MERRY DODGES A DEAD HEAT
Somehow I sensed it as a kind of a batty excursion at the start. You
see, he'd asked me offhand would I come, and I'd said "Sure, Bo,"
careless like, not thinkin' any more about it until here Saturday
afternoon I finds myself on the way to spend the week-end with J.
Meredith Stidler.
Sounds imposing don't it? But his name's the weightiest part of J.
Meredith. Course, around the Corrugated offices we call him Merry, and
some of the bond clerks even get it Miss Mary; which ain't hardly fair,
for while he's no husky, rough-neck specimen, there's no sissy streak
in him, either. Just one of these neat, finicky featherweights, J.
Meredith is; a well finished two-by-four, with more polish than punch.
You know the kind,--fussy about his clothes, gen'rally has a pink or
something in his coat lapel, hair always just so, and carries a vest
pocket mirror. We ain't got a classier dresser in the shop. Not
noisy, you understand: quiet grays, as a rule; but made for him special
and fittin' snug around the collar.
Near thirty, I should guess Merry was, and single, of course. No head
of a fam'ly would be sportin' custom-made shoes and sleeve monograms,
or havin' his nails manicured reg'lar twice a week. I'd often wondered
how he could do it too, on seventy-five dollars a month.
For J. Meredith wa'n't even boss of his department. He just holds down
one of the stools in the audit branch, where he has about as much show
of gettin' a raise as a pavin' block has of bein' blown up Broadway on
a windy day. We got a lot of material like that in the
Corrugated,--just plain, simple cogs in a big dividend-producin'
machine, grindin' along steady and patient, and their places easy
filled when one wears out. A caster off one of the rolltop desks would
be missed more.
Yet J. Meredith takes it cheerful. Always has a smile as he pushes
through the brass gate, comin' or goin', and stands all the joshin'
that's handed out to him without gettin' peevish. So when he springs
this over-Sunday invite I don't feel like turnin' it down. Course, I'm
wise that it's sort of a charity contribution on his part. He puts it
well, though.
"It may be rather a dull way for you to pass the day," says he; "but
I'd like to have you come."
"Let's see," says I. "Vincent won't be expectin' me up to Newport
until later in the season, the Bradley Martins are still abroad, I've
cut the Reggy Vanderbilts, and--well, you're on, Merry. Call it the
last of the month, eh?"
"The fourth Saturday, then," says he. "Good!"
I was blamed near lettin' the date get past me too, when he stops me as
I'm pikin' for the dairy lunch Friday noon. "Oh, I say, Torchy," says
he, "ah--er--about tomorrow. Hope you don't mind my mentioning it, but
there will be two other guests--ladies--at dinner tomorrow night."
He seemed some fussed at gettin' it out; so I catches the cue quick.
"That's easy," says I. "Count me out until another time."
"Oh, not at all," says he. "In fact, you're expected. I merely wished
to suggest, you know, that--er--well, if you cared to do so, you might
bring along a suit of dark clothes."
"I get you," says I. "Swell comp'ny. Trust me."
I winks mysterious, and chuckles to myself, "Here's where I slip one on
J. Meredith." And when I packs my suitcase I puts in that full evenin'
regalia that I wins off'm Son-in-Law Ferdy, you remember, in that real
estate deal. Some Cinderella act, I judged that would be, when Merry
discovers the meek and lowly office boy arrayed like a night-bloomin'
head waiter. "That ought to hold him for a spell," thinks I.
But, say, you should see the joint we fetches up at out on the south
shore of Long Island that afternoon. Figurin' on a basis of
seventy-five per, I was expectin' some private boardin' house where
Merry has the second floor front, maybe, with use of the bath. But
listen,--a clipped privet hedge, bluestone drive, flower gardens, and a
perfectly good double-breasted mansion standin' back among the trees.
It's a little out of date so far as the lines go,--slate roof, jigsaw
work on the dormers, and a cupola,--but it's more or less of a plute
shack, after all. Then there's a real live butler standin' at the
carriage entrance to open the hack door and take my bag.
"Gee!" says I. "Say, Merry, who belongs to all this?"
"Oh! Hadn't I told you?" says he. "You see, I live with my aunt. She
is--er--somewhat peculiar; but----"
"I should worry!" I breaks in. "Believe me, with a joint like this in
her own name, I wouldn't kick if she had her loft full of hummin'
birds. Who's next in line for it?"
"Why, I suppose I am," says J. Meredith, "under certain conditions."
"Z-z-zin'!" says I. "And you hangin' onto a cheap skate job at the
Corrugated!"
