Part 9

Two hours after leaving Granthope's studio, Mr. Gay P. Summer had "dated" Fancy Gray. Mr. Summer was a "Native Son of the Golden West"; he had, indeed, risen to the honorable station of Vice President of the Fort Point Parlor of that ecstatic organization. He was, in his modest way, a leader of men, and aspired to a corresponding mastery over women. In all matters pertaining to the pursuit and conquest of the fair sex, Mr. Summer was prompt, ingenious and determined. Before two weeks were over he was able to boast, to his room-mate, of Fancy's subjection. Fancy herself might equally well have boasted of his. At the end of this time he was, at least, in possession of her photograph, six notes written in a backward, slanting penmanship, twelve words to the damask page, with the date spelled out, a lock of hair (though this was arrant rape), and one gray suede, left-hand glove. These he displayed, as trophies of the chase, upon the bureau of his bedroom and defended them, forbye, from the asteistic comments of his room-mate, an unwilling and unconfessed admirer of Gay P. Summer's power to charm and subdue.

In those two weeks much had been done that it is not possible to do elsewhere than in the favored city by the Golden Gate. A Sunday excursion to the beach was the fruit of his first telephonic conversation. There are beaches in other places, indeed, but there is no other Carville-by-the-Sea. This capricious suburb, founded upon the shifting sands of "The Great Highway," as San Francisco's ocean boulevard is named, is a little, freakish hamlet, whose dwellings--one could not seriously call them houses--are built, for the most part, of old street-cars. The architecture is of a new order, frivolously inconsequent. According to the owner's fancy, the cars are placed side by side or one atop the other, arranged every way, in fact, except actually standing on end. From single cars, more or less adapted for temporary occupancy, to whimsical residences, in which the car appears only in rudimentary fragments, a suppressed motif suggested by rows of windows or by sliding doors, the owners' taste and originality have had wanton range. Balconies jut from roofs, piazzas inclose sides and fronts, cars are welded together, dovetailed, mortised, added as ells at right angles or used terminally as kitchens to otherwise normal habitations.

Gay P. Summer was, with his room-mate, the proprietor of a car of the more modest breed. It was a weather-worn, blistered, orange-colored affair that had once done service on Mission Street. The cash-box was still affixed to the interior, the platform, shaky as it was, still held; the gong above, though cracked, still rang. There was a partition dividing what they called their living-room, where the seats did service for bunks, from the kitchen, where they were bridged for a table and perforated for cupboards. There was a shaky canvas arrangement over a plank platform; and beneath, in the sand, was buried a treasure of beer bottles, iron knives, forks and spoons and wooden plates.

Here, unchaperoned and unmolested, save by the wind and sun, Gay P. Summer and Fancy Gray proceeded to get acquainted. They made short work of it.

Fancy's velvet cheeks were painted with a fine rose color that day. Her hair looked well in disorder; how much better it would have looked, had it kept its natural tone, she did not realize. Her firm, white line of zigzag teeth made her smile irresistible, even though she chewed gum. Her eyes were lambent, flickering from brown to green; her lower lids, shaded with violet, made them seem just wearied enough to give them softness. None of this was lost on Gay.

He, too, was well-developed, masculine, agile, with a juvenile glow and freshness of complexion that rivaled hers. His dress was jimp and artful, with tie and socks of the latest and most vivid mode. Upon his short, pearl, covert coat, he wore a mourning band, probably for decoration rather than as a badge of affliction. His eyes were still bright and clear without symptoms of dissipation. His laughter was good to hear, but, as to his talk, little would bear repetition--slangy badinage, the braggadocio of youth, a gay running fire of obvious retort and innuendo, frolic and flirtations. That Fancy appeared to enjoy it should go without saying. She was not for criticism of her host and entertainer that fine day. She let herself go in the way of gaiety he led and slanged him jest for jest, for Fancy herself had a pert and lively tongue.

