Lundy told himself afterward that he had been tempted beyond his strength. In fact, he had never been really tempted before, for he had never had such an opportunity. He had gone to the bank – the branch bank in the poor, rundown neighborhood to which he had recently moved – to cut a coupon from his last bond; all the rest of his bonds and his money he had lost in his crazy attempt to make on stock market so that he could give up his job and live in Florida. He took his safe deposit-box to one of the booths where people shut themselves in while they open their safe-deposit boxes in order to cut coupons or to put in or remove valuables. The booth had just been vacated by a fat woman wearing many jewels who had left it covered with torn papers.
A little annoyed, Lundy brushed away the torn papers – and came upon an envelope filled with money which the fat woman had obviously overlooked. A bank failure in the town had recently frightened many people; the fat woman looked like the sort of person who would turn her bank balance into cash and lock it up in her safe-deposit box. Lundy half opened the door to call her back and saw her walking out of the bank. Quickly he shut the door, counted the money. Nearly thirty thousand dollars; enough to keep a man comfortably live in some little Florida town for the rest of his life.
Quickly, Lundy slipped the envelope into his inside pocket.
Then he left the bank, crossing the street into a little park with a high iron fence around it. It was, he knew, a private park, the possession of the old families that had once lived on the square; at night its gates were locked, a watchman guarded it. But by day it was open to all. He sat down on a bench, trembling
in the winter wind; the envelope in his pocket felt like a piece of hot metal.
What a fool he had been! He had thought when he took it that it wouldn't be missed for a month – not until the woman came again to cut coupons. But if she kept all her money in her safe-deposit box she might come back and find it missing tomorrow – this afternoon. The bank employees would remember Lundy – he had recently rented his safe-deposit box; they might remember that he had followed her into the booth. If he gave up his job now and left for Florida, that would be a confession. But tonight, tomorrow, he might be questioned, his rooms examined. Where could he hide the money?
His throat was dry; he got up, walked to the center of the park, where he had seen a drinking fountain. Unable to decide what to do, he stared at the drinking fountain, at its tall concrete base. Then his eyes narrowed; the base was broken on one side – a hole big enough to put your hand through. Inside, there was a dark space where no one would think of looking for anything; where a man who had hidden something could come back and get it almost anytime.
Beside the drinking fountain, Lundy kneeled down; anyone who had passed would have seen only a man with an unbuttoned overcoat hanging loose about him, kneeling down, tying his shoe. But when he went on, the envelope of money no longer lay like a piece of hot metal in his pocket. He had hidden it in the hole at the base of the drinking fountain.
That evening two detectives from police headquarters came to see him, to question him very politely and he met them smiling.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “There was a fat woman in the booth just before me; she left it covered with torn pieces of paper and I brushed them aside into the wastepaper basket. Find out where the wastepaper basket went, and you'll probably find the money
No, I've no objection at all if you want to look around here just to satisfy yourselves.
Afterward he wondered whether he had not overdone it. They went away apparently convinced, but he couldn't feel safe. He had better live the money where it was, for a while. There wasn't a chance in a million that anyone would look into the broken drinking fountain. There was no hope of his recovering the money at night: the park gate was locked; the watchman was on duty. Someday, when no one was near, he would kneel down as if to tie his shoe –
As he entered the park next morning, he saw something like a red cloud just above the drinking fountain. A red warning of danger. He became very nervous but then saw that it was only a group of toy balloons held by an old man. Lundy had never seen anyone selling balloons here in the three weeks in which he lived nearby; business couldn't be good, the old man would soon live. But when Lundy came back at evening, he was still there in the same spot near the drinking fountain.
Lundy looked at him in passing; he was old but he looked strong. He might be a younger man in disguise – not a seller of balloons; he might be a detective placed there to watch him. Lundy went home trembling. No one could have seen him put the money away – but suppose that by some accident the money had been found. The police would know that the thief must come back for it; thus they had left a man on guard. But had they left the money there in order to trap him?
The next morning the balloon-seller was still there. That day Lundy went to the bank and risked a question. No, said the manager of the bank, they hadn't found the money, but they expected to find it. It seemed to Lundy that the manager looked at him in a rather suspicious manner.
That evening he spoke, in passing, to the balloon-seller.
“You work late, eh? Business must be good.”
“Not so good. But I stay around until they lock the gates each night and the watchman arrives to guard the place.”
There was not a moment when the fountain was not being watched. That was the first night that Lundy couldn't sleep. In the morning the red cloud was still there, hanging above his treasure.
Well, if business was bad, the balloon-seller would soon leave and go somewhere else to sell his balloons. Lundy waited there more days, in which he saw, morning and evening, that red sign of danger. He couldn't stand this much longer: a balloon-seller, staying in a place where Lundy had never seen before, couldn't be a balloon-seller. But, there was one chance, if the police had left the money. Policeman in uniform seldom came here; Lundy could wait for his chance until there was no one around, attack the balloon-seller, knock him out, take the money, and escape before anyone came.
And so he waited his chance, found the old man alone, walked up to him, pretended to by a balloon, then hit him, straight and hard on the jaw. Down went the old man – down and out; down went Lundy on his knees, his arm reaching into the hole at the base of the fountain.
Up into the air went a dozen red balloons, release from the old man's hand as he fell; a dozen sudden red danger signals which could be seen everywhere in the park and from the nearby streets as well. As Lundy rose, pushing the money into his pocket, he saw a policeman coming up; he turned only to face another, tried to walk away coolly –
“Here!” said the policeman. “What's the matter with old Joe?”
“I don't know. I've done nothing.” But the balloon man was talking now, explaining to the policeman what had happened. The policeman turned toward Lundy, severe.
“What's the idea of knocking down an old man that's just out of the hospital?”
“Just out of the hospital?” Lundy asked.
“Sure. He's been sick for a month. Haven't you noticed that for the past month he hasn't been here, at his regular place near the fountain? First time he's been away for twenty years….
Hey, you – take your hand out of that pocket! Oh, it isn't a gun? Just papers? Well, come along with me and show them to the captain at police headquarters.”
18 Haziran 2014 Çarşamba
The most fascinating place in the United States is Palm Beach and the most interesting spot in Palm Beach is “Whitney's.” The name isn't Whitney's at all, but anyone who has ever been to Palm Beach will know the establishment to which I refer.
Whitney's is a restaurant and a gambling place, and sooner or later everybody who comes to Palm Beach visits Whitney's.
There is no restaurant or hotel in France, Italy, Germany, or Spain whose food can compare with Whitney's. At Whitney's there are no menus; you order what you wish from an endless variety of special foods, anything from duck soup to bird's tongues – and the surprising fact is that you get what you order. But on your first visit to Whitney's you often pay little attention to what you eat, for very soon, as the room commences to fill, you can hardly believe your eyes. At every table you soon recognize someone who is either famous or notorious.
After lunch this brilliantly dressed group of persons goes down to the gambling room. By two o'clock this room is well filled, by three it is crowded, and it remains so until early hours of the morning. It's far more interesting and better conducted than Monte Carlo. I was deeply impressed, and soon I welcomed an opportunity to meet Mr. Whitney himself.
We found him in a small, businesslike office hardly large enough to hold the big old-fashioned roll-top desk and a chair or two. Perhaps there was a safe; I can't remember. The office was protected by some iron bars, and there was a uniformed attendant at the door who admitted us after Mr. Whitney had given the word he would see us.
I found him a man square of jaw, cold of eye, his face rather unexpressive – much what I expected.
He runs his gambling place as a business – and it is a matter of pride with him that it is conducted in an efficient, businesslike way. It is said that his profits are two million dollars a season, and I doubt this just as one doubts the salaries of motion picture stars.
