A PLASTER STATUETTE
Fitzgerald's view from his club window afforded the same impersonal
outlook as from a window in a car. It was the two living currents,
moving in opposite directions, each making toward a similar goal, only
in a million different ways, that absorbed him. Subconsciously he was
always counting, counting, now by fives, now by tens, but invariably
found new entertainment ere he reached the respectable three numerals
of an even hundred. Sometimes it was a silk hat which he followed till
it became lost up the Avenue; and as often as not he would single out a
waiting cabman and speculate on the quality of his fare; and other
whimsies.
That this was such and such a woman, or that was such and such a man
never led him into any of that gossip so common among club-men who are
out of touch with the vital things in life. Even when he espied a
friend in this mysterious flow of souls, there was only a transient
flash of recognition in his eyes. When he wasn't in the tennis-courts,
or the billiard- or card-rooms, he was generally to be found in this
corner. He had seen all manner of crowds, armies pursuing and
retreating, vast concords in public squares, at coronations, at
catastrophes, at play, and he never lost interest in watching them;
they were the great expressions of humanity. This is perhaps the
reason why his articles were always so rich in color. No two crowds
were ever alike to him, consequently he never was at loss for a fresh
description.
To-day the Italian vender of plaster statuettes caught his eye. For an
hour now the poor wretch hadn't even drawn the attention of one of the
thousands passing. Fitzgerald felt sorry for him, and once the desire
came to go over and buy out the Neapolitan; but he was too comfortable
where he was, and beyond that he was expecting a friend.
Fitzgerald was thirty, with a clean-shaven, lean, and eager face,
russet in tone, well offset by the fine blue eyes which had the faculty
of seeing little and big things at the same time. He had dissipated in
a trifling fashion, but the healthy, active life he lived in the open
more than counteracted the effects. A lonely orphan, possessing a
lively imagination, is seldom free from some vice or other. There had
never been, however, what the world is pleased to term entanglements.
His guardian angel gave him a light step whenever there was any social
thin ice. Oh, he had some relatives; but as they were neither very
rich nor very poor, they seldom annoyed one another. He was, then, a
free lance in all the abused word implies; and he lived as he pleased,
spending his earnings freely and often carelessly, knowing that the
little his father had left him would keep a moderately hungry wolf from
the door. He had been born to a golden spoon, but the food from the
pewter one he now used tasted just as good.
"So here you are! I've been in the billiard-room, and the card-room,
and the bar-room."
"Talking of bar-rooms!" Fitzgerald reached for the button. "Sit down,
Hewitt, old boy. Glad to see you. Now, I'll tell you right off the
bat, nothing will persuade me. For years I've been jumping to the four
points of the compass at the beck of your old magazine and syndicate.
I'm going to settle down and write a novel."
"Piffle!" growled the editor, dropping his lanky form into a chair.
"Thank goodness, they haven't swivel chairs in the club. I've been
whirling round in one all day--a long, tall Scotch, please--but a
novel! I say, piffle!"
"Piffle it may be, but I'm going to have a whack at it. If I ever do
another article it will be as a millionaire's private secretary. I
should like to study his methods for saving his money. What is it this
time?"
"A dash to the North Pole."
"Never again north of Berlin or south of Assuan for mine. No."
"Come, Fitz; a great chance."
"When you sent me to Manila I explored hell for you, but I've cooled
off considerably since then. No ice for mine, except in silver
buckets."
"You've made a pretty good thing out of us; something like five
thousand a year and your expenses; and with the credentials we've
always given you, you have been able to see the world as few men see
it."
"That's just the trouble. You've spoiled me."
"Well, you may take my word for it, you won't have the patience to sit
down at home here and write a hundred thousand words that mean
anything. There's no reason why you can't do my work and write novels
on the side. We both know a dozen fellows who are doing it. We've got
to have this article, and you're the only man we dare trust alone on
it, if it will flatter you any to know it."
"Come, pussy, come!"
"If it's a question of more money--"
"Perish the thought!" cried Fitzgerald, clasping his knees and rocking
gently. "You know as well as I do, Hewitt, that it's the game and not
the cash. I've found a new love, my boy."
"Double harness?" with real anxiety. Hewitt bit his scrubby mustache.
When a special correspondent married that was the end of him.
"There you go again!" warned the recalcitrant. "If you don't stop
eating that mustache you'll have stomach trouble that no Scotch whisky
will ever cure. The whole thing is in a nutshell," a sly humor
creeping into his eyes. "I am tired of writing ephemeral things. I
want to write something that will last."
"Write your epitaph, Jack," drawled a deep voice from the reading
table. "That's the only sure way, and even that is no good if your
marble is spongy."
