The Savage Gentleman

by Philip Wylie

  Psychology developed a new sense of the reasons for human behavior which the public slowly and partially assimilated. Thirty years of education and change marked the twentieth century.

  Henry had missed them all. He came untouched from the old era. His dilemma was not surprising.

  Nevertheless, he learned. He read the books on psychology with feverish interest.

  His mind understood what they said; but his emotions rebelled against it. Training is, unfortunately, almost always stronger than logic.

  When he thought of the net totals of his experiences during the kaleidoscopic month, he foundered. He distrusted the new world, rather than the world for which his father had prepared him.

  Sometimes he sat up until the night was spent, discussing it with Collins and, while their viewpoints were irreconcilable, they remained steady companions.

  He was turning over the wealth of material he had garnered when Collins carne into the room.

  "Hello, Henry."

  "Hello, Tom."

  "Still trying to judge your peers?"

  "Still trying."

  "How about a snack of supper? I thought of three things you haven't eaten yet.

  Armenian pastry, doughnuts and hot chocolate."

  "Not hungry."

  "Well--later. Did you see what Voorhees wrote about you in the late edition today?"

  "No. He called me up, though."

  "Oh? It may be true, then. He says that you have decided not to make any changes in the Record staff and to permit the same directorate to operate it."

  "That's what I told him. Only--I said--just for the time being."

  Collins nodded. "So I thought. But Voorhees forgot to mention that you said just for the present. Your Tom--meaning myself--didn't believe the decision was final. With all your febrile distaste for things as they are, you'll want to get in there personally and break a leg for old Righteousness one of these days."

  "I'm not so sure."

  Collins lighted a cigarette.

  "Let's see. That makes the three hundred and seventy-ninth time you've expressed that particular doubt. It's your next to favorite doubt. Your favorite doubt is relative to women. Your third favorite doubt--"

  "Say!"

  "I have already discarded the subject."

  "It's a relief."

  "Good. I've been about town. There's some nasty dirt on the subway situation.

  Something like three million dollars has turned up unaccounted for. But Tom knows.

  That three million--or, at least, one chunk of it--was spent on a girl named Phoebe--nice name--last winter at Miami and on the little horses that ran but not quite fast enough. Oh-

  -I'm brimful of scandal today. They caught Toledo Scarsi last night redhanded and by that I mean with red hands and he was bailed out at dawn today for the immense sum of fifty dollars. You remember my telling you about Scarsi--the lad of baseball bat renown?"

  "It all makes me sick."

  "And I saw your girl friend."

  Henry sat up abruptly. Then he relaxed and said:

  "Whom do you mean by that?"

  Collins chuckled. "A little less speed on the uptake for what is known as feigning innocence. You shouldn't have jumped. You should have flicked ashes from your cigarette--it would be fine if you wore a monocle, because then you could have screwed it into your eye--and you should have said in an absent-minded voice, 'Girl friend? Girl friend?' That, Henry, would have been first-class feigning. I saw her in a speakeasy and I have to report that she was tight."

  "You mean--intoxicated?"

  "As you so effectively put it--intoxicated. She was intoxicated and tearful. I think she misses you. I think she is sorry. If I were you, I'd shag over to their little cozy-home and--"

  "Never mind. Intoxicated. It's bestial."

  Collins was sorry he had told Henry. It was the truth. Marian had been drinking and she had also been crying--both for the same reason and Collins knew the reason.

  "She's proud," Collins hazarded.

  "She must be--to get drunk in a public place."

  "A speakeasy, in spite of modern custom, is not a public--oh-hell, old man--I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

  "You didn't," Henry replied evenly. "But I would rather discuss something else."

  "Very well. I'm trying to cheer you up. I reserved the best for the last. I have a surprise for you."

  "Yes."

  Collins crossed the room and opened the door.

  "Come in," he said.

  Jack crossed the threshold. He was dressed in a plain blue suit and he carried a black suit case. His face was clouded with apprehension.

  Henry sprang to his feet.

