; poor Istraabdicates to the pretty pink-face.”

“Oh, Istra, don’t. I—­can’twe just go out for a little walk so—­sowe can talk?”

“Why, we can talk here.”

“Oh, gee!—­there’s so many peoplearound.... Golly! when I came back to America—­gee!—­Icouldn’t hardly sleep nights—­”

From across the room came the boisterous, somewhatcoarse-timbred voice of Tom, speaking to Nelly:

“Oh yes, of course you think you’re theonly girl that ever seen a vodville show. Weain’t never seen a vodville show. Oh no!”

Nelly and Miss Proudfoot dissolved in giggles at thewit.

Mr. Wrenn gazed at them, detached; these were nothis people, and with startled pride he glanced atIstra’s face, delicately carven by thought,as he stumbled hotly on.

“—­just couldn’t sleep nightsat all.... Then I got on the job....”

“Let’s see, you’re still with thatsame company?”

“Yes. Souvenir and Art Novelty Company. And I got awfully on the job there, and so I managedto forget for a little while and—­”

“So you really do like me even after I was sobeastly to you in England.”

“Oh, that wasn’t nothing.... ButI was always thinking of you, even when I was on thejob—­”

“It’s gratifying to have some one continuetaking me seriously.... Really, dear, I do appreciateit. But you mustn’t—­you mustn’t—­”

“Oh, gee! I just can’t get over it—­youhere by me—­ain’t it curious!... “Then he persisted with the tale of his longing,which she had so carefully interrupted: “Thepeople here are awful kind and good, and youcan bank on ’em. But—­oh—­”

From across the room, Tom’s pretended jeers,lighted up with Miss Proudfoot’s giggles, aspaper lanterns illumine Coney Island. From Tom:

“Yes, you’re a hot dancer, all right. I suppose you can do the Boston and all them swelldances. Wah-h-h-h-h!”

“—­but Istra, oh, gee! you’relike poetry—­like all them things a fellercan’t get but he tries to when he reads Shakespeareand all those poets.”

“Oh, dear boy, you mustn’t! We willbe good friends. I do appreciate having someone care whether I’m alive or not. ButI thought it was all understood that we weren’tto take playing together seriously; that it was tobe merely playing—­nothing more.”

“But, anyway, you will let me play with youhere in New York as much as I can? Oh, comeon, let’s go for a walk—­let’s—­let’sgo to a show.”

“I’m awf’ly sorry, but I promised—­aman’s going to call for me, and we’regoing to a stupid studio party on Bryant Park. Bore, isn’t it, the day of landing? Andpoor Istra dreadfully landsick.”

“Oh, then,” hopefully, “don’tgo. Let’s—­”

“I’m sorry, Mouse dear, but I’mafraid I can’t break the date.... Fact,I must go up and primp now—­”

“Don’t you care a bit?” he said,sulkily.

“Why, yes, of course. But you wouldn’thave Istra disappoint a nice Johnny after he’sbought him a cunnin’ new weskit, would you?... Good night, dear.” She smiled—­themother smile—­and was gone with a livelygood night to the room in general.

Nelly went up to bed early. She was tired, shesaid. He had no chance for a word with her. He sat on the steps outside alone a long time. Sometimes he yearned for a sight of Istra’sivory face. Sometimes, with a fierce compassionthat longed to take the burden from her, he picturedNelly working all day in the rushing department storeon which the fetid city summer would soon descend.

They did have their walk the next night, Istra andMr. Wrenn, but Istra kept the talk to laughing burlesquesof their tramp in England. Somehow—­hecouldn’t tell exactly why—­he couldn’tseem to get in all the remarks he had inside him abouthow much he had missed her.

Wednesday—­Thursday—­Friday; hesaw her only at one dinner, or on the stairs, departingvolubly with clever-looking men in evening clothesto taxis waiting before the house.

