Part 7

“Why not?” you ask. “You don’t have to hit me in the Adam’s apple, neither.” Ruthie does not answer, but looks out of the car with unmitigated scorn. Pull your arm away from her shoulder and sulk. The car bowls merrily over the rough road until it reaches the fence with the vines, and it shows no signs of slowing up. Rosie does not seem to notice, but Ruthie calls promptly from the back seat:

“It’s time to turn back.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Bill over his shoulder. He stops the car, pulls on the brake, and in a very business-like manner he puts his arm around Rosie and slumps down in the seat to a position where he can watch the sky without craning his neck. Ruthie waits a minute uncertainly, then turns away from you and stares with dignity at the fence and the field beyond it.

In the front seat the couple manage to find a comfortable position as close together as possible. You glance at them, then back at your own girl.

“What you so crabby about?” you ask, aggrieved. “I ain’t pulled any rough stuff. What do you think I am? You don’t have to be afraid.”

“Well, what do you think I am?” she demands. “You guys think that just because a girl comes for a ride....”

“Oh, can it,” wearily. “Of course I don’t.”

“Well....” she says, as you pull her over to him, “It really is getting sort of late.”

“It’s early,” you say. She shakes her head, looking very uncomfortable hunched up against your shoulder. She suffers it for a while, but her mind is elsewhere.

“We have to go back,” she suddenly announces. “Right away. Rosie, we have to go back.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Rosie assents, cheerfully. It all seems to be the same to Rosie. “We gotta go, Bill.”

“Oh, wait a minute, can’t you?” you say, exasperated. “It isn’t late at all.”

Adamant, your girl shakes her head and looks expectantly at the driver. You and Bill glance at each other and raise your eyebrows.

“You wait a minute,” you say, meaningly, and Bill obligingly turns back and looks at the scenery in front of the car.

“Now listen,” you say. “You’re a long ways from home.”

“Yeah?” says Ruth, calmly.

“Yep. See? Well, are you gonna be nice?”

She compresses her lips. “You bet I’m gonna be nice, big boy. Come on, Rosie,” and she opens the door of the car and steps out to the road. Rose hesitates, looking inquiringly at Bill. She reaches tentatively for the door-catch.

Ruthie stamps her foot. “Come ON, Rosie. You ain’t got any sense at all.”

Rose hesitates no longer, but steps hastily out of her seat.

“Wait a minute,” you call together, as your respective maidens start down the road toward town.

“We were only kidding,” says Bill. “Come on back.”

“All right,” assents Rosie, joyfully and with obvious relief, and she climbs back to her place. Ruth follows more slowly. Nor does she deign to look at you until you are back in the city street where you met.

“Now where?” calls Bill. “Want some chop suey?”

“We want to get out just where we got in,” she answers with chilly sweetness. As the car stops—“Come on, Rosie,” she says. And as Rose trots faithfully after her, with only one wistful backward glance——

“Nice ride,” she adds, over her shoulder.

You and Bill look at each other.

“You weren’t so smart,” says Bill.

17. LIFE IS SHORT

_TYPE:_

Philosophical and attractive. Really sincere in his ideas; somewhat the missionary type but better looking.

_SUBJECT:_

Almost any girl without too much mentality. Pretty and rather spoiled because of it.

_APPARATUS:_

1 Canoe

_REMARKS:_

This lesson was an old one when Herrick counseled his young friends to gather rosebuds while it was still possible.

LIFE IS SHORT

(They are in a canoe, and the sun has just set, leaving behind it streaks of fading pink in the sky and on the water. It is spring, and the woods in the distance are losing their starkness. There is no breeze; the air is full of a premature languor that is not quite warmth. She lies half-prone, with her hand trailing in the lake; and he paddles slowly, watching her most of the time.)

_She:_ Ooh, the water’s terribly cold. Have you gone swimming this spring?

_You:_ Went in last week. But I was sorry. It’s colder than it looks from the diving-board. I was awfully surprised—it’s such a shock.

