Pat was six years old when he saw his first ball game up at the old hill
top park of the New York Yankees who were then the Highlanders. The Red
Sox were the visiting team.
"That's Sea Lion Harry Hall," said Peter, pointing to a man in a gray
uniform who was throwing the ball. Pat tried to follow the direction in
which Peter pointed.
"I don't see no sea lion," he complained.
"Right over there," replied Peter, "the pitcher. Don't you see the man
that's throwing the ball. That's his name, Sea Lion Harry Hall."
Pat was enormously disappointed. He had thought that maybe it was some
sort of circus which they were going to see in this great open park. The
sea lion had sounded like a promise of elephants to come. He tried to
beat back his grief, but presently tears rolled out of his eyes. The
best he could do was to make no sound. Eventually Peter noticed the damp
tracks across his face.
"What are you crying about?" he asked in surprise.
"You said it was a sea lion," sobbed Pat, "and it isn't any sea lion."
"Oh, that's it. Don't you understand: his name's Sea Lion. Just as they
call you Pat."
"Why do they call him a Sea Lion?"
"Well," said Peter, "to tell the truth I don't know exactly. It's just
one of those things. I've been writing about Sea Lion Harry Hall a
couple of years and now I never stopped to think up any reason for it.
It was smart of you to ask me, Pat. That's right. Don't you go taking in
things people tell you without asking why. That's the first thing a
newspaperman ought to learn. You just wait here a minute and I'll go and
find out why they call him Sea Lion Harry Hall."
Peter went over to the wire screen which ran in front of the press box
and called to a short little man who was sitting on his heels and
balancing himself with his bat which he had dug into the ground. The
player straightened up and came over. Peter conversed earnestly with him
for a moment. Then he came back. "Now," he said, "I know all about it.
Kid Elberfeld--that was Kid Elberfeld I was talking to--he says they
call him Sea Lion Harry Hall because he roars so--just like a sea lion."
For the next half hour Pat abandoned all thought of the game. Peter
rattled off words and the meaning of them. There were hits and errors
and flies and grounders. Once everybody in the park shouted and stood up
and Peter said it was a home run, but Pat gave very little heed to this.
He paid no more attention to the rooting than if it had been Peter
talking to him. It was another sound for which he was waiting. He
couldn't be burdened with learning about hits and errors or even the
thing called a home run. What he wanted was to hear Sea Lion Harry Hall
roar like a sea lion. For hours Pat heard nothing. The man just did his
exercises and threw the ball. Then something happened which made him
mad. He threw the ball and after it was thrown he walked straight up to
a man in blue who had on a false face. And he talked at him. Very loud
and hoarse he said, "Jesus, Tim, call 'em right."
"There goes the Sea Lion," said Peter who had been busy with something
else and had caught no more than the rumble. "Didn't that sound just
like a sea lion?"
Pat scorned to cry. He did not even bother to say "No." By now he knew
that the baseball park was the land of disappointment. It was a place
where things were cried up with words which were not so. Peter had said
he would roar like a sea lion. And he didn't. He was just a man who said
"Jesustim" pretty loud.
Pat heard a seal lion once. "Jesustim" didn't sound anything like a sea
lion.
Interesting inquiry might have centred around "Too hot to handle" if
Peter had used it earlier in the day, but by the time it came Pat knew
that it was just a grown up way of talking big. When Peter said, "That's
Birdie Cree," Pat did not look or even ask any questions. He knew there
was not a birdie.
Only one romantic concept came to Pat from the game.
"That's Tris Speaker, that kid in centre field," said Peter.
Of course, Pat knew that he really wouldn't be a kid. It didn't surprise
him to find that Tris was a man but he was quite a lot different from
pretty nearly all the other grown-ups that Pat had ever seen. They
didn't run like Tris. Probably they couldn't. The other men in this
baseball park ran, but Tris was the fastest. But it wasn't just looking
at him that Pat liked. He said the name over to himself several times.
"Tris Speaker, Tris Speaker." There was fun in the sound of it. Not
quite enough for a whole afternoon, to be sure. This was a park without
sandpiles or a merry-go-round. And there were no policemen to make
everybody keep off the grass. Pat wished they would.
"I want to go home," he said at last.
"Tired already?" asked Peter. "Well, there's only half an inning more.
It wasn't much of a game, was it? Too one-sided. But we're not going
home right off. I've got to go straight to the office and I'm going to
take you with me."
In another ten minutes the game was over. "You didn't like it, did you?"
asked Peter. The formula nettled Pat.
"Yes, I did," he said.
After a long trip in the subway they came to the big building where
Peter worked. Pat had never been there before. At the end of a long
corridor was a small office and Peter opened the door and went in. "I've
got to write the paper," he said. "You keep quiet till I'm done. Here's
the funny section for you."
Upon examination Pat found that it was last Sunday's pictures. He had
already seen the one about how the kids put dynamite in the Captain's
high hat. Still he followed the adventure again. When Kate read it to
him on Sunday it had made him a little sad. It seemed to him that it
must have hurt the Captain when Maude, the mule, kicked him in the head.
Now he found a new significance in the last picture. Maude and the
Captain were floating in the air high above the roof. Coming out of the
Captain's mouth were marks like this, "!----!!!" And yet it must be
pleasant to go floating away in the sky like that. Pat looked out of the
window and he could see the river and the great bridge. He would like to
have a high hat and some dynamite and a mule. Then he could float
through the window like Davey and the Goblin. That would be better than
sitting there in the little office so quietly while Peter pounded the
keys of his typewriter. Peter kept taking sheets of paper out of it and
tearing them up.
"Whatch you doing?" Pat asked when he could keep silent no longer.
"Hush," said Peter very sternly, "you mustn't ask questions now. I'm
doing a story for the Bulletin. That's very important, I must do it
right away."
"Why?"
"Well, pretty soon they're going to put the paper to bed." Pat knew that
must be some sort of joke. Papers didn't go to bed. They didn't have any
pajamas or nightgowns.
Somebody knocked at the door and before Peter could say anything Charlie
Hall came in. "Is that your kid?" he asked.
"Yes," said Peter, "He's my son. Say hello to Charlie Hall, Pat."
"Well, what's your name?" said Hall just as if he was very much
interested.
"My name's Pat."
"Tell him your big name," prompted Peter. "Go ahead."
"Peter Neale, second."
"I suppose you'll be down here doing baseball yourself pretty soon now
that you're getting to be such a big boy," said Hall.
Pat picked up the funny paper again and pretended to become engrossed in
it. Charlie Hall was diverted back to the first of the Peter Neales.
"I guess he's a little older than my youngest," he said. "Let me see,
Joe--no, that's not the one I mean--Bill must be about four or five now.
Just around there."
"Pat's older than that. He was six a couple of days ago."
"Getting pretty near time to begin figuring what to do with him."
