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Bunker Bean

<h2>XIV</h2> The next morning at eight-thirty the door of the steam-heated apartment resounded to sharp knocking. There being no response, the knocking was repeated and prolonged. Retreating footsteps were heard in the hallway. Five minutes later a key rattled in the door and Cassidy entered, followed by the waster. Bean was discovered in a flowered dressing-gown gazing open-eyed at the shut door of a closet. He sat on the couch and one of his arms clasped a sleeping dog. The floor was littered with wisps of excelsior. "My word, old top, had to have the chap let me into your diggin's you know. You were sleeping like the dead." The waster was bustling and breezy. "Busy," said Bean. He arose and went into the hall where Cassidy stood. "He would have in," explained Cassidy. "Say th' wor-r-d if he's no frind, an' he'll have out agin. I'll put him so. 'T would not be a refined thing to do, but nicissary if needed." "'S all right," said Bean. "Friend of mine." He closed the door on Cassidy. Inside, he found the waster interestedly poking with his stick at a roundish object on the floor. "Dog's been at it," explained the waster brightly. "What's the idea? Private theatricals?" "Yes," said Bean, "private theatricals," and resumed his place on the couch, staring dully at the closet door. "But, look here, old chap, you must liven up. She would have it I should come for you. My word! I believe you're funking! You look absurdly rotten like it, you know." "Toothache, right across here," muttered Bean. "Have to put it off." "But that's not done, old top; really it's not done, you know. It ... it ... one doesn't do it at all, you know." "Never?" asked Bean, brightening a little with alarm. "Jolly well never," insisted the waster; "not for anything a dentist-fellow could manage. Come now!" Bean was listless once more, deaf, unseeing. "Righto," said the waster. "Bachelor dinner last night ... yes?" The situation had become intelligible to him. He found the bathroom, and from it came the sound of running water. He had the air of a Master of Revels. "Into it—only thing to do!" He led Bean to the brink of the icy pool and skilfully flayed him of the flowered gown. He was thorough, the waster. He'd known chaps to pretend to get in by making a great splashing with one hand, after they were left alone. He overcame a few of the earlier exercises in jiu-jitsu and committed Bean's form to the deep. "Righto!" he exclaimed. "Does it every time. Shiver all you like. Good for you! Now then—clothes! Clothes and things, Man! Oh, here they are to be sure! How stupid of me! Feel better already, yes? Knew it. Studs in shirt. My word! Studs! Studs! There! Let me tie it. Here! Look alive man! She would have it. She must have known you. There!" He had finished by clamping Bean's hat tightly about his head. Bean was thinking that the waster possessed more executive talent than Grandma had given him credit for; also that he would find an excuse to break away once they were outside; also that Balthasar was keenly witty. Balthasar had said it would disintegrate if handled. He would leave Nap with Cassidy. He would return for him that night, then flee. He would go back to Wellsville, which he should never have left. The waster had him in the car outside, a firm grasp on one of his arms. "I'll allow you only one," said the waster judicially as the car moved off. "I know where the chap makes them perfectly—brings a mummy back to life—" "A mum—what mummy?" asked Bean dreamily. "Your own, if you had one, you silly juggins!" Bean winced, but made no reply. The car halted before an uptown hotel. "Come on!" said the waster. "Bring it out," suggested Bean, devising flight. The waster prepared to use force. "Quit. I'll go," said Bean. He was before a polished bar, the white-jacketed attendant of which not only recognized the waster but seemed to divine his errand. "Two," commanded the waster. The attendant had already reached for a bottle of absinthe, and now busied himself with two eggs, a shaker, and cracked ice. "White of an egg, delicate but nourishing after bachelor dinners," said the waster expertly. Bean, in the polished mirror, regarded a pallid and shrinking youth whom he knew to be himself—not a reincarnation of the Egyptian king, but just Bunker Bean. He could not endure a long look at the thing, and allowed his gaze to wander to the panelled woodwork of the bar. "Fumed oak," he suggested to the waster. But the waster pushed one of the slender-stemmed glasses toward him. "There's the life-line, old top; cling to it! Here's a go!" Bean drank. The beverage was icy, but it warmed him to life. The mere white of an egg mixed with a liquid of such perfect innocence that he recalled it from his soothing-syrup days. "Have one with me," he said in what he knew to be a faultless bar manner. "Oh, I say old top," the waster protested. "One," said Bean stubbornly. The attendant was again busy. "Better