Chapter 10

MERRY DODGES A DEAD HEAT

Somehow I sensed it as a kind of a batty excursion at the start. You see, he'd asked me offhand would I come, and I'd said "Sure, Bo," careless like, not thinkin' any more about it until here Saturday afternoon I finds myself on the way to spend the week-end with J. Meredith Stidler.

Sounds imposing don't it? But his name's the weightiest part of J. Meredith. Course, around the Corrugated offices we call him Merry, and some of the bond clerks even get it Miss Mary; which ain't hardly fair, for while he's no husky, rough-neck specimen, there's no sissy streak in him, either. Just one of these neat, finicky featherweights, J. Meredith is; a well finished two-by-four, with more polish than punch. You know the kind,--fussy about his clothes, gen'rally has a pink or something in his coat lapel, hair always just so, and carries a vest pocket mirror. We ain't got a classier dresser in the shop. Not noisy, you understand: quiet grays, as a rule; but made for him special and fittin' snug around the collar.

Near thirty, I should guess Merry was, and single, of course. No head of a fam'ly would be sportin' custom-made shoes and sleeve monograms, or havin' his nails manicured reg'lar twice a week. I'd often wondered how he could do it too, on seventy-five dollars a month.

For J. Meredith wa'n't even boss of his department. He just holds down one of the stools in the audit branch, where he has about as much show of gettin' a raise as a pavin' block has of bein' blown up Broadway on a windy day. We got a lot of material like that in the Corrugated,--just plain, simple cogs in a big dividend-producin' machine, grindin' along steady and patient, and their places easy filled when one wears out. A caster off one of the rolltop desks would be missed more.

Yet J. Meredith takes it cheerful. Always has a smile as he pushes through the brass gate, comin' or goin', and stands all the joshin' that's handed out to him without gettin' peevish. So when he springs this over-Sunday invite I don't feel like turnin' it down. Course, I'm wise that it's sort of a charity contribution on his part. He puts it well, though.

"It may be rather a dull way for you to pass the day," says he; "but I'd like to have you come."

"Let's see," says I. "Vincent won't be expectin' me up to Newport until later in the season, the Bradley Martins are still abroad, I've cut the Reggy Vanderbilts, and--well, you're on, Merry. Call it the last of the month, eh?"

"The fourth Saturday, then," says he. "Good!"

I was blamed near lettin' the date get past me too, when he stops me as I'm pikin' for the dairy lunch Friday noon. "Oh, I say, Torchy," says he, "ah--er--about tomorrow. Hope you don't mind my mentioning it, but there will be two other guests--ladies--at dinner tomorrow night."

He seemed some fussed at gettin' it out; so I catches the cue quick. "That's easy," says I. "Count me out until another time."

"Oh, not at all," says he. "In fact, you're expected. I merely wished to suggest, you know, that--er--well, if you cared to do so, you might bring along a suit of dark clothes."

"I get you," says I. "Swell comp'ny. Trust me."

I winks mysterious, and chuckles to myself, "Here's where I slip one on J. Meredith." And when I packs my suitcase I puts in that full evenin' regalia that I wins off'm Son-in-Law Ferdy, you remember, in that real estate deal. Some Cinderella act, I judged that would be, when Merry discovers the meek and lowly office boy arrayed like a night-bloomin' head waiter. "That ought to hold him for a spell," thinks I.

But, say, you should see the joint we fetches up at out on the south shore of Long Island that afternoon. Figurin' on a basis of seventy-five per, I was expectin' some private boardin' house where Merry has the second floor front, maybe, with use of the bath. But listen,--a clipped privet hedge, bluestone drive, flower gardens, and a perfectly good double-breasted mansion standin' back among the trees. It's a little out of date so far as the lines go,--slate roof, jigsaw work on the dormers, and a cupola,--but it's more or less of a plute shack, after all. Then there's a real live butler standin' at the carriage entrance to open the hack door and take my bag.

"Gee!" says I. "Say, Merry, who belongs to all this?"

"Oh! Hadn't I told you?" says he. "You see, I live with my aunt. She is--er--somewhat peculiar; but----"

"I should worry!" I breaks in. "Believe me, with a joint like this in her own name, I wouldn't kick if she had her loft full of hummin' birds. Who's next in line for it?"

"Why, I suppose I am," says J. Meredith, "under certain conditions."

"Z-z-zin'!" says I. "And you hangin' onto a cheap skate job at the Corrugated!"

