1
The roof of the Sheridan Apartment House, near Washington Square, New
York. Let us examine it. There will be stirring happenings on this roof
in due season, and it is well to know the ground.
The Sheridan stands in the heart of New York's Bohemian and artistic
quarter. If you threw a brick from any of its windows, you would
be certain to brain some rising interior decorator, some Vorticist
sculptor or a writer of revolutionary _vers libre_. And a very
good thing, too. Its roof, cosy, compact and ten storeys above the
street, is flat, paved with tiles and surrounded by a low wall,
jutting up at one end of which is an iron structure--the fire-escape.
Climbing down this, should the emergency occur, you would find yourself
in the open-air premises of the Purple Chicken restaurant--one of
those numerous oases in this great city where, in spite of the law of
Prohibition, you can still, so the _cognoscenti_ whisper, "always
get it if they know you." A useful thing to remember.
On the other side of the roof, opposite the fire-escape, stands what
is technically known as a "small bachelor apartment, penthouse style."
It is a white-walled, red-tiled bungalow, and the small bachelor who
owns it is a very estimable young man named George Finch, originally
from East Gilead, Idaho, but now, owing to a substantial legacy from an
uncle, a unit of New York's Latin Quarter. For George, no longer being
obliged to earn a living, has given his suppressed desires play by
coming to the metropolis and trying his hand at painting. From boyhood
up he had always wanted to be an artist; and now he is an artist; and,
what is more, probably the worst artist who ever put brush to canvas.
For the rest, that large round thing that looks like a captive
balloon is the water-tank. That small oblong thing that looks like a
summer-house is George Finch's outdoor sleeping-porch. Those things
that look like potted shrubs are potted shrubs. That stoutish man
sweeping with a broom is George's valet, cook, and man-of-all-work,
Mullett.
And this imposing figure with the square chin and the horn-rimmed
spectacles which, as he comes out from the door leading to the stairs,
flash like jewels in the sun, is no less a person than J. Hamilton
Beamish, author of the famous Beamish Booklets ("Read Them and Make
the World Your Oyster") which have done so much to teach the populace
of the United States observation, perception, judgment, initiative,
will-power, decision, business acumen, resourcefulness, organisation,
directive ability, self-confidence, driving-power, originality--and, in
fact, practically everything else from Poultry-Farming to Poetry.
The first emotion which any student of the Booklets would have felt on
seeing his mentor in the flesh--apart from that natural awe which falls
upon us when we behold the great--would probably have been surprise at
finding him so young. Hamilton Beamish was still in the early thirties.
But the brain of Genius ripens quickly: and those who had the privilege
of acquaintance with Mr. Beamish at the beginning of his career say
that he knew everything there was to be known--or behaved as if he
did--at the age of ten.
* * * * *
Hamilton Beamish's first act on reaching the roof of the Sheridan
was to draw several deep breaths--through the nose, of course. Then,
adjusting his glasses, he cast a flashing glance at Mullett: and,
having inspected him for a moment, pursed his lips and shook his head.
"All wrong!" he said.
The words, delivered at a distance of two feet in the man's immediate
rear, were spoken in the sharp, resonant voice of one who Gets Things
Done--which, in its essentials, is rather like the note of a seal
barking for fish. The result was that Mullett, who was highly strung,
sprang some eighteen inches into the air and swallowed his chewing-gum.
Owing to that great thinker's practice of wearing No-Jar Rubber Soles
("They Save the Spine"), he had had no warning of Mr. Beamish's
approach.
"All wrong!" repeated Mr. Beamish.
And when Hamilton Beamish said "All wrong!" it meant "All wrong!" He
was a man who thought clearly and judged boldly, without hedging or
vacillation. He called a Ford a Ford.
"Wrong, sir?" faltered Mullett, when, realising that there had been no
bomb-outrage after all, he was able to speak.
"Wrong. Inefficient. Too much waste motion. From the muscular exertion
which you are using on that broom you are obtaining a bare sixty-three
or sixty-four per cent of result-value. Correct this. Adjust your
methods. Have you seen a policeman about here?"
"A policeman, sir?"
Hamilton Beamish clicked his tongue in annoyance. It was waste motion,
but even efficiency experts have their feelings.
"A policeman. I said a policeman and I meant a policeman."
"Were you expecting one, sir?"
"I was and am."
Mullett cleared his throat.
"Would he be wanting anything, sir?" he asked a little nervously.
"He wants to become a poet. And I am going to make him one."
