PLAYING HAROLD BOTH WAYS
Anyway, they came bunched, and that was some comfort. Eh? Well, first off
there was the lovers, then there was Harold; and it was only the
combination that saved me from developin' an ingrowin' grouch.
You can guess who it was accumulated the lovers. Why, when Sadie comes
back from Bar Harbor and begins tellin' me about 'em, you'd thought she'd
been left something in a will, she's so pleased.
Seems there was these two young ladies, friends of some friends of hers,
that was bein' just as miserable as they could be up there. One was
visitin' the other, and, as I made out from Sadie's description, they
must have been havin' an awful time, livin' in one of them eighteen-room
cottages built on a point juttin' a mile or so out into the ocean, with
nothin' but yachts and motor boats and saddle horses and tennis courts
and so on to amuse themselves with.
I inspected some of them places when I was up that way not long
ago,--joints where they get their only information about hot waves by
readin' the papers,--and I can just imagine how I could suffer puttin' in
a summer there. Say, some folks don't know when they're well off, do
they?
And what do you suppose the trouble with 'em was? Why, Bobbie and Charlie
was missin'. Honest, that's all the place lacked to make it a suburb of
Paradise. But that was enough for the young ladies; for each of 'em was
sportin' a diamond ring on the proper finger, and, as they confides to
Sadie, what was the use of havin' summer at all, if one's fiance couldn't
be there?
Bobbie and Charlie, it appears, was slavin' away in the city; one tryin'
to convince Papa that he'd be a real addition to Wall Street, and the
other trainin' with Uncle for a job as vice president of a life insurance
company. So what did Helen and Marjorie care about sea breezes and
picture postal scenery? Once a day they climbed out to separate perches
on the rocks to read letters from Bobbie and Charlie; and the rest of the
time they put in comparin' notes and helpin' each other be miserable.
"Ah, quit it, Sadie!" says I, interruptin' the sad tale. "Do you want to
make me cry?"
"Well, they were wretched, even if you don't believe it," says she; "so I
just told them to come right down here for the rest of the season."
"Wha-a-at!" says I. "Not here?"
"Why not?" says Sadie. "The boys can run up every afternoon and have
dinner with us and stay over Sunday, and--and it will be just lovely. You
know how much I like to have young people around. So do you, too."
"Yes, that's all right," says I; "but----"
"Oh, I know," says she. "This isn't matchmaking, though. They're already
engaged, and it will be just delightful to have them with us. Now won't
it?"
"Maybe it will," says I. "We ain't ever done this wholesale before; so I
ain't sure."
Someway, I had a hunch that two pair of lovers knockin' around the
premises at once might be most too much of a good thing; but, as long as
I couldn't quote any authorities, I didn't feel like keepin' on with the
debate.
I couldn't object any to the style of the young ladies when they showed
up; for they was both in the queen class, tall and willowy and sweet
faced. One could tease opera airs out of the piano in great shape, and
the other had quite some of a voice; so the prospects were for a few
weeks of lively and entertainin' evenin's at the McCabe mansion. I had
the programme all framed up too,--me out on the veranda with my heels on
the rail, the windows open, and inside the young folks strikin' up the
melodies and makin' merry gen'rally.
Bobbie and Charles made more or less of a hit with me too when they first
called,--good, husky, clean built young gents that passed out the cordial
grip and remarked real hearty how much they appreciated our great
kindness askin' 'em up.
"Don't mention it," says I. "It's a fad of mine."
Anyway, it looked like a good game to be in on, seein' there wa'n't any
objections from any of the fam'lies. Made me feel bright and chirky, just
to see 'em there, so that night at dinner I cut loose with some real cute
joshes for the benefit of the young people. You know how easy it is to be
humorous on them occasions. Honest, I must have come across with some of
the snappiest I had in stock, and I was watchin' for the girls to pink up
and accuse me of bein' an awful kidder, when all of a sudden I tumbles to
the fact that I ain't holdin' my audience.
Say, they'd started up a couple of conversations on their own hook--kind
of side issue, soft pedal dialogues--and they wa'n't takin' the slightest
notice of my brilliant efforts. At the other end of the table Sadie is
havin' more or less the same experience; for every time she tries to cut
in with some cheerful observation she finds she's addressin' either
Marjorie's left shoulder or Bobbie's right.
