THE AVENUE HAS A SURPRISE
After the hastily-arranged purchase of Alfred, the gorilla, we called
next day to see Dr. Croft, the surgeon, who had been chosen to bring
about the strange union of man and part monkey.
I had expected to see a man of anything from forty-five to sixty, but
we were greeted, instead, by a mere youngster of about twenty-five or
six.
I introduced myself and Gran'pa and got down to business at once.
"We've procured a gorilla," I said. "A fine, strapping brute of
phenomenal strength and activity. If only a tenth of its energy is due
to its glands, then we've found a little gold-mine."
"That's good! But I would like to examine Mr. Hadley before actually
committing myself to this--undertaking. Ninety-five is a great age. He
may not be able to stand the operation."
Dr. Croft became eminently practical. So did Gran'pa.
Without the least trace of mock modesty, the latter quickly divested
himself of the whole of his clothes, and stood before us in the same
state of nudity as when he had first appeared on earth nearly a century
ago. And, when one comes to think of it, such a procedure was quite
right and proper, for here was Gran'pa about to start out into the
great world again, to be re-born, re-juvenated, re-vitalized, and what
could be more fitting than his entering on this new birth in the usual
unclad way? The simplicity of his action moved me almost to tears.
Before the throne of surgical wisdom he was no longer a dictatorial,
obstinate old man, but just an obedient child awaiting the pleasure of
its master.
The doctor gazed at him for a while in evident admiration.
"I must congratulate you, sir," he said. "I wouldn't have believed such
a physique possible at your age."
Gran'pa lost his head a little. He commenced strutting around the room,
erect, and as proud as Punch! His long white beard and grayish hair
looked peculiarly unreal, and his hands and face showed the wrinkled
signs of age, but the rest of his figure startled one by its quaint
boyishness. Certainly, there was no elasticity in his step and no
youthful swing in his carriage, but, in spite of that, he gave one the
distinct impression of being a boy--dressed up in mask and wig and
beard--emulating the antics of an old man!
"I've taken great care of myself," he remarked, as he drew nearer
for a more minute examination. "And this is the result. A couple of
years' carelessness half-a-century ago, and I mightn't have been here
to-day--ready to take advantage of this wonderful discovery. Proceed,
doctor!"
Dr. Croft began with the inevitable stethoscope, the tapping of chest
and back, the "Say ninety-nine," the "Take a deep breath," "Now hold
it!"--and so on. With grim and relentless efficiency, he delved into
every nook and cranny of the old man's past and present. He pumped
him of confessions which were new even to me. Physiologically and
psychologically, poor old Gran'pa was turned inside out and upside
down and round about, until we had an almost complete analysis of his
life. The examination was thorough, ably-conducted, and a conclusive
testimony of his ability to face both the operation and the future
without fear.
"I'm willing to undertake this case," said the doctor. "I may say, sir,
that I am _proud_ to do so."
"Good!" exclaimed Gran'pa. "When will you be ready?"
"Any time!"
"Make it to-morrow, then!"
"I shall want you under my care for at least twenty-four hours
beforehand."
"Very well!"
I may be mistaken, but I have always felt that it must be extremely
unnerving to face an operation when one is feeling perfectly fit and
well. Even when such a course is necessary the tendency is to postpone
the evil day--not to hasten it. But it was not actually necessary in
Gran'pa's case; it was more in the nature of an experiment, an attempt
to ward off that intangible and distant something which we call Death,
a thrusting-back of the great clock-hands of Life. I felt humbled
before such courage.
"You've grit, Gran'pa!" I said. "And you'll deserve--everything you
get."
"Tut! tut! In a few years' time this will be one of the recognized
ordeals in life, like a visit to the dentist!" he chuckled.
"That is certainly the most reasonable attitude to adopt," agreed Dr.
Croft.
Gran'pa began clothing himself again, in a leisurely half-hearted
fashion, which seemed to suggest that, if he could have had his own
way, he would have had the operation there and then.
I drew Dr. Croft a little further away and arranged everything in
detail. He appeared to be a very sensible and brainy young man, and I
felt that he could be trusted to do his best.
