His work upon the page began the following week. When the first morning
of his campaign opened with a tumultuous blizzard, Jim Bowles and Julius
Steinberger privately sympathized with him as they dressed in company,
but they heard him whistling in his own hall bedroom as he put on his
clothes, and to none of the three did it occur that time could be lost
because the weather was inhuman. Blinding snow was being whirled through
the air by a wind which had bellowed across the bay, and torn its way
howling through the streets, maltreating people as it went, snatching
their breath out of them, and leaving them gaspingly clutching at hats
and bending their bodies before it. Street-cars went by loaded from
front to back platform, and were forced from want of room to whizz
heartlessly by groups waiting anxiously at street corners.
Tembarom saw two or three of them pass in this way, leaving the waiting
ones desperately huddled together behind them. He braced himself and
whistled louder as he buttoned his celluloid collar.
“I'm going to get up to Harlem all the same,” he said. “The 'L' will be
just as jammed, but there'll be a place somewhere, and I'll get it.”
His clothes were the outwardly decent ones of a young man who
must perforce seek cheap clothing-stores, and to whom a ten-dollar
“hand-me-down” is a source of exultant rejoicing. With the aid of great
care and a straight, well-formed young body, he managed to make the
best of them; but they were not to be counted upon for warmth even in
ordinarily cold weather. His overcoat was a specious covering, and was
not infrequently odorous of naphtha.
“You've got to know something about first aid to the wounded if you live
on ten per,” he had said once to Little Ann. “A suit of clothes gets to
be an emergency-case mighty often if it lasts three years.”
“Going up to Harlem to-day, T. T.?” his neighbor at table asked him as
he sat down to breakfast.
“Right there,” he answered. “I've ordered the limousine round, with the
foot-warmer and fur rugs.”
“I guess a day wouldn't really matter much,” said Mrs. Bowse,
good-naturedly. “Perhaps it might be better to-morrow.”
“And perhaps it mightn't,” said Tembarom, eating “break-fast-food” with
a cheerful appetite. “What you can't be stone-cold sure of to-morrow you
drive a nail in to-day.”
He ate a tremendous breakfast as a discreet precautionary measure.
The dark dining-room was warm, and the food was substantial. It was
comfortable in its way.
“You'd better hold the hall door pretty tight when you go out, and don't
open it far,” said Mrs. Bowse as he got up to go. “There's wind enough
to upset things.”
Tembarom went out in the hall, and put on his insufficient overcoat. He
buttoned it across his chest, and turned its collar up to his ears. Then
he bent down to turn up the bottoms of his trousers.
“A pair of arctics would be all to the merry right here,” he said,
and then he stood upright and saw Little Ann coming down the staircase
holding in her hand a particularly ugly tar-tan-plaid woolen neck-scarf
of the kind known in England as a “comforter.”
“If you are going out in this kind of weather,” she said in her serene,
decided little voice, “you'd better wrap this comforter right round your
neck, Mr. Tembarom. It's one of Father's, and he can spare it because
he's got another, and, besides, he's not going out.”
Tembarom took it with a sudden emotional perception of the fact that he
was being taken care of in an abnormally luxurious manner.
“Now, I appreciate that,” he said. “The thing about you. Little Ann, is
that you never make a wrong guess about what a fellow needs, do you?”
“I'm too used to taking care of Father not to see things,” she answered.
“What you get on to is how to take care of the whole world--initials
on a fellow's socks and mufflers round his neck.” His eyes looked
remarkably bright.
“If a person were taking care of the whole world, he'd have a lot to
do,” was her sedate reception of the remark. “You'd better put that
twice round your neck, Mr. Tembarom.”
She put up her hand to draw the end of the scarf over his shoulder,
and Tembarom stood still at once, as though he were a little boy being
dressed for school. He looked down at her round cheek, and watched one
of the unexpected dimples reveal itself in a place where dimples are not
usually anticipated. It was coming out because she was smiling a small,
observing smile. It was an almost exciting thing to look at, and he
stood very still indeed. A fellow who did not own two pairs of boots
would be a fool not to keep quiet.
“You haven't told me I oughtn't to go out till the blizzard lets up,” he
said presently.
“No, I haven't, Mr. Tembarom,” she answered. “You're one of the kind
that mean to do a thing when they've made up their minds. It'll be a
nice bit of money if you can keep the page.”
“Galton said he'd give me a chance to try to make good,” said Tembarom.
“And if it's the hit he thinks it ought to be, he'll raise me ten.
Thirty per. Vanastorbilts won't be in it. I think I'll get married,” he
added, showing all his attractive teeth at once.
“I wouldn't do that,” she said. “It wouldn't be enough to depend on. New
York's an expensive place.”
