# Spider Boy/Chapter 2

On the Twentieth Century in his compartment—which he had engaged with confidence that it would assure him complete privacy—Ambrose reflected that his escape from New York had been accomplished more easily than he would have believed possible. His manager had come to the train to see him off, leaving behind as a token of farewell the huge basket of tropical fruits which now reposed on the opposite seat, but, on Ambrose's insistence, the newspapers had not been warned of his prospective departure and so no one else had appeared on the station platform. Nevertheless, Ambrose was disturbed in mind. He was doing something he didn't want to do because he found it impossible to do something else he did want to do. Voluntary action of a definite character was foreign to Ambrose's habit and his consciousness forewarned him that in his excessive zeal he had fled from one difficult situation only to seek consolation in the unknown, a favour that the unknown might refuse to bestow.
The steam heat was insufferable. His window already raised, he pulled the door ajar to create a ​draught and the nipping February air accompanied by fine cinder dust blew through the screen across his face. The porter, on request, had adjusted a table above his knees and Ambrose had tried the only game of solitaire he knew, a game so easy that he found himself constantly winning, and it is only amusing to lose games of solitaire for only thus does one gain an incentive to continue. He had read the current issue of the Saturday Evening Post to the last advertising page; he had considered the plight of the poor farmer; he had reflected on the subject of Calvin Coolidge; he had even wondered whether there was a God.
Vaguely sensing a desire to write letters, he made his stumbling way to the club car, bumping his legs against the chair-arms of seven coaches, encountering passengers who somehow all looked alike, reading, playing cards, nursing babies, occupied as uninterestingly as passengers usually are. Opening the third door, he mused on the identity of the fellow who invented names for Pullman coaches. Was it indeed one man, or two, or three, or perhaps even a syndicate? This passion for naming things! Even telephone exchanges and toilets had to have names.
An amiable group had congregated in the club car. ​A freckled fellow of middle age with red hair and white socks was joined in earnest conversation with a slender youth in black. The bulbous nose of a fat gentleman, inclined to apoplexy, occasionally shoved itself over the top of the New York World. A priest sipped at a pint of mineral water. At the further end of the car four men played poker at a table. Now and again, in answer to his bell, the porter strolled down the aisle to take an order. Ambrose seated himself in the unengaged chair before the writing-desk, removed a sheet of paper from the stand, dipped a pen in ink . . . and paused.
The fact was, he readily discovered, that there was no one he cared to write to, nothing really to write about. He was going West. That was all he had to say and he found he cherished no desire to say it to any one who did not already know it. He attempted to recall some special message that he might dispatch. None came to him. His play required no more rehearsals, no changes in cast. It was running with exceptional smoothness. He owed nobody money. He had, he reflected, no business of any kind that demanded negotiation. The immediate members of his family were all dead; he certainly did not intend to open communication between himself and his distant cousins. There was no romance in his life. Ac​cordingly, he began to trace meaningless lines automatically across the sheet of blank paper.
He was startled from his distrait mood by a voice which asked if he would like to take a hand at cards. Ambrose was so embarrassed by this request that he refused almost rudely with a curt No. To be suddenly addressed by a stranger on a train upset him horribly, the more so because he harboured a vague memory to the effect that all such propositions made on moving vehicles came from the lips of card sharps and crooks. Moreover, he really knew nothing whatever about cards. Beyond his obvious ability to decipher their pips correctly he was unacquainted with their properties. Besides, he did not like the appearance of his neighbour, a man of about fifty, of gross build and florid countenance, his head set squarely on his shoulders above an inch of bull neck. The features were undistinguished. The fellow resembled a dozen men one saw every day—unless an exception might be made in favour of his eyes, grey-blue eyes, kindly and staring at the same time, almost impertinently staring. Their owner was dressed in tweed plus fours and retained his coat, although his white linen shirt was open at the throat.
Ambrose flushed as he withdrew his gaze and awkwardly rose. As he made his way back through ​the long Pullman coaches he was conscious of a memory of a hurt expression in the stranger's eyes, a consciousness that puzzled him somewhat as he settled down once more in his own compartment. Alone, feeling more secure, he began a new game of solitaire, following this up with another, and another. Soon he was playing with no particular realization of his occupation beyond the obvious and practical fact that he was indubitably killing time. A little later he became aware, although his eyes alternately followed the cards or gazed almost unseeingly out of the window, that some one was standing in the doorway. Glancing quickly in that direction he recognized the stranger who had addressed him in the club car. There was something shy about his expression and that hurt look of a wounded animal still lurked in his honest blue eyes.
