II
INSPIRATION
When they had locked in the Genius of the Place to batten upon itselfuntil seven o'clock Monday morning, P. Sybarite and Mr. Bross, with atleast every outward semblance of complete amity, threaded the roaringcongestion in narrow-chested Frankfort Street, boldly breasted theflood tide of homing Brooklynites, won their way through City HallPark, and were presently swinging shoulder to shoulder up the sunnyside of lower Broadway.
To be precise, the swinging stride was practised only by Mr. Bross; P.Sybarite, instinctively aware that any such mode of locomotion wouldill become one of his inches, contented himself with keeping up--hisgait an apparently effortless, tireless, and comfortable amble,congruent with bowed shoulders, bended head, introspective eyes, andhis aspect in general of patient preoccupation.
From time to time George, who was maintaining an unnatural and painfulsilence, his mental processes stagnant with wonder and dullresentment, eyed his companion askance, with furtive suspicion. Theirassociation was now one of some seven years' standing; and it seemed agrievous thing that, after posing so long as the patient butt of hisrude humour, P.S. should have so suddenly turned and proved himselfthe better man--and that not mentally alone.
"Lis'n--" George interjected of a sudden.
P. Sybarite started. "Eh?" he enquired blankly.
"I wanna know where you picked up all that classy footwork."
"Oh," returned P.S., depreciatory, "I used to spar a bit with thefellows when I was a--ah--when I was younger."
"When you was at _what_?" insisted Bross, declining to be fobbed offwith any such flimsy evasion.
"When I was at liberty to."
"Huh! You mean, when you was at college."
"Please yourself," said P. Sybarite wearily.
"Well, you was at college oncet, wasn't you?"
"I was," P.S. admitted with reluctance; "but I never graduated. When Iwas twenty-one I had to quit to go to work for Whigham & Wimper."
"G'wan," commented the other. "They ain't been in business twenty-fiveyears."
"I'm only thirty-one."
"More news for Sweeny. You'll never see forty again."
"That statement," said P. Sybarite with some asperity, "is an unciviluntruth dictated by a spirit of gratuitous contentiousness--"
"Good God!" cried Bross in alarm. "I'm wrong and you're right and Iwon't do it again--and forgive me for livin'!"
"With pleasure," agreed P. Sybarite pleasantly....
"It's a funny world," George resumed in philosophic humour, after atime. "You wouldn't think I could work in the same dump with you sevenyears and only be startin' to find out things about you--like to-day.I always thought your name was Pete--honest."
"Continue to think so," P. Sybarite advised briefly.
"Your people had money, didn't they, oncet?"
"I've been told so, but if true, it only goes to prove there's nothingin the theory of heredity...."
"I gotcha," announced Bross, upon prolonged and painful analysis.
"How?" asked P. Sybarite, who had fallen to thinking of other matters.
"I mean, I just dropped to your high-sign to mind my own business. Allright, P.S. Far be it from me to wanta pry into your Past. Besides, I'm scared to--never can tell what I'll turn up--like, f'rinstance,Per--"
"Steady!"
"Like that they usta call you when you was innocent, I mean."
To this P. Sybarite made no response; and George subsided into morosereflections. It irked him sore to remember he had been worsted by themeek little slip of a bookkeeper trotting so quietly at his elbow.
He was a man of his word, was George Bross; not for anything would hehave gone back on his promise to keep secret that afternoon'stitillating discovery; likewise he was a covetous soul, loath toforfeit the promised treat; withal he was human (after his kind) andsince reprisals were not barred by their understanding, he began thenand there to ponder the same. One way or another, that day'shumiliation must be balanced; else he might never again hold up hishead in the company of gentlemen of spirit.
But how to compass this desire, frankly puzzled him. It were cowardlyto contemplate knockin' the block off'n P. Sybarite; the disparity oftheir statures forebade; moreover, George entertained a vexatioussuspicion that P. Sybarite's explanation on his recent downfall hadnot been altogether disingenuous; he didn't quite believe it had beendue solely to his own clumsiness and an adventitious foot.
"That sort of thing don't never _happen_," George assured himselfprivately. "I was outclassed, all right, all right. What I wanna knowis: where'd he couple up with the ring-wisdom?"
Repeated if covert glances at his companion supplied no clue; P.Sybarite's face remained as uncommunicative as well-to-do relations bymarriage; his shadowy, pale and wistful smile denoted, if anything,only an almost childlike pleasure in anticipation of the evening'spromised amusement.
Suddenly it was borne in upon the shipping clerk that in the probablearrangement of the proposed party he would be expected to danceattendance upon Miss Violet Prim, leaving P. Sybarite free to devotehimself to Miss Lessing. Whereupon George scowled darkly.
"P.S.'s got his nerve with him," he protested privately, "to cop outthe one pippin in the house all for his lonely. It's a wonder hewouldn't slip her a chanct to enjoy herself with summon' her ownage....
"Not," he admitted ruefully, "that I'd find it healthy to pull anyrough stuff with Vi lookin' on. I don't even like to think of myselflampin' any other skirt while Violet's got _her_ wicks trimmed andburnin' bright."
Then he made an end to envy for the time being, and turned hisattention to more pressing concerns; but though he pondered with allhis might and main, it seemed impossible to excogitate any way tosquare his account with P. Sybarite. And when, at Thirty-eighthStreet, the latter made an excuse to part with George, instead ofgoing home in his company, the shipping clerk was too thoroughlydisgusted to question the subterfuge. He was, indeed, a bit relieved;the temporary dissociation promised just so much more time forsolitary conspiracy.
Turning west, he was presently prompted by that arch-comedian Destiny(disguised as Thirst) to drop into Clancey's for a shell of beer.
Now in Clancey's George found a crumpled copy of the _Evening Journal_almost afloat on the high-tide of the dregs-drenched bar. Rescuing thesheet, he smoothed it out, examined (grinning) its daily meed ofcomics, read every word on the "Sports Page," ploughed through theweekly vaudeville charts, scanned the advertisements, and at lengthreviewed the news columns with a listless eye.
It may have been the stimulation of his drink, but it was probablynothing more nor less than jealousy that sparked his sluggishimagination as he contemplated a two-column reproduction in coarsehalf-tone of a photograph entitled "Marian Blessington." Slowly thelight dawned upon mental darkness; slowly his grin broadened andbecame fixed--even as his great scheme for the confusion andconfounding of P. Sybarite took shape and matured.
He left Clancey's presently, stepping high, with a mind elate;foretasting victory; convinced that he harboured within him themakings of a devil of a fellow, all the essential qualifications of(not to put _too_ fine a point upon it) a regular wag....