Miss Lonelyhearts and a Cool Million

by Nathanael West

  “He’ll find that out soon enough, I’m thinking,” growled Lem’s opponent.

  That Tom Baxter was not only larger but stronger than our hero was no doubt true. On the other hand he did not know how to use his strength. It was merely undisciplined brute force. If he could have got Lem around the waist the latter would have been at his mercy, but our hero knew that well enough and didn’t choose to allow it. He was a pretty fair boxer, and stood on his defense, calm and wary.

  When Baxter rushed in, thinking to seize his smaller opponent, he was greeted by two rapid blows in the face, one of which struck him on the nose, the other in the eye, the effect of both being to make his head spin.

  “I’ll mash you for that,” he yelled in a frenzy of rage, but as he rushed in again he never thought to guard his face. The result was a couple of more blows, the other eye and his mouth being assailed this time.

  Baxter was astonished. He had expected to “chaw up” Lem at the first onset. Instead of that, there stood Lem cool and unhurt, while he could feel that his nose and mouth were bleeding and both his eyes were rapidly closing.

  He stopped short and regarded Lem as well as he could through his injured optics, then surprised our hero by smiling. “Well,” he said, shaking his head sheepishly, “you’re the better man. I’m a rough customer, I expect, but I know when I’m bested. There’s my hand to show that I don’t bear malice.”

  Lem gave his hand in return without fear that there might be craft in the bully’s offer of friendship. The former was a fair-dealing lad himself and he thought that everyone was the same. However, no sooner did Baxter have a hold of his hand than he jerked the poor boy into his embrace and squeezed him insensible.

  Betty screamed and fainted, so great was her anxiety for Lem. Hearing her scream, Baxter dropped his victim to the ground and walked to where the young lady lay in a dead faint. He stood over her for a few minutes admiring her beauty. His little pig-like eyes shone with bestiality.

  4

  It is with reluctance that I leave Miss Prail in the lecherous embrace of Tom Baxter to begin a new chapter, but I cannot with propriety continue my narrative beyond the point at which the bully undressed that unfortunate lady.

  However, as Miss Prail is the heroine of this romance, I would like to use this opportunity to acquaint you with a little of her past history.

  On her twelfth birthday, Betty became an orphan with the simultaneous death of her two parents in a fire which also destroyed what ‘little property might have been left her. In this fire, or rather at it, she also lost something which, like her parents, could never be replaced.

  The Prail farm was situated some three miles from Ottsville on a rough dirt road, and the amateur fire company, to whose ministrations all the fires in the district were left, was not very enthusiastic about dragging their apparatus to it. To tell the truth, the Ottsville Fire Company consisted of a set of young men who were more interested in dirty stories, checkers and applejack than they were in fire fighting. When the news of the catastrophe arrived at the fire house, the volunteer firemen were all inebriated, and their chief, Bill Baxter (father to the man in whose arms we left our heroine), was dead drunk.

  After many delays, the fire company finally arrived at the Prail farm, but instead of trying to quench the flames they immediately set to work and looted the place.

  Betty, although only twelve years old at the time, was a well-formed little girl with the soft, voluptuous lines of a beautiful woman. Dressed only in a cotton nightgown, she was wandering among the firemen begging them to save her parents, when Bill Baxter noticed her budding form and enticed her into the woodshed.

  In the morning, she was found lying naked on the ground by some neighbors and taken into their house. She had a bad cold, but remembered nothing of what Bill Baxter had done to her. She mourned only the loss of her parents.

  After a small collection had been taken up by the minister to purchase an outfit, she was sent to the county orphan asylum. There she remained until her fourteenth year, when she was put out as a maid of all work to the Slemps, a prominent family of Ottsville, the head of which, Lawyer Slemp, we already know.

