Of course Peter’s statement to McGivney had not been literally true.
He had winked at a number of women, but the trouble was none had
returned his wink. First he had made friendly advances toward Miriam
Yankovich, who was buxom and not bad looking; but Miriam’s thoughts
were evidently all with McCormick in jail; and then, after her
experience with Bob Ogden, Miriam had to go to a hospital, and of
course Peter didn’t want to fool with an invalid. He made himself
agreeable to others of the Red girls, and they seemed to like him;
they treated him as a good comrade, but somehow they did not seem to
act up to McGivney’s theories of “free love.” So Peter made up his
mind that he would find him a girl who was not a Red. It would give
him a little relief now and then, a little fun. The Reds seldom had
any fun--their idea of an adventure was to get off in a room by
themselves and sing the International or the Red Flag in whispers,
so the police couldn’t hear them.
It was Saturday afternoon, and Peter went to a clothing store kept
by a Socialist, and bought himself a new hat and a new suit of
clothes on credit. Then he went out on the street, and saw a neat
little girl going into a picture-show, and followed her, and they
struck up an acquaintance and had supper together. She was what
Peter called a “swell dresser,” and it transpired that she worked in
a manicure parlor. Her idea of fun corresponded to Peter’s, and
Peter spent all the money he had that Saturday evening, and made up
his mind that if he could get something new on the Reds in the
course of the week, he would strike McGivney for forty dollars.
Next morning was Easter Sunday, and Peter met his manicurist by
appointment, and they went for a stroll on Park Avenue, which was
the aristocratic street of American City and the scene of the
“Easter parade.” It was war time, and many of the houses had flags
out, and many of the men were in uniform, and all of the sermons
dealt with martial themes. Christ, it appeared, was risen
again to make the world safe for democracy, and to establish
self-determination for all people; and Peter and Miss Frisbie both
had on their best clothes, and watched the crowds in the “Easter
parade,” and Miss Frisbie studied the costumes and make-up of the
ladies, and picked up scraps of their conversation and whispered
them to Peter, and made Peter feel that he was back on Mount Olympus
again.
They turned into one of the swell Park Avenue churches; the Church
of the Divine Compassion it was called, and it was very “high,” with
candles and incense--althogh you could hardly smell the incense on
this occasion for the scent of the Easter lilies and the ladies.
Peter and his friend were escorted to one of the leather covered
pews, and they heard the Rev. de Willoughby Stotterbridge, a famous
pulpit orator, deliver one of those patriotic sermons which were
quoted in the “Times” almost every Monday morning. The Rev. de
Willoughby Stotterbridge quoted some Old Testament text about
exterminating the enemies of the Lord, and he sang the triumph of
American arms, and the overwhelming superiority of American
munitions. He denounced the Bolsheviks and all other traitors, and
called for their instant suppression; he didn’t say that he had
actually been among the crowd which had horse-whipped the I. W. Ws.
and smashed the printing presses and typewriters of the Socialists,
but he made it unmistakably clear that that was what he wanted, and
Peter’s bosom swelled with happy pride. It was something to a man to
know that he was serving his country and keeping the old flag
waving; but it was still more to know that he was enlisted in the
service of the Almighty, that Heaven and all its hosts were on his
side, and that everything he had done had the sanction of the
Almighty’s divinely ordained minister, speaking in the Almighty’s
holy temple, in the midst of stained-glass windows and brightly
burning candles and the ravishing odor of incense, and of Easter
lilies and of mignonette and lavender in the handkerchiefs of
delicately gowned and exquisite ladies from Mount Olympus. This, to
be sure, was mixing mythologies, but Peter’s education had been
neglected in his youth, and Peter could not be blamed for taking the
great ones of the earth as they were, and believing what they taught
him.
The white robed choir marched out, and the music of “Onward
Christian Soldiers” faded away, and Peter and his lady went out from
the Church of the Divine Compassion, and strolled on the avenue
again, and when they had sufficiently filled their nostrils with the
sweet odors of snobbery, they turned into the park, where there were
places of seclusion for young couples interested in each other. But
alas, the fates which dogged Peter in his love-making had prepared
an especially cruel prank that morning. At the entrance to the park,
whom should Peter meet but Comrade Schnitzelmann, a fat little
butcher who belonged to the “Bolshevik local” of American City.
Peter tried to look the other way and hurry by, but Comrade
Schnitzelmann would not have it so. He came rushing up with one
pudgy hand stretched out, and a beaming smile on his rosy Teutonic
countenance. “Ach, Comrade Gudge!” cried he. “Wie geht’s mit you dis
morning?”
“Very well, thank you,” said Peter, coldly, and tried to hurry on.
But Comrade Schnitzelmann held onto his hand. “So! You been seeing
dot Easter barade!” said he. “Vot you tink, hey? If we could get all
de wage slaves to come und see dot barade, we make dem all
Bolsheviks pretty quick! Hey, Comrade Gudge?”
“Yes, I guess so,” said Peter, still more coldly.
“We show dem vot de money goes for--hey, Comrade Gudge!” And Comrade
Schnitzelmann chuckled, and Peter said, quickly, “Well, good-bye,”
and without introducing his lady-love took her by the arm and
hurried away.
But alas, the damage had been done! They walked for a minute or two
amid ominous silence. Then suddenly the manicurist stood still and
confronted Peter. “Mr. Gudge,” she demanded, “what does that mean?”
And Peter of course could not answer. He did not dare to meet her
flashing eyes, but stood digging the toe of his shoe into the path.
“I want to know what it means,” persisted the girl. “Are you one of
those Reds?”
And what could poor Peter say? How could he explain his acquaintance
with that Teutonic face and that Teutonic accent?
The girl stamped her foot with impatient anger. “So you’re one of
those Reds! You’re one of those pro-German traitors! You’re an
imposter, a spy!”
Peter was helpless with embarrassment and dismay. “Miss Frisbie,” he
began, “I can’t explain--”
“_Why_ can’t you explain? Why can’t any honest man explain?”
“But--but--I’m not what you think--it isn’t true! I--I--” It was on
the tip of Peter’s tongue to say, “I’m a patriot! I’m a 100%
American, protecting my country against these traitors!” But
professional honor sealed his tongue, and the little manicurist
stamped her foot again, and her eyes flashed with indignation.
“You dare to seek my acquaintance! You dare to take me to church!
Why--if there was a policeman in sight, I’d report you, I’d send you
to jail!” And actually she looked around for a policeman! But it is
well known that there never is a policeman in sight when you look
for one; so Miss Frisbie stamped her foot again and snorted in
Peter’s face. “Goodbye, _Comrade_ Gudge!” The emphasis she put upon
that word “comrade” would have frozen the fieriest Red soul; and she
turned with a swish of her skirts and strode off, and Peter stood
looking mournfully at her little French heels going crunch, crunch,
crunch on the gravel path. When the heels were clean gone out of
sight, Peter sought out the nearest bench and sat down and buried
his face in his hands, a picture of woe. Was there ever in the world
a man who had such persistent ill luck with women?