Evening Star Newspaper, January 12, 1930, Page 89

t. T} C.,_ JANUARY 12, 1930 morial Award Stories “I was born and raised in Vermont,” Mr. Canby sdid. “On the next farm to ours there's marble. Enough marble to make me rich, to make me a rich man. What I'm trying to do is get enough money together—though, of course, it's pretty tough sledding—io buy that farm.” “Just found out—about the marble, I mean?"” I asked, lowering my own voice in response to the appeal in his eyes. 5 “Oh, no, I've known it a long time, since before I was married. But you know how it is, being married’s an expensive business, what with one thing and another. And other things come up yuh think yuh can do, that look surer, maybe, because, of course, it's sort of a risk to take buyin’ this farm. But there ain’t no chance for me where I am now, in the office, I mean to say; and so what it's come down to is that this is, you might say, my only hope.” He smiled in his deprecating way, as though he must apologize for so lofty an ambition. “Yeh, I've had it a long time. About 10 years ago I got the money together, but of course I've had bad luck. Mrs. Canby's health failed completely, and that put me back.” “I should think that your wife could have held out long enough for you to get -tarted,” I said, irritated, as usual, by his patience. “No, you mustn’t be hard on Mrs. Canby. I know there's marble in that land, but she don’t take no stock in it, see. She thinks it's just a crazy air castle of mine, as you might say. And, of course, between that and her health . . .” He paused, his intent, almost pleading glance fixed on my face. “Well, what do you think of it?” “I don't know much about marble,” I answered, “but it looks all right to me. I don’t see why your wife objects. You're sure there’s marble there?” “Well, of course, that’s the chance we have to take, how much there is, and so on. But yes, I'm sure there is. But I've had this idea s0 long, see, and what with the way Mrs. Canby talks, it sort of appears like a crazy notion . . .” He interrupted himself to look at his watch, a silver one on a massive, old-fashioned chain, and I could hear the man at my right saying, “New York, there’s money there, that's the big money town.” Mr. Canby hastily gobbled up a few mouth- fuls of food. “Phew!” he ejaculated, with his mouth full, “Mrs. Canby came in town today to do a little shopping, and I promised I'd meet her before I went back to the office. I wonder if it's not out of your Wway, or too much trouble, you wouldn’t like just to come along and say ‘how-de-do’ to her. I've talked about you at home, and Mrs, Canby said she'd like to ., make your acquaintance. But of course, if .. .” I interposed to assure him that I should be very glad to meet Mrs. Canby. As we went out of the Arcadia, he gave me a cigar, a 10- cent one, which he insisted that I accept. E found Mrs. Canby on Chestnut street, in a shop which was entirely too expensive, I am sure. She was a large woman with many cheap bracelets which jangled as she raised her arm to shake hands with me. “How d’you do? Pleased to meetchu. John has said so much about you I feel I know you already.” She look- ed at me carefully, rather disappointed. I am afraid—I don't know what sort of figure Mr. Canby had made me—and tranferred her gaze to the expensive goods on the counter, which she surveyed in a blase manner. “I just love shopping,” she went on, laughing. “I'm going to make John buy me these. They're marked down.” g For the rest of the afternoon my work at the office suffered while I thought of what Mr. Canby had told me. I know little about mar- ble, but his idea seemed to me altogether at- tractive. What troubled me was the fact that, although he had lost his preoccupied air when he talked of it, he still remained hesitant and indecisive, as though he were not absolutely sure that there was marble on the farm, as though he were almost convinced himself that what he called his one hope was only an air castle. I was irritated also by the way he had lot himself be victimized, as it seemed to me, by his wife. Owing to her he had spent prac- tically a lifetime in getting enough money to- gether to buy this farm. . .. I had been wrong when I had thought that he did not belong among us at the Arcadia; he fitted in this ineffectual company of shabby, gray-haired men; he also was marked fatally with the stamp of failure. Why hadn't he borrowed the money? So simple a soluticn had apparently never