*
It is pretty generally agreed that we are living as of even date in the times that try men's souls, and it is interesting, as one surveys the American scene, to note the steps the various states are taking to cope with them. Thus, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, the populace was conscious recently of a great wave of relief, for they knew that even if a hostile power were to start unloading unpleasant things from the skies above America, they at least would be sitting pretty. Grand Rapids has just passed a law making it illegal for any aviator to 'drop a bomb while flying over the city without leave from the city commission', and it is very improbable that such permission would be given a foreign foe.
In Wisconsin they fortify themselves somewhat differently. Reports from there reveal that last year Wisconsin men, women and children all pulling together drank 1,025,739,909 bottles of beer. It worked splendidly. After about the 25,739,909th bottle they simply stopped caring. 'Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?' was the slogan heard on all sides, though in one or two instances the words were so slurred as to be indistinguishable.
*
Rather sad the way America's most cherished customs and traditions are dying out nowadays. The latest to become one with Nineveh and Tyre is the annual woolly bear hunt on Bear Mountain. Each autumn for nearly a decade it has been the practice of Dr. C. H. Curran, curator of insects and spiders at the Museum of Natural History, to take a paper bag and set forth, accompanied by Mrs. Curran and a bevy of friends and well-wishers, to collect specimens of the caterpillar of that name and inspect them with a view to seeing what sort of winter we were going to have.
The idea has always been that if in the Autumn the brown bands on the woolly bear were wide, conditions from December to March would be clement, while if they were narrow the populace was in for ice and snow and all the trimmings. And now Dr. Curran has rocked the country with a bombshell.
"This," he said, as the hunters returned to the hunting lodge and were gloating over the bulging paper bag,' is the last woolly bear hunt we will conduct. Statistics over the last nine years show that the width of the little chiseller's brown bands can tell us nothing whatsoever about the weather. The woolly bear stands stripped of its mask at the bar of world opinion. '
Well, naturally, everyone was pretty appalled. Mrs. Curran fought to keep back the tears and many of those present paled visibly. A reporter from the New York Herald-Tribune, who had come along because there was a free lunch, was heard to cry "Oh, Doctor Curran, say it ain't so!", but the doc was adamant. He had had it. "Look what happened last year," he said. One knows what was in his mind. Last October every woolly bear you met was sporting the widest possible bands, and the winter should have been springlike. But was it? Not by a jugful. It was a stinker. No wonder Dr. Curran had felt compelled to take this strong line. As he rather aptly puts it, you can fool all the people some of the time, you can even fool some of the people all the time, but you can't fool all the people all the time. From now on the woolly bear means nothing in his life. He will take the high road and it the low road, and if they happen to meet he will merely nod coldly, if that.
*
It is unlikely, perhaps, that Mr. Ernest Crowley of Watkins Glen, N.Y., will ever invite me to spend a long week-end at his home, but if he does I shall certainly tell him I can't possibly fit it in, for, according to an interview he has given to the press, he has a singing dog on the premises. According to him the animal has a repertory ranging from 'My Wild Irish Rose' to 'Happy Birthday'.
Buster, for such is his name, presumably confines himself to rendering the music of these items, omitting the words like a citizen joining in 'The Star-Spangled Banner' and possibly sings only in his bath, but even so the whole thing strikes me as fairly sinister.
In his interview Mr. Crowley says he is in the habit of taking Buster to hospitals 'to entertain the aged and mentally ill', and no one more surprised than he, one imagines, when the performance scares the pants off them. I am aged myself—eighty-five next birthday—and mentally not very bright, and I know that if I were lying in bed and a dog came in and suddenly started singing the Jewel Song from Faust, I would shoot straight up to and through the ceiling, sustaining bruises and contusions.
