Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 298
“Farmer,” I said, “I have here with me a homeless cat. Will you take it in?”
And the farmer said, “We already have some cats.”
So I left the farmer, and after traversing a great distance, I came upon the house of another farmer, and, going up to the hired girl of the farmer’s wife, I said:
“Hired girl of the farmer’s wife, I have here with me a homeless cat Will you take it in?”
And the maiden replied, “We have some cats.”
So I left that place and continued many leagues on my way until I came to the dwelling of a third farmer, where in the yard was a maiden throwing water over the body of a dog possessed of fleas, and, going up to the maiden, I said:
“Maiden throwing water over the body of a dog possessed of fleas, I have here with me a homeless cat. Will you take it in?”
‘Maiden, I have here with me a homeless cat.’
And the maid replied, “Sire, we have some cats.”
So I quitted the spot and continued on my way a great distance until I came to the gates of a rich dealer in stocks, whereat there was a woman either blowing or washing the nose of a large brass lion, and, approaching the woman, I said:
“Woman ministering to the needs of a large brass lion, I have here with me a homeless cat Will you take it in?”
And the woman answered, “We have some cats.”
And I spoke again and said, “Woman cleansing the body of a lion wrought in brass, do cats only grow in the plural in this place?”
And the woman answered, “It seems so.”
So I departed from that place and walked a long time on my way until I came to a great hospital, wherein there dwelt a host of wounded soldiers from over the water, and here there was a Red Cross nurse, and to this nurse I went up and said:
“Red Cross nurse, I have here with me a homeless cat. Will you take it in?”
And the Red Cross nurse smiled and took the cat and I departed.
When it was later in the day I passed this great hospital for wounded soldiers and I saw a soldier with one leg and with this soldier was a small cat with which the soldier seemed greatly pleased.
So I rejoiced in my heart that there was a place in the scheme of things for a small cat, and left the spot highly edified and feeling not a little boy-scoutish.
I have just learned that today is Christmas. This is a nice thing to know, although I hardly see what use I am going to make of the information. I might sing a couple of carols to my waitress with a certain degree of safety inasmuch as the good woman is evidently deaf.
Dec. 26th. — At last I have met her, the girl in the riding breeches, the girl who observed me in all my glory sitting on the edge of a window sill. But this time she was not clad in riding breeches, but in full-dress, full of vacancies, that is, in which she looked equally attractive. It came about in this manner. Her father fell asleep. That explains it. He fell asleep before the fire in the main lobby directly after having strained the strength of his pearl shirt studs by the amount of food he had somehow managed to cram under them. The orchestra, at some distance, was playing a particularly jazzy shiver and this naturally brought my attention to the gleaming young lady sitting beside the snoring old man.
As I was looking at her I noticed a strange thing. The left shoulder of the young lady gave a slight but ever so eloquent hitch. This intriguing movement was then repeated by the right shoulder, bare and polished beneath the bright glow of the lights. With much less grace, but with equally as much expression, I proceeded to do a little hitching of my own shoulders. Thus, in all solemnity, we sat hitching at one another until at last I nodded my head in the direction of the ball-room. Still without smiling, the young lady arose and departed quietly to the place where the music was, and I followed her. Silently she took my arm and with profound gravity we embarked upon a sea of jazz, from which we presently emerged still in a condition of mute but mutual enjoyment.
The left shoulder of the young lady gave a slight, but ever so eloquent hitch.
Without a word I led her to a secluded, palm-clustered recess in one of the numerous sun parlors, where together we sat in silence and gazed upon the gaudy visage of a moth-eaten moon. She dropped her fan. I picked it up.
“Thank you,” say she.
“Don’t mention it,” says I.
She dropped her handkerchief, and this, too, I retrieved.
“Oh, thank you very much,” says she.
“You’re cordially welcome, I’m sure,” says I.
Then she laughed. She laughed like a Bacardi cocktail tastes. Pleasantly. Something one cannot get enough of. One never does until one gets too much. When she had finished, we spoke. We spoke plenty. We told each other our right names, where we lived, the books we liked, the plays we had seen, what we thought of the hotel, the people, the scenery and the food. We spoke of the summer-time and declared we like it best, although she held out for skating. We spoke of other hotels and other places and other people. In fact, we spoke very much in the same manner as all young people speak and always have spoken from the time that the first couple met in the first hotel. Then we became silent, which was dangerous, so she took me to her father, to whom I was properly introduced, as if that made any difference. To my pleasant salutation he replied grumpily:
“Knew it all the tine. Knew it all the tune. Wasn’t asleep. Go away.”
And we went. The upshot of it all is that I must rise at an early hour tomorrow morning and go riding with the fair party. I didn’t lie much about it. All I said was that I could ride. I can’t, but I might have gone so far as to say that I had been brought up in the saddle. I regard the morrow with suspicion and skepticism. I have never been on a horse, have stayed as far away from them as possible, and now I am actually going to mount one. Great guns, were women put into the world only to make fools of men?
Dec. 27th. — I looked upon the horse as a murderer might look upon his jury. He gazed back at me and frowned. From that minute we were mortal enemies. I have never seen such marked hostility in any creature’s eyes.
