peculiar, and her moods were as apparent as the moving pictures thrown
on a sheet in the theatre. She was unusual in that her moods were
reflected in her face with all the truthfulness of a mirror. That was
the reason that some said she was good-looking, while others contended
that she was most ordinary. Take her as I’ve often seen her, when she
was cheerful and happy-go-lucky, and while there was nothing about her
features that was regular she was attractive enough for anyone, and she
could make a good many young fellows turn their heads to look after her
as she passed down the street.
Then again something would happen, and she would seem to age ten years
in as many hours, and a crop of deep lines and wrinkles would spring
out like magic. But she had magnetism, and she was forever standing at
the fork of two roads, one of which led to good and the other to bad.
To her it was the toss of a coin which one she would take.
It was while she was in a thoughtful mood, debating with herself, that
the man came along. There’s an apology goes with that, for he hadn’t a
vote yet, and he was very youthful in his ways and of that age where a
youngster is apt to tell more than is good for him, and to stray from
the field of fact. Of course, it’s not a crime--it’s only a period.
With his red cheeks and baby complexion he looked like a cross between
a stick of peppermint candy and one of Raphael’s cherubs. He was as
pretty a piece of embroidery as ever asked his mother for spending
money, and when the girl saw him she immediately threw out a line and
took him in tow. Inside of twenty-four hours she had her monogram
indelibly stamped on him, and he was hers. Hand in hand they went out
to see the world and become real sports, and it wasn’t long before
wine was the limit and it wasn’t half good enough at that. They left
a lurid streak up and down the line, but it soon faded out, for they
weren’t financially strong enough to make a splash that would attract
any more attention than a pair of tiny gold fish in a two-dollar
aquarium.
After all, it amounts to nothing more or less than a question of
capacity--stomach as well as purse, and it is rarely that the two
harmonize. The man with the yard-wide thirst is often handicapped by a
purse with complete or partial paralysis.
And then these two fell in with other company in the shape of a man
and woman whose nuptials had been attended by incidents of a more
or less exciting character, the star part of which was an elopement
which savored more of desire than genius in its arrangements. They
had succeeded so well in their new venture that they owned the entire
contents of a flat across the river in Jersey, and being still in
the throes of love themselves--or thinking they were--they were
headquarters for everything that seemed like an affair of the heart.
Some who were not their friends were unkind enough to say that it was
nothing more nor less than a case of misery loving company, and that
being on the coals themselves this couple enjoyed leading others to the
broiler. But that’s unkind and really ought not to be believed.
However, many a racket came off in the flat, and they all went as hot
a pace as wind and weather permitted, until even a rank outsider would
have said it was time for a minister to get on the job and do what he
could to make things legal.
The cork popped from a bottle of wine and the juice of the grape
sizzled out.
“What do you say, Kid, let’s get married?”
“All right, I’m game if you are; you can’t phaze me,” she said.
“Well, how about to-night?”
“The sooner the better.”
Talk about quick action, it was here with a vengeance.
Four people on a ferryboat, then an elevated railroad and the ringing
of a minister’s door bell.
It’s all very simple.
The dinner afterward in a cafe, very informal, you know, to harmonize
with the ceremony, with a couple of quarts for luck sandwiched in by
cocktails and highballs; then a few brief telegrams:
“Married to-night; wish us luck;” you know the rest.
It was all right, after all, apparently, and everybody did wish them
luck, even if there were a few bad spots in the job. But, you see,
they suited themselves and there was no one else to be taken into
consideration, not even the relatives. This going around and holding
consultations in advance is no good, and people who are in love or who
think they are in love don’t want advice of any kind, except the kind
that rings the door bell of a minister’s hut or buys a wedding ring and
sends it with the words:
“Get busy before it is too late.”
I’m no critic, and I don’t pretend to criticise here. I’m simply
telling a story which may or may not be true, but I’m not going to be
responsible for it any more than the man who rents a place and plants
flowers in the garden is responsible for the architecture of the house
on the premises.
It is said that the bride in this case was kind enough to supply
the funds for the honeymoon, while the nice boy supplied the beauty
and called it even. In the eyes of the lady it seems a fair enough
proposition, but harsh things are liable to be said of such a
combination, even though it is no one’s business.
