Cosmopolitan, October 1920
THE lobby of the Cosmopolis Hotel was a favorite stamping-ground of Mr. Daniel Brewster, its proprietor. He liked to wander about there, keeping a paternal eye on things, rather in the manner of the jolly innkeeper of the old-fashioned novel. Customers who, hurrying in to dinner, tripped over Mr. Brewster were apt to mistake him for the house detective, for his eye was keen and his aspect a trifle austere, but, nevertheless, he was being as jolly an innkeeper as he knew how. His presence in the lobby supplied a personal touch to the Cosmopolis which other New York hotels lacked, and it undeniably made the girl at the news-stand extraordinarily civil to her clients, which was all to the good.
Most of the time, Mr. Brewster stood in one spot and just looked thoughtful; but now and again he would wander to the marble slab behind which he kept the desk clerk and run his eye over the register to see who had booked rooms—like a child examining the stocking on Christmas morning to ascertain what Santa Claus had brought him.
As a rule, Mr. Brewster concluded this performance by shoving the book back across the marble slab and resuming his meditations. But one night in the early spring, he varied this procedure by starting rather violently, turning purple, and uttering an exclamation which was manifestly an exclamation of chagrin. He turned abruptly and cannoned into his son-in-law, Archie Moffam, who, in company with Lucille, his wife, happened to be crossing the lobby at the moment on his way to dine in their suite. Mr. Brewster apologized gruffly, then, recognizing the victim, seemed to regret having done so.
“Oh, it’s you! Why can’t you look where you’re going?” he demanded. He had suffered much from his son-in-law.
“Frightfully sorry,” said Archie amiably. “Never thought you were going to fox-trot backward all over the fairway.”
“You mustn’t bully Archie,” said Lucille severely, attaching herself to her father’s back hair and giving it a punitive tug, “because he’s an angel and I love him, and you must learn to love him, too.”
“Give you lessons at a reasonable rate,” murmured Archie. Mr. Brewster regarded his young relative with a lowering eye.
“What’s the matter, father darling?” asked Lucille. “You seem upset.”
“I am upset,” Mr. Brewster snorted. “Some people have got the nerve of an army mule!” He glowered forbiddingly at an inoffensive young man in a light overcoat who had just entered, and the young man, though his conscience was quite clear and Mr. Brewster an entire stranger to him, stopped dead, blushed, and went out again—to dine elsewhere. “Some people have got the gall of a wart-hog.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
“Those darned McCalls have registered here.”
“Bit beyond me, this,” said Archie, insinuating himself into the conversation. “Deep waters and what-not. Who are the McCalls?”
“Some people father dislikes,” said Lucille. “And they’ve chosen his hotel to stop at. But, father dear, you mustn’t mind. It’s really a compliment. They’ve come because they know it’s the best hotel in New York.”
“Absolutely!” said Archie. “Good accommodation for man and beast. All the comforts of home. Look on the bright side, old bean. No good getting the wind up. Cheery-o, old companion!”
“Don’t call me ‘old companion.’ ”
“Eh, what? Oh, right-o!”
Lucille steered her husband out of the danger-zone, and they entered the elevator.
“Poor father!” she said, as they went to their suite. “It’s a shame. They must have done it to annoy him. This man McCall has a place next to some property father bought in Westchester, and he’s bringing a lawsuit against father about a bit of land which he claims belongs to him. He might have had the tact to go to another hotel. But, after all, I don’t suppose it was the poor little fellow’s fault. He does whatever his wife tells him to.”
“We all do that,” said Archie, the married man.
Lucille eyed him fondly.
“Isn’t it a shame, precious, that all husbands haven’t nice wives like me?”
“When I think of you, by Jove,” said Archie fervently, “I want to babble, absolutely babble. The more I think of you,” he went on, “the more I wonder how you can have a father like—I mean to say—what I mean to say is, I wish I had known your mother. She must have been frightfully attractive.”
“You mustn’t say horrid things about father. One of these days, you and father will be the greatest friends. He has only got to understand you.”
“I’m open for being understood any time he cares to take a stab at it.”
