Mary Vertrees was not often down-town; she had never seen an accident until this afternoon. She had come upon errands for her mother connected with a timorous refurbishment; and as she did these, in and out of the department stores, she had an insistent consciousness of the Sheridan Building. From the street, anywhere, it was almost always in sight, like some monstrous geometrical shadow, murk-colored and rising limitlessly into the swimming heights of the smoke-mist. It was gaunt and grimy and repellent; it had nothing but strength and size — but in that consciousness of Mary’s the great structure may have partaken of beauty. Sheridan had made some of the things he said emphatic enough to remain with her. She went over and over them — and they began to seem true: “Only ONE girl he could feel THAT sorry for!” “Gurney says he’s got you on his brain so bad—” The man’s clumsy talk began to sing in her heart. The song was begun there when she saw the accident.
She was directly opposite the Sheridan Building then, waiting for the traffic to thin before she crossed, though other people were risking the passage, darting and halting and dodging parlously. Two men came from the crowd behind her, talking earnestly, and started across. Both wore black; one was tall and broad and thick, and the other was taller, but noticeably slender. And Mary caught her breath, for they were Bibbs and his father. They did not see her, and she caught a phrase in Bibbs’s mellow voice, which had taken a crisper ring: “Sixty-eight thousand dollars? Not sixty-eight thousand buttons!” It startled her queerly, and as there was a glimpse of his profile she saw for the first time a resemblance to his father.
She watched them. In the middle of the street Bibbs had to step ahead of his father, and the two were separated. But the reckless passing of a truck, beyond the second line of rails, frightened a group of country women who were in course of passage; they were just in front of Bibbs, and shoved backward upon him violently. To extricate himself from them he stepped back, directly in front of a moving trolley-car — no place for absent-mindedness, but Bibbs was still absorbed in thoughts concerned with what he had been saying to his father. There were shrieks and yells; Bibbs looked the wrong way — and then Mary saw the heavy figure of Sheridan plunge straight forward in front of the car. With absolute disregard of his own life, he hurled himself at Bibbs like a football-player shunting off an opponent, and to Mary it seemed that they both went down together. But that was all she could see — automobiles, trucks, and wagons closed in between. She made out that the trolley-car stopped jerkily, and she saw a policeman breaking his way through the instantly condensing crowd, while the traffic came to a standstill, and people stood up in automobiles or climbed upon the hubs and tires of wheels, not to miss a chance of seeing anything horrible.
Mary tried to get through; it was impossible. Other policemen came to help the first, and in a minute or two the traffic was in motion again. The crowd became pliant, dispersing — there was no figure upon the ground, and no ambulance came. But one of the policemen was detained by the clinging and beseeching of a gloved hand.
“What IS the matter, lady?”
“Where are they?” Mary cried.
“Who? Ole man Sheridan? I reckon HE wasn’t much hurt!”
“His SON—”
“Was that who the other one was? I seen him knock him — oh, he’s not bad off, I guess, lady. The ole man got him out of the way all right. The fender shoved the ole man around some, but I reckon he only got shook up. They both went on in the Sheridan Building without any help. Excuse me, lady.”
Sheridan and Bibbs, in fact, were at that moment in the elevator, ascending. “Whisk-broom up in the office,” Sheridan was saying. “You got to look out on those corners nowadays, I tell you. I don’t know I got any call to blow, though — because I tried to cross after you did. That’s how I happened to run into you. Well, you want to remember to look out after this. We were talkin’ about Murtrie’s askin’ sixty-eight thousand flat for that ninety-nine-year lease. It’s his lookout if he’d rather take it that way, and I don’t know but—”
“No,” said Bibbs, emphatically, as the elevator stopped; “he won’t get it. Not from us, he won’t, and I’ll show you why. I can convince you in five minutes.” He followed his father into the office anteroom — and convinced him. Then, having been diligently brushed by a youth of color, Bibbs went into his own room and closed the door.
He was more shaken than he had allowed his father to perceive, and his side was sore where Sheridan had struck him. He desired to be alone; he wanted to rub himself and, for once, to do some useless thinking again. He knew that his father had not “happened” to run into him; he knew that Sheridan had instantly — and instinctively — proved that he held his own life of no account whatever compared to that of his son and heir. Bibbs had been unable to speak of that, or to seem to know it; for Sheridan, just as instinctively, had swept the matter aside — as of no importance, since all was well — reverting immediately to business.
Bibbs began to think intently of his father. He perceived, as he had never perceived before, the shadowing of something enormous and indomitable — and lawless; not to be daunted by the will of nature’s very self; laughing at the lightning and at wounds and mutilation; conquering, irresistible — and blindly noble. For the first time in his life Bibbs began to understand the meaning of being truly this man’s son.
