An Officer and a Lady (6 page)

“Bendy, I know you won’t repeat this to any of our friends, or I wouldn’t tell it. It fills me with shame, Bendy, when I remember that fifty I handed to Devlin. These lawyers is the worst kind of grafters.

“I told Devlin I didn’t want any Pauline natives to know about mine and Abe’s intimate pertinacities, and I waits in Ironton for a settlement. As soon as he got my fifty he wrote off a long letter to Jetmore which he let me read to correct the sentiments.

“It would a’ been cheaper for me to buy that railroad between Ironton and Horton. For eleven days I kept up a to and fro movement worse than a Mount Vernon commuter. It got so the trains wouldn’t start till they saw me comin’. In one day I was Abe three times and Leo twice.

“Jetmore and Devlin kept burnin’ up the mails with lies and criminalities, me a readin’ everything so as to preserve my interests. I was yellin’ for more on one end and less on the other till the fruit got all ripe and just ready for pickin’. Bendy, it was shameful easy, I used to fall asleep in Devlin’s office from sheer
angwee.

“It was last Thursday when I got to Devlin’s sanctum, just in time to see him puttin’ on his coat to go to lunch with the stenographer.

“ ‘Hello, Delman,’ says he, ‘I’ll see you in about half an hour. Here’s a letter from Jetmore. Make yourself at home till I get back.’

“When he’d gone I read the letter over just to make sure there wasn’t no changes since I saw it the night before in Jetmore’s office. It said that Abe had decided to accept Leo’s offer of twelve hundred dollars cash, provided it was paid within three days.

“I goes to the stenographer’s desk, picks out a nice printed letterhead, and writes on it as follows:

March 21, 1912

Mr. David Jetmore,

Horton, N. J.

Dear Sir,

As per advice contained in your favor of the 20th inst., I am enclosing herewith check for twelve hundred dollars in full payment of the claim of Abe Delman against Leo Delman.

I shall be pleased to have you acknowledge receipt of same.

Yours very truly,

“I had already practiced Devlin’s hand till I was sick of it, and I signed that letter so that Devlin himself couldn’t a’ told the difference. Then I pulls out a blank check, makes it to the order of Devlin for twelve hundred dollars and signs it ‘Leo Delman’ and endorses Devlin’s name on the back.

“Of course, I could have done some of this work in my own boodwar, but I wanted to use Devlin’s typewriter, and besides, I had a feeling it would be more gentlemanlike to do everything right there in the office. It somehow seemed natural and right to sign a man’s name on his own desk with his own pen and ink.

“When Devlin come back I had the letter all ready to mail stowed away in my pocket.

“ ‘Have you got that twelve hundred?’ says he.

“ ‘No,’ says I, ‘but I’ll get it in three days or bust.’

“ ‘You’d better,’ says he, ‘for when Jetmore says three days he don’t mean four.’

“I mailed the letter and check in Ironton that afternoon, and next day—that was Friday—I goes over to Horton on the very first train, and pedestrinates into Jetmore’s office on the stroke of ten.

“Jetmore met me cordial like a mule that’s just found something to kick. He’d smelled my money.

“ ‘Did you get it?’ says I.

“He pulled out the check I’d mailed in Ironton the day before. I looked at it over his shoulder, him holdin’ on with both hands.

“ ‘I guess about fifty of that belongs to you,’ says I.

“ ‘Fifty!’ says he. ‘Fifty!’

“ ‘No,’ says I, ‘I only said it once.’

“That’s what comes of gettin’ into the clutches of one of them grafters, Bendy. They’ll do you every time. But I let it go at a hundred to preserve my own interests. I couldn’t afford no argument.

“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘give me the check.’

“ ‘Give me my hundred,’ says he.

“ ‘I ain’t got it,’ says I.

“ ‘Then we’ll cash the check,’ says he, and puts on his coat and hat.

“Bendy, ain’t that pitiful? Ain’t it pitiful? It was comin’ so easy I yawned right in his face. Says he, ‘then we’ll cash the check.’ Oh, the big fat boob!

“We goes down to the bank, and Jetmore steps up to the window.

“ ‘Good morning, Mr. Jetmore,’ says the teller, obsequies-like.

“Jetmore takes a pen, endorses the check, and passes it through the window.

“ ‘Give it to us in hundreds,’ says he.

“ ‘Not for me,’ says I, steppin’ up. ‘Make it twenties.’ You know, Bendy, centuries is all right, but they ain’t enough of ’em. They’re too scarce to be safe.

