“MAN OVERBOARD!”
PROFESSOR “JAWN” GALLOWAY was of a different “caste” from Richard, but
they matched up equally as chums. Galloway had been one of the West
Side group; in fact, he had been a West-sider from birth, one of those
clever Irish lads who can rise to distinction out of the soddenest of
homes. Dan Galloway, the father, was a hearty, noisy--and it must be
admitted--dirty Tammany helper. Dublin had brought him forth and he had
seen troublous times there. A lucky immigration and a still luckier
political situation saved him the trouble of working and gave him
lodgings, beer and victuals. “Jawn” Galloway, the son, inherited nearly
every trait of his father save two--he was the farthest removed from a
loafer; and he hated uncleanliness. By the dint of sheerest personal
push he had gone through school, college and university and was making
a name for himself in the newest of callings, psychotherapeutics. At
twenty-eight he held honorary doctorates from honourable universities;
but to look at his rubicund Irish face, to hear his laughter and to see
his joy over the coarser delights of life, one would never guess all
that.
As the S.S. _Victoria_ neared New York, Richard prepared a letter to
John Galloway. It read:
“PAL JAWN--August will be your vacation month, I am a prophet and
foresee much. Besides, you admitted when I left that you would be
free in August. You are to go to Penn Yan (not China), New York,
and thence to ‘Red Jacket’--which is a house--and inquire for your
hostess, Mrs. Emma Wells. Some time to-day I shall let her invite you.
“The daughter, Geraldine, will interest your Irish heart. She sheds
flattery as if she were used to it, as I suspect she is; but she has
never met your subtle blarney. I’m on tiptoe to see the effect on her.
“But that isn’t the point. It may turn out to be. We’ll leave it to
the gods, who manage beautifully if we are not too presumptuous.
The point is a boy, neurotic, just your kind; idiot with gleams of
sense; drinks, perfect guzzler, but not primary, you know. _And I’ve
got hold of the primary interest!!_ It’s climbing trees and furling
spinnakers. Aren’t you itching to get at it?
“I bet I’ve spoiled your vacation, O.K.! I hope so.
“Yours,
--“Wait. I’m travelling incognito. It’s a glorious experience. Wonder
why I never thought of it before. Accident--I mean the gods did it.
Of course, we know there ain’t no accidents, just incidents! My first
name is Richard and my last name is Richard--Richard Richard. Can you
beat it? Monotonous? Not at all. There’s Dick Richard and Richard
Dick and Dick Dick. I wanted to have a middle name, Richard, too, but
got scared off.
“You don’t know the joy of incognito. To be free from the everlasting
questions. I’m beginning to see--data for you--that the name hampered
me, drew me into myself, made me shy and backward except with good
old pals like you, Jawn, who know what’s what. If I ever have a boy
I’ll not junior him. Fancy a George Washington, Jr. Think of the life
of that kid! And it sounds like George Cohan, too!
“Practise my new name. There must be no slips. More data--the boy
(name, Walter Wells; age, twenty-two; specialities, tree climbing,
spinnaker furling and wood alcohol) knows about the name, my name.
He’s holding it over me! I let him and we thrive together. Also (more
data) I give him two drinks a day. Bring (more data) some superfine
cognac.
“Lots more, but it’ll keep.
“Yours,
“RICHARD RICHARD.
“On second thoughts you’d better stand by in N. Y. until I ’phone
you, which means that you’re to pay the train fare to Penn Yan. But
amn’t I after getting you free wittles for a month? And you know,
Jawn, there has been days when free wittles was not to be sneezed at!”
With the characteristic directness of an egoist who knows what he
wants, Richard lost no time in searching for Mrs. Wells. He found her
in her accustomed place in the lee of the bridge. She was propped up
with more than the usual number of cushions, and the pallor of her face
struck him instantly.
“My dear lady!” He sat beside her, his voice genuinely sympathetic.
