Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 22
Slowly the hours dragged by until five o’clock, when the Colonel promptly appeared and solemnly conducted Topper to the beach.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “take your places at the proper distance and when I drop this handkerchief start firing.”
At this little announcement, Mrs. Hart, who had been drinking a trifle in anticipation of the event, clapped her hands enthusiastically.
“Atta boy!” she cried.
Topper looked at her with disgust, then turned his eyes to Marion. She smiled back at him encouragingly, but remained silent. George Kerby beckoned to the Colonel and made a few hurried remarks, after which the Colonel approached Topper with a troubled expression on his face.
“Topper,” he said, “Mr. Kerby insists on his privileges as a spirit. He demands to be allowed to dematerialize as that is, he claims, his natural state.”
“Tell him not to be childish,” said Mr. Topper. “How can I see to throw at him?”
“I mentioned that fact and he replied that that was your worry, not his,” answered the Colonel.
“Ask him if he would prefer to murder me in cold blood,” Topper remarked bitterly. “There’s a razor in my tent.”
“Do you agree to Mr. Kerby’s proposition?” continued the Colonel.
“What else can I do?” cried Topper. “If I don’t agree he’ll chase me all over this place with clam shells anyway. Let’s get it over.”
“Very well,” replied the Colonel. “Here are your shells, and good luck.”
Topper looked miserably at the clam shells the Colonel placed in his hand.
“Give him little ones,” he whispered to the Colonel. “Don’t forget, Colonel, pick out two small ones, small and light.”
“When I drop the handkerchief,” the Colonel once more announced, “you gentlemen can begin to fire.”
“At what?” called Mr. Topper as George Kerby faded from the scene.
“I can’t see as that makes much difference,” replied the Colonel. “But if you want a mark fire where you last saw him.”
The Colonel raised his arm and the handkerchief fluttered in the air.
“One minute,” called Mr. Topper. “Suppose he sneaks up behind me? Tell him he shouldn’t do that.”
“Don’t interrupt me again,” said the Colonel impatiently. “Of course he wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, wouldn’t he!” answered Topper. “That’s just what he would do.”
He looked at the spot where he had last seen George Kerby and saw a clam shell poised in the air. To Topper it looked neither little nor light. It was a brutal clam shell, the great-grandfather of all clams.
“Are you ready, gentlemen?” called the Colonel.
“I am,” answered Mrs. Hart. “What a lark. Topper, you’ll soon be with us, old boy.”
The handkerchief dropped to the ground and Topper, aiming at the poised shell, missed it. Then the poised shell aimed at Topper and did not miss. It met Mr. Topper just above the eye and sent him speedily to earth. As if the shell had struck her, Marion gave a little cry and ran over to him, lifting his head to her lap. George Kerby reappeared and stood looking down at Topper rather guiltily. The Colonel was bathing the wound.
“If you’ve killed him,” said Marion Kerby, “he’ll be over on our side and then the triangle will be complete.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” replied Kerby, bending anxiously over Topper. “I didn’t mean to throw so hard. Pull him through, Colonel.”
Mrs. Hart was crying softly to herself and sipping a glass of Scotch.
“He was such a nice man,” she sobbed. “Such a generous host.”
The Colonel and Marion worked swiftly and silently as they skillfully bandaged Topper’s head. Then the Colonel took him in his arms and carried him to his tent, Mrs. Hart following after them with tipsy lamentations.
CHAPTER XX
THE RETURN TO THE TREE
WITH AN EXPRESSION of congealed solicitude George Kerby was holding a glass of Scotch to Mr. Topper’s lips when next the stricken man opened his eyes on a world he had elaborately resigned himself to leave forever. The Colonel was making bandages with professional detachment and Marion Kerby was sitting on one side of the cot. Mrs. Hart, in an attitude of florid grief, was untidily draped over the foot of it. As he took in the serious group Topper was reminded of wax figures.
“Are you trying to poison me,” he asked, “now that you’ve got me down?”
