XI: _Honor Among Sportsmen_
Each with his favorite hunting pig on a stout string, a band of theleading citizens of Montpont moved in dignified procession down the RueVictor Hugo in the direction of the hunting preserve.
It was a mild, delicious Sunday, cool and tranquil as a pool in awoodland glade. To Perigord alone come such days. Peace was in the air,and the murmur of voices of men intent on a mission of moment. The menof Montpont were going forth to hunt truffles.
As Brillat-Savarin points out in his "Physiology of Taste"--"All Franceis inordinately truffliferous, and the province of Perigord particularlyso." On week-days the hunting of that succulent subterranean fungus wasa business, indeed, a vast commercial enterprise, for were there notthousands of Perigord pies to be made, and uncounted tins of _pate defoie gras_ to be given the last exquisite touch by the addition of a bitof truffle?
But on Sunday it became a sport, the chief, the only sport of thecitizens of Montpont. A preserve, rich in beech, oak and chestnut treesin whose shade the shy truffle thrives, had been set apart and here thetruffle was never hunted for mercenary motives but for sport and sportalone. On week-days truffle hunting was confined to professionals; onSunday, after church, all Montpont hunted truffles. Even the sub-prefectmaintained a stable of notable pigs for the purpose. For the pig is asnecessary to truffle-hunting as the beagle is to beagling.
A pig, by dint of patient training, can be taught to scent the buriedtruffle with his sensitive snout, and to point to its hiding place, asimmobile as a cast-iron setter on a profiteer's lawn, until its proudowner exhumes the prize. An experienced pointing pig, with a creditablerecord, brings an enormous price in the markets of Montpont.
At the head of the procession that kindly Sunday marched MonsieurBonticu and Monsieur Pantan, with the decisive but leisurely tread ofmen of affairs. They spoke to each other with an elaborate, ceremonialpoliteness, for on this day, at least, they were rivals. On other daysthey were bosom friends. To-day was the last of the fall hunting season,and they were tied, with a score of some two hundred truffles each, forthe championship of Montpont, an honor beside which winning the Derby isnothing and the _Grand Prix de Rome_ a mere bauble in the eyes of allPerigord. To-day was to tell whether the laurels would rest on the roundpink brow of Monsieur Bonticu or the oval olive brow of Monsieur Pantan.
Monsieur Bonticu was the leading undertaker of Montpont, and in hisstately appearance he satisfied the traditions of his calling. He was alarge man of forty or so, and in his special hunting suit of jade-huedcloth he looked, from a distance, to be an enormous green pepper. Hisface was vast and many chinned and his eyes had been set at the bottomof wells sunk deep in his pink face; it was said that even on a brightnoon he could see the stars, as ordinary folk can by peering up fromthe bottom of a mine-shaft. They were small and cunning, his eyes, and alittle diffident. In Montpont, he was popular. Even had his heart notbeen as large as it undoubtedly was, his prowess as a hunter of trufflesand his complete devotion to that art--he insisted it was an art--wouldhave endeared him to all right-thinking Montpontians. He was a bachelor,and said, more than once, as he sipped his old Anjou in the Cafe del'Univers, "I marry? Bonticu marry? That is a cause of laughter, myfriends. I have my little house, a good cook, and my Anastasie. Whatmore could mortal ask? Certainly not an Eve in his paradise. I marry? Ibe dad to a collection of squealing, wiggling cabbages? I laugh at theidea."
Anastasie was his pig, a prodigy at detecting truffles, and his mostpriceless treasure. He once said, at a truffle-hunters' dinner, "I havebut two passions, my comrades. The pursuit of the truffle and the flightfrom the female."
Monsieur Pantan had applauded this sentiment heartily. He, too, was abachelor. He combined, lucratively, the offices of town veterinarian andapothecary, and had written an authoritative book, "The Science ofTruffle Hunting." To him it was a science, the first of sciences. He wasa fierce-looking little man, with bellicose eyes and bristlingmoustachio, and quick, nervous hands that always seemed to be rollingendless thousands of pills. He was given to fits of temper, but that israther expected of a man in the south of France. His devotion to hispig, Clotilde, atoned, in the eyes of Montpont, for a slightly irasciblenature.
The party, by now, had reached the hunting preserve, and with eager,serious faces, they lengthened the leashes on their pigs, and urged themto their task. By the laws of the chase, the choicest area had been leftfor Monsieur Bonticu and Monsieur Pantan, and excited galleries followedeach of the two leading contestants. Bets were freely made.
* * * * *
In a scant nine minutes by the watch, Anastasie was seen to freeze andpoint. Monsieur Bonticu plunged to his plump knees, whipped out histrowel, dug like a badger, and in another minute brought to light ahandsome truffle, the size of a small potato, blackish-gray as the besttruffles are, and studded with warts. With a gesture of triumph, heexhibited it to the umpire, and popped it into his bag. He rewardedAnastasie with a bit of cheese, and urged her to new conquests. But afew seconds later, Monsieur Pantan gave a short hop, skip and jump, andall eyes were fastened on Clotilde, who had grown motionless, save forthe tip of her snout which quivered gently. Monsieur Pantan dugfeverishly and soon brandished aloft a well-developed truffle. So thebattle waged.
At one time, by a series of successes, Monsieur Bonticu was three up onhis rival, but Clotilde, by a bit of brilliant work beneath a chestnuttree, brought to light a nest of four truffles and sent the Pantancolors to the van.
The sun was setting; time was nearly up. The other hunters had longsince stopped and were clustered about the two chief contestants, who,pale but collected, bent all their skill to the hunt. Practically everysquare inch of ground had been covered. But one propitious spotremained, the shadow of a giant oak, and, moved by a common impulse, thestout Bonticu and the slender Pantan simultaneously directed their pigstoward it. But a little minute of time now remained. The gallery heldits breath. Then a great shout made the leaves shake and rustle. Liketwo perfectly synchronized machines, Anastasie and Clotilde had frozenand were pointing. They were pointing to the same spot.
Monsieur Pantan, more active than his rival, had darted to his knees,his trowel poised for action. But a large hand was laid on his shoulder,politely, and the silky voice of Monsieur Bonticu said, "If Monsieurwill pardon me, may I have the honor of informing him that this is myfind?"
Monsieur Pantan, trowel in mid-air, bowed as best a kneeling man can.
"I trust," he said, coolly, "that Monsieur will not consider it animpertinence if I continue to dig up what my Clotilde has, beyondperadventure, discovered, and I hope Monsieur will not take it amiss ifI suggest that he step out of the light as his shadow is not exactlythat of a sapling."
Monsieur Bonticu was trembling, but controlled.
"With profoundest respect," he said from deep in his chest, "I beg to beallowed to inform Monsieur that he is, if I may say so, in error. I mustask Monsieur, as a sportsman, to step back and permit me to take what isjustly mine."
Monsieur Pantan's face was terrible to see, but his voice was icilyformal.
"I regret," he said, "that I cannot admit Monsieur's contention. In thename of sport, and his own honor, I call upon Monsieur to retire fromhis position."
"That," said Monsieur Bonticu, "I will never do."
They both turned faces of appeal to the umpire. That official wasbewildered.
"It is not in the rules, Messieurs," he got out, confusedly. "In myforty years as an umpire, such a thing has not happened. It is a matterto be settled between you, personally."
As he said the words, Monsieur Pantan commenced to dig furiously.Monsieur Bonticu dropped to his knees and also dug, like some great,green, panic-stricken beaver. Mounds of dirt flew up. At the same secondthey spied the truffle, a monster of its tribe. At the same second theplump fingers of Monsieur Bonticu and the thin fingers of MonsieurPantan closed on it. Cries of dismay rose from the gallery.
"It is the largest of truf
fles," called voices. "Don't break it. Brokenones don't count." But it was too late. Monsieur Bonticu tuggedviolently; as violently tugged Monsieur Pantan. The truffle, indeed agiant of its species, burst asunder. The two men stood, each with hishalf, each glaring.
"I trust," said Monsieur Bonticu, in his hollowest death-room voice,"that Monsieur is satisfied. I have my opinion of Monsieur as asportsman, a gentleman and a Frenchman."
