It was a bright and transparent cold morning in Gloversville, N.Y.,
November, 1919, and passing out of the Kingsborough Hotel we set off
to have a look at the town. And if we must be honest, we were in
passable good humour. To tell the truth, as Gloversville began its
daily tasks in that clear lusty air and in a white dazzling
sunshine, we believed, simpleton that we were, that we were on the
road toward making our fortune. Now, we will have to be brief in
explanation of the reason why we felt so, for it is a matter not
easy to discuss with the requisite delicacy. Shortly, we were on the
road--"trouping," they call it in the odd and glorious world of the
theatre--with a little play in which we were partially incriminated,
on a try-out voyage of one-night stands. The night before, the
company had played Johnstown (a few miles from Gloversville), and if
we do have to say it, the good-natured citizens of that admirable
town had given them an enthusiastic reception. So friendly indeed
had been our houses on the road and so genially did the company
manager smile upon us that any secret doubts and qualms we had
entertained were now set at rest. Lo! had not the company manager
himself condescended to share a two-room suite with us in the
Kingsborough Hotel that night? And we, a novice in this large and
exhilarating tract of life, thought to ourself that this was the
ultimate honour that could be conferred upon a lowly co-author. Yes,
we said to ourself, as we beamed upon the excellent town of
Gloversville, admiring the Carnegie Library and the shops and the
numerous motor cars and the bright shop windows and munching some
very fine doughnuts we had seen in a bakery. Yes, we repeated, this
is the beginning of fame and fortune. Ah! Pete Corcoran may scoff,
but that was a bright and golden morning, and we would not have
missed it. We did not know then the prompt and painful end destined
for that innocent piece when it reached the Alba Via Maxima. All we
knew was that Saratoga and Newburgh and Johnstown had taken us to
their bosoms.
At this moment, and our thoughts running thus, we happened to pass
by the window of a very alluring haberdasher's shop. In that window
we saw displayed a number of very brilliant neckties, all rich and
glowing with bright diagonal stripes. The early sunlight fell upon
them and they were brave to behold. And we said to ourself that it
would be a proper thing for one who was connected with the triumphal
onward march of a play that was knocking them cold on the one-night
circuit to flourish a little and show some sign of worldly vanity.
(We were still young, that November, and our mind was still subject
to some harmless frailties.) We entered the shop and bought that
tie, the very same one that struck Pete Corcoran with a palsy when
he saw it the other day. We put it in our pocket and walked back to
the hotel.
Now comes a portion of the narrative that exhibits to the full the
deceits and stratagems of the human being. This tie, which we liked
so much, thinking it the kind of thing that would add a certain dash
and zip to our bearing, was eminently a metropolitan-looking kind of
scarf. No one would think to look at it that it had been bought in
Gloversville. And we said to ourself that if we went quietly back to
the hotel and slipped unobtrusively into the washroom and put on
that tie, no one would know that we had just bought it in
Gloversville, but would think it was a part of our elaborate
wardrobe that we had brought from New York. Very well. (We would not
reveal these shameful subterfuges to any one but Pete Corcoran.) No
sooner said than done; and behold us taking the trolley from
Gloversville to Fonda, with the rest of the company, wearing that
tie that flared and burned in the keen wintry light like a great
banner, like an oriflamme of youthful defiance.
And what a day that was! We shall never forget it; we will never
forget it! Was that the Mohawk Valley that glittered in the morning?
(A sunshine so bright that sitting on the sunward side of the smoker
and lighting our pipe, the small flame of our match paled shamefully
into a tiny and scarce visible ghost.) Our tie strengthened and
sustained us in our zest for a world so coloured and contoured. We
even thought that it was a bit of a pity that our waistcoat was cut
with so shallow and conservative a V that the casual passerby would
see but little of that triumphant silk beacon. The fellow members of
our company were too polite to remark upon it, but we saw that they
had noticed it and took it as a joyful omen.
We had two and a half hours in Albany that day and we remember that
we had set our heart on buying a certain book. Half an hour we
allotted to lunch and the other two hours was spent in visiting the
bookshops of Albany, which are many and good. We wonder if any
Albany booksellers chance to recall a sudden flash of colour that
came, moved along the shelves, and was gone? We remember half a
dozen book stores that we visited; we remember them just as well as
if it were yesterday, and we remember the great gusto and bright
cheer of the crowds of shoppers, already doing their Christmas
pioneering. We remember also that three of the books we bought (to
give away) were McFee's "Aliens" and Frank Adams's "Tobogganing on
Parnassus," yes, and Stevenson's "Lay Morals." Oh, a great day! And
we remember the ride from Albany to Kingston, with the darkening
profile of the Catskills on the western side of the train, the tawny
colours of the fields (like a lion's hide), the blue shadows of the
glens, the sparkling Hudson in quick blinks of brightness, the lilac
line of the hills when we reached Kingston in the dusk. We remember
the old and dilapidated theatre at Kingston, the big shabby dressing
rooms of the men, with the scribbled autographs of former mummers on
the walls. And that night we said good-bye to our little play, whose
very imperfections we had grown to love by this time, and took the
3:45 A.M. milk train to New York. We slept on two seats in the
smoker, and got to Weehawken in the brumous chill of a winter
dawn--still wearing our tie. Now can Pete Corcoran wonder why we are
fond of it, and why, ever and anon, we get it out and wear it in
remembrance?
[Illustration]