He would be the more truly his son henceforth, though, as Sheridan said, Bibbs had not come down-town with him meanly or half-heartedly. He had given his word because he had wanted the money, simply, for Mary Vertrees in her need. And he shivered with horror of himself, thinking how he had gone to her to offer it, asking her to marry him — with his head on his breast in shameful fear that she would accept him! He had not known her; the knowing had lost her to him, and this had been his real awakening; for he knew now how deep had been that slumber wherein he dreamily celebrated the superiority of “friendship”! The sleep-walker had wakened to bitter knowledge of love and life, finding himself a failure in both. He had made a burnt offering of his dreams, and the sacrifice had been an unforgivable hurt to Mary. All that was left for him was the work he had not chosen, but at least he would not fail in that, though it was indeed no more than “dust in his mouth.” If there had been anything “to work for—”
He went to the window, raised it, and let in the uproar of the streets below. He looked down at the blurred, hurrying swarms and he looked across, over the roofs with their panting jets of vapor, into the vast, foggy heart of the smoke. Dizzy traceries of steel were rising dimly against it, chattering with steel on steel, and screeching in steam, while tiny figures of men walked on threads in the dull sky. Buildings would overtop the Sheridan. Bigness was being served.
But what for? The old question came to Bibbs with a new despair. Here, where his eyes fell, had once been green fields and running brooks, and how had the kind earth been despoiled and disfigured! The pioneers had begun the work, but in their old age their orators had said for them that they had toiled and risked and sacrificed that their posterity might live in peace and wisdom, enjoying the fruits of the earth. Well, their posterity was here — and there was only turmoil. Where was the promised land? It had been promised by the soldiers of all the wars; it had been promised to this generation by the pioneers; but here was the very posterity to whom it had been promised, toiling and risking and sacrificing in turn — for what?
The harsh roar of the city came in through the open window, continuously beating upon Bibbs’s ear until he began to distinguish a pulsation in it — a broken and irregular cadence. It seemed to him that it was like a titanic voice, discordant, hoarse, rustily metallic — the voice of the god, Bigness. And the voice summoned Bibbs as it summoned all its servants.
“Come and work!” it seemed to yell. “Come and work for Me, all men! By your youth and your hope I summon you! By your age and your despair I summon you to work for Me yet a little, with what strength you have. By your love of home I summon you! By your love of woman I summon you! By yo
ur hope of children I summon you!
“You shall be blind slaves of Mine, blind to everything but Me, your Master and Driver! For your reward you shall gaze only upon my ugliness. You shall give your toil and your lives, you shall go mad for love and worship of my ugliness! You shall perish still worshipping Me, and your children shall perish knowing no other god!”
And then, as Bibbs closed the window down tight, he heard his father’s voice booming in the next room; he could not distinguish the words but the tone was exultant — and there came the THUMP! THUMP! of the maimed hand. Bibbs guessed that Sheridan was bragging of the city and of Bigness to some visitor from out-of-town.
And he thought how truly Sheridan was the high priest of Bigness. But with the old, old thought again, “What for?” Bibbs caught a glimmer of far, faint light. He saw that Sheridan had all his life struggled and conquered, and must all his life go on struggling and inevitably conquering, as part of a vast impulse not his own. Sheridan served blindly — but was the impulse blind? Bibbs asked himself if it was not he who had been in the greater hurry, after all. The kiln must be fired before the vase is glazed, and the Acropolis was not crowned with marble in a day.
Then the voice came to him again, but there was a strain in it as of some high music struggling to be born of the turmoil. “Ugly I am,” it seemed to say to him, “but never forget that I AM a god!” And the voice grew in sonorousness and in dignity. “The highest should serve, but so long as you worship me for my own sake I will not serve you. It is man who makes me ugly, by his worship of me. If man would let me serve him, I should be beautiful!”
Looking once more from the window, Bibbs sculptured for himself — in the vague contortions of the smoke and fog above the roofs — a gigantic figure with feet pedestaled upon the great buildings and shoulders disappearing in the clouds, a colossus of steel and wholly blackened with soot. But Bibbs carried his fancy further — for there was still a little poet lingering in the back of his head — and he thought that up over the clouds, unseen from below, the giant labored with his hands in the clean sunshine; and Bibbs had a glimpse of what he made there — perhaps for a fellowship of the children of the children that were children now — a noble and joyous city, unbelievably white —
It was the telephone that called him from his vision. It rang fiercely.
He lifted the thing from his desk and answered — and as the small voice inside it spoke he dropped the receiver with a crash. He trembled violently as he picked it up, but he told himself he was wrong — he had been mistaken — yet it was a startlingly beautiful voice; startlingly kind, too, and ineffably like the one he hungered most to hear.
“Who?” he said, his own voice shaking — like his hand.
“Mary.”
He responded with two hushed and incredulous words: “IS IT?”
There was a little thrill of pathetic half-laughter in the instrument. “Bibbs — I wanted to — just to see if you—”
“Yes — Mary?”
“I was looking when you were so nearly run over. I saw it, Bibbs. They said you hadn’t been hurt, they thought, but I wanted to know for myself.”
“No, no, I wasn’t hurt at all — Mary. It was father who came nearer it. He saved me.”
“Yes, I saw; but you had fallen. I couldn’t get through the crowd until you had gone. And I wanted to KNOW.”
“Mary — would you — have minded?” he said.
There was a long interval before she answered.
“Yes.”
“Then why—”
“Yes, Bibbs?”
