Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 65
“Murder!” she announced. “Murder! Your father’s trying to strangle me.”
“You damn near did strangle me,” said Mr. Lamb.
He turned and grinned at his daughter.
“Hebe,” he continued, “be a good girl and mix me a stiff drink. You may have one for yourself if you feel like it. These lightning changes are not so good for the nerves.”
He extended a hand and helped his wife from the floor.
“Sorry, Sapho,” he remarked apologetically, “but I could never fit in that bottle now.”
Sapho was beyond speech.
Having failed lamentably to emulate the example of Lady Macbeth, the wife of the ex-fish felt that at least she could follow her advice. She stayed not on the order of her going, but went at once. Mr. Lamb picked up the bottle and considered it with a peculiar feeling.
“This,” he said, extending the bottle to Hebe, “was intended to be your father’s last resting place. I might have been a bottle baby, but be damned if I’ll be a bottled corpse.”
“Maybe the next time she’ll have to use a cage,” suggested Hebe.
“Perhaps,” said her father dryly, “but you can use the bottle now.”
Hebe did.
Chapter XV. Sandy Gets Her Man
MR. LAMB WAS not in the pink. He had returned from his office far from well either mentally or physically. His life as a goldfish had not improved his health. He had absorbed too much stale water and overlooped a bit. Furthermore, the requirements of constantly readjusting himself were proving altogether too exacting.
Brother Douglas, fresh from a convention of the Directors of American Youth, handed him a letter. Without comment he received it and began to read. Hebe watched her father. When he had finished the letter he swore more from amazement than anger.
“Listen to this,” he said. “It’s good.”
Then he began to read:
“I can no longer live under the same roof with a murderer. Therefore I fly. I have stood every humiliation, every form of abuse, but I do not feel called upon to sacrifice my life for a man who turns into various things at a moment’s notice. My life is in danger, therefore I fly. Do not attempt to find me. Do not attempt to follow. I fly. Pursuit is in vain. This is the end.”
A dazzled silence followed the reading of this tragic epistle. It was broken by Mr. Lamb.
“Now, who in hell,” he asked almost pleadingly, “does she expect to follow her?”
“I’m glad she remembered to send love and kisses to her unnatural daughter,” said Hebe.
Douglas got up and began to whistle, “All Alone on the Telephone.”
Mr. Lamb looked at him and grinned.
“Douglas,” he asked, “how do you manage to be such a damn fool without ever an intermission?”
Brother Dug looked back at Mr. Lamb and also grinned.
“I was merely trying to keep you from breaking down,” he replied. “When face to face with tragedy, sing, whistle or do both. Hebe, play something on the piano, and we’ll all have a bit of a song.”
Without a word Hebe went to the piano and struck a resounding chord. Had Mrs. Lamb not been so busy flying she would have had the pleasure of hearing floating through the windows of her abandoned home the words and music of the old familiar hymn, “Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow.” The voices of the three singers blended rather well, and the rendition of the hymn was marked by a certain sincerity of feeling not always to be found in church.
“Well, Douglas,” asked Mr. Lamb, when the hymn had been brought to a crashing climax, “are you going to desert us now?”
“No,” said Douglas, displaying an unexpected streak of embarrassment. “That is, not unless you want me. I’m a little too fat for flying, and I’m sure no one really wants to murder me, although once I was pretty nearly scared to death.”
When he made this reply he carefully avoided looking at Mr. Lamb.
“Such loyalty, not to mention heroism, calls for one drink at the very least,” said Hebe. “Perhaps more.”
They had more.
When dinner was served Mr. Lamb looked beamingly upon Thomas.
“Thomas,” he said, “Mrs. Lamb may not be with us for some time to come. Her presence is indefinitely postponed.”
For once Thomas was taken off his guard. With eager hands he hastened to the table and started to remove the absent lady’s plate as if to make sure of his master’s statement. His face was alight with pleasure. Mr. Lamb’s voice interrupted his activities.
