Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  When he passed it, he would look at it with an interest which he supposed detached and idly speculative. “That’d be just the thing,” he thought. “If a fellow had money enough, and took a notion to set up some new business on a big scale, this would be a pretty good place — to make glue, for instance, if that wasn’t out of the question, of course. It would take a lot of money, though; a great deal too much for me to expect to handle — even if I’d ever dream of doing such a thing.”

  Opposite the dismantled factory was a muddy, open lot of two acres or so, and near the middle of the lot, a long brick shed stood in a desolate abandonment, not happily decorated by old coatings of theatrical and medicinal advertisements. But the brick shed had two wooden ells, and, though both shed and ells were of a single story, here was empty space enough for a modest enterprise— “space enough for almost anything, to start with,” Adams thought, as he walked through the low buildings, one day, when he was prospecting in that section. “Yes, I suppose I COULD swing this,” he thought. “If the process belonged to me, say, instead of being out of the question because it isn’t my property — or if I was the kind of man to do such a thing anyhow, here would be something I could probably get hold of pretty cheap. They’d want a lot of money for a lease on that big building over the way — but this, why, I should think it’d be practically nothing at all.”

  Then, by chance, meeting an agent he knew, he made inquiries — merely to satisfy a casual curiosity, he thought — and he found matters much as he had supposed, except that the owners of the big building did not wish to let, but to sell it, and this at a price so exorbitant that Adams laughed. But the long brick shed in the great muddy lot was for sale or to let, or “pretty near to be given away,” he learned, if anybody would take it.

  Adams took it now, though without seeing that he had been destined to take it, and that some dreary wizard in the back of his head had foreseen all along that he would take it, and planned to be ready. He drove in his taxicab to look the place over again, then down-town to arrange for a lease; and came home to lunch with his wife and daughter. Things were “moving,” he told them.

  He boasted a little of having acted so decisively, and said that since the dang thing had to be done, it was “going to be done RIGHT!” He was almost cheerful, in a feverish way, and when the cab came for him again, soon after lunch, he explained that he intended not only to get things done right, but also to “get ’em done quick!” Alice, following him to the front door, looked at him anxiously and asked if she couldn’t help. He laughed at her grimly.

  “Then let me go along with you in the cab,” she begged. “You don’t look able to start in so hard, papa, just when you’re barely beginning to get your strength back. Do let me go with you and see if I can’t help — or at least take care of you if you should get to feeling badly.”

  He declined, but upon pressure let her put a tiny bottle of spirits of ammonia in his pocket, and promised to make use of it if he “felt faint or anything.” Then he was off again; and the next morning had men at work in his sheds, though the wages he had to pay frightened him.

  He directed the workmen in every detail, hurrying them by example and exhortations, and receiving, in consequence, several declarations of independence, as well as one resignation, which took effect immediately. “Yous capitalusts seem to think a man’s got nothin’ to do but break his back p’doosin’ wealth fer yous to squander,” the resigning person loudly complained. “You look out: the toiler’s day is a-comin’, and it ain’t so fur off, neither!” But the capitalist was already out of hearing, gone to find a man to take this orator’s place.

  By the end of the week, Adams felt that he had moved satisfactorily forward in his preparations for the simple equipment he needed; but he hated the pause of Sunday. He didn’t WANT any rest, he told Alice impatiently, when she suggested that the idle day might be good for him.

  Late that afternoon he walked over to the apartment house where old Charley Lohr lived, and gave his friend the letter he wanted the head of Lamb and Company to receive “personally.” “I’ll take it as a mighty great favour in you to hand it to him personally, Charley,” he said, in parting. “And you won’t forget, in case he says anything about it — and remember if you ever do get a chance to put in a good word for me later, you know — —”

  Old Charley promised to remember, and, when Mrs. Lohr came out of the “kitchenette,” after the door closed, he said thoughtfully, “Just skin and bones.”

  “You mean Mr. Adams is?” Mrs. Lohr inquired.

