Once a grammar-school Rabbit, struggling from long Trousers toward his
first brier-wood Pipe, had Growing Pains which he diagnosed as the
pangs of True Love.
The Target was a dry-seasoned Fannie old enough to be his Godmother.
She was a Post-Graduate who was keeping herself on Earth by running to
the Drug-Store every few minutes.
The Eye-Brows were neatly blocked out by some Process unknown to the
writer, and she had a Shape that could be revised ad lib.
An Expert would have Made her at a glance, but the Cub fell for the
Scenery and Mechanical Effects.
He had sketched a little synopsis of the Future. After waiting 8
years, until she had unpetaled into the perfect bloom of Womanhood and
he was wearing a Full Beard, he would take her by the Long Glove and
lead her off into Dreamland.
Just to show how one of those pinfeather Passions may be shunted onto
a Siding and left among the Dog-Fennel, when the Subject of this
Sketch was _ætat_ 22, he was picking them out of the Air in the Left
Garden at the State University. Fannie (she of the purchased Pallor)
was thoroughly married to a Veterinary with the Drug Habit.
Soon after recovering from the Pip, known in Medical Parlance as the
Spooney Infantum, he began to glory in the friendship of an incipient
Amazon who wore a Blazer and walked like a Policeman.
She did not hamper her fibrous Physique with any excess Harness that
might pinch when she essayed a full St. Andrew's Swipe with a wooden
Club. And she had one lower octave of Pipes, like a Brakeman on the
Erie.
There comes a brief Period in the Veal Epoch of every Sentimental
Tommy when the only real Cutie is one who can propel a Canoe and throw
Overhand.
So Walter, such being the baptismal Handicap, often thought it would
be Sweet Billiards to keep house with the she-Acrobat for 30 or 40
years, because when they were tired of sitting in the House they could
go into the Front Yard and play Ketch.
He was just at the rickety Age when the Gams refuse to coördinate.
Every time he sauntered carelessly across the porch at a Summer Hotel,
he gave a correct Imitation of a troop of Cavalry going over a Wooden
Bridge at full Gallop.
[Illustration: Every time he sauntered carelessly across the porch, he
gave a correct Imitation of a troop of Cavalry going over a Wooden
Bridge]
He had a way of backing into Potted Plants.
Each Morning was clouded by the task of picking out a Cravat that
would be of the same Radio-Activity as the Socks. And all through the
waking hours he carried with him a faint and sickly Realization that
his Parents did not understand him.
One day he stood before a kind-faced Registrar and matriculated.
Branded as a regular Freshman, he went back to his little Den and put
a news-stand Photo of Lillian Russell between two Pennants.
The whalebone Divinity in the Home Town passed out of his Life. He
told himself that he would be true to Miss Russell and all the other
Members of her sprightly Profession.
The emotional side of his unfolding Nature began to nourish itself on
Song Hits, and he slept each night with his Banjo folded tightly to
his Bosom.
He became acquainted with a Sophomore who once sat near Trixie
Friganza in a Parlor Car. One night Alice Nielsen looked directly at
the Box in which he was seated with the other Fraters of the Ippy Ki
Yi. In fact, his Life became crowded with tingling Experiences.
The collection of Cigarette Pictures made him acquainted with many
Celebrities. His intimacy with them grew apace as he developed a
bookish appetite for Sunday Newspapers.
He danced with the local Chickadees, but all the time his Heart was
far away, in the Dramatic Column.
Suddenly he found that he was an Upper Classman, to whom each Neophyte
touched the Leaf of Lettuce balanced on top of the Head, ostensibly as
a Cap.
He became endowed with the divine Right to hit himself on the Leg with
a Walking Stick and sit on a hallowed Fence.
Simultaneous-like, he became conscious of the fact that the Footlight
Favorites were no longer worthy of him. He began to hold long and
serious Conversaziones with the Sister of a Prof.
She was an aerial Performer who wore powerful Spectacles, in which any
one standing before her could see an Image of himself, greatly
reduced.
She looked as if she had been sitting up all night, writing a History
of Civilization.
Walter found himself uplifted every time they were left together in
the Library. Sometimes she took him up so high that he became dizzy.
He now began to prog as follows: He and the Lady Emerson would be
legally welded just after Commencement and spend the Honeymoon at some
lively Chautauqua.
