Our Mister Wren Read online

  the traffic cop on the booze. The old woman she says to me, `Mory,' she says, `if you was in heaven and there was

  a pail of beer on one side and a gold harp on the other,' she says, `and you was to have your pick, which would you

  take?' And what 'd yuh think I answers her?"

  "The beer," said the bartender. "She had your number, all right."

  "Not on your tin- type," declared the ticket-taker.

  "`Me?' I says to her. `Me? I'd pinch the harp and pawn it for ten growlers of Dutch beer and some man-sized

  rum!'"

  "Hee, hee hee!" grinned Mr. Wrenn.

  "Ha, ha, ha!" grumbled the bartender.

  "Well- l- l," yawned the ticket-taker, "the old woman'll be chasing me best pants around the flat, if she don't have me

  to chase, pretty soon. Guess I'd better beat it. Much obliged for the drink, Mr. Uh. So long, Jimmy."

  Mr. Wrenn set off for home in a high state of exhilaration which, he noticed, exactly resembled driving an

  aeroplane, and went briskly up the steps of the Zapps' genteel but unexciting residence. He was much nearer to

  heaven than West Sixteenth Street appears to be to the outsider. For he was an explorer of the Arctic, a trusted man

  on the job, an associate of witty Bohemians. He was an army lieutenant who had, with his friend the hawk - faced

  Pinkerton man, stood off bandits in an attack on a train. He opened and closed the door gaily.

  He was an apologetic little Mr. Wrenn. His landlady stood on the bottom step of the hall stairs in a bunchy Mother

  Hubbard, groaning:

  "Mist' Wrenn, if you got to come in so late, Ah wish you wouldn't just make all the noise you can. Ah don't see

  why Ah should have to be kept awake all night. Ah suppose it's the will of the Lord that whenever Ah go out to see

  Mrs. Muzzy and just drink a drop of coffee Ah must get insomina, but Ah don't see why anybody that tries to be a

  gennulman should have to go and bang the door and just rack mah nerves."

  He slunk up-stairs behind Mrs. Zapp's lumbering gloom.

  "There's something I wanted to tell you, Mrs. Zapp—something that's happened to me. That's why I was out

  celebrating last evening and got in so late." Mr. Wrenn was diffidently sitting in the basement.

  "Yes," dryly, "Ah noticed you was out late, Mist' Wrenn."

  "You see, Mrs. Zapp, I--uh--my father left me some land, and it's been sold for about one thousand plunks."

  " Ah'm awful' glad, Mist' Wrenn," she said, funereally. "Maybe you'd like to take that hall room beside yours now.

  The two rooms'd make a nice apartment." (She really said "nahs 'pahtmun', "you understand.)

  "Why, I hadn't thought much about that yet." He felt guilty, and was profusely cordial to Lee Theresa Zapp, the

  factory forewoman, who had just thumped down-stairs.

  Miss Theresa was a large young lady with a bust, much black hair, and a handsome disdainful discontented face.

  She waited till he had finished greeting her, then sniffed, and at her mother she snarled:

  "Ma, they went and kept us late again to-night. I' m getting just about tired of having a bunch of Jews and Yankees

  think I'm a nigger. Uff! I hate them!"

  "T'resa, Mist' Wrenn's just inherited two thousand dollars, and he's going to take that upper hall room." Mrs. Zapp

  beamed with maternal fondness at the timid lodger.

  But the gallant friend of Pinkertons faced her--for the first time. "Waste his travel-money?" he was inwardly

  exclaiming as

  he said:

  "But I thought you had some one in that room. I heard som----"

  "That fellow! Oh, he ain't going to be perm'nent. And he promised me---- So you can have----"

  "I'm _awful_ sorry, Mrs. Zapp, but I'm afraid I can't take it. Fact is, I may go traveling for a while."

  "Co'se you'll keep your room if you do, Mist' Wrenn?"

