XIVA MORRIS DAY
ONLY a small gallery followed the tennis tournament. Although there were some splendid outside entries and the match took on the flavor of a semi-official eastern championship, the newspapers—according to Diccon—had not yet made tennis a sport. A magnificent cup, with some good names already on it, was the trophy; and the finals in singles, between Morris and Clarke, would decide the year’s holder.
While Mac was engineering a good spot for the carriage, Gorgas scanned the players’ quarters for signs of Morris. Soon a white figure—“ducks,” white cap, open-throated shirt—waved in the distance and began to make toward them.
“Allen Blynn,” Gorgas spoke quietly, “don’t you back-pedal for one minute on that Holden job.” It was the day of the bicycle. “You’ve won it according to the rules. You’ve just got to go. I’m mighty glad you’re thinking sensibly about it. Now, that’s all the time I can give you—the rest of the day belongs to Edwin Morris. Wish it were baseball, so we could root for him. Hello, boy, how are you feeling?”
“Never better,” said the boy.
Morris tossed back a lock of hair as he came up smiling. Lithe, clean-looking suppleness he showed; shy almost; lounging; giving no sign of superior physical power; that unique creature, a new species, the American college-athlete.
“You’re going to win, of course,” Gorgas searched his face admiringly.
“The trouble is,” he drawled, “Clarke says he feels fit, too. We’ve agreed to let loose and give you a show for your penny.”
Blynn inquired, “Forgive me, Edwin, for not knowing who Clarke is. He’s your friend, the enemy; is he not?”
“Fancy not knowing Clarke, Hudson Clarke!” Gorgas looked at him in wonderment. “He’s the foxiest tenniser outside of dear old Lun’non. We’d be lucky to get his scalp, I tell you.”
Her loyalty was immense. She filled Morris with the glow of success, keyed him up with little whispers of faith, and gave him something to fight for.
On his white shirt the tiny fraternity brooch made a conspicuous mark. Gorgas reached over and carefully disengaged the patent fastening and, with equal care, pinned it upon her own proud new gown. Morris watched her without speaking. She gave it several little pats to see if it were secure and then talked into his right ear.
“That’s for good luck.”
“Going to keep it?” he grinned. He knew all about the significance of wearing a man’s fraternity pin.
“There’s never no telling. Mebbe; if you win.”
“She’s rather savage, don’t you think?” Blynn leaned forward and rallied her. “Think how all Clarke’s little girls will feel if he loses.”
“That’s their affair,” she shut her lips. “We’re after that cup, aren’t we, boy? When we play we go in hard; no quarter; divil take the hindmost. That’s the only way to play. Slash ’em, knock ’em over, go for ’em. I just hate the chap I’m playing against—until the game’s over.”
“Contrariwise?” Morris jested.
“Sans doute,” she patted him on the head, “until the game’s over.”
They chatted together like chums, until the call came for the finals.
To Blynn those two young persons seemed suddenly alien; it was his first sense of moving away from very young life. It comes to some men in the twenties and to others not until much later. One day you find yourself a stranger to the prattle about you; it may be you grow a little testy at its inanities, its silly repetitions and obvious repartee; or perhaps you try to join in, and find the youngsters combining to laugh at your clumsiness. Over there, smoking stolidly in the easy chairs, there is where you belong. You stare and figure out ages and discover to your consternation that you do belong over there. Then some old, old, lady to whom you feel like saying, “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am”—if that was the salutation of your own day—comes burbling forward to claim you as a contemporary.And with the laughter of the children still in your ears, and half claiming your attention, you begin lamely to talk life insurance or the present administration’s foreign policy.
After Morris had gone, Blynn felt very uncomfortable. He would have given much to be able to slip quietly out and get at his note-taking on Scot’s “Discoverie of Witchcraft”; or to have some member of his “contemporary club” stroll by and take a seat in the carriage. He didn’t know what to say to this strange young person before him; especially after he had witnessed the kind of prattle youth carries on nowadays. (Did he ever talk that way to girls? he wondered. He couldn’t remember—another sign of distance.)
