It is the trickiest and most brilliant patter song ever written, I
think, not even excepting the Major General's song in _The Pirates_.
Which, by the way, Henry sang next.
'How on earth can you remember all those words!' Corinne murmured. 'And
the way you get your tongue around them. I could never do it.'
She tried it, with him; but broke down with laughter.
'I know hundreds of 'em,' he said expansively, and sang on.
It was an opportunity he had not foreseen during this dreadful day. But
here it was, and he seized it. The stage was set for his kind of things;
all at once, as if by the merest accident. For the first time since
the awkward Sunday morning on the beach he was able to turn on full the
faucet that controlled his 'charm.' And he turned it on full. He had
parlour tricks. Out of amateur opera experience he had picked up a
superficial knack at comedy dancing. He did all he knew. He taught an
absurd little team song and dance to Corinne, with Mrs Henderson (who
had at last come up) improvising at the piano. And Corinne, flushed and
pretty, clung to his hand and laughed herself speechless. Once in her
desperate confusion over the steps she sank to the floor and sat in a
merry heap until Henry lifted her up. Then Henry imitated Frank Daniels
singing 'The man with an elephant on his hands,' and H. C. Bamabee
singing _The Sheriff of Nottingham_, and De Wolf Hopper doing _Casey
at the Bat_. All were clever bits; the 'Casey' exceptionally so. They
applauded him. Even Humphrey, silent now, leaning on an end of the
piano, watching Mrs Henderson's flashing little hands, clapped a little.
Once Humphrey went rather moodily to a window and peered out.
Mrs Henderson followed him; slipped her hand through his arm; asked
quietly, 'Who lives across the alley?'
'It's the Presbyterian parsonage,' he replied, slightly grim.
It was after midnight when they set out, whispering, giggling a little
in the alley, for Chestnut Avenue.
'These sand-flies are fierce,' said Henry. 'You girls better take our
handkerchiefs.'
They circled on lawns to avoid the swirling, crunching, softly
suffocating clouds of insects. Nearer the lake it grew worse. At the
corner of Chestnut and Simpson they stopped short. Mrs Henderson,
pressing the handkerchief to her face, clung in humorous helplessness to
Humphrey's arm.
He looked down at her. Suddenly he stooped, gathered her up in his arms
as if she were a child, and carried her clear through the plague into
the shadows of Chestnut Avenue.
Henry, running with Corinne pressing close on his arm, caught a glimpse
of his face. The expression on it added a touch of alarm to the pæan of
joy in Henry's brain.
They stepped within the Henderson screen door to say good-night.
'Let's do something to-morrow night--walk or go biking or row on the
lake,' said Mrs Henderson. 'You two had better come down for dinner. Any
time after six.'
'How about you?' Henry whispered to Corinne. 'Do you want me to come...
Will and Fred...'
Corinne's firm long hand slipped for a moment into his. He gripped it.
The pressure was returned.
'Don't be silly!' she breathed, close to his ear.
8
The sand-flies served as an excuse for silence between Humphrey and
Henry on the walk back. Nevertheless, the silence was awkward. It held
until they were up in the curiously, hauntingly empty living-room.
Humphrey scraped and lighted his pipe.
Henry, rather surprisingly unhappy again, was moving toward a certain
closed door.
'Tell me,' said Humphrey gruffly, slowly, 'where is Mister Arthur V.
Henderson?'
'He travels for the Camman Company, reapers and binders and ploughs.'
Humphrey very deliberately lighted his pipe.
Henry moved on toward the closed door. Emotions were stirring
uncomfortably within him. And conflicting impulses. Suddenly he shot out
a muffled 'Good-night,' and entered the bedroom, shutting the door after
him.
An hour later Humphrey--a gaunt figure in nightgown and slippers, pipe
in mouth--tapped at that door.
Henry, only half undressed, flushed of face, dripping with sweat,
quickly opened it.
Humphrey looked down in surprise at a fully packed trunk and suit-case
and a heap of bundles tied with odd bits of twine--sofa cushions, old
clothes, what not.
'What's all this?' Humphrey waved his pipe.
'Well--I just thought I'd go in the morning.'
'Don't be a dam' fool.'
'But--but'--Henry threw out protesting hands--'I know I'm no good at all
these fussy things. I'd just spoil your----'
The pipe waved again. 'That's all disposed of, Hen.' A somewhat
wry smile wrinkled the long face. 'Mildred Henderson's running it,
apparently. There's a certain Mrs Olson who is to come in mornings and
clean up. And--oh yes, I've got a lot of change for you. Your share was
only eight-five cents.'
There was a long silence. Henry looked at his feet; moved one of them
slowly about on the floor.
'We're different kinds,' said Humphrey. 'About as different as they
make'em. But that, in itself, isn't a bad thing.'
He thrust out his hand.
Henry clasped it; gulped down an all but uncontrollable uprush of
feeling; looked down again.
Humphrey stalked back to his room.
Thus began the odd partnership of Weaver and Calverly. Though is not
every partnership a little odd?