Nelly was very pleasant; just that—­pleasant. She pleasantly sat as his partner at Five Hundred,and pleasantly declined to go to the moving pictureswith him. She was getting more and more tired,staying till seven at the store, preparing what shecalled “special stunts” for the summerwhite sale. Friday evening he saw her soft freshlips drooping sadly as she toiled up the front stepsbefore dinner. She went to bed at eight, atwhich time Istra was going out to dinner with a thin,hatchet-faced sarcastic-looking man in a Norfolk jacketand a fluffy black tie. Mr. Wrenn resented theNorfolk jacket. Of course, the kingly men inevening dress would be expected to take Istra awayfrom him, but a Norfolk jacket—­He did notcall it that. Though he had worn one in the fairvillage of Aengusmere, it was still to him a “coatwith a belt.”

He thought of Nelly all evening. He heard her—­thereon the same floor with him—­talking to MissProudfoot, who stood at Nelly’s door, threehours after she was supposed to be asleep.

“No,” Nelly was saying with evidentlyfictitious cheerfulness, “no, it was just alittle headache.... It’s much better. I think I can sleep now. Thank you very muchfor coming.”

Nelly hadn’t told Mr. Wrenn that she had a severeheadache—­she who had once, a few weeksbefore, run to him with a cut in her soft small finger,demanding that he bind it up.... He went slowlyto bed.

He had lain awake half an hour before his agony sooverpowered him that he flung out of bed. Hecrouched low by the bed, like a child, his legs curledunder him, the wooden sideboard pressing into hischest in one long line of hot pain, while he prayed:

“O God, O God, forgive me, forgive me, oh, forgiveme! Here I been forgetting Nelly (and I loveher) and comparing her with Istra and not appreciatingher, and Nelly always so sweet to me and trustingme so—­O God, keep me away from wickedness!”

He huddled there many minutes, praying, the scorchingpressure of the bedside growing more painful. All the while the camp-fire he had shared with Istrawas burning within his closed eyes, and Istra wasvisibly lording it in a London flat filled with cleverpeople, and he was passionately aware that the lineof her slim breast was like the lip of a shell; theline of her pallid cheek, defined by her flame-coloredhair, something utterly fine, something he could notexpress.

“Oh,” he groaned, “she is like thatpoetry stuff in Shakespeare that’s so hard toget.... I’ll be extra nice to Nelly atthe picnic Sunday.... Her trusting me so, andthen me—­O God, keep me away from wickedness!”

As he was going out Saturday morning he found a notefrom Istra waiting in the hall on the hat-rack:

Do you want to play with poor Istra tomorrow Sat. afternoon and perhaps evening, Mouse? You haveSaturday afternoon off, don’t you? Leaveme a note if you can call for me at 1.30.
I.N.

He didn’t have Saturday afternoon off, but hesaid he did in his note, and at one-thirty he appearedat her door in a new spring suit (purchased on Tuesday),a new spring hat, very fuzzy and gay (purchased Saturdaynoon), and the walking-stick he had bought on TottenhamCourt Road, but decently concealed from the boarding-house.

Istra took him to what she called a “futuristplay.” She explained it all to him severaltimes, and she stood him tea and muffins, and recalledMrs. Cattermole’s establishment with full attentionto Mrs. Cattermole’s bulbous but earnest nose. They dined at the Brevoort, and were back at nine-thirty;for, said Istra, she was “just a bit tired,Mouse.”

They stood at the door of Istra’s room. Istra said, “You may come in—­justfor a minute.”

It was the first time he had even peeped into herroom in New York. The old shyness was on him,and he glanced back.

Nelly was just coming up-stairs, staring at him wherehe stood inside the door, her lips apart with amazement.

Ladies distinctly did not entertain in their roomsat Mrs. Arty’s.

He wanted to rush out, to explain, to invite her in,to—­to—­ He stuttered in his thought,and by now Nelly had hastened past, her face turnedfrom them.

