AT lunch he was progressing toward an empty table when Hartmann waved
him imperiously to a place at his side. “Have a drink,” he advised
genially; “this is my affair.” Beer followed the initial cocktail,
and brandy wound the meal to a comfortable conclusion. A Habana in the
smoking car completed Anthony's bodily satisfaction.
“California's no place for a young man without capital,” Hartmann
reiterated; “you work like a dog for two and a half a day; no future.”
He paused, allowing this to be digested, then: “I have a little plan to
propose, you can take it or not--or perhaps you are not competent.--My
chauffeur is laid up with a broken wrist, a matter of a month or more;
how would you like to run my car until he returns? Then, if you are
satisfactory, you can go into the Challenger factory, with something
ahead of you, a future. Or you can go on to California... say
seventy-five dollars richer.” Anthony shook his head regretfully. “Don't
answer now,” Hartmann advised; “Spring City is three hours off. Think it
over; seventy-five dollars; a chance, if you are handy, in the factory.”
Anthony was suddenly obsessed by the thought that, at Spring City, he
would be only a day removed from Eliza. He wondered what his father
would say to this new possibility? At worst he would only be delayed in
his arrival in California, and with seventy-five dollars in consequence.
At best--the Challenger factory: he expanded optimistically the
opportunities offered by the latter. If he could show his father
immediate fruits from a change of plan, the elder, he was certain,
would add his approval. In a passing, sceptical mood he speculated upon
Hartmann's motive in this offer to an entire stranger; but his doubts
speedily vanished--any irregularity must be immediately visible.
“You can make a stop over on your ticket for a couple of days and try
it,” the other interjected; “it will cost you nothing.”
Only a day removed from Eliza! he would write to his father, his
brother-in-law, and explain! he had decided that it would do no harm to
try it. “Good!” the Jew exclaimed; “see the conductor about your ticket.
If you decide to remain you can send for your trunk.” He offered his
cigar case to his companion, but, now, neglected to include Anthony.
Imperceptibly their relations had changed; Hartmann's geniality
decreased; his colorless gaze wandered indifferently. Anthony found the
conductor, and arranged a stop-over at Spring City. He collected his
belongings; and, not long after, he stood on a station platform beside
his bag, watching with sudden misgivings the rear of the train he had
left disappearing behind a bulk of factories and clustered shanties.
Hartmann handed him a card, with a written direction and address. “The
garage,” he explained; “have the car ready to-morrow at nine. I'll allow
you an expense of five dollars until a definite arrangement.”
Anthony quickly found the garage--a structure of iron and glass, with
a concrete floor where cars were drawn up in glistening rows. A line
of chairs fronted upon the pavement, occupied by mechanics in greasy
overalls, smarter chauffeurs, and garrulous, nondescript hangerson. The
foreman was within, busy with the compression tanks. He was short in
stature, with a pale, concerned countenance. “Fourth on the right from
the front,” he directed, reading Hartmann's card; “there's a bad shoe
on the back.... So the old man's ready for another little trip,” he
commented.
“His chauffeur has a broken wrist,” Anthony explained. “He's offered me
the job for a month.”
“Wrist hell! Hartmann fired him, he knew too much--about sprees with
Kuhn. He's a sharp duck; I'll bet he picked you up outside Spring City.”
“I met him on the Sunset Limited,” Anthony continued; “I understood he
was a director in the Challenger Motorcar Company--”
“He's that, right enough; the rottenest car and shop in America; they're
so dam' mean they won't provide their men with drinking water; they have
to bring labor from the East, scabs and other truck.” The conviction
settled heavily upon Anthony that, after all, he had made a mistake in
listening to Hartmann, in falling in with his suggestion. If there had
been another train through Spring City that night for California he
would have taken it. But, as there was not, and he had committed himself
for the next twenty-four hours, he made his way to the Berliet car
indicated. There he took off his coat, and busied himself with replacing
the damaged shoe. When that was accomplished the dusk had thickened to
evening, the suspended gas globes in the garage had been lighted,
and shone like lemon-yellow moons multiplied in the lilac depths of a
mirrored twilight.