oc- curred to him. I knew a rich man; if Mr. Canby were willing to have a partner. . . . With some pride I saw myself transformed from a chance acquaintance over a restaurant table into a friend who was going to accomplish jmmediately what Mr. Canby had failed to do in 15, 20 years. The next day, over stewed lamb on toast, I opened the subject. “Why didn’t ycu borrow the money?” There was something suddeply resigned and weary in Mr. Canby's face as he looked at me, as though to every conceivable question of mine he were already familiar with the an- swer. “Yuh can’t borrow money without yuh have security. Of course, we don’t own our house, we rent, because every penny I could get my hands on I laid away—" “No,” I interrupted, “I mean a friend or a partner.” Mr. Canby filled his mouth with lamb and potatoes and chewed reflectively, as though the food were more important than the ob- vious answers to my questions. “Well, I have tried to interest some people in it, but of course I can't b2 too definite without a contract, or a written agreement, or something, or else they could go right ahead behind my back and leave me out. That time when I had the money together, and Mrs. Canby's health failed " completely, as you might say, and I was feeling sorta down in the mouth, I did try to interest a cousin of mine. But of course he’d have to go into the proposition on my bare sayso—we couldn’t go prospecting around the farm with- out the present owner suspecting scmething was up, and then where would we be? He couldn’t see his way clear to going into it, and of course, Mrs. Canby talked against it.” «pisten,” I said. “I know a rich man. Now, if you want me to, I'll take you to see him, and I think——* Mr. Canby laid down both his knife and fork to smile at me. “I consider that mighty friendly of you, mighty friendly. I appreciate it. Of course, I don't think he’d want to go into it, and anyway, there’s one thing I didn't tell you yesterday. He lowered his voice. “I've just about got the money saved up again, got my hands on it, as you might say. My building and lcan comes due in two weeks.” “Two weeks,” I repeated, delighted. “That's fine. I'm certainly glad to hear it.” HERE was somsthing of indulgence in the smile with which he rewarded my words, as though he had been too often deceived by en- thusiasms like mine to be cajoled by them again. “Well, all I hope is something don’t turn up the last minute. Now that it's get- ting so near I'm sorta worried. I've had a lotta bad luck—and it's liable to happen to any- body, y'’know.” “What could happen?” I demanded. “How's your wife’s health?” “Well, I've laid my plans careful. Nobody,” Mr. Canby assured me with his patient earn- estness, “could lay their plans more careful than I have. But as you say there’s Mrs. Canby. She seems pretty good now, but of course she’s a big worry. I'm getting, as you might say, pretty well on in years, and it's harder to save mcney, what with everything goin’ up, and all. I get scared sometimes no matter how careful I've planned something may turn up the last minute. You never can tell.” “Don't get the blues.” I reproved him, smiling. “Oh, it ain’t the blues. It's just I can't help bein’ sorta worried, now it's getting so near.” We walked down Chestnut street together, each trying to give the other a cigar. Mr. Canby, stoop-shouldered in his worn blue serge, did not look like a successful man, especially in contrast with the prosperous men and women who brushed past us, but I kept assuring him that his fears were groundless. “Everything will turn out all right,” I repeated. “Do you know the.first- thing I'm gonna do?” he said. “I'm gonna run up and see the A’s play. I ain't felt I could afford it for a long time, nOW. . . . " “Goed luck,” I said, “good luck,” and we shook hands when we parted, as though we were going to be separated for a long time, Despite all that I had said I still felt myself rather fearful about Mr. Canby’s success, even though he was apparently at its threshold, but I resolutely ignored my doubts. . .. I saw him suddenly, very clearly. I understood now the reason for that detached air of his which had impressed me at first, that curious, apart sil- ence in which he sat while around him we talked enviously of big money and rich men of power and wealth. I thought of his rigid system of economy, tobacco three times a week, dessert three times a week, his painful scrap- ing together of nickels during all those ccuntless lunch