by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER XIII
LATE RETURNS ON RUPERT
Vee and I were goin' over some old snapshots the other night. It's donenow and then, you know. Not deliberate. I'll admit that's a pastime youwouldn't get all worked up over plannin' ahead for. Tuesday mornin',say, you don't remark breathless: "I'll tell you: Saturday night atnine-thirty let's get out them last year's prints and give 'em thecomp'ny front."
It don't happen that way--not with our sketch. What I was grapplin' forin the bottom of the window-seat locker was something different--maybe amarshmallow fork, or a corn-popper, or a catalogue of bath-roomfixtures. Anyway, it was something we thought we wanted a lot, when Idigs up this album of views that Vee took durin' that treasure-huntin'cruise of ours last winter on the old _Agnes_, with Auntie and OldHickory and Captain Rupert Killam and the rest of the bunch. I was justtossin' the book one side when a picture slips out, and of course I hasto take a squint. Then I chuckles.
"Look!" says I, luggin' it over to where Vee is curled up on thedavenport in front of the fireplace. "Remember that?"
A giggle from Vee.
"'Auntie enjoying a half-hour eulogy of the dear departed, by Mrs.Mumford,' should be the title," says she. "She'd been sound asleep fortwenty minutes."
"Which is what you might call good defensive," says I. "But who's thisgazin' over the rail beyond--J. Dudley Simms, or is that a ventilator?"
"Let's see," says Vee, reachin' for the readin' glass. "Why, you silly!That's Captain Killam."
"Oh!" says I. "Reckless Rupert, the great mind-play hero."
"I wonder what has become of him?" puts in Vee, restin' her chin on theknuckle of her forefinger and starin' into the fire.
"Him?" says I. "Most likely he's back in St. Petersburg, Florida, alldolled in white flannels, givin' the tin-can tourists a treat. Thatwould be Rupert's game."
I don't know as you remember; but, in spite of Killam's havin' gotballed up on the location of this pirate island, and Vee and me havin'to find it for him, he came in for his share of the loot. Must have beenquite a nice little pot for Rupert, too--enough to keep him costumed forhis mysterious hero act for a long time, providin' he don't overdressthe part.
Weird combination--Rupert: about 60 per cent. camouflage and the restsolemn boob. An ex-school-teacher from some little flag station inmiddle Illinois, who'd drifted down to the West Coast, and got to be acaptain by ownin' an old cruiser that he took fishin' parties out to thegrouper banks on. Them was the real facts in the life story of Rupert.
But the picture he threw on the screen of himself must have beensomething else again--seasoned sailor, hardy adventurer, daredevilexplorer, and who knows what else? Catch him in one of his silent,starey moods, with them buttermilk blue eyes of his opened wide andvacant, and you had the outline. But that's as far as you'd get. Ialways thought Rupert himself was a little vague about it, but he wouldinsist on takin' himself so serious. That's why we never got along well,I expect. To me Rupert was a walkin' joke, except when he got tosleuthin' around Vee and me and made a nuisance of himself.
"How completely people like that drop out of sight sometimes," says Vee,shuttin' up the album.
"Yes," says I. "Contrary to old ladies who meet at summer resorts and indepartment-stores, it's a sizable world we live in. Thanks be for that,too."
But you never can tell. It ain't more'n three days later, as I'm breezinthrough a cross street down in the cloak-and-suit and publishin' housedistrict, when a taxi rolls up to the curb just ahead, and out piles awide-shouldered gent with freckles on the back of his neck. Course, Idon't let on I can spot anybody I've ever known just by a sectionalglimpse like that. But this was no common case of freckles. This was asplotchy, spattery system of rust marks, like a bird's-eye view of theenemy's trenches after a week of drum fire. Besides, there was the palecarroty hair.
Even then, the braid-bound cutaway and the biscuit-colored spats had mebuffaloed. So I slows up until I can get a front view of the party who'salmost tripped himself with the horn-handled walkin'-stick and is havin'a few last words with someone in the cab. Then I sees the washed outblue eyes, and I know there can't be any mistake. About then, too, heturns and recognizes me.
"Well, for the love of beans!" says I. "Rupert!"
The funny part of it is that I gets it off as cordial as if I wasdiscoverin' an old trench mate. You know how you will. And, while Ican't say Captain Killam registered any wild joy in his greetin', stillhe seemed pleased enough. He gives me a real hearty shake.
"And here is someone else you know," says he, wavin' to the cab: "Mrs.Mumford."
