by Thorne Smith
“To think that such a thing should ever have happened to me,” he mused bitterly. “What a good girl doesn’t have to stand for in this world! I’m a damn good girl, myself, but it strikes me that no girl’s honor is worth a five-mile walk. On a good road it might be, and in the summer, but not on a road like this.”
Thus moralizing, Tim continued to plod through the slush and the gathering dusk. Behind him on the road two stricken automobilists were examining the extent of their injuries and radically revising their opinions of the weaker sex.
Gradually Tim began to chuckle.
“I certainly did that beggar dirt,” he muttered. “He’ll never be any earthly good. Serves him damn well right for trying to get rough with a lady. Hope the other one isn’t dead. Anyway, I’ve still got my honor—whatever that is.”
Chapter 7
A Man in Body Only
While Tim Willows was having his day, such as it was, Sally was also having hers in full measure. The poor girl was doing her best to be a gentleman. In this she succeeded only spottily. There were moments when she was quite good and others when she was very poor indeed. Her trip into town, for instance, was most unfortunate. Especially for Mr. Carl Bentley.
Sally should never have taken that pick-me-up from old Peter. It did more harm than good. Dashed down as it had been on an empty stomach it seemed only to make her disinclined to remember for any length of time the reversed position she was now so amazingly occupying. She preferred to be herself.
And, of course, she should never have sat down in the train beside Mr. Carl Bentley. This was a mistake. Almost anyone who sat down beside that insufferably boring gentleman anywhere was making a mistake, as was very speedily and painfully realized, but for Sally, in her mood of reckless elevation, the mistake could easily have proved disastrous. As it was, the young lady in her excited condition completely lost both poise and perception, and for an apparently case-hardened commuter conducted herself completely unlike the accepted conception of that unblessed creature.
Carl Bentley himself did a little long-distance poise-losing. The moment he became aware of the fact that he was going to have as a seat-mate the man who of all men he most desired to avoid, he became demoralized in all departments. Turning slightly he viewed with alarm the features of the bogus Mr. Willows. Carl’s temerity was rewarded by a smile of infinite tenderness as he looked for a startled moment into his companion’s brimming eyes.
“Good-morning, dear,” fell lightly from the other’s lips.
Mr. Bentley started and then tried to convince himself that he had both heard and seen wrong. He fervently hoped he had. If Tim Willows wanted to be friendly, so much the better, but there was no need for him to be gushing about it. Mr. Bentley felt called upon to make some sort of reply.
“We seem fated to be thrown together,” he observed a little resentfully as, with great ostentation, he unfolded his morning paper.
“Lucky fate!” exclaimed Sally with a rush. “You great big beautiful man.”
Carl Bentley blushed to the roots of his hair even while his blood ran cold. This is an extremely unusual feat and very difficult to do. But Carl Bentley, so great was his perturbation, achieved it with remarkable ease.
“I said,” continued the voice, this time a little louder, “you great big beautiful man.”
“Don’t keep on saying it,” Mr. Bentley pleaded earnestly. “People might begin to talk.”
With this he plunged his head in his paper and gave himself up to bitter thoughts. Was this man put on earth merely to torture him? Just because he, Bentley, had tried to dishonor the creature’s home, was that sufficient reason for carrying the feud into public life? Funny thing, too, he had never noticed before that Tim Willows had such a shockingly effeminate voice. It was either that or else the man was displaying the worst of bad taste in trying to be funny in such a questionable manner.
“What do I care how people talk?” he heard his companion proclaiming. “What do we care? For the first time in my life I am enjoying complete sexual freedom. I recognize no barriers.”
Sally was beginning to enjoy the situation hugely. All women are born with a well-developed desire to make men feel uncomfortable whenever possible. This retaliatory impulse compensates them in part for the long years of oppression heaped upon them by the self-satisfied male. It gave Sally infinite delight to make this large man squirm. And this feeling did not at all conflict with the fact that at the same time she found him passably attractive. For this reason her conversation was half in earnest and half in play, a most unfortunate combination for the peace of mind of Carl Bentley.