Well, while he's showin' me around the grounds I pumps out the rest of the sketch. Seems butlers and all that was no new thing to Merry. He'd been brought up on 'em. He'd lived abroad too. Studied music there. Not that he ever meant to work at it, but just because he liked it. You see, about that time the fam'ly income was rollin' in reg'lar every month from the mills back in Pawtucket, or Fall River, or somewhere.

Then all of a sudden things begin to happen,--strikes, panics, stock grabbin' by the trusts. Father's weak heart couldn't stand the strain. Meredith's mother followed soon after. And one rainy mornin' he wakes up in Baden Baden, or Monte Carlo, or wherever it was, to find that he's a double orphan at the age of twenty-two, with no home, no cash, and no trade. All he could do was to write an S. O. S. message back to Aunt Emma Jane. If she hadn't produced, he'd been there yet.

But Aunty got him out of pawn. Panics and so on hadn't cleaned out her share of the Stidler estate--not so you'd notice it! She'd been on the spot, Aunt Emma had, watchin' the market. Long before the jinx hit Wall Street she'd cashed in her mill stock for gold ballast, and when property prices started tumblin' she dug up a lard pail from under the syringa bush and begun investin' in bargain counter real estate. Now she owns business blocks, villa plots, and shore frontage in big chunks, and spends her time collectin' rents, makin' new deals, and swearin' off her taxes.

You'd most thought, with a perfectly good nephew to blow in some of her surplus on, she'd made a fam'ly pet of J. Meredith. But not her. Pets wasn't in her line. Her prescription for him was work, something reg'lar and constant, so he wouldn't get into mischief. She didn't care what it brought in, so long as he kept himself in clothes and spendin' money. And that was about Merry's measure. He could add up a column of figures and put the sum down neat at the bottom of the page. So he fitted into our audit department like a nickel into a slot machine. And there he stuck.

"But after sportin' around Europe so long," says I, "don't punchin' the time clock come kind of tough?"

"It's a horrible, dull grind," says he. "Like being caught in a treadmill. But I suppose I deserve nothing better. I'm one of the useless sort, you know. I've no liking, no ability, for business; but I'm in the mill, and I can't see any way out."

For a second J. Meredith's voice sounds hopeless. One look ahead has taken out of him what little pep he had. But the next minute he braces up, smiles weary, and remarks, "Oh, well! What's the use?"

Not knowin' the answer to that I shifts the subject by tryin' to get a line on the other comp'ny that's expected for dinner.

"They're our next-door neighbors," says he, "the Misses Hibbs."

"Queens?" says I.

He pinks up a little at that. "I presume you would call them old maids," says he. "They are about my age, and--er--the truth is, they are rather large. But really they're quite nice,--refined, cultured, all that sort of thing."

"Specially which one?" says I, givin' him the wink.

"Now, now!" says he, shakin' his head. "You're as bad as Aunt Emma. Besides, they're her guests. She asks them over quite often. You see, they own almost as much property around here as she does, and--well, common interests, you know."

"Sure that's all?" says I, noticin' Merry flushin' up more.

"Why, of course," says he. "That is--er--well, I suppose I may as well admit that Aunt Emma thinks she is trying her hand at match-making. Absurd, of course."

"Oh-ho!" says I. "Wants you to annex the adjoinin' real estate, does she?"

"It--it isn't exactly that," says he. "I've no doubt she has decided that either Pansy or Violet would make a good wife for me."

"Pansy and Violet!" says I. "Listens well."

"Perhaps their names are hardly appropriate; but they are nice, sensible, rather attractive young women, both of them," insists Merry.

"Then why not?" says I. "What's the matter with the Hymen proposition?"

"Oh, it's out of the question," protests J. Meredith, blushin' deep. "Really I--I've never thought of marrying anyone. Why, how could I? And besides I shouldn't know how to go about it,--proposing, and all that. Oh, I couldn't! You--you can't understand. I'm such a duffer at most things."

There's no fake about him bein' modest. You could tell that by the way he colored up, even talkin' to me. Odd sort of a gink he was, with a lot of queer streaks in him that didn't show on the outside. It was more or less entertainin', followin' up the plot of the piece; but all of a sudden Merry gets over his confidential spasm and shuts up like a clam.

"Almost time to dress for dinner," says he. "We'd best be going in."

And of course my appearin' in the banquet uniform don't give him any serious jolt.

