The brown eyes of Chester Arthur Jessup, Jr., were fixed on the maroon
banner of the Clintonia High School which adorned his bedroom wall, but
they did not see that vivid emblem of the institution in whose academic
halls he was a senior. Rather, they appeared to look through it, beyond
it, into some far-away land. Bright but unseeing, they proclaimed that
their owner was in that state of mild hypnosis known as
"turkey-dreaming." His lips were parted in a slight smile, and the shoe
which he had been in the act of removing as he sat on his bed was poised
in mid-air above the floor, for reverie had overcome him in the very
midst of preparations for an evening call.
The object of his pensive musings was at that moment eating her evening
meal some blocks away in the home of her parents. Fondly, with that
inward eye which is alleged to be the bliss of solitude, Chester
followed the process. It had only been lately that he could bring
himself to admit that she ate at all. She was so dainty, so ethereal.
And yet reason, and the course he was taking in physiology, told him
that she, even she, must sometimes give way to the unworthy promptings
of necessity, and eat. But that she should eat as ordinary mortals do,
was unthinkable. It was not the first time that Chester, in reverie,
had permitted her a slight refection. The menu of her meals never
varied. To-night, as on other occasions, it consisted of watercress
salad, a mere nibble of it; a delicate dab of ice-cream, no bigger than
a thimble; a small cup of tea, and, perhaps, a lady-finger. The
lady-finger was a concession. On the occasion of his last call, Mildred
had confessed that she could die eating lady-fingers. Of course, later
in the evening she might have a candy or two, but then candy can hardly
be considered food.
A mundane clatter of dishes in the kitchen below caused Chester to start
from his dream, and drop the shoe. He leaped up and began to make
elaborate and excited preparations for dressing.
From an ancient, battered chest of drawers he carefully took a
tissue-paper package containing a Union Forever Suit, whose label
proclaimed that "From Factory to You, No Human Hand Touches It." With
brow puckered in abstract thought, Chester broke the seal and laid the
crisp, immaculate garment on the bed. With intense seriousness, he
regarded it for a moment; apparently it passed his searching
examination, for he turned again to the chest of drawers and drew forth
a smaller package, from which he extracted new socks of lustrous blue.
These he placed on the bed. From beneath the bed he drew a pair of low
shoes, which gleamed in the gaslight from arduous polishing. On their
toes, fanciful artisans had pricked curves and loops and butterfly
designs. Chester gave them a few final rubs with the shirt he had just
discarded and placed them on the bed. At this point there was a hiatus
in the wardrobe. He went out into the hall and shouted down the back
stairs.
"Oh, Ma. Oh, Ma!"
"Well?" came his mother's voice from the regions below.
"Are my trousers pressed yet?"
"My goodness, Chester," she called, "I haven't had time yet. It's only a
little after six. Do come down and eat some supper."
"But I don't want any supper," protested Chester.
"There's apple pudding with cream," she announced.
"Oh, well," said Chester, reluctantly, "I suppose I'd better. Can I have
a dish of it on the back stairs? I'm not dressed."
"Yes. But you have plenty of time. You know you shouldn't make an
evening call before eight-fifteen at the very earliest," said Mrs.
Jessup.
* * * * *
After he had disposed of two helpings of apple pudding, Chester returned
to his room and spent some moments analyzing the comparative merits of a
dozen neckties hanging in an imitation brass stirrup. He had eliminated
all but two, a black one and a red one, when his mother's voice floated
up the back stairs.
"For goodness' sake, Chester, do be careful of that bathtub. It's
running over again. How many times do I have to tell you to watch it?"
Chester bounded to the bathroom and shut off the water. It had, indeed,
started to overflow the tub, and Chester, accepting the Archimedian
principle without ever having heard of it, perceived that he must let
some of the water out before he could put himself in. Accordingly he
pulled out the plug and returned to his own room to wait for a little of
the water to run off.
He made the most of this idle moment. Throwing off his multi-hued Navajo
bathrobe, he surveyed the reflection of his torso in the mirror. He
contracted his biceps and eyed the resulting egg-like bulges with some
satisfaction. Suddenly, his ordinarily amiable face took on a fierce,
dark scowl. He crouched until he was bent almost double. He lowered at
the mirror. His left fist was extended and his right drawn back in the
most approved scientific style of the prize-ring.
"You will, will you?" came from between his clenched teeth, and his left
fist darted out rapidly, three, four, five times, and then he shot out
his right fist with such violence that he all but shattered the mirror.
This last blow seemed to have a cataclysmic effect on Chester's
opponent, for the victorious Chester backed off and waited, still
crouching and lowering, for his victim to rise.