The grinding Wheels and raucous buying and selling of the Marts of
Trade seemed faint and far away when he roamed through the Cloisters
with Elfreda. He was in the moulting Stage, and it seemed to him that
Success in Life would consist of going about reeking of Culture.
A Degree looked bigger than a Dividend.
He never had heard tell of such a thing as a Coal-Bill or a Special
Assessment for a Sewer.
The vision of Elfreda floated out through a Transom three days after
he drew a Desk in the extensive Works owned by the Governor.
He was too busy keeping his Head above the Churning Waves to bother
with Speculative Philosophy or write Letters studded with Latin
Phrases, like Currants in an English Cake.
All the cringing Peons in the big Stockade hated him because he had a
Drag. It was up to him to deliver the Merchandise and demonstrate that
he was a Human Being rather than a College Graduate.
In the meantime, the Spectators were hoping that he would Skid and go
into the Fence.
He began to wear his Frat pin on his undershirt, and he had no time to
frivol away on the fluffy Gender, because he expected to be sitting in
the Directors' Room in a couple of years, talking it over with Henry
C. Frick.
So he waved aside the Square Envelopes and allowed himself to be
billed all over the Macaroon Circuit as a Woman-Hater.
Of course he girled in a conservative way, but he merely trailed. He
did not buzz, or throw himself at the fallen Handkerchief, or run to
get the Wraps, or do any of the Stuff that marks the true and bounden
Captive.
When he found himself in the cushioned Lair of a Feline, he would lean
back in perfect Security, knowing that even if she exercised her
entire répertoire of Wiles, she could not warm the Dead Heart nor stir
into life the fallen Rose Leaves of Romance.
All the time she was spilling her familiar line of Chatter, he would
look at her with an arid and patronizing Smile, such as the Harvard
Man produces when he finds himself in immediate juxtaposition to some
human Caterpillar from west of Pittsburgh.
Very often, when the registered Dolly Grays got together for a Bon-Bon
Orgy, some one would say, "Oh, Crickey, ain't he the regular Cynic?"
Another might suggest that he was hiding a great Sorrow, his whole
Existence having been embittered by the faithlessness of some
Creature.
Then they would take a Vote and decide that he was a plain Mutt.
The Chauncey who refuses to reciprocate will excite more Conversation
than a regular Union Lover, but it is Lucky for him that he does not
hear all the Conversation.
Walter at the age of twenty-five thought he was too old and sedate to
be a Diner-Out and a Dancing Devil.
When he was 28, however, he had become Hep to the large and luminous
Truth that the man who sits in his Lodgings reading Dumas may overlook
many a Bet.
He noted on every Hand the nice-looking Boys who turned in about 10.40
and avoided the Pitfalls of Society, and most of them were pulling
down as much as $14 a week.
He recalled what this humble Chronicler had said away back in 1899:
"Early to Bed and Early to Rise and you will meet very few of our Best
People."
He looked over the Lay-Out and decided that it was just as easy to
mingle with the Face Cards as to sleep in the Discards.
He saw many a Light Weight with a gilt sign exposed on Main Street and
no Assets except a Suit with a Velvet Collar, a pair of indestructible
dancing Legs, and just enough intellectual Acumen to stir Tea without
spilling it.
So he decided to have a try at the Gay Life and worm his way into the
Safety Deposit Vaults via the Parlor Route.
A worthy Resolve and one often taken.
If a Friend of the People can capitalize his Vocal Cords, why should
not the little Brother of the Rich put his undying Nerve into the
Market and get what he can on it?
The Captain of Finance is usually owned, Body and Soul, by the other
Half of the Sketch. She may be a head bell-ringer in the D. A. R. or
the blue-pencil Queen of the Golden Pheasants, but in a vast majority
of cases she has not the Looks to back up the Title.
Even the Buckingham Palace manner and the Arctic Front cannot buffalo
the idle Spectator into overlooking the fact that she belongs to the
genus Quince.
She may not be a Beaut, but it is She who stands at the main entrance
to the Big Tent and tears off seat coupons.
Walter knew that if he wished to be mentioned all over town as a
Sure-Enough, his passport to the Inner Circle of Hot Potatoes would
have to be viséd by Patroness No. 1.
He began to work in the Secret Service of the Chosen Few and was First
Aid to the Chaperons.
