_ In his white-painted steerage berth Mr. Wrenn lay, with a
scratch-pad on his raised knees and a small mean pillow
doubled under his head, writing sample follow-up letters to
present to the Souvenir and Art Novelty Company, interrupting
his work at intervals to add to a list of the books which,
beginning about five minutes after he landed in New York, he was
going to master. He puzzled over Marie Corelli. Morton liked
Miss Corelli so much; but would her works appeal to Istra Nash?
He had worked for many hours on a letter to Istra in which he
avoided mention of such indecent matters as steerages and
immigrants. He was grateful, he told her, for "all you learned
me," and he had thought that Aengusmere was a beautiful place,
though he now saw "what you meant about them interesting
people," and his New York address would be the Souvenir Company.
He tore up the several pages that repeated that oldest most
melancholy cry of the lover, which rang among the deodars, from
viking ships, from the moonlit courtyards of Provence, the cry
which always sounded about Mr. Wrenn as he walked the deck:
"I want you so much; I miss you so unendingly; I am so lonely for
you, dear." For no more clearly, no more nobly did the golden
Aucassin or lean Dante word that cry in their thoughts than did
Mr. William Wrenn, Our Mr. Wrenn.
A third-class steward with a mangy mustache and setter-like
tan eyes came teetering down-stairs, each step like a nervous
pencil tap on a table, and peered over the side of Mr. Wrenn's
berth. He loved Mr. Wrenn, who was proven a scholar by the
reading of real bound books--an English history and a
second-hand copy of _Haunts of Historic English Writers_,
purchased in Liverpool--and who was willing to listen to the
steward's serial story of how his woman, Mrs. Wargle,
faithlessly consorted with Foddle, the cat's-meat man, when the
steward was away, and, when he was home, cooked for him lights
and liver that unquestionably were purchased from the same
cat's-meat man. He now leered with a fond and watery gaze upon
Mr. Wrenn's scholarly pursuits, and announced in a whisper:
"They've sighted land."
"Land?"
"Oh aye."
Mr. Wrenn sat up so vigorously that he bumped his head.
He chucked his papers beneath the pillow with his right hand,
while the left was feeling for the side of the berth.
"Land!" he bellowed to drowsing cabin-mates as he vaulted out.
The steerage promenade-deck, iron-sided, black-floored, ending
in the iron approaches to the galley at one end and the iron
superstructures about a hatch at the other, was like a grim
swart oilily clean machine-shop aisle, so inclosed, so
over-roofed, that the side toward the sea seemed merely a long
factory window. But he loved it and, except when he had
guiltily remembered the books he had to read, he had stayed on
deck, worshiping the naive bright attire of immigrants and the
dark roll and glory of the sea.
Now, out there was a blue shading, made by a magic pencil; land,
his land, where he was going to become the beloved comrade of
all the friends whose likenesses he saw in the white-caps
flashing before him.
Humming, he paraded down to the buffet, where small
beer and smaller tobacco were sold, to buy another pound of
striped candy for the offspring of the Russian Jews.
The children knew he was coming. "Fat rascals," he chuckled,
touching their dark cheeks, pretending to be frightened as they
pounded soft fists against the iron side of the ship or rolled
unregarded in the scuppers. Their shawled mothers knew him,
too, and as he shyly handed about the candy the chattering
stately line of Jewish elders nodded their beards like the
forest primeval in a breeze, saying words of blessing in a
strange tongue.
He smiled back and made gestures, and shouted "Land! Land!" with
several variations in key, to make it sound foreign.
But he withdrew for the sacred moment of seeing the Land of
Promise he was newly discovering--the Long Island shore; the
grass-clad redouts at Fort Wadsworth; the vast pile of New York
sky-scrapers, standing in a mist like an enormous burned forest.
"Singer Tower.... Butterick Building," he murmured, as they
proceeded toward their dock. "That's something like.... Let's
see; yes, sir, by golly, right up there between the Met. Tower
and the _Times_--good old Souvenir Company office. Jiminy! `One
Dollar to Albany'--something _like_ a sign, that is--good old
dollar! To thunder with their darn shillings. Home!... Gee!
there's where I used to moon on a wharf!... Gosh! the old town
looks good."