"Do you think these glands will work all right?" I asked presently.
He began making a speech. I could see it coming. I was even afraid that
it might be a lecture. But I made no resistance.
"I won't say, yet," he answered. "It's not merely a question of new
glands and new vital essences. At such an age as your grandfather's, a
considerable hardening of the tissues and arteries has taken place. The
bones are more brittle, the cartilage partly ossified, the skin less
elastic, the nerves less sensitive, and, of course, the hair and teeth
are going. His heart is very strong, however, and given that, I believe
almost anything is possible."
I breathed a sigh of relief, and Dr. Croft proceeded to deliver a
fifteen-minute technical dissertation on the cause of old age. He also
spoke of the new method of rejuvenation by means of glandular graftings
as if he had first learned of it in the nursery--and didn't think very
much of it.
In a pessimistic peroration, he said:
"There may be a thousand and one arguments in favor of this new
theory, but perhaps in the end there will be just one damning little
detail which will circumvent the whole process of repair. Now you can
understand why I don't wish to be too dogmatic in this case."
I did! (As a drowning man sees the lights of a distant ship.)
He began again--just as I was hoping that he had finished--and
inflicted on me a further lecture, dealing solely with the functions
of "ductless glands" in general (whatever they may be).
Through the corner of my eye I saw Gran'pa fastening his braces in a
quiet, contemplative manner--apparently oblivious of the fact that his
possibilities were being discussed in such astounding detail. I also
saw that he was having some little difficulty with his boot-laces and
his collar, muttering to himself the while. No doubt the stress of the
last half-hour had made him a trifle shaky. But he bore up bravely.
So did I. And then at last, I realized that Dr. Croft had finished.
My poor, numbed brain tried to grapple with this sudden influx of new
knowledge. In my supreme ignorance I had hitherto looked on the body
as just a fairly simple contrivance of beef, bone, blood and brain,
with a digestive apparatus for turning Foods into Human Being. Instead
of that, we appeared to be one conglomeration of complicated and
mysterious glands. All else was merely subsidiary.
As a little child speaks to its teacher, I said:
"How many of these do you propose grafting into Gran'pa?"
"The thyroids only. We will see how these work first."
"Do you agree, Gran'pa?" I shouted.
"I leave myself entirely in Dr. Croft's hands," replied Gran'pa, doing
up the last of his buttons.
"Very well," I said, turning to the doctor again. "We'll have just the
two thyroids to begin with; and I'll see that he is round here by ten
o'clock in the morning. Good-by!"
We escaped to the open air once more, Gran'pa linking his arm through
mine, as if in dire need of comfort.
"Last day of the old life, George," he observed, with an attempt at
cheerfulness. "Let's go and have a drink, to . . . celebrate it. Thank
God that, for the moment at any rate, we are in England!"
If I needed a stimulant, how much more did he?
We had two whiskies each, partly recovered our composure, and then went
home.
There Gran'pa sank into his chair with a sigh and called Molly over to
him.
"A little kiss, Mollikins," he said. "That's better. . . ."
And then:
"I'm tired out, George; and I've no appetite for dinner. I think I'll
have a basin of bread and milk and go straight to bed. That medical
examination has rather unnerved me."
"Oh, you mustn't think about it. You'll be all right after a night's
rest."
"It isn't the . . . job itself. It's the thought that perhaps . . ."
He pulled himself together. "Molly! A bowl of nice hot bread and
milk--made by your own hands."
Molly--who could never be accused of being merely ornamental--adjourned
to the kitchen, and presently returned with Gran'pa's last supper under
the old régime.
He ate it a trifle sibilantly, and very thoughtfully, Molly insisting
on kneeling by his side and holding the bowl as if it were an offering.
I admired her tact and motherly concern.
"Night-night!" he said, at last.
"I shall give you ten minutes only," cautioned Molly. "And then I
shall come up and tuck you in--and you can tell me a story."
Gran'pa chuckled.
"Neither of us deserves her, George," he whispered, as he went by me.
"She's worth half-a-dozen whiskies as a pick-me-up."
He shuffled out of the room in his carpet slippers and Molly glanced at
the clock to note the time.