"For my part," returned Monsieur Pantan, with rising passion, "it isimpossible for me to consider Monsieur as any of the three."
"What's that you say?" cried Monsieur Bonticu, his big face suddenlyflamingly red.
"Monsieur, in addition to the defects in his sense of honor is not alsodeficient in his sense of hearing," returned the smoldering Pantan.
"Monsieur is insulting."
"That is his hope."
Monsieur Bonticu was aflame with a great, seething wrath, but he hadsufficient control of his sense of insult to jerk at the leash ofAnastasie and say, in a tone all Montpont could hear:
"Come, Anastasie. I once did Monsieur Pantan the honor of consideringhim your equal. I must revise my estimate. He is not your sort of pig atall."
Monsieur Pantan's eyes were blazing dangerously, but he retained aslipping grip on his emotions long enough to say:
"Come, Clotilde. Do not demean yourself by breathing the same air asMonsieur and Madame Bonticu."
The eyes of Monsieur Bonticu, ordinarily so peaceful, now shot forthsparks. Turning a livid face to his antagonist, he cried aloud:
"Monsieur Pantan, in my opinion you are a puff-ball!"
This was too much. For to call a truffle-hunter a puff-ball is to callhim a thing unspeakably vile. In the eyes of a true lover of truffles apuff-ball is a noisome, obscene thing; it is a false truffle. Intruffledom it is a fighting word. With a scream of rage Monsieur Pantanadvanced on the bulky Bonticu.
"By the thumbs of St. Front," he cried, "you shall pay for that,Monsieur Aristide Gontran Louis Bonticu. Here and now, before allMontpont, before all Perigord, before all France, I challenge you to aduel to the death."
Words rattled and jostled in his throat, so great was his anger.Monsieur Bonticu stood motionless; his full-moon face had gone white;the half of truffle slipped from his fingers. For he knew, as they allknew, that the dueling code of Perigord is inexorable. It is seldomnowadays that the Perigordians, even in their hottest moments, say thefighting word, for once a challenge has passed, retirement isimpossible, and a duel is a most serious matter. By rigid rule, thechallenger and challenged must meet at daybreak in mortal combat. Attwenty paces they must each discharge two horse-pistols; then they mustclose on each other with sabers; should these fail to settle the issue,each man is provided with a poniard for the most intimate stages of thecombat. Such duels are seldom bloodless. Monsieur Bonticu's lips formedsome syllables. They were:
"You are aware of the consequences of your words, Monsieur Pantan?"
"Perfectly."
"You do not wish to withdraw them?" Monsieur Bonticu despite himselfinjected a hopeful note into his query.
"I withdraw? Never in this life. On the contrary, not only do I notwithdraw, I reiterate," bridled Monsieur Pantan.
In a _requiescat in pace_ voice, Monsieur Bonticu said:
"So be it. You have sealed your own doom, Monsieur. I shall prepare toattend you first in the capacity of an opponent, and shortly thereafterin my professional capacity."
Monsieur Pantan sneered openly.
"Monsieur the undertaker had better consider in his remaining hourswhether it is feasible to embalm himself or have a stranger do it."
With this thunderbolt of defiance, the little man turned on his heel,and stumped from the field.
Monsieur Bonticu followed at last. But he walked as one whose knees haveturned to _meringue glace_. He went slowly to his little shop and satdown among the coffins. For the first time in his life their presencemade him uneasy. A big new one had just come from the factory. For along time he gazed at it; then he surveyed his own full-blown physiquewith a measuring eye. He shuddered. The light fell on the silver plateon the lid, and his eyes seemed to see engraved there:
MONSIEUR ARISTIDE GONTRAN LOUIS BONTICU
Died in the forty-first year of his life on the field of honor.
"_He was without peer as a hunter of truffles_."
MAY HE REST IN PEACE.
With almost a smile, he reflected that this inscription would makeMonsieur Pantan very angry; yes, he would insist on it. He looked downat his fat fists and sighed profoundly, and shook his big head. They hadnever pulled a trigger or gripped a sword-hilt; the knife, the peacefultable knife, the fork, and the leash of Anastasie--those had occupiedthem. Anastasie! A globular tear rose slowly from the wells in which hiseyes were set, and unchecked, wandered gently down the folds of hisface. Who would care for Anastasie? With another sigh that seemed tostart in the caverns of his soul, he reached out and took a dusty bookfrom a case, and bent over it. It contained the time-honored duelingcode of ancient Perigord. Suddenly, as he read, his eyes brightened, andhe ceased to sigh. He snapped the book shut, took from a peg his besthat, dusted it with his elbow, and stepped out into the starry Perigordnight.
* * * * *
At high noon, three days later, as duly decreed by the dueling code,Monsieur Pantan, in full evening dress, appeared at the shop ofMonsieur Bonticu, accompanied by two solemn-visaged seconds, to makefinal arrangements for the affair of honor. They found Monsieur Bonticusitting comfortably among his coffins. He greeted them with a serenesmile. Monsieur Pantan frowned portentously.
"We have come," announced the chief second, Monsieur Duffon, the townbutcher, "as the representatives of this grossly insulted gentleman todemand satisfaction. The weapons and conditions are, of course, fixed bythe code. It remains only to set the date. Would Friday at dawn in thetruffle preserve be entirely convenient for Monsieur?"
Monsieur Bonticu's shrug contained more regret than a hundred wordscould convey.
"Alas, it will be impossible, Messieurs," he said, with a deep bow.
"Impossible?"
"But yes. I assure Messieurs that nothing would give me more exquisitepleasure than to grant this gentleman"--he stressed this word--"thesatisfaction that his honor"--he also stressed this word--"appears todemand. However, it is impossible."
The seconds and Monsieur Pantan looked at Monsieur Bonticu and at eachother.
"But this is monstrous," exclaimed the chief second. "Is it thatMonsieur refuses to fight?"
Monsieur Bonticu's slowly shaken head indicated most poignant regret.
"But no, Messieurs," he said. "I do not refuse. Is it not a question ofhonor? Am I not a sportsman? But, alas, I am forbidden to fight."
"Forbidden."
"Alas, yes."
"But why?"
"Because," said Monsieur Bonticu, "I am a married man."
The eyes of the three men widened; they appeared stunned by surprise.Monsieur Pantan spoke first.
"You married?" he demanded.
"But certainly."
"When?"
"Only yesterday."
"To whom? I demand proof."
"To Madame Aubison of Barbaste."
"The widow of Sergeant Aubison?"
"The same."
"I do not believe it," declared Monsieur Pantan.
Monsieur Bonticu smiled, raised his voice and called.
"Angelique! Angelique, my dove. Will you come here a little moment?"
"What? And leave the lentil soup to burn?" came an undoubtedly femininevoice from the depths of the house.
"Yes, my treasure."
"What a pest you are, Aristide," said the voice, and its owner, an amplewoman of perhaps thirty, appeared in the doorway. Monsieur Bonticu waveda fat hand toward her.
"My wife, Messieurs," he said.
She bowed stiffly. The three men bowed. They said nothing. T
hey gaped ather. She spoke to her husband.
"Is it that you take me for a Punch and Judy show, Aristide?"
"Ah, never, my rosebud," cried Monsieur Bonticu, with a placating smile."You see, my own, these gentlemen wished----"
"There!" she interrupted. "The lentil soup! It burns." She hurried backto the kitchen.
The three men--Monsieur Pantan and his seconds--consulted together.
"Beyond question," said Monsieur Duffon, "Monsieur Bonticu cannot acceptthe challenge. He is married; you are not. The code says plainly:'Opponents must be on terms of absolute equality in familyresponsibility.' Thus, a single man cannot fight a married one, and soforth. See. Here it is in black and white."
Monsieur Pantan was boiling as he faced the calm Bonticu.
"To think," stormed the little man, "that truffles may be hunted--yes,even eaten, by such a man! I see through you, Monsieur. But think notthat a Pantan can be flouted. I have my opinion of you, Monsieur theundertaker."
Monsieur Bonticu shrugged.