_She:_ I wanted to try it today, it looked so warm. But I guess I’ll wait a while. Last year, all summer, we just lived in our suits. My suit was never dry. Don’t you love to swim? It’s my favorite exercise.

_You:_ I think I like sailing better. It’s so fast.

_She:_ Then you ought to like ice-boating. It’s much faster.

_You:_ No. It’s too noisy. Fast things ought to be quiet. That’s the trouble with flying in a machine. It isn’t really flying unless you have wings. That must be the best feeling in the world. Flying in a storm....

_She:_ I wouldn’t want the storm. I haven’t that much pep. Swimming’s nice because you can lie around so much.

_You:_ You’re a lazy little thing, aren’t you?

_She:_ That’s what they say at home.

_You:_ I like it. I hate these girls who are always trying to be better than you are in everything. They’re usually funny-looking, too. If they were pretty they wouldn’t worry so much about beating people.

_She:_ You have such old-fashioned ideas. Well, I guess you’re right. I like to be waited on. People do things for me. I like it.... Oh, look at that cloud. It’s getting rougher than it was—We must be drifting out.

_You:_ Yes, it goes faster than you’d think. There’s a little wind blowing up. (Starts paddling fast.)

_She:_ Going anywhere?

_You:_ Well, I know a place that is pretty sheltered. Say, I’m getting cold up here. Do you mind if I get down there with you?

_She:_ No, that’s all right.

(You start to step over the intervening bar, and the canoe sways dangerously. She screams loudly.)

_She:_ Look OUT! You’re tipping us!

_You:_ (Laughing and settling down next to her) Gosh, what a funny squeal! I never tip canoes: don’t you know that? Have a cigarette.

_She:_ Thanks. The lake looks pretty, doesn’t it? Just in this light.

_You:_ Did you ever notice, it’s never the same. Look at that boat way over there.

_She:_ It looks so little.

_You:_ It’s funny. This is a little lake, but that boat looks tiny on it just the same.

_She:_ (Uncomprehending) Yes.

_You:_ I mean we’re really awfully small when you think about things. Stars and things. Look at that star there——

_She:_ First one! I’ll wish on it. (She closes her eyes.)

_You:_ It’s a little bit of a star, but I wonder what it thinks about us. Probably it doesn’t even know you’re wishing on it. Just think, it can’t even see us. Just a little spot of light.

_She:_ I don’t like to feel that way. I want to be seen.

_You:_ I think it’s a good feeling to know that I don’t matter so much. I always remember it when I’m worried about an exam. It’s a bad habit, though, because if you start remembering it too soon you don’t even bother to study.

_She:_ I shouldn’t think anybody would. I never feel that way unless I need sleep. I hate it; feeling that way.

_You:_ You’re too practical. I think I have more fun my way. (Smile at her and flick your cigarette into the water.)

_She:_ I don’t see that. I don’t worry, anyway.

_You:_ No, but look. You take exams seriously and spend all your time studying or fixing clothes or something. Something really important. Don’t you?

_She:_ Yes. Only the thing I worry about most is dancing. That’s important too.

_You:_ Well, look at it my way. Look how long the world has been going on without me and my exams. Look how long it will go on, probably, after I’m dead. Look how short life is anyway.

_She:_ Yes....

_You:_ Well, I just do what I like. Studying isn’t one of those things, see? Nobody really likes to study.

_She:_ I do.

_You:_ No you don’t. You don’t really like to keep your stockings mended, or your hair curled. You just like the feeling afterwards that you did what you should have done. Isn’t it true? Well, then, if someone hadn’t taught you to like that feeling you wouldn’t be doing those things. Now, the things I like, I wasn’t taught. I like to eat. Nobody ever had to tell me to do that. I like to sleep, and swim, and sail, and kiss girls, just because it’s fun. Itself. No reason for it, except that if I keep on this way I can go on doing these things and having fun until I die. I won’t want to die, then.

_She:_ Well, I think you’re the lazy one. Where would we all be?...

_You:_ I don’t know, but wherever it was we’d probably like it just as well.

