by Arthur Train
“What five thousand dollars?”
“The five you're going to hand me before I leave this office, Sammy darling,” she retorted dazzlingly.
Tutt's head swam and he sank weakly into his swivel chair. It was incredible that he, a veteran of the criminal bar, should have been so tricked. Instantly, as when a reagent is injected into a retort of chemicals and a precipitate is formed leaving the previously cloudy liquid like crystal, Tutt's addled brain cleared. He was caught! The victim of his own asininity. He dared not look at this woman who had wound him thus round her finger, innocent as he was of any wrongdoing; he was ashamed to think of his wife.
“My Lord!” he murmured, realizing for the first time the depth of his weakness.
“Oh, it isn't as bad as that!” she laughed. “Remember you were going to charge Oaklander ten thousand. This costs you only five. Special rates for physicians and lawyers!”
“And suppose I don't choose to give it to you?” he asked.
“Listen here, you funny little man!” she answered in caressing tones that made him writhe. “You'd stand for twenty if I insisted on it. Oh, don't jump! I'm not going to. You're getting off easy-too easy. But I want to stay on good terms with you. I may need you sometime in my business. Your certified check for five thousand dollars-and I leave you.”
She struck a match and started to light a tiny gold-tipped cigarette.
“Don't!” he gasped. “Not in the office.”
“Do I get the five thousand?”
He ground his teeth, not yet willing to concede defeat.
“You silly old bird!” she said. “Do you know how many times you've had me down here in your office in the last three weeks? Fifteen. How many times you've taken me out to lunch? Ten. How often you've called me on the telephone? Eighty-nine How many times you've sent me flowers? Twelve. How many letters you've written me? Eleven! Oh, I realize they're typewritten, but a photograph enlargement would show they were typed in your office. Every typewriter has its own individuality, you know. Your clerks and office boy have heard me call you Sammy. Why, every time you've moved with me beside you someone has seen you. That's enough, isn't it? But now, on top of all that, you go and hand me exactly what I need on a gold plate.”
He gazed at her stupidly.
“Why, if now you don't give me that check I shall simply go up to the Biltmore and register as Mrs. Samuel Tutt. I shall take a room and stay there until you offer me a proper inducement to move on.” She giggled delightedly. “It's marvelous-absolutely safe,” she quoted. “They can't touch me. You'll come across inside of two hours. If you don't a word to the reporters will start things in the right direction.”
“Don't!” he groaned. “I must have been crazy. That was simply blackmail!”
“That's exactly what it was!” she agreed. “There aren't any letters except these typewritten ones, or photographs, or any evidence at all, but you're going to give me five thousand dollars just the same. Just so that your wife won't know what a silly old fool you've been. Where's your check book, Sam?”
Tutt pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk and slowly removed his personal check book. With his fountain pen in his hand he paused and looked at her.
“Rather than give you another cent I'd stand the gaff,” he remarked defiantly.
“I know it,” she answered. “I looked you up before I came here the first time. You are good for exactly five thousand dollars.”
Tutt filled out the check to cash and sent Willie across the street to the bank to have it certified. The sun was just sinking over the Jersey shore beyond the Statue of Liberty and the surface of the harbor undulated like iridescent watered silk. The clouds were torn into golden-purple rents, and the air was so clear that one could look down the Narrows far out to the open sea. Standing there by the window Mrs. Allison looked as innocently beautiful as the day Tutt had first beheld her. After all, he thought, perhaps the experience had been worth the money.
Something of the same thought may have occurred to the lady, for as she took the check and carefully examined the certification she remarked with a distinct access of cordiality: “Really, Sammy, you're quite a nice little man. I rather like you.”
Tutt stood after she had gone watching the sunset until the west was only a mass of leaden shadows Then, strangely relieved, he took his hat and started out of the office. Somewhat to his surprise he found Miss Wiggin still at her desk.
“By the way,” she remarked casually as he passed her, “what shall I charge that check to? The one you just drew to cash for five thousand dollars?”
“Charge it to life insurance,” he said shortly.