  "Jack!"

  "This gentleman told me I could come in, Mr. Henry--I--"

  Henry embraced him. He pounded his back.

  "Jack! Good Lord, I've missed you. Where have you been? Why haven't you come before?"

  Jack sniffed and moved his mouth. "Well, it's a long story."

  "Sit down."

  Jack glanced anxiously at Collins and sat gingerly. His eyes shone and he rubbed his white head.

  "I been in jail. Things aren't the way they was. I got the money your father left--

  but it just naturally evaporated. I was what they call a big shot for a while. Then I got in a argument in a cabaret with a couple of high-hat young bucks and I busted boff of them in the jaw. I got in jail for two weeks."

  Henry looked at Collins.

  "Why didn't I hear of this?"

  "I didn't know till yesterday. I got him out. He gave the wrong name."

  "I didn't want people to think that a man who has been associated with you, Mr.

  Henry, would get put in jail."

  "Oh."

  "People are different now," Jack continued. "It's all money, money, money and dance, dance, dance and drink, drink, drink."

  "You've noticed that?"

  "Yes, boss."

  "Don't you think at your age that drinking and dancing and fighting are a little bit undignified?"

  "Yes, boss. But I been on the island so long that I guess I just about broke loose."

  Jack's face was pale with apology.

  Suddenly Henry roared with laughter. It was the first time Collins had seen him in the throes of the gargantuan laughter that had been born in his youth on the island.

  Collins was dumbfounded. The corners of Jack's mouth turned up.

  When Henry's laughter subsided, Collins said:

  ''I asked Jack if he'd like to come, back and work for you. As your personal servant or your butler."

  Henry stared at his old companion.

  "If you could find a place, Mr. Henry," Jack muttered. "Some little corner--"

  "My God! Some little corner, Jack? Why--do you know what? You're in charge of this place right now. You're Henry Stone's butler and major-domo. You're going to have a room right here. Collins, call the desk and make arrangements. Tell them that Jack is to have the best. He's my man and he's my friend."

  Collins went to the phone.

  Jack turned his back on Henry and stared out of the windows over Central Park.

  "What's the matter, Jack?" Henry said presently.

  Jack shrugged. "Nuthin'. Nuthin's the matter. Just looking. Just looking at them trees. I'm all right. Now. Just looking."

  At ten the next morning Jack answered the phone.

  "This is the suite of Mr. Henry Stone, Esquire."

  "Hey!" Collins yelped. "That's the desk. They know whose suite it is and the

  'esquire' is redundant."

  Jack turned to Henry.

  "Mr. Whitney to see you."

  "Have him come up."

  Henry waited nervously for the lawyer. It was difficult for him to be natural--

  Whitney was a constant reminder of Marian, and Whitney's manner had changed since he had left the penthouse.

  He came in good~humoredly, however, and put his hat on a table.

  "Morning, Henry. Morning, Col
lins. Hot. But not devastating. You probably don't mind it, Henry. You'll mind the winters. Wait till it snows."

  "I suppose so."

  "A few things here."

  The old man opened a briefcase.

  "A signature or two needed--and I've been sitting around my apartment for so long doing nothing that I thought I'd come myself."

  "I'm glad to see you."

  "Eh? Yes. This will clean up the whole transfer. And by the way--how are the Stone papers?"

  Henry walked to the window.

  "They’re all right, I imagine.”

  "You don't go down much, I hear." A little of the lawyer's good humor had left his voice. "Too bad. You could have a lot of fun right now."

  "Is that so?"

  "Well--your father would have called it fun. Voorhees and his gang are backing the new bridge bonds. The issue is just about double the amount the thing will cost. I was talking yesterday to Andrew Davis, the steel man. The Record's full of propaganda."

  "Mr. Whitney," Henry said slowly. "I don't feel equipped to meddle. I never saw a bridge until a few weeks ago. And I've been over the books of the corporations. They tell the story that seems to interest everyone to the exclusion of everything else. Profit: seventeen million dollars last year, Mr. Whitney."

