ONE MORE WHIRL
Mr. Toomey folded his comfortable bathrobe over his new pajamas and tied
the silken cord and tassel, remarking casually:
"I think we'll have breakfast here this morning."
The flowing sleeve of Mrs. Toomey's pink silk negligee fell away from
her bare arm as she stood arranging her hair before the wide-topped
dresser of Circassian walnut that looked so well against a background of
pale gray wall paper with a delicate pink border.
"They charge extra," she reminded him.
Toomey was already at the telephone.
"Whole ones? Certainly--and Floridas--be particular. Eggs--soft to
medium. Toast for two, without butter. And coffee? Of course, coffee.
Send a paper with it, will you?"
As he hung up the receiver, "This is our last breakfast on earth, Old
Dear--we're going home to-morrow."
Mr. Toomey repaired to the adjoining bathroom with its immaculate
porcelain and tiling, where he inspected his chin critically in the
shaving mirror and commented upon the rapid growth of his beard, which
he declared became tropical in a temperate climate.
"Just to be warm and not have to carry ashes--it's heavenly!"
ecstatically sighed Mrs. Toomey.
"Forget it!" laconically. "What makes 'em so slow with that order?" Mr.
Toomey lighted a gold-tipped cigarette and paced the floor impatiently.
Mrs. Toomey could not entirely rid herself of the notion that she was
dreaming. A lace petticoat hanging over the back of a chair and a
brocaded pink corset over another contributed to the illusion. She could
not yet believe they were hers, any more than was the twenty-dollar
creation in the hat box on the shelf in the closet.
During their week's stay in Chicago Mrs. Toomey had gone about mostly in
a state which resembled the delightful languor of hasheesh, untroubled,
irresponsible, save when something reminded her that after Chicago--the
cataclysm. Yet she had not yielded easily to Toomey's importunities. It
had required all his powers of persuasion to overcome her scruples, her
ingrained thrift and natural prudence.
"We need the change; we've lived too long in a high altitude, and we're
nervous wrecks, both of us," he had argued. "We should get in touch with
things and the right kind of people. A trip like this is an
investment--that's the way you want to look at it. If you want to win
anything in this world you've got to take chances. It's the plungers,
not the plodders, who make big winnings. I gotta hunch that I'm going to
get in touch with somebody that'll take an interest in me."
Left to herself, Mrs. Toomey would have paid something on their most
urgent debts and bought prudently, but she told herself that Jap was as
likely to be right as she was, and the argument that he might meet some
one who would be of benefit to him was convincing; so finally she had
consented. The sense of unreality and wonder which Mrs. Toomey
experienced when she saw her trunk going was surpassed only by the
astonishment of the neighbors, who all but broke the glass in their
various windows as they pressed against it to convince themselves that
the sight was not an optical illusion.
The Toomeys had traveled in a stateroom, over Mrs. Toomey's feeble
protest, and the best room with bath in one of the best hotels in
Chicago was not too good for Mr. Toomey. They had thought to stay three
weeks, with reasonable economy, and return with a modest bank balance,
but the familiar environment was too much for Toomey, who dropped back
into his old way of living as though he never had been out of it, while
the new clothes and the brightness of the atmosphere of prosperity after
the years of anxiety and poverty drugged Mrs. Toomey's conscience and
caution into a profound slumber--the latter to be awakened only when,
counting the banknotes in her husband's wallet, she was startled to
discover that they had little more than enough to pay their hotel bill
and return to Prouty in comfort. If either of them remembered the source
from which their present luxurious enjoyment came, neither mentioned it.
The breakfast and service this morning were perfect and Mrs. Toomey
sighed contentedly as she crumpled her napkin and reached for the paper.
"There's been a terrible blizzard west of the Mississippi," she murmured
from the depths of the _Journal_.
"I'm glad we've missed a little misery," Toomey replied carelessly.
"It'll mean late trains and all the rest of it. We'd better stay over
until they're running again on schedule."
Mrs. Toomey ignored, if she heard, the suggestion, and continued:
"It says that the stock, and the sheep in particular, have died like
flies on the range, and scores of herders have been frozen."
"There's more herders where they came from." Toomey brushed the ashes
from his cigarette into the excavated grapefruit, and yawned and
stretched like a cat on its cushion.
"Think of something pleasant--what are we going to do this evening?"
"We mustn't do anything," Mrs. Toomey protested quickly. "If we spend
any more we will have to get a check cashed, and that might be awkward,
since we know no one; besides, we can't afford it. Let's have a quiet
evening."
