ACQUAINTANCE
At the corner next beyond the Gleason home Darley Roberts caught the nine
o'clock car, and remained on it until the end of the division,
practically the extreme opposite edge of the town, was reached. He was
the last passenger to leave, and as the motorman was reversing the
trolley he paused a moment in the vestibule.
"Normal load was it, Johnson?" he asked the conductor. "You rang up
twenty-four fares, I noticed."
The man looked consciously surprised to be called by name.
"Yes, Mr. Roberts," he said; "we carry anywhere between twenty and thirty
at this time of night."
"How about the next trip, nine-thirty?"
"Better yet if anything."
"And the next, the last?"
"Best of all. The straps are nearly always loaded."
Roberts buttoned up his coat deliberately.
"Think it would pay to run a couple of hours longer?" he asked, and this
time the conductor all but flushed at the unexpected confidence.
"Yes; I'm sure it would, Mr. Roberts; especially when the school's in
session. The boys would ride half the night if they could."
"There seems to be a good deal in that. By the way, you have only one
shift on this car now, I understand."
It was the long-hoped-for opportunity and Johnson grew eloquent.
"Right you are, and it's the dog's life for us men. I've had only one hot
meal a day since I took the job." He searched the impassive face before
him with a glance. "If the schedule was stretched a little, now, at
either end and a second shift added--"
"That's a good idea. I'm glad it occurred to you. Better speak to the
superintendent about it yourself; he'll see the point." Roberts alighted
deliberately. "Any suggestion you men in the service make is valuable."
As he vanished up the street toward his destination, in the fulness of
knowledge that the contemplated suggestion had been decided from the
turning of the first wheel on the system, he left behind him a man imbued
with an _esprit de corps_ that was to grow and leaven the entire working
force. It took but a minute all told!
Five minutes later, in the half dark doorway of a cottage on a side
street, he was face to face with Harry Randall.
"Pardon me if I intrude," he was saying, "but I'm going out of town
to-morrow and I wish to talk with you a bit before I go. Can you spare me
a little time?"
"Certainly." Randall's manner was decidedly stiff. Nevertheless he led
the way through the vestibule and living-room to the dining-room beyond.
There he halted significantly. "By the way," he began, "the furniture I
mentioned--"
"Damn the furniture!" Roberts met his host's look steadily. "You know me
better than that, by reputation if nothing more. I said I wished to talk
with you. May I?"
Randall colored, and the stiffness vanished as by a miracle.
"Pardon me," he said. "I've got a sort of den upstairs where I do my
work." Again he led the way. "My wife's out of town, though, now, and
things are a bit mussy."
Roberts made no comment, and they mounted the stairs in silence.
Inside the room the visitor swept the place with a single all-including
glance. Thereafter, apparently, he observed nothing.
"First of all, then," he initiated bluntly, "do I intrude? If so, I can
tell my business in five minutes; if not, we might possibly become
acquainted."
Again Randall colored; then he smiled, his saving quality.
"Not in the least. It's Friday night, you know. In addition I was a bit
lonely. I'm distinctly glad to see you."
"Which, interpreted, means glad to see any one."
"Yes, I suppose so."
For an instant the old odd smile shone in Roberts' eyes, then it
disappeared, leaving them normal, inscrutable.
"To begin with, then, I came primarily to talk about Steve Armstrong. I
believe he's a friend of yours."
"Yes." A halt, then the query direct returned. "Is he of yours?"
"I'll answer that question later, if you please. At least he's the one
adult to date I can remember who ever called me by my first name. Did
you know that he'd returned to town?"
"Yes. He was here last night."
"Responsible, was he?"
"Mr. Roberts!" Randall flushed like a woman with strangers. "Pardon me,
but there are some questions I can't answer--at least until you answer my
own of a moment ago."
"I understand perfectly. Also, contrary to your suspicion, I didn't avoid
your question to make it difficult for you. It requires two to be
friends. Enmities I, personally, have none. Life's too short and too
busy. If it will assist you any, I met Armstrong in the street this
evening face to face, and he declined to speak. I judge he's no friend to
me. Am I any more clear?"
