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PEEPS AT PEOPLE
ROBERT CORTES HOLLIDAY
PEEPS AT PEOPLE
BY
ROBERT CORTES HOLLIDAY
AUTHOR OF "WALKING-STICK PAPERS," "BOOTH
TARKINGTON," "JOYCE KILMER: A
MEMOIR," "BROOME STREET
STRAWS," ETC.
WITH PICTURES BY
WALTER JACK DUNCAN
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
_Copyright, 1919,
By George H. Doran Company_
_Printed in the United States of America_
I WROTE A BOOK SOME TIME AGO WHICH WAS DEDICATED TO "THREE FINE
MEN." THIS IS A SMALLER BOOK. THEREFORE, I DEDICATE IT TO TWO FINE
MEN:
EUGENE F. SAXTON CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
[Illustration]
These little what-you-call-'ems, with the exception of the opening
one and the concluding ones, all appeared originally in the
Saturday Magazine of the New York _Evening Post_. They are
reprinted here by the courtesy of the editors of that otherwise
estimable newspaper. For permission to reprint the opening paper
_The Bookman_ is to blame.
CONTENTS
PAGE
EVEN SO! OR, AS YOU MAY SAY, A PREFACE 13
I THE FORGETFUL TAILOR 19
II TALK AT THE POST OFFICE 23
III AS TO OFFICE BOYS 28
IV A CONQUEROR'S ATTACK 32
V THE CASE OF MR. WOOLEN 36
VI WHEN THE TRAIN COMES IN 41
VII AN OLD FOGY 44
VIII HAIR THAT IS SCENERY 47
IX A NICE MAN 50
X NO SNOB 53
XI EVERY INCH A MAN 59
XII HIS BUSINESS IS GOOD 65
XIII A NICE TASTE IN MURDERS 71
XIV IDA'S AMAZING SURPRISE 74
XV NOT GULLIBLE, NOT HE 77
XVI CRAMIS, PATRON OF ART 81
XVII BARBER SHOPS AWESOME 85
XVIII MUCH MARRIED STRATFORD 88
XIX A HUMAN CASH REGISTER 92
XX IT STANDS TO REASON 94
XXI A THREE-RINGED CIRCUS 96
XXII SNAPSHOTS IN X-RAY 100
XXIII BACHELOR REMINISCENCES 103
XXIV A TESTIMONIAL 107
XXV FRAGRANT WITH PERFUME 110
XXVI WOULDN'T LOOK AT HIM 112
XXVII CONNUBIAL FELICITY 114
XXVIII A FRIEND, INDEED 116
PEEPS AT PEOPLE
EVEN SO! OR, AS YOU MAY SAY, A PREFACE
I knew a man who used to do some writing, more or less of it--articles
and essays and little sketches and things like that--and he went to
another man who was a publisher. (I know all of this because it was told
to me not long ago at a club.) And he said (the first man) that he would
like to have published a book of some of his pieces. He hadn't done
much, if any, writing for a number of years. Matters had been going
rather bad with him, and he had lost more than a little of his buoyancy.
The spark had waned; in fact, it was not there. (This he did not say,
but so the matter was.)
Anyhow, he did say that this collection of material had about it the
rich glow of his prime, that it was living with the fullness of his
life, that as a contributor to these papers and magazines he had (or
had had) a personal following decent enough in size, that the book, by
all reasoning, ought to go far, and so on. The volume was published. It
was called--no, I have forgotten what it was called. However, I heard
that it got a very fair press, and sold somewhat.
Then, in about a year or so, round came the man again to the publisher
with another batch of little papers. He had aged perceptively within
this time, and matters had been going with him rather worse than before.
No, he hadn't been able to write anything lately. (For a moment a
haunted look crossed his face, a look as though in some sad hidden
secret he had been discovered.) But (brightening up again) here he had a
better book than before; it was a much better book than before, as it
was an earlier one. These things breathed the gusto of his young
manhood. They were perhaps a bit miscellaneous in character, he had got
them out of the files of various journals, but they had a verve, a fire,
a flare for life, which he couldn't better now. A great deal more he
said to this effect.
Times, however, change (as has frequently been observed). What is sauce
for the goose is _not_ always sauce for the gander. That is to say,
other days other ways. I do not know that I gathered (that evening at
the club) what was the upshot of the matter in this instance between the
man of whom I am speaking and the publisher. But it is to be feared that
time had blown upon those things of his of other days as it had upon the
temple of his soul and its inhabitant.
Well (so the story goes), the world went forward at a dizzy rate. There
was flame and sword. Ministries rose and fell. Dynasties passed away.
Customs handed down from antiquity, and honored among the ancients, were
obliterated by mandate and statute. And man wrought things of many sorts
in new ways.
On a Friday at about half past two (a pleasant day it was, in the
Spring, with new buds coming out in the parks and a new generation of
children all about) again in came our old friend to see his friend the
publisher. Well, well, and how was he now, and what was new with him?
Why, a rotten bad run of cards had been his ever since he had been round
before: rheumatism and influenza, dentist and oculist, wife down and
brother dead, nothing much accomplished. He sat for a moment and there
was no light in him. No (you saw it now, quite), he was a lamp without
oil.