  “Who’d you think I meant?” he returned. “One o’ these partridges in the wall-paper?”

  “Did he look so badly?”

  “Looked kind of distracted to me,” her husband replied. “These little thin fellers can stand a heap sometimes, though. He’ll be over here again Monday.”

  “Did he say he would?”

  “No,” said Lohr. “But he will. You’ll see. He’ll be over to find out what the big boss says when I give him this letter. Expect I’d be kind of anxious, myself, if I was him.”

  “Why would you? What’s Mr. Adams doing to be so anxious about?”

  Lohr’s expression became one of reserve, the look of a man who has found that when he speaks his inner thoughts his wife jumps too far to conclusions. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Of course any man starting up a new business is bound to be pretty nervous a while. He’ll be over here to-morrow evening, all right; you’ll see.”

  The prediction was fulfilled: Adams arrived just after Mrs. Lohr had removed the dinner dishes to her “kitchenette”; but Lohr had little information to give his caller.

  “He didn’t say a word, Virgil; nary a word. I took it into his office and handed it to him, and he just sat and read it; that’s all. I kind of stood around as long as I could, but he was sittin’ at his desk with his side to me, and he never turned around full toward me, as it were, so I couldn’t hardly even tell anything. All I know: he just read it.”

  “Well, but see here,” Adams began, nervously. “Well — —”

  “Well what, Virg?”

  “Well, but what did he say when he DID speak?”

  “He didn’t speak. Not so long I was in there, anyhow. He just sat there and read it. Read kind of slow. Then, when he came to the end, he turned back and started to read it all over again. By that time there was three or four other men standin’ around in the office waitin’ to speak to him, and I had to go.”

  Adams sighed, and stared at the floor, irresolute. “Well, I’ll be getting along back home then, I guess, Charley. So you’re sure you couldn’t tell anything what he might have thought about it, then?”

  “Not a thing in the world. I’ve told you all I know, Virg.”

  “I guess so, I guess so,” Adams said, mournfully. “I feel mighty obliged to you, Charley Lohr; mighty obliged. Good-night to you.” And he departed, sighing in perplexity.

  On his way home, preoccupied with many thoughts, he walked so slowly that once or twice he stopped and stood motionless for a few moments, without being aware of it; and when he reached the juncture of the sidewalk with the short brick path that led to his own front door, he stopped again, and stood for more than a minute. “Ah, I wish I knew,” he whispered, plaintively. “I do wish I knew what he thought about it.”

  He was roused by a laugh that came lightly from the little veranda near by. “Papa!” Alice called gaily. “What are you standing there muttering to yourself about?”

  “Oh, are you there, dearie?” he said, and came up the path. A tall figure rose from a chair on the veranda.

  “Papa, this is Mr. Russell.”

  The two men shook hands, Adams saying, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” as they looked at each other in the faint light diffused through the opaque glass in the upper part of the door. Adams’s impression was of a strong and tall young man, fashionable but gentle; and Russell’s was of a dried, little old business man with a grizzled moustache, worried bright eyes, sha
peless dark clothes, and a homely manner.

  “Nice evening,” Adams said further, as their hands parted. “Nice time o’ year it is, but we don’t always have as good weather as this; that’s the trouble of it. Well — —” He went to the door. “Well — I bid you good evening,” he said, and retired within the house.

  Alice laughed. “He’s the old-fashionedest man in town, I suppose and frightfully impressed with you, I could see!”

  “What nonsense!” said Russell. “How could anybody be impressed with me?”

  “Why not? Because you’re quiet? Good gracious! Don’t you know that you’re the most impressive sort? We chatterers spend all our time playing to you quiet people.”

  “Yes; we’re only the audience.”

  “‘Only!’” she echoed. “Why, we live for you, and we can’t live without you.”

  “I wish you couldn’t,” said Russell. “That would be a new experience for both of us, wouldn’t it?”