"A poet, sir?"
"Why not? I could make a poet out of far less promising material. I
could make a poet out of two sticks and a piece of orange-peel, if they
studied my booklet carefully. This fellow wrote to me, explaining his
circumstances and expressing a wish to develop his higher self, and I
became interested in his case and am giving him special tuition. He
is coming up here to-day to look at the view and write a description
of it in his own words. This I shall correct and criticise. A simple
exercise in elementary composition."
"I see, sir."
"He is ten minutes late. I trust he has some satisfactory explanation.
Meanwhile, where is Mr. Finch? I would like to speak to him."
"Mr. Finch is out, sir."
"He always seems to be out nowadays. When do you expect him back?"
"I don't know, sir. It all depends on the young lady."
"Mr. Finch has gone out with a young lady?"
"No, sir. Just gone to look at one."
"To look at one?" The author of the Booklets clicked his tongue once
more. "You are drivelling, Mullett. Never drivel--it is dissipation of
energy."
"It's quite true, Mr. Beamish. He has never spoken to this young
lady--only looked at her."
"Explain yourself."
"Well, sir, it's like this. I'd noticed for some time past that
Mr. Finch had been getting what you might call choosey about his
clothes...."
"What do you mean, choosey?"
"Particular, sir."
"Then say particular, Mullett. Avoid jargon. Strive for the Word
Beautiful. Read my booklet on Pure English. Well?"
"Particular about his clothes, sir, I noticed Mr. Finch had been
getting. Twice he had started out in blue with the invisible pink twill
and then suddenly stopped at the door of the elevator and gone back
and changed into the dove-grey. And his ties, Mr. Beamish. There was
no satisfying him. So I said to myself 'Hot dog!'"
"You said what?"
"Hot dog, Mr. Beamish."
"And why did you use this revolting expression?"
"What I meant was, sir, that I reckoned I knew what was at the bottom
of all this."
"And were you right in this reckoning?"
A coy look came into Mullett's face.
"Yes, sir. You see, Mr. Finch's behaviour having aroused my curiosity,
I took the liberty of following him one afternoon. I followed him to
Seventy-Ninth Street, East, Mr. Beamish."
"And then?"
"He walked up and down outside one of those big houses there, and
presently a young lady came out. Mr. Finch looked at her, and she
passed by. Then Mr. Finch looked after her and sighed and came away.
The next afternoon I again took the liberty of following him, and the
same thing happened. Only this time the young lady was coming in from
a ride in the Park. Mr. Finch looked at her, and she passed into the
house. Mr. Finch then remained staring at the house for so long that I
was obliged to go and leave him at it, having the dinner to prepare.
And what I meant, sir, when I said that the duration of Mr. Finch's
absence depended on the young lady, was that he stops longer when she
comes in than when she goes out. He might be back at any minute, or he
might not be back till dinner-time."
Hamilton Beamish frowned thoughtfully.
"I don't like this, Mullett."
"No, sir?"
"It sounds like love at first sight."
"Yes, sir."
"Have you read my booklet on 'The Marriage Sane'?"
"Well, sir, what with one thing and another and being very busy about
the house...."
"In that booklet I argue very strongly against love at first sight."
"Do you, indeed, sir?"
"I expose it for the mere delirious folly it is. The mating of the
sexes should be a reasoned process, ruled by the intellect. What sort
of a young lady is this young lady?"
"Very attractive, sir."
"Tall? Short? Large? Small?"
"Small, sir. Small and roly-poly."
Hamilton Beamish shuddered violently.
"Don't use that nauseating adjective! Are you trying to convey the idea
that she is short and stout?"
"Oh no, sir, not stout. Just nice and plump. What I should describe as
cuddly."
"Mullett," said Hamilton Beamish, "you will not, in my presence and
while I have my strength, describe any of God's creatures as cuddly.
Where you picked it up, I cannot say, but you have the most abhorrent
vocabulary I have ever encountered.... What's the matter?"
The valet was looking past him with an expression of deep concern.
"Why are you making faces, Mullett?" Hamilton Beamish turned. "Ah,
Garroway," he said, "there you are at last. You should have been here
ten minutes ago."
A policeman had come out onto the roof.
2
The policeman touched his cap. He was a long, stringy policeman, who
flowed out of his uniform at odd spots, as if Nature, setting out to
make a constable, had had a good deal of material left over which it
had not liked to throw away but hardly seemed able to fit neatly into
the general scheme. He had large, knobby wrists of a geranium hue and
just that extra four or five inches of neck which disqualify a man for
high honours in a beauty competition. His eyes were mild and blue, and
from certain angles he seemed all Adam's apple.