"I know that already," said Peter, "he's going to be a newspaper man.
He's going to be 'by Peter Neale'."
"I'd drown mine, all six of 'em, before I'd let 'em go into the
newspaper business."
"What's the matter with it?"
"It don't get you any place. Now if I was in business I'd be just
getting ready to be a president of the company or something. And as it
is I'm just an old man around the shop. Forty-two my last birthday. In a
couple of years more I'll be on the copy desk."
"That's mostly bunk, Charlie. But even if it was so, haven't you had a
lot of fun?"
"What do you mean, fun?"
"Going out where things are happening and writing pieces and seeing them
in the paper the next day. Just writing a baseball story seems sort of
exciting to me."
"Hell," said Charlie, "they're all faked, those baseball games. I
wouldn't go across the street to see one."
He paused, but went on again before Peter could protest.
"It's a funny thing, but the longer you stay in newspaper work the more
it gets to seem as if everything's faked. After a while you find out
that all the murders are just alike. Somebody sleeps with somebody and
somebody else don't like it and then you have what we call a 'mystery'
and we get all steamed up about it. Railroad accidents--the engineer
disregarded the signal--fires--somebody dropped a cigarette in a pile of
waste. My God, Pete, there's only about ten things can happen any place
in the world and then they must go on repeating themselves over and
over."
Peter rushed in pellmell. "But don't you see, Charlie. It's the writing
about them makes them different. A piano player might as well say, 'I
haven't got anything but the same notes.'"
"Well," said Charlie, "I'd drown all five of them if they wanted to be
piano players. Maybe there is some fun in writing. I don't know
anything about that. But if a man wants to write why put it down some
place where it's going to be swept up by the street cleaner the next
day. At eleven o'clock tomorrow morning all that stuff you were writing
before I came in will be dead and rotten. It'll have to make room for
the home edition and on top of that'll come another. And so on all day
long. Writing for a newspaper's like spitting in Niagara Falls. Anybody
that can write ought to get on a magazine and do something that'll last
anyway from breakfast to dinner time."
"It's no good for me," said Peter. "I've written for magazines a
little--just sport stuff, you know. You do something and maybe you like
it, but that's the last you hear about it for a month. By the time it
comes out you've forgotten all about it and maybe by that time it isn't
true anyway. It's like writing for posterity."
"All right," said Charlie, "go on with your story. If you make it a good
one maybe there'll be somebody around the office'll remember it clear
into next week."
Left alone, Peter proceeded at a furious rate. Even Pat was frightened
out of interrupting by the beat and pace of the noise which came from
the typewriter. If there had been a steam whistle it would have sounded
a good deal like a locomotive. Soon Peter called a copy boy and gave him
the pages. It had grown almost dark now, but he did not switch on the
electric light immediately. From the next room came the clicking sound
of telegraph keys.
"Do you hear that," said Peter. "That's magic. Some place there's a war,
or a king's just died, or maybe he's only sick and those clicks are
telling us about it."
"Did he eat too much ice cream and cake?" asked Pat.
"I don't know. I can't tell till somebody writes it down. You have to
make _a b c's_ out of it before anybody except just the man in the
room understands about it."
"Come here," said Peter, suddenly getting up from his chair, "you sit
down there, Pat."
"I don't want to," said Pat.
"All right, I won't let you sit in my chair."
Pat got up and took the seat.
"Now," said Peter earnestly, "I don't want you to grow up to be a
newspaper man, and I don't want you to come into this office after I'm
gone."
He put his arm around Pat's shoulder and drew him close. Then he took
the boy's hand, the left one, and moved it forward near the typewriter.
"This is the desk," said Peter, "that I don't want you to use."
Book II
CHAPTER I
Peter was coming back to America. He had been through the war and then
the peace and he was very tired. The tension of it all was still upon
him. Even though he lay back in his steamer chair and looked over the
rail at a wide and peaceful ocean the jangle within him continued. For
him there was no friendship in the sea. Probably there never would be
any more. He had come to hate it that afternoon on the Espagne when they
ran from the submarine. That was almost four years ago, but Peter had
not forgotten. He had been playing poker in the card-room when the
little gun on the forward deck went "bang!" The man across the table had
his whole stack of chips in his hand. He was just about to say, "I'll
raise you, Neale." And then he said nothing. He just sat there holding
the chips and grinning. Some of them trickled out of his hands and a
yellow one fell on the floor. The man stooped down and rummaged for it
under his chair. Yellow chips represented five dollars. Peter couldn't
stand the comedy of it. His capacity for irony was limited.
"Don't do that," he said sharply. "Maybe it's going to sink us. Come on.
We can look for the chips afterwards."
Still the man didn't come. His right hand was trembling but he held on
to the cards.
"Oh," said Peter, "you win if that's what you're waiting for. For God's
sake, come on."
Peter didn't have the courage to be the first man out of the
smoking-room. He walked slowly enough to let two players pass him. Going
to his room he found a life preserver and put it on clumsily. Outside in
the hall a very white-faced steward was saying over and over again,
"There is no danger. There is no danger." Coming out on deck a passenger
almost ran into Peter. He was dashing up and down the deck shouting,
"Don't get excited." Peter saw his poker friend standing beside the rail
and took his place alongside him.
"There she is," said the man, pointing to a thing about a mile away
which looked like a stray beanpole thrust into the ocean. "It's the
periscope," he explained. The gun on the Espagne went "bang!" once
more.
"If we don't get her, she'll get us, won't she?" asked Peter.
The man nodded. The beanpole disappeared. "She'll come up some other
place," he told Peter.
They both stared at the ocean, looking for the sprouting of the weed.
Peter kept silent for at least two minutes. He held on to the rail
because his right leg was shaking. The man must not know that he was
afraid.
"What did you have?" asked Peter. "What did you have?" he repeated.
"How's that?"
"A minute ago when I dropped. What did you have?"
"A king high flush."
Peter was just about to confess his full house, but thought better of
it. "I guess the submarine didn't hurt me any," he said. "Mine was only
aces and eights."
His companion turned and looked at him. He was a little white, too.
There was a growing horror in his face. Peter wondered and then realized
the reason for the curious look. Somehow it cheered him enormously to
find terror in another. The man had shamed him by sticking to the card
room and looking for the yellow chip. Now Peter could pay him back.
Even the huskiness was gone from his voice. "Yes," he said slowly, "aces
and eights. That was queer, wasn't it? The dead man's hand."
The beanpole never did come up again and now in the year 1919 there
would be none in this pleasant glassy ocean and yet Peter couldn't look
at it very long without seeing black stakes rise up against him. In the
twenty minutes of watching which followed the remark about aces and
eights Peter planted firmly and deeply in himself another abiding fear.
He wondered idly now whether the man who stood with him, the name was
Bentwick, would ever enjoy ocean travel again.
