CHAPTER XIII
A FOLLOW THROUGH BY EGGY
Might have been a wrong hunch, as it turned out; but for awhile therewhat I wanted to do most was to take this Eggleston K. Ham, wad him upin a neat little lump, and stuff him into the waste basket. I wouldn'thave been exertin' myself much, at that.
He's one of that kind, you know. Insignificant? Why, in full daylightyou almost had to look twice to see him--and then you'd be guessin'whether it was a lath that had sprouted whiskers, or whiskers that wastryin' to bud a man! Them and the thick, gold-rimmed glasses sure didgive him a comic, top-heavy look.
Course, we get all kinds in our buildin'; but when the lady voiceculturist on the top floor sublets her studio for the summer to thisfreak I thought we'd gone from bad to worse. And she even has the nerveto leave the key with me, sayin' Mr. Ham would call for it in the courseof a week or so.
He sidles up to the desk and proceeds to make somethroaty noises.]
We'd enjoyed about ten days of peace too, with no bloodcurdlin' soundsfloatin' down the light shaft, and I was hopin' maybe the subtenant hadrenigged, when one mornin' the front office door opens easy, and inslips this face herbage exhibit. It's no scattered, hillside crop,either, but a full blown Vandyke. When he'd got through growin' thealfalfa, though, his pep seemed to give out, and the rest of him was aswispy as a schoolgirl.
He sidles up to the desk, where I have my heels elevated restful, andproceeds to make some throaty noises behind his hand. I'm just readin'how Tesreau pulled out of a bad hole in the seventh with two on bases;but I breaks away long enough to glance over the top of the paper.
"Go on, shoot it," says I.
"I--I'm very sorry," says he, "but--but I am Mr. Ham."
"Never mind apologizin'," says I. "Maybe it ain't all your fault. Afterthe key, ain't you?"
"Yes, thank you," says he.
"Eggleston K., I suppose?" says I.
"Oh, yes," says he.
"Here you are, then, Eggy," says I, reachin' into a pigeonhole andproducin' it. "What's your instrument of torture, the xylophone?"
"I--I beg pardon?" says he.
"Come now," says I, "don't tell me you're a trombone fiend!"
"Oh, I see," says he. "No, no, I--I'm not a musician."
"Shake, Eggy!" says I, reachin' out my hand impulsive. "And I don't carehow many cubist pictures you paint up there so long as you ain't noisyabout it."
He fingers his soft hat nervous, smiles sort of embarrassed, andremarks, "But--but I'm not an artist either, you know."
"Well, well!" says I. "Two misses, and still in the air. Is it anythingyou can speak of in public?"
"Why," says he, "I--I've said very little about it, as a matter of fact,but--but I am doing a little research work in--in anthropology."
"Good night!" says I. "Mixin' things up that's liable to blow the roofoff, ain't it?"
"Why, no," says he, starin' at me puzzled. "It's merely studying racialcharacteristics, making comparisons, and so on. Incidentally, I--I'mwriting a book, I suppose."
"Oh!" says I. "Authoring? Well, there's no law against it, and ink ischeap. Go to it, Eggy! Top floor, first door to your left."
And that seems to be the finish of the Ham incident. All was peaceful inthe light shaft,--no squeaky high C's, no tump-tump-tump on the piano:just the faint tinkle of a typewriter bell now and then to remind usthat Eggy was still there. Once in awhile I'd pass him on the stairs,and he'd nod bashful but friendly and then scuttle by like a rabbit.
"Must be a hot book he's writin'!" thinks I, and forgets his existenceuntil the next time.
The summer moseys along, me bein' busy with this and that, goin' andcomin' back, until here the other day when things is dullest Pinckneycalls up from the club and announces that he's got a new customer forme, someone very special.
"Visitin' royalty, or what?" says I.
"Winthrop Hubbard," says he impressive.
"The guy that invented squash pie?" says I.
"No, no!" peeves Pinckney. "The son of Joshua Q. Hubbard, you know."
"I get you," says I. "The Boston cotton mill plute that come so nearbitin' a chunk out of the new tariff bill. But I thought he wasentertainin' the French Ambassador or someone at his Newport place?"
Well, he was; but this is only a flyin' trip. Seems Son Winthrop hadfin'ly been persuaded to begin his business career by bein' made firstvice president of the General Sales Company, that handled the export endof the trust's affairs. So, right in the height of his season, he's hadto scratch his Horse Show entries, drop polo practice, and move into ameasly six-room suite in one of them new Fifth-ave. hotels, with threehours of soul-wearin' officework ahead of him five days out of seven.He'd been at the grind a month now, and Mother had worried so about hishealth that Joshua Q. himself had come down to observe the awfulresults. Meanwhile Josh had been listenin' to Pinckney boostin' thePhysical Culture Studio as the great restorer, and he'd been aboutpersuaded that Son ought to take on something of the kind.
