Nearly all of us at some time or other in our lives have dreamed awful
dreams of being discovered in a public place with nothing at all upon
our bodies, and have awakened, burning hot with the shame of an enormous
and terrific embarrassment. Being no student of the psychic phenomena of
human slumber I do not know whether this is a subconscious
harking-back to the days of our infancy or whether it is merely a
manifestation to prove the inadvisability of partaking of Welsh rabbits
and lobster salads immediately before retiring. More than once Mr. Leary
had bedreamed thus, but at this moment he realised how much more dread
and distressing may be a dire actuality than a vision conjured up out of
the mysteries of sleep.
One surprised by strangers in a nude or partially nude state may have
any one of a dozen acceptable excuses for being so circumstanced. An
earthquake may have caught one unawares, say; or inopportunely a
bathroom door may have blown open. Once the first shock occasioned by
the untoward appearance of the victim has passed away he is sure of
sympathy. For him pity is promptly engendered and volunteer aid is
enlisted.
But Mr. Leary had a profound conviction that, revealed in this ghastly
plight before the eyes of his fellows, his case would be regarded
differently; that instead of commiseration there would be for him only
the derision which is so humiliating to a sensitive nature. He felt so
undignified, so glaringly conspicuous, so--well, so scandalously
immature. If only it had been an orthodox costume party which Mrs.
Carroway had given, why, then he might have gone as a Roman senator or
as a private chief or an Indian brave or a cavalier. In doublet or jack
boots or war bonnet, in a toga, even, he might have mastered the dilemma
and carried off a dubious situation. But to be adrift in an alien
quarter of a great and heartless city round four o'clock in the morning,
so picturesquely and so unseasonably garbed, and in imminent peril of
detection, was a prospect calculated to fill one with the frenzied
delirium of a nightmare made real. Put yourself in his place, I ask you.
His slippered feet spurned the thin snow as he moved rapidly back toward
the west. Ahead of him he could detect the clumped outlines of the
taxicab, and at the sight of it he quickened to a trot. Once safely
within it he could take stock of things; could map out a campaign of
future action; could think up ways and means of extricating himself from
his present lamentable case with the least possible risk of undesirable
publicity. At any rate he would be shielded for the moment from the life
which might at any moment awaken in the still sleeping and apparently
vacant neighbourhood. Finally, of course, there was the hope that the
drunken cabman might be roused, and once roused might be capable, under
promise of rich financial reward, of conveying Mr. Leary to his bachelor
apartments in West Eighty-fifth Street before dawn came, with its
early-bird milkmen and its before-day newspaper distributors and its
others too numerous to mention.
Without warning of any sort the cab started off, seemingly of its own
volition. Mr. Leary's gait became a desperate gallop, and as he galloped
he gave voice in entreaty.
[Illustration: MR. LEARY'S GAIT BECAME A DESPERATE GALLOP, AND AS HE
GALLOPED HE SHOUTED: "WAIT, PLEASE. HERE I AM--HERE'S YOUR PASSENGER!"]
"Hey there!" he shouted. "Wait, please. Here I am--here's your
passenger!"
His straw hat blew off, but this was no time to stop for a straw hat.
For a few rods he gained upon the vehicle, then as its motion increased
he lost ground and ran a losing race. Its actions disclosed that a
conscious if an uncertain hand guided its destinies. Wabbling this way
and that it wheeled skiddingly round a corner. When Mr. Leary, rowelled
on to yet greater speed by the spurs of a mounting misery, likewise
turned the corner it was irrevocably remote, beyond all prospect of
being overtaken by anything human pursuing it afoot. The swaying black
bulk of it diminished and was swallowed up in the snow shower and the
darkness. The rattle of mishandled gears died to a thin metallic
clanking, then to a purring whisper, and then the whisper expired, dead
silence ensuing.
V
In the void of this silence stood Mr. Leary, shivering now in the
reaction that had succeeded the nerve jar of being robbed at a pistol's
point, and lacking the fervour of the chase to sustain him. For him the
inconceivable disaster was complete and utter; upon him despair
descended as a patent swatter upon a lone housefly. Miles away from
home, penniless and friendless--the two terms being practically
synonymous in New York--what asylum was there for him now? Suppose
daylight found him abroad thus? Suppose he succumbed to exposure and was
discovered stiffly frozen in a doorway? Death by processes of
congealment must carry an added sting if one had to die in a suit of
pink rompers buttoning down the back. As though the thought of freezing
had been a cue to Nature he noted a tickling in his nose and a chokiness
in his throat, and somewhere in his system, a long way off, so to speak,
he felt a sneeze forming and approaching the surface.
