CHAPTER I
CONCERNING TWO GENTLEMEN FROM LONG ISLAND, DESTINY, AND A POT OF BLACKPAINT
"Hello, old man!" he began.
"Gillian," I said, "don't call me 'Old Man.' At twenty, it flattered me;at thirty, it was all right; at forty, I suspected _double entendre_;and now I don't like it."
"Of course, if you feel that way," he protested, smiling.
"Well, I do, dammit!"--the last a German phrase. I am rather strong onlanguages.
Now another thing that is irritating-- I've got ahead of my story,partly, perhaps, because I hesitate to come to the point.
For I have a certain delicacy in admitting that my second visit abroad,after twenty years, was due to a pig. So now that the secret is out--thepig also--I'll begin properly.
* * * * *
I purchased the porker at a Long Island cattle show; why, I don't know,except that my neighbor, Gillian Schuyler Van Dieman, put me up to it.
We are an inoffensive community maintaining a hunt club and thetraditions of a by-gone generation. To the latter our children refuse tosubscribe.
Our houses are what are popularly known as "fine old Colonial mansions."They were built recently. So was the pig. You see, I can never get awayfrom that pig, although--but the paradox might injure the story. It hassufficiently injured me--the pig and the story, both.
The architecture of the pig was a kind of degenerate Chippendale,modified by Louis XVI and traces of Bavarian baroque. And his squealresembled the atmospheric preliminaries for a Texas norther.
Van Dieman said I ought to buy him. I bought him. My men built him achaste bower to leeward of an edifice dedicated to cows.
Here I sometimes came to contemplate him while my horse was beingsaddled.
That particular morning, when Van Dieman saluted me so suspiciously atthe country club, I had been gazing at the pig.
And now, as we settled down to our morning game of chess, I said:
"Van, that pig of mine seems to be in nowise remarkable. Why the devildo you suppose I bought him?"
"How do I know?"
"You ought to. You suggested that I buy him. Why did you?"
"To see whether you would."
I said rather warmly: "Did you think me weak-minded enough to dowhatever you suggested?"
"The fact remains that you did," he said calmly, pushing the king'sknight to queen's bishop six.
"Did what?" I snapped.
"What you didn't really want to do."
"Buy the pig?"
"Exactly."
I thought a moment, took a pawn with satisfaction, considered.
"Van," I said, "why do you suppose I bought that pig?"
"_Ennui._"
"A man doesn't buy pigs to escape from _ennui_!"
"You can't predict what a man will do to escape it," he said, smiling."The trouble with you is that you're been here too long; you're in arut; you're gone stale. Year in, year out, you do the same things in thesame way, rise at the same time, retire at the same hour, see the samepeople, drive, motor, ride, potter about your lawns and gardens, comehere to the club--and it's enough to petrify anybody's intellect."
"Do you mean to say that _mine_----"
"Partly. Don't get mad. No man who lives year after year in a LongIsland community could escape it. What you need is to go abroad. Whatyou require is a good dose of Paris."
"For twenty odd years I have avoided Paris," I said, restlessly. "Whyshould I go back there?"
"Haven't you been there in twenty years?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Well, for one thing, to avoid meeting the entire United States."
"All right," said Van Dieman, "if you want to become an old unclefoozle, continue to take root in Long Island." He announced mate in twomoves. After I had silently conceded it, he leaned back in his chair andlighted a cigarette.
"It's my opinion," he said, "that you've already gone too stale to takecare of your own pig."
Even years of intimacy scarcely justified this.
"When the day comes," said I, "that I find myself no longer competent tolook after my own affairs, I'll take your advice and get out of LongIsland."
He looked up with a smile. "Suppose somebody stole that pig, forinstance."
"They couldn't."
"Suppose they did, under your very nose."
"If anything happens to that pig," I said--"anything untoward, due toany negligence or stupidity of mine, I'll admit that I need wakingup.... Now get that pig if you can!"
"Will you promise to go to Paris for a jolly little jaunt if anythingdoes happen to your pig?" he asked.
"Why the devil do _you_ want _me_ to go to Paris?"
"Do you good, intellectually."
Then I got mad.
"Van," I said, "if anybody can get that pig away from me, I'll doanything you suggest for the next six months."