  "Why, I'm afraid I'll have to give it up, but---- Oh, I may not be going for a long long while yet; and of course I'll be

  glad to come--I'll want to come back here when I get back to New York. I won't be gone for more than, oh,

  probably not more than a year anyway, and----"

  "And Ah thought you said you was going to be perm'nent!" Mrs. Zapp began quietly, prefatory to working herself

  up into hysterics. "And here Ah've gone and had your room fixed up just for you, and new paper put in, and you've

  always been talking such a lot about how you wanted your furniture arranged, and Ah've gone and made all mah

  plans----"

  Mr. Wrenn had been a shyly paying guest of the Zapps for four years. That famous new paper had been put up two

  years before. So he spluttered: "O h, I'm _awfully_ sorry. I wish--uh—I don't----"

  "Ah'd _thank_ you, Mist' Wrenn, if you could _conveniently_ let me _know_ before you go running off and leaving

  me with empty rooms, with the landlord after the rent, and me turning away people that 'd pay more for the room,

  because Ah wanted to keep it for you. And people always coming to see you and making me answer the door and-"

  Even the rooming-house worm was making small worm- like sounds that presaged turning. Lee Theresa snapped

  just in time, "Oh, cut it out, Ma, will you!" She had been staring at the worm, for he had suddenly become

  interesting and adorable and, incidentally, an heir. "I don't see why Mr. Wrenn ain't giving us all the notice we can

  expect. He said he mightn't be going for a long time."

  "Oh!" grunted Mrs. Zapp. "So mah own flesh and blood is going to turn against me!"

  She rose. Her appearance of majesty was somewhat lessened by the creak of stays, but her instinct for

  unpleasantness was always good. She said nothing as she left them, and she plodded up-stairs with a train of sighs.

  Mr. Wrenn looked as though sudden illness had overpowered him. But Theresa laughed, and remarked: "You don't

  want to let Ma get on her high horse, Mr. Wrenn. She's a bluff."

  With much billowing of the lower, less stiff part of her garments, she sailed to the cloudy mirror over the magazinefilled

  bookcase and inspected her cap of false curls, with many prods of her large firm hands which flashed with

  Brazilian diamonds. Though he had heard the word "puffs," he did not know that half her hair was false. He stared

  at it. Though in disgrace, he felt the honor of knowing so ample and rustling a woman as Miss Lee Theresa.

  "But, say, I wish I could 've let her know I was going earlier, Miss Zapp. I didn't know it myself, but it does seem

  like a mean trick. I s'pose I ought to pay her something extra."

  "Why, child, you won't do anything of the sort. Ma hasn't got a bit of kick coming. You've always been awful nice,

  far as I can see." She smiled lavishly. "I went for a walk to- night.... I wish all those men wouldn't stare at a girl so.

  I'm sure I don't see why they should stare at me."

  Mr. Wrenn nodded, but that didn't seem to be the right comment, so he shook his head, then looked frightfully

  embarrassed.

  "I went by that Armenian restaurant you were telling me about, Mr. Wrenn. Some time I believe I'll go dine there."

  Again she paused.

  He said only, "Yes, it is a nice place."

  Remarking to herself that there was no question about it, after all, he _was_ a little fool, Theresa continued the

  siege. "Do you dine there often?"

  "Oh yes. It is a nice place."

  "Could a lady go there?"

  "Why, yes, I----"

  "Yes!"

  "I should think so," he finished.

  "Oh!... I do get so awfully tired of the greasy stuff Ma and Goaty dish up. They think a big stew that tastes like

  dish-water is a dinner, and if they do have anything I l
ike they keep on having the same thing every day till I throw

  it in the sink. I wish I could go to a restaurant once in a while for a change, but of course---- I dunno's it would be

  proper for a lady to go alone even there. What do you think? Oh dear!" She sat brooding sadly.

  He had an inspiration. Perhaps Miss Theresa could be persuaded to go out to dinner with him some time. He

  begged:

  "Gee, I wish you'd let me take you up there some evening, Miss Zapp."

  "Now, didn't I tell you to call me `Miss Theresa'? Well, I suppose you just don't want to be friends with me.

  Nobody does." She brooded again.

  "Oh, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Honest I didn't. I've always thought you'd think I was fresh if I called you

  `Miss Theresa,' and so I----"

  "Why, I guess I could go up to the Armenian with you, perhaps. When would you like to go? You know I've

  always got lots of dates but I--um--let's see, I think I could go to-morrow evening."

  "Let's do it! Shall I call for you, Miss--uh--Theresa?"