“Don’t tell me you are succumbing now, after going through the main
part of the voyage.”
“I am never seasick,” she said, with an imitation of her old firmness;
“just a little weariness, that’s all.... That’s a good boy----” He was
tucking her in dexterously. “You are making me very fond of you.”
“Of course I am,” he cheered her; “it’s a plot.”
“You remind me of what I’ve missed by being so independent all my life.
Sit down. You’re not going to run away just because I look a little
seedy, are you?”
He sat down on the foot-rest of her chair.
“Here I sit, your squire to command,” he joked.
A little colour came into her face. She reached a thin hand and patted
him on the arm. There was not a particle of doubt as to his interest
in her. She was twice his age, but their minds were contemporaries.
They had met in tournament mentally and jousted for the sport of the
thing; they had lent their minds out to each other and had made broad
paths towards intimacy. And at the same time it was sweet flattery for
her to know that this strong youth--his thirty-three years sat lightly
upon him--was paying a kind of court to her intelligence. As a rule the
young men had hovered about out of politeness, but were off at a nod
from the daughter.
“You’re a good boy,” she said. “I shall miss you; unless----”
“I accept in advance!” he cried gaily. “You know I’m a professional
guest!”
“And also some sort of a widow,” she smiled.
“Assistant widow,” he corrected; “but please don’t remind me of that. I
won’t have to think of that until the November exams. begin. Let’s talk
of ‘Red Jacket.’ You’re too tired to talk, so let me talk for you, tell
you what you were going to say. Gracious! You don’t know what a silent
crab I am usually. You have brought me out, introduced me to speech,
you and Jerry.”
“What was I going to say?” she helped him, amusement in her quiet tones.
“Oh, yes,” he remembered. “You were about to invite me to ‘Red
Jacket’--Jerry let the cat out of the bag--and I’m coming. We’ll have
great old pow-wows, won’t we?”
She closed her eyes wearily, but the contented smile remained.
“You don’t know what a flutter you’re putting me in.” She looked at him
tenderly. “Women of my age don’t often get such genuine attention from
young men. It’s so rare that--well, you’ll have to be careful. Don’t
give me too much of it. I’ll be getting jealous of Geraldine next;
begin to fool myself into thinking I’m young again.”
“Young? Pooh!” He tossed his head. “Why all this silly eagerness to be
young? Age is the thing, the goal. ‘Grow old along with me, The best is
yet to be, The last of life for which the first was made.’ You remember
your Ben Ezra, don’t you? Well, that’s the best of sense. Youth? It’s a
time of folly and bad thinking. You don’t catch a successful business
man sighing for the days when he had a tuppenny shop with more debts
than customers. We don’t pine for green blueberries, do we? What’s all
this march forward of growth if it doesn’t mean something mighty fine?
Why, lady mine, I’m just eager to push on to forty and to fifty and to
sixty--to a hundred if I could. Life’s a climax--always a climax; don’t
bow for a minute to the world’s sentimental nonsense over youth.”
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “you are right, of course. I wouldn’t go
back even five years.”
“Who would?” he questioned triumphantly; “which proves my point
perfectly. The world doesn’t believe its own nonsense; and that’s a
text for an enormous arraignment of the world in all its beliefs. The
credo is the act, not the pious patter of the mouth. What a man does,
that is his belief, whether he knows it or not.... Don’t you think
you’d better close your eyes and take a little nap? You look knocked
out; has anything happened?”
She opened her eyes resolutely. “Go on,” she said, without answering
his question. (“Ah!” he said to himself, “something has happened,” but
he gave no sign.) “Go on. I’ve often thought that thought. It’s not
what you say about yourself; it’s what you do that tells the story.
That’s very true. Very true.”