But, Gorgas was true to her word. The remainder of that day was given over to Edwin Morris. After all, tennis was her trade; she was looking on with a craftsman’s eye, catching the meaning of every serve and return.
The first set was a battle. Both men kept to their agreement to wade in and give the small crowd an exhibition. Deuce games were frequent. After 4-3 in favor of Clarke, Morris’ serve evened it to 4-4. By a squeak it went to 5-4—Clarke had slipped to the ground in trying for an easy ball—and Morris took his own serve for the set: 6-4.
Gorgas could hardly contain her joy. She applauded with little, rapid slaps upon her kid gloves and called to Blynn to help with the noise. Her gloves came ripping off so that she could make her allegiance heard.
“Oh, that serve!” she chuckled. “It looks, oh, so easy; but it’s a fooler. He invented it and uses it only when he needs a point. It has hardly a bounce to it; just skims along the grass. Edwin! Edwin!” she talked but forebore calling. “We’re here!” When he glanced slowly over, grinning sheepishly as if he had done something wrong, she tugged at his fraternity brooch and made as if to wave it.
In the second set Morris maintained the lead until 5-4. It looked like both sets and the trophy, but Clarke let loose, as if mad, evened the score and tore through to 7-5 and set.
It still had the appearance of a Morris day. Clarke was evidently winded and worn. He was strangely pale; the good-natured smile was rather fixed; but he stood up gamely for the third and final set.
“You’ve got him, boy,” Gorgas murmured, just loud enough for Blynn. “Steady! Just keep her traveling.... That’s the way! Let him put ’em out!... Make him work! He’s going down! See him breathe!... That’s the way! Play safe!... Whoopee! Did you see that ‘Lawford’?” And so on, straining and pulling with every smack of the ball.
Clarke deliberately gave a game away, evidently to secure a rest. The score stood 4-2 in favor of Morris. They were changing courts, Morris with steady steps, Clarke with a drag. They said a few words as they passed the net. Clarke shook his head and dropped on one knee, ripped off the top lace of his shoe to adjust a white ankle brace. During the next game Clarkebarely stirred from one spot on the court; naturally, the score was with Morris at 5-2.
Gorgas stopped her chatter. “Clarke put his ankle out when he slipped,” she told Blynn.
“How do you know?” Blynn was aware of something strange in the playing. “He isn’t moving much, but he’s doing rather well, just now.”
“Don’t yousee?” she went on. “He’s all in.Lookhow white he is.... They ought to stop the game. It’s a pity!” She suffered in sympathy with every swing Clarke made to hold back defeat. “They oughtn’t to allow it.... Why doesn’t Edwin see he’s not trying for anything.”
Then followed the absurdest bit of tennis that two really good players ever put up before spectators. Double faults were common; wide balls; missed shots that Blynn himself could have handled. Clarke was plainly given three games. Score 5-5.
Once the men seemed to be disputing. Something that Morris said drove the smile from Clarke’s face, but not the pallor; and he came back for a few moments with his old-time form.
“Good work!” Morris called. The score was Clarke’s at 6-5. It began suddenly to grow dark from a threatening storm.
The men slackened again, each seeming to give way to the other. The shots were all going to the center of the court. No one seemed to be trying to get by the other. It was so amateurish that the men themselves occasionally laughed. Back and forth the ballsailed peacefully—neither man budged—until, in the nature of things, it dropped into the net or went out of bounds. Two automatons, fixed near the back line, with power to lean and swing arms, that was the picture they presented. Nevertheless, under these absurd conditions, the men were playing with dogged earnestness. The game was desperately disputed, Clarke finally winning the set at 7-5, and with it, the trophy.
“Tiddledywinks!” Gorgas summed up the game. “But glory be!” she turned a shining face to Blynn. “Wasn’t that the dandy thing to do? I’d not have spoken to him if he’d won that cup against a lame man. Look at Clarke. They’re carrying him off. He knows Ed let up. But, really, the way they played made it perfectly fair. It was anybody’s game. They might have spun a quarter for it.... And Neddie did so want to win.... He never said so; but I know. This is an awful swell cup, Allen Blynn. The winner always is somebody for a year, I tell you. Ed worked so hard to get in shape for this.... It’s adarnshame.... Here! get out and take a walk and tell me when Ed comes with the tea-things. I’m g-going to—stay in here a-lone for a-while.... Get out! I tell you.... Get out!”