And all this was his to conquer, for friendship's sake.
He went to a hotel. While he had to go back to the Zapps', of
course, he did not wish, by meeting those old friends, to spoil
his first day. No, it was cheerfuler to stand at a window of
his cheap hotel on Seventh Avenue, watching the "good old
American crowd"--Germans, Irishmen, Italians, and Jews. He
went to the Nickelorion and grasped the hand of the ticket-taker,
the Brass-button Man, ejaculating: "How are you? Well,
how's things going with the old show?... I been away couple
of months."
"Fine and dandy! Been away, uh? Well, it's good to get back to
the old town, heh? Summer hotel?"
"Unk?"
"Why, you're the waiter at Pat Maloney's, ain't you?"
Next morning Mr. Wrenn made himself go to the Souvenir and Art
Novelty Company. He wanted to get the teasing, due him for
staying away so short a time, over as soon as possible. The
office girl, addressing circulars, seemed surprised when he
stepped from the elevator, and blushed her usual shy gratitude
to the men of the office for allowing her to exist and take away
six dollars weekly.
Then into the entry-room ran Rabin, one of the traveling salesmen.
"Why, hul-lo, Wrenn! Wondered if that could be you. Back so
soon? Thought you were going to Europe."
"Just got back. Couldn't stand it away from you, old scout!"
"You must have been learning to sass back real smart, in the Old
Country, heh? Going to be with us again? Well, see you again
soon. Glad see you back."
He was not madly excited at seeing Rabin; still, the drummer was
part of the good old Souvenir Company, the one place in the
world on which he could absolutely depend, the one place where
they always wanted him.
He had been absently staring at the sample-tables, noting new
novelties. The office girl, speaking sweetly, but as to an
outsider, inquired, "Who did you wish to see, Mr. Wrenn?"
"Why! Mr. Guilfogle."
"He's busy, but if you'll sit down I think you can see him in a
few minutes."
Mr. Wrenn felt like the prodigal son, with no calf in sight, at
having to wait on the callers' bench, but he shook with faint
excited gurgles of mirth at the thought of the delightful
surprise Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, the office manager,
was going to have. He kept an eye out for Charley Carpenter.
If Charley didn't come through the entry-room he'd go into the
bookkeeping-room, and--"talk about your surprises--"
"Mr. Guilfogle will see you now," said the office girl.
As he entered the manager's office Mr. Guilfogle made much of
glancing up with busy amazement.
"Well, well, Wrenn! Back so soon? Thought you were going to be
gone quite a while."
"Couldn't keep away from the office, Mr. Guilfogle," with an
uneasy smile.
"Have a good trip?"
"Yes, a dandy."
"How'd you happen to get back so soon?"
"Oh, I wanted to--Say, Mr. Guilfogle, I really wanted to get
back to the office again. I'm awfully glad to see it again."
"Glad see _you_. Well, where did you go? I got the card you
sent me from Chesterton with the picture of the old church on it."
"Why, I went to Liverpool and Oxford and London and--well--Kew
and Ealing and places and--And I tramped through Essex and
Suffolk--all through--on foot. Aengusmere and them places."
"Just a moment. (Well, Rabin, what is it? Why certainly. I've
told you that already about five times. _Yes_, I said--that's
what I had the samples made up for. I wish you'd be a little
more careful, d' ye hear?) You went to London, did you, Wrenn?
Say, did you notice any novelties we could copy?"
"No, I'm afraid I didn't, Mr. Guilfogle. I'm awfully sorry. I
hunted around, but I couldn't find a thing we could use. I mean
I couldn't find anything that began to come up to our line.
Them English are pretty slow."
"Didn't, eh? Well, what's your plans now?"
"Why--uh--I kind of thought--Honestly, Mr. Guilfogle, I'd
like to get back on my old job. You remember--it was to be
fixed so--"
"Afraid there's nothing doing just now, Wrenn. Not a thing.
Course I can't tell what may happen, and you want to keep in
touch with us, but we're pretty well filled up just now. Jake
is getting along better than we thought. He's learning--"
Not one word regarding Jake's excellence did Mr. Wrenn hear.