  "Yes, you may if you'll be a good boy. Good night." She departed with an air of intimacy.

  Mr. Wrenn scuttled to the Nickelorion, and admitted to the Brass-button Man that he was "feeling pretty good 's

  evening."

  He had never supposed that a handsome creature like Miss Theresa could ever endure such a "slow fellow" as

  himself. For about one minute he considered with a chill the question of whether she was agreeable because of his

  new wealth, but reproved the fiend who was making the suggestion; for had he not heard her mention with great

  scorn a second cousin who had married an old Yankee for his money? That just settled _that_, he assured himself,

  and scowled at a passing messenger-boy for having thus hinted, but hastily grimaced as the youngster showed signs

  of loud displeasure.

  The Armenian restaurant is peculiar, for it has foreign food at low prices, and is below Thirtieth Street, yet it has

  not become Bohemian. Consequently it has no bad music and no crowd of persons from Missouri whose women

  risk salvation for an evening by smoking cigarettes. Here prosperous Oriental merchants, of mild natures and

  bandit faces, drink semi- liquid Turkish coffee and discuss rugs and revolutions.

  In fact, the place seemed so unartificial that Theresa, facing Mr. Wrenn, was bored. And the menu was foreign

  without being Society viands. It suggested rats' tails and birds' nests, she was quite sure. She would gladly have

  experimented with _pate de foie gras_ or alligator-pears, but what social prestige was there to be gained at the

  factory by remarking that she "always did like _pahklava_"? Mr. Wrenn did not see that she was glancing about

  discontentedly, for he was delightedly listening to a lanky young man at the next table who was remarking to his

  _vis-a-vis_, a pale slithey lady in black, with the lines of a torpedo-boat: "Try some of the stuffed vine-leaves,

  child of the angels, and some wheat _pilaf_ and some _bourma_. Your wheat _pilaf_ is a comfortable food and

  cheering to the stomach of man. Simply _won_-derful. As for the _bourma_, he is a merry beast, a brown rose of

  pastry with honey cunningly secreted between his petals and---- Here! Waiter! Stuffed vine- leaves, wheat _p'laf,

  bourm'_ --twice on the order and hustle it."

  "When you get through listening to that man--he talks like a bar of soap--tell me what there is on this bill of fare

  that's safe to eat," snorted Theresa.

  "I thought he was real funny," insisted Mr. Wrenn.... "I'm sure you'll like _shish kebab_ and s----"

  "_Shish kibub!_ Who ever heard of such a thing! Haven't they any--oh, I thought they'd have stuff they call

  `Turkish Delight' and things like that."

  "`Turkish Delights' is cigarettes, I think."

  "Well, I know it isn't, because I read about it in a story in a magazine. And they were eating it. On the terrace....

  What is that _shish kibub_?"

  "_Kebab_.... It's lamb roasted on skewers. I know you'll like it."

  "Well, I'm not going to trust any heathens to cook my meat. I'll take some eggs and some of that--what was it the

  idiot was talking about--_berma_?"

  "_Bourma_.... That's awful nice. With honey. And do try some of the stuffed peppers and rice."

  "All right," said Theresa, gloomily.

  Somehow Mr. Wrenn wasn't vastly transformed even by the possession of the two thousand dollars her mother had

  reported. He was still "funny and sort of scary," not like the overpowering Southern gentlemen she supposed she

  remembered. Also, she was hungry. She listened with stolid glumness to Mr. Wrenn's observation that that was

  "an awful big hat the lady with the funny guy had on."

  He was chilled into quietness till Papa Gouroff, the owner of the restaurant, arrived from above - stairs. Papa

  Gouroff was a Russian Jew who had been a police spy in Poland and a hotel proprietor in Mogador, where he called

  himself Turkish and married a renegade Armenian. He had a nose like a sickle and a neck like a blue- gum nigger.

  He hoped that the place would degenerate into a Bohemian restaurant where liberal clergymen would think they

  were slumming, and barbers would think they were entering society, so he always wore a _fez_ and talked bad

  Arabic. He was local color, atmosphere, Bohemian flavor. Mr. Wrenn murmured to Theresa:

  "Say, do you see that man? He's Signor Gouroff, the owner. I've talked to him a lot of times. Ain't he great!

