Kitabı oku: «Ade's Fables», sayfa 7
That was when Ethel had to be taken to a Rest Cure in the Austrian Tyrol, and she had never been the Same Woman since.
To all who had come pleading for Reconciliation, Ethel had simply hung out the Card, "Nothing Doing."
After a Brute has jumped up and down on the Aching Heart of a Girl of proud Lineage he can't square himself in 1,000,000 years.
So said Ethel, between the flowing Tears.
Furthermore, there had been hopeless Incompatibility. In all the time they were together, they never had been able to agree on a Turkish Cigarette.
The professional Home-Blaster said she had enough on Herbert to get her four Divorces. The Decree would be a Pipe.
Ethel said she hoped so and to please push it along, as she had quite a Waiting-List.
MORAL: Rufus had no business buying the Clock.
THE NEW FABLE OF THE SCOFFER WHO FELL HARD AND THE WOMAN SITTING BY
One day in the pink dawn of the present Century, a man with his Hair neatly set back around the Ears and the usual Blood Pressure was whizzing through a suburban Lonesomeness on a teetering Trolley. The name of the man was Mr. Pallzey. He had a desk with a Concern that did merchandizing in a large way.
Mr. Pallzey feared Socialism and carried his Wife's Picture in his Watch and wore Plasters. In other words, he was Normal, believing nearly everything that appeared in the Papers.
While the Dog-Fennel was softly brushing the Foot-Board and the Motor was purring consistently beneath, Mr. Pallzey looked over into a close- cropped Pasture and became the alert Eye-Witness of some very weird Doings.
He saw a pop-eyed Person in soiled Neglige, who made threatening movements toward something concealed in the White Clover, with a Weapon resembling the iron Dingus used in gouging the Clinkers from a Furnace.
"What is the plot of the Piece?" he inquired of a Grand Army man, sitting next.
"I think," replied the Veteran, "I think he is killing a Garter Snake."
"Oh, no," spoke up the conversational Conductor, "He is playing Golluf," giving the word the Terre Haute pronunciation.
Mr. Pallzey looked with pity on the poor Nut who was out in the Hot Sun, getting himself all lathered up with One-Man Shinny.
He said to G. A. R. that it took all kinds of People to make a World. The grizzled Warrior rose to an equal Altitude by remarking that if the dag-goned Loon had to do it for a Living, he'd think it was Work. Mr. Pallzey had heard of the new Diversion for the Idle Rich, just as people out in the Country hear of Milk-Sickness or falling Meteors, both well authenticated but never encountered.
While rummaging through the Sporting Page, he would come across a cryptic Reference to MacFearson of Drumtochtie being 3 up and 2 to play on Hargis of Sunset Ho, whereupon he would experience a sense of annoyance and do a quick Hurdle.
He had seen in various Shop-Windows the spindly Utensils and snowy Pellets which, he had reason to believe, were affiliated in some way with the sickening Fad. He would look at them with extreme Contempt and rather resent their contaminating contiguity to the Mask, the Shin- Guard, and the upholstered Grabber.
Mr. Pallzey believed that Golf was played by the kind of White Rabbits who March in Suffrage Parades, wearing Gloves.
The dreaded Thing lay outside of his Orbit and beyond his Ken, the same as Tatting or Biology. His conception of a keen and sporty game was Pin Pool or Jacks Only with the Deuce running wild.
One Saturday he was invited out to a Food Saturnalia at a Country Place. The Dinner was postponed until late in the Day because they all dreaded it so much.
Friend Host said he had a twosome on at the Club and was trying out an imported Cleek, so he invited Mr. Pallzey to be a Spectator.
If he had said that he was going up in a Balloon to hemstitch a couple of Clouds, it would have sounded just as plausible to Mr. Pallzey of the Wholesale District.
The latter went along, just out of Politeness, but he was a good deal disappointed in his Friend. It certainly did seem trifling for a Huskie weighing one hundred and eighty to pick on something about the size of a Robin's Egg.