"Your opinions do not interest me," he said, "and only my devotion tothe cause of free speech makes me concede that you are entitled to anopinion at all. Good morning, Messieurs, good morning." He bowed themdown a lane of caskets and out into the afternoon sunshine. The face ofMonsieur Pantan was black.
Time went by in Perigord. Other truffle-hunting seasons came and went,but Messieurs Bonticu and Pantan entered no more competitions. Theyhunted, of course, the one with Anastasie, the other with Clotilde, butthey hunted in solitary state, and studiously avoided each other. Thenone day Monsieur Pantan's hairy countenance, stern and determined,appeared like a genie at the door of Monsieur Bonticu's shop. The rivalsexchanged profound bows.
"I have the honor," said Monsieur Pantan, in his most formal manner, "toannounce to Monsieur that the impediment to our meeting on the field ofhonor has been at last removed, and that I am now in a position to sendmy seconds to him to arrange that meeting. May they call to-morrow athigh noon?"
"I do not understand," said Monsieur Bonticu, arching his eyebrows. "Iam still married."
"I too," said Monsieur Pantan, with a grim smile, "am married."
"You? Pantan? Monsieur jests."
"If Monsieur will look in the newspaper of to-day," said MonsieurPantan, dryly, "he will see an announcement of my marriage yesterday toMadame Marselet of Pergieux."
There was astonishment and alarm in the face of the undertaker. Thenreverie seemed to wrap him round. The scurrying of footsteps, the bumbleof voices, in the rooms over the shop aroused him. His face was tranquilagain as he spoke.
"Will Monsieur and his seconds do me the honor of calling on me dayafter to-morrow?" he asked.
"As you wish," replied Monsieur Pantan, a gleam of satisfaction in hiseye.
Punctual to the second, Monsieur Pantan and his friends presentedthemselves at the shop of Monsieur Bonticu. His face, they observed, wasfirst worried, then smiling, then worried again.
"Will to-morrow at dawn be convenient for Monsieur?" inquired thebutcher, Duffon.
Monsieur Bonticu gestured regret with his shoulders, and said:
"I am desolated with chagrin, Messieurs, believe me, but it isimpossible."
"Impossible. It cannot be," cried Monsieur Pantan. "Monsieur has onewife. I have one wife. Our responsibilities are equal. Is it thatMonsieur is prepared to swallow his word of insult?"
"Never," declared Monsieur Bonticu. "I yearn to encounter Monsieur inmortal combat. But, alas, it is not I, but Nature that intervenes. Ihave, only this morning, become a father, Messieurs."
As if in confirmation there came from the room above the treble wail ofa new infant.
"Behold!" exclaimed Monsieur Bonticu, with a wave of his hand.
Monsieur Pantan's face was purple.
"This is too much," he raged. "But wait, Monsieur. But wait." He clappedhis high hat on his head and stamped out of the shop.
Truffles were hunted and the days flowed by and Monsieur Pantan and hisseconds one high noon again called upon Monsieur Bonticu, who greetedthem urbanely, albeit he appeared to have lost weight and tinyworry-wrinkles were visible in his face.
"Monsieur," began the chief second, "may I have the honor----"
"I'll speak for myself," interrupted Monsieur Pantan. "With my own voiceI wish to inform Monsieur that nothing can now prevent our meeting, atdawn to-morrow. To-day, Monsieur the undertaker, I, too, became afather!"
The news seemed to interest but not to stagger Monsieur Bonticu. Hissmile was sad as he said:
"You are too late, Monsieur the apothecary and veterinarian. Two daysago I, also, became a father again."
Monsieur Pantan appeared to be about to burst, so terrible was his rage.
"But wait," he screamed, "but wait." And he rushed out.
Next day Monsieur Pantan and his seconds returned. The moustachios ofthe little man were on end with excitement and his eye was triumphant.
"We meet to-morrow at daybreak," he announced.
"Ah, that it were possible," sighed Monsieur Bonticu. "But the codeforbids. As I said yesterday, Monsieur has a wife and a child, while Ihave a wife and children. I regret our inequality, but I cannot denyit."
"Spare your regrets, Monsieur," rejoined the small man. "I, too, havetwo children now."
"You?" Monsieur Bonticu stared, puzzled. "Yesterday you had but one. Itcannot be, Monsieur."
"It can be," cried Monsieur Pantan. "Yesterday I adopted one!"
The peony face of Monsieur Bonticu did not blanch at this intelligence.Again he smiled with an infinite sadness.
"I appreciate," he said, "Monsieur Pantan's courtesy in affording methis opportunity, but, alas, he has not been in possession of the facts.By an almost unpardonable oversight I neglected to inform Monsieur thatI had become the father not of one child, but of two. Twins, Messieurs.Would you care to inspect them?"
Monsieur Pantan's face was contorted with a wrath shocking to witness.He bit his lip; he clenched his fist.
"The end is not yet," he shouted. "No, no, Monsieur. By the thumbs ofSt. Front, I shall adopt another child."
At high noon next day three men in grave parade went down the Rue VictorHugo and entered the shop of Monsieur Bonticu. Monsieur Pantan spoke.
"The adoption has been made," he announced. "Here are the papers. I,too, have a wife and three children. Shall we meet at dawn to-morrow?"
Monsieur Bonticu looked up from his account books with a rueful smile.
"Ah, if it could be," he said. "But it cannot be."
"It cannot be?" echoed Monsieur Pantan.
"No," said Monsieur Bonticu, sadly. "Last night my aged father-in-lawcame to live with me. He is a new, and weighty responsibility,Monsieur."
Monsieur Pantan appeared numbed for a moment; then, with a glare ofconcentrated fury, he rasped.
"I, too, have an aged father-in-law."
He slammed the shop door after him.
* * * * *
That night when Monsieur Bonticu went to the immaculate little stye backof his shop to see if the pride of his heart, Anastasie, wascomfortable, to chat with her a moment, and to present her with a morselof truffle to keep up her interest in the chase, he found her lying onher side moaning faintly. Between moans she breathed with a laboredwheeze, and in her gentle blue eyes stood the tears of suffering. Shelooked up feebly, piteously, at Monsieur Bonticu. With a cry of horrorand alarm he bent over her.
"Anastasie! My Anastasie! What is it? What ails my brave one?" Shegrunted softly, short, stifled grunts of anguish. He made a swiftexamination. Expert in all matters pertaining to the pig, he perceivedthat she had contracted an acute case of that rare and terrible disease,known locally as Perigord pip, and he knew, only too well, that herdemise was but a question of hours. His Anastasie would never track downanother truffle unless---- He leaned weakly against the wall and claspedhis warm brow. There was but one man in all the world who could cureher. And that man was Pantan, the veterinarian
. His "Elixir Pantan," asecret specific, was the only known cure for the dread malady.
Pride and love wrestled within the torn soul of the stricken Bonticu. Tohumble himself before his rival--it was unthinkable. He could see thesneer on Monsieur Pantan's olive face; he could hear his cutting wordsof refusal. The dew of conflicting emotions dampened the brow ofMonsieur Bonticu. Anastasie whimpered in pain. He could not stand it. Hestruck his chest a resounding blow of decision. He reached for his hat.
Monsieur Bonticu knocked timidly at the door of theapothecary-veterinarian's house. A head appeared at a window.
"Who is it?" demanded a shrill, cross, female voice.
"It is I. Bonticu. I wish to speak with Monsieur Pantan."
"Nice time to come," complained the lady. She shouted into the darknessof the room: "Pantan! Pantan, you sleepy lout. Wake up. There's a greatoaf of a man outside wanting to speak to you."
"Patience, my dear Rosalie, patience," came the voice of MonsieurPantan; it was strangely meek. Presently the head of Monsieur Pantan,all nightcap and moustachios, was protruded from the window.
"You have come to fight?" he asked.
"But no."
"Bah! Then why wake me up this cold night?"
"It is a family matter, Monsieur," said the shivering Bonticu. "A matterthe most pressing."
"Is it that Monsieur has adopted an orphanage," inquired Pantan. "Orbrought nine old aunts to live with him?"
"No, no, Monsieur. It is most serious. It is Anastasie. She--is--dying."