He felt almost gay as he threaded his way through the crowds along Broadway. Somehow a tremendous load had been lifted from his shoulders He would no longer be obliged to lead a sneaking, surreptitious existence. He felt like shouting with joy now that he could look the world frankly in the face. The genuine agony he had endured during the past three weeks loomed like a sickness behind him. He had been a fool-and there was no fool like an old one. Just let him get back to his old Abigail and there'd be no more wandering-boy business for him! Abigail might not have the figure or the complexion that Georgie had, but she was a darn sight more reliable. Henceforth she could have him from five p.m. to nine a.m. without reserve. As for kicking over the traces, sowing wild oats and that sort of thing, there was nothing in it for him. Give him Friend Wife.
He stopped at the florist's and, having paid a bill of thirty-six dollars for Georgie's flowers, purchased a double bunch of violets and carried them home with him. Abigail was watching for him out of the window. Something warm rushed to his heart at the sight of her. Through the lace curtains she looked quite trim.
“Hello, old girl!” he cried, as she opened the door. “Waiting for me, eh? Here's a bunch of posies for you.”
And he kissed her on the cheek.
“That's more than I ever did to Georgie,” he said to himself.
“Why, Samuel!” laughed Abigail with a faded blush. “What's ever got into you?”
“Dunno!” he retorted gaily. “The spring, I guess. What do you say to a little dinner at a restaurant and then going to the play?”
She bridled-being one of the generation who did such things-with pleasure.
“Seems to me you're getting rather extravagant.” she objected. “Still-”
“Oh, come along!” he bullied her. “One of my clients collected five thousand dollars this afternoon.”
Tutt summoned a taxi and they drove to the brightest, most glittering of Broadway hostelries. Abigail had never been in such a chic place before. It half terrified and shocked her, all those women in dresses that hardly came up to their armpits. Some of them were handsome though. That slim one at the table by the pillar, for instance. She was really quite lovely with that mass of yellow-golden hair, that startlingly white skin, and those misty China-blue eyes. And the gentleman with her, the tall man with the pink cheeks, was very handsome, too.
“Look, Samuel,” she said, touching his hand. “See that good-looking couple over there.”
But Samuel was looking at them already-intently. And just then the beautiful woman turned and, catching sight of the Tutts, smiled cordially if somewhat roguishly and raised her glass, as did her companion. Mechanically Tutt elevated his. The three drank to one another.
“Do you know those people, Samuel?” inquired Mrs. Tutt somewhat stiffly. “Who are they?”
“Oh, those over there?” he repeated absently. “I don't really know what the lady's name is, she's been down to our office a few times. But the man is Winthrop Oaklander-and the funny part of it is, I always thought he was a clergyman.”
Later in the evening he turned to her between the acts and remarked inconsequently: “Say, Abbie, do I look as if I'd just had my hair cut?”
The Dog Andrew
“Every dog is entitled to one bite.”-UNREPORTED
OPINION OF THE APPELLATE DIVISION OF THE NEW
YORK SUPREME COURT.
“Now see here!” shouted Mr. Appleboy, coming out of the boathouse, where he was cleaning his morning's catch of perch, as his neighbor Mr. Tunnygate crashed through the hedge and cut across Appleboy's parched lawn to the beach. “See here, Tunnygate, I won't have you trespassing on my place! I've told you so at least a dozen times! Look at the hole you've made in that hedge, now! Why can't you stay in the path?”
His ordinarily good-natured countenance was suffused with anger and perspiration. His irritation with Mr. Tunnygate had reached the point of explosion. Tunnygate was a thankless friend and he was a great cross to Mr. Appleboy. Aforetime the two had been intimate in the fraternal, taciturn intimacy characteristic of fat men, an attraction perhaps akin to that exerted for one another by celestial bodies of great mass, for it is a fact that stout people do gravitate toward one another-and hang or float in placid juxtaposition, perhaps merely as a physical result of their avoirdupois. So Appleboy and Tunnygate had swum into each other's spheres of influence, either blown by the dallying winds of chance or drawn by some mysterious animal magnetism, and, being both addicted to the delights of the soporific sport sanctified by Izaak Walton, had raised unto themselves portable temples upon the shores of Long Island Sound in that part of the geographical limits of the Greater City known as Throggs Neck.