A Hard Life, say you? Not a tall--not a tall.
He was entirely surrounded by Fairy Lamps and sweet-smelling Flowers.
Life became a kaleidoscopic Aurora Borealis.
When the first Crash of Music came through the hothouse Palms, Walter
would be out on the Waxen Floor with his hair in a Braid.
Through the long watches of the night he played Blonde against Brunette
and then went home with his Time-Card bearing the official O.K.
He swam among the floating Hooks and side-stepped the Maternal Traps,
until the compilers of Marital Statistics had his name in the list
marked "Nothing Doing."
The Dope on him seemed to be that he was Immune and Jinx-Proof.
After he led one of them back to a Divan and fed her an Ice, it was a
case of "Good Night, Miss Mitchell."
Truly, a Bachelor flown with Insolence and Pride is the favorite Mark
for the Bow-and-Arrow Kid.
For every weather-beaten Beau and Ballroom Veteran there is waiting
somewhere in Ambuscade a keen little Diana with the right kind of
Ammunition.
One night he went to a Small Dance in his regular Henry Miller suit
and wearing a tired look around the Eyes. He counted these minor
Functions a dreadful Bore.
Over in a corner sat a half-portion Damosel who had come to town on a
Visit. Her name was Violet, and she looked the Part.
She didn't know who was running for President or what Miss Pankhurst
said about Suffrage, but she had large belladonna Orbs, with Danger
lurking in their limpid depths.
She was just at the Age when any girl who is not actually Deformed
looks fair to middling, while the real Dinger, with the Tresses and
the Complexion and the gleaming white Shoulders and the Parisian
figure, is right there with a full equipment for breaking up Families.
Old Dare-Devil Dick, the Hero of 1000 Flirtations, was sitting out one
of the Dances recently condemned by Press and Pulpit.
He became aware of the presence of something Feminine at his immediate
right. He took a cautious Look and beheld a timid Débutante, sparkling
with the Dew and waiting to be plucked.
She gave him a frightened Smile and lamped him very slowly.
Suddenly he felt himself wafted away on a cloud of Purple Perfumery.
She had put the Sign on him without lifting a Finger.
As she circled away, clutched by a rude Collegian, he lay back
helpless, tied in a True Lovers' Knot.
Later in the evening he met her. He sat alongside of her in an agony
of confused Bliss, with a Temperature of 104 and the Vocal Chords
entirely paralyzed. And yet, as a rule, he was just as reliable as a
Phonograph.
All the way home that night he was Bleeding freely.
At 8 the next Morning he began sending Flowers.
It was a terrible Case. The old ones seem to suffer more.
He followed her like a trained Spaniel.
When she seemed cold and distant, he would hurry to his Room and pull
a private Brain-Storm. For many Hours thereafter the Map of the World
would have a Black Border around it.
Next day she would relent, and accept his Jack Roses, and he would run
around and around in a Circle, gurgling and clapping his Hands.
He was on the waiting list for the Nut Club. Our Old Friend was flooey
in the Filbert. The Love Bacilli swarmed in every part of his Being.
When she found that she had him sure enough Lariated, she eased up on
her part of the Work and began a public demonstration of Woman's Power
and Dominion over the Brute Creation. He was meeker than a Federal
Office-Holder.
Any time she snapped her Fingers, he sat up and Begged.
Then she used to carry on with certain Men against whom he had warned
her. It amused her to know that he was walking up and down outside,
chewing the White Gloves.
His friends tried to save him. They demonstrated, with a Pencil and a
Piece of Paper, that she was just an ordinary, everyday Baby Doll with
a Second Reader intelligence and the Spiritual Caliber of a Humming
Bird. They proved that exactly the same kind were scattered through
every Department Store, working for $6 a week.
When they got through knocking, he hurried over and told her
everything and promised her that if she would marry him, not one of
these Snakes would ever be permitted to enter the House.
He writhed on the Rug and said that if she didn't whisper that One
Little Word, it would be a case of Satin Lining and Silver Handles for
little Wallie.
She looked out the Window and yawned slightly and then said, "Oh, very
well."
He rode home standing up in a Taxicab, while she was showing the Maids
a lozenge-shaped Ring that set him back 450 Bucks.
MORAL: The higher they fly the harder they fall.