“Oh, dear me, no,” Mrs. Hart pleaded moistly. “Please take a little drink. It will do you a world of good. It’s already helped me tremendously.”
Mr. Topper looked with surprise at her tear-moist face.
“What’s this?” he asked. “Tears? Don’t cry, my child, he’ll get me the next time.”
“Yes,” she answered dramatically, “they’re tears if you want to know. Ask them all. Tell him, Marion. Ever since that clam shell knocked you out I’ve been crying as if my heart would break. And I do believe it will unless some considerate person gives me a little something to tuck up my nerves.”
Kerby bent over Topper and looked contritely into his eyes.
“Listen, old man,” he said. “Tell me that I’m forgiven. I’m terribly ashamed of myself for getting you all messed up. The honors are even now.”
“But not the injuries,” Mr. Topper replied with a tired smile. “You put the gory in glory, George, but I don’t mind. Give me that drink and let’s call it a duel. There’s one thing, though, I’ll never forgive, not to the end of my days.”
“What’s that?” asked George Kerby.
“You’ve eternally ruined clams for me,” said Topper. “You don’t know what that means. Clams were my only vice once upon a time — a secret craving I kept to myself. Even my wife didn’t know I loved them. That’s all over now. Hereafter whenever I see a clam I’m going to duck and run like hell.”
“How droll he is,” murmured Mrs. Hart. “Let’s all have a drink.”
They all did, all save Marion Kerby, who held a moist cloth to Mr. Topper’s head.
“Do you want me to send these ruffians away?” she asked him. “Perhaps you had better rest.”
“Let the ruffians stay,” he answered. “The situation pleases my vanity. Never before have I been such a center of attraction.”
The Colonel turned to Kerby with one of his most disarming smiles.
“Now that the storm is over,” he said, “I want to tell everyone that it’s been a real pleasure to have met George Kerby. We have thought so much about him.”
“Thanks,” acknowledged Kerby, “but if it hadn’t been for Marion’s playfulness in that church you might never have had the pleasure. You can’t imagine what a great to-do her misplaced sense of humor has created. By this time, I’ll bet, the papers are full of it and the sparks are fairly flying from scientific and religious circles.”
“She was too funny for words,” said Mrs. Hart.
“Perhaps,” replied Kerby, “but as soon as I heard of it I knew what had happened. I recognized that particular brand of madness, having suffered from it for years. After that it was easy to find you.”
“How fortunate,” said the Colonel, with highly polished hypocrisy. “If we had known you were back we would have scoured the countryside. Your return was our constant topic of conversation. Topper and your wife were forever talking about it.”
“Were they?” cried Kerby, pitifully pleased. “What a beast I’ve been.”
“They were,” continued the Colonel, “but don’t worry. It’s been a good summer all around. You’ve outraged Europe and we’ve despoiled the New England States. At last we meet. A little misunderstanding, a most natural misunderstanding, is happily if painfully settled. Therefore I propose a final celebration. I feel that my ectoplasm is running low and I fancy we’re all about in the same boat We can’t fade away without one last fling, but this time the party will be on us. Mrs. Hart and your servant will give it.”
“Where?” asked Mrs. Hart, sleepily opening her eyes. “May I come?”
The Colonel cast her a glance of commiseration.
“The events of the day have been too much for the poor woman,” he remarked. “She is sodden with excitement.”
“It’s not that at all,” she protested. “Tell him, Marion. It’s just because I’m so frantically sympathetic. No one suffers as I do. No one has such nerves. You wouldn’t believe how much . . .”
“The Colonel,” George Kerby interrupted impatiently, “has extended to us a very handsome invitation which I, for one, accept on the spot. But where can we stage this celebration? From what I’ve been able to gather, you people have about exhausted all the hospitality on this side of the Rockies.”
“How about right here?” suggested the Colonel. “This is a good, safe place.”
“No,” put in Topper, “let’s go back to the old inn — you know, George, where we pulled our first party. Mrs. Hart and the Colonel would love it there.”