hours. On Saturdays, when he ordered Vicnna roast, making his lunch cost 20 cents instead of 25, this took on for me the aspect of a symbol of determination. By this monotonous repeated sacrifice he saved exactly, leaving out two weeks for vaca- tion, $2.50 a year. Two dollars and a half a year . . . He was a bookkeeper with a salary of, say, $30 a week, with an ailing, extravagant wife, but no obstacle had defeated or embit- tered him. Not even the obstacle of his own weakness, his own misgivings. I had been wrong when I had thought that he did not belong among us. Ours were minor lives, filled with petty difficulties, difficulties like having a wife who was sick and domineering. But one of us could disregard them and plod steadily ahead, a mediocre champion, per- haps, but a champion, the champion of weak men whose cause was lost from the begin- ning. Might he be successful, at last! The next day when I found him in his accustomed seat at the usual time my confi- dence in his ultimate success was somehow fortified, and I had the impulse to grasp his hand and congratulate him. I said, instead, “Well, pretty soon, now.” “Huh? Oh, yes, yes. As a matter of fact, 13 days, though they say thirteen’s an unlucky number.” He showed me a calendar in which the date was marked with a red circle; he could not have bcen counting the days with much more impatience than was I Then, at the end of the week, I was sent on & long trip, and for some two months I saw no BY HAROLD W. BRECHT more of Mr. Canby. I often thought of him, however, wondering if he had been successful, assuring myself that he had, that his patient, almost humble determination had been finally _ rewarded. : If only nothing had happened, his wife's health—— BY the middle of December I was in Phila- delphia again, and one bitterly cold day I arrived at the Arcadia at my old time of 7 minutes past 12. Maggie, the lines of men bowed over the tables, and nowhere could I have mistaken that blue serge—Mr. Canby in his accustomed seat. It was warm in the restaurant, but I shivered. “Good morning,” he said. “Why are you here?” I demanded. “What happened?” Mr. Canby’s face, as he turned it toward me, looked suddenly old and weary. His eyes met mine for an instant, and then his gaze traveled down the crowded, noisy restaurant, coming to rest on the faded flags on the wall “I—" he began, “I—" he gulped, and with his hand he covered the working of his mouth, “I don't like to talk about it.” For some minutes we did not speak, while Maggie wiped off the table in front of us with a rag, and slammed the heavy white dishes together. ‘“You're quite a stranger,” she said to me. “What's yours today, Mr. Canby? Vienna roast?” “It was Mrs. Canby,” Mr. Canby said, speak- ing in an odd, strained voice unlike his usual tone. *“The doctor ordered her to Florida for the Winter.” I commenced to speak, but with his knife upraised he checked me. *“No, you - mustn't be hard on Mrs. Canby. She don't think there’s marble in the land, and of course, . her health. . . . It's only what I've always had,” he started to smile, and again hid his face with his hand, “bad luck.” “Maybe this is the last,” I said. “Maybe. I feel this trip will put Mrs. Canby on her feet for good. D’you think it will?” “I'm sure it will.” “Well, then, in six years, maybe—" He seemed to sag forward suddenly, and let his hand tall heavily on the table. “It’s only,” he said in his queer muffled voice, “that I was so near.” He got up, pushing aside his full plate, “I guess I'll be goin’,” he said.. “I ain’t bad much appetite lately.” (Copyright, 1930.) Tillie’s A ggravating Chap Continued from Eleventh Page of way, Miss Newcomb. It was all your fault. ‘This is purely. a case of argumentum baculi- num.” “I don’t care,” she caustically snapped, “if it's a case of arson, Scotch or pyorrhea—I'm going to have you arrested and sued for dam- ages.” She called, then, an order to a youth plow- ing nearby. That worthy hastened grinningly to a large white house off the road and soon returned with a dignified, white-bearded old gentleman. 