Every morn during the heat of the summer months Appleboy would rouse Tunnygate or conversely Tunnygate would rouse Appleboy, and each in his own wobbly skiff would row out to the spot which seemed most propitious to the piscatorial art. There, under two green umbrellas, like two fat rajahs in their shaking howdahs upon the backs of two white elephants, the friends would sit in solemn equanimity awaiting the evasive cunner, the vagrant perch or cod or the occasional flirtatious eel. They rarely spoke and when they did the edifice of their conversation-their Tower of Babel, so to speak-was monosyllabic. Thus:
“Huh! Ain't had a bite!”
“Huh!”
“Huh!”
Silence for forty minutes. Then: “Huh! Had a bite?”
“Nope!”
“Huh!”
That was generally the sum total of their interchange Yet it satisfied them, for their souls were in harmony. To them it was pregnant of unutterable meanings, of philosophic mysteries more subtle than those of the esoterics, of flowers and poetry, of bird-song and twilight, of all the nuances of softly whispered avowals, of the elusive harmonies of love's half-fainting ecstasy.
“Huh!”
“Huh!”
And then into this Eden-only not by virtue of the excision of any vertebra such as was originally necessary in the case of Adam-burst woman. There was silence no longer. The air was rent with clamor; for both Appleboy and Tunnygate, within a month of one another, took unto themselves wives. Wives after their own image!
For a while things went well enough; it takes ladies a few weeks to find out each other's weak points. But then the new Mrs. Tunnygate unexpectedly yet undeniably began to exhibit the serpent's tooth, the adder's tongue or the cloven hoof-as the reader's literary traditions may lead him to prefer. For no obvious reason at all she conceived a violent hatred of Mrs. Appleboy, a hatred that waxed all the more virulent on account of its object's innocently obstinate refusal to comprehend or recognize it. Indeed Mrs. Tunnygate found it so difficult to rouse Mrs. Appleboy into a state of belligerency sufficiently interesting that she soon transferred her energies to the more worthy task of making Appleboy's life a burden to him.
To this end she devoted herself with a truly Machiavellian ingenuity, devising all sorts of insults irritations and annoyances, and adding to the venom of her tongue the inventive cunning of a Malayan witch doctor. The Appleboys' flower-pots mysteriously fell off the piazza, their thole-pins disappeared, their milk bottles vanished, Mr. Appleboy's fish lines acquired a habit of derangement equaled only by barbed-wire entanglements, and his clams went bad! But these things might have been borne had it not been for the crowning achievement of her malevolence, the invasion of the Appleboys' cherished lawn, upon which they lavished all that anxious tenderness which otherwise they might have devoted to a child.
It was only about twenty feet by twenty, and it was bordered by a hedge of moth-eaten privet, but anyone who has ever attempted to induce a blade of grass to grow upon a sand dune will fully appreciate the deviltry of Mrs. Tunnygate's malignant mind. Already there was a horrid rent where Tunnygate had floundered through at her suggestion in order to save going round the pathetic grass plot which the Appleboys had struggled to create where Nature had obviously intended a floral vacuum. Undoubtedly it had been the sight of Mrs. Appleboy with her small watering pot patiently encouraging the recalcitrant blades that had suggested the malicious thought to Mrs. Tunnygate that maybe the Appleboys didn't own that far up the beach. They didn't-that was the mockery of it. Like many others they had built their porch on their boundary line, and, as Mrs. Tunnygate pointed out, they were claiming to own something that wasn't theirs. So Tunnygate, in daily obedience to his spouse, forced his way through the hedge to the beach, and daily the wrath of the Appleboys grew until they were driven almost to desperation.
Now when the two former friends sat fishing in their skiffs they either contemptuously ignored one another or, if they “Huh-Huhed!” at all the “Huhs!” resembled the angry growls of infuriated beasts. The worst of it was that the Appleboys couldn't properly do anything about it. Tunnygate had, as Mrs. Tunnygate sneeringly pointed out, a perfect legal right to push his way through the hedge and tramp across the lawn, and she didn't propose to allow the Appleboys to gain any rights by proscription, either. Not much!
