They had arrived at the Pump Works; and for an hour Mr. Favre was personally conducted and personally instructed by the founder and president, the buzzing queen bee of those buzzing hives.
“Now I’ll take you for a spin in the country,” said Sheridan, when at last they came out to the car again. “We’ll take a breezer.” But, with his foot on the step, he paused to hail a neat young man who came out of the office smiling a greeting. “Hello, young fellow!” Sheridan said, heartily. “On the job, are you, Jimmie? Ha! They don’t catch you OFF of it very often, I guess, though I do hear you go automobile-ridin’ in the country sometimes with a mighty fine-lookin’ girl settin’ up beside you!” He roared with laughter, clapping his son upon the shoulder. “That’s all right with me — if it is with HER! So, Jimmie? Well, when we goin’ to move into your new warehouses? Monday?”
“Sunday, if you want to,” said Jim.
“No!” cried his father, delighted. “Don’t tell me you’re goin’ to keep your word about dates! That’s no way to do contractin’! Never heard of a contractor yet didn’t want more time.”
“They’ll be all ready for you on the minute,” said Jim. “I’m going over both of ’em now, with Links and Sherman, from foundation to roof. I guess they’ll pass inspection, too!”
“Well, then, when you get through with that,” said his father, “you go and take your girl out ridin’. By George! you’ve earned it! You tell her you stand high with ME!” He stepped into the car, waving a waggish farewell, and when the wheels were in motion again, he turned upon his companion a broad face literally shining with pride. “That’s my boy Jimmie!” he said.
“Fine young man, yes,” said Herr Favre.
“I got two o’ the finest boys,” said Sheridan, “I got two o’ the finest boys God ever made, and that’s a fact, Mr. Farver! Jim’s the oldest, and I tell you they got to get up the day before if they expect to catch HIM in bed! My other boy, Roscoe, he’s always to the good, too, but Jim’s a wizard. You saw them two new-process warehouses, just about finished? Well, JIM built ’em. I’ll tell you about that, Mr. Farver.” And he recited this history, describing the new process at length; in fact, he had such pride in Jim’s achievement that he told Herr Favre all about it more than once.
“Fine young man, yes,” repeated the good Munchner, three-quarters of an hour later. They were many miles out in the open country by this time.
“He is that!” said Sheridan, adding, as if confidentially: “I got a fine family, Mr. Farver — fine chuldern. I got a daughter now; you take her and put her anywhere you please, and she’ll shine up with ANY of ’em. There’s culture and refinement and society in this town by the car-load, and here lately she’s been gettin’ right in the thick of it — her and my daughter-in-law, both. I got a mighty fine daughter-in-law, Mr. Farver. I’m goin’ to get you up for a meal with us before you leave town, and you’ll see — and, well, sir, from all I hear the two of ’em been holdin’ their own with the best. Myself, I and the wife never had time for much o’ that kind o’ doin’s, but it’s all right and good for the chuldern; and my daughter she’s always kind of taken to it. I’ll read you a poem she wrote when I get you up at the house. She wrote it in school and took the first prize for poetry with it. I tell you they don’t make ’em any smarter’n that girl, Mr. Farver. Yes, sir; take us all round, we’re a pretty happy family; yes, sir. Roscoe hasn’t got any chuldern yet, and I haven’t ever spoke to him and his wife about it — it’s kind of a delicate matter — but it’s about time the wife and I saw some gran’-chuldern growin’ up around us. I certainly do hanker for about four or five little curly-headed rascals to take on my knee. Boys, I hope, o’ course; that’s only natural. Jim’s got his eye on a mighty splendid-lookin’ girl; lives right next door to us. I expect you heard me joshin’ him about it back yonder. She’s one of the ole blue-bloods here, and I guess it was a mighty good stock — to raise HER! She’s one these girls that stand right up and look at you! And pretty? She’s the prettiest thing you ever saw! Good size, too; good health and good sense. Jim’ll be just right if he gets her. I must say it tickles ME to think o’ the way that boy took ahold o’ that job back yonder. Four months and a half! Yes, sir—”
He expanded this theme once more; and thus he continued to entertain the stranger throughout the long drive. Darkness had fallen before they reached the city on their return, and it was after five when Sheridan allowed Herr Favre to descend at the door of his hotel, where boys were shrieking extra editions of the evening paper.
