BLACKER OXEN

ByGertrude Otherton

Gertrude Otherton

Lee Clavering’s weary eyes—steel-blue, half closed—roved over the darkened auditorium.

Twelve years ago he had migrated from pre-civil-war Louisiana to Manhattan, the Brains of America—from the ante-bellum to the cerebellum. In that time he had attained the highest position in the gift of the nation. Poets, playwrights, players, painters, pugilists, politicians, prophets, priests, popes, presidents, princes and pullman-car porters cringed before him.

He was L. C., the premier columnist of America, the King Kleagle of the Kolyumist Klan.

His long dark face suggested the cynical, the mysterious, the morose. But his steel-blue eyes were now, as always, searching, with the evergreen hope of findingtheconsummatewoman, which proves him really romantic. That he found her in a New York first-night audience proves him a character in fiction.

She sat two seats ahead of him. After the first act, she rose to her feet, turned toward him and, with her opera glasses, swept the house.

“European,” Clavering clicked. “All of them are—these sweepers and scrubwomen.”

The columnist spoke. The man took a second look—and saw that Venus rising from the sea had nothing on her (emphasis onher, please!)—the most exquisitely beautiful woman he had ever seen—the only authentic consummate woman, indubitably.

Clavering’s nerves rippled, but the man nextto him—old Dinwiddie, swell, suave and sixty—had an apoplectic fit. His eyes bulged. His lips gibbered.

“It’s a ghost—Mary Ogden—belle of New York forty-five years ago, when I was a kid—married Count Zattiany—Hungarian—never been back since——”

“Her daughter, of course,” suggested Clavering.

“Never had any—to speak of—but that’s it—must be—one of the unmentionables—she wasa gay one—little liaison now and then—relished by the best of men——”

Three weeks passed—six more “first-nights”—and “Mary Ogden” was at every one of them, also Lee Clavering. She was “the talk of the town.”

The newspapers were full of the mystery. Who was this enthralling person? Crowds followed her everywhere. She bought a pair of gloves—and seven floor-walkers were hurried to Bellevue in seven separate deliria. She went into the Public Library—and the infatuated populace carried off all the books as souvenirs. She walked around the reservoir—and they drew off the water and sold it for a dollar a bottle.

At the theater they turned the footlights around and threw the spotlights on her. Nobody looked at the stage. The actors forgot their parts, switched from the first act of “The Demi-Vierge” to the second act of “Pollyanna” and no one noticed it, but the author.

On the second Sunday, forty per cent of all the clergymen preached on “Mary has chosen the better part.”

Never had there been such excitement inManhattan since Peter Stuyvesant broke his wooden leg.

After the sixth “first-night,” Lee Clavering followed her home. He found her alone in the great city, on her own doorstep.

“May I?—Am I?—Are you?—Were they?—Was it?—Whoosis?—” he stammered, his temperature rising dangerously.

“Oh,” she said with a faint smile, “I’m locked out——”

“Watch me!” he said.

He tore out the area railing and threw it at a passing taxicab, smashed the area windows,and burst in the door. Entering, he ran rapidly through the house, switched on all the lights, turned on the hot and cold water in every bathroom, upset the furniture and slid down the banisters from the fourth story to the first. Landing in a heap at the bottom, he leaped to his feet and opened the front door.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “Have a drink, Mr. Clavering?”

“You know whom I am, then?” he cyrilled in amazement.

“Certainly. Don’t you?” she answered.

“I—yes—no—” he murmured, his eyes fixed on her, as he poured a drink.

“That’s the catsup bottle—and do you always drink from a finger bowl?” she asked sweetly.

“Oh, invariably never,” he gasped. “I mean—inevitably always——”

“Won’t you sit down?”

“You make me sit up—and take notice,” he columned feebly, seating himself on the overturned victrola.

“You will pardon my confusion,” he babbled on. “To who—I mean, to wit have I the honor of speaking? How old are you? Have you ever been married? If so, mark a cross within the circle, but not within the triangle—if not, was your husband present when the body was found? If you have any children not in jail, how do you account for it? Whoareyou, and if not, whatisyour beautiful name? Answer yes or no.”

