Tales from Bohemia | Page 4

sea, now at the boardwalk crowd where he might perhaps at any
moment behold the face of "the loveliest girl in the world." He beheld
instead, as he approached the Tennessee pier, the face of his friend
George Haddon.
"Hello, old boy!" exclaimed Morrow, grasping his friend's hand. "What
are you doing here? I thought your affairs would keep you in New York
all summer."
"So they would," replied Haddon, in a tone and with a look whose
distress he made little effort to conceal. "But something happened."
"Why, what on earth's the matter? You seem horribly downcast."
Haddon was silent for a moment; then he said suddenly:
"I'll tell you all about it. I have to tell somebody or it will split my head.
But come out on the pier, away from the noise of that merry-go-round
organ."
Neither spoke as the two young men passed through the concert
pavilion and dancing hall out to a quieter part of the long pier. They sat
near the railing and looked out over the sea, on which, as evening fell,
the rippling band of moonlight grew more and more luminous. They
could see, at the right, the long line of brilliant lights on the boardwalk,
and the increasing army of promenaders. Detached from the furthest
end of the line of boardwalk lights, shone those of distant Longport.
Above these, the sky had turned from heliotrope to hues dark and
indefinable, but indescribably beautiful. Down on the beach were only
a few people, strolling near the tide line, a carriage, a man on horseback,
and three frolicking dogs.

"It's simply this," abruptly began Haddon. "Six weeks ago I was
married to--"
"Why, I never heard of it. Let me congrat--"
"No, don't, I was married to a comic opera singer, named Lulu Ray. I
don't suppose you've ever heard of her, for she was only recently
promoted from the chorus to fill small parts. We took a flat, and lived
happily on the whole, for a month, although with such small quarrels as
might be expected. Two weeks ago she went out and didn't come back.
Since then I haven't been able to find her in New York or at any of the
resorts along the Jersey coast. I suppose she was offended at something
I said during a quarrel that grew out of my insisting on our staying in
New York all summer. Knowing her liking for Atlantic City--she was a
Philadelphia girl before she went on the stage--I came here at once to
hunt her up and apologize and agree to her terms."
"Well?"
"Well, I haven't found her. She's not at any hotel in Atlantic City. I'm
going back to New York to-morrow to get some clue as to where she
is."
"I suppose you're very fond of her still?"
"Yes; that's the trouble. And then, of course, a man doesn't like to have
a woman who bears his name going around the country alone, her
whereabouts unknown."
Morrow was on the point of saying: "Or perhaps with some other man,"
but he checked himself. He was sufficiently mundane to refrain from
attempting to reason Haddon out of his affection for the fugitive, or to
advise him as to what to do. He knew that in merely letting Haddon
unburden on him the cause of anxiety, he had done all that Haddon
would expect from any friend.
He limited himself, therefore, to reminding Haddon that all men have
their annoyances in this life; to treating the woman's offence as light
and commonplace, and to cheering him up by making him join in
seeing the sights of the boardwalk.
They looked on at the pier hop, while Professor Willard's musicians
played popular tunes; returned to the boardwalk and watched the pretty
girls leaning against the wooden beasts on the merry-go-round while
the organ screamed forth, "Daddy Wouldn't Buy Me a Bow Wow;"
experienced that not very illusive illusion known as "The Trip to

Chicago;" were borne aloft on an observation wheel; made the rapid
transit of the toboggan slide, visited the phonographs and heard a shrill
reproduction of "Molly and I and the Baby;" tried the slow and
monotonous ride on the "Figure Eight," and the swift and varied one on
the switchback. They bought saltwater taffy and ate it as they passed
down the boardwalk and looked at the moonlight. Down on the
Bowery-like part of the boardwalk they devoured hot sausages, and in a
long pavilion drank passable beer and saw a fair variety show. Thence
they left the boardwalk, walked to Atlantic Avenue and mounted a car
that bore them to Shauffler's, where among light-hearted beer drinkers
they heard the band play "Sousa's Cadet March" and "After the Ball,"
and so they arrived at midnight.
All this was beneficial