# Episodes Before Thirty/Chapter 14

CHAPTER XIV
In the East 19th Street room, meanwhile, things were going from bad to worse. Kay's touring company delayed its starting, and consequently his salary. Boyde's huntsman's job, equally, was postponed for various reasons, while his income from posing, from churchly activities, from the theatre as well, was reduced to a very few dollars a week. These he shared faithfully, but my $15 every Friday (usually $13 net when office loans had been repaid) were our only certain source of revenue.
After paying something on the room, the laundry in full, and buying oatmeal, dried apples, and condensed milk for the week to come, there remained barely enough for one man's meals, much less for the food of three, during the ensuing seven days. Boyde's contribution brought the budget to, perhaps, twenty dollars all told. Something, too, had to be allowed daily to car-fares for Kay, while my own expenses in getting about after assignments, only recoverable at the end of the week, were considerable. The weather was turning colder at the same time, for it was now past mid-October. Our overcoats had to be redeemed. Boyde's wisdom in obtaining only the strictly necessary became evident. We redeemed the overcoats out of my second week's pay. Boyde himself had no overcoat at all. As we were all about the same height and build, clothes were interchangeable. There was a discussion every morning, when I left the other two, in bed and on the sofa respectively, as to who should wear what.
We had now pawned with Ikey various items: a Gladstone bag, two top hats, some underwear, and two pairs of boots. These were on separate tickets, by Boyde's advice. Tennis trousers, and several summer shirts were ​together on another ticket. All that winter Kay and I wore no underwear but a vest. The bag and top hats were taken out and put in again regularly every week for many months. There was only one article that, selfishly, I could never pawn or sell--the fiddle.
Dried apples and hot water--with expensive oatmeal we had to be very sparing--constituted our dinner for four nights out of the week; coffee and bread and butter for breakfast, coffee and "sinkers" for lunch completed my dietary. Occasionally Boyde or Kay, having been invited to a meal, brought home something in their pockets, but not often. We felt hunger every day, only the evening dried apples and hot water giving a sense of repletion that yet did not really allay the pangs of appetite, though it stopped the dull gnawing until sleep finally obliterated it. Kay and I, but never Boyde, oddly enough, had vivid and amusing dreams of food, and one invariable topic of conversation every night as we dined at Krisch's, or gobbled apples and oatmeal, was the menu we would order when things improved.... But Krisch's, after a time, we found too difficult and tempting, with the good smells, the sight of people eating at other tables, the lager beer, the perfume of cigars; and many a time, with the price of a dinner in our pockets, we preferred to eat in our room.
Another topic of conversation was our plan, myself its enthusiastic creator, to take up land in Canada and lead the life of settlers in the backwoods, which by contrast to our present conditions seemed to promise a paradise. Occasionally Kay spouted bits of Shakespeare, or rehearsed a rôle in one of the plays his touring company was to give. But it was the talks with Boyde about Eastern ideas and philosophy that were my keenest pleasure, for his appreciation and sympathetic understanding were a delight I thought about with anticipatory eagerness even during the day. My attachment to him deepened into affection.
The weeks went by; we scraped along somehow; Mrs. Bernstein was kept quiet--a relative term--by ​cajoling, promises and bluff. We bullied her. When Kay's lordly talk of free seats at theatres failed to materialize, and Boyde's trick of leaving about telegrams received from Davis and others, especially one from August Belmont, the great banker, inviting him to lunch at a fashionable club--when these devices lost their "pull," I resorted to the power of the Press. Her husband's position, his orchestra, offered vulnerable points of attack; the vermin-infested room, for instance, might be unpleasantly described....
