It still lacked something of luncheon-time when Bob Wharton swung into
Fifth Avenue with Ying snugly ensconced in his coat pocket. Bob was in
fine fettle, what with the anticipation of Lorelei's delight at his
gift and the certainty of an agreeable hour with his tailor. It was
always a pleasure to deal with Kurtz, for in his shop customers were
treated with the most delicate consideration. Salesmen, cutters,
fitters, all were pleasant acquaintances who displayed neither the
fawning obsequiousness of Fifth Avenue trades-people nor the sullen
apathy of Broadway clerks. Kurtz himself was an artist; he was also a
person of generally cultivated taste and a man about town. His pleasure
in making a sale was less than his delight at meeting and serving his
customers, and his books were open only to those he considered his
equals. A stony-faced doorman kept watch and ward in the Gothic hallway
to discourage the general public from entering the premises. The fact
that Bob owed several hundred dollars dismayed that young man not in
the least, for Kurtz never mentioned money matters--the price of
garments being after all of far less consequence than fit, and style,
and that elusive something which Kurtz called "effect."
Our daily actions are controlled by a variety of opposing influences
which are like threads pulling at us from various directions. When for
any reason certain of these threads are snapped and the balance is
disturbed we are drawn into strange pathways, and our whole lives may
be changed through the operation of what seems a most trivial case. In
Bob's case the cause approached, all unheralded, in the person of Mr.
Richard Cady, a youth whose magnificent vacuity of purpose was the envy
of his friends. Comet-like, he was destined to appear, flash brightly,
then disappear below the horizon of this tale. Mr. Cady greeted Bob
with listless enthusiasm, teetering the while upon his cane like a
Japanese equilibrist.
"Haven't seen you for ages," he began. "Been abroad?"
Bob explained that he was spending the summer in New York, a statement
that filled his listener with the same horror he would have felt had he
learned that Bob was passing the heated season in the miasmatic jungles
of the Amazon.
"Just ran down from Newport," Cady volunteered. "I'm sailing to-day.
Better join me for a trip. I know--" he cut Bob's refusal
short--"travel's an awful nuisance; I get seasick myself."
"Then why play at it?"
Cady rolled a mournful eye upon his friend. "Girl!" said he, hollowly.
"Show-girl! If I stay I'll marry her, and that wouldn't do.
Posi-TIVE-ly not! So I'm running away. I'll wait over if you'll join
me."
"I'm a working-man."
"Haw!" Mr. Cady expelled a short laugh.
"True! And I've quit drinking."
Now Cady was blase, but he had a heart; his sympathies were slow, but
he was not insensible to misfortune. Accordingly he responded with a
cry of pity, running his eye over his friend to estimate the ravages of
Temperance. Midway in its course his gaze halted, he passed a
silk-gloved palm lightly across his brow, and looked again. A tiny head
seemed to protrude from Bob's pocket, a pair of bright, inquiring eyes
seemed to be peering directly at the observer.
"I--guess I'd better quit, too," said Cady, faintly. "Are you--alone?"
Bob gently extracted Ying from his resting-place, and the two men
studied him gravely.
"Little beggar, isn't he?" Cady remarked. "Has he got a brother? I'd
like to give one to--you know!"
"He's alone in the world. I'm his nearest of kin."
"Give you five dollars for him," Cady offered.
"I just paid five hundred, and he's worth a thousand. Why, his people
came over ahead of the Mayflower."
The gloomy lover was interested; in his face there gleamed a faint
desire. "Think of it! Well, make it a thousand. I'll send him in a
bunch of orchids. Haw!" He doubled over his stick, convulsed with
appreciation of his own originality. But again Bob refused. "Don't be
nasty, I'll make it fifteen hundred."
Bob carefully replaced the canine atom and grinned at his friend.
"I need the money, but--nothing doing."
"Up against it?" hopefully inquired the other.
"Broke! I couldn't afford a nickel to see an earthquake."
"I'll lend you fifteen hundred and take Ying as security."
But Bob remained inflexible, and Mr. Cady relapsed into gloom,
muttering:
"Gee! You're a rotten business man!"
"So says my heartless father. He has sewed up my pockets and scuttled
my drawing-account, hence the dinner-pail on my arm. I'm in quest of
toil."
"I'll bet you starve," brightly predicted Mr. Cady, in an effort at
encouragement. "I'll lay you five thousand that you make a flivver of
anything you try."
"I've quit gambling, too."
As they shook hands Cady grunted: "My invitation to globe-trot is
withdrawn. Fine company you'd be!"
As Bob walked up the Avenue he pondered deeply, wondering if he really
were so lacking in ability as his friends believed. Money was such a
common thing, after all; the silly labor of acquiring it could not be
half so interesting as the spending of it. Anybody could make money,
but to enjoy it, to circulate it judiciously, one must possess
individuality--of a sort. Money seemed to come to some people without
effort, and from the strangest sources--Kurtz, for instance, had grown
rich out of coats and trousers!
