Produced by Barbara Tozier and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE DAY OF DAYS
BY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
THE DAY OF DAYSTHE DESTROYING ANGELTHE BANDBOXCYNTHIA-OF-THE-MINUTENO MAN'S LANDTHE FORTUNE HUNTERTHE POOL OF FLAMETHE BRONZE BELLTHE BLACK BAGTHE BRASS BOWLTHE PRIVATE WARTERENCE O'ROURKE
"What I want to say is--will you be my guest at thetheatre tonight?" FRONTISPIECE.]
THE DAY OF DAYS
_AN EXTRAVAGANZA_
BY
LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
AUTHOR OF "THE BRASS BOWL," "THE BLACK BAG," "THE BANDBOX," "THEDESTROYING ANGEL," ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR WILLIAM BROWN
BOSTONLITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1913
_Copyright, 1912, 1913_,BY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE.
_All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreignlanguages, including the Scandinavian._
Published, February, 1913Reprinted, March, 1913
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE DUB II. INSPIRATION III. THE GLOVE COUNTER IV. A LIKELY STORY V. THE COMIC SPIRIT VI. SPRING TWILIGHT VII. AFTERMATH VIII. WHEELS OF CHANCE IX. THE PLUNGER X. UNDER FIRE XI. BURGLARY UNDER ARMS XII. THE LADY OF THE HOUSE XIII. RESPECTABILITY XIV. WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD XV. SUCH STUFF AS PLOTS ARE MADE OF XVI. BEELZEBUB XVII. IN A BALCONYXVIII. THE BROOCH XIX. NEMESIS XX. NOVEMBER XXI. THE SORTIE XXII. TOGETHERXXIII. PERCEVAL UNASHAMED
ILLUSTRATIONS
"What I want to say is--will you be my guest at the theatre tonight?"
"You are the one woman in a thousand who knows enough to look beforeshe shoots!"
Facing her, he lifted his scarlet visor.
He was Red November.
THE DAY OF DAYS
I
THE DUB
"Smell," P. Sybarite mused aloud....
For an instant he was silent in depression. Then with extraordinaryvehemence he continued crescendo: "Stupid-stagnant-sepulchral-sempiternally-sticky-Smell!"
He paused for both breath and words--pondered with bended head,knitting his brows forbiddingly.
"Supremely squalid, sinisterly sebaceous, sombrely sociable Smell!" hepursued violently.
Momentarily his countenance cleared; but his smile was as fugitive asthe favour of princes.
Vindictively champing the end of a cedar penholder, he groped forexpression: "Stygian ... sickening ... surfeiting ... slovenly ...sour...."
He shook his head impatiently and clawed the impregnated atmospherewith a tragic hand.
"_Stench!_" he perorated in a voice tremulous with emotion.
Even that comprehensive monosyllable was far from satisfactory.
"Oh, what's the use?" P. Sybarite despaired.
Alliteration could no more; his mother-tongue itself seemedpoverty-stricken, his native wit inadequate. With decent meekness heowned himself unfit for the task to which he had set himself.
"I'm only a dub," he groaned--"a poor, God-forsaken, prematurely agedand indigent dub!"
For ten interminable years the aspiration to do justice to the Geniusof the Place had smouldered in his humble bosom; to-day for the firsttime he had attempted to formulate a meet apostrophe to that God ofhis Forlorn Destiny; and now he chewed the bitter cud of realisationthat all his eloquence had proved hopelessly poor and lame andhalting.
Perched on the polished seat of a very tall stool, his slender legsfraternising with its legs in apparently inextricable intimacy; sharpelbows digging into the nicked and ink-stained bed of a counting-housedesk; chin some six inches above the pages of a huge leather-coveredledger, hair rumpled and fretful, mouth doleful, eyes disconsolate--hegloomed...
On this the eve of his thirty-second birthday and likewise the tenthanniversary of his servitude, the appearance of P. Sybarite waselaborately normal--varying, as it did, but slightly from oneyear's-end to the other.
