Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 20
Around dinner time the front of the hotel afforded a striking study in modesty. Some of the ladies dressed directly in front of their windows, some dressed a trifle removed, but no lady, it seemed, ever dressed entirely out of sight. It was around dinner time when Mr. Topper arrived and so naturally he had no eyes for the blue sea that swept away to the horizon nor for the tent-like sails that slanted against the sky. As he followed the bell boy down a dark corridor along which trunks were parked like so many automobiles, a tinkling sound of an unmistakable nature issued from every door. Patriotic Americans were paying their evening tribute to the sacred laws of the land.
“If it were not so confounded hot,” thought Topper, “I’d think I was on a sleigh ride. That tinkling makes me thirsty.”
With the foresight bred of experience he halted the bell boy at the door and took the key from his hand.
“I can do very nicely now myself,” he told the boy, giving him a generous tip. “Don’t bother to come in.”
It was well that he took this precaution, for, when he entered the room, he found his companions in varying stages of incompleteness. The Colonel was practically present, but Mrs. Hart and Marion Kerby were still sufficiently vague to have given the bell boy a decided shock.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he remarked, dropping the bags to the floor. “This is a decidedly musical hotel, isn’t it, Colonel?”
“It is,” replied the Colonel. “And our room alone is silent. What do you say to my taking steps?”
“Under ordinary circumstances I’d say no,” said Mr. Topper, “but as this is a celebration, and incidentally a hot evening, I quite agree with you. Steps should be taken; but step, Colonel, with the utmost caution. Don’t, for God’s sake, stumble.”
“Leave everything to me,” replied the Colonel as he swiftly faded from view.
“I don’t have to,” remarked Topper. “You’d take it yourself anyway.”
In a few minutes a gleaming cocktail shaker was seen to float through the open window. Without taking the time to reappear, the Colonel poured out a small drink and tasted it.
“Terrible,” the voice remarked. “I’ll take it back and throw it in his face.”
The shaker floated away and after a short wait another one, accompanied by a bottle of gin, appeared at the window and, drifting across the room to the table, settled there with a silvery tinkle. The Colonel emerged from obscurity and sampled his plunder.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Excellent! Now we can all have a drink.”
From down the hall came the babble of excited voices mingled with the sound of running feet and slamming doors.
“Somebody seems to be upset,” remarked Marion Kerby.
“It sounds so,” said Mr. Topper. “How did your victims behave, Colonel?”
“Very nicely,” replied the Colonel. “As is usual in such cases they were too confused to realize what had happened until after it had happened. The man was standing with the shaker held aloft, poised for the downward shake. I snatched it from his hand, seized the bottle of gin and fled, casting back a fleeting glance at the petrified company. The man was still holding his hand in the air like Ajax defying the lightning or Liberty bereft of her torch. One woman, I believe, had fainted. That was about all.”
He knocked the shaker against the table and made a slight dent in it.
“In case of a search being instigated,” he explained, “we can identify our property by this mark. All gin looks alike, but to make assurance doubly sure we had better drink this up as speedily as possible.”
“Justifiable inebriety,” Mr. Topper suggested.
“Exactly,” agreed the Colonel. “Telephone for some glasses, ice and a few oranges.”
When Mr. Topper went down to dinner half an hour later he was in a state of high good humor. Marion, the Colonel and Mrs. Hart had elected to remain behind, the Colonel judiciously pointing out that the dinner hour was the ideal time for looting, so many guests being absent from their rooms. Moreover, there was still some gin left to be turned into cocktails. Mr. Topper, relieved to escape from his boisterous companions, was delighted with this arrangement.
“Don’t hurry back,” said Marion as he was about to leave. “We can manage everything. Stroll about and amuse yourself.”