9. Life With Freddie
Mr. Bunting, of the legal firm of Bunting and Satterthwaite, looked at his watch and saw with satisfaction that it was getting on for lunch time. His digestion being none too good, he seldom took more for his mid-day meal than a glass of hot water, but he enjoyed the agreeable break it made in the morning's routine. He also welcomed the prospect of being able to stop trying to explain the law of Great Britain to his visitor Freddie Threepwood.
"Well, as you will have gathered," he said, "it's all pretty complicated and one never knows how these cases are going to go with a jury, so I think the best thing is to try for a settlement out of court. You agree, Satterthwaite?"
Mr. Satterthwaite said he did.
"And you, Freddie?"
"Not for me to say, is it? Up to old Donaldson, surely?"
"Quite right. It's for him to decide. I'll get him on the transatlantic phone and ask him how he feels about it."
"Good idea," said Freddie, relieved, for the discussion had begun to make his head ache. Sent over to England from Long Island City by his employer Mr. Donaldson of Donaldson's Dog joy, his task a roving commission to ginger up the English end of the business, he had looked in on Bunting and Satterthwaite to learn how that law suit of Mr. Donaldson's was coming along and had been unable to make much of what Mr. Bunting had told him. Legal minutiae were not in his line. His genius lay in selling dog biscuits.
"You must enjoy these visits of yours to the old homeland, Freddie," said Mr. Bunting, becoming chatty now that the conference was concluded. "How did you leave Donaldson, by the way? Fit, I hope?"
"Oh, very. Still inclined to bark at one a bit."
"I remember that trait of his. Like a seal surprised while bathing. When do you go back?"
"In about three weeks?"
"I suppose you have been hobnobbing with all the friends of your youth?"
"Well, actually, no. I've been too busy. I ran into Joe Cardinal yesterday. He tells me he's given up his painting and is working in a bank. You know Joe, don't you?"
"Very well indeed."
"Then perhaps you can give me his address? I forgot to ask him."
"I'll write it down," said Mr. Bunting, and as he spoke the intercom sounded.
"There's a girl out there wants to see you, Bunting," said Mr. Satterthwaite, having answered it. "Some name like Riddell."
"It must be young Dinah Biddle. Haven't you ever met her?"
"Not to my recollection. Who is she?"
"Arnold Pinkney's secretary."
At the mention of that name a close observer might have seen Freddie wince as if troubled by an old wound. It was a name more or less graven on his heart. In his whirlwind tour of the British Isles as ambassador for Donaldson's Dog Joy he had achieved many notable triumphs: he had secured gratifying orders from-to cite but a few-McPhail and McPherson of Edinburgh, Wilks Brothers of Manchester and Beatle Beatle and Beatle of Liverpool, but Arnold Pinkney of Pinkney's Stores had been one of his failures. He had not been able even to obtain an interview with him, and this rankled.
"Tell her to come in," said Mr. Bunting, and a few moments later Miss Biddle appeared, preceded by an animated daschund on a leash.
Those who like girls to be tall and statuesque would not have been greatly impressed by Dinah Biddle, for she was on the small side. What there was of her, however, was excellent. Freddie, whose standards in feminine comeliness were high, would not perhaps have gone so far as to place her among the absolute stupefiers, but he would readily have conceded that she pleased the eye, while the Joe Cardinal of whom he had been speaking had fallen in love with her after a single meeting-one at which only twenty-two words had been exchanged, she contributing eighteen, he four.
Mr. Bunting greeted her warmly. They were o
ld friends.
"Come in, young Dinah. Nice to have you with us. We need more of your sort to brighten up this dingy office. My dingy partner, Mr. Satterthwaite. And-an added attraction-Mr. Threepwood, the Anglo-American tycoon."
"How do you do? I just came to give you this letter from Mr. Pinkney. He wanted it delivered by hand. I hope you don't mind me bringing the dog."
"Not at all. Any friend of yours. A recent purchase?"
"I've just bought him for Mr. Pinkney. It's a present for his fiancée."