His occupation had fitted his head and shoulders with a deceptive butnone the less perennial stoop. His means had endowed him with a singleoutworn suit of ready-made clothing which, shrinking sensitively oneach successive application of the tailor's sizzling goose, had cometo disclose his person with disconcerting candour--sleeves too short,trousers at once too short and too narrow, waistcoat buttons strainingover his chest, coat buttons refusing to recognise a buttonhole savethat at the waist. Circumstances these that added measurably to hisapparent age, lending him the semblance of maturity attained whilestill in the shell of youth.
The ruddy brown hair thatching his well-modelled head, his sanguinecolouring, friendly blue eyes and mobile lips suggested Irish lineage;and his hands which, though thin and clouded with smears of ink, werestrong and graceful (like the slender feet in his shabby shoes) boreout the suggestion with an added hint of gentle blood.
But whatever his antecedents, the fact is indisputable that P.Sybarite, just then, was most miserable, and not without cause; forthe Genius of the Place held his soul in Its melancholy bondage.
The Place was the counting-room in the warehouse of Messrs. Whigham &Wimper, _Hides & Skins_; and the Genius of it was the reek of hidesboth raw and dressed--an effluvium incomparable, a passionateindividualist of an odour, as rich as the imagination of an editor ofSunday supplements, as rare as a reticent author, as friendly as astray puppy.
For ten endless years the body and soul of P. Sybarite had been thrallto that Smell; for a complete decade he had inhaled it continuouslynine hours each day, six days each week--and had felt lonesome withoutit on every seventh day.
But to-day all his being was in revolt, bitterly, hopelessly mutinousagainst this evil and overbearing Genius....
The warehouse--impregnable lair of the Smell, from which it leeredsmug defiance at the sea-sweet atmosphere of the lower city--occupieda walled-in arch of the Brooklyn Bridge, fronting on Frankfort Street,in that part of Town still known to elder inhabitants as "the Swamp."Above rumbled the everlasting inter-borough traffic; to the right, onrising ground, were haunts of roaring type-mills grinding an endlessgrist of news; to the left, through a sudden dip and down a longdecline, a world of sober-sided warehouses, degenerating into slums,circumscribed by sleepy South Street; all, this afternoon, warm andlanguorous in the lazy breeze of a sunny April Saturday.
The counting-room was a cubicle contrived by enclosing a corner of theground-floor with two walls and a ceiling of match-boarding. Into thisconstricted space were huddled two imposing roll-top desks, P.Sybarite's high counter, and the small flat desk of the shippingclerk, with an iron safe, a Remington typewriter, a copy-press, sundrychairs and spittoons, a small gas-heater, and many tottering columnsof dusty letter-files. The window-panes, encrusted with perennialdeposits of Atmosphere, were less transparent than translucent, and solittle the latter that electric bulbs burned all day long whenever theskies were overcast. Also, the windows were fixed and set against theouter air--impregnable to any form of assault less impulsive than astone cast by an irresponsible hand. A door, set craftily in the mostinconvenient spot imaginable, afforded both ventilation and access toan aisle which led tortuously between bales of hides to doors openingupon a waist-high stage, where trucks backed up to receive and todeliver.
Immured in this retreat, P. Sybarite was very much shut away from alljoy of living--alone with his job (which at present nothing pressed)with Giant Despair and its interlocutor Ennui, and with that blatant,brutish, implacable Smell of Smells....
To all of these, abruptly and with ceremony, Mr. George Bross,shipping clerk, introduced himself: a brawny young man inshirt-sleeves, wearing a visorless cap of soiled linen, an apron ofstriped tickin
g, pencils behind both angular red ears, and a smudge ofmarking-ink together with a broad irritating smile upon a clownishcountenance.
Although in receipt of a smaller wage than P. Sybarite (who earnedfifteen dollars per week) George squandered fifteen cents onnewspapers every Sunday morning for sheer delight in the illuminated"funny sheets."