Blamed if it ain't the cooin' widow. She's right there with the oldfamiliar purry gush, too, squeezin' my fingers kittenish and askin' mehow "dear, sweet Verona" is. I was just noticin' that she'd ditched thehalf mournin' for some real zippy raiment when she leans back so as toexhibit a third party in the taxi--a young gent with one of thesedead-white faces and a cute little black mustache--reg'lar lounge-lizardtype.
"Oh, and you must meet my dear friend, Mr. Vinton Bartley," she purrs."Vinton, this is the Torchy I've spoken about so often."
"Ah, ya-a-as," drawls Vinton, blowin' out a whiff of scented cigarettesmoke lazy. "Quite so. But--er--hadn't we best be getting on, Lorina?"
"Yes, yes," coos Mrs. Mumford. "By-by, Captain. Good-by, Torchy."
And off they whirls, leavin' me with my mouth open and Rupert starin'after 'em gloomy.
"Lorina, eh?" says I. "How touchin'!"
Killam only grunts, but it struck me he has tinted up a bit under theeyes.
"Say, Rupert," I goes on, "who's your languid friend with thecream-of-cabbage complexion?"
"Bartley?" says he. "Oh, he's a friend of Mrs. Mumford; a drama-tist--sohe says."
Now, I might have let it ride at that and gone along about my ownaffairs, which ain't so pressin' just then. Yes, I might. But I don't.Maybe it was hornin' in where there was no welcome sign on the mat, andthen again perhaps it was only a natural folksy feelin' for an oldfriend I hadn't seen for a long time. Anyway, I'm prompted sudden totake Rupert by the arm and insist that he must come and have lunch withme.
"Why--er--thanks," says the Captain; "but I have a little business toattend to in here." And he nods to an office buildin'.
"That'll be all right, too," says I. "I'll wait."
"Will you?" says Rupert, beamin'. "I shall be pleased."
So in less'n half an hour I have Rupert planted cozy at a corner tablewith a mixed grill in front of him, and I'm givin' him the cue foropenin' any confidential chat he may have on hand. He's a good deal of aclam, though, Rupert. And suspicious! He must have been born lookin'over his shoulder. But in my own crude way I can sometimes josh 'emalong.
"Excuse me for mentionin' it, Rupert," says I, "but there's lots ofclass to you these days."
"Eh?" says he. "You mean----"
"The whole effect," says I, "from the gaiters to the new-model lid. Justlike you'd strolled out from some Fifth Avenue club and was goin' to'phone your brokers to buy another block of Bethlehem at the market.Honest!"
He pinks up and shakes his head, but I can see I've got the range.
"And here Vee and I had it doped out," I goes on, "how you'd be down onthe West Coast by this time, investin' your pile in orange groves andcorner lots."
"No," says Rupert; "I've been here all the while. You see, I--I've grownrather fond of New York."
"You needn't apologize," says I. "There's a few million others with thesame weakness, not countin' the ones that sleep in New Jersey but alwaysregister from here. Gone into some kind of business, have you?"
Rupert does some fancy side-steppin' about then; but all of a sudden hechanges his mind, and, after glancin' around to see that no one has anear out, he starts his confession.
"The fact is," says he, "I've been doing a little literary work."
"Writin' ads," says I, "or solicitin' magazine subscriptions?"
"I am getting out a book of poems," says Rupert, dignified.
> "Wh-a-a-at?" I gasps. "Not--not reg'lar limerick stuff?"
I can see now that was a bad break. But Rupert was patient with me. Heexplains that these are all poems about sailors and ships and so on;real salt, tarry stuff. Also, he points out how it's built the new styleway, with no foolish rhymes at the end, and with long lines or short,just as they happen to come. To make it clear, he digs up a roll ofgalley proofs he's just collected from the publishers. And say, he hadthe goods. There it was, yards of it, all printed neat in big fat type."Sea Songs" is what he calls 'em, and each one has a separate tag of itsown, such as "Kittywakes," "Close Hauled," and "Scuppers Under."
"Looks like the real stuff," says I. "Let's hear how it listens. Ah,come on! Some of that last one, about scuppers, now."
With a little more urgin', Rupert reads it to me. I should call him agood reader, too. Anyway, he can untie one of them deep, boomin' voices,and with that long, serious face of his helpin' out the generaleffect--well, it's kind of impressive. He spiels off two or threestickfuls and then stops.
"Which way was you readin' that, backwards or forwards?" says I.
Rupert begins to stiffen up, and I hurries on with the apology. "Mymistake," says I. "I thought maybe you might have got mixed at thestart. No offense. But say, Cap'n, what's the big idea? What does it allmean?"
