Dear Becky: Had daddy’s schedule and lost it and do not know if you are coming or not. Mrs. Hume told me I could wait at her house, so please pick me up there if you get this?
Noël
If there was one person Becky had no intention of encountering, it was Mrs. Dolores Hume. She knew this very fiercely and she didn’t see how she should be expected to go to Mrs. Hume’s house. She had by no means been drawn to the lady who had inspected her so hostilely in the bathtub — to put it mildly, she was not particular about ever seeing her again.
Her resentment turned against René. Looked at in any light, her position was that of a person of whom he was ashamed. One side of her understood the complications of his position, but in her fine glow of health after exercise, it seemed outrageous that anyone should have the opportunity to think of her in a belittling way. René’s theories were very well, but she would have been a hundred times happier had they announced the engagement long before, even though every curious cat in the community stared at her for a month or two. Becky felt as if she had been kept in the kitchen, and she was developing a sense of inferiority. This, in turn, made her think of the schedule as a sort of tyranny, and several times lately she had wondered how much of herself she was giving up in the complete subservience of every hour of every day to another’s judgment.
“He can call for Noël,” she decided. “I’ve done my best all through. If he’s so wise, he ought not to put me in such a situation.”
An hour later, René was still unable to think where he had put her at all. He had planned the days for her, but he had never really thought before about how she would fill them up. Returning to his laboratory in a state of profound gloom, he increased his pace as he came in sight of the building, cursed with a new anxiety. He had been absent more than three hours, with the barometer steadily falling and three windows open; he could not remember whether he or Charles was to have spoken to the janitor about continuing the heat over the week-end. His jars, the precious water in his jars — — He ran up the icy stairs of the old building, afraid of what he was going to see.
One closed jar went with a cracking plop as he stood panting inside the door. One thousand of them glistened in tense rows through three long rooms, and he held his breath, waiting for them to go off together, almost hearing the crackling, despairing sound they would make. He saw that another one was broken, and then another in a far row. The room was like ice, with a blizzard seeping through eight corners of every window; there was ice formed on the faucet.
On tiptoe, lest even a faint movement precipitate the nine hundred and ninety-seven catastrophes, he retreated to the hall; then his heart beat again as he heard the dull, reassuring rumble of the janitor’s shovel in the cellar.
“Fire it up as far as you can!” he called down, and then descended another flight so as to be sure he was understood. “Make it as hot a blaze as possible, even if it is all” — he could not think of the word for kindling — “even if it is all small wood.”
He hurried back to the laboratory, entering again on tiptoe. As he entered, two jars beside a north window cracked, but his hand, brushing the radiator, felt just the beginning of a faint and tepid warmth. He took off his overcoat, and then his coat, and tucked them in across one window, dragged out an emergency electric heater, and then turned on every electric appliance in the room. From moment to moment, he stopped and listened ominously, but there were no more of the short, disastrous dying cries. By the time he had isolated the five broken jars and checked up on the amount of ice in the others, there was a definite pulse of heat coming off the radiators.
As he still fussed mechanically around the room, his hands shaking, he heard Noël’s voice in a lower hall, and she came upstairs with Dolores Hume, both of them bundled to the ears against the cold.
“Here you are, René,” Dolores said cheerfully. “We’ve phoned here three times and all over town. We wanted Noël to stay to dinner, but she keeps thinking you’d be worried. What is all this about a schedule? Are you all catching trains?”
“What is what?” he answered dazedly. “You realize, Dolores, what has happened here in this room?”
“It’s got very cold.”
“The water in our jars froze. We almost lost them all!”
He heard the furnace door close, and then the janitor coming upstairs.
Furious at what seemed the indifference of the world, he repeated:
“We nearly lost them all!”
“Well, as long as you didn’t — — “ Dolores fixed her eyes upon a vague spot far down the late battlefield of gleaming jars. “Since we’re here, René, I want to say something to you — a thing that seems to me quite as important as your jars. There is something very beautiful about a widower being left alone with a little daughter to care for and to protect and to guide. It doesn’t seem to me that anything so beautiful should be lightly destroyed.”
For the second time that day, René started to throw his hands up in the air, but he had stretched his wrists a little the last time, and in his profound agitation he was not at all sure that he could catch them.
“There is no answer,” he groaned. “Listen, Dolores; you must come to my laboratory often. There is something very beautiful in a platinum electrode.”
“I am thinking only of Noël,” said Dolores serenely.
At this point, the janitor, effectually concealed beneath a thick mask of coal dust, came into the room. It was Noël who first divined the fact that the janitor was Becky Snyder.
IV
Under those thoroughly unmethodical circumstances, the engagement of René and Becky was announced to the world — the world as personified and represented by Dolores Hume. But for René even that event was overshadowed by his astonishment at learning that the first jar had burst at the moment Becky came into his laboratory; that she had remembered that water expanded as it froze and guessed at the danger; that she had been working for three-quarters of an hour to start the furnace before he had arrived; and, finally, that she had taken care of the furnace for two years back in Bingham — “because there was nothing much else to do.”
