Three boiling days, and the major part of three boiling nights, Jarvis
sweated and toiled over the scenario for the revised two acts. It was
work that irked him, because he hated doing things over when the first
glad joy of inspiration was gone, but he stuck to it. And the fourth day
he set out for the house far up the Riverside Drive, armed with his
manuscript and a sense of triumph.
Arrived at his destination, the butler announced that Miss Harper had
gone on a motor trip for two days. No, she had left no word. Angry at
himself for not having provided against such a situation by an
appointment with the lady, furious at the thought of two days' delay, he
betook himself to the Parke offices in the hope of finding some word for
him there. Mr. Parke was busy and could not see him, announced the
keeper of the keys to heaven, who sat at the outer gate. No, Mrs. Parke
had left no word for a Mr. Jocelyn. No, she knew nothing of Mrs. Parke's
plans or movements. No, she could not ask Mr. Parke. Besides, he
wouldn't know.
Jarvis descended the many stairs in a thickening gloom. Wait, wait,
wait! That was part of the discipline Bambi talked of so wisely. Well,
he then and there decided that the day would come when he would walk
past every managerial outpost in the city, and invade the sanctum
without so much as presenting a visiting-card.
The automobile trip lasted four days instead of two, and he spent them
in a fret of impatience. He worked at the third act, sure of her
approval. On the fifth day she received him. She liked the idea of the
second act--she would have none of the new third act. At the end of his
enthusiastic sketch of how it would run, the reading of new scenes, the
telling of new business, she yawned slightly, and said she didn't like
it at all. Unless he could get a good third act, she wouldn't care for
the piece. He assured her this would be a good third act when it was
worked up. No use working it up. She knew now she would never like it.
Jarvis rose.
"I will submit the new third act to-morrow. Have you any suggestions you
wish to incorporate?"
"Oh, no. If I could write plays, I would not be acting them. It's easier
and more lucrative to write."
"I don't find it easy enough to be a bore," replied Jarvis. "I will be
here at eleven to-morrow."
"Make it three."
"Very well, three."
"Some of the pinches," he muttered as he climbed the bus to go back to
his hot hall bedroom, his mind a blank, and only twenty-five hours in
which to work out a new third act.
He stripped for action and worked until midnight. Then he foraged on
Fourth Avenue for food at an all-night cafe patronized by car-men,
chauffeurs, and messenger boys. He ate ravenously. Afterward he swung
downward to Madison Square Park, to stretch his tired body. The stars
were very bright, but a warm wind crowded people on to the streets. A
restless, aimless crowd of strollers! Several of them spoke to Jarvis.
Many of them marked him. But he paid no attention to individuals. His
mind was full of the whole picture. Mile after mile of narrow streets
between blocks of stone and brick and wood. Thousands of people tramping
the miles like so many animals driven from the jungle by fire or flood.
This men called civilization--this City of Stone Blocks! How far was it
from the jungle? Hunger, thirst, lust, jealousy, anger, courage, and
cowardice--these were the passions of both fastnesses. How far was Man
from his blood brother, the Wolf?
[Illustration: "SOFTLINGS! POOR SOFTLINGS!" JARVIS MUTTERED, BAMBI'S
WORDS COMING BACK TO HIM.]
He reached the green square, and started to cross it. On every bench,
crowded together, huddled the sleepers. He walked slowly, and looked at
them closely. Most of them were old--old men and old women--warped out
of all semblance to human beings, their hideous faces and crooked bodies
more awful in the abandon of sleep. Some young ones there were, too: a
thin boy with a cough; a tired girl of the streets, snatching a moment
of sleep before she went about her trade. It was like some
fantastic dream.
"Softlings! Poor softlings!" Jarvis muttered, Bambi's words coming back
to him. The tawdry little girl stirred, saw him, spoke to him, her hand
upon his arm.
"Go get a decent bed, child," he said, giving her some money.
Her eyes shone at him in the half light like Bambi's, and he shuddered.
As she sped away a sudden rage possessed him. Why did they endure, these
patient beasts? They numbered thousands upon thousands, these
down-and-outs. Why did they not stand together, rise up, and take? Why
didn't he shout them awake, and lead them himself? "Gimme a nickel to
get a drink?" whined a voice at his elbow.
"Here, you, move on!" said the policeman, roughly, arousing Jarvis from
his trance.
On the way uptown to his room he thought it over. If they could organize
and stand together, they wouldn't be what they were. It was because they
were morally and physically disintegrated that they were derelicts. This
waste was part of the price we must pay for commercial supremacy, for
money power, for--oh, sardonic jest!--for a democracy.
He went back to work with squared shoulders, and worked until dawn. At
three the next afternoon he again presented himself to the Parke butler.
Madame was indisposed, could see no one. Mr. Jocelyn was to come the
next day at three.