In some ways Rupert is good-natured. He was then. He explains how inthis brand of verse you don't try to tell a story or anything like that."I am merely giving my impressions," says he. "That is all.Interpreting my own feelings, as it were."
"Oh!" says I. "Then there's no goin' behind the returns. Who's to sayyou don't feel that way? I get you now. But that ain't the kind of stuffyou can wish onto the magazines, is it?"
Which shows just how far behind the bass-drum I am. Rupert tells me thedifferent places where he's unloaded his pieces, most of 'em for realmoney. Also, I pumps out of him how he came to get into the game. Seemshe'd been roomin' down in old Greenwich Village; just happened to driftin among them long-haired men and short-haired girls. It turns out thatthe book was a little enterprise that was being backed by Mrs. Mumford.Yes, it's that kind of a book--so much down in advance to the GrafterPress. You know, Mrs. Mumford always did fall for Rupert, and aftershe's read one of his sea spasms in a magazine she don't lose any timehuntin' him out and renewin' their cruise acquaintance. A real poet!Say, I can just see her playin' that up among her friends. And when shefinds he's mixin' in with all those dear, delightful Bohemians, sheinsists that Rupert tow her along too.
From then on it was a common thing for her and Rupert to go browsin'around among them garlic and red-ink joints, defyin' ptomaines andlearnin' to braid spaghetti on a fork. That was her idea of life. Shehires an apartment right off Washington Square and moves in fromMontclair for the winter. She begun to have what she called her "salonevenings," when she collected any kind of near-celebrity she could get.
Mr. Vinton Bartley was generally one of the favored guests. I didn'tneed any second sight, either, to suspect that Vinton was sort ofcrowdin' in on this little romance of Rupert's. And by eggin' Rupertalong judicious I got the whole tale.
Seems it had been one of Mrs. Mumford's ambitions to spring Rupert on anunsuspectin' public. Her idea is to have Rupert called on, some night atthe Purple Pup, to step up to the head of the long table and give one ofhis sea songs. She'd picked Vinton to do the callin'. And Vinton hadbalked.
"But say," says I, "is this Vinton gent the only one of her friendsthat's got a voice? Why not pick another announcer?"
"I'm sure I don't know," says Rupert. "She--she hasn't mentioned thesubject recently."
"Oh!" says I. "Too busy listenin' to the voice of the viper, eh?"
Rupert nods and stares sad into his empty demi-tasse. And, say, whenRupert gets that way he's an appealin' cuss.
"See here, Rupert," says I; "if you got a call of that kind, would youcome to the front and make a noise like a real poet?"
"Why," says he, "I suppose I ought to. It would help the sale of thebook, and perhaps----"
"One alibi is enough," I breaks in. "Now, another thing: How'd you liketo have me stage-manage this debut of yours?"
"Oh, would you?" says he, beamin'.
"Providin' you'll follow directions," says I.
"Why, certainly," says Rupert. "Any suggestions that you may make----"
"Then we'll begin right now," says I. "You are to ditch that flossyfloor-walker outfit of yours from this on."
"You mean," says Rupert, "that I am not to wear these clothes?"
"Just that," says I. "When you get to givin' mornin' readin's at thePlaza for the benefit of the Red Cross, you can dig 'em out again; butfor the Purple Pup you got to be costumed different. Who ever heard of agoulash poet in a braid-bound cutaway and spats? Say, it's a wonder theylet you live south of the Arch."
"But--but what ought I to wear?" asks Rupert.
"Foolish question!" says I. "Who are you, anyway? Answer: the SailorPoet. There you are! Sea captain's togs for you--double-breasted bluecoat, baggy-kneed blue trousers, and a yachtin' cap."
"Very well," says Rupert. "But about my being asked to read. Justhow----"
"Leave it to me, Rupert," says I. "Leave everything to me."
Which was a lot simpler than tellin' him I didn't know.
You should have seen Vee's face when I tells her about Rupert's newline.
"Captain Killam a poet!" says she. "Oh, really now, Torchy!"
"Uh-huh!" says I. "He's done enough for a book. Read me some of it,too."
"But--but what is it like?" asks Vee. "How does it sound?"
"Why," says I, "it sounds batty to me--like a record made by a sailorwho was simple in the head and talked a lot in his sleep. Course, I'mno judge. What's the difference, though? Rupert wants to spout it inpublic."
"But the people in the restaurant," protests Vee. "Suppose they shouldlaugh, or do something worse?"
