The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

  “But it’s all such blithering rot,” said I.

  “So much the better,” said they triumphantly—even eagerly.

  “I do not suppose that you, as publishers, can appreciate the fact that an author may have a soul above skittles,” said I indignantly. “I cannot, I will not write a line about myself, gentlemen. Not that I consider the subject sacred but—”

  “Wait!” cried the junior member, his face aglow. “We appreciate the delicacy of—er—your feelings, Mr. Smart, but I have an idea,—a splendid idea. It solves the whole question. Your secretary is a most competent, capable young man and a genius after a fashion. I propose that he write the story. We’ll pay him a lump sum for the work, put your name on the cover, and there you are. All you will have to do is to edit his material. How’s that?”

  And so it came to pass that I took myself off that evening for Hot Springs, secure in the thought that Poopendyke would attend to my literary estate far more capably than I could do it myself, and that my labours later on would be pleasantly devoted to the lazy task of editing, revising and deleting a tale already told….

  If you are lucky enough to obtain rooms in the Homestead, looking out over the golf course, with the wonderful November colourings in the hills and gaps beyond; over the casino, the tennis courts and the lower levels of the fashionable playground, you may well say to yourself that all the world is bright and sweet and full of hope. From my windows I could see far down the historic valley in the direction of Warm Springs, a hazy blue panorama wrapped in the air of an Indian summer and redolent with the incense of autumn.

  Britton reminded me that it was a grand morning for golf, and I was at once reminded that Britton is an excellent chap whose opinions are always worth considering. So I started for the links, stopping first at the office on my way out, ostensibly to complain about the absence of window-screens but in reality to glance over the register in quest of certain signatures.

  A brisk, oldish little man came up beside me and rather testily inquired why the deuce there were no matches in his room; also why the hot water was cold so much longer than usual that morning. He was not much of a man to look at, but I could not fail to note the obsequious manner in which the two clerks behind the desk looked at him. You couldn’t possibly have discovered anything in their manner to remind you of hotel clerks you may have come to know in your travels. A half dozen boxes of matches were passed out to him in the twinkling of an eye, and I shudder to think what might have happened if there had been a hot water faucet handy, they were so eager to please.

  “Mr. Brewster gone out yet?” demanded this important guest, pocketing all of the matches. (I could see at once that he was a very rich man.) “Did he leave any message for me? He didn’t? He was to let me know whether he could play golf with—eh? Playing with Logan, eh? Well, of all the—He knows I will not play with Logan. See if Mr. Scott is in his room. Tell him I’d like to take him on for eighteen holes this morning.”

  He crossed to the news-counter and glanced over the papers while a dusky bell-boy shot off in quest of Mr. Scott.

  “They all hate to play with the old geezer,” said one of the clerks,—a young one, you may be sure,—lowering his voice and his eyebrows at the same time. “He’s the rottenest player in the world.”

  “Who is he?” I inquired, mildly interested.

  “Jasper Titus,” was the reply. “The real old Jasper himself.”

  Before I could recover from my surprise, the object of my curiosity approached the desk, his watch in his hand.

  “Well, what does he say?” he demanded.

  “The—the boy isn’t back yet, Mr. Titus,” said one of the clerks, involuntarily pounding the call-bell in his nervousness.

  “Lazy, shiftless niggers, the whole tribe of them,” was Mr. Titus’s caustic comment.

  At that instant the boy, quite out of breath, came thumping down the stairs.

  “Mr. Scott’s got rheumatiz, Mr. Titus. He begs to be excused—”

  “Buncombe!” snapped Mr. Titus. “He’s afraid to play me. Well, this means no game for me. A beautiful day like this and—”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Titus,” said I, stepping forward. “If you don’t mind taking on a stranger, I will be happy to go around with you. My name is Smart. I think you must have heard of me through the Countess and your—”

  “Great Scott! Smart? Are—are you the author, James Byron Smart? The—the man who—” He checked himself suddenly, but seized me by the hand and, as he wrung it vigorously, dragged me out of hearing of the men behind the desk.

