_Dimples Tries the Y. M. C. A._
Norman Dalrymple did not return home, nor did he notify his family of
his rejection. Instead, he went back to New York, took a room at the
quietest of his numerous clubs, engaged a trainer, and went on a diet.
He minded neither of the latter very greatly for the first few days, but
in time he learned to abhor both.
He shunned his friends; he avoided the club café as he would have
avoided a dragon’s cave. The sight of a push-button became a temptation
and a trial. Every morning he wrapped himself up like a sore thumb and
ambled round the Park reservoir with his pores streaming; every
afternoon he chased his elusive trainer round a gymnasium, striving to
pin the man’s hateful features, and never quite succeeding. Evenings he
spent in a Turkish bath, striving to attain the boiling-point and
failing by the fraction of a degree. He acquired a terrifying thirst—a
monstrous, maniac thirst which gallons of water would not quench.
Ten days of this and he had lost three pounds. He had dwindled away to a
mere two hundred and eighty-two, and was faintly cheered.
But he possessed a sweet tooth—a double row of them—and he dreamed of
things fattening to eat. One dream in particular tried the strongest
fiber of his being. It was of wallowing through a No Man’s Land of
blanc-mange with shell-craters filled with cream. Frozen
desserts—ice-cold custards! He trembled weakly when he thought of them,
which was almost constantly. Occasionally, when the craving became
utterly unbearable, he skulked guiltily into a restaurant and ordered
his favorite dish, corn-starch pudding.
[Illustration: OCCASIONALLY HE ORDERED HIS FAVORITE DISH, CORN-STARCH
PUDDING]
At the end of three weeks he was bleached; his face was drawn and
miserable; he looked forth from eyes like those of a Saint Bernard. He
had gained a pound!
[Illustration: HE HAD GAINED A POUND!]
Human nature could stand no more. Listlessly he wandered into the club
café and there came under the notice of a friend. It was no more
possible for Dimples to enter a room unobserved than for the _Leviathan_
to slip unobtrusively into port. The friend stared in amazement, then
exclaimed:
“Why, Norm! You look sick.”
“‘Sick?’” the big fellow echoed. “I’m not sick; I’m dying.” And, since
it was good to share his burden, he related what had happened to him.
“Turned me down; wouldn’t give me a chance,” he concluded. “When I
strained the scales, they wanted to know who I had in my lap. I’ve been
banting lately, but I gain weight at it. It agrees with me. Meanwhile,
Shipp and the others are in uniform.” Dimples bowed his head in his
huge, plump hands. “Think of it! Why, I’d give a leg to be in olive drab
and wear metal letters on my collar! ‘Sick?’ Good Lord!”
“I know,” the friend nodded. “I’m too old to go across, but I’m off for
Washington Monday. A dollar a year. I’ve been drawing fifty thousand, by
the way.”
“I’m out of that, too,” Dimples sighed. “Don’t know enough—never did
anything useful. But I could fight, if they’d let me.” He raised his
broad face and his eyes were glowing. “I’m fat, but I could fight. I
could keep the fellows on their toes and make ’em hit the line. If—if
they built ships bigger, I’d stowaway.”
“See here—” The speaker had a sudden thought. “Why don’t you try the Y?”
“‘The Y?’ Yale?”
“No, no. The Y. M. C. A.”
“Oh, _that_! I’ve hired a whole gymnasium of my own where I can swear
out loud.”
“The Y. M. C. A. is sending men overseas.”
“I’m not cut out for a chaplain.”
“They’re sending them over to cheer up the boys, to keep them amused and
entertained, to run huts—”
Dalrymple straightened himself slowly.
“I know; but I thought they were all pulpit-pounders.”
“Nothing of the sort! They’re regular fellows, like us. They manage
canteens and sell the things our boys can’t get. They don’t let them
grow homesick; they make them play games and take care of themselves and
realize that they’re not forgotten. Some of them get right up front and
carry hot soup and smokes into the trenches.”
“Me for that!” Dimples was rising majestically. “I could carry soup—more
soup than any man living. The trenches might be a little snug for me
round the waist, but I’d be careful not to bulge them. Cheer up the
boys! Make ’em laugh! Say—that would help, wouldn’t it?” He hesitated;
then, a bit wistfully, he inquired, “The Y fellows wear—uniforms, too,
don’t they?”
“Well, rather. You can hardly tell them from the army.”
In Dalrymple’s voice, when he spoke, there was an earnestness, a depth
of feeling, that his hearer had never suspected.