She drew back and looked him over. “That'll keep you much warmer,” she
decided. “Now you can go. I've been looking in the telephone-book for
confectioners, and I've written down these addresses.” She handed him a
slip of paper.
Tembarom caught his breath.
“Hully gee!” he exclaimed, “there never were TWO of you made! One used
up all there was of it. How am I going to thank you, anyhow!”
“I do hope you'll be able to keep the page,” she said. “I do that, Mr.
Tembarom.”
If there had been a touch of coquetry in her earnest, sober, round,
little face she would have been less distractingly alluring, but there
was no shade of anything but a sort of softly motherly anxiety in the
dropped note of her voice, and it was almost more than flesh and blood
at twenty-five could stand. Tembarom made a hasty, involuntary
move toward her, but it was only a slight one, and it was scarcely
perceptible before he had himself in hand and hurriedly twisted his
muffler tighter, showing his teeth again cheerily.
“You keep on hoping it all day without a let-up,” he said. “And tell Mr.
Hutchinson I'm obliged to him, please. Get out of the way, Little Ann,
while I go out. The wind might blow you and the hat-stand upstairs.”
He opened the door and dashed down the high steps into the full blast
of the blizzard. He waited at the street corner while three overcrowded
cars whizzed past him, ignoring his signals because there was not an
inch of space left in them for another passenger. Then he fought his
way across two or three blocks to the nearest “L” station. He managed to
wedge himself into a train there, and then at least he was on his way.
He was thinking hard and fast, but through all his planning the warm hug
of the tartan comforter round his neck kept Little Ann near him. He had
been very thankful for the additional warmth as the whirling snow and
wind had wrought their will with him while he waited for the cars at the
street corner. On the “L” train he saw her serious eyes and heard the
motherly drop in her voice as she said, “I do hope you'll be able to
keep the page. I do that, Mr. Tembarom.” It made him shut his hands hard
as they hung in his overcoat pockets for warmth, and it made him shut
his sound teeth strongly.
“Gee! I've got to!” his thoughts said for him. “If I make it, perhaps
my luck will have started. When a man's luck gets started, every darned
thing's to the good.”
The “L” had dropped most of its crowd when it reached the up-town
station among the hundredth streets which was his destination. He
tightened his comforter, tucked the ends firmly into the front of his
overcoat, and started out along the platform past the office, and down
the steep, iron steps, already perilous with freezing snow. He had to
stop to get his breath when he reached the street, but he did not stop
long. He charged forth again along the pavement, looking closely at the
shop-windows. There were naturally but few passers-by, and the shops
were not important-looking; but they were open, and he could see
that the insides of them looked comfortable in contrast with the
blizzard-ruled street. He could not see both sides of the street as he
walked up one side of the block without coming upon a confectioner's.
He crossed at the corner and turned back on the other side. Presently
he saw that a light van was standing before one place, backed up against
the sidewalk to receive parcels, its shuddering horse holding its head
down and bracing itself with its forelegs against the wind. At any rate,
something was going on there, and he hurried forward to find out what
it was. The air was so thick with myriads of madly flying bits of snow,
which seemed whirled in all directions in the air, that he could not
see anything definite even a few yards away. When he reached the van
he found that he had also reached his confectioner. The sign over the
window read “M. Munsberg, Confectionery. Cakes. Ice-Cream. Weddings,
Balls and Receptions.”
“Made a start, anyhow,” said Tembarom.
He turned into the store, opening the door carefully, and thereby barely
escaping being blown violently against a stout, excited, middle-aged
little Jew who was bending over a box he was packing. This was evidently
Mr. Munsberg, who was extremely busy, and even the modified shock upset
his temper.
“Vhere you goin'?” he cried out. “Can't you look vhere you're goin'?”
Tembarom knew this was not a good beginning, but his natural mental
habit of vividly seeing the other man's point of view helped him after
its usual custom. His nice grin showed itself.
“I wasn't going; I was coming,” he said. “Beg pardon. The wind's blowing
a hundred miles an hour.”
A good-looking young woman, who was probably Mrs. Munsberg, was packing
a smaller box behind the counter. Tembarom lifted his hat, and she liked
it.
“He didn't do it a bit fresh,” she said later. “Kind o' nice.” She spoke
to him with professional politeness.
“Is there anything you want?” she asked.
Tembarom glanced at the boxes and packages standing about and at
Munsberg, who had bent over his packing again. Here was an occasion for
practical tact.
“I've blown in at the wrong time,” he said. “You're busy getting things
out on time. I'll just wait.. Gee! I'm glad to be inside. I want to
speak to Mr. Munsberg.”
