Lonesome Town

by E. S. Dorrance and James French Dorrance

  CHAPTER II--A TIP FROM THE TOP

  Peter Pape swung from the saddle and, pulling the reins over Polkadot'shead, led the law's "strong arm" down the heights over the way he hadascended on horseback. A glance into the hectic visage beside himoffered the assurance that, while not yet under arrest, he soon would beif he failed to find those circle-marked trees.

  "The town that owns this park, now, should be the last to blame us formistaking our locale," he took occasion to argue amongst their downwardstumbles. "It's like a regular frontier wilderness--almost. There'snothing much around to break the solitude except people--only about sixor seven million of them per day. And there's nothing to break thesilence except----Listen to that never-ending drone! Don't it sound forall the world like the wind playing through pines?"

  "Sounds more like motors to me--Fords _and_ automobiles a-playing overmacadam," grumbled the guard.

  But Why-Not Pape was not easily to be diverted from his dream. "And yongreen dome to the north of the range--" he lifted eyes and a hand--"justcouldn't look more like the copper stain on a butte within binocularrange of my Hellroaring ranch house."

  "Lay off of that irreverence. You can't cuss at the Cathedral of St.John the Divine--not in my presence, you can't!"

  The topmost of the trail-blazing trees Pape offered as Exhibit "A" forthe defense. The line of them, when sighted from below, looked to beleading, he declared.

  An off-duty grin humanized the official countenance. "White paint spotstell the tree gang to saw down dying trunks and haul the logs to thesaw-mill over in North Meadow. If you was to follow all of them asbridle signs you'd get yourself and that gingham nag of yourn sentencedfor life. This once I'm going to try to believe you're as green as youlook. C'mon down to the path."

  Their wait at the equestrian trail was not long. A traffic policeman,mounted on a well-groomed bay, loped toward them, evidently on his wayback to stables from a tour of duty that, from his magnificentappearance, easily might have included several flirtations and at leastone runaway rescue. At a signal from his fellow afoot, he drew rein.

  "You'll be doing me a favor, Medonis Moore, if you'll shoo this birdouten the park," wheezed he of the whistle. "I got a date 'sevening andNight Court's not me rondy-voo."

  "What's he gone and done, O'Shay?"

  "Called me a quail for one thing, which shows you at the start that he'skind of off. I'm right many queer things, like my lady friend tells me,but never that--not a quail."

  "Nor a quailer from duty, eh Pudge?"

  Ignoring the jibe, the weighty one went into detail. "He rode his horseup to the top of the bluff. Says he's from somewheres far West. Framedup a foolish excuse about believing in signs like religion. Says themwhite spots on the doomed trees was no lost language to him, but amessage from the dead that led him wrong. Get me--or him? Howsomever,I'm willing to leave him go this time on account his beinggood-natured."

  "Account of that date, don't you mean?"

  The sparrow chaser drew up with dignity. "Which or whether, will you dome the favor, Medonis, of shooing him out?"

  The colloquy had advanced of its own spirit, without interruption orplea from Why-Not Pape. Polkadot had improved the interim bynose-rubbing an acquaintance with the "'Donis" mount. Here at last wasone of his kind of whom he could approve. Even though the police horseshowed to be too much groomed--was overly "dressy," as Why-Not oftensaid of human passers-by--his tail was not docked and he wore a saddlevery near "regular," certainly not one of those pads of leather on whichmost of the park riders posted up and down like monkeys on so manysticks.

  "Come along, bo," decided the magnificent director of traffic. "I'mweak, but maybe I can keep you on the crooked and narrow far as themust-you-go gate."

  With a friendly farewell to the "sparrow" who had a "date," Pape rodeoff with his new, enforced escort, Polkadot and the officer's bay fellinto step.

  "Paint that horse yourself?" inquired "'Donis" Moore, with a grin.

  This brought a laugh from Pape. "No, my friend; he was foaled as is, sofar as his colors go. He's just mixed a bit like me, and feels kind oflonesome in your cold New York."

  "New York cold?"