"Yes," simply.
"Do you wish to answer my question now, then?"
"I judge you have a good reason for asking. He was not responsible,
wholly."
"Not even decently so?"
"Hardly."
"I gathered as much from his appearance to-night. It was the first time
I'd seen him in nearly a year. You know the whole story between
Armstrong and myself, I take it?"
"Yes," once more.
"And your sympathy is naturally with him."
"It has been."
"And now--"
The smile that made Randall's face boyish came into being.
"I'm deferring judgment now--and observing."
"I fear I can't help you much there," said Darley, shortly. "I wished to
discuss the future a bit, not the past. The last time I talked with
Armstrong he was impossible. I think you know what I mean. All men are
that way when they lose their nerve and drown the corpse. What I wish to
ask of you is whether the thing was justified. I'm not artistic. I don't
brag of it--I admit it. You're different; your opinion is of value.
Commercially, he's an impossibility. He couldn't hold a place if he had
it--any place. I don't need to tell you that either. As a writer--can he
write, or can't he?"
Harry Randall took off his big eyeglasses and polished one lens and then
the other.
"In my opinion, yes--and no." He held the glasses to the light, seemed
satisfied, and placed them carefully on his nose. "A great writer--he'll
never be that. It takes nerve and infinite patience to be anything great,
and Steve invariably loses his nerve too soon. He lacks just that much of
being big. As for ability, the spark--he's got it, Roberts, as certainly
as you and I are sitting here. Elementally, he's a child and will always
remain a child. I think most artists are more or less so. Children can't
bear criticism or delay--uncertain delay--that's Steve. On the other
hand, if he were encouraged, kept free on the financial side, left at
liberty to work when he felt the mood, and then only, then--I realize
it's a big 'if' and a big contract for some one--he'd make good. Have I
answered your question?"
"Yes. And here's another: Is it worth while?"
"To bolster him, you mean; to 'pull him out of the mud,' to use his own
phrase?"
"No; that would be a waste of energy. I mean to keep him out permanently,
to continue pulling indefinitely."
For a long time the two men sat in silence.
"God knows," said Randall at last. "I've asked myself the same question
for years--and couldn't answer it. It's as big as the universe. Steve is
simply an atom. It's unanswerable."
In the pause following Roberts lit one of the seemingly inexhaustible
black cigars, after proffering its mate. Again the two sat there, the
blue haze of mutual understanding gathering between them.
"I say it's unanswerable," repeated Randall. "It's the old problem of the
young supporting the uselessly old, the well serving the incurably
diseased. It means eternal vigilance from some one, eternal sacrifice.
It's insoluble, neither more nor less."
"Yes," said Roberts. "I've found it so--insoluble. Particularly so in
this case."
Slowly Randall's glance lifted, met the other's eyes. That instant, as a
flame is born, came full understanding between them.
"Yes, particularly so in this case," echoed Roberts; "for it means a
woman's sacrifice, one particular woman's sacrifice. Nothing else in the
world will do--nothing."
It was the beginning of personal confidence, the halting-point for
conversation between these two. Both knew it and neither crossed the
line. They merely waited until a digression should come naturally.
Roberts it was who at last introduced it, and in a manner so matter of
fact that the other was all but deceived.
"Has Armstrong been doing anything lately in a literary way--anything, I
mean, that justifies your opinion?" he asked abruptly.
"No, not that I know of; absolutely nothing."
"You're relying, then, on past impressions merely."
"Yes; specifically the last novel he wrote,--the one of a year or a year
and a half or so ago."
"You haven't by any chance a copy of the manuscript, I suppose?"
"No."
"You could doubtless get it, however?"
"I think so--unless some time he became morbid and burned it."
"He hasn't done that; I know him. He might threaten; but to do it--he'd
as probably go hungry. Get it some time, will you?"
"I will if you request. You don't wish it for yourself, do you?"
"No, not for myself. Perhaps not at all. I've not decided yet. Anyway get
it, please, and be ready if I should ask." He flashed a look no man had
ever questioned, could question. "You don't doubt my motive?"
"No. The manuscript will be ready. I'll answer for that."