Well, while he's showin' me around the grounds I pumps out the rest of
the sketch. Seems butlers and all that was no new thing to Merry.
He'd been brought up on 'em. He'd lived abroad too. Studied music
there. Not that he ever meant to work at it, but just because he liked
it. You see, about that time the fam'ly income was rollin' in reg'lar
every month from the mills back in Pawtucket, or Fall River, or
somewhere.
Then all of a sudden things begin to happen,--strikes, panics, stock
grabbin' by the trusts. Father's weak heart couldn't stand the strain.
Meredith's mother followed soon after. And one rainy mornin' he wakes
up in Baden Baden, or Monte Carlo, or wherever it was, to find that
he's a double orphan at the age of twenty-two, with no home, no cash,
and no trade. All he could do was to write an S. O. S. message back to
Aunt Emma Jane. If she hadn't produced, he'd been there yet.
But Aunty got him out of pawn. Panics and so on hadn't cleaned out her
share of the Stidler estate--not so you'd notice it! She'd been on the
spot, Aunt Emma had, watchin' the market. Long before the jinx hit
Wall Street she'd cashed in her mill stock for gold ballast, and when
property prices started tumblin' she dug up a lard pail from under the
syringa bush and begun investin' in bargain counter real estate. Now
she owns business blocks, villa plots, and shore frontage in big
chunks, and spends her time collectin' rents, makin' new deals, and
swearin' off her taxes.
You'd most thought, with a perfectly good nephew to blow in some of her
surplus on, she'd made a fam'ly pet of J. Meredith. But not her. Pets
wasn't in her line. Her prescription for him was work, something
reg'lar and constant, so he wouldn't get into mischief. She didn't
care what it brought in, so long as he kept himself in clothes and
spendin' money. And that was about Merry's measure. He could add up a
column of figures and put the sum down neat at the bottom of the page.
So he fitted into our audit department like a nickel into a slot
machine. And there he stuck.
"But after sportin' around Europe so long," says I, "don't punchin' the
time clock come kind of tough?"
"It's a horrible, dull grind," says he. "Like being caught in a
treadmill. But I suppose I deserve nothing better. I'm one of the
useless sort, you know. I've no liking, no ability, for business; but
I'm in the mill, and I can't see any way out."
For a second J. Meredith's voice sounds hopeless. One look ahead has
taken out of him what little pep he had. But the next minute he braces
up, smiles weary, and remarks, "Oh, well! What's the use?"
Not knowin' the answer to that I shifts the subject by tryin' to get a
line on the other comp'ny that's expected for dinner.
"They're our next-door neighbors," says he, "the Misses Hibbs."
"Queens?" says I.
He pinks up a little at that. "I presume you would call them old
maids," says he. "They are about my age, and--er--the truth is, they
are rather large. But really they're quite nice,--refined, cultured,
all that sort of thing."
"Specially which one?" says I, givin' him the wink.
"Now, now!" says he, shakin' his head. "You're as bad as Aunt Emma.
Besides, they're her guests. She asks them over quite often. You see,
they own almost as much property around here as she does, and--well,
common interests, you know."
"Sure that's all?" says I, noticin' Merry flushin' up more.
"Why, of course," says he. "That is--er--well, I suppose I may as well
admit that Aunt Emma thinks she is trying her hand at match-making.
Absurd, of course."
"Oh-ho!" says I. "Wants you to annex the adjoinin' real estate, does
she?"
"It--it isn't exactly that," says he. "I've no doubt she has decided
that either Pansy or Violet would make a good wife for me."
"Pansy and Violet!" says I. "Listens well."
"Perhaps their names are hardly appropriate; but they are nice,
sensible, rather attractive young women, both of them," insists Merry.
"Then why not?" says I. "What's the matter with the Hymen proposition?"
"Oh, it's out of the question," protests J. Meredith, blushin' deep.
"Really I--I've never thought of marrying anyone. Why, how could I?
And besides I shouldn't know how to go about it,--proposing, and all
that. Oh, I couldn't! You--you can't understand. I'm such a duffer
at most things."
There's no fake about him bein' modest. You could tell that by the way
he colored up, even talkin' to me. Odd sort of a gink he was, with a
lot of queer streaks in him that didn't show on the outside. It was
more or less entertainin', followin' up the plot of the piece; but all
of a sudden Merry gets over his confidential spasm and shuts up like a
clam.
"Almost time to dress for dinner," says he. "We'd best be going in."
And of course my appearin' in the banquet uniform don't give him any
serious jolt.
