Gladiator

by Wylie, Philip;

  �����It will be impossible during the coming year for me to let you have more than five hundred dollars. Perhaps, with what you earn this summer and with the exercise of economy, you can get along. I trust so. But, anxious as we are to see you again, we felt that, in the light of such information, you might prefer to remain in the East to earn what you can.

  �����We are both despondent over the situation and we wish that we could do more than tender our regrets. But we hope that you will be able to find some solution to this situation. Thus, with our very warmest affection and our fondest hope, we wish you good fortune.

  �����Your loving father,

  �����ABEDNEGO DANNER.

  Hugo was frightened. He read the letter again, his wistful thoughts of his parents diminishing before the reality of his predicament. He counted his money. Eighty dollars in the bank and twelve in his pockets. He was glad he had started an account after his experience with Bessie. He was glad that he had husbanded more than enough to pay his fare to Indian Creek. Ninety-two dollars. He could live on that for a long time. Perhaps for the summer. And he would be able to get some sort of job. He was strong, anyway. That comforted him. He looked out of his window and tried to enumerate the things that he could do. All sorts of farm work. He could drive a team in the city. He could work on the docks. He considered nothing but manual labor. It would offer more. Gradually his fear that he would starve if left to his own devices ebbed from him, and it was replaced by grief that he could not return to Webster. Fourteen hundred dollars—that was the cost of his freshman year. He made a list of the things he could do without, of the work he could do to help himself through college. Perhaps he could return. The fear slowly diminished. He would be a working student in the year to come.

  He wrote a letter to his father in which he apologized with simple sincerity for the condition he had unknowingly created, and in which he expressed every confidence that he could take care of himself in the future.

  He bore that braver front through the last days of school. He shook Lefty’s hand warmly and looked fairly into his eyes. “Well, so long, old sock. Be good.”

  “Be good, Hugo. And don’t weaken. We’ll need all your beef next year. Decided what you’re going to do yet?”

  “No. Have you?”

  Lefty shrugged. “I suppose I’ve got to go abroad with the family as usual. They wrote a dirty letter about the allowance I’d not have next year if I didn’t. Why don’t you come with us? Iris’ll be there.”

  Hugo grinned. “No, sir! Iris once is very nice, but no man’s equal to Iris twice.” His grin became a chuckle. “And that’s a poem which you can say to Iris if you see her—and tell her I hope it makes her mad.”

  Lefty’s blue eyes sparkled with appreciation. Danner was a wonderful boy. Full of wit and not dumb like most of his kind. Getting smooth, too. Be a great man. Too bad to leave him—even for the summer. “Well—so long, old man.”

  Hugo watched Lefty lift his bags into a cab and roll away in the ‘warm June dust.

  Hugo felt a lump in his throat. He could not say any more farewells. The campus was almost deserted. No meals would be served after the next day. He stared at the vacant dormitories and listened to the waning sound of departures. A train puffed and fumed at the station. It was filled with boys. Going away. He went to his room and packed. He’d leave, too. When his suitcases were filled, he looked round the room with damp eyes. He thought that he was going to cry, mastered himself, and then did cry. Some time later he remembered Iris and stopped crying. He walked to the station, recalling his first journey in the other direction, his pinch-backed green suit, the trunk he had carried. Grand old place, Webster. Suddenly gone dead all over. There would be a train for New York in half an hour. He took it. Some of the students talked to him on the trip to the city. Then they left him, alone, in the great vacuum of the terminal. The glittering corridors were filled with people. He wondered if he could find Bessie’s house.

  At a restaurant he ate supper. When he emerged, it was dark. He asked his way, found a hotel, registered in a one-dollar room, went out on the street again. He walked to the Raven. Then he took a cab. He remembered Bessie’s house. An old woman answered the door. “Bessie? Bessie? No girl by that name I remember.”

  Hugo described her. “Oh, that tart! She ran out on me—owin’ a week’s rent.”

