The Last Drive (14 page)

The opportunity was not long in coming. It was only a day or two later that Shorty arrived fifteen minutes later for a meeting at Doherty's, with his face exhibiting the first sign of worry it had known for two weeks.

“Mr. Hamlin,” he said, “it's up to you. The boys are gettin' restless. I've been waitin' for you to speak, but I guess you've forgot. We can't wait any longer. When's the blowout?”

Now, James knew very well what Shorty meant. But the increasing brusqueness of Shorty's manner was beginning to disturb his dignity. Besides, being on the edge of the Rubicon, he hesitated.

“Blowout? What do you mean?”

“Why, the picnic,” said Shorty, surprised at this ignorance. “The annual. The boys are beginnin' to ask questions about it, and I don't know what to tell 'em.”

“Still I fail to understand you,” said James, with perverse pomposity. “Who is going to have this picnic?”

“We are,” said Shorty, a little uneasily.

“Ah!” said James, with uplifted eyebrows. “At last I perceive your meaning. But you are mistaken; you take too much for granted. We are not going to have any picnic.”

Only those who have either studied or participated in New York politics can appreciate the awful significance, the incredible folly, of this statement. A king can easier rule without an army or a woman without her beauty than a district leader without his picnic. Shorty knew this, so it is no wonder that he leaped to his feet and roared:

“Good God! Are you crazy?”

“No,” said James, “I am not crazy. But I am through with pandering to the low appetites of the people. I was wrong ever to begin it. My true appeal is to the intellect, and not to the senses; and in the future, I shall make it there. I do not fear their disloyalty.”

For a full minute Shorty was silent with horror and astonishment. Such sublime folly left him speechless. There was no doubt that James was in earnest. Never had he spoken with more firm decision. With a resolution born of despair, Shorty began to plead, cajole, and threaten; his eyes filled with tears; the foam on his schooner of beer was sadly melting away unnoticed. James was as immovable as the Rock of Ages, and refused to recede a step from his uncompromising position.

Then, suddenly, James was struck with an idea. It was more than that; it was an inspiration. He revolved it slowly in his mind, while Shorty continued his gloomy prophecy of the political future of Mr. Hamlin, and then, having decided, held up his hand for silence.

“Very well,” he said, “we'll have the picnic.”

“What!” gasped Shorty.

“We'll have the picnic,” James repeated.

“Thank God!” said Shorty fervently. “And believe me, Mr. Hamlin, you won't regret it.”

“I don't expect to,” said James shortly. “And now—”

“First,” Shorty interrupted, “where'll it be? There's Hiebstein's Casino, and Kelly's Grove, and Murray's Bay Park, and—”

“That,” said James, “I'll take care of myself. The only thing you need to be interested in is the inviting. I'll attend to everything else. Tell them to meet me at Columbia Hall on—what's the date?”

“The twenty-second. Mike O'Toole pulls his off on the twenty-ninth—that's a week from today.”

“Just the thing. We'll have ours on the same day. We'll meet at Columbia Hall at 10 A.M. on Saturday the twenty-ninth.”

“But—” Shorty hesitated.

“Well?”

“See here, Mr. Hamlin, why don't you let me manage this for you? They'll at least want to know where they're goin'. And what's the use of meetin' in a hall? Why not at the ferry or the station? I tell you they won't like it.”

“Then they don't need to come,” declared James.

“Oh, they'll come all right,” said Shorty. “But I hope to God you know what you're doin'. It don't look good to me.”

James arose from his chair and looked down at Shorty. “See here,” he said, “I'm getting tired of your insolence. Kindly remember who I am. Now go and tell Dan Murphy that I want to see him here at once.” And Shorty went.

By the following evening the district was in the midst of a hot discussion as to the probable plans for Hamlin's first annual picnic. Shorty had been in error. It was the universal opinion that the element of uncertainty—almost mystery—was so far from being obnoxious that it was a positive attraction. Many were the conjectures, and they were as wild as they were numerous. Pink Russell declared that the whole district was to be taken in automobiles to Palisades Park, which was to be rented in its entirety for the day; but though this thrilling flight of imagination was heartily applauded, it was generally believed that Pink's optimism was running away with him. Most of the guesses were much more modest, though all were agreed that, considering Mr. Hamlin's well-known generosity, almost anything might happen.

Mike O'Toole was in despair. He had decided to make one last grand effort to regain his supremacy, and his arrangements for June twenty-ninth has been advertised from one end of the district to the other as the most elaborate and wonderful ever attempted in its history. And James, by arranging for his own outing on the same day, had killed Mike's last hope and spiked his last gun.