Uneasily he tilted on the front of a cane-seated rocking-chair,glaring at a pile of books before one of Istra’strunks. Istra sat on the bedside nursing herknee. She burst out:

“O Mouse dear, I’m so bored by everybody—­everysort of everybody.... Of course I don’tmean you; you’re a good pal.... Oh—­Parisis too complex—­especially when youcan’t quite get the nasal vowels—­andNew York is too youthful and earnest; and Dos Puentes,California, will be plain hell.... And all mylittle parties—­I start out on them happily,always, as naive as a kiddy going to a birthday party,and then I get there and find I can’t even dancesquare dances, as the kiddy does, and go home—­Ohdamn it, damn it, damn it! Am I shocking you? Well, what do I care if I shock everybody!”

Her slim pliant length was flung out along the bed,and she was crying. Her beautiful hands clutchedthe corners of a pillow bitterly.

He crept over to the bed, patting her shoulder, slowlyand regularly, too frightened of her mood even towant to kiss her.

She looked up, laughing tearfully. “Pleasesay, `There, there, there; don’t cry.’ It always goes with pats for weepy girls, you know.... O Mouse, you will be good to some woman some day.”

Her long strong arms reached up and drew him down. It was his head that rested on her shoulder. It seemed to both of them that it was he who wasto be petted, not she. He pressed his cheekagainst the comforting hollow of her curving shoulderand rested there, abandoned to a forlorn and growinghappiness, the happiness of getting so far outsideof his tight world of Wrennishness that he could givecomfort and take comfort with no prim worried thoughtsof Wrenn.

Istra murmured: “Perhaps that’swhat I need—­some one to need me. Only—­” She stroked his hair. “Now you must go, dear.”

“You—­It’s better now? I’m afraid I ain’t helped you much.It’s kinda t’ other way round.”

“Oh yes, indeed, it’s all right now! Just nerves. Nothing more. Now, good night.”

“Please, won’t you come to the picnicto-morrow? It’s—­”

“No. Sorry, but can’t possibly.”

“Please think it over.”

“No, no, no, no, dear! You go and forgetme and enjoy yourself and be good to your pink-face—­Nelly,isn’t it? She seems to be terribly nice,and I know you two will have a good party. Youmust forget me. I’m just a teacher of playinggames who hasn’t been successful at any gamewhatever. Not that it matters. I don’tcare. I don’t, really. Now, goodnight.”

CHAPTER XVIII

AND FOLLOWS A WANDERING FLAME THROUGH PERILOUS SEAS

They had picnic dinner early up there on the Palisades:

Nelly and Mr. Wrenn, Mrs. Arty and Tom, Miss Proudfootand Mrs. Samuel Ebbitt, the last of whom kept ejacul*ting: “Well! I ain’t run off like thisin ten years!” They squatted about a red-cottontable-cloth spread on a rock, broadly discussing thesandwiches and cold chicken and lemonade and stuffedolives, and laughing almost to a point of distressover Tom’s accusation that Miss Proudfoot hadsecreted about her person a bottle of rye whisky.

Nelly was very pleasant to Mr. Wrenn, but she calledhim neither Billy nor anything else, and mostly shetalked to Miss Proudfoot, smiling at him, but sayingnothing when he managed to get out a jest about Mrs.Arty’s chewing-gum. When he moved to herside with a wooden plate of cream-cheese sandwiches(which Tom humorously termed “cold-cream wafers”)Mr. Wrenn started to explain how he had come to enterIstra’s room.

“Why shouldn’t you?” Nelly asked,curtly, and turned to Miss Proudfoot.

“She doesn’t seem to care much,”he reflected, relieved and stabbed in his humble vanityand reattracted to Nelly, all at once. He wasanxious about her opinion of Istra and her opinionof himself, and slightly defiant, as she continuedto regard him as a respectable person whose name shecouldn’t exactly remember.

Hadn’t he the right to love Istra if he wantedto? he desired to know of himself. Besides,what had he done? Just gone out walking withhis English hotel acquaintance Istra! He hadn’tbeen in her room but just a few minutes. Finereason that was for Nelly to act like a blooming iceberg! Besides, it wasn’t as if he were engaged toNelly, or anything like that. Besides, of courseIstra would never care for him. There were severalother besideses with which he harrowed himself whiletrying to appear picnically agreeable. He wasgetting very much confused, and was slightly abruptas he said to Nelly, “Let’s walk overto that high rock on the edge.”