"I must apologise for being late, Mr. Beamish," he said. "I was
detained at the station-house." He looked at Mullett uncertainly. "I
think I have met this gentleman before?"
"No, you haven't," said Mullett quickly.
"Your face seems very familiar."
"Never seen me in your life."
"Come this way, Garroway," said Hamilton Beamish, interrupting curtly.
"We cannot waste time in idle chatter." He led the officer to the edge
of the roof and swept his hand round in a broad gesture. "Now, tell me.
What do you see?"
The policeman's eye sought the depths.
"That's the Purple Chicken down there," he said. "One of these days
that joint will get pinched."
"Garroway!"
"Sir?"
"For some little time I have been endeavouring to instruct you in the
principles of pure English. My efforts seem to have been wasted."
The policeman blushed.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Beamish. One keeps slipping into it. It's
the effect of mixing with the boys--with my colleagues--at the
station-house. They are very lax in their speech. What I meant was
that in the near future there was likely to be a raid conducted on the
premises of the Purple Chicken, sir. It has been drawn to our attention
that the Purple Chicken, defying the Eighteenth Amendment, still
purveys alcoholic liquors."
"Never mind the Purple Chicken. I brought you up here to see what you
could do in the way of a word-picture of the view. The first thing a
poet needs is to develop his powers of observation. How does it strike
you?"
The policeman gazed mildly at the horizon. His eye flitted from the
roof-tops of the city, spreading away in the distance, to the waters of
the Hudson, glittering in the sun. He shifted his Adam's apple up and
down two or three times, as one in deep thought.
"It looks very pretty, sir," he said at length.
"Pretty?" Hamilton Beamish's eyes flashed. You would never have
thought, to look at him, that the J. in his name stood for James and
that there had once been people who had called him Jimmy. "It isn't
pretty at all."
"No, sir?"
"It's stark."
"Stark, sir?"
"Stark and grim. It makes your heart ache. You think of all the sorrow
and sordid gloom which those roofs conceal, and your heart bleeds. I
may as well tell you, here and now, that if you are going about the
place thinking things pretty, you will never make a modern poet. Be
poignant, man, be poignant!"
"Yes, sir. I will, indeed, sir."
"Well, take your note-book and jot down a description of what you see.
I must go down to my apartment and attend to one or two things. Look me
up to-morrow."
"Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir, but who is that gentleman over there,
sweeping with the broom? His face seemed so very familiar."
"His name is Mullett. He works for my friend, George Finch. But never
mind about Mullett. Stick to your work. Concentrate! Concentrate!"
"Yes, sir. Most certainly, Mr. Beamish."
He looked with dog-like devotion at the thinker: then, licking the
point of his pencil, bent himself to his task.
Hamilton Beamish turned on his No-Jar rubber heel and passed through
the door to the stairs.
3
Following his departure, silence reigned for some minutes on the roof
of the Sheridan. Mullett resumed his sweeping, and Officer Garroway
scribbled industriously in his note-book. But after about a quarter
of an hour, feeling apparently that he had observed all there was to
observe, he put book and pencil away in the recesses of his uniform
and, approaching Mullett, subjected him to a mild but penetrating
scrutiny.
"I feel convinced, Mr. Mullett," he said, "that I have seen your face
before."
"And I say you haven't," said the valet testily.
"Perhaps you have a brother, Mr. Mullett, who resembles you?"
"Dozens. And even mother couldn't tell us apart."
The policeman sighed:
"I am an orphan," he said, "without brothers or sisters."
"Too bad."
"Stark," agreed the policeman. "Very stark and poignant. You don't
think I could have seen a photograph of you anywhere, Mr. Mullett?"
"Haven't been taken for years."
"Strange!" said Officer Garroway meditatively. "Somehow--I cannot tell
why--I seem to associate your face with a photograph."
"Not your busy day, this, is it?" said Mullett.
"I am off duty at the moment. I seem to see a photograph--several
photographs--in some sort of collection...."
There could be no doubt by now that Mullett had begun to find the
consideration difficult. He looked like a man who has a favourite aunt
in Poughkeepsie, and is worried about her asthma. He was turning to go,
when there came out on to the roof from the door leading to the stairs
a young man in a suit of dove-grey.
"Mullett!" he called.