“You mustn’t mind his being cross just now. It was enough to upset him, poor dear! Oh, I was telling you about the McCalls. Mr. McCall is one of those little, meek men, and his wife’s one of those big, bullying women. It was she who started all the trouble with father. Father and Mr. McCall were very fond of each other till she made him begin the suit. I feel sure she made him come to this hotel just to annoy father. Still, they’ve probably taken the most expensive suite in the place, which is something.” ’
Archie was at the telephone. His mood was now one of quiet peace. Of all the happenings which went to make up existence in New York, he liked best the cozy, tête-à-tête dinners with Lucille in their suite, which, owing to their many engagements—for Lucille was a popular girl, with many friends—occurred all too seldom.
“Touching now the question of browsing and sluicing,” he said, “I’ll be getting them to send along a waiter.”
“Oh, good gracious!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve just remembered. I promised faithfully I would go and see Jane Murchison to-day. I must rush.”
“But, light of my soul, we are about to eat. Pop round and see her after dinner.”
“I can’t. She’s going to a theater tonight.”
“Give her the jolly old miss-in-balk, then, for the nonce, and spring round to-morrow.”
“She’s sailing for England to-morrow morning early. No; I must go and see her now. What a shame! She’s sure to make me stop to dinner. I tell you what. Order something for me, and, if I’m not back in half an hour, start.”
“Jane Murchison,” said Archie, “is a bally nuisance.”
“Yes. But I’ve known her since she was eight.”
“If her parents had had any proper feeling,” said Archie, “they would have drowned her long before that.”
He unhooked the receiver, and asked despondently to be connected with “room-service.” He thought bitterly of the exigent Jane, whom he recollected dimly as a tall female with teeth. He half thought of going down to the grill-room on the chance of finding a friend there, but the waiter was on his way to the room. He decided that he might as well stay where he was.
The waiter arrived, booked the order, and departed. Archie had just completed his toilet after a shower-bath when a musical clinking without announced the advent of the meal. He opened the door. The waiter was there with a table congested with things under covers, from which escaped a savory and appetizing odor. In spite of his depression, Archie’s soul perked up a trifle.
Suddenly he became aware that he was not the only person present who was deriving enjoyment from the scent of the meal. Standing beside the waiter and gazing wistfully at the foodstuffs was a long, thin boy of about sixteen. He was one of those boys who seem all legs and knuckles. He had pale-red hair, sandy eyelashes, and a long neck; and his eyes, as he removed them from the table and raised them to Archie’s, had a hungry look.
“That smells good,” said the boy. He inhaled deeply. “Yes, sir,” he continued, as one whose mind is definitely made up; “that smells good!”
Before Archie could reply, the telephone-bell rang. It was Lucille, confirming her prophecy that the pest Jane would insist on her staying to dine.
“Jane,” said Archie into the telephone, “is a pot of poison. The waiter is here now, setting out a rich banquet, and I shall have to eat two of everything by myself.”
He hung up the receiver, and, turning, met the pale eye of the long boy, who had propped himself up in the doorway.
“Were you expecting somebody to dinner?” asked the boy.
“Why, yes, old friend; I was.”
The waiter left. The long boy hitched his back more firmly against the door-post and returned to his original theme.
“That surely does smell good.” He basked a moment in the aroma. “Yes, sir; I’ll tell the world it does!”
Archie was not an abnormally rapid thinker, but he began at this point to get a clearly defined impression that this lad, if invited, would waive the formalities and consent to join his meal. Indeed, the idea Archie got was that, if he were not invited pretty soon, he would invite himself.
“Yes,” he agreed; “it doesn’t smell bad—what?”
“It smells good,” said the boy. “Oh, doesn’t it? Wake me up in the night and ask me if it doesn’t.”
“Poulet en casserole,” said Archie.
“Golly!” said the boy reverently.
There was a pause. The situation began to seem to Archie a trifle difficult. He wanted to start his meal, but it began to appear that he must either do so under the penetrating gaze of his new friend or else eject the latter forcibly. The boy showed no signs of ever wanting to leave the doorway.
“You’ve dined, I suppose—what?” said Archie.
“I never dine.”
“Not really dine, I mean. I only get vegetables and nuts and things.”
“I don’t absolutely catch the drift, old bean,” said Archie.
The boy sniffed with half-closed eyes as a wave of perfume from the poulet en casserole floated past him. He seemed to be anxious to intercept as much of it as possible before it got through the door.
“Mother’s a food-reformer,” he vouchsafed. “She lectures on it. She makes pop and me live on vegetables and nuts and things.”
Archie was shocked.