A dusky afterglow filled the sky before them as theysilently trudged to the rock and from the top of thesheer cliff contemplated the smooth and steely-grayHudson below. Nelly squeaked her fear at thedrop and clutched his arm, but suddenly let go anddrew back without his aid.

He groaned within, “I haven’t the rightto help her.” He took her arm as she hesitatinglyclimbed from the rock down to the ground.

She jerked it free, curtly saying, “No, thankyou.”

She was repentant in a moment, and, cheerfully:

“Miss Nash took me in her room yesterday andshowed me her things. My, she’s got suchbe-yoo-ti-ful jewels! La V’lieresand pearls and a swell amethyst brooch. My! She told me all about how the girls used to studyin Paris, and how sorry she would be to go back toCalifornia and keep house.”

“Keep house?”

Nelly let him suffer for a moment before she relievedhim with, “For her father.”

“Oh.... Did she say she was going backto California soon?”

“Not till the end of the summer, maybe.”

“Oh.... Oh, Nelly—­”

For the first time that day he was perfectly sincere. He was trying to confide in her. But the shameof having emotions was on him. He got no farther.

To his amazement, Nelly mused, “She is verynice.”

He tried hard to be gallant. “Yes, sheis interesting, but of course she ain’t anywheresnear as nice as you are, Nelly, be—­”

“Oh, don’t, Billy!”

The quick agony in her voice almost set them bothweeping. The shared sorrow of separation drewthem together for a moment. Then she startedoff, with short swift steps, and he tagged after. He found little to say. He tried to commenton the river. He remarked that the apartment-housesacross in New York were bright in the sunset; that,in fact, the upper windows looked “like therewas a fire in there.” Her sole comment was“Yes.”

When they rejoined the crowd he was surprised to hearher talking volubly to Miss Proudfoot. He rejoicedthat she was “game,” but he did not rejoicelong. For a frightened feeling that he had tohurry home and see Istra at once was turning him weakand cold. He didn’t want to see her; shewas intruding; but he had to go—­go at once;and the agony held him all the way home, while hewas mechanically playing the part of stern reformerand agreeing with Tom Poppins that the horrors of therecent Triangle shirt-waist-factory fire showed that“something oughta be done—­somethingsure oughta be.”

He trembled on the ferry till Nelly, with a burstof motherly tenderness in her young voice, suddenlyasked: “Why, you’re shivering dreadfully! Did you get a chill?”

Naturally, he wanted the credit of being known asan invalid, and pitied and nursed, but he reluctantlysmiled and said, “Oh no, it ain’t anythingat all.”

Then Istra called him again, and he fumed over theslowness of their landing.

And, at home, Istra was out.

He went resolutely down and found Nelly alone, sittingon a round pale-yellow straw mat on the steps.

He sat by her. He was very quiet; not at allthe jovial young man of the picnic properly followingthe boarding-house-district rule that males shouldbe jocular and show their appreciation of the ladiesby “kidding them.” And he spoke witha quiet graciousness that was almost courtly, witha note of weariness and spiritual experience suchas seldom comes into the boarding-houses, to slayjoy and bring wisdom and give words shyness.

He had, as he sat down, intended to ask her to gowith him to a moving-picture show. But inspirationwas on him. He merely sat and talked.

When Mr. Wrenn returned from the office, two eveningslater, he found this note awaiting him:

DEAR MOUSE,—­Friend has asked me to joinher in studio & have beat it. Sorry not seeyou & say good-by. Come see me sometime—­phonebefore and see if I’m in—­Spring xxx—­addressxx South Washington Sq. In haste, ISTRA.

He spent the evening in not going to the studio. Several times he broke away from a pinochle gameto rush upstairs and see if the note was as chillyas he remembered. It always was.