“Marie Zattiany,” she answered, with a smile.

“Legitimate or ill—” he paused in midflight, dipped his forefinger into the catsup and dreamily drew a red cross on his shirt-front.

“Pardon me,” he continued, “I was about to ask a personal question. To speak quite impersonally—will you marry me?—if you’re of marriageable age.”

“How old do you think I am? Don’t answer. You’d certainly either flatter me nauseatinglyor insult me grossly. Come back in three weeks and I will tell you my story.”

She raised her hand for him to kiss, but he ducked and she missed him by an inch.

Outside the house, he remembered the shattered basement-windows. His southern chivalry would not let him leave her unprotected. He lay down on the doorstep and slept soundly until dawn.

A column a day keeps the sheriff away and when you’ve got the habit, you keep right on, no matter what your feelings are—or your readers’. It helped L. C. to bear incertitude with fortitude.

The make-up seldom varied. It must open with a poem, preferably an authentic L. C. Horatian ode. His odometer registered three a week. It was his line—“master of the Horatian line,” he had been called. As thus:

De gink dat never croaked a guyNor crowned a copNor even bumped a buddy on the beezerNor kicked his frail an’ blacked her eye(It does ’em good an’ dat’s no lie)Nor stuck a knife in any scrappy geezer—A chink or wop,Nor peddled dope or hop or hooch, nor panned a yidNor blew a safe, nor shoved de queer, nor napped a kidDat never copped a come-on’s kaleNor frisked a hayseed’s leatherAin’t got no fear of judge or jailNor de cops all put togetherDey’ll never pinch him. Hully gee!Dat ain’t no loss!Dey’ll never mug him for de Gallery.He’ll never git no third degree(Like what de bulls once giv’ to me.I’ll say dey earn’t their salary.I come across!!)Nor do a bit nor stretch a rope, nor pad de hoofAnd pound his ear beneat’ de sky, widout no roofHe needn’t pack no wicked gat.Policemen’ll protect him.If he forgets where home is at,Kind Central’ll connect him.

De gink dat never croaked a guy

Nor crowned a cop

Nor even bumped a buddy on the beezer

Nor kicked his frail an’ blacked her eye

(It does ’em good an’ dat’s no lie)

Nor stuck a knife in any scrappy geezer—

A chink or wop,

Nor peddled dope or hop or hooch, nor panned a yid

Nor blew a safe, nor shoved de queer, nor napped a kid

Dat never copped a come-on’s kale

Nor frisked a hayseed’s leather

Ain’t got no fear of judge or jail

Nor de cops all put together

Dey’ll never pinch him. Hully gee!Dat ain’t no loss!Dey’ll never mug him for de Gallery.He’ll never git no third degree(Like what de bulls once giv’ to me.I’ll say dey earn’t their salary.I come across!!)Nor do a bit nor stretch a rope, nor pad de hoofAnd pound his ear beneat’ de sky, widout no roofHe needn’t pack no wicked gat.Policemen’ll protect him.If he forgets where home is at,Kind Central’ll connect him.

Dey’ll never pinch him. Hully gee!

Dat ain’t no loss!

Dey’ll never mug him for de Gallery.

He’ll never git no third degree

(Like what de bulls once giv’ to me.

I’ll say dey earn’t their salary.

I come across!!)

Nor do a bit nor stretch a rope, nor pad de hoof

And pound his ear beneat’ de sky, widout no roof

He needn’t pack no wicked gat.

Policemen’ll protect him.

If he forgets where home is at,

Kind Central’ll connect him.

Dat pious pie-faced son of a gun,He’s sittin’ pretty, maybe.But ain’t he missed a lot of fun?I’ll tell de world! Oh, baby!

Dat pious pie-faced son of a gun,

He’s sittin’ pretty, maybe.

But ain’t he missed a lot of fun?

I’ll tell de world! Oh, baby!

Then the contribs must have a chance. Just now they were busy with Tens. For example, one proposed, as the Ten Most Lovable Old Women in History, a list beginning with (1) Mother Goose and (2) Old Mother Hubbard, and ending with (9) Josephine Daniels and (10) Wilhelmina Jenny Bryan.