5 “Mr. Rathskellar,” explained Tillie frigidly, “this is Judge Hawkins. He has the power to arrest, try and convict. Judge, this is Mr. Rathskellar, who collects big retaining fees and bigger words. He just ran into me with mali- cious intent and that heavy sedan. Arrest him without hesitancy and a warrant. He doesn't mind the least; he's big-hearted like that.” “We’ll see how big-hearted I am,” gritted Mr. Rathskellar, tardily becoming annoyed. “Judge, may we retire to your house to thresh out this case?” The judge was enigmatically willing. He said, on household arrival, he would be the judicial arbitrator, Mr. Rathskellar would represent himself and—— “I'll represent myself,” asserted Miss Ma- tilda Newcomb firmly. “Your honor, put the reprobate in the witness chair.” The judge mildly reminded her castigations were nct allowed, but she only ,lmfled gleefully and watched the accused scowlingly take the stand. “IS YOUR name Plutarch J. Rathskellar,” she asked, *“or is it not?” “Do you mean N-o0-t or K-n-o-t-t?” inno- cently returned the witness. “Your honor,” wailed the plaintiff, “make him reply civilly.” The defendant, after a reprimand from the judge, replied civilly that his name was indeed Plutarch J. Rathskellar, “How long have you been driving a car, Mr. Rathskellar?” next inquired his pretty perse- cutor. “It all depends on what you mean by driv- ing,” evaded the man in the chair. “A certain individual in juxtaposition is wont to impute I cannot drive. If the question is meant to find out how many years I have possessed a car, that is different.” “Judge,” begged the fair plaintiff, “make him answer in yea, yeas, and nay, nays, or in other brief, direct and comprehensive terms. He's trying to fudge.” “Fifteen years,” sourly grunted Mr. Raths- kellar. “Now,” eloquently summed up the modern Portia, “what sort of disgraceful picture is this we have placed before us? Here is a young man, apparently honest, diligent and conscien- tious, with a noble name like Plutarch J. Rathskellar, who has driven a car for 15 years off and on—off roads and on pedestrians; and then at this late day of experience he runs inte the humble gas buggy of a very innocuous and charming young woman, endangering her life, limbs and property and also the compressed ozone in her pneumatics, “Let me put this hypocritical—I mean hypo= thetical—question to the accused. Suppose this young lady you ran into was the beloved ideal of your romantic dreams; what, then, would be your reactions o such catastrophe?” “THE question is entirely~ irrelevant, wyour honor!” cried Mr. Plutarch J. Rathse kellar, desperation entering his voice and pale- ness his face. “It is immaterial, vague and in- consequential. It is—" “Objecticn not sustained and also spurned,” curtly ruled the judge. “Reply, sir, or else I will fine you for contempt of court and also disbar you if I find a bar handy.” The dis« penser of justice seemed real mad. “Well,” slowly and flushingly testified the witness, “my reactions in such supposable cir- cumstances would be the same as they were a while ago.” “You admit, then,” trapped his lovely legal adversary, a ftriumphant lilt in her sweet voice, “that you are in love with the compos~ ite accuser, plaintiff, prosecutor and Miss Ma« tilda Newcomb—or, in other words, with me, just little me?” “I—I—that is, I—" stuttered Mr. Rathse kellar, perfectly red. “No evasions, sir!” thundered the irate jure ist. “Answer in the affirmative or negativey and in responsive language.” “Yes,” confessed the witness limply, “I am in love with you. I will tell you all about it later.” “A more prepitious time,” adjudged the arbje trator, “could not be chosen than the presex®, Court is adjourned.” BUT before Mr. Plutarch J. Rathskellar could reach Miss Matilda Newcomb she had fled, sobbing, from the scene. “It was a mean trick,” she wept, when at last he found her crouched in the seat of he® car. “The judge is my uncle, and I gave him the wink. Also the accident was my fault; I did it on purpose.” X The defeated defendant laughed happily. “Forget it, hcney,” he advised tenderly. “I love you, dearest! I've loved you since first we met. Don’t you love me? Won't you marry me?” “It—it all de-depends,” sobbed Tillie, drying her lovely orbs, “on what you me-mean by love.” She continued, more coherently. “Also, the latter question has its ramifications. It seems to me that the habeas corpus is a trifie sub rosa and a mandamus . . .” “Tillile! My darling!” pathetically implored Mr. Rathskellar. “Do not tantalize me so! I'm crazy for you! Don't you love me? Won't you marry me?"” Miss Matilda Newcomb relented. “My reply to the first interrogation,” she paeaned, “is yea, yee and still another yea. Iy reply to the second interrogation is ditto, darling. Now, vou aggravating chap, let's se» if your kisses are as Icng as your words.” (Copyright, 1930.)