The opponent apparently was a tough one, and not the man to succumb
easily. Chester waited for him to regain his feet and then they were at
it again. Chester let loose a shower of savage uppercuts. From the way
he leaped six inches into the air to deliver his blows it was evident
that his opponent was considerably bigger than he. At length, when all
but breathless from his exertions, Chester with one prodigious punch, a
_coup de grace_ that there was no withstanding, knocked all the fight
out of his foe. But, seemingly, he was not satisfied with flooring his
giant opponent; with stern, set face, Chester walked to the corner where
the fellow was sprawling, seized him by his collar, and dragged him
across the room. Then, shaking him fiercely, Chester hissed:
"Now, you cad, apologize to this lady for daring to offer her an affront
by passing remarks about her."
The apology would, no doubt, have been forthcoming had not Chester at
that moment heard an unmistakable sound from the bathroom. He abandoned
his prostrate foe and rushed in just in time to see the last of his
bath-water go gargling and gurgling out of the tub.
Chester sat moodily on the edge of the tub until enough hot water had
bubbled into it for him to perform ablutions of appalling thoroughness.
He was red almost to rawness from his efforts with the bath brush, and
was redolent of scented soap and talcum powder when he again returned to
his bedroom.
He dressed with a sort of feverish calmness, now and again pausing to
sigh gently and gaze for a moment into nothingness. By now she had
finished her lady-finger--
His mother had laid his freshly pressed trousers on the bed, and he ran
an appreciative eye along their razor-blade crease. From the chest of
drawers he brought forth a snowy shirt, which, from the piece of
cardboard shoved down its throat and the numerous pins which Chester
extracted impatiently, one could surmise was fresh from the laundry.
When he came to the collar-and-tie stage, he was halted for a time.
Three collars of various shapes were tried and deemed unworthy, and
then, at the last minute, yielding to a sudden wild impulse, he
discarded the black tie in favor of the red one. He slipped on a blue
serge coat, the cut of which endeavored to promote his waist-line to his
shoulder blades, and was all dressed but for the crowning task--to comb
his hair.
By dint of many dismal experiences, Chester knew that this would be
trying, for his hair was abundant but untamed. He tried first to induce
it to part while it was still dry, but the results of this operation, as
he had feared, were negligible. He then attempted to achieve a part
with his hair slightly moistened with witch hazel. For fully five
seconds it looked like a success, but, as Chester started to leave, one
parting look told him that little spikes and wisps were rearing
rebellious heads and quite ruining the perfection of his handiwork. With
a sigh he fell back upon his last resort, the liberal application of a
sticky, jelly-like substance derived from petroleum, which imparted to
his brown hair an unwonted shine. But the part held as if it had been
carved in marble. Arranging his white silk handkerchief so that it
protruded a modish eighth of an inch from his breast pocket, Chester
Arthur Jessup, Jr., sallied forth to make his call.
On the front porch was his family, and Chester would have avoided their
critical eyes if he could. However, the gantlet had to be run, so he
emerged into the family group with a saunter that he hoped might be
described as "nonchalant." In the privacy of his room he often practiced
that saunter; he had seen in the papers that a certain celebrated
criminal had "sauntered nonchalantly into the court-room," and the
phrase had fascinated him.
"What in the name of thunder have you been doing to your hair?" demanded
his father, looking up from his pipe and paper.
"Combing it," replied Chester, coldly.
"With axle grease?" inquired Jessup senior, genially.
"And it does look so nice when it's dry and wavy," put in his mother.
Chester emitted a faint groan.
"Oh, Ma, you never seem to realize that I'm grown up," he protested.
"Wavy hair!" He groaned again.
"Well," remarked the father, "I suppose it's better that way than not
combed at all. Seems to me that last summer you didn't care much
whether it was combed, or cut either, for that matter."
"A woman has come into his life," explained his twenty-two year-old
sister, from behind her novel.
"You just be careful who you go callin' a woman," exclaimed Chester,
turning on her, with some warmth.
"Don't you consider Mildred Wrigley a woman?" asked Hilda, mildly.
"Not in the sense you mean it."
"By the way," said Hilda, "I saw her last night."
Chester's manner instantly became eager and conciliatory. "Did you?
Where?"
"At the Mill Street Baptist Church supper," said Hilda.
"At the supper?" Chester's tone suggested incredulity.
"Yes. And goodness me, I never saw a girl eat so much in my life.
She----"
"Hilda Jessup, how dare you!"
Chester's voice cracked with the emotion he felt at so damnable an
imputation.
"There, there, Hilda, stop your teasing," said Mrs. Jessup. "What if she
did? A big, healthy girl like that----"
"Mother----" Chester's tone was anguished.
"Come, Nell," said Mr. Jessup, "leave him to his illusions. It's a bad
day for romance when a man discovers that his goddess likes a second
helping of corned beef."
"Father, how can you say such things! I will not stay here and listen to
you say such things about one who I----"
"One whom," interrupted Hilda.
Chester flounced down the front steps and slammed the gate after him,
in a manner that could not possibly be described as "nonchalant."