Our Mister Wren Page 7

stolidly curious beside him, he could say nothing save "Gee!"

  With church-tower and swarthy dome behind dome, Liverpool lay

  across the Mersey. Up through the Liverpool streets that ran

  down to the river, as though through peep-holes slashed straight

  back into the Middle Ages, his vision plunged, and it wandered

  unchecked through each street while he hummed:

  "Free, free, in Eu-ro-pee, that's _me!_"

  The cattlemen were called to help unload the remaining hay.

  They made a game of it. Even Satan smiled, even the Jewish

  elders were lightly affable as they made pretendedly fierce

  gestures at the squat patient hay-bales. Tim, the hatter,

  danced a limber foolish jig upon the deck, and McGarver

  bellowed, "The bon-nee bon-nee banks of Loch Lo-o-o-o-mond."

  The crowd bawled: "Come on, Bill Wrenn; your turn. Hustle up

  with that bale, Pete, or we'll sic Bill on you."

  Bill Wrenn, standing very dignified, piped: "I'm Colonel

  Armour. I own all these cattle, 'cept the Morris uns, see?

  Gotta do what I say, savvy? Tim, walk on your ear."

  The hatter laid his head on the deck and waved his anemic legs

  in accordance with directions from Colonel Armour (late Wrenn).

  The hay was off. The _Merian_ tooted and headed across the

  Mersey to the Huskinson Dock, in Liverpool, while the cattlemen

  played tag about the deck. Whooping and laughing, they made

  last splashy toilets at the water-butts, dragged out their

  luggage, and descended to the dock-house.

  As the cattlemen passed Bill Wrenn and Morton, shouting

  affectionate good-bys in English or courteous Yiddish, Bill

  commented profanely to Morton on the fact that the solid stone

  floor of the great shed seemed to have enough sea-motion to

  "make a guy sick." It was nearly his last utterance as Bill Wrenn.

  He became Mr. Wrenn, absolute Mr. Wrenn, on the street,

  as he saw a real English bobby, a real English carter, and the

  sign, "Cocoa House. Tea _Id_."

  England!

  "Now for some real grub!" cried Morton. "No more scouse and

  willow- leaf tea."

  Stretching out their legs under a table glorified with toasted

  Sally Lunns and Melton Mowbrays, served by a waitress who said

  "Thank _you_" with a rising inflection, they gazed at the line of

  mirrors running Britishly all around the room over the long

  lounge seat, and smiled with the triumphant content which comes

  to him whose hunger for dreams and hunger for meat-pies are

  satisfied together.

  CHAPTER V

  HE FINDS MUCH QUAINT ENGLISH FLAVOR

  Big wharves, all right. England sure is queen of the sea, heh?

  Busy town, Liverpool. But, say, there is a quaint English

  flavor to these shops.... Look at that: `Red Lion Inn.'...

  `Overhead trams' they call the elevated. Real flavor, all

  right. English as can be.... I sure like to wander around

  these little shops. Street crowd. That's where you get the

  real quaint flavor."

  Thus Morton, to the glowing Mr. Wrenn, as they turned into St.

  George's Square, noting the Lipton's Tea establishment. _Sir_

  Thomas Lipton--wasn't he a friend of the king? Anyway, he was

  some kind of a lord, and he owned big society racing- yachts.

  In the grandiose square Mr. Wrenn prayerfully remarked, "Gee!"

  "Greek temple. Fine," agreed Morton.

  "That's St. George's Hall, where they have big organ concerts,"

  explained Mr. Wrenn. "And there's the art-gallery across the

  Square, and here's the Lime Street Station." He had studied his

  Baedeker as club women study the cyclopedia. "Let's go over and

  look at the trains."

  "Funny little boxes, ain't they, Wrenn, them cars! Quaint

  things. What is it they call 'em--carriages? First, second,

  third class...."

  "Just like in books."

  "Booking-office. That's tickets.... Funny, eh?"

  Mr. Wrenn insisted on paying for both their high teas at the

  cheap restaurant, timidly but earnestly. Morton was troubled.