In one hand he held an envelope.
Draping himself elegantly over Mr. Wimper's desk, George regarded P.Sybarite with an indulgent and compassionate smile and wagged adoggish head at him. From these symptoms inferring that hisfellow-employee was in the throes of a witticism, P. Sybarite cockedan apprehensive eye and tightened his thin-lipped, sensitive mouth.
"O you--!" said George; and checked to enjoy a rude giggle.
At this particular moment a mind-reader would have been justified inregarding P. Sybarite with suspicion. But beyond taking the pen frombetween his teeth he didn't move; and he said nothing at all.
The shipping clerk presently controlled his mirth sufficiently topermit unctuous enunciation of the following cryptic exclamation:
"O you Perceval!"
P. Sybarite turned pale.
"You little rascal!" continued George, brandishing the envelope."You've been cunning, you have; but I've found you out at last...._Per_-ce-val!"
Over the cheeks of P. Sybarite crept a delicate tint of pink. His eyeswavered and fell. He looked, and was, acutely unhappy.
"You're a sly one, you are," George gloated--"always signin' your name'P. Sybarite' and pretendin' your maiden monaker was 'Peter'! But nowwe know you! Take off them whiskers--Perceval!"
A really wise mind-reader would have called a policeman, then andthere; for mayhem was the least of the crimes contemplated by P.Sybarite. But restraining himself, he did nothing more thandisentangle his legs, slip down from the tall stool, and approach Mr.Bross with an outstretched hand.
"If that letter's for me," he said quietly, "give it here, please."
"Special d'liv'ry--just come," announced George, holding the letterhigh, out of easy reach, while he read in exultant accents thetraitorous address: "'Perceval Sybarite, Esquire, Care of Messrs.Whigham and Wimper'! O you Perceval--Esquire!"
"Give me my letter," P. Sybarite insisted without raising his voice.
"Gawd knows _I_ don't want it," protested George. "I got no truck withyour swell friends what know your real name and write to you onper-_fumed_ paper with monograms and everything."
He held the envelope close to his nose and sniffed in ecstasy until itwas torn rudely from his grasp.
"Here!" he cried resentfully. "Where's your manners?... Perceval!"
Dumb with impotent rage, P. Sybarite climbed back on his stool, whileGeorge sat down at his desk, lighted a Sweet Caporal (it was afterthree o'clock and both the partners were gone for the day) and with aleer watched the bookkeeper carefully slit the envelope and withdrawits enclosures.
Ignoring him, P. Sybarite ran his eye through the few lines of notablycareless feminine handwriting:
MY DEAR PERCEVAL,--
Mother & I had planned to take some friends to the theatre to-night and bought a box for the Knickerbocker several weeks ago, but now we have decided to go to Mrs. Hadley-Owen's post-Lenten masquerade ball instead, and as none of our friends can use the tickets, I thought possibly you might like them. They say Otis Skinner is _wonderful_. Of course you may not care to sit in a stage box without a dress suit, but perhaps you won't mind. If you do, maybe you know somebody else who could go properly dressed.
Your aff'te cousin,
MAE ALYS.
The colour deepened in P. Sybarite's cheeks, and instantaneouspin-pricks of fire enlivened his long-suffering eyes. But again hesaid nothing. And since his eyes were downcast, George was unaware oftheir fitful incandescence.
Puffing vigorously at his cigarette, he rocked back and forth on thehind legs of his chair and crowed in jubilation: "Perceval! O yougreat, big, beautiful Perc'!"
P. Sybarite made a motion as if to tear the note across, hesitated,and reconsidered. Through a long minute he sat thoughtfully examiningthe tickets presented him by his aff'te cousin.