Mr. Pallzey played Gallery all around the Course. He would stand behind them at the Tee and smile in a most calm and superior Manner while they sand-shuffled and shifted and jiggled and joggled and went through the whole calisthenic Ritual of St. Vitus.
He was surprised to note how far the Ball would speed when properly spanked, but he thought there was no valid excuse for overrunning on the Approaches.
Mr. Pallzey found himself criticizing the Form of the Players. That should have been his Cue to climb the Fence.
All of the Mashiemaniacs start on the downward Path by making Mind-Plays and getting under Bogey.
Back on the sloping Sward between No. 18 and the Life-Saving Station, the two Contestants were holding the usual Post-Mortem.
"Let me see that Dewflicker a minute," said Mr. Pallzey, as he carelessly extracted a Mid-iron.
He sauntered up to the silly Globule and took an unpremeditated Swipe. The Stroke rang sweet and vibrant. The ball rose in parabolic Splendor above the highest branches of a venerable Elm.
Just as the Face of the Club started on the Follow Through, the Bacillus ran up and bit Mr. Pallzey on the Leg.
He saw the blinking White Spot far out on the emerald Plain. He heard the murmur of Admiration behind him. He was sorry his Wife had not been there to take it in.
"Leave me have another Ball," requested Mr. Pallzey.
The Virus was working.
He backed up so as to get a Running Start.
"This time," quoth Mr. Pallzey, "I will push it to Milwaukee."
Missing the Object of Attack by a scant six inches, he did a Genee toe- spin and fell heavily with his Face among the Dandelions.
The Host brushed him off and said: "Your Stance was wrong; your Tee was too high; you raised the Left Shoulder; you were too rapid on the Come-Back; the Grip was all in the Left Hand; you looked up; you moved your Head at the top of the Stroke; you allowed the Left Knee to turn, and you stood ahead of the Ball. Otherwise, it was a Loo-Loo."
"If I come out next Sunday could you borrow me a Kit of Tools?" asked Mr. Pallzey. He was twitching violently and looking at the Ball as if it had called him a Name. "I got that first one all right, and I think –"
So it was arranged that the poor doomed Creature was to appear on the following Sabbath and be equipped with a set of Cast-Offs and learn all about the Mystery of the Ages between 11 A. M. and 2 P. M..
Mr. Pallzey went away not knowing that he was a Marked Man.
On Monday he told the Stenographer how he stung the Ball the first time up. He said he was naturally quick at picking up any kind of Game. He thought it would be a Lark to get the hang of the Whole Business and then get after some of those Berties in the White Pants. He figured that Golf would be soft for any one who had played Baseball when young. Truly all the raving is not done within the Padded Cells.
He came home in the Sabbath Twilight, walking on his Ankles and babbling about a Dandy Drive for the Long Hole.
Regarding the other 378 Strokes he was discreetly silent.
He told his Wife there was more in it than one would suppose. The Easier the Swat, the greater the Carry. And he had made one Hole in seven.
Then he took a Parasol out of the Jar, and illustrated the famous Long Drive with Moving Pictures, Tableaux, Delsarte, and some newly acquired technical Drivel, which he mouthed with childish Delight.
Now we see him buying Clubs, although he refers to them as Sticks— proving that he is still a groping Neophyte.
He thinks that a shorter Shaft and more of a Lay-Back will enable him to drive a Mile. The Gooseneck Putter will save him two on every Hole. Also, will the Man please show him an Iron guaranteed to reach all the way down to the Dimple and plunk it right in the Eye.
Then all of the new Implements laid out at Home and Wife sitting back, listening to a Lecture as to what will be pulled off on the succeeding Day of Rest.
She had promised at the Altar to Love, Honor, and Listen. Still, it was trying to see the once-loved Adult cavorting on the verge of Dementia and know that she was helpless.
He sallied forth with those going to Early Mass, and returned at the Vesper Hour caked with Dust and 98 per cent. gone in the Turret.
