The Last Drive (12 page)

“At that time,” continued Billy, ignoring the remark, “I was living on a monthly allowance from my father. When I met you the month had nearly ended. That last dinner at the Sigognac was contributed to by no less than fourteen of my devoted friends. I was, in short, completely strapped.”

“You could have walked,” said Cecily, trying not to smile.

“Certainly,” agreed Billy, “and I did. I am shameless enough to admit that I watched you board the train from behind the friendly shelter of a protecting post. But nothing less than the most beautiful flowers in Paris would have suited you, and that was—impracticable.”

There was a short silence.

“I had the bouquet made up,” said Billy, reminiscently, “by Vidalinc of the Haussamn. It was most gorgeous. My friends admired it immensely. It was wonderful.”

“But I thought you—I thought it was impracticable,” said Cecily.

“So it was,” agreed Billy. “But I wanted to see how it looked. I had thought the thing out so carefully, and I wanted to see if it met my expectations. Vidalinc was most accommodating. Only, of course, I had to—”

“Do you mean to say,” Cecily interrupted, “that you had that bouquet made up without intending to buy it?”

“Why not?” asked Billy. “It was for you. I would do anything for you.”

Cecily laughed. It was a silvery, musical laugh.

“Billy—,” said she, and stopped short.

“There!” said Billy, sternly. “You're at it again. You know what that does to me.”

“I am sorry,” said Cecily, with averted face. It was positively red. “Mr. Du Mont,” she added.

“It's too late,” said Billy, gloomily. “I love you.”

“Mr. Du Mont!” exclaimed Cecily, as severely as possible.

“I couldn't help it,” declared Billy, “but I'll try.”

Silence.

“Not to say it?”

“Not to love you.”

“Oh!” said Cecily. “You—you probably won't find it difficult.”

“Probably not,” agreed Billy, almost cheerfully.

Cecily should have been gratified by this sincere effort to obey her wishes, but she wasn't. She looked out across the swamps toward the Sound without seeing them, and then turned and glanced at Billy curiously. His lips were puckered into a round and unmistakable O.

“Oh!” cried Cecily.

“Well?” demanded Billy, surprised.

“You were going to whistle,” said Cecily, accusingly.

“Yes. ‘Love Is a Jolly Good Fellow.' Have you heard it?”

“I hate you!” declared Cecily.

“Thank you. I was afraid you pitied me.”

“Not I,” scornfully.

“
May
I whistle?”

No answer. Billy hesitated for a moment, then began to whistle a lilting, catchy tune that sailed out over the fields and seemed to arouse even the sleepy violets tucked away in their modest beds. They had just passed New Rochelle, and the car had left its rough brick pavements for the long stretch of smooth, oily road that leads to Larchmont. Cottages and bungalows appeared at either side of the road at frequent intervals. To the right lay low meadows, reaching to the Sound; to the left and north, miniature hills and undulations that gave only an enticing hint of Mother Earth's great breasts. Over all lay spring's fragrant mantle, alluring, transparent, a continual reminder of the blazing passion of the summer to come.

As Billy whistled tune after tune, seemingly unconscious of all the world save his own agreeable self, Cecily was far from comfortable. There was every reason in the world why Billy should be sad, even sullen; instead, witness his heartless mirth. She turned away in vexation.

Billy, having completed his repertoire of happy tunes, and disdaining the mournful ones, turned to her with the air of one about to divulge an important secret.

“I forgot to tell you,” said he, “that I have become a journalist.”

Cecily gazed at a bungalow they were passing, with deep interest.

“I am beginning at the bottom,” continued Billy, “as a reporter. I began work this morning.”

“Aren't you afraid you're working too hard?” Cecily asked, sweetly.

Billy shifted himself a little to a more comfortable position.

“Well,” he said, thoughtfully, “to tell the truth, no. I think hard work is good for a fellow. This morning, for instance, I have been successful where any other man on the paper would have failed.”

A pause.

“Would you care to hear about it?” Billy asked.

“No,” said Cecily, shortly.

“It was this way,” continued Billy; “the papers have all printed reports that the Count de Luni has won the heart of a certain Miss Lyndon, and Allen—that's our city editor—wanted the rumor confirmed or denied.”

Cecily caught her breath with indignation, and her eyes flashed dangerously.

“Am I being interviewed?” she demanded.

“No. The interview is ended.”

“Then we may return, I suppose?”

“As you please.”

“But I—but you—” Cecily hesitated.