"Well, well, Torchy!" says he, as I strolls into the parlor about six-thirty, tryin' to forget the points of my dress collar. "How splendid you look!"

"I had some battle with the tie," says I. "Ain't the bow lopsided?"

"A mere trifle," says he. "Allow me. There! Really, I'm quite proud of you. Aunty'll be pleased too; for, while she dresses very plainly herself, she likes this sort of thing. You'll see."

I didn't notice any wild enthusiasm on Aunty's part, though, when she shows up. A lean, wiry old girl, Aunty is, with her white hair bobbed up careless and a big shell comb stickin' up bristly, like a picket fence, on top. There's nothin' soft about her chin, or the square-cut mouth, and after she'd give me one glance out of them shrewd, squinty eyes I felt like she'd taken my number,--pedigree, past performances, and cost mark complete.

"Howdo, young man?" says she, and with out wastin' any more breath on me she pikes out to the front door to scout down the drive for the other guests.

They arrives on the tick of six-forty-five, and inside of three minutes Aunty has shooed us into the dinin' room. And, say, the first good look I had at Pansy and Violet I nearly passed away. "Rather large," Merry had described 'em. Yes, and then some! They wa'n't just ordinary fat women; they was a pair of whales,--big all over, tall and wide and hefty. They had their weight pretty well placed at that; not lumpy or bulgy, you know, but with them expanses of shoulder, and their big, heavy faces--well, the picture of slim, narrow-chested Merry Stidler sittin' wedged in between the two, like the ham in a lunch counter sandwich, was most too much for me. I swallows a drink of water and chokes over it.

I expect Merry caught on too. I'd never seen him so fussed before. He's makin' a brave stab at bein' chatty; but I can tell he's doin' it all on his nerve. He glances first to the right, and then turns quick to the left; but on both sides he's hemmed in by them two human mountains.

They wa'n't such bad lookers, either. They has good complexions, kind of pleasant eyes, and calm, comf'table ways. But there was so much of 'em! Honest, when they both leans toward him at once I held my breath, expectin' to see him squeezed out like a piece of lead pipe run through a rollin' machine.

Nothin' tragic like that happens, though. They don't even crowd him into the soup. But it's an odd sort of a meal, with J. Meredith and the Hibbs sisters doin' a draggy three-handed dialogue, while me and Aunty holds down the side lines. And nothin' that's said or done gets away from them narrow-set eyes, believe me!

Looked like something wa'n't goin' just like she'd planned; for the glances she shoots across the table get sharper and sourer, and finally, when the roast is brought in, she whispers to the butler, and the next thing J. Meredith knows, as he glances up from his carvin', he sees James uncorkin' a bottle of fizz. Merry almost drops his fork and gawps at Aunty sort of dazed.

"Meredith," says she, snappy, "go on with your carving! Young man, I suppose you don't take wine?"

"N-n-no, Ma'am," says I, watchin' her turn my glass down. I might have chanced a sip or two, at that; but Aunty has different ideas.

I notice that J. Meredith seems to shy at the bubbly stuff, as if he was lettin' on he hated it. He makes a bluff or two; but all he does is wet his lips. At that Aunty gives a snort.

"Meredith," says she, hoistin' her hollow-stemmed glass sporty, "to our guests!"

"Ah, to be sure," says Merry, and puts his nose into the sparkles in dead earnest.

Somehow the table chat livens up a lot soon after that. It was one of the Miss Hibbs askin' him something about life abroad that starts Merry off. He begins tellin' about Budapest and Vienna and a lot more of them guidebook spots, and how comf'table you can live there, and the music, and the cafes, and the sights, gettin' real enthusiastic over it, until one of the sisters breaks in with:

"Think of that, Pansy! If we could only do such things!"

"But why not?" says Merry.

"Two women alone?" says a Miss Hibbs.

"True," says J. Meredith. "One needs an escort."

"Ah-h-h-h, yes!" sighs Violet.

"Ah-h-h, yes!" echoes Pansy.

"James," puts in Aunty just then, "fill Mr. Stidler's glass."

Merry wa'n't shyin' it any more. He insists on clickin' rims with the Hibbs sisters, and they does it real kittenish. Merry stops in the middle of his salad to unload that old one about the Irishman that the doctor tried to throw a scare into by tellin' him if he didn't quit the booze he'd go blind within three months. You know--when Mike comes back with, "Well, I'm an old man, and I'm thinkin' I've seen most everything worth while." Pansy and Violet shook until their chairs creaked, and one of 'em near swallows her napkin tryin' to stop the chuckles.