Then for a week he awaited a more definite invitationfrom her, which did not come. He was uneasilypolite to Nelly these days, and tremulously appreciativeof her gentleness. He wanted to brood, but hedid not take to his old habit of long solitary walks. Every afternoon he planned one for the evening; everyevening found that he “wanted to be around withfolks.”

He had a sort of youthful defiant despair, so he jestedmuch at the card-table, by way of practising his newgame of keeping people from knowing what he was thinking. He took sophisticated pleasure in noting that Mrs.Arty no longer condescended to him. He managedto imitate Tom’s writing on a card which he leftwith a bunch of jonquils in Nelly’s room, andnearly persuaded even Tom himself that Tom was thedonor. Probably because he didn’t muchcare what happened he was able to force Mr. MortimerR. Guilfogle to raise his salary to twenty-three dollarsa week. Mr. Guilfogle went out of his way toadmit that the letters to the Southern trade had been“a first-rate stunt, son.”

John Henson, the head of the Souvenir Company’smanufacturing department, invited Mr. Wrenn home todinner, and the account of the cattle-boat was muchadmired by Mrs. Henson and the three young Hensons.

A few days later, in mid-June, there was an unusuallycheerful dinner at the boarding-house. Nellyturned to Mr. Wrenn—­yes, he was quite sureabout it; she was speaking exclusively to him, witha lengthy and most merry account of the manner in whichthe floor superintendent had “called down”the unkindest of the aislesmen.

He longed to give his whole self in his answer, tobe in the absolute community of thought that loversknow. But the image of Istra was behind hischair. Istra—­he had to see her—­now,this evening. He rushed out to the corner drug-storeand reached her by telephone.

Yes-s, admitted Istra, a little grudgingly, she wasgoing to be at the studio that evening, though she—­well,there was going to be a little party—­somefriends—­but—­yes, she’dbe glad to have him come.

Grimly, Mr. Wrenn set out for Washington Square.

Since this scientific treatise has so exhaustivelyexamined Mr. Wrenn’s reactions toward the esthetic,one need give but three of his impressions of thestudio and people he found on Washington Square—­namely:

(a) That the big room was bare, ill kept, and notcomparable to the red-plush splendor of Mrs. Arty’s,for all its pretension to superiority. Why,a lot of the pictures weren’t framed! Andyou should have seen the giltness and fruit-bordernessof the frames at Mrs. Arty’s!

(b) That the people were brothers-in-talk to the inmatesof the flat on Great James Street, London, only farless, and friendly.

(c) That Mr. Wrenn was now a man of friends, and ifthe “blooming Bohemians,” as he calledthem, didn’t like him they were permitted togo to the dickens.

Istra was always across the room from him somehow. He found himself glad. It made their partingdefinite.

He was going back to his own people, he was deciding.

As he rose with elaborate boarding-house apologiesto the room at large for going, and a cheerful butnot intimate “Good night” to Istra, shefollowed him to the door and into the dark long hallwaywithout.

“Good night, Mouse dear. I’m gladyou got a chance to talk to the Silver Girl. But was Mr. Hargis rude to you? I heard himtalking Single Tax—­or was it Matisse?—­andhe’s usually rude when he talks about them.”

“No. He was all right.”

“Then what is worrying you?”

“Oh—­nothing. Good ni—­”

“You are going off angry. Aren’tyou?”

“No, but—­oh, there ain’t anyuse of our—­of me being—­ Isthere?”

“N-no—­”

“Matisse—­the guy you just spoke about—­andthese artists here tonight in bobtail dress-suits—­Iwouldn’t know when to wear one of them things,and when a swallow-tail—­if I had one, even—­orwhen a Prince Albert or—­”

“Oh, not a Prince Albert, Mouse dear. Say, a frock-coat.”