  "You see, Dot and I came expecting the kind of time-of-our-lives we'dheard about. And we haven't had it--not yet."

  The handsome officer, who presumedly had been nicknamed after Adonis bythe Force, nodded understandingly. "Ain't the trouble with yourexpectations, now? Would you be likely to hear of those times-of-lives,if they was the regular thing?"

  "But we're not looking for the regular thing. And why not expect? Don'tyou get what you go after? You, for instance--I should think you'dexpect the limit that kind Fate could give. If I looked like you----"

  There was a sincerity of admiration in Pape's lanky shrug and lapsingsigh such as "'Donis" Moore evidently wasn't fortified to resist. Heturned his dark eyes and fine-cut profile to a more detailed study ofhis by-proxy charge.

  Pape pursued the advantage. "Sound looking critter you're forking,officer. What you call him?"

  "Hylan is his name--Traffic 'B.'"

  "That's a new horse alias to me. Dot here does a polka when persuadedright. If Highland, now, does a fling, we might join them in a 'brother'act and put them on the stage."

  "You'll be trespassing the dignity of our sacred mayor, as well as thepeople's park, if you ain't careful," warned 'Donis Moore. "H-y-l-a-n iswhat I said was his name and he don't own up to flings like you mean anymore than our chief executive."

  The Westerner looked interested. "Named your nag after your boss, eh?Not an untactful idea at all. Hope hoss Hylan explains to Polkadot whatfine company he's in. First real acquaintance my poor brute's met upwith since I rode him out of the home corral and into a baggage carwhich I couldn't hocus-pocus him into thinking was the latest instables. I reckon it was too portable. He'll be glad to know that he isstarting at the top in equine circles--with His Honor the Mayor'snamesake."

  "You talk kind of discouraged, bo. Just what's gone wrong?"

  "Nothing's gone wrong. You see, nothing's started."

  "Then why don't you start something?"

  Pape's attention looked much more arrested than his person. "Startsomething?"

  "Sure. Something, say, along the partic'aler line of your ambitions."

  "The ambitions that have kept me on the move over the four States of mypast range wouldn't lead me into any nice place in this burg of rulesand regulations, I fear. Even out in God's country they had to makeallowance for a lot I did. Here, seems like there's an Indian sign hungon me. Not a soul knows or cares who or what I am."

  Evidently interested, the police rider checked his mount's manger-boundtrot to a walk, for they were nearing their division of ways.

  "Would you be satisfied, now, with folks knowing who and what you reallyare?" he asked impressively, throwing his weight on the right stirrup,as he leaned toward his charge. "Who and what do you want to be?"

  "Who doesn't matter so much. _What_ I want to be is gay--to get as muchout of playing as I do out of working when I'm home."

  'Donis Moore looked him over critically. "You want to be a gay bird andyou ride around looking like the last shad in the Hudson!" Obviouslypleased with his role of mentor, Donis' dark, handsome face lighted withhis argument. "You see, bo, the people are right busy in this burg. Theycan't stop to chum with strangers. You got to get in step withthem--insist on chumming with them as you swing along. First you got tolook like what you want to be. Appertainin' to which, I'd get me somecivilized togs if I was you--that is, if you happen to have any sparechange in them corduroys."

  "Change?" enquired Pape. "I let them keep the change. I could buy quitea chunk of this town--a whole cold shoulder of it--without straining myfinances. I mean that and at present prices. What I haven't got isfriends--not one among all these millions upon millions of effete folks.I'm wondering if the run of the cards wouldn't have been some differentB. P."

  "B. P.? How come? I ain't no Greek studjent any more than
I'm adescendant of Anna Eva Fay."

  "Before Prohibition," Why-Not accommodated. "But then, I wouldn't wantthe sort of friends whose innards I had to win any more than I'd wantthose I could win with my outards. Clothes don't make the man--or so thepoets say."