When they returned from the fields of fruits and flowers the boy had
made up his mind, like the Count Boni de Castellane, that being a
husband was much better than holding down a job in an office, and so
they settled in New York like a pair of pigeons after a long flight.
He had no more idea of the responsibilities of married life than a
six-months’-old infant has of playing the races. With a place to sleep
and a feed bag always ready for his face he was satisfied, but that was
because of his youth. You see, marrying from the cradle has both its
advantages and its drawbacks, according to the way you look at it.
For him every morning was Christmas, and the tree was always fixed up
with something nice with his name on it. Do you blame him for looking
pleasant? Press the button for a dollar, press it twice and you get
five. Just as easy as drawing money out of the bank when you have a
check book.
But with all going out and nothing coming in it doesn’t last long, and
when he had swept up all the spare change in sight he began to cast his
covetous eye upon the big bundle that was tied up with a woolen string.
He knew something about the racing game--just enough to get stung when
the time came--and he knew a man who was good enough to offer him a
half interest in a racing mare that had been kept under cover for a
year or so, but who could, if she was let out, beat anything that ever
wore pigskin. To that infantile mind of his this was the one great
chance of a lifetime and the thousand-dollar bill was the key which
would unlock the door to wealth.
Money without working for it.
Why it was a pipe. Besides, it made a beautiful and alluring tale for
the bride, who had reached that stage where she didn’t want her boy
away from her, not even for a minute. With the thousand he would make
the initial investment, and with the rest of the bank roll he would
bet. With paper and pencils they sat at the table one night and rolled
up two thousand to the fortune of a Rockefeller.
How easy it is to make money that way. All you have to do is to begin
with any amount, even a penny, and if your pencil holds out you’ll
have a million in less than no time, but you can’t buy anything with
it--there’s the trouble. The man in the insane asylum who imagined
that every stone in the construction of the building was of pure gold
and that it belonged to him was just as rich in his own mind as the
wealthiest human being in the world--and happier, too, I’ll bet you.
They planned it all out, even to the trip to Europe on the winnings of
the first big race, for she would carry odds of not less than 20 to 1,
because she was unknown.
A little trip down to the bank and out came the money in brand new
bills that were very good to look at.
So the first step was taken, and the boy made up his mind that he had
turned his back forever upon such things as ten-dollar-a-week jobs.
It doesn’t require any ingenuity or brains for a man to separate
himself from such things as thousand-dollar bills--in fact it’s quite
easy. Consequently it didn’t require any brain work on the part of
the boy to deplete the account by just that amount within a very
short time. For his new bill he received in return a slip of paper
which stated that he was the half owner of the racing mare known as
Blue Monday, and that in consideration of his paying one-half of the
training expenses of the said mare he was to be entitled to one-half of
the winnings, less jockey fees and other incidentals.
To him it sounded beautiful and it took not less than one quart to
celebrate this new business venture--paid for by the lady, of course,
but still, in view of the fact that they were one, it was all right.
Then there began to come to him via the U. S. Mail, certain sundry
statements concerning the expenses of putting this fine bit of horse
flesh into the proper condition to bring home the money, and the
request for immediate remittance. There was variety enough about these
statements, too, to satisfy the most fastidious, and the amounts ranged
all the way from six dollars and fifty cents to an even hundred. The
clever mind of the bride took in the situation at a glance, but the
faith of the optimistic kid held as fast as a ship’s anchor to a rock
ledge, and he could see nothing but success in the near future.
You know there is never a day so far away that it doesn’t come at last.
So it was that the day of the long expected race arrived and down deep
in the trousers pockets of the Pink Cheeked One was $150, the last shot
in the locker.
“It’s all right, Kid,” he said to her. “It’s just as I thought, she’s
a twenty-five to one shot, and I’m going to plank every cent down. At
those odds we’ll take home with us $3,750, and I guess that’ll hold us
for awhile. How about it?”
“But suppose she doesn’t win?”
“Doesn’t win? What’s the matter with you--are you getting cold feet?
How can she lose? Didn’t we clock her this morning on the try-out and
didn’t she beat the track time? Wait till you know more about this game
and you’ll see where _I’m_ right.”