Dolores took it nicely, though she saw fit to remind Becky that she would be somewhat difficult to recognize if constantly observed under such extremely contrary conditions.
“I suppose it all has something to do with this schedule I hear so much about.”
“I started the fire with the schedule,” remarked Becky, and then amended herself when René jumped up with a suddenly agonized expression: “Not the one with the notes on it — that was behind the cushions of the car.”
“It’s too much for me,” Dolores admitted. “I suppose you’ll all end by sleeping here tonight — probably in the jars.”
Noël bent double with laughter.
“Why don’t we? Look on the schedule, daddy, and see if that’s the thing to do.”
THE PASSIONATE ESKIMO
Pan-e-troon crawled out of the igloo, pushing away the nose of an inquisitive dog, and uttered in Lapp the equivalent of” Scram!” to the rest of the pack. He looked to see if the line of fish was safely out of their reach and then proceeded a hundred yards over the white surface to his father’s hut.
The old man, his face the color of rawhide, looked at him imperturbably.
“Are you packed and ready?” he asked.
“All packed and ready.”
“Good. We leave early in the morning. Most of the others are on the point of departure.”
It was true. As far as the eye could reach, there were signs of dismantling and preparation, and the bustle and excitement that accompany it.
Pan-e-troon gazed for a moment with an expression of regret that confined itself, however, to his slitlike purple eyes. He was a small youth, but supple and well made — and the contours of his round nose and chin and cheeks gave him a perpetually cheerful expression. He gazed about him for a long time — he had come to like this locality.
“Old Wise One,” he said to his
father,” I want to go into Chicago.”
His father started. “What?”
“For one last look.”
“But by yourself?” demanded his father anxiously.
“Yes, Old Wise One. I can find my way around. I speak a lot of American now and if I get lost I only have to say, ‘World’s Fair.’”
The old man grunted.
“I don’t like it. When we have a guide and are together, all right, but alone you’ll get hurt, get lost.”
“Old Wise One, I must go,” said Pan-e-troon. “Here is the last chance before we start for our home. Home is very fine, doubtless — “
“Of course it is!” said his father indignantly.
Pan-e-troon bowed slightly and finished his sentence: “ — and often in these hot months I have wished to be fishing through the ice, or hunting bear, or eating well cooked blubber. But — “
“But what?”
“I should like to carry back more memories of this great village. I should like to walk along the street not regarding what the guides tell us to regard but noticing for myself what I wish. I should like to go into a trading post and put down money and say, ‘ Here-give me that exchange for this’; and I should like to say to people, ‘ Which way, please? Much ‘blige.’”
He was a silent young man and this was probably the longest speech he had ever made in his life.
“You are a fool!” grunted his father. But he knew Pan-e-troon, and opening his purse he took out a new silver quarter.
“Spend it carefully,” he said.” Buy me some tobacco. And bring back what change there is.”
Pan-e-troon bowed again.
“I shall indeed, Old Wise One.”
*****
He hurried back to his igloo for a small cache of money of his own — a. quarter, two dimes, and two pennies. The fortune jingled together pleasantly in his hand, where indeed he must hold it, for he wore the costume of the Arctic Circle. This was not as oppressive as it sounds in Chicago of a late October afternoon, for it had been especially made of the lightest skins for the purpose of display at the Fair.
He hesitated between his fur cap and a new straw hat which an admirer had given him, finally deciding on the latter.
Then he slipped the money into the top of “a moccasin, and once more shouting” Scram!” at the dogs who were leaping at the line of fish, he walked out of the Eskimo village into the pleasance.
Immediately he had a following. Pan-e-troon was grown used to strange eyes, however, and they did not disturb him. He felt quite at ease, quite a part of the crowd, in his new straw hat, and he wished he had borrowed his father’s new spectacles for additional decoration.
Walking through the rapidly disappearing midway, past Spaniards, Dutchmen, Mexicans, Chinese villagers (between whom and the Eskimos there was some strange jealousy of exhibitionism), Pan-e-troon reached Michigan Boulevard. He was happy, he was excited. He stopped now and then to stare into shop windows, but they held such a surfeit of charms as to be confusing. So with lingering sighs he went on in the direction of atall building which he knew as one of the city’s great department stores. He had gone through it with the other Eskimos several months before as part of a bus tour of the city.
First, though, he would get the tobacco of the Old Wise One off his mind, and he turned into a shop with pipes in the window.
The perspiring man in charge gave him immediate attention. Several men lounging in the store stared at him.
Pan-e-troon beamed. He had never made a purchase in America by himself.
“I give you something,” he announced, “and you give me something.”
The salesman glanced at the others and then back at Pan-e-troon.
“That’s all right with me, brother. What do you want to give me?”
Pan-e-troon’s grin grew wider.
“You not understand. I give you something — “
One of the lounging men helped out with:
“He wants to give you his straw hat, George.”
“Well, I wish he’d make up his mind. I’ve got ‘bout ten degrees hotter since he come in here.”
