every one understood why he was so vast; he ate on and on sheerly as
a flourish--as a spectacle. He ate even when he himself began to
understand that there was daring in what he did, for his was a toreador
spirit so long as he could keep bright eyes fastened upon him.
Finally, he ate to decide wagers made upon his gorging, though at times
during this last period his joviality deserted him. Anon his damp brow
would be troubled, and he knew moments of thoughtfulness.
XXI
MY LITTLE SWEETHEARTS
When George did stop, it was abruptly, during one of these intervals of
sobriety, and he and Miss Pratt came out of the house together rather
quietly, joining one of the groups of young people chatting with
after-dinner languor under the trees. However, Mr. Crooper began to
revive presently, in the sweet air of outdoors, and, observing some
of the more flashing gentlemen lighting cigarettes, he was moved to
laughter. He had not smoked since his childhood--having then been bonded
through to twenty-one with a pledge of gold--and he feared that these
smoking youths might feel themselves superior. Worse, Miss Pratt might
be impressed, therefore he laughed in scorn, saying:
“Burnin' up ole trash around here, I expect!” He sniffed searchingly.
“Somebody's set some ole rags on fire.” Then, as in discovery, he cried,
“Oh no, only cigarettes!”
Miss Pratt, that tactful girl, counted four smokers in the group about
her, and only one abstainer, George. She at once defended the smokers,
for it is to be feared that numbers always had weight with her. “Oh, but
cigarettes is lubly smell!” she said. “Untle Georgiecums maybe be too
'ittle boy for smokings!”
This archness was greeted loudly by the smokers, and Mr. Crooper was
put upon his mettle. He spoke too quickly to consider whether or no the
facts justified his assertion. “Me? I don't smoke paper and ole carpets.
I smoke cigars!”
He had created the right impression, for Miss Pratt clapped her hands.
“Oh, 'plendid! Light one, Untle Georgiecums! Light one ever 'n' ever so
quick! P'eshus Flopit an' me we want see dray, big, 'normous man smoke
dray, big, 'normous cigar!”
William and Johnnie Watson, who had been hovering morbidly, unable to
resist the lodestone, came nearer, Johnnie being just in time to hear
his cousin's reply.
“I--I forgot my cigar-case.”
Johnnie's expression became one of biting skepticism. “What you talkin'
about, George? Didn't you promise Uncle George you'd never smoke till
you're of age, and Uncle George said he'd give you a thousand dollars on
your twenty-first birthday? What 'd you say about your 'cigar-case'?”
George felt that he was in a tight place, and the lovely eyes of Miss
Pratt turned upon him questioningly. He could not flush, for he was
already so pink after his exploits with unnecessary nutriment that more
pinkness was impossible. He saw that the only safety for him lay in
boisterous prevarication. “A thousand dollars!” he laughed loudly. “I
thought that was real money when I was ten years old! It didn't stand in
MY way very long, I guess! Good ole George wanted his smoke, and he went
after it! You know how I am, Johnnie, when I go after anything. I been
smokin' cigars I dunno how long!” Glancing about him, his eye became
reassured; it was obvious that even Johnnie had accepted this airy
statement as the truth, and to clinch plausibility he added: “When I
smoke, I smoke! I smoke cigars straight along--light one right on the
stub of the other. I only wish I had some with me, because I miss 'em
after a meal. I'd give a good deal for something to smoke right now! I
don't mean cigarettes; I don't want any paper--I want something that's
all tobacco!”
William's pale, sad face showed a hint of color. With a pang he
remembered the package of My Little Sweetheart All-Tobacco Cuban
Cigarettes (the Package of Twenty for Ten Cents) which still reposed,
untouched, in the breast pocket of his coat. His eyes smarted a little
as he recalled the thoughts and hopes that had accompanied the purchase;
but he thought, “What would Sydney Carton do?”
William brought forth the package of My Little Sweetheart All-Tobacco
Cuban Cigarettes and placed it in the large hand of George Crooper. And
this was a noble act, for William believed that George really wished to
smoke. “Here,” he said, “take these; they're all tobacco. I'm goin' to
quit smokin', anyway.” And, thinking of the name, he added, gently, with
a significance lost upon all his hearers, “I'm sure you ought to have
'em instead of me.”
Then he went away and sat alone upon the fence.
“Light one, light one!” cried Miss Pratt. “Ev'ybody mus' be happy, an'
dray, big, 'normous man tan't be happy 'less he have his all-tobatto
smote. Light it, light it!”
