Chapter 4

And see, the afternoon has been squandered. There were things which should have been done. I blush indignantly at the memory of my thoughts during the shining hours in the Avenue. For I spent the valuable moments conversing with the devil. I imagined him coming for me and for two hours I elaborated a dialogue between him and myself in which I gave him my immortal soul and he in turn promised to write all the stories, novels and plays I wanted. All I would have to do was furnish the paper and leave it in a certain place and call for it the next morning and it would be completed--anything I asked for, a story, novel or play; a poem, a world-shattering manifesto--anything.

Alas, I am still in possession of my immortal soul!

COEUR DE LION AND THE SOUP AND FISH

For they're hangin' Danny Deever--

The voice of Capt. MacVeigh of the British army rose defiantly in the North La Salle Street hall bedroom. The herculean captain, attired in a tattered bathrobe, underwear, socks and one slipper, patted the bottom of the iron with his finger and then carefully applied it to a trouser leg stretched on an ironing board in front of him.

Again the voice:

For they're hangin' Danny Deever; You can hear the death march play, And they're ta ta ta da They're taking him away, Ta da ta ta--

The captain was on the rocks. _Sic transit gloria mundi_. Or how saith the poet, "The lion and the lizard keep the courts where Jamshid gloried and drank deep." Bust, was the captain. "Dying, Egypt, dying, ebbs the crimson life blood fast." Flatter than a hoecake was the captain.

"Farewell, my bluebell, farewell to thee," sang the captain as the iron crept cautiously over the great trouser leg of his Gargantuan full-dress suit. African mines blown up. Two inheritances shot. A last remittance blah. Rent bills, club bills, grocery bills, tailor bills, gambling bills. "Ho, Britons never will be slaves," sang the intrepid captain. Fought the bloody Boers, fought the Irawadi, fought the bloody Huns, and what was it Lady B. said at the dinner in his honor only two years ago? Ah, yes, here's to our British Tartarin, Capt. MacVeagh. But who the devil was Tartarin?

Never mind. "There's a long, long trail a-windin' and ta da ta ta ta tum," sang Capt. MacVeagh and he took up the other trouser leg. Egad, what a life! Not a sou markee left. Not a thin copper, not a farthing! "Strike me blind, me wife's confined and I'm a blooming father," sang Capt. MacVeagh, "For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the death march play----"

* * * * *

This was the last phalanx. This thing on the ironing board was Horatius at the bridge holding in check the hordes of false Tarquin. Everything gone but this. Not even a pair of pants or a smoking coat. Not a blooming thing left but this--a full-dress suit beginning to shine a bit in the rear.

"The shades of night were falling fast when through an Alpine village passed"--egad, what a primitive existence. Like an Irunti in the Australian bush. Telling time by the sun. It must be approachin' six, thought the captain as his voice trailed off.

Beautiful thought. "Mabel, little Mabel, with her face against the pane, sits beside the window, looking at the rain." That was Capt. MacVeagh of the British army, prisoner in a La Salle Street hall bedroom. No clothes to wear, nothing but the soup and fish. So he must sit and wait till evening came, till a gentleman could put on his best bib and tucker, and then--_allons!_ Freshly shaved, pink jowled, swinging his ebony stick, his pumps gleaming with a new coat of vaseline, off for the British Officers' Club!

All day long the herculean captain sulked in his tent--an Achilles with a sliver in his heel. But come evening, come the gentle shades of darkness, and presto! Like a lily of the field, who spun not nor toiled; like a knight of the boulevards, this servant of the king leaped forth in all his glory. The landlady was beginning to lose her awe of the dress suit, the booming barytone and the large aristocratic pink face of her mysterious boarder. And she was pressing for back rent. But the club was still tolerant.

"A soldier o' the legion lay dyin' in Algiers," chanted the captain, and with his shoulders back he strode into the wide world. A meal at the club, and gadzooks but his stomach was in arms! Not a bite since the last club meal. God bless the club!