He undid the package containing his manuscript. Here was a book (those
yellow clippings), well, here was a book! This was a _younger_ book than
either of his others. On it was the gleaming dew of his youth. Perhaps a
little scrappy, very brief, and, many of them, rather unequal in
length--these things; and very light. Ah, that was the point, that was
the point! The lightness, the freshness, the spontaneity, the gaiety of
the springtime of life! One could not recapture that. It would be
impossible, quite impossible, for him now to write such things as these.
He did not now think the same way, feel, see the same way, work--the
same way. No, no; there comes a hardening of the spiritual and
intellectual arteries. This was a _younger_ book, a _younger_ book (and
as he leaned forward with finger raised, a light, for an instant,
flickered again in his eye) than any of his others.
* * * * *
There was a man at that club when this story was told who remarked: "It
is said (is it not?) that Swift, re-reading 'Gulliver' many years after
it was written, exclaimed: 'My God, what a genius I had at that time!'"
And another man there at the time reminded us of the place somewhere in
the books of George Moore where it is observed that "anybody can have
talent at twenty, the thing is to have talent at fifty."
R. C. H.
_New York,_ 1919.
I
THE FORGETFUL TAILOR
[Illustration]
He is a tailor. His shop is down at the corner. When trousers are left
with him to be pressed and to have suspender buttons sewed on he is
always obligingly willing to promise them by the morrow; or if you are
in somewhat of a hurry he will promise that the job shall be done this
very night. He is the politest and most obliging of men. He will send
those trousers up by a boy directly. He is such a cheerful man.
After the time for those trousers to appear has long gone by and no boy
has arrived, it is possible that you may work yourself into a passion.
You clap your hat upon your head, storm out of the house, and stride
toward that tailor shop. You become a little cooled by the evening air,
and you begin to wonder if you have not been a trifle hasty. Perhaps you
yourself made some mistake concerning your address; things very similar
have happened before now, when you have laid the blame upon another and
eventually realized that the fault was your own. It would never do to
place yourself in such a position with this tailor--a comparative
stranger to you. So you will not become abusive to him until you
discover who is in the wrong.
But if the fault is his, mind you, he shall learn your character; you
are not a man to be trifled with. This fellow can have no sense of
business, or anything else, you think. This shall be the last work he
will ever get from you. Such a man should not have a business. You will
speak to your friends about this; it will run him out of the
neighborhood.
You have been walking rapidly and are tolerably heated again. You arrive
at the shop expecting to find the tailor on the defensive, with some
inane excuse prepared. But you have resolved that it won't go down. You
are considerably surprised, therefore, to discover the tailor seated,
comfortably reading a newspaper, by a genial fire. He glances up at you
as you open the door. His face is without expression at first. Then he
recollects you, and your business flashes upon him. He smiles
good-naturedly, then bursts into a hearty laugh. Well, of all things, if
he hasn't forgotten all about those trousers until this very minute!
It's such a joke, apparently, such a ridiculous situation. He so enters
into the spirit of the thing and enjoys it so that you have not the
heart to rebuke him. You even begin to appreciate the circumstance
yourself.
It is so warm in the tailor-shop and the tailor is so jolly you become
almost jovial. The tailor promises to send those trousers around the
first thing in the morning. He would promise to have them ready for you
in ten minutes if you so desired. Upon leaving, you are tempted to
invite the tailor out to have a cigar with you. He is so droll, such a
felicitous chap, such a funny dog, that forgetful tailor.
In the morning those trousers have not shown up. You pass the tailor
shop on your way downtown. The tailor is standing in his doorway,
smoking a cigar and looking altogether very bright and cheerful. When
he sees you his face becomes still brighter; he apparently becomes
brighter all over, in fact; and his eyes twinkle merrily. "Well! well!"
he laughs, and slaps his thighs. He is the most forgetful man. He hardly
knows what will become of him.
II
TALK AT THE POST OFFICE
[Illustration]
The attention of a little group within the dusk of the post office and
general store was, apparently, still colored by an event which mutilated
posters on a dilapidated wagon-shed wall, visible through the doorway in
the hot light outside, had advertised. A "Wild Bill" show had lately
moved through this part of the world. A large, loosely-constructed,
earnest-looking man was speaking to several others, seriously, taking
his time, allowing his words time to sink well in as he proceeded.
"Now I have a brother," he was saying, "who I can produce," he added
impressively (one realizes that it would be hard to get around this
sort of evidence)--"who I can produce, who will take bullet
cartridges--Buffalo Bill don't use bullet cartridges--Annie Oakley don't
use bullet cartridges--and who will sit right here in this chair--sit
right here in this chair where I am now--and show you," he nodded once
to each listener, "something about shootin'," concluding, one who
reports him felt, somewhat more vaguely than his start had led one to
expect.
[Illustration]
"Well, Pawnee," began another of the group (from which sobriquet it will
be seen that the large man was a personage in matters of shooting), but
Pawnee stopped him. It seems he had not finished.
"And if there is anybody that would like to shoot _shot_ with the _Old
Man_," he continued, breathing the two last words loud and strong,
"_I_," said Pawnee, with extreme emphasis on the personal pronoun,
"would like to see them, that's all!"
An odd figure a trifle removed from the group had attracted the notice
of one reporting these proceedings, by a propensity which he evinced,
perceived by a kind of mental telepathy, to have some remarks directed
to him. One felt all through one, so to speak, the near presence of a
disposition eminently social. As one's sight became more accustomed to
the interior light this figure defined itself into that of an elderly
man, somewhat angular, slightly stooped, and wearing a ministerial sort
of straw hat, with a large rolling brim, considerably frayed; a man very
kindly in effect, and suggesting to a contemplative observer of humanity
a character whose walk in life is cutting grass for people.