Marion Kerby was gazing at Topper with a reminiscent light in her eyes.
“I second the motion,” she said. “The old inn would be a lovely place for a farewell party.”
At this Mrs. Hart’s shoulders began to shake convulsively.
“Don’t say farewell,” she sobbed. “I can’t bear to think of the parting. Quick, Colonel, my glass.”
Marion motioned to the Colonel, who immediately lifted the grief-stricken woman to her feet, and, whispering words of comfort in her ear, assisted her from the tent.
Two days later the Colonel and Mrs. Hart left for the inn, there to complete arrangements for the celebration. The others, including Oscar, who had stubbornly refused to dematerialize, were to follow by motor within a few days.
On the morning of departure Topper, still bearing the honorable scar of battle, wandered dejectedly about the place. He was looking forward with but small eagerness to the farewell celebration and would have preferred to linger on forever in this quiet spot where he had spent so many happy and carefree days. Everything spoke to him of Marion, the water, the beach and the trees. Everything breathed farewell, the parting of the ways. If he could only have remained near her even with her husband present, it would have been better than a final separation. For the first time in many days he thought of Mrs. Topper, thought of her miserably, protestingly and with a little pang of shame. He had treated the poor creature terribly, he realized that, and the realization made it no easier for him to face their inevitable reunion.
To escape his thoughts he put on his bathing suit and went for a parting swim. He swam far out to the mouth of the cove and looked across the water to the distant horizon where tumbled clouds, touched with sunlight, were banked against the sky. He wished that he could swim out there with Marion Kerby and hide with her behind that fleecy curtain, to be protected by it forever from the urgency of life, to prolong there in a curtained land the romance and freedom he had enjoyed for only a few short months. His dream of escape was shattered by a voice floating to him across the water. Looking behind he saw Marion, clad in her bathing suit, gliding towards him in the canoe.
“What are you doing so far from shore?” she demanded. “It’s time we were getting started.”
“Are you so eager to leave?” he asked her.
“My heart is no lighter than yours,” she answered, “but I’m not wasting time weighing it. Look out, I’m coming in.”
She poised herself and dived lightly overboard, emerging close to Topper. Together they swam back to the canoe, and Topper, with all his strength, pushed it out of the cove.
“Let it drift away,” he said, “as a symbol of my departing happiness.”
“I’m in on that, old thing,” she replied, “but just the same, cheer up. We’d better be getting back to shore or George will be collecting another nice little pile of clam shells.”
“But, Marion,” Topper protested, “is it really to be the end of things? Can’t we go on for a while?”
“I’m afraid not,” she replied. “You and George are not proper playmates, and anyway my ectoplasm is growing a trifle frayed. You’ll be seeing through me soon.”
“You’ve deprived me of all my old ideas,” Mr. Topper answered, “and all I have in their place is an empty, aching feeling, a feeling of loss and discontent, the makings of a rebellion.”
“Memories!” she cried. “Memories, Topper. Do they mean nothing to you? Cling to them. The past is made of memories, the future is made of dreams. Hot stuff!”
“Not mine,” answered Topper. “Desk tops and legs of lamb.”
“Well, then, here’s a memory for you,” she said, swimming close to him and giving him a little salt-edged kiss. “Now, quit your mooning and get back to shore.”
Topper buried his face in the water and swam to the beach, Marion following easily in his wake. George Kerby was waiting for them with a glass in either hand, and as Topper swiftly studied his face, he fancied he detected in Kerby’s eyes a hint of pain, something lonely and hidden, yet reassuringly sympathetic.
“I thought you might like these after your long swim,” said Kerby, a shade apologetically.
Something about the situation made it difficult for Topper to speak for a moment. He accepted the extended glass and pretended to be getting his breath.
“You’re thoughtful, George,” he said at last. “Here are my best regards to you.”
“Good luck,” replied Kerby with a faint smile. “This place is almost too lovely to leave.”