"A thousand regrets, but I cannot act as pall-bearer," returned MonsieurPantan, preparing to shut the window. "Good-night."
"I beg Monsieur to attend a little second," cried Monsieur Bonticu. "Youcan save her."
"I save her?" Monsieur Pantan's tone suggested that the idea wasdeliciously absurd.
"Yes, yes, yes," cried Bonticu, catching at a straw. "You alone. She hasthe Perigord pip, Monsieur."
"Ah, indeed."
"Yes, one cannot doubt it."
"Most amusing."
"You are cruel, Monsieur," cried Bonticu. "She suffers, ah, how shesuffers."
"She will not suffer long," said Pantan, coldly.
There was a sob in Bonticu's voice as he said:
"I entreat Monsieur to save her. I entreat him as a sportsman."
In the window Monsieur Pantan seemed to be thinking deeply.
"I entreat him as a doctor. The ethics of his profession demand----"
"You have used me abominably, Monsieur," came the voice of Pantan, "butwhen you appeal to me as a sportsman and a doctor I cannot refuse.Wait."
The window banged down and in a second or so Monsieur Pantan, inhastily donned attire, joined his rival and silently they walked throughthe night to the bedside of the dying Anastasie. Once there, MonsieurPantan's manner became professional, intense, impersonal.
"Warm water. Buckets of it," he ordered.
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Olive oil and cotton."
"Yes, Monsieur."
With trembling hands Monsieur Bonticu brought the things desired, andhovered about, speaking gently to Anastasie, calling her pet names,soothing her. The apothecary-veterinarian was busy. He forced thecontents of a huge black bottle down her throat. He anointed her withoil, water and unknown substances. He ordered his rival about briskly.
"Rub her belly."
Bonticu rubbed violently.
"Pull her tail."
Bonticu pulled.
"Massage her limbs."
Bonticu massaged till he was gasping for breath.
The light began to come back to the eyes of Anastasie, the rose hue toher pale snout; she stopped whimpering. Monsieur Pantan rose with asmile.
"The crisis is passed," he announced. "She will live. What in the nameof all the devils----"
This last ejaculation was blurred and smothered, for the overjoyedBonticu, with the impulsiveness of his warm Southern nature, had thrownhis arms about the little man and planted loud kisses on both hairycheeks. They stood facing each other, oddly shy.
"If Monsieur would do me the honor," began Monsieur Bonticu, a littlethickly, "I have some ancient port. A glass or two after that walk inthe cold would be good for Monsieur, perhaps."
"If Monsieur insists," murmured Pantan.
Monsieur Bonticu vanished and reappeared with a cob-webbed bottle. Theydrank. Pantan smacked his lips. Timidly, Monsieur Bonticu said:
"I can never sufficiently repay Monsieur for his kindness."
He glanced at Anastasie who slept tranquilly. "She is very dear to me."
"Do I not know?" replied Monsieur Pantan. "Have I not Clotilde?"
"I trust she is in excellent health, Monsieur."
"She was never better," replied Monsieur Pantan. He finished his glass,and it was promptly refilled. Only the sound of Anastasie's regularbreathing could be heard. Monsieur Pantan put down his glass. In amanner that tried to be casual he remarked,
"I will not attempt to conceal from Monsieur that his devotion to hisAnastasie has touched me. Believe me, Monsieur Bonticu, I am not unawareof the sacrifice you made in coming to me for her sake."
Monsieur Bonticu, deeply moved, bowed.
"Monsieur would have done the same for his Clotilde," he said. "Monsieurhas demonstrated himself to be a thorough sportsman. I am grateful tohim. I'd have missed Anastasie."
"But naturally."
"Ah, yes," went on Monsieur Bonticu. "When my wife scolds and thechildren scream, it is to her I go for a little talk. She never argues."
Monsieur Pantan looked up from a long draught.
"Does your wife scold and your children scream?" he asked.
"Alas, but too often," answered Monsieur Bonticu.
"You should hear my Rosalie," sighed Monsieur Pantan. "I too seekconsolation as you do. I talk with my Clotilde."
Monsieur Bonticu nodded, sympathetically.
"My wife is always nagging me for more money," he said with a suddenburst of confidence. "And the undertaking business, my dear Pantan, isnot what it was."
"Do I not know?" said Pantan. "When folks are well we both suffer."
"I stagger beneath my load," sighed Bonticu.
"My load is no less light," remarked Pantan.
"If my family responsibilities should increase," observed Bonticu, "itwould be little short of a calamity."
"If mine did," said Pantan, "it would be a tragedy."
"And yet," mused Bonticu, "our responsibilities seem to go onincreasing."
"Alas, it is but too true."
"The statesmen are talking of limiting armaments," remarked Bonticu.
"An excellent idea," said Pantan, warmly.
"Can it be that they are more astute than two veteran truffle-hunters?"
"They could not possibly be, my dear Bonticu."
There was a pregnant pause. Monsieur Bonticu broke the silence.
"In the heat of the chase," he said, "one does things and says thingsone afterwards regrets."
"Yes. That is true."
"In his excitement one might even so far forget himself as to call afellow sportsman--a really excellent fellow--a puff-ball."
"That is true. One might."
Suddenly Monsieur Bonticu thrust his fat hand toward Monsieur Pantan.
"You are not a puff-ball, Armand," he said. "You never were apuff-ball!"
Tears leaped to the little man's eyes. He seized the extended hand inboth of his and pressed it.
"Aristide!" was all he could say. "Aristide!"
"We shall drink," cried Bonticu, "to the art of truffle-hunting."
"The science--" corrected Pantan, gently.
"To the art-science of truffle-hunting," cried Bonticu, raising hisglass.
The moon smiled down on Perigord. On the ancient, twisted streets ofMontpont it smiled with particular brightness. Down the Rue Victor Hugo,in the middle of the street, went two men, a very stout big man and avery thin little man, arm in arm, and singing, for all Montpont, and allth
e world, to hear, a snatch of an old song from some forgotten revue.
"_Oh, Gaby, darling Gaby. Bam! Bam! Bam! Why don't you come to me? Bam! Bam! Bam! And jump in the arms of your own true love, While the wind blows chilly and cold? Bam! Bam! Bam!_"
XII: _The $25,000 Jaw_
"Rather thirsty this morning, eh, Mr. Addicks?" inquired Cowdin, thechief purchasing agent. The "Mister" was said with a long, hissing "s"and was distinctly not meant as a title of respect.
Cowdin, as he spoke, rested his two square hairy hands on Croly Addicks'desk, and this enabled him to lean forward and thrust his well-razoredknob of blue-black jaw within a few inches of Croly Addicks' face.
"Too bad, Mr. Addicks, too bad," said Cowdin in a high, sharp voice. "Doyou realize, Mr. Addicks, that every time you go up to the water cooleryou waste fifteen seconds of the firm's time? I might use a strongerword than 'waste,' but I'll spare your delicate feelings. Do you thinkyou can control your thirst until you take your lunch at theWaldorf-Astoria, or shall I have your desk piped with ice water, Mr.Addicks?"
Croly Addicks drew his convex face as far away as he could from theconcave features of the chief purchasing agent and muttered, "Hadkippered herring for breakfast."
A couple of the stenographers tittered. Croly's ears reddened and hishands played nervously with his blue-and-white polka-dot necktie. Cowdineyed him for a contemptuous half second, then rotated on his rubber heeland prowled back to his big desk in the corner of the room.
Croly Addicks, inwardly full of red revolution, outwardly merelyflustered and intimidated, rustled among the piles of invoices and formson his desk, and tried desperately to concentrate on his task asassistant to the assistant purchasing agent of the Pierian PianoCompany, a vast far-flung enterprise that boasted, with only slightexaggeration, "We bring melody to a million homes." He hated Cowdin atall times, and particularly when he called him "Mr. Addicks." That"Mister" hurt worse than a slap on a sunburned shoulder. What made thehate almost beyond bearing was the realization on Croly's part that itwas impotent.
"Gawsh," murmured the blond stenographer from the corner of her mouth,after the manner of convicts, "Old Grizzly's pickin' on the chinlesswonder again. I don't see how Croly stands it. I wouldn't if I was him."
