CHAPTER V. STRANGE EXPERIENCES OF AN ARTIST'S MODEL
"I say, old thing!"
Archie spoke plaintively. Already he was looking back ruefully to thetime when he had supposed that an artist's model had a soft job. In thefirst five minutes muscles which he had not been aware that he possessedhad started to ache like neglected teeth. His respect for the toughnessand durability of artists' models was now solid. How they acquired thestamina to go through this sort of thing all day and then bound off toBohemian revels at night was more than he could understand.
"Don't wobble, confound you!" snorted Mr. Wheeler.
"Yes, but, my dear old artist," said Archie, "what you don't seem tograsp--what you appear not to realise--is that I'm getting a crick inthe back."
"You weakling! You miserable, invertebrate worm. Move an inch andI'll murder you, and come and dance on your grave every Wednesday andSaturday. I'm just getting it."
"It's in the spine that it seems to catch me principally."
"Be a man, you faint-hearted string-bean!" urged J. B. Wheeler. "Youought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, a girl who was posing for me lastweek stood for a solid hour on one leg, holding a tennis racket over herhead and smiling brightly withal."
"The female of the species is more india-rubbery than the male," arguedArchie.
"Well, I'll be through in a few minutes. Don't weaken. Think how proudyou'll be when you see yourself on all the bookstalls."
Archie sighed, and braced himself to the task once more. He wished hehad never taken on this binge. In addition to his physical discomfort,he was feeling a most awful chump. The cover on which Mr. Wheeler wasengaged was for the August number of the magazine, and it had beennecessary for Archie to drape his reluctant form in a two-piece bathingsuit of a vivid lemon colour; for he was supposed to be representing oneof those jolly dogs belonging to the best families who dive off floatsat exclusive seashore resorts. J. B. Wheeler, a stickler for accuracy,had wanted him to remove his socks and shoes; but there Archie had stoodfirm. He was willing to make an ass of himself, but not a silly ass.
"All right," said J. B. Wheeler, laying down his brush. "That will dofor to-day. Though, speaking without prejudice and with no wish to beoffensive, if I had had a model who wasn't a weak-kneed, jelly-backbonedson of Belial, I could have got the darned thing finished without havingto have another sitting."
"I wonder why you chappies call this sort of thing 'sitting,'" saidArchie, pensively, as he conducted tentative experiments in osteopathyon his aching back. "I say, old thing, I could do with a restorative, ifyou have one handy. But, of course, you haven't, I suppose," he added,resignedly. Abstemious as a rule, there were moments when Archie foundthe Eighteenth Amendment somewhat trying.
J. B. Wheeler shook his head.
"You're a little previous," he said. "But come round in another day orso, and I may be able to do something for you." He moved with a certainconspirator-like caution to a corner of the room, and, lifting to oneside a pile of canvases, revealed a stout barrel, which, he regardedwith a fatherly and benignant eye. "I don't mind telling you that, inthe fullness of time, I believe this is going to spread a good deal ofsweetness and light."
"Oh, ah," said Archie, interested. "Home-brew, what?"
"Made with these hands. I added a few more raisins yesterday, to speedthings up a bit. There is much virtue in your raisin. And, talking ofspeeding things up, for goodness' sake try to be a bit more punctualto-morrow. We lost an hour of good daylight to-day."
"I like that! I was here on the absolute minute. I had to hang about onthe landing waiting for you."
"Well, well, that doesn't matter," said J. B. Wheeler, impatiently, forthe artist soul is always annoyed by petty details. "The point is thatwe were an hour late in getting to work. Mind you're here to-morrow ateleven sharp."
It was, therefore, with a feeling of guilt and trepidation that Archiemounted the stairs on the following morning; for in spite of his goodresolutions he was half an hour behind time. He was relieved to findthat his friend had also lagged by the wayside. The door of the studiowas ajar, and he went in, to discover the place occupied by a lady ofmature years, who was scrubbing the floor with a mop. He went into thebedroom and donned his bathing suit. When he emerged, ten minutes later,the charwoman had gone, but J. B. Wheeler was still absent. Rather gladof the respite, he sat down to kill time by reading the morning paper,whose sporting page alone he had managed to master at the breakfasttable.
