The Day of Days | Page 6

George subsided into morose

reflections. It irked him sore to remember he had been worsted by the
meek little slip of a bookkeeper trotting so quietly at his elbow.
He was a man of his word, was George Bross; not for anything would
he have gone back on his promise to keep secret that afternoon's
titillating discovery; likewise he was a covetous soul, loath to forfeit
the promised treat; withal he was human (after his kind) and since
reprisals were not barred by their understanding, he began then and
there to ponder the same. One way or another, that day's humiliation
must be balanced; else he might never again hold up his head in the
company of gentlemen of spirit.
But how to compass this desire, frankly puzzled him. It were cowardly
to contemplate knockin' the block off'n P. Sybarite; the disparity of
their statures forebade; moreover, George entertained a vexatious
suspicion that P. Sybarite's explanation on his recent downfall had not
been altogether disingenuous; he didn't quite believe it had been due
solely to his own clumsiness and an adventitious foot.
"That sort of thing don't never _happen_," George assured himself
privately. "I was outclassed, all right, all right. What I wanna know is:
where'd he couple up with the ring-wisdom?"
Repeated if covert glances at his companion supplied no clue; P.
Sybarite's face remained as uncommunicative as well-to-do relations by
marriage; his shadowy, pale and wistful smile denoted, if anything,
only an almost childlike pleasure in anticipation of the evening's
promised amusement.
Suddenly it was borne in upon the shipping clerk that in the probable
arrangement of the proposed party he would be expected to dance
attendance upon Miss Violet Prim, leaving P. Sybarite free to devote
himself to Miss Lessing. Whereupon George scowled darkly.
"P.S.'s got his nerve with him," he protested privately, "to cop out the
one pippin in the house all for his lonely. It's a wonder he wouldn't slip
her a chanct to enjoy herself with summon' her own age....
"Not," he admitted ruefully, "that I'd find it healthy to pull any rough
stuff with Vi lookin' on. I don't even like to think of myself lampin' any
other skirt while Violet's got her wicks trimmed and burnin' bright."
Then he made an end to envy for the time being, and turned his
attention to more pressing concerns; but though he pondered with all
his might and main, it seemed impossible to excogitate any way to

square his account with P. Sybarite. And when, at Thirty-eighth Street,
the latter made an excuse to part with George, instead of going home in
his company, the shipping clerk was too thoroughly disgusted to
question the subterfuge. He was, indeed, a bit relieved; the temporary
dissociation promised just so much more time for solitary conspiracy.
Turning west, he was presently prompted by that arch-comedian
Destiny (disguised as Thirst) to drop into Clancey's for a shell of beer.
Now in Clancey's George found a crumpled copy of the Evening
Journal almost afloat on the high-tide of the dregs-drenched bar.
Rescuing the sheet, he smoothed it out, examined (grinning) its daily
meed of comics, read every word on the "Sports Page," ploughed
through the weekly vaudeville charts, scanned the advertisements, and
at length reviewed the news columns with a listless eye.
It may have been the stimulation of his drink, but it was probably
nothing more nor less than jealousy that sparked his sluggish
imagination as he contemplated a two-column reproduction in coarse
half-tone of a photograph entitled "Marian Blessington." Slowly the
light dawned upon mental darkness; slowly his grin broadened and
became fixed--even as his great scheme for the confusion and
confounding of P. Sybarite took shape and matured.
He left Clancey's presently, stepping high, with a mind elate;
foretasting victory; convinced that he harboured within him the
makings of a devil of a fellow, all the essential qualifications of (not to
put too fine a point upon it) a regular wag....

III
THE GLOVE COUNTER
With a feeling of some guilt, becoming in one who stoops to unworthy
artifice, P. Sybarite walked slowly on up Broadway a little way, then
doubled on his trail, going softly until a swift and stealthy survey
westward from the corner of Thirty-eighth Street assured him that
George was not skulking thereabouts to spy upon him. Then mending
his pace, he held briskly on toward the shopping district.
From afar the clock recently restored to its coign high above unlovely
Greeley Square warned him that his hour was fleeting: in twenty
minutes it would be six o'clock; at six, sharp, Blessington's would close
its doors. Distressed, he scurried on, crossed Thirty-fourth Street,

aimed himself courageously for the wide entrance of the department
store, battled manfully through the retreating army of feminine
shoppers--and gained the