Croo--I mean, Mr. Bullitt, let me intradooce my friend, Mr. Crooper--I
mean my cousin, Mr. Crooper. Mr. Crooper is a cousin of mine.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Crooper,” said Joe. “I suppose
you're a cousin of Johnnie's, then?”
“Yep,” said Mr. Crooper, becoming more informal. “Johnnie wrote me
to come over for this shindig, so I thought I might as well come.”
He laughed loudly, and the others laughed with the same heartiness.
“Yessir,” he added, “I thought I might as well come, 'cause I'm pretty
apt to be on hand if there's anything doin'!”
“Well, that's right,” said William, and while they all laughed again,
Mr. Crooper struck his cousin a jovial blow upon the back.
“Hi, ole sport!” he cried, “I want to meet that Miss Pratt before we
start. The car'll be along pretty soon, and I got her picked for the
girl I'm goin' to sit by.”
The laughter of William and Joe Bullitt, designed to express cordiality,
suddenly became flaccid and died. If Mr. Crooper had been a sensitive
person he might have perceived the chilling disapproval in their
glances, for they had just begun to be most unfavorably impressed with
him. The careless loudness--almost the notoriety--with which he had
uttered Miss Pratt's name, demanding loosely to be presented to her,
regardless of the well-known law that a lady must first express some
wish in such matters--these were indications of a coarse nature sure
to be more than uncongenial to Miss Pratt. Its presence might make the
whole occasion distasteful to her--might spoil her day. Both William and
Joe Bullitt began to wonder why on earth Johnnie Watson didn't have
any more sense than to invite such a big, fat lummox of a cousin to the
party.
This severe phrase of theirs, almost simultaneous in the two minds, was
not wholly a failure as a thumb-nail sketch of Mr. George Crooper. And
yet there was the impressiveness of size about him, especially about
his legs and chin. At seventeen and eighteen growth is still going on,
sometimes in a sporadic way, several parts seeming to have sprouted
faster than others. Often the features have not quite settled down
together in harmony, a mouth, for instance, appearing to have gained
such a lead over the rest of a face, that even a mother may fear it
can never be overtaken. Voices, too, often seem misplaced; one hears,
outside the door, the bass rumble of a sinister giant, and a mild boy,
thin as a cricket, walks in. The contrary was George Crooper's case;
his voice was an unexpected piping tenor, half falsetto and frequently
girlish--as surprising as the absurd voice of an elephant.
He had the general outwardness of a vast and lumpy child. His chin had
so distanced his other features that his eyes, nose, and brow seemed
almost baby-like in comparison, while his mountainous legs were the
great part of the rest of him. He was one of those huge, bottle-shaped
boys who are always in motion in spite of their cumbersomeness. His
gestures were continuous, though difficult to interpret as bearing
upon the subject of his equally continuous conversation; and under all
circumstances he kept his conspicuous legs incessantly moving, whether
he was going anywhere or remaining in comparatively one spot.
His expression was pathetically offensive, the result of his bland
confidence in the audible opinions of a small town whereof his father
was the richest inhabitant--and the one thing about him, even more
obvious than his chin, his legs, and his spectacular taste in flannels,
was his perfect trust that he was as welcome to every one as he was to
his mother. This might some day lead him in the direction of great pain,
but on the occasion of the “subscription party” for Miss Pratt it gave
him an advantage.
“When do I get to meet that cutie?” he insisted, as Johnnie Watson moved
backward from the cousinly arm, which threatened further flailing. “You
intradooced me to about seven I can't do much FOR, but I want to get the
howdy business over with this Miss Pratt, so I and she can get things
started. I'm goin' to keep her busy all day!”
“Well, don't be in such a hurry,” said Johnnie, uneasily. “You can meet
her when we get out in the country--if I get a chance, George.”
“No, sir!” George protested, jovially. “I guess you're sad birds over in
this town, but look out! When I hit a town it don't take long till they
all hear there's something doin'! You know how I am when I get
started, Johnnie!” Here he turned upon William, tucking his fat arm
affectionately through William's thin one. “Hi, sport! Ole Johnnie's so
slow, YOU toddle me over and get me fixed up with this Miss Pratt, and
I'll tell her you're the real stuff--after we get engaged!”
He was evidently a true cloud-compeller, this horrible George.
