Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 124
“That’s all pure gain,” Mr. Hawk assured him. “It will probably influence your sermons and your relations with the individual members of your congregation for the rest of your life.”
“It has already begun to do so,” said the Reverend Archer. “I see many things differently now. In many instances I have completely reversed my attitude. Previously I believed that the majority of the members of my congregation, which is, as you know, a fashionable one, did not need saving. Now I feel that they are not worth saving.” The Reverend Archer consulted the faces of his visitors rather anxiously to ascertain the effect of his words. “I trust,” he added, “my opinions do not shock you?”
“Not at all,” replied Mr. Hawk. “I’ve always felt that way about it myself. But, my dear Dr. Archer, are you sure you won’t backslide upon the restoration of your middle section to its former flexious condition?”
“Frankly, Mr. Hawk,” replied the rector with a charming smile, “I shall carry on much as usual, but with certain mental reservations, if you get what I mean. My life here is fairly comfortable. I see no reason to change it. No good would be accomplished.”
“And again,” put in Daffy quite calmly, “after having been deprived of the advantages and slight compensations of a group of important functions one appreciates them more upon the resumption of their pleasurable activities.”
For a brief moment the Reverend Archer looked startled, then once more he smiled even more charmingly.
“Admirably expressed, my dear young lady,” he replied. “I feel somewhat that way about it myself. One should not, so to speak, look a gift horse in the teeth.”
“That’s right,” put in Meg. “Don’t pass up a thing.”
“He’s a good guy,” muttered Cy Sparks, whose sympathies were easily aroused. “How about it, Mr. Hawk?”
“Right,” replied the scientist. “I feel that I have accomplished some good in this world after all.”
Slightly altering the position of his left hand, he directed the restorative ray against the mid-section of the Reverend Dr. Archer.
“Dr. Archer,” he said, “I have reason to believe that if you rise now from that impossible-looking roost of yours you will find upon closer examination everything is as it should be.”
The delight of the rector was a pleasure to witness. Abandoning for the moment all consideration for the respect due to his cloth, he executed several rather snappy dance steps, the knowledge of which he could not have come by honestly. After this surprising display of gratitude he took his guests into the house and treated them to a couple of stiff hookers of excellent cognac.
“You know,” he announced, when they were leaving, “I think I’ll run over to see dear Mrs. Brightly. She’ll be so interested to learn that — —”
“Your mid-section has been restored,” cut in Daffy. “I’m sure it will be an occasion for mutual congratulations.”
Once again it was the turn of the Reverend Archer to look startled; then his smile came to the rescue. “Prettily put, young lady,” he said, “but slightly tinged with malice. By the way, does anyone know if Mr. Brightly is still absent from his home?”
“I know he is,” replied Meg.
“Good,” said Dr. Archer involuntarily. “I mean, I hope he is having a pleasant vacation.”
So much for the mid-section of the Reverend Dr. Archer. The party strolled homeward feeling a little more cheerfully disposed toward life in general. It is always more pleasing to see a good man going wrong the right way than a bad man going right the wrong way.
Immediately upon his return Mr. Hawk was surrounded by a noisy group of gods and goddesses all talking at the same time and greatly exaggerating their individual contributions to the building of the wall.
When Mr. Hawk made a tour of inspection, the sight of the imposing barrier vaguely reminded him of something he had seen before. When occasionally he paused to examine a weather-seasoned bit of mortar, he noticed a decided tendency on the part of his escort to hurry him past that section of the wall. And when finally he climbed a ladder and looked over the wall, the Olympians made every effort to discourage him.
“It’s just the same on the other side,” Mercury suavely explained. “One rock is very much like another.”
“So true is that,” replied Mr. Hawk as he mounted the ladder being held by Perseus, “that it really doesn’t matter where you pick up your rocks.”
“Makes no difference at all,” agreed Mercury, anxiously watching the expression on Mr. Hawk’s face.
