The Definite Object

by Jeffery Farnol

  “No, did I snore, Spider?”

  “Bo, you sure are a bird for snorin’.”

  “Damn it!” said Ravenslee, frowning, “I must break myself of it.”

  “Thinkin’ of gettin’ married, bo?”

  “Married? What the—”

  “She’ll soon get useter it, I guess—they all do!” said the unabashed Spider. “Anyway, if you didn’t snore exactly, you sure had a strangle hold on the snooze business, all right. Here’s me crawled out o’ me downy little cot t’ put ye wise t’ Bud’s little game, an’ here’s you diggin’ into the feathers t’ beat th’ band!”

  “But the window was open; why didn’t you come in right away?”

  “Not much, bo, I ain’t the kind o’ fool as makes a habit o’ wakin’ your kind out o’ their beauty sleep sudden, no more I ain’t a guy as takes liberties in strange bedrooms, see?”

  “Well, come in, Spider—sit on the bed; I haven’t a chair to offer. By the way, I have to thank you—”

  “Whaffor?”

  “Breaking that window—”

  “Oh, I guess it wasn’t a bad wheeze.”

  “It gave me the chance I wanted, Spider.”

  “Which you sure gripped with both mitts, bo!”

  “Now have a cigar—in that coat pocket—”

  “Not me, Geoff! Smoke’s bad for th’ wind, that’s why I’ve took t’ gum.” Saying which, the Spider proceeded to take out and open a packet of that necessary adjunct, and having posted it into his mouth piece by piece, fell to grim mastication.

  “Bo,” said he suddenly, “you come away without your roof last night.”

  “Eh?” said Ravenslee, blinking drowsily, “my what?”

  “Your lid, bo.”

  “You mean my old hat?”

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ t’ tell you—an’ say, that sure is the hardest bean cover I ever spotted; made of iron, is it? Where’d you find it?”

  “At some dim and distant day it originated in England, I believe.”

  “Well, that lid would turn a poleaxe, sure; that’s why I brought it back—it’s out on the fire escape now.”

  “Very kind of you, Spider, but—”

  “Bo, you’re goin’ t’ need that hat an’ a soot o’ tin underwear from now on unless—well, unless you pack y’r trunk an’ clear out o’ Hell’s Kitchen on th’ jump.”

  “Why so?”

  “Well, you certainly handed Bud a whole lot more ‘n he’s ever had before, an’ it’s a full house to a pair o’ dooces he ain’t lookin’ for no more from you just yet. But then, Bud ain’t no pet lamb nor yet a peace conference, an’ it’s four aces to a bum-flush he means t’ get back at ye some way—an’ get ye good!”

  “Oh?” said Ravenslee, yawning.

  “And oh some more!” nodded the Spider; “it’s sure comin’ t’ you. When I got back las’ night, there’s Bud settin’ against th’ wall lookin’ like an exhibit from the morgue, fightin’ for breath t’ cuss you with. ‘N’ say, you sure had done him up some, which I wasn’t nowise sad or peeved about, no, sir! Me an’ Bud’s never been what you might call real kittenish an’ playful together. But it seems you ain’t only soaked an’ throttled him good an’ plenty, but he’s gone an’ let out t’ you about that guy Heine—an’ consequently you’ve gotter be kept from opening y’r mouth—see? Consequently it’s you for a sudden an’ hasty hike.”

  “Oh?” said Ravenslee again.

  “Twice!” nodded the Spider, “with a F an’ a L thrown in—that’s what you’ll be, Geoff, if you try t’ buck Bud an’ th’ gang. So here I’ve shinnied up y’r fire escape to put ye wise an’ lend a hand to make your swift get-away.”

  Ravenslee sighed and settled his head more comfortably on his pillow. “You think I ought to go, Spider?”

  “I don’t think—I know! Your number’s up, Geoff—it’s you against th’ field, an’, bo—they’re some field!”

  “You think there’s real danger, then?” enquired Ravenslee, staring up at the fly-blown text with shining eyes.

  “As real as—death, bo!”

  “Not so long ago I regarded Death as my best friend—”

  “How much?” demanded the Spider, suspending mastication.

  “Nothing, Spider, a mere passing thought.”

  “Well, I’m tellin’ ye they’ll get ye sure—it’ll be th’ water or a forty-four bullet, or a blackjack or a knife—but you’ll get it one way or another!”

  “Sounds cheering!”

  “An’ it ain’t over-pleasant t’ be sandbagged.”

  “No, Spider.”