It seems that at the sixth hole on the Last Round where you cross the Crick twice, he fell down and broke both Arms and both Legs. So he tore up the Medal Score, gave all the Clubs to the Caddy, and standing on the grassy Summit of the tall Ridge guarding the Bunker, he had lifted a grimy Paw and uttered the Vow of Renunciation.
In other words, he was Through.
The senile Wrecks and the prattling Juveniles, for whom the Game was invented, could have his Part of it for all time.
Never again would he walk on the Grass or cock his Arms or dribble Sand all over the dark and trampled Ground where countless Good Men had suffered.
No, Indeed!
So next day he bought all the Paraphernalia known to the Trade, and his name was put up at a Club.
It was one of those regular and sure-enough Clubs. High East Winds prevailed in the Locker-Room. Every member was a Chick Evans when he got back to the nineteenth hole.
Mr. Pallzey now began to regard the Ancient and Honorable Pastime as a compendium of Sacraments, Ordeals, Incantations, and Ceremonial Formalities.
He resigned himself into the Custody of a professional Laddie with large staring Knuckles and a Dialect that dimmed all the memories of Lauder.
In a short time the Form was classy, but the Score had to be taken out and buried after every Round.
Mr. Pallzey saw that this Mundane Existence was not all Pleasure. He had found his Life-Work. The Lode-Star of his declining Years would be an even one hundred for the eighteen Flags.
Wife would see him out in the Street, feeling his way along, totally unmindful of his Whereabouts. She would lead him into the Shade, snap her Fingers, call his Name, and gradually pull him out of the Trance. He would look at her with a filmy Gaze and smile faintly, as if partly remembering and then say: "Don't forget to follow through. Keep the head down—tight with the left—no hunching—pivot on the hips. For a Cuppy Lie, take the Nib. If running up with the Jigger, drop her dead. The full St. Andrews should not be thrown into a Putt. Never up, never in. Lift the flag. Take a pickout from Casual Water but play the Road-ways. To overcome Slicing or Pulling, advance the right or left Foot. Schlaffing and Socketing may be avoided by adding a hook with top-spin or vice versa. The Man says there are twenty-six Things to be remembered in Driving from the Tee. One is Stance. I forget the other twenty-five."
Then the Partner of his Joys and Sorrows, with the accent on the Debit Side, would shoot twenty Grains of Asperin into him and plant him in the Flax.
Next morning at Breakfast he would break it to her that the Brassie had developed too much of a Whip and he had decided to try a forty-inch Shaft.
They had Seasoned Hickory for Breakfast, Bunkers for Luncheon, and the Fair Green for Dinner.
As a matter of course they had to give up their comfortable Home among the Friends who had got used to them and move out to a strawboard Bungalow so as to be near the Execution Grounds.
Mrs. Pallzey wanted to do the White Mountains, but Mr. Pallzey needed her. He wanted her to be waiting on the Veranda at Dusk, so that he could tell her all about it, from the preliminary Address to the final Foozle.
Sometimes he would come home enveloped in a foglike Silence which would last beyond early Candle Lighting, when he would express the Opinion that the Administration at Washington had proved a Failure.
Perhaps the very next Evening he would lope all the way up the Gravel and breeze into her presence, smelling like a warm gust of Air from Dundee.
He would ask her to throw an Amber Light on the Big Hero. He would call her "Kid" and say that Vardon had nothing on him. Her man was the Gink to show that Pill how to take a Joke.
Then she would know that he had won a Box of Balls from Mrs. Talbot's poor old crippled Father-in-Law.
She could read him like a Barometer. If he and Mr. Hilgus, the Real Estate Man, came home together fifteen feet apart, she would know it had been a Jolly Day on the Links.
By the second summer, Mr. Pallzey had worked up until he was allowed to use a Shower Bath once hallowed by the presence of Jerome Travers.
He was not exactly a Duffer. He was what might be called a sub-Duffer, or Varnish, which means that the Committee was ashamed to mark up the Handicap.
He still had a good many superfluous Hands and Feet and was bleeding freely on every Green.
Sometimes he would last as far as the Water-Hazard and then sink with a Bubbling Cry.