“My dear old chap, you must suffer agonies—absolute shooting-pains!” He had no hesitation now. Common humanity pointed out his course. “Would you care to join me in a bite now?”
“Would I?” The boy smiled a wan smile. “Would I? Just stop me on the street and ask me!”
“Come on in, then,” said Archie, rightly taking this peculiar phrase for formal acceptance. “And close the door. The fatted calf is getting cold.”
Archie was not a man with a wide visiting-list among people with families, and it was so long since he had seen a growing boy in action at the table that he had forgotten what sixteen is capable of doing with a knife and fork when it really squares its elbows, takes a deep breath, and gets going. The spectacle which he witnessed was consequently at first a little unnerving. The long boy’s idea of trifling with a meal appeared to be to swallow it whole and reach out for more. He ate like a starving Eskimo. Archie, in the time he had spent in the trenches making the world safe for the working man to strike in, had occasionally been quite peckish, but he sat dazed before this majestic hunger. This was real eating.
There was little conversation. The growing boy evidently did not believe in table-talk when he could use his mouth for more practical purposes. It was not until the final roll had been devoured to its last crumb that the guest found leisure to address his host. Then he leaned back with a contented sigh.
“Mother,” said the human python, “says you ought to chew every mouthful thirty-three times.”
“Yes, sir. Thirty-three times!” He sighed again. “I haven’t ever had a meal like that.”
“All right, was it—what?”
“ ‘Was it?’ ‘Was it?’ Call me up on the ’phone and ask me! Yes, sir; mother’s tipped off these darned waiters not to serve me anything but vegetables and nuts and things—darn it!”
“The mater seems to have drastic ideas about the good old feed-bag—what?”
“I’ll say she has! Pop hates it as much as me; but he’s scared to kick. Mother says vegetables contain all the proteids you want. Mother says if you eat meat, your blood-pressure goes all blooey. Do you think it does?”
“Mine seems pretty well in the pink.”
“She’s got a great line of talk,” conceded the boy. “She’s out tonight on the West Side somewhere, giving a lecture on rational eating to some ginks down there. I’ll have to be slipping up to our suite before she gets back.” He rose sluggishly. “That isn’t a bit of roll under that napkin, is it?” he asked anxiously.
Archie raised the napkin.
“No—nothing of that species.”
“Oh, well,” said the boy resignedly, “then I believe I’ll be going. Thanks very much for the dinner.”
“Not a bit, old top! Come again if you’re ever trickling round in this direction.”
The long boy removed himself slowly, loath to leave. At the door, he cast an affectionate glance back at the table.
“Some meal!” he said devoutly. “Considerable meal!”
Archie lighted a cigarette. He felt like a boy scout who has done his day’s act of kindness.
On the following morning, it chanced that Archie needed a fresh supply of tobacco. It was his custom, when this happened, to repair to a small shop on Sixth Avenue which he had discovered accidentally in the course of his rambles about the great city. His relations with Joe Blake, the proprietor, were friendly and intimate. The discovery that Mr. Blake was English and had, indeed, until a few years back, maintained an establishment only a dozen doors or so from Archie’s London club had served as a bond.
To-day, he found Mr. Blake in depressed mood. The tobacconist was a hearty and a red-faced man who looked like an English sporting publican—the kind of man who wears a fawn-colored top-coat and drives to the Derby in a dog-cart, and usually there seemed to be nothing on his mind except the vagaries of the weather, concerning which he was a great conversationalist. But now moodiness had claimed him for its own. After a short and melancholy good-morning, he turned to get the tobacco in silence.
Archie’s sympathetic nature was perturbed.
“What’s the matter, laddie?” he inquired. “You would seem to be feeling a bit of an onion this bright morning—what—yes—no? I can see it with the naked eye.”
Mr. Blake grunted sorrowfully.
“I’ve had a knock, Mr. Moffam.”
“Tell me all, friend of my youth.”
Mr. Blake, with a jerk of his thumb, indicated a poster which hung on the wall behind the counter. Archie had noticed it as he came in, for it was designed to attract the eye. It was printed in black letters on a yellow ground, and ran as follows.
CLOVER-LEAF SOCIAL AND OUTING CLUB GRAND CONTEST
PIE-EATING CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WEST SIDE
A PURSE OF $50 AND SIDE BET
Archie examined this document gravely. It conveyed nothing to him except—what he had long suspected—that his sporting-looking friend had sporting blood as well as that kind of exterior. He expressed a kindly hope that the other’s Unknown would bring home the bacon.