Shorty's entreaties for details of James' plans were in vain. If James had been trying to qualify for the title role in a clambake he couldn't have been closer-mouthed. Shorty finally gave it up in despair and fell to organizing potato races and greased pig contests.

By the morning of Saturday, June twenty-ninth, the tension had stretched almost to the breaking point. At half-past eight Columbia Hall was beginning to fill; by nine o'clock it was crowded. The air was full of suspense. Wild rumors flew around and evoked protests and applause in turn. Never before had the district been so much aroused; even the excitement of election day was nothing to this.

In the past few days the district had become definitely divided into two groups. One of these declared Pelham Bay Park to be the destination; the other, College Point. Now the dispute waged hot and furious; bets were made at odds of two to one on College Point, it being the favorite; and Tim Dorgan and Ham Keefe even went so far as to necessitate their being carried into the street to end their argument, where Pelham Bay Park, represented by Dorgan, won by a knockout in the first minute. At half-past nine the door opened to admit Shorty.

“Where is it?” yelled Dan Murphy. “Now open up, ye oyster!”

“Go t'ell!” shouted Shorty. “I know more than you do, but I don't know that.”

“You're a liar!” said Murphy calmly. “You've known all along.”

Shorty started for him. “Ye black-faced, yellow-backed—” but he was held back by a dozen encircling arms, whose owners insisted on his remembering that he was a gentleman in the presence of ladies, though not exactly in those terms.

At a quarter to ten the crowd, which had been merely noisy and happy, began to grow impatient. Five minutes later Shorty, in answer to the growing demand, started for the door on a hurry call for James Hamlin. He had gotten only halfway from his seat when the door opened to admit James himself.

“Speakin' o' the devil,” growled Murphy.

“Shut up!” said Shorty.

James was not alone. Through the door behind him came first one man, then another, then another. They grouped themselves silently at the door, then, still following James, marched solemnly onto the stage and seated themselves near its center. James advanced to the edge of the platform and stood with one hand behind his back, the other thrust into the bosom of his coat.

By now the crowd had recovered from its surprise at the appearance of the strangers. They vaguely resented this intrusion of visitors on the district's most intimate day, but at least their leader had not disappointed them. There he was, ready to take them—God knows where. Shorty was already on his feet.

“Three cheers for Honest James Hamlin!” he shouted. The crowd responded nobly. James turned to the three strangers on the platform with a satisfied smile, then turned back to the cheering throng and raised a hand for silence.

His speech was short; so short, in fact, that it can be reproduced in its entirety:

“Ladies, gentlemen—and children: It is needless to tell you how gratified I am by the noble manner in which you have responded to my invitation to be with me today. However sanguine were my expectations, I assure you I had no hope of seeing such a multitude as is assembled here before me. There are, I should say, at least eight hundred persons in this audience—“

“Nine hundred and sixty-five,” said Shorty.

“Thank you. Nine hundred and sixty-five persons in this audience, who have thus taken occasion to honor me and the cause I represent.

“Now, I know you are all eager and curious concerning the surprise I have in store for you, and I have no desire to continue your suspense. In past years it has been the custom of leaders in this district to select a day at this season of the year and invite you to spend it with them, mostly at their expense, in amusement which, though probably innocent, is certainly neither instructive nor profitable. All this I have altered. I believe you to be honest, serious men and women, and I believe you would greatly prefer spending this day in a manner that will suit better your dignity, and increase your value, as citizens.”

James paused for a breath. The hall was silent—ominously silent.

“I have therefore arranged for a program which I am sure will meet with your enthusiastic approval. First, Mr. Henry Hightower, of Philadelphia, will address you on ‘The Power of the Individual in Politics'; second, Mr. John Clay Brown will deliver his famous lecture on ‘Honest Government: Why Not?'; third, Professor Carlton Carlisle, of Columbia University, will talk about ‘Self-Reliance as a Power for Good'; and lastly, I myself shall have a few words to say about the future welfare of this district.

“One thing more: owing to the length of the speeches, there will be an intermission of one hour between the second and third. This hour will be spent in the consumption of a little refreshment, for which I have arranged, and in the promotion of good fellowship among us all.

“I now have the honor to introduce to you Mr. Henry Hightower, of Philadelphia.”

At the conclusion of this remarkable speech the feelings of the district, in Columbia Hall assembled, can hardly be imagined; they certainly cannot be described. Uppermost were wild rage, blind anger, and unreasoning fury, in order named. They were betrayed, insulted, cheated, and outraged.