  As one can well imagine, all was not beer and skittles in this household for the poor orphan. If she had been less beautiful, perhaps things would have gone better for her. As it was, however, Lawyer Slemp had two ugly daughters and a shrewish wife who were very jealous of their beautiful servant. They saw to it that she was badly dressed and that she wore her hair only in the ugliest possible manner. Yet despite these things, and although she had to wear men’s shoes and coarse cotton stockings, our heroine was a great deal more attractive than the other women of the household.

  Lawyer Slemp was a deacon in the church and a very stern man. Still, one would think that as a male he would have less against the poor orphan than his women folks. But, unfortunately, it did not work out this way. Mr. Slemp beat Betty regularly and enthusiastically. He had started these beatings when she first came from the asylum as a little girl, and did not stop them when she became a splendid woman. He beat her twice a week on her bare behind with his bare hand.

  It is a hard thing to say about a deacon, but Lawyer Slemp got little exercise and he seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in these bi-weekly workouts. As for Betty, she soon became inured to his blows and did not mind them as much as the subtler tortures inflicted on her by Mrs. Slemp and her daughters. Besides, Lawyer Slemp, although he was exceedingly penurious, always gave her a quarter when he had finished beating her.

  It was with this weekly fifty cents that Betty hoped to effect her escape from Ottsville. She had already obtained part of an outfit, and was on her way home from town with the first store hat she had ever owned when she met Tom Baxter and his dog.

  The result of this unfortunate encounter we already know.

  5

  When our hero regained consciousness, he found himself in a ditch alongside the path on which he had his set-to with Tom Baxter. It had grown quite dark, and he failed to notice Betty in some bushes on the other side of the path. He thought that she must have got safely away.

  As he walked home his head cleared and he soon recovered his naturally high spirits. He forgot his unfortunate encounter with the bully and thought only of his coming departure for New York City.

  He was greeted at the door of his humble home by his fond parent, who had been waiting anxiously for his return.

  “Lem, Lem,” said Mrs. Pitkin, “where have you been?”

  Although our hero was loth to lie, he did not want to worry his mother unduly, so he said, “Mr. Whipple kept me.”

  The lad then told her what the ex-President had said. She was quite happy for her son and willingly signed the note for thirty dollars. Like all mothers, Mrs. Pitkin was certain that her child must succeed.

  Bright and early the next morning, Lem took the note to Mr. Whipple and received thirty dollars minus twelve per cent interest in advance. He then bought a ticket for New York at the local depot, and waited there for the arrival of the steam cars.

  Our hero was studying the fleeting scenery of New England when he heard someone address him.

  “Papers, magazines, all the popular novels! Something to read, mister?”

  It was the news butcher, a young boy with an honest, open countenance.

  Our hero was eager to talk, so he spoke to the newsboy.

  “I’m not a great one for reading novels,” he said. “My Aunt Nancy gave my ma one once but I didn’t find much in it. I like facts and I like to study, though.”

  “I ain’t much on story reading either,” said the news butcher. “Where are you goin’?”

  “To New York to make my fortune,” said Lem candidly.

  “Well, if you can’t make money in New York, you can’t make money anywhere.” With this observation he began to hawk his reading matter farther down the aisle.

  Lem again took up his study of the fleeting scenery. This time he was interrupted by a stylis
hly dressed young man who came forward and accosted him.

  “Is this seat engaged?” the stranger asked.

  “Not as I know of?” replied Lem with a friendly smile. “Then with your kind permission I will occupy it,” said the over-dressed stranger.

  “Why, of course,” said our hero.

  “You are from the country, I presume,” he continued affably as he sank into the seat alongside our hero.

  “Yes, I am. I live near Bennington in the town of Ottsville. Were you ever there?”

  “No. I suppose you are taking a vacation trip to the big city?”

  “Oh, no; I’m leaving home to make my fortune.”

  “That’s nice. I hope you are successful. By the way, the Mayor of New York is my uncle.”

  “My, is that so?” said Lem with awe.

  “Yes indeed, my name is Wellington Mape.”