He saw, across the street, a creamery, and, at a bare table, consumed a
quart of milk and a plate of sugared rusk. Then, on a chair in the line
before the garage, he sat half intent upon the conversation about him,
half considering the swift changes that had overtaken him in the past,
few days. His fingers closed upon Eliza's letter in his pocket, and
he gazed at the callous and ribald faces at his side, he heard the
truculent laughter, with wonderment that they existed in the same world
with her delicate beauty. She smiled at him, out of his memory, over
a mass of white bloom, and the present seemed like an ugly dream from
which he must awake in her presence. Or was the other a dream, a vision
of immaterial delight spread before his wondering mind, and this harsh
mirth, these mocking faces, Hartmann's smooth lies, the hateful reality?
The night deepened, one by one the chairs before the garage were
deserted, the sharp pounding of a hammer on metal sounded from within,
the disjointed measures of a sentimental song. A sudden weariness swept
over Anthony, a distaste for the task of seeking a room through the
strange streets; and, arranging the cushions in Hartmann's car, he slept
there until morning. He awoke to the flooding of the concrete floor with
a sheet of water flashing in the crisp sunlight. It was eight o'clock,
and he made a hurried toilet at a convenient spigot, breakfasting at the
creamery.
Hartmann appeared shortly after nine: his countenance glowed from a
scented massage, his yellow boots shone with restrained splendor, and
a sprig of geranium was drawn through an ironed buttonhole. He nodded
briefly to Anthony, and narrowly watched the latter manouvre the Berliet
from its place in the row onto the street. They sped smoothly across
town to what, evidently, was the principal shopping thoroughfare; and,
before a glittering plateglass window that bore the chaste design,
“Hartmann & Company” drew up, and Hartmann prepared to descend.
“I think I'll go on West,” Anthony informed him; “this afternoon.”
Annoyance was plainly visible upon the other's countenance. “I was just
congratulating myself on a find,” he declared; “you must at least stay
with me until I get some one else.” He paused; Anthony made no comment.
“Now, listen to what I will do,” he pronounced finally; “if you will
stay with me for a month I'll give you a hundred dollars and your
expenses--it will be clear money. I... I had thought of taking a little
trip in the car, I'm feeling the store a little, and I need a discreet
man. Think it over--a hundred in your pocket, and you may be able to
get off in three weeks.” He left hurriedly, without giving Anthony an
opportunity for further speech. It was an alluring offer, a hundred
dollars secured for the future, for Eliza. He speculated about the
prospective trip, Hartmann's wish to secure a “discreet” man, the
foreman's insinuations. However, the motive didn't concern him, the wage
was his sole consideration, and that, he decided, he could not afford
to lose. He whistled to a newsboy, and, studying the baseball scores,
waited comfortably for his employer.
Later he drove Hartmann, now accompanied by Kuhn, out of town, through
a district of suburban villas, smooth, white roads and green lawns, into
the farmland and pasturage beyond. They finally stopped at an inn of
weathered grey stone set behind a row of ancient elms. A woman was
sitting on the portico, and she rose and came forward sinuously as
the men descended from the motor car. Anthony saw that she had a full,
voluptuous figure, lustreless, yellow hair, and sleepy eyes. Hartmann
patted her upon the shoulder, and the three moved to the portico, where
they sat conversing over a table of whiskies and soda. Occasional shrill
bursts of laughter, gross terms, reached Anthony. The woman lounged
nonchalantly in her chair; she wore a transparent white waist, through
winch was visible a confused tracery of purple ribband, frank rubicund
flesh. When the men rose, Hartmann kissed her. “Thursday,” he reminded
her; “shortly after three.”
“And I'll depend on you,” Kuhn added,--“a good figger and a loving
disposition. We don't want any dead ones on this trip.”
“Laura's all right,” she assured him; “she's just ready for something of
this sort; she goes off about twice a year.”
When they had started, Hartmann leaned forward. “Going Thursday... that
little trip I spoke to you about.--No talking, understand. Look over the
tires, get what you think-necessary for five or six hundred miles.” He
tended Anthony a crisp, currency note. “Here's the five. Your salary
starts to-morrow.”
That night Anthony wrote a letter of explanation to his father, a note
to California in reference to his trunk, and a short communication to
Eliza.--He was not certain that she would receive it. Her parents,
he was convinced, were opposed to him--they were ignorant of the
singleness, the depth, the determination, of his love.