Another wrote——

“Sir: If I had to go to a Desert Island and takeTen Women with me, I’d take(1) Cyanide of PotassiumAnd that would be about all.“G. P. B.”

“Sir: If I had to go to a Desert Island and take

Ten Women with me, I’d take

(1) Cyanide of Potassium

And that would be about all.

“G. P. B.”

Then the Diary:

“Wednesday, October 9.

“Up betimes, at ten of the clock and to my office, there half an hour pasting contribs’ contribs to make a full column and amazed to find how short my stint, but with no lack of pleasure or content. Having nothing now in my mind of trouble in the world, did sit and think on many things. So to lunch with H. Broun, my fellow scrivener and a very pleasant fellow withal, though me thought me had heard before some of the bright sayings of his little son, wherewith he regaled me. Thence to the game or play of base-ball, as well played as ever I saw in my life. Thence to tea with Mistress Myssa McMynn, with much merrimentand wit. Thence to dinner with F. Adams, the satyrickal writer, H. Canby, the excellent critick, C. Morley, the literary philosopher, D. Marquis, the poet, and other wits, and much good talk of this and that. Thence to the playhouse where was enacted a masque entitled “The Follies,” to my great content. Thence to supper with W. Rogers, the antick player, and found him very intelligent, whereat I wondered greatly. And so to bed, very low spirited and lay a long time marvelling at my capacity for work and how, poor wretch, I must earn my bread by the sweat of my paste pot.”

Three weeks passed.

“To-night’s the night,” he cried, rushed from his apartment, plunged recklessly between automobiles going in four different directions at once—obviously Fords—sprang upon the roof of a passing taxicab and told the man to drive like hell for Park Avenue.

He charged up the steps, assaulted the door with his fists, leap-frogged over the impassive butler. He found her in the library and forced the fighting from the start.

It seemed to her that her entire body was encircled by flexible hot bars of iron and that her face, her mouth, were being flagellated.

“Break away!” she managed to gurgle. “No biting in the clinches!”

“Who are you?” he cried. “I don’t want to know! Will you marry me? Don’t answer!”

Again she was submerged. When she was coming up for the third time, he pushed her head under once more. A left hook to the jaw and he collapsed under a table.

When he came to, his voice was weak.

“A typewriter, please!” he gasped. “It’s stuff for the column.” His news sense rarely failed him.

“Tuesday, October 29th—I to M. Zattiany’s, the toast of the town, and a mighty mystery, whether she be in truth Zattiany or a mischievous impostor, and did kiss and clip her mightily, but the baggage handed me a slapp on the mapp, as a trunk had fallen on me. So I to the mat.”

“What next?” he added feebly.

“Have a drink,” she said.

He took three.

“Who are you, woman? Is your real name Zattiany or Firpo?”

“I am Mary Ogden Zattiany,” she answered quietly; “I married Zattiany forty-five years ago. I was twenty-five at the time. Do your own arithmetic.”

“Five from thirty is twenty and carry two—twice two is five divided by forty—double it and subtract the cube root—think of a number, add a dash of bitters—shake well before using”—hisvoice trailed to silence and his jaw dropped.

“I hated Zattiany but his position appealed to my love of power and intrigue—especially the latter. I was besieged by men—and surrendered at discretion.”

He got suddenly to his feet. “Think I’ll take few more drinks.” He did so and then sat down on the floor, a full glass in either hand.

“I had many lovers—many—many—many—” she went on.

“Bow-wow-wow!” he barked a short laugh.

He gazed at her with relaxing features. His steel-blue eyes goggled sardonically.

“Of all my lovers, I loved but one, Prince Haffanauer, the last. But he married and left me flat.”

“Lef’ your flat? Thought you lived in palazzo.”

“That’s so,” she echoed. “I did until the war came.”

“’Scuse me pers’nal queshion, Mis’ Zattiany, but have you sat in any these genelmen’s laps lately?”

“Not since Haffanauer,” she answered pleadingly.

“Tha’s long time—thirty minutes,” he ruminated. “That’s all ri’. Proceed!”