This gentleman (there was something very gentlemanly about him, not in
haberdashery, but, as one read him, in spirit) showed, as was said, a
decided inclination to, as less gentlemanly folks say, "butt in."
"Here is a thing now," spoke up this old fellow, looking up from his
newspaper, over his iron-rimmed spectacles in a more determined manner
than heretofore, at one who reports him, and speaking in that tone in
which it is the habit of genial men traveling in railroad trains to open
a conversation with their seat-fellow for the journey, "that draws my
attention." In the racing term, he was "off."
"You know there is a strict law against swearing over the telephone," he
paused for acquiescence. "Well, there _is_," he stated, very seriously,
drawing a little nearer as the acquaintance got on--"a strict law. Now
they say they can't stop it. It's a queer thing they can't stop it. They
know who's at the other end; or at least they know who owns the 'phone.
They know that. A fine of fifty dollars," he declared, "would stop it."
It strikes one that this kindly character is almost ferocious on the
side of morality.
"Now," he continued, "there is no use in that. Say what you have to say,
that's all that's necessary. What's the good of all those
ad-_ject_-ives?" He pronounced the last word in three syllables with a
very decided accent on the second. "That is done, now," he concluded,
"by people who are, well--abrupt. Ain't that right, now? It's abrupt,
that's what it is; it's abrupt.
"Most assuredly," he said, answering himself.
III
AS TO OFFICE BOYS
[Illustration]
Mr. MacCrary is in the real estate business. It is incident to Mr.
MacCrary's business that he has to employ an office boy. This position
as factotum in the office of Mr. MacCrary is subject to much
vicissitude.
The first of the interesting line of boys successively employed by Mr.
MacCrary was an office boy by profession; by natural talent and
inclination he was a liar. He was a gifted liar, a brilliant and a
versatile liar; a liar of resource, of imagination. He was a liar of
something very near to genius. He lied for the love of lying. With him a
lie was a thing of art. An artist for art's sake, he, and for art's
sake alone. Like an amateur in short, a distinguished amateur, who is
too proud to sell his lies, but willingly gives one away, now and then
to some highly valued and much admiring friend. This boy would start
with a little lie, then, as he progressed in his story, the wonderful
possibilities of the thing would open up before him; he would grasp them
and contort them, twist them into shape, and produce, create, a thing
magnificent, stupendous, a thing which fairly made one gasp. He, a mere
boy! It was wonderful.
On the last day he came into the office and said: "Runaway down the
street, Mr. MacCrary."
"Is that so?" said Mr. MacCrary.
"Yes," said the boy, "ran over a woman, killed her dead."
"You don't say!" exclaimed Mr. MacCrary.
"I should say so," said the boy; "killed the baby in her arms, too."
"What!" cried Mr. MacCrary, "did she have a baby in her arms?"
"And that ain't all," continued the boy, "ran on down the street and
into a trolley car."
"And killed all the passengers!" exclaimed Mr. MacCrary.
"And the conductor," added the boy, "broke all the horse's legs, smashed
the wagon, driver went insane from scare. They're shootin' the horse
now," said the boy.
Mr. MacCrary dismissed this boy that he might find a sphere more suited
to his ability than the real estate business, which, to tell the truth,
was evidently a little bourgeoise for his genius.
The next boy was not particularly gifted in any direction, but he was
mysterious. Upon a client's coming into the office during Mr. MacCrary's
absence he, the client, was sure to be impressed by two circumstances:
First, that there was no one in the office until he entered; secondly,
that the boy had strangely appeared from nowhere in particular, and was
following in close upon his heels. This consistently illustrates the
whole course of this boy's conduct throughout the time he remained with
Mr. MacCrary.
The third boy, that is the present one, is not exactly mysterious, but
he is peculiar. He attends strictly to his own business. He believes
himself to be here for that purpose, apparently. He does not meddle
with Mr. MacCrary's business. That is no concern of his. He is imbued
with the good old adage: "If you want a thing well done, do it
yourself." He follows this excellent principle himself, and believes
others should do likewise. This boy is very sapient, and a wonderful
student. His nature is more receptive than creative. He procures heavy
sheep-skin-bound volumes from the circulating library, and his taste in
literature, for one of his age, is unique. These books generally relate
to primitive man, and contain exciting engravings of his stone hatchets
and cooking utensils. He is also fond of perusing horticulture journals,
these being the only magazines which he enjoys. When the first of these
appeared about the office, Mr. MacCrary picked up one and inquired:
"What is this, James?"
"Oh!" exclaimed James, "there's some fine pictures of berries in there."
James is too scholarly for real estate, and will soon, no doubt, follow
in the way of his earlier predecessor to the intellectual life.
IV
A CONQUEROR'S ATTACK
[Illustration]
On the post-office store porch an old brindled Dane dog, town loafer,
was asleep on his back. Chickens wallowed in the road. A baby crawled
from behind a barrel at the post-office store door. A quorum was met on
the hotel porch across the way. The butcher and the cobbler came forth
from dove-cot shops to pass the time of day. The villagers come in ones
and twos to get their mail. One, a fair, freckled milk-maid, as it would
seem, from some old story, stands on the sidewalk path, waiting for the
mail to be "sorted." A willowy lass, one would say a "summer boarder,"
pokes her parasol musingly through a knot-hole in the porch floor. The
shop next door is a "dry goods and notions" store; butter and peaches
and cherries and roses and cream in the shape of a feminine clerk leans
beneath the low lintel, and, one can guess, like the old dog, dreams.