Notwithstanding which, he kept on trying to look like the Photographs of Ouimet.
If he spun into the High Spinach off at the Right it was Tough Luck. If he whanged away with a Niblick down in a bottomless Pit, caromed on a couple of Oaks, and finally angled off toward the Cup, he would go around for Days talking about Some Shot.
As his Ambition increased, his Mental Arithmetic became more and more defective and his Moral Nature was wholly atrophied.
As an Exponent of the more advanced Play he was a Fliv, but as a Matchmaker he was a Hum-Dinger.
He knew he was plain pastry for the Sharks, so he would hang around the first Tee waiting to cop out a Pudding.
One day he took on Mrs. Olmstead's Infant Son, just home from Military School.
The tender Cadet nursed him along to an even-up at the Punch-Bowl and then proceeded to smear his vital Organs all over the Bad Lands.
That evening Mr. Pallzey told her she would have to cut down on Household Expenses.
Six years after he gave up the Business Career and consecrated himself to something more Important, Mr. Pallzey had so well mastered the baffling Intricacies that he was allowed to trail in a Foursome with the President of the Club. This happened once.
It is well known that any Person who mooches around a Country Club for a sufficient Period will have some kind of a Cup wished on to him. Fourteen years after Mr. Pallzey threw himself into it, Heart and Soul, and when the Expenses approximated $30,000, he earned his Halo.
One evening he came back to his haggard Companion, chortling infant- wise, and displayed something which looked like an Eye-Cup with Handles on it.
He said it was a Trophy. It was a Consolation Offering for Maidens with an allowance of more than eighteen.
After that their daily Life revolved around the $2 bargain in Britannia. Mrs. Pallzey had to use Metal Polish on it to keep it from turning black.
When the Visitors lined up in front of the Mantel and gazed at the tiny Shaving Mug, the Cellar Champion on the World would regale them with the story of hairbreadth 'Scapes and moving Adventures by Gravel Gullies and rushing Streams on the Memorable Day when he (Pallzey) had put the Blocks to Old Man McLaughlin, since deceased.
Then he would ask all present to feel of his Forearm, after which he would pull the Favorite One about Golf adding ten years to his life.
Mrs. Pallzey would be sitting back, pouring Tea, but she never chimed in with any Estimate as to what had been the effect on her Table of Expectations.
MORAL: Remain under the Awning.
THE NEW FABLE OF THE LONESOME CAMP ON THE FROZEN HEIGHTS
Elam was the main Whizzer in a huddle of Queen Annes, bounded on the North by a gleaming Cemetery, on the East by a limping subdivision, on the South by a deserted Creamery, and on the West by an expanse of Stubble.
Claudine was the other two-thirds of the Specialty.
She was a snappy little Trick and it was a dull hour of the Day or Night when she couldn't frame up a new General Order for the Breadwinner.
The Marriage came off during the third summer of her twenty-seventh year.
She accepted Elam about a week before he proposed to her, thus simplifying the Ordeal.
While the Wafer on the License was still warm, she put on her spangled Suit, moved to the centre of the Ring, and cracked the Whip.
After than Elam continued to be a Hellion around the Office, but in his private Quarters he was merely Otto, the Trained Seal.
Claudine could make him Bark, play the Cymbals, or go back to the Blue Bench.
There is one Elam in every Settlement.
All the wise Paper-hangers and the fly Guitar Players had him marked up as a Noodle, but somehow, every time the winning Numbers were hung out, he would be found in Line, waiting to Cash.
He was not Bright enough to do anything except garner the Gold Certificates.
Elam had no Ear for Music, and, coming out of the Opera House, never could remember the name of the Play or which one of the Burglars was the real Hero.
His Reading was confined to the Headlines of a conservative Paper which was still printing War News.
Baseball had not come into his Life whatsoever.
A cultured Steno, who knew about George Meredith and Arnold Bennett, had to do his Spelling for him at 14 Bucks per.
The Cerebellum of Elam was probably about the dimensions of a Malaga Grape.
