Lord Loveland"s habit was to give a wide berth to common people, if Chance, the democrat, threw him near them, with the exception of "Tommies," who for him as a soldier were a cla.s.s by themselves--a cla.s.s in which he recognised humanity that touched his own. He did not love ugliness or shabbiness, which as like as not meant microbes; but he had come down so near to the depths of reality tonight, that he had no sense of his own superiority, or inclination to shrink away when the man"s hands touched his as they took the rescued animal.
"I came along in the nick of time," said Loveland, "and I like dogs. I thought I could just do it, and I did."
""Twas fine, all the same," repeated the dog"s master. "I ain"t much of a public speaker, but I guess you know how I feel, all right. "Twould "a pretty near put me out o" business if----" He did not finish his sentence, but the tenderness with which he tucked into his pocket the wretched little apology for a dog made further words superfluous.
Loveland, always polite to inferiors, unless overmastered by rage, looked at the bench as if it were the first comer"s property.
"If you don"t mind, I"ll sit down," he said.
The shabby one laughed. "I ain"t paid for my lodgings," said he, "and if I had, you"d be welcome--after what you done. You can have me for a doormat if you like."
"Thanks," said Loveland, laughing, too. "I don"t need a doormat. If it was an overcoat, now----"
"You could have mine, if you weren"t twice the size for it, and if Anthony Comstock wouldn"t run me in if he saw what I"ve got on underneath. But I guess you wouldn"t have to wish twice for a coat, if "twas in your part."
"My part?" repeated Val.
"If the piece you"re in called for it."
"I don"t understand."
They were both sitting down now, filling the far corners of the bench, and talking across it.
"Well, "tain"t my show. I don"t want to be fresh. But though I"ve seen a lot o" night-bloomin" plants growin" in this flower garden, I don"t just recall seein" one like you take root."
"You wouldn"t now, if I had anywhere else to go," returned Loveland, with his usual frankness.
"Gee! You take me for the fall guy. But say, do you want anything out o"
me? "Cause, if you do, you can have it. If you"re a journalist out on a night stunt, and what you"re fishin" for is the history o" my life, I"m on, for Shakespeare"s sake. Any form you like, sad or gay, moral lesson or otherwise."
"Hang journalists!"
"Think so? Well, millionaire then, seein" how the poor live. You look the swell all right."
"Thank you. Wish I felt as I look, then."
"You"d make the Gould and Vanderbilt crowd look like visitors, if you hadn"t forgot your overcoat."
"I left it at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel----"
"Sa--ay, if that ain"t like me!" drawled the man, the twinkle of moonlight striking a humourous glint in his eye. "Kind of absent-minded.
I left my Sunday suit just that way at the White House last week, where I"d been spending Sat.u.r.day to Monday with my friend w.i.l.l.y T."
"You think I"m lying?" said Loveland, with curiosity rather than resentment.
"Just kiddin"."
"You"re mistaken. They turned me out of the hotel----"
"Gee! But you _was_ there?"
"Yes."
"If that ain"t the swell thing! I wouldn"t mind bein" turned out, if once they"d let me in. I should say to myself, "Well, sir, you"ve lived." That"s what I never have done, but what I"m always meanin" to do, when my time comes. Say, would it be offensive if I asked why they--er----"
"Turned me out? I couldn"t pay for my dinner."
"Had you _eat_ it?"
"No. I wish now I had."
"I believe you. Whe--ew! Just to eat once at the Waldorf!"
"I had lunch there," said Val, beginning to be a little warmer, because he was amused.
"Bet it was bully."
"I wasn"t hungry--then."
"Pity! Still," the man at the other end of the bench murmured reflectively, "you"ve got it to remember, and I guess a lot of other nice things."
"If that were any comfort!"
""Twould be to me. Say, I don"t throw myself out much to strangers, but you saved my dog for me, while I was snoozin" like a sick dormouse, and there"s somethin" about you kind o" gets me. Suppose we swop stories,--if you really ain"t on in this act. If you"re not kiddin"--playin" some game--if you"re here because you"re stumped, why maybe I might put you up to somethin"--see? Wasn"t there a verse in the Bible about a lion and a mouse?"
"I think the lion and the mouse were aesop," said Val.
"Never heard of the gent. But anyhow, I caught on to it in Sunday School--when I was a kid, I"m dead sure of that, and I always was a quoter. You ain"t a New Yorker, are you?"
"No. I"m an Englishman," Loveland answered quickly.
"Gee, but you"re a swell-lookin" emigrant! I ain"t a New Yorker myself--not by birth. I was a hayseed till I turned nineteen; workin" on my stepfather"s farm--mean old skinflint, but I couldn"t see my way to cuttin" till my mother was gone. Then I footed it to New York--sixty mile--chuck full of hope, and nothin" else, unless beans."
"A regular Mark Tapley," said Val.
"Never played the part. In private life my name"s Bill Willing: some switches it round to Willing Bill, because I generally do my day"s work without howlin"; I blew into New York without attractin" much notice, and that"s nineteen years ago, and I haven"t attracted much since, that"s a fact. But you may do better. Don"t be discouraged by a setback, if your game"s square, and I bet it is, or you wouldn"t be in the dog savin" business. What _is_ your lay, anyhow?--excuse the liberty."
"Retrieving my fortune," said Val, after a moment"s reflection.
"You can see me one better. Mine"s to make yet, and I"m no kid--like you. I won"t see thirty-eight again. I"m an artist. But New York ain"t woke up to my talent. Maybe I"ve been too versatile. That never did pay.
The line I"d mapped out was paintin" pictures, but my chance was slow comin". Had to take what I could get on the way along: supin", sandwichin", barkin"----"
"Eh, what?" broke in Loveland.
"You don"t savvy? Oh, supin" in theatres. There"s several, specially one in the Bowery, wouldn"t "a been complete without me for years, till I got the chuck like you did at the Waldorf. Sandwichin"--why, you know what that is, sure? You wouldn"t think how you get the cramps shut up between the boards? The sandwichin" was generally in the theatrical line, too, so I"ve always kind of hovered around the profession, though I don"t say I"m proud of my career as a barker in the dimes--museums, you know. There was money in the business, though, if the freaks hadn"t caught on that I had the heart of a soft boiled egg--always ready to part if they worked the aged mother dodge, or the baby brother who threw fits. I ain"t no penny-in-the-slot savings bank. Wish I was. I should be better off now. Besides, my voice ain"t an automobile horn, and barkin"
for a couple of seasons stove a hole in my top note. After that, no manager would take me with a pound of tea and a chromo, but one of my old govs switched me onto a job paintin" freak s...o...b..ards, and I"d "a been at it yet if freaks didn"t last too long. Once you"ve put them on the boards, there they _are_. At present my speciality"s meenoos."