“Perfect sexual freedom,” she repeated defiantly. “Sex without let or hindrance. Everything! All!”
Carl Bentley shivered.
“Practice your freedom with someone else,” he told her in a low, hurried voice. “Don’t try to drag me down with you. I wish for neither everything nor all!”
“You’re right,” continued Sally resolutely. “It’s time we stood back to back and faced the world—threw our love in its ugly snoot. Why should we hide our guilty secret? I fear nothing, sweetheart, with you at my side.”
“I fear everything with you at my side,” groaned Mr. Bentley. “Won’t you go away from it?”
“All the seats are taken. All the seats are taken,” sang Sally in a happy voice. “It’s just as you said, Carl, dear. Fate has conspired to keep us inseparable.”
It was remarkable how uncannily the man could imitate his wife’s voice. It was terrible. Carl Bentley looked furtively about him and was convinced that his eyes encountered the amused and scornful glances of his fellow commuters. In particular he noticed a pretty stenographer who was looking at him in a most peculiar way. Then, for the first time, he realized that the heavy fragrance he had been smelling ever since he had boarded the train emanated from his companion. It was true. While shifting into her husband’s clothes Sally had been unable to resist spraying on herself a dash of her favorite perfume. It had been an instinctive action, a long-established habit, but Carl Bentley did not take this into consideration. He was very much upset.
“Why in heaven’s name did you put that stuff on you?” he demanded. “You smell like the loosest of women. People will begin to suspect me.”
“Let ‘em suspect,” retorted Sally. “Why shouldn’t I perfume my body? I’ll anoint the damn thing with oils if I want to. I tell you I’m free—free!”
She tried to fling an arm round his neck, and for a moment they struggled unbecomingly together, to the delight of several spectators.
“I want to hug you,” gritted Sally through her husband’s teeth as she struggled manfully back. “Come on, handsome. Let me give you a hug.”
In the small turmoil arising from Sally’s amorous efforts she succeeded in yanking Mr. Bentley’s tie out from under his vest and in completely upsetting his carefully arranged hair. The man was in a pitiful condition, almost on the verge of collapse. Sally might have felt sorry for him had it not been for the fact that the drink was dying on her, and she could feel sorry only for herself. Recklessly she tossed discretion to the winds.
“You weren’t so backward the other night,” she flung at the discomfited Mr. Bentley as he struggled to rearrange himself. “You were only too anxious then to have me put my arms round your neck. Don’t try to deny it. You’ve been after me for weeks.”
“What!” gasped the stricken man. “Me after you? Are you mad or am I?”
He slumped down in the seat and buried his head in the newspaper.
“I’m mad about you,” he heard the soft voice say as its owner slipped affectionately down beside him and made a snatch at one of his hands. Then he became horribly aware of the conductor looking down at them both with ill-concealed distaste. What was the man thinking? Probably the worst.
Sally seemed to be the first to recover her poise. She realized that here was a situation in which she might as well act as a man.
“Hello, there,” she said
in the voice of Mr. Willows, thereby driving Bentley into even greater confusion. “How are you to-day, officer? Meet my boyfriend.”
The conductor punched the extended commutation ticket, then transferred his attention to Carl Bentley, and to that gentleman’s horror addressed him in a ladylike voice.
“Will you please show me your ticket, miss?” said the conductor to Carl Bentley. “I hope you won’t think me bold.”
Mr. Bentley guiltily held up his ticket with a trembling hand, and so great was the power of suggestion that when he tried to answer the man his voice cracked on a high note and he was forced to abandon the attempt. Well pleased with the success of his humor, for Sally had laughed heartily and deeply at the conductor’s words, the man passed on and, bending low over the passenger in the next seat, whispered a few sentences, then chuckled coarsely. Mr. Bentley felt sure the man must be pointing at him. He sank even lower down in the seat and became completely hidden by his paper.