  “Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mape. I’m Lemuel Pitkin.”

  “Indeed! An aunt of mine married a Pitkin. Perhaps we’re related.”

  Lem was quite elated at the thought that he might be kin to the Mayor of New York without knowing it. He decided that his new acquaintance must be rich because of his clothing and his extreme politeness.

  “Are you in business, Mr. Mape?” he asked.

  “Well, ahem!” was that suave individual’s rejoinder. “I’m afraid I’m rather an idler. My father left me a cool million, so I don’t feel the need of working.”

  “A cool million!” ejaculated Lem. “Why, that’s ten times a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Just so,” said Mr. Mape, smiling at the lad’s enthusiasm. “That’s an awful pile of money! I’d be satisfied if I had five thousand right now.”

  “I’m afraid that five thousand wouldn’t last me very long,” said Mr. Mape with an amused smile.

  “Gee! Where would anybody get such a pile of money unless they inherited it?”

  “That’s easy,” said the stranger. “Why, rye made as much in one day in Wall Street.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Yes, I do say. You can take my word for it.”

  “I wish I could make some money,” said Lem wistfully, as he thought of the mortgage on his home.

  “A man must have money to make money. If now, you had some money…”

  “I’ve got a little under thirty dollars,” said Lem.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, that’s all. I had to give Mr. Whipple a note to borrow it.”

  “If that’s all the money you have, you’d better take good care of it. I regret to say that despite the efforts of the Mayor, my uncle, there are still many crooks in New York.” “I intend to be careful.”

  “Then you keep your money in a safe place?”

  “I haven’t hidden it because a secret pocket is the first place a thief would look. I keep it loose in my trousers where nobody would think I carried so much money.”

  “You are right. I can see that you are a man of the world.”

  “Oh, I can take care of myself, I guess,” said Lem with the confidence of youth.

  “That comes of being a Pitkin. I’m glad to know that we’re related. You must call on me in New York.” “Where do you live?”

  “At the Ritz. Just ask for Mr. Wellington Mape’s suite of rooms.”

  “Is it a good place to liver

  “Why, yes. I pay three dollars a day for my board, and the incidentals carry my expenses up to as high as forty dollars a week.”

  “Gee,” ejaculated Lem. “I could never afford it—that is, at first.” And our hero laughed with the incurable optimism of youth.

  “You of course should find a boarding house where they give you plain but solid fare for a reasonable sum…But I must bid you good morning, a friend is waiting for me in the next car.”

  After the affable Mr. Wellington Mape had taken his departure, Lem turned again to his vigil at the car window.

  The news butcher had changed his cap. “Apples, bananas, oranges!” he shouted as he came down the aisle with a basket of fruit on his arm.

  Lem stopped his rapid progress to ask him the price of an orange. It was two cents, and he decided to buy one to eat with the hard-boiled egg his mother had given him. But when our hero thrust his hand into his pocket, a wild spasm contracted his features. He explored further, with growing trepidation, and a sickly pallor began to spread over his face.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Steve, for that was the train boy’s name.

  “I’ve been robbed! My money’s gone! All the money Mr. Whipple lent me has been stolen!”

  6

  “I wonder who did it?” asked Steve.

  “I can’t imagine,” answered Lem brokenly.

  “Did they get much?”

  “All I had in the world…A little less than thirty dollars.”

  “Some smart leather must have gotten it.”

  “Leather?” queried our hero, not understanding the argot of the underworld with which the train boy was familiar. “Yes, leather—pickpocket. Did anybody talk to you on the train?”

  “Only Mr. Wellington Mape, a rich young man. He is kin to the Mayor of New York.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “He did himself.”

  “How was he dressed?” asked Steve, whose suspicions were aroused. (He had been “wire”—scout—to a “leather” when small and knew all about the dodge.) “Did he wear a pale blue hat?”

  “Yes.”

  “And looked a great swell?”

  “Yes.”