Mr. Henry Hightower, of Philadelphia, arose from his seat. He advanced to the front of the platform. He cleared his throat. What would have happened to him, to Honest James Hamlin and Mr. John Clay Brown and Professor Carlton Carlisle, will forever remain unknown; for at that very moment there sounded through the open windows from the street below the strains of “Wearing of the Green,” in loud-toned brass. Mr. Henry Hightower, looking through a window from this point of vantage on the platform, saw some twenty or thirty men marching down the avenue behind a brass band. In their midst was a huge banner reading:

Third Annual Outing and Games of the Mike O'Toole Association
At Kelly's Casino, Whitestone, L. I.

But though Mr. Henry Hightower was the only one who could see, everyone could hear. For a moment there was intense silence. A quiver like an electric shock ran through the throng. Then Dan Murphy leaped to his feat and started for the door.

“It's O'Toole!” he shouted. “Come on, boys!”

Immediately the hall was in an uproar. The door was jammed by the sudden onslaught of struggling, pushing humanity. James, on the edge of the platform, was shouting something nobody heard. Women fought with men in the mad stampede for freedom.

Shorty Benson, standing by the window, saw, in the street below, Mike O'Toole greeting with outstretched hands the first to get down the stairs. He heard the band strike up with renewed vigor. He turned to the door inside and saw the last of the nine hundred and sixty-four rush for the stairs; also, he saw Honest James Hamlin running toward him with frantic gestures.

“What shall we do, Shorty?” wailed James helplessly. “What shall we do?”

Shorty looked once more at the throng on the street below. They were forming to march. The band was going stronger than ever. Now they moved forward.

It was more than Shorty could bear. “Do what you damn please!” he yelled as he ran for the door. “Go to hell! I'm going to the picnic!”

Two Kisses

This romance was the only Stout story to appear in
Breezy Stories
, which was published by the C. H. Young Publishing Company, the same publisher as
Young's Magazine
, from which it was spun off. Though it is largely forgotten today, a pulp historian describes
Breezy Stories­
as “one of the most successful fiction anthologies in the history of American magazines.”

I
t is difficult nowadays to write a story about a princess, because no one believes in them anymore. Formerly it was all right to begin, “Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess,” and a thousand ears would open for you. But if anyone should try it now he would probably be brought up with the socialistic statement, “By July 15th, 1942, there will be no kings, and therefore no princesses, left in the world.” Or, what would be still worse, by the realistic query, “Did she have indigestion?” It is the modern spirit, and it is called “getting to the bottom of things.”

Anyway, Veronica Tellon was a modern princess. She lived in the winter in a palace in a great city, and in the summer in another palace in a smaller city by the sea. She had beautiful clothes and a checkbook that replenished itself automatically, like the fabulous pitcher, as soon as she emptied it: she never went anywhere unless in a luxurious automobile or private car, and every necessary action except breathing and swallowing food was performed for her by servants.

Her person was neither beautiful nor plain. Her neat, medium-sized figure was raised to distinction by the art of the dressmaker; she had an interesting face, with eyes a little too large for the delicate and well-formed nose and mouth, and the contrast between her mass of dark hair and white transparent skin was somewhat startling. She was aware of the latter fact and took advantage of it now and then to make an impression. Even princesses are not above a projection of personality now and then, especially when they are only a year or two beyond twenty.

Miss Tellon sat in front of her dressing-table mirror one evening uttering blasphemies against herself. Her mode of expression was inelegant and forcible.

“Absurd little fool!” she said aloud to the reflection in the mirror.

Then, after an interval of silence, she turned to the waiting-maid who hovered in the background.

“Jennie,” she declared resolutely, “you may take this off. I am not going down this evening.”

There seemed to be something remarkable in this statement, for the maid's pretty little round eyes opened in astonishment. Then, quickly aware of her involuntary impertinence, she lowered her lashes and murmured in acquiescence:

“Very well, mademoiselle.”

Her mistress looked at her for a moment, then burst into laughter.

“It amused even you,” she observed with bitter amusement. “It would be amazing, wouldn't it, if I dared to act as I please. Of course I'm going down. Here, fasten this pin.”

Jennie snapped the brooch in place, added a last touch here and there, and Miss Tellon's toilet was completed. She arose with a sigh, patted her hair on the sides, looked again in the mirror and left for the drawing-room.