“Uniforms mean a lot to me lately. Every time I see a doughboy I want to
stand at attention and throw out my chest and draw in my stomach—as far
as I can. There’s something sacred about that olive drab. It’s like your
mother’s wedding-dress, only holier, and decenter, if possible. Somehow,
it seems to stand for everything clean and honorable and unselfish. The
other day I saw the old Forty-first marching down to entrain, and I
yelled and cried and kissed an old lady. Those swinging arms, those
rifles aslant, those leggings flashing, and that sea of khaki rising,
falling—Gee! There’s something about it. These are great times for the
fellows who aren’t too old or too fat to fight.”
“Those Y men fight, in their way, just as hard as the other boys, and
they don’t get half as much sleep or half as much attention. Nobody
makes a fuss over them.”
Dimples waited to hear no more. The Y. M. C. A.! He had not realized the
sort of work it was doing. But to keep the boys fit to fight! That was
almost as good as being one of them. And he could do it—better than
anybody. As his taxicab sped across town he leaned back with a sigh of
contentment; for the first time in days he smiled. The Y. M. C. A. would
have no scales! To the boys at the front a fat man might be funnier even
than a skinny one. He was mighty glad he had heard of the Y in time. And
it would be glad he had, for his name was worth a lot to any
organization. No more dry bread and spinach—_Gott strafe_ spinach! How
he hated it! No more exercise, either; he would break training instantly
and tell that high-priced reducer what he really thought of him. Useful
work, work to win the war, was one thing, but this loathsome process of
trying out abdominal lard—ugh! He decided to dine like a self-respecting
white man that very night, and to deny himself nothing. The club _chef_
made a most wonderful corn-starch pudding, indescribably delicious and
frightfully fattening. At the mere thought, an eager, predatory look
came into Dimples’s eyes. He would go overseas without delay; he would
be in France doing his bit while Shipp and the others were still
rehearsing their little tricks and learning to shout, “Forward, ouch!”
Of course those fellows would win commissions—they were welcome to the
glory—but meanwhile he would be right down in the dirt and the slime
with the boys in leggings, cheering them up, calling them “Bill” and
“Joe,” sharing their big and their little troubles, and putting the pep
into them. That’s what they needed, that’s what the world needed—pep! It
would win the war.
Dalrymple was surprised when he entered the Y. M. C. A. quarters to find
them busy and crowded. He sent in his card, then seated himself at the
end of a line of waiting men. He wondered if, by any chance, they could
be applicants like himself, and his complacency vanished when he learned
that they could be—that, indeed, they were. His surprise deepened when
he saw that in no wise did they resemble psalm-shouters and
Testament-worms such as he had expected, but that, on the contrary, they
looked like ordinary, capable business and professional men.
Dimples wondered if this were, after all, a competitive service. He
broke into a gentle, apprehensive perspiration.
His name was called finally; he rose and followed a boy into a room
where several men were seated at a table. Two of them were elderly,
typical; they wore various unbecoming arrangements of white whiskers,
and one glance told Dimples that they knew a lot about God. One of the
others resembled a judge, and he it was who spoke first.
“You wish to go to France for the Y. M. C. A.?” the latter inquired.
“Yes, sir. They wouldn’t let me in at Plattsburg. I’m too fat, or the
camp is too small. I’d very much like to go overseas.”
“It is hardly necessary to ask if you have had experience in promoting
social entertainments and recreations.”
The speaker smiled. Dimples’s face broke into an answering grin.
“‘Entertainments!’ ‘Recreations!’ They are my stock in trade. I’m an
authority on all kinds of both; that’s what ails me.”
Another member of the board inquired:
“Are you a temperate man, Mr. Dalrymple?”
“Oh no!” Dimples shook his head. “Not at all.”
“What sort of—er—beverages do you drink?”
“What have you got?” the young giant blithely asked. Noting that his
comedy met with no mirthful response, he explained more seriously: “Why,
I drink practically everything. I have no particular favorites. I dare
say it’s against your rules, so I’ll taper off if you say so. I’d take
the Keeley to get across. Of course I make friends easier when I’m
moderately lit—anybody does. I’m extraordinarily cheerful when I’m that
way. You’ve no idea how—”
“Surely you understand that we tolerate no drinking whatever?”
“No, sir; I didn’t fully understand. I know several Christian young men
who drink—more or less. However, that’s all right with me. I’ve never
tried to quit drinking, so I’m sure I can.”
“Are you familiar with the character and the aims of the Young Men’s
Christian Association?” One of the white-bearded gentlemen put this
question.
“In a general way only. I knew you had a gym and a swimming-tank and ran
some sort of a Sunday-school. It never appealed to me, personally, until
I heard about this work you’re doing in France. That’s my size. That
fits me like a pair of tights.”