However the man had a strong personality. He interested me. I liked him. I wanted to talk to him, but it was difficult. He was not a very communicative person. Soon I asked him how much he lost a season in the way of bad checks and bad debts. He said approximately two hundred thousand dollars, which he didn't seem to consider heavy. As he spoke of this a light came into his eyes, and a faint smile appeared on his lips.
“I had a rather interesting experience the other day,” he said. “I was sitting in my office one morning when word was brought to me that a lady wanted to see me; ‘Mrs. John Rossiter,' the man told me. I knew who John Rossiter was, so I told him to show her in.
“Before she said a word she began to cry, not bitterly; but tears came into her eyes and began to run down her cheeks, and she kept wiping them away with her handkerchief, trying all the time to control herself. I don't like that sort of thing, you know, and I usually avoid it, but this rather impressed me. I felt sorry for her before she opened her mouth.
“Her husband had been gambling, she told me, and on Wednesday – the day before – had lost thirty thousand dollars. I've been acquainted with John Rossiter off and on for five or six years. Every year he has been coming down here, and I've known him well enough to say ‘Hello,' but not much more intimately than that. At any rate, I've always had a good feeling about Rossiter. He was a clean-cut man, a good sport, well liked, belonged to a club, and was rather popular everywhere. I had seen him year after year here, but I hadn't an idea of how he played or what he won or lost.
He had an account with me and always paid very promptly at the end of the month if there was any paying to be done.
“Mrs. Rossiter explained that the great problem of her life had been her husband's gambling. She had begged him to keep away from the stock market and from cards, and he'd promise her that he'd stop, but then he'd slip and get caught again. The thirty thousand dollars he had lost on Wednesday about cleaned him and his wife out. It meant – oh, I've forgotten what she told me exactly: selling the home – it was mortgaged already, she said, taking the two girls out of the school, herself perhaps having to find a position. It was a long story, I don't remember the details, but I confess that I felt very sorry for her. Taking those two girls out of school was what I believe impressed me, I don't know why exactly. Well, at any rate, I told her that I didn't like the idea of anybody coming here and losing everything. Sentiment, if you like, but it's good business at the same time. It doesn't help an establishment like this to get a reputation that people can loose everything they have here. The result of it all was that I agreed to give her back the money which her husband had lost, but on one condition, and I made that point very clear: John Rossiter was never to enter my place again. I don't like that kind of a loser around here. If he hasn't got the money, he shouldn't play. She promised me with the tears running down her cheeks, and I gave her the money, and she made me feel like a damn fool by kissing both my hands and asking God to bless me – all that foolishness that a grateful woman feels she has to do when you do her a favor.
“I didn't think anything more about the affair until the very next afternoon when it was clearly brought back to my mind. My floor manager came to me ant told me that John Rossiter has just come in, and had gone to the gambling room, and was playing at one of the tables. As a rule, I never mix in with what happens outside, but this made me pretty mad, so I walked out there myself.”
Whitney's is a restaurant and a gambling place, and sooner or later everybody who comes to Palm Beach visits Whitney's.
There is no restaurant or hotel in France, Italy, Germany, or Spain whose food can compare with Whitney's. At Whitney's there are no menus; you order what you wish from an endless variety of special foods, anything from duck soup to bird's tongues – and the surprising fact is that you get what you order. But on your first visit to Whitney's you often pay little attention to what you eat, for very soon, as the room commences to fill, you can hardly believe your eyes. At every table you soon recognize someone who is either famous or notorious.
After lunch this brilliantly dressed group of persons goes down to the gambling room. By two o'clock this room is well filled, by three it is crowded, and it remains so until early hours of the morning. It's far more interesting and better conducted than Monte Carlo. I was deeply impressed, and soon I welcomed an opportunity to meet Mr. Whitney himself.
We found him in a small, businesslike office hardly large enough to hold the big old-fashioned roll-top desk and a chair or two. Perhaps there was a safe; I can't remember. The office was protected by some iron bars, and there was a uniformed attendant at the door who admitted us after Mr. Whitney had given the word he would see us.
I found him a man square of jaw, cold of eye, his face rather unexpressive – much what I expected.
He runs his gambling place as a business – and it is a matter of pride with him that it is conducted in an efficient, businesslike way. It is said that his profits are two million dollars a season, and I doubt this just as one doubts the salaries of motion picture stars.
However the man had a strong personality. He interested me. I liked him. I wanted to talk to him, but it was difficult. He was not a very communicative person. Soon I asked him how much he lost a season in the way of bad checks and bad debts. He said approximately two hundred thousand dollars, which he didn't seem to consider heavy. As he spoke of this a light came into his eyes, and a faint smile appeared on his lips.
“I had a rather interesting experience the other day,” he said. “I was sitting in my office one morning when word was brought to me that a lady wanted to see me; ‘Mrs. John Rossiter,' the man told me. I knew who John Rossiter was, so I told him to show her in.
“Before she said a word she began to cry, not bitterly; but tears came into her eyes and began to run down her cheeks, and she kept wiping them away with her handkerchief, trying all the time to control herself. I don't like that sort of thing, you know, and I usually avoid it, but this rather impressed me. I felt sorry for her before she opened her mouth.
“Her husband had been gambling, she told me, and on Wednesday – the day before – had lost thirty thousand dollars. I've been acquainted with John Rossiter off and on for five or six years. Every year he has been coming down here, and I've known him well enough to say ‘Hello,' but not much more intimately than that. At any rate, I've always had a good feeling about Rossiter. He was a clean-cut man, a good sport, well liked, belonged to a club, and was rather popular everywhere. I had seen him year after year here, but I hadn't an idea of how he played or what he won or lost.
He had an account with me and always paid very promptly at the end of the month if there was any paying to be done.
“Mrs. Rossiter explained that the great problem of her life had been her husband's gambling. She had begged him to keep away from the stock market and from cards, and he'd promise her that he'd stop, but then he'd slip and get caught again. The thirty thousand dollars he had lost on Wednesday about cleaned him and his wife out. It meant – oh, I've forgotten what she told me exactly: selling the home – it was mortgaged already, she said, taking the two girls out of the school, herself perhaps having to find a position. It was a long story, I don't remember the details, but I confess that I felt very sorry for her. Taking those two girls out of school was what I believe impressed me, I don't know why exactly. Well, at any rate, I told her that I didn't like the idea of anybody coming here and losing everything. Sentiment, if you like, but it's good business at the same time. It doesn't help an establishment like this to get a reputation that people can loose everything they have here. The result of it all was that I agreed to give her back the money which her husband had lost, but on one condition, and I made that point very clear: John Rossiter was never to enter my place again. I don't like that kind of a loser around here. If he hasn't got the money, he shouldn't play. She promised me with the tears running down her cheeks, and I gave her the money, and she made me feel like a damn fool by kissing both my hands and asking God to bless me – all that foolishness that a grateful woman feels she has to do when you do her a favor.
“I didn't think anything more about the affair until the very next afternoon when it was clearly brought back to my mind. My floor manager came to me ant told me that John Rossiter has just come in, and had gone to the gambling room, and was playing at one of the tables. As a rule, I never mix in with what happens outside, but this made me pretty mad, so I walked out there myself.”
“I went straight up to him and said: ‘May I speak to you a minute?' And when we were off in a corner away from the crowd, I asked him what he meant by coming into my place .”
“'I want to know what this means,' I demanded. ‘Your wife came to see me yesterday morning and told me about your troubles and about your losing thirty thousand dollars here on Wednesday, and I gave her back the money you'd lost on one condition and that was that you were never to enter my door again. Now, what do you mean by coming here?'”