  “He got off at the last station and your dough-re-me went with him.”

  “You mean he got my money? Well, I never. He told me he was worth a cool million and boarded at the Ritz Hotel.”

  “That’s the way they all talk—big. Did you tell him where you kept your money?”

  “Yes, I did. But can’t I get it back?”

  “I don’t see how. He got off the train.”

  “I’d like to catch hold of him,” said Lem, who was very angry.

  “Oh, he’d hit you with a piece of lead pipe. But look through your pockets, maybe he left you a dollar.”

  Lem put his hand into the pocket in which he had carried his money and drew it out as though he had been bitten. Between his fingers he held a diamond ring.

  “What’s that?” asked Steve.

  “I don’t know,” said Lem with surprise. “I don’t think I ever saw it before. Yes, by gum, I did. It must have dropped off the crook’s finger when he picked my pocket. I saw him wearing it.”

  “Boy!” exclaimed the train boy. “You’re sure in luck. Talk about falling in a privy and coming up with a gold watch. You’re certainly it. With a double t!”

  “What is it worth?” asked Lem eagerly.

  “Permit me to look at it, my young friend, perhaps I can tell you,” said a gentleman in a gray derby hat, who was sitting across the aisle. This stranger had been listening with great curiosity to the dialogue between our hero and the train boy.

  “I am a pawnbroker,” he said. “If you let me examine the ring, I can surely give you some idea of its value.”

  Lem handed the article in question to the stranger, who put a magnifying glass into his eye and looked at it carefully.

  “My young friend, that ring is worth all of fifty dollars,” he announced.

  “I’m certainly in luck,” said Lem. “The crook only stole twenty-eight dollars and sixty cents from me. But I’d rather have my money back. I don’t want any of his.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said the self-styled pawnbroker. “I’ll advance you twenty-eight dollars and sixty cents against the ring, and agree to give it back for that sum and suitable interest if the owner should ever call for it.”

  “That’s fair enough,” said Lem gratefully, and he pocketed the money that the stranger tendered him.

  Our hero paid for the piece of fruit that he had bought from the train boy and ate it with quiet contentment. In the meantime, th
e “pawnbroker” prepared to get off the train. When he had gathered together his meager luggage, he shook hands with Lem and gave him a receipt for the ring.

  But no sooner had the stranger left than a squad of policemen armed with sawed-off shotguns entered and started down the aisle. Lem watched their progress with great interest. His interest, however, changed to alarm when they stopped at his seat and one of them caught him roughly by the throat. Handcuffs were then snapped around his wrists. Weapons pointed at his head.

  7

  “Begorra, we’ve got him,” said Sergeant Clancy, who was in charge of the police squad.

  “But I haven’t done anything,” expostulated Lem, turning pale.

  “None of your lip, sweetheart,” said the sergeant. “Will you go quietly or will you go quietly?” Before the poor lad had a chance to express his willingness to go, the police officer struck him an extremely hard blow on the head with his club.

  Lem slumped down in his seat and Sergeant Clancy ordered his men to carry the boy off the train. A patrol wagon was waiting at the depot. Lem’s unconscious form was dumped into the “Black Maria” and the police drove to the station house.

  When our hero regained consciousness some hours later, he was lying on the stone floor of a cell. The room was full of detectives and the air was foul with cigar smoke. Lem opened one eye, unwittingly giving the signal for the detectives to go into action.

  “‘Fess up,” said Detective Grogan, but before the boy could speak he kicked him in the stomach with his heavy boot.

  “Faith now,” interfered Detective Reynolds, “give the lad a chance.” He bent over Lem’s prostrate form with a kind smile on his face and said, “Me lad, the jig is up.”

  “I’m innocent,” protested Lem. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You stole a diamond ring and sold it,” said another detective.

  “I did not,” replied Lem, with as much fire as he could muster under the circumstances. “A pickpocket dropped it in my pocket and I pawned it with a stranger for thirty dollars.”