“Now, good night, Mr. Farver,” said Sheridan, leaning from the car to shake hands with his guest. “Don’t forget I’m goin’ to come around and take you up to — Go on away, boy!”
A newsboy had thrust himself almost between them, yelling, “Extry! Secon’ Extry. Extry, all about the horrable acciDENT. Extry!”
“Get out!” laughed Sheridan. “Who wants to read about accidents? Get out!”
The boy moved away philosophically. “Extry! Extry!” he shrilled. “Three men killed! Extry! Millionaire killed! Two other men killed! Extry! Extry!”
“Don’t forget, Mr. Farver,” Sheridan completed his interrupted farewells. “I’ll come by to take you up to our house for dinner. I’ll be here for you about half-past five to-morrow afternoon. Hope you ‘njoyed the drive much as I have. Good night — good night!” He leaned back, speaking to the chauffer. “Now you can take me around to the Central City barber-shop, boy. I want to get a shave ‘fore I go up home.”
“Extry! Extry!” screamed the newsboys, zig-zagging among the crowds like bats in the dusk. “Extry! All about the horrable acciDENT! Extry!” It struck Sheridan that the papers sent out too many “Extras”; they printed “Extras” for all sorts of petty crimes and casualties. It was a mistake, he decided, critically. Crying “Wolf!” too often wouldn’t sell the goods; it was bad business. The papers would “make more in the long run,” he was sure, if they published an “Extra” only when something of real importance happened.
“Extry! All about the hor’ble AX’nt! Extry!” a boy squawked under his nose, as he descended from the car.
“Go on away!” said Sheridan, gruffly, though he smiled. He liked to see the youngsters working so noisily to get on in the world.
But as he crossed the pavement to the brilliant glass doors of the barber-shop, a second newsboy grasped the arm of the one who had thus cried his wares.
“Say, Yallern,” said this second, hoarse with awe, “‘n’t chew know who that IS?”
“Who?”
“It’s SHERIDAN!”
“Jeest!” cried the first, staring insanely.
At about the same hour, four times a week — Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday — Sheridan stopped at this shop to be shaved by the head barber. The barbers were negroes, he was their great man, and it was their habit to give him a “reception,” his entrance being always the signal for a flurry of jocular hospitality, followed by general excesses of briskness and gaiety. But it was not so this evening.
The shop was crowded. Copies of the “Extra” were being read by men waiting, and by men in the latter stages of treatment. “Extras” lay upon vacant seats and showed from the pockets of hanging coats.
There was a loud chatter between the practitioners and their recumbent patients, a vocal charivari which stopped abruptly as Sheridan opened the door. His name seemed to fizz in the air like the last sputtering of a firework; the barbers stopped shaving and clipping; lathered men turned their prostrate heads to stare, and there was a moment of amazing silence in the shop.
The head barber, nearest the door, stood like a barber in a tableau. His left hand held stretched between thumb and forefinger an elastic section of his helpless customer’s cheek, while his right hand hung poised above it, the razor motionless. And then, roused from trance by the door’s closing, he accepted the fact of Sheridan’s presence. The barber remembered that there are no circumstances in life — or just after it — under which
a man does not need to be shaved.
He stepped forward, profoundly grave. “I be through with this man in the chair one minute, Mist’ Sheridan,” he said, in a hushed tone. “Yessuh.” And of a solemn negro youth who stood by, gazing stupidly, “You goin’ RESIGN?” he demanded in a fierce undertone. “You goin’ take Mist’ Sheridan’s coat?” He sent an angry look round the shop, and the barbers, taking his meaning, averted their eyes and fell to work, the murmur of subdued conversation buzzing from chair to chair.
“You sit down ONE minute, Mist’ Sheridan,” said the head barber, gently. “I fix nice chair fo’ you to wait in.”
“Never mind,” said Sheridan. “Go on get through with your man.”
“Yessuh.” And he went quickly back to his chair on tiptoe, followed by Sheridan’s puzzled gaze.