  “It might be a rather bleak one for me,” she answered, lightly. “I’m afraid I’ll miss these summer evenings with you when they’re over. I’ll miss them enough, thanks!”

  “Do they have to be over some time?” he asked.

  “Oh, everything’s over some time, isn’t it?”

  Russell laughed at her. “Don’t let’s look so far ahead as that,” he said. “We don’t need to be already thinking of the cemetery, do we?”

  “I didn’t,” she said, shaking her head. “Our summer evenings will be over before then, Mr. Russell.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Good heavens!” she said. “THERE’S laconic eloquence: almost a proposal in a single word! Never mind, I shan’t hold you to it. But to answer you: well, I’m always looking ahead, and somehow I usually see about how things are coming out.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I suppose most of us do; at least it seems as if we did, because we so seldom feel surprised by the way they do come out. But maybe that’s only because life isn’t like a play in a theatre, and most things come about so gradually we get used to them.”

  “No, I’m sure I can see quite a long way ahead,” she insisted, gravely. “And it doesn’t seem to me as if our summer evenings could last very long. Something’ll interfere — somebody will, I mean — they’ll SAY something — —”

  “What if they do?”

  She moved her shoulders in a little apprehensive shiver. “It’ll change you,” she said. “I’m just sure something spiteful’s going to happen to me. You’ll feel differently about — things.”

  “Now, isn’t that an idea!” he exclaimed.

  “It will,” she insisted. “I know something spiteful’s going to happen!”

  “You seem possessed by a notion not a bit flattering to me,” he remarked.

  “Oh, but isn’t it? That’s just what it is! Why isn’t it?”

  “Because it implies that I’m made of such soft material the slightest breeze will mess me all up. I’m not so like that as I evidently appear; and if it’s true that we’re afraid other people will do the things we’d be most likely to do ourselves, it seems to me that I ought to be the one to be afraid. I ought to be afraid that somebody may say something about me to you that will make you believe I’m a professional forger.”

  “No. We both know they won’t,” she said. “We both know you’re the sort of person everybody in the world says nice things about.” She lifted her hand to silence him as he laughed at this. “Oh, of course you are! I think perhaps you’re a little flirtatious — most quiet men have that one sly way with ’em — oh, yes, they do! But you happen to be the kind of man everybody loves to praise. And if you weren’t, I shouldn’t hear anything terrible about you. I told you I was unpopular: I don’t see anybody at all any more. The only man except you who’s been to see me in a month is that fearful little fat Frank Dowling, and I sent word to HIM I wasn’t home. Nobody’d tell me of your wickedness, you see.”

  “Then let me break some news to you,” Russell said. “Nobody would tell me of yours, either. Nobody’s even mentioned you to me.”

  She burlesqued a cry of anguish. “That IS obscurity! I suppose I’m too apt to forget that they say the population’s about half a million nowadays. There ARE other people to talk about, you feel, then?”

  “None that I want to,” he said. “But I should think the size of the place might relieve your mind of what seems to insist on burdening it. Besides, I’d rather you thought me a better man than you do.”

  “What kind of a man do I think you are?”

  “The kind affected by what’s said about people instead of by what they do themselves.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not,” he said. “If you want our summer evenings to be over you’ll have to drive me away yourself.”

  “Nobody else could?”

  “No.”

  She was silent, leaning forward, with her elbows on her knees and her clasped hands against her lips. Then, not moving, she said softly:

  “Well — I won’t!”

  She was silent again, and he said nothing, but looked at her, seeming to be content with looking. Her attitude was one only a graceful person should assume, but she was graceful; and, in the wan light, which made a prettily shaped mist of her, she had beauty. Perhaps it was beauty of the hour, and of the love scene almost made into form by what they had both just said, but she had it; and though beauty of the hour passes, he who sees it will long remember it and the hour when it came.

  “What are you thinking of?” he asked.

  She leaned back in her chair and did not answer at once. Then she said:

  “I don’t know; I doubt if I was thinking of anything. It seems to me I wasn’t. I think I was just being sort of sadly happy just then.”