The other hurried gratefully towards him, leaving the officer staring
pensively at his spacious feet.
"Yes, Mr. Finch?"
It is impossible for a historian with a nice sense of values not to
recognise the entry of George Finch, following immediately after that
of J. Hamilton Beamish, as an anticlimax. Mr. Beamish filled the
eye. An aura of authority went before him as the cloud of fire went
before the Israelites in the desert. When you met J. Hamilton Beamish,
something like a steam-hammer seemed to hit your consciousness and stun
it long before he came within speaking-distance. In the case of George
Finch nothing of this kind happened.
George looked what he was, a nice young small bachelor, of the type you
see bobbing about the place on every side. One glance at him was enough
to tell you that he had never written a Booklet and never would write
a Booklet. In figure he was slim and slight; as to the face, pleasant
and undistinguished. He had brown eyes which in certain circumstances
could look like those of a stricken sheep; and his hair was of a light
chestnut colour. It was possible to see his hair clearly, for he was
not wearing his hat but carrying it in his hand.
He was carrying it reverently, as if he attached a high value to it.
And this was strange, for it was not much of a hat. Once it may have
been, but now it looked as if it had been both trodden on and kicked
about.
"Mullett," he said, regarding this relic with a dreamy eye, "take this
hat and put it away."
"Throw it away, sir?"
"Good heavens, no! Put it away--very carefully. Have you any
tissue-paper?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then wrap it up very carefully in tissue-paper and leave it on the
table in my sitting-room."
"Very good, sir."
"Pardon me for interrupting," said a deprecating voice behind him, "but
might I request a moment of your valuable time, Mr. Finch?"
Officer Garroway had left his fixed point, and was standing in an
attitude that seemed to suggest embarrassment. His mild eyes wore a
somewhat timid expression.
"Forgive me if I intrude," said officer Garroway.
"Not at all," said George.
"I am a policeman, sir."
"So I see."
"And," said Officer Garroway sadly, "I have a rather disagreeable
duty to perform, I fear. I would avoid it, if I could reconcile the
act with my conscience, but duty is duty. One of the drawbacks to the
policeman's life, Mr. Finch, is that it is not easy for him always to
do the gentlemanly thing."
"No doubt," said George.
Mullett swallowed apprehensively. The hunted look had come back to his
face. Officer Garroway eyed him with a gentle solicitude.
"I would like to preface my remarks," he proceeded, "by saying that I
have no personal animus against Mr. Mullett. I have seen nothing in
my brief acquaintance with Mr. Mullett that leads me to suppose that
he is not a pleasant companion and zealous in the performance of his
work. Nevertheless, I think it right that you should know that he is an
ex-convict."
"An ex-convict!"
"Reformed," said Mullett hastily.
"As to that, I cannot say," said Officer Garroway. "I can but speak of
what I know. Very possibly, as he asserts, Mr. Mullett is a reformed
character. But this does not alter the fact that he has done his bit
of time: and in pursuance of my duty I can scarcely refrain from
mentioning this to the gentleman who is his present employer. The
moment I was introduced to him, I detected something oddly familiar
about Mr. Mullett's face, and I have just recollected that I recently
saw a photograph of him in the Rogues Gallery at Headquarters. You
are possibly aware, sir, that convicted criminals are 'mugged'--that
is to say, photographed in various positions--at the commencement of
their term of incarceration. This was done to Mr. Mullett some eighteen
months ago when he was sentenced to a year's imprisonment for an inside
burglary job. May I ask how Mr. Mullett came to be in your employment?"
"He was sent to me by Mr. Beamish. Mr. Hamilton Beamish."
"In that case, sir, I have nothing further to say," said the policeman,
bowing at the honoured name. "No doubt Mr. Beamish had excellent
reasons for recommending Mr. Mullett. And, of course, as Mr. Mullett
has long since expiated his offence, I need scarcely say that we of
the Force have nothing against him. I merely considered it my duty
to inform you of his previous activities in case you should have any
prejudice against employing a man of his antecedents. I must now
leave you, as my duties compel me to return to the station-house. Good
afternoon, Mr. Finch."
"Good afternoon."
"Good day, Mr. Mullett. Pleased to have met you. You did not by any
chance run into a young fellow named Joe the Gorilla while you were in
residence at Sing-Sing? No? I'm sorry. He came from my home town. I
should have liked news of Joe."
Officer Garroway's departure was followed by a lengthy silence. George
Finch shuffled his feet awkwardly. He was an amiable young man, and
disliked unpleasant scenes. He looked at Mullett. Mullett looked at the
sky.