“That's the same as ‘but
we
,'” explained Billy, kindly. “But we what?”

“Oh!” cried Cecily. “How I hate you!”

“That's three times you've told me that,” said Billy, “and it's getting monotonous. Once more, and I'll believe it. Besides, I am not hateful. If you don't believe me, ask Cecile—a most charming girl who admired me.”

Cecily smiled contemptuously.

“Who
admired
me,” repeated Billy, with emphasis. “She admitted it. It would do you good to know her. She is the dearest and sweetest girl in the world. Perhaps she didn't love me, but once in the Gardens she told me that she would never—”

“I didn't say ‘never,'” interposed Cecily, hastily.

“You did,” Billy contradicted. “Twice. You said: ‘I will never, never forget this—'”

“No! No!” cried Cecily.

Billy stopped obediently, and there was a short silence.

“Why do you always stop when people tell you to?” Cecily demanded. “Haven't you any tongue?”

“Did you say ‘never'?” demanded Billy, exasperated.

“Yes.”

“Did you
mean
‘never'?”

“I—I've forgotten.”

As she spoke, the car drew up at the Larchmont Yacht Club. At a word from Billy the chauffeur descended from his seat and, disappearing into the Club office, returned shortly with a telegram blank.

Billy placed the blank against the back of the chauffeur's seat, and wrote on it.

Then, holding it before Cecily's eyes, he commanded:

“Read that.”

The message was short:

“M. L. Allen,

New York,
Clarion
,

New York.

Rumor of engagement positively false. Best authority.

WILLIAM DU MONT.”

“Is it true?” asked Billy, as he handed the message to the chauffeur.

Cecily was silent.

“Is it true?” repeated Billy.

“Yes,” reluctantly.

“Yes—Billy.”

And then; “Billy! Stop! He's looking!”

“Can you blame him?” asked Billy, shamelessly.

Barnacles

Before he began publishing short stories, Rex Stout served for two years in the United States Navy. Stout's period in service could hardly be called typical—he spent much of it as pay-yeoman on President Theodore Roosevelt's yacht—but it gave him enough Navy background and terminology to lend some verisimilitude to this story. From
Young's Magazine
.

S
ince Annie is still living, it would hardly be fair to tell you the name of the town. It is enough to say that it contains about three thousand inhabitants and is somewhere between Albany and Buffalo. It was here that William Brownell enlisted in the Navy; it was from here that he shipped to the receiving ship
Franklin
at Norfolk. Also, it was here that he bade a tearful good-by to Annie, though Annie knew nothing about it, and cared less.

William's first six months in the navy were full of novel incidents, but they were more troublesome than exciting. Then, having successfully survived the somewhat painful instruction of the training school, and having rubbed out, on his hands and knees, the disgraceful stiffness of his recruit's outfit, he was assigned to a berth on the deck of the
Kansas
, and began to criticise the Bureau of Navigation and revile the commissary according to the most approved rules and precedents.

Friendships in the navy rarely have anything to do with caste. A coxswain is as apt to open his heart to a coal passer as to anyone else, or a quartermaster to an apprentice seaman. There is even a case on record where a marine—twelve-eighty and a horse blanket—became the bosom friend of the captain's writer. Therefore, there is really nothing surprising in the fact that within three months William was the acknowledged chum of the equipment yeoman.

The equipment yeoman's name was Jimmy Spear. He was on his second cruise, and he spent most of his time swearing to the Deity that he'd “take one a yard long” before he'd ship over for “a third one.” He was, in short, of the stuff of which C. S. C. men are made.

William and Jimmy spent many a pleasant hour together in the little store-room just forward of the pay office, or walking to and fro on the forecastle. They rehashed all their experiences and exploited their opinions with endless enjoyment and ceaseless repetition. Jimmy, whose choice for a liberty port was, first, New York, and, second, Aden, Arabia, recited over and over incredible tales of conquests both bacchanalian and amorous, while William was forced to devote himself chiefly to humble pastorals and glowing descriptions of the County Fair.

It was nearly a year before he mentioned Annie. The corner she occupied in his heart was so deep and sacred that it seemed a sacrilege to expose it even to the sympathetic Jimmy. But it is hard to suffer in silence when a willing ear is waiting to hear your woes; and the time came when William felt an irresistible impulse to lay bare his soul. He was surprised and pleased at the eager interest of Jimmy, who squatted on a ditty box and gazed long and earnestly at the little framed photograph William had handed him.