George drew as deep a breath as his diaphragm, strangely oppressed since
dinner, would permit, and then bravely lit a Little Sweetheart. There
must have been some valiant blood in him, for, as he exhaled the smoke,
he covered a slight choking by exclaiming, loudly: “THAT'S good! That's
the ole stuff! That's what I was lookin' for!”
Miss Pratt was entranced. “Oh, 'plendid!” she cried, watching him with
fascinated eyes. “Now take dray, big, 'normous puffs! Take dray, big,
'NORMOUS puffs!”
George took great, big, enormous puffs.
She declared that she loved to watch men smoke, and William's heart, as
he sat on the distant fence, was wrung and wrung again by the vision of
her playful ecstasies. But when he saw her holding what was left of the
first Little Sweetheart for George to light a second at its expiring
spark, he could not bear it. He dropped from the fence and moped away to
be out of sight once more. This was his darkest hour.
Studiously avoiding the vicinity of the smokehouse, he sought the little
orchard where he had beheld her sitting with George; and there he sat
himself in sorrowful reverie upon the selfsame fallen tree. How long
he remained there is uncertain, but he was roused by the sound of music
which came from the lawn before the farmhouse. Bitterly he smiled,
remembering that Wallace Banks had engaged Italians with harp, violin,
and flute, promising great things for dancing on a fresh-clipped lawn--a
turf floor being no impediment to seventeen's dancing. Music! To see her
whirling and smiling sunnily in the fat grasp of that dancing bear! He
would stay in this lonely orchard; SHE would not miss him.
But though he hated the throbbing music and the sound of the laughing
voices that came to him, he could not keep away--and when he reached the
lawn where the dancers were, he found Miss Pratt moving rhythmically in
the thin grasp of Wallace Banks. Johnnie Watson approached, and spoke in
a low tone, tinged with spiteful triumph.
“Well, anyway, ole fat George didn't get the first dance with her! She's
the guest of honor, and Wallace had a right to it because he did all the
work. He came up to 'em and ole fat George couldn't say a thing. Wallace
just took her right away from him. George didn't say anything at all,
but I s'pose after this dance he'll be rushin' around again and nobody
else 'll have a chance to get near her the rest of the afternoon. My
mother told me I ought to invite him over here, out I had no business
to do it; he don't know the first principles of how to act in a town he
don't live in!”
“Where'd he go?” William asked, listlessly, for Mr. Crooper was nowhere
in sight.
“I don't know--he just walked off without sayin' anything. But he'll be
back, time this dance is over, never you fear, and he'll grab her again
and--What's the matter with Joe?”
Joseph Bullitt had made his appearance at a corner of the house, some
distance from where they stood. His face was alert under the impulse of
strong excitement, and he beckoned fiercely. “Come here!” And, when they
had obeyed, “He's around back of the house by a kind of shed,” said Joe.
“I think something's wrong. Come on, I'll show him to you.”
But behind the house, whither they followed him in vague, strange hope,
he checked them. “LOOK THERE!” he said.
His pointing finger was not needed. Sounds of paroxysm drew their
attention sufficiently--sounds most poignant, soul-rending, and
lugubrious. William and Johnnie perceived the large person of Mr.
Crooper; he was seated upon the ground, his back propped obliquely
against the smoke-house, though this attitude was not maintained
constantly.
Facing him, at a little distance, a rugged figure in homely garments
stood leaning upon a hoe and regarding George with a cold interest. The
apex of this figure was a volcanic straw hat, triangular in profile and
coned with an open crater emitting reddish wisps, while below the
hat were several features, but more whiskers, at the top of a long,
corrugated red neck of sterling worth. A husky voice issued from the
whiskers, addressing George.
“I seen you!” it said. “I seen you eatin'! This here farm is supposed to
be a sanitary farm, and you'd ought of knew better. Go it, doggone you!
Go it!”
George complied. And three spectators, remaining aloof, but watching
zealously, began to feel their lost faith in Providence returning into
them; their faces brightened slowly, and without relapse. It was a
visible thing how the world became fairer and better in their eyes
during that little while they stood there. And William saw that his
Little Sweethearts had been an inspired purchase, after all; they had
delivered the final tap upon a tottering edifice. George's deeds at
dinner had unsettled, but Little Sweethearts had overthrown--and now
there was awful work among the ruins, to an ironical accompaniment of
music from the front yard, where people danced in heaven's sunshine!