  “I am John Bellamy Smart,” said I, a little miffed.

  His shrewd, hard old face underwent a marvellous change. The crustiness left it as if by magic. His countenance radiated joy.

  “I owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Smart, that can never be lifted. My daughter has told me everything. You must have put up with a fearful lot of nonsense during the weeks she was with you. I know her well. She’s spoiled and she’s got a temper, although, upon my soul, she seems different nowadays. There is a change in her, by George.”

  “She’s had her lesson,” said I. “Besides I didn’t find she had a bad temper.”

  “And say, I want to tell you something else before I forget it: I fully appreciate your views on international marriage. Allie told me everything you had to say about it. You must have rubbed it in! But I think it did her good. She’ll never marry another foreigner if I can help it, if she never marries. Well, well, I am glad to see you, and to shake your hand. I—I wish I could really tell you how I feel toward you, my boy, but I—I don’t seem to have the power to express myself. If I—”

  I tried to convince him that the pleasure had been all mine, and then inquired for Mrs. Titus and the Countess.

  “They’re both here, but the good Lord only knows where. Mrs. Titus goes driving every morning. Roads are fine if you can stick to them. Aline said something last night about riding over to Fassifern this forenoon with Amberdale and young Skelly. Let’s see, it’s half-past ten. Yes, they’ve gone by this time. Why didn’t you write or telegraph Aline? She’ll be as mad as a wet hen when she finds you’ve come without letting her know.” “I thought I should like to take her by surprise,” I mumbled uncomfortably.

  “And my son Jasper—why, he will explode when he hears you’re here. He’s gone over to Covington to see a girl off on the train for Louisville. You’ve never seen such a boy. He is always going to Covington with some girl to see that she gets the right train home, But why are we wasting time here when we might be doing a few holes before lunch? I’ll take you on. Of course, you understand I’m a wretched player, but I’ve got one virtue: I never talk about my game and I never tell funny stories while my opponent is addressing the ball. I’m an old duffer at the game, but I’ve got more sense than most duffers.”

  We sauntered down to the club house where he insisted on buying me a dozen golf balls and engaging a caddy for me by the week. Up to the moment we stepped up to the first tee he talked incessantly of Aline and Rosemary, but the instant the game was on he settled into the grim reserve that characterises the man who takes any enterprise seriously, be it work or play.

  I shall not discuss our game, further than to say that he played in atrociously bad form but with a purpose that let me, to some degree, into the secret of his success in life. If I do say it myself, I am a fairly good player. My driving is consistently long. It may not be difficult for even you who do not go in for golf to appreciate the superior patience of a man whose tee shots are rarely short of two hundred and twenty yards when he is obliged to amble along doing nothing while his opponent is striving to cover the same distance in three or four shots, not counting the misses. But I was patient, agreeably patient, not to say tolerant. I don’t believe I was ever in a better humour than on this gay November morn. I even apologised for Mr. Titus’s execrable foozles; I amiably suggested that he was a little off his game and that he’d soon strike his gait and give me a sound be
ating after the turn. His smile was polite but ironic, and it was not long before I realised that he knew his own game too well to be affected by cajolery. He just pegged away, always playing the odd or worse, uncomplaining, unresentful, as even-tempered as the May wind, and never by any chance winning a hole from me. He was the rarest “duffer” it has ever been my good fortune to meet. As a rule, the poorer the player the loader his execrations. Jasper Titus was one of the worst players I’ve ever seen, but he was the personification of gentility, even under the most provoking circumstances. For instance, at the famous “Crater,” it was my good fortune to pitch a ball fairly on the green from the tee. His mashie shot landed his ball about twenty feet up the steep hill which guards the green. It rolled halfway back. Without a word of disgust, or so much as a scowl, he climbed up and blazed away at it again, not once but fourteen times by actual count. On the seventeenth stroke he triumphantly laid his ball on the green. Most men would have lifted and conceded the hole to me. He played it out.