Upon one point only did she fail to meet him. Not a word in regard to her employer could he get from her. Again and again, Gay came back to the subject of the palmist and his business secrets; Fancy parried his queries every time. He tried her with flattery--she laughed in his face. He attempted to lead her on by disclosing vivacious secrets of his own life; his ammunition was only wasted upon her. He coaxed; he threatened jocosely (she defended herself ably from his punitive kiss), but her discretion was impregnable. She made merry at his expense when he sulked. She tantalized him when he pleaded. Her wit was too nimble for him and he gave up the attempt.

The stimulation of this first meeting went to Fancy's head. She laughed like a child. She sang snatches from her vaudeville days and mimicked celebrities. Gay dropped his pose of worldly wisdom and made shrieking puns. They played like Babes in the Wood.

At seven o'clock, hungry and sun-burned, they walked along the beach to the Cliff House and dined upon the glazed veranda, watching the surf break on Seal Rocks. As they sat there in the dusk, haunted by an elusive waiter, Gay waxed eloquent about himself, told of his high office in the Native Sons, revealed the amount of his salary at the bank, touched lightly upon his previous amours, bragged loftily of his indiscretions at exuberant inebriated festivals, puffing magnificently the while at a "two-bit" cigar.

Fancy paid for her meal by listening to him conscientiously, ejaculating "No!" and "Yes?" or "Say, Gay, that's a josh, isn't it?" If her mind wandered (Fancy was nobody's fool), he did not perceive it.

To their cocktails and California claret they now added a Benedictine, and Gay grew still more confidential. The night fell, and the crowd began to leave. They walked entirely round the hotel corridor, bought an abalone shell split into layers of opalescent hues, then with a last look at the sea-lions, barking in the surge, they walked for the train, found a place in an open car and sat down, wedged into a hilarious crowd, reveling in song and peanuts.

Disregarded was the superb view they passed. The train, skirting the precipitous cliffs along the Golden Gate, commanded a splendor of darkling water and tumultuous mountain distances, theatrical in beauty. The sea splashed at the foot of the precipice beneath them. The hills rose above their heads, the intermittent twinkle of lighthouses punctuated the purple gloom. It was all lost upon them. Fancy's head drooped to Gay's shoulder. He put his arm about her, cocking his hat to one side that it might not strike hers as he leaned nearer. No one observed them, no one cared, for every Jack had his Jill, and a simple, primitive comradeship had settled upon the wearied throng. A baby whined occasionally as the train lurched round the sharp curves of the track. A riotous yell or two came from the misogynists of the smoking compartment. Fancy did not talk. Gay's loquacity oozed away. He was content to feel her breathing against his side.

There were telephone conversations often after that, then occasional lunches down-town, when Fancy, always modishly dressed, drew many an eye to her well-rounded, well-filled Eton jacket, her smart red hat, her fresh white gloves and her high-heeled shoes. Gay was proud of her, and he showed her off to his friends without caution. Fancy was nothing loath. Occasionally they went to the theater, dining previously in style at some popular restaurant, where Gay hoped that he might be seen with her. To such as discovered them, he would bow with proud proprietorship; or perhaps saunter over, on some flimsy pretext, to hear his friends say, with winks and smiles:

"By Jove, that girl's all right, old man! She's a stunner. Say, introduce me, will you?"

To which Gay would answer:

"Not on your folding bed! This is a close corporation, old man. I've got that claim staked out, see? So long!" and walk away pleased.

At the theater, he always made a point of going out between the acts, in order that his reentry might point more conspicuously at his conquest. Afterward, at Zinkand's, having engaged a table beside which all the world must pass, he would pose, apparently oblivious to the crowd, talking to her with absorbed interest.

Fancy suffered the exhibition without displeasure. She had no objection to being looked at. To make a picture of herself, to play the arch and coquettish before a room of well-dressed folk was one of the things she did best.

She was recognized occasionally and pointed out by one or another of Granthope's patrons. "There she is; over behind you, in the white lace hat, with a chatelaine watch--don't look just yet, though," was the almost audible formula which Gay P. Summer learned to wait for. At such times his chest swelled with pride. To walk into a restaurant with her late at night and leave a wake of excited whispers behind him, was all he knew of fame.