“She's a peach,” declared Jimmy in a tone of authority. “Who is she?”

“Annie.”

“Who's Annie?”

William walked over to a box of salt water soap and sat down thoughtfully. “Jimmy, I've never spoke about this before.” His voice was filled with sadness. “She's the only girl I ever loved. For as long as I can remember I've loved her. I wish you could see her.”

Jimmy tapped the photograph with his finger. “Do you mean to say you left
that
to join the outfit?”

William, unable to speak for emotion, nodded.

“You're a blooming idiot. But, of course, there are always explanations. Tell us about it.”

“I guess you won't understand,” said William, timidly. “You see, I never knew her. She used to go past the store where I worked on her way to school. There was always two or three guys with her; sissy guys, you know, mamma's boys. I used to catch 'em when they was alone and beat 'em up, but I never had the nerve to speak to her. You see, I was in a different class. Then afterward I delivered groceries to her house, till one day she—she—”

“Well?” said Jimmy, encouragingly.

“That was when I enlisted. She insulted me. I did it just to get away from her. Because, of course, she'd never look at
me
.”

“For the second time,” Jimmy's tone was emphatic, “You're a blooming idiot. Say!” he tapped the photograph again, “show me one like that, and in two weeks I'll have her rigged to the davits and both the masts down. Delivered groceries to her! Best chance in the world. Why, don't you go in at the back door just like the rest of the family?”

At this William smiled weakly and sighed hopelessly.

“Forget it,” continued Jimmy. “Wait till we get to San Juan, and I'll show you the original and only genuine antidote for unrequited love. Who
wants
to eat canned willie and red lead? Forget it.”

It was soon sadly apparent that Jimmy's advice was useless. For days, which rapidly extended into weeks, William consistently and absolutely refused to consider any topic for discussion except Annie. Having once opened his heart, he poured into Jimmy's sympathetic ear all the pitiful details of a mad and hopeless passion. And Jimmy, who had seen William's indifference in the combined fire of a thousand eyes on the Prado, and who had studied Annie's photograph, began to take an interest in the affair on his own account. But he succeeded in convincing himself that it was purely through friendship that he evolved and proposed a plan which met with William's instantaneous and unqualified approval.

The first letter, composed by Jimmy, read as follows:

“Dear Annie:

“I am writing this because there is something I want to say which I never had the courage to tell you. I won't write it now, but I will later if you want to hear it. I am now a sailor on the battleship
Kansas
, and we are going to start on a cruise to the Mediterranean in July. My address is U. S. S.
Kansas
, care of Postmaster, New York City.

“Yours sincerely,

“William Brownell.

“P.S.—I will send you postcards from Paris and Rome and other places if you want me to.

“W.B.”

In two weeks came the answer, and, though very short and rather discreet, it raised William to the seventh heaven of delight. His eyes were filled with tears of gratitude as he tried to express his thanks to Jimmy in a faltering voice.

“Nothing to it,” declared Jimmy. “It was bound to come. It was the postcards that got her. She'll get 'em, all right, and more, too.”

“We must answer it to-night,” said William, “so the orderly can take it ashore on his first trip.”

Jimmy regarded him with contempt. “Lothario, you leave this to me. You know as much about this game as a rookie does about a marlin hitch. We
may
answer it in a week—not a minute sooner. The first and only rule is, keep 'em guessing.”

This policy met with strong objections from William. He was afraid Annie wouldn't like it, and he knew he didn't. It was only when Jimmy threatened to desert the ship that he agreed to obey orders and wait for the tide before weighing anchor.

Annie's second letter was distinctly encouraging; the third began “Dear William,” and the fourth was almost reckless. By the time they sailed for Lisbon she was signing herself “Your loving Annie,” and William was sheenying on the berth deck and making endless computations of the cost of furniture for four rooms.

Jimmy pursued his labor of friendship, seemingly with the constancy of a Pythias and the zeal of a Jonathan. He appropriated Annie's photograph for his own use, claiming he needed it for inspiration in the composition of William's weekly letter. And even considering William's innocence and ignorance, it is remarkable that his confiding breast felt no touch of suspicion when he had a daily opportunity of viewing the green lights in Jimmy's eyes as they rested on Annie's likeness.

The cruise in the Mediterranean was twice as long as anybody had expected. Their first orders had been for Genoa, where they took part in a naval celebration, but subsequently they were told to proceed to Manila and the Asiatic, there to leave half their own crew and bring home an equal number of short-timings. By a miracle William escaped the danger of being buried in a Japanese “take-it-and-leave-it,” but even then eighteen months had passed before the
Kansas
found herself at Cherbourg, carrying a three hundred-foot homeward-bound pennant and a happy crew.