There was not a great deal in the paper to interest him. The usualbond-robbery had taken place on the previous day, and the police werereported hot on the trail of the Master-Mind who was alleged to be atthe back of these financial operations. A messenger named Henry Babcockhad been arrested and was expected to become confidential. To one who,like Archie, had never owned a bond, the story made little appeal. Heturned with more interest to a cheery half-column on the activities of agentleman in Minnesota who, with what seemed to Archie, as he thoughtof Mr. Daniel Brewster, a good deal of resource and public spirit, hadrecently beaned his father-in-law with the family meat-axe. It was onlyafter he had read this through twice in a spirit of gentle approval thatit occurred to him that J. B. Wheeler was uncommonly late at thetryst. He looked at his watch, and found that he had been in the studiothree-quarters of an hour.
Archie became restless. Long-suffering old bean though he was, heconsidered this a bit thick. He got up and went out on to the landing,to see if there were any signs of the blighter. There were none. Hebegan to understand now what had happened. For some reason or other thebally artist was not coming to the studio at all that day. Probably hehad called up the hotel and left a message to this effect, and Archiehad just missed it. Another man might have waited to make certain thathis message had reached its destination, but not woollen-headed Wheeler,the most casual individual in New York.
Thoroughly aggrieved, Archie turned back to the studio to dress and goaway.
His progress was stayed by a solid, forbidding slab of oak. Somehow orother, since he had left the room, the door had managed to get itselfshut.
"Oh, dash it!" said Archie.
The mildness of the expletive was proof that the full horror of thesituation had not immediately come home to him. His mind in the firstfew moments was occupied with the problem of how the door had gotthat way. He could not remember shutting it. Probably he had done itunconsciously. As a child, he had been taught by sedulous elders thatthe little gentleman always closed doors behind him, and presumably hissubconscious self was still under the influence. And then, suddenly, herealised that this infernal, officious ass of a subconscious self haddeposited him right in the gumbo. Behind that closed door, unattainableas youthful ambition, lay his gent's heather-mixture with the greentwill, and here he was, out in the world, alone, in a lemon-colouredbathing suit.
In all crises of human affairs there are two broad courses open to aman. He can stay where he is or he can go elsewhere. Archie, leaning onthe banisters, examined these alternatives narrowly. If he stayed wherehe was he would have to spend the night on this dashed landing. If helegged it, in this kit, he would be gathered up by the constabularybefore he had gone a hundred yards. He was no pessimist, but he wasreluctantly forced to the conclusion that he was up against it.
It was while he was musing with a certain tenseness on these things thatthe sound of footsteps came to him from below. But almost in the firstinstant the hope that this might be J. B. Wheeler, the curse of thehuman race, died away. Whoever was coming up the stairs was running, andJ. B. Wheeler never ran upstairs. He was not one of your lean, haggard,spiritual-looking geniuses. He made a large income with his brush andpencil, and spent most of it in creature comforts. This couldn't be J.B. Wheeler.
It was not. It was a tall, thin man whom he had never seen before. Heappeared to be in a considerable hurry. He let himself into the studioon the floor below, and vanished without even waiting to shut the door.
He had come and disappeared in almost record time, but,
brief thoughhis passing had been, it had been long enough to bring consolation toArchie. A sudden bright light had been vouchsafed to Archie, and he nowsaw an admirably ripe and fruity scheme for ending his troubles. Whatcould be simpler than to toddle down one flight of stairs and in an easyand debonair manner ask the chappie's permission to use his telephone?And what could be simpler, once he was at the 'phone, than to get intouch with somebody at the Cosmopolis who would send down a few trousersand what not in a kit bag. It was a priceless solution, thought Archie,as he made his way downstairs. Not even embarrassing, he meant to say.This chappie, living in a place like this, wouldn't bat an eyelid at thespectacle of a fellow trickling about the place in a bathing suit. Theywould have a good laugh about the whole thing.
"I say, I hate to bother you--dare say you're busy and all that sort ofthing--but would you mind if I popped in for half a second and used your'phone?"
That was the speech, the extremely gentlemanly and well-phrased speech,which Archie had prepared to deliver the moment the man appeared.The reason he did not deliver it was that the man did not appear. Heknocked, but nothing stirred.
"I say!"