  "That dope's blank verse, young fellow. Leastwise, the opposite holds inN'Yawk. The wrong clothes unmake him." The cop dandy straightened, withan illustrative, downward glance over his own brass-buttonedmagnificence. "I'm giving it to you right, bo. Unless you're a celeb,and have earned a sort of special license to dress contrary to form,you'd best flatter the people you wanta trot with by harnessing out asnear like 'em as possible. You been wearing that broad-brim on Broadway?You _have_, eh? Don't you see that they just naturally take you for asteerer--likely think you're wanting to sell 'em stock in some giltmine? Not meaning to hurt your feelings, I'll say that the piebaldyou're riding is the only O. K. thing about you. Happens to be a fawncyof our _au fait_ cits. to ride broncs this spring. Seeing you're socareless about your cash, you'd best throw some into the talons of atailor and a hatter and a near-silk-shirt grafter. Then, after you'vegot yourself looking something like the gay guy you say you wanta be,begin to act like him. _Do_ something, if you get me, to make 'em noticeyou."

  They parted at the "Remember the Maine" monument, the official mentor'sargument duly paid for in thanks, and a "good-luck" hope exchanged.

  What could he do to make New York notice him?

  Peter Pape pondered the question as Polkadot dodged through ColumbusCircle's whirligig of traffic--a feat which took all the skill acquiredin cutting out steers from range round-ups. The disinterested source ofthe invited advice recommended its substance. Before he had walked hismount a block down _The_ Way he had decided to follow it. Its firsthalf--the acquirement of the outer habiliments of sophistication--easilycould be acted upon through the free coinage of gold. The secondhalf----

  _How_ make the big town wish to be friends with him?

  To himself he admitted the reason back of his confidence to the friendlyMedonis of the Mounted. The very seriousness of his score-squaringmission to the "cold" burg, made him ambitious to be taken for that "gayguy" who must be haberdashed into his part--a Western gold-fish comeEast to flap his fins in the Big Puddle. He mustn't forget that he nowwas a wealthy man, with no obligations except one voluntary vow and thatto himself; that he still was young enough to feel as gay as any costumecould make him look; that so far in life he had proved strong enough todo whatever he had decided to do.

  So what--_what_?

  The dusk of even this daylight-saving hour was thickening. Pape urgedhis mount into the rack of Times Canon. There, toward the convergence ofeach street, clumps of vehicles spun forward, only to stop and lose allthey had gained at the command of traffic signals. Variously boundsurface cars clattered through; clanged with self-importance; puffedwith passengers. Pedestrians darted this way, often, to turn and dartback that, in what seemed a limb-regardless passion to get home in thefewest possible seconds. Like flour upon the other ingredients in somegreat mixing bowl, Evening was sifted over all, then stirred into aconglomerate, working mass--dough to be baked by dinner time.

  The sensation rather than sight of an overhead flash caused thesplotched horse to throw back his head with a snort and the rider tohang his gaze on high. Unexpectedly, as happen most miracles, a blazelit the ungeometrical square and searched the lowering clouds--millionsof watts bottled in bulbs--a fan-fare of nitrogen dyed red, yellow,blue, green and diamond-white--incalculable volts of power wired intolegible array.

  The gray eyes of the Westerner upheld, fascinated, to this sight ofBroadway's electric display, to him the marvel of the marvels of to-day.Always was his pulse stirred by it and his imagination set apace. As,when a child, he had pored over the lurid illustrations of hisfairy-book, so now nightly he pored over this real-life picture. For himit lit a bridle path into byways of the unknown--into the highway of theimpossible.

  A moment before a problem had darkened his brow. Now the darkness wasdisplaced by light. Over the suggested answer to the unanswerable heexulted. What was difficulty of any sort except illusion? His Fatnessthe Quail--that is to say, the park sparrow cop--to-day had accused himof believing too devoutly in signs. Yet _what_ were signs for if not topoint the way?

  His chuckles evoked the curiosity of Polkadot. Back toward him waggledone white-tipped, enquiring ear. Willingly, as at all such requests ofhis quadruped pal, he leaned to oblige.

  "Why not?" He laughed aloud. "I ask you that, old hoss--_why not_?"