  The old lawyer grunted. "You need the money, of course."

  Henry did not answer.

  Collins filled an awkward interval. "We've been making up for his lost life by taking in the city. He hasn't had much time to do things."

  ' I'm sorry," Whitney said, then. "I suppose we all regarded you as a sort of prophet. A prophet returned from the wilderness. Or perhaps as the reincarnation of your father. He was a fighter! But we expected too much too soon. The experience of a return such as yours must be overpowering, I am beginning to agree with you."

  "'Why?"

  In that one syllable was a note of passion, but as Henry continued, his voice was level.

  "Why? I didn't make your world the way it is. I'm not responsible for it."

  "No. But you came here with what we thought was pretty fine thirty and fifty years ago." A hundred wrinkles appeared over the white beard. "We old fellows have always had a sneaking desire to see that crusading spirit let loose again." He sighed. "It isn't to be. When you said the world had changed--you were right. Humanity's off on a new tangent."

  "It is."

  Henry turned his back.

  Collins looked at Whitney and shrugged.

  The venerable lawyer walked across the room and put his arm over Henry's shoulder.

  "Don't take it hard, son. I--I loved your father."

  Henry did not melt.

  "By the way--Marian's been wondering why you haven't called."

  "Has she?" The voice of the man from the island was cold.

  Whitney's arm dropped. He picked up his hat.

  ' I'll leave these things for you to sign. You can mail them to me."

  "Very well."

  "Good day."

  "Good-bye."

  Henry flung himself into a chair. He gnawed his fist and finally picked up the telephone and called Voorhees.

  "This is Henry Stone," he said in a flat voice.

  "Oh! Yes, Mr. Stone." Unctuous.

  "I understand that bridge bond issue is too big."

  "Really? You have the wrong information, Mr. Stone. I have personally checked all estimates. I think it is minimal. The board may be compelled, even, to float a second issue."

  "Well--I'm going to take a chance on my information. I want a change of policy on it. The Record will get an estimate from Andrew Davis. He'll give one, I believe. I want an editorial saying that the issue is too big--twice too big--and that the margin goes into the pockets of city officials."

  "That would be difficult, Mr. Stone. The Record is body and soul behind the present administration."

  "Quite so. But we'll disagree with this project."

  "But--"

  "Order, Voorhees."

  "Right!" No unction now.

  "I'll be damned!" Collins said, when Henry hung up. He was grinning from ear to ear. "That'll get you in trouble."

  Henry nodded without spirit. "I know. I shouldn't have done it. But I couldn't stand having old Whitney think I had no--what do you call it?"

  "Guts."

  "No guts. Besides--I am beginning not to like Voorhees. He's a--a--"

  "Fat slob?"

  "Precisely."

  Collins began to whistle. Henry had fired a gun--apathetically, but directly. There would be a nice profit for Voorhees in his campaign favoring the bond issue. When his new program appeared, he would have to stand for a good many unpleasant telephone calls and interviews. Perhaps he would disobey Stone.

  Chapter Fourteen: THE RECALL

  ON THE following morning, Collins woke Henry. Collins's face was tense. He had a copy of the Record in his hand.

  Henry sat up in bed and yawned.

  "Here it is," Collins said. "'Davis Calls Bridge Issue Too Large.' Right on the front page. The buck's all on Davis. And the editorial is pretty weak--'A few persons believe that there is nest-feathering in the bridge bond issue--among them Andrew Davis, President of the Eagle Steel Company.' More in that tone."

  "Let me see." Henry read the editorial and the news story. "Weak is right."

  "But strong enough to hurt Voorhees."

  "I suppose so. I wonder if that will satisfy Elihu Whitney?" Collins scarcely noticed the remark. He spoke quickly: "I think--if you'll look again at the front page--

  you'll see Voorhees' revenge."

  "Revenge?"

  "Bottom of the page."

  Henry's eye fell upon the Item Collins indicated.