Sizing him by his Looks, one would have opined that Nature meant him for a Ticket-taker in a suburban Cinema Palace.
Elam was a mental Gnat and a spiritual Microbe, but the Geezer knew how to annex the Kale.
When Providence is directing the Handouts, she very often slips some Squarehead the canny Gift of corralling the Cush, but holds out all of the desirable Attributes supposed to distinguish Man from what you see in the Cages at the Zoo.
After the Pater had earned his Shaft in the Cemetery, Elam became the Loud Noise around a dinky Manufacturing Plant down by the Yards.
The Cracker Barrel Coterie and all the Old Ladies who had become muscle-bound from wielding the Sledge predicted that Elam would put the Organization into the Ditch, wrong side up.
The Well-wishers, the Brotherly lovers, and the total membership of the Helping Hand Society sat back waiting for Elam to be dug out of the Debris, so they could collect Witness Fees at the Autopsy.
The Junior earned their abiding Dislike by putting one across.
He made the Fossils sit up in their padded Rocking Chairs and pay some attention to the Idiot Child.
He never could hold down any Position until tried out for a Captain of Industry and then he began to Bat 450 and Field 998.
After the dusty Workmen had manufactured the Product, and the Salesmen had unloaded it, and the Collectors had brought in the Dinero, then Elam had to sit at a Mahogany Desk with a Picture of Claudine in front of him, and figure how much of the hard-earned Mazuma would be doled out to his greedy Employees.
Sometimes he would be compelled to fork over nearly half the Gross, whereupon his Heart would ache and he would become Morose.
In a few Years he had a lot of new Buildings, with Skylights and improved Machinery and all sorts of humane Appliances to enable the Working Force to increase the Output.
As the Bank Account expanded and the Happy Couple found themselves going up, Claudine began to scan the Horizon and act restless-like. She said the Home Town was Impossible. It certainly did seem Contrary to Reason.
Any Woman with a salaried Husband could bust into Society if she sang in a Choir or owned an Ice-cream Freezer.
Claudine was for migrating to some high-toned Community beyond the Rising Sun, where she could sit in Marble Halls and compare Jewelry with proud Duennas of her own Station.
Seeing Claudine at the corner of 8th and Central, waiting for the Open Car, one would not have suspected that she harbored Intentions on the Court Circles of Europe.
One would merely have guessed that she was on her way to the Drug Store to purchase much Camphor.
But she had taken a peek at the Palm Rooms and the powdered Lackeys and the Tea Riot at the Plaza, and she was panting inwardly.
She wanted to hang a silver Bell around her neck and go galloping with the white-faced Thoroughbreds.
It was no good trying to work up Speed on a half-mile track in the Prairie Loam.
Once in a while Claudine made a bold Sashay to start something devilish, but the Fillies trained on the Farm did not seem gaited for the Grand Circuit.
As for the Servant Problem, it was something ferocious. City Help could not be lured to the Tall Grass, and all the Locals had been schooled at the Railway Eating-House.
Elam and Claudine had a Cook named Gusta, born somewhere near the Arctic Circle in Europe.
Her fried Chicken drowned in thick Gravy came under the head of Regular Food.
She could turn out Waffles as long as there was a Customer in sight.
The Biscuits on which she specialized were light as Down.
The Things she fixed to Eat were Fine and Dandy but she never had heard of a Cuisine.
When you took her away from regular Chow and made her tackle something Casserole or En Tasse, she blew.
Also there was a Maid who should have belonged to the Stevedore's Union. She could pack Victuals in from the Buttery and slam them down on the Table, a la Commercial Hotel, but when it came to building up an intricate Design with an ingrowing Napkin, three spoons, four Knives, five forks, and all the long-stemmed Glasses, to say nothing of an artful pyramiding of Cut Flowers around the Candelabra, then she was simply a female Blacksmith.
Claudine would throw a Dinner once in a while, just to subdue the Wife and Daughter of the National Bank, but the Crew would nearly always crab the Entertainment.