The one of brave days of the past, perchance; the other, perchance, of
conquests to come.
A fat fly buzzes leisurely about the door, then suddenly takes a
straight line a considerable distance down the straggling street,
pauses, circles about, returns, now through the early sunshine, now
through the shadow of a venerable tree, back to the shelter of the
porch, hums around again, poises absolutely stationary, tacks away
another time over the same course, and returns as before.
Suddenly appearing, briskly advancing upon the scene, walking rapidly up
from the direction of the railroad station, scintillating punctuality,
dispatch, succinctness, assurance, commercial agility, comes an
apparition from, without manner of doubt, the hurrying ways, the
collision of the busy marts of men. The chickens scatter from the road,
making for picketless gaps in the picket fence; the old dog opens an eye
and limply raises a limb; and the rapid, confident "traveling man" (it
can be none but he), resplendent in the very latest "gent's furnishing,"
with a neat grip and a bundle of what apparently are rolled calendars,
springs nimbly upon the porch of the Chappaqua general store. Genial,
pushing, the hurrying "good fellow," though sociability is his bent as
well as business, he has not much time. It evidently is his habit to
snatch a brief moment of pleasant acquaintanceship as he passes. As to
this, he has as quick an eye for the sex as for commerce, and, as will
be seen, as successful a manner with them as in the other.
"Attacking," said another conqueror, Barry Lyndon, "is the only secret.
That is my way of fascinating women." Quickly, as with a practiced eye,
this gallant looks over the ground. Chappaqua apparently is rich in
human flowers. A man of poorer mettle would be satisfied with one. That
is not the way with your conquerors. Smugly, flashingly, he thrusts his
grinning, big-prowed countenance forward, and with one killing glance
that fair, freckled milk-maid is undone. So much for number one. Quick
as a terrier that leaps from rat to rat, and with a single brilliant
crunch breaks each rodent's back, our high-stepping man leaps his
glance upon the dreaming butter and peaches and cream; her rich lashes
fall, but she does not frown. No; she does not frown. But be bold
enough, and you will not fail.
He has stepped through the doorway, set his grip down. Brightly he turns
and does for the summer boarder. She springs open her parasol before her
pleased confusion, and retreats, very slowly. He has turned to business;
whips out his watch, snaps it shut, replaces it, unrolls a calendar. He
"makes" the next town in so many hours.
V
THE CASE OF MR. WOOLEN
They stopped at a bright little house with a neat little grass plot
before it, fronting on the railroad. A border of very white,
white-washed stones led up each side of the little path to the little
porch before the door. On the porch, in the shade of the neat, screening
vines, sat an old fellow, a stranger to them. "Is Mrs. Woolen at home?"
one of the two inquired politely, as he thought. But this manner of
putting the matter, it appeared, was not happy, for it was taken by the
old fellow as implying that Mrs. Woolen was thought to be the one there
superior in authority. He eyed the couple before him a moment as if in
doubt whether to pay any attention to them; then, tapping himself on the
chest, "_I_ am Mrs. Woolen," he said sternly. As this was unmistakenly a
manner of saying, "You may state your business here if you have any,"
one come for the washing humbly put the case in words as well chosen as
possible. The old fellow was mollified; he had merely desired
recognition, that was all. Mrs. Woolen was not at home; "the woman," he
said, had gone "to Quarterly Meetin' over at the Quaker Church." But it
was "all right," he said, which was understood to mean that the washing
was ready here.
"You'll find that washing first-class," said Mr. Woolen. "There's
nothing crooked about her; she's a good, honest woman."
[Illustration]
Asked concerning when Mrs. Woolen would be likely to return, Mr. Woolen
replied in a very business-like manner, "Six o'clock, six o'clock sharp
this evening."
"Not till six o'clock?" He was asked when she had departed.
"Eight o'clock, eight o'clock this morning," he said. He then furnished
the information that Quarterly Meeting lasted several days, and that
Mrs. Woolen was on deck, to put it so, throughout.
From this point Mr. Woolen drifted into personal reminiscence of the
surrender at Appomattox, in proof of his having been present at which,
without his assertion having been questioned, he rather defiantly
offered to exhibit "the papers," as he called them, which he said were
"right there framed in the parlor." Though Mr. Woolen had been on the
conquering side at the historic surrender, he rather suggested the idea
of his having surrendered, in a more personal and figurative sense, at
about that time also; that is to say, he did not impress one as having,
for an able-bodied man, put up a very good fight since.
He was recalled to the matter of the washing, and, rising, led the way
into the house to procure it. But directly the party had entered, Mr.
Woolen fell back, obviously in amazement, upon the toes of those
following him. He cried that it was "gone!"
"It was right there on that chair," he said, "in the corner. There's
where she left it this morning. There's where she left it. Done up it
was in newspaper. She said to me, 'There it is; now don't you let that
go out of the house until you get your money for it.' That's what she
said."