It takes a good deal to make an old established solicitor betray emotion, but at these words Mr. Bunting started visibly. Arnold Pinkney was a client of his, but not a crony. He was a pompous man who took life heavily, and Mr. Bunting, who though well stricken in years had never quite shaken off the frivolity of youth, found association with him damping to the spirit.
'His fiancée?" he cried incredulously. "You mean to tell me that superfatted poop is engaged to be married?"
Ought I to listen to you calling my employer a superfatted poop?"
"Well, that's what he is. Ask anyone. Who is the purblind female he's marrying?"
"Do you remember when she smuggled her pearls through die New York Customs?"
"Inside a Mickey Mouse which she bought at the ship's shop. When she told us what she was planning to do, we tried to dissuade her, but she carried on regardless."
"It's always surprised me that she has never acquired a long prison sentence. For years she's been asking for it."
"Pleading for it. Do you remember that other time when she---"
"Listen," said Dinah. "I suppose you two old gossips are going to sit here for the rest of the afternoon swopping reminiscences, but I can't stop to hear them. Goodbye."
"Come, come," said Mr. Bunting, "you can't leave us as abruptly as that. Let me at least see you out. "What's your hurry?" he asked, as they passed into the corridor.
"We're in a great rush these days. Mr. Pinkney is sailing for New York on Thursday."
"Running him out of the country, are they?"
"He has a merger cooking with some New York store.
"Is he taking you with him?"
"Of course. I'm indispensable."
"What boat?"
"The Atlantic."
"I'll send you some flowers. Well, it's been nice seeing you even for such a brief time. I always relish these visits of yours. It's like an April breeze blowing into the office."
"And interrupting you in the middle of a conference."
"We had finished."
"I'm glad of that. Who was the man who said he knew Judson Phipps?"
"That was Freddie Threepwood, Lord Emsworth's younger son. He emigrated to America some years ago, joined the staff of Donaldson's Dog Joy, married the boss's daughter, and is now, I understand, a force to be reckoned with in the dog biscuit industry. You probably noticed that he gave your hound a sharp look, seeing in him no doubt a potential customer. It's curious about Freddie. When I first knew him, he was just a young fellow about town, a sort of Judson Phipps, incapable, one would have said, of anything in the nature of coherent thought, but America has turned him into as high-powered a salesman as ever breathed the rarefied air of Madison Avenue. Quite a startling metamorphosis."
"What was that name you mentioned to him? Cardinal, was it? I wonder if it's the same Mr. Cardinal I met the other day."
"Did you meet a Mr. Cardinal?"
"Yes, he came wanting to see Mr. Pinkney."
"Then that was Joe. Pinkney's his uncle."
"What does he do?"
"He works in a bank."
"He's very shy, isn't he?"
"What gave you that impression?"
"It was just that he hardly said a word. He simply stood and looked at me and made funny noises."
"Obviously he must have fallen in love with you at first sight. Like Romeo. If I were forty years younger," said Mr. Bunting, "I'd make funny noises at you myself. Well, Dinah, I wish I could ask you to lunch, but, as you know, I confine myself to a glass of hot water and the spectacle would depress you."
"And I couldn't have come, anyway, I'm lunching with Judson Phipps."
A frown appeared on Mr. Bunting's face. Normally it resembled that of an amiable vulture. He now looked like a vulture dissatisfied with its breakfast corpse. He had a paternal fondness for this girl and did not like to see her getting into dubious company. Judson Phipps in his opinion was lacking in character and serious purpose and he disapproved of him.
And yet Judson was a young man who, starting from nothing, had made good in a big way. He was the son of the late J Mortimer Phipps, the Suspender King, who sold so many suspenders in America and braces in Great Britain that for years and years the money had simply poured in. On his decease his fortune had been divided equally between Judson and Judson's sister Julia, so that now several safe deposit boxes bulged with Judson's millions and he could write a cheque for almost anything he pleased. It was a real success story, the sort of thing Horatio Alger used to write about, and one might have expected Mr. Bunting to admire rather than shake his head in disapproval. Nevertheless, he did so shake his head.