Bob halted, frowning, while Ying peered out from his hiding-place at
the passing throngs, exposing a tiny, limp, pink-ribbon tongue. If
Kurtz, armed only with a pair of shears and a foolish tape, had won to
affluence, why couldn't another? Stock-broking was no longer
profitable; none of Bob's friends had earned their salt for months; and
old Hannibal's opposition evidently forced a change of occupation.
The prospect of such a change was annoying, but scarcely alarming to an
ingrained optimist, and Bob took comfort in reflecting that the
best-selling literature of the day was replete with instances of
disinherited sons, impoverished society men, ruined bankers, or mere
idlers, who by lightning strokes of genius had mended their fortunes
overnight. Some few, in the earlier days of frenzied fiction, had
played the market, others the ponies, still others had gone West and
developed abandoned gold-mines or obscure water-powers. A number also
had grown disgustingly rich from patenting rat-traps or shoe-buttons.
One young man had discovered a way to keep worms out of railroad-ties
and had promptly bludgeoned the railroad companies out of fabulous
royalties.
Over the stock-market idea Bob could work up no enthusiasm--he knew too
much about it--and, inasmuch as horse-racing was no longer fashionable,
opportunities for a Pittsburg Phil future seemed limited. Moreover, he
had never saved a jockey's life nor a jockey's mother from eviction,
hence feed-box tips were not likely. Nor did he know a single soul in
the business of inventing rat-traps or shoe-buttons. As for going West,
he was clearly of the opinion that a search for abandoned gold-mines or
forgotten waterfalls wasn't in his line; and the secret of creosoting
railroad-ties, now that he came to think of it, was still locked up in
the breast of its affluent discoverer. Besides, as the whole episode
had occurred in the second act of a play, the safety of building upon
it was doubtful at best.
No, evidently the well-recognized short cuts to wealth had all been
obliterated by many feet, and he must find another. But where? At
length Bob's wrinkled brow smoothed itself, and he nodded. His path was
plain; it led around the nearest corner to his tailor's door.
Mr. Kurtz's greeting was warm as Bob strolled into the stately
show-room with its high-backed Flemish-oak chairs, its great carved
tables, its paneled walls with their antlered decorations. This, it may
be said, was not a shop, not a store where clothes were sold, but a
studio where men's distinctive garments were draped, and the difference
was perfectly apparent on the first of each month.
Bob gave Ying his freedom, to the great interest of the proprietor, who
studied the dog's points with a practised eye.
"Kurtz," began Bob, abruptly, "I just bet Dick Cady five thousand
dollars that I can make my own living for six months." This falsehood
troubled him vaguely until he remembered that high finance must be
often conducted behind a veil.
Mr. Kurtz, genial, shrewd, gray, raised admiring eyes from the capering
puppy and said:
"I'll take another five thousand."
But Bob declined. "No, I'm going to work."
This announcement interested the tailor deeply. "Who's going to hire
you?" he asked.
"You are."
Kurtz blinked. "Maybe you'd like to bet on that, too," he ventured.
"I'll give you odds."
"Work is one of the few things I haven't tried. You need a good
salesman."
"No, I don't. I have seven already."
"Say, wouldn't you like the trade of the whole younger set? I can bring
you a lot of fresh customers--fellows like me."
"'Fresh customers' is right," laughed Kurtz, then sobered quickly.
"You're joking, of course?"
"I'm so serious I could cry. How much is it worth to you to make
clothes for my crowd?"
"Well--" the tailor considered. "Quite a bit."
"The boys like to see Dick trimmed--it's a matter of principle with
them never to let him win a bet--and they'd do anything for me. You're
the best tailor in the city, but too conservative. Now I'm going to
bring you fifty new accounts, every one good for better than two
thousand a year. That's a hundred thousand dollars. How much am I
offered? Going! Going!--"
"Wait a minute! Would you stick to me for six months if I took you on?"
"My dear Kurtz, I'll poultice myself upon you for life. I'll guarantee
myself not to slide, slip, wrinkle, or skid. Thirty years hence, when
you come hobbling down to business, you'll find me here."
Mr. Kurtz dealt in novelties, and the idea of a society salesman was
sufficiently new to appeal to his commercial sense.
"I'll pay you twenty per cent.," he offered, "for all the new names you
put on my books."
"Make it twenty-five on first orders and twenty on repeaters. I'll
bring my own luncheon and pay my car-fare."
"There wouldn't be any profit left," demurred Kurtz.
"Good! Then it's a bargain--twenty-five and twenty. Now watch me grab
the adolescent offshoots of our famous Four Hundred." Bob chased Ying
into a corner, captured him, then took a 'bus up the Avenue to the
College Club for luncheon.
