Casey Ryan, hunched behind the wheel of a large, dark blue touring car
with a kinked front fender and the glass gone from the left headlight,
slid out from the halted traffic, shied sharply away from a
hysterically clanging street car, crossed the path of a huge red truck
coming in from his right, missed it with two inches to spare and was
halfway down the block before the traffic officer overtook him.
The traffic officer was Irish too, and bigger than Casey, and madder.
For all that, Casey offered to lick the livin' tar outa him before
accepting a pale, expensive ticket which he crumbled and put into his
pocket without looking at it.
"What I know about these here fancy city rules ain't sufficient to give
a horn-toad a headache--but it's a darn sight more'n I care," Casey
declaimed hotly. "I never was asked what I thought of them tin signs
you stick up on the end of a telegraft pole, to tell folks when to go
an' when to quit goin'. Mebby it's all right fer these here city
drivers--"
"This'll mean thirty days for you," spluttered the officer. "I ought
to call the patrol right now--"
"Get the undertaker on the line first!" Casey advised him ominously.
Traffic was piling up behind them, and horns were honking a blatant
chorus that extended two blocks up the street. The traffic officer
glanced into the troubled gray eyes of the Little Woman beside Casey
and took his foot off the running board.
"Better go put up your bail and then forfeit it," he advised in a
milder tone. "The judge will probably remember you; I do, and my
memory ain't the best in the world. Twice you've been hooked for
speeding through traffic; and parking by fire-plugs and in front of the
No Park signs and after four, seems to be your big outdoor sport.
Forfeit your bail, old boy--or it's thirty days for you, sure."
Casey Ryan made bitter retort, but the traffic cop had gone to untangle
two furious Fords from a horse-drawn mail wagon, so he did not hear.
Which was good luck for Casey.
"Why do you persist in making trouble for yourself?" the Little Woman
beside him exclaimed. "It can't be so hard to obey the rules; other
drivers do. I know that I have driven this car all over town without
any trouble whatever."
Casey hogged the next safety-zone line to the deep disgust of a young
movie star in a cream-and-silver racer, and pulled in to the curb just
where he could not be passed.
"All right, ma'am. You can drive, then." He slid out of the driver's
seat to the pavement, his face a deeper shade of red than usual.
"For pity's sake, Casey! Don't be silly," his wife cried sharply, a
bit of panic in her voice.
"You was in a hurry to git home," Casey pointed out to her with that
mildness of manner which is not mild. "I was hurryin', wasn't I?"
"You aren't hurrying now--you're delaying the traffic again. Do be
reasonable! You know it costs money to argue with the police."
"Police be damned! I'm tryin' to please a woman, an' I'm up agin a
hard proposition. You can ask anybody if I'm the unreasonable one. You
hustled me out of the show soon as the huggin' commenced. You wouldn't
even let me stay to see the first of Mutt and Jeff. You said you was
in a hurry. I leaves the show without seein' the best part, gits the
car an' drills through the traffic tryin' to git yuh home quick. Now
you're kickin' because I did hurry."
"Hey! Whadda yuh mean, blockin' the traffic?" a domineering voice
behind him bellowed. "This ain't any reception hall, and it ain't no
free auto park neither."
Another traffic officer with another pencil and another pad of tickets
such as drivers dread to see began to write down the number of Casey's
car. This man did not argue. He finished his work briskly, presented
another notice which advised Casey Ryan to report immediately to police
headquarters, waved Casey peremptorily to proceed, and returned to his
little square platform to the chorus of blatting automobile horns.
"The cops in this town hands out tickets like they was Free Excursion
peddlers!" snorted Casey, his eyes a pale glitter behind his
half-closed lids. "They can go around me, or they can honk and be
darned to 'em. Git behind the wheel, ma'am--Casey Ryan's drove the last
inch he'll ever drive in this darned town. If they pinch me again,
it'll have to be fer walkin'."
The Little Woman looked at him, pressed her lips together and moved
behind the wheel. She did not say a word all the way out to the white
apartment house on Vermont which held the four rooms they called home.
She parked the car dexterously in front and led the way to their
apartment (ground floor, front) before she looked at me.
"It's coming to a show-down, Jack," she said then with a faint smile.
"He's on probation already for disobeying traffic rules of one sort and
other, and his fines cost more than the entire upkeep of the car. I
think he really will have to go to jail this time. It just isn't in
Casey Ryan to take orders from any one, especially when his own
personal habits of driving a car are concerned."
"Town life is getting on his nerves," I tried to defend Casey, and at
the same time to comfort the Little Woman. "I didn't think it would
work, his coming here to live, with nothing to do but spend money.
This is the inevitable result of too much money and too much leisure."
"It sounds much better, putting it that way," murmured Mrs. Casey. "I
think you're right--though he did behave back there as if it were too
much matrimony. Jack, he's been looking forward to your visit. I'm
sorry this has happened to spoil it."