  “Nor t’ feel a lead pipe wrapped round th’ back o’ y’r bean.”

  “No indeed, Spider.”

  “Nor yet t’ feel a stiletta diggin’ between y’r shoulders or over y’r collar bone.”

  “Worst of all, Spider.”

  “Well, you’d best pack y’r little trunk an’ fade away, bo!” Ravenslee sat up suddenly and looked at the Spider with eyes very bright and wide.

  “Not for all the gangs that ever ganged!” said he softly.

  “Eh?” exclaimed the Spider, staring, “what’s yer game?”

  “I’m going to try to buck this gang clean out of existence.”

  “You are, eh?”

  “I am.”

  “Bo,” sighed the Spider, shaking his head, “you ain’t a ordinary fool—you’re a damned fool!”

  “And you’re going to help me, Spider!”

  “Not me, bo, not me—I’m only just an ordinary fool!”

  “Well, we’ll let it go at that!” said Ravenslee, and lying back, he yawned again.

  “Don’t do that, bo, don’t do that!” exclaimed the Spider. “I’m thinkin’ what you’ll look like after you’ve been floatin’ around in th’ river—a week, say! You’d best get out o’ Hell’s Kitchen, bo—don’t stop to ask where to, but—go there.”

  “My Spider,” said Ravenslee, shaking his head, “in Hell’s Kitchen I should have to leave all that makes life worth while, so—I shall stay, of course, and chance the—er—river and things.”

  “Well, I guess it’s your trouble, not mine.”

  “But I want it to be yours too, Spider. You see, I’m counting on you to help me smash this gang.”

  “Bo, it looks like you’re goin’ t’ do a hell of a lot o’ countin’—an’ then some more, before you count me in on this fool game. Say”—he paused to stare at Ravenslee, keen-eyed and with jaws clamped rigid—”you ain’t a fly-cop—one o’ these sleuthy gum-shoe men, are ye?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you ain’t one o’ these fool amateur guys doin’ the dare-devil detective act like you read about in th’ magazines, are ye?”

  “No more than you are one of these dirty gang loafers you hear about around O’Rourke’s—and that’s why you’re going to help me root ‘em out.”

  “Sufferin’ Pete!” sighed the Spider, “here I keep tellin’ you I ain’t on in this act, an’ here you keep on ringin’ me in frequent all the same.”

  “Because you are a man, Spider Connolly, and white all through, and because to smash up this gang is going to be man’s work.”

  “Well, it sure ain’t no job for Sophy the Satin-skinned Show-girl—nor yet for two nice, quiet little fellers like you an’ me.”

  “We shan’t be quite alone, Spider.”

  “That’s some comfortin’, anyway!”

  “There will be Joe Madden, for one.”

  “Joe Mad—” The Spider very nearly bolted his wad of chewing gum, then he rose and stood staring at Ravenslee, very round of eye. “So you know Joe Madden, the best all-round champion that ever happened, eh?”

  “I box with him every day.”

  “Hully Chee!” exclaimed the Spider, and chewed fervently in silent astonishment. Suddenly he lifted his head and stood as one that hearkens to distant sounds, and crossing stealthily to the window, climbed out.

  “What’s the matter?”

 
“Mother Trapes, bo. She’s just rollin’ out o’ th’ feathers, an’ she’s quite enough for me—always has me fazed to a frazzle. If she caught me here it ‘ud be th’ gimlet eye for mine—so here’s where I fade away.”

  “Anyway, come and have tea here with me to-night, Spider, unless you think I am—er—too dangerous to visit just now on account of M’Ginnis—”

  “Dangerous?” repeated the Spider, scowling, “bo, when I get a call t’ free food with a guy like you, danger gets lost in th’ shuffle an’ forgotten—I’ll be there. Now here’s your bean cover—catch! S’ long!” And nodding, Spider promptly vanished down the fire escape.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHIEFLY CONCERNING A LETTER

  “Sunday,” said Mrs. Trapes sententiously, “Sunday is a holy day t’ some folks an’ a holiday for other folks, but t’ folks like me an’ Hermy it sure ain’t no day of rest an’ gladness—like the hymn book says.”

  “Isn’t it?” said Ravenslee, pushing away his coffee cup and glancing toward the loud-ticking clock upon the sideboard.

