XXIII
PERCEVAL UNASHAMED
Toward ten of that same Sunday morning a touring car of majestic miendrew up in front of a boarding-house in Thirty-eighth Street West.
From this alighted a little man of somewhat bedraggled appearance,wearing a somewhat weather-beaten but heartfelt grin.
Ostentatiously (or so it seemed to one solitary and sour-mouthedspectator, disturbed in his perusal of a comic supplement on thebrownstone stoop of the boarding-house) he shook hands with thechauffeur, and, speaking guardedly, confirmed some privateunderstanding with him.
Then the car rolled off, and P. Sybarite shuffled meekly in throughthe gate, crossed the dooryard, and met the outraged glare of GeorgeBross with an apologetic smile and the request:
"If you've got a pack of Sweets about you, George, I can use one in mybusiness."
Without abating his manifestation of entire disapproval, Georgeproduced a box of cigarettes, permitted P. Sybarite to select one, andhelped himself.
They shared a match, even as brothers might, before honest indignationescaped the grim portals of the shipping clerk's mouth.
"Sa-ay!" he exploded--"looky here: where've you been all night?"
"Ah-h!" P. Sybarite sighed provokingly: "that's a long and tiresomestory, George."
With much the air of a transient, he sat him down by George's side.
"A very long and very weary story, George. I don't like to tell it toyou, really. We'd be sure to quarrel."
"Why?" George demanded aggressively.
"Because you wouldn't believe me. I don't quite believe it myself, nowthat all's over, barring a page or two. Your great trouble, George, isthat you have no imagination."
"The devil I ain't!"
"Perfectly right: you haven't. If you point with pride to that wildflight of fancy which identified 'Molly Lessing' with MarianBlessington, George, your position is (as you yourself would say)untenable. It wasn't imagination: it was fact."
"No!" George ejaculated. "Is that right? What'd I tell you?"
"Word of honour! But it's a secret, as yet--from everybody except youand Violet; and even you we wouldn't tell had you not earned the rightto know by guessing and making me semi-credulous--enough to startsomething--several somethings, in fact."
"G'wan!" George coaxed. "Feed it to me: I'll eat it right outa yourhand. Whatcha been doin' with yourself all night, P.S.?"
"I've been Day of Days-ing myself, George."
"Ah, can the kiddin', P.S. Come through! Whadja do?"
"Broke every Commandment in the Decalogue, George, barring one or twoof the more indelicate ones; kicked the laws of chance and probabilityinto a cocked hat; fractured most of the Municipal Ordinances--and--letme see--oh, yes!--dislocated the Long Arm of Coincidence so badly thatall of its subsequent performances are going to seem stiff and lackingin that air of spontaneity without which--"
"My Gawd!" George despaired--"he's off again on that hardy annualtalkalogue of his!... Lis'n, P.S.--"
"Call me Perceval," P. Sybarite suggested pleasantly.
"_Wh-at!_"
"Let it be Perceval hereafter, George--always. I grant you freepermission."
"But I thought you said--"
"So I did--a few hours ago. Now I--well, I rather like it. It makesall the difference who calls you that sort of name first, and what hervoice is like."
"One of us," George protested with profound conviction, "is plumbloony in the head!"
"It's me," said P. Sybarite humbly: "I admit it.... And the worst ofit is--I like it! So would you if you'd been through a Day of Days."
George let that pass; for the moment he was otherwise engaged in vainspeculation as to the appearance of a phenomenon rather rare in thecalendar of that West Thirty-eighth Street boarding-house.
A Western Union boy, weary with the weariness of not less than fortysummers, was shuffling in at the gate.
"Sa-ay!" he called with the asperity of ingrained ennui--"either ofyouse guys know a guy named Perceval Sybarite 't lives here?"
Silently P. Sybarite held out his hand, took the greasy little book inits black oil-cloth binding, scrawled his signature in the properblank, and received the message in its sealed yellow envelope.
"Wait," he commanded calmly, eyeing Western Union with suspicion.
"W'at's eatin' you? Is they an answer?"
"They ain't no answer," P. Sybarite admitted.
"Well, whatcha want? I got no time to stick round here kiddin'."
"One moment of your valuable time. I believe you delivered a messageat the Monastery Apartments in Forty-third Street this morning."
"Well, an' what 'f I did?"
"Only this."
P. Sybarite extracted an immense roll of bills from his pocket;transferred it to his other hand; delved deeper; eventually produced asingle twenty-dollar gold-piece.
"Take this," he said, tossing it to the boy with princely nonchalance."It's the last of a lot, but--it's yours."
