Headpiece Page 632IN LIGHTER VEINIn Lighter Vein
Headpiece Page 632
In Lighter Vein
OR, THE PERIL OF EXPOSURE AFTER BATHING
BY FREDERICK LEWIS ALLEN
A PROPHETis not without honor save in his bathing-suit. Bathing-suits harmonize with the ocean, and are worn unblushingly by those who stand with one foot in sea and one on land; but it is possible for a bathing-suit to be out of place, as at a garden party or at the opera. Bathing-suits are specialized goods. If one is inclined to doubt the truth of these propositions, listen to the tale of Professor Jarvis.
The professor spent his summers on the sea-coast of Maine, where he occupied his mornings in working on a history of the diplomatic relations of Uruguay and Paraguay, or perhaps it was Costa Rica and Honduras. His afternoons were spent in golfing and bathing. His house stood about a hundred yards from the end of the sandy bathing-beach, and since he possessed no bath-house, it was his habit, at the end of his chilling swim, to pick his way gingerly home along a sandy, root-ribbed, pine-needled path, to enter his house brazenly by the front door, to flee dripping up the front stairs, and, in the privacy of his bedroom, to transform himself from Proteus to Beau Brummell.
One cool September afternoon as he was returning from his plunge, Professor Jarvis paused among the pines at a little distance from the house. A large black automobile was drawn up before the front steps. The spacious piazza, on which his wife was in the habit of serving afternoon tea—a conveniently situated piazza which gave upon the sea, and not upon Professor Jarvis—was unoccupied. The professor hesitated, his teeth clashing against one another, and the goose-flesh creeping out on his dripping arms. The conclusion was obvious: his wife was receiving guests in the living-room. She had evidently decided that the piazza would be a trifle too breezy for tea.
Now Professor Jarvis, even in a bathing-suit, was not an unbeautiful figure. He had fallen into the vale of fifty years with more grace than the average human being, thanksto golf and to bathing. He did not display to any alarming extent the inevitable tendencies of age. He was, in fact, rather proud of the restraint which his waist-line had exercised. Now he did not hesitate long among the pines, but advanced daintily over some sharp twigs to the front door. The chauffeur, sprawling at ease in the black car and reading “Mutt and Jeff” in the colored comic section of a Sunday supplement, smiled out of the leeward side of his mouth. But the professor regarded him not, haughtily passed him by, and boldly entered the house. His gray hair stood on end in scant wisps, the goose-flesh adorned his limbs, the water dripped from his Roman nose and trickled from his abbreviated trousers, and he left several little wet footprints on the ivy-clad front porch.
Professor Jarvis in His Bathing Suit
Once inside the house, the professor paused timidly in the hallway. Before him stood two doors. One was the entrance to the dining-room; the other led into the capacious living-room. The stairs were beyond, at the extreme back of the hall. Through the open doors of the living-room issued the sound of voices. Professor Jarvis recognized his wife’s and Mrs. Heath’s and—no, he was not quite sure about the other one. The conversation within continued.
The professor realized that it would be impossible to pass the living-room door without exposing himself to the curious view of the ladies within.
He could, however, reach and enter the dining-room unobserved. He stood a while in thought.
“I find a plain brown stain gives the best wear,” said the doubtful voice in very positive tones. “I findnothingcompares with it.”
The professor recognized the voice. It was Mrs. Bannerman’s. He was afraid of Mrs. Bannerman. She was a very positive person, and it was her manner to speak with such evident authority that whenever she held forth the professor began to have his doubts even on Venezuelan questions.
He shivered as he heard her now.
But his wife’s voice reassured him. “I’ve forgotten what our mixture is,” she said. “The farmer always does our shellacking. But you’ll be able to tell if you come out and look at the hall floor. It’s given us splendid wear.”
There was a rustle of dresses. The professor started. It was impossible to get up the distant stairs, with their delightful view of the hall—his own plan. Noiselessly he darted into the dining-room, leaving a tiny pool of water behind him. Mrs. Jarvis, Mrs. Heath, and the formidable Mrs. Bannerman came out into the hall, and discussed varnish, paint, and allied subjects for some minutes.