“Not so ruthless, Thomas,” he admonished. “You needn’t do it now. Just remember it in the future. And Thomas,” he added, “is there any of the old stock left, the wine you drank in the days of my youth?”
“I didn’t think you remembered, sir,” replied the old man.
“Unfortunately for you I did,” said Mr. Lamb.
“There are some bottles,” said Thomas. “A few, sir.”
“One,” his master ordered.
Thomas departed under full sail. As Nora hurried past him in the pantry she felt herself unexpectedly pinched and heard him humming a song he had unearthed from some dim recess of his memory.
“I’ll get the evening out for that,” this highly competent maid confidently promised herself.
As Mr. Lamb sat at dinner his eyes kept constantly straying to the aquarium where the three goldfish he had come to know so well were drifting drowsily about as if in languid expectation of a lost leader. It gave him a feeling of satisfaction to know that his old enemy, the turtle, was once again forced to peer out at the “long drink of water” he had spoken of so disparagingly. Impulsively Lamb rose from the table and with his knife budged the old fellow across the bottom of the tank.
“How indignant he must be,” thought Mr. Lamb. “I only wish he could appreciate the full flavor of the situation.”
Then he singled out the lady goldfish and considered her for a moment.
“I might have been the father of her children,” he mused as he returned to the table. “That would have been a pretty state of affairs.”
Throughout the remainder of the dinner he could not shake off the weird knowledge that only a short time ago he had been swimming about in that tank and looking out at his wife and daughter and the ubiquitous Mr. Gray. It would be difficult, he decided, for the little russet man to provide for him a more novel experience. Lamb heartily hoped it would be the last. He was more than willing now to remain a normal human being for the rest of his life. His desire to remain himself was greatly intensified now that his wife was absent, permanently absent, he hoped. This line of thought automatically brought him round to Sandra Rush, and a dark, brooding look came into his eyes. He recalled her faraway expression when she had watched the scenery that morning on the train, and the story she had told him about the two little ponds. She was not always depraved. Sometimes she could be quite decent. Very seldom though. Mostly mad and wild and reckless.
“Too old,” he said, unconsciously speaking aloud, “Too damn old.”
“Beg your pardon, sir,” said Thomas. “Is the chicken too tough for you?”
“Chicken’s fine,” replied Mr. Lamb. “Why?”
“I thought I heard you say it was too old, sir,” said Thomas. “I felt sure it was about the suitable age, sir.”
“But I’m not, Thomas,” Mr. Lamb replied. “I’m too damn old. Don’t you think so?”
“That depends,” answered Thomas consideringly. “Too old for what, if I may ask, sir?”
“Oh, go to the devil, you fossilized lump of sin,” said Mr. Lamb. “I didn’t mean six-day bicycle racing.”
“Well you might be a few years over for that,” was the imperturbable decision of Thomas, “but you’re still good for your share of — er — sport, if I make myself clear, sir.”
“Most delicately so, Thomas,” put in Hebe. “I quite agree with you. It pleases our major to believe that he is of ancient vintage. By cultivating that frame of mind he hopes to escape adventure.”
“I’ve had adventures enough, God knows,” said Mr. Lamb.
“But not of the nature I mean,” responded his daughter. “Those still lie ahead.”
“There’s not much good in either of you,” declared Mr. Lamb, putting down his coffee cup. “You’ll excuse me now if I retire to my study. Douglas, I hope you will remain uncorrupted now that your sister is no longer here to protect you.”
“I have nothing to fear in that line,” observed Douglas. “My adventures lie neither behind me nor before. That’s one of the tragedies of a fat man.”
“He throbs out his sex in song,” said Hebe, as Mr. Lamb left the room.
Retrieving the much interrupted Kai Lung, Mr. Lamb elaborately arranged himself in his chair and prayed to God that he should be allowed to proceed at least a few pages in the book before he was transformed into another animal, bird, reptile, or fish. He had read exactly two paragraphs when the door flew open and Sandra burst into the room.
“I thought you’d be glad to see me,” she cried, standing radiantly before him.
