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THE BOY GREW OLDER
BY
HEYWOOD BROUN
[Illustration: colophon]
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York & London
The Knickerbocker Press
1923
Copyright, 1922,
by
Heywood Broun
Made in the United States of America
_First Printing, October 1922_
_Second Printing, October 1922_
_Third Printing, November 1922_
_Fourth Printing, December 1922_
_Fifth Printing, February 1923_
_Sixth Printing, March 1923_
[Illustration: The Knickerbocker Press New York]
Made in the United States of America
DEDICATED
TO
HERBERT BAYARD SWOPE
The Boy Grew Older
Book I
CHAPTER I
"Your son was born ten minutes ago," said the voice at the other end of
the wire.
"I'll be up," replied Peter Neale, "right away."
But it wasn't right away. First he had to go upstairs to the card room
and settle his losses. Indeed he played one more pot for when he
returned to the table his deal had come around again. He felt that it
was not the thing to quit just then. The other men might think he had
timed his departure in order to save the dollar ante. He dealt the cards
and picked up four spades and a heart. Eventually, he paid five dollars
to draw and again he had four spades and a heart. Nevertheless, he bet
ten dollars but it was no go. His hands shook as he dropped the two blue
chips in the centre of the table. The man with a pair of jacks noticed
that and called. Peter threw his cards away.
"I've got nothing--a busted flush. I want to cash in now. I owe for two
stacks. That's right, isn't it? I haven't any chips left. If
somebody'll lend me a fountain pen I'll make out a check. I guess I
need a check too. Any kind'll do. I can cross the name off."
"Why are you quitting so soon?" asked the banker as Peter waved the
check back and forth to let it dry. "We're all going to quit at seven
o'clock."
"Two rounds and a consolation pot," corrected somebody across the table.
Peter was curiously torn between reticence and an impulse to tell. He
felt a little as if he might begin to cry. When he spoke his voice was
thick. "I've got to go up to see my son," he said. "He's just been
born."
He shoved the check over to the banker and was out of the room before
anybody could say anything.
He thought that the banker said, "Congratulations," as he slammed the
door behind him, but he could not be certain of it.
All the way up in the taxi he worried. The hospital was half a mile
away. He wished that the nurse had said, "A fine boy," but he remembered
it was just, "Your son was born ten minutes ago."
"If anything had been wrong," he thought, "she wouldn't have said it
over the telephone."
"Is everything all right?" was his first question when a nurse came to
the door of the small private hospital and let him in. "My name's Peter
Neale," he explained. "My son's just been born half an hour ago."
"Everything's fine, Mr. Neale," she said and she smiled. "The baby
weighs nine pounds. Mrs. Neale is fine too. You can see them both, but
she's asleep now. You can't really see her today, but I think they'll
let you have a good look at your son. He's a little darling."
Peter was reassured but irritated. Formula was all over the remark,
"He's a little darling." He thought she ought not to use it until she
had learned to do it better. Some place or other he had read that babies
were fearfully homely. Still it didn't look so bad when he came into the
room. Black was smudged all around the eyes which gave the child a
rakish look.
"Miss Haine," said the nurse who brought him in, "this is Mr. Neale."
"Mr. Neale," she added, "meet your son." Then she went out.
"Is he all right, Miss Haine?" was Peter's first question as soon as the
door closed. After all, the other woman was just supposed to answer the
bell. Miss Haine might know more about it.
"He's a cherub," said Miss Haine.
"How did his eyes get blacked?" Peter wanted to know.
"Oh that's just the silver nitrate. We always put that on a baby's eyes
to make sure--Look what a fine head he has."
Peter bent closer. The baby was not nearly so red as he had expected. As
for the head he didn't see why it was fine. He had no notion of just
what made a head fine anyway. The child kept wrinkling up its face, but
it was not crying. There was nothing about his son to which Peter could
take specific exception, but somehow he was disappointed. When he had
said down at the New York Newspaper Club, "I've got to go up and see my
son," the phrase "my son" had thrilled him. But this wasn't "my son." It
was just a small baby. It seemed to him as distant as a second cousin.
"He is sweet," remarked Miss Haine.
"Yes," said Peter, but he felt that any extension of the discussion
would merely promote hypocrisy on both sides. "Can I see my wife?" he
asked.
"Come this way," said Miss Haine. "You can only stay a second. I'm
pretty sure she's asleep."
Maria was asleep and snoring hard. Miss Haine took up one arm which was
flung outside the cover and found the pulse of the sleeping girl and as
she felt it she smiled reassuringly. "Yes," she said, "she's doing
fine."
"And now," she added, "I'm going to bundle you off. There really isn't
anything around here for a father to do. This isn't your job, you know.
I'm going to let you come back in the morning, but not before ten."
Peter learned later that one of the strongest factors in Maria's
resentment against having a baby was that he was implicated in the
affair so slightly. He tried to tell her that she ought to blame biology
and not him, but she said there was nothing in the scheme of creation
which arranged that fathers should be playing cards when their sons were
born. It had an air of reckless indifference about it which maddened
her. Peter knew that he could not explain to her that he had not been
free in spirit during the afternoon. He simply could not bear to stay
out of a single pot. Hour after hour he kept coming in on middle
straights and three flushes. Never before had he done anything like
that. But she knew so little about poker that there was no use in
telling her any of this. Indeed he realized that he had made a mistake
in venturing his one answer. Maria was in nowise pacified when he said,
"But I lost fifty dollars."