See you're playing cards, after all, were the words that dropped from the fellow's lips.
Yes, Ambrose replied. Turning up a ten of clubs, he placed it on a red jack. His fingers trembled as he dealt three more cards.
Why don't you play the nine of hearts? the spectre demanded.
Attempting to follow this excellent advice, Ambrose clumsily dropped his deck. In the meantime the ​stranger had entered the room and now hovered directly over the table.
I wish you'd change your mind and play a sociable game, he suggested.
I'm just playing to pass the time, Ambrose stammered, realizing instantly that this was no adequate explanation for his conduct and wondering how he could ever rid himself of this interloper.
As if in direct defiance of this unexpressed wish, the man lifted the basket of fruit and set it on the floor, then lounged into the seat opposite Ambrose who nervously proceeded to deal out cards, playing his game in silence. At last, apparently, he could make no more moves.
You've got an empty space for that king, his unwelcome companion intimated.
Ambrose blushingly thanked him and played the card, but the paste-board that turned up under the king offering him no further opportunity, he swept the cards together with so much violence that two or three fluttered to the floor and he was obliged to stoop to pick them up.
Are you from New York? the stranger inquired.
Yes, Ambrose replied, as he guiltily shuffled the cards, preparatory to laying them out anew. He ​could not think of anything else to do or say. He was in such a panic that he was almost ready to pull the bell-rope which would cause the engine to stop so that he might demand that this intruder be ejected from the train.
I'm not, the man was saying. I go there occasionally on business, but my home is in the West. Kansas City. Maybe you've heard of the Abel Morris Company?
Dealing the cards, Ambrose muttered that he hadn't. His voice sounded hoarse and guttural. It seemed to him as if some one else were speaking for him.
Well, that's me. I'm it and it's me.
An apposite response did not occur to Ambrose.
Are you in business? Abel Morris began again.
No. Ambrose turned up the ace of diamonds and directly below it the deuce.
Don't forget the trey, Abel Morris admonished him.
Ambrose managed to murmur, You seem to be an expert at cards.
No, just keep my mind on whatever's going on, that's all. If I play cards, I play cards. There's plenty I'd rather do, but on a train there ain't much choice. I asked you to play with me because I liked your ​looks. You can't be too careful on a train. Card sharps and all that. You've noticed the signs.
If still far from comfortable, Ambrose was considerably less perturbed. Yes, he assented, I've noticed the signs. You can see for yourself, he went on, almost, he was aware, as if he were apologizing, that I would never make a card player.
Oh, I guess you could if you'd keep your mind on it. It's all a question of keeping your mind on your job. You're not a teacher, are you?
No, said Ambrose. He found it impossible, as well as undesirable, to be more explicit.
Not a preacher; I can see that. Lawyer, maybe?
No, Ambrose repeated in desperation, his eyes on the cards, futilely, of course, for soon Abel Morris was inquiring why he didn't play the red queen.
If I like a man's looks I'm interested in what he does, Abel Morris remarked.
What Ambrose really wanted to say was, So am I. The words that issued unbidden from his throat were. There's nothing very interesting in what I do.
Everything any one does is interesting, his persistent neighbour averred, provided it's done up to the hilt. It's just a matter of how you do it, not at all what you do.
I do the best I can, Ambrose muttered.
​That's not enough. You got to do better'n that. I bet you do too, except—Abel Morris actually dared a smile—when you play cards. You got that wrong, you know, letting down when you play cards, even a game of solitaire. That's the great secret of this life, never to let down. Do everything well you take the trouble to do at all.
With that he rose and ambled out of the room, a trifle self-consciously, but with no hesitation, and in his last glance Ambrose again caught that strange expression in the eyes which he now recognized as an expression of longing.
After the fellow's departure, the nervous necessity for giving his fingers employment no longer existing, Ambrose tossed aside the cards with a sigh of relief. At the same time he unexpectedly realized that there was something about this other fellow that was beginning to arouse his curiosity. There was a quality about his persistence which obviously set him apart from that professional class who prey on other passengers. Moreover, he certainly did not belong to that other merely pushing, inquisitive group Ambrose had encountered so frequently in New York during these past weeks. It almost seemed, on reflection, as if Abel Morris were searching for sympathy from a source which he recognized, falteringly, to ​be sympathetic. It was far from Ambrose Deacon's intention to rebuff so honest an appeal. He was too sensitive himself not to feel with some intensity what he imagined the other must be feeling.