If the god had expected to see some sudden and alarming indication of the scientist’s true feelings he was quite mistaken. Mr. Hawk merely glanced across the road, saw exactly what he had expected to see, then looked down into the innocently uptilted faces of the wall builders.
“There are a couple of good rocks over on Mr. Shrewsberry’s property you might use if you happen to need them,” he remarked casually. “Not many, but still you never can tell when a good rock will come in handy.”
“But don’t you think he would mind?” asked Mercury.
“No,” replied Mr. Hawk with perfect gravity as he descended the ladder. “I don’t think he would mind — now. You see, by the time he’s gotten round to missing those few rocks, he’ll have become so used to missing rocks — whole walls of rocks — that their absence wouldn’t be noticed.”
CHAPTER XX
Battle and Flight
SECTIONALLY FOLDED IN a deck chair, Hawk sat that evening on the broad veranda of his old home. He was waiting. He was waiting most unpleasantly. He was waiting for the return of Griggs, an avenging Griggs reinforced this time with great quantities of highly explosive state troopers.
Of course, he could petrify the lot of them, but who wanted a small army of petrified policemen scattered about one’s lawn in various bellicose attitudes?
Lumps of darkness surrounded Mr. Hawk as he sat there in brooding silence. These lumps bore names. The oldest and darkest lump was Grandpa Lambert. Then there were Daffy, Cyril Sparks, and Meg — an exceedingly small lump, Meg, quietly observant.
The excellent Betts, with the devoted assistance of Hebe, was engaged in transferring bottles from the cellar to the capacious body of the Emperor. The car had been parked in a back lane ready for instant action.
Diana was sitting on the veranda steps. As she whistled a song of the hunt she cleverly fashioned arrows with the aid of a bread knife. The gods were knocking about outside the great wall which had once been the rightful property of one Mr. Shrewsberry. The gods also had done some considerable transferring of bottles. But not to the Emperor. Not the gods. Within their huge bodies surged and seethed an amazing mixture of wines and spirits, for the gods were by nature indefatigable experimentalists. Their stomachs now represented so many chemical experiments, the vast cavern of Bacchus being perhaps the most interesting — a complete laboratory in itself.
Venus was attempting to carry on with the father of Amelia. That poor mortal was at present only fit for carrying.
Out of the darkness came the voice of Mr. Hawk.
“How’s your old man?” he inquired of Meg.
“About the same as yours,” she replied.
“No. I mean it.”
“If you really want to know, it grieves me to state that the ancient sot was so busy counting the roll of bills you sent him that he didn’t even have time to say good-bye to me when I left.”
“Your parental thief is an excellent rogue. I like him.”
“Yes. He steals and drinks, but still I am fond of him, myself,” mused Meg.
“So do you, my speck, but still I am fond of you,” replied Mr. Hawk.
“With me it’s an art. With him it’s a vice,” said the girl.
“A distinction without a difference,” observed Mr. Hawk. “Did you tell him to consider my house his own?”
“He told me to tell you he always had.”
“Then he won’t feel out of place.”
Once more silence settled down on the group. There was a feeling of tension in the air, a sort of anxious expectancy. Presently Hawk spoke again.
“I created an irrevocable trust to-day,” he announced.
“Not in me,” snapped Meg. “I wouldn’t trust you out of my sight.”
“And I don’t trust you even when you’re in my sight,” replied Mr. Hawk, with dignity. “But that is neither here nor there. You fail to understand. I have disposed of my property. I am now a comparatively poor man, most of it goes to you, Daffy, and to Cy.”
“Thank God,” breathed Cy. “Now for the booze and bugs.”
“Sweet boy,” remarked Meg.
“How about me?” demanded old man Lambert. “Am I to be left to the tender mercies of three who should be dead?”
“By no means,” replied Mr. Hawks. “Daffy will care for you. She’ll buy you a lovely pornographic library and read to you every night.”
“Sounds good,” admitted the old man.
