Thomas Wolfe, page 518
Tugman (with riotous good nature): Whew! That’s it, Ted—give ’em hell! (Boisterously) Boys, I’ve been in a crap game, and I took ’em for a hundred and fifty bucks.
Willis: Which means you’re a dollar and a quarter to the good, I suppose. (Quietly, viciously) A hundred and fifty bucks—why, God damn your drunken soul, you never saw that much money at one time in your whole life.
A.P. Man: How much of it you got left, Tug?
Tugman: Not a lousy cent. They took me to the cleaners afterwards. Tell you how it was, boys. We was down at Chakales Pig. When I picked up the loot, I looked around and counted up the house and decided it was safe to buy a round of drinks, seein’ as there was only five guys there. (His manner grows more riotously extravagant as with coarse but eloquent improvisation he builds up the farce.) Well, I goes up to the bar, thinkin’ I’m safe, and says, “Step right up, gentlemen. This one’s on me.” And do you know what happens? (He pauses a moment for dramatic effect.) Well, boys, I ain’t hardly got the words out of my mouth when there is a terrific crash of splintered glass and eighteen booze hounds bust in from the sidewalk, six more spring through the back windows, and the trap doors of the cellar come flyin’ open and thirty-seven more swarm up like rats out of the lower depths. By that time the place is jammed. Then I hear the sireens goin’ in the street, and before I know it, the village fire department comes plungin’ in, followed by two-thirds of the local constabulary. I tries to crawl out between the legs of One-Eye McGloon and Silk McCarthy, but they have me cornered before I gets as far as the nearest spittoon. Well, to make a long story short, they rolled me for every nickel I had. Somebody got my socks and B.V.D.’s, and when I finally crawled to safety, Chakales had my shirt and told me he was holdin’ it as security until I came through with the six bits I still owed him for the drinks.
(Ben Gant returns from the compositors’ room, and as he passes, Tugman slaps him violently on his bony back.)
Tugman (yelling boisterously): How’s that, Ben? Is that gettin’ ’em told, or not?
Ben (arching his hands upon his hips, sniffing scornfully, and jerking his head toward his unknown auditor): Oh, for God’s sake! Listen to this, won’t you?
Tugman (still boisterously): Did I ever tell you boys about the time I came back from Scandinavia, where I’d been managin’ Jack Johnson on a barn-stormin’ tour?
Willis (starting up suddenly, laughing, and seizing a paper weight): Get out of here, you son-of-a-bitch. Scandinavia! You’ve never been north of Lynchburg. The last time you told that story it was South America.
Tugman (laughing heartily): That was another time. (Loudly, immensely pleased with himself): Whew! God-damn! Give ’em hell, boys!
Willis: On your way, bum. It’s time to roll.
Tugman (going out in high spirits, singing loudly a bawdy parody of Pretty Polly’s song): . . . sla-hays—mee-uh—and la-hays—mee-uh—and luh-hulls—mee-uh—to r-r-r-rest.
Willis (now standing at his desk and reading a sheet of yellow flimsy with an air of growing stupefaction): Well, I’ll be—in the name of God, who wrote this, anyway? (Reads) “By this time the police had arrived and thrown a cordon around the blazing tenement in an effort to keep the milling throngs at a safe distance.” (With an air of frank amazement) Well, I’ll be God-damned! (Suddenly, irritably, in a rasping voice) Who wrote this crap? “Blazing tenement”—“milling throngs”—now ain’t that nice? (Reading again, slowly, deliberately) “By—this—time—the—police—had—arrived—and—thrown—a—cordon—” . . . a—cordon—
Red (the young reporter, whose neck and face during this recital has become redder than ever): We always said “cordon” on the Atlanta Constitution.
Willis (looking at him with an air of stunned disbelief): Did you write this? Is this your story?
Red (sulkily): Who the hell do you think wrote it, the Angel Gabriel?
Willis (with an air of frank defeat): Well, I’ll be damned! If that’s not the damnedest description of a fire in Niggertown, I’ll kiss a duck. (With wicked insistence) “Blazing tenement.” What blazing tenement are you talking about—a two-roomed nigger shack in Valley Street? For Christ’s sake, you’d think the whole East Side of New York was afire. And “milling throngs.” Well, I’m a monkey’s uncle if that ain’t perfectly God-damned delightful! What do you mean by milling throngs—forty-two niggers and a couple of one-eyed mules? And “cordon.” (A trifle more emphatically): “Cordon!” (He holds the paper at arm’s length and surveys it daintily, with a show of mincing reflection.)