In the meantime Professor Jarvis considered methods of escape. The dining-room was a large affair. There were windows on one of the sides opposite him, but under them was a sheer drop of twelve feet to a graveled avenue. The sideboard offered no hiding-place. The center-table was not large enough for a professor of diplomacy to curl up under in any fitting way. The “mission” chimney was no place for a man in a bathing-suit. Only one avenue of escape was available, and that was an open door that led invitingly into the pantry or china-closet. Behind this door the professor stationed himself, and prayed that the ladies might depart.
For a moment he had his hopes. There was some mention of good-bys. Somebody went to get her things. The professor drew a long breath. He was very, very chilly, and another little pool was rapidly forming about his white and tender feet.
“Why should I be afraid to face these ladies?” he asked himself. “What have I to be ashamed of? Is there anything wrong in going about my own house in my own bathing-suit? I will go out and say, ‘Oh, I was looking for a towel in the china-closet. I have had such a wonderful swim.’”
Nevertheless, the professor didnotmove. Nor time nor place did then adhere, while his bathing-suit did. He heard the voice of the terrible Mrs. Bannerman, and remained behind the china-closet door, listening. Suddenly fear smote into his heart.
“Mr. Jarvis planned this house himself,” he heard his wife say proudly. “We had several ideas which we insisted on. For instance, the dining-room here is an arrangement of our own.”
The professor moved on, into a recess of the china-closet. The voices came nearer and uprose in voluble appreciation of the dining-room. Mrs. Jarvis was holding forthwith a proud delight on the architectural disposition of doors, windows, etc. What was coming next the professor guessed only too well. He looked about wildly. Cupboards, all too small. Shelves, impossible. They all had glass fronts. He could hardly expose himself under glass, like an exhibit in a museum. There was, to be sure, a dumb-waiter that descended to the kitchen below.
It was a new and wonderful dumb-waiter. Wonderfully balanced, weighted, and contrived. Professor Jarvis headed for it, and, as he heard the voices relentlessly approaching the china-closet, climbed nimbly in and, marveling at the beautiful balance of the thing, cautiously let himself down a few yards into the black abyss that yawned between him and the kitchen.
In absolute and overwhelming darkness he gathered himself about the rope that controlled his wooden cage, and held his breath. Thank heavens, it was a roomy dumb-waiter! As it was, he had to curl up like a kitten or a dog, and a very damp one at that. “I should never have supposed,” he said to himself, “that one could get into a dumb-waiter.” And he pondered on the uses of adversity, and remembered the bird in the gilded cage. Above, the voices were faintly audible; they echoed as if through caverns.
“The dumb-waiter,” his wife explained, “is here.”
There were footsteps. The professor clutched the rope with an iron grasp, and just in time. Some one was attempting to jerk it out of his hands.
“It seems to be stuck,” said a voice above.
“Letmetry it,” said Mrs. Bannerman.
“Let us all try it,” said a chorus of voices.
The professor’s blood froze. He curled up tighter about the rope in his damp little puddle. He feared the ladies and particularly he feared the brawny might of the fearful Mrs. Bannerman.
He held fast, but it was of no use.
He was going up!
“As if I were a veal cutlet going up for supper,” he thought.
Blinking, he ascended into the cruel light of day.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bannerman,” he said politely.
Drawn by May Wilson PrestonA BOY’S BEST FRIENDTHESENIORWRANGLER: “Never you mindwhatshe does, or how she looks. You quit laughin’ at her, and, say, don’t you ever forget what I’m going to tell you—drunk or sober, that lady is me mother!”
Drawn by May Wilson Preston
A BOY’S BEST FRIEND
THESENIORWRANGLER: “Never you mindwhatshe does, or how she looks. You quit laughin’ at her, and, say, don’t you ever forget what I’m going to tell you—drunk or sober, that lady is me mother!”
At the recent exhibition in New York of the work of American women sculptors no groups attracted more amused attention than these plasteline groups by Ethel Myers, the wife of Jerome Myers, the painter. The single figure is called “The Fifth Avenue Girl,” and the group is entitled “A Bit of Gossip.”
At the recent exhibition in New York of the work of American women sculptors no groups attracted more amused attention than these plasteline groups by Ethel Myers, the wife of Jerome Myers, the painter. The single figure is called “The Fifth Avenue Girl,” and the group is entitled “A Bit of Gossip.”