“You’ve ruined me,” he muttered. “I’ll never be able to live this down. It was a sad day when I first laid eyes on your wife.”
“Oh,” replied Sally, lapsing into her feminine way of speaking. “Well, I’ll try to make it up to you for her.”
Bentley made no reply to this, and for several blessed minutes he was allowed to read his paper in quiet if not in peace. His respite was short-lived. From the tail of his eye he presently made out the face of Tim Willows peeking coyly round the edge of the paper. Then the face giggled and spoke and a long finger pointed at an advertisement.
“How’d you like to see me in those step-ins?” asked the face. “Wouldn’t I look cute?”
Carl Bentley shrank back, nearly overcome by his emotions.
“Wouldn’t I?” persisted the face. “Tell me, Carl, or I’ll make a scene.”
“Oh!” gasped Mr. Bentley. “This is too much. This time you’ve gone too far—overstepped all bounds.”
He tried to rise, but Sally clung desperately to the tails of his coat. Mr. Bentley, as he sank back, decided that this was one of life’s most embarrassing moments. People were looking at him, going out of their way to look at him. They were bending out into the aisle, peering over the backs of seats.
“Say yes,” continued the hateful voice. “If you don’t I’ll break into tears. I’ll sob. I’ll moan. I’ll growl.”
The thought of occupying a seat with a sobbing, moaning, growling Tim Willows completely cowed Carl Bentley. He would submit to any form of torture rather than have that occur.
“You would,” he managed to get out, nearly sobbing, himself. “You’d look just dandy. Here, you take this paper and read it to yourself.”
“You’re so sweet,” murmured Sally. “But I already have a paper.”
“Then for God’s sake read it,” snapped the baited Mr. Bentley. “Do you intend to drive me mad?”
Sally burst into a fresh, girlish laugh.
“Now you’re joshing me,” she said, slapping him playfully on the cheek with her husband’s gloves. “You tried to crawl into my bed the other night, didn’t you? What a bad, bold man you are.”
Bentley gathered himself for action, then, before Sally had time to realize what he intended to do, he sprang from the seat and sped down the aisle. For a moment she looked after him, then she, too, sprang up and hurried in pursuit, imploringly calling his name. Sometimes she called him by both names as if to make sure that the whole trainload of commuters should know all about Carl Bentley. She was still dogging his footsteps when the train pulled in at the station. Bentley was the first to alight, and as his feet hit the long ramp they instinctively started to run. So did Sally’s. The man fled through the gate to the huge waiting room and streaked across the floor. For a time Sally hung on, then decided it was hardly worthwhile. The last Mr. Bentley heard of the voice that had made him an outcast among men was, “Good-bye, dearie. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do myself.” This parting shot lent speed to his already flying feet.
Sally turned and was immediately disconcerted by the suspicious scrutiny of a policeman. At that moment a man she knew only slightly was so unfortunate as to pass by. Sally slapped him so violently on the back that the cigar he was smoking popped out of his mouth with such speed that for a moment the man thought his assailant had snatched it. Seizing the stunned man’s hand Sally pumped it vigorously.
“Hello, Jennings!” she cried in a deep, masculine voice. “How are you, old scout? Well, good-bye.”
And with that she swaggered off, leaving the old scout and the policeman feeling that a few words of explanation were due them both. When she stood before the door of the Nationwide Advertising Agency Sally braced herself and prepared for the worst. She realized that now or never she must act the part of a perfect gentleman. Then Tim’s admonition to be nice to the girl at the desk returned to her. She thrust open the door and stood for a moment studying the girl’s face. Sally’s first glance was sufficient to assure her that few men would find it a difficult task to be nice to this fair creature. She was a luscious specimen of womanhood, fresh and in full bloom. Looking at her Sally gained the impression that the girl was wasting her time most shamefully when not engaged in amorous occupations. She was that type of girl.
“Good-morning, young man,” said the girl to Sally. “Why the enraptured gaze?”
“I’m looking at you and running a temperature,” replied Sally, in a fair approximation of Tim’s voice and manner. “You’re such a warm number you make me feverish.”