"It isn't spoiled," I grinned. "Casey Ryan is, always and ever shall be
Casey Ryan. He's running true to form, though tamer than one would
expect. When do you think he'll show up?"
Mrs. Casey did not know. She ventured a guess or two, but there was no
conviction in her tone. With two nominal arrests in five minutes
chalked against him, and with his first rebellion against the Little
Woman to rankle in his conscience and memory, she owned herself at a
loss.
With a cheerfulness that was only conversation deep, we waited for
Casey and finally ate supper without him. The evening was enlivened
somewhat by Babe's chatter of kindergarten doings; and was punctuated
by certain pauses while steps on the sidewalk passed on or ended with
the closing of another door than the Ryans'. I fought the impulse to
call up the police station, and I caught the eyes of the Little Woman
straying unconsciously to the telephone in the hall while she talked of
things remote from our inner thoughts. Margaret Ryan is game, I'll say
that. We played cribbage for an hour or two, and the Little Woman beat
me until finally I threw up my hands and quit.
"I can't stand it any longer, Mrs. Casey. Do you think he's in jail,
or just sulking at a movie somewhere?" I blurted. "Forgive my butting
in, but I wish you'd talk about it. You know you can, to me. Casey
Ryan is a friend and more than a friend: he's a pet theory of mine--a
fad, if you prefer to call him that.
"I consider him a perfect example of human nature in its unhampered,
unbiased state, going straight through life without deviating a hair's
breadth from the viewpoint of youth. A fighter and a castle builder; a
sort of rough-edged Peter Pan. Till he gums soft food and hobbles with
a stick because the years have warped his back and his legs, Casey Ryan
will keep that indefinable, bubbling optimism of spiritual youth. So
tell me all about him. I want to know who has licked, so far; luxury
or Casey Ryan."
The Little Woman laughed and picked up the cards, evening their edges
with sensitive fingers that had not been manicured so beautifully when
first I saw them.
"Well-sir," she drawled, making one word of the two and failing to keep
a little twitching from her lips, "I think it's been about a tie, so
far. As a husband--Casey's a darned good bachelor." Her chuckle
robbed that statement of anything approaching criticism. "Aside from
his insisting on cooking breakfast every morning and feeding me in bed,
forcing me to eat fried eggs and sour-dough hotcakes swimming in butter
and honey--when I crave grapefruit and thin toast and one French lamb
chop with a white paper frill on the handle and garnished with fresh
parsley--he's the soul of consideration. He wants four kinds of jam on
the table every meal, when fresh fruit is going to waste. He's bullied
the laundryman until the poor fellow's reached the point where he won't
stop if the car's parked in front and Casey's liable to be home; but
aside from that, Casey's all right.
"After serving time in the desert and rustling my own wood and living
on bacon and beans and sour-dough bread, I'm perfectly willing to
spend the rest of my life doing painless housekeeping with all the
modern built-in features ever invented; and buying my bread and cakes
and salads from the delicatessen around the corner. I never want to
see a sagebush again as long as I live, or feel the crunch of gravel
under my feet. I expect to die in French-heeled pumps and embroidered
silk stockings and the finest, silliest silk things ever put in a show
window to tempt the soul of a woman. But it took just two weeks and
three days to drive Casey back to his sour-dough can."
"He craved luxury more than you seemed to do," I remembered aloud.
"He did, yes. But his idea of luxury is sitting down in the kitchen to
a real meal of beans and biscuits and all the known varieties of jam
and those horrible whitewashed store cookies and having the noise of
the phonograph drowned every five minutes by a passing street car.
Casey wants four movies a day, and he wants them all funny. He brings
home silk shirts with the stripes fairly shrieking when he unwraps
them--and he has to be thrown and tied to get a collar on him.
"He will get up at any hour of the night to chase after a fire engine,
and every whipstitch he gets pinched for doing something which is
perfectly lawful and right in the desert and perfectly awful in the
city. You saw him," said the Little Woman, "to-day." And she added
wistfully, "It's the first time since we were married that he has ever
talked back--to me.
"And you know," she went on, shuffling the cards and stopping to regard
the joker attentively (though I am sure she didn't know what card she
was looking at), "just chasing around town and doing nothing but square
yourself for not playing according to the rules costs money without
getting you anywhere. Fifty-five thousand dollars isn't so much just
to play with, in this town. Casey's highest ambition now seems to be
nickel disk wheels on a new racing car that can make the speed cops go
some to catch him. His idea of economy is to put six or seven thousand
dollars into a car that will enable him to outrun a twenty-dollar fine!
"We have some money invested," she went on. "We own this apartment
house--and fortunately it's in my name. So long as the housing problem
continues critical, I think I can keep Casey going without spending our
last cent."
"He did one good stroke of business," I ventured, "when he bought this
place. Apartment houses are good as gold mines these days."
The Little Woman laughed. "Well-sir, it wasn't so much a stroke as it
was a wallop. Casey bought it just to show who was boss, he or the
landlord. The first thing he did when we moved in was to take down the
nicely framed rules that said we must not cook cabbage nor onions nor
fish, nor play music after ten o'clock at night, nor do any loud
talking in the halls.
"Every day for a week Casey cooked cabbage, onions and fish. He sat up
nights to play the graphophone. He stayed home to talk loudly and play
bucking bronk with Babe all up and down the stairs and in the halls.
Our rent was paid for a month in advance, and the landlord was too
little and old to fight. So he sold out cheap--and it really was a
good stroke of business for us, though not deliberate.
"Well-sir, at first we lost tenants who didn't enjoy the freedom of
their neighbors' homes. But really, Jack, you'd be surprised to know
how many people in this city just LOVE cabbage and onions and fish, and
to have children they needn't disown whenever they go house-hunting. I
had ventilator hoods put over every gas range in the house, and turned
the back yard into a playground with plenty of sand piles and swings.
I raised the price, too, and made the place look very select, with a
roof garden for the grown-ups. We have the house filled now with
really nice families--avoiding the garlic brand--and as an investment I
wouldn't ask for anything better.
"Casey enjoyed himself hugely while he was whipping things into shape,
but the last month he's been going stale. The tenants are all so
thankful to do as they please that they're excruciatingly polite to
him, no matter what he does or says. He's tired of the beaches and he
has begun to cuss the long, smooth roads that are signed so that he
couldn't get lost if he tried. It does seem as if there's no interest
left in anything, unless he can get a kick out of going to jail. And,
Jack, I do believe he's gone there."
The telephone rang and the Little Woman excused herself and went into
the hall, closing the door softly behind her.
I'm not greatly given to reminiscence, but while I sat and watched the
flames of civilization licking tamely at the impregnable iron bark of
the gas logs, the eyes of my memory looked upon a picture:
Desert, empty and with the mountains standing back against the sky, the
great dipper uptilted over a peak and the stars bending close for very
friendliness. The licking flames of dry greasewood burning, with a
pungent odor in my nostrils when the wind blew the smoke my way. The
far-off hooting of an owl, perched somewhere on a juniper branch
watching for mice; and Casey Ryan sitting cross-legged in the sand,
squinting humorously at me across the fire while he talked.
I saw him, too, bolting a hurried breakfast under a mesquite tree in
the chill before sunrise, his mind intent upon the trail; facing the
desert and its hardships as a matter of course, with never a thought
that other men would shrink from the ordeal.
I saw him kneeling before a solid face of rock in a shallow cut in the
hillside, swinging his "single-jack" with tireless rhythm; a tap and a
turn of the steel, a tap and a turn--chewing tobacco industriously and
stopping now and then to pry off a fresh bit from the plug in his hip
pocket before he reached for the "spoon" to muck out the hole he was
drilling.
I saw him larruping in his Ford along a sandy, winding trail it would
break a snake's back to follow, hot on the heels of his next adventure,
dreaming of the fortune that finally came. . . .
The Little Woman came in looking as if she had been talking with
Destiny and was still dazed and unsteady from the meeting.
"Well-sir, he's gone!" she announced, and stopped and tried to smile.
But her eyes looked hurt and sorry. "He has bought a Ford and a tent
and outfit since he left us down on Seventh and Broadway, and he just
called me up on long-distance from San Bernardino. He's going out on a
prospecting trip, he says. I'll say he's been going some! A speed cop
overhauled him just the other side of Claremont, he told me, and he was
delayed for a few minutes while he licked the cop and kicked him and
his motorcycle into a ditch. He says he's sorry he sassed me, and if I
can drive a car in this darned town and not spend all my loose change
paying fines, I'm a better man than he is. He doesn't know when he'll
be back--and there you are."
She sat down wearily on the arm of an over-stuffed armchair and looked
up at the gilt-and-onyx clock which I suspected Casey of having bought.
"If he isn't lynched before morning," she sighed whimsically, "he'll
probably make it to the Nevada line all right."
I rose, also glancing at the clock. But the Little Woman put up a hand
to forbid the plan she read in my mind.
"Let him alone, Jack," she advised. "Let him go and be just as wild
and devilish as he wants to be. I'm only thankful he can take it out
on a Ford and a pick and shovel. There really isn't any trouble
between us two. Casey knows I can look out for myself for awhile.
He's got to have a vacation from loafing and matrimony. I'm so thankful
he isn't taking it in jail!"
I told her somewhat bluntly that she was a brick, and that if I could
get in touch with Casey I'd try to keep an eye on him. It would
probably be a good thing, I told her, if he did stay away long enough
to let this collection of complaints against him be forgotten at the
police station.
I went away, hoping fervently that Casey would break even his own
records that night. I really intended to find him and keep an eye on
him. But keeping an eye on Casey Ryan is a more complicated affair
than it sounds.
Wherefore, much of this story must be built upon my knowledge of Casey
and a more or less complete report of events in which I took no part,
welded together with a bit of healthy imagination.