Bruce, deeply engrossed in his work, was nevertheless aware that the
performance of “The Beggar” had stimulated gossip about Constance Mills
and Whitford. Helen Torrence continued to fret about it; Bud Henderson
insisted on keeping Bruce apprised of it; Maybelle deplored and Dale
Freeman pretended to ignore. The provincial mind must have exercise,
and Bruce was both amused and disgusted as he found that the joint
appearance of Constance and Whitford in Whitford’s one-act play had
caused no little perturbation in minds that lacked nobler occupation or
were incapable of any very serious thought about anything.
It had become a joke at the University Club that Bruce, who was looked
upon as an industrious young man, gave so much time to Shepherd
Mills. There was a doglike fidelity in Shep’s devotion that would have
been amusing if it hadn’t been pathetic. Bud Henderson said that Shep
trotted around after Bruce like a lame fox terrier that had attached
itself to an Airedale for protection.
Shep, inspired perhaps by Bruce’s example, or to have an excuse for
meeting him, had taken up handball. As the winter wore on this brought
them together once or twice a week at the Athletic Club. One afternoon
in March they had played their game and had their shower and were in
the locker room dressing.
Two other men came in a few minutes later and, concealed by the
lockers, began talking in low tones. Their voices rose until they
were audible over half the room. Bruce began to hear names--first
Whitford’s, then unmistakably Constance Mills was referred to. Shep
raised his head as he caught his wife’s name. One of the voices was
unmistakably that of Morton Walters, a young man with an unpleasant
reputation as a gossip. Bruce dropped a shoe to warn the men that they
were not alone in the room. But Walters continued, and in a moment a
harsh laugh preluded the remark:
“Well, George takes his pleasure where he finds it. But if I were Shep
Mills I certainly wouldn’t stand for it!”
Shep jumped up and started for the aisle, but Bruce stepped in front of
him and walked round to where Walters and a friend Bruce didn’t know
were standing before their lockers.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Walters, but may I remind you that this is a
gentleman’s club?”
“Well, no; you may not!” Walters retorted hotly. He advanced toward
Bruce, his eyes blazing wrathfully.
The men, half clothed, eyed each other for a moment.
“We don’t speak of women in this club as you’ve been doing,” said
Bruce. “I’m merely asking you to be a little more careful.”
“Oh, you’re criticizing my manners, are you?” flared Walters.
“Yes; that’s what I’m doing. They’re offensive. My opinion of you is
that you’re a contemptible blackguard!”
“Then that for your opinion!”
Walters sprang forward and dealt Bruce a ringing slap in the face.
Instantly both had their fists up. Walters’s companion grasped him by
the arm, begging him to be quiet, but he flung him off and moved toward
Bruce aggressively.
They sparred for a moment warily; then Walters landed a blow on Bruce’s
shoulder.
“So you’re Mrs. Mills’s champion, are you?” he sneered.
Intent upon the effect of his words, he dropped his guard. With
lightning swiftness Bruce feinted, slapped his adversary squarely
across the mouth and followed with a cracking blow on the jaw that sent
him toppling over the bench. His fall made considerable noise, and the
superintendent of the club came running in to learn the cause of the
disturbance. Walters, quickly on his feet, was now struggling to shake
off his friend. Several other men coming in stopped in the aisle and
began chaffing Walters, thinking that he and Bruce were engaged in a
playful scuffle. Walters, furious that his friend wouldn’t release him,
began cursing loudly.
“Gentlemen, this won’t do!” the superintendent admonished. “We can’t
have this here!”
“Mr. Walters,” said Bruce when Walters had been forced to sit down, “if
you take my advice you’ll be much more careful of your speech. If you
want my address you’ll find it in the office!”
He went back to Shep, who sat huddled on the bench by his locker,
his face in his hands. He got up at once and they finished dressing
in silence. Walters made no further sign, though he could be heard
blustering to his companion while the superintendent hovered about to
preserve the peace.
Shep’s limousine was waiting--he made a point of delivering Bruce
wherever he might be going after their meetings at the club--and he got
into it and sat silent until his house was reached. He hadn’t uttered a
word; the life seemed to have gone out of him.
Bruce walked with him to the door and said “Good night, Shep,” as
though nothing had happened. Shep rallied sufficiently to repeat the
good-night, choking and stammering upon it. Bruce returned to the
machine and bade the chauffeur take him home.
He did no work that night. Viewed from any angle, the episode was
disagreeable. Walters would continue to talk--no doubt with increased
viciousness. Bruce wasn’t sorry he had struck him, but as he thought it
over he found that the only satisfaction he derived from the episode
was a sense that it was for Shep that he had taken Walters to task.
Poor Shep! Bruce wished that he did not so constantly think of Shep in
commiserative phrases....
Bud Henderson, who was in the club when the row occurred, informed
Bruce that the men who had been in the locker room were good fellows
and that the story was not likely to spread. It was a pity, though, in
Bud’s view, that the thing had to be smothered, for Walters had been
entitled to a licking for some time and the occurrence would make Bruce
the most popular man in town.
“If the poor boob had known how you used to train with that
middle-weight champ in Boston during our bright college years he
wouldn’t have slapped you! I’ll bet his jaw’s sore!”
Bruce was not consoled. He wished the world would behave itself; and in
particular he wished that he was not so constantly, so inevitably, as
it seemed, put into the position of aiding and defending the house of
Mills.