Mr. Munsberg jerked himself upright irascibly, and broke forth in the
accent of the New York German Jew.
“If you comin' in here to try to sell somedings, young man, joost you
let that same vind vat blew you in blow you right out pretty quick. I'm
not buyin' nodings. I'm busy.”
“I'm not selling a darned thing,” answered Tembarom, with undismayed
cheer.
“You vant someding?” jerked out Munsberg.
“Yes, I want something,” Tembarom answered, “but it's nothing any one
has to pay for. I'm only a newspaper man.” He felt a glow of pride as he
said the words. He was a newspaper man even now. “Don't let me stop you
a minute. I'm in luck to get inside anywhere and sit down. Let me wait.”
Mrs. Munsberg read the Sunday papers and revered them. She also knew
the value of advertisement. She caught her husband's eye and hurriedly
winked at him.
“It's awful outside. 'T won't do harm if he waits--if he ain't no
agent,” she put in.
“See,” said Tembarom, handing over one of the cards which had been
Little Ann's businesslike inspiration.
“T. Tembarom. New York Sunday Earth,” read Munsberg, rather grudgingly.
He looked at T. Tembarom, and T. Tembarom looked back at him. The normal
human friendliness in the sharp boyish face did it.
“Vell,” he said, making another jerk toward a chair, “if you ain't no
agent, you can vait.”
“Thank you,” said Tembarom, and sat down. He had made another start,
anyhow.
After this the packing went on fast and furious. A youth appeared
from the back of the store, and ran here and there as he was ordered.
Munsberg and his wife filled wooden and cardboard boxes with small cakes
and larger ones, with sandwiches and salads, candies and crystallized
fruits. Into the larger box was placed a huge cake with an icing temple
on the top of it, with silver doves adorning it outside and in. There
was no mistaking the poetic significance of that cake. Outside the
blizzard whirled clouds of snow-particles through the air, and the van
horse kept his head down and his forelegs braced. His driver had long
since tried to cover him with a blanket which the wind continually
tore loose from its fastenings, and flapped about the creature's sides.
Inside the store grew hot. There was hurried moving about, banging
of doors, excited voices, irascible orders given and countermanded.
Tembarom found out in five minutes that the refreshments were for a
wedding reception to be held at a place known as “The Hall,” and the
goods must be sent out in time to be ready for the preparations for the
wedding supper that night.
“If I knew how to handle it, I could get stuff for a column just sitting
here,” he thought. He kept both eyes and ears open. He was sharp enough
to realize that the mere sense of familiarity with detail which he was
gaining was material in itself. Once or twice he got up and lent a hand
with a box in his casual way, and once or twice he saw that he could
lift some-thing down or up for Mrs. Munsberg, who was a little woman.
The natural casualness of his way of jumping up to do the things
prevented any suspicion of officiousness, and also prevented his waiting
figure from beginning to wear the air of a superfluous object in the
way. He waited a long time, and circumstances so favored him as to give
him a chance or so. More than once exactly the right moment presented
itself when he could interject an apposite remark. Twice he made
Munsberg laugh, and twice Mrs. Munsberg voluntarily addressed him.
At last the boxes and parcels ware all carried out and stored in the
van, after strugglings with the opening and shutting of doors, and
battlings with outside weather.
When this was all over, Munsberg came back into the store, knocking his
hands together and out of breath.
“Dot's all right,” he said. “It'll all be there plenty time. Vouldn't
have fell down on that order for tventy-vive dollars. Dot temple on the
cake was splendid. Joseph he done it fine.”
“He never done nothin' no finer,” Mrs. Munsberg said. “It looked as good
as anything on Fift' Avenoo.”
Both were relieved and pleased with themselves, their store, and their
cake-decorator. Munsberg spoke to Tembarom in the manner of a man who,
having done a good thing, does not mind talking about it.
“Dot was a big order,” he remarked.
“I should smile,” answered Tembarom. “I'd like to know whose going to
get outside all that good stuff. That wedding-cake took the tart away
from anything I've ever seen. Which of the four hundred's going to eat
it?”
“De man vot ordered dot cake,” Munsberg swaggered, “he's not got to
vorry along on vun million nor two. He owns de biggest brewery in New
York, I guess in America. He's Schwartz of Schwartz & Kapfer.”
“Well, he 's got it to burn!” said Tembarom.
“He's a mighty good man,” went on Munsberg. “He's mighty fond of his
own people. He made his first money in Harlem, and he had a big fight
to get it; but his own people vas good to him, an' he's never forgot
it. He's built a fine house here, an' his girls is fine girls. De vun's
goin' to be married to-night her name's Rachel, an' she's goin' to marry
a nice feller, Louis Levy. Levy built the big entertainment-hall vhere
the reception's goin' to be. It's decorated vith two thousand dollars'
worth of bride roses an' lilies of de valley an' smilax. All de up-town
places vas bought out, an' den Schwartz vent down Fift' Avenoo.”