"Aw, wadda yuh expeck of Chinless?" returned the brunette stenographerdisdainfully as she crackled paper to conceal her breach of the officerules against conversation. "Feller with ingrown jaws was made to pickon."
At noon Croly went out to his lunch, not to the big hotel, as Cowdin hadsuggested, but to a crowded basement full of the jangle and clatter ofcutlery and crockery, and the smell and sputter of frying liver. Thename of this cave was the Help Yourself Buffet. Its habitues, mostlyclerks like Croly, pronounced "buffet" to rhyme with "rough it," whichwas incorrect but apt.
The place was, as its patrons never tired of reminding one another asthey tried with practiced eye and hand to capture the largestsandwiches, a conscience beanery. As a matter of fact, one's consciencehad a string tied to it by a cynical management.
The system is simple. There are piles of food everywhere, with prominentprice tags. The hungry patron seizes and devours what he wishes. He thenpasses down a runway and reports, to the best of his mathematical andethical ability, the amount his meal has cost--usually, for reasonsunknown, forty-five cents. The report is made to a small automaton of aboy, with a blase eye and a brassy voice. He hands the patron a ticketmarked 45 and at the same instant screams in a sirenic and incredulousvoice, "Fawty-fi'." Then the patron passes on down the alley and paysthe cashier at the exit. The purpose of the boy's violent outcry is tosignal the spotter, who roves among the foods, a derby hat cocked overone eye and an untasted sandwich in his hand, so that persons deficientin conscience may not basely report their total as forty-five whenactually they have eaten ninety cents' worth.
On this day, when Croly Addicks had finished his modest lunch, thespotter was lurking near the exit. Several husky-looking young menpassed him, and brazenly reported totals of twenty cents, when it wasobvious that persons of their brawn would not be content with a lunchcosting less than seventy-five; but the spotter noting their bull necksand bellicose air let them pass. But when Croly approached the desk andreported forty-five the spotter pounced on him. Experience had taughtthe spotter the type of man one may pounce on without fear of sharpwords or resentful blows.
"Pahdun me a minute, frien'," said the spotter. "Ain't you made a littlemistake?"
"Me?" quavered Croly. He was startled and he looked guilty, as only theinnocent can look.
"Yes, you," said the spotter, scowling at the weak outlines of Croly'scountenance.
"No," jerked out Croly. "Forty-five's correct." He tried to move alongtoward the cashier, but the spotter's bulk blocked the exit alley.
"Ain't you the guy I seen layin' away a double portion of strawb'ryshortcake wit' cream?" asked the spotter sternly.
Croly hoped that it was not apparent that his upper lip was trembling;his hands went up to his polka-dot tie and fidgeted with it. He hadpaused yearningly over the strawberry shortcake; but he had decided hecouldn't afford it.
"Didn't have shortcake," he said huskily.
"Oh, no!" rejoined the spotter sarcastically, appealing to the ring ofinterested faces that had now crowded about. "I s'pose that white stuffon your upper lip ain't whipped cream?"
"It's milk," mumbled Croly. "All I had was milk and oatmeal crackers andapple pie. Honest."
The spotter snorted dubiously.
"Some guy," he declared loudly, "tucked away a double order of strawb'ryshortcake and a hamboiger steak, and it wasn't me. So come awn, youngfeller, you owe the house ninety cents, so cut out the arggament."
"I--I----" began Croly, incoherently rebellious; but it was clear thatthe crowd believed him guilty of the conscienceless swindle; so hequailed before the spotter's accusing eye, and said, "Oh, well, have ityour own way. You got me wrong, but I guess you have to pick on littlefellows to keep your job." He handed over ninety cents to the cashier.
"You'll never see my face in this dump again," muttered Croly savagelyover his shoulder.
"That won't make me bust out cryin', Chinless," called the spotterderisively.
Croly stumbled up the steps, his eyes moist, his heart pumping fast.Chinless! The old epithet. The old curse. It blistered his soul.
Moodily he sought out a bench in Madison Square, hunched himself downand considered his case. To-day, he felt, was the critical day of hislife; it was his thirtieth birthday.
His mind flashed back, as you've seen it done in the movies, to a scenethe night before, in which he had had a leading role.
"Emily," he had said to the loveliest girl in the world, "will you marryme?"
Plainly Emily Mackie had expected something of the sort, and after thefashion of the modern business girl had given the question calm andclear-visioned consideration.
"Croly," she said softly, "I like you. You are a true friend. You arekind and honest and you work hard. But oh, Croly dear, we couldn't liveon twenty-two dollars and fifty cents a week; now could we?"
That was Croly's present salary after eleven years with the PierianPiano Company, and he had to admit that Emily was right; they could notlive on it.
"But, dearest Emily," he argued, "to-morrow they appoint a new assistantpurchasing agent, and I'm in line for the job. It pays fifty a week."
"But are you sure you'll get it?"
His face fell.
"N-no," he admitted, "but I deserve it. I know the job about ten timesbetter than any of the others, and I've been there longest."
"You thought they'd promote you last year, you know," she reminded him.
"And so they should have," he replied, flushing. "If it hadn't been forold Grizzly Cowdin! He thinks I couldn't make good because I haven't oneof those underslung jaws like his."
"He's a brute!" cried Emily. "You know more about the piano businessthan he does."
"I think I do," said Croly, "but he doesn't. And he's the boss."
"Oh, Croly, if you'd only assert yourself----"
"I guess I never learned how," said Croly sadly.
As he sat there on the park bench, plagued by the demon ofintrospection, he had to admit that he was not the pugnacious type, thego-getter sort that Cowdin spoke of often and admiringly. He knew hisjob; he could say that of himself in all fairness, for he had spent manya night studying it; some day, he told himself, they'd be surprised, thebig chiefs and all of them, to find out how much he did know about thepiano business. But would they ever find out?
Nobody, reflected Croly, ever listened when he talked. There was nothingabout him that carried conviction. It had always been like that sincehis very first day in school when the boys had jeeringly noted hisrather marked resemblance to a haddock, and had called out, "Chinless,Chinless, stop tryin' to swallow your face."
Around his chinlessness his character had developed; no one had evertaken him seriously, so quite naturally he found it hard to take himselfseriously. It was inevitable that his character should become aschinless as his face.
His apprenticeship under the thumb and chin of the domineering Cowdinhad not tended to decrease his youthful timidity. Cowdin, with a jut ofjaw like a paving block, had bullied Croly for years. More than onceCroly had yearned burningly to plant his fist squarely on thatblue-black prong of chin, and he had even practiced up on a secondhandpunching bag with this end in view. But always he weakened at thecrucial instant. He let his resentment escape through the safety valveof intense application to the business of his firm. It comforted himsomewhat to think that even the big-jawed president, Mr. Flagstead,probably didn't have a better grasp of the business as a whole than he,chinless Croly Addicks, assistant to the assistant purchasing agent.But--and he groaned aloud at the thought--his light was hidden under abushel of chinlessness.
Someone had left a crumpled morning edition of an evening paper on thebench, and Croly glanced idly at it. From out the pages stared thedetermined incisive features of a young man very liberally endowed withjaw. Enviously Croly read the caption beneath the picture, "The fightingface of Kid McNulty, the Chelsea Bearcat, who boxes Leonard." With asigh Croly tossed the paper away.
He glanced up at the Metropolitan Tower clock and decided that he hadjust time enough for a cooling beaker of soda. He reached the sodafountain just ahead of three other thirsty men. By every right he shouldhave been served first. But the clerk, a lofty youth with the air of agrand duke, after one swift appraising glance at the place where Croly'schin should have been, disregarded the murmured "Pineapple phosphate,please," and turned to serve the others. Of them he inquiredsolicitously enough, "What's yourn?" But when he came to Croly he shothim an impatient look and asked sharply, "Well, speak up, can't yuh?"The cool drink turned to galling acid as Croly drank it.
He sprinted for his office, trying to cling to a glimmering hope thatCowdin, despite his waspishness of the morning, had given him thepromotion. He reached his desk a minute late.