XIX
“I DUNNO WHY IT IS”
William extricated his arm, huskily muttering words which were lost in
the general outcry, “Car's coming!” The young people poured out through
the gate, and, as the car stopped, scrambled aboard. For a moment
everything was hurried and confused. William struggled anxiously to push
through to Miss Pratt and climb up beside her, but Mr. George Crooper
made his way into the crowd in a beaming, though bull-like manner, and a
fat back in a purple-and-white “blazer” flattened William's nose, while
ponderous heels damaged William's toes; he was shoved back, and just
managed to clamber upon the foot-board as the car started. The friendly
hand of Joe Bullitt pulled him to a seat, and William found himself
rubbing his nose and sitting between Joe and Johnnie Watson, directly
behind the dashing Crooper and Miss Pratt. Mr. Crooper had already taken
Flopit upon his lap.
“Dogs are always crazy 'bout me,” they heard him say, for his high voice
was but too audible over all other sounds. “Dogs and chuldren. I dunno
why it is, but they always take to me. My name's George Crooper, Third,
Johnnie Watson's cousin. He was tryin' to intradooce me before the car
came along, but he never got the chance. I guess as this shindig's
for you, and I'm the only other guest from out o' town, we'll have to
intradooce ourselves--the two guests of honor, as it were.”
Miss Pratt laughed her silvery laugh, murmured politely, and turned no
freezing glance upon her neighbor. Indeed, it seemed that she was far
from regarding him with the distaste anticipated by William and Joe
Bullitt. “Flopit look so toot an' tunnin',” she was heard to remark.
“Flopit look so 'ittle on dray, big, 'normous man's lap.”
Mr. Crooper laughed deprecatingly. “He does look kind of small compared
with the good ole man that's got charge of him, now! Well, I always was
a good deal bigger than the fellas I went with. I dunno why it is, but
I was always kind of quicker, too, as it were--and the strongest in any
crowd I ever got with. I'm kind of musclebound, I guess, but I don't let
that interfere with my quickness any. Take me in an automobile, now--I
got a racin'-car at home--and I keep my head better than most people do,
as it were. I can kind of handle myself better; I dunno why it is. My
brains seem to work better than other people's, that's all it is. I
don't mean that I got more sense, or anything like that; it's just the
way my brains work; they kind of put me at an advantage, as it were.
Well, f'rinstance, if I'd been livin' here in this town and joined in
with the crowd to get up this party, well, it would of been done a good
deal diff'rent. I won't say better, but diff'rent. That's always the
way with me if I go into anything, pretty soon I'm running the whole
shebang; I dunno why it is. The other people might try to run it their
way for a while, but pretty soon you notice 'em beginning to step out
of the way for good ole George. I dunno why it is, but that's the way it
goes. Well, if I'd been running THIS party I'd of had automobiles to go
out in, not a trolley-car where you all got to sit together--and I'd
of sent over home for my little racer and I'd of taken you out in her
myself. I wish I'd of sent for it, anyway. We could of let the rest go
out in the trolley, and you and I could of got off by ourselves: I'd
like you to see that little car. Well, anyway, I bet you'd of seen
something pretty different and a whole lot better if I'd of come over to
this town in time to get up this party for you!”
“For US,” Miss Pratt corrected him, sunnily.
“Bofe strangers--party for us two--all bofe!” And she gave him one of
her looks.
Mr. Crooper flushed with emotion; he was annexed; he became serious.
“Say,” he said, “that's a mighty smooth hat you got on.” And he touched
the fluffy rim of it with his forefinger. His fat shoulders leaned
toward her yearningly.
“We'd cert'nly of had a lot better time sizzin' along in that little
racer I got,” he said. “I'd like to had you see how I handle that little
car. Girls over home, they say they like to go out with me just to watch
the way I handle her; they say it ain't so much just the ride, but more
the way I handle that little car. I dunno why it is, but that's what
they say. That's the way I do anything I make up my mind to tackle,
though. I don't try to tackle everything--there's lots o' things I
wouldn't take enough interest in 'em, as it were--but just lemme make up
my mind once, and it's all off; I dunno why it is. There was a brakeman
on the train got kind of fresh: he didn't know who I was. Well, I
just put my hand on his shoulder and pushed him down in his seat like
this”--he set his hand upon Miss Pratt's shoulder. “I didn't want to hit
him, because there was women and chuldren in the car, so I just shoved
my face up close to him, like this. 'I guess you don't know how much
stock my father's got in this road,' I says. Did he wilt? Well, you
ought of seen that brakeman when I got through tellin' him who I was!”