“And Daffy,” continued Mr. Hawk, “I’m afraid you’ll just have to marry Cyril. Here it is the end of summer, and he hasn’t ruined you yet. I doubt if he ever will, this side of wedlock.”
“I’ll wed the beast,” Daffy agreed after a moment of thoughtful silence, “but I’ll jolly well hold the key to the lock.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Cy Sparks. “Die on us or something?”
“Something,” said Mr. Hawk, sitting up suddenly and listening. “And all of us are going to do something else pretty soon. The time has arrived. Let us gird our well known loins for battle.”
From the other side of the wall came the sound of much evil speaking — the voices of coarse men making no attempt to disguise their hostile feelings. The lumps on the veranda became animated with life. Diana, with her bow and fresh supply of arrows, was already streaking across the lawn.
“I’d like to get in on this myself,” grated old man Lambert, struggling to his feet.
Betts, flanked by Hebe and Venus, popped from the house and made after the flying goddess. From an upper bedroom window Perseus carelessly hurled himself and hit the ground running. Amelia’s voice floated sweetly after him.
“Murder them all, my dear,” was her Spartan injunction. “Then return to me.”
“Shall we go?” Hunter Hawk asked in the most casual manner in the world. “Let’s take a last crack at the forces of law and order. Events march to a grand and inglorious climax.”
He rose, and followed by the others, hurried across the lawn in the direction of a burst of unpleasant words crackling in the air near the wall.
Thus opened the final stage of Mr. Hawk’s classic contest with organized society — the Battle of the Stolen Wall, perhaps one of the most wonder-provoking conflicts of its kind ever to go officially unrecorded. Had Hunter Hawk been less of a philosopher, victory would have gone to his forces. There is no question of that. However, the man was what he was — an anti-social moral objector, and being such he was growing a little fed-up with many things. He had no intention of being further fed. It was not that he was too proud to fight. He was too bored or, perhaps, too detached.
At the start of this weird encounter most of the action was confined to the opposite side of the wall where, judging from the oaths and cries of anguish of the enemy, the gods fought fiercely and well. Presently, however, the scene of the conflict shifted. The gods, apparently growing weary of smiting the foe, began to cast them bodily over the top of the wall. Soon state troopers were raining down on the heads of Mr. Hawk and his small contingent like maledictions from on high.
“You damned fools,” came the voice of Hawk, “you’re chucking ’em in, and we want to keep ’em out.”
“Our mistake,” shouted Perseus, who had joined his brother gods on the opposite side of the wall. “We’ll be right over and chuck the beggars back.”
“Gord,” a voice complained in the darkness, “are we going to be pitched and tossed over this damn wall all night long?”
It seemed that they were.
Perseus, accompanied by the mighty Neptune, swarmed over the wall and laid violent hands on two of the prostrate figures.
“Hold on, Brother,” one of them managed to get out. “This is the strangest way of fighting I ever saw. First you heave us in, then you heave us out. It might be a game to you, but it’s a pain all over to us.”
“All we want is Mr. Hawk,” wheezed the other.
“Is that all?” grunted Perseus, feeling deftly in the darkness for the seat of the man’s trousers. “Well, my man, you’re going to get much more than you wanted. Over you go.”
And over he went. Likewise the other.
It was a battle marked by many novel methods and hitherto untested forms of attack. Things were done that night that had never been done before.
Above the swish and thud of falling bodies sounded the deep voice of the sea god.
“Where’s Griggs?” he shouted. “I want Griggs.”
Hebe looked up from something she had been doing and peered mildly through the darkness.
“Does anybody want Griggs?” she inquired. “I think I have him, but he doesn’t seem to go any more.”
Neptune rushed to her side and found the dawn-bosomed bearer of the cup methodically churning Griggs in the back with the trident the great god had cast aside on his way over the wall.
“Is he any good?” asked Hebe. “When I first started doing this to him he sort of moved about, but now he doesn’t do it hardly any.”