  As they sat on a park bench, smoking those most Anglican

  cigarettes, "Dainty Bits," Mr. Wrenn begged:

  "What's the matter, old man?"

  "Oh, nothing. Just thinking." Morton smiled artificially.

  He added, presently: "Well, old Bill, got to make the break.

  Can't go on living on you this way."

  "Aw, thunder! You ain't living on me. Besides, I want you to.

  Honest I do. We can have a whole lot better time together, Morty."

  "Yes, but---- Nope; I can't do it. Nice of you. Can't do it,

  though. Got to go on my own, like the fellow says."

  "Aw, come on. Look here; it's my money, ain't it? I got a

  right to spend it the way I want to, haven't I? Aw, come on.

  We'll bum along together, and then when the money is gone we'll

  get some kind of job together. Honest, I want you to."

  "Hunka. Don't believe you'd care for the kind of knockabout

  jobs I'll have to get."

  "Sure I would. Aw, come on, Morty. I----"

  "You're too level-headed to like to bum around like a fool hobo.

  You'd dam soon get tired of it."

  "What if I did? Morty, look here. I've been learning something

  on this trip. I've always wanted to just do one thing--see

  foreign places. Well, I want to do that just as much as ever.

  But there's something that's a whole lot more important.

  Somehow, I ain't ever had many friends. Some ways you're about

  the best friend I've ever had--you ain't neither too highbrow or

  too lowbrow. And this friendship business--it means such an

  awful lot. It's like what I was reading about--something by

  Elbert Hubbard or--thunder, I can't remember his name, but,

  anyway, it's one of those poet guys that writes for the back

  page of the _Journal_--something about a _joyous adventure_.

  That's what being friends is. Course you understand I wouldn't

  want to say this to most people, but you'll understand how I mean.

  It's--this friendship business is just like those old crusaders--

  you know--they'd start out on a fine morning--you know; armor

  shining, all that stuff. It wouldn't make any dif. what they met

  as long as they was fighting together. Rainy nights with folks

  sneaking through the rain to get at 'em, and all sorts of things--

  ready for anything, long as they just stuck together. That's the way

  this friendship business is, I b'lieve. Just like it said in the

  _Journal_. Yump, sure is. Gee! it's---- Chance to tell folks

  what you think and really get some fun out of seeing places

  together. And I ain't ever done it much. Course I don't mean

  to say I've been living off on any blooming desert island all my

  life, but, just the same, I've always been kind of alone--not

  knowing many folks. You know how it is in a New York

  rooming-house. So now---- Aw, don't slip up on me, Morty.

  Honestly, I don't care what kind of work we do as long as we can

  stick together; I don't care a hang if we don't get anything

  better to do than scrub floors!"

  Morton patted his arm and did not answer for a while. Then:

  "Yuh, I know how you mean. And it's good of you to like beating

>   it around with me. But you sure got the exaggerated idee of me.

  And you'd get sick of the holes I'm likely to land in."

  There was a certain pride which seemed dreadfully to shut Mr.

  Wrenn out as Morton added:

  "Why, man, I'm going to do all of Europe. From the Turkish

  jails to--oh, St. Petersburg.... You made good on the _Merian_,

  all right. But you do like things shipshape."

  "Oh, I'd----"

  "We might stay friends if we busted up now and met in New York

  again. But not if yo u get into all sorts of bum places w----"

  "Why, look here, Morty----"

  "--with me.... However, I'll think it over. Let's not talk

  about it till to-morrow."

  "Oh, please do think it over, Morty, old man, won't you? And

  to-night you'll let me take you to a music-hall, won't you?"

  "Uh--yes," Morton hesitated.

  A music-hall--not mere vaudeville! Mr. Wrenn could hardly keep

  his feet on the pavement as they scampered to it and got

  ninepenny seats. He would have thought it absurd to pay

  eighteen cents for a ticket, but pence---- They were out at

  nine-thirty. Happily tired, Mr. Wrenn suggested that they go to

  a temperance hotel at his expense, for he had read in Baedeker

  that temperance hotels were respectable--also cheap.