She found it full of men and women conversing in the jerky, desultory manner of those momentarily expecting interruption—in this instance, the call to dinner. She knew them all, from her father and mother down to little Lucille Cowan, who had had her coming-out dance at Sherry's two nights before. There was old Morton Crevel, associated with Veronica's father in the Street, and his wife; Sir Upton Macleod and Lady Macleod; the two Payne girls; Tommie DuMont and his Russian cousin with the explosive name; Albert Crevel, whose approaching marriage with Miss Veronica Tellon was looked forward to as the most important nuptial event of the season; and, to finish, two or three other young ladies and half a dozen scientists, authors and musicians—for Mrs. Henry Tellon ran to celebrities.

At dinner Miss Tellon found herself between Tommie DuMont and his Russian cousin, and directly across the table from Albert Crevel, her fiancé. Thus she could not avoid looking at him, nor did she want to; she was glad of the opportunity. Throughout the weary succession of courses she kept her eyes on him without seeming to do so; what she saw was a good-looking young fellow with premature lines of experience around the fine dark eyes, a straight, ordinary nose above full lips, and a firm round chin. But the thought in her mind was this, that she saw nothing more. And isn't a girl supposed to see something more than a mere set of passable human features in the face of the man she is about to marry?

This was one of the questions, though not the most important, that Miss Tellon was asking herself as she rose with the other members of her sex to leave the men to their cigars. But in the drawing-room little Lucille Cowan claimed her to talk over her party, and they were still discussing gowns and favors when the men entered half an hour later.

“Talking shop?” came Albert Crevel's voice.

Lucille looked up.

“How mean of you!” she giggled. “Oh, I know what you mean.”

“It doesn't matter,” replied Crevel, seating himself. “I'll be glad to listen anyway. Old Mannerton's been riding around the dining-room on the Will-to-Live and anything would entertain me after that.”

They talked, but Veronica was silent. She was telling herself that Crevel had come over to them only because he thought it was the proper thing to do, and she was irritated by his presence; the sound of his voice annoyed her. She even allowed a smile of bitterness to appear on her lips, then, remembering that other people saw such things and made gossip of them, she speedily erased it. Her attention was caught by a movement in the opposite corner of the room, and presently she saw a man with a violin under his arm emerge from the group and walk toward the piano. It was the celebrated virtuoso Cammini, who was to play for them.

In another moment she was under the spell of his music, and it was with a feeling of gratitude that she gave herself up to his caress of the emotions. Listening with lowered head and downcast eyes, she was filled with a sense of something indefinable, of freedom and joy combined with a painful restlessness, and she felt the tears come to her eyes, then, as the music came to an end and a sound of politely subdued applause ran over the room, an indecipherable, powerful longing arose in her breast and threatened to choke her. She raised her head to look at the musician. He was a young man, not older than herself, with white face and black hair and eyes that glowed.

“It is certain that he has loved,” thought Veronica. “Or, at least, that he can love. And why not me? It can't be that one must be superior to inspire it. Why haven't I the strength to do what I want to do? Weak little fool!”

She began to study the musician as he stood talking with his accompanist. “Of course he would have the face of a poet,” she said to herself. “He has love, and he has his art, and I—I have a checkbook. And that is why I can never, never know.”

Lucille's voice sounded behind her:

“Yes, it's frightful. Mamma says they are getting quite too independent. Cammini refuses to play for anything less than a thousand dollars, and they say he makes a hundred thousand a year. Just think of it! Papa says it's the income of two million.”

Then Crevel's good-humored reply:

“Well, isn't it worth it?”

Miss Tellon turned away in disgust. Perhaps they were right, but why should she be reminded of it at the moment? She looked at Cammini. A thousand dollars a night! A hundred thousand a year! Why, he was a man of wealth, like her father. No doubt his daughter, if he should have any, would be forced into a marriage of convenience just as she, Veronica Tellon, was. Either that or a miserable fortune hunter. Was there no poetry or love left in the world?

When Cammini drew his bow across the strings again, the music had lost all magic for her. Throughout the evening she was moody and restless; she even allowed herself to be openly rude to Albert Crevel; and when the guests were gone she sought her room only to lie awake until dawn.

The middle of the following afternoon found her in the library reading a novel. She had reached page one hundred and seventy-three, where the hero first tells the heroine that he already has a wife, and she was therefore deeply absorbed in the story, when she suddenly became aware that something was annoying her. She frowned and tried to read on, but the annoyance deepened. What could it be? She looked up and opened her ears, and recognized the disturbing sound.

“Who is that at the piano?” she demanded in a tone of irritation, turning to her mother's secretary at a desk.