For weeks we had paid nothing, everything worth fifty cents was pawned, Boyde's contribution had grown smaller and smaller, and the only addition to my salary had been a few dollars Kay had earned by posing to Smedley, one of Harper's illustrators. Things looked pretty dark, when luck turned suddenly; Kay received word from Gilmour, the organizer of his company, that he was to start touring on November 15th, and Boyde had a telegram from Davis--"Appointment confirmed, duties begin December 1st." This did not increase our cash in hand, but it increased our hope and raised our spirits. Kay and Boyde would both soon repay their share of past expenses. We should all three be in jobs a few weeks later. Early in November Kay actually left on his tour of one night stands in New York State, and Boyde left the mattress on the floor for the bed. A week after Kay sent us half his first salary, $7.50, which we gave to Mrs. Bernstein forthwith. The letter containing it was opened by Boyde, and dealt with while I was out.
It was a few days later, when I was alone one evening, that an Englishman who had played with us in the cricket match called to see me. I hardly remembered him, he had to introduce himself, the apologies to explain his sudden call were very voluble. He was well dressed and well fed, I noticed, a singer and concert accompanist; he annoyed me from the start by his hesitations, his endless humming and hawing. It was, he kept telling me, rather an intrusion; it was, he felt, of course, no concern of his; but "New York was a strange place, and--and ​--er--er--well, after much reflection, I really felt it my duty--I decided to take the risk, that is, to--er----"
"To what?" I asked bluntly at last. "For heaven's sake, tell me."
I was beginning to feel uneasy. My threats to Mrs. Bernstein, perhaps, had gone too far. Besides, the effect of the apples was passing and I longed for bed.
He took a gulp. "To warn you," he said, with a grave and ominous expression.
It was a long-winded business before I got him to the point, and even then the point was not really explicit. New York, he kept repeating, was a dangerous place for inexperience, there were strange and desperate characters in it. In the end, I think, my manners exasperated him as much as his vagueness exasperated me, for when he told me he came about "someone very close to you," and I asked point-blank, "Is it someone sharing this room with me?" his final word was a most decided "Yes"--with nothing more. This "someone," I gathered, at any rate, was fooling me, was up to all sorts of tricks, was even "dangerous."
I was infuriated, though I felt a certain sinking of the heart as well. He was attacking either Kay or Boyde, my only friends, both of whom I trusted to the last cent, for both of whom I had sincere affection. If he knew anything definite or really important, why couldn't he say it and be done with it? I put this to him.
"I prefer not to be more explicit," he replied with an air. He was offended. His patronizing offer of advice and sympathy, his pride, were wounded. "I would rather not mention names. It's true all the same," he added. And my patience then gave way. I got up and opened the door. He went without a word, but just as I was about to slam the door after him, he turned.
"Remember," he said, half angrily, half gravely, "I've warned you. He's a real crook. He's already been in gaol."
I banged the door behind him. I felt angry but uncomfortable, and as the anger subsided my uneasiness ​increased. The horrible feeling that there was truth in the warning harassed me. When Boyde came in an hour or so later, I pretended to be asleep. I told him nothing of my visitor, but through half-closed eyes I watched him as he moved about the room very quietly, lest he disturb my sleep. His delightful, kind expression, his frank blue eyes, the refinement and gentleness of his gestures, I noted them all for the hundredth time. His acts, too, I remembered; how he always shared his earnings, gave his help unstintingly, advice, a thousand hints, the value of his own sad and bitter experience. My heart ached a little. No, I reflected, it was certainly not Boyde who was the crook. My thoughts turned to Kay, who had just sent us half his salary. It was equally incredible. I wished I had treated my visitor differently. I wished I had kicked him out, instead of telling him to go. Sneak! A sneak with some evil motive into the bargain!
Things began to move now with a strange rapidity. It was as though someone who had been winding up machinery suddenly released the spring. Item by item, preparations had been completed--then, let her go! She went....