Cowdin prowled past and remarked with a cutting geniality, harder tobear than a curse, "Well, Mr. Addicks, you dallied too long over yourlobster and quail, didn't you?"
Under his desk Croly's fists knotted tightly. He made no reply.To-morrow, probably, he'd have an office of his own, and be almost freefrom Cowdin's ill-natured raillery. At this thought he bent almostcheerfully over his stack of work.
A girl rustled by and thumb-tacked a small notice on the bulletin board.Croly's heart ascended to a point immediately below his Adam's apple andstuck there, for the girl was Cowdin's secretary, and Croly knew whatannouncement that notice contained. He knew it was against the Spartancode of office etiquette to consult the board during working hours, buthe thought of Emily, and what the announcement meant to him, and he roseand with quick steps crossed the room and read the notice.
Ellis G. Baldwin has this day been promoted to assistant purchasing agent.
(Signed) SAMUEL COWDIN C. P. A.
Croly Addicks had to steady himself against the board; the black letterson the white card jigged before his eyes; his stomach felt cold andempty. Baldwin promoted over his head! Blatant Baldwin, who was neversure of his facts, but was always sure of himself. Cocksure incompetentBaldwin! But--but--he had a bulldog jaw.
Croly Addicks, feeling old and broken, turned around slowly, to findCowdin standing behind him, a wry smile on his lips, his pin-point eyesfastened on Croly's stricken face.
"Well, Mr. Addicks," purred the chief purchasing agent, "are youthinking of going out for a spin in your limousine or do you intend tofavor us with a little work to-day?" He tilted his jaw toward Croly.
"I--I thought I was to get that job," began Croly Addicks, fingering hisnecktie.
Cowdin produced a rasping sound by rubbing his chin with his finger.
"Oh, did you, indeed?" he asked. "And what made you think that, Mr.Addicks?"
"I've been here longest," faltered Croly, "and I want to get married,and I know the job best, and I've been doing the work ever since Sebringquit, Mr. Cowdin."
For a long time Cowdin did not reply, but stood rubbing his chin andsmiling pityingly at Croly Addicks, until Croly, his nerves tense,wanted to scream. Then Cowdin measuring his words spoke loud enough forthe others in the room to hear.
"Mr. Addicks," he said, "that job needs a man with a punch. And youhaven't a punch, Mr. Addicks. Mr. Addicks, that job requires a fighter.And you're not a fighter, Mr. Addicks. Mr. Addicks, that job requires aman with a jaw on him. And you haven't any jaw on you, Mr. Addicks. Getme?" He thrust out his own peninsula of chin.
It was then that Croly Addicks erupted like a long suppressed volcano.All the hate of eleven bullied years was concentrated in his knottedhand as he swung it swishingly from his hip and landed it flush on theoutpointing chin.
An ox might have withstood that punch, but Cowdin was no ox. He rolledamong the waste-paper baskets. Snorting furiously he scrambled to hisfeet and made a bull-like rush at Croly. Trembling in every nerve CrolyAddicks swung at the blue-black mark again, and Cowdin reeled against adesk. As he fell his thick fingers closed on a cast-iron paperweightthat lay on the desk.
Croly Addicks had a blurred split-second vision of something blackshooting straight at his face; then he felt a sharp brain-jarring shock;then utter darkness.
When the light came back to him again it was in Bellevue Hospital. Hisface felt queer, numb and enormous; he raised his hand feebly to it; itappeared to be covered with concrete bandages.
"Don't touch it," cautioned the nurse. "It's in a cast, and is setting."
* * * * *
It took long weeks for it to set; they were black weeks for Croly,brightened only by a visit or two from Emily Mackie. At last the nurseremoved the final bandage and he was discharged from the hospital.
Outside the hospital gate Croly paused in the sunlight. Not many blocksaway he saw the shimmer of the East River, and he faced toward it. Hecould bury his catastrophe there, and forget his smashed-up life, hislost job and his shattered chances of ever marrying. Who would have himnow? At best it meant the long weary climb up from the very bottom, andhe was past thirty. He took a half step in the direction of the river.He stopped; he felt a hand plucking timidly at his coat sleeve.
The person who plucked at his sleeve was a limp youth with a limpcigarette and vociferous checked clothes and cap. There was no mistakingthe awe in his tone as he spoke.
"Say," said the limp youth, "ain't you Kid McNulty, de Chelsea Bearcat?"
He? Croly Addicks? Taken for Kid McNulty, the prize fighter? A wave ofpleasure swept over the despondent Croly. Life seemed suddenly worthliving. He had been mistaken for a prize fighter!
He hardened his voice.
"That's me," he said.
"Gee," said the limp youth, "I seen yuh box Leonard. Gee, that was abattle! Say, next time yuh meet him you'll knock him for a row of circustents, won
't yuh?"
"I'll knock him for a row of aquariums," promised Croly. And he jauntilyfaced about and strolled away from the river and toward Madison Square,followed by the admiring glances of the limp youth.
He felt the need of refreshment and pushed into a familiar soda shop.The same lofty grand duke was on duty behind the marble counter, and wastaking advantage of a lull by imparting a high polish to his fingernails, and consequently he did not observe the unobtrusive entrance ofCroly Addicks.
Croly tapped timidly with his dime on the counter; the grand duke lookedup.
"Pineapple phosphate, please," said Croly in a voice still weak from hishospital days.
The grand duke shot from his reclining position as if attached to aspring.
"Yessir, yessir, right away," he smiled, and hustled about his task.
Shortly he placed the beverage before the surprised Croly.
"Is it all right? Want a little more sirup?" inquired the grand dukeanxiously.
Croly, almost bewildered by this change of demeanor, raised the glass tohis lips. As he did so he saw the reflection of a face in the glisteningmirror opposite. He winced, and set down the glass, untasted.
He stared, fascinated, overwhelmed; it must surely be his face, sincehis body was attached to it, but how could it be? The eyes were the mildblue eyes of Croly Addicks, but the face was the face of a stranger--anda startling-looking stranger, at that!
Croly knew of course that it had been necessary to rebuild his face,shattered by the missile hurled by Cowdin, but in the hospital they hadkept mirrors from him, and he had discovered, but only by sense oftouch, that his countenance had been considerably altered. But he hadnever dreamed that the transformation would be so radical.
In the clear light he contemplated himself, and understood why he hadbeen mistaken for the Chelsea Bearcat. Kid McNulty had a large amount ofjaw, but he never had a jaw like the stranger with Croly Addicks' eyeswho stared back, horrified, at Croly from the soda-fountain mirror. Theplastic surgeons had done their work well; there was scarcely any scar.But they had built from Croly's crushed bones a chin that protruded likethe prow of a battleship.
The mariners of mythology whom the sorceress changed into pigs couldhardly have been more perplexed and alarmed than Croly Addicks. He had,in his thirty years, grown accustomed to his meek apologetic face. Theface that looked back at him was not meek or apologetic. It wasdistinctly a hard face; it was a determined, forbidding face; it wasalmost sinister.
Croly had the uncanny sensation of having had his soul slipped into thebody of another man, an utter stranger. Inside he was the same timorousyoung assistant to the assistant purchasing agent--out of work; outsidehe was a fearsome being, a dangerous-looking man, who made autocraticsoda dispensers jump.
To him came a sinking, lost feeling; a cold emptiness; the feeling of agentle Doctor Jekyll who wakes to find himself in the shell of a fierceMr. Hyde. For a second or two Croly Addicks regretted that he had notgone on to the river.
The voice of the soda clerk brought him back to the world.
"If your drink isn't the way you like it, sir," said the grand dukeamiably, "just say the word and I'll mix you up another."
Croly started up.
"'Sall right," he murmured, and fumbled his way out to Madison Square.
He decided to live a while longer, face and all. It was something to bedeferred to by soda clerks.
He sank down on a bench and considered what he should do. At the twitterof familiar voices he looked up and saw the blond stenographer and thebrunette stenographer from his former company passing on the way tolunch.
He rose, advanced a step toward them, tipped his hat and said, "Hello."
The blond stenographer drew herself up regally, as she had seen some onedo in the movies, and chilled Croly with an icy stare.