"But he wants to see you first," says Pinckney. "You understand. They'rerather particular persons, the Hubbards,--fine old Plymouth stock, andall that."
"Me too," says I. "I'm just as fussy as the next--old Ellis Islandstock, remember."
"Oh, bother!" says Pinckney. "Will you come up and meet him, or won'tyou?"
It wa'n't reg'lar; but as long as he's a friend of Pinckney's I said Iwould.
And, say, Joshua Q. looks the part, all right. One of these imposin',dignified, well kept old sports, with pink cheeks, a long, straightnose, and close-set, gray-blue eyes. They're the real crusty stuff,after all, them Back Bay plutes. For one thing, most of 'em have been atit longer. Take J. Q. Hubbard. Why, I expect he begun havin' his nailsmanicured before he was ten, and has had his own man to lay out hisdinner clothes ever since he got into long pants.
Nothin' provincial about him, either. Takes his trip across every winterreg'lar, and I suppose he's as much at home on Unter den Linden, or thePlace de Concord or Neva Prospect as he is on Tremont-st. And, sittin'there sippin' his hock and seltzer, gazin' languid out on Fifth-ave., hegives kind of a classy tone to one of the swellest clubs in New York.There ain't any snobbish frills to him, though. He gets right down tobrass tacks.
"McCabe," says he, "what class of persons do you have as patrons."
"Why," says I, "mostly Wall Street men, with a sprinklin' of afternoontea Johnnies, such as Pinckney here."
"No objectionable persons, I trust?" says he.
"Any roughneck gets the quick dump," says I.
"Ah, I think I catch your meaning," says he, "and I've no doubt yourestablishment can supply precisely what my son needs in the way ofexercise. I suppose, however, I'd best see for myself. May we go now?"
"Sure," says I. "No special visitin' days."
"Then I'll 'phone Winthrop to meet us there," says he.
Seems he couldn't get Son direct; but he leaves word at his office, andthen off we goes in Pinckney's limousine de luxe. It ain't often I worryany about the outside looks of things at the joint; but somehow, withthis elegant old party comin' to inspect, I was kind of hopin' thestairs had been swept and that Swifty Joe wouldn't have any of his RedHook friends callin' on him.
So I most gasps when we piles out in front of the studio and finds a mobthat extends from the curb to the front door. Not only that, but thelower hall is crowded, and they line the stairs halfway up. And such abunch! Waps, Dagoes, Matzers, Syrians, all varieties.
"By Jove, though!" says Pinckney. "What's all this?"
"Looks like someone was openin' a sweatshop in the buildin', don't it!"says I. "If that's so, here's where I break my lease."
"Really," says Mr. Hubbard, eyin' the crowd doubtful, "I hardly believeI care to----"
"Ah, I'll clear 'em out in two shakes," says I. "Just follow after me.Hey, you! _Heim gagen_. Mushong! Gangway, gangway!" and I motionsthreatenin'. "Ah, beat it, you garlic destroyers!" I sings out. "Back upthere, and take your feet with you! Back, you fathe
ads!" and I sends onecaromin' to the right and another spinnin' to the left.
The best I could do, though, was to open a three-foot lane through 'em,and there they stuck, lined up on either side like they was waitin' fora parade. It was something like that too,--me leadin' the way, Pinckneysteerin' J. Q. by the arm. We'd got inside the doorway without a wordbein' said, when a bright-eyed Dago girl with a rainbow-tintedhandkerchief about her neck breaks the spell.
"Picture, Meester--take-a da picture?" says she pleadin'. With that theothers breaks loose. "Picture, Meester! Please-a, Meester? Picture,picture!" They says it in all sorts of dialects, with all sorts ofvariations, all beggin' for the same thing. "Picture, picture!" Theyreaches out, grabbin' at our coat sleeves. Three of 'em had hold of J.Q. at once when I whirls on 'em.
"Ah, ditch the chorus!" I yells at 'em. "What do you think this is,anyway, a movie outfit? Get back there! Hands off, or I call the cops!"
It's strenuous work; but I manages to quiet 'em long enough for Pinckneyand Mr. Hubbard to get through and slip up to the studio. Then I triesto shoo the bunch into the street; but they don't shoo for a cent. Theystill demands to have their pictures taken.
"Say, you Carlotta, there!" says I, singlin' out the Dago girl. "Whogave you this nutty picture hunch?"