While Blynn drew up the carriage hood as a precaution against the coming shower, he could hear her quietly having her disappointment out in little diminishing sobs. He looked at the sky; both storms threatened to be over soon.
Sprinkles of rain and Edwin with hot buttered muffinsand a tray full of cups appeared at the same time.
“There’s plenty of tea and things,” he called merrily. “Everybody’s clearing out on account of the shower.... Wait till I gather in a few more hot muffins.”
Gorgas’ eyes followed him. He did not miss that; nor the whispered, “Fine work, old chap; we saw what you did.” But, characteristically, he said nothing about the game or its outcome.
“Good sport, Clarke,” Morris said later, the nearest he came to discussing it. “Must have been ready to flop.... Cleaned me up in that second set; with a cracked ankle, too. Only thing to do—bring it on the level as near as possible. Seems a shame. Clarke didn’t want to win that way. Neither of us did.”
During the brief shower, Gorgas mothered him, tucked the rug about him, fed him muffins, and decided just the proper color of tea for a hero. And then she insisted that he drive back with them.
As Blynn thought of the spectacle of those two youngsters picnicking together, facing him all the way home, and talking their private jargon, he decided for the seat beside Mac.
“Good work, Professor,” Morris laughed. “We don’t like to hurry you off,but—”
The children seemed carried away by some unguessable joke.
“What’s the matter?” Blynn beamed down on them benignly. “Is my tie jumping the track in back?” That was one of his constant fears. His right hand explored the neck.
“Oh, yourback’sall right,” Morris could hardly hold his joy at Blynn’s obtuseness. “Back’sfine!” Then he began to chant a college song of the hour, keeping time by rapid pats on his knees.
“We were yachting and the chaperoneWas blind and deaf and dumb,Why, she couldn’t hear the thump and crashOf cymbal and of drum,When we shot off three salutesFor the captain of the fleetShe remarked, ‘Oh hear the dicky birdie!Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!’”
“We were yachting and the chaperoneWas blind and deaf and dumb,Why, she couldn’t hear the thump and crashOf cymbal and of drum,When we shot off three salutesFor the captain of the fleetShe remarked, ‘Oh hear the dicky birdie!Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!’”
“We were yachting and the chaperone
Was blind and deaf and dumb,
Why, she couldn’t hear the thump and crash
Of cymbal and of drum,
When we shot off three salutes
For the captain of the fleet
She remarked, ‘Oh hear the dicky birdie!
Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!’”
Blynn found Mac a contemporary. They talked of England’s treatment of Ireland, of the causes of immigration and what the world was coming to, anyway. It was good talk, grown-man’s fodder; while, back of them, the youngsters, tucked up in a rug, sang songs, comic and sentimental, flashed nonsense back and forth, recited absurd verse, and even hallooed to passersby. Bless our soul! Did we ever go through that stage? Perhaps. Then praise be to memory for forgetting all about it!
Twilight found them ambling along the Wissahickon drive. In the woodland it was almost dark.
“This ’ere Bardek,” Mac shook his head, “’e’s a funny feller.”
“You’ve come to know him pretty well, I suppose, Mac,” prodded Blynn.
“Ye-es,” Mac busied himself holding in the horses while they passed a returning “century run” of bicycles,each one with a different kind of bell and a different light. “Plagued bikes!—jes’ clutter up the road. No pleasure drivin’ no more.” After the main body had passed, the stragglers were easy to avoid. “Oh, he’s all right—I guess, but—well, he talks a lot, now; don’t he?”
“His talk is rich,” said Blynn. “It has the charm of straight thinking, unbiased thinking. He’s travelled a great deal and is naturally observant. I don’t always agree with him, but I like his talk.”
“Do y’ understan’ all he’s drivin’ at?” Mac seemed incredulous of anyone doing that. “An’ d’ y’ think he understan’s it ’isself?”
