Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 294
“Don’t feel so cold now, does it?” he said presently, after the mysterious bottle had exchanged hands numerous times.
“No,” says I, “I believe it’s actually gotten warmer.”
“Sure it’s getting warmer all the time,” he replied and reached for the bottle.
After we had taken a couple of more tugs at the halyards we found that we were against the bottom and we further found that the running board of the automobile was no longer large enough to hold us. In fact, the whole night seemed a little cramped for our exuberant spirits,
“Let’s play golf,” suggested my friend.
“All right,” I agreed readily, “but we’ve got to find a golf ball.”
“What’s this?” he asked, producing one.
“That’s the little thing,” I replied, and together we set off to search of a place in which to play our game.
Right in the middle of the street we found such a place. Owing to some unfinished street mending the people were unable to crowd onto this small spot and so we had just sufficient room for a swing.
“What do you do?” says he.
“I’ll show you,” says I, as I carefully set the ball and addressed it with the utmost politeness.
“See that window over there,” I said, pointing to the second story of a clothing shop across the street, “The one all lighted up with the figure of a guy wearing the latest ‘varsity cut 1919’ model in it?”
‘See that window over there?’
“Yeah,” said he, still puzzled.
“Well, concentrate your attention on me and that window. I’m an old hand at this game.”
With this I set myself, raised the club and brought it down with a resounding whack upon the ball. It was one of the cleanest, most powerful strokes I have ever made. It would have found the green on any course in the world. My only regret is that the window was in the way. But the window was in the way. We could not follow the course of the ball, but we had no difficulty in locating it. There was a sudden, soul-satisfying shattering of glass and instantly thereafter the gentleman in the “varsity cut” clothes became very much disturbed. His hat tilted over his inoffensive wax nose and his outboard arm swung crazily. Numerous people gazed up at the window, but no one seemed to know or care from which direction the missile had come.
“Lord,” breathed my friend, “what a wallop!” He ran back of the automobile and returned with another ball.
“Let me try,” he pleaded.
“Go to it,” I said, giving him a few instructions and feeling highly delighted over the success of my last shot. “Don’t worry about the window; they’re all insured.”
His first half a dozen swings missed the ball completely and only succeeding in arousing his ill temper and putting more power in his arms. Suddenly he hit it. The departed spirit of some great golf champion must have guided his stroke.
“Listen!” he gasped, as the sound of breaking glass fell pleasantly upon the night.
The figure of an Egyptian king, sitting in envious admiration before the figure of an upstanding young gentleman clad proudly in another style of “varsity cut” clothes, suddenly crumbled up on his throne and seemed to lose all interest in the object of his admiration.
This was too much for my friend. He almost broke down from joy. He embraced me and danced around like the not infrequently referred-to wild Indian.
“What a game!” he kept repeating. “What a game! I’m going to buy me a lot of them funny little golf balls and play it all me life.”
We returned to the automobile with the clubs, but the car had disappeared completely, and the spot thereof knew it no more. From that time on this sailor man and I wandered around the town in each other’s company, getting kisses and refreshments whenever the opportunity presented itself, which it did with a certain degree of frequency. I must confess that for the time being I had completely forgotten Polly and, furthermore, may it be set down to my everlasting shame that I reported aboard with my hat tied on with some woman’s automobile scarf and a golf stick in my hand.
On my way to the ship I encountered an old woman standing miserably on a corner in the dim, early morning light. In one hand was a bucket, in the other she held a mop.
“It’s all over, mother,” I cried. “It’s all over.” But she merely stared before her.
“It’s all over,” I repeated, thinking to arouse the old lady. “The war is over.”
For a moment she continued to stare in that same dull way into nothingness, then she turned on me with a slow, crooked smile, and one thin, bony hand sought her eyes. She bowed her head, and for some reason I felt sure there were tears beneath that withered old hand.
“It’s all over,” I repeated softly to myself, and for the first time the full, ironical significance of what I had been shouting to the lonely old woman became clear to me, and with that knowledge the joy of the past night grew sour in my throat.
Nov. 18th. — Well, it’s all over with me. Tim, Tony, the Spider and myself have been detached from the ship and ordered to report back to Pelham. How will I ever be able to stand that place after having enjoyed the freedom of the seas. We’re to be released, I understand, but a certain amount of vagueness is attached to this point. Already the Spider has begun to sandpaper his fingers. He says that the rough work he has been doing while in the Navy has completely ruined his hands for safe-cracking. His fingers fairly itch to get back on a good tough combination. Yesterday he relieved Tim of all his loose change and handed it back to him later, saying he was merely getting back into practice, and this morning he passed among the ship’s company, distributing little tokens he had removed from certain of its members during the last trip. From all sides he was greeted with expressions of admiration on the part of those he had so honored. After the ceremony he returned to us feeling both proud and reassured. We treat him now in a friendly manner, but are a trifle distant at the same time. The Spider has a habit of stealing our money and then asking us to loan it to him. This we are necessarily forced to do, under the circumstances.
