Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 286
All went well with me until I essayed the six flight climb-up to the cave of these cliff-dwelling people, when I found that the one-storied existence I had been leading in the Pelham bungalows had completely unfitted me for mountain climbing. As I toiled upward I wondered dimly how these people ever managed to keep so fat after having mounted to such a great distance for so long a time. Somehow they had done it, not only maintained their already acquired fat but added greatly thereto. There would be no refreshing cup to quaff upon arriving, only water, or at best milk. This I knew and the knowledge added pounds to my already heavy feet.
“My, what a dirty sailor you are, to be sure,” they said to me from the depth of their plump complacency.
“Quite so,” I gasped, falling into a chair, “I seem to remember having heard the same thing once before to-day.”
June 25th. Neither Saturday nor Sunday was a complete success and for a while Saturday afternoon assumed the proportions of a disaster. After having rested from my climb, I decided to wash my Whites so that I wouldn’t be arrested as a deserter or be thrown into the brig upon checking in. The fat people on learning of my intentions decided that the sight of such labor would tire them beyond endurance, so they departed, leaving me in solitary possession of their flat. I thereupon removed my jumper, humped my back over the tub, scrubbed industriously until the garment was white, then hastened roofwards and arranged it prettily on the line. This accomplished, I hurried down, removed my trousers, rehumped my back over the tub, scrubbed industriously until the trousers in turn were white and once more dashed roofwards. I have always been absent minded, but never to such an appalling extent as to appear clad only in my scanty underwear in the midst of a mixed throng of ladies, gentlemen and children. This I did. Some venturous souls had claimed the roof as their own during my absence so that when I sprang from the final step to claim my place in the sun I found myself by no means alone. With a cry of horror I leaped to the other side of the clothes-line and endeavored to conceal myself behind an old lady’s petticoat or a lady’s old petticoat or something of that nature. Whoever wore the thing must have been a very short person indeed, for the garment reached scarcely down to my knees, below which my B.V.D.’s fluttered in an intriguing manner.
“Sir,” thundered a pompous gentleman, “have you any explanation for your surprising conduct?”
“Several,” I replied briskly from behind my only claim on respectability. “In the first place, I didn’t expect an audience. In the second—”
“That will do, sir,” broke in this heavy person in a quarterdeck voice. “Who, may I ask, are you?”
“You may,” I replied. “I’m a God-fearing sailor man who is doing the best he can to keep nice and clean in spite of the uncalled for intervention of a red-faced oaf of a plumber person who should know better than to stand around watching him.”
“I’m a God-fearing sailor man who is doing the best he can to keep clean”
“Don’t take on so, George,” said one of the women whom I suspected of edging around in order to get a better view of me, “the poor young man is a sailor — where is your patriotism?”
“Yes,” broke in the other woman, edging around on the other side, “he’s one of our sailor boys. Treat him nice.”
“Patriotic, I am,” roared George wrathfully, “but not to the extent of condoning and looking lightly upon such a flagrant breach of decency as this semi-nude, so-called sailor has committed in our midst.”
“If you’d give me a couple of Thrift Stamps,” I suggested, “I might be able to come out from behind this blooming barrage.”
“Shameless,” exploded the man.
“Not at all,” I replied, “in the olden days it was quite customary for young gentlemen and elderly stout ones like yourself, for instance, to drop in at the best caves with very much less on than I have without any one considering their conduct in any degree irregular. In fact, the ladies of this time were no better themselves, it being deemed highly proper for them to appear in some small bit of stuff and nobody thought the worst of it at all. Take the early days of the fifteenth century B.C.—”
At this point in my eloquent address a young child, who had hitherto escaped my attention, took it upon herself to swing on the line with the result that it parted with a snap and my last vestige of protection came fluttering to the roof. For one tense moment I stood gazing into the dilated eyes of those before me. Then with surprising presence of mind, I sprang to a ladder that led to the water tank, swarmed up it with the agility of a cat and lowered myself with a gasp of despair into the cold, cold water of the tank. From this place of security I gazed down on the man who had been responsible for my unfortunate plight. I felt myself sinned against, and the longer I remained in that water, up to my neck, the more I felt my wrongs. I gave voice to them. I said bitter, abusive things to the man.