"Daddy," she asked, "when's he going to the doctor?"
"To-morrow, dear."
"Is it . . . _very_ dangerous?"
"No! Not a bit! You mustn't worry. He'll soon be home again."
She took my hand, and looked at his empty chair by the fireside. It
seemed as if some dread shadow had fallen on us. I realized how much
poor old Gran'pa had become part of the house, the furniture, and even
of ourselves--how keenly we should miss him during his absence in the
nursing home.
The thought of the one-in-a-hundred chance of his dying was
intolerable. I refused to dwell on it. Neither would I let Molly.
"You'll have great times when he does return," I said.
"I know! He's been telling me simply heaps of things he's going to do."
She grew more cheerful at the thought of this--but still kept a
watchful eye on the clock.
"Time's up!" she exclaimed at last.
A moment or two later I could hear creaking movements upstairs and the
faint rumble of Gran'pa's voice as he began telling her a story.
I listened for several minutes; and then silence descended--and so did
Molly.
"He's gone to sleep," she half-whispered. "He often does that when he's
story-telling."
"Just as well, my child. . . . Now for dinner!"
The meal passed quietly and a little sadly. Try as I would, it seemed
impossible to shake off the air of anxiety which had settled on us.
But the next morning everyone was bright and cheerful again. It may
have been due to the bustle and excitement--and the really excellent
breakfast which Nanny had prepared for us.
Gran'pa and I went to Dr. Croft's in a taxi, and Alfred arrived an hour
or so later in a Ford van--after which I bade the old man good-bye and
good luck.
"Don't let Molly worry over me, George," he said. "Everything will
turn out all right in the end. I can _feel_ it. 'Phone up Dr. Croft
to-morrow and drop in to see me the day after. You won't know me! . . .
Au revoir!"
I returned home. The day dragged slowly by; so did the morning of the
next.
At one o'clock I rang up Dr. Croft.
"Well?" I asked, as soon as I heard his voice. "How is the old chap?"
"Excellent! He refused at first to believe that the operation had been
performed. I never met such a man. Now he's actually asking for his
pipe."
"That sounds healthy! No danger of a relapse, I suppose?"
"Practically none. The anæsthetic was the only risk at his age."
"Give him my love--and Molly's--and tell him I'll be round for a chat
to-morrow."
A minute later, Molly and Nanny heard the good news. The former
received it joyfully, but the latter a little sceptically--as if
convinced that no good could possibly come of such irreverent
tamperings with Nature's laws of growth and decay.
"I do hope he'll recover," said the poor old soul. "I've missed him a
good deal."
"We all have, Nanny. But we've suffered in a good cause. So has
Gran'pa. It requires some courage to strike out afresh at his age. He's
an example to the old men of his generation."
A reaction set in at once. I felt not only a sense of great relief, but
also one of exhilaration. My curiosity was intense.
How soon (if ever) would Gran'pa begin to show signs of approaching
youth? Would he rejuvenate mentally or only physically? Would he
show merely less tendency to doze and mumble, or would he become the
alert and energetic man he was fifty years ago? Supposing the whole
affair simply resulted in a mere prolongation of life--stripped of all
its zest--what then? Would he, or any of us, be the happier for it?
Wouldn't it be rather pointless?
I must admit that (quite apart from the monetary reward for my
industry) I was in favor of complete rejuvenation--something which
would reduce his age to about forty, say. There were big possibilities
if this happened; and I wanted to share in them.
But, as I had expected, he progressed very slowly at first.
When I saw him the day after the operation he was still Gran'pa--as
old as ever, and just as deaf. He talked a great deal, and pretended
to feel much better already. He even asserted that his appetite had
improved--a sure sign of youthfulness!
As time went on, however, I noted the coming of a distinct glow in his
cheeks, a brightness in his eyes, a clearness in his voice, and an
improvement in his hearing. But all these I put down to the few weeks
he had spent under the care of a trained nurse, and to the tablets of
thyroid extract which he had also been taking. It seemed absurd to
attribute any change yet to Alfred's glandular influence.