“Do you play cards?”
“Certainly. I’m lucky, too. Any game the boys want, from bridge to black
jack.”
“I mean—do you play for money?”
“Is that on the black list, too?” Dimples’s enthusiasm was slowly oozing
away. Noting the falling temperature of the room, he confessed honestly,
but with some reluctance: “I suppose I do all of the things that
ordinary idle fellows do. I drink and gamble and swear and smoke and
overeat and sleep late. But that doesn’t hurt me for carrying soup, does
it?”
No one answered this challenge; instead, he was the recipient of another
question that caused him to squirm.
“Would you consider yourself a moral young man?”
Slowly the applicant shook his head.
“To what Church do you belong?”
“I don’t.”
“How long since you attended divine service?”
“A good many years, I’m afraid.”
There followed a moment of silence; the men at the table exchanged
glances, and into Dimples’s face there came an apprehensive, hunted
look. He wet his lips, then said:
“Anyhow, you can’t accuse me of mendacity. I don’t lie. Now that you
know the worst about me, I’d like to inventory my good points.” This he
proceeded to do, but in all honesty it must be said that his showing was
not impressive. Never having given serious thought to his virtues, there
were few that he could recall at such short notice. He concluded by
saying: “I know I can make good if you’ll give me a chance. I—I’ll work
like a dog, and I’ll keep the boys laughing. I won’t let them get
homesick. I— Why, gentlemen, this is my last chance! It will break my
heart if you turn me down.”
Not unkindly the “judge” said:
“We will consider your application and notify you.”
This very kindliness of tone caused the fat man to pale.
“I know what that means,” he protested. “That’s Y. M. C. A. for ‘no.’
Let me go,” he implored. “I’ll serve. I’ll stand the punishment. I’m
strong and I’ll work till I drop. You won’t be ashamed of me, honestly.”
“We’ll notify you without delay, Mr. Dalrymple.”
There was no more to be said. Dimples wallowed out of the room with his
head down.
That night he walked the soft-carpeted floor of his chamber until very
late, and when he did go to bed it was not to sleep. Daylight found him
turning restlessly, his eyes wide open and tragic. Another failure!
Within him the spirit of sacrifice burned with consuming fury, but there
was no outlet for it. Through his veins ran the blood of a fighting
family; nevertheless, a malicious prank of nature had doomed him to play
the part of Falstaff or of Fatty Arbuckle. What could he do to help?
Doubtless he could find work for his hands in ship-yard or foundry, but
they were soft, white hands, and they knew no trade. Give? He had given
freely and would give more; but everybody was giving. No; action called
him. He belonged in the roar and the din of things where men’s spirit
tells.
That afternoon he was waddling down Fifth Avenue when Mr. Augustus Van
Loan stopped him to exclaim:
“Good Heavens, Dimples! What has happened to you?”
Van Loan was a malefactor of great wealth. His name was a hissing upon
the lips of soap-box orators. None of his malefactions, to be sure, had
ever yet been uncovered, nor were any of the strident-voiced orators
even distantly acquainted with him, but his wealth was an established
fact of such enormity that in the public eye he was suspect.
“I’m all in,” the disconsolate mammoth mumbled, and then made known his
sorrow. “Too fat to get in the army; too soft morally to get in the Y.
M. C. A. I didn’t know how rotten I am. I can’t carry a gun for my
country; I’m not good enough to lug soup to the boys who do. And,
meanwhile, the Huns are pressing forward.”
Van Loan eyed him shrewdly.
“Do you feel it as badly as all that?”
Dalrymple nodded.
“I don’t want to be a hero. Who ever heard of a hero with a waistband
like mine? No; I’d just like to help our lads grin and bear it, and be a
big, cheerful fat brother to them.”
Without a word Mr. Van Loan took a card from his pocket and wrote a few
lines thereon.
“Take that down to the Y and tell them to send you on the next ship.” He
handed Dimples the card, whereupon the giant stared at him.
“D—d’you know that outfit?”
“_Know_ it?” Van Loan smiled. “I’m the fellow who’s raising the money
for them. They’ve darn near broken me, but—it’s worth it.”
With a gurgling shout Dimples wrung the malefactor’s hand; then he
bolted for the nearest taxi-stand and squeezed himself through a cab
door.
Ten minutes later he entered the boardroom at the Y. M. C. A. and flung
Van Loan’s card upon the table.
“Read that!” he told the astonished occupants.
The “judge” read and passed the card along.
“Where do I go from here?” Dimples demanded, in a voice of triumph.
“Why”—the “judge” cleared his throat—“to your tailor’s for a uniform, I
should say.”
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