be careful," warned the waster. "Those things come to you and steal their hands into yours like little innocent children, but—". They drank. Bean felt himself bold for any situation. He would carry the farce through if they insisted on it. He no longer planned to elude the waster. They were in the speeding car. "Fumed eggs!" murmured Bean approvingly. They were inside that desolated house, the door closed fatefully upon them. The waster disappeared. Bean heard the flapper's voice calling cheerily to him from above stairs. A footman disapprovingly ushered him to the midst of an immense drawing-room of most ponderous grandeur, and left him to perish. He sat on the edge of a chair and tried to clear his mind about this enormity he was going to commit. False pretenses! Nothing less. He was not a king at all. He was Bunker Bean, a stenographer, whose father drove an express wagon, and whose grandmother had smoked a pipe. He had never been anything more, nor ever would be. And here he was ... pretending. No wonder Julia had fussed! She had seen through him. How they would all scorn him if they knew what that scoundrelly Balthasar knew. He'd made money, but he had no right to it. He had made that under false pretenses, too, believing money would come naturally to a king. Would they find him out at once, or not until it was too late? He shudderingly recalled a crisis in the ceremony of marriage where some one is invited to make trouble, urged to come forward and say if there isn't some reason why this man and this woman shouldn't be married at all. Could he live through that? Suppose a policeman rushed in, crying, "I forbid the banns! The man is an impostor!" He seemed to remember that banns were often forbidden in novels. Then would he indeed be a thing for contemptuous laughter. Yet, in spite of this dismal foreboding, he was presently conscious of an unusual sense of well-being. It had been growing since they stopped for those eggs, in that fumed oak place. What about the Corsican? Better have been him than no one! He would look at that tomb. Then he would know. He was rather clinging to the idea of the Corsican. It gave him courage. Still, if he could get out peacefully ... He stepped lightly to the hall and was on the point of seizing his hat when the flapper called down to him. "You just perfectly don't leave this house again!" "Not going to," he answered guiltily. "Looking to see what size hat I wear. Fumed eggs," he concluded triumphantly. He was not again left alone. The waster came back and supposed he would do some golfing "over across." Bean loathed golf and gathered the strange power to say so. "Sooner be a mail-carrier than a golf-player," he answered stoutly. "Looks more fun, anyway." "My word!" exclaimed the waster, "aren't you even keen on watching it?" "Sooner watch a lot of Italians tearing up a street-car track," Bean persisted. "Oh, come!" protested the waster. "Like to have another fumed egg," said Bean. "You've had one too many," declared the waster, knowing that no sober man could speak thus of the sport of kings. Grandma, the Demon, entered and portentously shook hands with him. She seemed to have discovered that marriage was very serious. "Fumed eggs," said Bean, regarding her shrewdly. "What?" demanded Grandma. "Fumed eggs, hundred p'cent efficient," he declared stoutly. The Demon eyed him more closely. "My grandmother smoked, too," said Bean, "but I never went in for it much." "U-u-u-mmm!" said the Demon. It was to be seen that she felt puzzled. Breede slunk into the room, garbed in an unaccustomed frock coat. He went through the form of shaking hands with Bean. Bean felt a sudden necessity to tell Breede a lot of things. He wished to confide in the man. "Principle of the thing's all I cared about," he began. "Anybody make money that wants to be a Wall Street crook and take it away from the tired business man. What I want to be is one of the idle rich ... only not idle much of the time, you know. Good major league club for mine. Been looking the ground over; sound 'vestment; keep you out of bad company, lots time to read good books." "Hanh! Wha's 'at?" exploded Breede. "Fumed eggs," said Bean, feeling witty. He affected to laugh at his own jest as he perceived that the mourning mother had entered the room. Breede drew cautiously away from him. Mrs. Breede nodded to him bravely. He mentioned the name of the world's greatest pitcher, with an impulse to take the woman down a bit. "Get our shirts same place; he's going to have a suit just like this—no, like another one I have in that little old steamer trunk." He was aware that they all eyed him too closely. The waster winked at him. Then he found himself shaking hands with a soothing old gentleman in clerical garb who called him his young friend and said that this was indeed a happy moment. The three Breedes and the waster stood apart, studying him queerly. He was feeling an embarrassed need to make light conversation, and he was still