At the end of the third week I arranged to fetch Gran'pa home the
following Wednesday and, immediately I announced the news, the house
was upside down with excitement and anticipation.
Molly, whom I had taken with me twice to see the invalid, was like a
little wild thing. Every hour of the day she was bursting out with
fresh ideas of how she could best welcome Gran'pa back to the fold.
For myself, I looked forward to his return not only with curiosity
but with pleasure. The house had not been the same since he left it.
We all felt that. Time and time again Nanny confessed that there was
"something missing. . . ."
On the Monday afternoon I was standing at the window, thinking that,
within forty-eight hours, we should all be happily united again, when
suddenly I heard a shriek from Molly in the garden. A moment later I
saw her dash towards the gate and, following the direction of her gaze,
an astounding vision greeted me. Gran'pa was coming down the street by
himself!
When I say "coming," I say it reservedly. It is a weak and inadequate
word with which to describe his method of arrival.
Gran'pa--the horrible truth must out!--was _scooting_! He was not
doing it with one foot standing on a strip of board and the other
knocking against the pavement, as is the wont of small children, but
with both feet firmly placed on a platform of spacious dimensions
and both hands gripping a pair of elaborately-fitted handlebars. He
was seated, too! In other words, he had reached that acme of modern
locomotion--the motor scooter!
He came down our sedate and peaceful Avenue at a good, steady ten
miles an hour, with his long beard parted by the playful breeze and
his hat pulled down over his eyes--a mad caricature of an old man of
ninety-five, a dream, a nightmare!
I saw some little children come running round the corner of the road,
like a pack of hounds after a fox. And I saw startled faces appear at
windows and doors, the most startled and shocked of all being Mrs.
Tarrant, the wife of the Baptist minister. I even saw the dim, blue
outline of a policeman slowly approaching from the opposite direction.
It was a terrible situation for a man like myself--a respectable and
trusted Servant of the Public--to know that in a moment or two Gran'pa
would pull up at my front door and bring eternal shame and ridicule on
the family.
In spite of this, however, I could not refrain from dashing bareheaded
into the street and adding myself to that scandalized string of
spectators which now dotted both sides of the Avenue.
Molly was laughing, and clapping her hands joyfully.
"I knew it was Gran'pa!" she cried. "And--he's got a motor scooter!"
Even to her childlike and finite intelligence the painful truth was
obvious.
"Restrain yourself!" I admonished. "Do think of the neighbors!"
And then Gran'pa drew his machine up at the side of the pavement. There
was a sharp explosion, a puff of smoke issued from the rear of the
platform, and strange quivers shook the framework.
The next moment Gran'pa toppled over into the gutter, where he began
struggling with levers, handlebars and revolving wheels. The motor
scooter seemed to be trying either to escape from or run over its
passenger; but thanks to Gran'pa's extraordinary presence of mind, he
managed to touch the right button, and the thing at last became silent
and lifeless.
I helped him to his feet.
"Thank you, George!" he said, with an air of breezy politeness.
"Don't mention it," I replied beneath my breath. "Anything I can do to
hasten the termination of this insane exhibition of childish enthusiasm
. . ." I lost myself in the attempt to express my precise emotions.
"A mere side-slip," he murmured, using his hand as a species of
carpet-beater. "I had a little trouble in starting, but didn't expect
this." He again struck dust from his coat and trousers.
Molly's self-control gave way and she broke into an unmusical "run" of
explosive giggles.
I looked at Gran'pa, smacking himself; at Molly, trying to stuff a
handkerchief into her mouth; at the ugly, motionless machine in the
gutter; at the sprawling patch of grease on the pavement; and, lastly,
at the inevitable "gathering of clans"--that convergence of fellow
creatures on any scene which is rich in "possibilities."
"Molly! Take that wretched contrivance 'round to the back," I
commanded, at the same time seizing Gran'pa by the arm.
But, with a sudden twist, the old man freed himself, and behaved like a
schoolboy with a new bicycle.
"_No!_" he said, firmly. "I'll look after that, thank you!"
"I don't care who looks after it," I snapped, "so long as we get the
beastly thing away before the crowd arrives."
"All right, George! You needn't lose your temper!"
