Mummers in Mufti/Chapter 10

N the life of a furnace fire (and so, presumably, in all human enterprise, my dear children) there comes a point after which it is of absolutely no use to pile on fuel or to apply forced drafts. The thing is due to be ashes—out, gray, extinct. Effort beyond that point is effort wasted. Thus it is, sooner or later, with every gay party, and thus it was with the birthday feast of Tommy Knight, aged thirty-one.

The arrival of Bellsmith's champagne was, to be sure, greeted with a homage befitting its rank. Toasts to to [sic] every one, Jules and Bellsmith included, were ceremoniously drunk, but when Tommy Knight had tried to argue, man to bell-boy, the evening had reached its peak. Actors are, as a rule, the most law-abiding people in the world, or else they have a keen fear of public opinion; and no second reminder from the night clerk would be needed that evening.

Once, indeed, the virtuoso on the imaginary banjo tried to repeat his success by an improvisation on an imaginary Hawaiian zither, for, although not an original soul, the man was persistent, but no one paid much attention. In fact, at the first few bars, Charlie Barnes stopped the performance, quite as eager to take the lead in civic good order as he had been to take the lead in riotous living. He tossed his head imperiously and summoned the imaginary zitherist to a consultation in a corner, where Barnes talked in low tones with frequent glances in the direction of Bellsmith. He was obviously laying down the proposition that Bellsmith, in supplying champagne, had also assumed responsibility for its consumption—a hospitality which no good imaginary zitherist should violate. A very excellent rule for life, concluded Bellsmith.

In the interval also between the disappearance of the bell-boy and the arrival of the champagne, the company had taken the opportunity to rise from the table and was now dispersed around the room in little groups. From one of these, which of course centered around the bold-faced girl, arose occasional sporadic bursts of merriment, but the others had fallen inevitably into that shop talk from which the actor is never long absent.

Bellsmith, for his part, found himself at a window exchanging platitudes on the American theater and on New England life with the curly-haired assistant stage-manager, who, being called "Pete," was of course really named Erasmus Surdam. Surdam, it appeared, was a native of Maine and had spent half a term at "Boston Tech," for it seems to be another of those inomprehensible rules of the theater that all future actors begin by studying engineering—or dentistry—or law.

To Bellsmith, however, this quiet fag-end of the party was more enjoyable than the first part had been. He was, by nature if not by opportunity, one of those men who ask little of life but, equally, have a vague terror of going to bed and, say what one will, the best company in the world is a group of people who are not in themselves tremendously clever—so long as they have no particular scruples. It is dullness linked with conviction that has given stupid people their bad name.

Below the two men standing there at the window, the Main Street of Leicester, deserted at that end of town and at that hour of the night, offered an appearance not unsentimental, one inciting to reverie. Neither man had said a word for some time when Bellsmith vaguely became aware of Miss Marshall's voice over his shoulder.

"I 've spoken twice," the girl was now saying, "and I am about to speak a third time. After that there won't be any more."

Bellsmith turned in furious apology and found the girl holding out her hand.

"Good night, Mr. Bellsmith," she said. "I think that I'd better struggle up to bed."

Bellsmith walked with her to the open door, suddenly aware, as he crossed the room, that the party had thinned amazingly. The bold-faced girl was now the only woman left. In the last hours of any party there are always unaccountable gaps like that.

Neither one knowing exactly what to say, Bellsmith and Miss Marshall walked slowly along the padded hall to the stairs which flanked the elevator shaft, where they stopped indefinitely.

"I wonder," said Bellsmith, with a studied diffidence, "whether I ought to go back and see the evening through."

It was dangerous, as Bellsmith had already found, to try attitudes with Miss Marshall, for the girl pierced his pose with a mischievous smile.

"Does that mean," she asked, "that you 're rather crazy to go back? If so, why not?"

Bellsmith laughed. "To tell the truth, I don't want to go home. I'm having the time of my life, especially now, just sitting around in the small hours, smoking and talking. That's really my idea of a good time, but every one in Leicester takes a pride in getting up at twelve and saying, 'Well, me for the hay!'