Rossiter looked at me for a moment. Then he said:
“Why Mr. Whitney, there must be some mistake. I'm not married!”"
“'I want to know what this means,' I demanded. ‘Your wife came to see me yesterday morning and told me about your troubles and about your losing thirty thousand dollars here on Wednesday, and I gave her back the money you'd lost on one condition and that was that you were never to enter my door again. Now, what do you mean by coming here?'”
Rossiter looked at me for a moment. Then he said:
“Why Mr. Whitney, there must be some mistake. I'm not married!”"
Located in the checkroom in Union Station as I am, I see everybody that comes up the stairs.
Tony - who owned the magazine stand to my left-, studied the laws of probability because he liked to bet on the horse races. He claimed that he could calculate, according to his system, that if I held my job one hundred and twelve years more I would know everybody in the world by sight.
And I came to the theory that if you wait long enough in a big railroad station like Union Station you will see everybody that travels.
I have told my theory to lots of people but nobody ever did anything about it except Harry. He came in a little over three years ago and waited at the head of the stairs for the passenger from the 9:05 train.
I remember seeing Harry that first evening. He was not much more than a thin, anxious kid then. He was all dressed up and I knew he was meeting his girl and that they would be married twenty minutes after she arrived. There is no use in my trying to explain how I knew all this, but after you've watched people waiting at the head of the stairs for eighteen years as I have done, then it is easy.
Well, the passengers came up and I had to get busy. I did not look toward the stairs again until nearly time for the 9:18 and I was very surprised to see that the young fellow was still there.
She did not come on the 9:18 either, nor on the 9:40, and when the passengers from 10:02 had all arrived and left, Harry was looking pretty desperate. Pretty soon he came close to my window so I called out and asked him what she looked like.
You would have thought that I had checked her among the packages in my checkroom from the way he came over and half crawled through my window. “ She is small and dark,” he says, “and nineteen years old and very neat in the way she walks. She has a face,“ he says, thinking a minute “that has lots of spirit. I mean she can get mad but she never stays long. And her eyebrows come to a little point in the middle. She is got a brown fur, but may be she is not wearing it.”
I couldn't remember seeing anybody like that.
He showed me the telegram he'd received: ARRIVE THURSDAY. MEET ME AT STATION. LOVE LOVE, LOVE. -MAY. It was from Omaha, Nebraska.
“ Well, “ I finally say, “ why do not you phone to your home? She is probably called there if she got in ahead of you. “
He gave me a seek look, “ I have only been town two days. We were going to meet and then drive down south where I have got a job promised me. She- she has not any address for me. “ He touched the telegram.“ I got this general delivery.“
With that, he walked off to the head of stairs to look over the people from the 11:22.
When I came on duty the next day he was still there and came over as soon as he saw me.
“ Did she work anywhere? “ I asked.
He nodded. “ She was a typist. I telegraphed her former boss. All they say is that she left her job to get married. “
Well, that was how it began. Harry meet every train the next three or four days. Of course the railroad line made a routine checkup and the police look into the case. But nobody was any real help. I could see that they all figured that May had simply played a trick on him. But never believed that, somehow.
One day, after about two weeks, Harry and I were talking and I told him about my theory. “ If you will just wait long enough,” I say, “ you will see her coming up those stairs some day. “ He turned and looked at stairs as though he had never seen them before, while I went on explaining about Tony s figures on the Laws of Probability. Next day when I came to work Harry was behind the counter of Tony s magazine stand. He looked at me rather sheepishly and says, “ Well, I had to get a job somewhere, did not I? “
So he began to work as a clerk for Tony. We never spoke of May anymore and neither of us ever mentions my theory. But I noticed that Harry always saw every person who comes up to stairs.
Toward the end of the year Tony was killed in some argument over gambling, and Tony s widow left Harry incomplete charge of the magazine stand. And when she got married again some time later, Harry bought the stand from her.
He borrowed money and installed a soda fountain and pretty soon he had a very nice little business.
Then came yesterday. I heard a cry and a lot of things falling. The cry was from Harry and the things falling were a lot f dolls and the other things which he had upset while he was jumping over the counter. He run across and grabbed a girl not ten feet from my window. She was small and dark and her eyebrows came to a little point in the middle.
For a while they just hung there to each other laughing and crying and saying things without meaning, “ It was the bus station I meant- “ and he had kiss her speechless and tell her the many things he had done to find her. What apparently happened three years before was that May had come by bus, not by train, and in her telegram she meant “ bus station “, “ not “ railroad station “. She had waited at the bus station for days and had spent all her money trying to find Harry. Finally she got a job typing.
“ What? “ says Harry. “ Have you been working in town? All the time? “
She nodded.
“ Well, Heavens – did not you come down here to the station? “ He pointed across to his magazine stand. “ I have been there all the time. I owned it. I have watched everybody that came up the stairs –“
She began to look a little pale. Pretty soon she looked over at the stairs and said in a weak voice, “ I-I never came up the stairs before. You see, I went out of town yesterday on a short business trip – Oh Harry! “ Then she threw her arms around his neck and really began to cry.
After a minute she backed away and pointed very stiffly toward the north end of the station. “
Harry, for three years, three solid years, I have been right over there – working right in this very station, typing, in the office of the stationmaster.
The wonderful thing to me is how the Laws of Probability worked so hard so long until they finally got May to walk up those stairs of ours.
Tony - who owned the magazine stand to my left-, studied the laws of probability because he liked to bet on the horse races. He claimed that he could calculate, according to his system, that if I held my job one hundred and twelve years more I would know everybody in the world by sight.
And I came to the theory that if you wait long enough in a big railroad station like Union Station you will see everybody that travels.
I have told my theory to lots of people but nobody ever did anything about it except Harry. He came in a little over three years ago and waited at the head of the stairs for the passenger from the 9:05 train.
I remember seeing Harry that first evening. He was not much more than a thin, anxious kid then. He was all dressed up and I knew he was meeting his girl and that they would be married twenty minutes after she arrived. There is no use in my trying to explain how I knew all this, but after you've watched people waiting at the head of the stairs for eighteen years as I have done, then it is easy.
Well, the passengers came up and I had to get busy. I did not look toward the stairs again until nearly time for the 9:18 and I was very surprised to see that the young fellow was still there.
She did not come on the 9:18 either, nor on the 9:40, and when the passengers from 10:02 had all arrived and left, Harry was looking pretty desperate. Pretty soon he came close to my window so I called out and asked him what she looked like.
You would have thought that I had checked her among the packages in my checkroom from the way he came over and half crawled through my window. “ She is small and dark,” he says, “and nineteen years old and very neat in the way she walks. She has a face,“ he says, thinking a minute “that has lots of spirit. I mean she can get mad but she never stays long. And her eyebrows come to a little point in the middle. She is got a brown fur, but may be she is not wearing it.”
I couldn't remember seeing anybody like that.
He showed me the telegram he'd received: ARRIVE THURSDAY. MEET ME AT STATION. LOVE LOVE, LOVE. -MAY. It was from Omaha, Nebraska.
“ Well, “ I finally say, “ why do not you phone to your home? She is probably called there if she got in ahead of you. “
He gave me a seek look, “ I have only been town two days. We were going to meet and then drive down south where I have got a job promised me. She- she has not any address for me. “ He touched the telegram.“ I got this general delivery.“
With that, he walked off to the head of stairs to look over the people from the 11:22.
When I came on duty the next day he was still there and came over as soon as he saw me.
“ Did she work anywhere? “ I asked.