  "No, no!" frowned Morton. "Tell you what you do, Bill. You go

  to a hotel, and I'll beat it down to a lodging-house on Duke

  Street.... Juke Street!... Remember how I ran onto Pete on the

  street? He told me you could get a cot down there for fourpence."

  "Aw, come on to a hotel. Please do! It 'd just hurt me to think

  of you sleeping in one of them holes. I wouldn't sleep a bit

  if----"

  "Say, for the love of Mike, Wrenn, get wise! Get wise, son!

  I'm not going to sponge on you, and that's all there is to it."

  Bill Wrenn strode into their company for a minute, and quoth the

  terrible Bill:

  "Well, you don't need to get so sore about it. I don't go

  around asking folks can I give 'em a meal ticket all the time,

  let me tell you, and when I do---- Oh rats! Say, I didn't mean to

  get huffy, Morty. But, doggone you, old man, you can't shake me

  this easy. I sye, old top, I'm peeved; yessir. We'll go Dutch

  to a lodging- house, or even walk the streets."

  "All right, sir; all right. I'll take you up on that. We'll

  sleep in an areaway some place."

  They walked to the outskirts of Liverpool, questing the desirable

  dark alley. Awed by the solid quietude and semigrandeur of the

  large private estates, through narrow streets where dim trees

  leaned over high walls whose long silent stretches were broken

  only by mysterious little doors, they tramped bashfully,

  inspecting, but always rejecting, nooks by lodge gates.

  They came to a stone church with a porch easily reached from the

  street, a large and airy stone porch, just suited, Morton

  declared, "to a couple of hoboes like us. If a bobby butts in,

  why, we'll just slide under them seats. Then the bobby can go

  soak his head."

  Mr. Wrenn had never so far defied society as to steal a place

  for sleeping. He felt very uneasy, like a man left naked on the

  street by robbers, as he rolled up his coat for a pillow and

  removed his shoes in a place that was perfectly open to the

  street. The paved floor was cold to his bare feet, and, as he

  tried to go to sleep, it kept getting colder and colder to his

  back. Reaching out his hand, he fretfully rubbed the cracks

  between stones. He scowled up at the ceiling of the porch.

  He couldn't bear to look out through the door, for it framed the

  vicar's house, with lamplight bodying forth latticed windows,

  suggesting soft beds and laughter and comfortable books. All

  the while his chilled back was aching in new places.

  He sprang up, put on his shoes, and paced the churchyard. It

  seemed a great waste of educational advantages not to study the

  tower of this foreign church, but he thought much more about his

  aching shoulder-blades.

  Morton came from the porch stiff but grinning. "Didn't like it

  much, eh, Bill? Afraid you wouldn't. Must say I didn't either,

  though. Well, come on. Let's beat it around and see if we

  can't find a better place."

  In a vacant lot they discovered a pile of hay. Mr. Wrenn hardly

  winced at the hearty slap Morton gave his back, and he

  pronounced, "Some Waldorf-Astoria, that stack!" as they sneaked

  into the lot. They had laid loving hands upon the hay,

  remarking, "Well, I _guess!_" when they heard from a low stable

  at the very back of the lot:

  "I say, you chaps, what are you doing there?"

  A reflective carter, who had been twisting two straws, ambled

  out of the shadow of the stable and prepared to do battle.

  "Say, old man, can't we sleep in your hay just to- night?" argued

  Morton. "We're Americans. Came over on a cattle-boat. We

  ain't got only enough money to last us for food," while Mr.

  Wrenn begged, "Aw, please let us."

  "Oh! You're Americans, are you? You seem decent enough. I've

  got a brother in the States. He used to own this stable with

  me. In St. Cloud, Minnesota, he is, you know. Minnesota's some

  kind of a shire. Either of you chaps been in Minnesota?"

  "Sure," lied Morton; "I've hunted bear there."

  "Oh, I say, bear now! My brother's never written m----"

  "Oh, that was way up in the northern part, in the Big Woods.

  I've had some narrow escapes."