"That's where Rupert is takin' a chance," says I. "Personally, I thinkhe'll be lucky if they don't throw plates at him. But we ain'tunderwritin' any accident policy; we're just bookin' him for a part heclaims he can play. Are you on?"
Vee gets that eye twinkle of hers workin'. "I think it will be perfectlylovely."
I got to admit, too, that she's quite a help.
"We must be sure Mrs. Mumford and that Bartley person are both there,"says she. "And we ought to have as many of Captain Killam's friends aspossible. I'll tell you. Let's give a dinner-party."
"Must we?" says I. "You know we ain't introducin' any London success.This is Rupert's first stab, remember."
We set the date for the day the book was to be out, which gives Rupertan excuse for celebratin'. He'd invited Mrs. Mumford and Vinton to behis guests, and they'd promised to be on hand. As for us, we'd roundedup Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ellins and J. Dudley Simms.
Well, everybody showed up. And as it happens, it's one of the big nightsat the Purple Pup. The long center table is surrounded by a gay bunch ofassorted artists who are bein' financed by an out-of-town buyer whoseems to be openin' Chianti reckless. We were over in one corner, as faraway from the ukulele torturers as we could get, while at the other endof the room is Rupert with his two. I thought he looked kind of pallid,but it might have been only on account of the cigarette smoke.
"Is it time yet, Torchy?" asks Mr. Robert, when we gets through to thestriped ice cream and chicory essence.
"Let's hold off," says I, "and see if someone else don't pull acurtain-raiser."
Sure enough, they did. A bald-headed, red-faced old boy with a LibertyBond button in his coat-lapel insists on everybody's drinkin' to ourboys at the front. Followin' that, someone leads a slim, big-eyed youngfemale to the piano and announces that she will do a couple of Serbianfolk-songs. Maybe she did. I hope the Serbs forgive her.
"If they can take that without squirmin'," says I, "I guess they canstand for Rupert. Go on, Mr. Robert. Shoot."
Course, he's no spellbinder, but he can say what he wants to in a
fewwords and make himself heard. And then, bein' in naval uniform helped.
"I think we have with us to-night," says he, "Captain Rupert Killam, thesailor poet. I should like, if it pleases the company, to ask CaptainKillam to read for us some of his popular verses. Does anyone second themotion?"
"Killam! Killam!" roars out the sporty wine-opener.
Others took up the chorus, and in the midst of it I dashes over to dragRupert from his chair if necessary.
But I wasn't needed. As a matter of fact, he beat me to it. Before Icould get half way to him, he is standin' at the end of the long table,his eyes dropped modest, and a brand-new volume of "Sea Songs" heldconspicuous over his chest.
"This is indeed an unexpected honor," says Rupert, lyin' fluent. "I am aplain sailor-man, as you know, but if you insist----"
And, before they could hedge, he has squared his shoulders, thrown hishead well back, and has cut loose with that boomin' voice of his. Doeshe put it over? Say, honest, I finds myself listenin' with my mouthopen, just as though I understood every word. And the first thing I knowhe's carryin' the house with him. Even some of the Hungarian waitersstopped to see what it's all about.
Tides! Little, rushing, hurrying tides Along the sloping deck. And the bobstay smashing the big blue deep, While under my hand The kicking tiller groans Its oaken soul out in a gray despair.
That's part of it I copied down afterward. Yet that crowd just lapped itup.
"Wow!" "Brava! Brava!" "What's the matter with Killam?" they yells."More!"
Rupert was flushin' clear up the back of his neck now. Also he wasfumblin' with the book, hesitatin' what to give 'em next, when I pushesin and begins pumpin' his hand.
"Shall--shall I----" he starts to ask.
"No, you boob," I whispers. "Quit while the quittin's good. You got 'embuffaloed, all right. Let it ride."
And I fairly shoves him over to his table, where Sister Mumford hasalready split out a new pair of gloves and is beamin' joyous, whileVinton is sittin' there with his chin on his necktie, lookin' likesomeone had beaned him with a bung-starter.
But we wasn't wise just how strong Rupert had scored until we saw thehalf page Whitey Weeks had gotten out of it for the Sunday paper. "NewPoet Captures Greenwich Village" is the top headline, and there's athree-column cut showin' Rupert spoutin' his "Sea Songs" through thecigarette smoke. Also, I gather from a casual remark Rupert let dropyesterday that the prospects of him and Mrs. Mumford enterin' the mixeddoubles class soon are good. And, with her ownin' a big retail coalbusiness over in Jersey, I expect Rupert can go on writin' his pomes asfree as he likes.