(Lean over suddenly and kiss her.)

_She:_ Don’t do that!

_You:_ Why not? (Kiss her again.)

_She:_ Stop. Why should I?

_You:_ There you go again, asking questions. Why? Because it’s fun.

_She:_ I don’t think it’s so much fun.

_You:_ You haven’t really tried. Give me a chance. (Kiss her again.) Now what do you think of it?

_She:_ Not very much. Let’s go on talking instead.

_You:_ That’s queer. You always tell me I talk too much. I think you don’t mind this so much as you say.

_She:_ You want to think so. I just don’t see why it’s so wonderful. I couldn’t possibly rave the way you do, that’s all.

_You:_ I don’t rave. It’s because I know what I’m talking about and you don’t.

_She:_ You have a lot of nerve.

_You:_ Well, you can see for yourself that you’re no judge. You don’t know anything about it. You said so yourself. And besides, if you’re going to do so much talking about it you’re wasting time until you know something.

_She:_ It’s no use trying to argue with you, is it? I’m going home.

_You:_ Now you’re just running away because you lost the argument. It isn’t my fault. You said you wanted me to talk. All right; I’ll stop talking.

(Kiss her.)

_She:_ No, I didn’t mean that. Stop. Please stop.

_You:_ No, I won’t. You need convincing.

_She:_ But....

_You:_ You mustn’t talk for five minutes. That’s reasonable, isn’t it? Five minutes!

_She:_ All right. (Seven minutes elapse.) The five minutes must be up.

_You:_ What did you say?

_She:_ The five minutes are over.

_You:_ What of it? What’s five minutes when the whole evening will be over in a short time? All of the evenings will be over some day. And you’re quarreling about five minutes. Oh, stop talking!

_She:_ But.... Oh, all right.

18. I’D HAVE SAID YOU WERE FROM NEW YORK

_TYPE:_

Traveling salesman, always just a little lonely and overjoyed at a chance to talk or make any human contact whatever.

_SUBJECT:_

Inexperienced traveller in a state of high excitement and anticipation. At a rare stage of impressionability.

_APPARATUS:_

1 Pullman car

_REMARKS:_

This method is extremely specialized, suited only to travelers. On terra firma both protagonists are different people entirely, who would be scandalized at actions which seem perfectly plausible on the train.

I’D HAVE SAID YOU WERE FROM NEW YORK

There’s really nothing else to do on train journeys. Reading on the train gives you a headache; after three hours scenery should never have been invented. And as for that green plush.... If you have an acquaintance on the train and talk yourself out with him you will never want to see him again.... Bridge? But that is our story.

Sometimes on trains or boats there are signs like this: “Beware the Professional Gambler; He is Smarter Than You.” This is romantic. But it is not the type of romance which appeals to most young women, and as a rule they ignore the signs and play bridge. On the chance that you do not know your Dreiser, I shall attempt to describe the requisite technique.

Carrie is sitting forlornly in her chair in the Pullman, with a closed Red Book in her lap. Sunk in the crack of the chair is a discarded College Comics. She doesn’t want to buy another magazine; she wishes the man with the cap would stop bothering her with Eskimo Pies and perfume, and bananas and paper-backed novels. The train smells sooty. Large hard balls of soot keep falling into her lap. Outside the window is the same yellowed field that she has been watching all day. It twists and presents various corners to the passing train, but it’s the same field just the same, with the same wheat lining up into orderly ranks that fall apart into chaos as the train passes on. Twenty more hours and nothing left to think about....

You walk down the aisle, staggering as the train sways. She looks at you idly. You are tall and skinny, and when she sees that you are beginning to get bald, she loses interest. At the same time you see her. You have been looking for her ever since she passed through the club car on her way from lunch: you like them small and blonde and young when there are no tall and blonde and snappy ones. Stop by her chair and smile at her.

“Would you like to join a party at bridge, if I can start a game?” you ask. Her first impulse is to refuse; not from caution, but from inertia. It’s the same feeling that made her turn down the man with the cap on his last journey when she really wanted a bar of Hershey’s. But as she shakes her head she changes her mind. Bridge! Something to do!