The right moment had plainly arrived.
“Say, Mr. Munsberg,” Tembarom broke forth, “you're giving me just what
I wanted to ask you for. I'm the new up-town society reporter for the
Sunday Earth, and I came in here to see if you wouldn't help me to get a
show at finding out who was going to have weddings and society doings. I
didn't know just how to start.”
Munsberg gave a sort of grunt. He looked less amiable.
“I s'pose you're used to nothin' but Fift' Avenoo,” he said.
Tembarom grinned exactly at the right time again. Not only his good
teeth grinned, but his eyes grinned also, if the figure may be used.
“Fifth Avenue!” he laughed. “There's been no Fifth Avenue in mine. I'm
not used to anything, but you may bet your life I'm going to get used
to Harlem, if you people'll let me. I've just got this job, and I'm dead
stuck on it. I want to make it go.”
“He's mighty different from Biker,” said Mrs. Munsberg in an undertone.
“Vhere's dod oder feller?” inquired Munsberg. “He vas a dam fool, dot
oder feller, half corned most de time, an' puttin' on Clarence airs. No
one was goin' to give him nothin'. He made folks mad at de start.”
“I've got his job,” said Tembarom, “and if I can't make it go, the
page will be given up. It'll be my fault if that happens, not Harlem's.
There's society enough up-town to make a first-class page, and I shall
be sick if I can't get on to it.”
He had begun to know his people. Munsberg was a good-natured, swaggering
little Hebrew.
That the young fellow should make a clean breast of it and claim no
down-town superiority, and that he should also have the business insight
to realize that he might obtain valuable society items from such a
representative confectioner as M. Munsberg, was a situation to incite
amiable sentiments.
“Vell, you didn't come to de wrong place,” he said. “All de biggest
things comes to me, an' I don't mind tellin' you about 'em. 'T ain't
goin' to do no harm. Weddings an' things dey ought to be wrote up,
anyhow, if dey're done right. It's good for business. Vy don't dey have
no pictures of de supper-tables? Dot'd be good.”
“There's lots of receptions and weddings this month,” said Mrs.
Munsberg, becoming agreeably excited. “And there's plenty handsome young
girls that'd like their pictures published.
“None of them have been in Sunday papers before, and they'd like it. The
four Schwartz girls would make grand pictures. They dress splendid, and
their bridesmaids dresses came from the biggest place in Fift' Avenoo.”
“Say,” exclaimed Tembarom, rising from his chair, “I'm in luck. Luck
struck me the minute I turned in here. If you'll tell me where Schwartz
lives, and where the hall is, and the church, and just anything else
I can use, I'll go out and whoop up a page to beat the band.” He was
glowing with exultation. “I know I can do it. You've started me off.”
Munsberg and his wife began to warm. It was almost as though they had
charge of the society page themselves. There was something stimulating
in the idea. There was a suggestion of social importance in it. They
knew a number of people who would be pleased with the prospect of being
in the Sunday Earth. They were of a race which holds together, and they
gave not only the names and addresses of prospective entertainers, but
those of florists and owners of halls where parties were given.
Mrs. Munsberg gave the name of a dressmaker of whom she shrewdly guessed
that she would be amiably ready to talk to a society-page reporter.
“That Biker feller,” she said, “got things down all wrong. He called
fine white satin 'white nun's-veiling,' and he left out things. Never
said nothing about Miss Lewishon's diamond ring what her grandpa gave
her for a wedding-present. An' it cost two hundred and fifty.”
“Well, I'm a pretty big fool myself,” said Tembarom, “but I should have
known better than that.”
When he opened the door to go, Mrs. Munsberg called after him:
“When you get through, you come back here and tell us what you done.
I'll give you a cup of hot coffee.”
He returned to Mrs. Bowse's boarding-house so late that night that even
Steinberger and Bowles had ended their day. The gas in the hall was
turned down to a glimmering point, and the house was silent for the
night. Even a cat who stole to him and rubbed herself against his leg
miauwed in a sort of abortive whisper, opening her mouth wide, but
emitting no sound. When he went cautiously up the staircase he carried
his damp overcoat with him, and hung it in company with the tartan
muffler close to the heater in the upper hall. Then he laid on his
bedside table a package of papers and photographs.
After he had undressed, he dropped heavily into bed, exhausted, but
elate.
“I'm dog-tired,” he said, “but I guess I've got it going.” And almost
before the last word had uttered itself he fell into the deep sleep of
worn-out youth.