Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 18
“That’s the boy!” cried the Colonel. “Keep it up, Oscar. Make a whole dog for the gentleman.”
A few more inches of dog appeared, but evidently Oscar had exhausted his talents. The tail continued to wag as if asking to be excused from further endeavors.
Topper rose unsteadily from his chair.
“Please, please, Colonel,” he pleaded, “don’t make him do any more. He’s done enough already. Ask him to go away.”
“Very well,” agreed the Colonel reluctantly, “but he can do much better than that. Sit down, Oscar, like a good chap.”
Apparently forgetting the condition he was in, Oscar, or rather the rear end of him, settled to rest. The tail gave a final wag, then came to repose on the floor.
“I feel in need of a little fresh air,” Topper remarked in a strained voice. “This has been a very unusual occurrence.”
He turned to the door, then took a step back. Three large men were crowding in it, and in the background stood the caretaker.
“We’re surrounded!” Topper exclaimed, turning back to the table.
But Topper found no comfort there. The table was empty.
“God,” said one of the men, “they’re all gone but him.”
“He’s enough,” replied the caretaker. “Go in and drag him out.”
The men advanced and Topper automatically retreated.
“And when you get him,” continued the caretaker, “give him a few for me.”
This sent Topper shivering to the wall. It was at this stage in the proceedings that the command, “Sic ’em, Oscar!” rang through the room. Immediately a low growl was heard and Oscar’s hind quarters became involved with the legs of the bewildered attackers. Thus began the Battle of the Lake, one of the few decisive engagements, on record and one which Mr. Topper did not linger to witness.
Out of the din and confusion that filled the room Topper heard Marion’s voice shouting, “Break for the car, old thing. We’ll bring the luggage along.”
Topper did not wait for further bidding. Stepping on the face of a prostrate man, he fought his way to the door.
“Don’t forget my trousers,” he called back. “They’re on the chair in my room.”
“Hell, no,” grunted the Colonel. “Run for it, man.”
Topper dodged past the crippled caretaker with the agility of a fawn and darted down the steps As he raced along the lake path cries of anguish followed his flying feet.
“I don’t hold with this at all,” he thought to himself as he sped over the roots. “Is my life to be one mad pursuit, all summer long?”
As he rounded the bend two suit-cases flashed past him at a dizzy speed and these in turn were followed by a carefully poised bottle and a bundle of Marion’s clothing.
“Speed, O lout,” a voice panted, and Topper redoubled his efforts.
The rear was brought up by Topper’s trousers, snapping in the wind and Oscar following after, his rump low to the ground and his claws kicking up dust.
Few persons have ever lived to witness such a remarkable sight — Topper and half a dog chasing a pair of runaway trousers, not to mention a flying bottle and a couple of bounding suit-cases. Even at the moment Topper was impressed by the novelty of the situation.
Like a rallying standard in a headlong retreat, Topper’s trousers danced in the morning breeze. And Topper followed his trousers with his last spark of energy. Far behind him he heard shouting voices, but he kept his eyes to the front and a trifle raised. He could not bring himself to look at the contortions of Oscar. The impatient honking of a horn urged him onward, and with a final burst of speed he reached the car and flung himself into the front seat. Oscar was sitting beside him, his invisible section panting audibly. The automobile was already in motion, hurtling down a branch road that led through the valley. Mr. Topper collected himself and moved a little away from Oscar, whose hind leg was busily engaged in dislodging an unseen flea.
“Well, Topper,” came Marion Kerby’s calm voice, “we got you out of that fix.”
“You got me into it, too,” replied Topper. “Why didn’t you tell me they were all spooks?”
“Didn’t know it myself,” she answered, as the car lurched round a bend.
“I suspected something all the time,” said the Colonel, “but I wasn’t sure of Topper.”
“Yes,” put in Mrs. Hart. “What’s the matter with him? Isn’t he a low-plane?”
“No,” replied Marion. “He’s solid through and through.”