"Er--Mullett," said George.
"Sir?"
"This is rather unfortunate."
"Most unpleasant for all concerned, sir."
"I think Mr. Beamish might have told me."
"No doubt he considered it unnecessary, sir. Being aware that I had
reformed."
"Yes, but even so.... Er--Mullett."
"Sir?"
"The officer spoke of an inside burglary job. What was your
exact--er--line?"
"I used to get a place as a valet, sir, and wait till I saw my chance,
and then skin out with everything I could lay my hands on."
"You did, did you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I do think Mr. Beamish might have dropped me a quiet hint. Good
heavens! I may have been putting temptation in your way for weeks."
"You have, sir,--very serious temptation. But I welcome temptation, Mr.
Finch. Every time I'm left alone with your pearl studs, I have a bout
with the Tempter. 'Why don't you take them, Mullett?' he says to me,
'Why don't you take them?' It's splendid moral exercise, sir."
"I suppose so."
"Yes, sir, it's awful what that Tempter will suggest to me. Sometimes,
when you're lying asleep, he says 'Slip a sponge of Chloroform under
his nose, Mullett, and clear out with the swag!' Just imagine it, sir."
"I am imagining it."
"But I win every time, sir. I've not lost one fight with that old
Tempter since I've been in your employment, Mr. Finch."
"All the same, I don't believe you're going to remain in my employment,
Mullett."
Mullett inclined his head resignedly.
"I was afraid of this, sir. The moment that flat-footed cop came on to
this roof, I had a presentiment that there was going to be trouble.
But I should appreciate it very much if you could see your way to
reconsider, sir. I can assure you that I have completely reformed."
"Religion?"
"No, sir. Love."
The word seemed to touch some hidden chord in George Finch. The stern,
set look vanished from his face. He gazed at his companion almost
meltingly.
"Mullett! Do you love?"
"I do, indeed, sir. Fanny's her name, sir. Fanny Welch. She's a
pickpocket."
"A pickpocket!"
"Yes, sir. And one of the smartest girls in the business. She could
take your watch out of your waistcoat, and you'd be prepared to swear
she hadn't been within a yard of you. It's almost an art, sir. But
she's promised to go straight, if I will, and now I'm saving up to buy
the furniture. So I do hope, sir, that you will reconsider. It would
set me back if I fell out of a place just now."
George wrinkled his forehead.
"I oughtn't to."
"But you will, sir?"
"It's weak of me."
"Not it, sir. Christian, I call it."
George pondered.
"How long have you been with me, Mullett?"
"Just on a month, sir."
"And my pearl studs are still there?"
"Still in the drawer, sir."
"All right, Mullett. You can stay."
"Thank you very much, indeed, sir."
There was a silence. The setting sun flung a carpet of gold across the
roof. It was the hour at which men become confidential.
"Love is very wonderful, Mullett!" said George Finch.
"Makes the world go round, I often say, sir."
"Mullett."
"Sir?"
"Shall I tell you something?"
"If you please, sir."
"Mullett," said George Finch, "I, too, love."
"You surprise me, sir."
"You may have noticed that I have been fussy about my clothing of late,
Mullett?"
"Oh, no, sir."
"Well, I have been, and that was the reason. She lives on East
Seventy-Ninth Street, Mullett. I saw her first lunching at the Plaza
with a woman who looked like Catherine of Russia. Her mother, no doubt."
"Very possibly, sir."
"I followed her home. I don't know why I'm telling you this, Mullett."
"No, sir."
"Since then I have haunted the side-walk outside her house. Do you know
East Seventy-Ninth Street?"
"Never been there, sir."
"Well, fortunately it is not a very frequented thoroughfare, or I
should have been arrested for loitering. Until to-day I have never
spoken to her, Mullett."
"But you did to-day, sir?"
"Yes. Or, rather, she spoke to me. She has a voice like the fluting of
young birds in the springtime, Mullett."
"Very agreeable, no doubt, sir."
"Heavenly would express it better. It happened like this, Mullett. I
was outside the house, when she came along leading a Scotch terrier
on a leash. At that moment a gust of wind blew my hat off and it was
bowling past her, when she stopped it. She trod on it, Mullett."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Yes, this hat which you see in my hand, has been trodden on by Her.
This very hat."
"And then, sir?"
