The " Goldfish" Part 14
It was Sat.u.r.day morning. The week's work was practically over. All of my clients were out of town--golfing, motoring, or playing poker at Cedarhurst. There was nothing for me to do at the office but to indorse half a dozen checks for deposit. I lit a cigar and looked out the window of my cave down on the hurrying throng below. A resolute, never-pausing stream of men plodded in each direction. Now and then others dashed out of the doors of marble buildings and joined the crowd.
On the river ferryboats were darting here and there from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.
There was a bedlam of whistles, the thunder of steam winches, the clang of surface cars, the rattle of typewriters. To what end? Down at the curb my motor car was in waiting. I picked up my hat and pa.s.sed into the outer office.
"By the way, Hastings," I said casually as I went by his desk, "where are you living now?"
He looked up smilingly.
"Pleasantdale--up Kensico way," he answered.
I shifted my feet and pulled once or twice on my cigar. I had taken a strange resolve.
"Er--going to be in this afternoon?" I asked. "I'm off for a run and I might drop in for a cup of tea about five o'clock."
"Oh, will you, sir!" he exclaimed with pleasure. "We shall be delighted.
Mine is the house at the crossroads--with the red roof."
"Well," said I, "you may see me--but don't keep your tea waiting."
As I shot uptown in my car I had almost the feeling of a coming adventure. Hastings was a good sort! I respected him for his bluntness of speech. At the cigar counter in the club I replenished my case.
Then I went into the reception room, where I found a bunch of acquaintances sitting round the window. They hailed me boisterously.
What would I have to drink? I ordered a "Hannah Elias" and sank into a chair. One of them was telling about the newest scandal in the divorce line: The president of one of our largest trust companies had been discovered to have been leading a double life--running an apartment on the West Side for a haggard and _pa.s.see_ showgirl.
"You just tell me--I'd like to know--why a fellow like that makes such a d.a.m.ned fool of himself! Salary of fifty thousand dollars a year! Big house; high-cla.s.s wife and family; yacht--everything anybody wants. Not a drinking man either. It defeats me!" he said.
None of the group seemed able to suggest an answer. I had just tossed off my "Hannah Elias."
"I think I know," I hazarded meditatively. They turned with one accord and stared at me. "There was nothing else for him to do," I continued, "except to blow his brains out."
The raconteur grunted.
"I don't just know the meaning of that!" he remarked. "I thought he was a friend of yours!"
"Oh, I like him well enough," I answered, getting up. "Thanks for the drink. I've got to be getting home. My wife is giving a little luncheon to thirty valuable members of society."
I was delayed on Fifth Avenue and when the butler opened the front door the luncheon party was already seated at the table. A confused din emanated from behind the portieres of the dining room, punctuated by shouts of female laughter. The idea of going in and overloading my stomach for an hour, while strenuously attempting to produce light conversation, sickened me. I shook my head.
"Just tell your mistress that I've been suddenly called away on business," I directed the butler and climbed back into my motor.
"Up the river!" I said to my chauffeur.
We spun up the Riverside Drive, past rows of rococo apartment houses, along the Lafayette Boulevard and through Yonkers. It was a glorious autumn day. The Palisades shone red and yellow with turning foliage.
There was a fresh breeze down the river and a thousand whitecaps gleamed in the sunlight. Overhead great white clouds moved majestically athwart the blue. But I took no pleasure in it all. I was suffering from an acute mental and physical depression. Like Hamlet I had lost all my mirth--whatever I ever had--and the clouds seemed but a "pestilent congregation of vapors." I sat in a sort of trance as I was whirled farther and farther away from the city.
At last I noticed that my silver motor clock was pointing to half-past two, and I realized that neither the chauffeur nor myself had had anything to eat since breakfast. We were entering a tiny village. Just beyond the main square a sign swinging above the sidewalk invited wayfarers to a "quick lunch." I pressed the b.u.t.ton and we pulled to the gravel walk.
"Lunch!" I said, and opened the wire-netted door. Inside there were half a dozen oilcloth-covered tables and a red-cheeked young woman was sewing in a corner.
"What have you got?" I asked, inspecting the layout.
"Tea, coffee, milk--eggs any style you want," she answered cheerily.
Then she laughed in a good-natured way. "There's a real hotel at Poughkeepsie--five miles along," she added.
"I don't want a real hotel," I replied. "What are you laughing at?"
Then I realized that I must look rather civilized for a motorist.
"You don't look as you'd care for eggs," she said.
"That's where you're wrong," I retorted. "I want three of the biggest, yellowest, roundest poached eggs your fattest hen ever laid--and a schooner of milk."
The girl vanished into the back of the shop and presently I could smell toast. I discovered I was extremely hungry. In about eight minutes she came back with a tray on which was a large gla.s.s of creamy milk and the triple eggs for which I had prayed. They were spherical, white and wabbly.
"You're a prize poacher," I remarked, my spirits reviving.
She smiled appreciatively.
"Going far?" she inquired, sitting down quite at ease at one of the neighboring tables.
I looked pensively at her pleasant face across the eggs.
"That's a question," I answered. "I can't make out whether I've been moving on or just going round and round in a circle."
She looked puzzled for an instant. Then she said shrewdly:
"Perhaps you've really been _going back_."
"Perhaps," I admitted.
I have never tasted anything quite so good as those eggs and that milk.
From where I sat I could look far up the Hudson; the wind from the river swayed the red maples round the door of the quick lunch; and from the kitchen came the homely smells of my lost youth. I had a fleeting vision of the party at my house, now playing bridge for ten cents a point; and my soul lifted its head for the first time in weeks.
"How far is it to Pleasantdale?"
"A long way," answered the girl; "but you can make a connection by trolley that will get you there in about two hours."
"Suits me!" I said and stepped to the door. "You can go, James; I'll get myself home."
He cast on me a scandalized look.
"Very good, sir!" he answered and touched his cap.
He must have thought me either a raving lunatic or an unabashed adventurer. A moment more and the car disappeared in the direction of the city. I was free! The girl made no attempt to conceal her amus.e.m.e.nt.
Behind the door was a gray felt hat. I took it down and looked at the size. It was within a quarter of my own.