“How very, very interesting,” continued Mrs. Hart, poking an inquiring finger into Topper’s shoulder.
“Make her stop,” said Topper to Marion.
“Stop tickling my boy friend,” she called back. “He’s so bashful.”
“Here, Topper,” said the Colonel, passing the bottle forward, “take a drink, my buck. You need it.”
Like a greedy baby Topper closed his fingers round the bottle and brought it to his lips. It was difficult drinking, what with the speed of the car and the condition of the road, but Topper refused to remove the bottle until he was convinced that he felt better.
“Don’t forget the driver,” said Marion Kerby.
“And don’t forget that we are still your guests,” Mrs. Hart suggested sweetly.
“That’s the last bottle,” said the Colonel. “We’ll have to do something about it.”
“Well, you go ahead and do it,” replied Topper. “I’ve done enough for one day.”
“Trust me,” agreed the Colonel. “I never fail. Stop at the next town and I’ll visit a few of the best houses, guided by my unerring instinct.”
“In the meantime do you want your dog?” Topper asked. “I’m afraid he’s crowded up here.”
“Not at all,” the Colonel answered. “Don’t worry about Oscar. He loves the front seat.”
Topper closed his eyes and let the rushing wind cool his face.
“There are three of them now,” he thought, as he clung to the side of the car. “Three spirits and half a dog. I’m as good as done for already.”
“Colonel,” he called, continuing aloud, “give me another drink. I’ll have to keep myself numb until I’ve gotten used to the situation.”
“Eat, drink and be merry!” cried the Colonel, “for to-morrow . . .”
“Don’t finish it,” interrupted Mr. Topper, hastily reaching for the Scotch. “I am intimate enough with death as it is.”
“I won’t,” agreed the Colonel, “if you don’t finish that Scotch.”
Topper did his best.
CHAPTER XVII
THE COLONEL ORDERS DINNER
IN THE COOL of the evening four flushed faces peered from Mr. Topper’s automobile at a rain-washed sign bearing the legend: “The Sleeping Fox.” After a whispered conversation within the machine, the four flushed faces once more emerged. Topper now was completely clad and his companions had neatly materialized. To all outward appearances they gave the impression of being four quite normal persons bent on an evening’s pleasure.
“With our thirst and Topper’s money we should do very nicely here,” remarked the Colonel, casting an anticipatory eye at the road-house.
“Don’t frighten him before we get him inside,” Mrs. Hart said warningly. “This looks to me like a lovely layout.”
“Fear is my constant companion,” replied Topper. “Don’t consider me.”
He was standing in need of a little judicious propping and the women were furtively assisting him. They were endeavoring to give the appearance of two ladies being escorted to dinner by a prosperous and dignified gentleman. In carrying out the deception Topper was of little value. With the most casual regard for dignity he ambled up the path.
“You women are so good to me,” he murmured, and, as if overcome by his effort, sank heavily back in the supporting arms.
“For the love of Pete, stand up,” Marion tragically whispered. “Remember, everything depends on you.”
“I know it does,” he gloated. “I know damn well it does. And you remember this, from now on I rule. No more foot-racing, no more queer dogs, no more disorderly parties. Remember all those things.”
“Of course we will,” the Colonel hastened to reply in a mollifying voice. “Didn’t we throw Oscar away half a mile down the road?”
“Half a mile is a short distance to throw that dog,” observed Mr. Topper.
“I know,” continued the Colonel, “but it showed that our spirits were in the right place.”
“Don’t mention spirits to me,” Topper retorted. “The very word is revolting. And furthermore you’re not in the right place. If you were you’d be far, far away.”
“Ah, Topper, how cruel you are to us all,” Mrs. Hart protested. “I’m sure you don’t mean that.”
He looked scornfully at the women, then plunged free from their grasp.
“Stand back, the pair of you,” he commanded, “and I’ll show you how a gentleman takes his ease at an inn. I am weary of your arms.”