“Why—yes, I guess so.” And she giggles a little, from shyness.

“Good! I’ll get someone else and be back in a minute.” But you return with bad tidings. Everyone else is already playing.

“I guess we got the idea too late,” you announce, sitting down in the next seat. “I wish I’d thought of it before. There was an old fellow in the back that asked me this morning, but he was getting off at Chicago. Isn’t that where you got on? How far are you going?”

“Colorado. I’m going to get off this train at La Junta.” Whistle.

“You have pretty near as long a ride as I have. I go clear across. Tiresome, isn’t it? I ought to be used to it, but I never am, somehow.”

“What do you do?”

“Furniture. Wholesale furniture. I’m traveling for a firm in Tucson; Robinson and Company. Have you ever been there?”

“Oh, no; this is my first trip West.”

“It’s a nice town, but hot right now. I’m lucky to be away. Just had a letter from my—my sister and she says the heat is unbearable. Unbearable.”

She murmurs sympathetically and looks back at the wheat, while you remember that at times you talk too much about yourself. Ah, well then....

“If it isn’t too personal—what part of the country do you hail from?”

“Illinois. Darien. It’s just a little town. I’m going out to Colorado to visit and maybe I’m going to stay. If I can get a job teaching and if I like the country, I mean.”

“Really? Now, I’d have said you were from New York.”

There is a pleased little silence.

“Why, what a funny idea. Why should you think I’m from New York?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A man in my business gets so he can spot people pretty quickly, and he can’t exactly tell how, nine times out of ten.”

“Kind of second nature?”

“Yes, second nature. I don’t know just why I did think you were from New York. Your clothes, or perhaps the way you talk. Or the way you know how to take care of yourself.”

“How can you tell anything about that?”

“Oh, that’s easy. A man can always tell. You can take care of yourself.”

She blushes and remembers that she is all alone on this train.

“Well,” slightly raising your voice, “I do like New York. It looks pretty good when you’ve been out in the sticks for a couple of months.”

“I’ll bet it does.”

“Yes, there’s no place like New York for shows. I wouldn’t like to live there, but it’s a good place to visit. My—my mother used to live there, and I never could see how she stood it as long as she did.”

She answers with animation. “Oh, but the little towns get so dull! There just isn’t anything to do out in the country.”

“Nothing to do? Why, gee, what’s the matter with fishing? Two weeks a year isn’t enough fishing for me!”

“But of course you’re a man.”

“Sure, that’s right. A man feels different. I admit I don’t understand women, and I bet I’m as bright as the next one. There’s not a man alive can understand a woman.”

“Well, maybe you’re right.”

“Isn’t it time to eat? Let’s go on in and see. Will you have dinner with me?”

“Why—I don’t know——”

“What’s the harm?”

No nice girl will admit the possibility of harm. She ignores your remark, therefore, by rising and starting for the dining car. It is seven cars away, and some of the long passages are difficult to manage without staggering from side to side. Hold her elbow in a firm grasp, squeezing it as she stumbles against you, and laugh a good deal. You are much better friends when you reach the diner.

She looks out of the window at the sweeping darkness and you watch her and she knows it. The speed of the train and the feeling of not belonging anywhere are very exciting. What will Colorado be like? What is it all about anyway? No one in the train is a real person; they are all simply part of an adventure, like the armies and mobs in the background of a moving picture. Even the man across the table—isn’t he simply part of it too? The most exciting part? A personification of the whole thing, the whole waiting world.... I’d have said you were from New York.... You can take care of yourself.... I certainly can.... She smiles at you suddenly, defiantly, gayly. “What were you thinking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The future, I guess.”

“I thought so. Let’s drink to it.” Hold up your water glass. “To your future, and may it include me.”

She laughs again, recklessly. Lean over the table.

“Will it, kid? Will it?”