It did not escape Gay's notice, however, that Fancy's eyes were not always for him. In the middle of his longest and most elaborate story, she would often throw a surreptitious glance about the room, letting it rest for an instant--a butterfly's caress--upon some admiring stalwart stranger. Once or twice he detected the flicker of Fancy's smile, a smile not meant for him. He found that, although his attention was all for Fancy, Fancy's errant glances allowed nothing and nobody to escape her observation. If he mentioned any one whom he had seen in the room, Fancy had seen him, or more often her, first. Fancy always knew what she wore, what it cost, what she was doing, how much she liked him and what her little game was.

This sort of thing would have been an education for Gay, had he been amenable to such teaching; but what women see and know without a tutor he would and could never know. Wherefore, such dialogues as this were common:

Fancy: "The brute! He's actually made her cry, now. She's a little fool, though; it's good enough for her!"

From Gay: "Where?--who do you mean?"

"Over there in the corner--don't stare so, _please_!--See those two fellows and two girls? The girl in the white waist is tied up in a heart-to-heart talk with that bald-headed chap, but she's dead in love with the other fellow, see? Yes, that fellow with the mustache. My! but she's jealous of the other girl."

"How can you tell? Oh, that's all a pipe-dream, Fancy!"

"Why, any fool would know it--any woman would, I mean. She had a few words with him--the fellow she's stuck on, just now! He must have said something pretty raw. Look at her eyes! You can tell from here there are tears in them. Look! See? I thought so. She's going to try and make him jealous! What do you think of that?"

"Why, she's changed places with him; what's that for?" To Gay, the drama was as mysterious as a Chinese play.

"Just to get him crazy, of course! That other fellow thinks she's really after him, too. The other girl sees through the whole game, of course. My, but men are easy! Those two fellows are certainly being worked good and plenty. Just look at the way she's freezing up to that bald-headed chap now. Well, I never! If that other girl isn't trying to get you on the string. Smile at her, Gay, and see what she'll do."

"Never mind about her!" said Gay, secretly pleased at the tribute. "You girls can always see a whole lot more than what really happens. She's just changed places on account of the draught, probably. She is lamping me, though, isn't she? Say, she's a peach, all right!"

"Yes, she's sure pretty. Say, Gay--"

"What?" His eye returned fondly to her.

"Do you think I'm as pretty as she is?"

"Oh, you make me tired, Fancy. Gee! You've got her sewed up in a sack for looks!"

So Fancy played her game cleverly, keeping Gay, but keeping him off at arm's length. But as time went on, his ardor grew and she was often at her wits' end to handle him. Though free from any conventional restraints, she did not yet consider her lips Mr. Summer's property, though she permitted him a cool and lifeless hand upon occasion. In time, the excitable youth began to understand her reserve; but instead of dampening his enthusiasm, it aroused his zest for the chase. She was not so easy game as he had thought. He waxed sentimental, therefore, and plied her with equivocal monologues, hinting, in the attempt to make sure of his way. At this, her sense of humor broke forth, effervescing in lively ridicule. This brought Mr. Summer, at last, to the point of an out-and-out proposal. Fancy, experienced in such situations, warned in time by his preludes, did not take it too seriously.

"I am sorry to say you draw a blank, Gay," she informed him lightly. "I'm not in the market yet. Many a man has expected me to become domesticated at sight, and settle down in content over the cookstove. But I haven't even a past yet--nothing but a rather tame present and hope for a future. I don't seem to see you in it, Gay. In fact, there's nobody visible to the naked eye at present."

"Well," he said, "I'll cut it out for now, as long as I can't make good, but sometime you'll come to me and beg me to marry you, see if you don't. Whenever you get ready, I'll be right there with the goods."

Fancy laughed and the episode was closed.

"Say, Fancy, there's a gang of artist chaps and literary guys I'd like to put you up against," Gay said one afternoon. "I think you'd make a hit with the bunch, if you can stand a little jollying."

"You watch me!" Fancy became enthusiastically interested. "Where do they hang out?"

"They eat at a joint down on Montgomery Street. They're heavy joshers, though. They're too clever for me, mostly. It's the real-thing Bohemia down there, though."

"Why didn't you tell me about it before?" she pouted. "I'm game! Let's float in there to-night and see the animals feed."

