"Mr. Sklarz presents his compliments," said the waiter, smiling.
"Who's Sklarz?" Anderson asked, helping himself to a cigar. The waiter
indicated the red-faced little man. "Him," he whispered.
We continued our meal. Both of us watched Mr. Sklarz casually. He seemed
to have lost interest in his soup. He sat beaming happily at the walls, a
contagious elation about him. We smiled and nodded our thanks for the
cigars. Whereupon after a short lapse, the waiter appeared again.
"What'll you have to drink, gentlemen?" the waiter inquired.
"Nothing," said Anderson, knowing I was broke. The waiter raised his
continental eyebrows understandingly.
"Mr. Sklarz invites you, gentlemen, to drink his health--at his expense."
"Two glasses," Anderson ordered. They were brought. We raised them in
silent toast to the little red-faced man. He arose and bowed as we drank.
"We'll probably have him on our hands now for an hour," Anderson frowned.
I feared the same. But Mr. Sklarz reseated himself and, with many head
bowings in our direction, returned to his soup.
"What do you make of our magnanimous friend?" I asked. Anderson shrugged
his shoulders.
"He's probably celebrating something," he said. "A queer old boy, isn't
he?"
* * * * *
The waiter appeared a third time.
"What'll it be, gentlemen?" he inquired, smiling. "Mr. Sklarz is buying
for the house."
For the house. There were some fifteen men eating in the place. Then our
friend, despite his unassuming appearance, was evidently a creature of
wealth! Well, this was growing interesting. We ordered wine again.
"Ask Mr. Sklarz if he will favor us by joining us at our table for this
drink," I told the waiter. The message was delivered. Mr. Sklarz arose and
bowed, but sat down again. Anderson and I beckoned in pantomime. Mr.
Sklarz arose once more, bowed and hesitated. Then he came over.
As he approached a veritable carnival spirit seemed to deepen around us.
The face of this little man with the elaborate black mustache was violent
with suppressed good will and mirth. He beamed, bowed, shook hands and sat
down. We drank one another's health and, as politely as we could, pressed
him to tell us the cause for his celebration and good spirits. He began to
talk.
He was a Russian Jew. His name was Sklarz. He had been in the Russian army
years ago. In Persia. From a mountain in Persia you could see three great
countries. In Turkey he had fought with baggy-trousered soldiers and at
night joined them when they played their flutes outside the coffee-houses
and sang songs about women and war. Then he had come to America and opened
a box factory. He was very prosperous and the factory in which he made
boxes grew too small.
So what did he do but take a walk one day to look for a larger factory.
And he found a beautiful building just as he wanted. But the building was
too beautiful to use for a factory. It should be used for something much
nicer. So what did he do then but decide to open a dance-hall, a
magnificent dance-hall, where young men and women of refined, fun-loving
temperaments could come to dance and have fun.
* * * * *
"When does this dance-hall open?" Anderson asked. Ah, in a little while.
There were fittings to buy and put up first. But he would send us special
invitations to the opening. In the meantime would we drink his health
again? Mr. Sklarz chuckled. The amazing thing was that he wasn't drunk. He
was sober.
"So you're celebrating," I said. Yes, he was celebrating. He laughed and
leaned over the table toward us. His eyes danced and his elaborate
mustache made a grotesque halo for his smile. He didn't want to intrude on
us with his story, but in Persia and Turkey and the Urals he had found
life very nice. And here in Chicago he had found life also very nice. Life
was very nice wherever you went. And Anderson quoted, rather imperfectly,
I thought:
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly
In the house of Idah Dally;
There were always throats to sing
Down the river bank with spring.
Mr. Sklarz beamed.
"Yes, yes," he said, "down the river benk mit spring." And he stood up and
bowed and summoned the waiter. "See vat all the gentlemen vant," he
ordered, "and give them vat they vant mit my compliments." He laughed, or,
rather, chuckled. "I must be going. Excuse me," he exclaimed with a quick
little bow. "I have other places to call on. Good-by. Remember me--Sam
Sklarz. Be good--and don't forget Sam Sklarz when there are throats to
zing down the river benk mit spring."
We watched him walk out. His shoulders seemed to dance, his short legs
moved with a sprightly lift.
"A queer old boy," said Anderson. We talked about him for a half hour and
then left the place.
* * * * *
Anderson called me up the next morning to ask if I had read about it in
the paper. I told him I had. A clipping on the desk in front of me ran:
"Sam Sklarz, 46 years old and owner of a box factory on the West Side,
committed suicide early this morning by jumping into the drainage canal.
Financial reverses are believed to have caused him to end his life.
According to friends he was on the verge of bankruptcy. His liabilities
were $8,000. Yesterday morning Sklarz cashed a check for $700, which
represented the remains of his bank account, and disappeared. It is
believed that he used the money to pay a few personal debts and then
wandered around in a daze until the end. He left no word of explanation
behind."