As the shadows deepened across the fields outside his window, he found himself more and more occupied with the problem of Abel Morris. In retrospect he regretted exceedingly his inability to receive him more cordially and the possibility even occurred to him of making a search through the train for the fellow, but this required an effort of will far beyond the modest capacity of Ambrose Deacon, the more so as he had made no opening for himself during their brief intercourse together which would give him a suitable excuse for performing this maneuvre. While he was meditating thus, perplexed and even anxious, a passing porter announced that dinner was served. To avoid the crowd, although it was only five-thirty, Ambrose determined to repair at once to the dining-car.
On this occasion, notwithstanding the rapidity with which he had made his toilet, Ambrose discovered that many of his fellow-passengers shared his theory about the practicality of early meals on a train. As he entered the car, walking in the direction in which the train was moving, he saw the back of a man or a ​woman at each table ahead of him. The steward therefore was obliged to usher him to a place opposite one of these.
It did not exactly surprise Ambrose to find himself facing Abel Morris. His first sensation, rather, was a feeling of relief. He would be able, perhaps, under these circumstances, to make some amends for his earlier behaviour. However, as he nodded in response to the other's friendly greeting, he was aware that this procedure would be difficult. It was not an easy matter at any time for Ambrose to converse with strangers. In the present instance, his natural difidence was re-enforced by the memory of their previous unfertile encounter. If bonds are broken, he acknowledged to himself in despair, it is still he who must break them.
Fortunately, Abel Morris appeared to hold no scruples against breaking them. He ordered his dinner with the hearty air of a hungry farmer and while Ambrose helplessly studied the menu, he proffered suggestions.
I've spent so much of my life on trains, he explained, almost apologetically, that I have a sort of instinct about what'll be good.
Ambrose welcomed this opportunity to exhibit his change of face. He accepted Abel Morris's sugges​tions without a single alteration, the more readily because he was invariably at a loss as to what to order in restaurants. No amount of experience had seemed to improve him in this respect.
Soon he was amazed to discover that they were conversing together, dealing with commonplaces, to be sure, based on the news of the day, but assuredly conversing. Morris was careful to introduce no more personalities. Ambrose could see that the man felt sensitive about the encounter of the afternoon and had bound himself to be more cautious in the future. Presently the waiter returned with food and they began to eat together, always a means of bringing two people into close relationship. If Ambrose listened more than he spoke, at any rate he was more than monosyllabic in his replies to the information that Morris was a Republican and a Congregationalist. He had never, his memory reminded him, thought much about the tariff before, but he was as vehement as his new friend in his attack on free trade.
While they were talking Ambrose suddenly be came aware that Denis Blair, an old newspaper acquaintance, was standing by his side, greeting him.
How's the play doing, Ambrose? Denis inquired.
​All right, Ambrose replied, in doubt as to whether he should introduce Abel Morris.
Where are you going? Denis demanded.
Just West on a trip.
Denis appeared to be astonished. Well, you couldn't get me to leave New York with a success like you got. Why, the whole town's wild about you. I suppose, he went on more shrewdly, that's why you ducked. You never were much for fireworks. Do you remember that time old man Basket called you into his office to praise one of your stories? You went in as if you thought you were going to be fired and . . .
I remember, Ambrose interrupted, dropping his fork.
Well, anyhow, when you get through dinner meet me in the club car and we'll talk over old times, Denis suggested. He strolled on to the chair allotted to him.
Now Ambrose noted an entirely new expression in the eyes of Abel Morris, an expression of wondering approval.
I just knew it, the Westerner ejaculated.
Knew what?
Knew you was a professional man of some kind. So you're Ambrose Deacon?
​Yes.
And you said you didn't do anything interesting! Why, you're the talk of the whole of New York! I saw your piece myself. You certainly can write 'em.
That's what I told you I do as well as I can.
Well, I guess you do it a whole lot better'n that. Abel Morris's enthusiasm was mounting. You're famous! Why, everybody's talking about. The Stafford Will Case, even the barbers and the bellhops in the hotels. Everybody! I guess your name will go down to posterity all right, and how!
Ambrose sensed a curious emotional inflection in Abel Morris's voice.
I don't know much about posterity or care much either, Ambrose countered.
Don't say that! You know you care! You know fame means a lot to you! It must. Why, you've got something to leave, to leave to the world after you're gone. That's the great thing, to be able to say: Well, I guess they won't forget me!