This accompaniment came to a stop, and Johnnie Watson jumped. He seized
each of his companions by a sleeve and spoke eagerly, his eyes glowing
with a warm and brotherly light. “Here!” he cried. “We better get around
there--this looks like it was goin' to last all afternoon. Joe, you
get the next dance with her, and just about time the music slows up you
dance her around so you can stop right near where Bill will be standin',
so Bill can get her quick for the dance after that. Then, Bill, you do
the same for me, and I'll do the same for Joe again, and then, Joe, you
do it for Bill again, and then Bill for me--and so on. If we go in right
now and work together we can crowd the rest out, and there won't anybody
else get to dance with her the whole day! Come on quick!”
United in purpose, the three ran lightly to the dancing-lawn, and Mr.
Bullitt was successful, after a little debate, in obtaining the next
dance with the lovely guest of the day. “I did promise big Untle
Georgiecums,” she said, looking about her.
“Well, I don't think he'll come,” said Joe. “That is, I'm pretty sure he
won't.”
A shade fell upon the exquisite face. “No'ty. Bruvva Josie-Joe! The Men
ALWAYS tum when Lola promises dances. Mustn't be rude!”
“Well--” Joe began, when he was interrupted by the Swedish lady named
Anna, who spoke to them from the steps of the house. Of the merrymakers
they were the nearest.
“Dot pick fella,” said Anna, “dot one dot eats--we make him in a
petroom. He holler! He tank he neet some halp.”
“Does he want a doctor?” Joe asked.
“Doctor? No! He want make him in a amyoulance for hospital!”
“I'll go look at him,” Johnnie Watson volunteered, running up. “He's my
cousin, and I guess I got to take the responsibility.”
Miss Pratt paid the invalid the tribute of one faintly commiserating
glance toward the house. “Well,” she said, “if people would rather eat
too much than dance!” She meant “dance with ME!” though she thought
it prettier not to say so. “Come on, Bruvva Josie-Joe!” she cried,
joyously.
And a little later Johnnie Watson approached her where she stood with
a restored and refulgent William, about to begin the succeeding dance.
Johnnie dropped into her hand a ring, receiving one in return. “I
thought I better GET it,” he said, offering no further explanation.
“I'll take care of his until we get home. He's all right,” said Johnnie,
and then perceiving a sudden advent of apprehension upon the sensitive
brow of William, he went on reassuringly: “He's doin' as well as anybody
could expect; that is--after the crazy way he DID! He's always been
considered the dumbest one in all our relations--never did know how
to act. I don't mean he's exactly not got his senses, or ought to be
watched, anything like that--and of course he belongs to an awful
good family--but he's just kind of the black sheep when it comes to
intelligence, or anything like that. I got him as comfortable as a
person could be, and they're givin' him hot water and mustard and stuff,
but what he needs now is just to be kind of quiet. It'll do him a lot o'
good,” Johnnie concluded, with a spark in his voice, “to lay there the
rest of the afternoon and get quieted down, kind of.”
“You don't think there's any--” William began, and, after a pause,
continued--“any hope--of his getting strong enough to come out and dance
afterwhile?”
Johnnie shook his head. “None in the world!” he said, conclusively. “The
best we can do for him is to let him entirely alone till after supper,
and then ask nobody to sit on the back seat of the trolley-car goin'
home, so we can make him comfortable back there, and let him kind of
stretch out by himself.”
Then gaily tinkled harp, gaily sang flute and violin! Over the
greensward William lightly bore his lady, while radiant was the cleared
sky above the happy dancers. William's fingers touched those delicate
fingers; the exquisite face smiled rosily up to him; undreamable
sweetness beat rhythmically upon his glowing ears; his feet moved in a
rhapsody of companionship with hers. They danced and danced and danced!
Then Joe danced with her, while William and Johnnie stood with hands
upon each other's shoulders and watched, mayhap with longing, but
without spite; then Johnnie danced with her while Joe and William
watched--and then William danced with her again.
So passed the long, ineffable afternoon away--ah, Seventeen!
“... 'Jav a good time at the trolley-party?” the clerk in the corner
drug-store inquired that evening.
“Fine!” said William, taking his overcoat from the hook where he had
left it.
“How j' like them Little Sweethearts I sold you?”
“FINE!” said William.
XXII
FORESHADOWINGS
Now the last rose had blown; the dandelion globes were long since on the
wind; gladioli and golden-glow and salvia were here; the season moved
toward asters and the goldenrod. This haloed summer still idled on
its way, yet all the while sped quickly; like some languid lady in an
elevator.
There came a Sunday--very hot.
Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, having walked a scorched half-mile from church,
drooped thankfully into wicker chairs upon their front porch, though
Jane, who had accompanied them, immediately darted away, swinging her
hat by its ribbon and skipping as lithesomely as if she had just come
forth upon a cool morning.