"Get a job?" repeated the captain to one of the members, "I would but the devil take it, how can a man go around asking for a job in a dress suit? And I'm so rotten big that none of my friends can loan me a suit. And my credit is gone with at least twelve different tailors. I'm sort o' taboo as a borrower. Barry, old top, if you will chase the blighter after another highball, I'll drink your excellent health."

"There's a job if you want it that you can do in your dress suit," said his friend Barry. "If you don't mind night work."

"Not at all," growled Capt. MacVeagh.

"Well," said the friend, "there's a circus in town and they want a man to drive the chariot in the chariot race. It's only a little circus. And there's only three chariots in the race. You get $10 for driving and $25 a night if you win the race. And they give you a bloomin' toga to put on over your suit, you know, and a ribbon to tie around your head. And there you are."

"Righto !" cried the captain, "and where is this rendezvous of skill and daring? I'm off. I'll drive that chariot out of breath."

Capt. MacVeagh got the job. Capt. MacVeagh won the first race. Clad in a flapping toga, a ribbon round his forehead, the hero of the British army went Berserker on the home stretch and, lashing his four ponies into a panic, came gloriously down the last lap, two lengths ahead and twenty-five marvelous coins of the realm to the good.

That night at the club Capt. MacVeagh stood treat. British wassail and what not. The twenty-five dollars melted pleasantly and the captain fell off in a happy doze as rosy fingered Aurora touched the city roof-tops.

But, alas, the wages of sin! For the captain was not so good when he mounted his chariot the second night. A beehive buzzed in his head and huge, globular disturbances seemed to fill the air. And, standing waveringly on his feet as the giddy chariot bounced down the track, the captain let forth a sudden yell and sailed off into space. The chariot ponies and hero of the British army had gone crashing into the side lines.

* * * * *

"When they brought him to the hospital in the ambulance," explained the captain's friend, "they had taken the toga off him, of course, and the old boy was in his dress clothes. This kind o' knocked their eyes out, so what do they do but give him the most expensive suite in the place and the prettiest nurse and the star surgeon. And they mend and feed him up for two weeks. We all called on him and brought him a few flowers. The lad was surely in clover.

"The hospital authorities had nothing to go on but this dress suit as evidence. And when the nurse asked him what he wanted done with the suit, saying it was a bit torn from the accident, MacVeagh waves his hand and answers, 'Oh, throw the blasted thing out of the window or give it to the janitor.' And she did. I always thought it quite a story."

"But how did it end? What became of the captain when they found out he couldn't pay his bill and all that? And where's he now?"

"You'll have to end the thing to suit yourself," said the captain's friend. "All I know is that after almost forgetting about MacVeagh I got a letter from him from London yesterday. A rather mysterious letter on Lady Somebody's stationery. It read something like this: 'The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Thanks for the flowers. And three cheers, me lad, for the British Empire.'"

THE SYBARITE

They had been poor all their lives. The neighbors said: "It's a wonder how the Sikoras get along."

They lived in a rear flat. Four rooms that were dark and three children that were noisy. The three children used Wabansia Avenue as a playground. Dodging wagons and trucks was a diversion which played havoc with their shoes, but increased their skill in dodging wagons and trucks.

The neighbors said: "Old man Sikora is pretty sick. It's a wonder where they'll get money to pay the doctor."

Then old man Sikora, who wasn't so old (but poverty and hard work with a pick give a man an aged look), was taken to the county hospital. The Sikora children continued to dodge wagons and trucks and Mrs. Sikora went out three days a week to do washing. And the milkman and the grocer came around regularly and explained to Mrs. Sikora that they, too, had to live and she must pay her bills.

Then the neighbors said: "Did you hear about it? Old man Sikora died last night in the hospital. What will poor Mrs. Sikora do now? They ain't got a thing."

And old man Sikora was brought home because his widow insisted upon it. The neighbors came in and looked at the body and wept with Mrs. Sikora, and the children sat around after school and looked uncomfortably at the walls. And some one asked: "How you going to bury him, Mrs. Sikora?"

"Oh," said Mrs. Sikora, "I'm going to have a good funeral."

