A Japanese boy who was working his way through college offered to
assume the responsibilities of my housekeeping for his board. Banzai
brought to the task of cooking the deft hand of his race. He undertook
the purchase of furniture to set me up in the bungalow, without asking
questions--in itself a great relief. In a week’s time he announced that
all was in readiness for my transfer, so that I made the change quite
casually, without other impedimenta than a portfolio and a suitcase.
On that first evening, as Banzai served my supper--he was a past
master of the omelet--I enjoyed a peace my life had not known before.
In collecting material for my earlier sketches I had undeniably
experienced many discomforts and annoyances; but here was an adventure
which could hardly fail to prove pleasant and profitable.
As I loafed with my pipe after supper, I resolved to make the most of
my good fortune and perfect a study of the bungalow as an expression
of American civilization which should be the final word on that
enthralling subject. I was myself, so to speak, a bungaloyd--the owner
or occupant of a bungalow--and while I was precluded by my state of
bachelorhood from entering fully into the life which had so aroused my
curiosity, I was nevertheless confident that I should be able to probe
deeply and sympathetically into the secret of the bungalow’s happiness.
Having arranged my books and papers I sought the open. Banzai
had secured some porch furniture of a rustic pattern, but he had
neglected to provide pillows, and as the chairs of hickory boughs
were uncomfortable, I strolled out into the lane. As I stood in the
walk, the door of the brown bungalow opened and a man came forth and
descended to the street. It was a clear night with an abundance of
stars, and the slim crescent of a young moon hung in the west. My
neighbor struck a match and drew the flame into his pipe in four or
five deliberate inhalations. In the match-flare I saw his face, which
impressed me as sombre, though this may have been the effect of his
dark, close-trimmed beard. He stood immovable for five minutes or more,
then strolled aimlessly away down the lane.
Looking up, I saw a green-shaded lamp aglow in the front window of the
bungalow, and almost immediately the young wife opened the door and
came out hastily, anxiously. She ran half-way down the steps, with the
light of the open door falling upon her, and after a hurried glance to
right and left called softly, “Tom!”
“Tom,” she repeated more loudly; then she ran back into the house and
reappeared, flinging a wrap over her shoulders, and walked swiftly away
in the direction taken by the lord of the bungalow.
Could it be possible, I pondered, that the happiness I had attributed
to bungalow folk was after all of such stuff as dreams are made of?
There had been almost a sob in that second cry of “Tom!” and I resented
it. The scene was perfectly set; the green-shaded lamp had been
lighted, ready for that communing of two souls which had so deeply
moved and interested me as I had ranged the land of the bungalow;
yet here was a situation which rose blackly in my imagination. I was
surprised to find how quickly I took sides in this unhappy drama; I was
all for the woman. The glimpse I had caught of her, tripping homeward
in the lane, swinging her card-case, had been wholly pleasing; and I
recalled the joyous quick rush with which she had clasped her child. I
was sure that Tom was a monster, eccentric, selfish, indifferent. There
had been a tiff, and he had gone off to sulk in the dark like a wilful,
perverse child.
I was patrolling my veranda half an hour later, when I heard steps
and then voices on the walk opposite, and back they came. It is a
woman’s way, I reflected, to make all the advances; and this young
wife had captured the runaway and talked him into good humor. A moment
later they were seated beside the table in the living-room, and so
disposed that the lamp did not obscure them from each other. She was
reading aloud, and occasionally glanced up, whether to make sure of
his attention or to comment upon the book I did not know; and when it
occurred to me that it was neither dignified nor decent to watch my
neighbors through their window, I went indoors and wrote several pages
of notes for a chapter which I now felt must be written, on “Bungalow
Shadows.”
Manderson was the name; Banzai made sure of this at the grocer’s. As I
took the air of the lane the next morning before breakfast, I saw that
the Redmonds were a different sort. Redmond, a big fellow, with a loud
voice, was bidding his wife and child good-by. The youngster toddled
after him, the wife ran after the child, and there was much laughter.
They all stopped to inspect me, and Redmond introduced himself and
shook hands, with the baby clutching his knees. He presented me to his
wife, and they cordially welcomed me to the lane to the baby’s cooing
accompaniment. They restored me to confidence in the bungalow type; no
doubt of the Redmonds being the real thing!