To add to his state of misery, if anything could add to its distressing
total, he was taking cold. When Mr. Leary took cold he took it
thoroughly and throughout his system. Very soon, as he knew by past
experience, his voice would be hoarse and wheezy and his nose and his
eyes would run. But the sneeze was delayed in transit, and Mr. Leary
took advantage of the respite to cast a glance about him. Perhaps--the
expedient had surged suddenly into his brain--perhaps there might be a
hotel or a lodging house of sorts hereabouts? If so, such an
establishment would have a night clerk on duty, and despite the
baggageless and cashless state of the suppliant it was possible the
night clerk might be won, by compassion or by argument or by both, to
furnish Mr. Leary shelter until after breakfast time, when over the
telephone he could reach friends and from these friends procure an
outfit of funds and suitable clothing.
In sight, though, there was no structure which by its outward appearance
disclosed itself as a place of entertainment for the casual wayfarer.
Howsomever, lights were shining through the frosted panes of a row of
windows stretching across the top floor of a building immediately at
hand, and even as he made this discovery Mr. Leary was aware of the
dimmed sounds of revelry and of orchestral music up there, and also of
an illuminated canvas triangle stuck above the hallway entrance of the
particular building in question, this device bearing a lettered
inscription upon it to advertise that here the members of the Lawrence
P. McGillicuddy Literary Association and Pleasure Club were holding
their Grand Annual Civic Ball; admission One Dollar, including Hat
Check; Ladies Free when accompanied by Gents. Evidently the Lawrence P.
McGillicuddys kept even later hours at their roisterings than the
Bohemian sets in Washington Square kept.
Observing these evidences of adjacent life and merry-makings Mr. Leary
cogitated. Did he dare intrude upon the festivities aloft there? And if
he did so dare would he enter cavortingly, trippingly, with intent to
deceive the assembled company into the assumption that he had come to
their gathering in costume; or would he throw himself upon their charity
and making open confession of his predicament seek to enlist the
friendly offices of some kindly soul in extricating him from it?
While he canvassed the two propositions tentatively he heard the thud of
footsteps descending the stairs from the dance hall, and governed by an
uncontrollable impulse he leaped for concealment behind a pile of
building material that was stacked handily upon the sidewalk almost at
his elbow. He might possibly have driven himself to face a multitude
indoors, but somehow could not, just naturally could not, in his present
apparel, face one stranger outdoors--or at least not until he had
opportunity to appraise the stranger.
It was a man who emerged from the hallway entrance; a stockily built man
wearing his hat well over one ear and with his ulster opened and flung
back exposing a broad chest to the wintry air. He was whistling a
sprightly air.
Just as this individual came opposite the lumber pile the first
dedicatory sneeze of a whole subsequent series of sneezes which had been
burgeoning somewhere in the top of Mr. Leary's head, and which that
unhappy gentleman had been mechanically endeavouring to suppress, burst
from captivity with a vast moist report. At the explosion the passer-by
spun about and his whistle expired in a snort of angered surprise as the
bared head of Mr. Leary appeared above the topmost board of the pile,
and Mr. Leary's abashed face looked into his.
"Say," he demanded, "wotcher meanin', hidin' there and snortin' in a
guy's ear?"
His manner was truculent; indeed, verged almost upon the menacing.
Evidently the shock had adversely affected his temper, to the point
where he might make personal issues out of unavoidable trifles.
Instinctively Mr. Leary felt that the situation which had arisen called
for diplomacy of the very highest order. He cleared his throat before
replying.
"Good evening," he began, in what he vainly undertook to make a casual
tone of voice. "I beg your pardon--the sneeze--ahem--occurred when I
wasn't expecting it. Ahem--I wonder if you would do me a favour?"
"I would not! Come snortin' in a guy's ear that-a-way and then askin'
him would he do you a favour: You got a crust for fair!" Here, though, a
natural curiosity triumphed over the rising tides of indignation. "Wot
favour do you want, anyway?" he inquired shortly.
"Would you--would you--I wonder if you would be willing to sell me that
overcoat you're wearing?"
"I would not!"
"You see, the fact of the matter is I happened to be needing an overcoat
very badly at the moment," pressed Mr. Leary. "I was hoping that you
might be induced to name a price for yours."
"I would not! M. J. Cassidy wears M. J. Cassidy's clothes, and nobody
else wears 'em, believe me! Wot's happened to your own coat?"
"I lost it--I mean it was stolen."
"Stole?"
"Yes, a robber with a revolver held me up a few minutes ago just over
here in the next cross street and he took my coat away."
"Huh! Well, did you lose your hat the same way?"
"Yes--that is to say, no. I lost my hat running."
"Oh, you run, hey? Well, you look to me like a guy wot would run. Well,
did he take your clothes, too? Is that why you're squattin' behind them
timbers?" The inquisitive one took a step nearer.
"No--oh, no! I'm still wearing my--my--the costume I was wearing,"
answered Mr. Leary, apprehensively wedging his way still farther back
between the stack of boards and the wall behind. "But you see----"
"Well then, barrin' the fact that you ain't got no hat, ain't you jest
as well off without no overcoat now as I'd be if I fell for any
hard-luck spiel from you and let you have mine?"
