It is sometimes rather interesting, if quite profitless, to study
the genealogy of an event, tracing its descent back from one cause
to another until we have found, for example, that the failure of
the grocer to bring a can of baking powder on Thursday afternoon is
responsible for the loss to us of $500 on Friday morning, tracing
the descent in this case through a late breakfast, a missed train,
a street-car blockade and a tardy arrival at our office. Of course
we have not here exhausted the possibilities of this process, for
we might easily go further back and show that the forgetfulness of
the grocer was due to mental commotion brought about by the extreme
illness of his six-months’ old son and heir, produced, in turn, by the
administration of laudanum in mistake for ipecac by his mother. In
fact, the possibilities only end with the original protoplasm; which
really simplifies matters a great deal to the student of this line
of research, since it is only necessary to say “I lost $500 because
of the original protoplasm; deuce take the protoplasm!” and give no
attention to the intermediate events.
But all this is entirely beside the story, and was only suggested by
the ease with which it is possible to trace the lineage of the event
which forms a conclusion of this tale. For it is quite apparent that
had Sir Henry Irving not played an engagement at the Hollis Street
Theatre in March of that year the final chapter of this story would
have been quite different from what it is. Hence, if the reader finds
fault with the conclusion――and I admit that it might be better――he
may censure Sir Henry――unless he prefers to go back to the original
protoplasm. I, as a mere chronicler, disclaim all blame.
Betty wanted to see Irving in “King Charles I.” Phillip, animated by
his desire to please Betty, invited her and Mrs. Kingsford. Betty
at first refused to allow him to indulge in such expensive things
as Irving seats, but after much entreaty moderated the harshness of
her decree. They would go if Phillip would get seats in the balcony;
the balcony was good enough; one could see and hear beautifully. The
prospect of sitting for three hours at Betty’s side raised Phillip
to the seventh heaven of delight, and the thought of expending six
dollars for that privilege failed to discompose him. This was largely
due to a letter received a day or two before from Margaret. With the
letter came a check for a hundred dollars.
“Mr. Corliss has sold an option on Elaine for $500,” she wrote. “He
does not say who the parties are, but seems almost certain that they
will purchase in the spring. The option runs until June 1st, and may be
extended. I do hope the sale will go through, Phil. Now that we know
it must be, the sooner it’s over with the better, don’t you think so?
Mamma wants you to have the money so that you can come home for your
spring vacation. She will be very disappointed if you don’t, so try and
arrange it.”
And further on:
“Won’t you please answer my questions about Mr. North? Have you seen
him? Are you friends again, Phil, dear? Don’t let it go on any longer,
_please, please_. What can he think of us, Phil? He must believe that
I have allowed you to think it all his fault. Please write about it,
dear. It isn’t like you to let me worry about anything like this and
not try to help me.”
Phillip, moved by this last appeal, answered her questions. “I am
going to give him an opportunity to explain,” he wrote. “If he cares
to do that and shows himself decently sorry, all right. Meanwhile
don’t worry, Margey. I don’t believe John North cares a Continental. I
daresay he’s mighty glad to be rid of me.”
From the latter statement it may be surmised that Phillip was a little
piqued at John’s seeming indifference. Phillip was very happy nowadays
and his resentment against John was rapidly cooling. After all, the
worst had not happened; Betty had never heard of what he was pleased
to call his disgrace. And even though John could claim no credit
for that fact, yet Phillip was inclined to consider it a mitigating
circumstance. It is probable that had John appeared to Phillip at that
time and expressed regrets for having unintentionally wounded the
other’s pride, he would have been forgiven. But as John was unaware
of having transgressed, that event was impossible. When Phillip wrote
to Margaret of giving John an opportunity to explain, he referred to
the note which he had frequently postponed writing but which he really
intended to write.
Phillip conferred with Chester in regard to the theatre tickets,
recognizing in his roommate an authority on the subject. And Chester,
after vainly endeavouring to persuade Phillip to see “Louis XI.”
instead of “Charles I.,” as being rather more “bloody,” came to his
assistance with advice.
“What you want to do,” he said, “is to go over to Thurston’s and leave
an order in advance. They’ll get you just what you want.”
“But won’t that be awfully expensive?” asked Phillip.
“Well, maybe it would. I’d forgotten. The only thing to do, then, is to
get in line.”
“What’s that?”
“You go to the theatre the night before the sale and stand in line
until the next morning. It’s not bad fun, really. I’ll tell you what!
We’ll go in together and take turns waiting!”
