THE baby carriage was kept in the kitchen thereafter and Peter did not
see it again until Sunday, his first Sunday at home. Kate left the flat
very early. Peter could not very well object to that because she said
she was going to mass. He wished that she might be converted to one of
the eleven o'clock denominations, but he supposed at her age there was
small hope of that. She would be gone, she told him, until nine or ten
o'clock in the evening. Her niece, the one who lived in Jamaica, had a
new baby five weeks old. Kate was going there right after church. Peter
thought that if he had Kate's job he would prefer to spend his day off
at an old folks' home or some other spot exclusively mature.
Still he could understand the psychology of it. Out in Jamaica, Kate
could sit around and when the baby cried she need not move hand or foot.
She could watch other people bustle around and fulfill its needs. And
then every now and then she might give advice and see it carried out. He
himself had spent many a day off in the office of the Bulletin sitting
on the desk of somebody who was working and interrupting him.
Before Kate left she gave Peter a complete list of directions for the
baby's day and also a problem for him to ponder over. "What will I be
calling the boy?" she wanted to know. "I find it hard to be talking to
him and him with no name."
"I'll think it over," Peter told her. After she left he did think it
over. He went into the baby's room and looked at him as he lay there to
see if the child suggested any name in particular. Being asleep he
seemed a little more impersonal than usual. Of course, Peter Neale was a
pretty good name, but there didn't seem to be any point in calling him
that unless in some way or other he seemed to be Peter. He did sleep
with his head buried face down in the pillow but that was an
insufficient bond. Perhaps there were millions of people in the world
who slept that way. Probably there were no statistics on the subject.
Maybe one Peter Neale was enough. It did mean something. After all it
was Peter Neale who had written in the Bulletin: "If Horace Fogel goes
through with his plan of making a first baseman out of Christy Mathewson
he will be committing the baseball crime of the century. Mathewson, or
Matty as his team mates call him, is still green, but he has in him the
makings of one of the greatest pitchers the world has ever known. He has
the speed and control and more than that he has a head on his shoulders.
Horace Fogel hasn't."
And they didn't switch Matty to first base after all and now everybody
was beginning to realize that he was a great pitcher. But Peter Neale
knew it first of all. More than that it was Peter Neale who had begun
his round by round story of the Gans-Nelson fight, only two weeks ago,
with the memorable line, "The Dane comes up like thunder." He had
invented the name of "Hooks" for George Wiltse and had written that
"Frank Bowerman runs the bases like somebody pulling Grover Cleveland in
a rickshaw." And Peter was still progressing. He would go on, years
hence, to make the most of McGraw's practice of starting games with Rube
Schauer and finishing them with Ferdie Schupp by contriving the lead,
"It never Schauers but it Schupps." Perhaps he had prevision enough to
realize that it was he, Peter Neale, who would eventually ascribe to
Jack Dempsey the motto, "Say it with cauliflowers" and write after a
Crimson disaster on the Thames, "Harvard's most perplexing race problems
appear to be crewish and Jewish."
He looked at the sleeping child and wondered if there were any leads
like that in the little head. By and by, of course, the baby would grow
up and in some newspaper there would be articles under his name. Peter
would like to see the articles before he was willing to have them signed
"By Peter Neale." Every now and then somebody wandered into his office
at the Bulletin and asked him to use his good influences with the
managing editor. Peter always said, "Will you let me see something
you've written." Here in front of him was a candidate not only for a job
but for his job. And the applicant had nothing to show.
It was a hot bright Sunday and Kate had recommended that the baby go
out. The carriage was deplorable. Peter had not bothered to look at it
before, but now he examined it and found it wholly lacking in
distinction. It could not be that all the things which were wrong with
it had resulted from his falling over it a few mornings back. That had
hurt him much more than the carriage. The paint was splotchy and all the
wheels squeaked. Kate must have seized the first available vehicle in
the neighborhood. What with that carriage and his heavily bandaged head
he felt that the caravan which he was about to conduct would be
disreputable. The numerous chin straps which held the bandages in place
made it difficult for Peter to shave. In order to avoid that difficulty
Peter hadn't shaved. He only hoped that nobody in the Park would stop
the procession and ask him to accept a quarter. Peter practised an
expression of scorn in front of a mirror in order to be ready for some
such contingency. Nature had endowed him with a loose scalp. He could
wiggle both ears, together or separately. So far this had never been of
much use although he found that it helped him enormously to qualify as a
nursery entertainer. But there was another manoeuvre which he used
habitually and successfully to indicate utter disagreement and contempt.
He could elevate his right eyebrow without disturbing the other. This
never failed to strike terror to all observers. Peter had that so well
in hand that he needed no mirror practice to perfect it. He worked on
curling his lip, a device which was new to him.
Combined with an elevated eyebrow an effect was produced ample to carry
off the handicaps of both carriage and bandages.
Nevertheless, he felt a little conspicuous when he started for the Park.