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that exactly," tendered Mr. Leary
ingratiatingly. "I'm afraid my clothing isn't as suitable for outdoor
wear as yours is. You see, I'd been to a sort of social function and on
my way home it--it happened."
"Oh, it did, did it? Well, anyway, I should worry about you and your
clothes," stated the other. He took a step onward, then halted; and now
the gleam of speculative gain was in his eye. "Say, if I was willin' to
sell--not sayin' I would be, but if I was--wot would you be willin' to
give for an overcoat like this here one?"
"Any price within reason--any price you felt like asking," said Mr.
Leary, his hopes of deliverance rekindling.
"Well, maybe I'd take twenty-five dollars for it just as it stands and
no questions ast. How'd that strike you?"
"I'll take it. That seems a most reasonable figure."
"Well, fork over the twenty-five then, and the deal's closed."
"I'd have to send you the money to-morrow--I mean to-day. You see, the
thief took all my cash when he took my overcoat."
"Did, huh?"
"Yes, that's the present condition of things. Very annoying, isn't it?
But I'll take your address. I'm a lawyer in business in Broad Street,
and as soon as I reach my office I'll send the amount by messenger."
"Aw, to hell with you and your troubles! I might a-knowed you was some
new kind of a panhandler when you come a-snortin' in my ear that-a-way.
Better beat it while the goin's good. You're in the wrong neighbourhood
to be springin' such a gag as this one you just now sprang on me.
Anyhow, I've wasted enough time on the likes of you."
He was ten feet away when Mr. Leary, his wits sharpened by his
extremity, clutched at the last straw.
"One moment," he nervously begged. "Did I understand you to say your
name was Cassidy?"
"You did. Wot of it?"
"Well, curious coincidence and all that--but my name happens to be
Leary. And I thought that because of that you might----"
The stranger broke in on him. "Your name happens to be Leary, does it?
Wot's your other name then?"
"Algernon."
Stepping lightly on the balls of his feet Mr. Cassidy turned back, and
his mien for some reason was potentially that of a belligerent.
"Say," he declared threateningly, "you know wot I think about you? Well,
I think you're a liar. No regular guy with the name of Leary would let a
cheap stiff of a stick-up rob him out of the coat offen his back without
puttin' up a battle. No regular guy named Leary would be named Algernon.
Say, I think you're a Far Downer. I wouldn't be surprised but wot you
was an A. P. A. on the top of that. And wot's all this here talk about
goin' to a sociable functure and comin' away not suitably dressed? Come
on out of that now and let's have a look at you."
"Really, I'd much rather not--if you don't mind," protested the
miserable Mr. Leary. "I--I have reasons."
"The same here. Will you come out from behind there peaceable or will I
fetch you out?"
So Mr. Leary came, endeavouring while coming to wear a manner combining
an atmosphere of dignified aloofness and a sentiment of frank
indifference to the opinion of this loutish busybody, with just a touch,
a mere trace, as it were, of nonchalance thrown in. In short, coming out
he sought to deport himself as though it were the properest thing in
the world for a man of years and discretion to be wearing a bright pink
one-piece article of apparel on a public highway at four A. M. or
thereabouts. Undoubtedly, considering everything, it was the hardest
individual task essayed in New York during the first year of the war.
Need I add that it was a failure--a total failure? As he stood forth
fully and comprehensively revealed by the light of the adjacent
transparency, Mr. Cassidy's squint of suspicion widened into a pop-eyed
stare of temporary stupefaction.
"Well, for the love of---- In the name of---- Did anywan ever see the
likes of----!"
He murmured the broken sentences as he circled about the form of the
martyr. Completing the circuit, laughter of a particularly boisterous
and concussive variety interrupted his fragmentary speech.
"Ha ha, ha ha," echoed Mr. Leary in a palpably forced and hollow effort,
to show that he, too, could enter into the spirit of the occasion with
heartiness. "Does strike one as rather unusual at first sight--doesn't
it?"
"Why, you big hooman radish! Why, you strollin' sunset!" thus Mr.
Cassidy responded. "Are you payin' an election bet three weeks after the
election's over? Or is it that you're just a plain bedaddled ijiet? Or
wot is it, I wonder?"
"I explained to you that I went to a party. It was a fancy-dress party,"
stated Mr. Leary.
Sharp on the words Mr. Cassidy's manner changed. Here plainly was a
person of moods, changeable and tempersome.
"Ain't you ashamed of yourself, and you a large, grown man, to be
skihootin' round with them kind of foolish duds on, and your own country
at war this minute for decency and democracy?" From this it also was
evident that Mr. Cassidy read the editorials in the papers. "You should
take shame to yourself that you ain't in uniform instid of baby
clothes."