"Oh, Cathewe, this is not your funeral," retorted the editor.
"Perhaps not. All the same, I'll be chief mourner if Jack takes up
novel writing. Critics don't like novels, because any one can write an
average story; but it takes a genius to turn out first-class magazine
copy. Anyhow, art becomes less and less particular every day. The
only thing that never gains or loses is this _London Times_. Someday
I'm going to match the _Congressional Record_ and the _Times_ for the
heavyweight championship of the world, with seven to one on the
_Record_, to weigh in at the ringside."
"You've been up north, Arthur," said Fitzgerald. "What's your advice?"
"Don't do it. You've often wondered how and where I lost these two
digits. Up there." The _Times_ rattled, and Cathewe became absorbed
in the budget.
Arthur Cathewe was a tall, loose-limbed man, forty-two or three, rather
handsome, and a bit shy with most folk. Rarely any one saw him outside
the club. He had few intimates, but to these he was all that
friendship means, kindly, tender, loyal, generous, self-effacing. And
Fitzgerald loved him best of all men. It did not matter that there
were periods when they became separated for months at a time. They
would some day turn up together in the same place. "Why, hello,
Arthur!" "Glad to see you, Jack!" and that was all that was necessary.
All the enthusiasm was down deep below. Cathewe was always in funds;
Fitzgerald sometimes; but there was never any lending or borrowing
between them. This will do much toward keeping friendship green. The
elder man was a great hunter; he had been everywhere, north and south,
east and west. He never fooled away his time at pigeons and traps; big
game, where the betting was even, where the animal had almost the same
chance as the man. He could be tolerably humorous upon occasions. The
solemn cast to his comely face predestined him for this talent.
"Well, Fitz, what are you going to do?"
"Hewitt, give me a chance. I've been home but a week. I'm not going
to dash to the Pole without having a ripping good time here first.
Will a month do?"
"Oh, the expedition doesn't leave for two months yet. But we must sign
the contract a month beforehand."
"To-day is the first of June; I promise to telegraph you yes or no this
day month. You have had me over in Europe eighteen months. I'm tired
of trains, and boats, and mules. I'm going fishing."
"Ah, bass!" murmured Cathewe from behind his journal.
"By the way, Hewitt," said Fitzgerald, "have you ever heard of a chap
called Karl Breitmann?"
"Yes," answered Hewitt. "Never met him personally, though."
"I have," joined in Cathewe quietly. He laid down the Times. "What do
you know about him?"
"Met him in Paris last year. Met him once before in Macedonia. Dined
with me in Paris. Amazing lot of adventures. Rather down on his luck,
I should judge."
"Couple of scars on his left cheek and a bit of the scalp gone; German
student sort, rather good-looking, fine physique?"
"That's the man."
"I know him, but not very well." And Cathewe fumbled among the other
newspapers.
"Dine with me to-night," urged Hewitt.
"I'll tell you what. See that Italian over there with the statues? I
am going to buy him out; and if I don't make a sale in half an hour,
I'll sign the dinner checks."
"Done!"
"I'll take half of that bet," said Cathewe, rising. "It will be cheap."
Ten minutes later the two older men saw Fitzgerald hang the tray from
his shoulders and take his position on the corner.
"I love that chap, Hewitt; he is what I always wanted to be, but
couldn't be." Cathewe pulled the drooping ends of his mustache. "If
he should write a novel, I'm afraid for your sake that it will be a
good one. Keep him busy. Novel writing keeps a man indoors. But
don't send him on any damn goose chase for the Pole."
"Why not?"
"Well, he might discover it. But, honestly, it's so God-forsaken and
cold and useless. I have hunted musk-ox, and I know something about
the place. North Poling, as I call it, must be a man's natural bent;
otherwise you kill the best that's in him."
"Heaven on earth, will you look! A policeman is arguing with him."
Hewitt shook with laughter.
"But I bought him out," protested Fitzgerald. "There's no law to
prevent me selling these."
"Oh, I'm wise. We want no horse-play on this corner; no joyful college
stunts," roughly.
Fitzgerald saw that frankness must be his card, so he played it. "Look
here, do you see those two gentlemen in the window there?"
"The club?"
"Yes. I made a wager that I could sell one of these statues in half an
hour. If you force me off I'll lose a dinner."
"Well, I'll make a bargain with you. You can stand here for half an
hour; but if you open your mouth to a woman, I'll run you in. No
fooling; I'm talking straight. I'm going to see what your game is."
"I agree."
So the policeman turned to his crossing and reassumed his authority
over traffic, all the while never losing sight of the impromptu vender.
