22 The Man With Two Left Feet

by Unknown

  He broke off, and looked at Ted, as he had looked at Katie when he had tried to write the letter to the Parliament of England.

  Ted’s eye, as it met Katie’s, was almost defiant.

  ‘I want to marry you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ broke in Mr Bennett, impatiently, ‘but—’

  ‘And I’m a king.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s it, Katie. This gentleman is a king.’

  Once more Ted’s eye met Katie’s, and this time there was an imploring look in it.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, slowly. ‘I’ve just been telling your grandfather I’m the King of Coney Island.’

  ‘That’s it. Of Coney Island.’

  ‘So there’s no objection now to us getting married, kid—Your Royal Highness. It’s a royal alliance, see?’

  ‘A royal alliance,’ echoed Mr Bennett.

  Out in the street, Ted held Katie’s hand, and grinned a little sheepishly.

  ‘You’re mighty quiet, kid,’ he said. ‘It looks as if it don’t make much of a hit with you, the notion of being married to me.’

  ‘Oh, Ted! But—’

  He squeezed her hand.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. I guess it was raw work pulling a tale like that on the old man. I hated to do it, but gee! when a fellow’s up against it like I was, he’s apt to grab most any chance that comes along. Why, say, kid, it kind of looked to me as if it was sort of meant. Coming just now, like it did, just when it was wanted, and just when it didn’t seem possible it could happen. Why, a week ago I was nigh on two hundred votes behind Billy Burton. The Irish-American put him up, and everybody thought he’d be King at the Mardi Gras. And then suddenly they came pouring in for me, till at the finish I had Billy looking like a regular has-been.

  ‘It’s funny the way the voting jumps about every year in this Coney election. It was just Providence, and it didn’t seem right to let it go by. So I went in to the old man, and told him. Say, I tell you I was just sweating when I got ready to hand it to him. It was an outside chance he’d remember all about what the Mardi Gras at Coney was, and just what being a king at it amounted to. Then I remembered you telling me you’d never been to Coney, so I figured your grandfather wouldn’t be what you’d call well fixed in his information about it, so I took the chance.

  ‘I tried him out first. I tried him with Brooklyn. Why, say, from the way he took it, he’d either never heard of the place, or else he’d forgotten what it was. I guess he don’t remember much, poor old fellow. Then I mentioned Yonkers. He asked me what Yonkers were. Then I reckoned it was safe to bring on Coney, and he fell for it right away. I felt mean, but it had to be done.’

  He caught her up, and swung her into the air with a perfectly impassive face. Then, having kissed her, he lowered her gently to the ground again. The action seemed to have relieved his feelings, for when he spoke again it was plain that his conscience no longer troubled him.

  ‘And say,’ he said, ‘come to think of it, I don’t see where there’s so much call for me to feel mean. I’m not so far short of being a regular king. Coney’s just as big as some of those kingdoms you read about on the other side; and, from what you see in the papers about the goings-on there, it looks to me that, having a whole week on the throne like I’m going to have, amounts to a pretty steady job as kings go.’

  AT GEISENHEIMER’S

  As I walked to Geisenheimer’s that night I was feeling blue and restless, tired of New York, tired of dancing, tired of everything. Broadway was full of people hurrying to the theatres. Cars rattled by. All the electric lights in the world were blazing down on the Great White Way. And it all seemed stale and dreary to me.

  Geisenheimer’s was full as usual. All the tables were occupied, and there were several couples already on the dancing-floor in the centre. The band was playing ‘Michigan’:

  I want to go back, I want to go back To the place where I was born. Far away from harm With a milk-pail on my arm.

  I suppose the fellow who wrote that would have called for the police if anyone had ever really tried to get him on to a farm, but he has certainly put something into the tune which makes you think he meant what he said. It’s a homesick tune, that.

  I was just looking round for an empty table, when a man jumped up and came towards me, registering joy as if I had been his long-lost sister.

  He was from the country. I could see that. It was written all over him, from his face to his shoes.

  He came up with his hand out, beaming.