“Sure. That’s what I mean. It’s like that Matisse guy. I don’tknow about none of the things you’re interestedin. While you’ve been away from Mrs. Arty’s—­Lord,I’ve missed you so! But when I try totrain with your bunch, or when you spring Matisse”(he seemed peculiarly to resent the unfortunate Frenchartist) “on me I sort of get onto myself—­andnow it ain’t like it was in England; I’vegot a bunch of my own I can chase around with.Anyway, I got onto myself tonight. I s’poseit’s partly because I been thinking you didn’tcare much for my friends.”

“But, Mouse dear, all this isn’t newsto me. Surely you, who’ve gipsied withme, aren’t going to be so obvious, so banal,as to blame me because you’ve cared forme, are you, child?”

“Oh no, no, no! I didn’t mean todo that. I just wanted—­oh, gee! I dunno—­well, I wanted to have things betweenus definite.”

“I do understand. You’re quite right. And now we’re just friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Then good-by. And sometime when I’mback in New York—­I’m going to Californiain a few days—­I think I’ll be ableto get back here—­I certainly hope so—­thoughof course I’ll have to keep house for friendfather for a while, and maybe I’ll marry myselfwith a local magnate in desperation—­but,as I was saying, dear, when I get back here we’llhave a good dinner, nicht wahr?”

“Yes, and—­good-by.”

She stood at the top of the stairs looking down. He slowly clumped down the wooden treads, boilingwith the amazing discoveries that he had said good-byto Istra, that he was not sorry, and that now he couldoffer to Nelly Croubel everything.

Istra suddenly called, “O Mouse, wait justa moment.”

She darted like a swallow. She threw her armabout his shoulder and kissed his cheek. Instantlyshe was running up-stairs again, and had disappearedinto the studio.

Mr. William Wrenn was walking rapidly up RiversideDrive, thinking about his letters to the Southernmerchants.

While he was leaving the studio building he had perfectlyseen himself as one who was about to go through atumultuous agony, after which he would be free ofall the desire for Istra and ready to serve Nellysincerely and humbly.

But he found that the agony was all over. Evento save his dignity as one who was being dramatic,he couldn’t keep his thoughts on Istra.

Every time he thought of Nelly his heart was warmand he chuckled softly. Several times out ofnothing came pictures of the supercilious personswhom he had heard solving the problems of the worldat the studio on Washington Square, and he muttered: “Oh, hope they choke. Istra’s allright, though; she learnt me an awful lot. But—­gee! I’m glad she ain’t in the same house;I suppose I’d ag’nize round if she was.”

Suddenly, at no particular street corner on RiversideDrive, just a street, he fled over to Broadwayand the Subway. He had to be under the sameroof with Nelly. If it were only possible tosee her that night! But it was midnight. However, he formulated a plan. The next morninghe would leave the office, find her at her departmentstore, and make her go out to Manhattan Beach withhim for dinner that night.

He was home. He went happily up the stairs. He would dream of Nelly, and—­

Nelly’s door opened, and she peered out, drawingher peignoir about her.

“Oh,” she said, softly, “is it you?”

“Yes. My, you’re up late.”

“Do you—­Are you all right?”

He dashed down the hall and stood shyly scratchingat the straw of his newest hat.

“Why yes, Nelly, course. Poor—­Oh,don’t tell me you have a headache again?”

“No—­I was awful foolish, of course,but I saw you when you went out this evening, andyou looked so savage, and you didn’t look verywell.”

“But now it’s all right.”

“Then good night.”

“Oh no—­listen—­please do! I went over to the place Miss Nash is living at,because I was pretty sure that I ain’t hippedon her—­sort of hypnotized by her—­anymore. And I found I ain’t! I ain’t! I don’t know what to say, I want to—­Iwant you to know that from going to try and see ifI can’t get you to care for me.” He was dreadfully earnest, and rather quiet, with

“Billy—­”

She held out her hand, and he grasped it as thoughit were the sacred symbol of his dreams.

“To-morrow,” she smiled, with a hint oftears, “I’ll be a reg’lar lady,I guess, and make you explain and explain like everything,but now I’m just glad. Yes,” defiantly,“I will admit it if I want to! I am glad!”

Her door closed.