"But I mean," he added, after a pause, "I don't want to butt in. You see, I'm only an outsider."

The girl laughed. "Don't worry. Charlie Barnes and Pete Surdam will sit up all night, and nobody who has the entrée to the champagne cellar will be an outsider. Do you think you can get home all right?"

Bellsmith clamped his hand to his trousers pocket. "By Jove! I'm glad you spoke of that. I haven't a key. I 'll have to telephone them if I'm going to stay."

"Who's 'them'?"

"The household," answered Bellsmith, entirely innocent of the fact that he had not at all answered her question. The girl looked at him quietly. "Tell me," she said. "By any long chance you 're not married, are you?"

"Good heavens, no!" answered Bellsmith.

"I was sure you were n't," said the girl, "but those things have such a funny way of popping out at you these days."

Bellsmith was aghast. "My dear lady," he began, "if I were married you would nt—down-stairs there—you wouldn't have supposed that I—"

"Oh, you might," she said nonchalantly. She switched the subject mechanically. "Do you usually forget your key?"

"No," said Bellsmith. "The truth is, I—I seldom go out. That's why I want to make this party last."

Abruptly the girl gave him her hand. Bellsmith took it and, as they looked into each other's eyes, for a moment again came that humorous, lingering flash of understanding.

"It will not be necessary," said Bellsmith dryly, "for you to say that you are glad I did n't kiss you, for, much as I want to, I am not going to do it."

"Thank you," said the girl, "not for not kissing me, but for not obliging me to say that." She paused a moment and then added, "It's going to be an awful strain talking to each other, is n't it? Will we always have to be using double and triple meanings?"

Bellsmith laughed. "I'm ready to stop whenever you are. My old head is n't up to much. I confess that it's beginning to lag."

The girl withdrew her hand. "Oh, well!" she sighed, "I suppose that we 've got a hard week of flirtation ahead of us, so I must get some rest."

She turned and ran up the stairs, while Bellsmith, smiling, walked much more slowly down the single flight to the office. Even the night clerk, drowsing in an arm-chair behind the desk, had apparently been informed that the house held a guest of distinction, for he shook himself together and rose to his feet.

"Anything I can do for you, Mr. Bellsmith?"

"Only the telephone."

"Come right around here, behind the desk. Then you won't have to put in a nickel."

After an interminable wait Bellsmith succeeded in rousing a sleepy William at the other end of the wire, explained where he was and when he would probably be home. The night clerk listened with interest. Even night clerks like to have people around.

"Fine weather we 're having, Mr. Bellsmith."

"Fine."

Along the desk was ranged a glass cigar-case, and some strange instinct, inherited, perhaps, from tavern and stage-coach days, was stirred within Bellsmith. He looked over the show of gold bands critically.

"What do you smoke?" he asked, in a voice that was almost official.

"Oh, anything," said the clerk. "'Pride of Boston Harbor'?" he suggested with the nice etiquette of his profession, naming a cigar which was not too expensive and yet expensive enough to imply tidy wealth and a neat discrimination on the part of the benefactor.

Bellsmith hesitated.

"Or 'Manuel Garcias'?" suggested the clerk, raising his bid a point.

This name sounded better, and with a grand air the clerk spread a handful of "Manuel Garcias" on the counter. At Bellsmith's gesture (a shoe drummer could n't have done it better) the night clerk selected one and Bellsmith pocketed the rest. This was really a bully evening. Bellsmith had been quite right up-stairs when he had said that he had never had more fun in his life. He decided to see what else could happen to one who probed life at various points.

"By the way," he suggested hopefully, "you don't suppose that you could find a couple of bottles of old stone ale, that have been forgotten in the cellar?"

The clerk laughed. "They may be there, but they 're not forgotten. I don't know. I might." He reached behind him for a key. "Shall I have it sent up to 26?"

"I can take it up myself," replied Bellsmith.