"A quiet evening!" Toomey snorted. "That's my idea of hell. I'll tell
you about me, Old Dear--I'm going to have one more whirl if I have to
walk back to Prouty, and you might as well go with me."
Since he was determined, Mrs. Toomey arrived at the same conclusion
also, for not only did she too shudder at the thought of a quiet
evening, but her presence was more or less of a restraint upon his
extravagant impulses. She endeavored to soothe her uneasiness by telling
herself that they could make up for it by some economy in traveling. And
just one more good play--what, after all, did it really matter?
The theater was only four blocks from the hotel, but, as a matter of
course, Toomey called a taxicab. These modern conveniences were an
innovation that had come during his absence from "civilization" and his
delight in them was not unlike the ecstasy of a child riding the flying
horses. It availed Mrs. Toomey nothing to declare that she preferred
exercise and they arrived at the theater in a taxi. At sight of the box
office Toomey forgot his promise to buy inexpensive seats, but asked for
the best obtainable.
Carefree and debonair, between acts Mr. Toomey strolled in the lobby
smoking and looking so very much in his element that Mrs. Toomey
temporarily forgot her disquietude in being proud of him. His dinner
jacket was not the latest cut, but after giving it much consideration
they had decided that it was not far enough off to be noticeable, and
how very handsome and assured he looked as he sauntered with the
confident air of a man who had only to entertain a whim to gratify it.
Such is the psychology of clothes and the effect of environment upon
some temperaments that that was the way Mr. Toomey felt about it. Prouty
and importunate creditors did not exist for him. This condition of
mental intoxication continued when the play was over and, fearful, Mrs.
Toomey spoke hastily of going home immediately.
"I'm hungry," he asserted. "We'll go somewhere first and eat something."
"Let's have sandwiches sent up to the room," she pleaded.
"Why not a bow-wow from the night-lunch cart I noticed in the alley? I
like the feeling of the mustard running between my fingers," derisively.
"Oh, Jap, we oughtn't to--we really ought not!"
But he might have been deaf, for all the attention he paid to her
earnest protests as he turned into one of the brilliantly lighted
restaurants which he had previously patronized and that he liked
particularly. There was a glitter in his eyes which increased her
uneasiness, and a recklessness in his manner that was not reassuring.
"I may go to my grave without ever seeing another lobster," he said as
he ordered shellfish. "What will you have to drink?" while the waiter
hovered.
"Nothing to-night," she replied, startled.
"Different here, Old Dear, I'm thirsty. The wine list, waiter."
That was the beginning. From the time the champagne and oysters arrived
until long past midnight Mrs. Toomey experienced all the sensations that
come to the woman who must sit passive and watch her husband pass
through the several stages of intoxication. And in addition, she had the
knowledge that he could less afford the money he was spending than the
waiter who served him.
In high spirits at first, with his natural drollness, stimulated to
brilliancy, his sallies brought smiles from those at adjoining tables.
Then he became in turn boastful, arrogant, argumentative, thick of
speech, finally, and slow of comprehension, but obstinate always.
"Goin' back jail 'morra, Ol' Dear--goin' finish out my life sentence,"
when she reminded him of the lateness of the hour and her weariness, and
he resented her interference so fiercely when she countermanded an order
that she dared not repeat it.
"You lis'en me, waiter, thish my party. Might think I was town
drunkard--village sot way my wife tryin' flag me." Mrs. Toomey colored
painfully at the attention he attracted.
He turned to a late comer who had seated himself at a small table across
the narrow aisle from them. "My wife's a great disappointment to me--no
sport--never was, never will be. 'Morra," addressing himself to the
stranger exclusively, "goin' back to hear the prairie dogs
chatter--goin' listen to the sagebrush tick--back one thousan' miles
from an oyster--"
"Jap!" Mrs. Toomey interrupted desperately, "we must be going.
Everyone's leaving."
"We'll be closing shortly," the waiter hinted.
Toomey blinked at the check he placed before him.
"Can't see whether tha's twenty dollars, or two hundred dollars or two
thousand dollars."
The waiter murmured the amount, but not so softly but that Mrs. Toomey
paled when she heard it. He had not enough to pay it, she was sure of
it, for while he had brought from the room an amount that would have
been ample for any ordinary theater supper, wine had not been in his
calculations.
Mrs. Toomey looked on anxiously while he produced the contents of his
pocket.