But they left it just the same, left it as it was, the canoe drifting out with the tide and the tents rippling in the light breeze beneath a high, glad sun. Topper, with Oscar on his lap, slouched in the automobile and refused to look back at the little beach as Kerby drove across the field and on to the narrow road. No one spoke, no one seemed inclined to look at the other. They were occupied with their thoughts, which apparently were not happy. Presently Marion found a bottle and handed it to Topper.
“What’s wrong with this outfit?” she demanded. “You’d think we were going to a funeral instead of a celebration. The pair of you depress me.”
Topper and Kerby drank, solemnly at first, but gradually their solemnity faded until at last the three of them felt moved to lift their voices in writhing harmony, so painful to the ears that Oscar howled in protest.
Dusk was drifting over the fields by the time they reached their destination, and already the old inn was partly obscured by trees and shadows. They parked the car behind a clump of bushes and entered the inn by a rear door, old memories rising up to greet them as they stood in the dim light of the silent room. No one was there to receive them, but signs of preparation were everywhere in evidence. A long table had been arranged at one end of the room and the great sideboard was burdened with provisions, glasses and bottles. In one corner Marion discovered a battered but businesslike phonograph. Cigars and cigarettes had been placed by thoughtful hands at all convenient points. Oscar was behaving strangely. The hair stood up on his back as he sniffed the air excitedly and gave utterance to eager whines. Observing the behavior of the dog, Topper began to feel uncomfortable.
Suddenly three loud raps shattered the silence of the room and a voice called out, “Attention!” Topper, on his dash to the door, stopped long enough to see the Colonel, in full uniform, emerge from the gloom. The sight reassured him, as did the appearance of Mrs. Hart a moment later. Oscar was barking madly and scrambling at the Colonel’s feet. Mrs. Hart was approaching Topper with a tray full of glasses. This decided him to stay. He took a glass and drained its contents.
“Take another,” said Mrs. Hart.
“Thanks,” replied Topper. “How are your nerves? Mine are terrible.”
“Couldn’t be worse,” she assured him. “The arrangements have been such a strain. I think I’d better join you before I continue with the tray.”
“Do,” urged Topper. “It would be awful if you fainted.”
They drank together quickly and Mrs. Hart hurried away. Topper looked about the room and was appalled by the sight he beheld. Bodies in various stages of formation were appearing in every corner. Heads were floating in the air and bodyless legs were walking across the floor. Strangely detached-looking arms were already snatching food and glasses from the sideboard. And as Topper stood there gazing, the room gradually became peopled with men and women in evening clothes. They stood about in groups and conversed with animation. In the most natural way in the world they consumed sandwiches and cocktails, and lifted their voices in laughter. Marion Kerby came over to Topper and took him by the hand.
“Stop gaping like that,” she whispered. “It’s only a few of the Colonel’s friends he’s invited in honor of the celebration, and if you’ll take it from me, it’s a pretty hard-looking crowd. Don’t get giddy with any of the women or I’ll have to start something. I want you for myself to-night.”
“Never in my life have I witnessed such a wholesale display of horrifying sights,” said Mr. Topper. “You are welcome to have me all to yourself to-night. I’m cowed.”
“But first we must appear in public,” she replied. “Come with me and I’ll steer you safely through.”
She led him to a table at which George and the Colonel were already seated. Topper was greeted with shouts of joy, and the Colonel, thrusting his hand into a bucket, produced a bottle of champagne.
“Topper,” he said, “nothing is too good for you. I’ve been waiting for this moment.”
At the sound of the popping cork Mrs. Hart innocently sidled up to the table and sank to a chair with a weary sigh.
“I’m exhausted,” she breathed. “Simply exhausted. What’s that? Champagne?”
“Yes,” said the Colonel. “Do you drink it?”
“I will try to-night,” she answered in a resigned voice. “They say it’s good for exhaustion.”
When the Colonel had filled the glasses he rose and bowed to Topper.
“Topper,” he said, “I toast you as a man in a million. On this, our last public appearance, so to speak, I am frank to say that of all the happy things we leave behind you will be the most missed.”