"Well, well, Torchy!" says he, as I strolls into the parlor about
six-thirty, tryin' to forget the points of my dress collar. "How
splendid you look!"
"I had some battle with the tie," says I. "Ain't the bow lopsided?"
"A mere trifle," says he. "Allow me. There! Really, I'm quite proud
of you. Aunty'll be pleased too; for, while she dresses very plainly
herself, she likes this sort of thing. You'll see."
I didn't notice any wild enthusiasm on Aunty's part, though, when she
shows up. A lean, wiry old girl, Aunty is, with her white hair bobbed
up careless and a big shell comb stickin' up bristly, like a picket
fence, on top. There's nothin' soft about her chin, or the square-cut
mouth, and after she'd give me one glance out of them shrewd, squinty
eyes I felt like she'd taken my number,--pedigree, past performances,
and cost mark complete.
"Howdo, young man?" says she, and with out wastin' any more breath on
me she pikes out to the front door to scout down the drive for the
other guests.
They arrives on the tick of six-forty-five, and inside of three minutes
Aunty has shooed us into the dinin' room. And, say, the first good
look I had at Pansy and Violet I nearly passed away. "Rather large,"
Merry had described 'em. Yes, and then some! They wa'n't just
ordinary fat women; they was a pair of whales,--big all over, tall and
wide and hefty. They had their weight pretty well placed at that; not
lumpy or bulgy, you know, but with them expanses of shoulder, and their
big, heavy faces--well, the picture of slim, narrow-chested Merry
Stidler sittin' wedged in between the two, like the ham in a lunch
counter sandwich, was most too much for me. I swallows a drink of
water and chokes over it.
I expect Merry caught on too. I'd never seen him so fussed before.
He's makin' a brave stab at bein' chatty; but I can tell he's doin' it
all on his nerve. He glances first to the right, and then turns quick
to the left; but on both sides he's hemmed in by them two human
mountains.
They wa'n't such bad lookers, either. They has good complexions, kind
of pleasant eyes, and calm, comf'table ways. But there was so much of
'em! Honest, when they both leans toward him at once I held my breath,
expectin' to see him squeezed out like a piece of lead pipe run through
a rollin' machine.
Nothin' tragic like that happens, though. They don't even crowd him
into the soup. But it's an odd sort of a meal, with J. Meredith and
the Hibbs sisters doin' a draggy three-handed dialogue, while me and
Aunty holds down the side lines. And nothin' that's said or done gets
away from them narrow-set eyes, believe me!
Looked like something wa'n't goin' just like she'd planned; for the
glances she shoots across the table get sharper and sourer, and
finally, when the roast is brought in, she whispers to the butler, and
the next thing J. Meredith knows, as he glances up from his carvin', he
sees James uncorkin' a bottle of fizz. Merry almost drops his fork and
gawps at Aunty sort of dazed.
"Meredith," says she, snappy, "go on with your carving! Young man, I
suppose you don't take wine?"
"N-n-no, Ma'am," says I, watchin' her turn my glass down. I might have
chanced a sip or two, at that; but Aunty has different ideas.
I notice that J. Meredith seems to shy at the bubbly stuff, as if he
was lettin' on he hated it. He makes a bluff or two; but all he does
is wet his lips. At that Aunty gives a snort.
"Meredith," says she, hoistin' her hollow-stemmed glass sporty, "to our
guests!"
"Ah, to be sure," says Merry, and puts his nose into the sparkles in
dead earnest.
Somehow the table chat livens up a lot soon after that. It was one of
the Miss Hibbs askin' him something about life abroad that starts Merry
off. He begins tellin' about Budapest and Vienna and a lot more of
them guidebook spots, and how comf'table you can live there, and the
music, and the cafes, and the sights, gettin' real enthusiastic over
it, until one of the sisters breaks in with:
"Think of that, Pansy! If we could only do such things!"
"But why not?" says Merry.
"Two women alone?" says a Miss Hibbs.
"True," says J. Meredith. "One needs an escort."
"Ah-h-h-h, yes!" sighs Violet.
"Ah-h-h, yes!" echoes Pansy.
"James," puts in Aunty just then, "fill Mr. Stidler's glass."
Merry wa'n't shyin' it any more. He insists on clickin' rims with the
Hibbs sisters, and they does it real kittenish. Merry stops in the
middle of his salad to unload that old one about the Irishman that the
doctor tried to throw a scare into by tellin' him if he didn't quit the
booze he'd go blind within three months. You know--when Mike comes
back with, "Well, I'm an old man, and I'm thinkin' I've seen most
everything worth while." Pansy and Violet shook until their chairs
creaked, and one of 'em near swallows her napkin tryin' to stop the
chuckles.