What she was thinking--and some inkling of it was in her voice--was
that this young man was really interested in chattering with her; that
Geraldine often protested interest, but her neglect was the truth; that
her boy Walter had never expressed either dislike or affection for her,
but his act in striking her in public was eloquent. Richard sensed a
specific application but, naturally, he could not apply it exactly. So
he went on cheerfully:
“I’ve spent many delightful hours writing out the creeds of various
men. I’ve followed them to their churches and into their businesses
and, sometimes, into their homes. This man who professes Christian
humility openly, who begs the world to turn the other cheek, to forgive
seventy times seven, who cries out that the meek shall be blessed and
shall inherit the earth--oh, it is great fun to judge him by his deeds.
Arrogance and self-sufficiency rule him. He is merciless to wife, child
and employee. It takes a destructive and criminal strike to squeeze
decent wages from him. He links himself with corrupt politicians for
personal gain. He connives at shady legislation. Oh, he is meek--in
after-dinner speeches and in addresses before the Sunday school--and
verily he well-nigh inherits the earth!... And I have seen rough-spoken
men whose acts are the heart of humility.”
“Your arrogant man,” Mrs. Wells took up the discussion, “I am
interested in him. I am an arrogant person myself, and I’m often
sorry.... Within the past hour I have been arrogant, and I am suffering
for it.”
Richard said nothing. Instinctively he knew she would tell him, if it
were proper for him to know.
She continued after a moment’s pause, “Could not your arrogant man be
sincere in all his professions; fool himself, as it were?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Yes, indeed. That is the interesting thing to me.
I’m an onlooker merely. I do not condemn. I condemn nothing. Sincere?
Undoubtedly. But sincerity is no great virtue. Every persistent burglar
is sincere. He has no pricks of conscience. Question him--as I have
done--and he justifies himself every time. Sincerity is the cheapest
possession, and the world values it too highly. The Spanish inquisitors
were sincere; so were the scalping Indians; and Boss Tweed. And so were
Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth. So is the devil, for that matter.”
She laughed weakly. A little more colour came back into her face.
“Your incongruous company is very amusing,” she smiled, and began to
sit up. He helped her with pillows.
“The only point, isn’t it,” he said, “is not whether a man is sincere,
but whether he is wise or ignorant. Now your boy, Walter----”
A flash of pain that came suddenly across her face told him much.
“You have been talking to him?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Was that wise?”
“No.”
“Was he--violent?” he asked anxiously.
“I shouldn’t have done it. I was--sincere, God knows; but, as you say,
I was ignorant----”
“Did he touch you?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
No answer.
“Let’s be frank. I’m trying to get him out of the slough he’s in. I
must know everything. Treat me as if I were his physician, as I believe
I am. He was nasty to you?”
“Yes; he called me the vilest name.... We’ve talked about that, I
know; names should not affect us. ‘Sticks and stones,’ etc.--I know
that is true; but, man, you can’t know the surging, overwhelming
emotion that covers a mother when her boy calls her something low,
unmentionable--horrible.”
“Let’s forget that,” he said, “and get the gain out of it. It means
you must give up trying to control him. Don’t care about that. It’s
just like a doctor when something that should stimulate depresses.
He changes the medicine as one would change a coat, and with no more
concern. You had to try this out, to see if you couldn’t hold him. You
could not give him up without one more trial. That’s all right, and now
you must leave him to me. We’re getting along. He lets me scold him.
It’s my luck not to get on his bad side. I may; nobody knows. But I’ve
been able to suggest lots of good habits. We walk miles together on
the deck, you notice. He’s getting some health back; and I’m chucking
him full of confidence. Cheer up. Don’t let a name or two bother you.
That’s just the devil in him talking. Oh, he’s got a devil, all right,
and I’m the boy to exorcise it. You leave it to me. You will; won’t
you?”
“I am not sure that I should.” She turned her face away.
“Ah, that’s pride, I fear.”
“I am sure it is.” She turned her face to him with a wan smile.
“Good!” he cried. “Honest confession is good for the soul.”
“It is,” she admitted. “I don’t often practise it. The puzzle to
me is why I do it to you. Pray tell me, O youth, what makes you so
fascinating?”