Red (sulkily): We always said “cordon” on the Constitution.
Willis: Constitution, my ass! If old man Matthews, John Ledbetter, and Captain Crane constitute a cordon, then I’m a whole God-damned regiment of United States Marines!
Red (angrily): All right, then. If you don’t like the way the story’s written, why the hell don’t you write it yourself?
Willis: Why the hell should I? That’s your job, not mine. Christ Almighty, man! I’ve got enough to do on my own hook without having to rewrite your whole damned story every time I send you out to cover a lousy little fire in Niggertown.
Red: That story would have gone on the Constitution. (Sarcastically) But apparently it’s not good enough for a one-horse paper in a hick town. (He pulls off his eye-shade and tosses it down upon the desk; puts on his vest and coat and begins to button himself up viciously.) To hell with it, anyway! To hell with this whole damn outfit! I’m through with it! The trouble with you guys is that you’re a bunch of illiterate half-wits who don’t know anything about style and don’t appreciate a piece of writing when you see one!
Willis: Style, hell! What I’d appreciate from you is a simple declarative sentence in the English language. If you’ve got to get all that fancy palaver out of your system, write it in your memory book. But for God’s sake, don’t expect to get it published in a newspaper.
Red (savagely, tugging at his vest): I’ll get it published all right, and it won’t be in your lousy paper, either!
Willis (ironically, sitting down and adjusting his eye-shade): No? Where are you going to get it published—in the Woman’s Home Companion?
Red (contemptuously): You guys give me a pain. Wait till my book comes out. Wait till you read what the critics have to say about it.
Willis (beginning to work on the unhappy story with a blue pencil): Go on, go on. The suspense is awful. What are we going to do when we read it? Turn green with envy, I suppose?
Red (wagging his head): All right, all right. Have it your own way. Only you’ll be laughing out the other corner of your mouth some day. You wait and see.
Willis (working rapidly with the blue pencil and still speaking ironically, but in a more kindly tone than before): Don’t make us wait too long, Red. I’ve got only one lung left, you know. (He coughs suddenly into a wadded handkerchief, stares intently for an instant at the small stain of spreading red, then thrusts the crumpled handkerchief back into his pocket.)
Red (flushing uncomfortably, suddenly moved): Oh, well—(eagerly) Jesus, Ted, I’ve got a whale of an idea! If I can come through with this one, it’ll knock ’em loose!
Willis (a trifle absently, still working busily on the story): What is it this time, Red—something hot? The love affairs of a police reporter, or something like that?
Red: Nah, nah. Nothing like that! It’s a historical novel. It’s about Lincoln.
Willis: Lincoln! You mean Abe?
Red (nodding vigorously): Sure! It’s a romance—an adventure story. I’ve been working on the idea for years, and boy, it’s a lulu if I can put it over! (Looks around craftily toward the door to see if he is being overheard, lowers his voice carefully, with an insinuating tone) Listen, Ted—
Willis (absently): Well?
Red (in a tone of cunning secrecy): If I let you in on the idea (he peers around apprehensively again), you won’t tell anyone, will you?
Willis: You know me, Red. Did you ever hear of a newspaper reporter giving away a secret? All right, kid, spill it.
Red (lowering his voice still more, to a confidential whisper): The big idea is this. Lincoln—you know Lincoln—
Willis: Sure. You mean the guy that got shot.
Red: Sure. (Then, cunningly, secretively) Well, Ted, all the history books—all the big authorities and the wise guys—they tell you he was born in Kentucky—
Willis: And you mean to tell me he wasn’t?
Red (scornfully): You’re God-damn right he wasn’t! Nah! (Coming closer and whispering earnestly) Why, Ted, that guy was no more born in Kentucky than you or I were. (Nodding vigorously) Sure. I’m telling you. I’ve got the dope—I know. (Whispering impressively) Why, Ted, that guy grew up right out here in Yancey County, not more than fifty miles from town.
Willis (in a tone of mock astonishment): Go on! You’re kidding me!
Red (very earnestly): No I’m not. It’s the truth, Ted! I know what I’m talking about. I’ve got the dope now—I’ve been working on the thing for years. (He looks around cautiously again, then whispers) And say, Ted, you know what else I’ve got? I’ve got a little dress that Lincoln wore when he was a baby. And say (his voice sinking now to an awed whisper), do you know what I found?
Willis (working absently): What was it, Red?