“The teller counts out ten twenties, slaps ’em on top of a pile with a bandage on ’em, and shoves ’em through the window to Jetmore. He counts off five and I sticks the rest in my pocket.

“ ‘Better count ’em,’ says Jetmore.

“ ‘I’ll take a chance,’ says I. “The young man looks honest.’ The truth is, I was beginning to get the shivers. They always come on me when I feel the stuff.

“Me and Jetmore turned to go. Just as we reached the door I felt that pile of twenties jump right out of my pocket and slap me in the face. Standin’ there lookin’ at us was Devlin.

“ ‘Hello, Jetmore,’ says he. ‘Good morning, Mr. Delman.’

“Bendy, stand up. No man can sit unrespectful while I relate the sequence. It fills my eyes with tears to think of it. I’ve been a modest man, but this is too much for me. I must tell the truth.

“I was in a hole, all right, but I still had hold of the rope. I knew that Devlin thinks I’m Leo and Jetmore thinks I’m Abe, and as long as they didn’t get a chance to chin on it I was safe.

“ ‘Mr. Devlin,’ says I, ‘I’m glad to see you. There’s a little matter I want to ask you about.’

“Jetmore started to spout before Devlin could answer and I interspersed.

“ ‘It’s an important matter,’ says I, ‘and I won’t keep you long.’

“Devlin stood lookin’ at us like he didn’t understand. Of course, Jetmore knew I knew Devlin, because I’d told him he was mine and Leo’s lawyer before the fight.

“Jetmore pulls out his watch and starts to go.

“ ‘I’ve got an appointment,’ says he. ‘I’ll see you later. Drop around to the office about one.’ Then he turns to me. ‘Come in and say good-by,’ says he, and off he goes.

“It took me about two minutes to explain to Devlin that I’d come up to Horton to try to get Jetmore to chop off a hundred on the settlement. Devlin laughed.

“ ‘Jetmore don’t do no choppin’,’ says he.

“ ‘Right you are,’ says I. ‘He won’t even give me no extra time.’

“ ‘What was it you wanted to ask me?’ says he.

“ ‘Mr. Devlin,’ says I, ‘I’m a poor man. Whether I get that twelve hundred I don’t know. But I got some friends in Pittsburgh what’s got it, and if you’ll let me have that fifty back for railroad fare I’ll make it a hundred when I settle up.’

“Devlin blinked hard, and I thought he’d jumped it. But bein’ a grafter, that hundred looked too good to lose. He pulls out a big black wallet, counts out five tens, and hands ’em to me careful-like.

“ ‘Delman,’ says he, ‘I know you’re an honest man. I can tell it by your eyes. I feel sure you’ll get the money.’

“ ‘Mr. Devlin,’ says I, holdin’ his hand in one hand and the fifty in the other, ‘I
will
get the money.’ And I leaves him standin’ there in the bank, watchin’ me through the window.

“Did you go to Pittsburgh?” asked Bendy.

“Bendy,” said Dudd, “don’t be factious in the presence of genius. You offend me.”

“Forgive me,” said Bendy, humbly. “Let me see the fifty, Dudd. I just want to touch it.”

P
AMFRET WAS HAPPY.
T
O BE BACK
in the world again, to feel once more that old sense of incompleteness—what could be more delightful? He laughed aloud as he recollected how Satan had warned him that the earth might not prove so attractive after all.

For Pamfret was no ordinary mortal. In 1910 he had died, and as he had done some things and left undone some others, he had been sent with slight ceremony to the land of darkness. Of his existence there we have no knowledge, save that he found it somewhat darker and a great deal more interesting than he had imagined. Nor do we know the exact nature of the service he rendered the Prince; but it was an important one, and Satan rewarded him with ten years more of life. Pamfret was wildly grateful, and almost incurred the Prince’s displeasure by his eagerness to return to the world above. Once there he forgot everything but the joy of mortality.

He was considerably surprised when he found that the world had gotten as far as 1970. Sixty years! Everything, of course, was changed. But he felt that just to be alive was enough. It was really very silly of Satan to give him that vial, he thought—as if there were any chance of his wishing to return before the ten years ended.

It was noon of his first day. As he walked along Fifth Avenue and noted the many changes and additions, the absence of old landmarks and the encroachments of commercialism, he experienced little of that feeling of unreality he had expected. After all, it was only natural that there should be changes. The world does not stand still. At Forty-second Street he stopped at the library, and felt a strange pleasure in renewing old acquaintances on its shelves. Two blocks farther on he was delighted to find that Sherry’s had remained faithful to its old corner, and congratulated himself that he had not yet lunched.