Ambrose did not believe that Abel Morris would understand if he explained to him that he would prefer to remain anonymous, that he would be delighted if the world had never become aware of the identity of the author of The Stafford Will Case. He ​contented himself by making a sign of negation, a sign, however, which actually implied physical distaste.
I can never believe you don't want fame, Abel Morris cried, shaking his powerful head back and forth, and adding, with a certain awe, You're a creator. You bring forth . . .
No! No! protested Ambrose. A vision of those Harvard men in horn-rimmed glasses haunted him again.
Abel Morris was crestfallen. There must be creation, he continued doggedly. God taught us that. What kind doesn't matter, but there must be creation. A play or a son, it doesn't matter. It does matter if you have something to pass on, to show posterity, to glorify your name.
Ambrose winced. Those Harvard men! The interviews! What did he know about creation?
I promised to join my friend in the club car, he reminded Abel Morris. Want to come along?
Abel Morris did. Only, he added, I want to collect some hooch out of my valise. Wouldn't you like to try a little genuine Bourbon? I've had it in the wood for ten years.
Ambrose nodded his answer. In rising, he contrived to upset a finger-bowl, a considerable feat of ​virtuosity, he reflected afterwards, as he mused shamefacedly on his unmanageable body.
In the club car Denis Blair burst breathlessly into the relation of a lengthy story about how he had got into a jam with a girl—he called her a broad—and how his wife's suspicions had been awakened. Trouble loomed ahead. He wanted advice. At least he said he wanted advice. Actually he wanted nothing of the sort, Ambrose realized, recognizing the characteristic manner of the male who seizes any excuse to boast about the number of women who are infatuated with him.
As Denis concluded his tale, Abel Morris approached with his flask of Bourbon and the ensuing introductions furnished Ambrose a convenient escape from the ostensible necessity for comment. After a drink of Bourbon, however, Denis told the story all over again for the benefit of the Kansas City manufacturer. He belonged to that group of human beings who speak more freely to strangers than to friends, as if saying a thing once didn't matter.
Abel Morris regarded him with great earnestness. I'd clear out of it and tell my wife the truth, he said.
I can't do that, Denis protested. I can't sell out the frail.
​You had no business to mix up with her in the first place, Abel Morris asserted with a great deal of heat, Ambrose noted. You got a son, you tell me, and there's his mother. I can't see . . .
We can't get anywhere discussing it, Denis interrupted impatiently.
Remember, Ambrose put in meekly in the interests of fair play, you asked for advice.
I asked for good advice. This advice isn't so hot. What have my son and his mother got to do with the case?
What's the girl got to do with it? Abel Morris demanded passionately. That's what I'd like to know. What's she got to do with it? You got to play square by your wife and . . .
Oh well, I guess it'll straighten itself out somehow, Denis replied flippantly. He yawned.
It won't straighten itself out unless you straighten it, shot out Abel Morris.
To put a stop to this futile discussion Ambrose asked for another drink and clumsily introduced a new topic. He was amazed to find with what intuition Abel Morris caught his intention and followed his lead. At the same time it was apparent that the man was making a supreme effort to control himself. ​Presently Ambrose announced that he was going to bed.
Guess I'll turn in too, Abel Morris agreed. I got a good ways to go yet.
In silence Ambrose walked behind Abel Morris through the Pullman coaches, the aisles canyons of green curtains through the folds of which protruded now a man's socked foot, now a woman's buttocks, as the passengers prepared to retire in that indecent fashion exacted by American sleeping-cars.
Opening his door, Ambrose invited Abel Morris to enter, but the latter hesitated on the threshold.
I guess I'll go to bed, he said, but I want to thank you, Mr. Deacon. It's been an honour and a pleasure to meet you. You got something, you know, that I envy. You got a name, a name people know, a name they'll remember after you're dead. Posterity'll read your plays and see 'em acted. Now I haven't even got a son . . . to carry on my name. . . . That friend of yours, he's a creator too. . . . His voice was stern now. . . . He shouldn't fool around other women. It ain't right. Well, anyway, I guess it ain't none of my business. I just know how I feel. I guess I'll go to bed. I s'pose you're going to Hollywood?
​Hollywood? Ambrose stared at him in amazement.
Why, of course, they'd be after you now. I thought that's where you'd be going.
No, I'm not going to Hollywood, Ambrose asserted with more firmness than was customary with him. I'm going to New Mexico.
Hm! Booked on the Chief?
Yes.
Well, I'll meet you tomorrow night. I'm only going as far as Kansas City, but I guess they'll have to take Abel Morris on the Chief if he says so.
He shook Ambrose's hand warmly and disappeared.