"Eh, Sadie?" says I across the centerpiece. "What was that last of
yours?"
"It doesn't matter," says she. "Shall we have coffee in the library,
girls, or outside! I say, Helen, shall we have---- I beg pardon, Helen,
but would you prefer----"
"What we seem to need most, Sadie," says I as she gives it up, "is a
table megaphone."
Nobody hears this suggestion, though, not even Sadie. I was lookin' for
the fun to begin after dinner,--the duets and the solos and the
quartets,--but the first thing Sadie and I know we are occupyin' the
libr'y all by ourselves, with nothing doing in the merry music line.
"Of course," says she, "they want a little time by themselves."
"Sure!" says I. "Half-hour out for the reunion."
It lasts some longer, though. At the end of an hour I thinks I'll put in
the rest of the wait watchin' the moon come up out of Long Island Sound
from my fav'rite corner of the veranda; but when I gets there I finds
it's occupied.
"Excuse me," says I, and beats it around to the other side, where there's
a double rocker that I can gen'rally be comfortable in. Hanged if I
didn't come near sittin' slam down on the second pair, that was snuggled
up close there in the dark!
"Aha!" says I in my best comic vein. "So here's where you are, eh? Fine
night, ain't it?"
There's a snicker from the young lady, a grunt from the young gent; but
nothing else happens in the way of a glad response. So I chases back into
the house.
"It's lovely out, isn't it?" says Sadie.
"Yes," says I; "but more or less mushy in spots."
With that we starts in to sit up for 'em. Sadie says we got to because
we're doin' the chaperon act. And, say, I've seen more excitin' games. I
read three evenin' papers clear through from the weather forecast to the
bond quotations, and I finished by goin' sound asleep in my chair. I
don't know whether Bobbie and Charlie caught the milk train back to town
or not; but they got away sometime before breakfast.
"Oh, well," says Sadie, chokin' off a yawn as she pours the coffee, "this
was their first evening together, you know. I suppose they had a lot to
say to each other."
"Must have had," says I. "I shouldn't think they'd have to repeat that
performance for a month."
Next night, though, it's the same thing, and the next, and the next.
"Poor things!" thinks I. "I expect they're afraid of being guyed." So,
just to show how sociable and friendly I could be, I tries buttin' in on
these lonely teeter-tates. First I'd hunt up one couple and submit some
samples of my best chatter--gettin' about as much reply as if I was
ringin' Central with the wire down. Then I locates the other pair, drags
a rocker over near 'em, and tries to make the dialogue three handed. They
stands it for a minute or so before decidin' to move to another spot.
Honest, I never expected to feel lonesome right at home entertainin'
guests! but I was gettin' acquainted with the sensation. There's no
musical doings, no happy groups and gay laughter about the house; nothing
but now and then a whisper from dark corners, or the creak of the porch
swings.
"Gee! but they're takin' their spoonin' serious, ain't they?" says I to
Sadie. "And how popular we are with 'em! Makes me feel almost like I
ought to put on a gag and sit down cellar in the coalbin."
"Pooh!" says Sadie, makin' a bluff she didn't mind. "Do let them enjoy
themselves in their own way."
"Sure I will," says I. "Only this chaperon business is gettin' on my
nerves. I don't feel like a host here; I feel more like a second story
man dodgin' the night watchman."
There wa'n't any signs of a change, either. When they had to be around
where we was they had hardly a word to say and acted bored to death; and
it must have taxed their brains, workin' up all them cute little schemes
for leavin' us on a siding so they could pair off. Course, I've seen
engaged couples before; but I never met any that had the disease quite so
hard. And this bein' shunned like I had somethin' catchin' was new to me.
I begun to feel like I was about ninety years old and in the way.
Sunday forenoon was the limit, though. Sadie had planned to take 'em all
for a motor trip; but they declines with thanks. Would they rather go out
on the water? No, they didn't care for that, either. All they seems to
want to do is wander round, two by two, where we ain't. And at that Sadie
loses some of her enthusiasm for havin' bunches of lovers around.
"Humph!" I hears her remark as she watches Bobbie and Marjorie sidestep
her and go meanderin' off down a path to the rocks.
A little while later I happens to stroll down to the summerhouse with the
Sunday paper, and as I steps in one door Charlie and Helen slip out by
the other. They'd seen me first.
"Well, well!" says I. "I never knew before how unentertainin' I could
be."