“I don't know how she does it!” her father moaned, glancing after her
and drying his forehead temporarily upon a handkerchief. “That would
merely kill me dead, after walking in this heat.”
Then, for a time, the two were content to sit in silence, nodding
to occasional acquaintances who passed in the desultory after-church
procession. Mr. Baxter fanned himself with sporadic little bursts of
energy which made his straw hat creak, and Mrs. Baxter sighed with the
heat, and gently rocked her chair.
But as a group of five young people passed along the other side of the
street Mr. Baxter abruptly stopped fanning himself, and, following the
direction of his gaze, Mrs. Baxter ceased to rock. In half-completed
attitudes they leaned slightly forward, sharing one of those pauses of
parents who unexpectedly behold their offspring.
“My soul!” said William's father. “Hasn't that girl gone home YET?”
“He looks pale to me,” Mrs. Baxter murmured, absently. “I don't think he
seems at all well, lately.”
During seventeen years Mr. Baxter had gradually learned not to protest
anxieties of this kind, unless he desired to argue with no prospect
of ever getting a decision. “Hasn't she got any HOME?” he demanded,
testily. “Isn't she ever going to quit visiting the Parchers and let
people have a little peace?”
Mrs. Baxter disregarded this outburst as he had disregarded her remark
about William's pallor. “You mean Miss Pratt?” she inquired, dreamily,
her eyes following the progress of her son. “No, he really doesn't look
well at all.”
“Is she going to visit the Parchers all summer?” Mr. Baxter insisted.
“She already has, about,” said Mrs. Baxter.
“Look at that boy!” the father grumbled. “Mooning along with those other
moon-calves--can't even let her go to church alone! I wonder how many
weeks of time, counting it out in hours, he's wasted that way this
summer?”
“Oh, I don't know! You see, he never goes there in the evening.”
“What of that? He's there all day, isn't he? What do they find to talk
about? That's the mystery to me! Day after day; hours and hours--My
soul! What do they SAY?”
Mrs. Baxter laughed indulgently. “People are always wondering that about
the other ages. Poor Willie! I think that a great deal of the time their
conversation would be probably about as inconsequent as it is now. You
see Willie and Joe Bullitt are walking one on each side of Miss Pratt,
and Johnnie Watson has to walk behind with May Parcher. Joe and Johnnie
are there about as much as Willie is, and, of course, it's often his
turn to be nice to May Parcher. He hasn't many chances to be tete-a-tete
with Miss Pratt.”
“Well, she ought to go home. I want that boy to get back into his
senses. He's in an awful state.”
“I think she is going soon,” said Mrs. Baxter. “The Parchers are to have
a dance for her Friday night, and I understand there's to be a floor
laid in the yard and great things. It's a farewell party.”
“That's one mercy, anyhow!”
“And if you wonder what they say,” she resumed, “why, probably they're
all talking about the party. And when Willie IS alone with her--well,
what does anybody say?” Mrs. Baxter interrupted herself to laugh. “Jane,
for instance--she's always fascinated by that darky, Genesis, when he's
at work here in the yard, and they have long, long talks; I've seen them
from the window. What on earth do you suppose they talk about? That's
where Jane is now. She knew I told Genesis I'd give him something if
he'd come and freeze the ice-cream for us to-day, and when we got here
she heard the freezer and hopped right around there. If you went out to
the back porch you'd find them talking steadily--but what on earth about
I couldn't guess to save my life!”
And yet nothing could have been simpler: as a matter of fact, Jane and
Genesis (attended by Clematis) were talking about society. That is to
say, their discourse was not sociologic; rather it was of the frivolous
and elegant. Watteau prevailed with them over John Stuart Mill--in a
word, they spoke of the beau monde.
Genesis turned the handle of the freezer with his left hand, allowing
his right the freedom of gesture which was an intermittent necessity
when he talked. In the matter of dress, Genesis had always been among
the most informal of his race, but to-day there was a change almost
unnerving to the Caucasian eye. He wore a balloonish suit of purple,
strangely scalloped at pocket and cuff, and more strangely decorated
with lines of small parasite buttons, in color blue, obviously buttons
of leisure. His bulbous new shoes flashed back yellow fire at the
embarrassed sun, and his collar (for he had gone so far) sent forth
other sparkles, playing upon a polished surface over an inner graining
of soot. Beneath it hung a simple, white, soiled evening tie, draped in
a manner unintended by its manufacturer, and heavily overburdened by a
green glass medallion of the Emperor Tiberius, set in brass.
“Yesm,” said Genesis. “Now I'm in 'at Swim--flyin' roun' ev'y night wif
all lem blue-vein people--I say, 'Mus' go buy me some blue-vein clo'es!