He caught hold of the handlebars and I picked up his hat from the
pavement. Much to the spectators' amusement (and sorrow), we hastily
withdrew to the security of the back garden, where Gran'pa again began
to make himself objectionable.
"I'm afraid it may have been damaged," he said, peering round and about
it. "I'll just try it down the path here."
"If you run into my celery bed I'll murder you!" I growled in the
_sotto voce_ I so often adopted with the old man.
But this time he had actually heard!
"Don't be irritable, George! And don't mumble under your breath. Speak
up!"
He placed his right foot on board, pulled a lever, pushed off with his
left foot, and away he went, with a quick little "_chug-chug-chug_."
Where the gooseberry bushes bordered the narrow path, he swerved a
little, and again where the celery beds lay on each side of him like
newly-dug graves, but, save for these two temporary diversions, he
kept a straight and steady course until he reached the fowl-run at the
extreme end of the garden. There he suddenly turned at right angles and
disappeared.
I looked at Molly, who had been standing spellbound and inarticulate
by my side. To me, Gran'pa's antics had been an annoying revelation
of puerile activity, but to Molly they had been a sheer miracle of
delight. A motor scooter alone would have entranced her; so would
a rejuvenated great-great-grandfather. The combination of the two,
however, had simply paralyzed her. She was in a wonderful present, but
at the same time, the little minx evidently had her mind's eye on a
still more wonderful and fruitful future.
"_Daddy!_" she exclaimed breathlessly.
I turned a sad and disillusioned face to her.
"Isn't it simply _scrumptious_!" she continued with unabated enthusiasm.
"It's very undignified for a man of his age and
respectability--bringing shame on his relations like this."
"You aren't really angry, Daddy?"
"I'm more than angry. I can see red--scarlet!"
"_Chug-chug-chug_," I heard in the distance.
Then a single, clear-cut: "_Bang!_"
Then silence.
"If he's run into those Buff Orpington's," I cried, "there'll be a
murder committed!"
But no! Gran'pa had evidently stopped his machine merely to turn round
and start on the homeward journey again.
"_Pop-pop-pop!_"
Then that quiet, steady "_Chug-chug-chug_" once more, and the ungodly
contrivance came spinning round the corner and up the garden path at a
good ten to twelve miles an hour.
"It--goes--fine!" panted Gran'pa as he alighted by our side.
"Suppose we garage it in the coal-house," I suggested, dully. "Then we
might go indoors and leave the neighbors in peace."
I motioned in the direction of five or six back bedroom windows, behind
whose curtains we saw the dim outlines of a score of curious faces
peering down on us.
"The scullery or kitchen would be much cleaner and better," said
Gran'pa.
I glared at him with awful severity.
"Do you want Nanny to give notice?" I inquired.
"Not at all! Not at all! A very capable woman. A bit fractious at
times, perhaps. . . . But I don't see how she can object to a little
thing like this. . . ."
"Oh! Don't you? Very well! Try her! I wash my hands of the whole
affair."
Then Molly joined in. _She_ wanted to scoot! Naturally, she did! It was
excusable at her immature age. But I was adamant.
"No!" I said. "Go indoors, Molly, at once!"
"But--Daddy. . . ."
"No 'buts'! Do as I tell you. We've had quite enough excitement for one
day."
"A little run down the garden wouldn't hurt her, George," pleaded
Gran'pa.
I could see at once that if I didn't treat them both as a couple of
unruly children there was going to be still worse trouble in the
future. So I wrested the machine from Gran'pa, overcame my own desire
to test it, and wheeled it quickly towards the coal-house, while Molly
and the old man followed ruefully and protestingly behind.
Only when the thing was safely garaged and under lock and key did I
once more feel at ease.
"You're acting in a very high-handed manner, George," said Gran'pa.
"It is necessary!"
"Tut--tut!"
"It's not 'tut-tut'!" I snapped, completely losing my temper. "This
is my house and my garden--and my child. I won't have them publicly
disgraced and demoralized by such clownish antics. Do try and be a
reasonable person and think of your dignity--even if you won't think of
mine."
He grew calmer and more docile at that. He even performed the unnerving
ceremony of apologizing.