And pushing a carriage was dull work. There was no future to it, no
competitive value, no opportunity for advancement. One could not very
well come to the point of being able to say, "I can wheel a carriage a
little bit better than anybody else in New York." The thing was without
standards. Of all outdoor sports this was the most dreary and
democratic. But in spite of the ease of manipulation he was under the
impression that a carriage required constant attention. Quite by
accident he discovered that it would space nicely between shoves if he
happened to let go of the handlebar. This led to the creation of a
rather amusing game. Peter called it putting the sixteen pound carriage.
Not far from the Sixty-fifth Street entrance of the Park he found a
large hill and for a moment it was clear of pedestrians. Standing at the
foot of this hill Peter gave the carriage a violent shove and let go. Up
the hill it sped until its momentum was exhausted and then it rolled
back again. The game was to try and make it reach the top. Peter never
succeeded in that although he came within four feet eight inches of
accomplishing the feat which he had set for himself. He was handicapped
by the fact that he did not quite dare to put all his back and shoulders
into the preliminary shove. Indeed on his best heave, the one which took
the missile within four feet eight inches of the top, the carriage
careened precariously. More than that it almost hit a stout woman who
was coming down the hill. She stopped and spoke to Peter. "Haven't you
got any better sense than to do a thing like that," she said. "That
carriage almost upset. I've a good mind to follow you home and tell the
father of that baby some of the things you're doing with his child.
Aren't you ashamed of yourself, a grown man carrying on like that. And
on Sunday too."
Peter didn't want her to follow him home and so he merely said, "Yes,
mam, I won't do it any more."
And for that day he kept his word. However, the baby did not seem to
mind much. It continued to sleep. Peter pushed the carriage aimlessly
about for a little while, never letting go of the handlebar. He felt
like an Atlantic City Negro with a wheel chair hired for the day by a
tired business man. There was nobody to whom he could talk. The baby
had slept so long by now that Peter began to worry that something might
be wrong with him. Bending over the carriage he ascertained that the
child was still breathing. He wished it would wake up. Of course he
might not actually be company if aroused but he seemed even less
animated when asleep.
Perhaps Christy would be a good name for him. Christopher Mathewson
Neale had a fine resounding swing to it. Still maybe Matty wouldn't turn
out to be a great pitcher after all. Peter was tremendously confident
about him, but it might be best to wait until time had tested him. After
a World's Series or something like that one could be absolutely certain.
No good taking chances until then. It was still within the bounds of
possibility that Matty might be a bloomer and it would hardly be fair to
name the child after somebody in the Three I League.
Finding a tree and a bench Peter sat down to continue his speculations.
How about a newspaper name? Greeley Neale wouldn't be so bad. Yes, it
would. Everybody would be sure to make it Greasy Neale. A prizefight
name offered possibilities. Nelson Neale, for instance, had
alliteration. Peter had given the lightweight a name--the Durable Dane
was his invention--and it seemed no more than a fair exchange to take
his in return. Still he had never been convinced that Nelson was a
really first class man. He had neither speed nor a punch. It was just
stamina which carried him along. The youngster ought not to go through
life head down. Besides a name like that would serve to remind Peter of
his return from Goldfield and the flight of Maria.
Just then a sound came from the carriage. It was a gurgle. Peter pushed
back the hood. The baby looked at him fixedly and Peter fancied that
there was a certain trace of emotion in the small face. Surprise seemed
to be indicated. And it was not altogether agreeable surprise for as
Peter returned the stare the baby's right eyebrow went up and the left
one didn't.
"God!" said Peter, "he is Peter Neale."
But there must be more ceremony than that. Peter looked around to see
that he and the baby were alone. Then he spoke to him distinctly
although emotionally. He realized now that his intuition had been sound
when he had said way back weeks ago at the Newspaper Club. "My son has
just been born." He had never had any doubt about his physical
paternity but that did not seem important. It was spiritual kinship
which counted and an eyebrow like that was a thing of the spirit.
"You're my son all right," said Peter, "and you're going to have my
name. Peter Neale, that's your name."
He thought it would complicate things to go into the question of whether
he should be Peter Neale, Jr. or Peter Neale, 2nd. The Peter Neale was
the important part of it. "I guess maybe you can do a lot more with that
name than I have, but I've made it a good newspaper name. You can make
it a better one maybe. We'll wait and see." He reached out and took the
small hand of Peter Neale and shook it. The prayer which went with it
was silent. "O God, give him some of the breaks and I will." That
completed the christening. It was all that young Peter ever got.
The red-headed boy up the block who had contributed disturbing ideas in
other fields also threw a bombshell into Peter's boyhood theology. "Can
God do anything?" was his catch question. "Of course He can," replied
Peter. "Well, I'll just bet you a million billion dollars He can't make
a trolley car go in two directions at the same time." Peter didn't see
how He could. He puzzled over the problem for months and at last he
decided that maybe God could work it by making the trolley car like an
elastic so that it could be stretched up town and down town at the same
time. It was not an entirely satisfactory solution of the problem. If a
passenger stood in the middle of the car he wouldn't get any place at
all.
