The Rubberneck Auto was about ready to start. The merry top-riders had
been assigned to their seats by the gentlemanly conductor. The sidewalk
was blockaded with sightseers who had gathered to stare at sightseers,
justifying the natural law that every creature on earth is preyed upon
by some other creature.
The megaphone man raised his instrument of torture; the inside of the
great automobile began to thump and throb like the heart of a coffee
drinker. The top-riders nervously clung to the seats; the old lady from
Valparaiso, Indiana, shrieked to be put ashore. But, before a wheel
turns, listen to a brief preamble through the cardiaphone, which shall
point out to you an object of interest on life’s sightseeing tour.
Swift and comprehensive is the recognition of white man for white man
in African wilds; instant and sure is the spiritual greeting between
mother and babe; unhesitatingly do master and dog commune across the
slight gulf between animal and man; immeasurably quick and sapient are
the brief messages between one and one’s beloved. But all these
instances set forth only slow and groping interchange of sympathy and
thought beside one other instance which the Rubberneck coach shall
disclose. You shall learn (if you have not learned already) what two
beings of all earth’s living inhabitants most quickly look into each
other’s hearts and souls when they meet face to face.
The gong whirred, and the Glaring-at-Gotham car moved majestically upon
its instructive tour.
On the highest, rear seat was James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri,
and his Bride.
Capitalise it, friend typo—that last word—word of words in the epiphany
of life and love. The scent of the flowers, the booty of the bee, the
primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the twist of
lemon peel on the cocktail of creation—such is the bride. Holy is the
wife; revered the mother; galliptious is the summer girl—but the bride
is the certified check among the wedding presents that the gods send in
when man is married to mortality.
The car glided up the Golden Way. On the bridge of the great cruiser
the captain stood, trumpeting the sights of the big city to his
passengers. Wide-mouthed and open-eared, they heard the sights of the
metropolis thundered forth to their eyes. Confused, delirious with
excitement and provincial longings, they tried to make ocular responses
to the megaphonic ritual. In the solemn spires of spreading cathedrals
they saw the home of the Vanderbilts; in the busy bulk of the Grand
Central depot they viewed, wonderingly, the frugal cot of Russell Sage.
Bidden to observe the highlands of the Hudson, they gaped,
unsuspecting, at the upturned mountains of a new-laid sewer. To many
the elevated railroad was the Rialto, on the stations of which
uniformed men sat and made chop suey of your tickets. And to this day
in the outlying districts many have it that Chuck Connors, with his
hand on his heart, leads reform; and that but for the noble municipal
efforts of one Parkhurst, a district attorney, the notorious “Bishop”
Potter gang would have destroyed law and order from the Bowery to the
Harlem River.
But I beg you to observe Mrs. James Williams—Hattie Chalmers that
was—once the belle of Cloverdale. Pale-blue is the bride’s, if she
will; and this colour she had honoured. Willingly had the moss rosebud
loaned to her cheeks of its pink—and as for the violet!—her eyes will
do very well as they are, thank you. A useless strip of white chaf—oh,
no, he was guiding the auto car—of white chiffon—or perhaps it was
grenadine or tulle—was tied beneath her chin, pretending to hold her
bonnet in place. But you know as well as I do that the hatpins did the
work.
And on Mrs. James Williams’s face was recorded a little library of the
world’s best thoughts in three volumes. Volume No. 1 contained the
belief that James Williams was about the right sort of thing. Volume
No. 2 was an essay on the world, declaring it to be a very excellent
place. Volume No. 3 disclosed the belief that in occupying the highest
seat in a Rubberneck auto they were travelling the pace that passes all
understanding.
James Williams, you would have guessed, was about twenty-four. It will
gratify you to know that your estimate was so accurate. He was exactly
twenty-three years, eleven months and twenty-nine days old. He was well
built, active, strong-jawed, good-natured and rising. He was on his
wedding trip.
Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 H. P.
touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of
the boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward—oh, turn backward
and give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just
an hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees
looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin—even
if it was the hatpins that did the work. Can’t do it? Very well; hurry
up with that touring car and the oil stock, then.
Just in front of Mrs. James Williams sat a girl in a loose tan jacket
and a straw hat adorned with grapes and roses. Only in dreams and
milliners’ shops do we, alas! gather grapes and roses at one swipe.
This girl gazed with large blue eyes, credulous, when the megaphone man
roared his doctrine that millionaires were things about which we should
be concerned. Between blasts she resorted to Epictetian philosophy in
the form of pepsin chewing gum.
At this girl’s right hand sat a young man about twenty-four. He was
well-built, active, strong-jawed and good-natured. But if his
description seems to follow that of James Williams, divest it of
anything Cloverdalian. This man belonged to hard streets and sharp
corners. He looked keenly about him, seeming to begrudge the asphalt
under the feet of those upon whom he looked down from his perch.
While the megaphone barks at a famous hostelry, let me whisper you
through the low-tuned cardiaphone to sit tight; for now things are
about to happen, and the great city will close over them again as over
a scrap of ticker tape floating down from the den of a Broad street
bear.
The girl in the tan jacket twisted around to view the pilgrims on the
last seat. The other passengers she had absorbed; the seat behind her
was her Bluebeard’s chamber.
Her eyes met those of Mrs. James Williams. Between two ticks of a watch
they exchanged their life’s experiences, histories, hopes and fancies.
