Gigolo | Page 7

Nick stood a moment. His eyelids closed, languorously. He stretched
his arms out and up deliciously, bringing his stomach in and his chest
out. He took off his cap and stuffed it into his pocket. He strolled across
the thick cool nap of the grass, deserting the pebble path. At the west
edge of the island a sign said: "No One Allowed in the Shrubbery."
Ignoring it, Nick parted the branches, stopped and crept, reached the
bank that sloped down to the cool green stream, took off his coat, and
lay relaxed upon the ground. Above him the tree branches made a
pattern against the sky. Little ripples lipped the shore. Scampering
velvet-footed things, feathered things, winged things made pleasant stir
among the leaves. Nick slept.
He awoke in half an hour refreshed. He lay there, thinking of
nothing--a charming gift. He found a stray peanut in his pocket and fed
it to a friendly squirrel. His hand encountered the cool metal of his
harmonica. He drew out the instrument, placed his coat, folded, under
his head, crossed his knees, one leg swinging idly, and began to play
rapturously. He was perfectly happy. He played Gimme Love, whose
jazz measures are stolen from Mendelssohn's Spring Song. He did not
know this. The leaves rustled. He did not turn his head.
"Hello, Pan!" said a voice. A girl came down the slope and seated
herself beside him. She was not smiling.
Nick removed the harmonica from his lips and wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand. "Hello who?"
"Hello, Pan."
"Wrong number, lady," Nick said, and again applied his lips to the
mouth organ. The girl laughed then, throwing back her head. Her throat
was long and slim and brown. She clasped her knees with her arms and
looked at Nick amusedly. Nick thought she was a kind of homely little
thing.

"Pan," she explained, "was a pagan deity. He played pipes in the
woods."
"'S all right with me," Nick ventured, bewildered but amiable. He
wished she'd go away. But she didn't. She began to take off her shoes
and stockings. She went down to the water's edge, then, and paddled
her feet. Nick sat up, outraged. "Say, you can't do that."
She glanced back at him over her shoulder. "Oh, yes, I can. It's so hot."
She wriggled her toes ecstatically.
The leaves rustled again, briskly, unmistakably this time. A heavy tread.
A rough voice. "Say, looka here! Get out of there, you! What the----" A
policeman, red-faced, wroth. "You can't do that! Get outa here!"
It was like a movie, Nick thought.
The girl turned her head. "Oh, now, Mr. Elwood," she said.
"Oh, it's you, miss," said the policeman. You would not have believed
it could be the same policeman. He even giggled. "Thought you was
away."
"I was. In fact, I am, really. I just got sick of it and ran away for a day.
Drove. Alone. The family'll be wild."
"All the way?" said the policeman, incredulously. "Say, I thought that
looked like your car standing out there by the road; but I says no, she
ain't in town." He looked sharply at Nick, whose face had an Indian
composure, though his feelings were mixed. "Who's this?"
"He's a friend of mine. His name's Pan." She was drying her feet with
an inadequate rose-coloured handkerchief. She crept crabwise up the
bank, and put on her stockings and slippers.
"Why'n't you come out and set on a bench?" suggested the policeman,
worriedly.
The girl shook her head. "In Arcadia we don't sit on benches. I should

think you'd know that. Go on away, there's a dear. I want to talk to
this--to Pan."
He persisted. "What'd your pa say, I'd like to know!" The girl shrugged
her shoulders. Nick made as though to rise. He was worried. A nut,
that's what. She pressed him down again with a hard brown hand.
"Now it's all right. He's going. Old Fuss!" The policeman stood a brief
moment longer. Then the foliage rustled again. He was gone. The girl
sighed, happily. "Play that thing some more, will you? You're a wiz at
it, aren't you?"
"I'm pretty good," said Nick, modestly. Then the outrageousness of her
conduct struck him afresh. "Say, who're you, anyway?"
"My name's Berry--short for Bernice.... What's yours, Pan?"
"Nick--that is--Nick."
"Ugh, terrible! I'll stick to Pan. What d'you do when you're not
Panning?" Then, at the bewilderment in his face: "What's your job?"
"I work in the Ideal Garage. Say, you're pretty nosey, ain't you?"
"Yes, pretty.... That accounts for your nails, h'm?" She looked at her
own brown paws. "'Bout as bad as mine. I drove one hundred and fifty
miles to-day."
"Ya-as, you did!"
"I did! Started at six. And I'll probably drive