“What led you to form that totally erroneous impression?” asked Mr. Lamb, looking at the girl over the top of his book.
“Why, Sapho’s decamped,” she went on happily. “And now everything’s going to be all right.”
“All right for what?” Mr. Lamb demanded unbendingly.
“For us,” said Sandy breathlessly. “The coast is clear.”
“It isn’t at all clear to me,” Mr. Lamb replied. “What form of depravity are you now suggesting?”
“Any and all,” said Sandra. “You’re my man now.”
In spite of himself Mr. Lamb could not repress a grin.
“Get the hell out of here,” was all he said.
“Put me out,” she challenged.
“Go on,” warned Mr. Lamb. “Get the hell out.”
“Get the hell me out if you can,” she answered.
Mr. Lamb rose slowly and stood over the girl. Quite deliberately, quite effortlessly, he picked her up in his arms and held her suspended.
“I don’t know whether to spank or to kiss you,” he remarked, looking unsmilingly down into her deep and disturbingly provocative eyes.
“I’m all set for a little of both,” said Sandy.
Lamb did the latter. He did it extremely well, so well, in fact, that Thomas, entering with a decanter of whisky, remained unnoticed in the doorway. Quietly the old fellow closed the door and seated himself on one of the dining-room chairs, a liberty he had never taken. Then he raised the decanter to his lips and drank a silent toast. Things were indeed looking up in the house of Lamb.
Somewhat subdued, Sandra and Mr. Lamb were sitting a little later on the private veranda adjoining his study.
“I hope you don’t turn into a bear,” said Sandra.
“I hope I’ve done my last turn,” said Mr. Lamb.
“So do I,” she answered. “I’d hate to lose you now.”
Mr. Lamb turned in his chair and found her eyes in the darkness.
“You’re sure you’re not kidding me?” he asked. “You know you’re such an exaggerated person. I’m never sure whether you’re making fun of me or not. You see, I’m not used to young girls. I’ve always been sort of out of it and faithful — not to her so much as to myself. This thing sort of puzzles me. I don’t see where I get off with a fine-looking girl like you. Old enough to be your father.”
There was something so utterly helpless and fumbling in this speech of Mr. Lamb’s, something so amazingly innocent and sincere that Sandra for no reason that she could fathom felt very much like crying. Dimly she sensed the repressed youth and longing behind the unappetizing years through which this long, sardonic, quietly observant man by her side had lived. While his wife had been mouthing about beauty and living quite an unbeautiful life, he had just grinned his slow, irritating grin and silently kept on wanting. And being decent and rather commonplace. Yes, Sandra was more than sure that she was not kidding. But she did not reply to his question. She did not want to hear her own voice. She merely reached out and taking his long, lean hand, held it against her breast.
Way down below them in the darkness the lights of the town lay against the other side of the valley. Even the blot contributed its share to the general illumination.
Mr. Lamb was not unhappy. Neither was the girl. Both were silent. It seemed better so.
Some hours later when Thomas was pouring Mr. Lamb his invariable nightcap, the old servant paused with the decanter half raised and regarded this man whose toys he had once mended.
“You’re fit as a fiddle, Mr. Lawrence,” he offered. “Even for bicycle racing, or I am very much mistaken, sir.”
“What leads you to believe that, Thomas?” Mr. Lamb asked suspiciously.
“General observations, sir,” said Thomas. “General observation. Nothing more, sir. Good-night.”
Leaving Mr. Lamb slightly puzzled, Thomas with an annoyingly self-satisfied expression, quietly withdrew.
“Now, I’m in a devil of a mess,” thought Mr. Lamb, as he pondered cheerfully over his glass.
Even Kai Lung lay forgotten upon his knee.
Chapter XVI. Less Than the Dust
WHEN MR. LAMB woke up next morning he was as sick as a dog. And he was a dog. Weakly he flopped himself out of bed and crawled across the room to his mirror. He had not the vaguest idea of what he was. He knew he was something. He knew he was not himself. He was some sort of four-footed animal with fur, and from the looks of his feet Mr. Lamb felt convinced that he could not be much of an animal.