This time he wasted no energy in rage at the delay. He began to see that
this was no sham battle on a green hillside of a summer's day, but a
real hand-to-hand fight. It was to place him, for all time, at the head
of the regiment or with the discards. He had believed that what he had
to say was the most important thing, that this errand Bambi had sent him
on was a stupid interruption. But all at once he saw it straight. This
was his fight, here and now. He would not go back to her until he had
won. He must find the way to finance himself in the meantime. No more
provisions from the Professor or his daughter. As he made his way
downtown he thought over all the possibilities of making enough to live
on. He had never bothered his head about it before. Like the sparrow, he
had been provided for. But something of his arrogant demanding of life
seemed to have fled, a sort of terror had been planted in him by that
view of the park-bench sleepers.
How he wished Bambi were here to advise him, to laugh at him, or with
him! The thought of her was constantly creeping into his mind, to be
shoved out by a determined effort of his will. He told himself he was
becoming as boneless as the Professor, who relied on her for everything.
That night he wrote to her:
"I seem to have come to my senses to-day for the first time. Queer how a
man can go on walking, talking, and thinking in his sleep. I don't know
why I should have wakened up to-day, but a walk I took last night at
midnight stirred something in me. And a futile attempt to see Miss
Harper to-day did the rest. You saw clearly, as you so often do. This is
my fight, right here and now. I must make somebody believe in this play
and produce it. It may take a long time--months, perhaps--but I must
stay and face it out.
"I wanted you sorely to-night, Miss Mite, to talk it over with me. I am
always coming upon things I want to talk over with you, these days. You
have such a decided way of seeing things.
"I shall not be needing any more money, because I am about to make
something, on the side, for myself. Keep the Black Maria, and when the
play goes we will have a mighty reckoning. I am not going to say thanks
for what you and the Professor have done for me. I am going to
act thanks.
"I shall read the scenario of the third act to Miss Harper to-morrow, the
gods and the lady permitting. This is the _third_ third act. I trust it
will be 'three and out,' or, rather, three and on. My regards to the
Professor and you. It is very hot here, and I relax by thinking myself
in the arithmetical garden. It seems years ago since I was there. Has
the Professor laid out any new figures? I think the 'X' bed ought to be
wild orchids. He will understand."
He took the letter out to mail, and went for another walk. The night
crowds began to interest him. He planned to take a different walk every
night, and learn something of this city which he was setting out
to conquer.
The next morning he went from one newspaper office to another trying to
get a job. His lack of experience handicapped him everywhere. Cub
reporters were as thick as summer flies. He walked, to save carfare.
At three he gained admittance to Miss Harper and read her the new
scenario. She decided that she liked the second one better. He arranged
to go to work on it at once, so that she might have Mr. Parke read it
before she sailed. The siren Hope sang a happy song to Jarvis as he
swung down the drive. He had the golden apple in his grasp this time.
"I'm coming, oh, you people," he apostrophized them with his old
assurance. "You'll hear from me soon!"
He celebrated his coming fortune with a fifty-cent table d'hôte, to
which he did full justice. Up in the hot hall bedroom he took stock of
ammunition. If he went light on food, he could afford to keep right at
the play until he finished it. He estimated just what amount he could
spend a day, and divided up his cash into the daily portion, each in an
envelope. He purchased an alcohol stove and a coffee-pot, and set
to work.
There were only twelve days in which to do or die, and he went at it in
a frenzy. Day faded into night, night faded into day, marked only by the
thumping of the outraged chambermaid, at whom he thundered. When he
remembered, he dashed out for food, but for the most part he drank
coffee, and more coffee.
Once he went for a long walk. He could never remember, afterward,
whether it was day or night. But during it he thought out a new scene,
and ran miles to get back and get it down. He grew thinner and more
hollow-eyed each day, but he cared for nothing but accomplishing this
thing. He knew the act was good. He felt sure Miss Harper would like it.
At dawn of the day he was to finish it he rushed into a dairy lunch to
get a sandwich and a glass of milk. While he waited for the heavy-eyed
clerk to get it, he picked up a morning paper. The date caught his eye.
This was his last day of grace, sure enough. He must call up and get an
appointment for the afternoon, for Miss Harper would be sailing
to-morrow. Idly his eye travelled across the page, and suddenly was
riveted by a headline: "Bertram Parke and his wife, Helen Harper, sail
on the Mauretania to-day. They will hasten to London, to sign a contract
for a play for Miss Harper by Galsworthy, which will be produced in New
York immediately on her return."
The print blurred before Jarvis's eyes. Everything swayed and swam. Out
of the chaos came the voice of the tired clerk, shouting: "Say, you,
what's the matter with you? Can't you take your sandwich? Think I'm
going to hold it all day?"
Jarvis didn't understand him. He didn't even hear him. He just laid down
his last quarter and went out, a bit unsteadily.
"Soused!" grinned the clerk, looking after him.