He nodded. “ She was a typist. I telegraphed her former boss. All they say is that she left her job to get married. “
Well, that was how it began. Harry meet every train the next three or four days. Of course the railroad line made a routine checkup and the police look into the case. But nobody was any real help. I could see that they all figured that May had simply played a trick on him. But never believed that, somehow.
One day, after about two weeks, Harry and I were talking and I told him about my theory. “ If you will just wait long enough,” I say, “ you will see her coming up those stairs some day. “ He turned and looked at stairs as though he had never seen them before, while I went on explaining about Tony s figures on the Laws of Probability. Next day when I came to work Harry was behind the counter of Tony s magazine stand. He looked at me rather sheepishly and says, “ Well, I had to get a job somewhere, did not I? “
So he began to work as a clerk for Tony. We never spoke of May anymore and neither of us ever mentions my theory. But I noticed that Harry always saw every person who comes up to stairs.
Toward the end of the year Tony was killed in some argument over gambling, and Tony s widow left Harry incomplete charge of the magazine stand. And when she got married again some time later, Harry bought the stand from her.
He borrowed money and installed a soda fountain and pretty soon he had a very nice little business.
Then came yesterday. I heard a cry and a lot of things falling. The cry was from Harry and the things falling were a lot f dolls and the other things which he had upset while he was jumping over the counter. He run across and grabbed a girl not ten feet from my window. She was small and dark and her eyebrows came to a little point in the middle.
For a while they just hung there to each other laughing and crying and saying things without meaning, “ It was the bus station I meant- “ and he had kiss her speechless and tell her the many things he had done to find her. What apparently happened three years before was that May had come by bus, not by train, and in her telegram she meant “ bus station “, “ not “ railroad station “. She had waited at the bus station for days and had spent all her money trying to find Harry. Finally she got a job typing.
“ What? “ says Harry. “ Have you been working in town? All the time? “
She nodded.
“ Well, Heavens – did not you come down here to the station? “ He pointed across to his magazine stand. “ I have been there all the time. I owned it. I have watched everybody that came up the stairs –“
She began to look a little pale. Pretty soon she looked over at the stairs and said in a weak voice, “ I-I never came up the stairs before. You see, I went out of town yesterday on a short business trip – Oh Harry! “ Then she threw her arms around his neck and really began to cry.
After a minute she backed away and pointed very stiffly toward the north end of the station. “
Harry, for three years, three solid years, I have been right over there – working right in this very station, typing, in the office of the stationmaster.
The wonderful thing to me is how the Laws of Probability worked so hard so long until they finally got May to walk up those stairs of ours.
Even after a year, Chad still called us Aunt Pat and Uncle Bill. But we thought our job had become that of mother and father – until that letter arrived from the 6th Artillery headquarters in North Africa in our mailbox in East Orange, New Jersey.
Chad had come to us as an English refugee. He was supposed to stay until they had put “Mr. Hitler in the bag,” as he expressed it, and he could go back to his adored father, Major Jollison of the Royal Artillery. In other words, he had been sent to the United States like many other English children to live with an American family for the duration of the war, after which time he planned to return home to London.
But Major Jollison had been killed while resisting a Nazi tank attack in the North African desert.
Chad had taken the news without the slightest show of emotion. Probably Pat and I alone realized the sharp pain that must have torn through his young heart when he learned that his father was dead. He was English and his people were fighting a desperate battle, so he could not let his own individual tragedy show.
England meant much to him, but when he had recovered a little from the shock he seemed resigned to living with us and becoming an American. He had had no one else but his father.
“I shall try very hard,” he told us seriously in that thin, rather sharp voice of his, “to be as you would want your own boy to be. I shall get onto your American ways as quickly as I can and try to make you quite proud of me.”
Chad had come to us as an English refugee. He was supposed to stay until they had put “Mr. Hitler in the bag,” as he expressed it, and he could go back to his adored father, Major Jollison of the Royal Artillery. In other words, he had been sent to the United States like many other English children to live with an American family for the duration of the war, after which time he planned to return home to London.
But Major Jollison had been killed while resisting a Nazi tank attack in the North African desert.
Chad had taken the news without the slightest show of emotion. Probably Pat and I alone realized the sharp pain that must have torn through his young heart when he learned that his father was dead. He was English and his people were fighting a desperate battle, so he could not let his own individual tragedy show.
England meant much to him, but when he had recovered a little from the shock he seemed resigned to living with us and becoming an American. He had had no one else but his father.
“I shall try very hard,” he told us seriously in that thin, rather sharp voice of his, “to be as you would want your own boy to be. I shall get onto your American ways as quickly as I can and try to make you quite proud of me.”
He smiled. “I shall even admire your Revolutionary patriots.”
So we could not help loving him, you see, and hoping he really wanted to stay with us forever, even after the war had ended.
He did brilliantly, and an early problem – the way the other boys at school kidded him about his English accent and manners – had disappeared. Everyone in town knew how bravely his father had died, and this gave Chad a certain romantic interest.
In fact everything had gone beautifully – till that letter came from a member of the 6th Artillery, Captain Burroughs. The 6th Artillery had been Major Jollison's military unit.
Pat held the letter out to me one evening, the moment I came in the door. But she was too upset emotionally to wait until I read it.
“He was terribly fond of Chad's father, Bill,” she said. “And he'd like to offer Chad a place to live – with his mother in her home just outside London.”
I looked up from letter. “He says he recognizes the danger.”
“But he's like all Englishmen, I suppose,” Pat said. “Rain or shine, bombs or no bombs, they think that England is the only place in the world to live. And of course he thinks Chad will be company for his mother. She's old and alone…. Oh, Bill, do you think he'll go?”
I shook my head. “I don't know. But I've been afraid he would some day.”
“But he has no relatives there. Surely he'd rather be with us….”
“It's like you said – rain or shine. And he's not really our boy, Pat; we just hope he would be, and he's tried to pretend.”
She sighed. “I know, I was only hoping, not talking sense. Well…” she took my arm, “ – let's go up to his room and tell him.”
Chad was lying on his small stomach, reading, when we entered his room. He got quickly to his feet and shook my hand – he always did that when I got home evenings. “How'd the stock market go today, Uncle Bill?” He was picking up our ways fast.
I handed him the letter.
I watched his blue eyes move quickly back and forth across the page, and when they reached the bottom they stayed there. He was thinking rapidly. Suddenly I knew he'd made his decision because his face lost all expression: a habit of his.
“Are you going dear?” Pat asked softly.
He nodded. “I must, Aunt Pat.”
“They're raining bombs on London, son,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “That's why I'm going.”
“I don't understand,” I said.
“I mean…” for a moment he paused,” – well, when your country's having its most difficult times, that's when it needs you most.”
That sounded a bit too grown-up, too like something he had read somewhere. I looked suspiciously at him, but his eyes met mine bravely. “All right, son,” I said. “I'm sorry, but if you….”
“I'm sorry too,” he said quickly. “Really, Uncle Bill. But I must go.”
“I'd better finish getting dinner,” Pat said in a queer voice, and left us.
“And I have to wash,” Chad said steadily.
I was left, staring down at the letter from Captain Burroughs, already missing these strange youngster as if he'd been all our own from the very start.
We didn't talk much about his going. But we might as well have discussed it constantly; it certainly was with us every moment. From that first night, on through the week following, there were few signs of cheerfulness in our house.
But the evening I came home with final details about his trip to New York, where a friend of mine would take charge and get him safely onto the boat…well, that about finished it. Chad's quiet unrevealing face didn't change a bit, but Pat looked at me as if I would struck her. I knew how she felt.
