"Through inclination, not the whisky bottle. Not that I am above getting
full once in a while, 'cause I ain't. Just, I'm not a drunkard. See? I
didn't keep on losing jobs through drink and finally had to take to the
road because I was a bum. I took to tramping because I hate to work.
It takes too much of your time. An office is like a prison to me. A
man loses his soul when he stays all day bent over a desk. He isn't a
man. He's a sort of up-to-date pianola to a desk, that's all. There's
a lot of things to think about that you can't in an office. I wanted to
think and so I took to tramping. Besides, I don't like work."
"Lazy--"
"Yes," snapped the Watermelon, "but a man. I love your Billy--my Billy,
and I can work for her."
Bartlett nodded indifferently, hardly hearing what the other said. He
frowned thoughtfully at the floor as he pondered the situation. If he
objected to the youth in Billy's presence, she would stand up for him,
all her love would be aroused to arms and she would see no wrong in her
hero. If the fellow snapped his fingers, she would run away with him.
What did Billy, tender, gently-guarded Billy, know of tramps, of the
rough, unhappy side of existence? Nothing. But if she caught a glimpse
of it with her own eyes, saw this lover of hers in his true light,
dirty, drunk, disreputable, the shock would kill her love utterly and
Bartlett would not have to use that authority of his which was no
authority, which Billy would refuse to obey. She had been free too long
for any one to govern her now. The only person who could effectually
break the unfortunate tangle was the Watermelon himself. Bartlett
glanced at the gloomy face beside him and read it as he had grown used
to reading men and events.
The Watermelon was young, hardly older than Billy; he was desperately in
love, with a love that was pure and true and generous. He was thinking
of Billy and not of himself. His opposition to Bartlett was merely the
anger aroused by Bartlett's sneers. He was in reality filled with
humility and repentence to a degree that he would do anything to kill
the love Billy bore for him, knowing with his man's knowledge that he
was not worthy of her, and longing with his youth and love to sacrifice
himself for her best good, seeing through young, unhappy eyes, only the
past, his own shame and profession. Forgetting the possibilities of the
future, he had gone to the extreme of self-loathing. The one thing he
saw was his past, that past that was wholly unfit for Billy. It blocked
the entire view, crushed him with the weight of inexorable facts. To
the young there are but two colors, black and white, and the Watermelon
was very young. Bartlett looked at him keenly and decided that his plan
would work, that he would not have to take a last desperate and
ineffectual stand against Billy.
"See here. In August we are going to our place in Westhaven. It's a
small town in this state, up the coast away north of Portland. Come to
her there at the end of August, come as you are, a tramp, dirty, shabby,
drunk--"
"I don't drink, not as the others do."
"Come drunk. Let her understand what being a tramp means, what your
life has been. If she still wants you, I hardly see how I can stop her.
That's only fair, for what does she know about you and your life? You
know all about her, what she has done and been and is going to do.
Leave her now, this evening. Go on being a tramp and then come to her,
at the last of August. Come as a tramp, mind. Don't let her think that
it is a test she is being put to or she will only laugh at it and us and
go on wanting you just the same, scorning to be tested, to think that
her love could fail. Give her some other excuse for your going. You
must see that it is only fair to the little girl to let her see what she
is up against."
"Yes, I see. I tried to tell her," agreed the Watermelon gloomily.
"If she loves you through it all, she can have you, and I suppose I will
have to consent. I can afford a penniless son-in-law and I guess an
American tramp is preferable to a European noble."
"I won't be penniless," said the Watermelon. "I could work like a nigger
for a month and own forty dollars, thirty of which I would owe for
board."
"That's just it," declared Bartlett promptly. "You can't support Billy
in the way she is used to being supported, can't give her the things
that have become necessities to her."
"I can support her in my own way," said the Watermelon, trying to reason
down his own benumbing repentence and humiliation as well as to convince
Bartlett of that which he himself knew to be all wrong.
"But that isn't Billy's way. You couldn't give her a servant, for
instance, and servants to Billy are like chairs to some people,
absolutely necessary."
"We love each other," said the Watermelon simply.
"That's all right. But you can't always be sure your love is like
elastic and stretchable. Come as a tramp and I will give my consent."
Bartlett grew bold, positively convinced that Billy could no longer care
when she had once seen the drunken sot, promised as he had grown used to
doing on the Street, to do that which he knew he would not have to do.
"I will give my consent, if Billy still can care. I know that Billy
would be a lot happier with my consent, too, than without it. For,
though the modern child has no respect for her parent's authority, she
likes to have her wedding peaceful and conventional."
"Can I say good-by to her?"
"Yes, but I trust you not to let her know that she is to be put to a
test. If you love her, you can see that I am right."
"Yes," said the Watermelon, "I love her and will not let her know."
He straightened up and pushed his hat farther back, with the slow,
inbred languor of the thoroughly lazy man. "I love Billy, and that is
why I consent. I tried to make her understand what I am, have been, but
I couldn't." He took a handful of beans from a near-by barrel and let
them run slowly through his fingers. "I suppose she will give me the
double cross."
"I hope so," answered Bartlett. "I'm not very particular, but a
tramp--"
"A gentleman pedestrian," suggested the Watermelon, with a faint flicker
of his usual sublime arrogance.
Bartlett laughed and held out his hand. "Well, good-by. I've enjoyed
the week immensely, for all this rotten ending. That scurvy trick of
yours--"
"Of yours," corrected the Watermelon.