Mr. Blake laughed one of those hollow, mirthless laughs.
“There ain’t any blooming Unknown,” he said bitterly. This man had plainly suffered. “Yesterday, yes; but not now.”
“ ‘In the midst of life.’ Dead?” he inquired delicately.
“As good as,” replied the stricken tobacconist. He cast aside his artificial restraint and became voluble. Archie was one of those sympathetic souls in whom even strangers readily confided their most intimate troubles. He was to those in travail of spirit very much what catnip is to a cat. “It’s ’ard, sir; it’s blooming ’ard. I’d got the event all sewed up in a parcel, and now this young feller-me-lad ’as to give me the knock. This lad of mine—sort of cousin, ’e is—comes from London, like you and me—’e’s always ’ad, ever since he landed in this country, a most amazing knack of stowing away grub. ’E’d been a bit underfed these last two or three years over in the Old Country, what with food-restrictions and all, and ’e took to the food over ’ere amazing. I’d ’ave backed ’im against a ruddy orstridge. Orstridge! I’d ’ave backed ’im against ’arf a dozen orstridges—take ’em on one after the other in the same ring on the same evening, and given ’em a handicap, too. ’E was a jewel, that boy! I’ve seen him polish off four pounds of steak and mealy potatoes, and then look round kind of wolfish, as much as to ask when dinner was going to begin. That’s the kind of a lad ’e was till this very morning. ’E would have outswallowed this ’ere O’Dowd, without turning a hair, as a relish with ’is tea. I’d got a couple ’undred dollars on ’im, and thought myself lucky to get the odds. And now——”
Mr. Blake relapsed into a tortured silence.
“But what’s the matter with the blighter?” asked Archie. “Why can’t he go over the top? Has he got indigestion?”
“ ‘Indigestion!’ ” Mr. Blake laughed another of his hollow laughs. “You couldn’t give that boy indigestion if you fed ’im on safety-razor blades. Religion’s more like what ’e’s got.”
“ ‘Religion?’ ”
“Well, you can call it that. Seems last night, instead of going and resting ’is mind at a picture-palace, like I told him to, ’e sneaked off to some sort of a lecture down on Eighth Avenue. ’E said ’e’d seen a piece about it in the papers, and it was about rational eating, and that kind of attracted ’im. ’E sort of thought ’e might pick up a few hints like. ’E didn’t know what rational eating was, but it sounded to ’im as if it must be something to do with food, and ’e didn’t want to miss it. ’E came in here just now,” said Mr. Blake dully, “and ’e was a changed lad. Scared to death ’e was. Said the way ’e’d been going on in the past, it was a wonder ’e’d got any stummick left. It was a lady that give the lecture, and this boy said it was amazing what she told ’em about blood-pressure and things ’e didn’t even know ’e ’ad. She showed ’em pictures—colored pictures—of what ’appens inside the injudicious eater’s stummick who doesn’t chew his food, and it was like a battle-field. ’E said ’e would no more think of eatin’ a lot of pie than ’e would of shootin’ ’imself, and, anyhow, eating pie would be a quicker death. I reasoned with ’im, Mr. Moffam, with tears in my eyes. But there wasn’t any doing anything with him. ’E give me the knock and ’opped it down the street to buy nuts.” Mr. Blake moaned. “Two ’undred dollars and more gone pop, not to talk of the fifty dollars ’e would have won, and me to get twenty-five of!”
Archie took his tobacco and walked pensively back to the hotel. He was fond of Joe Blake, and grieved for the trouble that had come upon him. It was odd, he felt, how things seemed to link themselves up together. The woman who had delivered the fateful lecture to the injudicious eaters of the West Side could not be other than the mother of his young guest of last night. An uncomfortable woman! Not content with starving her own family——
Archie stopped in his tracks. A pedestrian, walking behind him, charged into his back, but Archie paid no attention. He had had one of those sudden, luminous ideas which help a man who does not do much thinking as a rule to restore his average. He stood there for a moment, almost dizzy at the brilliance of his thoughts, then hurried on. Napoleon, he mused, as he walked, must have felt rather like this after thinking up a hot one to spring on the enemy.