I don’t know much more about it than that, but the files of papers of
that date show me that Blue Monday, mare, 3-year-old, was entered for
the Seaside stakes of $1,500, at odds of 25 to 1; there was a good
start, with her in the lead. At the quarter she had fallen back to
fourth, at the half she had crept up until she lapped the second horse.
She finished seventh.
I should say that blue-eyed boy was looking for a job the next day, but
I’m not fortune teller enough to know whether he connected or not.
[Illustration]
TRAINING AN OLD SPORT
Come and listen to the siren song of the New York girl, and perhaps it
may interest you for awhile. There is no question about it unless you
are a bronze statue standing on a gray stone pedestal in some park, or
a cigar store Indian with an Hebraic nose and a wooden tomahawk. In
the first place the New York girl has been conceded to be a wonder and
about the best in the world in looks as well as in figure. She has a
fine complexion when she gives it a chance to show itself, and, like
the little girl in the story book, when she’s good she’s very, very
good, and when she’s bad she’s a peach. The thing is to pick out the
right one, and your chances for that are just as good as drawing to a
pair in poker. Some say it’s luck, while others favor the science idea.
With that for an overture, let’s ring the bell for the curtain to go
up on the charming little two-act play, entitled “The Redemption of a
Sport.”
The Old Sport has been up against every proposition the sun ever shone
on, and there was nothing he wasn’t fly to. He had paid board for
blondes and brunettes as well as a few Leslie Carters, to say nothing
of an Albino he once took a fancy to. He was an early and late bird,
and he was known up and down the line by his first name, which is a
distinction that it usually takes a lot of money or a number of years,
and sometimes both, to acquire, and even then it’s not a lead pipe
cinch that you’ll land it right.
[Illustration: A light flashed out on the landing and revealed the
figure of a beautiful woman]
This fellow was good to the girls, and could be relied on for a
five-case note on a hurry touch at any time, for he had no buttons on
his pockets, and he knew that safe deposit vaults in heaven are only
used for the storing of golden crowns in hot weather.
“If I can’t take my money with me,” he said once, “then I’ll spend it
here, for if there’s anything in the world that I hate it is to think
that there’s going to be a lot of hungry relatives picking over the
bones of my estate before I get comfortably settled in the six feet of
real estate that no one can beat me out of. The money’s got to be spent
some time, and I’m going to be the one to get the credit for it because
it’s mine.”
But there came a time in his life when he felt that he wanted to get
away from the mob. He had been stung by the bee of domesticity and
didn’t know it. What he did know was that he wanted a place with a real
woman in it, where he could hang his hat and that he could call his
own. If he had wanted to put his brains at work he would have known
that it was nothing more nor less than the law of nature which had him
fast--that same law which makes a bird build a nest in a tree, or a
wild animal pre-empt a bed of moss under the roots of a certain tree.
It was the home instinct.
So he began to cast his eye around for a side partner whom he could
have and hold, even if he had to coax her up to the altar with a
marriage license printed in red and gold and lasso her with a wedding
ring. From that time on he was always on the alert for the right one
to come along, and every time he heard a sound like a skirt he made
an investigation. In about ten days he turned down all the Dollies and
Mauds of the Line, for he couldn’t see where they would have a look-in
if the cook happened to leave in a hurry and he arrived home with a
backwoods appetite. You see he wanted a gas-stove performer who could
in an emergency tell the difference between a roast and a ragout in the
raw state, and who could juggle with a lot of cold grub in the ice box,
and turn out a square meal that was not only hot but nourishing. He was
tired of restaurant hash, anyhow, and he was longing for the kind of
biscuits that mother used to make.
He figured for awhile on a girl named Elsie, who could make a cocktail
to beat the band, and who could also drink more and get away with
it than any of the rest. She was a good looker, too, and she had
trotted in double harness before, but he found out that she was a bit
promiscuous in her tastes, and he didn’t care to feel that he had to
stay at home all the time in order to keep her from entertaining any
stranger in a pair of trousers who happened along. So he put a red
cross, which means “Danger, Keep Off,” opposite her name, and began
looking in another direction.