  ‘Why, Miss Roxborough!’

  ‘Why not?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you remember me?’

  I didn’t.

  ‘My name is Ferris.’

  ‘It’s a nice name, but it means nothing in my young life.’

  ‘I was introduced to you last time I came here. We danced together.’

  This seemed to bear the stamp of truth. If he was introduced to me, he probably danced with me. It’s what I’m at Geisenheimer’s for.

  ‘When was it?’

  ‘A year ago last April.’

  You can’t beat these rural charmers. They think New York is folded up and put away in camphor when they leave, and only taken out again when they pay their next visit. The notion that anything could possibly have happened since he was last in our midst to blur the memory of that happy evening had not occurred to Mr Ferris. I suppose he was so accustomed to dating things from ‘when I was in New York’ that he thought everybody else must do the same.

  ‘Why, sure, I remember you,’ I said. ‘Algernon Clarence, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not Algernon Clarence. My name’s Charlie.’

  ‘My mistake. And what’s the great scheme, Mr Ferris? Do you want to dance with me again?’

  He did. So we started. Mine not to reason why, mine but to do and die, as the poem says. If an elephant had come into Geisenheimer’s and asked me to dance I’d have had to do it. And I’m not saying that Mr Ferris wasn’t the next thing to it. He was one of those earnest, persevering dancers—the kind that have taken twelve correspondence lessons.

  I guess I was about due that night to meet someone from the country. There still come days in the spring when the country seems to get a stranglehold on me and start in pulling. This particular day had been one of them. I got up in the morning and looked out of the window, and the breeze just wrapped me round and began whispering about pigs and chickens. And when I went out on Fifth Avenue there seemed to be flowers everywhere. I headed for the Park, and there was the grass all green, and the trees coming out, and a sort of something in the air—why, say, if there hadn’t have been a big policeman keeping an eye on me, I’d have flung myself down and bitten chunks out of the turf.

  And as soon as I got to Geisenheimer’s they played that ‘Michigan’ thing.

  Why, Charlie from Squeedunk’s ‘entrance’ couldn’t have been better worked up if he’d been a star in a Broadway show. The stage was just waiting for him.

  But somebody’s always taking the joy out of life. I ought to have remembered that the most metropolitan thing in the metropolis is a rustic who’s putting in a week there. We weren’t thinking on the same plane, Charlie and me. The way I had been feeling all day, what I wanted to talk about was last season’s crops. The subject he fancied was this season’s chorus-girls. Our souls didn’t touch by a mile and a half.

  ‘This is the life!’ he said.

  There’s always a point when that sort of man says that.

  ‘I suppose you come here quite a lot?’ he said.

  ‘Pretty often.’

  I didn’t tell him that I came there every night, and that I came because I was paid for it. If you’re a professional dancer at Geisenheimer’s, you aren’t supposed to advertise the fact. The management thinks that if you did it might send the public away thinking too hard when they saw you win the Great Contest for the Love-r-ly Silver Cup which they offer later in the evening. Say, that Love-r-ly Cup’s a joke. I win it on Monday
s, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and Mabel Francis wins it on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. It’s all perfectly fair and square, of course. It’s purely a matter of merit who wins the Love-r-ly Cup. Anybody could win it. Only somehow they don’t. And the coincidence of the fact that Mabel and I always do has kind of got on the management’s nerves, and they don’t like us to tell people we’re employed there. They prefer us to blush unseen.

  ‘It’s a great place,’ said Mr Ferris, ‘and New York’s a great place. I’d like to live in New York.’

  ‘The loss is ours. Why don’t you?’

  ‘Some city! But dad’s dead now, and I’ve got the drugstore, you know.’

  He spoke as if I ought to remember reading about it in the papers.

  ‘And I’m making good with it, what’s more. I’ve got push and ideas. Say, I got married since I saw you last.’

  ‘You did, did you?’ I said. ‘Then what are you doing, may I ask, dancing on Broadway like a gay bachelor? I suppose you have left your wife at Hicks’ Corners, singing “Where is my wandering boy tonight”?’