No further question of interest was asked, no additional hint of purpose
proffered. The subject merely dropped, as in the beginning it had merely
begun. In some ways they were similar, these two men in general so
dissimilar.
"I had another object in calling to-night," said Roberts, and again the
announcement was made without preface. "The opportunity to buy a house
presented itself to-day and I accepted. Perhaps you know the place,--J.
C. Herbert's, on top of the hill."
"Yes." Open wonder spoke in the voice, open mystification. "Yes, I know
it."
"It's been vacant for some time. I moved this afternoon, just into a
couple of rooms. My boy is there now trying to warm up the place; but
even then it won't be particularly inviting. Besides, I'm out of town
quite a bit and in the future am likely to be called away still more. It
occurred to me that if I could find some married people whom I trusted,
who would take a personal interest in it and make it a home, it would be
pleasanter for me than being tucked away in a couple of rooms alone and
the rest of the barn empty."
"Yes," repeated Randall, impersonally, "I think I appreciate your point
of view. It's a little cheerless to be in a house alone."
"I wouldn't expect to interfere with them in any way," Roberts drifted
on, "or live with them--nothing of the kind. As I said, I probably
shouldn't even be there much; only at night. I'd expect to keep it
up--coal and light and that sort of thing--just the same as I would have
to do if I were alone. I'd naturally wish to help furnish it, too; the
things that would inevitably fit in with it and wouldn't fit any place
else. But the main thing would be to have somebody about to make my own
corner livable, to sort of humanize the place. You catch my idea?"
"Yes, I think so." Harry Randall's hand was on his bald spot, caressing
it absently. "Yes, I think so," he repeated.
"It's a big place, even larger than I remembered, when I went through it
to-day," went on Roberts again. "It'll take considerable help to keep it
up and some one will have to be about constantly to direct. I have the
help in mind right now, competent too--I meet a lot of people in various
ways and I've had the thing on my mind; but the supervision--it's simply
out of the question with me at the present." He faced the other, looked
at him straight. "Would you and Mrs. Randall care to accept the place as
a home in return for taking the responsibility of up-keep from me?"
In the pause following Harry Randall's face went slowly red. Equally
directly he met the other's look.
"Pardon me, Mr. Roberts," he said, "but Mrs. Randall and myself are not
exactly objects of charity yet."
Darley Roberts' expression did not alter by so much as the twitching of a
muscle.
"That was unjustified, Mr. Randall," he said evenly, "and you know it.
Let me explain a bit further. I happen to have a house, but no home. By
the same chance you are able to produce the reverse. Just why should it
be an offence upon my part to suggest bringing the two together--for the
mutual benefit of us both?"
"Why? Because it's unequal, it's patronage; and though I work for twelve
hundred dollars a year, I'm still American born."
"Granted--the latter remark. I'm also American born, in the remotest
corner of the most God-forsaken county in--I won't name the State; I
might hurt some one's feelings." Roberts' big fingers were twitching in a
way they had when something he had decided to do met with opposition.
"Nevertheless I hope that fact doesn't make me wholly unreasonable. When
it comes to patronage, we're all patronized: you do a kindness for a
friend, without remuneration, and he accepts it; that's patronage. The
University gives you a position as professor, out of a dozen applicants
who could do equally well, and you accept gladly. That's favoritism,
another word for patronage. A client comes to me and pays a fee for doing
a certain labor, when my competitor across the street would perform it
equally capably, and for perhaps a smaller fee. That's patronage. You
patronize your tailor when you order a suit of clothes, the butcher when
you buy a beefsteak. It's the basis of life, elemental. The very air you
breathe is patronage. It costs you nothing, and you give nothing adequate
in return. To characterize patronage as un-American, stultifying, is
preposterous. Even if it were true in this case, you'd have to give
another reason for offence. I refuse to consider it."
"Well, unbusinesslike then, if that is better."