"Don't get so fresh!" she said coldly. "To whom do you think you'respeaking to?"
"You gotta crust," observed the brunette, outdoing her companion incrushing hauteur. "Just take yourself and your baby scarer away, MisterMasher, and get yourself a job posing for animal crackers."
They swept on as majestically as tight skirts and French heels wouldpermit, and Croly, confused, subsided back on his bench again. Into hisbrain, buzzing now from the impact of so many new sensations, came astill stronger impression that he was not Croly Addicks at all, but anentirely different and fresh-born being, unrecognized by his oldassociates. He pondered on the trick fate had played on him until hungerbeckoned him to the Help Yourself Buffet. He was inside before herealized what he was doing, and before he recalled his vow never toenter there again. The same spotter was moving in and out among thepatrons, the same derby cocked over one eye, and an untasted sandwich,doubtless the same one, in his hand. He paid no special heed to therenovated Croly Addicks.
Croly was hungry and under the spotter's very nose he helped himself tohamburger steak and a double order of strawberry shortcake with thickcream. Satisfied, he started toward the blase check boy with the brassyvoice; as he went his hand felt casually in his change pocket, and hestopped short, gripped by horror. The coins he counted there amounted toexactly forty-five cents and his meal totaled a dollar at least.Furthermore, that was his last cent in the world. He cast a quickfrightened glance around him. The spotter was lounging against the checkdesk, and his beady eye seemed focused on Croly Addicks. Croly knew thathis only chance lay in bluffing; he drew in a deep breath, thrustforward his new chin, and said to the boy, "Forty-five." "Fawty-fi',"screamed the boy. The spotter pricked up his ears.
"Pahdun me a minute, frien'," said the spotter. "Ain't you made a littlemistake?"
Summoning every ounce of nerve he could Croly looked straight back intothe spotter's eyes.
"No," said Croly loudly.
For the briefest part of a second the spotter wavered between duty anddiscretion. Then the beady eyes dropped and he murmured, "Oh, I begpahdun. I thought you was the guy that just got outside of a raft ofstrawb'ry shortcake and hamboiger. Guess I made a little mistakemyself."
With the brisk firm step of a conqueror Croly Addicks strode into theair, away from the scene he had once left so humiliated.
Again, for many reflective minutes he occupied one of those chairs ofphilosophy, a park bench, and revolved in his mind the problem, "Wheredo I go from here?" The vacuum in his pockets warned him that his needof a job was imperative. Suddenly he released his thoughtful clutch onhis new jaw, and his eyes brightened and his spine straightened with astartling idea that at once fascinated and frightened him. He would tryto get his old job back again.
Inside him the old shrinking Croly fought it out with the new Croly.
"Don't be foolish!" bleated the old Croly. "You haven't the nerve toface Cowdin again."
"Buck up!" argued back the new Croly. "You made that soda clerk hop, andthat spotter quail. The worst Cowdin can say is 'No!'"
"You haven't a chance in the piano company, anyhow," demurred the oldCroly. "They know you too well; your old reputation is against you. Thespineless jellyfish class at twenty-two-fifty per is your limit there."
"Nonsense," declared the new Croly masterfully. "It's the one job youknow. Ten to one they need you this minute. You've invested eleven yearsof training in it. Make that experience count."
"But--but Cowdin may take a wallop at me," protested the old Croly.
"Not while you have a face like Kid McNulty, the Chelsea Bearcat,"flashed back the new Croly. The new Croly won.
Ten minutes later Samuel Cowdin swiveled round in his chair to face ayoung man with a pale, grim face and an oversized jaw.
"Well?" demanded Cowdin.
"Mr. Cowdin," said Croly Addicks, holding his tremors in check by agreat effort of will, "I understand you need a man in the purchasingdepartment. I want the job."
Cowdin shot him a puzzled look. The chief purchasing agent's countenancewore the expression of one who says "Where have I seen that facebefore?"
"We do need a man," Cowdin admitted, sta
ring hard at Croly, "though Idon't know how you knew it. Who are you?"
"I'm Addicks," said Croly, thrusting out his new chin.
Cowdin started. His brow wrinkled in perplexity; he stared even moreintently at the firm-visaged man, and then shook his head as if givingup a problem.
"That's odd," he muttered, reminiscently stroking his chin. "There was ayoung fellow by that name here. Croly was his first name. You're notrelated to him, I suppose?"
Croly, the unrecognized, straightened up in his chair as if he had saton a hornet. With difficulty he gained control over his breathing, andmanaged to growl, "No, I'm not related to him."
Cowdin obviously was relieved.
"Didn't think you were," he remarked, almost amiably. "You're not thesame type of man at all."
"Do I get that job?" asked Croly. In his own ears his voice soundedhard.
"What experience have you had?" questioned Cowdin briskly.
"Eleven years," replied Croly.
"With what company?"
"With this company," answered Croly evenly.
"With this company?" Cowdin's voice jumped a full octave higher to anincredulous treble.
"Yes," said Croly. "You asked me if I was related to Croly Addicks. Isaid 'No.' That's true. I'm not related to him--because I am CrolyAddicks."
With a gasp of alarm Cowdin jumped to his feet and prepared to defendhimself from instant onslaught.
"The devil you are!" he cried.
"Sit down, please," said Croly, quietly.
Cowdin in a daze sank back into his chair and sat staring, hypnotized,at the man opposite him as one might stare who found a young pinkelephant in his bed.
"I'll forget what happened if you will," said Croly. "Let's talk aboutthe future. Do I get the job?"
"Eh? What's that?" Cowdin began to realize that he was not dreaming.
"Do I get the job?" Croly repeated.
A measure of his accustomed self-possession had returned to the chiefpurchasing agent and he answered with as much of his old manner as hecould muster, "I'll give you another chance if you think you can behaveyourself."
"Thanks," said Croly, and inside his new self sniggered at his old self.
The chief purchasing agent was master of himself by now, and he rappedout in the voice that Croly knew only too well, "Get right to work. Samedesk. Same salary. And remember, no more monkey business, Mr. Addicks,because if----"
He stopped short. There was something in the face of Croly Addicks thattold him to stop. The big new jaw was pointing straight at him as if itwere a pistol.
"You said, just now," said Croly, and his voice was hoarse, "that Iwasn't the same type of man as the Croly Addicks who worked here before.I'm not. I'm no longer the sort of man it's safe to ride. Please don'tcall me Mister unless you mean it."
Cowdin's eyes strayed from the snapping eyes of Croly Addicks to thetaut jaw; he shrugged his shoulders.
"Report to Baldwin," was all he said.
As Croly turned away, his back hid from Cowdin the smile that had cometo his new face.
The reincarnated Croly had been back at his old job for ten days, or,more accurately, ten days and nights, for it had taken that long tostraighten out the snarl in which Baldwin, not quite so sure of himselfnow, had been immersed to the eyebrows. Baldwin was watching, a speciesof awe in his eye, while Croly swiftly and expertly checked off acomplicated price list. Croly looked up.
"Baldwin," he said, laying down the work, "I'm going to make asuggestion to you. It's for your own good."
"Shoot!" said the assistant purchasing agent warily.
"You're not cut out for this game," said Croly Addicks.
"Wha-a-at?" sputtered Baldwin.
Croly leveled his chin at him. Baldwin listened as the new Addickscontinued: "You're not the buying type, Baldwin. You're the sellingtype. Take my advice and get transferred to the selling end. You'll behappier--and you'll get farther."
"Say," began Baldwin truculently, "you've got a nerve. I've a goodnotion to----"
Abruptly he stopped. Croly's chin was set at an ominous angle.
"Better think it over," said Croly Addicks, taking up the price listagain.
Baldwin gazed for a full minute or more at the remade jaw of hisassistant. Then he conceded, "Maybe I will."
A week later Baldwin announced that he had taken Croly's advice. The oldAddicks would have waited, with anxious nerves on edge, for theannouncement of Baldwin's successor; the new Addicks went straight tothe chief purchasing agent.
"Mr. Cowdin," said Croly, as calmly as a bumping heart would permit,"shall I take over Baldwin's work?"
The chief purchasing agent crinkled his brow petulantly.