Late that night I woke up, frightened, sure I had heard Chad crying in the next room. But it was Pat.
“You are crying, darling?”
“Of course,” she said shakily. “Oh, Bill, it hurts to lose him.”
I held her close. “I know so well,” I said. “He's like our own boy.”
And then so quickly, it was the day for Chad to leave us. I had stayed home to drive him to the station, but Pat wasn't going alone. She said she simply couldn't take it.
The three of us were standing in the doorway, just standing there with little to say. Chad was wearing the same clothes he had come to America in – he had wanted to wear them – the short coat, the small cap, the wool stockings that left his knees bear. But when we had first seen him on a dock in New York, he had been looking about him defiantly, with his chin out, trying to hide his fears; now his face was serious, his lower lip pulled slightly in.
“I've been happy here,” he said.
He was interrupted by the mailman, who handed a letter to Pat. She passed it on to me.
“Goodbye, Chad,” she said weakly. ”Always remember that we….”
So we could not help loving him, you see, and hoping he really wanted to stay with us forever, even after the war had ended.
He did brilliantly, and an early problem – the way the other boys at school kidded him about his English accent and manners – had disappeared. Everyone in town knew how bravely his father had died, and this gave Chad a certain romantic interest.
In fact everything had gone beautifully – till that letter came from a member of the 6th Artillery, Captain Burroughs. The 6th Artillery had been Major Jollison's military unit.
Pat held the letter out to me one evening, the moment I came in the door. But she was too upset emotionally to wait until I read it.
“He was terribly fond of Chad's father, Bill,” she said. “And he'd like to offer Chad a place to live – with his mother in her home just outside London.”
I looked up from letter. “He says he recognizes the danger.”
“But he's like all Englishmen, I suppose,” Pat said. “Rain or shine, bombs or no bombs, they think that England is the only place in the world to live. And of course he thinks Chad will be company for his mother. She's old and alone…. Oh, Bill, do you think he'll go?”
I shook my head. “I don't know. But I've been afraid he would some day.”
“But he has no relatives there. Surely he'd rather be with us….”
“It's like you said – rain or shine. And he's not really our boy, Pat; we just hope he would be, and he's tried to pretend.”
She sighed. “I know, I was only hoping, not talking sense. Well…” she took my arm, “ – let's go up to his room and tell him.”
Chad was lying on his small stomach, reading, when we entered his room. He got quickly to his feet and shook my hand – he always did that when I got home evenings. “How'd the stock market go today, Uncle Bill?” He was picking up our ways fast.
I handed him the letter.
I watched his blue eyes move quickly back and forth across the page, and when they reached the bottom they stayed there. He was thinking rapidly. Suddenly I knew he'd made his decision because his face lost all expression: a habit of his.
“Are you going dear?” Pat asked softly.
He nodded. “I must, Aunt Pat.”
“They're raining bombs on London, son,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “That's why I'm going.”
“I don't understand,” I said.
“I mean…” for a moment he paused,” – well, when your country's having its most difficult times, that's when it needs you most.”
That sounded a bit too grown-up, too like something he had read somewhere. I looked suspiciously at him, but his eyes met mine bravely. “All right, son,” I said. “I'm sorry, but if you….”
“I'm sorry too,” he said quickly. “Really, Uncle Bill. But I must go.”
“I'd better finish getting dinner,” Pat said in a queer voice, and left us.
“And I have to wash,” Chad said steadily.
I was left, staring down at the letter from Captain Burroughs, already missing these strange youngster as if he'd been all our own from the very start.
We didn't talk much about his going. But we might as well have discussed it constantly; it certainly was with us every moment. From that first night, on through the week following, there were few signs of cheerfulness in our house.
But the evening I came home with final details about his trip to New York, where a friend of mine would take charge and get him safely onto the boat…well, that about finished it. Chad's quiet unrevealing face didn't change a bit, but Pat looked at me as if I would struck her. I knew how she felt.
Late that night I woke up, frightened, sure I had heard Chad crying in the next room. But it was Pat.
“You are crying, darling?”
“Of course,” she said shakily. “Oh, Bill, it hurts to lose him.”
I held her close. “I know so well,” I said. “He's like our own boy.”
And then so quickly, it was the day for Chad to leave us. I had stayed home to drive him to the station, but Pat wasn't going alone. She said she simply couldn't take it.
The three of us were standing in the doorway, just standing there with little to say. Chad was wearing the same clothes he had come to America in – he had wanted to wear them – the short coat, the small cap, the wool stockings that left his knees bear. But when we had first seen him on a dock in New York, he had been looking about him defiantly, with his chin out, trying to hide his fears; now his face was serious, his lower lip pulled slightly in.
“I've been happy here,” he said.
He was interrupted by the mailman, who handed a letter to Pat. She passed it on to me.
“Goodbye, Chad,” she said weakly. ”Always remember that we….”
“Wait,” I broke in. ”This letter's from Captain Burroughs.” But my enthusiasm was short – lived. “It's just a little consolation,” I said. “He says we won't have to worry about Chad. Mrs. Burroughs is being removed to Australia and Chad is supposed to join her there. There won't be any bombs anywhere.”
“That's something,” Pat said.
But Chad was suddenly all animation. “Then I don't have to go!”
Pat dropped to her knees and stared at him. “You don't have to go? Didn't you want to go?”
“Why, no,” Chad said. “But she was a very old lady and all alone in the bombings. I thought I would be able to protect her. But now that she's been sent to Australia….”
“Why on earth didn't you tell us how you felt? I demanded.
He seemed a little embarrassed. “I was afraid, “ he said, “that it might seem forward of me to think I could protect Mrs. Burroughs. And I knew you wouldn't want a son who was forward.”
Pat was half-laughing, half-crying, and hugging wildly. To cover my own feelings I said with an imitation English accent, “then you're quite happy now, old boy?”
“Quite happy?”. He smiled up at me. “Uncle Bill, I feel like a million bucks!”
Chad Jollison – American schoolboy, our boy.
“That's something,” Pat said.
But Chad was suddenly all animation. “Then I don't have to go!”
Pat dropped to her knees and stared at him. “You don't have to go? Didn't you want to go?”
“Why, no,” Chad said. “But she was a very old lady and all alone in the bombings. I thought I would be able to protect her. But now that she's been sent to Australia….”
“Why on earth didn't you tell us how you felt? I demanded.
He seemed a little embarrassed. “I was afraid, “ he said, “that it might seem forward of me to think I could protect Mrs. Burroughs. And I knew you wouldn't want a son who was forward.”
Pat was half-laughing, half-crying, and hugging wildly. To cover my own feelings I said with an imitation English accent, “then you're quite happy now, old boy?”
“Quite happy?”. He smiled up at me. “Uncle Bill, I feel like a million bucks!”
Chad Jollison – American schoolboy, our boy.
It was a small window with narrow pieces of paper pasted across it to prevent its breaking during the heavy air raids. In the small space at the center that remained, a little man with eyeglasses was carefully setting out his display of clocks and watches. He paid no attention to many Londoners hurrying by to begin another day.
When he finished placing his merchandise, the little man came out of the shop and stared in the window. He had placed the clocks and watches with great care – the clocks in a row at the back, and in front of them lying flat, a semicircle of watches. All the clocks had their faces neatly divided in the middle by hands that pointed to six o'clock; all the watches, thin or fat, had their hands pointing straight at three o'clock.
“Yes,” said the jeweler with a satisfied look. “Very nice.”