It is now time for us to shove off. I have said good-bye to friend and enemy alike. Even the ship’s painter smiled when I apologized to him for the last time for having dropped my hammock on him and knocking him off the scow. The Quartermaster forgave me for losing the lead, and everybody seemed to be happy and relieved to see me go. I experienced a similar feeling myself, and when I came on deck and looked down the channel at a long, restive expanse of putty-colored water it was with a sensation of great thankfulness that I shouldered my bag and hammock and left the ship upon which I had served with a degree of uselessness hitherto unachieved by any sailor in any navy.
Nov. 19th — (Back at Pelham). “My God! Are you back again?” said an apparently horror-stricken officer, as I stood before the mast on the charge of having a dirty bag.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, cheerfully. “And I had earnestly hoped never to see your face again, sir.”
For a moment we stood gazing reflectively at each other. Then a broad, friendly smile made its appearance on the officer’s face, lending to it a hitherto unsuspected human.
“Well, what did you do to the ship you were on?” he asked.
“Practically everything, sir,” I replied, modestly. “In fact, it is claimed that I almost ruined it”
“Not at all unlikely, if you ran true to form,” he answered, still smiling.
“I did, sir,” I said. “I ran true to form, and in some instances surpassed myself.”
“Good!” said the officer, approvingly. “And now you’re going up for a shoot.”
There was hardly any answer to this remark that I could well make. However, my face assumed a sort of smeared expression, and the more smeared my expression became the more cheerful grew the officer.
“Well, it’s hardly the way to welcome you back from the sea, I’ll admit,” began the officer. “Perhaps your bag got soiled, so to speak, in the process of transportation.”
He looked at me and smiled strangely.
“It did, sir,” I replied, without turning a hair. “It was very dusty coming up.”
“All right,” says he. “Under the circumstances it’s excusable, but remember, regulations are regulations in the future’,”
To my dying day I’ll remember that sentence. Years from now I expect to wake up in bed repeating it to myself. And with this I departed the spot.
Nov. 23rd. — More hitherto family-free sailors are discovering unsuspected families and dependents than I ever knew existed before. Every day some sailor breaks down on my breast and sobs over the great suffering and deprivation of an aged parent and seventeen brothers and sisters caused by his absence from home. I myself am trying to rake up a couple of perfectly helpless dependents, but I’m having a tough time of it. I know one aged bar-keep who more or less depended upon me in his declining years, but somehow I haven’t the nerve to write him into my application, although I’m sure the old gentleman deserves having some one to look after him. However, I’m afraid I’m not that person, because in all likelihood I will need a great deal of looking after once I’m mustered out of the service, but that has nothing to do with my diary.
Dec. 1st. — Nothing to report save that this is another month and my tapes are still dirty! Steps must be taken or I’ll be going to the mat with my P.O. for the seventeenth hundred time since my first jab. My spirit remains unbroken, however. I exult in my ignorance and glory in my mistakes.
Dec. 2nd. — (Holiday for some reason I haven’t troubled to enquire about.) Chicken, corn, pumpkin pie and trimmings. I saved the neck for Mr. Fogerty. The poor, simple-souled dog had hardly the heart to eat it There are enough lovesick sailors in camp as it is without the dogs getting the complaint. It seems that Mr. Fogerty’s sweetie over in City Island has given him the go-by. He’s not the first to meet such a fate in that quarter, I’ll tell the world.
‘It seems that Mr. Fogerty’s sweetie has given him the go by.’
The smoking-lamp was lighted all day and consequently I was very popular with the “Spider” and his two companions, Tony and Tim, on the strength of a shipment of fags that mother left with me at the time of her last incursion on the privacy of the camp. There was little drilling to-day, but what there was was enough. Spent most of the afternoon in washing my tapes, sewing on buttons, scrubbing my bag and providing my friends with matches to enable them to light the cigarettes they had borrowed from me.
Dec. 3rd. — Took an unnecessarily long walk with an unnecessarily heavy gun to an unnecessarily stupid place, then the reel was reversed and we proceeded back to camp, astounding the populace by our unnecessarily intricate formations. I have never been able to master the company square for the same reason, I reckon, that I was always a bum at ring-around-a-rosie in my childish days. Kissing games I could play, but no one would ever play them with me. “What’s the use,” they used to say. “You’re too willing.” I will admit it was more of an arrangement than a game when I took part in them.
Dec 4th. — Rose early and went to the mat with the Master-at-arms. He said I lashed my hammock like a dowdy woman laced. I hardly consider this a very nice thing to say and would not put it down here were it not that I want to show the low order of the man’s conversational attainments. I told him that I was unable to appreciate the full purport of his remarks for the reason that all my sweeties were trimly stayed fore and aft and sailed before the wind. My remark, however, did not prevent me from re-lashing my hammock and doing it over again. I could not help thinking of what the Jimmy-legs had said about it, however, and kept laughing to myself at the idea. I now call my hammock “My Sloppy Old Jane.” Such simple things amuse us isolated sailors.
Dec. 5th. — Tony, Tim, the Spider and I have taken to calling each other “Shipmates” around the barracks. It breaks the Jimmy-legs’ heart, as he has never been to sea.
Dec. 6th. — An orderly almost kissed me this morning, but thank God, was able to suppress bis burning desires at the sight of my repellent face.