Red (whispering): They say, you know, that Lincoln’s parents were poor—but that little baby dress is made of the finest lace! And Ted, it’s all embroidered, too. It’s got initials on it! (His voice sinks to an almost inaudible whisper) Ted, it’s embroidered with the letter N. (He pauses significantly to let this sink in, then repeats in a meaningful tone) N, Ted. . . . N. . . . Do you get it?
Willis: Do I get what? N what?
Red (impatiently): N nothing. Just N, Ted. (He pauses anxiously for this to sink in, but gets no response.)
Willis (after waiting a moment): Well? What about it?
Red (disappointedly, whispering): Why, don’t you see, Ted? Lincoln’s name begins with an L, and this little dress I got is embroidered with the letter N. (Again he waits for a satisfactory response and gets none.) N, Ted. . . . N. . . . Don’t you see?
Willis (looking up a trifle impatiently and slapping his blue pencil down on the desk): What are you driving at, Red? Spill it, for Christ’s sake!
Red: Why, Ted, Lincoln’s name begins with an L, and this little dress I got is embroidered with the letter—
Willis (nodding wearily): The letter N. Sure, I get you, Red. (Picks up the pencil and resumes work again) Well, maybe the laundry got the tags mixed.
Red (in a disgusted tone): Nah, Ted. (Slowly, significantly) N . . . N . . . (Slyly) Can’t you think of anyone, Ted, whose name begins with N?
Willis (Casually): Napoleon Bonaparte.
Red (patiently): Nah-ah, Ted—that’s not it—(he looks around craftily again before he speaks, then whispers cunningly) You’re coming close, kid—you’re getting hot.
Willis (throwing down his pencil, pushing up his eye-shade, and settling back in his chair with an air of weary resignation): Look here, what the hell are you trying to give me? Are you trying to hint that Lincoln was related to Napoleon?
Red (glancing around, then in a cunning whisper): No, Ted—not Napoleon. (He looks craftily around again, then whispers)—Marshal Ney. (A look of triumphant satisfaction expands across his countenance, he nods his head in satisfied affirmal) Sure! I’m telling you! Marshal Ney.
Willis (staring at him with frank amazement): Well, what the hell—you mean to tell me that Abraham Lincoln was Marshal Ney’s son?
Red (after glancing around craftily again, in a cunning whisper): No, Ted—not his son—(he glances around again before he lets it out)—his grandson.
Willis (appalled, staring helplessly): Well, I’ll be—
Red (nodding vigorously): Sure, sure, I’m telling you! (He looks around again before he speaks) You see, Ted, Marshal Ney didn’t die in France. (He peers craftily again before he whispers) No one knows where he died. Except (He peers slyly around again) except me. I know. You see, it was like this—After the Battle of Waterloo, Marshal Ney escaped. He was never heard of again. No one knows what became of him. (He looks around cautiously before he whispers) But I found out. I got the dope. I’ve been working on the thing for years—I got it nailed down now. Marshal Ney escaped to this country, after the Battle of Waterloo, in a sailing ship.
Willis: In a sailing ship—(in a tone of astounded disbelief) Go on! You know a big man like that never would have taken a common sailing ship, Red. He’d at least have come over on a freighter. (His sarcasm is wasted on his earnest communicant.)
Red (whispering earnestly): Nah-ah, Ted. It was a sailing ship. I’ve got all the dope—the name of the ship, the captain, everything. And Marshal Ney escaped under an assumed name—he called himself Nye.
Willis (astounded): Go on, I don’t believe you! Why hell, Red, you’re thinking of Bill Nye—that’s who it was. You got the two mixed up.
Red (earnestly): Nah-ah, Ted. I’ve got all the dope: it was Marshal Ney, all right. He landed at Baltimore and then came South. He settled near Salisbury—and he lived to be an old, old man. (He looks around again cautiously before he whispers) Why, hell, Ted! He died only about five years ago! He was way over a hundred when he died (looking around again before he whispers): And there’s people down there, around Salisbury, who knew him! Do you get that, Ted? They knew him, they talked to him. And they say it was Marshal Ney all right. I got all the dope. And it was his son (he looks around again before he reveals his last astonishing item of historical fact), it was his son who came up here to Yancey County—and his son, his son, Ted—(He looks around most cunningly now, in fact for a moment he seems about to investigate the doors, the spittoons, and the space beneath the tables)—his son was Lincoln’s father.
Willis (lying sprawled in his chair as though he had collapsed, and with his thin hand upon the desk, his mouth slightly ajar, staring at his companion with paralyzed astonishment, and speaking very slowly): Well—I’ll—be—God—damned!