"Why, Meester Hama," says she. "Nice-a man, Meester Hama."
"Is he?" says I. "Well, you wait here until I see him about this.Wait--understand?" With that I skips upstairs, and explains the mysteryof our bein' mobbed. "It's a whiskered freak on the top floor they'reafter," says I. "Swifty, run up and get that Ham and Eggs gent. I'myearnin' for speech with him. I don't know what this is all about; butI'll soon see, and block any encores."
"Quite right," says Mr. Hubbard. "This is all extremely annoying. Such arabble!"
"Positively disgusting!" adds Pinckney. "A crowd of smelly foreigners!Shorty, you should put a stop to this."
"Trust me," says I. "Ah, here we have the guilty party!" and in comesSwifty towin' Eggleston K. by the collar. No wonder Eggy is someagitated, after bein' hauled down two flights in that fashion!
"Well," says I, as Swifty stands him up in front of us. "Who are youroutside friends, and why?"
"My--my friends?" says he. "I--I don't understand. And I must protest,you know, against this manner of----"
"Gwan!" says I. "I'm doin' all the protestin' here. And I want to knowwhat you mean by collectin' such a crowd of steerage junk that mycustomers can't get in without bein' mobbed? Howled for us to take theirpictures, and mentioned your name."
"Oh! Pictures!" and Eggy seems to get the key. "Why, I--I'd forgotten."
"Can you beat that?" says I. "He'd forgotten! Well, they hadn't. Butwhat's the idea, anyway? Collectin' fam'ly portraits of prominentgunmen, or what?"
"It--it's my way of getting material for my work," says Eggleston. "Yousee, through some friends in a settlement house, I get to know thesepeople. I take snapshots of them for nothing. They like to send thepictures back home, you know, and I can use some of them myself."
"In the book?" says I.
"Perhaps," says Eggy, blushin'. "I had promised a few of them to takesome studio pictures if they would come up to-day."
"And they didn't do a thing but bring all their friends," says I. "Mustbe fifty of them down there. You'll have a thick book before you getthrough."
"I beg pardon," puts in Mr. Hubbard, leanin' forward int'rested, "butmay I ask the nature of the book?"
"It--it's to be about our foreign-born citizens," says Eggy.
"Ah, I see!" says J. Q. "Pointing out the evils of unrestrictedimmigration, I presume?"
"Well--er--not exactly," says Eggy.
"Then I should advise you to make it so," says Mr. Hubbard. "In fact, ifthe subject were well handled, and the case put strongly enough to meetmy views, I think I could assure its immediate publication."
"Oh, would you?" says Eggleston, real eager. "But--but what are yourviews as to our treatment of aliens?"
"My programme is quite simple," says Mr. Hubbard. "I would stop allimmigration at once, absolutely. Then I would deport all persons offoreign birth who had not become citizens."
Eggy gasped. "But--but that would be unjust!" says he. "Why, it would bemonstrous! Surely, you are not in earnest?"
Mr. Hubbard's eyelids narrow, his jaw stiffens, and he emphasizes eachword by tappin' his knee. "I'd like to see it done to-morrow," says he."Check this flood of immigration, and you solve half of our economic andindustrial problems. Too long we have allowed this country to be ageneral dumping ground for the scum of Europe. Everyone admits that."
"If you please," says Eggy, runnin' his fingers through his beardnervous, "I could not agree to that. On the contrary, my theory is thatwe owe a great deal of our progress and our success to the foreignborn."
"Oh, indeed!" remarks Mr. Hubbard, cold and sharp. "And you mean to tryto prove that in your book?"
"Something like that," admits Eggy.
"Then, Sir," goes on J. Q., "I must tell you that I consider you a mostmischievous, if not dangerous person, and I feel it my duty todiscourage such misdirected enterprise. Aren't you an instructor ineconomics under Professor Hartnett?"
Eggy pleads guilty.
"I thought I recognized the name," says J. Q. "Well, Mr. Ham, I amJoshua Q. Hubbard, and, as you may know, I happen to be one of thegoverning board of that college; so I warn you now, if you insist onpublishing such a book as you have suggested, you may expectconsequences."
For a minute that seems to stun Eggleston. He stares at Mr. Hubbard,blinkin' his eyes rapid and swallowin' hard. Then he appears to recover."But--but are you not somewhat prejudiced?" says he. "I think I couldshow you, Sir, that these poor aliens----"
"Mr. Ham," says J. Q. decided, "I know exactly what I am talking about;not from hearsay, but from actual experience. Hundreds of thousands ofdollars these wretched foreigners have cost me within the last fewyears. Why, that last big strike cut dividends almost in half! And whocauses all the strikes, is at the bottom of all labor disturbances? Theforeign element. If I had my way, I'd call out the regular army anddrive every last one of them into the sea."