About an hour later a passenger got out of the bus at the corner. He was a tall man with a blonde mustache, and he wore a heavy overcoat and black hat. He was slightly lame and carried a cane. He smiled when the policeman at the corner said “Good morning” to him. The lame man's name was Gebhardt, and the policeman's superior officers would have been very glad to know that.
Gebhardt walked slowly, leaning heavily on his cane. The meeting with the policeman never failed to amuse him., and he smiled to himself at the stupidity of the English. Gebhardt looked into the jewelry shop window.
There was no expression on his face as he looked from the clocks that said six to the watches that said three. He had passed the shop faithfully every day for two weeks, but had never gone in. Gebhardt set his wristwatch and pushed open the door.
A salesman was talking to the jeweler at the far end of the counter, but they turned as the door shut. The jeweler walked toward Gebhardt and stared at him. “Yes?” asked the little man.
“My watch,” said Gebhardt. “It seems to have stopped. An hour or so ago.” He took off his watch and laid it on the counter.
The watch's hands indicated nine o'clock. “I see,” said the jeweler, “Stopped.”
Gebhardt looked toward the salesman but salesman was busy examining a catalogue. The jeweler picked up the watch.
Gebhardt said: “And you might change the strap. That one is about worn up.
He leaned against the counter and waited. Once he looked into the back room where the jeweler had taken his watch. He could see the old man, bent over a desk, examining his watch. Gebhardt lit a cigarette and waited.
It was less then five minutes when the little man came back. He held out the watch with its new strap and Gebhardt put it on. “You should be careful,” said the jeweler. “That is a fine watch.”
“Yes, I know,” said Gebhardt casually. “And I'm sure it will work perfectly now.” He paid the jeweler and left the shop.
All the way back to his room Gebhardt was conscious of the strap on his wrist, but he did not look at the watch even once. After all, in his business you couldn't be too careful.
Once inside the small room where he had lived since he first came to London, Gebhardt put aside all appearance of lameness and moved about the room with quick sureness, locking the door, pulling down the curtains. Finally, he lit the light over his desk and took of his wristwatch.
Working rapidly, he removed the straps from both ends of the watch. Then with a knife he opened the end of the straps and, finally, from one hand took out of a small piece of very thin paper. He spread the paper out on his desk and with a glass began to study the message, which was written in code.
The message was short and to the point. It read: “Trucks from King Charles Square will transport Regiment 55 tomorrow A.M. Act at once.”
“So,” said Gebhardt softly. He burned the paper in the ashtray. For a moment he sat thinking. He previously knew that a large number of trucks in King Charles Square would be used to carry soldiers from London to the coast. And somewhere along the route trucks and soldiers would be blown to pieces with explosives.
Gebhardt drew his suitcase from under the bed and opened it on the desk. From its nest of cotton he picked up one of the bombs. It was wide and flat, quite different in form from the usual, old-fashioned type of bomb. Attached with wire to the bottom of an automobile engine the bomb was deadly when the motor heated.
He decided to take with him in a small package about fourteen of the bombs. That was about all he could take care of in two hours. He had detailed information on King Charles Square. By midnight all the soldiers and mechanics were gone; at two o'clock a policeman looked in to check up. Gebhardt was very much pleased with himself. Thanks to British's inefficiency, he would have the place to himself between twelve o'clock and two o'clock.
Thinking of the importance of time suddenly reminded him, and he put a new strap on his watch and then put the watch on his wrist then he sat very still, looking into space, mentally checking every detail of the plan.
Gebhardt smiled. Of course! Outside the jeweler shop he had set his watch back sixty-four minutes for the signal to the jeweler. He smiled again as he now moved the minute hand of his watch exactly sixty-for minutes ahead. Never forgetting these small details made him a good secret agent, and he knew it.
When the time came, Gebhardt moved carefully through the darkness of the blacked-out streets.
In the alley behind King Charles Square he stopped and looked at his watch. Twelve o'clock exactly. Gebhardt smiled. The whole thing was going like clockwork. He waited another ten minutes just to be on the safe side.
Gebhardt climbed a fence, moved carefully along a narrow space between two buildings, and came out in King Charles Square. He stood a moment, counting the black forms of the trucks.
Gebhardt moved over to the nearest truck. He set down his package, took some wire and a wire cutter from a pocket. He slid under the truck and felt along the bottom of the engine. Lying flat on his back, working in the dark, he began to wire the bomb to the exact place he wanted it.
Somebody stepped on his ankle.
Pain shot up Gebhardt's leg, and he bit his lip, not breathing. No, he thought, there can't be anyone here. There is never anyone at this hour. I have checked it many times. But that weight kept pressing into his ankle.
“All right, mister,” said a voice. “Come out of there.”
The wire cutter fell down from his fingers. Hands grabbed at Gebhardt's legs, pulled. In a panic, he kicked himself loose, got up, and run wildly.
A man shouted. Someone blew a whistle. A form jumped from nowhere and knocked him to the ground. Gebhardt drove his fist into a face, twice, pulled away free, ran on. He ran into a wall, turned the wrong way. A flashlight focused on him. He turned back but too late.
“There! Get him!”
Gebhardt drew his revolver. As he ran, he heard them shout as they came closer to him.
There was the noise of rapid gunfire behind him, and something struck him in the back. No, thought Gebhardt, the plan was perfect. There was a sharp pain. He said weakly: “No.” He was dead when the soldiers reached him. He lay with his one arm stretched out in front of him, his wristwatch showing the hour
When he finished placing his merchandise, the little man came out of the shop and stared in the window. He had placed the clocks and watches with great care – the clocks in a row at the back, and in front of them lying flat, a semicircle of watches. All the clocks had their faces neatly divided in the middle by hands that pointed to six o'clock; all the watches, thin or fat, had their hands pointing straight at three o'clock.
“Yes,” said the jeweler with a satisfied look. “Very nice.”
About an hour later a passenger got out of the bus at the corner. He was a tall man with a blonde mustache, and he wore a heavy overcoat and black hat. He was slightly lame and carried a cane. He smiled when the policeman at the corner said “Good morning” to him. The lame man's name was Gebhardt, and the policeman's superior officers would have been very glad to know that.
Gebhardt walked slowly, leaning heavily on his cane. The meeting with the policeman never failed to amuse him., and he smiled to himself at the stupidity of the English. Gebhardt looked into the jewelry shop window.
There was no expression on his face as he looked from the clocks that said six to the watches that said three. He had passed the shop faithfully every day for two weeks, but had never gone in. Gebhardt set his wristwatch and pushed open the door.
A salesman was talking to the jeweler at the far end of the counter, but they turned as the door shut. The jeweler walked toward Gebhardt and stared at him. “Yes?” asked the little man.
“My watch,” said Gebhardt. “It seems to have stopped. An hour or so ago.” He took off his watch and laid it on the counter.
The watch's hands indicated nine o'clock. “I see,” said the jeweler, “Stopped.”
Gebhardt looked toward the salesman but salesman was busy examining a catalogue. The jeweler picked up the watch.
Gebhardt said: “And you might change the strap. That one is about worn up.
He leaned against the counter and waited. Once he looked into the back room where the jeweler had taken his watch. He could see the old man, bent over a desk, examining his watch. Gebhardt lit a cigarette and waited.
It was less then five minutes when the little man came back. He held out the watch with its new strap and Gebhardt put it on. “You should be careful,” said the jeweler. “That is a fine watch.”
“Yes, I know,” said Gebhardt casually. “And I'm sure it will work perfectly now.” He paid the jeweler and left the shop.
All the way back to his room Gebhardt was conscious of the strap on his wrist, but he did not look at the watch even once. After all, in his business you couldn't be too careful.