“A lady is calling you on the wire,” he said jealously.
“My dear,” I said, not wishing to get in wrong with him. “I’m sure there must be some mistake. I have no interests outside of camp.”
He departed, relieved, but I answered the call in my quiet, unassuming way. It was from Polly, my permanent sweet; the beautiful woman I hope to make my jailer.
The beautiful woman I hope to make my jailer.
“Biltmore, dear,” she said, just like that, “I’m just crazy to announce our engagement, and I want you to ask the Captain if you can get off soon and come down to the affair. Maybe he’d come too, do you think so, dear?”
“Well, hon,” says I, for once bold, “he’s awfully busy now, but I’m sure he’d love to come if he could.”
You see, I’d told the poor girl, as sailors do, that the skipper and myself were awfully clubby and that he recognized me as the most dependable man on the station and that we often played croquet together on the lawn of the officers’ club. In fact, I had to tell her lots of things in order to induce her to become permanent instead of promissory. All men do under the circumstances — and all women, too, for that matter. As a rule both sides know the other is lying, but they respect each other for their ability and consideration. A man that won’t lie to the woman be loves, loves truth more than the woman and women can’t stand that. However, my observations are dropping to a low moral plane which is not good for those who are not rugged at heart and ragged at ethics.
“But you will come, won’t you, Biltmore?” she continues, pulling the dear stuff again. “The party wouldn’t be complete without you.”
“You mean the calamity,” says I.
Then she wanted to make arrangements for next Saturday and I let her because she seemed so happy and excited about it all.
“Where shall I meet you?” she says. “We must have tea all by ourselves first.”
I thought for a moment, for the presence of gold lace hanging furtively around in the background made me a little anxious.
“You’d better stay home, sweetie,” I said, “there are too many young Ensigns sticking about here for me to give locations. I don’t put anything past them.”
With this I hung up and walked past several of the above-mentioned race of people, who eyed me with venom. I must keep Polly away from the Ensigns at all cost No matter how white your tapes are, gold lace has the edge.
Dec. 7th. — A personal and unconditional triumph in the grim, continuous battle between myself and my superiors.
Early in the afternoon we were told to go out on the parade ground and brush up a bit on our semaphore.
“Brush up!” thinks I to myself. “How are you going to brush up when there ain’t anything to brush. The ship that depended on me for signalling would remain deaf and dumb.” I thought this, but to myself. The only letter I felt sure about was A and I didn’t remember quite whether it was optional which hand you used.
With the utmost confidence, however, I took my flags and proceeded to the middle of the parade ground where I hid myself behind the huge figure of Tim and began to wave my arms about in an aimless manner. Aside from becoming a trifle tired I was getting away fine until a C.P.O. hotchels up to me and stands observing my movements with horrified, dilated eyes. This made me so nervous, that my arms began swinging around convulsively at a tremendous speed. I looked like a gaudy, but conscientious electric fan. Perspiration streamed down my face and neck, and still he watched. His expression gave way from horror to amazement and from that to fury.
“Time!” he shouted suddenly. “Time! Stop what you’re doing, whatever it may be.”
I threw myself into low and gradually slowed down to a neutral
“What,” asked the Chief with much deliberation, “what in the world do you trunk you’ve been doing?”
“Semaphoring, Chief,” says I promptly.
“Ah,” says the Chief, drawing a deep breath preparatory to a long burst of eloquence, insult and invective. “So that’s what you’ve been doing. Well, I’ve been observing you closely for more than half an hour and although the semaphore system is so arranged that it is almost impossible for a man not to make a letter in the natural evolution of his arms, you seem to have been able to achieve this truly remarkable, well nigh unbelievable feat. How did you ever do it? Do you know one letter, even one?’
“I can spell words,” I said proudly, but lyingly, “great long words.”
“Spell one,” said the Chief briefly.
“All right,” says I.
“What’s the word?” he asks.
“Oh, no,” says I, cagey-like. “I ain’t agoing to tell you the word. You just watch.”
At this point I gave Tim the wink and he stood by to assist. Thereupon I began to wave my arms around frantically.
“What’s that?” I asks the Chief after coming to a stop with a particularly catching flourish.
“Nothing,” says the Chief. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Wrong,” says I snappily. “What is it, Tim?”
“Our little home,” says Tim.
“Right,” says I. “Now, Chief, I’ll send you another one.”
This time I did some really startling evolutions and added several elaborate extra wiggles.
“Get that, Chief?” says I.
“No, nor nobody else,” says the Chief.
“Wrong,” says I. “What is it, Tim?”
“The camp we love,” says Tim.
“Right,” says I. “Watch me close, Chief, I’ll send you another one.”
By this time quite a crowd of sailors had gathered around to observe the circus. Among them I saw the rat-like “Spider’s” eyes gleaming forth.
“What’s that, Buddy,” I cried to him after I had finished my contortions.
“Sweetie,” cried the Spider promptly.
“Right,” I shouted. “See, Chief, anybody seems to be able to read my signals. Try this.”
Here I went through some mystifying passes before the man’s perplexed eyes and came to an abrupt finish.
