CATCHING UP WITH GERALD
"It seemed so absurdly simple at first too," says J. Bayard Steele,
tappin' one of his pearl-gray spats with his walkin' stick. "But
now--well, the more I see of this Gerald Webb, the less I understand."
"Then you're comin' on," says I. "In time you'll get wise to the fact
that everybody's that way,--no two alike and every last one of us
neither all this nor all that, but constructed complicated, with a
surprise package done up in each one."
"Ah! Some of your homespun philosophy, eh?" says J. Bayard. "Interesting
perhaps, but inaccurate--quite! The fellow is not at all difficult to
read: it's what we ought to do for him that is puzzling."
Which gives you a line, I expect, on this little debate of ours. Yep!
Gerald is No. 8 on Pyramid Gordon's list. He'd been a private secretary
for Mr. Gordon at one time or another; but he'd been handed his
passports kind of abrupt one mornin', and had been set adrift in a cold
world without warnin'.
"In fact," goes on Steele, "I am told that Gordon actually kicked him
out of his office; in rather a public manner too."
"Huh!" says I. "I expect he deserved it, then."
"Not at all," says Steele. "I've looked that point up. It was over a
letter which Gordon himself had dictated to Webb not forty-eight hours
before; you know, one of his hot-headed, arrogant, go-to-blazes retorts,
during the thick of a fight. But this happened to be in reply to an
ultimatum from the Reamur-Brooks Syndicate, and by next morning he'd
discovered that he was in no position to talk that way to them. Well, as
you know, Pyramid Gordon wasn't the man to eat his own words."
"No," says I, "that wa'n't his fav'rite diet. So he made Gerald the
goat, eh?"
"Precisely!" says Steele. "Called him in before the indignant
delegation, headed by old Reamur himself, and demanded of poor Webb what
he meant by sending out such a letter. The youngster was so flustered
that he could only stammer a confused denial. He started sniveling. Then
Gordon collared him and booted him into the corridor. That should have
closed the incident, but a few moments later back comes Webb, blubbering
like a whipped schoolboy, and perfectly wild with rage. He was armed
with a mop that he'd snatched from an astonished scrubwoman, and he
stormed in whimpering that he was going to kill Gordon. Absurd, of
course. A mop isn't a deadly weapon. Some of the clerks promptly rushed
in and held Webb until an officer could be called. Then Pyramid laughed
it off and refused to prosecute. But the story got into the papers, you
may remember; and while more or less fun was poked at Gordon, young Webb
came in for a good share. And naturally his career as a private
secretary ended right there."
"Yes," says I. "If I was takin' on a secretary myself, I wouldn't pick
one that was subject to fits of mop wieldin'. What happened to him after
that? How low did he fall?"
J. Bayard tosses over a fancy business card printed in three colors and
carryin' this inscription in old English letterin':
AT THE SIGN OF THE BRASS CANDLESTICK
Tea Room and Gift Shop
Mr. Gerald Webb, Manager.
"Oh, well," says I, "that ain't so bad. Must have run across a backer
somewhere."
"His sisters," says Steele. "He has five, and some of the four married
ones are quite well to do. Then there is Evelyn, the old maid sister,
who went in with him. It's from her I've found out so much about Gerald.
Nice, refined, pleasant old maid; although somewhat plain featured. She
tells me they have a shop at some seashore resort in summer,--Atlantic
City, or the Pier,--and occasionally have quite a successful season.
Then in the fall they open up again here. The last two summers, though,
they've barely made expenses, and she fears that Gerald is becoming
discouraged."
"Well, what you beefin' about?" says I. "There's your chance, ain't it?
Jump in and cheer him up. Go round every day and drink yourself full of
tea. Lug along your friends--anything. Got the whole Gordon estate back
of you, you know. And it's plain Pyramid had in mind squarin' accounts
for that raw deal he handed Gerald years back, or he wouldn't have named
him in the will. And if your dope is right, I judge there ought to be
something nice comin' to him."
"Of course, of course," says Steele. "But you see, McCabe, as an expert
in altruism, I have reached the point where I no longer act hastily on
crude conclusions. Possibly you will fail to understand, but now I take
a certain pride in doing just the right thing in exactly the right way."
"I knew you was developin' into some variety of nut," says I. "So that's
it, eh? Well, go on."
J. Bayard smiles indulgent and shrugs his shoulders. "For instance,"
says he, "this Gerald Webb seems to be one of those highly sensitive,
delicately organized persons; somewhat effeminate in fact. He needs
considerate, judicious handling."
"Then why not present him with an inlaid dressin' table and a set of
eyebrow pencils?" I suggest.
Steele brushes that little persiflage aside too. "He's no doubt an
idealist of some sort," says he, "a man with high hopes, ambitions. If
I only knew what they were----"
"Ain't tried askin' him, have you?" says I.