  “When was that?”

  “Some time last fall.”

  “Oh.” Hugo meditated. The woman spoke again. “I did hear from one of my other girl’s that she’d gone to work at Coney, but I ain’t had time to look her up. Owes me four dollars, she does.”

  He walked away. A warm moon was dimly sensible above the lights of the street. He decided to go to Coney Island and look for the lost Bessie. It would cost him only a dime, and she owed him money. He smiled a little savagely and thought that he would collect its equivalent. Then he boarded the subway, cursing himself for a fool and cursing his appetite for the fool’s master. Why did he chase that particular little harlot on an evening when his mind should be bent toward more serious purposes? Certainly not because he had any intention of getting back his money. Because he wished to surprise her? Because he was angry that she had cheated him? Or because she was the only woman in New York whom he knew? He decided it was the last reason. Finally the train reached Coney Island, and Hugo descended into the fantastic hurly-burly on the street below. He realized the ridiculousness of his quest as he saw the miles of thronging people in the loud streets.

  “The strongest man in the world, ladies and gentlemen, come in and see Thorndyke, the great professor of physical culture from Munich, Germany. He can bend a spike in his bare hands, an elephant can pass over his body without harming him, he can lift a weight of one ton… .” Hugo laughed. Two girls saw him and brushed close. “Buy us a drink, sport.”

  The strongest man in the world. Hugo wondered what sort of strong man he would make. Perhaps he could go into competition with Dr. Thorndyke. He saw himself pictured in gaudy reds and yellows, holding up an enormous weight. He remembered that he was looking for Bessie. Then he saw another girl. She was sitting at a table, alone. That fact was significant. He sat beside her.

  “Hello, tough,” she said.

  “Hello.”

  “Wanna buy me a beer?”

  Hugo bought a beer and looked at the girl. Her hair was black and straight. Her mouth was straight. It was painted scarlet. Her eyes were hard and dark. But her body, as if to atone for her face, was made in a series of soft curves that fitted exquisitely into her black silk dress. He tortured himself looking at her. She permitted it sullenly. “You can buy me a sandwich, if you want. I ain’t eaten to-day.”

  He bought a sandwich, wondering if she was telling the truth. She ate ravenously. He bought another and then a second glass of beer. After that she rose. “You can come with me if you wanna.”

  Odd. No conversation, no vivacity, only a dull submission that was not in keeping with her appearance.

  “Have you had enough to eat?” he asked.

  “It’ll do,” she responded.

  They turned into a side street and moved away from the shimmering lights and the morass of people. Presently they entered a dingy frame house and went upstairs. There was no one in the hall, no furniture, only a flickering gas-light. She unlocked the door. “Come in.”

  He looked at her again. She took off her hat and arranged her dark hair so that it looped almost over one eye. Hugo wondered at her silence. “I didn’t mean to rush,” he said.

  “Well, I did. Gotta make some more. It’ll be”—she hesitated—“two bucks.”

  The girl sat down and wept. “Aw, hell,” she said finally, looking at him with a shameless defiance, “I guess I’m gonna make a rotten tart. I was in a show, an’ I got busted out for not bein’ nice to the manager. I says to myself: ‘Well, what am I gonna do?’ An’ I starts to get hungry this morning. So I says to myself: ‘Well, there ain’t but one thing
to do, Charlotte, but to get you a room,’ I says, an’ here I am, so help me God.”

  She removed her dress with a sweeping motion. Hugo looked at her, filled with pity, filled with remorse at his sudden surrender to her passionate good looks, intensely discomfited.

  “Listen. I have a roll in my pocket. I’m damn glad I came here first. I haven’t got a job, but I’ll get one in the morning. And I’ll get you a decent room and stake you till you get work. God knows, I picked you up for what I thought you were, Charlotte, and God knows too that I haven’t any noble nature. But I’m not going to let you go on the street simply because you’re broke. Not when you hate it so much.”