In all the time I've known J. Meredith I'd never heard him try to spring anything comic before; but havin' made such a hit with this one he follows with others, robbin' the almanac regardless.

"Oh, you deliciously funny man!" gasps Pansy, tappin' him playful on the shoulder.

Course, it wa'n't any cabaret high jinks, you understand. Meredith was just limbered up a little. In the parlor afterwards while we was havin' coffee he strings off quite a fancy line of repartee, fin'lly allowin' himself to be pushed up to the piano, where he ripples through a few things from Bach and Beethoven and Percy Moore. It's near eleven o'clock when the Hibbs sisters get their wraps on and Merry starts to walk home with 'em.

"You might wait for me, Torchy," says he, pausin' at the door.

"Nonsense!" says Aunt Emma Jane.

"Time young people were in bed. Good night, young man."

There don't seem to be any chance for a debate on the subject; so I goes up to my room. But it's a peach of a night, warm and moony; so after I turns out the light I camps down on the windowseat and gazes out over the shrubby towards the water. I could see the top of the Hibbs house and a little wharf down on the shore.

I don't know whether it was the moonlight or the coffee; but I didn't feel any more like bed than I did like breakfast. Pretty soon I hears Merry come tiptoein' in and open his door, which was next to mine. I was goin' to hail him and give him a little josh about disposin' of the sisters so quick; but I didn't hear him stirrin' around any more until a few minutes later, when it sounds as if he'd tiptoed downstairs again. But I wasn't sure. Nothin' doin' for some time after that. And you know how quiet the country can be on a still, moonshiny night.

I was gettin' dopy from it, and was startin' to shed my collar and tie, when off from a distance, somewhere out in the night, music breaks loose. I couldn't tell whether it was a cornet or a trombone; but it's something like that. Seems to come from down along the waterfront. And, say, it sounds kind of weird, hearin' it at night that way. Took me sometime to place the tune; but I fin'lly makes it out as that good old mush favorite, "O Promise Me." It was bein' well done too, with long quavers on the high notes and the low ones comin' out round and deep. Honest, that was some playin'. I was wide awake once more, leanin' out over the sill and takin' it all in, when a window on the floor below goes up and out bobs a white head. It's Aunty. She looks up and spots me too.

"Quite some concert, eh?" says I.

"Is that you, young man?" says she.

"Uh-huh," says I. "Just takin' in the music."

"Humph!" says she. "I believe it's that fool nephew of mine."

"Not Merry?" says I.

"It must be," says she. "And goodness knows why he's out making an idiot of himself at this time of night! He'll arouse the whole neighbourhood."

"Why, I was just thinkin' how classy it was," says I.

"Bah!" says Aunty. "A lot you know about it. Are you dressed, young man?"

I admits that I am.

"Then I wish you'd go down there and see if it is Merry," says she. "If it is, tell him I say to come home and go to bed."

"And if it ain't?" says I.

"Go along and see," says she.

I begun to be sorry for Merry. I'd rather pay board than live with a disposition like that. Down I pikes, out the front door and back through the shrubby. Meantime the musician has finished "Promise Me" and has switched to "Annie Laurie." It's easy enough to get the gen'ral direction the sound comes from; but I couldn't place it exact. First off I thought it must be from a little summer house down by the shore; but it wa'n't. I couldn't see anyone around the grounds. Out on the far end of the Hibbs's wharf, though, there was somethin' dark. And a swell time I had too, buttin' my way through a five-foot hedge and landin' in a veg'table garden. But I wades through tomatoes and lettuce until I strikes a gravel path, and in a couple of minutes I'm out on the dock just as the soloist is hittin' up "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms." Aunty had the correct dope. It's Merry, all right. The first glimpse he gets of me he starts guilty and tries to hide the cornet under the tails of his dress coat.

"No use, Merry," says I. "You're pinched with the poultry."

"Wha-a-at!" says he. "Oh, it's you, is it, Torchy? Please--please don't mention this to my aunt."

"She beat me to it," says I. "It was her sent me out after you with a stop order. She says for you to chop the nocturne and go back to the hay."

"But how did she---- Oh, dear!" he sighs. "It was all her fault, anyway."