"_A nous deux, alors!_" he said. He speaks French too fast for me totranslate. It's a foolish way to talk a foreign language. But he hasnever yet been able to put it over me.
"_A la guerre comme a la guerre_," I replied carelessly. It's a phraseone can use in reply to any remark that was ever uttered in French. Iuse it constantly.
* * * * *
That afternoon I went and took a good look at my pig. Later, as I waswalking on the main street of Oyster Bay, a man touched his hat andasked me for a job. Instantly it occurred to me to hire him as nightwatchman for the pig. He had excellent references, and his countenanceexpressed a capacity for honest and faithful service. That night beforeI went to bed, I walked around to the sty. My man was there on duty.
"That," thought I, "will hold Van Dieman for a while."
When my daughters had retired and all the servants were abed, I did athing I have not done in years--not since I was a freshman at Harvard: Isat up with my pipe and an unexpurged translation of Henry James untilnearly eleven o'clock. However, by midnight I was asleep.
It was full starlight when I awoke and jumped softly out of bed.Somebody was tapping at the front door. I put on a dressing-gown andslippers and waited; but no servants were aroused by the persistentrapping.
After a moment I went to the window, raised it gently and looked out. Afarmer with a lantern stood below.
"Say, squire," he said, when he beheld my head, "I guess I'll have toask for help. I'm on my way to market and my pig broke loose and I can'tketch him nohow."
"Hush!" I whispered; "I'll come down."
Very cautiously I unbarred the front door and stepped out into thelovely April starlight. In the road beyond my hedge stood a farm-wagoncontaining an empty crate. Near it moved the farmer, and just beyond hisoutstretched hands sported a playful pig. He was a black pig. Mine waswhite. Besides I went around to the pen and saw, in the darkness, myOyster Bay retainer still on guard. So, it being a genuine case, Ireturned to the road.
The farmer's dilemma touched me. What in the world was so utterlyhopeless to pursue, unaided, as a coy pig at midnight.
"If you will just stand there, squire, and sorter spread out yourskirts, I'll git him in a jiffy," said the panting farmer.
I did as I was bidden. The farmer approached; the pig pranced betweenhis legs.
"By gum!" exclaimed the protected of Ceres.
But, after half an hour, the pig became over-confident, and the tillerof phosphites seized him and bore him, shrieking, to the wooden crate inthe wagon, there depositing him, fastening the door, and climbing intohis seat with warm thanks to me for my aid.
I told the Brother to the Ox that he was welcome. Then, with heartserenely warmed by brotherly love and a knowledge of my owncondescension, I retired to sleep soundly until Higgins came to shave meat eight o'clock next morning.
"Beg pardon, sir," said Higgins, stirring his lather as I returned fromthe bath to submit my chin to his razor--"beg pardon, sir, but--but thepig, sir----"
"What pig?" I asked sharply. Had Higgins beheld me pursui
ng thatmidnight porker? And if he had, was he going to tell about it?
"What pig, sir? Why, THE pig, sir."
"I do not understand you, Higgins," I said coldly.
"Beg pardon, sir, but Miss Alida asked me to tell you, that the pig----"
"WHAT PIG?" I repeated exasperated.
"Why--why--OURS, sir."
I turned to stare at him. "MY pig?" I asked.
"Yes, sir--he's gone, sir----"
"Gone!" I thundered.
"Stolen, sir, out o' the pen last night."
Stunned, I could only stare at Higgins. Stolen? My pig? Last night?
"Some one," said Higgins, "went and opened that lovely fancy sty, sir;and the pig he bolted. It takes a handy thief to stop and steal a pig,sir. There must ha' been two on 'em to catch that pig!"
"Where's that miserable ruffian I hired to watch the sty?" I demandedhotly.
"He has gone back to work for Mr. Van Dieman, sir. His hands was allover black paint, and I see him a-wipin' of 'em onto your white picketfence."
The calmness of despair came over me. I saw it, now. I had been calledout of bed to help catch my own pig. For nearly half an hour I haddodged about there in front of my own house, too stupid to suspect, toostupid even to recognize my own pig in the disguised and capriciousporker shying and caracolling about in the moonlight. Good heavens! VanDieman was right. A man who helps to steal his own pig is fit fornothing but Paris or a sanitarium.