“Nassy ole brateman!” said Miss Pratt, with unfailing sympathy.
Mr. Crooper's fat hand, as if unconsciously, gave Miss Pratt's delicate
shoulder a little pat in reluctant withdrawal. “Well, that's the way
with me,” he said. “Much as I been around this world, nobody ever tried
to put anything over on me and got away with it. They always come out
the little end o' the horn; I dunno why it is. Say, that's a mighty
smooth locket you got on the end o' that chain, there.” And again
stretching forth his hand, in a proprietor-like way, he began to examine
the locket.
Three hot hearts, just behind, pulsated hatred toward him; for Johnnie
Watson had perceived his error, and his sentiments were now linked
to those of Joe Bullitt and William. The unhappiness of these three
helpless spectators was the more poignant because not only were they
witnesses of the impression of greatness which George Crooper was
obviously producing upon Miss Pratt, but they were unable to prevent
themselves from being likewise impressed.
They were not analytical; they dumbly accepted George at his own rating,
not even being able to charge him with lack of modesty. Did he not
always accompany his testimonials to himself with his deprecating
falsetto laugh and “I dunno why it is,” an official disclaimer of merit,
“as it were”? Here was a formidable candidate, indeed--a traveler, a man
of the world, with brains better and quicker than other people's brains;
an athlete, yet knightly--he would not destroy even a brakeman in the
presence of women and children--and, finally, most enviable and deadly,
the owner and operator of a “little racer”! All this glitter was not far
short of overpowering; and yet, though accepting it as fact, the woeful
three shared the inconsistent belief that in spite of everything George
was nothing but a big, fat lummox. For thus they even rather loudly
whispered of him--almost as if hopeful that Miss Pratt, and mayhap
George himself, might overhear.
Impotent their seething! The overwhelming Crooper pursued his conquering
way. He leaned more and more toward the magnetic girl, his growing
tenderness having that effect upon him, and his head inclining so
far that his bedewed brow now and then touched the fluffy hat. He was
constitutionally restless, but his movements never ended by placing a
greater distance between himself and Miss Pratt, though they sometimes
discommoded Miss Parcher, who sat at the other side of him--a side of
him which appeared to be without consciousness. He played naively with
Miss Pratt's locket and with the filmy border of her collar; he flicked
his nose for some time with her little handkerchief, loudly sniffing its
scent; and finally he became interested in a ring she wore, removed it,
and tried unsuccessfully to place it upon one of his own fingers.
“I've worn lots o' girls' rings on my watch-fob. I'd let 'em wear mine
on a chain or something. I guess they like to do that with me,” he said.
“I dunno why it is.”
At this subtle hint the three unfortunates held their breath, and then
lost it as the lovely girl acquiesced in the horrible exchange. As for
William, life was of no more use to him. Out of the blue heaven of that
bright morning's promise had fallen a pall, draping his soul in black
and purple. He had been horror-stricken when first the pudgy finger of
George Crooper had touched the fluffy edge of that sacred little hat;
then, during George's subsequent pawings and leanings, William felt that
he must either rise and murder or go mad. But when the exchange of rings
was accomplished, his spirit broke and even resentment oozed away. For a
time there was no room in him for anything except misery.
Dully, William's eyes watched the fat shoulders hitching and twitching,
while the heavy arms flourished in gesture and in further pawings.
Again and again were William's ears afflicted with, “I dunno why it is,”
following upon tribute after tribute paid by Mr. Crooper to himself, and
received with little cries of admiration and sweet child-words on the
part of Miss Pratt. It was a long and accursed ride.
XX
SYDNEY CARTON
At the farm-house where the party were to dine, Miss Pratt with joy
discovered a harmonium in the parlor, and, seating herself, with all the
girls, Flopit, and Mr. George Crooper gathered around her, she played
an accompaniment, while George, in a thin tenor of detestable sweetness,
sang “I'm Falling in Love with Some One.”
His performance was rapturously greeted, especially by the accompanist.