Once inside the small room where he had lived since he first came to London, Gebhardt put aside all appearance of lameness and moved about the room with quick sureness, locking the door, pulling down the curtains. Finally, he lit the light over his desk and took of his wristwatch.
Working rapidly, he removed the straps from both ends of the watch. Then with a knife he opened the end of the straps and, finally, from one hand took out of a small piece of very thin paper. He spread the paper out on his desk and with a glass began to study the message, which was written in code.
The message was short and to the point. It read: “Trucks from King Charles Square will transport Regiment 55 tomorrow A.M. Act at once.”
“So,” said Gebhardt softly. He burned the paper in the ashtray. For a moment he sat thinking. He previously knew that a large number of trucks in King Charles Square would be used to carry soldiers from London to the coast. And somewhere along the route trucks and soldiers would be blown to pieces with explosives.
Gebhardt drew his suitcase from under the bed and opened it on the desk. From its nest of cotton he picked up one of the bombs. It was wide and flat, quite different in form from the usual, old-fashioned type of bomb. Attached with wire to the bottom of an automobile engine the bomb was deadly when the motor heated.
He decided to take with him in a small package about fourteen of the bombs. That was about all he could take care of in two hours. He had detailed information on King Charles Square. By midnight all the soldiers and mechanics were gone; at two o'clock a policeman looked in to check up. Gebhardt was very much pleased with himself. Thanks to British's inefficiency, he would have the place to himself between twelve o'clock and two o'clock.
Thinking of the importance of time suddenly reminded him, and he put a new strap on his watch and then put the watch on his wrist then he sat very still, looking into space, mentally checking every detail of the plan.
Gebhardt smiled. Of course! Outside the jeweler shop he had set his watch back sixty-four minutes for the signal to the jeweler. He smiled again as he now moved the minute hand of his watch exactly sixty-for minutes ahead. Never forgetting these small details made him a good secret agent, and he knew it.
When the time came, Gebhardt moved carefully through the darkness of the blacked-out streets.
In the alley behind King Charles Square he stopped and looked at his watch. Twelve o'clock exactly. Gebhardt smiled. The whole thing was going like clockwork. He waited another ten minutes just to be on the safe side.
Gebhardt climbed a fence, moved carefully along a narrow space between two buildings, and came out in King Charles Square. He stood a moment, counting the black forms of the trucks.
Gebhardt moved over to the nearest truck. He set down his package, took some wire and a wire cutter from a pocket. He slid under the truck and felt along the bottom of the engine. Lying flat on his back, working in the dark, he began to wire the bomb to the exact place he wanted it.
Somebody stepped on his ankle.
Pain shot up Gebhardt's leg, and he bit his lip, not breathing. No, he thought, there can't be anyone here. There is never anyone at this hour. I have checked it many times. But that weight kept pressing into his ankle.
“All right, mister,” said a voice. “Come out of there.”
The wire cutter fell down from his fingers. Hands grabbed at Gebhardt's legs, pulled. In a panic, he kicked himself loose, got up, and run wildly.
A man shouted. Someone blew a whistle. A form jumped from nowhere and knocked him to the ground. Gebhardt drove his fist into a face, twice, pulled away free, ran on. He ran into a wall, turned the wrong way. A flashlight focused on him. He turned back but too late.
“There! Get him!”
Gebhardt drew his revolver. As he ran, he heard them shout as they came closer to him.
There was the noise of rapid gunfire behind him, and something struck him in the back. No, thought Gebhardt, the plan was perfect. There was a sharp pain. He said weakly: “No.” He was dead when the soldiers reached him. He lay with his one arm stretched out in front of him, his wristwatch showing the hour
“Imagine the nerve of the guy!” said a young soldier. “He walked in here as though we didn't even exist. That's a nice watch he has on. But it broke when he fell.”
“It's an hour fast,” said a second soldier. “How did that happen?”
the little jeweler was even more surprised when he read the newspaper report the next day about Gebhardt. “I can't understand it,” he thought. “The man must have been careless. Nothing went wrong on my part. Why, I even set his watch correctly before I gave it back to him.”
“It's an hour fast,” said a second soldier. “How did that happen?”
the little jeweler was even more surprised when he read the newspaper report the next day about Gebhardt. “I can't understand it,” he thought. “The man must have been careless. Nothing went wrong on my part. Why, I even set his watch correctly before I gave it back to him.”
From the time she was thirteen Rilla Mabry had been ashamed of her appearance. It was then that she started growing taller than the other girls. She was also awkward as well as tall and she was too thin.
By the time she was twenty she was fully convinced that her appearance was really something terrible . All of the other girls seemed little and cute and attractive. No matter what Rilla wore it seemed wrong. She was much too tall to wear tailored clothes. And thin dresses hung around her loosely.
All of the girls and boys in the group liked Rilla. She was a fine girl – if you could forget the way she looked. Even her hair was wrong-rather stringy- but she had a pleasant and attractive face.
In spite of her looks Rilla had a boy friend. He was Patrick Redding and his father kept a grocery store. Pat wasn't any great price –but then you couldn't expect Rilla, with her looks to do any better. People feel that Rilla ought to be satisfied. Pat was a nice looking boy, and he shouldn't be considered unimportant.
Rilla didn't consider Pat unimportant. She was grateful to him for being nice to her. She was as pleasant and as friendly as she could be. As a matter of fact she liked Patrick a lot. He was fun to be with. She would have been perfectly satisfied except for the fact that she was in love with Shane Tennant. All of which did her little good – for Shane was the price of the town. Shane's father was a banker – and rich.
By the time she was twenty she was fully convinced that her appearance was really something terrible . All of the other girls seemed little and cute and attractive. No matter what Rilla wore it seemed wrong. She was much too tall to wear tailored clothes. And thin dresses hung around her loosely.
All of the girls and boys in the group liked Rilla. She was a fine girl – if you could forget the way she looked. Even her hair was wrong-rather stringy- but she had a pleasant and attractive face.
In spite of her looks Rilla had a boy friend. He was Patrick Redding and his father kept a grocery store. Pat wasn't any great price –but then you couldn't expect Rilla, with her looks to do any better. People feel that Rilla ought to be satisfied. Pat was a nice looking boy, and he shouldn't be considered unimportant.
Rilla didn't consider Pat unimportant. She was grateful to him for being nice to her. She was as pleasant and as friendly as she could be. As a matter of fact she liked Patrick a lot. He was fun to be with. She would have been perfectly satisfied except for the fact that she was in love with Shane Tennant. All of which did her little good – for Shane was the price of the town. Shane's father was a banker – and rich.
His mother was the social leader of the town. Shane was well much taller than Rilla- and handsome besides.
Pat went into the grocery business with her father. Shane went into the bank. That's the way sons do in small towns unless they have definite ideals about law or one of the other professions. Rilla didn't do anything. Her parents have just enough money so she didn't have to work. She went to parties with Patrick- and admired for Shane from a distance. The towns people felt that she would marry with Pat, that he'd take over his father's grocery store, and that they'd settle down.
Pat went into the grocery business with her father. Shane went into the bank. That's the way sons do in small towns unless they have definite ideals about law or one of the other professions. Rilla didn't do anything. Her parents have just enough money so she didn't have to work. She went to parties with Patrick- and admired for Shane from a distance. The towns people felt that she would marry with Pat, that he'd take over his father's grocery store, and that they'd settle down.
That might have happened if it hadn't been for Leslie Durant. Leslie Durant was - and still is-a well known magazine illustrator. And he came to Morrisville to visit an aunt. And he was taken an anywhere to all of the parties , of course. He was the social lion of the season. He stayed in town only for few days – but that was long enough for a lot to happen.