"Certainly not!" says J. Bayard. "Those are things which such persons
can rarely be induced to talk about. I've been studying him at close
range, however, by dropping in now and then for a cup of tea and
incidentally a chat with his sister; but to no effect. I can't seem to
make him out. And I was wondering, Shorty, if you, in your rough and
ready way----"
"P.O.F.!" I breaks in.
"What?" says Steele.
"Please omit floral tributes," says I. "You was wonderin' if I couldn't
what--size him up for you?"
"Just that," says J. Bayard. "While your methods are not always of the
subtlest, I must concede that at times your--er--native intuition----"
"Top floor--all out!" I breaks in. "You mean I can do a quick frame-up
without feelin' the party's bumps or consultin' the cards? Maybe I can.
But I ain't strong for moochin' around these oolong joints among the
draped tunics and vanity boxes."
He's a persistent party, though, J. Bayard is, and after he's guaranteed
that we won't run into any mob of shoppers this late in the day, and
urged me real hard, I consents to trail along with him and pass on
Gerald.
One of the usual teashop joints, the Brass Candlestick is, tucked away
in a dwelling house basement on a side street about half a block east of
Fifth avenue, with a freaky sign over the door and a pair of moultin'
bay trees at the entrance. Inside we finds a collection of little white
tables with chairs to match, a showcase full of arty jew'lry, and some
shelves loaded with a job lot of odd-shaped vases and jugs and teapots
and such truck.
A tall, loppy female with mustard-colored hair and haughty manners tows
us to a place in a dark corner and shoves a menu at us. You know the
tearoom brand of waitress maybe, and how distant they can be? But this
one fairly sneers at us as she takes our order; although I kind of
shrivels up in the chair and acts as humble as I know how.
"That ain't Sister Evelyn, is it?" says I, as she disappears towards the
back.
"No, no," says Steele. "Miss Webb is at the little cashier's desk, by
the door. And that is Webb, behind the counter, talking to those
ladies."
"Oh!" says I. "Him with the pale hair and the narrow mouth? Huh! He is
Lizzie-like, ain't he?"
He's a slim, thin-blooded, sharp-faced gent, well along in the thirties,
I should judge, with gray showin' in his forelock, and a dear little
mustache pointed at the ends; the sort of chappy who wears a braid-bound
cutaway and a wrist watch, you know. He's temptin' his customers with
silver-set turquoise necklaces, and abalone cuff links, and moonstone
sets, and such; doin' it dainty and airy, and incidentally displayin' a
job of manicurin' that's the last word in fingernail decoration. Such
smooth, highbrow conversation goes with it too!
"Oh, yes, Madam," I overhears him gurgle. "Quite so, I assuah you. We
import these direct from Cairo; genuine scarabs, taken from ancient
mummy cases. No, not Rameses; these are of the Thetos period. Rather
rare, you know. And here is an odd trifle, if you will permit me. Oh, no
trouble at all. Really! When we find persons of such discriminating
taste as you undoubtedly have we----"
"Say," I remarks low to Steele, "he's some swell kidder, ain't he? He'll
be chuckin' her under the chin next. What a sweet thing he is! It's a
shame to waste all that on a side street too. He ought to be farther up
in the shoppin' district and on the avenue."
"Do you think so?" says J. Bayard. "I've been considering that--setting
him up in first-class style on a big scale. But of course I should like
to be sure that is what he wants most."
"That's my best guess," says I. "I'll bet he'd eat it up. Spring it on
him and see."
"Perhaps I will when he's through," says J. Bayard. "There! They're
going now."
He was wrong: they was only startin' to go. They had to come back twice
and look at something all over again, after which Gerald follows 'em to
the door and holds it open for 'em while they exchange a few last words.
So it's ten minutes or more before Steele has a chance to call him over,
get him planted in the extra chair, and begin breakin' the news to him
about Pyramid's batty will.
And even after all them years Webb flushes pink in the ears at the
mention of the name. "Oh, yes, Gordon," says he. "I--I did hold a
position at one time in his office. Misunderstanding? Not at all. He
treated me shamefully. Rank injustice, it was! He--he was by no means a
gentleman, by no means!"
"I hear you tried to assassinate him with a mop," says I.
"I--I was not quite myself," says Gerald, colorin' still more. "You see,
he put me in such a false position before those Chicago men; and when I
tried to tell them the truth he--well, he acted brutally. I ask you, Mr.
McCabe, what would you have done?"
"Me?" says I. "I expect I'd slapped him rough on the wrist, or something
like that. But you know he was always a little quick about such things,
and when it was all over he was gen'rally sorry--if he had time. You see
he remembered your case. Now the idea is, how can that little affair of
yours be squared?"