In his ears rang the hideous tumult of George's joy:
"_Per-ce-val!_"
Drawing to him one of the Whigham & Wimper letterheads, P. Sybaritedipped a pen, considered briefly, and wrote rapidly and freely in aminute hand:
MY DEAR MAE ALYS:--
Every man has his price. You know mine. Pocketing false pride, I accept your bounty with all the gratitude and humility becoming in a poor relation. And if arrested for appearing in the box without evening clothes, I promise solemnly to brazen it out, pretend that I bought the tickets myself--or stole them--and keep the newspapers ignorant of our kinship. Fear not--trust me--and enjoy the masque as much as I mean to enjoy "Kismet."
And if you would do me the greatest of favours--should you ever again find an excuse to write me on any matter, please address me by the initial of my ridiculous first name only; it is of course impossible for me to live down the deep damnation of having been born a Sybarite; but the indulgence of my friends can save me the further degradation of being known as Perceval.
With thanks renewed and profound, I remain, all things considered,
Remotely yours,
P. SYBARITE.
This he sealed and addressed in a stamped envelope: then thrust hispen into a raw but none the less antique potato; covered the red andblack inkwells; closed the ledger; locked the petty-cash box and putit away; painstakingly arranged the blotters, paste-pot, and all theclerical paraphernalia of his desk; and slewed round on his stool toblink pensively at Mr. Bross.
That gentleman, having some time since despaired of any response tohis persistent baiting, was now preoccupied with a hand-mirror andendeavours to erase the smudge of marking-ink from his face by meansof a handkerchief which he now and again moistened in an engaginglynatural and unaffected manner.
"It's no use, George," observed P. Sybarite presently. "If you're inearnest in these public-spirited endeavours to--how would you putit?--to remove the soil from your map, take a tip from an old hand andgo to soap and water. I know it's painful, but, believe me, it's theonly way."
George looked up in some surprise.
"Why, _there_ you are, little Bright Eyes!" he exclaimed with spirit."I was beginnin' to be afraid this sittin' would pass off without avisit from Uncle George's pet control. Had little Perceval any messagefrom the Other Side th'safternoon?"
"One or two," assented P. Sybarite gravely. "To begin with, I'm goingto shut up shop in just five minutes; and if you don't want to showyourself on the street looking like a difference of opinion between abull-calf and a fountain pen--"
"Gotcha," interrupted George, rising and putting away handkerchief andmirror. "I'll drown myself, if you say so. Anythin's better'n lettingyou talk me to death."
"One thing more."
Splashing vigorously at the stationary wash-stand, George lookedgloomily over his shoulder, and in sepulchral accents uttered the oneword:
"Shoot!"
"How would you like to go to the theatre to-night?"
George soaped noisily his huge red hands.
"I'd like it so hard," he replied, "that I'm already dated up for anevenin' of intellect'al enjoyment. Me and Sammy Holt 'a goin' round toMiner's Eight' Avenoo and bust up the show. You can trail if youwanta, but don't blame me if some big, coarse, two-fisted guy hears mecall you Perceval and picks on you."
He bent forward over the bowl, and the cubicle echoed with sounds ofsplashing broken by gasps, splutters, and gurgles, until hestraightened up, groped blindly for two yards or so of dark greyroller-towel ornamenting the adjacent wall, buried his face in itshospitable obscurity, and presently emerged to daylight with acountenance bright and shining above his chin, below his eyebrows, andin front of his ears.
"How's that?" he demanded explosively. "Come off all right--didn'tit?"
P. Sybarite inclined
his head to one side and regarded the outcome ofa reform administration.
"You look almost naked around the nose," he remarked at length. "Butyou'll do. Don't worry.... When I asked if you'd like to go to thetheatre to-night, I meant it--and I meant a regular show, at aBroadway house."
"Quit your kiddin'," countered Mr. Bross indulgently. "Come along: Igot an engagement to walk home and save a nickel, and so've you."
"Wait a minute," insisted P. Sybarite, without moving. "I'm in earnestabout this. I offer you a seat in a stage-box at the KnickerbockerTheatre to-night, to see Otis Skinner in 'Kismet.'"