“I’ll make him move,” gritted Neptune, seizing the trident from the accommodating goddess and plunging it deep into the most mountainous part of Griggs.
“There he goes!” exclaimed Hebe, highly pleased. “He’s working beautifully now.”
“But not enough,” muttered Neptune. “No man can pluck at my beard with impunity.”
While these two Olympians were carrying the battle into Griggs’s quarter or quarters, Venus was doing a peculiar thing. Having found a man sitting up in a dazed condition, she had promptly thrust a bucket over his head and then proceeded to beat upon the side of the bucket with a large stick. It was like some new musical instrument. Every time the bucket resounded the man inside emitted a piercing scream. Venus seemed to derive no little enjoyment from this.
The tactics employed by Meg and Daffy, although totally different, were equally novel and effective. These two enterprising young ladies had seized upon an unfortunate trooper and were holding him well immersed in a trough of cement, discussing the while how long it would take for the stuff to solidify round him.
From the low limb of a tree Diana was sniping earnestly with her bow and arrows. So far she had succeeded in stinging Cyril Sparks as he was stooping over to ascertain if his victim still had breath in his body.
“That’s not a nice thing to do,” cried the youth, more outraged than injured.
“Pardon me,” said Diana. “I was trying out my point of aim.”
“Well, try it out on someone else’s,” retorted Cyril.
Naturally the state troopers were at a great disadvantage. Their plight was due not so much to their lack of courage as to their method of training. When they were studying how to state troop no one had told them how best to resist an infuriated bucket, or what would be the right thing to do when being flung into a trough of cement by two attractive young ladies. Such forms of attack were entirely new to them. Familiar as they were with clubs, machine guns, and revolvers, they were altogether puzzled by flying arrows and twisting tridents. All these things were not put down in the Troopers’ Manual. How were they to know?
Old man Lambert’s method of attack was of all the most difficult to anticipate. The devil himself would have been both shocked and surprised by it. Having observed a trooper descend heavily on the back of his neck and lie still, the dear old gentleman, in lieu of any other weapon, had fumbled out his fountain pen and carefully seated himself beside the fallen enemy. Whenever the trooper attempted to open his eyes or mouth the venerable Lambert promptly shook red ink into the opening thus offered. Only a viciously senile mind could have conceived such a trick. Naturally the injured trooper was both enraged and amazed.
“Stop that!” he told the aged creature.
“No!” retorted the old man. “They gave me this thing for Christmas, knowing I never wrote. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to use it.” He paused to try the point of the pen on the man’s forehead, then continued, in a confidential tone, “Daffy wasn’t in on it. She gave me a bottle of gin. A good girl, Daffy.”
“I don’t give a damn how good Daffy is,” replied the man. “Stop doing things to my face.”
This remark did not help matters any for the trooper. When they found him at last, he appeared to be the bloodiest of the lot.
Thrice had Mr. Hawk been brutally felled by the same man. The scientist was on the point of losing his patience. When he arose from the third felling he danced spryly away from his assailant, and at the same time vividly drew the man’s attention to the evil nature of his parentage on both sides. Having thus successfully lured the indignant fellow to a soft spot in the wall, of which there were many, Mr. Hawk neatly sidestepped the next rage-blinded rush and permitted the man to pass partly through the wall. The part that passed through was immediately set upon by the gods without. The part that remained behind was roundly kicked by the avenging Hawk within.
“Who might this be?” asked Perseus, seizing the man’s legs and inspecting all that could be seen. “Don’t seem to recognize him.”
“Do you usually recognize your friends that way?” asked Mr. Hawk mildly.
This question so upset the great hero that he pushed the man clean through the wall, where he was given an additional beating for having damaged the handiwork of the gods.
While this justly merited punishment was being administered, Mercury, always on the alert, glanced up in time to see a fresh contingent of motorcycle troopers speeding down the road.