  ‘Not Hicks’ Corners. Ashley, Maine. That’s where I live. My wife comes from Rodney…. Pardon me, I’m afraid I stepped on your foot.’

  ‘My fault,’ I said; ‘I lost step. Well, I wonder you aren’t ashamed even to think of your wife, when you’ve left her all alone out there while you come whooping it up in New York. Haven’t you got any conscience?’

  ‘But I haven’t left her. She’s here.’

  ‘In New York?’

  ‘In this restaurant. That’s her up there.’

  I looked up at the balcony. There was a face hanging over the red plush rail. It looked to me as if it had some hidden sorrow. I’d noticed it before, when we were dancing around, and I had wondered what the trouble was. Now I began to see.

  ‘Why aren’t you dancing with her and giving her a good time, then?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, she’s having a good time.’

  ‘She doesn’t look it. She looks as if she would like to be down here, treading the measure.’

  ‘She doesn’t dance much.’

  ‘Don’t you have dances at Ashley?’

  ‘It’s different at home. She dances well enough for Ashley, but—well, this isn’t Ashley.’

  ‘I see. But you’re not like that?’

  He gave a kind of smirk.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been in New York before.’

  I could have bitten him, the sawn-off little rube! It made me mad. He was ashamed to dance in public with his wife—didn’t think her good enough for him. So he had dumped her in a chair, given her a lemonade, and told her to be good, and then gone off to have a good time. They could have had me arrested for what I was thinking just then.

  The band began to play something else.

  ‘This is the life!’ said Mr Ferris. ‘Let’s do it again.’

  ‘Let somebody else do it,’ I said. ‘I’m tired. I’ll introduce you to some friends of mine.’

  So I took him off, and whisked him on to some girls I knew at one of the tables.

  ‘Shake hands with my friend Mr Ferris,’ I said. ‘He wants to show you the latest steps. He does most of them on your feet.’

  I could have betted on Charlie, the Debonair Pride of Ashley. Guess what he said? He said, ‘This is the life!’

  And I left him, and went up to the balcony.

  She was leaning with her elbows on the red plush, looking down on the dancing-floor. They had just started another tune, and hubby was moving around with one of the girls I’d introduced him to. She didn’t have to prove to me that she came from the country. I knew it. She was a little bit of a thing, old-fashioned looking. She was dressed in grey, with white muslin collar and cuffs, and her hair done simple. She had a black hat.

  I kind of hovered for awhile. It isn’t the best thing I do, being shy; as a general thing I’m more or less there with the nerve; but somehow I sort of hesitated to charge in.

  Then I braced up, and made for the vacant chair.

  ‘I’ll sit here, if you don’t mind,’ I said.

  She turned in a startled way. I could see she was wondering who I was, and what right I had there, but wasn’t certain whether it might not be city etiquette for strangers to come and dump themselves down and start chatting. ‘I’ve just been dancing with your husband,’ I said, to ease things along.

  ‘I saw you.’

  She fixed me with a pair of big brown eyes. I took one look at them, and then I had to tell myself that it might be pleasant, and a relief to my feelings, to take something solid and heavy and drop it over the rail on to hubby, but the management wouldn’t like it. That was how I felt about him just then. The poor kid was doing everything with those eyes except crying. She looked like a dog that’s been kicked.

  She looked away, and fiddled with the string of the electric light. There was a hatpin lying on the table. She picked it up, and began to dig at the red plush.

  ‘Ah, come on sis,’ I said; ‘tell me all about it.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You can’t fool me. Tell me your troubles.’

  ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘You don’t have to know a person to tell her your troubles. I sometimes tell mine to the cat that camps out on the wall opposite my room. What did you want to leave the country for, with summer coming on?’

  She didn’t answer, but I could see it coming, so I sat still and waited. And presently she seemed to make up her mind that, even if it was no business of mine, it would be a relief to talk about it.

  ‘We’re on our honeymoon. Charlie wanted to come to New York. I didn’t want to, but he was set on it. He’s been here before.’