  Golly! Look at that beak of his. Don't he make you think of _kiosks_ and _hyrems_ and stuff? Gee! What does he

  make you think----"

  "He's got on a dirty collar.... That waiter's awful slow.... Would you please be so kind and pour me another glass

  of water?"

  But when she reached the honied _bourma_ she grew tolerant toward Mr. Wrenn. She had two cups of cocoa and

  felt fat about the eyes and affectionate. She had mentioned that there were good shows in town. Now she resumed:

  "Have you been to `The Gold Brick' yet?"

  "No, I--uh--I don't go to the theater much."

  "Gwendolyn Muzzy was telling me that this was the funniest show she'd ever seen. Tells how two confidence men

  fooled one of those terrible little jay towns. Shows all the funny people, you know, like they have in jay towns.... I

  wish I could go to it, but of course I have to help out the folks at home, so---- Well.... Oh dear."

  "Say! I'd like to take you, if I could. Let's go—this evening!" He quivered with the adventure of it.

  "Why, I don't know; I didn't tell Ma I was going to be out. But--oh, I guess it would be all right if I was with you."

  "Let's go right up and get some tickets."

  "All right." Her assent was too eager, but she immediately corrected that error by yawning, "I don't suppose I'd

  ought to go, but if you want to----"

  They were a very lively couple as they walked up. He trickled sympathy when she told of the selfishness of the

  factory girls under her and the meanness of the superintendent over her, and he laughed several times as she

  remarked that the superintendent "ought to be boiled alive--that's what _all_ lobsters ought to be," so she repeated

  the epigram with such increased jollity that they swung up to the theater in a gale; and, once facing the ennuied

  ticket-seller, he demanded dollar seats just as though he had not been doing sums all the way up to prove that

  seventy- five-cent seats were the best he could afford.

  The play was a glorification of Yankee smartness. Mr. Wrenn was disturbed by the fact that the swindler heroes

  robbed quite all the others, but he was stirr
ed by the brisk romance of money-making. The swindlers were

  supermen--blonde beasts with card indices and options instead of clubs. Not that Mr. Wrenn made any

  observations regarding supermen. But when, by way of commercial genius, the swindler robbed a young night

  clerk Mr. Wrenn whispered to Theresa, "Gee! he certainly does know how to jolly them, heh?"

  "Sh-h-h-h-h-h!" said Theresa.

  Every one made millions, victims and all, in the last act, as a proof of the social value of being a live American

  business man.

  As they oozed alo ng with the departing audience Mr. Wrenn gurgled:

  "That makes me feel just like I'd been making a million dollars." Masterfully, he proposed, "Say, let's go some

  place and have something to eat."

  "All right."

  "Let's---- I almost feel as if I could afford Rector's, after that play; but, anyway, let's go to Allaire's."

  Though he was ashamed of himself for it afterward, he was almost haughty toward his waiter, and ordered Welsh

  rabbits and beer quite as though he usually breakfasted on them. He may even have strutted a little as he hailed a

  car with an imaginary walking-stick. His parting with Miss Theresa was intimate; he shook her hand warmly.

  As he undressed he hoped that he had not been too abrupt with the waiter, "poor cuss." But he lay awake to think

  of Theresa's hair and hand-clasp; of polished desks and florid gentlemen who curtly summoned bank-presidents and

  who had--he tossed the bedclothes about in his struggle to get the word--who had a _punch!_

  He would do that Great Traveling of his in the land of Big Business!

  The five thousand princes of New York to protect themselves against the four million ungrateful slaves had devised

  the sacred symbols of dress-coats, large houses, and automobiles as the outward and visible signs of the virtue of

  making money, to lure rebels into respectability and teach them the social value of getting a dollar away from that

  inhuman, socially injurious fiend, Some One Else. That Our Mr. Wrenn should dream for dreaming's sake was

  catastrophic; he might do things because he wanted to, not because they were fashionable; whereupon, police forces

  and the clergy would disband, Wall Street and Fifth Avenue would go thundering down. Hence, for him were

  provided those Y. M. C. A. night bookkeeping classes administered by solemn earnest men of thirty for solemn