  “A man never gets anywhere, Mr. Smart,” said he, unruffled by his miserable exhibition, “unless he keeps plugging away at a thing. That’s my principle in life. Keep at it. There is satisfaction in putting the damned ball in the hole, even if it does require twenty strokes. You did it in three, but you’ll soon forget the feat. I’m not likely to forget the troubles I had going down in twenty, and there lies the secret of success. If success comes easy, we pass it off with a laugh, if it comes hard we grit our teeth and remember the ways and means. You may not believe it, but I took thirty-three strokes for that hole one day last week. Day before yesterday I did it in four. Perhaps it wouldn’t occur to you to think that it’s a darned sight easier to do it in four than it is in thirty-three. Get the idea?”

  “I think I do, Mr. Titus,” said I. “The things that ‘come easy’ are never appreciated.”

  “Right, my boy. It’s what we have to work for like nailers that we lie awake thinking about.”

  We came out upon the eminence overlooking the next hole, which lay far below us. As I stooped to tee-up my ball, a gleeful shout came up the hillside.

  “Hello, John Bellamy!”

  Glancing down, I saw Jasper, Jr., at the edge of the wagon road. He was waving his cap and, even at that distance, I could see the radiance in his good-looking young face. A young and attractively dressed woman stood beside him. I waved my hand and shouted a greeting.

  “I thought you said he’d gone to Covington to see her off,” I said, turning to the young man’s father with a grin.

  “Not the same girl,” said he succinctly, squinting his eyes. “That’s the little Parsons girl from Richmond. He was to meet her at Covington. Jasper is a scientific butterfly. He makes both ends meet,—nearly always. Now no one but a genius could have fixed it up to see one girl off and meet another on the same train.”

  Later on, Jasper, Jr., and I strolled over to the casino verandah, the chatty Miss Parsons between us, but leaning a shade nearer to young Titus than to me, although she appeared to be somewhat overwhelmed at meeting a real live author. Mr. Titus, as was his habit, hurried on ahead of us. I afterwards discovered he had a dread of pneumonia.

  “Aline never said a word about your coming, John,” said Jasper, Jr. He called me John with considerable gusto. “She’s learning how to hold her tongue.”

  “It happens that she didn’t know I was coming,” said I drily. He whistled.

  “She’s off somewhere with Amberdale. Ever meet him? He’s one of the finest chaps I know. You’ll like him, Miss Parsons. He’s not at all like a Britisher.”

  “But I like the British,” said she.

  “Then I’ll tell him to spread it on a bit,” said Jappy obligingly. “Great horseman, he is. Got some ripping nags in the New York show next week, and he rides like a dream. Watch him pull down a few ribbons and rosettes. Sure thing.”

  “Your father told me that the Countess was off riding with him and another chap,—off to Fassifern, I believe.”

  “For luncheon. They do it three or four times a week. Not for me. I like waiters with shirt fronts and nickle tags.”

  Alone with me in the casino half an hour later, he announced that it really looked serious, this affair between Aline and his lordship.

  I tried to appear indifferent,—a rather pale effort, I fear.

  “I think I am in on the secret, Jappy,” said I soberly.

  He stared. “Has she ever said anything to you, old chap, that would lead you to believe she’s keen about him?”

  I temporised. “She’s keen about somebody, my son; that’s as far as I will go.”

  “Then it must be Amberdale. I’m on to her all right, all right. I know women. She’s in love, hang it all. If you know a thing about ’em, you can spot the symptoms without the x-rays. I’ve been hoping against hope, old man. I don’t want her to marry again. She’s had all the hell she’s entitled to. What’s the matter with women, anyhow? They no sooner get out of one muddle than they begin looking around for another. Can’t be satisfied with good luck.”

  “But every one speaks very highly of Lord Amberdale. I’m sure she can’t be making a mistake in marrying him.”

  “I wish she’d pick out a good, steady, simplified American, just as an experiment. We’re not so darned bad, you know. Women can do worse than to marry Americans.”