With a grateful look Mr. Topper innocently departed and made his way to the dining room. Here he was seated at an enviable table occupied at the moment by a handsomely gowned woman. She was plump and pretty and appeared to have been in this life long enough to have learned how to enjoy it without too many qualms. Mr. Topper bowed and the woman smiled, and before the end of the dinner he had gleaned the information that the woman’s name was Mrs. Brewster and that her husband had died some years ago of Bright’s disease as she had repeatedly warned him he would. On leaving the table she favored him with a particularly promising smile and intimated that there were many beautiful walks about the place if one cared for that sort of thing. That sort of thing, Mr. Topper said flatly, was exactly what he cared for most. She smiled again and undulated away, Mr. Topper following her departure with glowing eyes.
When he had finished his dinner he repaired to the general assembly room of the hotel and mingled complacently with the guests. A tall, perspiring gentleman was raffling lace garments for the benefit of some worthy cause, and round this gentleman the ladies were milling, their ears eagerly attuned to catch the numbers he called out as he drew small bits of paper from a hat.
As Mr. Topper was standing there enjoying this little flurry of excitement, the woman directly in front of him gave a most undignified start and rubbed herself tenderly. Then she turned and glared at Mr. Topper, whispering a few words to the woman next to her as she did so.
“Why, what a thing to do!” exclaimed the woman, looking indignantly at Mr. Topper.
This was too much for Topper. He shrank guiltily away to the other side of the circle, where he stood wondering what it was all about. But here the same thing happened, only more publicly. A woman, brushing past Mr. Topper, suddenly stopped and, uttering a little cry of pain, looked at him with a shocked expression.
“Sir,” she said, “if you do that again I’ll have you ordered from this hotel.”
“But what have I done?” asked the bewildered Topper.
“You know very well,” she replied significantly. “If you were a gentleman you wouldn’t even ask.”
Before the disapproving glances of a number of guests, Mr. Topper abandoned all hope of clearing himself and fled to the smoking room. Here he sat down on a sofa beside an elderly gentleman who was snoring with childlike candor, his half-smoked cigar still held in his hand. Topper produced his handkerchief and mopped his flushed face. When he looked up the eyes of the elderly gentleman were fixed reproachfully on him.
“Why did you do that?” he demanded.
“You were snoring,” replied Mr. Topper for lack of a better answer.
“That was no way to stop me,” said the gentleman. “Don’t do it again or I’ll call for help.”
Topper, at his wit’s end, thereupon decided that his room was the only safe place for him. Taking the precaution to stay as far away as possible from anyone, he made for the stairs, but here his retreat was cut off by the charming Mrs. Brewster. He was on the point of hurrying past her when she gave a sudden little cry of surprise and looked coyly at him.
“Why, you naughty man,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m not angry. Just for that you must take a walk with me.”
Mr. Topper, too alarmed to inquire what “just for that” signified to Mrs. Brewster, obediently followed her from the hotel. She led him to a gathering of boulders overhanging the beach and gracefully arranged herself thereon, using Mr. Topper’s hand for support and forgetting to give it back to him.
Mr. Topper’s mind was in a state of siege, unhappy thoughts attacking it from all sides, as he vainly strove to figure out what curse had overtaken him. He was convinced that Marion Kerby was in some way involved in his predicament, that she was, in fact, directly responsible for it. Mrs. Brewster’s cooing voice interrupted his moody reflections.
“I was such a lonesome girl until you came,” she said. “There’s not a single man in all this hotel that’s half alive.”
“But I’m not a single man,” Mr. Topper replied cautiously.
“Oh, I don’t mean that,” she laughed. “And anyway I hate single men. They always propose marriage.”
Not feeling quite sure as to what proposals were expected of him, Mr. Topper made some pleasant reference to the character of the night.
“It’s delicious,” murmured Mrs. Brewster, moving closer to him and extending one hand to the sea.