“Clear the quarter deck,” I shouted, “get aft, or, by gad, I’ll come fluttering down there on your flat, bald head like a blooming flood. Vamoos, hombre, pronto — plenty quick and take your brood with you.” Then I said some more things as my father before me had said them, and the man withdrew with his women.
“He’s a sailor,” he said as he did so. “Hurry, my dears, this is worse than nakedness.”
I emerged and sat in a borrowed bathrobe the rest of the evening. The next morning my clothes were still damp. Now, that’s what I call a stupid way to spend a Saturday night on liberty. The fat people enjoyed it.
June 29th. I met a very pleasant dog yesterday, whom I called Mr. Fogerty because of his sober countenance and the benign but rather puzzled expression in his large, limpid eyes, which were almost completely hidden by his bangs. He was evidently a visitor in camp, so I took him around and introduced him to the rest of the dogs and several of the better sort of goats. In all of these he displayed a friendly but dignified interest, seeming to question them on the life of the camp, how they liked the Navy and what they thought were the prospects for an early peace. He refused to be separated from me, however, and even broke into the mess hall, from which he was unceremoniously ejected, but not before he had gotten half of my ration. In some strange manner he must have found out from one of the other dogs my name and address and exactly where I swung, for in the middle of the night I awoke to hear a lonesome whining in the darkness beneath my hammock and then the sniff, sniff of an investigating nose. As I know how it feels to be lonely in a big black barracks in the dead of night I carefully descended to the deck and collected this animal — it was my old friend, Mr. Fogerty, and he was quite overjoyed at having once more found me. After licking my face in gratitude he sat back on his haunches and waited for me to do something amusing. I didn’t have the heart to leave him there in the darkness. Dogs have a certain way about them that gets me every time. I lifted Mr. Fogerty, a huge hulk of a dog, with much care, and adjusting of overlapping paws into my hammock, and received a kiss in the eye for my trouble. Then I followed Mr. Fogerty into the hammock and resumed my slumber, but not with much comfort. Mr. Fogerty is a large, sprawly dog, who evidently has been used to sleeping in vast spaces and who sees no reason for changing a lifelong habit. Consequently he considered me in the nature of a piece of gratifying upholstery. He slept with his hind legs on my stomach and his front paws propped against my chin. When he scratched, as he not infrequently did, what I decided must be a flea, his hind leg beat upon the canvas and produced a noise not unlike a drum. Thus we slept, but through some miscalculation I must have slept over, for it seems that the Master-at-arms, a very large and capable Irishman, came and shook my hammock.
“I took him around and introduced him to the rest of the dogs and several of the better sort of goatS”
“Hit the deck there, sailor,” he said, “shake a leg, shake a leg.”
At this point Mr. Fogerty took it upon himself to peer over the side of the hammock to see who this disturber of peace and quiet could be. This was just a little out of the line of duty for the jimmy legs, and I can’t say as I blame him for his conduct under rather trying circumstances. Mr. Fogerty has a large, shaggy head, not unlike a lion’s, and his mouth, too, is quite large and contains some very long and sharp teeth. It seems that Mr. Fogerty, still heavy with slumber, quite naturally yawned into the horrified face of the Jimmy-legs, who, mistaking the operation for a hostile demonstration, retreated from the barracks with admirable rapidity for one so large, crying in a distracted voice as he did so:
“By the saints, it’s a beast he’s turned into during the night. Sure, it’s a visitation of Providence, heaven preserve us.”
It seems I have been washing hammocks ever since. Mr. Fogerty sits around and wonders what it’s all about. I like Fogerty, but he gets me in trouble, and in this I need no help whatsoever.