  “It sure ain’t!” nodded Mrs. Trapes, quick to note the look. “Hermy an’ me ain’t much given to Sunday observance, Mr. Geoffrey. Y’ see, there’s always meals t’ be cooked an’ washin’ up t’ be done, an’ clo’es t’ be mended p’raps. I’ve darned many a ‘eartfelt prayer into a wore-out pair o’ stockin’s before now an’ offered up many a petition t’ the Throne o’ grace with my scrubbin’ brush sloshin’ over the floor. Anyway, Hermy ‘n’ me ain’t never had much time for church-goin’ or prayer meetin’s or mindin’ our souls in our best frocks an’ bonnets—no, sir! We jest have t’ get on with our work—sewin’ an’ cookin’ an’ washin’—mindin’ the welfare of other folks’ bodies. So while them as has time an’ inclination sing their praises t’ the Lord on their knees, Hermy an’ me take out our praises in work, an’ have t’ leave our souls t’ God an’—oh, well, I guess he’ll take care of ‘em all right—don’t y’ think?”

  “I certainly do!” nodded Ravenslee.

  “O’ course, my soul ain’t all it should be—a bit stained here an’ there, p’raps—a bit th’ worse for wear, Mr. Geoffrey, but Hermy’s—well, there, I guess it’s jest as sweet as a flower still, an’ white—as white as that tablecloth. An’ talkin’ about her soul—what about her body, Mr. Geoffrey?”

  Ravenslee started. “Her body?” said he, staring. “Well, since you ask, I should say it is like her soul—very sweet and white and—”

  “Sure!” nodded Mrs. Trapes, “but, bein’ only flesh an’ blood after all—bein’ only miserable clay like yours an’ mine, Mr. Geoffrey, it’ll always need food t’ nourish it, clo’es t’ keep it warm, an’ a roof t’ shelter it. Well, if she was t’ be s’ mad as t’ marry a peanut man, what about food an’ clo’es an’ a roof?”

  “I think they could be managed, Mrs. Trapes.”

  “What—out o’ peanuts?”

  “No—er—the fact is, I’ve given ‘em up.”

  Mrs. Trapes sniffed. “Y’ don’t say!” she remarked drily. “Think o’ that, now!”

  “The fact is, Mrs. Trapes, I—well, suppose I were to confess to you that I’m not quite so poor as I seem—what should you say?”

  “Why, I should say as I knew that about three weeks ago, Mr. Geoffrey.”

  “Oh, did you?” said Ravenslee, staring. “How in the world did you find out?”

  “Why, Mr. Geoffrey, I’ll tell ye how. I got eyes an’ I got ears, an’ sometimes I can see a bit with my eyes an’ hear with my ears—that’s how! Oh, I’ve watched ye, Mr. Geoffrey—I’ve watched ye careful because—well, because I sure love Hermy, an’ ‘t would jest break my ‘eart t’ see her fallin’ in love with a rogue!”

  “So you think—that she is—falling in love, then?” enquired Ravenslee slowly.

  “Well, Hermy’s Hermy, an’ she’s wrote you two letters to my knowin’—”

  “No, only one, Mrs. Trapes.”

  “Now Hermy ain’t the kind o’ girl t’ write twice to a man unless—”

  “But she has only written me one letter, Mrs. Trapes—the one she left with you last week.”

  “Oh, well—here’s the other!” said Mrs. Trapes, laying before him an envelope addressed in the handwriting he had come to know so well.

  “Why didn’t you give it to me before?” he enquired.

  “Her orders, Mr. Geoffrey.”

  “Orders?”

  “Orders!” nodded Mrs. Trapes. “She come in here last night an’ give it me after you was gone t’ bed. ‘Ann dear,’ she says, ‘don’t let him have it till half after ten t’ morrer,’ she says. An’ it’s nearly eleven now—so there’s y’r letter!”

  “But,” said Ravenslee, “why on earth—”

  “P’raps th’ letter’ll tell you, Mr. Geoffrey; s’pose you read it while I clear away your breakfast things!”

  Hereupon Ravenslee opened the letter and read these words:

  My dear,

  It would be my joy to trust myself to you utterly, to go with you to the world’s end if you would have it so. Only I’m afraid that I am not quite what you would have me. I’m afraid that I might sometimes do things that would remind you that I had been only a scrubwoman. I’m afraid that some day you might regret. Were I to answer you now, I should answer you selfishly—so, please, you must give me time to think, for both our sakes. Love has never come near me before, and now I am a little afraid, for love is not little and tender and babyish, but great and strong and very fierce and masterful—that is why I am afraid of it. So I must go away from you, from the sound of your voice, the touch of your hand—to think it all out. My work will take me to Englewood to-morrow, and I want you to wait for your answer until I come back, for then I shall have decided one way or the other. But in Englewood the memory of your words will be with me still—oh, did you mean all, quite all you said, and did you say quite all you meant to say—did you? Did you? For indeed it has seemed to me that if you really meant all you said you might have said a little more—just a little more. This is a dreadfully long letter and very badly expressed, I know, but I dare not read it through. But what I have written is written from my heart.