With the Support accorded by the solid ivory Staff, she had a fat Chance to give a correct imitation of Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish.
All during the nine Courses she had to yelp more Orders than the Foreman of a Street Gang. A Megaphone would have helped some. The Hostess who wishes to look and carry on like a Duchess, certainly finds it vexing when pop-eyed Lizzie leans against all of the principal Guests in turn and then endeavors to shoot the Episcopalian Rector in the Neck with a gush of real Champagne.
After one of these sad Affairs, at which the Rummies had balled up the whole Menu, Claudine came to the front with an Ultimatum. She said she was going to can the awful Birthplace and spend the remainder of her Natural among the real Rowdy-Dows.
"Right-o, Babe!" spoke up Elam. "To-day I have put the Works into a new Combine which makes me a Janitor so far as the Plant is concerned, but boosts me into the Charley Schwab division when it comes to Collateral. I have three million Iron Boys and most of it is Turkey. I am foot-loose and free as a Robin. Let us beat it to the Big Show. It is about time that the vast Territory lying toward the East should be aroused from its Lethargy. Go as far as you like."
The two were foxy. For monetary and real-estate Reasons they did not give it out cold that they were making a final Getaway. They planned to have Gusta remain at the dear old Dump as a Caretaker, but it was merely a Bluff.
When the Town Hack followed a Wagon-Load of Trunks to the Depot, Claudine leaned out and said: "Fare thee well, O you Indian Village!
This is the Parting of the Ways for little Sunshine."
Next we see them in the gaudy Diner, eating Sweetbreads.
Next day thousands of warm-hearted New Yorkers were packed along the Water front all the Way from the Battery to Grant's Tomb, giving royal Welcome to the Corn-fed Pilgrims. At any rate, they were Packed.
When Elam and Claudine entered the Hotel, the discerning Bell-hops had them stand back until the others had registered.
They were Important but they did not carry any Signs.
Elam should have worn the Letter of Credit on the outside.
After they had taken the Imperial Suite and invited all the Servants on the Twelfth Floor to a Silver Shower, they found that the Call-Bells worked fine. If Elam moved in the general direction of a Button, a handsome West Pointer would flit in with a pitcher of Iced Water and then hover around for his Bit.
Both realized that the first requisite was a lot of new Scenery. Even when they rapped sharply with a Spoon and ordered Garcon to hurry up the Little Birds with a Flagon of St. Regis Bubbles to come along as a drench, they realized that they did not look the Parts.
Elam still combed his Hair in the style approved by the "Barbers' Guide and Manual" for 1887.
Claudine was fully clothed as far up as her Neck and didn't have the Nerve to hoist the Lorgnette.
Elam went out and had himself draped by a swagger Tailor who was said to do a lot of Work for the Vanderbilt Boys.
In his Afternoon Wear he resembled the Manager of a Black-Goods Department.
After donning the complete Soup and Fish, known in swozzey circles as Thirteen and the Odd, he didn't look as much like a Waiter as one might have supposed. He looked more like the 'Bus who takes away the Dishes.
Claudine yielded herself up to a Modiste. The Good Woman from out of Town was a trifle Long in the Tooth at this stage of our Narrative, but Mme. Bunk convinced her that she was about half way between the Trundle Bed and her First Party.
She ordered all the Chic Novelties recommended for Flappers, so that Elam began to walk about ten feet behind her, wondering vaguely if his family was still respectable.
The new Harness and a careless habit of counting Money in Public soon gave them an enviable Reputation in the principal Cafes, although they could not observe that they were moving any nearer to the Newport Colony.
The shift from Pig's Knuckles to Ambrosia and Nectar had been a little sudden for Elam, and sometimes, when they were darting hither and thither, from Road-House to Play-House and thence to the Louis XIV Sitting-Room by way of the Tango-Joint, he would moan a little and act like a Quitter.
Whereupon Claudine would jack him up and tell him to pull out his Cuffs and push back the Forelock and try to be Human.