As if Destiny were suiting her plans to his, one of the first persons he saw as he entered the lobby of the Cosmopolis was the long boy. He was standing at the news-stand, reading as much of a morning paper as could be read free under the vigilant eyes of the presiding girl. Both he and she were observing the unwritten rules which govern these affairs—to wit, that you may read without interference as much as can be read without touching the paper. If you touch the paper, you lose and have to buy.
“Well, well, well!” said Archie. “Here we are again—what?” He prodded the boy amiably in the lower ribs. “You’re just the chap I was looking for. Got anything on for the time being?”
The boy said he had no engagements.
“Then I want you to stagger round with me to a chappie I know on Sixth Avenue. It’s only a couple of blocks away. I think I can do you a bit of good. Put you onto something tolerably ripe, if you know what I mean. Trickle along, laddie; you don’t need a hat.”
They found Mr. Blake brooding over his troubles still.
“Cheer up, old thing!” said Archie. “The relief expedition has arrived.” He directed his companion’s gaze to the poster. “Cast your eye over that! How does that strike you?”
The long boy scanned the poster. A gleam appeared in his rather dull eye.
“Some people have all the luck!” said the long boy feelingly.
“Would you like to compete—what?”
The boy smiled a sad smile.
“Would I? Would I? Say——”
“I know,” interrupted Archie. “Wake you up in the night and ask you! I knew I could rely on you, old thing.” He turned to Mr. Blake. “Here’s the fellow you’ve been wanting to meet—the finest left-and-right-hand eater east of the Rockies! He’ll fight the good fight for you.”
Mr. Blake’s English training had not been wholly overcome by residence in New York. He still retained a nice eye for the distinctions of class.
“But this young gentleman’s a young gentleman,” he urged doubtfully, yet with hope shining in his eye. “He wouldn’t do it.”
“Of course, he would! Don’t be ridic, old thing.”
“Wouldn’t do what?” asked the boy.
“Why, save the old homestead by taking on the champion. Dashed sad case, between ourselves. This poor egg’s nominee has given him the raspberry at the eleventh hour, and only you can save him. And you owe it to him to do something, you know, because it was your jolly old mater’s lecture last night that made the nominee quit. You must charge in and take his place. Sort of poetic justice, don’t you know, and what-not.” He turned to Mr. Blake. “When is the conflict supposed to start? Two-thirty? You haven’t any important engagement for two-thirty, have you?”
“No. Mother’s lunching at some ladies’ club and giving a lecture afterward. I can slip away.”
Archie patted his head.
“Then leg it where glory waits you, old bean!”
The long boy was gazing earnestly at the poster. It seemed to fascinate him.
“Pie!” he said, in a hushed voice.
The word was like a battle-cry.
At about nine o’clock on the following morning, in a suite at the Hotel Cosmopolis, Mrs. Cora Bates McCall, the eminent lecturer on rational eating, was seated at breakfast with her family. Before her sat Mr. McCall, a little, hunted-looking man, the natural peculiarities of whose face were accentuated by a pair of glasses of semicircular shape, like half-moons with the horns turned up. Behind these, Mr. McCall’s eyes played a perpetual game of peek-a-boo, now peering up over them, anon ducking down and hiding behind them. He was sipping a cup of anti-caffein. On his right, toying listlessly with a plateful of cereal, sat his son Washington. Mrs. McCall herself was eating a slice of health-bread and nut butter. For she practised as well as preached the doctrines which she had striven for so many years to inculcate in an unthinking populace. Her day always began with a light but nutritious breakfast, at which a peculiarly uninviting cereal, which looked and tasted like an old straw hat that had been run through a meat-chopper, competed for first place in the dislike of her husband and son with a more than usually offensive brand of imitation coffee. Mr. McCall was inclined to think that he loathed the near-coffee rather more than the cereal, but Washington held strong views on the latter’s superior ghastliness. Both Washington and his father, however, would have been fair-minded enough to admit that it was a close thing.
Mrs. McCall regarded her offspring with grave approval.
“I am glad to see, Lindsay,” she said to her husband, whose eyes sprang dutifully over the glass fence as he heard his name, “that Washy has recovered his appetite. When he refused his dinner last night, I was afraid that he might be sickening for something. Especially as he had quite a flushed look. You noticed his flushed look?”
“He did look flushed.”