“I resumed my slumber, but not with much comfort”
July 1st. This day I almost succeeded in sinking myself for the final count. The fishes around about the environs of City Island were disappointed beyond words when I came up for the fourth time and stayed up. In my delirium I imagined that school had been let out in honor of my reception and that all the pretty little fishes were sticking around in expectant groups cheering loudly at the thought of the conclusion of their meatless days. Fortunately for the Navy, however, I cheated them and saved myself in order to scrub many more hammocks and white clothes, an object to which I seem to have dedicated my life.
It all come about, as do most drowning parties, in quite an unexpected manner. For some reason it had been arranged that I should take a swim over at one of the emporiums at City Island, and, as I interposed no objections, I accordingly departed with my faithful Mr. Fogerty tumbling along at my heels. Since Mr. Fogerty involved me in trouble the other day by barking at the Jimmy-legs he has endeavored in all possible ways to make up for his thoughtless irregularity. For instance, he met me this morning with an almost brand new shoe which in some manner he had managed to pick up in his wanderings. It fits perfectly, and if he only succeeds in finding the mate to it I shall probably not look for the owner. As a further proof of his good will Mr. Fogerty bit, or attempted to bite, a P.O. who spoke to me roughly regarding the picturesque way I was holding my gun.
“Whose dog is that?” demanded the P.O.
Silence in the ranks. Mr. Fogerty looked defiantly at him for a moment and then trotted deliberately over and sat down upon my foot.
“Oh, so he belongs to you!” continued the P.O. in a threatening voice.
“No, sir,” I faltered; “you see, it isn’t that way at all. I belong to Mr. Fogerty.”
“Who in — who in — who is Mr. Fogerty?” shouted the P.O. “And how in — how in — how did he happen to get into the conversation?”
“Why, this is Mr. Fogerty,” I replied; “this dog here, sitting on my foot.”
“Oh, is that so?” jeered the P.O., a man noted for his quick retorts. “Well, you take your silly looking dog away from here and secure him in some safe place. He ain’t no fit associate for our camp dogs. And, furthermore,” he added, “the next time Mr. Fogerty attempts to bite me I’m going to put you on report — savez?”
Mr. Fogerty is almost as much of a comfort in camp as mother.
Well, that’s another something else again and has nothing to do with my swim and approximate drowning at City Island. Swimming has always been one of my strong points, and I have taken in the past no little pride in my appearance, not only in a bathing outfit, but also in the water. However, the suit they provided me with on this occasion did not show me up in a very alluring light. It was quite large and evidently built according to a model of the early Victorian Era. I was swathed in yards of cloth much in the same manner as is a very young child. It delighted Mr. Fogerty, who expressed his admiration by attaching himself to the lower half of my attire and remaining there until I had waded through several colonies of barnacles far out into the bay. Bidding farewell to Mr. Fogerty at this point, I gave myself over to the joy of the moment and went wallowing along, giving a surprising imitation of the famous Australian crawl. Far in the distance I sighted an island, to which I decided to swim. This was a very poor decision, indeed, because long before I had reached the spot I was in a sinking condition owing to the great heaviness of my suit and a tremendous slacking down of lung power. It was too late to retreat to the shore; the island was the nearest point, and that wasn’t near. On I gasped, my mind teeming with cheerless thoughts of the ocean’s bed waiting to receive me. Just as I was about to shake hands with myself for the last time I cleared the water from my eyes and discovered that the island though still distant was not altogether impossible. Therewith I discarded the top part of my suit and struck out once more. The island was now almost within my grasp. Life seemed to be not such a lost cause after all. Then suddenly, quite clearly, just as I was about to pull myself up on the shore, I saw a woman standing on the bank and heard her shouting in a very conventional voice:
“Private property! Private property!”
I sank. This was too much. As I came up for the first count, and just before I sank back beneath the blue, I had time to hear her repeat:
“Private property! Please keep off!”
I went down very quickly this time and very far. When I arose I saw as though in a dream another woman standing by the first one and seemingly arguing with her.
“He’s drowning!” she said.
“I’m sure I can’t help that!” the other one answered. And then in a loud, imperious voice:
“Private property! No visitors allowed!”