"In the excitement of the moment she dropped the leash, and the Scotch
terrier ran off round the corner in the direction of Brooklyn. I went
in pursuit, and succeeded in capturing it in Lexington Avenue. My hat
dropped off again and was run over by a taxi-cab. But I retained my
hold of the leash, and eventually restored the dog to its mistress. She
said--and I want you to notice this very carefully, Mullett,--she said
'Oh, thank you so much!'"
"Did she, indeed, sir?"
"She did. Not merely 'Thank you!' or 'Oh, thank you!' but 'Oh, thank
you so much!" George Finch fixed a penetrating stare on his employee.
"I think that is significant, Mullett."
"Extremely, sir."
"If she had wished to end the acquaintance then and there, would she
have spoken so warmly?"
"Impossible, sir."
"And I've not told you all. Having said 'Oh, thank you so much!'
she added: 'He _is_ a naughty dog, isn't he?' You get the
extraordinary subtlety of that, Mullett? The words 'He is a naughty
dog' would have been a mere statement. By adding 'Isn't he?' she
invited my opinion. She gave me to understand that she would welcome
discussion on the subject. Do you know what I am going to do, directly
I have dressed, Mullett?"
"Dine, sir?"
"Dine!" George shuddered. "No! There are moments when the thought of
food is an outrage to everything that raises Man above the level of the
beasts. As soon as I have dressed--and I shall dress very carefully--I
am going to return to East Seventy-Ninth Street and I am going to ring
the door-bell and I am going to go straight in and inquire after the
dog. Hope it is none the worse for its adventure and so on. After all,
it is only the civil thing. I mean these Scotch terriers ... delicate,
highly-strung animals.... Never can tell what effect unusual excitement
may have on them. Yes, Mullett, that is what I propose to do. Brush my
dress clothes as you have never brushed them before."
"Very good, sir."
"Put me out a selection of ties. Say, a dozen."
"Yes, sir."
"And--did the boot-legger call this morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then mix me a very strong whisky-and-soda, Mullett," said George
Finch. "Whatever happens, I must be at my best to-night."
4
To George, sunk in a golden reverie, there entered some few minutes
later, jarring him back to life, a pair of three-pound dumb-bells,
which shot abruptly out of the unknown and came trundling across
the roof at him with a repulsive, clumping sound that would have
disconcerted Romeo. They were followed by J. Hamilton Beamish on all
fours. Hamilton Beamish, who believed in the healthy body as well as
the sound mind, always did half an hour's open-air work with the bells
of an evening: and, not for the first time, he had tripped over the top
stair.
He recovered his balance, his dumb-bells and his spectacles in three
labour-saving movements: and with the aid of the last-named was enabled
to perceive George.
"Oh, there you are!" said Hamilton Beamish.
"Yes," said George, "and...."
"What's all this I hear from Mullett?" asked Hamilton Beamish.
"What," inquired George simultaneously, "is all this I hear from
Mullett?"
"Mullett says you're fooling about after some girl up-town."
"Mullett says you knew he was an ex-convict when you recommended him to
me."
Hamilton Beamish decided to dispose of this triviality before going on
to more serious business.
"Certainly," he said. "Didn't you read my series in the _Yale
Review_ on the 'Problem of the Reformed Criminal'? I point out very
clearly that there is nobody with such a strong bias towards honesty as
the man who has just come out of prison. It stands to reason. If you
had been laid up for a year in hospital as the result of jumping off
this roof, what would be the one outdoor sport in which, on emerging,
you would be most reluctant to indulge? Jumping off roofs, undoubtedly."
George continued to frown in a dissatisfied way.
"That's all very well, but a fellow doesn't want ex-convicts hanging
about the home."
"Nonsense! You must rid yourself of this old-fashioned prejudice
against men who have been in Sing-Sing. Try to look on the place as a
sort of University which fits its graduates for the problems of the
world without. Morally speaking, such men are the student body. You
have no fault to find with Mullett, have you?"
"No, I can't say I have."
"Does his work well?"
"Yes."
"Not stole anything from you?"
"No."
"Then why worry? Dismiss the man from your mind. And now let me hear
all about this girl of yours."
"How do you know anything about it?"
"Mullett told me."
"How did he know?"
"He followed you a couple of afternoons and saw all."
George turned pink.
"I'll go straight in and fire that man. The snake!"
"You will do nothing of the kind. He acted as he did from pure zeal and
faithfulness. He saw you go out, muttering to yourself...."
"Did I mutter?" said George, startled.