“Very flushed. And his breathing was almost stertorous. And, when he said that he had no appetite, I am bound to say that I was anxious. But he is evidently perfectly well this morning. You do feel perfectly well this morning, Washy?”
The heir of the McCalls looked up from his cereal.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
Mrs. McCall nodded.
“Surely now you will agree, Lindsay, that a careful and rational diet is what a boy needs. I shudder when I think of the growing boys who are permitted by irresponsible people to devour meat—candy—pie—” She broke off. “What is the matter, Washy?”
It seemed that the habit of shuddering at the thought of pie ran in the McCall family, for, at the mention of the word, a kind of internal shimmy had convulsed Washington’s lean frame, and over his face there had come an expression that was almost one of pain. He had been reaching out his hand for a slice of health-bread, but now he withdrew it rather hurriedly and sat back, breathing hard.
“I’m all right,” he said huskily.
“Pie—” proceeded Mrs. McCall, in her platform voice. She stopped again abruptly. “Whatever is the matter, Washington? You are making me nervous.”
“I’m all right.”
Mrs. McCall had lost the thread of her remarks. Moreover, having now finished her breakfast, she was inclined for a little light reading. One of the subjects allied to the matter of dietary on which she felt deeply was the question of reading at meals. She was of the opinion that the strain on the eye, coinciding with the strain on the digestion, could not fail to give the latter the short end of the contest; and it was a rule at her table that the morning paper should not even be glanced at till the conclusion of the meal. She said that it was upsetting to begin the day by reading the paper, and events were to prove that she was occasionally right.
All through breakfast, the New York Chronicle had been lying neatly folded beside her plate. She now opened it, and, with a remark about looking for the report of her yesterday’s lecture at the Butterfly Club, directed her gaze at the front page, on which she hoped that a city editor with the best interests of the public at heart, had decided to place her.
Mr. McCall, jumping up and down behind his glasses, scrutinized her face closely as she began to read. He always did this on these occasions, for none knew better than he that his comfort for the day depended largely on some unknown reporter whom he had never met. If this unseen individual had done his work properly, and as befitted the importance of his subject, Mrs. McCall’s mood for the next twelve hours would be as uniformly sunny as it was possible for it to be. But sometimes the fellows scamped their jobs disgracefully, and once, on a day which lived in Mr. McCall’s memory, they had failed to make a report at all.
To-day, he noted with relief, all seemed to be well. The story actually was on the front page, an honor rarely accorded to his wife’s utterances. Moreover, judging from the time it took her to read the thing, she had evidently been reported at length.
“Good, my dear?” he ventured. “Satisfactory?”
“Eh?” Mrs. McCall smiled meditatively. “Oh, yes—excellent. They have used my photograph, too. Not at all badly reproduced.”
“Splendid!” said Mr. McCall.
Mrs. McCall gave a sharp shriek, and the paper fluttered from her hand.
“My dear!” said Mr. McCall, with concern.
His wife had recovered the paper, and was reading with burning eyes. A bright wave of color had flowed over her masterful features. She was breathing as stertorously as ever her son Washington had done on the previous night.
“Washington!” A basilisk glare shot across the table and turned the long boy to stone—all except his mouth, which opened feebly. “Washington! Is this true?”
Washy closed his mouth, then let it slowly open again.
“My dear!” Mr. McCall’s voice was alarmed. “What is it?” His eyes had climbed up over his glasses and remained there. “What is the matter? Is anything wrong?”
“ ‘Wrong!’ Read for yourself!”
Mr. McCall was completely mystified. He could not even formulate a guess at the cause of the trouble. That it appeared to concern his son Washington seemed to be the one solid fact at his disposal, and that only made the matter still more puzzling. Where, Mr. McCall asked himself, did Washington come in?
He looked at the paper, and received immediate enlightenment. Head-lines met his eye.
GOOD STUFF IN THIS BOY
ABOUT A TON OF IT
Son of Cora Bates McCall, Famous Food
Reform Lecturer, Wins Pie-Eating
Championship of West Side
There followed a lyrical outburst. So uplifted had the reporter evidently felt by the importance of his news that he had been unable to confine himself to prose.
My children, if you fail to shine or triumph in your special line; if, let us say, your hopes are bent on some day being President, and folks ignore your proper worth and say you’ve not a chance on earth, cheer up, for, in these stirring days, fame may be won in many ways. Consider, when your spirits fall, the case of Washington McCall.