In all the time I've known J. Meredith I'd never heard him try to
spring anything comic before; but havin' made such a hit with this one
he follows with others, robbin' the almanac regardless.
"Oh, you deliciously funny man!" gasps Pansy, tappin' him playful on
the shoulder.
Course, it wa'n't any cabaret high jinks, you understand. Meredith was
just limbered up a little. In the parlor afterwards while we was
havin' coffee he strings off quite a fancy line of repartee, fin'lly
allowin' himself to be pushed up to the piano, where he ripples through
a few things from Bach and Beethoven and Percy Moore. It's near eleven
o'clock when the Hibbs sisters get their wraps on and Merry starts to
walk home with 'em.
"You might wait for me, Torchy," says he, pausin' at the door.
"Nonsense!" says Aunt Emma Jane.
"Time young people were in bed. Good night, young man."
There don't seem to be any chance for a debate on the subject; so I
goes up to my room. But it's a peach of a night, warm and moony; so
after I turns out the light I camps down on the windowseat and gazes
out over the shrubby towards the water. I could see the top of the
Hibbs house and a little wharf down on the shore.
I don't know whether it was the moonlight or the coffee; but I didn't
feel any more like bed than I did like breakfast. Pretty soon I hears
Merry come tiptoein' in and open his door, which was next to mine. I
was goin' to hail him and give him a little josh about disposin' of the
sisters so quick; but I didn't hear him stirrin' around any more until
a few minutes later, when it sounds as if he'd tiptoed downstairs
again. But I wasn't sure. Nothin' doin' for some time after that.
And you know how quiet the country can be on a still, moonshiny night.
I was gettin' dopy from it, and was startin' to shed my collar and tie,
when off from a distance, somewhere out in the night, music breaks
loose. I couldn't tell whether it was a cornet or a trombone; but it's
something like that. Seems to come from down along the waterfront.
And, say, it sounds kind of weird, hearin' it at night that way. Took
me sometime to place the tune; but I fin'lly makes it out as that good
old mush favorite, "O Promise Me." It was bein' well done too, with
long quavers on the high notes and the low ones comin' out round and
deep. Honest, that was some playin'. I was wide awake once more,
leanin' out over the sill and takin' it all in, when a window on the
floor below goes up and out bobs a white head. It's Aunty. She looks
up and spots me too.
"Quite some concert, eh?" says I.
"Is that you, young man?" says she.
"Uh-huh," says I. "Just takin' in the music."
"Humph!" says she. "I believe it's that fool nephew of mine."
"Not Merry?" says I.
"It must be," says she. "And goodness knows why he's out making an
idiot of himself at this time of night! He'll arouse the whole
neighbourhood."
"Why, I was just thinkin' how classy it was," says I.
"Bah!" says Aunty. "A lot you know about it. Are you dressed, young
man?"
I admits that I am.
"Then I wish you'd go down there and see if it is Merry," says she.
"If it is, tell him I say to come home and go to bed."
"And if it ain't?" says I.
"Go along and see," says she.
I begun to be sorry for Merry. I'd rather pay board than live with a
disposition like that. Down I pikes, out the front door and back
through the shrubby. Meantime the musician has finished "Promise Me"
and has switched to "Annie Laurie." It's easy enough to get the
gen'ral direction the sound comes from; but I couldn't place it exact.
First off I thought it must be from a little summer house down by the
shore; but it wa'n't. I couldn't see anyone around the grounds. Out
on the far end of the Hibbs's wharf, though, there was somethin' dark.
And a swell time I had too, buttin' my way through a five-foot hedge
and landin' in a veg'table garden. But I wades through tomatoes and
lettuce until I strikes a gravel path, and in a couple of minutes I'm
out on the dock just as the soloist is hittin' up "Believe Me, if All
Those Endearing Young Charms." Aunty had the correct dope. It's
Merry, all right. The first glimpse he gets of me he starts guilty and
tries to hide the cornet under the tails of his dress coat.
"No use, Merry," says I. "You're pinched with the poultry."
"Wha-a-at!" says he. "Oh, it's you, is it, Torchy? Please--please
don't mention this to my aunt."
"She beat me to it," says I. "It was her sent me out after you with a
stop order. She says for you to chop the nocturne and go back to the
hay."
"But how did she---- Oh, dear!" he sighs. "It was all her fault,
anyway."