Then a strange thing occurred. A white arm suddenly darted from the night and the hand at the end of it, seizing Mrs. Brewster’s, shook it violently up and down. With a cry of terror she fell back into Mr. Topper’s arms, and when he had succeeded in propping her up, a headless dog was sitting calmly before them on the rocks. Mr. Topper recognized Oscar immediately, but Mrs. Brewster had never met the dog. Nor did she stay now to be introduced. With little moaning noises she rose unsteadily to her feet and scrambled over the boulders with goatlike agility. The sound of maniacal laughter bursting in the air above her hastened her departure. Mr. Topper turned back to the ocean with thoughts of suicide, only to find that Oscar had vanished and that Marion Kerby was standing in his place.
“So that,” she began in a voice of cold fury, “so that is the way you make use of your liberty. Picking a woman up at dinner and taking her out on the rocks. You love walking, don’t you? Yes, you do not. I know. I know everything, heard every word you said, saw every look you gave her. Sitting here holding hands and expecting me to go rustling up grog for your fat paunch. Quite a ladies’ man, aren’t you? Having a grand time and me hanging around like a dope. Well, let me tell you one thing, I’m through. See? I’m through. I quit now, but if I ever catch you with that moth-eaten old troll again I’ll scare the living lights out of her. Of all the nerve. Sitting here on the rocks. Disgusting. Don’t talk to me, you’re too low for words. Come along, Oscar, and I’ll shove you back in your trunk. We’ve intruded too long already.”
Oscar appeared from the shadows and followed Marion Kerby’s swiftly retreating form. Topper, awaking from his daze, sprang to his feet and cried after Marion.
“Don’t go away,” he pleaded. “Give me a chance. I can explain everything. Come back, Marion.”
“If this damn dog only had a head,” she furiously shouted back, “I’d sic him on you. Don’t dare to follow me or I’ll make the scene of your life.”
Through a side door of the hotel Topper sneaked up to his room only to find it depressingly empty. Squeezed oranges and empty gin bottles bore silent witness to the success of the Colonel’s endeavors. Topper walked wearily to the window and looked out over the lawn. Had Marion Kerby permanently left him? That question was uppermost in his mind. He had never before seen her so angry or unreasonable, yet with all his heart he wanted her back. For a long time he walked restlessly up and down his room. Several times he whispered her name, but received no answer. Finally he undressed, switched off the light and, getting into bed, lay there wondering what his vanished companions were doing.
“A lovely celebration,” he muttered bitterly to himself, rolling over on his side and seeking forgetfulness in sleep.
CHAPTER XIX
OSCAR IN TOTO
FERVENTLY HOPING THAT he would be less easily recognizable in a bathing suit, Mr. Topper on the following morning took a solitary breakfast in his room, then hurried down to the beach. Here for an hour or so he reclined torpidly on the warm sand, too dispirited even to attempt the water lapping invitingly at his feet. Under happier circumstances he would have been secretly thrilled by this broad expanse of ocean, but to-day the old spell was broken. Topper was a lonely man, longing for Marion Kerby.
With gloomy eyes he watched the early bathers and reviled them in his heart. Their carefree outbursts of enterprise depressed him. One young chap he particularly disliked. He was tall and blond and beautifully tanned, clean-cut, varsity manhood every inch of him. A slim girl and shapely was watching this cute giant with her soul in her eyes as he carried a canoe, as if it were a straw, down to the water’s edge. And when Mr. Topper saw this happy couple go paddling off over the deep blue sea he earnestly hoped that a large wet wave would rise therefrom and mightily smite their budding romance.
“He smokes a pipe,” thought Mr. Topper, jeeringly, “and that’s just what he would smoke, a pipe, man-fashion.”
Nor did the children playing round him appeal to his better nature. He thought they all looked bold and unpleasant and wished they would go somewhere else. The beach was no place for them. Why couldn’t they keep to their rooms? As a matter of fact, why couldn’t all these people clear out and leave him alone? Take that man for instance, romping with his little son. Could anything be more revolting?
Mr. Topper turned away from this disturbing scene and gazed idly down at two small bare feet, one of which was impatiently tapping the sand. Automatically his eyes traveled up an attractive length of slim limbs until they found themselves squinting into Marion Kerby’s face — a set, unfriendly face.