Red (taking the words as tribute, beaming triumphantly): Ain’t it a lulu, boy? Ain’t it a wham? Won’t it knock ’em for a goal?
Willis (waving his hand groggily before his face): You win, kid. Pick up the marbles. You’ve got me licked.
Red (exuberantly): Boy, I’ve got the hit of the century here—the greatest story since The Count of Monte Cristo!
Willis (feebly): Don’t stop at Monte Cristo, kid. You can go the whole way back to the Holy Bible as far as I’m concerned.
Red (delighted, yet a trifle anxiously): You won’t say anything about it, Ted? You won’t let it out?
Willis (exhausted): Not for the world and a cage of pet monkeys. (He holds out a thin, limp hand.) Put it there.
(Red, his face crimson with happiness, seizes Theodore Willis’s thin hand and wrings it heartily. And then, with a jubilant “Good night,” he goes out. For a moment Willis sits quietly, in an exhausted attitude, then he opens his mouth and lets out a long sigh.)
Willis: Whew-w!
The A.P Man (coming to his door and peering out): What is it?
Willis (slowly shaking his head): That wins the gold-enameled mustache cup. That guy!
A.P. Man: What is it now—a new idea for a book he’s going to write?
Willis: Yep—and he’s got the whole idea nailed down, trussed up, and hog-tied. It’s going to paralyze the public, upset history, and make the faculty at Harvard look like a set of boobs.
A.P. Man: What is it? What’s the idea?
Willis (shaking his head solemnly): That, sir, I can nevermore divulge. He has my promise, my word of honor. And the word of a Willis is as good as his bond—in fact, a damn sight better. Wild horses could not drag his secret from me. But I’ll tell you this, my friend. If you should suddenly read absolute historic proof that Shakespeare had come over on the Mayflower and was the father of George Washington, you’d get some faint notion of what this book is going to do to us. (He coughs suddenly, rackingly, spits carefully into his wadded handkerchief, looks intently at the small red stain, then, with an expression of weariness and disgust, thrusts the wadded rag back in his pocket.) Christ! Maybe someday I’ll write a book myself—about all the poor hams I’ve known in this game who were going to write a book—and never did. What a life!
(The A.P. man shrugs and goes back into his little room. The telephone rings. With an expression of weariness Theodore Willis takes the receiver from the hook.)
Willis: Hello. . . . Yes, this is the Courier. . . . (in an agreeable tone that is belied by the expression of extreme boredom on his face) Yes, Mrs. Purtle. Yes, of course. . . . Oh, yes, there’s still time. . . . No, she’s not here, but I’ll see that it gets in. . . . Certainly, Mrs. Purtle. Oh, absolutely. . . . (He rolls his dark eyes aloft with an expression of anguished entreaty to his Maker.) Yes, indeed, I promise you. It will be in the morning edition. . . . Yes, I can well imagine how important it is. (He indicates his understanding of its importance by scratching himself languidly on the hind quarter.) . . . Oh, absolutely without fail. You can depend on it. . . . Yes, Mrs. Purtle. . . . (He sprawls forward on one elbow, takes the moist fag end of a cigarette from his mouth and puts it in a tray, picks up a pencil, and wearily begins to take notes.) Mr. and Mrs. S. Frederick Purtle. . . . No, I won’t forget the S. . . . Yes, I know we had it Fred last time. We had a new man on the job. . . . No, we’ll get it right this time. Mr. and Mrs. S. Frederick Purtle . . . dinner and bridge . . . tomorrow night at eight . . . at their residence, “Oaknook,” 169 Woodbine Drive . . . in honor of—Now just a moment, Mrs. Purtle. I want to be sure to get this straight. (Then, very slowly, with an expression of fine concern) In honor of their house guest . . . Mrs. J. Skidmore Pratt, of Paterson, New Jersey, . . . the former Miss Annie Lou Bass of this city. (Writing casually as he continues) Those invited include Mr. and Mrs. Leroy Dingley . . . Mr. and Mrs. E. Seth Hooten . . . Mr. and Mrs. Claude Belcher . . . Mr. Nemo McMurdie . . . all of this city . . . and Miss May Belle Buckmaster of Florence, South Carolina. . . . Now, just a moment, Mrs. Purtle, to see if I’ve got it all straight. (He reads it over to her. The lady is apparently satisfied, for at length he says) Oh, absolutely. No, I won’t forget. . . . Not at all, Mrs. Purtle. (He laughs falsely.) Delighted, of course. . . . Good-bye.