* * * * *

There was an insurance policy for $500. The Sikoras had kept it up, scraping together the $10 premiums when the time came. Mrs. Sikora took the policy to the husband of a woman whose washing she had done. The husband was in the real estate business.

"I need money to bury my man," she said. "He died last night in the hospital."

She was red-eyed and dressed in black and the real estate man said: "What do you want?"

When Mrs. Sikora explained he gave her $400 for the policy and she went to an undertaker. Her eyes were still red with crying. They stared at the luxurious fittings of the undertaker's parlors. There were magnificent palms in magnificent jardinières, and plush chairs and large, inviting sofas and an imposing mahogany desk and a cuspidor of shining brass. Mrs. Sikora felt thrilled at the sight of these luxuries.

Then the undertaker came in and she explained to him.

The neighbors said: "Are you going to Mr. Sikora's funeral? It's going to be a big funeral. I got invited yesterday."

Wabansia Avenue was alive with automobiles. Innumerable relatives of Mr. and Mrs. Sikora arrived in automobiles, their faces staring with surprise out of the limousine windows as if they were seeing the world from a new angle. There were also neighbors. These were dressed even more impressively than the relatives. But everybody, neighbors and relatives, had on their Sunday clothes. And the unlucky ones who hadn't been invited leaned out of the windows of Wabansia Avenue and looked enviously at the entourage.

There was a band--fifteen pieces. And there was one open automobile filled with flowers, filled to overflowing. The band stopped in front of the Sikora flat, or rather in front of the building, for the Sikora flat was in the rear and Mrs. Sikora didn't want the band to stop in the alley. Then the envious ones leaning out of the windows couldn't see the band and that would be a drawback.

The band played, great, sad songs. The cornets and trombones sent a muted shiver through the street. The band stopped playing and the people leaning out of the windows sighed. Ah, it was a nice funeral!

Inside the Sikora house four men stood up beside the handsome black coffin and sang. Mrs. Sikora in a voluminous black veil listened with tears running from her face. Never had she heard such beautiful singing before--all in time and all the notes sweet and inspiring. She wept some more and solicitous arms raised her to her feet. Solicitous arms guided her out of the flower-filled room as six men lifted the black coffin and carried it into the street.

* * * * *

Slowly the automobiles rolled away. And behind the open car heaped with flowers rode Mrs. Sikora. The dolorous music of the band filled her with a gentle ecstasy. The flower scents drifted to her and when her eyes glanced furtively out of the back window of the limousine she could see the procession reaching for almost a half block. All black limousines filled with faces staring in surprise at the street.

And in front of the flower car in an ornamental hearse rode Mr. Sikora. The wheels of the hearse were heavily tired. They made no sound and the chauffeur was careful that his precious burden should not be joggled.

Slowly through the loop the procession picked its way. Crowds of people paused to stare back at the staring ones in the automobiles and to listen to the--fine music that rose above the clamor of the "L" trains and the street cars and the trucks.

The sun lay over the cemetery. The handsome black coffin went out of sight. The fifteen musicians began to play once more and Mrs. Sikora, weeping anew, allowed solicitous arms to help her back into the limousine and with a sigh she leaned back and closed her eyes and let herself weep while the music played, while the limousine rolled smoothly along. It was like a dream, a strange thing imagined or read about somewhere.

* * * * *

The neighbors sniffed indignantly. "Did you hear about Mrs. Sikora?" they said. These were the same ones who had leaned enviously out of the Wabansia Avenue windows.

"She spent all her insurance money on a crazy funeral," the neighbors said, "and did you hear about it? The Juvenile Court is going to take her children away because she can't support them. The officer was out to see her yesterday and she's got no money to pay her bills. She spent the whole money--it was something like $2,000--on the funeral. Huh!"

Mrs. Sikora, weeping, explained to the Juvenile Court officer.

"My man died," she said, "and--and I spent the money for the funeral. It was not for myself, but for him I spent the money."

It will turn out all right, some day. And in the meantime Mrs. Sikora, when she is washing clothes for someone, will be able when her back aches too much to remember the day she rode in the black limousine and the band played and the air was filled with the smell of flowers.