He passed through the outer hall into the dining room on the left, intending to find a table near the orchestra, but found that the place formerly set aside for the musicians had been rearranged and furnished for diners. When he had found a seat and summoned a waiter, “Is there no orchestra?” he asked.

The waiter looked surprised. “Certainly not.”

“Why certainly?”

“But it would cause disagreement. Some people like music and some do not. But Monsieur is jesting?”

Pamfret could see no joke. But at least they still had a menu. “Bring me some clams.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And some cold turkey with jelly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And—have you any alligator pears?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then Salad Macédoine, and a pot of coffee.”

“Yes, sir,” and the waiter hurried away.

“That waiter has no imagination,” thought Pamfret. “He had not a single suggestion to offer.” And he leaned back in his chair the better to watch the crowd.

There was a curious air of calm about the room. Everyone was talking, but no one seemed at all interested in what anyone said. There was no animation, nothing of piquancy in either face or gesture. “What stupid people!” said Pamfret to himself.

Seated at the next table were a man and a girl. “I don’t care to go,” the girl was saying. “I adore opera but I hate plays.”

“I have heard that this is a very good play, and I shall go,” said the man.

“Very well, then I shall return home. Goodby,” and she rose to go.

“Oh, are you finished?” asked the man. “All right. Goodby.”

Pamfret was astonished. “The girl is pretty and the man is a fool,” he declared; but the arrival of his waiter with a plate of clams put a stop to his soliloquy.

Three o’clock found Pamfret seated in the grandstand at the Polo Grounds. It was a day of glorious sunshine, and promised still more glorious sport. The old rivalry between New York and Chicago had been heightened by time, and the Cubs were even now battling with the Giants for first place. Pamfret felt a joyous excitement. He turned to his nearest neighbor. “The Giants are really the stronger team, aren’t they?” he queried.

“That is a matter of opinion,” replied his neighbor.

“Are you from Chicago?”

“No.”

Pamfret subsided.

At three-thirty the game was called. “Now there’ll be something doing,” thought Pamfret.

The first inning passed quickly. The play was snappy, but there were no runs made, and there was no applause. In the second inning Chicago’s batters were soon disposed of. The first man up for New York drew a base on balls, and then—the next batter hit a triple to left, scoring the runner. The crowd was silent. Pamfret clapped his hands furiously.

An usher approached and handed Pamfret a printed card. Pamfret turned it over and read as follows:

INTERNATIONAL PEACE CONGRESS.

COMMITTEE ON ATHLETICS.

Rule 19. It shall be unlawful for a spectator at any athletic game to show preference to any contestant by any manner of applause or derision.

Pamfret was so bewildered that he forgot to watch the game. So that was the cause of this curious silence. He wondered what was the penalty, and decided, inasmuch as he was not disturbed further, that a warning was considered sufficient for a first offense.

Then he heard the crack of the bat against the ball, and looked just in time to see the little leather sphere bound against the left field fence and roll back onto the field. The runner tore wildly around the bases, while the crowd uttered not a sound. On past second he dashed, and rounded third just as the ball was being returned by the fielder. He flew down the home stretch with the speed of an arrow, and reached the plate the merest fraction of a second before the ball landed in the catcher’s mitt.

“Out!” called the umpire.

“Robber!” shrieked Pamfret. “Thief! Robber!”

The crowd gazed at Pamfret in dismay. Again the usher approached and handed him a card. Pamfret, partially realizing what he had done, took it in a rather shamefaced manner, and read:

INTERNATIONAL PEACE CONGRESS.

COMMITTEE ON ATHLETICS.

Rule 26. It shall be unlawful for a spectator at any athletic game to show either approval or disapproval of any decision of the umpire or referee. Penalty: ejection from the grounds.

A silver gong sounded somewhere under the grandstand. Pamfret looked up. The entire mass of spectators was standing, each with bowed head and arm raised, pointing with outstretched finger to the outer gates. On the field each player had stopped still in his position and turned to point. Pamfret was confused; he wanted to laugh; but the air of solemnity about the whole proceeding forbade it. There could be no doubt about the meaning of this universal gesture, and he descended from the grandstand and started across the field toward the gates. As he arrived there, he turned and looked back. Thirty thousand fingers were pointing at him in a sort of contemptuous scorn. As he passed through the gates he heard the silver gong ring out as before.