"It may have been a little affair to him," says Gerald, poutin' a bit
sulky; "but it wasn't so to me. It--it changed my whole life--utterly!"
"Of course," puts in J. Bayard soothin'. "We understand that, Mr. Webb."
"But you've come out all right; you struck something just as good, or
better, eh?" and I waves round at the teashop. "Course, you ain't
catchin' the business here you might if you was located better. And I
expect you feel like you was wastin' your talents on a place this size.
But with a whole second floor near some of the big Fifth avenue
department stores, where you could soak 'em half a dollar for a club
sandwich and a quarter for a cup of tea,--a flossy, big joint with a
hundred tables, real French waiters from Staten Island, and a genuine
Hungarian orchestra, imported from East 176th street, where you could
handle a line of Mexican drawnwork, and Navajo blankets, and Russian
samovars, and----"
"No, no!" breaks in Gerald peevish. "Stop!"
"Eh?" says I, gawpin' at him.
"If you are proposing all that as a--a recompense for being publicly
humiliated," says he, "and having my career entirely spoiled--well, you
just needn't, that's all. I do not care for anything of the kind."
I gasps. Then I gazes foolish over at J. Bayard to see if he has
anything to offer. He just scowls at me and shakes his head, as much as
to say:
"There, you see! You've messed things all up."
"All right, Mr. Webb," says I. "Then you name it."
"Do you mean," says he, "that Mr. Gordon intended to leave me something
in his will; that he--er--considered I was entitled to some--ah----"
"That's the idea, more or less," says I. "Only Mr. Steele here, he's
been tryin' to dope out what would suit you best."
"Could--could it be in the form of a--a cash sum?" asks Gerald.
I sighs relieved and looks inquirin' at Steele. He nods, and I nods
back.
"Sure thing," says I.
"How much?" demands Webb.
"Time out," says I, "until Mr. Steele and I can get together."
So while Gerald is pacin' nervous up and down between the tables we
makes figures on the back of the menu. We begins by guessin' what he was
gettin' when he was fired, then what salary he might have been pullin'
down in five years, at the end of ten, and so on, deductin' some for
black times and makin' allowances for hard luck. But inside of five
minutes we'd agreed on a lump sum.
"What about twenty thousand?" says I.
Gerald gulps once or twice, turns a little pale, and then asks choky,
"Would--would you put that in writing?"
"I can give you a voucher for the whole amount," says Steele.
"Then--then please!" says Gerald, and he stands over J. Bayard, starin'
eager, while the paper is bein' made out. He watches us both sign our
names.
"This is drawn," says Steele, "on the attorney for the estate, and when
you present it he will give you a check for----"
"Thanks," says Gerald, reachin' trembly for the voucher.
For a minute he stands gazin' at it before he stows it away careful in
an inside vest pocket. Then all of a sudden he seems to straighten up.
He squares his shoulders and stiffens his jaw.
"Evelyn!" he sings out. "Ho, Evelyn!"
It ain't any smooth, ladylike tone he uses, either. A couple of stout
female parties, that's been toyin' with lobster Newburg patties and
chocolate éclairs and gooseberry tarts, stops their gossipin' and glares
round at him indignant.
"Evelyn, I say!" he goes on, fairly roarin' it out.
At that out comes Sister from behind her little coop lookin' panicky.
Also in from the kitchen piles the haughty waitress with the
mustard-tinted hair, and a dumpy, frowzy one that I hadn't noticed
before. The haughty one glares at Gerald scornful, almost as if he'd
been a customer.
"Why--why, Brother dear!" begins Evelyn, still holdin' open the novel
she'd been readin'. "What is the matter?"
"I'm through, that's all," he announces crisp.
"You--you are what?" asks his sister.
"Through," says Gerald loud and snappy. "I'm going to quit all
this--now, too. I'm going to close up, going out of the business.
Understand? So get those women out of here at once."
"But--but, Gerald," gasps Evelyn, "they--you see they are----"
"I don't care whether they've finished or not," says he. "It doesn't
matter. They needn't pay. But clear 'em out. Right away!"
She had big dark eyes, Sister Evelyn. She was thinner than Gerald, and a
few years older, I should guess. Anyway, her hair showed more gray
streaks. She had a soft, easy voice and gentle ways. She didn't faint,
or throw any emotional fit. She just looks at Gerald mildly reproachful
and remarks:
"Very well, Brother dear," and then glides down the aisle to the two
heavy-weight food destroyers.
We couldn't hear just what she told 'em, but it must have been
convincin'. They gathers up their wraps and shoppin' bags and sails
out, sputterin' peevish.