He changed his tactics completely.
“I’m on now,” he said to himself. “I’ll hunt up some nice little
innocent girl who doesn’t know anything of the world, and who has taken
a course in a cooking school. I want the kind whose ambition in life is
to be boss of a nice three-story house, and who doesn’t care any more
for Broadway than a hobo does for a hot bath. I’ll just hunt up some
mother’s girl who has her hair hanging down her back in a big, thick
braid, and I’ll sing her a song that’ll make her think I’m the real
thing on wheels.”
So with that very laudable and commendable idea he started out. He
didn’t figure that a tough old nut like he was had any right to go up
against a game like that, and that his play was to mix with people of
his own class. But you’ll find in nine cases out of ten that the worse
a man is or has been the more innocence and purity he wants when he is
figuring on giving a sky pilot a chance to make a dollar or two.
But having made up his mind the kind of a field he was going to hunt,
the next question was how to break in. All the girls he knew were,
without exception, of the brand which are at their best when the lights
are turned on, who rent flats for business purposes, and who change
quarters when an intimation is made by the captain of a police precinct
that the change will do them good. To save his life he couldn’t figure
out this new proposition, and he was like the man who bought a new
double-barreled shotgun and then found out he couldn’t get a permit to
hunt the birds the old farmer owned.
And now right here, at the critical moment, in steps fate, luck, or
destiny, it doesn’t matter which, for they are all the same, and
shuffles the cards for a new deal.
An automobile on Broadway bumped hard enough into the rear end of a
hansom cab to almost throw the driver from his seat and to make him
swear a blue streak of profane eloquence. The usual crowd collected,
and in the bunch caught there by the sudden rush of curious and morbid
humanity was the Old Sport. He pushed with both elbows to free himself
and then stepped back testily. A girl behind him cried out with pain,
and he turned suddenly around to find himself face to face with as
choice a little blonde as ever carried books home from school, and,
furthermore, she had a braid down her back.
“I beg your pardon, did I hurt you?” he asked.
“I’m afraid you did; you stepped on my foot.”
“Well, just take my arm and let me help you out of this crowd.”
Easy if you only know how and the chance comes your way.
The Old Sport wasn’t really old--not over forty--and he was there with
the looks, and the little lady rather liked the way he framed up, as
anyone could see by the way she cuddled up to him as she limped along.
His heart was beating it like a yeggman coming East on a brake beam,
and already he was figuring on how to handle this new proposition.
If it had been one of those other girls he would have said:
“You just send your trunk up to my place, and we’ll go around and have
a talk to a minister; how about it?”
But he couldn’t say that to this girl with the pink in her cheeks and
the fluffy hair that had never been up against the peroxide.
“Foot pretty bad, Kid?” was the way he broke the ice.
“Oh, no, thank you, it’s all right now, but it hurt me a lot at first.”
“Live far from here?” he came back again.
“No, not very far; only Fifty-third street.”
There was only ten blocks to go, and when they got to the last one he
knew all about her. He knew that she was living with her aunt, and
that she was taking music lessons because some day she hoped to be able
to teach. As they paused for a moment on the corner, he said:
“If you should happen along on Forty-second street to-morrow about 2,
I’ll be glad to see you.”
It was a bit crude, but it went all right and the date was made. When
she walked away he stood looking after her, and he noticed that she had
a nice trim figure, a dainty little foot and that she stepped out like
a thoroughbred.
“You for me,” he remarked, and then he hustled back to find some one he
could treat, so great was his joy.
So there’s the picture, to use a theatrical term, and the curtain goes
down on it for the end of the first act.
Now, you and I and some of the rest of the thirsty crowd will go out
and have a drink between acts, but it’s a warm night and instead of one
drink there’s half a dozen. Time flies when you’re in good company and
the Old Sport was taking no chances. Ten interviews with the girl--ten
good, square, honest talks at the rate of a talk a day--and she
consented to take a chance with him and tell the folks afterward. He
was on the level, though, and when she went home a couple of days later
she had the little certificate with her, and after a few tears Auntie
was invited around to visit her new nephew and look over the new house.