Archie now perceived that the door was ajar, and that on an envelopeattached with a tack to one of the panels was the name "Elmer M. Moon"He pushed the door a little farther open and tried again.
"Oh, Mr. Moon! Mr. Moon!" He waited a moment. "Oh, Mr. Moon! Mr. Moon!Are you there, Mr. Moon?"
He blushed hotly. To his sensitive ear the words had sounded exactlylike the opening line of the refrain of a vaudeville song-hit. Hedecided to waste no further speech on a man with such an unfortunatesurname until he could see him face to face and get a chance of loweringhis voice a bit. Absolutely absurd to stand outside a chappie's doorsinging song-hits in a lemon-coloured bathing suit. He pushed the dooropen and walked in; and his subconscious self, always the gentleman,closed it gently behind him.
"Up!" said a low, sinister, harsh, unfriendly, and unpleasant voice.
"Eh?" said Archie, revolving sharply on his axis.
He found himself confronting the hurried gentleman who had run upstairs.This sprinter had produced an automatic pistol, and was pointing it ina truculent manner at his head. Archie stared at his host, and his hoststared at him.
"Put your hands up," he said.
"Oh, right-o! Absolutely!" said Archie. "But I mean to say--"
The other was drinking him in with considerable astonishment. Archie'scostume seemed to have made a powerful impression upon him.
"Who the devil are you?" he enquired.
"Me? Oh, my name's--"
"Never mind your name. What are you doing here?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, I popped in to ask if I might use your'phone. You see--"
A certain relief seemed to temper the austerity of the other's gaze. Asa visitor, Archie, though surprising, seemed to be better than he hadexpected.
"I don't know what to do with you," he said, meditatively.
"If you'd just let me toddle to the 'phone--"
"Likely!" said the man. He appeared to reach a decision. "Here, go intothat room."
He indicated with a jerk of his head the open door of what wasapparently a bedroom at the farther end of the studio.
"I take it," said Archie, chattily, "that all this may seem to you not alittle rummy."
"Get on!"
"I was only saying--"
"Well, I haven't time to listen. Get a move on!"
The bedroom was in a state of untidiness which eclipsed anything whichArchie had ever witnessed. The other appeared to be moving house. Bed,furniture, and floor were covered with articles of clothing. A silkshirt wreathed itself about Archie's ankles as he stood gaping, and,as he moved farther into the room, his path was paved with ties andcollars.
"Sit down!" said Elmer M. Moon, abruptly.
"Right-o! Thanks," said Archie, "I suppose you wouldn't like me toexplain, and what not, what?"
"No!" said Mr. Moon. "I haven't got your spare time. Put your handsbehind that chair."
Archie did so, and found them immediately secured by what felt like asilk tie. His assiduous host then proceeded to fasten his ankles in alike manner. This done, he seemed to feel that he had done all thatwas required of him, and he returned to the packing of a large suitcasewhich stood by the window.
"I say!" said Archie.
Mr. Moon, with the air of a man who has remembered something whichhe had overlooked, shoved a sock in his guest's mouth and resumed hispacking. He was what might be called an impressionist packer. His aimappeared to be speed rather than neatness. He bundled his belongings in,closed the bag with some difficulty, and, stepping to the window, openedit. Then he climbed out on to the fire-escape, dragged the suit-caseafter him, and was gone.
Archie, left alone, addressed himself to the task of freeing hisprisoned limbs. The job proved much easier than he had expected. Mr.Moon, that hustler, had wrought for the moment, not for all time. Apractical man, he had been content to keep his visitor shackled merelyfor such a period as would permit him to make his escape unhindered. Inless than ten minutes Archie, after a good deal of snake-like writhing,was pleased to discover that the thingummy attached to his wrists hadloosened sufficiently to enable him to use his hands. He untied himselfand got up.
He now began to tell himself that out of evil cometh good. His encounterwith the elusive Mr. Moon had not been an agreeable one, but it hadhad this solid advantage, that it had left him right in the middle ofa great many clothes. And Mr. Moon, whatever his moral defects, had theone excellent quality of taking about the same size as himself. Archie,casting a covetous eye upon a tweed suit which lay on the bed, was onthe point of climbing into the trousers when on the outer door of thestudio there sounded a forceful knocking.
"Open up here!"
Indiscretions of Archie Page 5