"Certainly you muttered. You muttered, and you were exceedingly strange
in your manner. So naturally Mullett, good zealous fellow, followed you
to see that you came to no harm. He reports that you spend a large
part of your leisure goggling at some girl in Seventy-Ninth Street,
East."
George's pink face turned a shade pinker. A sullen look came into it.
"Well, what about it?"
"That's what I want to know--what about it?"
"Why shouldn't I goggle?"
"Why should you?"
"Because," said George Finch, looking like a stuffed frog, "I love her."
"Nonsense!"
"It isn't nonsense."
"Have you ever read my booklet on 'The Marriage Sane'?"
"No, I haven't."
"I show there that love is a reasoned emotion that springs from mutual
knowledge, increasing over an extended period of time, and a community
of tastes. How can you love a girl when you have never spoken to her
and don't even know her name?"
"I do know her name."
"How?"
"I looked through the telephone directory till I found out who lived
at Number 16, East Seventy-Ninth Street. It took me about a week,
because...."
"Sixteen East Seventy-Ninth Street? You don't mean that this girl
you've been staring at is little Molly Waddington?"
George started.
"Waddington is the name, certainly. That's why I was such an infernal
time getting to it in the book. Waddington, Sigsbee H." George choked
emotionally, and gazed at his friend with awed eyes. "Hamilton!
Hammy, old man! You--you don't mean to say you actually know her? Not
positively know her?"
"Of course I know her. Know her intimately. Many's the time I've seen
her in her bath-tub."
George quivered from head to foot.
"It's a lie! A foul and contemptible...."
"When she was a child."
"Oh, when she was a child?" George became calmer. "Do you mean to say
you've known her since she was a child? Why, then you must be in love
with her yourself."
"Nothing of the kind."
"You stand there and tell me," said George incredulously, "that you
have known this wonderful girl for many years and are not in love with
her?"
"I do."
George regarded his friend with a gentle pity. He could only explain
this extraordinary statement by supposing that there was some sort of a
kink in Hamilton Beamish. Sad, for in so many ways he was such a fine
fellow.
"The sight of her has never made you feel that, to win one smile, you
could scale the skies and pluck out the stars and lay them at her feet?"
"Certainly not. Indeed, when you consider that the nearest star is
several million...."
"All right," said George. "All right. Let it go. And now," he went on
simply, "tell me all about her and her people and her house and her dog
and what she was like as a child and when she first bobbed her hair
and who is her favourite poet and where she went to school and what she
likes for breakfast...."
Hamilton Beamish reflected.
"Well, I first knew Molly when her mother was alive."
"Her mother is alive. I've seen her. A woman who looks like Catherine
of Russia."
"That's her stepmother. Sigsbee H. married again a couple of years ago."
"Tell me about Sigsbee H."
Hamilton Beamish twirled a dumb-bell thoughtfully.
"Sigsbee H. Waddington," he said, "is one of those men who must, I
think, during the formative years of their boyhood have been kicked
on the head by a mule. It has been well said of Sigsbee H. Waddington
that, if men were dominoes, he would be the double-blank. One of the
numerous things about him that rule him out of serious consideration by
intelligent persons is the fact that he is a synthetic Westerner."
"A synthetic Westerner?"
"It is a little known, but growing, sub-species akin to the synthetic
Southerner,--with which curious type you are doubtless familiar."
"I don't think I am."
"Nonsense. Have you never been in a restaurant where the orchestra
played Dixie?"
"Of course."
"Well, then, on such occasions you will have noted that the man who
gives a rebel yell and springs on his chair and waves a napkin with
flashing eyes is always a suit-and-cloak salesman named Rosenthal or
Bechstein who was born in Passaic, New Jersey, and has never been
farther South than Far Rockaway. That is the synthetic Southerner."
"I see."
"Sigsbee H. Waddington is a synthetic Westerner. His whole life, with
the exception of one summer vacation when he went to Maine, has been
spent in New York State: and yet, to listen to him, you would think he
was an exiled cow-boy. I fancy it must be the effect of seeing too many
Westerns in the movies. Sigsbee Waddington has been a keen supporter
of the motion-pictures from their inception: and was, I believe, one
of the first men in this city to hiss the villain. Whether it was Tom
Mix who caused the trouble, or whether his weak intellect was gradually
sapped by seeing William H. Hart kiss his horse I cannot say: but the
fact remains that he now yearns for the great open spaces and, if you
want to ingratiate yourself with him, all you have to do is to mention
that you were born in Idaho,--a fact which I hope that, as a rule, you
carefully conceal."