"I don't follow you," says I. "But what was it, a serenade?"

"Goodness, no!" gasps J. Meredith. "Who suggested that?"

"Why, it has all the earmarks of one," says I. "What else would you be doin', out playin' the cornet by moonlight on the dock, if you wa'n't serenadin' someone?"

"But I wasn't, truly," he protests. "It--it was the champagne, you know."

"Eh?" says I. "You don't mean to say you got stewed? Not on a couple of glasses!"

"Well, not exactly," says he. "But I can't take wine. I hardly ever do. It--it goes to my head always. And tonight--well, I couldn't decline. You saw. Then afterward--oh, I felt so buoyant, so full of life, that I couldn't go to sleep. I simply had to do something to let off steam. I wanted to play the cornet. So I came out here, as far away from anyone as I could get."

"Too thin, Merry," says I. "That might pass with me; but with strangers you'd get the laugh."

"But it's true," he goes on. "And I didn't dream anyone could hear me from here."

"Why, you boob," says I, "they could hear you a mile off!"

"Really?" says he. "But you don't suppose Vio--I mean, the Misses Hibbs could hear, do you?"

"Unless it's their habit to putty up their ears at night," says I.

"But--but what will they think?" he gasps breathless.

"That they're bein' serenaded by some admirin' friend," says I. "What's your guess?"

"Oh--oh!" says Merry, slumpin' down on a settee. "I--I had not thought of that."

"Ah, buck up!" say I. "Maybe you can fake an alibi in the mornin'. Anyway, you can't spend the night here. You got to report to Aunty."

He lets out another groan, and then gets on his feet. "There's a path through the bushes along here somewhere," says he.

"No more cross country work in full dress clothes for me," says I. "We'll sneak down the Hibbs's drive where the goin's easy."

We was doin' it real sleuthy too, keepin' on the lawn and dodgin' from shadow to shadow, when just as we're passin' the house Merry has to stub his toe and drop his blamed cornet with a bang.

Then out from a second story window floats a voice: "Who is that, please?"

Merry nudges me in the ribs. "Tell them it's you," he whispers.

"Why, it's--it's me--Torchy," says I reluctant.

"Oh! Ah!" says a couple of voices in chorus. Then one of 'em goes on, "The young man who is visiting dear Meredith?"

"Yep," says I. "Same one."

"But it wasn't you playing the cornet so beautifully, was it?" comes coaxin' from the window.

"Tell them yes," whispers Merry, nudgin' violent.

"Gwan!" I whispers back. "I'm in bad enough as it is." With that I speaks up before he can stop me, "Not much!" says I. "That was dear Meredith himself."

"Oh-oh!" says the voices together. Then there's whisperin' between 'em. One seems urgin' the other on to something, and at last it comes out. "Young man," says the voice, smooth and persuadin', "please tell us who--that is--which one of us was the serenade intended for?"

This brings the deepest groan of all from J. Meredith.

"Come on, now," says I, hoarse and low in his ear. "It's up to you. Which?"

"Oh, really," he whispers back, "I--I can't!"

"You got to, and quick," says I. "Come now, was it Pansy?"

"No, no!" says he, gaspy.

"Huh!" says I. "Then Violet gets the decision." And I holds him off by main strength while I calls out, "Why, ain't you on yet? It was for Violet, of course."

"Ah-h-h-h! Thank you. Good night," comes a voice--no chorus this time: just one--and the window is shut.

"There you are, Merry," says I. "It's all over. You're as good as booked for life."

He was game about it, though, Merry was. He squares it with Aunty before goin' to bed, and right after breakfast next mornin' he marches over to the Hibbses real business-like. Half an hour later I saw him strollin' out on the wharf with one of the big sisters, and I knew it must be Violet. It was his busy day; so I says nothin' to anybody, but fades.

And you should have seen the jaunty, beamin' J. Meredith that swings into the Corrugated Monday mornin'. He stops at the gate to give me a fraternal grip.

"It's all right, Torchy," says he. "She--she'll have me--Violet, you know. And we are to live abroad. We sail in less than a month."

"But what about Pansy?" says I.

"Oh, she's coming with us, of course," says he. "Really, they're both charming girls."

"Huh!" says I. "That's where you were when I found you. You're past that point, remember."

"Yes, I know," says he. "It was you helped me too, and I wish in some way I could show my----"

"You can," says I. "Leave me the cornet. I might need it some day myself."