And all, mind you, with the eye, before two men could have decided
whether to draw steel or borrow a match.
The bride leaned forward low. She and the girl spoke rapidly together,
their tongues moving quickly like those of two serpents—a comparison
that is not meant to go further. Two smiles and a dozen nods closed the
conference.
And now in the broad, quiet avenue in front of the Rubberneck car a man
in dark clothes stood with uplifted hand. From the sidewalk another
hurried to join him.
The girl in the fruitful hat quickly seized her companion by the arm
and whispered in his ear. That young man exhibited proof of ability to
act promptly. Crouching low, he slid over the edge of the car, hung
lightly for an instant, and then disappeared. Half a dozen of the
top-riders observed his feat, wonderingly, but made no comment, deeming
it prudent not to express surprise at what might be the conventional
manner of alighting in this bewildering city. The truant passenger
dodged a hansom and then floated past, like a leaf on a stream between
a furniture van and a florist’s delivery wagon.
The girl in the tan jacket turned again, and looked in the eyes of Mrs.
James Williams. Then she faced about and sat still while the Rubberneck
auto stopped at the flash of the badge under the coat of the
plainclothes man.
“What’s eatin’ you?” demanded the megaphonist, abandoning his
professional discourse for pure English.
“Keep her at anchor for a minute,” ordered the officer. “There’s a man
on board we want—a Philadelphia burglar called ‘Pinky’ McGuire. There
he is on the back seat. Look out for the side, Donovan.”
Donovan went to the hind wheel and looked up at James Williams.
“Come down, old sport,” he said, pleasantly. “We’ve got you. Back to
Sleepytown for yours. It ain’t a bad idea, hidin’ on a Rubberneck,
though. I’ll remember that.”
Softly through the megaphone came the advice of the conductor:
“Better step off, sir, and explain. The car must proceed on its tour.”
James Williams belonged among the level heads. With necessary slowness
he picked his way through the passengers down to the steps at the front
of the car. His wife followed, but she first turned her eyes and saw
the escaped tourist glide from behind the furniture van and slip behind
a tree on the edge of the little park, not fifty feet away.
Descended to the ground, James Williams faced his captors with a smile.
He was thinking what a good story he would have to tell in Cloverdale
about having been mistaken for a burglar. The Rubberneck coach
lingered, out of respect for its patrons. What could be a more
interesting sight than this?
“My name is James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri,” he said kindly,
so that they would not be too greatly mortified. “I have letters here
that will show—”
“You’ll come with us, please,” announced the plainclothes man. “‘Pinky’
McGuire’s description fits you like flannel washed in hot suds. A
detective saw you on the Rubberneck up at Central Park and ’phoned down
to take you in. Do your explaining at the station-house.”
James Williams’s wife—his bride of two weeks—looked him in the face
with a strange, soft radiance in her eyes and a flush on her cheeks,
looked him in the face and said:
“Go with ’em quietly, ‘Pinky,’ and maybe it’ll be in your favour.”
And then as the Glaring-at-Gotham car rolled away she turned and threw
a kiss—his wife threw a kiss—at some one high up on the seats of the
Rubberneck.
“Your girl gives you good advice, McGuire,” said Donovan. “Come on,
now.”
And then madness descended upon and occupied James Williams. He pushed
his hat far upon the back of his head.
“My wife seems to think I am a burglar,” he said, recklessly. “I never
heard of her being crazy; therefore I must be. And if I’m crazy, they
can’t do anything to me for killing you two fools in my madness.”
Whereupon he resisted arrest so cheerfully and industriously that cops
had to be whistled for, and afterwards the reserves, to disperse a few
thousand delighted spectators.
At the station-house the desk sergeant asked for his name.
“McDoodle, the Pink, or Pinky the Brute, I forget which,” was James
Williams’s answer. “But you can bet I’m a burglar; don’t leave that
out. And you might add that it took five of ’em to pluck the Pink. I’d
especially like to have that in the records.”
In an hour came Mrs. James Williams, with Uncle Thomas, of Madison
Avenue, in a respect-compelling motor car and proofs of the hero’s
innocence—for all the world like the third act of a drama backed by an
automobile mfg. co.
After the police had sternly reprimanded James Williams for imitating a
copyrighted burglar and given him as honourable a discharge as the
department was capable of, Mrs. Williams rearrested him and swept him
into an angle of the station-house. James Williams regarded her with
one eye. He always said that Donovan closed the other while somebody
was holding his good right hand. Never before had he given her a word
of reproach or of reproof.
“If you can explain,” he began rather stiffly, “why you—”
“Dear,” she interrupted, “listen. It was an hour’s pain and trial to
you. I did it for her—I mean the girl who spoke to me on the coach. I
was so happy, Jim—so happy with you that I didn’t dare to refuse that
happiness to another. Jim, they were married only this morning—those
two; and I wanted him to get away. While they were struggling with you
I saw him slip from behind his tree and hurry across the park. That’s
all of it, dear—I had to do it.”
Thus does one sister of the plain gold band know another who stands in
the enchanted light that shines but once and briefly for each one. By
rice and satin bows does mere man become aware of weddings. But bride
knoweth bride at the glance of an eye. And between them swiftly passes
comfort and meaning in a language that man and widows wot not of.