Not get the job back? He sat down and stammered:
"Gee! I hadn't thought of that. I'd kind of banked on the
Souvenir Company, Mr. Guilfogle."
"Well, you know I told you I thought you were an idiot to go.
I warned you."
He timidly agreed, mourning: "Yes, that so; I know you did.
But uh--well--"
"Sorry, Wrenn. That's the way it goes in business, though. If
you will go beating it around--A rolling stone don't gather any
moss. Well, cheer up! Possibly there may be something doing
in--"
"Tr-r-r-r-r-r-r," said the telephone.
Mr. Guilfogle remarked into it: "Hello. Yes, it's me. Well,
who did you think it was? The cat? Yuh. Sure. No. Well,
to-morrow, probably. All right. Good-by."
Then he glanced at his watch and up at Mr. Wrenn impatiently.
"Say, Mr. Guilfogle, you say there'll be--when will there be
likely to be an opening?"
"Now, how can I tell, my boy? We'll work you in if we can--you
ain't a bad clerk; or at least you wouldn't be if you'd be a
little more careful. By the way, of course you understand that
if we try to work you in it'll take lots of trouble, and we'll
expect you to not go flirting round with other firms, looking
for a job. Understand that?"
"Oh yes, sir."
"All right. We appreciate your work all right, but of
course you can 't expect us to fire any of our present force
just because you take the notion to come back whenever you want
to.... Hiking off to Europe, leaving a good job!... You didn't
get on the Continent, did you?"
"No, I--"
"Well.... Oh, say, how's the grub in London? Cheaper than it
is here? The wife was saying this morning we'd have to stop
eating if the high cost of living goes on going up."
"Yes, it's quite a little cheaper. You can get fine tea for two
and three cents a cup. Clothes is cheaper, too. But I don't
care much for the English, though there is all sorts of quaint
places with a real flavor.... Say, Mr. Guilfogle, you know I
inherited a little money, and I can wait awhile, and you'll kind
of keep me in mind for a place if one--"
"Didn't I _say_ I would?"
"Yes, but--"
"You come around and see me a week from now. And leave your
address with Rosey. I don't know, though, as we can afford to
pay you quite the same salary at first, even if we can work you
in--the season's been very slack. But I'll do what I can for
you. Come in and see me in about a week. Goo' day."
Rabin, the salesman, waylaid Mr. Wrenn in the corridor.
"You look kind of peeked, Wrenn. Old Goglefogle been lighting
into you? Say, I ought to have told you first. I forgot it.
The old rat, he's been planning to stick the knife into you all
the while. 'Bout two weeks ago me and him had a couple of
cocktails at Mouquin's. You know how chummy he always gets
after a couple of smiles. Well, he was talking about--I was
saying you're a good man and hoping you were having a good
time--and he said, `Yes,' he says, `he's a good man, but he sure
did lay himself wide open by taking this trip. I've got him
dead to rights,' he says to me. `I've got a hunch he'll be
back here in three or four months,' he says to me. `And do you
think he'll walk in and get what he wants? Not him. I'll keep
him waiting a month before I give him back his job, and then you
watch, Rabin,' he says to me, `you'll see he'll be tickled to
death to go back to work at less salary than he was getting, and
he'll have sense enough to not try this stunt of getting off the
job again after that. And the trip'll be good for him,
anyway--he'll do better work--vacation at his own expense--save
us money all round. I tell you, Rabin,' he says to me, `if any
of you boys think you can get the best of the company or me you
just want to try it, that's all.' Yessir, that's what the old
rat told me. You want to watch out for him."
"Oh, I will; indeed I will--"
"Did he spring any of this fairy tale just now?"
"Well, kind of. Say, thanks, I'm awful obliged to--"
"Say, for the love of Mike, don't let him know I told you."
"No, no, I sure won't."
They parted. Eager though he was for the great moment of again
seeing his comrade, Charley Carpenter, Mr. Wrenn dribbled toward
the bookkeeping-room mournfully, planning to tell Charley of
Guilfogle's wickedness.
The head bookkeeper shook his head at Mr. Wrenn's inquiry:
"Charley ain't here any longer."