Peter found that it was not physically possible to be afraid of
everything which he encountered in the war. Everybody had his pet fear.
Peter specialized on submarines, which was convenient since, after
arriving in France, he saw nothing more of warfare on the water. He
never liked shells, particularly the big ones, airplanes or machine guns
and yet he could stand them well enough to do his work. Before going he
had assumed that he would be unable to endure the strain of getting
under fire. Indeed he told Miles, "You mustn't expect a lot of stuff
from me about how things look in a front line trench."
Miles had said, "All right. Give us the news and we won't kick."
The news had been enough to take Peter into hell and keep him there.
Miles had been smart. Dying for his country might very likely have been
an insufficient ideal for Peter, but there never was any place he
refused to go to get a story for the Bulletin. He never knew why. There
wasn't any person on the Bulletin whom Peter idolized. The owner lived
in Arizona and Peter had never seen him. The paper itself was a person.
That was what Miles had seemed to say that afternoon in the office when
he asked Peter to go over as a war correspondent. "I think you ought to
go for the paper," he said. First, of course, he teetered back and forth
on his chair three times. "Sport don't look so important now," he began.
"This thing is much bigger than baseball. It's going to get bigger. The
syndicate's selling you to one hundred and ten papers now but that
doesn't make any difference, Neale. There's no good waiting for the
bottom to drop out of a thing. We've got to beat 'em to it."
"I don't know anything about war," suggested Peter.
"We don't want war stuff. I wouldn't give a damn for the regular war
correspondent stuff. You can humanize all that. You've got a light
touch. Some of this is going to be funny. Most of the papers are
overlooking that. And mark my words, by and by we're going to get in
it."
"Maybe it won't be so funny then," said Peter.
Miles paid no attention. "Don't you see the big start you'll have if
you're already over there when America comes in. You'll have the hang of
the thing. You'll know a lot more about it than most of the generals.
You'll be on the spot to jump right into it."
Miles did not foresee that by the time America came into the war there
wouldn't be much jump left in Peter. Blood and, more than that, a
desperate boredom fell upon the light touch. Almost all of Peter's
romantic enthusiasm was spent in his first two years on the fighting
line of the English and the French. The American war correspondents used
to tell with wonder and amusement of the afternoon upon which Peter
started off to join the American army with the other correspondents.
They just filled the compartment, but a minute before the train left
the Gare du Nord, a Y. M. C. A. man who had reserved his seat bustled
in. He picked out Peter and slapped him on the back. "I'm very sorry,
old scout," he said, "but you've got my seat."
Peter got up. "You can have the seat, you son of a----," he answered,
"but don't you 'old scout' me."
Whatever romantic feeling might have been left in Peter about America
and the war broke on the military bearing of John J. Pershing. Peter was
with him the day he inspected the newly arrived First Division. Aides
and war correspondents without number trailed at his heels. They
followed him into a stable which had been transformed into a company
kitchen. Just inside the door stood a youngster only a year or so older
than Pat. He was peeling potatoes but when the General entered he
dropped his work and stood at attention. Pershing went on to the far end
of the stable and, as he passed by, the boy who had never seen the
commander-in-chief of all the American expeditionary forces, stole just
a fleeting look over his shoulder. Pershing saw him and strode back,
followed by all the war correspondents and his aides.
"What's the matter with you?" he shouted at the boy. "You don't know
the first thing about being a soldier." Turning to a lieutenant he said,
"Take this man out and make him stand at attention for two hours." Not
even the dead men upon the wire ever moved Peter to the same violent
revulsion against the war. Nor did he have a chance to write it out of
himself. His cable dispatch which began, "They will never call him Papa
Pershing," did not get by the censors.
Censorship was among the horrors of war which Peter never thought of as
he stood in the office of Miles. He was a little hesitant about
accepting the assignment and the managing editor misunderstood him
somewhat.
"You'll find your war stuff will sell in time just as well as sports,"
he said.
"I've got enough money, almost enough," Peter told him. "I don't know
what to do about Pat, that's my son. He's here in school. He's fourteen.
There isn't a soul to look after him."
"Yes," said Miles, "that makes it hard. I tell you what I'll do. Will
you let him come and live with me and Mrs. Miles? Next year he can go to
boarding-school. This thing can't last forever. You'll be back in a
little while."
"Well," said Peter, "that's nice of you but I don't know how it'll work
out."
"What are you planning for the boy?"
"Why, I've always figured that as soon as he got old enough I'd try to
get him on the paper. I want him to be a newspaper man."
Miles broke in so eagerly that he even neglected to do his three
preliminary tilts. "That's fine. Don't you see how that all fits in? You
go to France for us and I'll promise you a job for the boy on the
Bulletin. You won't have to just think about it. The thing's done. He's
nominated for the Bulletin right now. And you can start him off the
minute you think he's old enough. Don't fret about that. I'll give him
an ear full of shop. Is it a bargain?"
"All right," said Peter, "I'll go over for the paper for a little
while."
The little while lasted almost five years.
CHAPTER II
It was a June night in the fourth year of the war when Peter saw Maria
Algarez. He was walking up the Avenue de l'Opera when a woman cut across
in front of him, turning into a side street. The street was crowded with
soldiers and women, sauntering and peering, but this woman was walking
fast. She almost bumped into Peter. They were under a shaded light which
fell on her face as she looked up. Peter looked at her without much
curiosity. He did not want to invite friendliness. Hospitality had been
hurled at him all the way down the avenue. He knew instantly that it was
Maria. When she left him she had seemed a child. After seventeen years
there was the same youthful quality in her face. The only change was, it
was much more tired. And there was paint.
"Hello," said Peter.
Maria smiled at him without obvious recognition, but made no answer.
"I'm Peter Neale."
Maria's smile grew broader. "I thought I have made a conquest," she
said, "and it is a husband."
She held out her hand. Peter took it, but his eager surprise at seeing
her was chilled by a sudden thought.
"You're not--," he said, but he could not phrase it. He tried again.
"You're not walking here alone?"
Maria's smile became a laugh. "And what then?" she asked.
"Good God!" said Peter in horror. And then almost to himself, "And it
might have been any other soldier on the avenue."
"There, there," said Maria, checking her laughter and patting him on the
arm. "It is not right for me to laugh at you. I should not forget to
remember that you are the worrier. You think that maybe it is my living
to walk in L'avenue de L'Opera and to look for the good-looking soldier.
It should please that it is you I have selected, Peter. But no, there,
it is not so. Come with me. My car it is around the corner. Do not let
us stand here where maybe you will be compromised. We will drive to my
studio. There we can talk."
Peter followed Maria around the corner where a limousine was waiting and
got in.
"How do you manage to have a car in war time?" he asked.
"It is because I am the important person. Yes, that is true. You have
not heard of me, Peter? Really? That is so extraordinary. You do not
know that I am the singer?"
