LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

about it. As a matter of fact, he did possess such an adornment. The trouble came in remembering it. Then, again, his eyes were babyish blue and unseasoned; he was always looking into shop windows, getting accustomed to the sights. Trolley cars and 5 automobiles were never-decreasing novelties to him, if you were to judge by the startled way in which he gazed at them. His respect for the crossing policeman, his courtesy to the street-car conductor, his timidity in the presence of the corner newsboy, were only surpassed by his deference to the waiter in the cheap restaurants he affected.

      But, ah! You should have seen him in that little Western town! He was a “devil of a fellow” out there! He knew the policemen by their first names and had no respect for them; street-car conductors were hail-fellows well met, and the newsboys wore spectacles and said “Yes, sir,” to him. As for the waiters, he knew them all by their Christian name, which usually was Annie or Mamie or Katie.

      On Broadway he was quite another person. He knew his Broadway from one end to the other—that is to say, he knew that side of the “Great White Way” which stares you in the face and rebukes you for staring back—the outside of Broadway. He had been on and off Broadway for a matter of five years and yet he had never recovered from the habit of turning out for every pedestrian he met, giving the 6 other man the right of way instead of holding to his own half of it, sometimes stepping in puddles of water to do so and not infrequently being edged off the curbstone by an accumulation of the unexpected.

      Once in a while during his peregrinations some one recognised him and bowed in a hesitating manner, as if trying to place him, and at such times he responded with a beaming smile and a half-carried-out impulse to stop for a bit of a chat, but always with a subsequent acceleration of speed on discovering that the other fellow seemed to be in a hurry. They doubtless knew him for Miss Duluth’s husband, but for the life of them they couldn’t call him by name. Every one understood that Nellie possessed a real name, but no one thought to ask what it was.

      Moreover, Nellie had a small daughter whose name was Phoebe. She unquestionably was a collaboration, but every one who knew the child spoke of her as that “darling little girl of Nellie’s.” The only man in New York who appeared to know Nellie’s husband by name was the postman, and he got it second-hand.

      At the stage door of the theatre he was known 7 as Miss Duluth’s husband, to the stage hands and the members of the chorus he was What’s-His-Name, to the principals he was “old chap,” to Nellie herself he was Harvey, to Phoebe he was “daddy,” to the press agent he was nameless—he didn’t exist.

      You could see Nellie in big red letters on all the billboards. She was inevitable. Her face smiled at you from every nook and corner—and it was a pretty face, too—and you had to get your tickets of the scalpers if you wanted to see her in person any night in the week, Sundays excepted. Hats, parasols, perfumes, and face powders were named after her. It was Nellie here and Nellie there and Nellie everywhere. The town was mad about her. It goes without saying that her husband was not the only man in love with her.

      As Harvey—let me see—oh, never mind—What’s-His-Name—ambled up Broadway on the morning of his introduction into this homely narrative he was smiled at most bewitchingly by his wife—from a hundred windows—for Nellie’s smile was never left out of the lithographs (he never missed seeing one of them, you may be sure)—but it never occurred to him 8 to resent the fact that she was smiling in the same inviting way to every other man who looked.

      He ambled on. At Forty-second Street he turned to the right, peering at the curtained windows of the Knickerbocker with a sort of fearful longing in his mild blue eyes, and kept on his way toward the Grand Central Station. Although he had been riding in and out of the city on a certain suburban train for nearly two years and a half, he always heaved a sigh of relief when the gate-tender told him he was taking the right train for Tarrytown. Once in a great while, on matinée days, he came to town to luncheon with Nellie before the performance. On Sundays she journeyed to Tarrytown to see him and Phoebe. In that way they saw quite a bit of each other. This day, however, he was taking an earlier train out, and he was secretly agitated over the possibility of getting the wrong one. Nellie had sent word to the theatre that she had a headache and could not have luncheon with him.

      He was not to come up to her apartment. If he had known a human being in all New York with whom he could have had luncheon, he would 9 have stayed in town and perhaps gone to a theatre. But, alas, there was no one! Once he had asked a low comedian, a former member of Nellie’s company, but at the time out of a job and correspondingly meek, to luncheon with him at Rector’s. At parting he had the satisfaction of lending the player eleven dollars. He hoped it would mean a long and pleasant acquaintance and a chance to let the world see something of him. But the low comedian fell unexpectedly into a “part” and did not remember Nellie’s husband the next time he met him. He forgot something else as well. Harvey’s memory was not so short. He never forgot it. It rankled.

      He bought a noon extra and found a seat in the train. Then he sat up very straight to let people see that they were riding in the same car with the great Nellie Duluth’s husband. Lucky dog! Every one was saying that about him, he was sure. But every one else had a noon extra, worse luck!

      After a while he sagged down into the seat and allowed his baby-blue eyes to fall into a brown study. In his mind’s eye he was seeing a thousand miles beyond the western bank of 10 the Hudson, far off into the quiet streets of a town that scarcely had heard the name of Nellie Duluth and yet knew him by name and fame, even to the remotest nook of it.

      They were good old days, sweet old days, those days when he was courting her—when she was one among many and he the only one. Days when he could serve customers in his shirt-sleeves and address each one familiarly. Every one was kind. If he had a toothache, they sympathised with him and advised him to have it pulled and all that sort of thing. In New York (he ground his teeth, proving that he retained them) no one cared whether he lived or died. He hated New York. He would have been friendly to New York—cheerfully, gladly—if New York had been willing to meet him halfway. It was friendly to Nellie; why couldn’t it be friendly to him? He was her husband. Why, confound it all, out in Blakeville, where they came from, he was somebody while she was merely “that girl of Ted Barkley’s.” He had drawn soda water for her a hundred times and she had paid him in pennies! Only five years ago. Sometimes she had the soda water charged; that is to say, she had 11 it put on her mother’s bill. Ted couldn’t get credit anywhere in town.

      And now look at her! She was getting six hundred dollars a week and spurned soda water as if it were poison.

      His chin dropped lower. The dreamy look deepened.

      “Doggone it,” he mused for the hundredth time, “I could have been a partner in the store by this time if I’d stuck to Mr. Davis.”

      He was thinking of Davis’ drug store, in Main Street, and the striped blazer he wore while tending the soda fount in the summer time. A red and yellow affair, that blazer was. Before the “pharmacy law” went into effect he was permitted to put up prescriptions while Mr. Davis was at meals. Afterward he was restricted to patent medicines, perfumes, soaps, toilet articles, cigars, razor strops, and all such, besides soda water in season. Moreover, when circuses came to town the reserved-seat sale was conducted in Davis’ drug store. He always had passes without asking for them.

      Yes, he might have been a partner by this time. He drew a lot of trade to the store. Mr. 12 Davis could not have afforded to let him go elsewhere.

      Five years ago! It seemed ages. He was twenty-three when he left Blakeville. Wasted ages! Somehow he liked the ready-made garments he used to buy at the Emporium much better than those he wore nowadays—fashionable duds from Fifth Avenue at six times the price. He used to be busy from seven A.M. till ten P.M., and he was happy. Nowadays he had nothing to do but get up and shave and take Phoebe for walks, eat, read the papers, tell stories to Phoebe, and go to bed. To be sure, the food was good and plentiful, the bed was soft, and the cottage more attractive than anything Blakeville could boast of; Phoebe was a joy and Nellie a jewel, but—heigh-ho! he might have been a partner in Davis’ drug store if he’d stayed in the old town.

      The man in the seat behind

Скачать книгу