"That's all right," I answered, hurriedly. "Let's get in the house
and hide. I feel that every eye in the Avenue is on this place. We're
visible even from here."
He glanced up at the bedroom windows of the two neighboring houses, and
at last retreated through the kitchen door.
In the sheltered security of my own dining-room I sought further
information on this strange outbreak of second childhood. With a look
of the utmost parental severity, I checked Molly's excited flow of
questions and ordered her either to leave the room or to be quiet.
Seeing that I was roused and angry, she tactfully obeyed, and sat down
on the edge of a chair, staring at Gran'pa in wide-eyed admiration and
amazement. I turned and faced him.
"I think you'll admit . . ." I began, sternly.
"I won't admit anything, George, if you're going to adopt that
lecturing attitude. Give it up! It irritates me. Is it a lifelong habit
or have you acquired it only since _I_ came to live with you?"
With a thoughtful and ominous precision, I filled my pipe and lit it.
"Thank you!" said Gran'pa, extending his hand.
"I beg your pardon!" I replied, frigidly giving him my pouch.
"Now, George!"
For five or six more awful seconds I kept my face straight and
dignified. Then I gave way. I couldn't help it. I laughed--and
laughed--and laughed. That vision of Gran'pa, coming down the Avenue
on his scooter, reminded me of a performing ape, I had once seen,
careering round the Coliseum stage on a tiny motor cycle. I thought
of the face of the Baptist minister's wife, three doors further down
the street. I thought of the patch of oily messiness on the pavement
outside. And I thought of all the serious nonsense we had gone through
to bring about this sudden spurt of venturesomeness in poor old Gran'pa.
"Why--_did_ you--do it?" I gurgled.
"Come, come, George! Do pull yourself together."
I quietened down a little and wiped my eyes.
"Have you been properly discharged?" I asked. "Or is it an escape?"
Gran'pa didn't like the last word. He lit his pipe and puffed at it,
furiously.
"I left Dr. Croft's because I've practically recovered and because I
never did like hospitals."
"But why did the doctor arrange for me to come and fetch you next
Wednesday?"
"I haven't the least idea. I felt extremely well this morning and I
thought I would return home. That's all!"
"Couldn't you get a taxi?" I asked.
"Perhaps I'd better explain. After lunch I went out for a stroll and
noticed one of these motor scooters in a shop-window. It looked very
enticing, George. So I entered the shop and inquired. The man got me to
try it down the backyard once or twice."
"Ah! That's the modern enterprising salesman all over. He didn't care
whether you broke your neck or not so long as he got your money."
"Nothing of the sort. He thought I wanted it for someone else and even
offered to send it."
"How perfectly charming of him!"
Gran'pa ignored the comment and continued:
"It was only after I'd tried it once or twice that I suddenly realized
how enjoyable it would be to get one. So I bought it, with the
intention of returning to the hospital. On the way back, however, I
altered my mind. I don't like that nurse, George. She would only have
carried on to me about it if I'd returned on that scooter. So I changed
my mind--and came home instead. . . ."
"Then neither the doctor nor the nurse knows where you are?" I gasped.
"No! You might ring up after dinner and tell them."
"_You_ might!"
"Very well, George!" he answered, affably. "Don't let us quarrel over
trifles."
I gazed at him, pensively.
"Do you attribute all this superabundance of energy to the--glands?" I
asked.
"I think they've helped. I feel fitter than I've done for years."
He certainly looked it.
The following morning I handed him my copy of _The Daily Sketch_, on
the front page of which was a large photograph of Gran'pa speeding down
Regent Street on his scooter.
"You'll be pleased to find yourself in the papers already," I remarked,
dryly.
"You don't say so!"
"Yes, I do. But it's nothing to what I _think_!"
"Mollikins!" he cried with the enthusiasm of a twelve-year-old
schoolboy. "Come and look at this!"
She darted to his side and together they pored over the pictorial
journalist's idea of "news."
Before I left for town that morning, I took Nanny aside.
"For Heaven's sake," I warned her, "keep an eye on those two and see
that they don't get into mischief while I'm away."