  “It is a matter of opinion, I fancy. At any rate we can’t go about picking out husbands for people who have minds of their own.”

  “Well, some one in our family picked out a lemon for Aline the first time, let me tell you that,” said he, scowling.

  “And she’s doing the picking for herself this time, I gather.”

  “I suppose so,” said he gloomily.

  I have visited the popular and almost historic Fassifern farm a great many times in my short career, but for the life of me I cannot understand what attraction it possesses that could induce people to go there for luncheon and then spend a whole afternoon lolling about the place. But that seems to have been precisely what the Countess and his lordship did on the day of my arrival at the Homestead. The “other chap,” Skerry, came riding home alone at three o’clock. She did not return until nearly six. By that time I was in a state of suppressed fury that almost drove me to the railway station with a single and you might say childish object in view.

  I had a pleasant visit with Mrs. Titus, who seemed overjoyed to see me. In fact, I had luncheon with her. Mr. Titus, it appeared, never ate luncheon. He had a dread of typhoid, I believe, and as he already possessed gout and insomnia and an intermittent tendency to pain in his abdomen, and couldn’t drink anything alcoholic or eat anything starchy, I found myself wondering what he really did for a living.

  Mrs. Titus talked a great deal about Lord Amberdale. She was most tiresome after the first half hour, but I must say that the luncheon was admirable. I happened to be hungry. Having quite made up my mind that Aline was going to marry Amberdale, I proceeded to upset the theory that a man in love is a creature without gastronomical aspirations by vulgarly stuffing myself with half a lamb chop, a slice of buttered bread and nine pickles.

  “Aline will be glad to see you again, Mr. Smart,” said she amiably. “She was speaking of you only a day or two ago.”

  “Was she?” I inquired, with sudden interest which I contrived to conceal.

  “Yes. She was wondering why you have never thought of marrying.”

  I closed my eyes for a second, and the piece of bread finally found the right channel.

  “And what did you say to that?” I asked quietly.

  She was disconcerted. “I? Oh, I think I said you didn’t approve of marrying except for love, Mr. Smart.”

  “Um!” said I. “Love on both sides is the better way to put it.”

  “Am I to infer that you may have experienced a one-sided leaning toward matrimony?”

  “So far as I know, I have been singularly unsupported, Mrs. Titus.”

  “You really ought to marry.”

/>   “Perhaps I may. Who knows?”

  “Aline said you would make an excellent husband.”

  “By that she means a stupid one, I suppose. Excellent husbands are invariably stupid. They always want to stay at home.”

  She appeared thoughtful. “And expect their wives to stay at home too.”

  “On the contrary, an excellent husband lets his wife go where she likes—without him.”

  “I am afraid you do not understand matrimony, Mr. Smart,” she said, and changed the subject.

  I am afraid that my mind wandered a little at this juncture, for I missed fire on one or two direct questions. Mrs. Titus was annoyed; it would not be just to her to say that she was offended. If she could but have known that my thoughts were of the day and minute when I so brutally caressed the Countess Tarnowsy, I fancy she would have changed her good opinion of me. To tell the truth, I was wondering just how the Countess would behave toward me, with the memory of that unforgettable incident standing between us. I had been trying to convince myself for a very long time that my fault was not as great in her eyes as it was in mine.

  Along about five o’clock, I went to my room. I daresay I was sulking. A polite bell-boy tapped on my door at half-past six. He presented a small envelope to me, thanked me three or four times, and, as an afterthought, announced that there was to be an answer.

  Whereupon I read the Countess’s note with a magnificently unreadable face. I cleared my throat, and (I think) squared my shoulders somewhat as a soldier does when he is being commended for valour, and said:

  “Present my compliments to the Countess, and say that Mr. Smart will be down in five minutes.”

  The boy stared. “The—the what, sir?”

  “The what?” I demanded.

  “I mean the who, sir.”

  “The Countess. The lady who sent you up with this note.”

  “Wasn’t no Countess sent me up hyer, boss. It was Miss Tarsney.”