"Ain't _here?_"
"No. He got through. He got to boozing pretty bad, and one
morning about three weeks ago, when he had a pretty bad
hang-over, he told Guilfogle what he thought of him, so of
course Guilfogle fired him."
"Oh, that's too _bad_. Say, you don't know his address, do you?"
"--East a Hundred and Eighteenth.... Well, I'm glad to see
you back, Wrenn. Didn't expect to see you back so soon, but
always glad to see you. Going to be with us?"
"I ain't sure," said Mr. Wrenn, crabbedly, then shook hands
warmly with the bookkeeper, to show there was nothing personal
in his snippishness.
For nearly a hundred blocks Mr. Wrenn scowled at an
advertisement of Corn Flakes in the Third Avenue Elevated without
really seeing it.... Should he go back to the Souvenir Company
at all?
Yes. He would. That was the best way to start making friends.
But he would "get our friend Guilfogle at recess," he assured
himself, with an out-thrust of the jaw like that of the great
Bill Wrenn. He knew Guilfogle's lead now, and he would show
that gentleman that he could play the game. He'd take that
lower salary and pretend to be frightened, but when he got the
chance--
He did not proclaim even to himself what dreadful thing he was
going to do, but as he left the Elevated he said over and over,
shaking his closed fist inside his coat pocket:
"When I get the chance--when I _get_ it--"
The flat-building where Charley Carpenter lived was one of
hundreds of pressed-brick structures, apparently all turned out
of the same mold. It was filled with the smells of steamy
washing and fried fish. Languid with the heat, Mr. Wrenn
crawled up an infinity of iron steps and knocked three times at
Charley's door. No answer. He crawled down again and sought
out the janitress, who stopped watching an ice-wagon in the
street to say:
"I guess you'll be finding him asleep up there, sir. He do be
lying there drunk most of the day. His wife's left him. The
landlord's give him notice to quit, end of August. Warm day,
sir. Be you a bill-collector? Mostly, it's bill-collectors
that--"
"Yes, it is hot."
Superior in manner, but deeply dejected, Mr. Wrenn rang the
down-stairs bell long enough to wake Charley, pantingly got
himself up the interminable stairs, and kicked the door till
Charley's voice quavered inside:
"Who zhat?"
"It's me, Charley. Wrenn."
"You're in Yurp. Can't fool me. G' 'way from there."
Three other doors on the same landing were now partly open and
blocked with the heads of frowsy inquisitive women. The steamy
smell was thicker in the darkness. Mr. Wrenn felt prickly, then
angry at this curiosity, and again demanded:
"Lemme in, I say."
"Tell you it ain't you. I know you!"
Charley Carpenter's pale face leered out. His tousled hair was
stuck to his forehead by perspiration; his eyes were red and
vaguely staring. His clothes were badlv wrinkled. He wore a
collarless shirt with a frilled bosom of virulent pink, its
cuffs grimy and limp.
"It's ol' Wrenn. C'm in. C'm in quick. Collectors always
hanging around. They can't catch me. You bet."
He closed the door and wabbled swiftly down the long drab hall
of the "railroad flat," evidently trying to walk straight. The
reeking stifling main room at the end of the hall was terrible
as Charley's eyes. Flies boomed everywhere. The oak table,
which Charley and his bride had once spent four happy hours in
selecting, was littered with half a dozen empty whisky-flasks,
collars, torn sensational newspapers, dirty plates and
coffee-cups. The cheap brocade cover, which a bride had once
joyed to embroider with red and green roses, was half pulled off
and dragged on the floor amid the cigarette butts, Durham
tobacco, and bacon rinds which covered the green-and-yellow
carpet-rug.
This much Mr. Wrenn saw. Then he set himself to the hard task
of listening to Charley, who was muttering:
"Back quick, ain't you, ol' Wrenn? You come up to see me,
didn't you? You're m' friend, ain't you, eh? I got an awful
hang-over, ain't I? You don't care, do you, ol' Wrenn?"
Mr. Wrenn stared at him weakly, but only for a minute.
Perhaps it was his cattle-boat experience which now made
him deal directly with such drunkenness as would have
nauseated him three months before; perhaps his attendance
on a weary Istra.
"Come now, Charley, you got to buck up," he crooned.