  Hermione.

  P.S. I shall be in Englewood three whole days.

  “Will strawberry jam an’ angel cake an’ a bunch or so o’ water cress be enough, Mr. Geoffrey?”

  Ravenslee sat staring down at the letter, rubbing his square, fresh-shaven chin as one very much at a loss.

  “‘Might have said a little more—just a little more,’” he muttered, his gaze focussed upon a certain line.

  “Will water cress an’ angel cake an’ a pot o’ strawberry jam soot, Mr. Geoffrey?”

  “Now I wonder what the dickens she can mean?” mused Ravenslee.

  “She means jest strawberry jam an’ angel cake an’ water cress, fer tea—fer your visitors,” said Mrs. Trapes, with a patient sigh.

  “Visitors!” repeated Ravenslee, glancing up. “Why, yes, they’ll be here about four o’clock.”

  “An’ will water cress an’ angel cake an’—”

  “Quite enough! Certainly! Admirable!” exclaimed Ravenslee. “But what beats me,” he continued, staring down at the letter again, “is what she can mean by writing this.”

  “Not knowin’ what she’s wrote, I can’t say.”

  “Mrs. Trapes, I know you are Hermione’s best and staunchest friend, and lately I have ventured to hope you are mine too. As such, I want you to read this letter—see if you can explain it!”

  So Mrs. Trapes took the letter; and when she had read it through, folded it together with hands very gentle and reverent and stood awhile staring out into the sunlit court.

  “My land!” she said at last, her harsh voice grown almost soft, “love’s a wonderful thing, I reckon. No wonder your eyes shine so. Yes, love’s a great an’ wonderful thing—my land!”

  “But can you explain,” said Ravenslee, as he took back the letter, “can you te
ll me what she means by—”

  “Shucks, Mr. Geoffrey! That sure don’t want no explainin’. When you said all you did say to her, did y’ say anything about ‘wife’ or ‘marriage’?”

  “Why, of course I did!”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes—er—that is—I think so.”

  “Not sure then?”

  “Well, I may have done so—I must have done so, but really I—er—forget—”

  “Forget!” Mrs. Trapes snorted. “Now look-a-here, Mr. Geoffrey, what d’ ye want with Hermy; is it a wife you’re after or only—”

  “Mrs. Trapes!” Ravenslee was upon his feet, and before the sudden glare in his eyes Mrs. Trapes gaped and for once fell silent. “Mrs. Trapes,” said he, still frowning a little, “really you—you almost—made me angry.”

  “My land!” said she, “I’m kind o’ glad I didn’t—quite!” and her sniff was eloquent.

  “You see,” he went on, glancing down at the letter again, “I’ve learned to love and reverence her so much that your suggestion—hurt rather!”

  “Why, then, Mr. Geoffrey, I’m sorry. But if your love is so big an’ true as all that—if you want her t’ be a wife t’ you—why in the ‘tarnal didn’t ye speak out an’ tell her so?”

  “I’ll go and tell her so this minute.”

  “Y’ can’t! She’s gone t’ Bronx Park with that b’y, ‘n’ won’t be back all day.”

  “Damn!” exclaimed Ravenslee.

  “Sure!” nodded Mrs. Trapes. “Keep on, it’ll do ye good. But anyway, what y’ got t’ say’ll keep, I guess—it’ll gush out all the stronger fer bein’ bottled up a day or two.”

  “I can write!” he suggested.

  “You can—but you won’t—you’ll tell her with your two lips—a woman likes it better spoke—if spoke proper—I should! With arms entwined an’ eyes lookin’ into eyes an’—oh, shucks! Will angel cake an’ strawberry jam—”

  “They’ll be ample, and—thank you, dear Mrs. Trapes!”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  HOW THE OLD UN AND CERTAIN OTHERS HAD TEA

  “Old Un,” said Joe, halting his aged companion in the middle of the second flight to wag a portentous finger, “Old Un, mind this now—if there should ‘appen to be cake for tea, don’t go makin’ a ancient beast of yourself with it—no slippin’ lumps of it into your pocket on the sly, mind, because if I ketch ye at it—”