"I don't follow you," says I. "But what was it, a serenade?"
"Goodness, no!" gasps J. Meredith. "Who suggested that?"
"Why, it has all the earmarks of one," says I. "What else would you be
doin', out playin' the cornet by moonlight on the dock, if you wa'n't
serenadin' someone?"
"But I wasn't, truly," he protests. "It--it was the champagne, you
know."
"Eh?" says I. "You don't mean to say you got stewed? Not on a couple
of glasses!"
"Well, not exactly," says he. "But I can't take wine. I hardly ever
do. It--it goes to my head always. And tonight--well, I couldn't
decline. You saw. Then afterward--oh, I felt so buoyant, so full of
life, that I couldn't go to sleep. I simply had to do something to let
off steam. I wanted to play the cornet. So I came out here, as far
away from anyone as I could get."
"Too thin, Merry," says I. "That might pass with me; but with
strangers you'd get the laugh."
"But it's true," he goes on. "And I didn't dream anyone could hear me
from here."
"Why, you boob," says I, "they could hear you a mile off!"
"Really?" says he. "But you don't suppose Vio--I mean, the Misses
Hibbs could hear, do you?"
"Unless it's their habit to putty up their ears at night," says I.
"But--but what will they think?" he gasps breathless.
"That they're bein' serenaded by some admirin' friend," says I.
"What's your guess?"
"Oh--oh!" says Merry, slumpin' down on a settee. "I--I had not thought
of that."
"Ah, buck up!" say I. "Maybe you can fake an alibi in the mornin'.
Anyway, you can't spend the night here. You got to report to Aunty."
He lets out another groan, and then gets on his feet. "There's a path
through the bushes along here somewhere," says he.
"No more cross country work in full dress clothes for me," says I.
"We'll sneak down the Hibbs's drive where the goin's easy."
We was doin' it real sleuthy too, keepin' on the lawn and dodgin' from
shadow to shadow, when just as we're passin' the house Merry has to
stub his toe and drop his blamed cornet with a bang.
Then out from a second story window floats a voice: "Who is that,
please?"
Merry nudges me in the ribs. "Tell them it's you," he whispers.
"Why, it's--it's me--Torchy," says I reluctant.
"Oh! Ah!" says a couple of voices in chorus. Then one of 'em goes on,
"The young man who is visiting dear Meredith?"
"Yep," says I. "Same one."
"But it wasn't you playing the cornet so beautifully, was it?" comes
coaxin' from the window.
"Tell them yes," whispers Merry, nudgin' violent.
"Gwan!" I whispers back. "I'm in bad enough as it is." With that I
speaks up before he can stop me, "Not much!" says I. "That was dear
Meredith himself."
"Oh-oh!" says the voices together. Then there's whisperin' between
'em. One seems urgin' the other on to something, and at last it comes
out. "Young man," says the voice, smooth and persuadin', "please tell
us who--that is--which one of us was the serenade intended for?"
This brings the deepest groan of all from J. Meredith.
"Come on, now," says I, hoarse and low in his ear. "It's up to you.
Which?"
"Oh, really," he whispers back, "I--I can't!"
"You got to, and quick," says I. "Come now, was it Pansy?"
"No, no!" says he, gaspy.
"Huh!" says I. "Then Violet gets the decision." And I holds him off
by main strength while I calls out, "Why, ain't you on yet? It was for
Violet, of course."
"Ah-h-h-h! Thank you. Good night," comes a voice--no chorus this
time: just one--and the window is shut.
"There you are, Merry," says I. "It's all over. You're as good as
booked for life."
He was game about it, though, Merry was. He squares it with Aunty
before goin' to bed, and right after breakfast next mornin' he marches
over to the Hibbses real business-like. Half an hour later I saw him
strollin' out on the wharf with one of the big sisters, and I knew it
must be Violet. It was his busy day; so I says nothin' to anybody, but
fades.
And you should have seen the jaunty, beamin' J. Meredith that swings
into the Corrugated Monday mornin'. He stops at the gate to give me a
fraternal grip.
"It's all right, Torchy," says he. "She--she'll have me--Violet, you
know. And we are to live abroad. We sail in less than a month."
"But what about Pansy?" says I.
"Oh, she's coming with us, of course," says he. "Really, they're both
charming girls."
"Huh!" says I. "That's where you were when I found you. You're past
that point, remember."
"Yes, I know," says he. "It was you helped me too, and I wish in some
way I could show my----"
"You can," says I. "Leave me the cornet. I might need it some day
myself."