The weeks that followed seemed as many months. I was alone with Boyde in a filthy, verminous room, food and money scarce, rent owing, Kay away, clothes negligible, my single asset being a job. I lost that job owing to illness that kept me for weeks in bed--in that bed.... And as "she went" I had the curious feeling that someone watched her going, someone other than myself. It was an odd obsession. Someone looked on and smiled. Certain practices, gathered from my "Eastern" reading, were no doubt responsible for this uncanny feeling, for with it ran also a parallel idea: that only a portion of my being suffered while another portion, untouched, serene and confident, accepting all that came with a kind of indifferent resignation, stood entirely apart, playing, equally, the rôle of a spectator. This detached spectator watched "her going" with close attention, even ​with something of satisfaction. "Take it all," was its attitude; "avoid nothing; it is your due; for it is merely reaping what you sowed long ago. Face it to the very dregs. Only in this way shall you pay a just debt and exhaust it." So vital was this attitude in all that followed that it must be honestly mentioned.
A stabbing in the side had been bothering me for some days, making walking difficult and painful. A blow received while diving from our island--I hit a rock--began to ache and throb. I came home in the evenings, weary to the bone. There were headaches, and a touch of fever. The pain increased. There was a swelling. I went to bed. Boyde took down a letter to McCloy, asking for a day off, which was granted. The next day I turned up at 8.30, but had to come back to bed after the midday coffee and sinkers. "See a doctor," snapped McCloy, in his best maxim-firing manner, "and come back when you're fixed up again."
But there wasn't enough money for a doctor's fee of from two to five dollars. I lay up for three days, hoping for improvement which did not come. The pain and fever grew. Mrs. Bernstein, upset and even disagreeable, sent me bread and soup in the evening as well as the morning coffee. Boyde brought a few extras late at night. He was chasing a new post just then--organist to a church in Patterson, N.J.--and rarely got home before eleven, sometimes later. He brought long rolls of Vienna bread, a few white Spanish grapes, a tin of condensed milk. He slept peaceably beside me. His manner, once or twice, seemed different. I smelt liquor. "Someone stood me a drink," he explained, "and by God, I needed it. I'm fagged out." He was kind and sympathetic, doing all he could, all that his position allowed. He was very much in love at the moment with the daughter of the pastor of the Second Avenue Baptist Church, where he sang in the choir, and he confided his hopes and troubles about the affair to me.... It all gave me a queer feeling of unreality somewhere. In my feverish state I knew an occasional unaccustomed shiver. The ​long day in bed, alone with my thoughts, waiting for Boyde's return, was wearisome to endlessness, by no means free from new, unpleasant reflections, yet when at last the door opened softly, and he came back, his arms full of the little extras mentioned, there was disappointment in me somewhere. It was not quite as I expected. Accompanying the disappointment were these new, faint twinges of uneasiness as well. I kept the gas burning all night. I watched Boyde's face, as he slept calmly beside me in that narrow bed, his expression of innocence and kindliness increased my feelings of gratitude, even of tenderness, towards him. There were deep lines, however, that sleep did not smooth out. "Poor devil, he's been through the mill!" This habit of watching him grew.
There was delay and trouble about the Rockaway Hunt post; studio sittings were scarce; the Baptist church organist was never unable to officiate; Morton Selton never missed a performance; and Boyde, as a result, though he still contributed what he could, earned next to nothing. If I was puzzled by his late hours, his explanations invariably cleared away my wonder. He always had a plausible excuse, one, too, that woke my sympathy. It was just at this time, moreover, that Kay wrote. The Canadian tour was such a failure that Gilmour was taking his troupe to the States, where they anticipated better houses. No salaries had been paid. They were now off to Pittsburg. Kay hoped to send some money before long.
I spent the weary hours reading.... On the third day, my symptoms worse, the door opened suddenly without a knock, and I saw an old man with a white moustache and spectacles peering round the edge at me. I laid down my "Gita" and stared back at him.
"Are you Mr. Blackwood?" he asked, with a marked German accent.
"Yes." I had not the faintest idea who he was.
He closed the door, took off his slouch hat, crossed the room, laid his small black bag on the sofa, then came ​and stood beside my bed. He was extremely deliberate. I watched him anxiously. He said no word for some time, while we stared at one another.