At three o'clock he returned, accompanied by four flushed young men
whose names gave Kurtz a thrill. In spite of their modish appearance
they declared themselves indecently shabby, and allowed Bob to order
for them--a favor which he performed with a Rajah's lofty disregard of
expense. He sat upon one of the carved tables, teasing Ying, and
selecting samples as if for a quartette of bridegrooms. Being bosom
cronies of Mr. Cady, the four youths needed little urging. When they
had gone in to be measured Kurtz said guardedly:
"Whew! That's more stuff than I've sold in two weeks!"
"A mere trifle," Bob grinned, happily. "Say, Kurtz, this is the life!
This is the job for me--panhandling juvenile plutocrats--no office
hours, no heavy lifting, and Thursdays off. I'm going to make you
famous."
"You'll break me with another run like this."
"How much did they order?"
The proprietor ran over his figures incredulously.
"Twenty-four sack suits, two riding-suits, one knicker, four evening
suits, four dinner-suits, forty fancy waistcoats, sixteen evening
waistcoats, four pairs riding-breeches, four motor-coats, three Vicuna
overcoats, two ulsters. You don't think they're bluffing?"
"Why should they bluff? They'll never discover how many suits they
have. Now figure it up and tell me the bad news."
Mr. Kurtz did as directed, announcing, "Fifty-five hundred and five
dollars."
"Pikers!" exclaimed the new salesman; then he began laboriously to
compute twenty-five per cent. of the sum, using as a pad a bolt of
expensive white-silk vest material. "Thirteen hundred and seventy-six
dollars and twenty-five cents is my blackmail, Kurtz. That's what I
call 'a safe and sane Fourth.' Not bad for dull times, and yet it might
be better. Anyhow, it's the hardest thirteen hundred and seventy-six
dollars I ever earned."
"Hard!" The merchant's lips twitched, oscillating his cigar violently.
"Hard! I'll bet those fellows even bought your lunch. I suppose you
mean it's the first money you ever--earned." He seemed to choke over
the last word. "Well, it's worth something to get men like these on the
books, but--thirteen hundred and seventy-six dollars--"
"And twenty-five cents."
Mr. Kurtz gulped. "In one day! Why, I could buy a farm for that. How
much will you have to 'earn' to cover your living expenses for six
months?"
"Ah, there we journey into the realm of purest speculation." Bob
favored him with a sunny smile. "As well ask me how much my living
expenses must be in order to cover my earnings. Whatever one is, the
other will be approximately ditto--or perhaps slightly in excess
thereof. Anyhow, nothing but rigid economy--bane of my life--will make
the one fit into the other. But I have a thought. Something tells me
these boys need white flannels, so get out your stock, Kurtz. If they
can't play tennis they must learn, for my sake." Bob's remarkable
stroke of fortune called for a celebration, and his four customers
clamored that he squander his first profits forthwith. Ordinarily such
a course would have been just to his liking; but now he was dying to
tell Lorelei of his triumph, and, fearing to trust himself with even
one drink, he escaped from his friends as soon as possible. Thus it
chanced that he arrived home sober.
It was a happy home-coming, for Ying was adorable and made his way
instantly into Lorelei's heart, while Bob was in a state of exaltation.
He had no desire to bind himself to Kurtz's service for six months or
for any other period; nor had he the least thought of living up to his
agreement until Lorelei began to treat the matter seriously. Then he
objected blankly:
"Why, it was all right as a joke, but I don't want to be a TAILOR.
There's no romance in woolen goods."
"How much do you owe?" she asked.
"Really, I've no idea. It's something you don't have to
remember--somebody always reminds you in plenty of time, and then you
borrow enough to pay up."
"Let's forget the romance and pay up without borrowing. Remember you
have two families to support." Noting that the idea of permanent
employment galled him, she added, craftily, "Of course you'll never
sell another lot of clothes like this, but--"
"Why not? It's like selling candy to a child."
"You can't go with that crowd without drinking."
"Is that so? Now you sit tight and hold your hat on. I can make that
business pay if I try, and still stay in the Rain-makers' Union.
There's big money in it--enough so we can live the way we want to. I'm
sick of this telephone-booth, anyhow; we'll present it to some nice
newsboy and rent an apartment with a closet. This one's so small I
don't dare to let my trousers bag. Besides, we've been under cover long
enough, and I want you to meet the people I know. We can afford the
expense--now that I'm making thirteen hundred and seventy-six dollars
and twenty-five cents a day."
"I should like to know nice people," Lorelei confessed. "I'm sick of
the kind I've met; the men are indecent and the women are vulgar. I've
always wanted to know the other kind."
Bob was delighted; his fancy took fire, and already he was far along
toward prosperity. "You'll make a hit with the younger set; you'll be a
perfect rave. Bert Hayman told me to-day that his married sister is
entertaining a lot, and, since the drama will be tottering on its way
to destruction without you in a few days, I'll tell him to see that
we're invited out to Long Island for a week-end."