George's eyes opened simultaneously with his mouth.
"Me?" he gasped. "Alone?"
P. Sybarite shook his head. "One of a party of four."
"Who else?" George demanded with pardonable caution.
"Miss Prim, Miss Leasing, myself."
Removing his apron of ticking, the shipping clerk opened a drawer inhis desk, took put a pair of cuffs, and begun to adjust them to thewristbands of his shirt.
"Since when did you begin to snuff coke?" he enquired with mildcompassion.
"I'm not joking." P. Sybarite displayed the tickets. "A friend sent methese. I'll make up the party for to-night as I said, and let you comealong--on one condition."
"Go to it."
"You must promise me to quit calling me Perceval, here or any placeelse, to-day and forever!"
George chuckled; paused; frowned; regarded P. Sybarite with narrowsuspicion.
"And never tell anybody, either," added the other, in deadly earnest.
George hesitated.
"Well, it's your _name_, ain't it?" he grumbled.
"That's not my fault. I'll be damned if I'll be called Perceval."
"And what if I keep on?"
"Then I'll make up my theatre party without you--and break your neckinto the bargain," said P. Sybarite intensely.
"You?" George laughed derisively. "You break _my_ neck? Can thecomedy, beau. Why, I could eat you alive, Perceval."
P. Sybarite got down from his stool. His face was almost colourless,but for two bright red spots, the size of quarters, beneath eithercheek-bone. He was half a head shorter than the shipping clerk, andapparently about half as wide; but there was sincerity in his mannerand an ominous snap in the unflinching stare of his blue eyes.
"Please yourself," he said quietly. "Only--don't say I didn't warnyou!"
"Ah-h!" sneered George, truculent in his amazement. "What's eatin'you?"
"We're going to settle this question before you leave this warehouse.I won't be called Perceval by you or any other pink-eared crossbetween Balaam's ass and a laughing hyena."
Mr. Bross gaped with resentment, which gradually overcame his betterjudgment.
"You won't, eh?" he said stridently. "I'd like to know what you'regoing to do to stop me, Perce--"
P. Sybarite stepped quickly toward him and George, with a growl, threwout his hands in a manner based upon a somewhat hazy conception of theformulae of self-defence. To his surprise, the open hand of the smallerman slipped swiftly past what he called his "guard" and placed asmart, stinging slap upon lips open to utter the syllable "val."
Bearing with indignation, he swung his right fist heavily for the headof P. Sybarite. Somehow, strangely, it missed its goal and ...
George Bross sat upon the dusty, grimy floor, batted his eyes,ruefully rubbed the back of his head, and marvelled at thereverberations inside it.
Then he became conscious of P. Sybarite some three feet distant,regarding him with tight-lipped interest.
"Good God!" George ejaculated with feeling. "Did _you_ do that to me?"
"I did," returned P. Sybarite curtly. "Want me to prove it?"
"Plenty, thanks," returned the shipping clerk morosely, as he pickedhimself up and dusted off his clothing. "Gee! You got a wallop likethe kick of a mule, Per--"
"Cut that!"
"P.S., I mean," George amended hastily. "Why didn't you ever tell meyou was Jeffries's sparrin' partner?"
"I'm not and never was, and furthermore I didn't hit you," replied P.Sybarite. "All I did was to let you fall over my foot and bump yourhead on the floor. You're a clumsy brute, you know, George, and if youtried it another time you _might_ dent that dome of yours. Betteraccept my offer and be friends."
"Never call you Per--"
"Don't say it!"
"Oh, all right--all right," George agreed plaintively. "And if Ipromise, I'm in on that theatre party?"
"That's my offer."
"It's hard," George sighed regretfully--"damn' hard. But whatever_you_ say goes. I'll keep your secret."
"Good!" P. Sybarite extended one of his small, delicately modelledhands. "Shake," said he, smiling wistfully.