You'd most thought that would have squelched Eggy. I was lookin' for himto back through the door on his hands and knees. But all he does isstand there lookin' J. Q. Hubbard square in the eye and smilin' quiet.
"Yes, I've heard sentiments like that before," says he. "I presume, Mr.Hubbard, that you know many of your mill operatives personally?"
"No," says J. Q., "and I have no desire to. I haven't been inside one ofour mills in fifteen years."
"I see," says Eggy. "You keep in touch with your employeesthrough--er--your bankbook? But is it fair to judge them as men andwomen wholly on their ability to produce dividends for you?"
"As an employer of labor, what other test would you have me apply?" saysJ. Q.
"Then you are classing them with machines," says Eggy.
"No," says Mr. Hubbard. "I can depend upon my looms not to go onstrike."
"But you own your looms," says Eggleston. "Your loom tenders are humanbeings."
"When they mob strike breakers they behave more like wild animals, andthen you've got to treat 'em as such," raps back J. Q.
"Are you quite certain that the standards of humanity you set up arejust?" asks Eggy. "You know people are beginning to question yourabsolute right to fix arbitrarily the hours and wages and conditions oflabor. They are suggesting that your mills produce tuberculosis as wellas cloth. They are showing that, in your eagerness for dividends, youwork women and children too long, and that you don't pay them a livingwage."
"Rot!" snorts J. Q. "These are all the mushy theories ofsentimentalists. What else are these foreigners good for?"
"Ah, there you get to it!" says Eggy. "Aren't they too valuable to beground up in your dusty mills? Can they not be made into usefulcitizens?"
"No, they can't," snaps Mr. Hubbard. "It's been tried too often. Look atthe results. Who fill our jails? Foreigne
rs! Who swarm in our filthycity slums? Foreigners! They are the curse of this country. Look at thewretched mob you have brought about your heels to-day, those outsidethere. There's a sample."
"If you only would look and understand!" says Eggleston. "Won'tyou--now? It will take only a little of your time, and I'll promise tokeep them in order. Oh, if you'd only let me!"
"Let you what?" demands J. Q., starin' puzzled.
"Introduce a few of them to you properly," says Eggy; "only four orfive. Come, a handful of simple-minded peasants can't hurt you. They'repoor, and ignorant, and not especially clean, I'll admit; but I'll keepthem at a proper distance. You see, I want to show you something aboutthem. Of course, you're afraid you'll lose your cherishedprejudices----"
"I'm afraid of nothing of the sort," breaks in Mr. Hubbard. "Go on. Have'em up, if McCabe is willing."
"Eh?" says I. "Bring that mob up here?"
"Just a few," pleads Eggy, "and for ten minutes only."
"It might be sport," suggests Pinckney.
"I'll take a chance," says I. "We can disinfect afterwards."
Eggy dashes off, and after a lively jabberin' below comes back with hisselected specimens. Not a one looks as though he'd been over more'n ayear, and some are still wearin' the outlandish rigs they landed in.Then Eggy begins introducin' 'em. And, say, you'd hardly know him forthe same bashful, wispy party that Swifty had dragged in a little whilebefore. Honest, as he warms to it, he sort of swells up and straightens,he squares his shoulders, his voice rings out confident, and his eyesbehind the thick glasses are all aglow.
"We will dispense with names," says he; "but here is a native of Sicily.He is about thirty-five years old, and he worked in the salt mines forsomething like twelve cents a day from the time he was ten until he cameover here under contract to a padrone a few months ago. So you see hispossibilities for mental development have been limited. But his muscleshave been put to use in helping dig a new subway for us. We hope,however, that in the future his latent talents may be brought out. Thatbeing the case, he is possibly the grandfather of the man who in 1965will write for us an American opera better than anything ever producedby Verdi. Why not?"
We gawps at the grandfather of the musical genius of 1965 and grins.He's a short, squatty, low-browed party with gold rings in his ears anda smallpox-pitted face. He gazes doubtful at Eggleston durin' the talk,and at the finish grins back at us. Likely he thought Eggy'd been makin'a comic speech.
"An ingenious prophecy," says Mr. Hubbard; "but unfortunately allItalians are not Verdis."
"Few have the chance to be," says Eggy. "That is what America shouldmean to them,--opportunity. We shall benefit by giving it to them too.Look at our famous bands: at least one-third Italians. Why, nine-tenthsof the music that delights us is made for us by the foreign born! Wouldyou drive all those into the sea?"