“That looking-glass,” he thought to himself, “has reflected many weird and startling images, but this time I think it’s going to get the shock of its life. So, perhaps, am I.”
Lamb was right. The most woebegone, flop-eared, putty-footed, miscellaneous assortment of canine maladjustments leered out at him from the mirror.
On previous occasions the little russet man had always done well by Mr. Lamb. He had been the best of everything, no matter what it was. He had been an imposing stallion, a bang-up seagull, a two-fisted kangaroo, and a goldfish of note. Now, however, he was the worst dog he had ever seen, obviously the son of a mother who had possessed an unlimited capacity for experimentation, relieved by a certain jocular capriciousness.
Of this dog confronting him, Lamb recognized little of himself save perhaps a broodingly speculative cast of the eye. His ears were long, spiritless, and yellow, seemingly sewed onto his head as an afterthought. His hair grew over his black and tan body in unbecoming fits and starts, first here and then there. He was a tufted dog. His feet were large and woolly. They splayed out in front, giving him the appearance of wearing old turned-up carpet-slippers. He was a long, low, ribby dog. One side of his face was black, the other side yellow. Along his body this color scheme had been reversed. He would have made a striking model for a woman’s bathing costume, his haunches being black and yellow and his chest yellow and black. Taking him all in all he was a dog to give one pause, a dog to walk around and speculate upon, one to examine in detail at close range and then to view from afar for a full effect.
Mr. Lamb did not regard himself in this light. Sick as he felt, his heart was filled with shame. He had a desire to crawl away to some quiet place and there to make an end of it all. Life which last night had tasted so sweet now lay sour in his mouth. His long, thin, spineless tail drooped despondently on the floor.
“I can’t possibly let myself be seen in this appalling condition,” he decided, as he placed a mop of a paw against his swimming head.
When he had retired the previous evening he had known he was going to be ill, but he had not taken into consideration the fact that he was also going to be a dog — and such a dog as he had turned out to be.
Because of the absence of his wife he had allowed the door between the two rooms to remain open. With a loose, uncoördinated motion he shuffled through and by a little clever, but exhausting manipulation got himself out into the hall. Downstairs he found an open window through which he made a furtive and inglorious exit, landing with a thud on the grass. For a moment he lay there painfully recovering his breath and strength, then he shambled weakly off across the lawn, his body aching and tongue lolling out.
Hebe from her window witnessed the departure of this unfortunate-looking animal, little realizing that it was her father she saw, fleeing to escape the eyes of those who knew him.
Mr. Lamb has only the haziest memory of what occurred to him after leaving his home. Certain episodes stand out in his mind like flashes caught from a fast-fading dream.
He recalled, for instance, slinking along the shadowy side of the road until he came to a rustic bridge where two men were holding a heated debate upon religion, the day being Sunday and their flasks potent with applejack. Here in an unneeded little patch of sunlight Mr. Lamb lay down to rest and to warm himself a bit.
“Believe in your miracles if you will,” one of the religious fanatics was saying, “but as for me I think they’re a lot of apple-sauce invented by a gang of grafting old prophets who couldn’t even predict the next day’s weather.”
“Sure they could,” said the other. “Didn’t they call the turn on many a blight and famine? You should read about all the things they figgered out — floods, pestilence, the destruction of towns, battles and alarms and — and — all sorts of calamities.”
“They must have been a cheerful little bunch of predicters,” observed the unbeliever ironically. “Didn’t they ever say something pleasant?”
The other paused to consider this difficult question. It was a bit of a poser for him, yet he felt duty-bound to stand up for the prophets. Suddenly his face cleared. Light had been given him.
“Sure they did,” he answered. “Judgment Day.”
“A very pleasant day that’ll be,” said the other. “Especially for you. And if they did, it was guesswork, pure guesswork.”
He took a swig at his flask and looked triumphantly at his friend, then let his gaze drift to the dog lying huddled up in the grass and leaves.