"Well," said Peter, "of course I heard that phonograph record you sent
for Pat but that was fifteen years ago. I never heard from you again.
Sometimes I went to the shops and asked if they had records of Maria
Algarez but none of them had ever heard of you."
"Pooh," said Maria, "in America you do not know anything. But here in
Paris do you never hear anybody speak of Maria Algarez?"
Peter shook his head. "I've been with the American army almost all the
time. What would I know if I had heard? What do they say about you?"
"Maybe it is better that I should say it myself," answered Maria. "The
others might not make it enough. When I send the phonograph record so
long ago I say in my letter to you 'the voice is magnificent.' That is
true. It is much more than that. Peter, sometimes it makes me sad that I
cannot sit off a little way and hear the voice. The phonograph, it is
not the same thing. That is the pity of it, I alone of everybody in
Europe cannot truly hear Maria Algarez sing. It has been the great voice
in the world. It is still the great voice."
"Oh," said Peter, "and that is what anybody would have told me if I
asked."
Maria shook her head. "People, they are not so smart. You remember when
I was a dancer they did not know about me all that you and I, we knew.
It is the same now. They do not know. A little, yes, but not all."
"But they realize it enough to give you a job, don't they?"
"The job, pooh! Yes, the job. First I sing in Comique. I sing in Russia
and Spain and for the seven, eight years I am the leading soprano of the
Paris opera house. Where is it that you hide yourself that all this you
do not know?"
"In mud in Flanders, I guess."
"Yes, it is not your fault. The war, it is so loud in all the world
there is no other noise. That is why I go away. I have the contract to
sing in Argentine."
The limousine drew up in front of an apartment and Maria took Peter up
to a studio on the top floor. They went into a big room with one great
window of glass covering an entire wall. Through it Peter could see the
defense of Paris aviators moving across the skyline like high riding
fireflies.
"It's a nice place for air raids," suggested Peter.
"The Boche--the German--he comes sometime but I am not afraid. You know,
Peter, now I know that there is the God. It is something. I cannot tell
you just what. But he is smart. When the others did not know about the
voice it was that I remembered. He would know. If there was nobody else
he would be smart enough. He is not silly. Nothing can happen to Maria
Algarez."
"Gosh," said Peter, abashed and puzzled by this outburst, "I hope he
feels the same way about me. Most of the last three years I've been
needing him more than you do."
Maria's rapt expression faded. "I am the pig. All the time I talk about
myself. And you, you, Peter, what is it you do? You are the officer,
that I know, but captain, colonel, general that I do not know."
"I see I've got a kick coming, too. Where have you been hiding? I'm not
an officer. I'm a war correspondent. If you can say it I guess I can.
Any way I will. I'm the best war correspondent in the world," Peter
grinned. "That's not such a joke either. Maybe I am. Didn't you ever
hear of my book--'Lafayette, Nous Voila?' All the rest of it's English.
It means 'Lafayette, We're Here.' I forgot you'd know that. They've sold
seventy-five thousand copies. Didn't you ever hear of it?"
"No, I have not heard. I think you are still the newspaper man."
"Well, a war correspondent's a sort of a newspaper man, only more so.
I'm still on the Bulletin. That was my paper years ago when--when we
knew each other."
Maria was almost startled. "The boy," she said suddenly. "Your boy, how
is he? He is well? He is big? What is it that you call him?"
"Yes," said Peter, "bigger than I know, I guess. I haven't seen him for
almost three years. His name is Peter Neale, Jr."
"But you hear from him? He writes? What is it he says?"
"Well, as a matter of fact I just got a letter from him today. There
isn't anything much in it. I don't know whether you'd be interested.
It's just about stuff he's doing in school."
"Yes, I want to know what it is he learns. Here, let me see?"
Peter fumbled in his pocket and found Pat's letter.
"Maybe I'd better read it you. Handwriting is one of the things they
haven't taught him. I don't believe you could make out his writing."
He picked up the letter and began, "'Dear Peter---- '
"'Peter,' it is so he calls you?"
"Yes 'father' sounds terribly formal to me and I don't want to be 'pop'
or 'dad' or anything like that. 'Peter' seems closer. Before this war
Pat and I were pretty chummy."
Maria settled back and Peter went on with the letter.
"'Perhaps, I didn't tell you about my joining the fraternity here last
month. It's called Alpha Kappa Phi. The letters stand for Greek words
which are secret and mean friends and brothers or maybe it's brothers
and friends. And of course the initiation is secret, but I guess it
won't be any harm if I tell you about it. I had to report at the
fraternity house in the afternoon and they took me down in the cellar
and put me in a coffin. It wasn't really a coffin, but a big packing
case but we tell the fellows that come in that it's a coffin and that
scares the life out of some of them. I wasn't scared any, but it got
pretty tiresome lying around all afternoon. In the evening they took me
out and told me they were going to put the initials of the fraternity on
my chest. They pretended to be heating up an iron. There was a long
speech which went with this and it is quite beautiful. While they were
pretending to heat up the irons they burned something, meat I guess, and
it made an awful smell. They did make me a little nervous but when they
got around to cutting the initials in my chest it was just an electric
battery they had and they ran the current over my chest. It hurt a
little, but I knew they weren't really cutting initials and so I didn't
mind. After that they took a chemical called lunar caustic and traced
out Alpha Kappa Phi on my chest. It didn't do anything just then, but
the next day it turned all black. Every time I took a shower in the gym
all the younger kids stared at me. One asked me what I got on my chest
and I said maybe I fell down in some mud. After I was branded they took
me up some stairs and down some more. I was still blindfolded, you know.
They said to me, "You must jump the last fifteen steps." Well, I jumped
and it was just one step and it nearly ruined me. Then there were some
more things like having to stand on your head and sing the first verse
of the school song. They helped you a little by holding up your feet.
And you had to get down on the floor and scramble like an egg. Then
there was something very impressive. They took the bandage off and I was
standing just in front of a skull. A man all in white read out about the
secrets of the society. It was quite beautiful but I can't remember
enough to tell you. Just when he came where it said what would happen to
any neophyte who divulged aught on the sacred scroll of Alpha Kappa Phi,
a great big tongue of flame shot out of the mouth of the skull. They do
it by pinching the end of a piece of gas pipe and putting it in the
mouth of the skull and when you turn on the gas the thing shoots out.
That was about all except all of us being stood up against a wall and
hitting us in the tail with tennis balls. Of course there was supper
finally and I shook hands with all the brothers and they said most of
them get scared a lot more than I did. We've put in a couple of lots
since I got in and I certainly got square with them for what they did to
me. I suppose you read in the paper about my kicking a goal from the
thirty-three yard line and winning the game from the Columbia
freshmen.'"
There was a good deal more about the game, almost a complete play by
play account, but Peter, peeking over the edge of the letter saw that
Maria was yawning. He just put in a "With love--Pat," and stopped in the
middle of a paragraph.
"He is nice. I think he is like you," she said. "How old is he, Peter?"
"Just about seventeen."
"Like you he will be the writer for the Bulletin? Is it so that you want
it?"
"Yes, I've set my heart on that."
"It is good. He knows about the baseball that you know and all your
sport. Is he big too like you, Peter?"
"I guess he must be by now. He sent me a picture. It's an enlargement
of a snapshot. Just a head like one of these motion picture closeups."
Maria held out her hand casually. "Let me see."
She took the picture under a lamp and looked closely. For a full minute
or more Maria held the picture and stared at it. She said nothing, but
Peter was conscious in some way that the casual mood had gone. He could
tell that she was enormously moved. He did not even dare break in upon
her silence. Still looking at the picture Maria whispered, "He is my
son. It is my nose. It is my nose exactly."
"Yes," said Peter, in a matter of fact way, "there is quite a
resemblance."
Maria waved her left hand impatiently. "No, no, it is not a resemblance.
The rest does not look alike. It is the nose. That is not a resemblance.
It is the same. It is my nose. Here you see," she slapped the bridge of
her nose violently, "so it would be if the bone it had been broken. You
see in the picture of my son it is the break. The same. The hook in the
nose. But it is not broken. Never it has not been?"
"Why, no," said Peter, "his nose has always been like that."
"Yes, yes, it is from me he has it. Yes, and from the God. Do you not
know why it is the break in the nose?"
"Well, he's got to have some kind of a nose I suppose."
"But this kind, Peter, it is for just one thing. It marks him like those
foolish letters on his chest in the letter. You cannot read the marking.
I can read it for you. It says singer, singer, singer. It must be. The
singing nose it is always so. Sometimes it is not so much. But this is
my nose. It says more than singer. It says great singer."
"Well," said Peter somewhat impatient at the fervency of Maria, "he says
in his letter that he sang the first verse of the school song standing
on his head. That must have been hard."
"Yes," replied Maria fiercely, "he is standing on his head. He writes to
you only foolishness. It is about skulls and jumping steps. And about
the sport. And there was more. I know you did not read it all. You have
made him to stand on his head. They have made him. He lives only for
foolishness. The mark is there but first there must be work. Years of
work. He is not a child to jump over steps. He must come with me to the
Argentine."
"Whoa," cried Peter. "We can't let a nose run away with us. Just stop
and think a minute. It's impossible for Pat to go to Argentine with you.
In a year or so he may be old enough to go into the army. It would look
as if he was running away."
Peter's attempt at a conciliatory speech was conspicuously a failure.
"The army! The war!" said Maria between clenched teeth. "That is the
most silly of all. Better he should stay with the good brothers and jump
down the steps. My God! Peter, you won't, you can't let him go to the
war. If there was in him not one note of music you would not let him. He
is a boy. He is something alive. And don't you understand? I think it is
in him the fire. They won't kill him. This I will not let."
"All right, but if the war goes on and he comes of age what can anybody
do about it?"
"I have much money, Peter. It can be all spent to save him if there is
the need."
"Money, I've got money too. Lots of it. That's all foolishness. It won't
work."
"Is it that you want him to go?"
"Damn you," said Peter, almost sobbing in his anger, "you mustn't say
things like that. He's my son too. He was my son when you ran away and
left him. I've seen war. I've got lately so I see it all from one angle.
Any time our lines go forward I think of them fighting for just one
thing, fighting to keep Pat out of it. You get all excited and worked up
about a nose in a photograph. A picture of a boy you don't even know.
I've wheeled him in the park. I saw him walk the first time. I'm not
looking to save him because he's some kind of a genius. I want him to
live because he's Pat."
"I said wrong, Peter. I am sorry. Both of us we must wait. It will be
all right. I know God won't be silly."
Presently Maria said, "I do not know him. That is what you have said.
Tell me about him--about Pat."
Peter did. It was mostly things about when Pat was a small boy. He
remembered God's ankle and told Maria, and about the blind giant. She
was enormously interested to hear of how Pat had picked out phonograph
records. "And mine," she said eagerly, "did he like that?"
Peter lied a little. "It was the one he asked for first all the time,"
he answered. It surprised Peter that he remembered so much about Pat.
All sorts of little things which he hadn't thought of for years welled
up in his mind. Some of them were things that he had hardly noticed at
the time.
"And of course you never heard about Judge Krink," he said. "He was a
man Pat invented when he was about five years old. He used to tell me
that he wrote letters to Judge Krink and Judge Krink wrote letters to
him. 'What did he say?' I'd ask him. 'Nothing,' said Pat. I remember
Judge Krink had dirty fingernails. He never went to bed. I don't know
just where he lived, but it was some place in a garden. He sat there and
dug dirt. All the things that Pat couldn't do, Judge Krink did. Maybe I
got asking him about Judge Krink too much because one day he said, 'I
don't have Judge Krink any more. He's got table manners.'"
"You see," broke in Maria, "it is not the truth when you said I do not
even know him--my son. I have seen him many times. I have played with
him."
"Where?" asked Peter, puzzled.
"At the house of the Judge Krink."
Later they talked about themselves. Peter told Maria about Vonnie.
Somehow he could not bear to have her think that he had been altogether
desolated by her flight seventeen years ago or that he had spent his
life entirely in persuading Pat to eat spinach. Certainly Maria was not
displeased by the story. She smiled cheerfully when told of the
devastation wrought by her phonograph record but she said, "Oh, Peter,
you should not have let her go. I did not teach you enough or you would
have broken the record of the song." Maria met confession with
confession and rather overtopped Peter.
"How about this God you were telling me about. Do you think he liked
that?" he inquired.
"Oh," said Maria, "it is not such little things about which he bothers."
"Didn't you ever love me?" Peter protested.
"Not after the baby," said Maria. "It was not your fault but in my heart
I blamed you. It seemed to me the thing mean and silly. To be hurt so
much, that cannot be good. Now I am not so sure. If he is to sing it
cannot be too much. Nothing. Not even that."
She moved to the piano and ran over an air which sounded familiar to
Peter. "You remember?" she said.
On a chance he guessed. "That's what you danced to in 'Adios'."
"That is smart. You remember. It is the Invitation to the Waltz. All
these years you have remembered."
"When do you go back to the war?" she asked suddenly.
"Tomorrow," said Peter.
"It is seventeen years and you go away tomorrow." She came across the
room and bending across the back of the chair in which Peter sat she
kissed him on the eyes. "There is something more I want you to
remember," she said.
Peter was swept as he had been years ago by a gust of emotion. He
started to get up but his legs were a little unsteady. Maria moved
across the room to the piano.
"Maybe," she said, "you will remember me for the seventeen years more if
I sing 'Depuis Le Jour.'"
CHAPTER III
Maria went to the Argentine a month later but Peter heard from her every
now and then. Her letters were mostly brief, acknowledging the letters
from Pat which Peter forwarded to her. Occasionally he would supply a
footnote to something which Pat had written if it touched upon things
which were known only to himself and the boy and could not be understood
by an outsider without explanation. Or it might be that some sporting
reference, simple enough in itself, seemed to require clarification for
the sake of Maria. For instance when Pat wrote, "He tried a forward pass
but I managed to grab it on the two yard line and ran all the way for a
touchdown," Peter added the note, "A football field is a hundred yards
long. Pat's feat was most unusual."
But sports did not figure quite so large in the letters as they had done
before. Rather often the boy wrote about books. In one letter he
outlined the entire plot of "Mr. Polly" for Peter. In another somewhat
to Peter's astonishment he wrote "Heard Galli again last Saturday. She
does not excite me so much as she used to." Maria returned this letter
with her acknowledgment and Peter found that this time she was supplying
a footnote. "Galli," she wrote, "is Galli Curci, an opera singer with
the voice and nothing else."
When the letter came in which Pat announced that he had entered the
officer's training school at Harvard, Peter cabled to Maria. She replied
almost immediately, "Have broken my contract, coming back to Paris."
Before she arrived the armistice was signed. Peter went to see her
almost immediately. He wanted to explain to her why her schemes about
Pat were wholly impossible and he felt that now with the war issue
removed it would be easier to discuss the matter calmly and rationally.
He plunged into the question immediately.
"Now let's both make a solemn promise, Maria, to tell nothing but the
truth without letting emotion or anything like that come in."
"But then," objected Maria, "it would not be the truth."
"Oh, you know what I mean. When I showed you Pat's picture that night
you got very much excited. You said he had a nose just like yours and
that it meant he was all cut out to be a singer. A great singer you
said. Well, we're not excited now. Be honest with me. You can't really
tell anything about whether he could be a singer or not just by looking
at his nose in a picture. That was a little far-fetched, wasn't it? I
mean it wasn't plain, cold, common-sense."
"What you ask me is a little hard, Peter. This common-sense you talk to
me about, for that I care nothing. It is no good. It is not so that I
see things. I was excited when I see the picture. That is true but it
makes no difference. To have the much sense it is necessary for me to
get excited. It is so I see things. If you mean can I write it down on
the piece of paper like the contract, Pat he will be the singer, the
great singer, I must say no. That I cannot promise. But contracts too I
do not like."
"Yes," said Peter, "I've observed that."
"But I feel it, Peter. That is so much more. Can you not understand? You
have sometimes maybe look into the crystal. It is so when I look at the
picture. Here is my nose again in the world. It is for something."
"Maybe," suggested Peter, "it's a nose for news."
Maria paid no attention. "Do you not see? If it is the failure that does
not matter. Just so long as it is the possibility it is necessary that
we try.
"You don't begin to understand how far apart we are, Maria. I'll tell
you frankly where I stand. Even if I knew Pat could be the greatest
singer in the world I'd rather have him a newspaperman. That's my
angle."
"You are not serious."
"But I am. Newspaper work's real. It's got roots into life. It is life.
It makes people in the world a little different. Singing is just
something you go and hear in the evening."
"For you it is enough that he should go to the baseball and the football
and perhaps the next war and write the book 'Lafayette Voulez Vous.'"
Peter flushed. "I think there's more sense to it," he said. "And it's
pretty probable that Pat'll think something like I do. We were together
and you weren't there. And we went around together and talked about
Matty and Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker."
Maria looked a little puzzled.
"You wouldn't know," said Peter a little bitterly, "they're none of them
singers."
"I didn't mean to be rotten," he added hastily. "I'm just trying to tell
you the truth."
Maria smiled. "It is all right. You tell me, Peter, the truth---- your
truth."
"Well, you see, Maria, he is like me. The nose may be you, but the rest
is me. It's just got to be. In the beginning he wasn't anything but just
sort of red clay or he was like a phonograph record before you cut the
tune on it. He's been brought up around baseball games and newspaper
offices. He knows, and everybody knows, that he's coming on the Bulletin
and will take my place. In fact the job's been promised him. I'm not
trying to lay down the law. It's just the way things are. I don't see
what I could do about it even if I wanted to. He's all made by now.
What's the use of my saying, 'Yes, let him go over and learn to be a
singer.' It just hasn't been put in him."
Peter paused.
"I'm sorry, Maria. The trouble is he's a boy. If he'd been a girl I'd
have jumped at the chance to have you make a singer of him. Newspaper
work's no good for women."
"And singing, it is not good for men?" asked Maria.
"Well, as a matter of fact, I don't honestly think it is."
"Peter, I understand better now what this is you feel, but it is not all
the truth you say. When I go away he is red clay, that is what you say.
It is not so simple. I have looked at him then and to me he was just
what you have said. But it is more. Inside the clay all the time there
is something. The little bug, I do not know what it is you call it."
"Do you mean germ?"
"Yes, I think so. That you cannot touch and I cannot. So we do not need
to talk and to get angry. It is for him to say. Is it not so?"
"Well, within reason--yes."
"So! You go back to America and you make him the newspaper man. That is
fair. When he is twenty-one you will come here. And he will come. You
will say 'yes'."
"That's almost four years off."
"The day I know; it is the twentieth in August. The year it will be
1922."
Peter hesitated.
"But it is fair, Peter. You should like it. Do you not see it is what
you call it 'sporting'."
"You're on," said Peter.
"There, now we will not quarrel any more. Some things I want to know.
You will tell me. You have heard him singing? Sometimes he sings a
little?"
"I suppose so. I never noticed particularly. Yes, I remember when he was
a kid he used to sing something that went, 'Tell me, pretty maiden'---- I
can't remember the rest of it. He's got a loud voice, I say that for
him. When he was playing out in front of the house with other kids I
could always hear him a way above all the others. I guess he's got lungs
all right."
"Those he has got from you. If he is the singer, you see, it will not be
all my fault."
Maria was leaving for Spain within a few days and Peter said he expected
to get back to America pretty soon.
"Here we shall meet on the twentieth in August, in nineteen twenty-two,"
said Maria. "Good-bye, Peter. I want you to bring my son at eight
o'clock."
CHAPTER IV
A few months later while the peace conference was still raging fiercely,
Peter was puzzled by a cablegram which he received from America.
"Congratulations on your story," it read, "we want more just like it.
Convey my respects to President Wilson and tell him I am solidly behind
him,---- Twice."
Peter couldn't remember anybody named Twice which made it still more
difficult for him to understand why he was being congratulated. He
wondered just how urgent was the message to Wilson. Of course it sounded
a little bit like somebody on the paper, but the manner was not that of
Miles even if he assumed that the signature had been in some way or
other so curiously distorted. Cheeves, the Paris correspondent of the
Bulletin, solved his perplexity.
"You're kidding me," he said. "It isn't possible that you never heard of
Twice. Why, it's Rufus Twice of course, but he always signs just his
last name. You know how it is on state documents, 'Lansing,' 'Bryan' or
whoever the current boy on the job happens to be."
"It doesn't help any that his first name's Rufus. Who's Rufus Twice,
anyhow?"
"Well, since yesterday afternoon he happens to be your boss. He's the
new managing editor of the Bulletin, only they don't call him that. He's
got a title. They call him Supervising Editor."
"He didn't lose any time cabling, did he?"
"No, everybody around here got one."
"Were they all congratulations?"
"All that I've seen, but most of them are much briefer than yours."
"How about this message I'm to give Wilson, is that really necessary?"
"Oh, I guess not. But the president ought to feel flattered that Rufus
Twice is behind him and not about three feet out in front pulling him
along. On the level, don't you remember Rufus Twice on the Bulletin?"
"No, I don't. I've been away for years and years now. I don't remember
anybody."
"Big black-haired fellow. Snappy dresser. Always made a point of coming
in late and just barely catching the first edition."
"That fits any one of twenty people around the shop."
"Maybe they were all Rufus Twice. My God! there've been times when he
seemed like _ad nauseam_. You'll remember him if I remind you of the
story about Twice and the district attorney."
"Go on. Remind me. What district attorney?"
"Hell! I can't be bothered remembering the names of district attorneys.
He don't figure anyway. We'll just call him Smith. It was about that
Haldeman murder case. I suppose you've forgotten that too, but Haldeman
was a fellow said he had something on the police and the day before he
was to spill it they found him murdered up in his apartment. This was
about twelve o'clock at night and all the reporters come down to the
station. Rufus Twice is there and this district attorney fellow he shows
up too. After getting all the facts they go out for sandwiches and one
of the reporters says, 'Mr. Smith, haven't you some statement to make to
the papers about this murder.' The district attorney just looks at him
and sits there trying to make up his mind. And while he's thinking Rufus
Twice hops in. 'I think Mr. Smith would like to say something about as
follows,' he begins. It goes on for about a thousand words and when
he's all done he turns to Smith and says, 'That's about right, isn't
it?' And Smith says, 'Yes.' And after that all through the case Twice
gives out the statements the same way except that he doesn't bother to
say, 'That's about right' any more."
"Is that a true story?"
"I don't know. That's the way Twice always tells it."
As Peter was going out, Cheeves called him back.
"Say, I suppose now that the cruel peace conference is almost over
you'll be going back. I don't want to give you a wrong steer about
Twice. Maybe you got the impression from what I said that he's just a
big bluff. That's only about ten per cent right. He is a big bluff but
in addition to that he's got the stuff. You could make about ten of
Miles out of him. When you pack up your stuff to go back don't forget to
take along a grain of salt."
There must have been something of prophetic vision in the remarks of
Cheeves for Peter received his message of recall the next day. The cable
said, "Baseball beginning to look more important peace conference stop
much quicker stop we want you back right away stop advise you take
Espagne--Twice."
Peter looked at his watch. He had just twenty-two hours to dig up such
roots as he had sprouted during his four years in France. He made the
boat by the closest possible margin. Of course he would rather that it
had been any vessel afloat except the Espagne haunted by the ghost of
what was probably by now a dead submarine. Still catching the boat was a
sort of assignment. And it was the quickest way home. Pat would be
waiting on the pier in New York. Peter had cabled ahead to him.
CHAPTER V
It was a Pat prodigiously grown who met Peter as he came down the
gangplank. Not much had altered in the look of him but just the added
inches and heft gave him a curiously disturbing air of maturity. Peter
would have liked to put his arms around him but he didn't dare. The
handshake was not adequate and there was nothing he could say to express
what he wanted to. It seemed better not to try.
"Hello, Pat," he said.
"Hello, Father," said the boy.
"Don't," exclaimed Peter almost as if in pain. "I've got a name. I don't
want to be father. I never have been father. Four years oughtn't to do
that."
"I'm sorry, Peter," Pat said it almost shyly.
The baggage was passed promptly, but as Peter was about to leave the
pier a man came up to him.
"You're Peter Neale, aren't you?" he asked.
Peter nodded.
"I'm a reporter from the Bulletin. My name's Weed. Mr. Twice sent me
down. He told me to tell you to come right up to the office."
"What's the rush?" asked Peter.
"I don't know. He didn't say."
"I think maybe we'd better go," broke in Pat. "He gave me the same
message for you yesterday. I forgot about it."
"What has he got to do with you?" Peter inquired, after Weed had gone.
"Don't you see, when Mr. Twice became editor he inherited me along with
the paper. Mr. Miles never did anything much the last couple years about
managing me. He just turned over the allowance you gave me every week.
Mr. Twice has taken complete charge. He's got my whole life mapped out."
"What's it going to be?"
"He's got it all fixed up for me to go to Harvard one more year and then
start on the Bulletin."
"How do you like that?"
"I like it fine. But that doesn't make any difference. It's all fixed up
that way anyhow. Twice has made up his mind about it."
"I'm obliged to him, but why can't he let me alone the first day. They
didn't do things like this on the Bulletin in the old days. Here it is
four years and I want to sit down some place and talk with you."
They waited in the outer office less than half an hour before a young
woman ushered them into Twice's room. Peter had seen him before. The
description which Cheeves gave was not so very good after all. His hair
wasn't very black.
"Glad to see you back, Neale," said Twice, "and you, Pat. Won't you just
sit down. I'll be with you in a second."
"Miss Nathan," he called across the room to his secretary, "I want you
to take a cablegram to Speyer in Berlin. 'Fine story today. We think
Ebert is doing constructive service to humanity. Tell him I said so.'
And oh, Miss Nathan, let me know the minute that call from Washington
comes through. But don't disturb me for anything else. I'm going to be
busy now for some time. Don't forget to make that note about finding out
when Blake's contract is up. I want to know about that the first thing
in the morning. And tell Mr. O'Neill not to go home until he sees me.
You can hold the rest of those letters over till I get back from dinner
tonight. You know where to get me. Just a minute. Take a note for
Booth. The Milwaukee offer is far too low. Tell 'em I've been thinking
it over and that the price for the series is now three hundred instead
of two.' That's the cheapest crowd I ever had to deal with. Don't put
that in the letter. 'Price for the series now three hundred instead of
two.' That's the end of it."
He turned to Peter. "It's that diary of the sub-commander. I'm letting a
few selected papers in on it. Miss Nathan--" In the moment of lull the
secretary had gone.