He squared his shoulders belligerently and with heavy dignity began to mount the steps. As if he were performing an acrobatic sensation his companions clustered watchfully round him, ready to spring to action at the slightest show of weakness. An immaculately clad individual, appearing in the door of the road-house, stopped with surprise on seeing Mr. Topper, then hastened forward with a smile of welcome.
“Why, Mr. Topper,” he said. “This is an unexpected pleasure. How are things at the club?”
At the mention of the word club, Mr. Topper swayed perceptibly on his feet.
“Club,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Club. Why is it I don’t like that word? Ah, yes, I remember, Williams. I have just recently escaped from the most terrifying of clubs.”
“And Mrs. Topper?” asked Williams, tactfully changing the subject.
“And Mrs. Topper, too,” replied Topper. “I’ve just escaped from her.”
As if cheered by this reflection, he turned his back on the astonished Williams and beckoned to his companions, who were hovering like hopeful orphans at the head of the steps.
“It’s all right,” he assured them. “Williams is an old friend. Knew him when I was a respectable member of the country club. He was our steward then. First-class steward.”
More for support than friendship he turned to Williams and extended his hand.
“Don’t mind my friends,” he continued. “They’re thoroughly low. And remember this, Williams: silence is crisp and green. Here’s a little silence now.”
Williams, who had hitherto considered Topper as being rather a painfully proper man, was both surprised and delighted at this lighter side of his character. He deftly pocketed the money and with a murmured expression of gratitude ushered the party to a table where he spoke impressively to the waiter.
“Hear what he said,” gloated Topper. “He told the waiter to bring us anything we wanted. That’s because I’m along.”
“Then tell him to bring us some cocktails and we’ll be even more impressed,” Marion remarked.
“I’ll boost it one,” put in Mrs. Hart.
“And I’ll double it,” said the Colonel promptly.
“Bring them double cocktails,” Mr. Topper explained to the waiter. “And bring me one, too.”
“Any particular brand, sir?”
“Dry Martinis are more businesslike,” the Colonel suggested. “It would be wiser to stick to them.”
When the waiter had departed the Colonel set himself the task of planning the dinner, and in this he displayed such a lack of self-control that finally Mr. Topper felt called upon to interrupt.
“Don’t look upon this as a barbecue, Colonel,” he remarked. “Regard it rather in the light of a quiet little dinner. Don’t stint yourself, but at the same time don’t stuff. Perhaps you once saw service in a famine district. There is no danger here.”
Marion Kerby turned on Topper with venomously flashing eyes.
“Are you trying to humiliate me in front of my friends?” she demanded.
“Not at all,” replied Mr. Topper. “I was merely trying to introduce a little reason into this sordid discussion of food. It’s not humanly possible to consume at one sitting all of the things he’s planning to order.”
“You forget that we’re not human,” Marion replied briefly. Then, turning to the Colonel, she continued with a sweet smile, “Go ahead, Colonel. Order the whole damned card. Don’t mind him.”
“Let’s see,” said the Colonel blandly, as if the interruption had never occurred. “Where were we now? Oh, yes, here we are. We’d gotten down to the fowl.”
“The fowl,” breathed Mrs. Hart, clasping her hands in delight. “I’m a perfect demon with a duck.”
“Well,” remarked Mr. Topper, with weary resignation, “you’re the most material-minded spirits that ever returned to earth to drive a mortal mad.”
“Why, the more irregularly I live the more regular I feel,” said Mrs. Hart, taking Topper’s hand. “Aren’t you that way?”
“I am not,” he answered shortly, withdrawing his hand from the table.
“The cocktails are among us,” Marion announced as the waiter arranged the glasses. “Cheer up, everybody. I propose a toast to Topper, our reluctant and respectable host.”
She rose from the table and raised her glass.
“Here’s to Topper,” she said. “A good sport in spite of himself. I know him by the back.”
“That’s about the only way anybody knows me now,” observed Topper. “I’m always running.”
“You poor old dear,” she said, and, bending over, quickly kissed him. Topper grew red in the face and looked guiltily about him.