“But I didn’t know you were going to see him?”
“I wasn’t, but I don’t mind seeing ‘Sans Gene’ again. We can have lots
of fun getting tickets.”
So the following Wednesday evening they went into town at ten o’clock,
and after a light supper at Marliave’s, insisted upon by Chester and
partaken of at his expense, betook themselves to the theatre. They
were by no means the first on the scene. Already fully a dozen persons
were leaning against the theatre wall and armed with camp stools,
mackintoshes and umbrellas.
“We ought to have brought stools,” said Chester. “How silly of me to
forget.”
“And I reckon we’ll need umbrellas, too,” added Phillip. “It looks a
good deal like rain, don’t you think so?”
Chester did.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “I’ll go back to the room and get a
mackintosh and an umbrella; and maybe I can find a camp stool
somewhere.”
So back to college he went, while Phillip made himself number fourteen,
or it may have been fifteen, in the line. After awhile the performance
let out and the lobby was filled with men and women in evening dress,
and the little narrow street became a bedlam as the carriages dashed
up for their loads. It was quite interesting and Phillip enjoyed it.
But about midnight the excitement waned and the novelty began to wear
off. To make matters worse, it began to rain, gently, insistently,
and the chill got under his overcoat and set him to shivering. Now
and then a waiter left the line and tramped about and swung his arms,
his claim to his position being respected by the rest. Most of them,
Phillip concluded, were speculators, though here and there stood one
who was evidently, like himself, present from motives of economy.
Phillip wondered what had become of Chester, and longed greatly for the
promised umbrella and mackintosh. But at one o’clock Chester was still
absent and Phillip gave up hoping for him. By that hour the throng had
increased to fully half a hundred. Now and then a policeman strolled
by, and once a vendor of sandwiches and coffee appeared and did a
rushing business.
But it was tiresome, miserable work. Phillip was wet and sleepy and
cold. If it hadn’t been for Betty he would have given up long before
the interminable night was over and gone home to bed. As it was,
however, he stuck it out. When daylight came and the electric lamps
grew dimmer and dimmer and finally flickered out he felt weak and
dizzy, and the second repast of coffee and sandwiches failed to comfort
him. At eight o’clock the line stretched the length of the street and
an army of small speculators were offering to buy positions at the
head. At half past nine he was on his way back to Cambridge, the three
dearly bought slips of pasteboard in his pocket, a horrible taste in
his mouth, a gone sensation in his stomach and a splitting headache.
He went to sleep in the corner of the car and had to be awakened at the
square. From thence he tramped across the Yard, sneezing at every third
step, and found Chester dressing.
“I’m awfully sorry, Phil,” the latter declared. “I didn’t mean to do
it. But I was so darned sleepy when I got back that I just laid down
for a moment on the couch――just to get a dozen winks, you know. Well,
when I woke up it was half past four, by jingo! Of course there was no
use going back to town then, so I took my things off and went to bed.
I’m awfully sorry, really!”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied the other. “I think I’ll lie down awhile
myself. Wake me in about an hour, will you?”
In the late afternoon he hunted up Everett.
“I got tickets for Monday night. Will you tell your sister, please? And
I’ll be at the house at seven fifteen. I reckon I’ll go back now; my
head aches and I’m kind of funny all over. I’m going to bed.”
He staggered against a chair and subsided into it limply.
“Here, you come with me,” said Everett.
He took him back to his room and didn’t leave him until he was in bed
with all the covers that could be found piled on top of him.
“Maybe I’d ought to send the doctor to you,” said Everett undecidedly.
But Phillip wouldn’t hear of it. He was all right now, he declared
between chattering teeth; all he needed was sleep. No, he didn’t want
any dinner. But would Everett please tell his mother and Betty――――
Everett promised and went off doubtfully. By good fortune he met
Chester on the avenue and told him of Phillip’s plight, and Chester
flew back to Thayer calling himself bad names. When he arrived Phillip
was sitting up in bed singing happily:
“O, Annie Moore, sweet Annie Moore!
I shall never see sweet Annie any more!
She went away one summer day,
And I’ll never see my Annie any more!
O, Annie Moore, sweet――――”
Chester pushed him back against the tumbled pillows and drew the covers
over him.
“Phil,” he cried with a frightened sob in his voice, “Phil, please shut
up!”
“O, Annie Moore――――”
“Oh, Phil, please, _please_ lie down and shut up!” begged Chester.
“You’re――you’re daffy, you know!”