DAPPER PETE AND THE SUCKER PLAY

Dapper Pete Handley, the veteran con man, shook hands all around with his old friends in the detective bureau and followed his captors into the basement. Another pinch for Dapper Pete; another jam to pry out of. The cell door closed and Pete composed his lean, gambler's face, eyed his manicured nails and with a sigh sat down on the wooden cell bench to wait for his lawyer.

"Whether I'm guilty of this or not," said Dapper Pete, "it goes to show what a sucker a guy is--even a smart guy. This ain't no sermon against a life of crime I'm pulling, mind you. I'm too old to do that and my sense of humor is workin' too good. I'm only sayin' what a sucker a guy is--sometimes. Take me."

Dapper Pete registered mock woe.

"Not that I'm guilty, mind you, or anything like that. But on general principles I usually keep out of the way of the coppers. Especially when there's been a misunderstanding concerning some deal or other. Well, how I happen to be here just goes to show what a sucker a guy is--even me."

* * * * *

Pressed for the key to his self-accusation, Dapper Pete continued:

"I come straight here from Grand Island, Neb. I had a deal on in Grand Island and worked it for a couple of months. And after I finished there was trouble and I left. I knew there would be warrants and commotion, the deal having flopped and a lot of prominent citizens feeling as if they had been bilked. You know how them get-rich-quick investors are. If they don't make 3,000 per cent profit over night they raise a squawk right away. And wanna arrest you.

"So I lit out and came to Chicago and when I got here some friends of mine tipped me off that there was considerable hunt for me. Well, I figured that the Nebraska coppers had let out a big holler and I thought it best to lay kind of low and keep out of trouble. That was only last week, you see.

"So I get the bright idea. Layin' around town with nothin' to do but keep out of sight ain't the cinch it sounds. You get so sick and tired of your own company that you're almost ready to throw your arms around the first harness bull you meet.

"But," smiled Dapper Pete, "I restrained myself."

There was time out while Pete discussed the irresponsibility, cruelty and selfishness of policemen in general. After which he continued with his original narrative:

"It was like this," he said. "I made up my mind that I would take in a few of the points of interest in the city I ain't ever got around to. Being a Chicagoan, like most Chicagoans I ain't ever seen any of our natural wonders at all. So first day out I figured that the place no copper would ever look for me would be like the Field Museum and in the zoo and on the beach and like that.

"So, first of all, I join a rubberneck crowd in one of the carryalls with a megaphone guy in charge. And I ride around all day. I got kind of nervous owing to the many coppers we kept passing and exchanging courtesies with. But I stuck all day, knowing that no sleuth was going looking for Dapper Pete on a rubberneck wagon.

"Well, then I spent three days in the Field Museum, eyeing the exhibits. Can you beat it? I walk around and walk around rubbering at mummies and bones and--well, I ain't kiddin', but they was among the three most interesting days I ever put in. And I felt pretty good, too, knowin' that no copper would be thinking of Dapper Pete as being in the museums.

"Then after that I went to the zoo and, rubbered at the animals and birds. And I sat in the park and watched comical ball games and golf games and the like. And then I went on some of those boats that run between no place and nowhere--you get on at a pier and ride for a half hour and get off at a pier and have to call a taxi in order to find your way back to anywhere. You get me?

"I'm tellin' you all this," said Dapper Pete cautiously, "with no reference to the charges involved and for which I am pinched and incarcerated for, see? But I thought you might make a story out of the way a guy like me with all my experience dogin' coppers can play himself for a sucker.

"Well, pretty soon I pretty near run out of rube spots to take in. And then I think suddenly of the observation towers like on the Masonic Temple and the Wrigley Building. I headed for them right away, figuring to take a sandwich or so along and spend the day leisurely giving the city the once over from my eerie perch.

"And when I come home that night and told my friends about it they was all excited. They all agreed that I had made the discovery of the age and all claimed to feel sorry they wasn't hiding out from the coppers, just for the sake of bein' able to lay low on top of a loop building. It does sound pretty good, even now.