So they went down to the Latin Quarter together.

Bohemia has been variously described. Since Henri Murger's time, the definition has changed retrogressively, until now, what is commonly called Bohemia is a place where one is told, "This is Liberty Hall!"--and one is forced to drink beer whether one likes it or not, where not to like spaghetti is a crime. Not such was the little coterie of artists, writers and amateurs, who dined together every night at Fulda's restaurant.

In San Francisco is recruited a perennial crop of such petty soldiers of fortune. Here art receives scant recompense, and as soon as one gets one's head above water and begins to be recognized, existence is unendurable in a place where genius has no field for action. The artist, the writer or the musician must fly East to the great market-place, New York, or to the great forcing-bed, Paris, to bloom or fade, to live or die in competition with others in his field.

So the little artistic colonies shrink with defections or increase with the accession of hitherto unknown aspirants. Many go and never return. A few come back to breathe again the stimulating air of California, to see with new eyes its fresh, vivid color, its poetry, its romance. To have gone East and to have returned without abject failure is here, in the eyes of the vulgar, Art's patent of nobility. Of those who have been content to linger peaceably in the land of the lotus, some are earls without coronets, but one and all share a fierce, hot, passionate love of the soil. San Francisco has become a fetish, a cult. Under its blue skies and driving fogs is bred the most ardent loyalty in these United States. San Francisco is most magnificently herself of any American city, and San Franciscans, in consequence, are themselves with an abounding perfervid sincerity. Faults they have, lurid, pungent, staccato, but hypocrisy is not of them. That vice is never necessary.

The party that gathered nightly at Fulda's was as remote from the world as if it had been ensconced on a desert island. It was unconscious, unaffected, sufficient to itself. Men and girls had come and gone since it had formed, but the nucleal circle was always complete. Death and desertions were unacknowledged--else the gloom would have shut down and the wine, the red wine of the country, would have tasted salt with tears. There had been tragedies and comedies played out in that group, there were names spoken in whispers sometimes, there were silent toasts drunk; but if sentiment was there, it was disguised as folly. Life still thrilled in song. Youth was not yet dead. Art was long and exigent.

It was their custom, after dinner, to adjourn to Champoreau's for _cafe noir_, served in the French style. In this large, bare saloon, with sanded floor, with its bar and billiard table, foreign as France, almost always deserted at this hour save by their company, the genial _patron_ smiled at their gaiety, as he prepared the long glasses of coffee. To-night, there were six at the round table.

Maxim, an artist unhailed as yet from the East, was, of all, the most obviously picturesque, with a fierce mustached face and a shock of black hair springing in a wild mass from his head to draggle in stringy locks below his eyes, or, with a sudden leonine shake, to be thrown back when he bellowed forth in song. He had been in Paris and knew the airs and argot of the most desperate studies. His laughter was like the roar of a convivial lion.

Dougal, with a dog-like face and tow hair, so ugly as to be refreshing, full of common sense and kindness, with a huge mouth full of little cramped teeth and a smile that drew and compelled and captured like a charm--he sat next. Good nature and loyalty dwelt in his narrow blue eyes. His slow, labored speech was seldom smothered, even in the wit that enveloped it.

Most masculine and imperative of all, was Benton, with his blur of blue-black hair, fine tangled threads, his melting, deep blue eyes, shadowy with fatigue, lighted with vagrant dreams or shot with brisk fires of passion. His hands were strong and he had an air of suppressed power.

The fourth man was Philip Starr, a poet not long for San Francisco, seeing that the Athanaeum had already placed the laurels upon his brow--he was as far from the conventional type of poet as is possible. He had a lean, eager, sharply cut face, shrewd, quick eye and sinewy, long fingers. His hair was close cropped, his mouth was tight and narrow. Electricity seemed to dart from him as from a dynamo. Just now he was teaching the company a new song--an old one, rather, for it was an ancient Anglo-Saxon drinking-song, whose uproarious refrain was well fitted to the temper of the assembly.

