what I’m driving at.
So I thought a few months in an honest- to-goodness big town might do me a little good. I’d mingle with the bunch, and go to places, and all that; and—well, you see what I mean. And no doubt it would be a sort of education, in a way.
But don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t thinking of hitting any of those old high places. I was too old a bird for that. There’s nothing in it. I signed up at a boarding-house that was advertised as highly respectable, and was: and I even went and got me a job because I couldn’t quite see five months of steady loafing. It would get to be monotonous.
I’ll admit that it was a cinch job: easy work, short hours, and—it paid enough to keep me in cigarette money, anyway, that’s the way it is. If I had been down on my uppers and really needed that job the worst way—do you see me getting it? I’ll say you don’t.
Well, things went along for a couple of months or so without anything much happening. In the mean time I had got pretty well acquainted with a fellow by the name of Johnny Harris that worked where I did. Of coarse Johnny had his faults—I’m coming to one of ’em—like all of us; but taking him all round he was a pretty fair sort of soul.
As to that fault of Johnny’s, they say everybody goes crazy in a different way, and Johnny—he was cracked wide open on the subject of dancing. Outside of that Johnny was a good deal the same as anybody else.
Every morning Johnny woke up with one of those crazy jazz things running through his head, and all day long he stepped round in time to it. It was a good thing for Johnny that he wasn’t stuck on slow waltzes. If he had been he’d have lost his job. He wouldn’t ever have got anywhere—and Johnny had considerable running round to do. Anyway, Johnny Harris would shadow-dance like that, as you might say, all day; and then, come night, every night, he would go to a real dance—and he never missed a single number, take it from Johnny.
It strikes me that Johnny Harris picked out a mighty poor way to go crazy. If it was me I’d pick something that called for a little less exertion.
Well, one day Johnny asked me to come on and be a sport and go to a dance with him. He said he had a couple of tickets for the annual masquerade ball of some fraternal order or other—the B. V. D.’s or something—and believe him, it was going to be a swell affair, and the best jazz band in town, bar none.
Some music! According to Johnny, this was going to be one of the greatest little occasions ever, and anybody would certainly be a sap to miss it. And here I could have a ticket merely for the asking—why, I didn’t have to ask for it, he was offering it to me. And take it from him, it was no cinch to get them—these tickets; the only way he got his was because he happened to stand in with the management.
“Where did you get the idea that I was one of these society butterflies?” I asked him.
“What do you mean?” asked Johnny. “Do you mean you haven’t ever learned how to dance?”
“Oh,” I said, “I can hoof it a little; though, at that, I guess I’m a good deal of a busher at it. Anyway, I haven’t ever heard of any scouts for the Russian Ballet hanging round and looking me over. But what I mean is, I’m not so strong for it—this dance stuff.
“I’d rather go to a good show any time; or maybe a fight or something. But this bunch of Miss Nancys—these tough birds that make a regular business of stepping round in these cabarets and everywhere—they give me a pain. Mind you, I’m not saying anything against you. You’re different. You’re one of these jazz-nuts, anyway, and that lets you out. But—”
“Thanks,” said Johnny. “Never mind me. But what do you say—take it or leave it. And don’t forget: it’s going to be some little time!”
I thought it over.
“I’ll take a chance,” I said finally.
And I was certainly taking one—a big one—though I didn’t know it.
Well, Johnny and I went to the party. You remember it was one of those masquerade affairs. Johnny went dressed as a clown. I wore a dress-suit. It was my first dress-suit, and this was the first time I had ever worn it. So I went feeling the way Johnny looked.
Of course I wore a mask, and that helped some. It helped quite a lot. If every fellow could wear a mask the first time he busts right out into public in a dress-suit maybe these soup-and-fish things would get to be more popular. Anyway, I was glad I had that mask on.
No doubt it was some considerable ball; but I won’t attempt to describe it. It wasn’t a whole lot different from the Grand Annual Masquerade Ball of Lodge No. 34. F. and A. M., that they have every Christmas week up there in the old home town, only bigger—bigger all round. I hadn’t been inside the place three minutes when I lost Johnny—or Johnny lost me—and then—well, there I was.
Of course these masquerade dances are sort of free-for-alls, and I might have grabbed off most anybody and danced with her, but somehow I didn’t have the nerve. It never makes any difference to me whether there’s three on and the batter has me in a hole or not: I’m there with the old confeedience just the same. But just the minute I hit into one of these society plays—right off the bat I begin wishing they’d take me out.
I’ll admit it. I feel like a cat in a strange garret, or Kaiser Bill in Holland. I don’t feel at home, and I want to go away from there.
So that’s the way I felt then, and I guess if I hadn’t happened to notice an empty seat on the side-lines I’d have beat it for the clubhouse without losing a man or a minute—the way that German general retreated. But I spotted that seat and did a hook-slide into it—and then I sat there.
I sat there and sat there; and I kept right on sitting there. I guess I must have sat there for most two hours. The place kept getting hotter and hotter, and that dress-suit kept getting more uncomfortable all the time. Say, what I wouldn’t have given for a good cold shower! And this was Johnny Harrir’s idea of a good time!
Not for me! After working at it for about half an hour, I had finally got up my nerve and was going to make a break for liberty or death, when a young lady sat down beside me. So then, of course, that settled it. I would have to wait a while before pulling that exit I had in mind.
If I got up and walked off now she would think I was trying to insult her, or that maybe I was insulted or fussed or some-thing—though of course I wasn’t either one of those things. So I would have to stick until she went away, or for a while, anyhow. I was pretty sore.
But pretty soon I sort of snitched a kind of sidewise look at her, and then. I began to get over it—feeling sore. There didn’t seem to be any particular reason for it—for feeling that way. On the contrary, there seemed to be quite a number of reasons for feeling just the opposite. No, maybe you might feel sort of put out if she was sitting beside somebody else, but not if she was sitting beside you. No doubt you set the idea.
Of course she was wearing a mask: but it was only a little thing, not much bigger than a postage-stamp, and it simply made her look all the prettier. And—but I guess I’ve said it: though it’s a sort of feeble word—pretty. It doesn’t begin to describe her—and maybe it will be just as well if I don’t, because I couldn’t finish the job anyway, not and came anywhere near doing it justice. So I’ll merely say that she began where most of our very best-lookers leave off, and let it go at that.
She was dressed as a shepherdess, or a gipsy, or something. I don’t seem to exactly recollect exactly what. Probably I didn’t notice. I was mostly interested in the general effect. Anyway, she hadn’t been sitting beside me for more than a minute, and I had only stolen a couple or more looks at her, when I began to feel it coming over me—that feeling. There were different sorts of symptoms; but—well, all of a sudden something seemed to tell me that I had a new object in life.
Something told me that, and I believed it. I knew it, I could swear to it. And I hadn’t had a word to say about it, either. It was all arranged for me—when I wasn’t looking. It was a mighty curious sort of feeling, and if you ever have one like it let me give