conscious of that strange power to make it. He was going to tell the old gentleman, whose young friend he was, that fumed eggs were a hundred p'cent efficient. But the flapper saved him from that. She came in, quiet but businesslike, and in a low yet distinct voices said she wished it to be perfectly over at once. She did not relax her grasp of Bean's arm after she approached him, and he presently knew that something solemn was going on in which he was to be seriously involved. "Say, 'I do,'" muttered the old gentleman, and Bean did so. The flapper had not to be told. There followed a blurred and formal shaking of his hand by those present, and the big sister whom he had not noticed before came up and kissed him. Then he was conscious of the flapper still at his side. He turned to her and was amazed to discover that she was blinking tears from her eyes. "There, there!" he muttered soothingly, and took her in his arms quite as if they were alone. He held her closely a moment, with little mumbled endearments, softly patting her cheek. "There, there! No one ever going to hurt you. You're dear; yes, you are!" He was much embarrassed to discover those staring others still present. But the flapper swiftly revived. It seemed to be perfectly over for the flapper. She announced that every one must hurry. Hurriedly, with every one, it seemed, babbling nonsense of remote matters, they sat at a table, and ate of cold food from around a bed of flowers. Bean ate frankly. He was hungry, but he took his part in the talk as a gentleman should. They were toasting the bride in champagne. "Never drink," protested Bean to the proffered glass. "Won't happen every day, old top," suggested the waster. He drank. The sparkling stuff brought him new courage. He drained the glass. "I knew they were trying to keep me off that board of directors," he confided to Breede, "specially that oldest one." "That your first drink s'morning?" asked Breede in discreet tones. "First drink I ever took. Had two eggs's morning." "What board of directors?" asked Breede suspiciously. "Fed'l Express. I wanted that stock for a technical purpose—so I could get on board of directors." Breede looked across the table to Grandma. There seemed to be alarm in his face. "Given it up, though," continued Bean. "Can't be robbing tired business men. Rather be a baseball king if you come down to that. I'll own three four major league clubs before year's out. See 'f I don't! 'S only kind of king I want to be—wake me up any time in the night and ask me—old George W. Baseball King. 'S my name. I been other kings enough. Nothing in it. You wouldn't believe it if I told you I was a king of Egypt once, 'way back, thous'n's years before you were ever born. I had my day; pomps and attentions and powers. But I was laid away in a mummy case—did that in those days—thous'n's and thous'n's of years before you were ever born—an' that time I was Napoleon ..." He stopped suddenly, feeling that the room had grown still. He had been hearing a voice, and the voice was his own. What had he said? Had he told them he was nothing, after all? He gazed from face to face with consternation. They looked at him so curiously. There was an embarrassing pause. The flapper, he saw, was patting his hand at the table's edge. "No one ever hurt you while I'm around," he said, and then he glared defiantly at the others. The old gentleman, whose young friend he was, began an anecdote, saying that of course he couldn't render the Irish dialect, also that if they had heard it before they were to be sure and let him know. Apparently no one had heard it before, although Breede left the table for the telephone. Bean kept the flapper's hand in his. And when the anecdote was concluded everybody arose under cover of the applause, and they were in that drawing-room again where the thing had happened. The waster chattered volubly to every one. Grandma and the bride's mother were in earnest but subdued talk in a far corner. Breede came to them. "Chap's plain dotty," said Breede. "Knew something was wrong." "Your mother's doing," said Mrs. Breede. "U-u-u-mm!" said the Demon. "I'll go with them." "I shall also go with my child," said the mother. "James, you will go too." But Breede had acted without waiting to talk. "Other car'll be here, 'n' I telephoned for quarters on boat. 'S full up, but they'll manage. Chap might cut her throat." "U-u-u-mm!" said the Demon. "Half pas' ten," reminded Breede. "Hurry!" Bean had accosted the waster. "Always take fumed eggs for breakfast," he cautioned. "Of course, little fruit an' tea an' things." "Your father's had a sudden call to Paris. We're going with him," said the Demon, appearing bonneted. "What boat?" demanded the flapper in quick alarm. "Your's," said the Demon. "Jolly party, all together," said Bean cordially. "He coming, too?" He pointed to the old gentleman, but this it seemed had not been thought of. "He better come too," insisted Bean. "I'm his young friend, and this is indeed a happy moment. Jus' little ol' las' year's steamer." "You're tagging," accused the flapper viciously, turning to the Demon. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> Bean awoke late that night, believing he was dead—that he had fallen in sleep and been laid unto his fathers. But the narrow grave was unstable. It heaved and rolled as if to expel him. Slowly he remembered. First he identified his present location. He was in an upper berth of that little old steamer. Outside a little round window was the whole big ocean and beneath him slept a man from Hartford, Conn. He had caught the city's name on the end of the man's steamer trunk and been enraged by it. Hartford was a city of rascals. The man himself looked capable of any infamy. He was tall and thin, and wore closely trimmed side-whiskers of a vicious iron gray. He regarded Bean with manifest hostility and had ostentatiously locked a suit-case upon his appearance. So much for his whereabouts. How had he come there? Laboriously, he went over the events of the afternoon. They were hazy, but certain peaks jutted above the haze. They were "tagged," as the flapper had surmised they were going to be. Aboard the little old steamer had appeared Breede and Julia and the Demon. They had called the flapper aside and apparently told her something for her own good, though the flapper had not liked it, and had told them with much spirit that they were to perfectly mind their own affairs. Bean had fled into the throng on deck. His hat had received many dents, and when he emerged to a clear space at the far end of the boat he had discovered that his perfectly new watch was gone. He was being put upon, and meekly submitting to it as in that other time when he had not believed himself to be somebody. He stared moodily over the rail as the little old steamer moved out. Thousands of people on the dock were waving handkerchiefs and hats. They seemed to be waving directly at him and yelling. Above it all, he was back in the bird-and-animal store, hearing the parrot shriek over and over, "Oh, what a fool! Oh, what a fool!" He made an adventurous way through all kinds of hurried people, back to that group of queerly behaving Breedes. The flapper was showing traces of tears, but also a considerable acrimony. She was threatening to tell the captain to just perfectly turn the little old steamer back. But it came to nothing. At least to nothing more than Bean's sharing the stateroom of the Hartford man, who had covered the lower berth with his belongings so that there might be no foolish mistake. And that was because there had been no provision made on the little old steamer for this invasion of casual Breedes. Pops and Moms had secured an officer's room; the Demon, rather than sit up in the smoking-room of nights, had consented to share the flapper's suite; and Bean had been taken in charge by a cold-blooded steward who left him in the narrow quarters of the Hartford person. And there, in the far night, he was wishing he might be back in the steam-heated apartment with Nap. He had a violent headache, and he had awakened from a dream of falling into a well of cool, clear water of which he thirstily drank. His narrow bed behaved abominably, rolling him from side to side, then letting his head sink to some far-off terrifying depth. And there was no way of leaving that little old steamer ... not for a man who couldn't swim a stroke. So he suffered for long miserable hours. Light broke through the little round windows, and outside he could see the appalling waste of water, foaming, seething, rising to engulf him. He couldn't recall mounting to that high place where he had slept. He wondered if the callous steward would sometime come to take him down. Perhaps the steward would forget. The man from Hartford bestirred himself and was presently shaving before the small glass. Bean looked sullenly down at him. The man was running a wicked-looking razor perilously about his restless Adam's apple. He was also lightly humming "The Holy City." "Watkins," said Bean distinctly, recalling the name that had revealed the fictitious and Hartford origin of It. "Adams," said the man, breaking off his song and tightening a leathery cheek for the razor. "Adam's apple," said Bean, scornfully. "Watkins!" The man glanced at him and painfully twisted up a corner of his mouth while he applied the razor to the other corner. But he did not speak. "Think there's a doctor on this little old steamer?" demanded Bean. The man from Hartford laid down his weapon and began to lave his face. "I believe," he spluttered, "that medical attendance is provided for those still in mortal error." "'S'at so?" demanded Bean, sullenly. The man achieved another bar of "The Holy City," and fondly dusted his face with talcum powder, critically observing the effect. "If you will go into the silence," he at length said, "and there hold the thought of the all-good, you will be freed from your delusion." "Humph!" said Bean