At one end of the table sat a young woman, _petite_, elf-like as a little girl, a brown, cunning, soft-haired creature, smiling, smiling, smiling, with eyes half closed, wrinkled in quiet mirth. This was Elsie Dougal.

Opposite her was a girl of twenty-seven, with a handsome, clear-cut, classic face, lighted with gray eyes, limpid and straightforward, making her seem the most ingenuous of all. Mabel's hair curled unmanageably, springy and dark. Her face was serious and intent till her smile broke and a little self-conscious laugh escaped.

Starr pounded with one fist upon the table, his thumb held stiffly upright:

"Dance, Thumbakin, dance!"

he sang, and the chorus was repeated. Then with the heel of his palm and his fingers outstretched, pounding merrily in time:

"Oh, dance ye merrymen, every one,"

then with his fist as before:

"For Thumbakin, he can dance alone!"

and, raising his fists high over his head, coming down with a bang:

"_For_ "Thumbakin he can dance alone!"

They went through the song together, dancing Foreman, Middleman, and Littleman, ending in a pianissimo. Then over and over they sang that queer, ancient tune, till all knew it by heart.

Benton pulled his manuscript from his pocket and read it confidentially to Elsie, who smiled and smiled. Starr recited his last poem while Dougal made humorous comments. Maxim broke out into a French student's _chanson_, so wildly improper that it took two men to suppress him. Mabel giggled hysterically and began a long, dull story which, despite interruptions, ended so brilliantly and so unexpectedly, that every one wished he had listened.

Then Dougal called out:

"The cavalry charge! Ready! One finger!"

They tapped in unison, not too fast, each with a forefinger, upon the table.

"Two fingers!"

The sound increased in volume.

"Three fingers, four fingers, five!"

The crescendo rose.

"Two hands! One foot! BOTH FEET!"

There was a hurricane of galloping fists and soles. Then, in diminuendo:

"One foot! One hand! Four fingers, three, two, one! Halt!"

The clatter grew softer and softer till at last all was still.

As Gay opened the door, Fancy heard a roar that increased steadily until it became a wild hullabaloo. Looking in, she saw the six seated about the table, the coffee glasses jumping madly with the percussion. The noise was like the multitudinous charge of troopers. Then the tumult died slowly away, the patter grew softer and softer, ending in a sudden hush as seven faces looked up at her. Gay P. Summer's advent was greeted with frowns, but Fancy gathered an instant acclaim from twelve critical eyes.

She stepped boldly into the room and shed the radiance of her smile upon the company.

"I guess this is where I live, all right!" she announced. "I've been gone a long time, haven't I? Never mind the introductions. I'm Fancy Gray, drifter; welcome to our fair city!"

They let loose a cry of welcome, and Dougal, rising, opened a place for her between his chair and Maxim's.

"I'm _for_ her!" He hailed her with a good-natured grin. "She's the right shape. Come and have coffee!"

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

Gay's reception was by no means as cordial as hers, which had been immediate and spontaneous at the sound of her caressing, jovial voice and the sight of her genial smile, which seemed to embrace each separate member of the party. They made grudging room for him beside Elsie, who gave him a cold little hand. Mabel bowed politely.

"Where'd you get her, Gay?" said Starr. "You're improving. She looks like a pretty good imitation of the real thing."

"Oh, I'll wash, all right," said Fancy.

Gay P. proudly introduced her to the company. He played her as he might play a trump to win the seventh trick. Indeed, without Fancy's aid, he would have received scant welcome at that exclusive board. Many and loud were the jests at Summer's expense while he was away. Many and soft were the jests he had not wit enough to understand when he was present. Philip Starr had, at first sight of him, dubbed him "The Scroyle," and this sobriquet stuck. Gay P. Summer was ill versed in Elizabethan lore, but, had his wit been greater, his conceit would still have protected him.

He had already unloaded Fancy, though he was as yet unaware of it. She was taken up with enthusiasm by the men, whom she drew like a magnet. Mabel and Elsie watched her with the keenness of women who are jealous of any new element in their group. It was, perhaps, not so much rivalry they feared, for their place was too well established, as the admittance into that circle of one who would betray a tendency toward those petty feline amenities that only women can perceive and resent.