CHAPTER XIX

TO A HAPPY SHORE

Upon an evening of November, 1911, it chanced thatof Mrs. Arty’s flock only Nelly and Mr. Wrennwere at home. They had finished two hot gamesof pinochle, and sat with their feet on a small amiableoil-stove. Mr. Wrenn laid her hand against hischeek with infinite content. He was outliningthe situation at the office.

The business had so increased that Mr. Mortimer R.Guilfogle, the manager, had told Rabin, the head traveling-salesman,that he was going to appoint an assistant manager. Should he, Mr. Wrenn queried, try to get the position? The other candidates, Rabin and Henson and Glover,were all good friends of his, and, furthermore, couldhe “run a bunch of guys if he was over them?”

“Why, of course you can, Billy. I rememberwhen you came here you were sort of shy. Butnow you’re ’most the star boarder!And won’t those others be trying to get the jobaway from you? Of course!”

“Yes, that’s so.”

“Why, Billy, some day you might be manager!”

“Say, that would be great, wouldn’t it! But hones’, Nell, do you think I might havea chance to land the assistant’s job?”

“I certainly do.”

“Oh, Nelly—­gee! you make me—­oh,learn to bank on myself—­”

He kissed her for the second time in his life.

“Mr. Guilfogle,” stated Mr. Wrenn, nextday, “I want to talk to you about that assistantmanagership.”

The manager, in his new office and his new floweredwaistcoat, had acted interested when Our steady andreliable Mr. Wrenn came in. But now he triedto appear dignified and impatient.

“That—­” he began.

“I’ve been here longer than any of theother men, and I know every line of the business now,even the manufacturing. You remember I helddown Henson’s job when his wife was sick.”

“Yes, but—­”

“And I guess Jake thinks I can boss all right,and Miss Leavenbetz, too.”

“Now will you kindly ’low me totalk a little, Wrenn? I know a littlesomething about how things go in the office myself!I don’t deny you’re a good man. Maybesome day you may get to be assistant manager. But I’m going to give the first try at it toGlover. He’s had so much more experiencewith meeting people directly—­personally. But you’re a good man—­”

“Yes, I’ve heard that before, but I’llbe gol-darned if I’ll stick at one desk allmy life just because I save you all the trouble inthat department, Guilfogle, and now—­”

“Now, now, now, now! Calm down; hold yourhorses, my boy. This ain’t a melodrama,you know.”

“Yes, I know; I didn’t mean to get sore,but you know—­”

“Well, now I’ll tell you what I’mgoing to do. I’m going to make you headof the manufacturing department instead of gettingin a new man, and shift Henson to purchasing. I’ll put Jake on your old job, and expect youto give him a lift when he needs it. And you’dbetter keep up the most important of the jollying-letters,I guess.”

“Well, I like that all right. I appreciateit. But of course I expect more pay—­twomen’s work—­”

“Let’s see; what you getting now?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Well, that’s a good deal, you know. The overhead expenses have been increasing a lotfaster than our profits, and we’ve—­”

“Huh!”

“—­got to see where new business iscoming in to justify the liberal way we’ve treatedyou men before we can afford to do much salary-raising—­thoughwe’re just as glad to do it as you men to getit; but—­”

“Huh!”

“—­if we go to getting extravagantwe’ll go bankrupt, and then we won’t anyof us have jobs.... Still, I am willingto raise you to twenty-five, though—­”

“Thirty-five!”

Mr. Wrenn stood straight. The manager triedto stare him down. Panic was attacking Mr. Wrenn,and he had to think of Nelly to keep up his defiance. At last Mr. Guilfogle glared, then roared: “Well,confound it, Wrenn, I’ll give you twenty-nine-fifty,and not a cent more for at least a year. That’sfinal. Understand?”

“All right,” chirped Mr. Wrenn.

“Gee!” he was exulting to himself, “neverthought I’d get anything like that. Twenty-nine-fifty!More ’n enough to marry on now! I’mgoing to get twenty-nine-fifty!”