“Man tuning it,” replied that lady, who was a Woman's Rights advocate and therefore would not add, “Miss Tellon,” as a respectful secretary should.

Veronica returned to her book, but found it impossible to go on. The monotonously repeated notes, cccc, eeee, gggg, jangled in her ears. Then the thought of the piano brought Cammini to her mind, Cammini brought the night before, and that brought Albert Crevel. And the thought of Albert Crevel, and others associated with him, had made her miserable the past six months—a crescendo of suffering. She arose suddenly with an impatient gesture, threw down her book and strolled aimlessly into the drawing room.

The piano-tuner did not even turn as she entered; probably he did not hear her. He had removed the top of the instrument and was busy banging keys and doing something with a wrench inside. Miss Tellon, impelled by a foolish and perverse felling of anger, approached and addressed him sharply:

“Is it necessary to make so much noise?”

He turned in surprise and looked at her.

“Sure. Awful, ain't it?” he said cheerfully, and went to work again.

Completely disarmed, Miss Tellon stood and watched him for some time in silence. Then she sat down on a chair and continued to watch him. He was a rather good-looking young man with wavy blond hair, laughing blue eyes and a boyish face. She couldn't tell much about his mouth because it was screwed to one side with intentness as he listened to the noises he was producing, but she saw that his lips were full of color, as was indeed his whole face. She smiled as the thought struck her that he was just such a person as the philosopher had in mind when he called man “the animal with red cheeks.”

She amused herself with speculations concerning him. Was he married? Probably not. On second thought, certainly not. How old was he? Um—between twenty-five and twenty-six. What nationality was he? German-Swedish or Swedish-American or German. What was his home like? But here she failed utterly. She tried to picture a flat, but she knew very little about them; she had never been in one. She was trying to decide whether or not his father and mother were living when she suddenly became aware that he had stopped banging the keys and was putting on the top. That finished, he gathered his tools together and stuffed them in a little black leather case and picked up his hat.

Miss Tellon spoke abruptly:

“Would you mind telling me your name?”

He turned in surprise, and after a moment answered simply:

“Carlsen. George Carlsen.”

“Oh,” said Veronica. Then, “You are a Swede, I suppose.”

“Yes,” smiled the young man, with his blue eyes on her.

“You must excuse me,” observed Miss Tellon with a touch of confusion, “but I was wondering about you.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Carlsen. And seeming to regard this remark as an invitation to remain, he put down his leather case and seated himself on the piano bench.

“I'm always glad to talk to the ladies,” he observed amiably.

Miss Tellon managed not to smile.

“It is a very estimable quality in a gentleman,” she said.

“Sure. And valuable, too, in my line. They all like it, especially the married ones. Lord, how they sit and toss it out! The young ones too sometimes.”

“It must be very interesting.”

“That depends. It is once in a while, like with you, for instance. I could listen to you all day. When you came in the room I said to myself, ‘Open your eyes, Georgie.' But I made a bet with myself you wouldn't say a word. You notice I didn't wait for a second invitation.”

This time Miss Tellon could not repress the smile.

“You are very flattering,” she said, vastly amused.

“Not yet,” denied Mr. Carlsen emphatically, crossing his legs and leaning back against the piano. “That's what they all say when they know they've got the looks. I read somewhere that a woman is always picking on her strongest point just to call attention to it. Ten to one you're saying something mean about your hair every five minutes just because you know it's beautiful. I never saw such beautiful hair.”

“Really—” began Miss Tellon, feeling that this was about enough; but he ruthlessly interrupted her.

“Come off now, you know it is. Looks just like some great actress—I forget her name—saw her in the movies the other night. Most beautiful actress on the stage. That's where you ought to be.”

“What—?”

“On the stage. Sure you ought. You know, that's a thing I can't understand. Here you are, taking orders from somebody not a bit better than you are, waiting on table or combing hair or whatever you do, making maybe ten or twelve dollars a week, and you might just as well be a Sarah Bernhardt or an Eva Tanguay. They both started in the chorus. Where's the sense in it? Anybody could see that you're the kind that's got it in you. I saw it the first minute. As soon as you come in the door I said to myself, ‘Take a peek, Georgie.' On the square.”

Miss Tellon, at the same moment that she understood his audacity, felt greatly relieved. It was not that she, a princess, was pleased at being mistaken for a servant; she merely felt that what had been an inexcusable disregard of her dignity was become a legitimate amusement. What tremendous fun! She tried to bring a silly smile to her lips; she conceived that under such circumstances a maidservant would always wear a silly smile—of encouragement.