Something had gone wrong in the shop, evidently. Sheridan did not know what to make of it. Ordinarily he would have shouted a hilarious demand for the meaning of the mystery, but an inexplicable silence had been imposed upon him by the hush that fell upon his entrance and by the odd look every man in the shop had bent upon him.
Vaguely disquieted, he walked to one of the seats in the rear of the shop, and looked up and down the two lines of barbers, catching quickly shifted, furtive glances here and there. He made this brief survey after wondering if one of the barbers had died suddenly, that day, or the night before; but there was no vacancy in either line.
The seat next to his was unoccupied, but some one had left a copy of the “Extra” there, and, frowning, he picked it up and glanced at it. The first of the swollen display lines had little meaning to him:
Fatally Faulty. New Process Roof Collapses Hurling Capitalist to
Death with Inventor. Seven Escape When Crash Comes. Death Claims —
Thus far had he read when a thin hand fell upon the paper, covering the print from his eyes; and, looking up, he saw Bibbs standing before him, pale and gentle, immeasurably compassionate.
“I’ve come for you, father,” said Bibbs. “Here’s the boy with your coat and hat. Put them on and come home.”
And even then Sheridan did not understand. So secure was he in the strength and bigness of everything that was his, he did not know what calamity had befallen him. But he was frightened.
Without a word, he followed Bibbs heavily out throught the still shop, but as they reached the pavement he stopped short and, grasping his son’s sleeve with shaking fingers, swung him round so that they stood face to face.
“What — what—” His mouth could not do him the service he asked of it, he was so frightened.
“Extry!” screamed a newsboy straight in his face. “Young North Side millionaire insuntly killed! Extry!”
“Not — JIM!” said Sheridan.
Bibbs caught his father’s hand in his own.
“And YOU come to tell me that?”
Sheridan did not know what he said. But in those first words and in the first anguish of the big, stricken face Bibbs understood the unuttered cry of accusation:
“Why wasn’t it you?”
CHAPTER XII
STANDING IN THE black group under gaunt trees at the cemetery, three days later, Bibbs unwillingly let an old, old thought become definite in his mind: the sickly brother had buried the strong brother, and Bibbs wondered how many million times that had happened since men first made a word to name the sons of one mother. Almost literally he had buried his strong brother, for Sheridan had gone to pieces when he saw his dead son. He had nothing to help him meet the shock, neither definite religion nor “philosophy” definite or indefinite. He could only beat his forehead and beg, over and over, to be killed with an ax, while his wife was helpless except to entreat him not to “take on,” herself adding a continuous lamentation. Edith, weeping, made truce with Sibyl and saw to it that the mourning garments were beyond criticism. Roscoe was dazed, and he shirked, justifying himself curiously by saying he “never had any experience in such matters.” So it was Bibbs, the shy outsider, who became, during this dreadful little time, the master of the house; for as strange a thing as that, sometimes, may be the result of a death. He met the relatives from out of town at the station; he set the time for the funeral and the time for meals; he selected the flowers and he selected Jim’s coffin; he did all the grim things and all the other things. Jim had belonged to an order of Knights, who lengthened the rites with a picturesque ceremony of their own, and at first Bibbs wished to avoid this, but upon reflection he offered no objection — he divined that the Knights and their service would be not precisely a consolation, but a satisfaction to his father. So the Knights led the procession, with their band playing a dirge part of the long way to the cemetery; and then turned back, after forming in two lines, plumed hats sympathetically in hand, to let the hearse and the carriages pass between.
“Mighty fine-lookin’ men,” said Sheridan, brokenly. “They all — all liked him. He was—” His breath caught in a sob and choked him. “He was — a Grand Supreme Herald.”
Bibbs had divined aright.