“Married five months ago to-night, honey,”said Mr. Wrenn to Nelly, his wife, in their Bronxflat, and thus set down October 17, 1913, as a greatdate in history.

“Oh, I know it, Billy. I wonderedif you’d remember. You just ought to seethe dessert I’m making—­but that’sa s’prise.”

“Remember! Should say I did! Seewhat I’ve got for somebody!”

He opened a parcel and displayed a pair of red-worstedbed-slippers, a creation of one of the greatest red-worstedartists in the whole land. Yes, and he couldafford them, too. Was he not making thirty-twodollars a week—­he who had been poor!And his chances for the assistant managership “lookedgood.”

“Oh, they’ll be so comfy when it getscold. You’re a dear! Oh, Billy, thejanitress says the Jewish lady across the court innumber seventy is so lazy she wears her corsets tobed!”

“Did the janitress get the coal put in, Nell?”

“Yes, but her husband is laid off again. I was talking to her quite a while this afternoon.... Oh, dear, I do get so lonely for you, sweetheart,with nothing to do. But I did read some Kimthis afternoon. I liked it.”

“That’s fine!”

“But it’s kind of hard. Maybe I’ll—­Oh,I don’t know. I guess I’ll have toread a lot.”

He patted her back softly, and hoped: “Maybesome day we can get a little house out of town, andthen you can garden.... Sorry old Siddons islaid off again.... Is the gas-stove working allright now?”

“Um-huh, honey. I fixed it.”

“Say, let me make the coffee, Nell. You’llhave enough to do with setting the table and watchingthe sausages.”

“All rightee, hun. But, oh, Billy, I’mso, shamed. I was going to get some potato salad,and I’ve just remembered I forgot.”She hung her head, with a fingertip to her pretty lips,and pretended to look dreadfully ashamed. “Wouldyou mind so ver-ee much skipping down to Bachmeyer’sfor some? Ah-h, is it just fearful neglectedwhen it comes home all tired out?”

“No, indeedy. But you got to kiss me first,else I won’t go at all.”

Nelly turned to him and, as he held her, her headbent far back. She lay tremblingly inert againsthis arms, staring up at him, panting. With herhead on his shoulder—­a soft burden of lovethat his shoulder rejoiced to bear—­theystood gazing out of the narrow kitchen window of theirsixth-story flat and noticed for the hundredth timethat the trees in a vacant lot across were quite asred and yellow as the millionaire trees in CentralPark along Fifth Avenue.

“Sometime,” mused Mr. Wrenn, “we’lllive in Jersey, where there’s trees and treesand trees—­and maybe there’ll be kiddiesto play under them, and then you won’t be lonely,honey; they’ll keep you some busy!”

“You skip along now, and don’t be talkingnonsense, or I’ll not give you one single weebit of dinner!” Then she blushed adorably,with infinite hope.

He hastened out of the kitchen, with the happy glancehe never failed to give the living-room—­itsred-papered walls with shiny imitation-oak woodwork;the rows of steins on the plate-rack; the imitation-oakdining-table, with a vase of newly dusted paper roses;the Morris chair, with Nelly’s sewing on a tinywicker table beside it; the large gilt-framed oleographof “Pike’s Peak by Moonlight.”

He clattered down the slate treads of the stairs. He fairly vaulted out of doors. He stopped,startled.

Across the ragged vacant lots to the west a vast sunsetprocessional marched down the sky. It had notbeen visible from their flat, which looked acrossEast River to the tame grassy shore of a real-estateboomer’s suburb. “Gee!” hemourned, “it’s the first time I’venoticed a sunset for a month! I used to seeknights’ flags and Mandalay and all sorts ofstuff in sunsets!”

Wistfully the exile gazed at his lost kingdom, tillthe October chill aroused him.

But he learned a new way to cook eggs from the proprietorof the delicatessen store; and his plans for spendingthe evening playing pinochle with Nelly, and readingthe evening paper aloud, set him chuckling softlyto himself as he hurried home through the brisk autumnbreeze with seven cents’ worth of potato salad.

THE END