Pan-e-troon shook his head regretfully but still smiled. Then he reached down into his moccasin and held out money.
“Here!” he said. triumphantly.” I give you this — you give me that.”
He pointed at the row of cans behind the man.
“Pipe tobacco?”
Pan-e-troon nodded.
“What kind?” The salesman named a few brands.
“One,” said Pan-e-troon.” I give you something, you give me something.”
*****
The salesman, unresourceful by nature, gave up. The man who had spoken came behind the counter to his assistance.
“Now, Robinson Crusoe, we got vely mely kinds, savvy?” He put several cans on the counter.” This is a dime; this is a quarter; this is imported, two dollars a pound. How much do you want to spend?”
Pan-e-troon looked at the array.
“One.”
“All right. How much you got?” Pan-e-troon showed his money.” I guess you want the cheapest kind. This is a good dime tobacco.”
“No more cheap, eh?” inquired Pan-e-troon.
“No more cheap.”
“Much ‘blige.”
“All right. Don’t set yourself on fire or melt down your house. Good-by.”
“Good-by. I give you something — “
“I understand, and I give you something. All clear — even a banker could understand it.”
Pan-e-troon proceeded along Michigan Boulevard toward the department store. He had made a purchase by himself — his heart glowed. Now he could get what he wanted. Reaching the store, he walked through the busy shuffle, looking at the counters and buying copies of Real Sleuths and Gangsters’ Secrets, his favorite magazines. His true desire was on an upper floor, but his eye was caught suddenly by an object on a counter. It was a lady — at least it was part of a lady — and she stood on a little pedestal with a short cape over her shoulders; her eyes were a bright blue and she had golden hair, Pan-e-troon beamed at her. Gently he touched her shoulder and then spoke to the saleswoman:
“I give you — “
Half hearing him, she looked at the tag on the cape and said:
“Two fifty-nine.”
“What say?”
“Two dollars and fifty-nine cents.”
He shook his head regretfully and passed on.
On the occasion of the bus tour the Eskimos had mounted by elevator and moving stairway; but he could find neither, so he walked up a flight and made the same thorough inspection of all the aisles. Luckily the department he sought was on the third floor — he recognized it immediately with a feeling of delight. It was the toy department.
“I want to buy airplane,” he said to a saleswoman.
She confronted the strange spectacle with a start.
“You mean these toy ones, don’t you? I remember now — you were all in here a few weeks ago.”
She wound an elastic motor on a model and sent the model flier soaring around the room. Pan-e-troon watched in rapture.
“How much I give?” he asked.
“These?. They are ninety-nine cents, marked down from a dollar fifty.”
Ruefully Pan-e-troon surveyed his money.
“No can,” he said. “ Not give for this?”
“No, not give for that.”
Though sorely disappointed, he met the debacle with a smile, as if it were the greatest joke in the world, and turned away. But something about him touched the woman.
*****
“Look here, you. If that’s all the money you got you’ll get the most out of it at the five-and-ten. They may have little models, smaller than this.”
“Five-and-ten?” he repeated blankly.
“There’s one just around the corner.” She called a bundle boy.” Earl, will you take this — this Eskimo around to the five-and-ten? He don’t get the idea.”
Earl
eyed Pan-e-troon resentfully.
“Me be seen on the street with that!”
“Don’t be yourself all the time — I’ll fix it with Mr. Richards. Now, monseer, or whatever you call yourself, go along with this boy and he’ll fix you up.”
Presently he was deposited at the swarming entrance of the emporium. But he had hardly begun his wandering when his attention was caught by a counter piled high with locks of all kinds — padlocks, door locks, safety locks, tire locks — and he gave out a grunt of delight as he approached it.
Locks were his passion — in early boyhood he had come into possession of one from off a Russian steamer that had broken up on the ice. Toys were nonexistent, and he spent many an hour taking the lock apart and putting it together. Later a missionary gave him another, and another wreck yielded up a few more. This mechanical passion was entirely theoretical, due to the absence of doors on igloos; but the chests which his party had brought south were so thoroughly sealed that only Pan-e-troon, using twisted lengths of wire, was able to open them.
He bought a lock. He could have bought ‘three with his remaining money, but he knew very well which were cheaply made and which were not.
He did not visit the toy department — he was too anxious to return to the Fair and take apart his new acquisition. He was happy — he had an urge to be borne somewhere, to be wafted about. He would take a ride in a trolley.
He rode for an hour, proud and happy. He gave the conductor five cents and the conductor gave him a ride; then he gave the conductor another five cents and the conductor gave him more of a ride.
Then in a traffic tangle at a crossing Pan-e-troon found his eyes fixing themselves with increasing interest outside the window.
*****
In a glittering underslung open car sat a girl. She was probably, not merely in his imagination, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in his life — a ripply blonde who, had it been necessary, could have posed for any of those exquisite creatures in the advertisements. Her eyes were a little worried; so was her mouth.
Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated) Page 345