But for the moment Peter was not much concerned with the potential
relationship between the Deity and young Peter. He could bide his time
and think up an answer for the day when the child should ask him, "Who's
God?" The immediate problem was what place he should fill on the
Bulletin. Eventually, of course, he would conduct the column called,
"Looking Them Over With Peter Neale." Already there were thirty-one
papers in the syndicate and some day Peter could step down and the
column would still be "Looking Them Over With Peter Neale."
It would be pleasant not to die in the office but to have ten years or
so with no worries as to whether Jim Jeffries could have beaten John L.
Sullivan in his prime. And he didn't want to go on forever writing on
the question of whether more nerve was required to hole a ten foot putt
in a championship match or bring down a halfback on the five yard line.
In those last ten years he would have all the fun of reading a Peter
Neale column without having to write it. The job had come to him by the
merest chance. But young Peter could be trained from the beginning for
the work. "I'll start his education right now," Peter resolved and then
he looked at the baby and decided that there didn't seem to be anything
specific which could be done immediately. Still an early start was
possible. Long division ought to be easy and interesting for a child who
knew that it was something used in computing batting averages. Of course
young Peter would receive an excellent general education. There wasn't
any reason why a sporting writer shouldn't be a person of well rounded
culture. Sometimes Peter regretted that his Harvard career had lasted
only a year. Probably his sporting poems might have been better if he
had been able to go on and take that course in versification. Fine arts
and history would not be a waste of time.
There was never any telling when some stray scrap of information could
be pressed into service for a sporting story. For instance Peter had
been struck by that quotation from Walter Pater about the Mona Lisa
which he had happened upon in a Sunday newspaper story. Two years later
he had been able to use it about Ed Dunkhurst, the human freight car, by
paraphrasing the line to read, "Here is the head upon which all the jabs
of the world have come and the eyelids are a little weary."
The quotation had given distinction to the story. Sporting writing ought
to be just as distinguished as a man could make it. The days of the
lowbrow commentator were disappearing. Young Peter might very well carry
on and expand the tradition which he had begun. To be sure, there wasn't
any hurry about giving him the job. Twenty-five years more for himself
would be about right. By that time young Peter would be just twenty-five
years and three weeks old. A year or so of general work on the city
staff of the Bulletin might be good for him. Indeed anything on the
newspaper would do for a start. That was, anything real. Book critics
and people like that weren't really newspaper men. On his fiftieth
birthday, perhaps, Peter would go to the managing editor and say, "I'm
through and there's just one thing I want from the Bulletin. I think
it's only fair that you should let me name my successor."
And the managing editor would say, "Why, of course, Neale, who is it to
be?"
"His name is Peter Neale."
Naturally, the managing editor would express some regrets. He would pay
a warm tribute to the worth and career of Peter Neale, at the end of
which Peter would remark, "I'm glad you feel that way about it, sir."
After that formality the substitution would be accepted. The line of
Neale would remain unbroken.
All this gazing into the future cheered up Peter so much that he started
out very gaily that afternoon to compose a column and mind the baby at
the same time. Unfortunately the five o'clock feeding time came around
just as he was getting into the swing of an article on the advantages of
being lefthanded for the purposes of baseball. Somebody had told him
that the Bible had something to say on the subject. Peter found it in
the twentieth chapter of Judges where he read: "The inhabitants of
Gibeah.... Among all this people there were seven hundred chosen men
lefthanded; everyone could sling stones at an hair-breadth, and not
miss."
That was just meat for Peter.
"The average southpaw of today," he began, "may have even more speed
than the inhabitants of old Gibeah but his control isn't so good."
Before he could develop the theme further young Peter began to cry. When
searched nothing seemed wrong with him but then Peter remembered about
the bottle. He was already half an hour late. The milk was mixed and
ready in individual containers in the icebox but Kate had told him to be
sure and have it warm. Peter had never warmed anything in his life.
After some thought he decided that he could put water into a pot and
heat it and then dip the bottle in. He waited until the water was
boiling. But the next problem was more difficult. What did Kate mean by
warm? How hot could the child stand it? His first three estimates were
wrong. Young Peter spit out the milk and yelled. It was annoying for the
mixture was hardly steaming.
Cooling it seemed ever so much more difficult than heating. Peter stood
the bottle on the window ledge and waved it over his head and blew on it
without much appreciable effect upon the temperature. More than half an
hour was wasted before the child consented to accept the milk. When
Peter went back to his column about lefthanders the spirit and swing of
the thing had disappeared. He tried to write a poem to Rube Waddell
called, "The Great Gibean" and couldn't find any rhymes. The notion
limped home.
Kate's ten o'clock turned out to be past midnight. Shortly before her
return the baby went to sleep.
"How did you find your niece's child?" asked Peter.
"Oh, she's fine," said Kate. "She's a girl. A fine little girl, but
she's not a patch on himself."
"He's got a name now," said Peter. "We won't have to be saying 'him,'
and 'it' and 'the baby' any more. His name's Peter Neale."