"I had Heaton in mind for the job," he said shortly without looking up.
"I want it," said Croly Addicks, and his jaw snapped. His tone madeCowdin look up. "Heaton isn't ripe for the work," said Croly. "I am."
Cowdin could not see that inside Croly was quivering; he could not seethat the new Croly was struggling with the old and was exerting everyounce of will power he possessed to wring out the words. All Cowdincould see was the big jaw, bulging and threatening.
He cautiously poked back his office chair so that it rolled on itscasters out of range of the man with the dangerous face.
"I told you once before, Addicks," began the chief purchasing agent----
"You told me once before," interrupted Croly Addicks sternly, "that thejob required a man with a jaw. What do you call this?"
He tapped his own remodeled prow. Cowdin found it impossible not to resthis gaze on the spot indicated by Croly's forefinger. Unconsciously,perhaps, his beads of eyes roved over his desk in search of a convenientpaperweight or other weapon. Finding none the chief purchasing agentaffected to consider the merits of Croly's demand.
"Well," he said with a judicial air, "I've a notion to give you amonth's trial at the job."
"Good," said Croly; and inside he buzzed and tingled warmly.
Cowdin wheeled his office chair back within range again.
A month after Croly Addicks had taken up his duties as assistantpurchasing agent he was sitting late one afternoon in serious conferencewith the chief purchasing agent. The day was an anxious one for all theemployees of the great piano company. It was the day when the directorsmet in solemn and awful conclave, and the ancient and acidulous chairmanof the board, Cephas Langdon, who owned most of the stock, emerged,woodchucklike, from his hole, to conduct his annual much-dreadedinquisition into the corporation's affairs, and to demand, with manysearching queries, why in blue thunder the company was not making moremoney. On this day dignified and confident executives wriggled andwilted like tardy schoolboys under his grilling, and official heads werelopped off with a few sharp words.
As frightened secretaries slipped in and out of the mahogany-dooredboard room information seeped out, and breaths were held and tiptoeswalked on as the reports flashed about from office to office.
"Old Langdon's on a rampage."
"He's raking the sales manager over the coals."
"He's fired Sherman, the advertising manager."
"He's fired the whole advertising department too."
"He's asking what in blue thunder is the matter with the purchasingdepartment."
When this last ringside bulletin reached Cowdin he scowled, muttered,and reached for his hat.
"If anybody should come looking for me," he said to Croly, "tell 'em Iwent home sick."
"But," protested Croly, who knew well the habits of the exigent chairmanof the board, "Mr. Langdon may send down here any minute for anexplanation of the purchasing department's report."
Cowdin smiled sardonically.
"So he may, so he may," he said, clapping his hat firmly on his head."Perhaps you'd be so good as to tell him what he wants to know."
And still smiling the chief purchasing agent hurried to the freightelevator and made his timely and prudent exit.
"Gawsh," said the blond stenographer, "Grizzly Co
wdin's ducked againthis year."
"Gee," said the brunette stenographer, "here's where poor Mr. Addicksgets it where Nellie wore the beads."
Croly knew what they were saying; he knew that he had been left to be ascapegoat. He looked around for his own hat. But as he did so he caughtthe reflection of his new face in the plate-glass top of his desk. Theimage of his big impressive jaw heartened him. He smiled grimly andwaited.
He did not have long to wait. The door was thrust open and PresidentFlagstead's head was thrust in.
"Where's Cowdin?" he demanded nervously. Tiny worried pearls of dew onthe presidential brow bore evidence that even he had not escaped thegrill.
"Home," said Croly. "Sick."
Mr. Flagstead frowned. The furrows of worry in his face deepened.
"Mr. Langdon is furious at the purchasing department," he said. "Hewants some things in the report explained, and he won't wait. ConfoundCowdin!"
Croly's eyes rested for a moment on the reflection of his chin in theglass on his desk; then he raised them to the president's.
"Mr. Cowdin left me in charge," he said, hoping that his voice wouldn'tbreak. "I'll see if I can answer Mr. Langdon's questions."
The president fired a swift look at Croly; at first it was dubious;then, as it appraised Croly's set face, it grew relieved.
"Who are you?" asked the president.
"Addicks, assistant purchasing agent," said Croly.
"Oh, the new man. I've noticed you around," said the president. "Meantto introduce myself. How long have you been here?"
"Eleven years," said Croly.
"Eleven years?" The president was unbelieving. "You couldn't have been.I certainly would have noticed your face." He paused a bit awkwardly.Just then they reached the mahogany door of the board room.
Croly Addicks, outwardly a picture of determination, inwardly quaking,followed the president. Old Cephas Langdon was squatting in his chair,his face red from his efforts, his eyes, beneath their tufts of brow,irate. When he spoke, his words exploded in bunches like packs offirecrackers.
"Well, well?" he snapped. "Where's Cowdin? Why didn't Cowdin come? Isent for Cowdin, didn't I? I wanted to see the chief purchasing agent.Where's Cowdin anyhow? Who are you?"
"Cowdin's sick. I'm Addicks," said Croly.
His voice trembled, and his hands went up to play with his necktie. Theycame in contact with the point of his new chin, and fresh courage cameback to him. He plunged his hands into his coat pockets, pushed the chinforward.
He felt the eyes under the bushy brows surveying his chin.
"Cowdin sick, eh?" inquired Cephas Langdon acidly. "Seems to me he'salways sick when I want to find out what in blue thunder ails hisdepartment." He held up a report. "I installed a purchasing system in1913," he said, slapping the report angrily, "and look here how it hasbeen foozled." He slammed the report down on the table. "What I want toknow, young man," he exploded, "is why material in the Syracusefactories cost 29 per cent more for the past three months than for thesame period last year. Why? Why? Why?"
He glared at Croly Addicks as if he held him personally responsible.Croly did not drop his eyes before the glare; instead he stuck his chinout another notch. His jaw muscles knotted. His breathing was difficult.The chance he'd been working for, praying for, had come.
"Your purchasing system is all wrong, Mr. Langdon," he said, in a voiceso loud that it made them all jump.
For a second it seemed as if Cephas Langdon would uncoil and leap at thepresumptuous underling with the big chin. But he didn't. Instead, with asmile in which there was a lot of irony, and some interest, he asked,"Oh, indeed? Perhaps, young man, you'll be so good as to tell me what'swrong with it? You appear to think you know a thing or two."
Croly told him. Eleven years of work and study were behind what he said,and he emphasized each point with a thrust of his jaw that would havecarried conviction even had his analysis of the system been less logicaland concise than it was. Old Cephas Langdon leaning on the directors'table turned up his ear trumpet so that he wouldn't miss a word.
"Well? Well? And what would you suggest instead of the old way?" heinterjected frequently.
Croly had the answer ready every time. Darkness and dinnertime had comebefore Croly had finished.
"Flagstead," said Old Cephas Langdon, turning to the president, "haven'tI always told you that what we needed in the purchasing department was aman with a chin on him? Just drop a note to Cowdin to-morrow, will you,and tell him he needn't come back?"
He turned toward Croly and twisted his leathery old face into whatpassed for a smile.
"Young man," he said, "don't let anything happen to that jaw of yours.One of these bright days it's going to be worth twenty-five thousanddollars a year to you."
That night a young man with a prodigious jaw sat very near a young womannamed Emily Mackie, who from time to time looked from his face to thering finger of her left hand.
"Oh, Croly dear," she said softly, "how did you do it?"
"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Guess I just tried to live up to my jaw."
THE END
Transcriber's Notes:
Punctuation and formatting markup have been normalized.
Apparent printer's errors have been retained, unless stated below.
Page 134, "this" changed to "his". (Horace tried to do his work, but hecouldn't remember when he had had such a poor day)
Page 195, "gaging" changed to "gauging". (Chester paused at the GreekCandy Kitchen on Main Street to buy a box of candy, richly bedight withpurple silk, and by carefully gauging his saunter, contrived to arriveat the Wrigley residence at fourteen minutes after eight.)
Page 247, "much" changed to "must". (At twenty paces they must eachdischarge two horse-pistols;)
The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon, and other humorous tales Page 11