"I didn't know you knew Phipps. Where did you meet him?"
"At a party somewhere."
"Do you see much of him?"
"Quite a good deal."
"Tut, tut."
"Why the double tut? What's wrong with Judson?"
"He's an irresponsible playboy."
"Don't you like irresponsible playboys?"
"No, though the business they bring in is a great help towards paying office expenses. Judson Phipps keeps us working day and night. Already we have had to see him through two breach of promise cases. I've just written him a very severe letter on the subject."
"Has he anyone in mind at the moment?"
"The last time I saw him he was raving about your Mr. Pinkney's daughter Arlene, but the fervour may have spent itself since then. Has he ever proposed to you?"
"Oh no. We're what they call just good friends."
"Strange!"
"I think he likes them taller than I am."
"All the same, I'd avoid him, if I were you."
"It won't be easy. He's sailing on Thursday, too."
"On your boat?"
"Yes. There's some sort of boxing championship fight at Madison Square Garden two weeks from now and he doesn't want to miss it."
"Well, see as little of him as possible. Don't stroll with him on the boat deck in the moonlight. Be careful how you partner at shuffleboard. In short, shun him."
“I certainly shan't shun him till I've had this lunch. I'm a hungry working girl and I want that caviare or possibly that smoked salmon..."
"Don't mention such things in my presence," said Mr. Bunting with a shudder. "I don't like to think of them."
The lunch at Barribault's famous hotel had fulfilled Dinah's most glowing expectations. Judson Phipps might have his defects—Mr. Bunting could have mentioned a dozen—but he was a princely host. No nervous watching of the prices in the right hand column for him. He did his guests well. When they had finished being entertained by him, they knew they had been at a luncheon.
The meal had reached the coffee stage, and Judson produced an ornate cigarette case.
"Turkish this side, Virginian that," he said, offering it. "Who are you grinning at?"
"Actually I was smiling respectfully. At my boss, Mr. Pinkney. He's at a table near the door."
"I don't see him."
"You wouldn't. He's right behind you. Did you know he was a superfatted poop?"
"Who says so?"
"Mr. Bunting. I saw him this morning."
"Oh, did you?" said Judson, speaking without enthusiasm. To others Mr. Bunting might be a kindly friend, but to him he had always been a source of fear and discomfort, like something out of a horror film.
If it had not been for the padding which a prudent tailor had inserted in the shoulders of his coat, Judson Phipps would have prov
ided a striking illustration of what Euclid had meant when he spoke of a thing having length without breadth. As a boy he had gone through the process of what is known as completely outgrowing his strength, and now in his riper years there was much too much of him from south to north and not nearly enough from east to west. Though never stinting himself in the matter of calories, he presented the appearance of one to whom square meals were unknown. He had a pleasant, vacant face, mostly nose and hornrimmed spectacles, and his disposition was unvaryingly amiable.
"He doesn't approve of you. He's just written you a very severe letter, he tells me."
"He's always writing me very severe letters. Well, I won't get this one. I'm off to Paris tomorrow morning."
"To Paris? I thought you were sailing with us."
"I am. I'm getting on at Cherbourg."
"What are you going to Paris for?"
"My sister's there, and I've had a letter from her asking me to come. There's something she wants me to do for her."
What she had heard of Judson's sister in Mr. Bunting's office had been enough to whet Dinah's interest in her. She had sounded an intriguing personality.
"Tell me about your sister, Judson."
"What about her?"
"To look at, do you mean? Sort of blonde and fluffy."
"I was thinking more of character and disposition and all that. Mr. Bunting says she's crazier than you are. Surely he was exaggerating? I wouldn't have thought anyone could be."
Judson reflected.
"Yes, I'd say he was about right. I'm not in Julie's class. She's the hell -raising type, always apt to be starting something. Take this letter she's written me. I won't tell you what it is she wants me to do for her, but it's something that'll rock civilisation."