  Charlotte shut her eyes tight and pressed out the last tears, which ran into her rouge and streaked it with mascara. “That’s sure white of you.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s selfish. I had an awful yen for you when I sat down at that table. But let’s not worry about it now. Let’s go out and get a decent dinner.”

  “You mean—you mean you want me to go out and eat—now?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “But you ain’t—?”

  “Forget it. Come on.”

  Charlotte sniffled and buried her black tresses in her black dress. She pulled it over the curves of her hips. She inspected herself in a spotted mirror and sniffled again. Then she laughed. A throaty, gurgling laugh. Her hands moved swiftly, and soon she turned. “How am I?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Let’s go!”

  She tucked her hand under his arm when they reached the street. Hugo walked silently. He wondered why he was doing it and to what it would lead. It seemed good, wholly good, to have a girl at his side again, especially a girl over whom he had so strong a claim. They stopped before a glass-fronted restaurant that advertised its sea food and its steaks. She sat down with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I’m goin’ to eat you out of house and home.”

  “Go ahead. I had a big supper, but I’ll string along with some pie and cheese and beer.”

  Charlotte studied the menu. ‘Mind if I have a little steak?”

  Hugo shook his head slowly. “Waiter! A big T-bone and some lyonnaise potatoes, and some string beans and corn and a salad and ice cream. Bring some pie and cheese for me—and a beer.”

  “Gosh!” Charlotte said.

  Hugo watched her eat the food. He knew such pity as he had seldom felt. Poor little kid! All alone, scared, going on the street because she would starve otherwise. It made him feel strong and capable. Before the meal was finished, she was talking furiously. Her pathetic life was unraveled. “I come from Brooklyn … old man took to drink, an’ ma beat it with a gent from Astoria … never knew what happened to her. … I kept house for the old man till he tried to get funny with me… . Burlesque … on the road … the leading man… . He flew the coop when I told him, and then when it came, it was dead… .” Another job … the manager … Coney and her dismissal. “I just couldn’t let ‘em have it when I didn’t like ‘em, mister. (Guess I’m not tough like the other girls. My mother was French and she brought me up kind of decent. Well …” The little outward turning of her hands, the shrug of her shoulders.

  “Don’t worry, Charlotte. I won’t let them eat you. Tomorrow I’ll set you up in a decent room and we’ll go out and find some jobs here.”

  “You don’t have to do that, mister. I’ll make out. All I needed was a square and another day.”

  Later they danced. They drank more beer.

  “Golly,” she whispered, as she snuggled against him, “you sure strut a mean fox trot.”

  “So do you, Charlotte.”

  “I been doin’ it a lot, I guess.”

  The brazen crash of a finale. The table. A babble of voices, voices of people snatching pleasure from Coney Island’s gaudy barrel of cheap amusements. Hugo liked it then. He liked the smell and touch of the multitude and the incessant hysteria of its presence. After midnight the music became more aggravating—muted, insinuating. Several of the dancers were drunk. One of them tried to cut in. Hugo shook his head.

  “Gee!” Charlotte said, “I was sure hopin’ you wouldn’t let him.”

  “Why—I never thought of it.”

  “Most fellows would. He’s a tough.”

  It was an introduction to an unfamiliar world. The “tough” came to their table and asked for a dance in thick accents. Charlotte paled and accepted. Hugo refused. “Say, bo, I’m askin’ for a dance. I got concessions here. You can’t refuse me, see? I guess you got me wrong.”

  “Beat it,” Hugo said, “before I take a poke at you.”

  The intruder’s answer was a swinging fist, which missed Hugo by a wide margin. Hugo stood and dropped him with a single clean blow. The manager came up, expostulated, ordered the tough’s inert form from the floor, started the music.

  “You shouldn’t ought to have done it, mister. He’ll get his gang.”

  “The hell with his gang.”

  Charlotte sighed. “That’s the first time anybody ever stuck up for me. Jeest, mister, I’ve been wishin’ an’ wishin’ for the day when somebody would bruise his knuckles for me.”