A moment later he was plodding happily up the stairway to Room 26. He was glad that the clerk had mentioned the number, for he had forgotten which one it was.

As he entered, three of the men, now seated in conclave around the end of the table, looked up, surprised; then Charlie Barnes went on from where he had evidently left off.

"Well, sir," he was saying, "that was in Little Rock, Arkansas. The train was due there at seven forty-two, and not a stick of our scenery or a trunk of our stuff was in the house—"

Bellsmith hesitated by the door. He did feel, after all, that he was an intruder but the curly-haired stage manager, seeing his hesitation, moved out a chair.

"Come on in, Mr. Bellsmith," he urged. "Come on in."

The party had thinned still more since Bellsmith's departure. Only Charlie Barnes, the stage-manager, the banjo-player, and Bellony now sat around the table, the last named still absolutely stolid, gazing blankly at the wall, and smoking his five-hundredth cigar. In a chair by the folding wardrobe poor Tommy Knight was slunk, at times blinking, at times asleep, his hands hanging down at his sides. In the center of the long table the empty champagne bottles were grouped like ninepins. The room was three-ply with smoke.

Bellsmith walked to the table and opened the newspaper parcel that he carried under his arm. The others watched him indifferently, but as three squat stone bottles were disclosed a mild shout went up.

"I thought this might be—cooling," said Bellsmith.

"Scotch ale, as I'm alive!" exclaimed the stage-manager.

"Mister," said Barnes, "I believe you've the only one of your kind in the world."

Bellony said nothing—just puffed. If Bellsmith had brought in a tame kangaroo it would have been just the same.

Barnes produced a knife and a corkscrew from his watch-chain and, seizing a tumbler, flicked what remained of its contents in the general direction of the window. As the glasses were filled Tommy Knight roused himself.

"What's that you fellows are drinking?" he demanded.

"Scotch ale," said Surdam.

"Oh, go on," grunted Knight, closing his eyes.

"Say, look here," suggested Barnes. "Give him some of that. It will do him good."

"I believe it will," said Surdam.

He filled a glass, walked over, and, supporting him with his arm, held it to the sleeper's lips. Poor Tommy, blinking, sipped it feebly, like a fever patient sipping a cooling niter. He opened his eyes.

"By George, that's good!"

"Now, look here, Tommy," said Surdam. "Remember you've got to play a matinée to-morrow. Why don't you go to bed?"

The host waved the suggestion away. "Nothing doing! It's my party, and I'm going to see it out."

"Come on, Tommy, don't be a fool," added Barnes. "We 're all going in a minute. We 're just waiting—" He looked around for suggestions, and his eye landed on Bellsmith. "We 're just waiting for this gentleman to go to his train. He's getting a train for Boston in fifteen minutes." Knight opened his eyes and stared at Bellsmith with the terrible clairvoyance of the inebriated.

"Try something else," he suggested. "He looks like a man who takes trains, does n't he?"

The banjo-player jumped up and grabbed the remaining stone bottle. "I tell you what we 'll do, Tommy. You come on up and we 'll split this bottle between us in your room."

He lifted the host to his feet, but the latter shook him off.

"I'm all right," he said, and, curiously enough, he really was. He shook himself briskly. "Well, if you don't mind, folks; if you 'll excuse me, Mr. Bellsmith—"

The party was now reduced to Barnes, Bellony, the stage-manager, and Bellsmith. Bellsmith spread his cigars on the table with a gesture not unlike that of the night clerk, and Barnes went on with his tale.

"We had an act, mind you, calling for two changes of costume for everybody in the cast. There was six of us, including one kid that came on just at the start and just at the end—"

And so, on and on, the reminiscences of Charlie Barnes traveled up and down the Mississippi Valley, a tale of twenty years past, involving nothing, really, but curiously fascinating to Bellsmith. No one but Barnes spoke a word until suddenly the little box telephone on the wall jangled out, loudly. The stage-manager listlessly got up and answered it.