  “Were you? Was it ‘sadly,’ too?”

  “Don’t you know?” she said. “It seems to me that only little children can be just happily happy. I think when we get older our happiest moments are like the one I had just then: it’s as if we heard strains of minor music running through them — oh, so sweet, but oh, so sad!”

  “But what makes it sad for YOU?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, in a lighter tone. “Perhaps it’s a kind of useless foreboding I seem to have pretty often. It may be that — or it may be poor papa.”

  “You ARE a funny, delightful girl, though!” Russell laughed. “When your father’s so well again that he goes out walking in the evenings!”

  “He does too much walking,” Alice said. “Too much altogether, over at his new plant. But there isn’t any stopping him.” She laughed and shook her head. “When a man gets an ambition to be a multi-millionaire his family don’t appear to have much weight with him. He’ll walk all he wants to, in spite of them.”

  “I suppose so,” Russell said, absently; then he leaned forward. “I wish I could understand better why you were ‘sadly’ happy.”

  Meanwhile, as Alice shed what further light she could on this point, the man ambitious to be a “multi-millionaire” was indeed walking too much for his own good. He had gone to bed, hoping to sleep well and rise early for a long day’s work, but he could not rest, and now, in his nightgown and slippers, he was pacing the floor of his room.

  “I wish I DID know,” he thought, over and over. “I DO wish I knew how he feels about it.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THAT WAS A thought almost continuously in his mind, even when he was hardest at work; and, as the days went on and he could not free himself, he became querulous about it. “I guess I’m the biggest dang fool alive,” he told his wife as they sat together one evening. “I got plenty else to bother me, without worrying my head off about what HE thinks. I can’t help what he thinks; it’s too late for that. So why should I keep pestering myself about it?”

  “It’ll wear off, Virgil,” Mrs. Adams said, reassuringly. She was gentle and sympathetic with him, and for the first time in many years he would come to sit with her and talk, when he had f
inished his day’s work. He had told her, evading her eye, “Oh, I don’t blame you. You didn’t get after me to do this on your own account; you couldn’t help it.”

  “Yes; but it don’t wear off,” he complained. “This afternoon I was showing the men how I wanted my vats to go, and I caught my fool self standing there saying to my fool self, ‘It’s funny I don’t hear how he feels about it from SOMEbody.’ I was saying it aloud, almost — and it IS funny I don’t hear anything!”

  “Well, you see what it means, don’t you, Virgil? It only means he hasn’t said anything to anybody about it. Don’t you think you’re getting kind of morbid over it?”

  “Maybe, maybe,” he muttered.

  “Why, yes,” she said, briskly. “You don’t realize what a little bit of a thing all this is to him. It’s been a long, long while since the last time you even mentioned glue to him, and he’s probably forgotten everything about it.”

  “You’re off your base; it isn’t like him to forget things,” Adams returned, peevishly. “He may seem to forget ’em, but he don’t.”

  “But he’s not thinking about this, or you’d have heard from him before now.”

  Her husband shook his head. “Ah, that’s just it!” he said. “Why HAVEN’T I heard from him?”

  “It’s all your morbidness, Virgil. Look at Walter: if Mr. Lamb held this up against you, would he still let Walter stay there? Wouldn’t he have discharged Walter if he felt angry with you?”

  “That dang boy!” Adams said. “If he WANTED to come with me now, I wouldn’t hardly let him, What do you suppose makes him so bull-headed?”

  “But hasn’t he a right to choose for himself?” she asked. “I suppose he feels he ought to stick to what he thinks is sure pay. As soon as he sees that you’re going to succeed with the glue-works he’ll want to be with you quick enough.”

  “Well, he better get a little sense in his head,” Adams returned, crossly. “He wanted me to pay him a three-hundred-dollar bonus in advance, when anybody with a grain of common sense knows I need every penny I can lay my hands on!”