"I will," said George enthusiastically. "I can't tell you how grateful
I am to you, Hamilton, for giving me this information."
"You needn't be. It will do you no good whatever. When Sigsbee
Waddington married for the second time, he to all intents and purposes
sold himself down the river. To call him a cipher in the home would be
to give a too glowing picture of his importance. He does what his wife
tells him--that and nothing more. She is the one with whom you want to
ingratiate yourself."
"How can this be done?"
"It can't be done. Mrs. Sigsbee Waddington is not an easy woman to
conciliate."
"A tough baby?" inquired George anxiously.
Hamilton Beamish frowned.
"I dislike the expression. It is the sort of expression Mullett would
use: and I know few things more calculated to make a thinking man
shudder than Mullett's vocabulary. Nevertheless, in a certain crude,
horrible way it does describe Mrs. Waddington. There is an ancient
belief in Tibet that mankind is descended from a demoness named
Drasrinmo and a monkey. Both Sigsbee H. and Mrs. Waddington do much to
bear out this theory. I am loath to speak ill of a woman, but it is no
use trying to conceal the fact that Mrs. Waddington is a bounder and a
snob and has a soul like the under-side of a flat stone. She worships
wealth and importance. She likes only the rich and the titled. As a
matter of fact, I happen to know that there is an English lord hanging
about the place whom she wants Molly to marry."
"Over my dead body," said George.
"That could no doubt be arranged. My poor George," said Hamilton
Beamish, laying a dumb-bell affectionately on his friend's head, "you
are taking on too big a contract. You are going out of your class. It
is not as if you were one of these dashing, young Lochinvar fellows.
You are mild and shy. You are diffident and timid. I class you among
Nature's white mice. It would take a woman like Mrs. Sigsbee Waddington
about two and a quarter minutes to knock you for a row of Portuguese
ash-cans,--er, as Mullett would say," added Hamilton Beamish with a
touch of confusion.
"She couldn't eat me," said George valiantly.
"I don't know so much. She is not a vegetarian."
"I was thinking," said George, "that you might take me round and
introduce me...."
"And have your blood on my head? No, no."
"What do you mean, my blood? You talk as if this woman were a syndicate
of gunmen. I'm not afraid of her. To get to know Molly"--George
gulped--"I would fight a mad bull."
Hamilton Beamish was touched. This great man was human.
"These are brave words, George. You extort my admiration. I disapprove
of the reckless, unconsidered way you are approaching this matter, and
I still think you would be well advised to read 'The Marriage Sane'
and get a proper estimate of Love: but I cannot but like your spirit.
If you really wish it, therefore, I will take you round and introduce
you to Mrs. Sigsbee H. Waddington. And may the Lord have mercy on your
soul."
"Hamilton! To-night?"
"Not to-night. I am lecturing to the West Orange Daughters of Minerva
to-night on The Modern Drama. Some other time."
"Then to-night," said George, blushing faintly. "I think I may as well
just stroll round Seventy-Ninth Street way and--er--well, just stroll
round."
"What is the good of that?"
"Well, I can look at the house, can't I?"
"Young blood!" said Hamilton Beamish indulgently. "Young blood!"
He poised himself firmly on his No-Jars, and swung the dumb-bell in a
forceful arc.
5
"Mullett," said George.
"Sir?"
"Have you pressed my dress clothes?"
"Yes, sir."
"And brushed them?"
"Yes, sir."
"My ties--are they laid out?"
"In a neat row, sir."
George coughed.
"Mullett!"
"Sir?"
"You recollect the little chat we were having just now?"
"Sir?"
"About the young lady I--er...."
"Oh, yes, sir."
"I understand you have seen her."
"Just a glimpse, sir."
George coughed again.
"Ah--rather attractive, Mullett, didn't you think?"
"Extremely, sir. Very cuddly."
"The exact adjective I would have used myself, Mullett!"
"Indeed, sir?"
"Cuddly! A beautiful word."
"I think so, sir."
George coughed for the third time.
"A lozenge, sir?" said Mullett solicitously.
"No, thank you."
"Very good, sir."
"Mullett!"
"Sir?"
"I find that Mr. Beamish is an intimate friend of this young lady."
"Fancy that, sir!"
"He is going to introduce me."
"Very gratifying, I am sure, sir."
George sighed dreamily.
"Life is very sweet, Mullett."
"For those that like it, sir,--yes, sir."
"Lead me to the ties," said George.