"Hello?"

He turned and added, "Long-distance."

All the men waited in silence, as people do wait when a private call is in progress; then suddenly the stage-manager began again.

"Hello! Hello!"

A rigmarole answered him from the other end of the wire.

"What's that?" he asked. "Who?" With a grin he put his hand over the transmitter and turned to the room.

"It's that damn fool, Tommy Knight," he announced. "He said that he was Charles Dillingham, and he wanted to offer Barnes a part at the Hippodrome at a thousand a week. But, by Jove, he did it pretty well at that! He fooled me. I really thought it was long-distance."

"Tell him to go to bed," commanded Barnes.

The stage-manager turned to the instrument. "That you, Mr. Dillingham? Mr. Barnes says he won't come for less than a million a week."

"And a maid," added Barnes.

"And a maid," repeated the stage-manager. He hung up the receiver, and Barnes went on.

"Well, when we got to New Orleans, the girl who was playing the part of my mother—"

A moment later the telephone rang again.

"Don't answer it," commanded Barnes angrily.

"He 'll keep ringing until I do," said Surdam and he answered again.

"Hello, Mr. Dillingham!" he said, then listened, laughing, while an obviously feminine voice came over the wire. Surdam blocked the transmitter and turned to the room. "That's Poppy Vaughn talking now. He must have called her up and told her to ring in. She's pretending she's some girl who's got a crush on Tony."

"Tell her to shut up and go to sleep," replied Bellony, breaking silence for the first time that evening, except when he had sung. "They 'll have the whole house waked up in a minute."

The stage-manager soothed the insistent Miss Vaughn in some manner, and Barnes went on with his tale. A moment later, however, the bell rang again. Surdam rose, laughing. "I wonder who he is this time."

He listened a moment, made two or three jocular retorts, and then turned wearily to Bellsmith. "Now he wants you, Mr. Bellsmith. He's pretending that he's a reporter and he says your house is on fire—"

"And your children will burn," suggested Barnes.

Bellsmith merely grinned, and Surdam turned back to the instrument. "Mr. Bellsmith can't come to the phone. He says he is n't interested."

More words came over the wire and Surdam appealed to Bellsmith.

"I'm afraid you 'll have to shut him up. He 'll keep jiggling the receiver all night if you don't."

Bellsmith good-naturedly rose and went to the telephone.

"Hello!"

Tommy Knight had apparently now enlisted the services of the banjo-player. "Mr. Bellsmith! Did you know that your house is on fire?"

"Yes, I knew it," answered Bellsmith, laughing. "Isn't it jolly?"

He heard his answer reported to some one else at the other end of the wire and a laugh. Controlling itself with difficulty, the voice insisted, "No, really, Mr. Bellsmith, your house is burning up."

Imitating Surdam, Bellsmith cupped his hand over the transmitter and reported progress to the room.

"He still insists that my house is in flames. Can't we put up some joke on him? Can't one of you imitate the manager of the hotel or something?"

"Oh, no!" replied Barnes, now thoroughly disgusted. "Just tell him, 'To hell with it! Let it burn.'"

Bellsmith turned back to the telephone. "All right. Happy dreams," he said, but the voice, now audibly laughing, insisted.

"But, Mr. Bellsmith, do you want your house to burn?"

Bellsmith laughed. "Yes, I don't care. To hell with it! Let it burn."

He returned to the table, but Knight had apparently succeeded in his purpose of breaking up the party, for Bellony was standing up and stretching wearily. Surdam, as much of a night-hawk as Bellsmith, strolled to the window and threw it up to let in the air.

"What's that?" he said, suddenly.

From the street below came unmistakably the shriek of a siren. Two others joined Surdam at the window and put their heads out just in time to see a fire-engine tearing past the window, its muffler wide open, dropping sparks as it roared over the asphalt.

The three men drew inside the room and stared at Bellsmith, who felt himself growing pale.

"Good gosh!" exclaimed Barnes. "you don't suppose that your house really is on fire?"