And I was just wonderin' how I could relieve my feelin's without eatin' a
fuzzy worm, like the small boy that nobody loved, when I hears footsteps
approachin' through the shrubb'ry. I looks up, to find myself bein'
inspected by a weedy, long legged youth. He's an odd lookin' kid, with
dull reddish hair, so many freckles that his face looks rusty, and a pair
of big purple black eyes that gazes at me serious.
"Well, son," says I, "where did you drop from?"
"My name is Harold Burbank Fitzmorris," says he, "and I am visiting with
my mother on the adjoining estate."
"That sounds like a full description, Harold," says I. "Did you stray
off, or was you sent?"
"I trust you don't mind," says he; "but I am exploring."
"Explore away then," says I, "so long as you don't tramp through the
flowerbeds."
"Oh, I wouldn't think of injuring them," says he. "I am passionately fond
of flowers."
"You don't say!" says I.
"Yes," says Harold, droppin' down easy on the bench alongside of me. "I
love Nature in all her moods. I am a poet, you know."
"Eh!" says I. "Ain't you beginning sort of young?"
"Nearly all the really great men of literature," comes back Harold as
prompt as if he was speakin' a piece, "have begun their careers by
writing verse. I presume mine might be considered somewhat immature; but
I am impelled from within to do it. All that will pass, however, when I
enter on my serious work."
"Oh, then you've got a job on the hook, have you!" says I.
"I expect," says Harold, smilin' sort of indulgent and runnin' his
fingers careless through his thick coppery hair, "to produce my first
novel when I am twenty. It will have a somber theme, something after the
manner of Turgenieff. Do you not find Turgenieff very stimulating?"
"Harold," says I, "all them Hungarian wines are more or less heady, and a
kid like you shouldn't monkey with any of 'em."
He looks almost pained at that. "You're chaffing me now, I suppose," says
he. "That sort of thing, though, I never indulge in. Humor, you know, is
but froth on the deep seas of thought. It has never seemed to me quite
worth one's while. You will pardon my frankness, I know."
"Harold," says I, "you're a wizard. So it's nix on the josh, eh?"
"What singular metaphors you employ!" says he. "Do you know, I can hardly
follow you. However, colloquial language does not offend my ear. It is
only when I see it in print that I shudder."
"Me too," says I. "I'm just as sore on these foreign languages as anyone.
So you're visitin' next door, eh? Enjoyin' yourself?"
That was a plain cue for Harold Burbank to launch out on the story of his
life; but, say, he didn't need any such encouragement. He was a willin'
and ready converser, Harold was; and--my!--what a lot of classy words he
did have on tap! First off I wondered how it was a youngster like him
could dig up so many; but when I'd heard a little more about him I could
account for it all.
He'd cut his teeth, as you might say, on the encyclopedia. Harold's
father had been a professor of dead languages, and I guess he must have
died of it. Anyway, Mother was a widow, and from things Harold dropped I
judged she was more or less frisky, spendin' her time at bridge and
chasin' teas and dinner parties. It was clear she wa'n't any highbrow,
such as Father must have been. All of which was disappointin' to Harold.
He made no bones of sayin' so.
"Why pretend to approve of one's parent," says he, "when approval is
undeserved?"
There was a lot of other folks that Harold disapproved of too. In fact,
he was a mighty critical youth, only bein' able to entertain a good
opinion of but one certain party. At any other time I expect he'd have
given me an earache; but I'd been handed so much silence by our double
Romeo-Juliet bunch that most any kind of conversation was welcome just
then. So I lets him spiel away.
And, say, he acts like he was hungry for the chance. Why, he gives me his
ideas on every subject you could think of, from the way Napoleon got
himself started on the toboggan, to the folly of eatin' fried ham for
breakfast. He sure was a wonder, that kid! Two solid hours we chinned
there in the summerhouse, and it was almost by main strength I broke away
for a one o'clock dinner.
Then, just as I'd got settled comf'table on the veranda in the afternoon,
he shows up and begins again. There was nothin' diffident or backward
about Harold. He didn't have any doubts about whether he was welcome or
not, and his confidence about bein' able to entertain was amazin'.
It didn't do any good to throw out hints that perhaps he was bein' missed
at home, or to yawn and pretend you was sleepy. He was as persistent as a
mosquito singin' its evenin' song, and most as irritatin'. Twice I gets
up and pikes off, tryin' to shake him; but Harold trails right along too.