No use. He was strictly Ritz-Carlton from the Pumps to the Topper, but the word "Boob" was plainly stenciled on the glossy Front.
When they had conquered all the Eating-Places in the Tenderloin they moved on to Europe, where they were just as welcome as Influenza.
It was great to sit in the Savoy at the Supper Hour, surrounded by the best known people mentioned in the Court Circulars.
It was indeed a privilege for Elam and Claudine to be among the British Cousins, even if the British Cousins did not seem to place Elam and Claudine.
Looking in any direction they could see naught but frosty and forbidding Shoulder Blades.
After partaking of their Sole and Grouse and winning a pleasant "Good-Night" from the Chevalier in the Check-Room, they would escape to their Apartments and talk to the Dog.
In Paris they did better.
They learned that by going out on the Boulevard and whistling, they could summon a whole Regiment of high-born and patrician Down-and-Outers. Most of the Titles were slightly worm-eaten and spotted with Scale, but nevertheless Genuine.
It was Nuts for Claudine to assemble all of the Noblemen to be picked up around the Lobby and give them a free run and jump at the Carte du Jour.
Her Dinners soon became the talk of the Chambermaids employed at the Hotel.
Any one willing to cut loose on Caviar and stuff raised under Glass will never have to dine alone in gay Paree.
Whenever Elam made a noise like 1000 Frogs he found a lot of well-bred Connoisseurs at his Elbow, all ready to have something unusual brought up from the Cellar.
The securing of an Invitation to one of Claudine's formal Dinners was almost as difficult as getting into Luna Park.
However, the list of guests sounded Real when sent back to America and printed for the entertainment of persons living in Boarding-Houses. Claudine became slightly puffed. When she found herself between a couple of perfumed Lads wearing Medals she would give Friend Husband the Office to move to one side and curl up in the Grass and not ruin the Ensemble by butting in.
Elam was usually at the foot of the Table behind a mass of Orchids. Once in a while he would try to crowd into the Conversation just to let them know that old Ready Money was still present, but every time he came up Dearie would do her blamedest to Bean him and put him out of the Game.
Claudine could make a stab at the new Pictures in the Salon and even run nimbly around the edge of the Futurist vogue.
Elam was ready to discuss Steamship Lines or Railway Accommodations, but when he was put against the Tall Brows he began to burn low and smell of the Wick.
Often, when surfeited with Truffles, he would wonder what had become of the Green Corn, the K. and K., the regular Chicken with Giblets, the Hot Cherry Pie, the smoking Oyster Stew, and the Smearcase with Chives, such as Gusta used to send in.
These reminders of a lowly Past were very distasteful to Claudine. Once he talked in his Sleep about Cod-fish Balls, and next morning she lit on him something ramfugious.
After the Parisian triumphs it seemed a safe bet to return home and make a new effort to mingle with the Face-Cards.
This time they took a House in New York and went after Grand Opera as if they knew what it was about.
The Son of an earl consented to Buttle for them. He refused them Butter with their Meals and kept them trembling most of the time, but they determined to do things Right, even if both died of Nervous Prostration.
When they began making real Headway and were recognized in the Park by some of the Headliners, Claudine would chide Elam for his early Doubts and Fears.
"This has got the Middle West skinned forty ways from the Jack," she would exclaim, gayly, as they motored up the Avenue. "Me for the White Lights! It's a good thing you had a Pacemaker or you would now be wearing detachable Cuffs and putting Sugar on your Lettuce."
Two years had elapsed since the escape from being Buried Alive.
They were, to all outward appearances, City-broke.
One day Claudine allowed that she was tired of Bridge and the gay Routine. She announced that she was slipping away to Virginia Hot Springs to cool off and rest.
Elam said that while she was lying up, he would inspect certain Mining Properties in Canada.
He drove Honey to the train, then he tore back to the palatial Home, chucked a few Props into a Suit Case and headed for the Grand Central. He never stopped going until he ducked in the Back Way, through the Grape Arbor, past the Woodshed, into the Kitchen of the old Homestead in which he first saw the Light of Day.