“Good morning,” says my fair and slim young friend, buttoning her gloves as she approached me, “A fine day for a ride.”
“Don’t you think it’s going to rain?” I asked, wistfully.
“Oh, no,” says she. “It will clear up presently.”
She took a step toward her horse, but I stopped her.
“Say, don’t you think my horse looks sick?” I asked.
‘Say, don’t you think that my horse looks sick?’
“No,” says she, “he’s well enough.”
“I wouldn’t like to ride him if he’s sick,” I replied, at which point the horse turned around and blew heavily in my face. I startled back horrified.
“Oh, you’ll find him mettlesome enough,” she assured me, “I picked him out myself for you. He’s the worst in the stable.”
“My family won’t thank you,” I muttered.
“There’s nothing like a mettlesome horse,” she added.
“To shoot,” says I, under my breath.
“Well, let’s go,” says she, all impatience.
“Sure,” says I, dropping the bridle with alacrity. “Where shall we go?”
“Riding, silly,” says she, laughing.
That laugh of hers had lost for me much of its fizz. It had sounded better on the previous evening. Today it was ghastly.
“Oh,” I says, “I thought you meant to go away somewhere.”
“Well!” says she, stamping her foot.
“Well, what?” says I, a little blankly.
“Well!” she replied.
Still I didn’t savvy.
“All right,” says she, huffily, “I’ll get on myself.” And she did.
“It’s more than I can do,” says I, looking with great misgiving at the murderous beast.
“Do you want me to help you?” she asks scornfully from her secure perch.
“I do,” says I, with more truth than pride.
“Well, I won’t,” says she.
I approached the horse warily and he frowned down at me over his long nose and consequently I de-approached him. That is, I moved away with as much dignity as possible under the spell of a great fear.
“Well, well, come on,” cried my intrepid Amazon.
“I’d rather sleep with a wildcat than get on that horse,” I declared.
“Shall I leave you?” demanded the girl.
“Alone with that horse? Never!” I cried, and once more approached him. He pivoted around head on and regarded me with his goggle eyes, a trifle crossed.
“My horse has goat blood in him,” says I to the girl. She refused to loosen up with a suggestion. Then suddenly I had a wise flash. Leading the brute up to the steps of the verandah I sprang upon him with a prayer to God in my heart and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I say I sprang upon this horse, but in truth I didn’t. I only sprang partly upon him. The other part dangled artistically along the sleepy street of that rural town. Already my companion had ceased to be my companion. She was merely a memory. John Gilpin was a jockey in comparison with me. At last she caught up with me.
“What shall I do with my sailor trousers?” I demanded. “They flap.”
“Tuck ’em up,” says she in her horsey voice.
“And show my garters?” I cried.
“Sure,” says she.
“Jade,” says I, and for the time-being further conversation ceased because of the Pavaloish proclivities of my mount. At last he began to show his better nature and eventually became almost reasonable, but never ridable.
“Great stuff!” said I to the girl, drawing my first faint breath of relied.
“It’s the only thing,” she replied.
“For a suicide, yes,” I added.
Every bird on every limb, and there were many of both,
seemed to be twittering at us. I felt sure they were kidding me. One old crow, who in his misogynistic manner, held himself aloof from the rest of his tribe, gazed gloomily at me from a distant limb, then flew away, making a horrid noise.
“Your cheeks are pale,” the young lady took the pains to inform me.
“It affects some athletes that way,” I told her, at which she laughed in a peculiarly irritating way that all women have and a great deal too many use.
“What’s to keep this horse from turning around and biting my leg?” I asked, suddenly appalled by this terrifying thought.
“Nothing,” says she.
“God!” says I.
“Well, come on then,” she says, “Let’s race.”
Protest was in vain. I had not choice, Mine was a mettlesome horse. There’s no denying it. If anyone ever does I feel sure I will strangle him or her on the spot. No sooner had my companion’s horse set out than we parted company for the second time that morning.
“Lets swap horses,” I cried, as I passed her comparatively mild-mannered mount.
‘Let’s swap horses,’ I cried, as I passed her comparatively mild-mannered mount.
But her reply was lost to me. For speed nothing could beat that horse. An automobile covers more ground in less time, but not any faster. The road seemed to curl up behind us and the clouds above tumbled and collapsed through space. Then, as suddenly it had started, it stopped. That is, the horse stopped. I didn’t. I continued a few yards further on my nose. The horse, apparently satisfied with his sorry achievement, continued on his mad progress, and I made no attempt to follow him. When he at last disappeared from view I felt much better and arose from the road. On a nearby fence I seated myself and prepared to await the arrival of my fair friend. My knowledge of receiving a sarcastic greeting in no way offset my relief in having got rid of that terrible horse. At last she appeared.
“Where’s your horse?” says she, briefly. “What horse?” I asked, absently.
“Why, the horse you were riding so badly?” she answers.
“Oh, that horse,” says I, brightening up, “why that horse lost interest in me about fifteen minutes ago. I think he has some friends down the road.”