“Am I?” He appeared hugely gratified. “How jolly!”
“_Now_ who is proud?”
“Me! I own up. I’m bloated with pride. But I always own up. It’s part
of my creed.”
“Then, pray, own up something to me.”
“Name it.”
“Why--precisely why--are you willing to give up your plans and your
other friends and stay with us at ‘Red Jacket’? No fooling, young man;
nothing but the truth, the whole truth.”
He crossed his heart.
“Hope I die.” He imitated the children’s formula, the charm to insure
truth. “I want to come because I like you--you and Jerry.”
“Humph! Me and Jerry. Not just me?”
“Nope--both of you; and the reason for that is that I talk to you. I
can always tell. I have only two joys in life--curiosity about life
itself, and talk. I’ve stayed up all night for a good confab with the
right person. But only certain persons can I talk with. Don’t know
why; but I trust the instinct. With you and Jerry I am garrulous and
contented. That’s enough for me. There is another reason why I want to
go--I’m extremely interested in Walter. Curiosity about life, as I told
you, is one of my passions. I want to unravel his mental puzzle if I
can; and I think I can. I’m on a most exciting clue----”
Should he tell her the whole truth; that she was directly responsible
for the boy’s downfall; that her impatient arrogance, her stupidity in
not realizing that a sensitive man does not enjoy a public reprimand
from even his mother, was the beginning of all the evil that followed?
He looked at her aged face and decided to say nothing.
“A most exciting clue,” he repeated.
“Those reasons don’t seem adequate to me.” She looked at him with
smiling suspicion.
“Oh, there are other reasons, no doubt,” he agreed; “only I don’t know
them. They’ll come out later. They always do. The subliminal--the self
inside, deeper than consciousness--it is at work, I suppose, here as
everywhere. I am expressing my predestined self. But, of course, I
don’t hold myself responsible for that. That’s in the hands of the
gods. My soul-mate may be up on that lake of yours--dispensing soda in
one of Quackenbuster’s drug stores.”
“Quackenbush,” she corrected, amused at his air.
“Is it? All right. That’s one thing I don’t have to remember.
Quackenbush or Quackenbuster, it’s the business of destiny, not mine.
Although, I suppose, when the time comes I’ll crow a lot about my good
judgment. Every blade of grass, no doubt, believes it has chosen green
for a colour.... But, why aren’t my reasons adequate?”
“Well, they are not normal----”
“Ah!” he interrupted. “That’s exactly what I claim to be, normal. It’s
the rest of the conventional world that’s abnormal.”
“Do you remember the Quaker,” she commented, “who said to his wife,
‘Martha, all the world’s queer, excepting me and thee--and thee’s a
little queer’?”
“Honest Quaker!” he rejoined. “I’ve much admiration for him. It’s the
way we all feel. To me all mankind is deliciously comic, all except
me--and I’m a _little_ comic.”
Far off towards the stern of the boat someone uttered a cry. It sounded
at first like the gulls, which were beginning now to follow the boat.
But it was repeated with a clear human suggestion. Mrs. Wells, with
eyes contentedly closed, heard nothing. Richard had performed his
office well; she was cheered and heartened. So he deftly tucked in a
stray corner of the rug and slipped quietly away. Far off he had seen
Geraldine, her face in agony.
Fortunately the majority of the passengers had gone down to early
dinner. The deck was free as he sped forward at full speed.
“Quick!” she called to him. “There! Walter! Oh, quick! quick!”
The stern of the boat was narrow and almost cylindrical, like the hull
of a tank steamer. Only a hand-rail and a life-saving raft or two gave
any protection against sliding off into the sea. Stumbling over the
odds and ends of ship machinery usually lashed down here, Walter was
making his way to the extreme end of the boat. His unsteady gait and
his occasional sprawl at full length told the story.