“If I catch you in the company of that woman,” said the face with suppressed conviction, “I’m going out and drown her.”
“You won’t catch me,” he answered meekly. “Sit down.”
Mrs. Hart and the Colonel joined them at this moment and allied themselves with Mr. Topper in urging Marion to be seated. Ungraciously she flopped to the sand and favored Topper with a sneer.
“If it hadn’t been for these two,” she told him, “you’d never have seen me again. As it is, I doubt if I stay.”
“But I hope you will,” said Topper.
“Don’t speak to me now,” she snapped. “I can’t stand your silly voice. It’s ‘yam, yam’ this and ‘yam, yam’ that until I’m nearly mad. Keep quiet.”
“All right,” replied Mr. Topper with even greater meekness. “I won’t say a word.”
The Colonel’s voice broke in on their happy reunion.
“You should have been with us last night, Topper,” he said. “We had a splendid time.”
“What did you do?” asked Topper, not greatly caring now that he had Marion back.
“Made friends with the proprietor,” the Colonel replied, “and got him squiffed on his own grog. It was wonderful stuff.”
“Wonderful stuff,” Mrs. Hart echoed with deep feeling. “Wonderful!”
“He wants me to stay all summer,” Marion remarked casually. “Room and board free. He says I look all run down as if somebody had been terribly, terribly unkind to me. I just laughed in his face, but I haven’t told him whether I would or wouldn’t. Not yet.”
“You could do much worse, dearie,” Mrs. Hart said, furtively eyeing Mr. Topper’s face. “At least he doesn’t seem to be the flighty kind.”
Topper cast her a look of loathing, but discreetly held his peace.
“Well, Topper, shall we take a dip?” suggested the Colonel, rising from the sand.
Not knowing what else to do, Topper followed the Colonel’s example.
“Sit down!” flared Marion Kerby. “What are you trying to do, make a show of me on this beach? Sit down before I knock you down.”
In his eagerness to obey, Topper almost fell to the sand.
“All right,” he said. “All right.”
“Now get up,” she commanded, “and we’ll all take a dip.”
“Don’t let her get away with it,” whispered the Colonel. “I wouldn’t. They’re always meanest when they know they’re wrong. They want to break you down.”
“What chance have I?” said Topper. “She has every advantage in her favor and no scruples at all. She’s got me where she wants me.”
But before the swim was over friendly relations were once more established between Mr. Topper and Marion Kerby. From the way she treated him it seemed as if the unpleasant incident had never occurred. Topper, exalted to the skies, frolicked like a dolphin and lost all memory of the harsh words she had hurled at him. Exhausted at last by their flounderings, the party returned to the beach where they wallowed in the sand and went over the events of the past night, Mr. Topper listening with such an envious expression that Marion Kerby took his hand in hers and promised him a bigger and better celebration.
It was then that from down the beach came the terrified yelping of a dog. They looked in that direction and saw a large collie in the act of going mad. As he approached them his terror increased. He snapped at the air, spun round on his feet, arched himself in a desperate circle and rolled over in the sand. Nurses snatched up their charges, women screamed and the bathers fled to safety. During all this commotion the Colonel sat watching the actions of the collie with purely professional interest.
“Doesn’t look mad to me,” he observed. “Looks more as if he were fighting something.”
“Oscar,” breathed Mrs. Hart.
“Possibly,” replied the Colonel. “I forgot to mention that when I brought him his chow this morning, Oscar was not in the trunk.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Topper slowly. “Oh, dear me.”
At this moment the collie decided that enough was enough. He rolled over on his back, thrust his legs in the air, and let his tongue hang out. He was unmistakably through. Then above the vanquished dog appeared Oscar’s bushy tail, which was quickly followed by his hind quarters. Gradually the dog progressed until he had reached his ears. Here there was a hesitation, a noticeable wavering, then like the final shove at the goal line, Oscar’s head swam into view.