He was prevailed on to make a search through the house, though he
contended obstinately that it was right there in the corner, and no
other place, that that which they were seeking had been "left." He
almost offered the presence there of the chair as evidence. A search of
the house, however, was not exhausting nor impracticable, as there were
but two rooms to it, these very snug, no closets, and an economy of
furniture behind which the bundle might be.
Mr. Woolen's perturbation was too genuine for suspicion of his having
made away with the package. But this very honesty of emotion, in
conjunction with the circumstance of the absence of the washing, and
divers indications in breath and manner, noticeable from the first,
aided in making out a case against him. A jury would reasonably have
inferred that Mr. Woolen had a frailty, known and provided against by
his wife, that, specifically, he had a weakness which, though not
uncommonly associated with the most amiable characters, is not
compatible with being left to receive money for washing.
Mr. Woolen was decidedly provoked at the situation. "I can do a man's
work," he said, stumbling restlessly about the room, "but not a woman's.
I can lay brick, lay brick; that's my work, that's what I do, but I
can't keep the house in order." It was not to be expected of him.
Coming, in his movements, plump upon the door of the kitchen, he
disappeared through it, and could be heard going about out of view,
ostensibly still at the search, testily kicking the furniture and
mumbling concerning "her being away with a lot of her cronies."
VI
WHEN THE TRAIN COMES IN
[Illustration]
A busy railroad station is a grand child's picture-book, for him who
observes it. All the child has to do is to look; the leaves are turned
before him. There, in all the colors of the rainbow, are countless
pictures to cram himself with. And what is a rather curious fact is,
that a railroad station may freely be classed among humorous
picture-books. Other picture-books, such as church, theater, Broadway,
Fifth Avenue, political meeting, ball game, and so forth, have, of
course, many funny pictures. But, whether it is that almost all absurd
people constantly travel, and those with no touch of the motley do but
seldom, or whether, as here, nothing else goes forward seriously to
occupy the attention, one's mind is left more free to be struck by the
ridiculousness of all mankind, so it is that perhaps as humorous a place
as one may find is a busy railroad station. And one must be very blase
who no longer feels an enjoyable stimulation at the approach of an
expected train at the station.
The psychology of the arrival of a railroad train at the station belongs
to the proper study of mankind, and could be made into an interesting
little monograph. As the train becomes due one feels but half a mind on
the conversation, supposing one to be conversing; the other half is
waiting for the train. One has, too, a feeling, faint at first, looming
stronger within one, against continuing to sit quietly inside (supposing
one to have gone within), where one is. An impelling to go see if the
train is not coming numbs one's brain. A like contagious restlessness
breathes through the waiting-room. People begin to stand up by their
grips. Some go without on the search. They can be seen through the doors
and windows, pacing the platform; they return, some of them, and one
scans their expressions eagerly--they are discouragingly blank. After a
bit, they go out again, or others do, and return as before; wholly
unfitted now, one can see, for any concentration of thought.
The train is late. There is an alarm or two. At last, an unmistakable
elasticity impregnates the place. A distant whistle is heard; it stirs
one like the tap of a drum. The train is coming! One's pulse beats high
as one moves into the press toward the doorway. The whistle is heard
much nearer. Then again and again! Then with a whirl that turns one a
somersault inside, a long dark, heavy mass rushes across the light
before one. When one comes again on one's feet, speaking figuratively,
the train is standing there, and one hurries aboard to get a seat. But,
first, one is stopped until arriving passengers get off.
VII
AN OLD FOGY
[Illustration]
Mr. Deats, senior, is an old fogy. There is no doubt about that. In
early life Mr. Deats, sr., had a pretty hard time. He was denied the
advantages of any particular schooling. In consequence of this, Mr.
Deats now occasionally uses very mortifying English. At an early
age--somewhere about the age of ten--he entered trade. A ridiculous
combination of adverse circumstances made it impossible for Mr. Deats to
go much into polite society. In consequence of this, he unfortunately
lacks polish. For a great number of years the world was not kind to him.
It may have been trouble that destroyed his beauty. At any rate, Mr.
Deats is not a handsome man. Not being able to do anything better, he
confined his attention to doing his duty; that is not a very brilliant
employment, it is true, but it was good enough for Mr. Deats.
In the course of time, Mr. Deats took to himself a wife; and, in the
course of time again, this wife bore Mr. Deats a son--and died
simultaneously. Well, Mr. Deats was left with a boy, and this boy must
have something to start him on in life. "How can a boy start life with
nothing?" thought Mr. Deats; and very rightly, too. One can't feed,
clothe, and educate a boy on nothing. So Mr. Deats did his duty harder
than ever; and he built up a business. Building up a business doesn't
require culture or intelligence; but it does take some time. Mr. Deats
has grown a trifle old in the building; but it is a good business. It
has been said that Mr. Deats' business is one of the best in the city.
And Mr. Deats has a fine son. After the manner of his class, Mr. Deats
believed that all the things that were denied him were the very best
things for his son. His son should not have to work as his father
did--and he doesn't.
Mr. Deats, jr., has had advantages; he is a college graduate, a member
of clubs, and one of the prominent young men of the city socially. Of
course, being much cleverer, young Deats sees many of the mistakes his
father made in life. He sees, for one thing, what an old fogy is Mr.
Deats, sr. He sees how much better the business could be run. Mr. Deats,
sr., does not know how to run a business; he is not modern enough.