"Well, Neale, I certainly am glad to have you back here again. We've got
to begin to hammer sports. They're coming back terrifically. I put all
the foreign politics in the paper because that's what I think the people
ought to read. Baseball's the thing that actually gets 'em. If Babe Ruth
and Lloyd George both died tomorrow Ruth would just blanket him. And let
me tell you, Neale, George is one of the great men of our day. I have a
very warm personal feeling for him. I don't suppose you remember
Delehanty."
Peter was just about to answer that he had seen him several times but he
wasn't nearly quick enough.
"Ruth reminds me more of him than any other player I've seen in the
game," continued Twice. "Killed, jumping off a railroad bridge on June
third, 1902. I've always made it a business not to be wrong. Remember
that, Pat. It's just as easy to have the right date as the wrong one.
It's just a knack. Anybody can do it. Come in some time and I'll explain
the trick for you."
Peter broke in resolutely. "There was a man came down to the dock who
said you wanted to see me. His name was Weed."
"Yes, Weed, good man. I dug him up myself. He came off a little paper in
Reading. Of course he hasn't quite got the touch yet. The city's a
little too big for him, but I think he's going to be a first rate
newsman. Right now he tries too hard. He thinks he's got to dazzle
people. The result is he's just a little esoteric. A little too
esoteric. I must remember to tell him he's too esoteric."
"What is it you want to do with me?" asked Peter, returning to the
attack.
"Yes," said Rufus Twice, "that's why I asked you to come here. I've been
talking it over with Booth, the syndicate man, and a week from Monday'll
be a good time for you to begin the sport column again. It takes a
little time to get momentum up again but inside of a year I think we'll
have a bigger list for you than when you went away. What did you have
then?"
"A hundred and twelve," replied Peter.
"A hundred and twelve," repeated Twice. "Yes, that's just about right.
Well, in a year we'll give you two hundred. I've got another name for
your column. I don't like 'Looking Them Over With Peter Neale.' It's a
little amorphous. How do you like 'Hit and Run?'"
"I'm not sure I like that at all," said Peter.
"That's just because it sounds strange to you. You'll get used to it in
no time. Now, we want you to get your first column ready in a couple of
days. We want to have a good margin of time there. I don't want to do
any more than suggest, but I believe you want to say in your first
column that fundamentally there is a kinship between war and sport. Take
a football quarterback and you have the perfect prototype of the general
in charge of operations. The line plunge gives you exactly the same
problem the allies had in Flanders. If you have sufficient preparation
the point of attack will be learned before you're ready. The quick
thrust must be a surprise. Then you have the forward pass. What's that?"
"Why, I don't know," said Peter.
"An air raid," said Pat.
"Exactly. Work it out, Neale and you'll find it has almost innumerable
possibilities. Of course you understand this is just a suggestion."
Miss Nathan ran in through the door. "Senator Borah's on the wire now,"
she cried.
"All right," said Twice, "I'll be there in a minute. While you were
away, Neale, Miles told me I was supposed to take a look after Pat. That
was an agreement he made with you, he told me. I've got that all fixed.
He goes back to Harvard next week. His work in the officers' training
camp will count him for a year. That means he'll be a sophomore and can
play football. I think he might even make the team. Then the next year
he comes to us. Four years of college is too much. A degree's just
nonsense. I never got one and I wouldn't take an LL.D. I hope the
arrangement's satisfactory to you. Will you please excuse me now? I've
got to talk up disarmament in Washington. You and Pat come down and have
lunch with me tomorrow. Ring me up at the house around noon. It's a
private number but Miss Nathan will give it to you. Glad to have you
back, Neale."
He was gone.
"Say, Pat," said Peter, "how did you know a forward pass was like an air
raid?"
"Well, you see I've heard him do that a couple of times before. How do
you like him?"
Peter did not obey his first impulse in answering. He suddenly realized
that Rufus Twice was in a position to offer him the most useful sort of
support in launching Pat safely and permanently into the newspaper
business.
"I tell you, Pat," he said. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's got a lot
more sense than you'd think."
CHAPTER VI
"Let's go and dine at some terribly quiet place," suggested Peter as he
and Pat came down in the elevator from the office of Rufus Twice. They
went to the Harvard Club and sat in a corner of the dining-room where
not even a waiter noticed them for the first half hour. Peter was
distressed because he found it enormously difficult to talk to Pat. The
years he had been away stood like a wall between them. It seemed to be
an effort for the boy even to call him "Peter" as he had done for so
many years. He was attentive and respectful. There didn't begin to be
enough intimacy for banter.
In reply to questions Pat said that he had spent almost no time on
football or baseball during his last year because the work at the
officers' training camp had been much too difficult. He didn't know
whether he ever could pitch again. In the last football game at school
he had hurt his left shoulder and it was still a little stiff. It
wouldn't keep him from football he thought, but when he tried to swing
the arm up over his head he got a twinge in the bad shoulder. Anyway he
had come to like football a good deal better than baseball. Twice had
told him he ought to have a bully chance to make the team at Harvard but
he wasn't sure. Perhaps he wouldn't have quite enough speed for a big
college team.
"I said something like that to Mr. Twice," Pat added, "and he jumped all
over me. He asked me if I'd ever heard of Freud and if I knew what an
inferiority complex was, and I said I had, but he explained it all to me
anyway."
"What is an inferiority complex?" asked Peter.
"Oh, you know--that business of thinking there's something wrong with
you about something."
Pat rubbed the lower part of his neck. "Down here in the subconscious
mind. A sort of a fear or shame or something like that gets stuck down
there and you have rheumatism or you yell at people."
"What do you mean yell at people? Why do you yell at them?"
"I don't know exactly, sir. I guess it's to show 'em that you aren't
inferior."
"Say, Pat, please don't call me 'sir' any more."
"I'm sorry."
"I guess there is something in that inferiority thing after all. I've
seen it lots of times, but I never knew the name for it. Lots of
pitchers come up from the sticks with all the stuff in the world and
can't do anything because they're afraid it's going to be too tough for
them. Say, Pat, you've got to pitch again some time. You know on account
of this war I've never seen you pitch."
"Oh, yes. Don't you remember the year before you went away. We used to
go over in the Park and you'd catch for me."
"That doesn't count. I mean in a game. How were you anyway?"
"Well, I guess I wasn't much good. Not with men on bases. If anything
went wrong I always had a terrible time to keep from hurrying. I had to
just stick the ball right over."
"Why?"
"Well, I always got to worrying that I was going to lose control. In my
head I could keep a jump ahead of everything that was happening. I was
always seeing fellows walking down to first. I didn't mind them hitting
me so much. It was having 'em all walking around just as slow as they
liked that got my goat. Sometimes I used to have nightmares about it."
"That's funny, maybe you can't pitch," said Peter. "It doesn't make any
difference. You've had enough baseball already to help you a lot when
you begin to write about it."
Pat made no reply.
"Don't you think so?" asked Peter a little sharply.