“The last shred is gone,” he remarked. “Nothing remains but blackmail — blackmail, divorce and disgrace.”
He tossed off his cocktail at a gulp and gazed solemnly at his companions.
“From now on,” he announced, “I cast decency to the winds. Let’s strip ourselves naked and run around screaming.”
“Hear! Hear!” cried the Colonel. “That was spoken like a man. Waiter, another flock.”
And another flock was brought. Nor was it the last flock. Nor even the next to the last. Great execution was done that night at the inn, prodigious eating and lavish drinking, the Colonel leading the way by example and encouragement. Topper danced with Marion until his collar became a rag and his feet two nests of blisters. When finally, through a combination of complications, he was forced to retain his seat at the table, he lived happily in the memory of his dizzy flights through space. Marion Kerby sat close to him, whispering surprisingly pleasant words in his ear, and Topper, being in too expansive a mood to be suspicious, sweated in his seventh heaven.
This state of things was suddenly demolished by an unexpected arrival. The Colonel and Mrs. Hart were engaged in a highly enterprising type of dance when the unexpected arrival occurred. And the unexpected arrival was none less than Oscar, or at least that portion of Oscar which he had chosen to show to the world. Topper was the first to see that portion, and at its appearance his happiness vanished. Oscar dragged himself wearily through the door of the inn, displayed an undecided rump to the assembled guests, then set off patiently to follow his master’s exuberant heels.
Unaware of this singular attachment, the Colonel continued to dance with the blissful Mrs. Hart. And even the other dancers appeared to take no notice. It was at that stage of the evening when one would rather not see such things. Without a shadow of a doubt there were many diners and dancers who really did see Oscar in his unfinished condition, but those who did see him refused to report the fact, fearing that it might be a serious reflection on their own sobriety. So Oscar followed the Colonel until the Colonel passed Topper’s chair. Here his gyrations were interrupted by Topper’s hand on his sleeve.
“Oscar’s back,” whispered Topper. “For God’s sake do something about it. I knew you hadn’t thrown him far enough away.”
“But, my dear man,” the Colonel expostulated, “there’s a limit to my strength. I can’t chuck him back into the fourth dimension the way he insists on going about.”
“Then sit down,” said Topper, “and get him under the table. Some of these people might throw a fit. I’m sober myself already.”
“If they don’t like my dog,” fumed the Colonel, “they can throw as many fits as they want.”
“It’s not that they don’t like your dog,” explained Topper, “it’s merely that they don’t understand your dog. Oscar to them is not quite clear. Please get him out of sight.”
“I’ll agree with you there,” replied the Colonel, seating himself at the table. “Oscar is no ordinary brand of dog. There’s more to him than greets the eye.”
Oscar crawled under the table and Mr. Topper drew in his feet.
“That’s just what I’m worrying about,” he remarked. “Does the invisible part of him bite? If it does it is sure to bite me.”
“Have no fear about Oscar,” said the Colonel. “He never harbors a grudge. He was kicked around too much in life for that.”
“I’m sorry,” declared Mr. Topper, sincerely. “Perhaps he’s hungry now. I’ll give him this bone to gnaw on.”
He held a bone under the table and it was instantly snapped from his hand.
“He is hungry,” Topper continued, quickly withdrawing his hand. “Very hungry. Listen to that.”
The bone was rattling on the floor and from beneath the table came the busy sound of crunching. The waiter, who had just arrived with coffee and ices, on hearing this small commotion, raised the tablecloth and peered down at the massed feet in the center of which lay Oscar engaged in appeasing his hunger. The waiter dropped the tablecloth and leaned down to Mr. Topper.
“Don’t tell the ladies,” he whispered, “but the funniest thing is going on under your table. Half of a dog is messing around with the leg of a duck, so help me God.”
Topper glanced under the table, then looked stonily at the waiter.
“You might be right,” he said, “but I don’t see it. One of the ladies has dropped her fur piece and I myself dropped that duck leg. Bring the check and say nothing more about it. No one will know you’ve been drinking.”
