|AT the flower store in the station he bought a red carnation for his
lapel and walked briskly toward the big clock.
A slim girl was there at the inquiry desk, very attractively dressed.
His pulse bounded. She turned a forlornly pretty face and he saw that it
was Hilda Hansen of Wisconsin.
Their hands met. They wandered off toward the dim corridor where the
telephones are.
“It was dear of you to come,” said she rather shyly. “I shall feel
better now. I was beginning to think--well, that you didn't like me very
well.”
“Hilda--that's not fair!” he murmured. Murmured, IF the whole truth were
told, rather blithely. For Hilda was pretty. Her soft dependence was the
sweetest flattery. Her simple, easily satisfied mind was a relief after
certain slightly more desperate adventures. And so, when he said, “I'm
sorry you're going, Hilda. Is it for long?” he spoke as sincerely as is
commonly done.
“For good!” she blurted out in reply to this; and the tears came. He
took her arm and walked her farther down the corridor. The little
story was tumbling out now, helter skelter. Her father had stopped her
allowance, ordered her home. She was leaving forever the freedom of dear
old Greenwich Village. Naturally Hy kissed her.
He kissed her again, right out on the train platform, with belated
passengers elbowing by and porters looking on. It was Hy's little
sacrament of freedom. He could kiss them now--in public--as he chose!
For he was fired. No more gloomy old office! No more of the gliding Miss
Hardwick! No more of the doctor's oratory! No more of that damn buzzer!
The thing to do, of course, was to go back and pack up his belongings;
but he couldn't bring himself to it. So he stayed out until lunch time,
filling in the odd hour with an eleven o'clock movie show. He lunched
expensively and alone at the club, off a porterhouse steak with
mushrooms, potatoes “au gratin,” creamed spinach, musty ale in pewter,
romaine salad, Camembert cheese with toasted biscuit and black coffee.
When he reentered his office, who should be sitting there but the Worm.
Before he could overcome a slight embarrassment and begin the necessary
process of telling his story, a heavy crushing step sounded in the
corridor, passed the door, went on into the big room in the corner.
The Worm rose abruptly.
“Isn't that the Walrus?” he asked.
“The same,” said Hy.
“I've got to see him. Will you take me in?”
“Oh, sit down! I can tell you more than he can.”
“Perhaps, but at another time.”
Hy emerged from his self-absorption at this point sufficiently to
observe that the Worm, usually smiling and calm, was laboring under some
excitement.
“All right,” said he, “come along!” And quite light of heart, afraid of
nothing now, he led the Worm in and introduced him as, “My friend, Mr.
Bates of _The 'Courier_.” Then, hearing his telephone ringing again, he
hurried back to his own office.
It would be Betty, of course. Well, as far as the office was concerned,
it didn't matter now. She could call! Anybody could call.... He picked
up the receiver.
“Oh,” he murmured--“hello, Silvia! Wait a moment.” He got up and closed
the door. “All right,” he said then. “What is it, little girl?”
“Oh!” said she, “thank God, I've found you! Hy, something dreadful has
almost happened. It has done such things to my pride! But I knew you
wouldn't want me to turn to any one else for help, would you?”
“Oh, no,” said he, with sudden queer misgivings, “of course not! Not for
a minute!”
“I knew you'd feel that way, dear. Are you dreadfully busy? Could you--I
know it's a lot to ask--but could you, for me, dear, run out for five
minutes?”
“I will!” said he, with an emphasis aimed as much at himself as at her.
“Where are you?”
“I'm talking from the drug store across the street, right near you. I'll
wait outside.”
The misgivings deepened as Hy walked slowly out to the elevator and then
out to the street. Hy would have to be classified, in the last analysis,
as a city bachelor, a seasoned, hardened city bachelor. The one prospect
that instantly and utterly terrifies a hardened city bachelor is that
of admitting that another has a moral claim upon him. The essence of
bachelordom is the avoidance of personal responsibility. Therefore it
was a reserved, rather dignified Hy who crossed the street and joined
the supple, big-eyed, conspicuous young woman in the perfect-fitting
tailor suit. Another factor in Hy's mood, perhaps, was that the memory
of Hilda Hansen's soft young lips against his own had not yet wholly
died.
He and Silvia walked slowly around the corner. “I don't know how to tell
you,” she said in an unsteady voice. There were tears in her eyes, too.
“Hy, it's awful! It's my--my furniture!” The tears fell now. She wiped
them away. “They say positively they'll take it away tonight. Every
stick. I've cried so! I tried to explain that I'm actually rehearsing
with Cunningham. Before the end of the month I can take care of it
easily. But--” Hy stopped short, stood on the curb, looked at her. His
head was clear and cold as an adding machine. “How much would it take?”
said he.
“Oh, Hy.” She was crying again. “Don't talk in that way--so cold--”
“I know,” he broke in, “but--”
“It's fifty dollars. You see--”
“I haven't got it,” said he.
There was a perceptible ring in his voice. She looked at him, puzzled.
“Silvia, dear--I'm fired.”
“Fired? Hy--when?”
“To-day. Chucked out. I haven't got half of that--to live on, even.”
“Oh, my dear boy, you oughtn't to live in this careless way, not saving
a cent--”
“Of course I oughtn't. But I do. That's me.”
“But what on earth--what reason--”
“Conduct. I'm a bad one.” He was almost triumphant. “Only last night
I was seen leaving a questionable restaurant--where they dance and
drink--with a young lady--”
The tears were not falling now. Miss Silvia So-rana was looking straight
at him, thoughtful, even cool.
“Are you telling me the truth, Hy Lowe?”
“The gospel. I'm not even the proletariat. I'm the unemployed.”
“Well,” said she--“well!” And she thought it deliberately out. “Well--I
guess you can't be blamed for that!”
Which impressed Hy later when he thought it over, as a curious remark.
They parted shortly after this.
But first she said, “Hy, dear, I don't like to seem to be leaving you
on account of this. It must be dreadfully hard for you.” So they had a
soda, sitting in the drug store window. Hy almost smiled, thinking of
the madness of it--he and an unmistakable actress, in working hours,
here actually in the shadow of grim old Scripture House! And it was
nobody's business! It could hurt nobody! He had not known that freedom
would be like this. There was a thrill about it; so deep a thrill that
after he had put the sympathetic but plainly hurrying Silvia on an
up-town car and had paid for her as she entered, he could not bring
himself to return to the office. Even with the Worm up there, wondering
what had become of him. Even with all his personal belongings waiting to
be cleared from the desk and packed.
He wandered over to Washington Square, his spirit reveling in the lazy
June sunshine. He stopped and listened to the untiring hurdy gurdy;
threw coins to the little Italian girls dancing on the pavement. He
thought of stopping in at the Parisian, ordering a “sirop” and reading
or trying to read, those delightfully naughty French weeklies. He knew
definitely now that he was out for a good time.
There was a difficulty. It is easier to have a good time when there is
a girl about. Really it was rather inopportune that Hilda Hansen had
flitted back to Wisconsin. She needed a guardian; still she had been an
appealing young thing up there at the Grand Central. But she had
gone! And Silvia--well, that little affair had taken an odd and not
over-pleasant turn. The pagan person had, plainly, her sophisticated
moments. He was glad that he had seen through her. For that matter, you
couldn't ever trust her sort.
Then creeping back into his mind like a pet dog after a beating,
hesitant, all fears and doubts of a welcome, came the thought of Betty
Deane.