He was of medium height, about sixty-five years old, with white hair, dark eyes behind magnifying spectacles, the strong face deeply lined, voice and manner stern to the point of being forbidding--but when I saw it rarely--a most winning smile. Except for the spectacles, he was like a small edition of Bismarck.
"I am a doctor," he said, after a prolonged silent inspection, "and I live down the street. Your friend, an Englishman, asked me to call. Are you English?" I told him I was a reporter on the Evening Sun, adding that I had no money at the moment. The suspicion his manner had not attempted to hide at once showed itself plainly. His manner and voice were brusque to offensiveness, as he said flatly: "I expect to be paid. I have a wife and child." He stood there, staring at me, hard and cold. I repeated that I had nothing to pay him with, and I lay back in bed, wishing he would go, for I felt uncomfortable and ashamed, annoyed as well by his unsympathetic attitude. "Humph!" he grunted, still staring without moving. There was an awkward silence I thought would never end. "Humph!" he grunted again presently. "I egsamine you anyhow. How old are you?"
"Twenty-two," I said, "and a bit."
"Humph!" he repeated, as he examined me rather roughly. "You're very thin. Too thin!"
He hurt me, and I did not answer.
"Not eating enough," he added, and then gave his verdict. It was an abscess, I must keep my bed for a month or six weeks, an operation might be necessary....
I asked how much I owed him. "Two dollars," he said. He gave me his address, and I replied that I would bring the money to him as soon as I could, but that he need not call again. He stared severely at me with those magnified eyes.
"Haven't you got two dollars even?" he asked curtly.
"I've told you the truth. And, anyhow, I didn't ​send for you. I didn't ask my friend to fetch you either."
I could think of nothing else to say. His verdict had flattened me out. I was angry, besides, with Boyde, for not consulting me first, though I knew he had done the right thing. Another period of awkward silence followed, during which the doctor never moved, but stood gazing down at me. Suddenly his eye rested on the book I had been reading. He put out a hand and picked it up. He glanced through the pages of the "Gita," then began to read more carefully. A few minutes passed. He became absorbed.
"You read this?" he asked presently. "Ach was!" There was a look of keen astonishment in his eyes; his gaze searched me as though I were some strange animal. I told him enough by way of reply to explain my interest. He listened, without a word, then presently picked up his bag and hat and moved away. At the door he turned a moment. "I come again to-morrow," he said gruffly, and he was gone.
In this way Otto Huebner, with his poignant tragedy, came into my life.
That evening, with the bread and soup, there was a plate of chicken; it was not repeated often, but he had spoken to Mrs. Bernstein, I discovered, for her attitude, too, became slightly pleasanter. I spent the long evening composing a letter to McCloy, which Boyde could take down next day.... I lay thinking of that curious gruff, rude old German, whose brusqueness, I felt sure, covered a big good heart. There was mystery about him, something unusual, something pathetic and very lovable. There was power in his quietness. Despite his bluntness, there was in his atmosphere a warm kindness, a sincerity that drew me to him. Also there was a darkness, a sense of tragedy somewhere that intrigued me because I could not explain it.
It was after he was gone that I felt all this. While he was in the room I had been too troubled and upset by his manner to feel anything but annoyance. Now that ​he was gone his face and eyes and voice haunted me. His bleak honesty, I think, showed me, without my recognizing it, another standard.
Was it this, I wonder, that made me start a little when, about two in the morning, I heard a stealthy tread coming upstairs, and presently saw Boyde enter the room—carrying his boots in his hand? Was it this, again, that made me feign to be asleep, and a couple of hours later still, when I woke with a shiver, notice, for the first time, a new expression in the face that lay so calmly asleep beside me?
Behind the kindly innocence, I thought, there lay a darker look. It was like a shadow on the features. It increased my feelings of uneasiness, though as yet no definite thought had formulated itself in my mind.