  Another Speakeasy Raid, it said. Miss Marian W hitney and other Distinguished Patrons Taken to Lock-up."

  "That's Voorhees' answer."

  Collins kept his face studiously averted.

  "What do you mean?"

  "He's found out--or he suspects--that you are interested in Marian Whitney--or, at least, loyal to her. So he had her followed and the speakeasy where she went raided."

  There was a long silence.

  "Oh," Henry said at last. "That's it?"

  "He doesn't like his plans to be meddled with."

  "I see."

  "What are you going to do about it?"

  Henry surprised Collins. .

  "Nothing. Why should I? She was there, wasn't she? She deserves the ignominy."

  Collins sagged into a chair.

  "And what are you going to do about the bridge issue ?"

  "I've done all I'm going to do," Henry answered petulantly.

  Collins lighted a cigarette.

  Jack's voice came from the next room. He was humming. He picked up the telephone and ordered Henry's breakfast. Henry did not look at Collins. When he was in the middle of his morning meal, Jack entered the room. "Lady on the phone. Won't give any name."

  "Hello!" Henry barked into the instrument beside his bed.

  "This is Marian Whitney."

  His heart congealed at the sound of her voice.

  "Thanks for the public reprimand. From now on, I won't have any disappointments to drown."

  She hung up.

  "What's the matter?"

  Collins picked up a glass of water and handed it to Henry, who had turned sheet-white.

  Whitney walked slowly toward the huge French windows that overlooked the city.

  "I pity him," he said.

  Collins smoked.

  "He's a misfit. That's all."

  "I guess you're right," Collins murmured.

  "His, father's training didn't add to his natural strength. It vitiated it."

  "Yes."

  "The answer is--that the man of eighteen-ninety-eight can't cope with modern life.

  He's too feeble-minded. Too tied up with conventions we've discarded. His idealism is as much out of place as a Sunday-school lesson in a trench fight. The things remembered from the good old days are color
ed by time. We weren't any more noble then--just smugger and more self-assured."

  "I think," "Collins said slowly, "that I'll give up my job as secretary. He doesn't need or want me any longer. He just sits in his rooms and broods."

  "Stay a month more."

  "Well--"

  "Here's Marian."

  She came through the library doors. She took off her hat and the sun shone through her hair. She was pale and tired.

  "Hello, grandfather. Hello, Tom."

  "Hello." Elihu Whitney smiled feebly. "We were talking about Henry." "I thought so."

  "Well?"

  "Why the 'well'? What do you want me to say?"

  Collins offered a cigarette, which she took.

  "Anything you can contribute to the caucus."

  "Why do you think I can contribute anything at all?"

  Elihu Whitney walked to her side and patted her head.

  "We aren't going to cross-question you, Marian. But--well--we feel pretty badly about him."

  "Who doesn't?"

  Collins rushed in where his senior had feared to tread.

  "You were crazy about him."

  Marian bit her lip. "Why not admit it? I was. I was crazy about him for two days.

  With the big craziness. I'd have slept standing up and lived in an ashcan and earned his living with a mop--for two days. What girl wouldn't? Even girls like myself, who are able in their modest way to see a good many men and interest them.

  "He was built the way they paint wrestlers and that rust-colored hair was curly.

  He had eyes that hit--like bullets. And all his silly pompousness was sweet--then. Until I found out it was all there was. Just paste. A fool. Not a diamond in the rough--but a tencent-store diamond."

  "He's inhibited," Whitney admitted.

  "Inhibited!" 11arian laughed. "He's all the repressions they've ever found and some more. I wouldn't undertake to salvage him if I could have Midas's touch and the Fountain of Youth in my back yard. He's frigid and nasty-minded. He's a fool! He's weak and pompous and spineless!"

  "Don't cry," Collins said caustically. "Tears are spilled most pleasantly on the pillow. Here. Have a big handkerchief. We were rough, child. But we were trying to find an out."

  "Let me alone."

  Marian struggled to her feet.