"Absurd!" says Mr. Hubbard. "I referred only to the lower classes, ofcourse. But let's get on. What next?"
Eggy looks over the line, picks out a square-jawed, bull-headed,pie-faced Yon Yonson, with stupid, stary, skim-milk eyes, and leads himto the front. "A direct descendant of the old Vikings," says he, "afellow countryman of the heroic Stefansson, of Amundsen. Just now heworks as a longshoreman. But give him a fair chance, and his son's sonwill turn out to be the first Admiral of the Federal Fleet of Commercethat is to be,--a fleet of swift government freighters that shall knitclosely together our ports with all the ports of the Seven Seas.Gentlemen, I present to you the ancestor of an Admiral!"
Pinckney chuckles and nudges Mr. Hubbard. Yonson bats his stupid eyesonce or twice, and lets himself be pushed back.
"Go on," says J. Q., scowlin'. "I suppose you'll produce next thegrandfather of a genius who will head the National Pie Bureau of thenext century?"
"Not precisely," says Eggy, beckonin' up a black-haired, brown-eyedPolish Jewess. "A potential grandmother this time. She helps an aunt whoconducts a little kosher delicatessen shop in a Hester-st. basement. Hergranddaughter is to organize the movement for communal dietetics, bymeans of which our children's children are all to be fed on properlycooked food, scientifically prepared, and delivered hot at a nominalprice. She will banish dyspepsia from the land, make obsolete thehousehold drudge, and eliminate the antique kitchen from twenty millionhomes. Perhaps they will put up a statue in her memory."
"Humph!" snorts Mr. Hubbard. "Is that one of H. G. Wells' silly dreams?"
"You flatter me," says Eggy; "but you give me courage to venture stillfurther. Now we come to the Slav." He calls up a thin, peak-nosed,wild-eyed gink who's wearin' a greasy waiter's coat and a coffee-stainedwhite shirt. "From a forty-cent table d'hote restaurant," goes onEggleston. "An alert, quick-moving, deft-handed person--valuablequalities, you will admit. Develop those in his grandson, give him thetraining of a National Academy of Technical Arts, bring out therepressed courage and self-confidence, and you will produce--well, letus say, the Chief Pilot of the Aero Transportation Department, the manto whom Congress will vote an honorary pension for winning the firstWashington-to-Buenos Ayres race in a three-hundred-foot LippmannStabilized quadroplane, carrying fifty passengers and two tons of mailand baggage."
Mr. Hubbard gazes squint-eyed at the waiter and sniffs.
"Come, now, who knows?" insists Eggy. "These humble people whom you sodespise need only an opportunity. Can we afford to shut them out? Don'twe need them as much as they need us?"
"Mr. Ham," says J. Q., shuttin' his jaws grim, "my motto is, 'Americafor Americans!'"
"And mine," says Eggy, facin' him defiant, "is 'Americans for America!'"
"You're a scatterbrained visionary!" snaps J. Q. "You and your potentialgrandfather rubbish! What about the grandsons of good Americans? Do younot reckon them in at all in your----"
"Whe-e-e-e! Whoop!" comes from the hall, the front office door is kickedopen joyous, and in comes a tall, light-haired, blue-eyed young gent,with his face well pinked up and his hat on the back of his head. He'sarm in arm with a shrimpy, Frenchy lookin' party wearin' a silk lid anda frock coat. They pushes unsteady through Eggy's illustrious ancestorbunch and comes to parade rest in the center of the stage.
"Winthrop!" gasps Mr. Hubbard.
"Eh?" gasps the young gent, starin' round uncertain until he locates J.Q. Then he makes a stab at straightenin' up. "'S a' right, Governor," hegoes on, "'s a' right. Been givin' lil' lu-luncheon to for'nrep'sen'tives. Put 'em all out but An-Andorvski, and he's nothing but afish--deuced Russian fish. Eh, Droski?"
Believe me, with J. Q. Hubbard turnin' purple in the gills, and all themcheap foreigners lookin' on bug-eyed, it wa'n't any humorous scene. Withthe help of the waiter and the longshoreman they loads Winthrop and hisfriend into a taxi, and Pinckney starts with 'em for the nearest Turkishbath. The grandfather debate is adjourned for good.
I was talkin' it over with Swifty Joe, who, havin' been born in CountyKerry and brought up in South Brooklyn, is sore on foreigners of allkinds. Course, he sides hearty with Mr. Hubbard.
"Ahr-r-r-chee!" says he. "That Hamand boob, stickin' up for the Waps andGuineas, he--he's a nut, a last year's nut!"
"Hardly that, Swifty," says I. "A next year's nut, I should say."