"I was on my fifth day and was just walking in on the Masonic Temple observation platform when things began to happen. You know how the city looks from high up. Like a lot of toys crawling around. And it's nice and cool and on the whole as good a place to lay low in as you want. And there's always kind of comical company, see? Rubes on their honeymoon and sightseers and old maids and finicky old parties afraid of fallin' off, and gals and their Johns lookin' for some quiet place to spoon."

* * * * *

Dapper Pete sighed in memory.

"I am sitting there nibbling a sandwich," he went on, "when a hick comes along and looks at me."

"'Hello, pardner,' he says. 'How's the gas mine business?'

"And I look at him and pretend I don't savvy at all. But this terrible looking rube grins and walks up to me, so help me God, and pulls back his lapel and shows me the big star.

"'You better come along peaceabul,' he says. 'I know you, Pete Handley,' just like that. So I get up and follow this hick down the elevator and he turns me over to a cop on State Street and I am given the ride to the hoosegow. Can you beat it?"

"But who was the party with the star and why the pinch?" I asked Dapper Pete. That gentleman screwed his lean, gambler's face into a ludicrous frown.

"Him," he sighed, "that was Jim Sloan, constable from Grand Island, Neb. And they sent him here about two weeks ago to find me. See? And all this rube does is ride around in rubberneck wagons and take in the museums and parks, having no idee where I was. He figured merely on enjoyin' himself at Nebraska's expense.

"And he was just on the observation tower lookin' over the city in his rube way when I have to walk into him. Yes, sir, Pete Handley, and there ain't no slicker guy in the country, walkin' like a prize sucker right into the arms of a Grand Island, Neb., constable. It all goes to show," sighed Dapper Pete, "what a small world it is after all."

WATERFRONT FANCIES

Man's capacity for faith is infinite. He is able to believe with passion in things invisible. He can achieve a fantastic confidence in the Unknowable. Here he sits on the breakwater near the Municipal Pier, a fishpole in his hand, staring patiently into the agate-colored water. He can see nothing. The lake is enormous. It contains thousands of square miles of water.

And yet this man is possessed of an unshakable faith that by some mysterious legerdemain of chance a fish, with ten thousand square miles of water to swim in safely, will seek out the little minnow less than an inch in length which he has lowered beside the breakwater. And so, the victim of preposterous conviction, he sits and eyes the tip of his fishpole with unflagging hope.

It is warm. The sun spreads a brightly colored but uncomfortable woolen blanket over their heads. A tepid breeze, reminiscent of cinders, whirl idly over the warm cement. Strung along the pier are a hundred figures, all in identical postures. They sit in defiance of all logic, all mathematics. For it is easy to calculate that if there are a half million fish in Lake Michigan and each fish displaces less than five cubic inches of water there would be only two and a half million cubic inches of fish altogether lost in an expanse containing at least eight hundred billion cubic inches of water. Therefore, the chance of one fish being at any one particular spot are one in four hundred thousand. In other words, the odds against each of these strangely patient men watching the ends of their fishpoles--the odds against their catching a fish--are four hundred thousand to one.

* * * * *

It is therefore somewhat amazing to stand and watch what happens along the sunny breakwater. Every three minutes one of the poles jerks out of the water with a wriggling prize on the hook.

"How are they coming?" we ask.

"Oh, so, so," answers one of the fishermen and points mutely to a string of several dozen perch floating under his feet in the water.

Thus does man, by virtue of his faith, rise above the science of mathematics and the barriers of logic. Thus is his fantastic belief in things unseen and easily disproved vindicated. He catches fish where by the law of probabilities there should be no fish. With the whole lake stretching mockingly before him he sits consumed with a preposterous, a fanatical faith in the little half-inch minnow dangling at the end of his line.

The hours pass. The sun grows hotter. The piles of stone and steel along the lake front seem to waver. From the distant streets come faint noises. On a hot day the city is as appealing as a half-cooled cinder patch. Poor devils in factories, poor devils in stores, in offices. One must sigh thinking of them. Life is even vaster than the lake in which these fishermen fish. And happiness is mathematically elusive as the fish for which the fishermen wait. And yet--