Long before this Annie had finally and unconditionally surrendered. It had been arranged that William should apply for a furlough immediately upon arrival at New York, and spend it in Annie's arms. And William, who had conducted the most brilliantly successful bumboat operation of the cruise at Iloilo, and was therefore rolling in untold wealth, gave himself up to so excessive a jollification the night before sailing that he spent the first five days of the trip across in the ship's brig.

On the morning of the day that the
Kansas
tied up at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, Jimmy Spear, whose enlistment had expired in the middle of the Atlantic, walked down the gangway with his canvas bag on his shoulder and his ditty box under his arm. Close behind was William, with the hammock. Arrived at the Naval Y. M. C. A. on Sands Street they deposited their burdens on a settee in the lobby and shook hands solemnly.

“Remember,” said William, “you promised to write. Of course, I'll be on furlough for two weeks, but I want to hear from you as soon as I get back to the ship. I ain't going to try to thank you for what you've done. Some day, maybe, I'll tell Annie, and she'll invite you to call and rock the baby.”

“Forget it,” said Jimmy, roughly. “You probably won't ever see me again. It's the Pacific for mine. I'll send you my address from 'Frisco. And say,” as William turned to go, “give Annie my love!”

William returned to the ship to wait for the approval of his furlough. With Jimmy gone it was horribly lonesome, and, since they had not yet received the expected orders to go into dry dock, even furloughs were uncertain. He sent a telegram to Annie, advising her of the delay, and swallowed his impatience with difficulty. It was the second day after Jimmy's departure that he was called to the cabin and advised by the captain's writer that his leave would commence at four o'clock of that day. He was ready to go in fifteen minutes, thanks to the simplicity of his wardrobe, and promptly at eight bells he went over the side with a joyous heart.

His first act after he got ashore was to array himself magnificently and expensively in a suit of “cits.” Then he proceeded to Nolan's, and after an hour of selecting and bickering became the possessor of a diamond solitaire ring. Thence to the Y. M. C. A., where, having hung the suit carefully on the back of a chair, and having placed the ring reverently under his pillow, he slept the sleep of the unrighteous, healthy and happy. To-morrow he would see Annie.

As his train pulled into the old familiar station in the middle of the following afternoon, William stood on the car step with a shining­ new suit case in his hand and tears in his eyes. He was about to enjoy the triumph which had for years been his fondest dream. The pride and joy that filled his heart were indescribable. He had not told Annie the time of his arrival, and an expectant smile parted his lips as he pictured to himself her glad surprise. He quickly made his way through the knot of loungers around the station door and started down Main Street.

“Ship ahoy!” came a voice.

William turned. Coming toward him with a rolling gait, his eyes red, his face pale, was Jimmy Spear.

“What in—” began William.

“Hello!” Jimmy interrupted. “It took you a devil of a time to get here. For forty-eight hours I've been hanging around this blooming station to head you off.”

“Head me off from what?”

“Wait till you see it! But first I want to admit that I tried to double-­cross you. I intended to take Annie for myself. What you said about her, and that damn picture—”

“Where is she?” demanded William, his face white with fear.

“Port your helm,” said Jimmy. “Lead me to Snyder's soda fountain. I've been drunk for two days and couldn't tell one from an iceberg. I'm sorry I tried to hand it to you, but I got what I deserved.”

William turned as one dazed and, with Jimmy at his side, started down the street. The whole thing was incomprehensible to him, and he didn't even try to understand it.

As they turned in at Snyder's Jimmy caught his arm and directed his gaze toward the soda fountain. What he saw was a girl incredibly fat and unmistakably German, with straw-colored hair and a nose buried in the ample folds of flabby cheeks. The only thing doubtful about her was whether she was above or below four hundred pounds.

“That's her,” said Jimmy.

William leaned against a counter for support. Notwithstanding the frightful change, there could be no mistake. It was Annie.

They had reached the station before William found his tongue.

“For Pete's sake,” he demanded, “how did she get all that in three years?”

“That,” said Jimmy, as he laid down a twenty dollar bill to pay for two tickets to New York, “is more than I can say. By George, she'd make a fine anchor!”

“And yet,” mused William, “there was a time when—”

“Forget it!” said Jimmy, sternly.