Therefore, when Mr. Appleboy addressed to Mr. Tunnygate the remarks with which this story opens, the latter insolently replied in words, form or substance that Mr. Appleboy could go to hell. Moreover, as he went by Mr. Appleboy he took pains to kick over a clod of transplanted sea grass, nurtured by Mrs. Appleboy as the darling of her bosom, and designed to give an air of verisimilitude to an otherwise bare and unconvincing surface of sand. Mr. Appleboy almost cried with vexation.
“Oh!” he ejaculated, struggling for words to express the full content of his feeling. “Gosh, but you're-mean!”
He hit it! Curiously enough, that was exactly the word! Tunnygate was mean-and his meanness was second only to that of the fat hippopotama his wife.
Then, without knowing why, for he had no formulated ideas as to the future, and probably only intended to try to scare Tunnygate with vague threats, Appleboy added: “I warn you not to go through that hedge again! Understand-I warn you! And if you do I won't be responsible for the consequences!”
He really didn't mean a thing by the words, and Tunnygate knew it.
“Huh!” retorted the latter contemptuously. “You!”
Mr. Appleboy went inside the shack and banged the door. Mrs. Appleboy was peeling potatoes in the kitchen-living room.
“I can't stand it!” he cried weakly. “He's driving me wild!”
“Poor lamb!” soothed Mrs. Appleboy, peeling an interminable rind. “Ain't that just a sweetie? Look! It's most as long as your arm!”
She held it up dangling between her thumb and fore-finger. Then, with a groan she dropped it at his feet. “I know it's a real burden to you, deary!” she sighed.
Suddenly they both bent forward with startled eyes, hypnotized by the peel upon the floor.
Unmistakably it spelt “dog”! They looked at one another significantly.
“It is a symbol!” breathed Mrs. Appleboy in an awed whisper.
“Whatever it is, it's some grand idea!” exclaimed her husband. “Do you know anybody who's got one? I mean a-a-”
“I know just what you mean,” she agreed. “I wonder we never thought of it before! But there wouldn't be any use in getting any dog!”
“Oh, no!” he concurred. “We want a real-dog!”
“One you know about!” she commented.
“The fact is,” said he, rubbing his forehead, “if
they know about 'em they do something to 'em. It ain't so easy to get the right kind.”
“Oh, we'll get one!” she encouraged him. “Now Aunt Eliza up to Livornia used to have one. It made a lot of trouble and they ordered her-the selectmen did-to do away with it. But she only pretended she had-she didn't really-and I think she's got him yet.”
“Gee!” said Mr. Appleboy tensely. “What sort was it?”
“A bull!” she replied. “With a big white face.”
“That's the kind!” he agreed excitedly. “What was its name?”
“Andrew,” she answered.
“That's a queer name for a dog!” he commented “Still, I don't care what his name is, so long as he's the right kind of dog! Why don't you write to Aunt Eliza to-night?”
“Of course Andrew may be dead,” she hazarded. “Dogs do die.”
“Oh, I guess Andrew isn't dead!” he said hopefully “That tough kind of dog lasts a long time. What will you say to Aunt Eliza?”
Mrs. Appleboy went to the dresser and took a pad and pencil from one of the shelves.
“Oh, something like this,” she answered, poising the pencil over the pad in her lap:
“Dear Aunt Eliza: I hope you are quite well. It is sort of lonely living down here on the beach and there are a good many rough characters, so we are looking for a dog for companionship and protection Almost any kind of healthy dog would do and you may be sure he would have a good home. Hoping to see you soon. Your affectionate niece, Bashemath.”
“I hope she'll send us Andrew,” said Appleboy fervently.
“I guess she will!” nodded Bashemath.
* * * * *
“What on earth is that sign?” wrathfully demanded Mrs. Tunnygate one morning about a week later as she looked across the Appleboys' lawn from her kitchen window. “Can you read it, Herman?”
Herman stopped trying to adjust his collar and went out on the piazza.
“Something about 'dog',” he declared finally.