Yes; cast your eye on Washy, please! He looks just like a piece of cheese. He’s not a brilliant sort of chap. He has a dull and vacant map; his eyes are blank; his face is red; his ears stick out beside his head. In fact, to end these compliments, he would be dear at thirty cents. Yet Fame has welcomed to her hall this self-same Washington McCall.
His mother (née Miss Cora Bates) is one who frequently orates upon the proper kind of food which every menu should include. With eloquence the world she weans from chops and steaks and pork and beans. Such horrid things she’d like to crush and make us live on milk and mush. But, oh, the thing that makes her sigh is when she sees us eating pie! (We heard her lecture last July upon “The Nation’s Menace—Pie.”) Alas, the hit it made was small with Master Washington McCall!
For yesterday we took a trip to see the great pie-eating championship, where men with bulging cheeks and eyes consume vast quantities of pies. A fashionable West Side crowd beheld the champion, Spike O’Dowd, endeavor to defend his throne against an upstart, Blake’s Unknown. He wasn’t an Unknown at all. He was young Washington McCall.
We freely own we’d give a leg if we could borrow, steal, or beg the skill old Homer used to show. (He wrote the “Iliad,” you know.) Old Homer swung a wicked pen, but we are ordinary men, and cannot even start to dream of doing justice to our theme. The subject of that great repast is too magnificent and vast. We can’t describe (or even try) the way those rivals wolfed their pie. Enough to say that, when, for hours, each had extended all his powers, toward the quiet evenfall, O’Dowd succumbed to young McCall.
The champion was a willing lad. He gave the public all he had. His was a genuine fighting soul. He’d lots of speed and much control. No yellow streak did he evince; he tackled apple pie and mince. This was the motto on his shield: “O’Dowds may burst. They never yield.” His eyes began to start and roll. He eased his belt another hole. Poor fellow! With a single glance, one saw that he had not a chance. A python would have had to crawl and own defeat from young McCall.
At last—long last—the finish came. His features overcast with shame, O’Dowd, who’d faltered once or twice, declined to eat another slice. He tottered off, and kindly men rallied round with oxygen. But Washy, Cora Bates’s son, seemed disappointed it was done. He somehow made those present feel he’d barely started on his meal. We asked him, “Aren’t you feeling bad?” “Me!” said the lion-hearted lad. “Lead me”—he started for the street—“where I can get a bite to eat.” Oh, what a lesson does it teach to all of us, that splendid speech! How better can the curtain fall on Master Washington McCall?
Mr. McCall read this epic through; then he looked at his son. If such a thing had not been so impossible, one would have said that his gaze had in it something of respect, of admiration, even of reverence.
“But how did they find out your name?” he asked, at length.
Mrs. McCall exclaimed impatiently.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“No, no, my dear; of course not. But the point struck me as curious.”
“Wretched boy,” cried Mrs. McCall, “were you insane enough to reveal your name?”
Washington wriggled uneasily. Unable to endure the piercing stare of his mother, he had withdrawn to the window, and was looking out with his back turned. But even there he could feel her eyes on the back of his neck.
“I didn’t think it ’ud matter,” he mumbled. “A fellow with tortoise-shell rimmed cheaters asked me; so I told him. How was I to know——”
His stumbling defense was cut short by the opening of the door.
“Hullo-ullo-ullo! What ho? What ho?”
Archie was standing in the doorway, beaming ingratiatingly on the family.
The apparition of an entire stranger served to divert the lightning of Mrs. McCall’s gaze from the unfortunate Washy. Archie, catching it between the eyes, blinked and held on to the wall. He began to regret that he had yielded to Lucille’s entreaty that he should look in on the McCalls and use the magnetism of his personality upon them in the hope of inducing them to settle the lawsuit.
“I think,” said Mrs. McCall icily, “that you must have mistaken your room.”
Archie rallied his shaken forces.
“Oh, no; rather not! Better introduce myself—what? My name’s Moffam, you know. I’m old Brewster’s son-in-law, and all that sort of rot, if you know what I mean.” He gulped and continued. “I’ve come about this jolly old lawsuit, don’t you know.”
Mr. McCall seemed about to speak, but his wife anticipated him.
“Mr. Brewster’s attorneys are in communication with ours. We do not wish to discuss the matter.”
Archie took an uninvited seat, eyed the health-bread on the breakfast table for a moment with frank curiosity, and resumed his discourse.