It was the part of discretion, so Mr. Leary inwardly decided, to ignore
the fact that the interrogator himself appeared to be well within the
military age.
"I'm a bit old to enlist," he stated, "and I'm past the draft age."
"Then you're too old to be wearin' such a riggin'. But, by cripes, I'll
say this for you--you make a picture that'd make a horse laugh."
Laughing like a horse, or as a horse would laugh if a horse ever
laughed, he rocked to and fro on his heels.
"Sh-sh; not so loud, please," importuned Mr. Leary, casting an uneasy
glance toward the lighted windows above. "Somebody might hear you!"
"I hope somebody does hear me," gurgled the temperamental Mr. Cassidy,
now once more thoroughly beset by his mirth. "I need somebody to help me
laugh. By cripes, I need a whole crowd to help me; and I know a way to
get them!"
He twisted his head round so his voice would ascend the hallway. "Hey,
fellers and skoirts," he called; "you that's fixin' to leave! Hurry on
down here quick and see Algy, the livin' peppermint lossenger, before he
melts away with his own sweetness."
Obeying the summons with promptness a flight of the Lawrence P.
McGillicuddy's, accompanied for the most part by lady friends, cascaded
down the stairs and erupted forth upon the sidewalk.
"Here y'are--right here!" clarioned Mr. Cassidy as the first skylarkish
pair showed in the doorway. His manner was drolly that of a showman
exhibiting a rare freak, newly captured. "Come a-runnin'!"
They came a-running and there were a dozen of them or possibly fifteen;
blithesome spirits, all, and they fenced in the shrinking shape of Mr.
Leary with a close and curious ring of themselves, and the combined
volume of their glad, amazed outbursts might be heard for a distance of
furlongs. On prankish impulse then they locked hands and with skippings
and prancings and impromptu jig steps they circled about him; and he,
had he sought to speak, could not well have been heard; and, anyway, he
was for the moment past speech, because of being entirely engaged in
giving vent to one vehement sneeze after another. And next, above the
chorus of joyous whooping might be heard individual comments, each
shrieked out shrilly and each punctuated by a sneeze from Mr. Leary's
convulsed frame; or lacking that by a simulated sneeze from one of the
revellers--one with a fine humorous flare for mimicry. And these
comments were, for example, such as:
"Git onto the socks!"
"Ker-chew!"
"And the slippers!"
"Ker-chew!"
"And them lovely pink garters!"
"Ker-chew!"
"Oh, you cutey! Oh, you cut-up!"
"Ker-chew!"
"Oh, you candy kid!"
"And say, git onto the cunnin' elbow sleeves our little playmate's
sportin'."
"Yes, but goils, just pipe the poilies--ain't they the greatest ever?"
"They sure are. Say, kiddo, gimme one of 'em to remember you by, won't
you? You'll never miss it--you got a-plenty more."
"Wot d'ye call wot he's got on 'um, anyway?" The speaker was a male,
naturally.
"W'y, you big stoopid, can't you see he's wearin' rompers?" The answer
came in a giggle, from a gay youthful creature of the opposite sex as
she kicked out roguishly.
"Well, then be chee, w'y don't he romp a little?"
"Give 'um time, cancher? Don't you see he's blowin' out his flues? He's
busy now. He'll romp in a minute."
"Sure he will! We'll romp with 'um."
A waggish young person in white beaded slippers and a green sport skirt
broke free from the cavorting ring, and behind Mr. Leary's back the
nimble fingers of the madcap tapped his spinal ornamentations as an
instrumentalist taps the stops of an organ; and she chanted a familiar
counting game of childhood:
"Rich man--poor man--beggar man--thief--doctor--loiryer----"
"Sure, he said he was a loiryer." It was Mr. Cassidy breaking in. "And
he said his name was Algernon. Well, I believe the Algernon part--the
big A. P. A."
"Oh, you Algy!"
"Algernon, does your mother know you're out?"
"T'ree cheers for Algy, the walkin' comic valentine!"
"Algy, Algy--Oh, you cutey Algy!" These jolly Greenwich Villagers were
going to make a song of his name. They did make a song of it, and it was
a frolicsome song and pitched to a rollicksome key. Congenial newcomers
arrived, pelting down from upstairs whence they had been drawn by the
happy rocketing clamour; and they caught spirit and step and tune with
the rest and helped manfully to sing it. As one poet hath said, "And now
reigned high carnival." And as another has so aptly phrased it, "There
was sound of revelry by night." And, as the second poet once put it, or
might have put it so if so be he didn't, "And all went merry as a
marriage bell." But when we, adapting the line to our own descriptive
usages, now say all went merry we should save out one exception--one
whose form alternately was racked by hot flushes of a terrific
self-consciousness and by humid gusts of an equally terrific sneezing
fit.