"Sorry, sir, but it isn't enough," said the waiter, after counting the
notes he tossed upon the plate.
Toomey found the discovery amusing.
"You s'prise me," he chuckled.
"Sorry, sir, but--" the waiter persisted.
With a swift transition of mood Toomey demanded haughtily:
"Gue'sh you don' know who I am?"
"No, sir."
Toomey tapped the lapel of his jacket impressively with his forefinger.
"I'm Jasper Toomey of Prouty, Wyoming."
The waiter received the information without flinching.
"Call up the Blackstone and they'll tell you I'll be in to-morra an'
shettle." He wafted the waiter away grandly, that person shrugging a
dubious shoulder as he vanished. "They'll tell 'im the f'ancial standin'
of Jasper Toomey--shirtingly."
The waiter returned almost immediately.
"The hotel knows you only as a guest, sir."
"Thish is insult--d'lib'rate insult." Mr. Toomey rose to his feet and
stood unsteadily. "Send manager to me immedially--immedially!"
"He's busy, sir," replied the waiter with a touch of impatience, "but he
said you'd have to settle before leaving."
Mrs. Toomey, crimson with mortification and panic-stricken as visions of
a patrol wagon and station house rose before her, interrupted when
Toomey would have continued to argue.
"Jap, stay here while I go to the hotel--I can take a taxi and be back
in a few minutes."
Toomey refused indignantly. He declared that not only would this be a
reflection upon his honesty, but equivalent to pawning him.
"How'd I know," he demanded shrewdly, "that you'd ever come back to
redeem me?"
As Mrs. Toomey cast a look of despair about, her eyes met those of the
man who was sitting alone at the table across the aisle. Even in her
distress she had observed him when he had entered, for his height,
breadth of shoulder, erectness of carriage--together with the tan and a
certain unconventional freedom of movement which, to the initiated,
proclaimed him an outdoor westerner, made him noticeable.
He was fifty--more, possibly--with hair well grayed and the face of a
man to whom success had not come easily. Yet that he had succeeded was
not to be doubted, for neither his face nor bearing were those of a man
who could be, or had been, defeated. His appearance--substantial,
unostentatious--inspired confidence in his integrity and confidence in
his ability to cope with any emergency. The lines in his strong face
suggested something more than the mere marks of obstacles conquered, of
battles lost and won in the world of business--they came from a deeper
source than surface struggles. His mouth, a trifle austere, had a droop
of sadness, and in his calm gray eyes there was the look of
understanding which comes not only from wide experience but from
suffering.
Mrs. Toomey had the feeling that he comprehended perfectly every emotion
she was experiencing--her fright, her mortification, her disgust at
Jap's maudlin speech and foolish appearance. But it was something more
than these things which had caused her to look at him frequently. He
reminded her of some one, yet she could not identify the resemblance. In
their exchange of glances she now caught a sympathetic flash; then he
rose immediately and came over.
"May I be of service, brother?" As he spoke he indicated the small
button he wore which corresponded to another on Toomey's waistcoat. With
a slight inclination of the head towards Mrs. Toomey, "If you'll allow
me--"
The relieved waiter promptly fled with the note he laid on the plate.
"These situations are a little awkward for the moment," he added,
smiling slightly.
"Mighty nice of you, Old Top!" Toomey shook hands with him. "Lemme buy
you somethin'. Wha'll you have?"
The stranger declined and thanked him.
Mrs. Toomey expressed her gratitude incoherently.
"You must leave your name and address; we'll mail you a check
to-morrow."
"I always stay at the Auditorium. Mail addressed to me there will be
forwarded." He laid his visiting card upon the table.
Toomey placed a detaining hand upon his arm as he turned from the table.
"Look here! Won't let you go till you promise come make us a visit--stay
month--stay year--stay rest o' your life--la'sh string hanging' out for
you. Pure air, Swizzerland of America, an' greatest natural
resources--"
The stranger detached himself gently.
"I appreciate your hospitality," he replied courteously. "Who knows?" to
Mrs. Toomey, "I might some day look in on you--I've never been out in
that section of the country."
With another bow he paid his own account and left the restaurant.
"Thoroughbred!" declared Toomey enthusiastically. "Old Dear, I made a
hit with him."
Mrs. Toomey was staring after the erect commanding figure.
She read again the name on the card she held in her fingers and murmured
with an expression of speculative wonder:
"The spelling's different but--Prentiss! and she looks enough like him
to be his daughter."