“The rest of my cognac!” thought Richard, as he leaped to the deck
below, ran across a space full of dismantled derricks and winches, and
clambered up the ladder which brought him back again to Walter’s level.
“Hi!” Richard called commandingly. “Come out of that!”
He called to gain time. At the call, Walter steadied himself on a
life-raft and slowly turned himself about.
When he saw Richard climbing over a railing he waved a hand and shook
his head.
“Sta’ back!” he demanded thickly. “Going to stop whole business. Sta’
back, I say. She wo’ let me ’lone. Tol’ her I’d do it. ’N’ will do it.
Sta’ back!” he screamed. “Do y’ hear me! Damn y’ soul, I tell y’, sta’
back!”
Just before Richard reached him his slow mind realized that whatever
he was to do must be done quickly. On either side of him bulked the
life-rafts, but beyond, near the very end of the boat, was a cleared
space of several feet. Nothing but a low guard-rail of rope protected
one from the rounded hulk of the vessel. Towards this open space Walter
threw himself, clutched the rail and flung his leg over.
At this end of the boat the ship motion was marked. She would lower a
dozen feet every few seconds and fling herself up again rhythmically.
It was the sudden lunge up as Walter’s leg went over the rail that
prevented Richard from pouncing upon him in a single leap. The two
men were only a yard apart, but the tilt of the vessel made Richard’s
progress a climb uphill, and when the ship started down again Walter’s
body had already begun to roll slowly over the rail towards the deck.
Once on that wet slant and he would have shot bounding off into the
churning sea.
With the tilt of the steamer downward, Richard leaped forward, and
seizing the hand-rope, which he gripped like iron, he catapulted
completely over the rail and on to the curved iron deck. The lunge
carried him against Walter’s slipping body, which his arm encircled. As
the steamer rose and fell Richard clung to the guard-rope and hugged
the boy to him in a terrific grip.
“Le’ me go, damn you,” whimpered Walter, although his head was nearly
smothered against the deck. “Le’ me go, can’t yuh? Tol’ her I would;
an’ I will. Le’ me go. Wo’ let her boss me. Le’ me go, I say! Aw! Le’
me go!”
Richard tried to draw himself up, but stopped, fearing that the boy
might struggle; and besides, he did not wish to risk losing his grip on
the rail. Looking off to the side he could see the curving edge, and
beyond was the white-capped sea.
Of course Geraldine had followed swiftly, and with her she had brought
a burly sailor. Someone had cried, “Man overboard!” A small crowd began
to rush towards the stern. It was a simple matter to get both men back
on the platform.
“Come along, old fellow.” Richard lifted the boy and encircled him with
his arm. “You’re just feeling a little blue; that’s all. Come along
down with me and we’ll talk it all out.”
The soothing voice, where he had expected reprimand, had an amazing
effect.
“Aw ri’,” he agreed cheerfully enough, as if risking two lives was a
matter of every-day happening. “Guess y’r ri’; but she ought never come
at me ’at way--spesh’ly after I _tol’_ her. You know, Rich’rd, I _tol’_
her. _Didn’t_ I tell her?”
“Of course you did.” Richard drew him farther on. “And what’s more, she
won’t do it again.”
“Oh, yes, she will. You do’ know ’er.”
“She promised me she wouldn’t.”
“She promis’, did she?”
“Gave her word she wouldn’t.”
“Gave ’er wor’, did she?”
He pondered over the fact.
“Tha’s fine!” he said. And after a few steps further, he nodded his
head vigorously and repeated, “Tha’s fine! Good ol’ sport, mother;
aw’ways keeps ’er word. Tha’s fine!”
In a few moments after, with the help of the ship’s doctor, Walter was
sleeping blissfully in Richard’s room. Richard sat on a camp-stool and
Geraldine sat on Richard’s berth.
“Seems comfty, doesn’t he?” Richard gazed with smiling interest at his
charge and then looked into the face of Geraldine.
“Has mother been after him again?” she asked.