"What for?" Western Union demanded in amaze; while, as for GeorgeBross, _he_ developed plain symptoms of apoplexy.
"You'll never know," said P. Sybarite. "Now run along before I cometo."
In the shadow of this threat, Western Union fled precipitately....
P. Sybarite rose; yawned; smiled benignantly upon George Bross.
"I'm off to bed--was only waiting for this message," he announced;"but before I go--tell me; how much money does Violet think you oughtto be earning before you're eligible for the Matrimonial Stakes?"
"She said somethin' oncet about fifty per," George rememberedgloomily.
"It's yours--doubled," P. Sybarite told him. "To-morrow you willresign from the employ of Whigham & Wimper and go to Blessington's toenter their shipping department at a hundred a week; and if you don'tearn it, may God have mercy on your wretched soul!"
George got up very suddenly.
"I'll go send for the doctor," he announced.
"One moment more." P. Sybarite dropped a detaining hand upon his arm."You and Violet are invited to dinner to-night--at the Hotel Plaza.Don't be alarmed; you needn't dress; we'll dine privately in Marian'sapartment."
"Marian!"
"Miss Blessington--Molly Lessing that was."
"Honest!" said George sincerely. "I don't know whether to think you'vegone bughouse or not. You've always been a bit queer and foolish inthe bean, but never since I've known you--"
"And after dinner," P. Sybarite pursued evenly, "you're going toattend a very quiet little wedding party."
"Whose, for God's sake?"
"Marian's and mine; and the only reason why you can't be best man isthat the best man will be my cousin, Peter Kenny."
"Is that straight?"
"On the level."
George concluded that there was sanity in P. Sybarite's eyes.
"Well, I certainly got to slip you the congrats!" he protested. "Andsay--you goin' to bounce Whigham and Wimper, too?"
"Yes."
"And whatcha goin' do then?"
"I? To tell you the truth, I'm considering joining the Union andagitating for an eight-hour Day of Days. This one of mine has beeneighteen hours long, more or less--since I got those theatre tickets,you know--and I'm too dog-tired to keep my eyes open another minute.After I've had a nap, I'll tell you all about everything." ...
But he wasn't too tired to read his telegram, when he found himselfagain, and for the last time, in his hall bedroom.
It said simply: "I love you.--Marian."
From this P. Sybarite looked up to his reflection in the glass. Andpresently he smiled sheepishly, and blinked.
"Perceval...!" murmured the little man fondly.
THE END
_By the author of "The Brass Bowl"_
THE BANDBOX
_By_ LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
Author of "The Day of Days," "The Destroying Angel," etc.
Illustrated by A.I. Keller. Cloth. $1.25 _net_.
Divertingly told, in Mr. Vance's familiarly vigorous style, i
t neverfails to entertain.--_Boston Transcript._
Mr. Vance uses the wand of a conjurer--his humor comes bubbling to thesurface all the time.--_New York Tribune._
The yarn is excellently calculated to pass the time of a jaded novelreader.... The story is quite surprising enough, and amusing atthat.--_New York Evening Sun._
It is a rousing tale of adventure and love told with verve and humor.Many will pronounce it the best story yet written by the author of"The Brass Bowl."--_Chicago Record-Herald._
The tale bristles with breathless adventure, mistaken identities,detective investigations, romantic developments, and startlingsituations.... It is a rousing story, told with a stimulating style,and culminating in love rewarded; but, before that happy end isreached, there are many thrilling revelations.--_Literary Digest_, NewYork.
LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON
_A Curious Story of Woman's Love_
THE DESTROYING ANGEL
By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
Author of "The Bandbox," "The Day of Days," etc.
Illustrated by A.I. Keller. Cloth. $1.25 _net_.
Mr. Vance keeps events moving too fast to cast any shadowsbefore.--_New York World._
A very readable story ... Certainly there is not a dull moment in thebook.--_New York Times._
It's a good story, well told, with plenty of brisk down-to-date humor,and its few characters stand out well.--_Los Angeles Times._
Full of romance and strange surprises ... A narrative of dramaticevents, thrilling adventures, and all-conquering passion that makes aswiftly moving tale.--_Philadelphia North American._
Half a dozen less vigorous and full-blooded stories might be builtfrom the material so lavishly employed ... There is no moment, fromstart to finish, when the story is not absorbing, and the end of thenarrative, which winds to a happy climax, is all that the most ardentromancist could desire.--_Chicago Record-Herald._
LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS34 BEACON STREETFOSTON
The Day of Days: An Extravaganza Page 23