He saw Rilla Mabry. Rilla was standing near the door and she was looking at Shane Tennant. She never knew her face how much showed what she was thinking about. No one else noticed- but Durant being knew, understood the situation. He saw Rilla standing not quite straight because she didn't feel quite as tall that way, in a badly fitted dress and her hair not quite smooth- and he saw Shane, perfectly dressed, self confident, good looking. And then Pat came to ask Rilla for the dance.
On the second day of his visit Durant made his remarkable statement. He told anyone who would listen
to him that Rilla Mabry was by far the best looking girl in town. One of the best looking girl he'd ever seen.
Rilla never had a compliment about her looks before. She had always been shy, self conscious, and often unhappy about her appearance. And now the first authority in beauty who had ever been in town claimed that she was the price.
When Durant, himself told her what he thought of her she was filled with confusion. She managed finally to thank him. And later, very shyly , she went up to him.
“I do wish that you would tell me how can look better,“ she said.
“That's not really my particular kind of work, “ he told her, “ but may be if we get together …..”
They got together the next morning. Durant came to Rilla's house. And with Rilla's mother acting as helper, they did things to Rilla and to Rilla's clothes. Durant made her stand up straight . and he rearranged her hair. And he told her what was wrong with the clothes she wore.
That night there was a dance for Durant- his last evening in town. And, as he had thought when he started things, Rilla was, for the first time in her life, the center of attention. Toward the end of the evening Durant had the satisfaction of seeing Shane Tennant dancing very attentively with Rilla, Shane Tenant whom Rilla had looked at with longing eyes – and who had paid any attention to her.
to him that Rilla Mabry was by far the best looking girl in town. One of the best looking girl he'd ever seen.
Rilla never had a compliment about her looks before. She had always been shy, self conscious, and often unhappy about her appearance. And now the first authority in beauty who had ever been in town claimed that she was the price.
When Durant, himself told her what he thought of her she was filled with confusion. She managed finally to thank him. And later, very shyly , she went up to him.
“I do wish that you would tell me how can look better,“ she said.
“That's not really my particular kind of work, “ he told her, “ but may be if we get together …..”
They got together the next morning. Durant came to Rilla's house. And with Rilla's mother acting as helper, they did things to Rilla and to Rilla's clothes. Durant made her stand up straight . and he rearranged her hair. And he told her what was wrong with the clothes she wore.
That night there was a dance for Durant- his last evening in town. And, as he had thought when he started things, Rilla was, for the first time in her life, the center of attention. Toward the end of the evening Durant had the satisfaction of seeing Shane Tennant dancing very attentively with Rilla, Shane Tenant whom Rilla had looked at with longing eyes – and who had paid any attention to her.
Durant went back to his home and his work in New York and forgot about the whole thing. Years passed. And then, just the other day, this happened:
Durant was lunching alone at a restaurant when an attractive, tall woman, past her first youth, came up to him.
Durant was lunching alone at a restaurant when an attractive, tall woman, past her first youth, came up to him.
“ You don't remember me ?” she said.
Durant didn't remember her.
“ I am Rilla tenant – I was Rilla Mabry when you knew me. You came to my home town and – and rather made my life over. Remember now ?”
“Of course I do “ said Durant. “ I remember very well. It was my one attempt at changing the destiny of another person. “
“You did a wonderful job.“ said Rilla. There was a strange note in her voice which he didn't understand.
“You married the boy you were in love with. I see. His name was Tannent wasn't it ?”
“Why, yes” said Rilla. “ But how did you remember the name ? And how did you know I was in love with him?”
“I am good at remembering names. And I saw you looking at him. Simplicity itself! And to think that I was the cause!
“Yes you were” said Rilla.“ It was very funny when you look back on it. There I was going with Patrick Redding, and in love with Shane, and terribly unhappy and awkward. And you came down and said I was a beauty- so automatically I became a beauty. And the boys all wanted to go out with me. And I married Shane.”
“Wonderful “ said Durant. And he smiled happily. “ How are you getting along , now ? “
“That is the difficult part. “ said Rilla. “ You shouldn't have asked. “
“Shane and I got married. And it didn't get along very well though I was awfully happy in the beginning. The Tennant lost all of their money in a bank failure- and my family had its money in the Tennant bank by that time, so our money went, too. Then Shane fell in love with a chorus girl. I got a divorce of course. I've been teaching in a girls' school for the past three years. “
“ That's too bad!” said Durant. “ But maybe that was better than marrying that other boy whom you didn't love.”
“ May be,” said Rilla. “You can never tell. Love goes … Patrick Redding took his father's grocery store and married the cutest girl in town. They have three children and are very happy. And, oh , yes he became quite ambitious and started a chain of grocery store. Now he is the richest and most important man in town”
Durant didn't remember her.
“ I am Rilla tenant – I was Rilla Mabry when you knew me. You came to my home town and – and rather made my life over. Remember now ?”
“Of course I do “ said Durant. “ I remember very well. It was my one attempt at changing the destiny of another person. “
“You did a wonderful job.“ said Rilla. There was a strange note in her voice which he didn't understand.
“You married the boy you were in love with. I see. His name was Tannent wasn't it ?”
“Why, yes” said Rilla. “ But how did you remember the name ? And how did you know I was in love with him?”
“I am good at remembering names. And I saw you looking at him. Simplicity itself! And to think that I was the cause!
“Yes you were” said Rilla.“ It was very funny when you look back on it. There I was going with Patrick Redding, and in love with Shane, and terribly unhappy and awkward. And you came down and said I was a beauty- so automatically I became a beauty. And the boys all wanted to go out with me. And I married Shane.”
“Wonderful “ said Durant. And he smiled happily. “ How are you getting along , now ? “
“That is the difficult part. “ said Rilla. “ You shouldn't have asked. “
“Shane and I got married. And it didn't get along very well though I was awfully happy in the beginning. The Tennant lost all of their money in a bank failure- and my family had its money in the Tennant bank by that time, so our money went, too. Then Shane fell in love with a chorus girl. I got a divorce of course. I've been teaching in a girls' school for the past three years. “
“ That's too bad!” said Durant. “ But maybe that was better than marrying that other boy whom you didn't love.”
“ May be,” said Rilla. “You can never tell. Love goes … Patrick Redding took his father's grocery store and married the cutest girl in town. They have three children and are very happy. And, oh , yes he became quite ambitious and started a chain of grocery store. Now he is the richest and most important man in town”
As for Esther, I never saw a woman look more beautiful. she took on a aura of genuine beauty. Of course she would have been lest then human and far from feminine to have failed to responed to this magneficent exhibition of husbandly devotion.
But finally the ceremony was finished and the guests went to the dining room for the rich supper which had benn prepared by special cooks employed for this occasion . George and I were left alone and he sang exhousted into a chair. I placed my hand on his shoulder and congratulated him on the success of his party .
“You really think it was a success?“
“Wonderful! And,“ jockingly,“ you certainly should feel completely married . “
“Yes, I do.“ He became silent for a moment or two, and when he spoke again it was in a deeply serious tone.“ There is something I have got to explain to you as my friend and my lawyer” He stopped for a second, then asked suddenly:''You remember my first wife?''
‘'Althea?“ I was surprised by the question.“ Certainly.“
“ Did you know , “ he went on in a strange voice , “ that she died only last year ? “
“Good Lord! I thought she died twenty-seven years ago. “
“So did I,“ he said quitely. “ And when I married Esther , I thought I was a widower. But I wasn't – and in case anything ever comes up – well, I want you to understand that affair tonight was a real wedding for Esther and me.“
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