and turned his face from the Hartford man. The latter locked his razor into a toilet-case, locked the toilet-case into a suit-case, and seemed to debate locking the suit-case into a little old steamer trunk. Deciding, however, that his valuables were sufficiently protected, and that nothing was left out to excite the cupidity of a man to whom he had not been properly introduced, the person from Hartford went forth with a final retort. "'As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he!'" "'S'at so?" said Bean insolently to the closed door. He roused himself and descended precariously from his shelf. Once upon his feet he was convinced that the ship was foundering. He hurriedly dressed and adjusted a life-belt from one of a number he saw behind a rack. Over the belt he put on a serviceable rain-coat. It seemed to be the coat to wear. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/284_thumb.jpg" width-obs="395" height-obs="450" alt=""Lumbago!" said Bean, both hands upon the life-belt" title="" /> "Lumbago!" said Bean, both hands upon the life-belt</div> Outside he plunged through narrow corridors until he came to a stairway. He mounted this to be as far away from the ocean as possible. He came out upon a deck where people were strangely not excited by the impending disaster. Innocent children romped, oblivious to their fate, while callous elders walked the deck or reclined in little old steamer chairs. He poised a moment, trying to prevent the steamer's deck from mounting by planting one foot firmly upon it. The device, sound enough in mechanical theory, proved unavailing. The vast hulk sank alternately at either end, and to fearsome depths of the sea. There would come a last plunge. He tightened the life-belt. Then, through the compelling force of associated ideas, there seemed to come to him the faint sweet scent of lilac blossoms ... the vision of a lilac clump revolving both vertically and horizontally ... the noisome fumes of Grammer's own pipe. "Too much for you, eh? Ha, ha, ha!" It was the scoundrel from Hartford, malignantly cheerful. He was inhaling a cubeb cigarette. "Lumbago!" said Bean, both hands upon the life-belt. "'As a man thinketh, so is he!' As simple as that," admonished the other. Bean groped for the door and for ages fled down blind corridors, vainly seeking that little old stateroom. He did not find it as quickly as he should have; but he was there at last, and a deft steward quickly divested him of the life-belt and other garments for which there no longer seemed to be any need. He lay weakly reflecting, with a sinister glee, that the boat was bound to sink in a moment. He wanted it to sink. Death was coming too slowly. Later he knew that the flapper was there. She had come to die with him, though she was plainly not in a proper state of mind to pass on. She was saying that something was the nerviest piece of work she'd ever been up against, and that she would perfectly just fix them ... only give her a little time—they were snoop-cats! "You'll perfectly manage; jus' leave it to you," breathed her moribund husband. "If you'd try some fruit and two eggs," suggested the flapper. He raised a futile hand defensively, and an expression of acute repugnance was to be seen upon his yellowed face. "Please, please go 'way," he murmured. "Let Julia do fussing. Go way off to other end of little old steamer; stay there." The flapper saw it was no time for woman's nursing. Sadly she went. "Telephone to a drug-store," demanded Bean after her, but she did not hear. He continued to die, mercifully unmolested, until the man from Hartford came in to ascertain if his locks had been tampered with. "Hold to the all good!" urged the man at a moment when it was too poignantly, too openly certain that Bean could hold to very little indeed. "Uh-hah!" gasped Bean. "Go into the silence," urged the man kindly. "You go—" retorted Bean swiftly; but he should not further be shamed by the recording of language which he lived to regret. The Hartford man said, "Tut-tut-tut!" and went elsewhere than he had been told to go. There ensued a dreadful time of alternating night and day, with recurrent visions of the flapper, who perfectly knew and said that he had been eating stuff out of the wrong cans. "'As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he'," affirmed the Hartford person each morning as he shaved. And a merry party gathered in the adjoining stateroom of afternoons and sang songs of the jolly sailor's life: "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," and "Sailing, Sailing Over the Bounding Main." On the morning of the fourth day he made the momentous discovery that the image of food was not repulsive to all his better instincts. Carefully he got upon his feet and they amazingly supported him. He dressed with but slight discomfort. He would audaciously experiment upon himself with the actual sight of food. It was the luncheon hour. Outside the door he met the flapper on one of her