Still, he thinks he knows it all--that is the way with these bull-headed
old codgers--and won't let young Deats conduct the business as it should
be conducted. This, naturally, is very irritating to young Deats. No man
enjoys seeing his own business go to rack and ruin. But the old man
can't be kicked plump out into the street. He has no home but with young
Deats. And, in a way, he is useful about the office; though even were he
not, he must be humored. After all, he is the father of young Deats, and
blood is thicker than water.
VIII
HAIR THAT IS SCENERY
[Illustration]
Mr. Wigger, Mrs. Wigger's husband (the writer boards with Mrs. Wigger),
is an iceman. It is not his business, however, with which this study is
concerned; it is with his hair. Perhaps it is a great assumption of
talent to attempt to describe Mr. Wigger's hair. Oh, Muse! as John
Milton says, lend a hand here! Mr. Wigger's abundant hair, first, is a
deep, lusterful black, and extremely curly. From his ears straight
upward to the crown of his head (from the three-quarters view of him
studied here only one full ear is visible, and just barely the tip of
the other one) an oblong block of close curls is attached to the side of
his head, like a pannier. Leftward from this, to a point directly over
the beginning of his eyebrow, a broad, bare strip extends up to a black,
undulating band of hair which marks the top of his head. Thence leftward
to the part in the middle of his head is a plot of hair like a little
black lawn, extending well down to his forehead and neatly rounded at
the corner away from the part. Now, from the part onward the hair in a
great mass sweeps upward in a towering concave wave, the high ridge of
which, though it folds ever slightly inward, culminates at the top in a
sharp, soaring point. Over the far temple the hair falls from the great
waves in little swirling wavelets. Mr. Wigger's mustache, a great,
glossy, oily, inky black, against a sallow background, with tall upward
ends, is a worthy companion to his hair. His neck, to continue the
portrait, takes a long dive into his collar, which is very much too big,
with the fullness protruding in front. His shoulders are steeply
sloping, and his waistcoat is cut extremely low, like one for full
dress, his shirt front bulging when, as for this portrait, he is seated.
In this man romance lives on. A prosaic age has not marred him. You can
readily see how a woman would become infatuated with such a one. He is a
man not tonsorially decadent.
[Illustration]
IX
A NICE MAN
[Illustration]
The clerk of the store (dry goods and gentlemen's furnishings) is what
is known as a nice man. He is known as such among his neighbors. He is
known as such by his customers. People, wives sometimes to their
husbands, refer to him as a nice man. Motherly old ladies say, "He is
such a nice man!" Younger ladies exclaim, "What a nice man!" You cannot
look at him and fail to know that he is a nice man. You cannot look at
him and fail to know that his life has been blameless. He is very clean,
tidy, and very, fresh-faced. His cheeks are round and rosy; his eyes
are bright; his mustache is silken. He is in perfect health; his
expression is pleasant; his disposition agreeable; and his manners are
perfect. His name is Will (certainly).
The nice man has a little wife, who is almost as nice as he. She is
interested in Sunday schools. The nice man and his wife have a little
baby that looks just like its father. On Sundays they walk in the park,
pushing the baby-cab before them. On great days of celebration they go
together into the country, on picnics; and return home at night tired
out. On these trips to the country the little wife brings home chestnut
burrs to hang from the chandelier in the parlor. She made some
pussy-willow buds to look like little cats on a stick. These are on the
mantel. When Will got the job he now has his wife turned to the store's
advertisement the first thing in the newspaper every evening to read it.
She had always known that Will had it in him to be something, and so she
had always told him. When the nice men gets a raise in salary he and his
wife will put away so much a week and soon have a home of their own
somewhere in the suburbs. Already, the baby has a savings-bank account
of its own, and by the time it has developed into the grown image of the
nice man, its father, it will have a sum of money.
X
NO SNOB
[Illustration]
Let us walk down the street with Muldoon.
Muldoon is always a bit shabby, and never well shaved. To be well
groomed is the mark of a snob. Muldoon walks with a brisk step and
somewhat defiantly. He carries his shoulders well back and a trifle
raised. He wears a cap; and a fine rakish thing is the way he wears it.
There is in his manner of wearing a cap a suggestion of the country fair
gambling game of ring-a-cane. His appearance gives the impression that
some one had tossed a cap at him and failed to ring him squarely, but
had landed it insecurely, and left it liable to fall off at any moment,
decidedly on one side of his head, and that then Muldoon had walked off
without giving the slightest thought to the matter.
Professionally, Muldoon's greatest virtue is that he is a champion
"mixer" and "butter-in"; his greatest failing, that he is not reliable.
Still he is spoken of among his confrerie as "a good man," and is never
without employment. He has served upon a great multitude of newspapers
in sundry and divers cities, towns, and hamlets, though never upon any
one for a greater period than several months. His is a nature that
requires constant change and variety. In distant places he has been
editor--sporting editor, we believe he says--though in his own city--we
should hardly say that he had a city but that he always comes back
again--he serves in the capacity of police reporter. Thus we see that a
rolling stone is not without honor, save in his own country.
Muldoon's classics in literature are "Down the Line with John Henry" and
"Fables in Slang," with a good appreciation of "Chimmy Fadden." He one
time wrote a book himself which was distinguished chiefly for spirit and
the odd circumstance that most of the lady characters were named
Flossie, and which was a failure financially.