"_All_ ri'."
"What's the trouble? How did you get going like this?"
"Wife left me. I was drinking. You think I'm drunk, don't you?
But I ain't. She went off with her sister--always hated me. She
took my money out of savings-bank--three hundred; all money I had
'cept fifty dollars. I'll fix her. I'll kill her. Took to
hitting the booze. Goglefogle fired me. Don't care. Drink all
I want. Keep young fellows from getting it! Say, go down and
get me pint. Just finished up pint. Got to have one-die of
thirst. Bourbon. Get--"
"I'll go and get you a drink, Charley--just one drink,
savvy?--if you'll promise to get cleaned up, like I tell
you, afterward."
"_All_ ri'."
Mr. Wrenn hastened out with a whisky-flask, muttering,
feverishly, "Gee! I got to save him." Returning, he poured out
one drink, as though it were medicine for a refractory patient,
and said, soothingly:
"Now we'll take a cold bath, heh? and get cleaned up and
sobered up. Then we'll talk about a job, heh?"
"Aw, don't want a bath. Say, I feel better now. Let's go out
and have a drink. Gimme that flask. Where j' yuh put it?"
Mr. Wrenn went to the bathroom, turned on the cold-water tap,
returned, and undressed Charley, who struggled and laughed and
let his whole inert weight rest against Mr. Wrenn's shoulder.
Though normally Charley could have beaten three Mr. Wrenns, he
was run into the bath-room and poked into the tub.
Instantly he began to splash, throwing up water in handfuls,
singing. The water poured over the side of the tub. Mr. Wrenn
tried to hold him still, but the wet sleek shoulders slipped
through his hand like a wet platter. Wholesomely vexed, he
turned off the water and slammed the bathroom door.
In the bedroom he found an unwrinkled winter-weight suit and one
clean shirt. In the living-room he hung up his coat, covering
it with a newspaper, pulled the broom from under the table, and
prepared to sweep.
The disorder was so great that he made one of the inevitable
discoveries of every housekeeper, and admitted to himself that
he "didn't know where to begin." He stumblingly lugged a heavy
pile of dishes from the center-table to the kitchen, shook and
beat and folded the table-cover, stuck the chairs atop the table,
and began to sweep.
At the door a shining wet naked figure stood, bellowing:
"Hey! What d' yuh think you're doing? Cut it out."
"Just sweeping, Charley," from Mr. Wrenn, and an uninterrupted
"Tuff, tuff, tuff" from the broom.
"Cut it out, I said. Whose house _is_ this?"
"Gwan back in the bath-tub, Charley."
"Say, d' yuh think you can run me? Get out of this, or I'll
throw you out. Got house way I want it."
Bill Wrenn, the cattleman, rushed at him, smacked him with the
broom, drove him back into the tub, and waited. He laughed.
It was all a good joke; his friend Charley and he were playing
a little game. Charley also laughed and splashed some more.
Then he wept and said that the water was cold, and that he was now
deserted by his only friend.
"Oh, shut up," remarked Bill Wrenn, and swept the bathroom floor.
Charley stopped swashing about to sneer:
"Li'l ministering angel, ain't you? You think you're awful
good, don't you? Come up here and bother me. When I ain't well.
Salvation Army. You----. Aw, lemme _'lone_, will you?" Bill
Wrenn kept on sweeping. "Get out, you----."
There was enough energy in Charley's voice to indicate that he
was getting sober. Bill Wrenn soused him under once more, so
thoroughly that his own cuffs were reduced to a state of
flabbiness. He dragged Charley out, helped him dry himself,
and drove him to bed.
He went out and bought dish-towels, soap, washing-powder, and
collars of Charley's size, which was an inch larger than his own.
He finished sweeping and dusting and washing the dishes--all
of them. He--who had learned to comfort Istra--he really
enjoyed it. His sense of order made it a pleasure to see
a plate yellow with dried egg glisten iridescently and flash
into shining whiteness; or a room corner filled with dust and
tobacco flakes become again a "nice square clean corner with
the baseboard shining, gee! just like it was new."
An irate grocer called with a bill for fifteen dollars. Mr.
Wrenn blandly heard his threats all through, pretending to
himself that this was his home, whose honor was his honor.