  Then Morton, who had never been west of Pittsburg, sang somewhat

  in this wise the epic of the hunting he had never done:

  Alone. Among the pines. Dead o' winter. Only one shell in his

  rifle. Cold of winter. Snow--deep snow. Snow-shoes. Hiking

  along--reg'lar mushing--packing grub to the lumber-camp. Way up

  near the Canadian border. Cold, terrible cold. Stars looked

  like little bits of steel.

  Mr. Wrenn thought he remembered the story. He had read it in a

  magazine. Morton was continuing:

  Snow stretched out among the pines. He was wearing a Mackinaw

  and shoe-packs. Saw a bear loping along. He had--Morton had--a

  .44-.40 Marlin, but only one shell. Thrust the muzzle of his

  rifle right into the bear's mouth. Scared for a minute. Almost

  fell off his snow-shoes. Hardest thing he ever did, to pull that

  trigger. Fired. Bear sort of jumped at him, then rolled over, clawing.

  Great place, those Minnesota Big----

  "What's a shoe-pack?" the Englishman stolidly interjected.

  "Kind of a moccasin.... Great place, those woods. Hope your

  brother gets the chance to get up there."

  "I say, I wonder did you ever meet him? Scrabble is his name,

  Jock Scrabble."

  "Jock Scrabble--no, but _say!_ By golly, there was a fellow up in

  the Big Woods that came from St. Cl-- St. Cloud? Yes, that was

  it. He was telling us about the town. I remember he said your

  brother had great chances there."

  The Englishman meditatively accepted a bad cigar from Mr. Wrenn.

  Suddenly: "You chaps can sleep in the stable- loft if you'd

  like. But
you must blooming well stop smoking."

  So in the dark odorous hay-mow Mr. Wrenn stretched out his legs

  with an affectionate "good night" to Morton. He slept nine

  hours. When he awoke, at the sound of a chain clanking in the

  stable below, Morton was gone. This note was pinned to his

  sleeve:

  DEAR OLD MAN,--I still feel sure that you will not enjoy the

  hiking. Bumming is not much fun for most people, I don't think,

  even if they say it is. I do not want to live on you. I always

  did hate to graft on people. So I am going to beat it off

  alone. But I hope I will see you in N Y & we will enjoy many a

  good laugh together over our trip. If you will phone the P. R.

  R. you can find out when I get back & so on. As I do not know

  what your address will be. Please look me up & I hope you will

  have a good trip.

  Yours truly,

  HARRY P. MORTON.

  Mr. Wrenn lay listening to the unfriendly rattling of the chain

  harness below for a long time. When he crawled languidly down

  from the hay- loft he glowered in a manner which was decidedly

  surly even for Bill Wrenn at a middle-aged English stranger who

  was stooping over a cow's hoof in a stall facing the ladder.

  "Wot you doing here?" asked the Englishman, raising his head and

  regarding Mr. Wrenn as a housewife does a cockroach in the

  salad-bowl.

  Mr. Wrenn was bored. This seemed a very poor sort of man; a

  bloated Cockney, with a dirty neck-cloth, vile cuffs of grayish

  black, and a waistcoat cut foolishly high.

  "The owner said I could sleep here," he snapped.

  "Ow. 'E did, did 'e? 'E ayn't been giving you any of the

  perishin' 'osses, too, 'as 'e?"

  It was sturdy old Bill Wrenn who snarled, "Oh, shut up!" Bill

  didn't feel like standing much just then. He'd punch this

  fellow as he'd punched Pete, as soon as not--or eve n sooner.

  "Ow.... It's shut up, is it?... I've 'arf a mind to set the

  'tecs on you, but I'm lyte. I'll just 'it you on the bloody nowse."

  Bill Wrenn stepped off the ladder and squared at him. He was

  sorry that the Cockney was smaller than Pete.

  The Cockney came over, feinted in an absent-minded manner, made

  swift and confusing circles with his left hand, and hit Bill

  Wrenn on the aforesaid bloody nose, which immediately became a

  bleeding nose. Bill Wrenn felt dizzy and, sitting on a

  grain-sack, listened amazedly to the Cockney's apologetic:

  "I'm sorry I ayn't got time to 'ave the law on you, but I could