[Illustration]
We were one day in company of Muldoon when he visited Hudson Street, in
the neighborhood of his childhood days, and where he met again some of
the friends of his youth. These meetings were affecting to witness. "Hi,
Pat Muldoon!" cried a fine stocky lad who immediately fell into the
attitude of pugilistic encounter. Muldoon, too, put up his fists. "Hi,
Owen Heely!" he cried; and they circled about, working their arms in and
out and grinning an affectionate greeting upon each other.
We walk down the street with Muldoon; we pass an acquaintance (of
Muldoon's). "How 'do, Pat!" says the acquaintance. "Hullo, Tom!" (or
Dick, or Harry, as the case may be), cries Muldoon, then, as if in
afterthought, "Hold on, just a minute, Tom." Muldoon leaves us for a
moment--we had got quite past the acquaintance--goes back and engages
him in earnest conversation, inaudible to us. The acquaintance's head is
bent forward and while giving ear he gazes fixedly at the ground. Then
he slowly shakes his head, and, straightening up, says (we hear), "I
would if I had it, Pat. But I haven't got it with me." "All right,"
cries Muldoon, in perfect good humor. "So long," and he returns to us.
We continue down the street, and Muldoon beguiles the way with tales of
his checkered experience. Muldoon's duties as a representative of the
press require him to spend considerable of his time at the police
station. One time there came a great hurry-up call for the ambulance
when the ambulance surgeon was nowhere to be found. (This city hospital
was next door to the police station.) The horses were hitched, and
stomping and waiting. Again and again the call was repeated. A man, no
doubt, lay dying. Still no ambulance surgeon. Muldoon fretted and
waited. At length he could stand it no longer. He leaped into the seat,
jerked the reins in his hand, clanged the gong, and dashed full tilt to
the rescue. It was madness. What could he do when he got there? "Clang!
Clang!" went the gong. Reeling, plunging, staggering, now on two
wheels, now on one, now on none at all--on and on and on, around
corners, across tracks, between vehicles, past poles, dashed the
ambulance. "Clang! Clang!" Just missing a pedestrian here, who saves
himself only by a hair's-breadth, grazing a wheel there, on, on! until
he drew up by a knot of people along the curb. This drive was afterward
reckoned the fastest run in the history of the service.
A laborer, swinging a mighty sledge, had dropped it on and mashed his
great toe. He was in acute pain. The man refused to budge until his
wound has been attended to. What was to be done? Muldoon had picked up a
trifling knowledge of surgery about the hospital. He whipped out the
surgical kit and took off the fellow's toe, neat as you please, by the
grace of heaven. We are now come to a public-house. Muldoon marches in
(we follow). He puts his foot on the rail, a dime, a ten-cent piece, on
the bar, turns to us, and says, "What'll you have?" We look at the dime
and say, "Beer." Now, Muldoon enters into conversation with the barman
(who has addressed him as "Pat"), and recounts to him the details of his
late illness, which are most astonishing.
When we resume our journey, which Muldoon does with some reluctance, he
tells us the dream of his life. On the street where Muldoon spent his
boyhood live a great number of gossiping old cats, who, in so far as
they were able, made that boyhood miserable, who bore false witness to
one another, to his family, and to others, against Muldoon, and who
predicted that he (Muldoon) would come to a bad end. On the occasion of
his coming into any great sum of money, he intends to wind up a
tremendous bacchanalian orgy on that street. He will drive up it in a
cab in broad daylight, howling and singing, and with his feet out the
windows. On the roof of his equipage will be a great array of bottles,
and the cabman will be drunk and screaming. We believe Muldoon sees in
this mental picture a Brobdignagian placard on the back of the vehicle
reading, "This is Muldoon!!!" That will give 'em something to talk
about. It will be a fine revenge.
XI
EVERY INCH A MAN
[Illustration]
If there is a finer fellow in the world than Chester Kirk we have never
seen him. As he himself so often says, the finest things are done up in
small packages. (There was Napoleon, for instance, as we have heard him
say, and General Grant, and, at the moment, we do not remember who all.)
When in eyeshot of ladies, especially when he is unknown to them, he is
grand. He takes his gloves from his pocket and holds them in his left
hand. He searches himself for a cigar, which, when found, he holds
before him, unlighted, in his right hand, on a level with his chest, his
elbow crooked. He stands very firmly, with one leg bending backward in a
line of virile, graceful curve. His back is taut. His other knee is bent
forward, relaxed. Or he strides up and down, with something of a fine
strut, like a fighting cock. So, he reminds us of Alan Breck.
When, in this stimulating position, he has on a long coat, he swings its
skirt from side to side. He feels, undoubtedly so brave and strong. He
laughs, when there is opportunity for it, in a deep, manly voice, and
often. He sometimes pulls back his head so that he has a double chin. He
is every inch a man.
As is quite fitting and proper, he is one of the most photographed of
men. This is a family trait. He has ever just had a new photograph taken
to send to his people, or his people have just sent some new ones to
him, which he shows about with great gusto to his friends. His room is
littered with likenesses of the Kirks, a very remarkable family. Here is
a photograph of his brother.
"Notice that chest," says Kirk. "He's got an expansion on him like the
front of a house. Why, in his freshman year he had the biggest
expansion in his class. Athlete! That boy's a boxer." Kirk points the
stem of his pipe at you and continues: "He stood up before the huskiest
man in Seattle (and there are no huskier men than in Seattle), a big
brute of a fireman, a regular giant, with a reputation as a whirlwind
slugger. Yes. Why, it's all I can do to hold that boy myself. This,"
exhibiting another picture, "is my father. See that pair of shoulders?