He paid the man eight dollars on account and loftily dismissed him.
He sat down to wait for Charley, reading a newspaper most of the
time, but rising to pursue stray flies furiously, stumbling over
chairs, and making murderous flappings with a folded newspaper.
When Charley awoke, after three hours, clear of mind but not at
all clear as regards the roof of his mouth, Mr. Wrenn gave him
a very little whisky, with considerable coffee, toast, and bacon.
The toast was not bad.
"Now, Charley," he said, cheerfully, "your bat's over, ain't it,
old man?"
"Say, you been darn' decent to me, old man. Lord! how you've
been sweeping up! How was I--was I pretty soused?"
"Honest, you were fierce. You will sober up, now, won't you?"
"Well, it's no wonder I had a classy hang-over, Wrenn. I was at
the Amusieren Rathskeller till four this morning, and then I had
a couple of nips before breakfast, and then I didn't have any
breakfast. But sa-a-a-ay, man, I sure did have some fiesta last
night. There was a little peroxide blonde that--"
"Now you look here, Carpenter; you listen to me. You're sober
now. Have you tried to find another job?"
"Yes, I did. But I got down in the mouth. Didn't feel like I
had a friend left."
"Well, you h--"
"But I guess I have now, old Wrennski."
"Look here, Charley, you know I don't want to pull off no
Charity Society stunt or talk like I was a preacher. But I like
you so darn much I want to see you sober up and get another job.
Honestly I do, Charley. Are you broke?"
"Prett' nearly. Only got about ten dollars to my name....
I _will_ take a brace, old man. I know you ain't no preacher.
Course if you came around with any `holierthan-thou' stunt I'd
have to go right out and get soused on general principles....
Yuh--I'll try to get a job."
"Here's ten dollars. Please take it--aw--please, Charley."
"_All_ right; anything to oblige."
"What 've you got in sight in the job line?"
"Well, there's a chance at night clerking in a little hotel
where I was a bell-hop long time ago. The night clerk's going to
get through, but I don't know just when--prob'ly in a week or two."
"Well, keep after it. And _please_ come down to see me--the old
place--West Sixteenth Street."
"What about the old girl with the ingrowing grouch? What's her
name? She ain't stuck on me."
"Mrs. Zapp? Oh--hope she chokes. She can just kick all she
wants to. I'm just going to have all the visitors I want to."
"All right. Say, tell us something about your trip."
"Oh, I had a great time. Lots of nice fellows on the cattle-boat.
I went over on one, you know. Fellow named Morton--awfully
nice fellow. Say, Charley, you ought to seen me being butler
to the steers. Handing 'em hay. But say, the sea was fine;
all kinds of colors. Awful dirty on the cattle-boat, though."
"Hard work?"
"Yuh--kind of hard. Oh, not so very."
"What did you see in England?"
"Oh, a lot of different places. Say, I seen some great vaudeville
in Liverpool, Charley, with Morton--he's a slick fellow; works for
the Pennsylvania, here in town. I got to look him up. Say, I
wish we had an agency for college sofa-pillows and banners and
souvenir stuff in Oxford. There's a whole bunch of colleges there,
all right in the same town. I met a prof. there from some American
college--he hired an automobubble and took me down to a reg'lar
old inn--"
"Well, well!"
"--like you read about; sanded floor!"
"Get to London?"
"Yuh. Gee! it's a big place. Say, that Westminster
Abbey's a great place. I was in there a couple of times.
More darn tombs of kings and stuff. And I see a bishop,
with leggins on! But I got kind of lonely. I thought of
you a lot of times. Wished we could go out and get an ale
together. Maybe pick up a couple of pretty girls."
"Oh, you sport!... Say, didn't get over to gay Paree, did you?"
"Nope.... Well, I guess I'd better beat it now.
Got to move in--I'm at a hotel. You will come down and see
me to-night, won't you?"
"So you thought of me, eh?... Yuh--sure, old socks.
I'll be down to-night. And I'll get right after that job."
It is doubtful whether Mr. Wrenn would ever have returned
to the Zapps' had he not promised to see Charley there.