"Shave me speedily, Higgins," I said. "I am not very well, and it isdifficult for me to preserve sufficient composure to sit still. And,Higgins, it is not at all necessary for you to refer to that pighereafter. You understand? Very well. Go to the telephone and call upthe Cunard office."
Presently I was in communication with Bowling Green.
That morning in the breakfast-room, when I had kissed my daughter Alida,aged eighteen, and my daughter Dulcima, aged nineteen, the younger said:"Papa, do you know that our pig has been stolen?"
"Alida," I replied, "I myself disposed of him"--which was the dreadfultruth.
"You sold him?" asked Dulcima in surprise.
"N--not exactly. These grape-fruit are too sour!"
"You gave him away?" inquired Alida.
"Yes--after a fashion. Is this the same coffee we have been using? Ithas a peculiar----"
"Who did you give him to?" persisted my younger child.
"A--man."
"What man?"
"Nobody you know, child."
"But----"
"Stop!" said I firmly. "It is a subject too complicated to discuss."
"Oh, pooh!" said Dulcima; "everybody discusses everything in Oyster Bay.And besides I want to know----"
"About the pig!" broke in Alida.
"And that man to whom you gave the pig----"
"Alida," said I, with misleading mildness, "how would you like to go toParis?"
"Oh! papa----"
"And you, Dulcima?"
"Darling papa!"
"When?" cried Alida.
"Wednesday," I replied with false urbanity.
"Oh! The darling!" they cried in rapture, and made toward me.
"Wait!" I said with a hideous smile. "We have not yet left Sandy Hook!And I solemnly promise you both that if either of you ever again ask meone question concerning that pig--nay, if you so much as look askance atme over the breakfast bacon--neither you nor I will ever leave SandyHook alive!"
They have kept their promises--or I should never have trodden the deckof the _S. S. Cambodia_, the pride of the great Cunard Line, with mydaughter Dulcima on one side and my daughter Alida on the other side ofme, and my old friend Van Dieman waving me adieu from a crowded pier,where hundreds of handkerchiefs flutter in the breeze.
"_Au revoir et bon voyage!_" he called up to me.
"_Toujours la politesse_," I muttered, nodding sagely.
"That was a funny reply to make, papa," said Dulcima.
"Not at all," I replied, with animation; "to know a language is to knowwhen to use its idioms." They both looked a little blank, but continuedto wave their handkerchiefs.
"_A bien-tot!_" called Alida softly, as the towering black sides of thesteamer slipped along the wooden wharf.
Van Dieman raised his hat on the pier below, and answered: "_A bien-tot?C'est la mort, jusqu'a bien-tot! Donc, vive la vie, Mademoiselle!_"
"There is no necessity in chattering like a Frenchman when you talkFrench," I observed to Alida. "Could you make out what Van Dieman saidto you?"
"Y--yes," she admitted, with a slight blush.
I glanced at Dulcima. There was a mischievous light in her blue eyes.
"Pooh!" I thought; "Van Dieman is forty if he's a day."
While the ship slid on past Castle William and poked her nose toward theforts at the Narrows, I watched the distant pier which we had left. Itwas still black with people, moving like ants. And, as I looked, Imuttered ever: "Pooh! Van Dieman's forty. There's nothing in it, nothingin it, nothing whatever."
Off Fort Hamilton I noticed that Alida had a tear in one of her browneyes. "There's nothing in it," I repeated obstinately.
Off Sandy Hook we ran into a sea-storm. In a few minutes many of thepassengers went below; in a few more minutes the remainder of thepassengers went below; and I was on the way below with my daughter Alidaon one arm and my daughter Dulcima on the other.
"There is nothing in it," I reflected, as the ship shuddered, pitched,and we involuntarily began running down a toboggan slide, taking littletimorous steps. Then the deck flew up and caught the soles of our shoesbefore we were ready to put our feet down. "Alida," I said, "do you feelbored?"
There was no mistaking the tears in her eyes now. "There's nothing init. There's nothing in anything," I muttered faintly. And I was right asfar as it concerned the passengers on the pitching _Cambodia_.