“I don’t know what to say,” he cried. “It’s so wonderful to hear your voice again — I’m shaking, Mary — I — I don’t know — I don’t know anything except that I AM talking to you! It IS you — Mary?”
“Yes, Bibbs!”
“Mary — I’ve seen you from my window at home — only five times since I — since then. You looked — oh, how can I tell you? It was like a man chained in a cave catching a glimpse of the blue sky, Mary. Mary, won’t you — let me see you again — near? I think I could make you really forgive me — you’d have to—”
“I DID — then.”
“No — not really — or you wouldn’t have said you couldn’t see me any more.”
“That wasn’t the reason.” The voice was very low.
“Mary,” he said, even more tremulously than before, “I can’t — you COULDN’T mean it was because — you can’t mean it was because you — care?”
There was no answer.
“Mary?” he called, huskily. “If you mean THAT — you’d let me see you — wouldn’t you?”
And now the voice was so low he could not be sure it spoke at all, but if it did, the words were, “Yes, Bibbs — dear.”
But the voice was not in the instrument — it was so gentle and so light, so almost nothing, it seemed to be made of air — and it came from the air.
Slowly and incredulously he turned — and glory fell upon his shining eyes. The door of his father’s room had opened.
Mary stood upon the threshold.
THE END
Penrod and Sam
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. PENROD AND SAM
CHAPTER II. THE BONDED PRISONER
CHAPTER III. THE MILITARIST
CHAPTER IV. BINGISM
CHAPTER V. THE IN-OR-IN
CHAPTER VI. GEORGIE BECOMES A MEMBER
CHAPTER VII. WHITEY
CHAPTER VIII. SALVAGE
CHAPTER IX. REWARD OF MERIT
CHAPTER X. CONSCIENCE
CHAPTER XI. THE TONIC
CHAPTER XII. GIPSY
CHAPTER XIII. CONCERNING TROUSERS
CHAPTER XIV. CAMERA WORK IN THE JUNGLE
CHAPTER XV. A MODEL LETTER TO A FRIEND
CHAPTER XVI. WEDNESDAY MADNESS
CHAPTER XVII. PENROD’S BUSY DAY
CHAPTER XVIII. ON ACCOUNT OF THE WEATHER
CHAPTER XIX. CREATIVE ART
CHAPTER XX. THE DEPARTING GUEST
CHAPTER XXI. YEARNINGS
CHAPTER XXII. THE HORN OF FAME
CHAPTER XXIII. THE PARTY
CHAPTER XXIV. THE HEART OF MARJORIE JONES
CHAPTER I. PENROD AND SAM
DURING THE DAYLIGHT hours of several autumn Saturdays there had been severe outbreaks of cavalry in the Schofield neighbourhood. The sabres were of wood; the steeds were imaginary, and both were employed in a game called “bonded pris’ner” by its inventors, Masters Penrod Schofield and Samuel Williams. The pastime was not intricate. When two enemies met, they fenced spectacularly until the person of one or the other was touched by the opposing weapon; then, when the ensuing claims of foul play had been disallowed and the subsequent argument settled, the combatant touched was considered to be a prisoner until such time as he might be touched by the hilt of a sword belonging to one of his own party, which effected his release and restored to him the full enjoyment of hostile activity. Pending such rescue, however, he was obliged to accompany the forces of his captor whithersoever their strategical necessities led them, which included many strange places. For the game was exciting, and, at its highest pitch, would sweep out of an alley into a stable, out of that stable and into a yard, out of that yard and into a house, and through that house with the sound (and effect upon furniture) of trampling herds. In fact, this very similarity must have been in the mind of the distressed coloured woman in Mrs. Williams’s kitchen, when she declared that she might “jes’ as well try to cook right spang in the middle o’ the stock-yards.”
All up and down the neighbourhood the campaigns were waged, accompanied by the martial clashing of wood upon wood and by many clamorous arguments.
“You’re a pris’ner, Roddy Bitts!”
“I am not!”
“You are, too! I touched you.”
“Where, I’d like to know!”
“On the sleeve.”
“You did not! I never felt it. I guess I’d ‘a’ felt it, wouldn’t I?”
“What if you didn’t? I touched you, and you’re bonded. I leave it to Sam Williams.”
“Yah! Course you would! He’s on your side! I leave it to Herman.”
“No, you won’t! If you can’t show any SENSE about it, we’ll do it over, and I guess you’ll see whether you feel it or not! There! NOW, I guess you—”
“Aw, squash!”
Strangely enough, the undoubted champion proved to be the youngest and darkest of all the combatants, one Verman, coloured, brother to Herman, and substantially under the size to which his nine years entitled him. Verman was unfortunately tongue-tied, but he was valiant beyond all others, and, in spite of every handicap, he became at once the chief support of his own party and the despair of the opposition.
On the third Saturday this opposition had been worn down by the successive captures of Maurice Levy and Georgie Bassett until it consisted of only Sam Williams and Penrod. Hence, it behooved these two to be wary, lest they be wiped out altogether; and Sam was dismayed indeed, upon cautiously scouting round a corner of his own stable, to find himself face to face with the valorous and skilful Verman, who was acting as an outpost, or picket, of the enemy.
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 186