"Yes, yes, I suppose so. I hope that Henrietta won't ever know. Do you
think Billy does?"
"Billy isn't as simple as you think," returned the Watermelon.
"What did she say?"
"'Father suggested the trip and he telegraphed after dinner,' or
something like that."
"You didn't tell her it was my plan?" begged Bartlett. "I have to go on
living with her."
"No, I didn't tell her, but she's next to the fact."
"I will speak to her," said Bartlett hastily. "I wouldn't like Henrietta
to find out about it. Billy has wanted a motor boat for some time. I may
give her one."
They walked slowly toward the door and once more shook hands.
"I would gladly have given the thousands I have lost to have you
Batchelor, boy," said Bartlett gently.
"Aw, thanks," said the Watermelon.
"Tell the others I will be around when I have sent another telegram."
The Watermelon found Billy sitting on the steps of the only hotel in
town. It was a big, square, uncompromising affair, blank and
unattractive, and Billy, alone on the top step, looked somehow small and
forlorn and child-like. The Watermelon sat down beside her.
"Where's Henrietta?" he asked, ignoring her eyes and the question they
asked.
"Up-stairs," said Billy, "fixing up." She raised her hands to her own
soft hair and bit her lip to get up courage to voice the question her
eyes had already asked.
"Where's the general?" asked the Watermelon.
Billy nodded backward. "In the office, trying to convert the landlord.
The landlord's a democrat, you know."
"Come and walk down the road with me a bit?" asked the Watermelon. He
rose and held out his hand to help her up.
Billy rose with a trembling laugh that failed miserably in its manifest
attempt to be brave.
It was late afternoon, sweet and cool as they left the village behind.
The deep quiet of the last of the day was over fields and woods and
road, the heat and strenuous business of the morning done. Cows were
slowly meandering across the pastures to the familiar bars, empty teams
rattled by on the way home, the driver humped contentedly over the
reins, thinking of the day's bargains and of the supper waiting for him.
The shadows were lengthening, long and graceful across the village
green.
Neither Billy nor the Watermelon spoke until they had left the village
some little way behind and had come to four cross-roads with the usual
small dingy school-house, door locked, dirty windows closed for the
summer and shabby, faded blinds drawn.
Billy knew from the Watermelon's face that the interview with her father
had been far from satisfactory. She feared that the Watermelon had not
"stood up" for himself, that her speaking to her father that morning had
not helped matters as she had hoped it would. She tried to think of
something to say that would influence the boy, something she could do to
show him how she cared, so he would not think of leaving her. The
Watermelon was silent, for, now that the hour of parting had come, he
did not know what to say, could not bring himself to leave her, gay,
foolish, light-hearted Billy.
He, however, was the first to speak. The school-house recalled
miserable days of long dull confinement, and he nodded toward it,
pausing in the grass by the wayside. "A standing monument," said he,
"to buried freedom."
"I never went to school," said Billy. "It must be awful."
"Awful," the Watermelon shrugged. "It's taken ten years from my life.
Schools should be abolished."
They sat down on the tiny, weather-stained step, side by side, in the
gathering dusk.
"Billy," began the Watermelon earnestly, and then stopped.
Poor little Billy's heart fluttered and she put her hand to her hair in
her nervousness. "You know," she said firmly, irrelevantly, "I love you,
Jerry."
"I know, dear," replied the Watermelon. "And I love you. No matter
where I am, Billy, no matter what happens, you are the best in me and I
will keep you best. I'm shiftless, lazy, no 'count, but Billy, kid,
I'll always love you."
"And we will get married and live happily ever after," crooned Billy.
"I'm going away to-night, Billy, back to the road."
"Oh, Jerry, please, clear. If father knew how much I care--"
"No, Billy, your father's right. He said to give you time; for me to go
away for a while and maybe you would get--over it."
"And if I did," demanded Billy, "if I loved another, wouldn't you be
jealous? Wouldn't you kill that other, Jeroboam Martin?" She clenched
her small fist and pounded him on the knee to emphasize the passion in
her voice.
"If he were a decent chap--" stammered the Watermelon, "it would be
better for you."
"It's terrible," interrupted Billy, "when the girl has to do all the
loving." She pushed the hair out of her hot face and stared angrily
before her, across the road.
"You only love me, but I love you. See the difference?" asked the
Watermelon. "It's simply impossible for your love to be as great as
mine for that reason. Your father said I could come to you the last of
August at Westhaven, and I'm coming, Billy."
"And then we can marry, did father say that?" asked Billy, turning to
him.
"If you care still," muttered the Watermelon.
"Care," Billy laughed the contrary to merry scorn. "Care? Why,
Jeroboam Martin, when will I not care?"
The Watermelon flushed and rose as the wisest course under the
circumstances. "I'm off. Say good-by to the others for me, will you,
Billy?"
"You will be my knight," whispered Billy. "And I will be your lady, and
no knight ever went back on his lady, yet, Jeroboam."
"You've got a darned poor knight," grunted the Watermelon. Suddenly he
turned and caught her in his arms, dragging her to him and forcing back
her head to see into her eyes. "Billy, Billy," he cried, "will you be
true to me, for ever and for ever, no matter what happens, no matter
what I do? Could you, will you love me always?"
"Always, always," whispered Billy.
"Dirty, drunk?"
"Dirty and drunk and sick and always," promised Billy. "Only you won't
drink, because I love you."
"Love never yet stood between a man and the whisky bottle," sneered the
Watermelon. "You don't know men, kid."