“What!” exclaimed the girl. “At this time of day?”
“Grandpa Willows was just that way,” explained Sally. “I’ve an uncle who’s even worse.”
Sally thought the responsive glow that sprang to the girl’s eyes should be prohibited from public demonstration. It was a menace to mankind.
“All of which, I presume, is leading up to the fact that you’d like your morning spot,” said the girl. “Tell me if I’m wrong.”
“I have nothing to say,” replied Sally. “Come over here,” commanded the girl as she deftly filled a paper cup with a stiff drink from the seemingly inexhaustible flask in the desk drawer. “Toss that off and beat it.”
Sally tossed it off, then stood swaying slightly on her feet as the tears streamed from her eyes and strange sounds emerged from her throat.
“Very old and rare,” she gasped. “The person who drinks that should never suffer from baldness of the chest.”
“I don’t suffer from that disease,” the girl replied. “I glory in it.”
Sally, now invigorated by what she had received, felt truly thankful. She walked back to the desk and, bending down over the girl, neatly kissed her on the mouth, and was surprised to discover that she was more of a man than she had thought possible. In spite of her surprise the girl responded avidly. And this was what Mr. Gibber saw when he arrived at his office that fine, bright morning—his reception clerk being roundly kissed by one of his most troublesome copy writers.
“Mr. Willows!” snapped Mr. Gibber.
“It’s himself,” muttered the girl.
Sally was surprised at the sound of her own voice, or rather, Tim’s voice. It was deep, cool, and collected as she replied to Mr. Gibber.
“One moment, sir,” she protested, painfully pressing a thumb into the girl’s right eye. “I think I’ve got it. No, that’s odd. It was there a moment ago. Does it hurt much?” This last to the girl.
“Too much,” came the feeling reply.
“I’ll bet Mr. Gibber’s eyes are sharper than mine,” Sally announced, straightening her husband’s body. “Look, Mr. Gibber, the poor girl’s eye is all inflamed. There’s a cinder in it or something.”
“It’s a thumb,” said the girl under her breath.
“I’m sorry,” replied Mr. Gibber, as he examined the girl’s eye, which by this time was quite convincingly inflamed. “I misunderstood the situation, perhaps. You must be terribly nearsighted, Mr. Willows, or were you trying to bite the cinder out?”
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“Ha, ha!” laughed Sally falsely, “you jest, Mr. Gibber, you jest.”
Leaving Mr. Gibber with the girl’s eye, Sally escaped from the reception room, and after wandering experimentally along various halls and passageways eventually located Tim’s office by seeing his name on the door.
No sooner was she seated at the desk than a man walked briskly in and brought a hand down crashingly on her back. Sally pitched forward on Tim’s face and lay among the pencils and pads.
“Morning, you sot!” cried the man. “How do you come up and fall off to-day?”
“I fall off,” said Sally feebly, “but I don’t come up. My good man, you’ve ruined me.”
Sally felt convinced this would be Steve Jones. No other man would take such a chance with Tim. She knew how he objected to back-slapping both in theory and in practice.
“What’s wrong with you?” demanded the man. “Are you weak to-day?”
“Very,” replied Sally. “Very weak to-day, Steve. Help me to resume the sitting posture you so brutally interrupted.”
When Sally was once more erect in her chair she looked at Steve with tears in her eyes. Steve was a likeable enough looking chap—dark, stocky, and with alert black eyes bright with bad thoughts.
“You owe me two dollars,” he announced happily. “Gold Heels lost.”
“I’d like to check that with Tim,” she began, then quickly checked herself and drew two bills from her pocket. “Here’s your dishonestly won spoils,” she hurried on. “You’ll excuse me, I trust, if I seem to dash away? That blow on the back did terrible things to me.”
“Double or quits,” Steve Jones suggested, flipping a coin in the air.
“What do you mean?” asked Sally, pausing on her way to the door.
“You know,” the other replied. “Don’t be dumb.”