  Hugo laughed. “Hey, waiter! Two beers.”

  When she yawned, he took her out to the boulevard and walked at her side toward the shabby house. They reached the steps, and Charlotte began to cry.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I was goin’ to thank you, but I don’t know how. It was too nice of you. An’ now I suppose I’ll never see you again.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll show up at eight in the morning and we’ll have breakfast together.”

  Charlotte looked into his face wistfully. “Say, kid, be a good guy and take me to your hotel, will you? I’m scared I’ll lose you.”

  He held her hands. “You won’t lose me. And I haven’t got a hotel—yet.”

  “Then-come up an’ stay with me. Honest, I’m all right. I can prove it to you. It’ll be doin’ me a favor.”

  “I ought not to, Charlotte.”

  She threw her arms around him and kissed him. He felt her breath on his lips and the warmth of her body. “You gotta, kid. You’re all I ever had. Please, please.”

  Hugo walked up the stairs thoughtfully. In her small room he watched her disrobe. So willingly now-so eagerly. She turned back the covers of the bed. “It ain’t much of a dump, baby, but I’ll make you like it.”

  Much later, in the abyss of darkness, he heard her voice, sleepy and still husky. “Say, mister, what’s your name?”

  They had breakfast together in a quiet enchantment. Once she kissed him.

  “Would you like to keep house-for me?” he asked.

  “Do you mean it?”

  “Sure, I mean it. I’ll get a job and we’ll find an apartment and you can spend your spare time swimming and lying on the beach.” He knew a twinge of unexpected jealousy. “That is, if you’ll promise not to look at all the men who are going to look at you.” He was ashamed of that statement.

  Charlotte, however, was not sufficiently civilized to be displeased. “Do you think I’d two-time the first gent that ever worried about what I did in my spare moments? Why, if you brought home a few bucks to most of the birds I know, they wouldn’t even ask how you earned it—they’d be so busy lookin’ for another girl an’ a shot of gin.”

  “Well—let’s go.”

  Hugo went to one of the largest side shows. After some questioning he found the manager. “I’m H. Smith,” he said, “and I want to apply for a job.”

  “Doin’ what?”

  “A strong-man act,” Hugo said.

  Charlotte tittered. She thought that the bravado of her new friend was overstepping the limits of good sense. The manager sat up. “I’d like to have a good strong man, yes. The show needs one. But you’re not the bird. You haven’t got the beef. Go over and watch that damned German work.”

  Hugo bent over and fastened one hand on the back of the chair on which the manager sat. Without evidenc
e of effort he lifted the chair and its occupant high over his head.

  “For Christ’s sake, let me down,” the manager said.

  Hugo swung him through the air in a wide arc. “I say, mister, that I’m three times stronger than that German. And I want your job. If I don’t look strong enough, I’ll wear some padded tights. And I’ll give you a show that’ll be worth the admission. But I want a slice of the entrance price—and maybe a separate tent, see? My name is Hogarth”—he winked at Charlotte—“and you’ll never be sorry you took me on.”

  The manager, panting and astonished, was returned to the floor. His anger struggled with his pleasure at Hugo’s showmanship. “Well, what else can you do? Weight-lifting is pretty stale.”

  Hugo thought quickly. “I can bend a railroad rail—not a spike. I can lift a full-grown horse with one—one shoulder. I can chin myself on my little finger. I can set a bear trap with my teeth—”

  “That’s a good number.”

  “I can push up just twice as much weight as any one else in the game and you can print a challenge on my tent. I can pull a boa constrictor straight—”

  “We’ll give you a chance. Come around here at three this afternoon with your stuff and we’ll try your act. Does this lady work in it? That’ll help.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said.

  Hugo nodded. “She’s my assistant.”

  They left the building, and when she was sure they were out of earshot, Charlotte said: “What do you do, strong boy, fake em?”