“Oh, wunnerfulest Untle Georgiecums!” she cried, for that was now the
gentleman's name. “If Johnnie McCormack hear Untle Georgiecums he
go shoot umself dead--Bang!” She looked round to where three figures
hovered morosely in the rear. “Tum on, sin' chorus, Big Bruvva
Josie-Joe, Johnny Jump-up, an' Ickle Boy Baxter. All over adain, Untle
Georgiecums! Boys an' dirls all sin' chorus. Tummence!”
And so the heartrending performance continued until it was stopped by
Wallace Banks, the altruistic and perspiring youth who had charge of
the subscription-list for the party, and the consequent collection of
assessments. This entitled Wallace to look haggard and to act as master
of ceremonies. He mounted a chair.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed, “I want to say--that is--ah--I am
requested to announce t that before dinner we're all supposed to take a
walk around the farm and look at things, as this is supposed to be kind
of a model farm or supposed to be something like that. There's a Swedish
lady named Anna going to show us around. She's out in the yard waiting,
so please follow her to inspect the farm.”
To inspect a farm was probably the least of William's desires. He wished
only to die in some quiet spot and to have Miss Pratt told about it in
words that would show her what she had thrown away. But he followed
with the others, in the wake of the Swedish lady named Anna, and as they
stood in the cavernous hollow of the great barn he found his condition
suddenly improved.
Miss Pratt turned to him unexpectedly and placed Flopit in his arms.
“Keep p'eshus Flopit cozy,” she whispered. “Flopit love ole friends
best!”
William's heart leaped, while a joyous warmth spread all over him. And
though the execrable lummox immediately propelled Miss Pratt forward--by
her elbow--to hear the descriptive remarks of the Swedish lady named
Anna, William's soul remained uplifted and entranced. She had not said
“like”; she had said, “Flopit LOVE ole friends best”! William pressed
forward valiantly, and placed himself as close as possible upon the
right of Miss Pratt, the lummox being upon her left. A moment later,
William wished that he had remained in the rear.
This was due to the unnecessary frankness of the Swedish lady
named Anna, who was briefly pointing out the efficiency of various
agricultural devices. Her attention being diverted by some effusions of
pride on the part of a passing hen, she thought fit to laugh and say:
“She yust laid egg.”
William shuddered. This grossness in the presence of Miss Pratt was
unthinkable. His mind refused to deal with so impossible a situation; he
could not accept it as a fact that such words had actually been uttered
in such a presence. And yet it was the truth; his incredulous ears
still sizzled. “She yust laid egg!” His entire skin became flushed; his
averted eyes glazed themselves with shame.
He was not the only person shocked by the ribaldry of the Swedish lady
named Anna. Joe Bullitt and Johnnie Watson, on the outskirts of the
group, went to Wallace Banks, drew him aside, and, with feverish
eloquence, set his responsibilities before him. It was his duty, they
urged, to have an immediate interview with this free-spoken Anna and
instruct her in the proprieties. Wallace had been almost as horrified as
they by her loose remark, but he declined the office they proposed for
him, offering, however, to appoint them as a committee with authority
in the matter--whereupon they retorted with unreasonable indignation,
demanding to know what he took them for.
Unconscious of the embarrassment she had caused in these several
masculine minds, the Swedish lady named Anna led the party onward,
continuing her agricultural lecture. William walked mechanically, his
eyes averted and looking at no one. And throughout this agony he was
burningly conscious of the blasphemed presence of Miss Pratt beside him.
Therefore, it was with no little surprise, when the party came out of
the barn, that William beheld Miss Pratt, not walking at his side, but
on the contrary, sitting too cozily with George Crooper upon a fallen
tree at the edge of a peach-orchard just beyond the barn-yard. It was
Miss Parcher who had been walking beside him, for the truant couple had
made their escape at the beginning of the Swedish lady's discourse.
In vain William murmured to himself, “Flopit love ole friends best.”
Purple and black again descended upon his soul, for he could not
disguise from himself the damnatory fact that George had flitted with
the lady, while he, wretched William, had been permitted to take care of
the dog!