“Are you interested enough to look for him?” she asks.
“Yes,” says I, “with a gun.”
As we were a long way from the hotel it was decided that I should get up behind the girl and that we ride homeward in this clubby manner until we reached civilisation, at which point, it was further decided, I was to debark and make my way to the hotel on foot. A groom was to be sent out after the horse possessed of the devil.
“It’s not necessary to hug me,” said the girl, after we had progressed some distance in this fashion.
I know,” I explained, “but it is a great deal more pleasant.”
“You seem to know how to hug a girl a great deal better than you do how to ride a horse,” she replied, caustically.
“I do,” said I, “I like it better.”
She made no reply to this, so perhaps she did, too.
“Tell me,” she said, after a little while, “was that the first time you had ever been on a horse?”
“This is the second,” I admitted.
“Well, you stayed on him much longer than most of the men I’ve taken out,” answered this strange creature.
“It was not through preference,” I assured her.
“He’s the worst horse in seven counties,” she continued. “No one ever fools with him any more — stop that at once and don’t do it again!”
But I couldn’t stop. I was too grateful. At the spot decided upon, I dismounted, and looked up at her.
“Will you ride tomorrow?” she asked, with an unusually arresting smile.
“My dear,” I answered, “this is, or was, our last ride together. I understand Browning better now than I have ever done before.”
“But it’s not our last dance?” she continued, turning full current on her smile.
“No,” I replied, limping wearily down the road after her. And it wasn’t. She held me to it that very night in spite of all the pains and aches that were torturing my racked body.
Somehow I can’t keep from liking that girl. May Polly forgive me. May she never need to. May she never know. This is the universal prayer of all men and most women.
“Won’t you sit out a dance?” she asked me.
“Dearie,” I replied, “I’ll stand it with you, but after this morning’s ride I fear my sitting days are over.”
Dec. 28th. — It’s all up with me now. Polly and mother arrived this morning. Some old scandal-monger, unknown to me, but to whom I was not unknown, evidently tipped them off about me and my new sweetie. Polly’s first words were sufficient to dispel the hopes to which I had desperately clung that she was still in ignorance.
“Ah,” says she, regarding my blank face with battle-brewing eye, “I see you didn’t expect us.”
Muttering a few cheerless words, I kissed mother.
“Well?” says Polly.
Then I kissed her, too. She didn’t want it. In the bullying spirit of womanhood, she was merely demanding her rights. I kissed her quickly, but not quick enough. The other girl, clad in an extremely fanciful skating costume, was just passing by. It was horrible. My soul sweated in every pore. She stopped for merely a moment, but it was one moment too many.
“Is that the woman?” hissed Polly. Women can hiss. In spite of all statements to the contrary, I know that it’s possible. I’ve heard them. This hiss was particularly snakish.
“What woman?” I mumbled dully.
Polly took me by the arm and led me away.
“We are to be married,” says she, and I have never heard more deadly determination of purpose expressed in anyone’s voice. “We are to be married,” she continued, giving me time to take it in, “one month from today.”
“At what time?” I asked, knowing that something was required of me.
“At 9 o’clock,” says Polly.
“Splendid!” says I, in a dead voice. “Ripping!”
(Later). — The storm has broken in all its fury. For the first time in my life I wish I were at sea. They have met and practically insulted each other. A bar-room fight is mild in comparison with the sweetness of two contending women. I managed with a skill born of desperation to see the other girl alone. In my wildness I admitted that I loved her. She told me that she was going to marry me or break my neck. She could do it, too. Here I am, the most sat upon sailor in the service, over whom two women are fighting to see which one will have the pleasure of making me the most miserable. It is more than I deserve, perhaps, and at the same time it is more than I require. As I was sitting on my bed a moment ago, holding my head in my hands, the other girl came quietly in, slipped me a small, swift hunk of a kiss and tiptoed out. There were no words spoken. That is evidently her way of clinching the bargain, and, by the way, I feel now I think she has done it. Dinner with Polly and mother is going to be a crisp affair. Why I ever leave the sea?
Dec 29th. — Saved! Providence in the guise of a telegram intervened in my behalf and drew me out of the vortex of what was rapidly developing into a tragedy. I am no sounder of heart, but I am farther away from the scene of the accident. The telegram instructed me to report at once to camp and stand by for the mysterious process of releasing! I left them flat. I think I must have invented this train I’m on. No one knew there was such a trains, but I caught it — sort of wished it into being. I’m now on my way to New York, and from that point to camp. Behind me in the rapidly receding distance are two women. They must meet and talk. I fear the worst. If they ever come to point of swapping stories, God help the good name I bear. It might not be right to love two women at once, but, by gad, it’s rational.
Jan. 3rd.(Back at camp). Not for long am I here, I hope. Some of my friends have waited so long, however, to hear their names called out on the release muster that their characters as well as countenances have utterly changed. I am slowly cracking under the strain myself. During the last three days which have elapsed since I arrived at camp I have attended nine different musters with hope and confidence in my heart, only to have a mighty crimp thrown into both.
As soon as I struck the station I hurried right up to the officer and said:
