LONELINESS OF GREAT MEN
THE course of his meditations suddenly halted before the Jigger Shop.
They were all there; the fortunate possessors of dimes and nickels,
gluttonously, selfishly gorging themselves with juicy creamy strawberry,
coffee, and chocolate jiggers; clinking their glasses, licking their
spoons--and he, John C. Bedelle, the future Bathtub King, without a cent
in his pockets! The irony of it! If they only knew, what sycophants
would fawn upon him! Then an idea came to him--at such moments alone can
man read the secret heart of humanity. He would make a test of true
friendship.
He passed through the outer rapturous fringe of hungry boyhood and
slowly approached the counter where Al, guardian of the jigger, dished
out the jiggers and watched the counters with uneasy eye. Not that he
had any hope, but it was only fair to give even the most abandoned of
mankind a sporting chance.
"Hello, Al!"
"I see you, Skippy."
The tone was not encouraging. Bedelle determined on direct methods. He
turned his pockets deliberately inside out.
"You see?"
"Oh yes, I see you."
"Anything doin'?"
"Nothing doin'," said Al, stroking his corn-colored mustache with that
languid finality against which there was no appeal. "Nothin' at all."
"He has had his chance," said Bedelle to himself in gloomy pride. Yes,
Al had had his chance, that one chance that comes unwittingly to every
man--Al who might have toured the world with him as his majordomo, or
his confidential valet.
"Hello, Dennis!" he said, perceiving back of an enormous chocolate
eclair the human anaconda famine and opportunity had at this moment made
of Finnegan, the discoverer of the double adjective.
"Hello yourself!"
"How's the bank account?" said Skippy lightly, for etiquette forbade any
reference to the half-dollar parted with on the Wednesday before.
"Why, bless my immortal soul, you old rambunctious, skipping
Zockarooster, are you setting them up?" said Brian de Boru, pretending
to misunderstand.
Skippy disdained a reply. Al, after all, was but running true to form,
but this was the basest ingratitude,--the serpent's tooth in the fair
landscape of friendship.
"If he'd at least offered to share that eclair I--I could--" said Skippy
to himself, and then stopped in silence before the future Finnegan had
thrown to the winds. For he liked Dennis and Dennis _would_ have made
such an ideal publicity man.
He passed like a poor relation at a wedding feast, and as he passed with
many a stammered hint, and eloquently pleading eyes, his faith in his
kind began to ooze away. Of course it was the end of the month, yet of
twenty friends who had fed from his hand, when his hand had been
hospitable, not one stirred to the commonest of human impulses. And so
gloomy, alone and misunderstood, like the young Napoleon at Brienne,
John C. Bedelle, with the consciousness of future greatness, moved out
from the uncomprehending crowd. At the door Toots Cortrelle arrived with
unmistakably jingling pockets, and seeing him, cried with the zest of
young hunger certain of gratification:
"Hullo, Skippy, old sockbutts!"
"Couldn't lend me a quarter or a dime, could you?" said Skippy solemnly.
"Why not?"
"You can, Toots--you can, honest?"
"With ease and pleasure. This is the way it is done," said Toots, who
proceeded to transfer a quarter from his pocket to the astounded Skippy,
with the classic manner of a prestidigitator.
"What's happened?" said Skippy, feeling that the situation demanded some
explanation.
"Maiden aunt and birthday," said Toots joyfully. "Al, take Mr. Bedelle's
order and make mine a triple jigger, coffee with chocolate syrup!"
When ten minutes later, gorged and sated, with his faith in humanity
somewhat restored, Skippy separated from his benefactor, he turned to
Toots and said solemnly:
"Old friend, I shall remember this!"
"All right--turn about's fair play. Ta-ta and so long," said Cortrelle,
all unsuspecting of the future Destiny had built up for him.
"Yes, some day I _shall_ remember," said Skippy solemnly to himself. And
as he trudged back to his room at the Kennedy, there to map out the
future operations of the Bathtub Trust, he allowed his imagination to
dwell delightfully on that momentous future date when the debt of
friendship should be paid. He saw himself in a gorgeous marble-lined
office, protected by an outer fringe of obsequious secretaries, a box of
expensive cigars on his shining mahogany desk, and before him in
respectful attention Toots Cortrelle, now grown a man, but worn and
wasted with the buffeting years, and he saw the light of hope spurting
upward in the tired eyes as he heard himself saying:
"Cortrelle, once long ago, you did something I told you I should
remember. You have forgotten it. I never forget. For that I am going to
put you in charge of my whole South American trade at a salary--" Here
Skippy paused somewhat perplexed before continuing, awed at his own
munificence--"at a salary of over _three thousand dollars_ a year!"
But just as Toots with tears in his eyes was starting to grasp his hand,
Skippy's foot tripped over a step and he rolled ignominiously down the
terrace and fetched up in a heap among the gravel.
"Oh, please do it again!" said the voice of Snorky Green from an upper
window.
"You go to blazes!" exclaimed Skippy, rising wrathfully. But all at once
his anger left him. Snorky Green was his roommate and partner of his
secrets, and the secret that had been locked up within him these last
momentous hours simply had to be told.