"Here, Celia!" commands Gerald, turnin' to the waitresses. "You and
Bertha pull down those front shades--tight, mind you! Then turn on the
dome and side lights--all of 'em."
We sat watchin' the proceedin's, Steele and me, with our mouths open,
not knowin' whether to go or stay. Evelyn stands starin' at him too. In
a minute, though, he whirls on her.
"You needn't think I've gone crazy, Evelyn," he says. "I was never more
sane. But something has happened. I've just had a windfall. You'd never
guess. From old Gordon; you remember, the beast who----"
"Yes, I know," says Evelyn. "Mr. Steele has been talking to me about
it."
"Has, eh?" says Gerald. "Well, I trust it wasn't you who gave him that
idea about keeping me in this fool business for the rest of my life.
Ugh! Talking sappy to an endless stream of silly women, palming off on
them such useless junk as this! Look at it! Egyptian scarabs, made in
Connecticut; Ceylonese coral, from North Attleboro, Mass.; Bohemian
glassware, from Sandsburg, Pa.; Indian baskets woven by the Papago
tribe, meaning Rutherford, N. J. Bah! For nearly twelve years I've been
doing this. And you're to blame for it, you and Irene and Georgianna.
You got me into it when I could find nothing else to do, and then
somehow I couldn't seem to get out. Lying and smirking and dickering
day after day--sickening! But I'm through. And just as a relief to my
feelings I'm going to finish off a lot of this rubbish before I go.
Watch!"
With that he picks a teapot from our table, balances it careful in one
hand, and sends it bang at a shelf full of blue and yellow pitchers.
Crash! Smash! Tinkle-tinkle!
It was a good shot. He got three or four of 'em at one clip.
Next he reaches for the sugar bowl and chucks that. More crash. More
tinkle-tinkle. This time it was sort of a side-wipin' blow, and a full
half-dozen fancy cream jugs bit the dust.
"Good eye!" says I, chucklin'. Even J. Bayard has to grin.
As for Sister Evelyn, she says never a word, but braces herself against
a table and grips her hands together, like she was preparin' to have a
tooth out. The dumpy waitress clutches the haughty one around the waist
and breathes wheezy.
"Vases!" says Gerald, scowlin' at a shelf. "Silly vases!"
And with that he ups with a chair, swings it over his shoulder, and mows
down a whole row of 'em. They goes crashin' onto the floor.
"Muh Gord!" gasps the dumpy tea juggler.
"Clean alley! Set 'em up on the other!" I sings out.
But Gerald is too busy to notice side remarks. His thin face is flushed
and his eyes sparkle. Peelin' off the cutaway, he tosses it careless on
a table.
"Look out for splinters!" says he as he heaves a chair into the showcase
among the fake jew'lry, and with another proceeds to make vicious swipes
at whatever's left on the shelves.
As a tearoom wrecker he was some artist, believe me! Not a blessed thing
that could be smashed did he miss, and what he couldn't break he bent or
dented.
"Ain't he just grand!" observes Celia to her dumpy friend. "My! I didn't
think it was in him."
It was, though. A village fire department couldn't have done a neater
job, or been more thorough. He even tosses down a lot of work baskets
and jumps on 'em and kicks 'em about.
"There!" says he, after a lively session, when the place looks like it
had been through a German siege. "Now it's all genuine junk, I guess."
Sister Evelyn gazes at him placid. "No doubt about that," she remarks.
"And I hope you feel better, Brother dear. Perhaps you will tell me,
though, what is to become of me now."
"I am going to leave some money for you," says he. "If you're silly
enough, you can buy a lot more of this stuff and keep on. If you have
any sense, you'll quit and go live with Irene."
"And you, Gerald?" asks Evelyn.
"I'm off," says he. "I'm going to do some real work, man's work. You saw
that dark-looking chap who was in here a few days ago? That was Bentley,
who used to be bank messenger in old Gordon's office. He was discharged
without cause too. But he had no five sisters to make a sappy tearoom
manager out of him. He went to the Argentine. Owns a big cattle ranch
down there. Wants me to go in with him and buy the adjoining ranch. He
sails day after to-morrow. I'm going with him, to live a wild, rough
life; and the wilder and rougher it is the better I shall like it."
"Oh!" says Sister Evelyn, liftin' her eyebrows sarcastic. "Will you?"
Well, that's just what J. Bayard and I have been askin' each other ever
since. Anyway, he's gone. Showed up here in the studio the last thing,
wearin' a wide-brimmed felt hat with a leather band--and if that don't
signify somethin' wild and rough, I don't know what does.
"Rather an impetuous nature, Gerald's," observes Steele. "I hope it
doesn't get him into trouble down there."
"Who knows?" says I. "Next thing we may be hearin' how he's tried to
stab some Spaniard with a whisk broom."