Many pedestrians paused. To see a well-dressed young man hawking
plaster Venuses was no ordinary sight. They knew that some play was
going on, but, with that inveterate suspicion of the city pedestrian,
none of them stopped to speak or buy. Some newsboys gathered round and
offered a few suggestions. Fitzgerald gave them back in kind. No
woman spoke, but there wasn't one who passed that didn't look at him
with more than ordinary curiosity. He was enjoying it. It reminded
him of the man who offered sovereigns for shillings, and never
exchanged a coin.
Once he turned to see if his friends were still watching him. They
were, two among many; for the exploit had gone round, and there were
other wagers being laid on the result. While his head was turned, and
his grin was directed at the club window, a handsome young woman in
blue came along. She paused, touched her lips with her gloved hand
meditatingly, and then went right-about-face swiftly. Some one in the
window motioned frantically to the vender, but he did not understand.
Ten minutes left in which to win his bet. He hadn't made a very good
bargain. Hm! The young woman in blue was stopping. Her exquisite
face was perfectly serious as her eyes ran over the collection on the
tray. They were all done execrably, something Fitzgerald hadn't
noticed before.
"How much are these apiece?"
"Er--twenty-five cents, ma'am," he stammered. As a matter of fact he
hadn't any idea what the current price list was.
"You seem very well dressed," doubtfully; "and you do not look hungry."
"I am doing this for charity's sake," finding his wits. The policeman
hovered near, scowling. He was powerless, since the young woman had
spoken first.
"Charity," in a half-articulated voice, as if the word to her possessed
many angles, and she was endeavoring to find the proper one to fit the
moment.
"What organization?"
A blank pause. "My own, ma'am, of which I am the head." There was no
levity in tone or expression.
By now every window in the club framed a dozen or more faces.
"I will take this Canova, I believe," she finally decided, opening her
purse and producing the necessary silver. "Of course, it is quite
impossible to send this?"
"Yes, ma'am. Sending it would eat up all the profits." But, with
ill-concealed eagerness, "If you will leave your address I can send as
many as you like."
"I will do that."
Incredible as it seemed, neither face lost its repose; he dared not
smile, and the young woman did not care to. There was something
familiar to his memory in the oval face, but this was no time for a
diligent search.
"Hey, miss," yelled one of the newsboys, "you're t'rowin' your money
away. He's a fake; he ain't no statoo seller. He's doing it for a
joke!"
Fitzgerald lost a little color, that was all. But his customer ignored
the imputation. She took out a card and laid it on the tray, and
without further ado went serenely on her way. The policeman stepped
toward her as if to speak, but she turned her delicate head aside. The
crowd engulfed her presently, and Fitzgerald picked up the card. There
was neither name nor definite address on it. It was a message, hastily
written; and it sent a thrill of delight and speculation to his
impressionable heart. Still carrying the tray before him he hastened
over to the club, where there was something of an ovation. Instead of
a dinner for three it became one for a dozen, and Fitzgerald passed the
statuettes round as souvenirs of the most unique bet of the year.
There were lively times. Toward midnight, as Fitzgerald was going out
of the coat room, Cathewe spoke to him.
"What was her name, Jack?"
"Hanged if I know."
"She dropped a card on your tray."
Fitzgerald scrubbed his chin. "There wasn't any name on it. There was
an address and something more. Now, wait a moment, Arthur; this is no
ordinary affair. I would not show it to any one else. Here, read it
yourself."
"Come to the house at the top of the hill, in Dalton, to-morrow night
at eight o'clock. But do not come if you lack courage."
That was all. Cathewe ran a finger, comb-fashion, through his
mustache. He almost smiled.
"Where the deuce _is_ Dalton?" Fitzgerald inquired.
"It is a little village on the New Jersey coast; not more than forty
houses, post-office, hotel, and general store; perhaps an hour out of
town."
"What would you do in my place? It may be a joke, and then again it
may not. She knew that I was a rank impostor."
"But she knew that a man must have a certain kind of daredevil courage
to play the game you played. Well, you ask me what I should do in your
place. I'd go."
"I shall. It will double discount fishing. And the more I think of
it, the more certain I become that she and I have met somewhere.
By-by!"
Cathewe lingered in the reading-room, pondering. Here was a twist to
the wager he was rather unprepared for; and if the truth must be told,
he was far more perplexed than Fitzgerald. He knew the girl, but he
did not know and could not imagine what purpose she had in aiding
Fitzgerald to win his wager or luring him out to an obscure village in
this detective-story manner.
"Well, I shall hear all about it from her father," he concluded.
And all in good time he did.