  ‘So he told me.’

  ‘He’s wild about New York.’

  ‘But you’re not.’

  ‘I hate it.’

  ‘Why?’

  She dug away at the red plush with the hatpin, picking out little bits and dropping them over the edge. I could see she was bracing herself to put me wise to the whole trouble. There’s a time comes when things aren’t going right, and you’ve had all you can stand, when you have got to tell somebody about it, no matter who it is.

  ‘I hate New York,’ she said getting it out at last with a rush. ‘I’m scared of it. It—it isn’t fair Charlie bringing me here. I didn’t want to come. I knew what would happen. I felt it all along.’

  ‘What do you think will happen, then?’

  She must have picked away at least an inch of the red plush before she answered. It’s lucky Jimmy, the balcony waiter, didn’t see her; it would have broken his heart; he’s as proud of that red plush as if he had paid for it himself.

  ‘When I first went to live at Rodney,’ she said, ‘two years ago—we moved there from Illinois—there was a man there named Tyson—Jack Tyson. He lived all alone and didn’t seem to want to know anyone. I couldn’t understand it till somebody told me all about him. I can understand it now. Jack Tyson married a Rodney girl, and they came to New York for their honeymoon, just like us. And when they got there I guess she got to comparing him with the fellows she saw, and comparing the city with Rodney, and when she got home she just couldn’t settle down.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘After they had been back in Rodney for a little while she ran away. Back to the city, I guess.’

  ‘I suppose he got a divorce?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. He still thinks she may come back to him.’

  ‘He still thinks she will come back?’ I said. ‘After she has been away three years!’

  ‘Yes. He keeps her things just the same as she left them when she went away, everything just the same.’

  ‘But isn’t he angry with her for what she did? If I was a man and a girl treated me that way, I’d be apt to murder her if she tried to show up again.’

  ‘He wouldn’t. Nor would I, if—if anything like that happened to me; I’d wait and wait, and go on hoping all the time. And I’d go down to the station t
o meet the train every afternoon, just like Jack Tyson.’

  Something splashed on the tablecloth. It made me jump.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ I said, ‘what’s your trouble? Brace up. I know it’s a sad story, but it’s not your funeral.’

  ‘It is. It is. The same thing’s going to happen to me.’

  ‘Take a hold on yourself. Don’t cry like that.’

  ‘I can’t help it. Oh! I knew it would happen. It’s happening right now. Look—look at him.’

  I glanced over the rail, and I saw what she meant. There was her Charlie, dancing about all over the floor as if he had just discovered that he hadn’t lived till then. I saw him say something to the girl he was dancing with. I wasn’t near enough to hear it, but I bet it was ‘This is the life!’ If I had been his wife, in the same position as this kid, I guess I’d have felt as bad as she did, for if ever a man exhibited all the symptoms of incurable Newyorkitis, it was this Charlie Ferris.

  ‘I’m not like these New York girls,’ she choked. ‘I can’t be smart. I don’t want to be. I just want to live at home and be happy. I knew it would happen if we came to the city. He doesn’t think me good enough for him. He looks down on me.’

  ‘Pull yourself together.’

  ‘And I do love him so!’

  Goodness knows what I should have said if I could have thought of anything to say. But just then the music stopped, and somebody on the floor below began to speak.

  ‘Ladeez ‘n’ gemmen,’ he said, ‘there will now take place our great Numbah Contest. This gen-u-ine sporting contest—’

  It was Izzy Baermann making his nightly speech, introducing the Love-r-ly Cup; and it meant that, for me, duty called. From where I sat I could see Izzy looking about the room, and I knew he was looking for me. It’s the management’s nightmare that one of these evenings Mabel or I won’t show up, and somebody else will get away with the Love-r-ly Cup.

  ‘Sorry I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘I have to be in this.’

  And then suddenly I had the great idea. It came to me like a flash, I looked at her, crying there, and I looked over the rail at Charlie the Boy Wonder, and I knew that this was where I got a stranglehold on my place in the Hall of Fame, along with the great thinkers of the age.