“I was sixty-five when Haffanauer—elapsed, so to speak.”

“But you’re young woman now. Please ’splain that—simple queshion—how do you did it?”

“Coué!”

“No, I won’ go ’way—not tell you till me—till you tell me.”

“Coué! Coué! Emile Coué!”

“Are you singin’ song or jes’ making funny noises?”

“Oh, you know! Every day in every way—younger and younger.”

“Sure, I know! Every day Coee, Cooay, he chortled in his joy! Alice Swunderland. S’Lewis Carroll—great columnist—my cousin—same ’nitials.”

“I was sixty-eight when I took the cure. Every day I’ve been getting younger and younger—in every way.”

“Better stop, lady!” he said solemnly. “Some kid now, but—much younger—police in’erfere.”

“Well—that is my story. Do you—do you love me still?” she faltered.

“’Scuse me, ’nother pers’nal queshion.D’you make zis hooch?”

“I did.”

“’En Idolove your still. Old as you are, your still’s mos’ beautiful thing in N’York.In hooch signo vinces.With all thy faults, I lovethy still—now an’ forever—one insepar’ble—death us do part!”

And then he slept as quietly as a child.

Three weeks passed—three weeks of constant companionship with Lee Clavering—almost exhausting her capacity for surprise and her cellar. Then, a wireless telegram—“Wife dead must see you immediately on arrival Berengaria Haffanauer.”

The Prince arrived—straight, thin, erect, broke—in his eyes the glance of the Austrian double-eagle, now selling at 99⁴⁴⁄₁₀₀ off for cash.

“Frau Gräfin.” He lifted her hand to his lips with princely courtesy. “Younger than when I first saw you. Couéing, they tell me—and billing, as well—is it not so?”

“Why are you here, Excellenz?”

“Because Austria needs you—I need you. We need you every hour and—every dollar. Will you marry me?”

“But I am engaged to L. C.”

“What of that? Let me state my case. I am about to rehabilitate Austria. My plans are simple but comprehensible by the meanest intelligence—only. I shall annex Germany, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Moldavia, Bolivia,Rumania, Pneumonia, the Jugo and Czecho brothers and all the Balking States. I shall create a Barnum, Bailey and Ringling Brothers Austria—bigger and better than ever.

“And you?” he went on, “you shall be—what you will—queen, empress, my m—er—morganatic wife. The Oesterreich shall shed its plumes for your adornment—if only you’ll buy a little preferred with a large bonus of very common.”

“Old stuff!” she exclaimed disdainfully. “I have the same plan. I shall do it myself—with the aid of my husband’s column—I, Marie, Countess Zattiany!”

“But, no,” he answered. “Return to Austria as Mrs. Lee Clavering and you’ll be cut by every true-born Austrich. We recognize no one without sixteen quarterings—and a few hangings and drawings.”

“What?” she stared aghast. “Mrs. Lee—? Shall I have to take my husband’s name? Isn’t the Lucy Stone League too powerful——”

“Not in Austria,” he said blandly. “No League whether of Nations or denominations is recognized.”

“I love him so!” she moaned. “But this changes everything. I will never give up the gräfinship. Moritz! I am yours!”

“Sign on the dotted line,” he said quietly.

VIII

She wrote Lee these stanzas:

When lovely woman takes to Coué-ingAnd finds what bills she has to payFor this—though sweet—untitled wooing.The next boat takes her down the bay.You should then be up and doing.Follow me on Saturday,Still your happiness pursuing.Love like ours will find a way.

When lovely woman takes to Coué-ingAnd finds what bills she has to payFor this—though sweet—untitled wooing.The next boat takes her down the bay.

When lovely woman takes to Coué-ing

And finds what bills she has to pay

For this—though sweet—untitled wooing.

The next boat takes her down the bay.

You should then be up and doing.Follow me on Saturday,Still your happiness pursuing.Love like ours will find a way.

You should then be up and doing.

Follow me on Saturday,

Still your happiness pursuing.

Love like ours will find a way.

But he printed it in the column on Saturday and on Monday married the daughter of an eminent bootlegger.

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