“Dust to dust,” said the minister, under the gaunt trees; and at that Sheridan shook convulsively from head to foot. All of the black group shivered, except Bibbs, when it came to “Dust to dust.” Bibbs stood passive, for he was the only one of them who had known that thought as a familiar neighbor; he had been close upon dust himself for a long, long time, and even now he could prophesy no protracted separation between himself and dust. The machine-shop had brought him very close, and if he had to go back it would probably bring him closer still; so close — as Dr. Gurney predicted — that no one would be able to tell the difference between dust and himself. And Sheridan, if Bibbs read him truly, would be all the more determined to “make a man” of him, now that there was a man less in the family. To Bibbs’s knowledge, no one and nothing had ever prevented his father from carrying through his plans, once he had determined upon them; and Sheridan was incapable of believing that any plan of his would not work out according to his calculations. His nature unfitted him to accept failure. He had the gift of terrible persistence, and with unflecked confidence that his way was the only way he would hold to that way of “making a man” of Bibbs, who understood very well, in his passive and impersonal fashion, that it was a way which might make, not a man, but dust of him. But he had no shudder for the thought.
He had no shudder for that thought or for any other thought. The truth about Bibbs was in the poem which Edith had adopted: he had so thoroughly formed the over-sensitive habit of hiding his feelings that no doubt he had forgotten — by this time — where he had put some of them, especially those which concerned himself. But he had not hidden his feelings about his father where they could not be found. He was strange to his father, but his father was not strange to him. He knew that Sheridan’s plans were conceived in the stubborn belief that they would bring about a good thing for Bibbs himself; and whatever the result was to be, the son had no bitterness. Far otherwise, for as he looked at the big, woeful figure, shaking and tortured, an almost unbearable pity laid hands upon Bibbs’s throat. Roscoe stood blinking, his lip quivering; Edith wept audibly; Mrs. Sheridan leaned in half collapse against her husband; but Bibbs knew that his father was the one who cared.
It was over. Men in overalls stepped forward with their shovels, and Bibbs nodded quickly to Roscoe, making a slight gesture toward the line of waiting carriages. Roscoe understood — Bibbs would stay and see the grave filled; the rest were to go. The groups began to move away over the turf; wheels creaked on the graveled drive; and one by one the carriages filled and departed, the horses setting off at a walk. Bibbs gazed steadfastly at the workmen; he knew that his father kept looking back as he went toward the carriage, and that was a thing he did not want to see. But after a little while there were no sounds of wheels or hoofs on the gravel, and Bibbs, glancing up, saw that every one had gone. A coupe had been left for him, the driver dozing patiently.
The workmen placed the flowers and wreaths upo
n the mound and about it, and Bibbs altered the position of one or two of these, then stood looking thoughtfully at the grotesque brilliancy of that festal-seeming hillock beneath the darkening November sky. “It’s too bad!” he half whispered, his lips forming the words — and his meaning was that it was too bad that the strong brother had been the one to go. For this was his last thought before he walked to the coupe and saw Mary Vertrees standing, all alone, on the other side of the drive.
She had just emerged from a grove of leafless trees that grew on a slope where the tombs were many; and behind her rose a multitude of the barbaric and classic shapes we so strangely strew about our graveyards: urn-crowned columns and stone-draped obelisks, shop-carved angels and shop-carved children poising on pillars and shafts, all lifting — in unthought pathos — their blind stoniness toward the sky. Against such a background, Bibbs was not incongruous, with his figure, in black, so long and slender, and his face so long and thin and white; nor was the undertaker’s coupe out of keeping, with the shabby driver dozing on the box and the shaggy horses standing patiently in attitudes without hope and without regret. But for Mary Vertrees, here was a grotesque setting — she was a vivid, living creature of a beautiful world. And a graveyard is not the place for people to look charming.
She also looked startled and confused, but not more startled and confused than Bibbs. In “Edith’s” poem he had declared his intention of hiding his heart “among the stars”; and in his boyhood one day he had successfully hidden his body in the coal-pile. He had been no comrade of other boys or of girls, and his acquaintances of a recent period were only a few fellow-invalids and the nurses at the Hood Sanitarium. All his life Bibbs had kept himself to himself — he was but a shy onlooker in the world. Nevertheless, the startled gaze he bent upon the unexpected lady before him had causes other than his shyness and her unexpectedness. For Mary Vertrees had been a shining figure in the little world of late given to the view of this humble and elusive outsider, and spectators sometimes find their hearts beating faster than those of the actors in the spectacle. Thus with Bibbs now. He started and stared; he lifted his hat with incredible awkwardness, his fingers fumbling at his forehead before they found the brim.
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 168