"Unbusinesslike? Wait. In company with three other men I'm developing a
silver mine down in Arizona. The mining claim belongs to a fifth man,
belongs to him absolutely. He knows the metal is there as well as we do;
but it's down under the ground, locked up tight in a million tons of
rock. As it is now, so far as he's concerned, it might as well be on
Mars. If left to himself alone he'd live and die and it would still be
there. He hasn't the ability nor the means to make it of use. The other
three men and myself have. We can develop it, and will; to our own
purposes, share and share alike. According to your notion there's
patronage somewhere; but exactly where? Point me the offence?"
Again Harry Randall caressed his bald crown. The argument was convincing,
almost.
"The cases are not parallel," he combated weakly, "not even similar."
"And why not?" shortly. "I'm no longer a young man particularly. I've
never had a place that I could call home in my life; never for a day that
I can remember. I want one now, fancy I see the possibility of making
one; a place where I can keep a friend now and then if I wish, where I
could even order in a supper and entertain if I saw fit. I chance to have
the ability to pay for the privilege, and am willing to pay. That's my
affair. You chance to be able to make that home possible--and
incidentally enjoy it yourself. It's like the silver mine,--mutual
benefit, share and share alike. The cases seem to me parallel, quite
parallel."
Opposite Harry Randall sat very still. In absent forgetfulness he
polished the big glasses the second time and sprung them back carefully
on his nose. But even yet he did not answer, merely sat there waiting;
awaiting the moment to counter, to refute.
"Am I not right?" asked Roberts, bluntly. "Isn't the proposition
logical?"
"Logical, yes. The logic is very good." Randall glanced up keenly. The
moment for which he had been waiting had come, more quickly than he had
expected. "So _good_ in fact that I see but one fault."
"And that?"
This time the keen eyes smiled, very candidly.
"The sole fault, so far as I can see, is that you don't believe in it
yourself."
For the space wherein one could count ten slowly the two men looked at
each other; slowly, in turn, on Roberts' firm fighter's face there formed
a smile, a peculiar, appreciative smile.
"Granted," he said. "I admit failure." The smile passed like a dropped
curtain. "Moreover be assured I shall not dissimulate again. As a friend,
or whatever you wish, however, I advise you to think carefully before you
refuse an offer made in good faith and to your own advantage."
Listening, Harry Randall straightened. His lips closed tightly for a
second. "You mean, I presume," the words were painfully exact, "to remind
me that you hold my note for four hundred dollars, and to imply--" he
halted significantly.
For a moment the other man said nothing, the face of him told nothing.
Then deliberately, from an inner pocket, he drew out a leather wallet,
from the wallet a strip of paper, and held it so the other could read.
Still without a word he tore it to bits.
"The devil take your note!" he observed, succinctly and without heat.
"Mr. Roberts, you--" Randall's face was crimson, "you--"
"Yes--I--"
"You didn't mean--that, then, really?"
Roberts said nothing.
"I'm grateful for the confidence, believe me. It's not misplaced,
either. Accept my assurance of that too."
"My name is Roberts, not Shylock. I told you before I am American born,
of American parents."
"I beg your pardon," abjectly. The red had left Randall's face and in its
place, as on a mirror, was forming another look, of comprehension--and
more. "Yet you--advised; and if not that--" of a sudden he got to his
feet. Something was coming he knew to a certainty--something unexpected,
vital--and he felt better able so to meet it. "Just what did you mean?"
Roberts was studying him deliberately, with the peculiar analytical look
Armstrong of old had known so well.
"You can't imagine yet," he queried, "not with the motive you fancied
eliminated?"
"You wish to do me a kindness, a disinterested kindness. For what
reason?"
"Cut out my motive, providing I have one, for the present. It's
immaterial."
"That doesn't help--I can't conceive--" On a sudden came a flash of light
that augmented to a blaze. "Can it concern Margery and me? Is that it?"
Roberts did not look up. "Yes," he said.
"You know, then," tensely. "How much?"
"Everything." Roberts inspected the wall-paper opposite as though
interested. "If you'll permit me I'll help you to avoid an action for
divorce." A pause. "One, moreover, I can't help but feel somewhat
justified."
For long, very long, there was silence absolute. Then, adequate time
having passed, apparently Roberts lost interest in the wall pattern.
"Sit down, please," he suggested. "At last it seems we understand each
other. Let's talk things over a bit."