daily visits of inspection. "I perfectly well knew you'd never die," exclaimed the flapper, and laid glad hands upon him. "Where do they eat?" asked Bean. "How jolly! We'll eat together," rejoined the flapper. "The funniest thing! They all kept up till half an hour ago. Then it got rougher and rougher and now they're all three laid out. Poor Moms says it's the smell of the rubber matting, and Granny says she had too many of those perfectly whiffy old cigarettes, and Pops says he's plain seasick. Serves 'em rippingly well right—taggers!" She convoyed him to the dining-room, where he was welcomed by a waiter who had sorrowfully thought not to come to his notice. He greedily scanned the menu card, while the waiter, of his own initiative, placed some trifles of German delicatessen before them. "It is a lot rougher," said the flapper. "Isn't it too close for you in here?" She was fixedly regarding on a plate before her a limp, pickled fish with one glazed eye staring aloft. "Never felt better in my life," declared Bean. "Don't care how this little old steamer teeters now. Got my sea-legs." "Me, too," said the flapper, but with a curious diminution of spirit. She still hung on the hypnotic eye of the pickled fish. "Ham and cabbage!" said Bean proudly to the waiter. The flapper pushed her chair swiftly back. "Forgot my handkerchief," said she. "There it is," prompted Bean ineptly. The flapper placed it to her lips and rose to her feet. "'S perfe'ly old rubber mattin'," she uttered through the fabric, and started toward the doorway. Bean observed that incoming diners anxiously made way for her. He followed swiftly and overtook the flapper at her door. "Maybe if you'd try a little—" he began. "Please go away," pleaded the flapper. Bean returned to the ham and cabbage. "Ought to go into the silence," he reflected. "'S all she needs. Fixed me all right." After his hearty luncheon he ventured on deck. It was undeniably rougher, but he felt no fear. The breeze being cold, he went below for his overcoat. Watkins of Hartford—or Adams, as he persisted in calling himself—reclined in his berth, his unlocked treasures carelessly scattered about him. "Hold fast to the all good," counselled Bean revengefully. "Uh—hah!" said Watkins or Adams, not doing so. Bean fled. Everybody was getting it. The little old steamer was becoming nothing but a plague-ship. "'As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he'," he muttered, wondering if the words meant anything. Then, in the fulness of his returned strength, he was appalled anew by the completeness of his own tragedy. He had become once more insignificant. Forever, now, he must be afraid of policemen and all earthly powers. People in crowds would dent his hat and take his new watches. He must never again carry anything but a dollar watch. And the Breedes saw through him. He must have confessed everything back at that table when he had felt so inscrutably buoyant. Once in Paris they would have him arrested. They might even have him put in irons before the ship landed. And back in the steam-heated apartment lay that mutilated head, a sheer fabrication of papier-mâché. He wondered if Mrs. Cassidy had swept it out ... the head that had meant so much to him. There was no hope any more. If he were still free in Paris he would have one look at that tomb, and then ... well, he had had his day. Two days later the little old steamer debarked many passengers in the harbour of Cherbourg, carelessly confiding them to a much littler and much older steamer that transported them to the actual land. Among these were a feebly exploding father, a weak but faithful mother, and the swathed wrecks of the Demon and the flapper. Then began a five-hour train-ride to the one-time capital of a famous upstart. There was but little talk among the members of the party. Bean kept grimly to himself because the only friendly member slept. He studied her pale, drawn face. She had indeed managed well, but his own downfall had thwarted her. He was a nobody. They were doubtless right in wanting to keep him from her. Yet he would see that tomb, and at the earliest possible moment. At eleven that night they reached the capital. A dispiriting silence was maintained to the doors of a hotel. The women drooped in chairs. Breede acquainted the reception committee of a Paris hostelry with the party's needs as to chambers. Thereupon they discovered one of the party to be missing. No one had seen him since entering. They were excited by this, all but the flapper. "I don't blame him," averred the flapper ... "Tagging us! You let him alone! I shall perfectly not worry if he doesn't come home all night. Do you understand? And when he does come—" "Not safe," snapped Breede. "King of Egypt, Napoleon ... not after money, just principle of thing. Chap's nutty—talk'n' like that!" "Good night!" snapped the flapper in her turn. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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