The water closed over my head and stilled her hateful voice.
“No,” she was saying as I came up for the third time; “I can’t do it. If I make an exception of one I must make an exception of all.”
Although I hated to be rude about it, having always disliked forcing myself upon people, I decided on my fourth trip down that unless I wanted to be a dead sailor I had better be taking steps. It was almost too late. There wasn’t enough wind left in me to fatten a small sized bubble.
“There he is again!” she cried in a petulant voice as I once more appeared. “Why doesn’t he go away?”
“He’s just about to — for good!” said the other lady. With a pitiful yap I struck out feebly in the general direction of the shore. It wouldn’t work. My arms refused to move. Then quite suddenly and deliriously I felt two soft, cool arms enfold me, and my head sank back on a delicately unholstered shoulder. Somehow it reminded me of the old days.
“Home, James,” I murmured, as I was slowly towed to shore. Just before closing my eyes I caught a fleeting glimpse of a young lady clad in one of the one-piecest one-piece bathing suits I had ever seen. She was bending over me sympathetically.
“Private property!” cried my tormentor, shaking a finger at me. “What a pity!” I thought as I closed my eyes and drifted off into sweet dreams in which Mr. Fogerty, my beautiful rescuer, and myself were dancing hand-and-hand on the parade ground to the music of the massed band, much to the edification of the entire station assembled in review formation.
Presently I awoke to the hateful strains of this old hard-shell’s voice:
“See what you’ve done!” she was saying to the young girl. “You’ve brought in a half naked man, and now that he has seen you in a much worse condition than he is, we’ll have ten thousand sailors swimming out to this island in one continuous swarm.”
“Oh, won’t that be fun!” cried the girl. And from that time on, in spite of the objections of her mother, we were fast friends.
When I returned to shore it was in a rowboat with this fair young creature. The faithful Fogerty was waiting on the beach for me, where, it later developed, he had been sleeping quite comfortably on an unknown woman’s high powered sport hat, as is only reasonable.
July 2nd. Mother got in again. There seems to be no practical way of keeping her out. This time she came breezing in with a friend from East Aurora, a large, elderly woman of about one hundred and ten summers and an equal number of very hard winters. The first thing mother said was to the effect that she was going to see what she could do about getting me a rating. She did. The very first officer she saw she sailed up to and buttonholed much to my horror.
“Why can’t my boy Oswald have a pretty little eagle on his arm, such as I see so many of the young men up here wearing about the camp?”
The abruptness of this question left the officer momentarily stunned, but I will say for him that he rallied quickly and returned a remarkably diplomatic reply to the effect that the pretty little eagle, although pleasing to gaze upon, was not primarily intended to be so much of a decoration as means of identification, and that certain small qualifications were required, as a rule, before one was permitted to wear one of the emblems in question; qualifications, he hastened to add, which he had not the slightest doubt that I failed to possess if I was the true son of my mother, but which, owing to fate and circumstances, I had probably been unable to exercise. Whereupon he bid her a very courteous good-day, returned my salute, and passed on, but not before the very old lady accompanying my mother saluted also, raising her hand to her funny bit of a bonnet with unnecessary snappiness and snickering in a senile manner. This last episode upset me completely, but the old lady was irrepressible. From that time on she punctuated her progress through the camp with exaggerated salutes to all the officers she encountered on the way. This, of course, was quite a startling and undignified performance for one of her years, very embarrassing to me, as well as mystifying to the officers, who hardly knew whether to hurl me into the brig as vicarious atonement or to rebuke the flighty old creature, on the grounds of undue levity. Most of them passed by, however, with averted eyes and a discountenanced expression, feeling, I am sure, that I had put her up to it. Mother thought it quite amusing, and enjoyed my discomfiture hugely. Then for no particular reason she began to garnish her conversation with inappropriate seagoing expressions, such as “Pipe down,” “Hit the deck,” “Avast,” and “Hello, Buddy!” Where she ever picked up all this nonsense I am at a loss to discover, but she continued to pull it to the bitter end.