Without waiting for an answer to his question, Mac went on:
“Now, I don’t say I don’t like him, ’cause I do. He stands by Miss Gorgas, as if she might be his own daughter. That’s all right. But—” Mac glanced back furtively—“he gives me a lot o’ talk about marriage, which, as bein’ a respectable marri’d man, m’self, I’m not takin’ no stock in. Wimmen may be one thing, and wimmen may be another; but marri’d is marri’d—that’s my way o’ thinkin’. It’s the way I was brung up and I sticks to it. He’s got migh-ty funny notions about marriage—migh-ty funny. It’s my opinion, and it’s me wife’s opinion, that he ain’t never marri’d to th’t little woman in the glen. Mind, I’m not asayin’ it is nor it taint so. All that I know is ’e don’t believe much in marriage. Dangerous character, I call ’im; but, I do like to have ’im aroun’.... Why, hedon’t believe in property, nor money, nor the church nor nothin’. He says he thinks God is interested in gnats and horseflies! Think o’ that, now!... I was pullin’ up weeds in the garden once, and he looked at me and laughed. ‘Why you change all God’s plans for, you ol’ Mac?’ he sez. ‘Takes a lot o’ time to make nice clean weed. You don’t like the way the Lord made the earth, eh? In six day,’ he sez, ‘the Lord created heaven and earth and all that therein is, and ol’ Mac he spend all his life pullin’ it up and makin’ it better. An’ w’at you grow?’ he sez. ‘Ugh! tomat! ugh! Gott,’ he sez, ‘spoil ni-ce fre-sh weed for ol’ tomat! ugh!’ and he makes faces and waves ’is hands.... Now, w’at you agoin’ to do with a feller like that?”
“Don’t do anything,” laughed Blynn. “Just enjoy him.”
“An’ he’s a anarchist, too,” Mac’s head shook very dolefully at that. “Sez he is, ’imself. Sez he’s as much anarchist as anything. That’s purt-ty bad, Mr. Blynn. Herr Most and all them Chicago fellers! Um! An’ y’ can’t help likin’ ’im! I’d do almost anything for Bardek—think o’ that, now!—most anything—I hev already lied for him!—think o’ that, now, him as good as an anarchist and me a respectable marri’d man!”
Out of the dark of Cresheim road came a sonorous voice. It was far off, moving toward them. The song was evidently improvised, both words and music. The refrain, which had been more carefully worked up, came clear across the night.
“Oh, boards and plaster!Boards and plaster!Nail me in the w’ite-wash house.La porte ferméeGood air,adiëI live like mouse,I live like cows.”
“Oh, boards and plaster!Boards and plaster!Nail me in the w’ite-wash house.La porte ferméeGood air,adiëI live like mouse,I live like cows.”
“Oh, boards and plaster!
Boards and plaster!
Nail me in the w’ite-wash house.
La porte fermée
Good air,adië
I live like mouse,
I live like cows.”
(“Cows” rhymed perfectly with “house.”)
The singer sighted the dull lamps of the carriage and shouted a mighty “Whoo-ee!” which was answered quickly by Gorgas.
“I haf moved from one t’ousand B. C. straight—plumpf!—into the nineteen century.” Bardek bobbed up before them, but Bardek with waving mustachio gone, Bardek shaved and hair-cutted, Bardek in new soft hat, rolling low collar and a roomy new suit of clothes! He was quite resplendent and stunning, but outwardly a brand new Bardek.
“Presto!I jump into respectables,” he bowed. “My family is moved. They have all said the prayers and skipped to sleep. Ah! Ol’ Mac, you are no more to be the on’y respectable married man in all America.”
With laughter they helped him into the carriage.
“I give my wife and kiddies one gran’ scare. They t’ink I am some strange feller, till I talk—ah! Who talk like Bardek! In six languages I prove myself. So! I gif up liberty an’ become American slave. In America all men are slave to women and children.Freiheit, adië!”
Questions brought out the fact that he had takenpossession of the white cottage, moved his family in—to the great joy of the children—and had marched off to the nearest barber and then to the nearest clothing store.