Ef I'm go'n' a START, might's well start HIGH!' So firs', I buy me
thishere gol' necktie pin wi' thishere lady's face carved out o' green
di'mon', sittin' in the middle all 'at gol'. 'Nen I buy me pair Royal
King shoes. I got a frien' o' mine, thishere Blooie Bowers; he say Royal
King shoes same kine o' shoes HE wear, an' I walk straight in 'at sto'
where they keep 'em at. 'Don' was'e my time showin' me no ole-time
shoes,' I say. 'Run out some them big, yella, lump-toed Royal Kings
befo' my eyes, an' firs' pair fit me I pay price, an' wear 'em right off
on me!' 'Nen I got me thishere suit o' clo'es--OH, oh! Sign on 'em in
window: 'Ef you wish to be bes'-dress' man in town take me home fer six
dolluhs ninety-sevum cents.' ''At's kine o' suit Genesis need,' I say.
'Ef Genesis go'n' a start dressin' high, might's well start top!'”
Jane nodded gravely, comprehending the reasonableness of this view.
“What made you decide to start, Genesis?” she asked, earnestly. “I mean,
how did it happen you began to get this way?”
“Well, suh, 'tall come 'bout right like kine o' slidin' into it 'stid
o' hoppin' an' jumpin'. I'z spen' the even' at 'at lady's house, Fanny,
what cook nex' do', las' year. Well, suh, 'at lady Fanny, she quit
privut cookin', she kaytliss--”
“She's what?” Jane asked. “What's that mean, Genesis--kaytliss?”
“She kaytuhs,” he explained. “Ef it's a man you call him kaytuh; ef it's
a lady, she's a kaytliss. She does kaytun fer all lem blue-vein fam'lies
in town. She make ref'eshmuns, bring waituhs--'at's kaytun. You' maw
give big dinnuh, she have Fanny kaytuh, an' don't take no trouble 'tall
herself. Fanny take all 'at trouble.”
“I see,” said Jane. “But I don't see how her bein' a kaytliss started
you to dressin' so high, Genesis.”
“Thishere way. Fanny say, 'Look here, Genesis, I got big job t'morra
night an' I'm man short, 'count o' havin' to have a 'nouncer.'”
“A what?”
“Fanny talk jes' that way. Goin' be big dinnuh-potty, an' thishere
blue-vein fam'ly tell Fanny they want whole lot extry sploogin'; tell
her put fine-lookin' cullud man stan' by drawin'-room do'--ask ev'ybody
name an' holler out whatever name they say, jes' as they walk in.
Thishere fam'ly say they goin' show what's what, 'nis town, an' they
boun' Fanny go git 'em a 'nouncer. 'Well, what's mattuh YOU doin' 'at
'nouncin'?' Fanny say. 'Who--me?' I tell her. 'Yes, you kin, too!' she
say, an' she say she len' me 'at waituh suit yoosta b'long ole Henry
Gimlet what die' when he owin' Fanny sixteen dolluhs--an' Fanny tuck
an' keep 'at waituh suit. She use 'at suit on extry waituhs when she got
some on her hands what 'ain't got no waituh suit. 'You wear 'at suit,'
Fanny say, 'an' you be good 'nouncer, 'cause you' a fine, big man, an'
got a big, gran' voice; 'nen you learn befo' long be a waituh, Genesis,
an' git dolluh an' half ev'y even' you waitin ', 'sides all 'at money
you make cuttin' grass daytime.' Well, suh, I'z stan' up doin' 'at
'nouncin' ve'y nex' night. White lady an' ge'lmun walk todes my do', I
step up to 'em--I step up to 'em thisaway.”
Here Genesis found it pleasant to present the scene with some
elaboration. He dropped the handle of the freezer, rose, assumed a
stately, but ingratiating, expression, and “stepped up” to the imagined
couple, using a pacing and rhythmic gait--a conservative prance, which
plainly indicated the simultaneous operation of an orchestra. Then
bending graciously, as though the persons addressed were of dwarfish
stature, “'Scuse me,” he said, “but kin I please be so p'lite as to
'quiah you' name?” For a moment he listened attentively, then nodded,
and, returning with the same aristocratic undulations to an imaginary
doorway near the freezer, “Misto an' Missuz Orlosko Rinktum!” he
proclaimed, sonorously.
“WHO?” cried Jane, fascinated. “Genesis, 'nounce that again, right
away!”
Genesis heartily complied.
“Misto an' Missuz Orlosko Rinktum!” he bawled.
“Was that really their names?” she asked, eagerly.