As for the Sport, he settled down as comfortably as an old buff
Cochin-China hen on a dozen eggs, and he made up his mind that he had
been missing a good many years of real dyed-in-the-wool happiness
while he was traveling The Line with the bunch and throwing all kinds
of booze under his belt.
But when the weeks began to add themselves into months he grew a bit
restless of nights and it came pretty hard when any of the boys asked
him to come along and help them crack a bottle. He took the Mrs. to the
show once in a while, but it was always a case of hurry home as soon
as the orchestra began to play “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” He didn’t
want to take a chance of being caught by any of the Merry-Merrys who
were out for the rent and guyed for “marrying decent.” Once or twice
he thought he had made a mistake and that the change was too great or
too sudden for him, but an hour later when he had his slippers on and
was planted in the big armchair in the corner, he knew he wouldn’t make
any kind of a change for the world, and he felt that he had lost a good
many years out of his life in not getting into this kind of a game
sooner. Like an old fire horse, he was all right as long as he didn’t
smell fire. But the time was coming, and it was as sure as rent, taxes
or death.
It came when he went out one night to be gone not more than a half
hour, and when he tried his key in the lock it was 2 A. M., and the
girl, her eyes red from crying with the desertion and the loneliness
of it all, had fallen asleep, fully dressed, across the foot of the
bed. He was very sorry and penitent, but for all that he went out the
next night just the same, and after that he was never in. He was back
on the old trail, mixing once more, to the great delight of the crowd.
The novelty of home had worn off, and when his wife waited up for him
she usually found him too drunk to understand what she was saying to
him. From one step it is easy to take another, or, as the Chinese say,
the creeper always walks in the end. He took to bringing friends home
with him at all hours, especially between three and six in the morning,
and their arrival was always made apparent by the wild time they had
scrambling up the stairs.
Now, in this story--as in real life--always keep your eye on the lady.
It doesn’t make any difference where she comes from, whether it’s New
York City or Lower Squankum, New Jersey, she is either one of two
things, very clever or very dull. There is no medium, for what may seem
to you like a medium is only a counterfeit and not the real article.
For every ninety-nine dull women there is one clever woman; for every
ninety-nine clever women there is one ace who tops the rest as easily
as Mont Blanc tops an ant hill. The wife in this case was not one of
the dullards, that’s a cinch. If she had been she would have made an
idiot of herself and acted the way the rest of them do--which is a
great nuisance and annoying to any man. She was a genius, and I ask you
to take off your hat to her--as I do.
“I notice,” she remarked to Old Sport one morning, “that you never
bring more than one friend home with you when you arrive. Why don’t
you bring half a dozen, or three, anyhow? It would be much more
companionable.”
He was a bit on his guard at first, but she convinced him that she was
serious about it, and then he began to congratulate himself that he had
his wife well in hand.
Two nights later he arrived with half a dozen of the hottest hooters
that ever held an all-night session in a furnished flat. He let them in
with his key, and as they paused at the foot of the stairs, a clock
from somewhere chimed out a silvery “three.”
“Come on, boys; open house here; everything goes,” said Old Sport. “My
wife says my friends are good enough for her if they’re good enough for
me. Come on.”
He, with another, made the start up the stairs, but they hadn’t gone
more than a few steps when a brilliant light from the landing somewhere
fairly dazzled them.
Directly in front of them, apparently in the act of stepping out of a
huge picture frame, was the symmetrical figure of an almost nude woman.
The light struck her just right and brought out every detail.
“Great,” shouted someone from the foot of the stairs.
“Shut up, you fool, it’s my wife,” answered the Sport. “Put out that
light up there, do you hear? Put it out.”
But it blazed away as steadily as ever, and there was no movement on
the part of the figure, except that the full bosom rose and fell with
the regularity of her breathing.
The Sport turned around on the stairs.
“Come out of here, you fellows; this is going too far. Come on,
skiddoo, all of you.”
And when the last one had gone out he slammed the door behind them.
What happened inside is none of your business, nor mine, either,
because I don’t believe in scandal, but any evening the Old Sport is
wanted he will be found at his home address with his wife and a kid who
looks like him.
As for the lady; she has a genius that she is just beginning to
appreciate.
CONCERNING A SYRIAN BEAUTY