Even while he was carrying his suit-case down West Sixteenth,
broiling by degrees in the sunshine, he felt like rushing
up to Charley's and telling him to come to the hotel instead.
Lee Theresa, taking the day off with a headache,
answered the bell, and ejaculated:
"Well! So it's you, is it?"
"I guess it is."
"What, are you back so soon? Why, you ain't been gone more
than a month and a half, have you?"
Beware, daughter of Southern pride! The little Yankee is
regarding your full-blown curves and empty eyes with rebellion,
though he says, ever so meekly:
"Yes, I guess it is about that, Miss Theresa."
"Well, I just knew you couldn't stand it away from us.
I suppose you'll want your room back. Ma, here's Mr. Wrenn
back again--Mr. Wrenn! _Ma!_"
"Oh-h-h-h!" sounded Goaty Zapp's voice, in impish
disdain, below. "Mr. Wrenn's back. Hee, hee! Couldn't
stand it. Ain't that like a Yankee!"
A slap, a wail, then Mrs. Zapp's elephantine slowness
on the stairs from the basement. She appeared, buttoning
her collar, smiling almost pleasantly, for she disliked
Mr. Wrenn less than she did any other of her lodgers.
"Back already, Mist' Wrenn? Ah declare, Ah was
saying to Lee Theresa just yest'day, Ah just knew you'd
be wishing you was back with us. Won't you come in?"
He edged into the parlor with, "How is the sciatica, Mrs. Zapp?"
"Ah ain't feeling right smart."
"My room occupied yet?"
He was surveying the airless parlor rather heavily, and
his curt manner was not pleasing to the head of the house
of Zapp, who remarked, funereally:
"It ain't taken just now, Mist' Wrenn, but Ah dunno.
There was a gennulman a-looking at it just yesterday, and
he said he'd be permanent if he came. Ah declare, Mist' Wrenn,
Ah dunno's Ah like to have my gennulmen just get up and
go without giving me notice."
Lee Theresa scowled at her.
Mr. Wrenn retorted, "I _did_ give you notice."
"Ah know, but--well, Ah reckon Ah can let you have it, but Ah'll
have to have four and a half a week instead of four. Prices is
all going up so, Ah declare, Ah was just saying to Lee T'resa Ah
dunno what we're all going to do if the dear Lord don't look out
for us. And, Mist' Wrenn, Ah dunno's Ah like to have you coming
in so late nights. But Ah reckon Ah can accommodate you."
"It's a good deal of a favor, isn't it, Mrs. Zapp?"
Mr. Wrenn was dangerously polite. Let gentility look out for
the sharp practices of the Yankee.
"Yes, but--"
It was our hero, our madman of the seven and seventy seas, our
revolutionist friend of Istra, who leaped straight from the
salt-incrusted decks of his laboring steamer to the musty parlor
and declared, quietly but unmovably-practically
unmovably--"Well, then, I guess I'd better not take it at all."
"So that's the way you're going to treat us!" bellowed Mrs.
Zapp. "You go off and leave us with an unoccupied room and--
Oh! You poor white trash--you--"
"_Ma!_ You shut up and go down-stairs-s-s-s-s!" Theresa hissed.
"Go on."
Mrs. Zapp wabbled regally out. Lee Theresa spoke to Mr. Wrenn:
"Ma ain't feeling a bit well this afternoon. I'm sorry she
talked like that. You will come back, won't you?" She showed
all her teeth in a genuine smile, and in her anxiety reached
his heart. "Remember, you promised you would."
"Well, I will, but--"
Bill Wrenn was fading, an affrighted specter. The "but" was
the last glimpse of him, and that Theresa overlooked, as she
bustlingly chirruped: "I _knew_ you would understand. I'll skip
right up and look at the room and put on fresh sheets."
One month, one hot New York month, passed before the imperial
Mr. Guilfogle gave him back The Job, and then at seventeen
dollars and fifty cents a week instead of his former nineteen
dollars. Mr. Wrenn refused, upon pretexts, to go out with the
manager for a drink, and presented him with twenty suggestions
for new novelties and circular letters. He rearranged the
unsystematic methods of Jake, the cub, and two days later he was
at work as though he had never in his life been farther from the
Souvenir Company than Newark. _