“No—but I say, you know! I’ll tell you what happened. I hate to totter in where I’m not wanted and all that, but my wife made such a point of it. She begged me to look you up and see whether we couldn’t do something about settling the jolly old thing. How about it?” He broke off. “Great Scott! I say—what?”
So engrossed had he been in his appeal that he had not observed the presence of the pie-eating champion of the West Side. But now Washington, hearing the familiar voice, had moved from the window and was confronting him with an accusing stare.
“He made me do it!” said Washy, with the stern joy a sixteen-year-old boy feels when he sees somebody onto whose shoulders he can shift trouble from his own. “That’s the fellow who took me to the place.”
“What are you talking about, Washington?”
“I’m telling you! He got me into the thing.”
“Do you mean this—this—” Mrs. McCall shuddered. “Are you referring to this pie-eating contest?”
“You bet I am!”
“Is this true?” Mrs. McCall glared stonily at Archie. “Was it you who lured my poor boy into that—that——”
“That binge over on the West Side? Oh, absolutely! The fact is, don’t you know, a dear old pal of mine who runs a tobacco shop on Sixth Avenue was rather in the soup. He had backed a chappie against the champion, and the chappie was converted by one of your lectures and swore off pie at the eleventh hour. Dashed hard luck on the poor chap, don’t you know! And then I got the idea that our little friend here was the one to step in and save the situash; so I broached the matter to him. And I’ll tell you one thing,” said Archie handsomely: “I don’t know what sort of a capacity the original chappie had, but I’ll bet he wasn’t in your son’s class. Your son has to be seen to be believed. Absolutely! You ought to be proud of him!” He turned in friendly fashion to Washy. “Rummy we should meet again like this! Never dreamed I should find you here. And, by Jove, it’s absolutely marvelous how fit you look after yesterday. I had a sort of idea you would be groaning on a jolly old bed of sickness and all that.”
There was a strange gurgling sound in the background. It resembled something getting up steam. And this, curiously enough, is precisely what it was. The thing that was getting up steam was Mr. Lindsay McCall.
For many years, Mr. McCall had been in a state of suppressed revolution. He had smoldered, but had not dared to blaze. But this startling upheaval of his fellow sufferer, Washy, had acted upon him like a high explosive. There was a strange gleam in his eye, a gleam of determination. He was breathing hard.
His voice had lost its deprecating mildness. It rang strong and clear.
“How many pies did you eat?”
“A good few.”
“How many? Twenty?”
“More than that. I lost count.”
“And you feel as well as ever?”
“I feel fine.”
Mr. McCall dropped his glasses. He glowered for a moment at the breakfast-table. His eye took in the health-bread, the near-coffee pot, the cereal, the nut butter. Then with a swift movement, he seized the cloth, jerked it forcibly, and brought the entire contents rattling and crashing to the floor.
Mr. McCall met his wife’s eye with quiet determination.
“Cora,” he said resolutely, “I have come to a decision. I’ve been letting you run things your own way a little too long in this family. I’m going to assert myself. For one thing, I’ve had all I want of this food-reform foolery. Look at Washy! Yesterday, that boy seems to have consumed anything from a couple of hundredweight to a ton of pie, and he has thriven on it. Thriven! I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Cora, but Washington and I have drunk our last cup of anti-caffein. If you care to go on with the stuff, that’s your lookout. But Washy and I are through.” He silenced his wife with a masterful gesture, and turned to Archie. “And there’s another thing: I never liked the idea of that lawsuit, but I let you talk me into it. Now I’m going to do things my way. Mr. Moffam, I’m glad you looked in this morning; I’ll do just what you want. Take me to Dan Brewster now, and let’s call the thing off and shake hands on it.”
“Are you mad, Lindsay?”
It was Cora Bates McCall’s last shot. Mr. McCall paid no attention to it. He was shaking hands with Archie.
“I consider you, Mr. Moffam,” he said, “the most sensible young man I have ever met.”
Archie blushed modestly.
“Awfully good of you, old bean!” he said. “I wonder if you’d mind telling my jolly old father-in-law that. It’ll be a bit of news for him.”
The next escapade of Archie in America will appear in November Cosmopolitan.
Printer’s error corrected above:
Magazine omitted “the” in “He might have had the tact”
A few obvious comma and period mistakes in typesetting have been silently corrected.