A spark of dignity still burned within him. He strode to the barn-yard
fence, and, leaning over it, dropped Flopit rather brusquely at his
mistress's feet. Then, without a word even without a look--William
walked haughtily away, continuing his stern progress straight through
the barn-yard gate, and thence onward until he found himself in solitude
upon the far side of a smoke-house, where his hauteur vanished.
Here, in the shade of a great walnut-tree which sheltered the little
building, he gave way--not to tears, certainly, but to faint murmurings
and little heavings under impulses as ancient as young love itself. It
is to be supposed that William considered his condition a lonely one,
but if all the seventeen-year-olds who have known such halfhours could
have shown themselves to him then, he would have fled from the mere
horror of billions. Alas! he considered his sufferings a new invention
in the world, and there was now inspired in his breast a monologue so
eloquently bitter that it might deserve some such title as A Passion
Beside the Smoke-house. During the little time that William spent in
this sequestration he passed through phases of emotion which would have
kept an older man busy for weeks and left him wrecked at the end of
them.
William's final mood was one of beautiful resignation with a kick in
it; that is, he nobly gave her up to George and added irresistibly that
George was a big, fat lummox! Painting pictures, such as the billions
of other young sufferers before him have painted, William saw himself
a sad, gentle old bachelor at the family fireside, sometimes making the
sacrifice of his reputation so that SHE and the children might never
know the truth about George; and he gave himself the solace of a fierce
scene or two with George: “Remember, it is for them, not you--you
THING!”
After this human little reaction he passed to a higher field of romance.
He would die for George and then she would bring the little boy she had
named William to the lonely headstone--Suddenly William saw himself in
his true and fitting character--Sydney Carton! He had lately read A Tale
of Two Cities, immediately re-reading until, as he would have said,
he “knew it by heart”; and even at the time he had seen resemblances
between himself and the appealing figure of Carton. Now that the
sympathy between them was perfected by Miss Pratt's preference for
another, William decided to mount the scaffold in place of George
Crooper. The scene became actual to him, and, setting one foot upon a
tin milk-pail which some one had carelessly left beside the smoke-house,
he lifted his eyes to the pitiless blue sky and unconsciously assumed
the familiar attitude of Carton on the steps of the guillotine. He spoke
aloud those great last words:
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
far, far better rest that I go to--”
A whiskered head on the end of a long, corrugated red neck protruded
from the smokehouse door.
“What say?” it inquired, huskily.
“Nun-nothing!” stammered William.
Eyes above whiskers became fierce. “You take your feet off that
milk-bucket. Say! This here's a sanitary farm. 'Ain't you got any more
sense 'n to go an'--”
But William had abruptly removed his foot and departed.
He found the party noisily established in the farm-house at two long
tables piled with bucolic viands already being violently depleted.
Johnnie Watson had kept a chair beside himself vacant for William.
Johnnie was in no frame of mind to sit beside any “chattering girl,”
and he had protected himself by Joe Bullitt upon his right and the empty
seat upon his left. William took it, and gazed upon the nearer foods
with a slight renewal of animation.
He began to eat; he continued to eat; in fact, he did well. So did his
two comrades. Not that the melancholy of these three was dispersed--far
from it! With ineffaceable gloom they ate chicken, both white meat and
dark, drumsticks, wishbones, and livers; they ate corn-on-the-cob, many
ears, and fried potatoes and green peas and string-beans; they ate peach
preserves and apricot preserves and preserved pears; they ate biscuits
with grape jelly and biscuits with crabapple jelly; they ate apple sauce
and apple butter and apple pie. They ate pickles, both cucumber pickles
and pickles made of watermelon rind; they ate pickled tomatoes, pickled
peppers, also pickled onions. They ate lemon pie.
At that, they were no rivals to George Crooper, who was a real eater.
Love had not made his appetite ethereal to-day, and even the attending
Swedish lady named Anna felt some apprehension when it came to George
and the gravy, though she was accustomed to the prodigies performed in
this line by the robust hands on the farm. George laid waste his section
of the table, and from the beginning he allowed himself scarce time
to say, “I dunno why it is.” The pretty companion at his side at first
gazed dumfounded; then, with growing enthusiasm for what promised to be
a really magnificent performance, she began to utter little ejaculations
of wonder and admiration. With this music in his ears, George outdid
himself. He could not resist the temptation to be more and more
astonishing as a heroic comedian, for these humors sometimes come upon
vain people at country dinners.