Maybe I'd yearned for conversation. Well, I was gettin' it.
At last I grows desp'rate, and in about two minutes more he would have
been led home to Mother with the request that she tether him on her side
of the fence, when I sees two of the lovers strollin' off to find a nook
that wa'n't preempted by the other pair. And all of a sudden I has this
rosy thought.
"Harold," says I, "it's most too bad, your wastin' all this flossy talk
on me, who can't appreciate its fine points as I should, when there go
some young people who might be tickled to death to have you join 'em.
Suppose you try cheerin' 'em up?"
"Why," says Harold, "I had not observed them before. Thank you for the
suggestion. I will join them at once."
Does he? Say, for the next couple of hours I had the time of my life
watchin' the maneuvers. First off I expect they must have thought him
kind of cute, same as I did; but it wa'n't long before they begun tryin'
to lose him. If they shifted positions once, they did a dozen times, from
the summerhouse to the rocks, then up to the veranda and back again, with
Harold Burbank taggin' right along and spoutin' his best. He tackles
first one pair, and then the other, until fin'lly they all retreats into
the house. Harold hesitates a little about walkin' through the door after
'em, until I waves my hand cordial.
"Make yourself right to home, Harold," says I. "Keep 'em cheered up."
Not until he drives the girls off to their rooms and has Bobbie and
Charles glarin' murderous at him, does he quit the sport and retire for
supper.
"Come over again this evenin'," says I. "You're makin' a hit."
Harold thanks me some more and says he will. He's a great one to keep his
word too. Bobbie and Marjorie have hardly snuggled up in one end of a
hammock to watch the moon do things to the wavelets before here is
Harold, with a fresh line of talk that he's bent on deliverin' while the
mood is on.
Gettin' no answer from his audience didn't bother him a bit; for passin'
out the monologue is his strong suit. Not to seem partial, he trails down
Charlie and Helen and converses with them too. Course, all this occurrin'
outside, I couldn't watch everything that took place; but I sits in the
lib'ry with Sadie a lot more contented than I'd been before that week.
And when Marjorie drifts in alone, along about nine o'clock, and goes to
drummin' on the piano, I smiles. Ten minutes later Helen appears too; and
it's only when neither of the boys show up that I begins wonderin'. I
asks no questions; but goes out on a scoutin' trip. There's nobody on the
veranda at all. Down by the waterfront, though, I could hear voices, and
I goes sleuthin' in that direction.
"Yes," I could hear Harold sayin' as I got most to the boat landin', "the
phosphorescence that ignorant sailors attribute to electricity in the air
is really a minute marine animal which----"
I expect I'll never know the rest; for just then there's a break in the
lecture.
"One, two, three--now!" comes from Bobbie, and before Harold can let out
a single squeal they've grabbed him firm and secure, one by the heels and
the other by the collar, and they've begun sousin' him up and down off
the edge of the float. It was high tide too.
"Uggle-guggle! Wow!" remarks Harold between splashes.
"That's right," observes Charles through, his teeth. "Swallow a lot of
it, you windbag! It'll do you good."
Course, these young gents was guests of mine, and I hadn't interfered
before with their partic'lar way of enjoyin' themselves; so I couldn't
begin now. But after they was through, and a draggled, chokin',
splutterin' youth had gone beatin' it up the path and over towards the
next place, I strolls down to meet 'em as they are comin' up to the
house.
"Hope you didn't see what happened down there just now, Professor," says
Bobbie.
"Me?" says I. "Well, if I did I can forget it quick."
"Thanks, old man!" says both of 'em, pattin' me friendly on the
shoulder.
"The little beast!" adds Charles. "He had the nerve to say you had put
him up to it. That's what finally earned him his ducking, you know."
"Well, well!" says I. "Such a nice spoken youngster too!"
"Huh!" says Bobbie. "I suppose there'll be no end of a row about this
when he gets home with his tale; but we'll stand for it. Meanwhile let's
go up and get the girls to give us some music."
Say, I don't believe Harold ever mentioned it to a soul. It's a funny
thing too, but he hasn't been over here since. And someway, gettin'
better acquainted with the boys in that fashion, made it pleasanter all
round.
But no more entertainin' lovers for us! Harolds ain't common enough.