“Oh——how do I know? I’m no fortune teller.” Again she turns to the window. There are no fields to be seen now, but the stars look very large. Stars and darkness and the train going somewhere—somewhere—somewhere. And that man looking at her and appreciating all her expressions and knowing that he doesn’t understand her; wondering about her....

“Now what are you thinking about?”

But she’ll never tell you. You’ll always wonder about the girl you met on the train for a few minutes. Ships that pass in the night. It’s exciting to be going somewhere.

She doesn’t want any more ice cream. Go back to her chair and when someone asks you to play bridge refuse without even consulting her. No matter. Stare out of the window.

“You know, it’s a funny thing. This has been a much better day than I expected.”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. I thought it would be just the same. You can imagine, riding on trains day in, day out.”

“Yes, I can imagine.”

“I’m glad you got on at Chicago, that’s all. You won’t be sore at me for saying so? I’ve got to say what I think, to you.”

She can feel just how it must be. Your profile looks so tired.

Turn to her suddenly. “I’m talking like a crazy person. Do you think I’m crazy?”

“Of course I don’t.”

Settle back again. “Good. I’m not really, but I guess most people would think so.”

“Why should they?”

“Talking like this to a girl I just met on the train.”

“Talking like what? You haven’t said anything.” She is really bewildered.

“Haven’t I?” Look at her again, quickly. “You know, that’s a queer thing. I thought I had. I thought I’d said lots of things. Do you ever have that feeling?”

“Oh—that. Yes.”

“Well, I know what I’m going to say, right now. You’ll probably be mad at me.”

“What is it?”

“I think you’re a darned good sport.”

“Why? You don’t know. You don’t know anything about me at all.”

“Sure I do. I’m not dumb. I’ve been watching you all day and I guess I can tell as well as the next one. Do you know what I think about you?”

“How should I?”

“I think probably you’re awfully nice.” Put your hand over hers. “I know you are. You’re all excited, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re shaking. What’s the matter? Scared of me?” Your hand tightens.

“Oh, no.” She is annoyed with herself. It’s hard on the nerves, sitting in a train all day. Almost time to go to bed, she thinks—the porter has started at the other end of the car; his head is immersed in the upper berth in the corner.

“It’s getting late,” you say, understanding her. She nods and thinks with a new terror of arriving in a strange town. Nervous.

“I’m sorry,” you add. There is another silence. Some perverse shyness keeps her from saying anything. It is almost as if, against her own will, she waits for something fateful. But say no more. Pat her hand and settle back, looking up at the top of the car.

Slowly, followed by a mysterious growth of little green cabins, the porter approaches you, slamming down chair-covers, manipulating linen.

Sit up with a new briskness.

“I’m going to the smoker,” you announce. “But listen, I’m not going to say good-bye.” She looks at you and waits. Her tongue won’t move; is it curiosity? Nervous....

“I’m coming in to say good-night,” say, your eyes fixed on hers. “I have a book to lend you. So long.” Rise, and then put your hand over hers again. She simply stares at you.

“You’re a nice kid,” you observe, and walk away.

Slowly she stands and picks up her suitcase as the porter reaches her chair in his constructive progress. Slowly she walks down the aisle to the Ladies’ Room. A sudden flush of thought as she gets there—she drops the bag and looks into the mirror, horror-stricken. Why didn’t she say something? What should she do now? Then as she thinks, she feels better. He’s simply coming to say good-night. Sure, he’ll probably try to kiss her, but—oh, well, stop thinking. Just the same she’ll wear her dressing gown to bed; no use giving him ideas. Everything seems so different on a train; if it would stop making a noise and let you think straight.... Ships that pass in the night. What’s the difference?

19. SHE LOVED ME FOR THE DANGERS

_TYPE:_

Restless wanderer, appearing at intervals of four or six years to sit on the hearthstones of his old college friends and look wistful. At the slightest chance of attaining a hearthstone of his own he dives back into the wilderness.

_SUBJECT:_

Any co-ed

_APPARATUS:_

1 Automobile 1 Head of gray hair, above one of these never fading bronzed faces. 1 Precise accent.

_REMARKS:_