Richard nodded good-naturedly, as if that did not matter.
“He said he would jump over the side,” she shivered at the thought, “if
mother pestered him again. I told her to look out. But she laughed at
me. Does she know about this?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
“I can’t make up my mind. Not just now, at any rate. She’s pretty
spent. Something has happened lately to take the spark out of her.”
“Yes; I’ve noticed that. She has aged frightfully.”
“That quarrel on the deck upset her. She’ll get over it. We must wait.
Meanwhile I shall not let this determined youth get out of my sight....
I’m sorry,” he added, as a thought occurred to him, “but you see now
that I must go on with you to ‘Red Jacket.’”
“Has mother asked you yet?”
“Yes; this afternoon--and I accepted.... Do you mind?”
“Yes.” She looked up at him frankly. “You like the truth. Yes, I do
mind; but this thing of Walter’s has scared me.... I’m sick at the
thought of it.... I see that you must come with us.... My only fear now
is--is that you won’t.”
“That’s all right, my dear----” A faint smile visited her whitened face
at the remembrance of her jesting on the top of the hill back of Naples.
Then tears came suddenly into her eyes, the after effect of the scene
she had just witnessed. She brushed them away and smiled at the same
time, a sunshine and shower effect.
“Lord, how I have aged since Naples!” She spoke with low emphasis.
“Of course you have,” said he. “You’ve grown up, just as I predicted
you would. And you’re much nicer as a young woman than as a pert kid
who knew she was good-looking.... Now, don’t worry about mother. She
and I are irrevocable chums. I could tell her the whole story--real
name and all--to-morrow and she would forgive me. But don’t fear her
discovering anything. I’m having the greatest joy out of Richard
Richard. I’m going to keep him alive as long as I possibly can. It’s
more to me than a new name; it’s a new personality.... I’m just
discovering something.”
He stopped to think.
“What is it?”
“Names are important. Galloway told me once that the police changed
the name of a street which for years had been a veritable reproach
and that instantly the street took on a new tone and in the end cured
itself. He was indignant when I scoffed. But I see he was right. This
new name has transformed me. I don’t know myself.”
“You, too, have grown up.”
“Really, I don’t seem to be the same person. I used to be a recluse, a
member of the Independent Order of Glum.”
“You were.”
“Eh? Oh, this was before you knew me.”
“Was it?” She looked across at him tantalizingly.
“Oh, yes. The moment you came along I changed my name and slipped out
of my shell.... See here, what are you grinning at?... Say, have I ever
met you before? I’m awfully forgetful.”
“I sat beside you for a full day on the way from Genoa. First days out
are never agreeable to me.”
“You did!” he ejaculated. “Why didn’t you punch me?”
“I felt like it. A half-dozen passengers tried at one time or another
to talk to you, but you froze them off with what seemed like malice.”
He laughed.
“I wanted to be alone. I’m in fine company when alone.”
“So when I saw you on deck that morning in Naples, I made a little bet
with myself that you wouldn’t snub me.”
“And, by Jove, I didn’t!” he cried. “Give me credit for that!”
“No,” she said, “you didn’t, but perhaps I deserve a little credit for
that.”
“You do,” said he speculatively, as if trying to get the exact facts;
“the evening before, I had seen you counting a huge roll of bills. When
you came towards me that morning at Naples I decided to be friendly,
tell you my predicament and get funds for a visit to the Museo
Borbonico. It worked out splendidly.”
She smiled at what she believed was just playfulness, and looked
towards the sleeping brother.
“I’d forgive you anything now,” she replied quietly, “but you fib too
well.”
“A fib in time saves nine,” said he.
“Remember that, please, when mother gets too inquisitive at ‘Red
Jacket,’” said she.
The unusual ceremony of shaking him warmly by the hand as she left the
room was not misunderstood by either. He returned the grip with equal
fervour. Both stood a moment and gazed at the boy. Then she slipped
quickly into the corridor.