He is a little under the medium height, but the way he carries himself
he doesn't look it. He looks to be a rather big man. He has an air. He
came West a poor man, but one that could see chances, take them, and
hold on to them. He took them and hung on. He built up that business, I
think I have a right to say that it's the biggest on the Pacific Slope,
in an incredibly short time. Business he was from the word go. He could
handle men! An entertainer he is, too; he makes friends wherever he
goes; everybody likes him. Here's my sister. 'Sis' is the society woman
of the younger set at home. That's my other brother. He's a hunter."
Next to pictures of himself and family, and their pets and live stock,
there is nothing Kirk revels in so much as snapshots of his native
country, "greatest country in the world." He has these pasted into
several volumes: each print is labeled, as "Mt. Ranier, looking north,"
"Puget Sound, low tide," and so forth. Each new acquaintance Kirk takes
through the lot and explains the circumstances under which each picture
was taken.
As Kirk himself remarks, his handwriting is very strong. It is that
strong that it has only about three, sometimes four, short words to a
line, with good strong spaces in between. The descending loops of
letters on one line often come down and lariat small letters on the line
below. The sense goes at a splendid break-neck speed, and takes pauses
and stops as though they were hurdles. The whole is penned in somewhat
that fashion in which express clerks make out receipts.
That reminds us. We one time went with Kirk into an express office to
send a package. We ignorantly considered this to be a thing of little
moment. That was because we do not know how to handle men. A pale young
man, with a high, bald forehead, who had the appearance of an excellent
assistant to some one in an office, was standing at the counter. He
witnessed the entrance of the two without remarking it as an impressive
ceremony. Indeed, the clerk was quite apathetic. In an instant all this
was changed.
"Let me have your pencil," Kirk demanded. It was the voice of the man
born to command, the man that moves an army of subordinates this way or
that, as he wills, like chessmen. He took the pencil, hoisted his
package onto the counter with a flourish, tilted his cigar upward in one
corner of his mouth by a movement of his jaws, and fell into so fine an
attitude that the pale young man became interested and leaned over to
see what important name would appear in the address. In his strongest
hand Kirk addressed it. It was a package worth two dollars Kirk was
sending to his brother, who needed it. "Send collect," cried Kirk. And
the entire company, Kirk included, and ourself, who also knew the
contents of the package, felt, it was evident, that a transaction very
important to the interests of business had been accomplished.
Kirk was one time playing checkers when we entered. "Well, how are you
coming out?" we inquired. "Are you being beaten, Chester?" He flared up
like a flash. "I can beat you!" he cried. We had never seen the man so
beautiful. (He had never in his life seen us play checkers.) He looked
to be invincible; though he wasn't; for he had lost every game.
XII
HIS BUSINESS IS GOOD
[Illustration]
"HULLO there, Bill! I'm glad to see you. How're you getting along? Do
you know, I didn't know you when you first came in. Let me see, it's
been a couple--no, four years since I saw you before. I was pretty much
down and out then, ha! ha! Just bummed my way to New York, you know.
Well, how are things with you? You know, I sat there looking an' a
looking at you--couldn't make up my mind whether it was you or not. I
says to myself, 'I'll risk it,' I says. 'If it's Bill, we'll have a
time,' I says. Ha! Ha! I came over to take a bath--there's a fine bath
place across the street, where I always go. I'm in the photograph
business, you know, over in Brooklyn. Yes, doing well now; I'm manager
of the place; I'll take you over to see it. Been in the business three
years, same place; first two years work, work all the time, no pay at
all, so to speak. But I knew I was learning the business, and I liked
the job and liked the boss; we were busted together, you know. I was
head musher in a mushhouse at Coney, you know, when I first met him;
then I lost the job; we bummed around together awhile. Then I went back
to Indiana--by freight--to see my folks.
"Yes, the old man's well; Dora's married, you know; married a Sunday
school superintendent, church where she taught Sunday school. Nothing
doing in Indiana. Laid around awhile, then I got a letter from this
feller. He had come into money, set up a photograph shop, told me to
come back and take a job with him. I went to my sister, Dora, you know,
and got railroad fare here. I says to her, 'If you can get me the money,
I'll pay you as soon as I can, which won't be long,' I says. 'I've got a
good job there,' I says. I says, 'Of course, I can bum my way back, but
it will take me four or five days, maybe a week,' I says. 'If I have
railroad fare I can get on a train here one day and get off there the
next,' I says. She got me the money from her husband--sixteen dollars;
she's been awful good to me; and I came in a passenger train. First
time, you know, ha! ha! Second-class, though; just as good as first,
though. I got on at Indianapolis one day, you know, and got off in New
York the next day. Twenty-four hours, you know.
"First thing, I went to the feller's place, but he had moved. Didn't
leave any address, where he had gone, you know; nobody around there knew
anything about him. I was in a deuce of a fix. Didn't have a cent of
money--wasn't the first time, though. We used to write to each other
sometimes through the General Delivery, so I went there, and sure enough
there was a letter for me; but there was some postage due on it somehow.
I says to the man, I says, 'I haven't got any money; I can't pay it';
there was a feller standing behind me in the line; he ups and says,
'Here, I'll pay it,' he says; 'it's only two cents' he says. So I got
the letter and set right out for the address; the feller had moved to a
better place.