“I say to the barber, ‘Make me like American!’ He say, ‘It cost you much—one-half dollar!’ I say, ‘Here is onewholedollar. This is a big job; don’t do ithalf!’ Then he clip, clip, clip, but I say nothings. ‘Americans wear the “clean face,”’ he stop and say. I say, ‘Italkvairy well myself;do!’ I t’ink with ‘clean face’ he means wash it; but hoh! he mean ‘cut it off!’ So I learn some new English and look like a fat, little, stupid priest, eh, Mac? We go to mass, Sunday, eh, ol’ Mac? But not confession!Ach, du lieber Gott!When I tell all my little sins it would be Sunday again! How you like me, eh?”
It was hard to get used to the new Bardek; the vagabond had made way for a distinguished foreigner. They discovered, in looking him over, that it was the sweeping mustachio which gave him the appearance of desperado. The broad forehead, the deep eyes, the great nose, the laughing lips and the huge chin were well worth exposing. It was like the transformation wrought when campers come out of the woods, quite undistinguishable from the native guides, and, after one hour’s refurbishing and barbering, become gentlemen. There would be no doubt, thought Blynn, of a welcome for Bardek at the Leverings.
“It is a good feeling,” Bardek stroked his newly shorn face. “My skin has changed into American. Icannot yet spit, but, if I try—mebbe.... The wife, oh, she run all t’rough the rooms, and the children, too; and they laugh and fall on the floor and laugh. They go out to breathe and come in and stay as long as they can—La porte fermée. Good airadië—like sea diver—till I open windows. We go to store and buy broom and bed and—everything. In little while, we fix things. Wife, she go to Mac’s house and peek in window to see where bed go—she on’y little girl when I take her. An’ good Mrs. Mac, she come over and laugh and they all laugh. We all so silly. Then, Mrs. Mac, she change everything different, while she near die laughing. We have bed in the kitchen, she say, and stoves in the yard with the pump. But, Mrs. Mac she fix all. And how we work! Ach! My bones hurt. We are vairy grand.Ma foi!My wife, she cry and say she afraid. The bed go c-r-r-eck, cr-r-eck, and go down, down, down. But she vairy tired and she sleep. Then I go out and pull door-bell.Là! là! là! là!I wait, holdin’ in big laugh. I think I see whole dam’ business come crying for the devils have come to get t’em. I wait. I hold my laugh back. I ring loud. So! Schwurunkl-angl-unkl-angl-angle! All so still. I go up the crooked steps—some day I break my neck, there!—V’là!Sleep like dead.... Me! Wah-oo-eep!” he yawned. “I sleep stan’ up.”
He began a second, healthy, out-in-the-woods yawn, which extended amid comfortable “ah’s” and “oh’s” and “ee’s” until it snapped back in ecstatic relief.
“Oh-wo-wo-wo!” imitated Gorgas. “You’ve ow!wow! got me go-ow-ing too, Bardek. I’m so-ow-oh slee-py.”
Everyone yawned. Bardek outdid himself. Mac nearly dislocated his jaw.
In a moment or two Bardek was put down at his “boards and plaster,” and Gorgas, Blynn and Morris were saying farewells.
“My pin,” Morris was holding out a hand.
“I think I’ll keep it,” she pushed his hand aside. “You deserve something for today’s work. You weregreat, boy; simply great!”
Morris said his goodbys quickly and was off to catch a town train.
“And, now, Mr. Professor,” Gorgas turned to Blynn, “I’m going to write to you when you arrive at Holden, and if you don’t answer within five days—I’ll—”
“What will you do, child?”
She looked at him steadily. Smiles and little frowns came and went, like gust ripples on a pond.
“Don’t ever put a girl through that sort of thing again. You don’t know what it is to be eaten up with shame—every day, too, for months and months. Well! We’ve dropped that; haven’t we? But I’m still a little hot about it.... Good night, Allen Blynn ... and good luck to you ... and remember; don’t back-pedal.”
“Good night, I’m on my mettle,” he tried her old rhyming game, as he walked away.
“And answer letters,” she retorted, and added, “or with Gorgas Levering you’ll have to settle.”