Defenders of Democracy Part 36

"h.e.l.lo, Blossum."

"Whose hot water bottle did you come to borrow?"

"Hot water bottle?"

"Yeh, you look like you got the double pneumonia and each one of the pneumonia's got the tooth ache. Who stole your kite, ikkie boy?"

Mr. Hal Sanderson flung up a fine impatient head, the permanent hair-wave lifting,

"We'll can the comedy, Blossum," he said.

She lowered to a mock curtsey, mouth skewed to control laughter, arms akimbo.

"We will now sing psalm twenty-three."

"Come to supper with me, Blos? You been dodging me pretty steady here lately."

She clapped her hand to her brow, plastering a curl there.

"Migaw, I am now in the act of dropping thirty cents and ten cents tip into my Pig Bank. Will I go to supper with him? Say, darling, will the Hudson flow by Grant's monument to-night at twelve? On a Sat.u.r.day matinee he asks me to supper with a question mark."

"Honest, Bloss, you'd hand a fellow a ha ha if he invited you to his funeral."

She sobered at that, leaning against the cold plastered wall, winding one of the shining curls about her fore finger.

"What's the matter--Hal?"

He handed her a torn newspaper sheet, blue penciled.

She took it but did not glance down.

"Drafted?"

"Yes," he said.

The voice of a soubrette trilling s.n.a.t.c.hes of her topical song as she creamed off her make-up, came to them through the sulky gloom of the corridor. Behind the closed door of Miss De Voe's dressing room, the gabble of the pink satin ponies was like hash in the chopping. Overhead, moving scenery created a remote sort of thunder.

She stood looking up at him, her young mouth parted.

"I--oh, Hal--well--well, whatta you know about that--Hal Sanderson--drafted."

He stepped closer, the pallor coming out stronger in his face, enclosed her wrist, pressing it.

"Grover's drafted too."

"Grover--too?"

"He's three thousand and one. Ten numbers before me."

Her irises were growing, blackening.

"Well, whatta you know about that? Grover White, the world's dancing tenor, and Hal Sanderson the world dancing tenor's understudy, drafted! The little tin soldiers are covered with rust and Uncle Sam is going to--"

"Hurry, Bloss, get into your duds. I want to talk. Hurry. We'll eat over at Ramy's."

She turned but flung out an arm, grasping now his wrist.

"I--oh, Hal--I--I just never was so--so sad and so--so glad!"

The door opened to a slit enclosing her. In his imitation uniform, hand on empty carriage belt, Mr. Hal Sanderson stood there a moment, his face whitening, tightening.

In Ramy's glorified bas.e.m.e.nt, situated in one of the Forties which flow like tributaries into the heady waters of Broadway, one may dine from soup to nuts, raisins and regrest for one hour and sixty cents. In Ramy's, courses may come and courses may go, but the initiated one holds on to his fork forever. Here red wine flows like water, being ninety-nine per cent., just that.

Across a water tumbler of ruby contents, Miss Blossom De Voe, the turbulent curls all piled up beneath a slightly dusty but highly effective amethyst velvet hat, regarded Mr. Sanderson, her perfect lips trembling as it were, against an actual nausea of the spirit which seemed to pull at them.

"Whadda you putting things up to me for, Hal? You're old enough to know your own business."

Blue shaved, too correct in one of Broadway's black and white checked Campus Suits, his face as cleanly chiseled and thrust forward as a Discobolus, Mr. Sanderson patted an open letter spread out on the table cloth between them, his voice rising carefully above the din of diners.

"There's fellows claiming exemption every hour of the day that ain't got this much to show, Bloss. I was just wise enough to see these things and get ready for 'em."

"You ain't your mother's sole support. What about them snapshots of the two farms of hers out in Ohio you gave me?"

"But I got to be in this country to take charge of her affairs for her--my mother's old, honey--ain't I the one to manager for her?

Only child and all that. Honest, Bloss, you need a brick house."

"Well, that old lawyer that wrote that letter has been doing it all the time, why all of a sudden should you--"

He cast his eyes ceilingward, flopping his hands down loosely to the table in an att.i.tude of mock exhaustion.

"Oh, Lord, Bloss, lemme whistle it, maybe you can catch on the.

Brains, honey, little Hal's brains is what got that letter there written. I seen this coming from the minute conscription was in the air. Little Hal seen it coming, and got out his little hatchet.

Try to prove that I ain't the sole one to take charge of my mother's affairs. Try to prove it. That's what I been fixing for myself these two months, try to--"

"Sh-h-h-h, Charley--"

"Brains is what done it,--every little thing of my mother's is in my care. I fixed it. Now little Blossy-blossum will you be good?"

He regarded her with c.o.c.ked head and face receptive for her approval.

"Now will you be good!"

She sat loosely, meeting his gaze, but her face as relaxed as her att.i.tude. A wintry stare had set in.

"Oh," she said, "I see." And turned away her head.

He reached closer across the table, regardless of the conglomerate diners about, felt for her hand which lay limp and cold beside her plate, and which she withdrew.

"Darling," he said, straining for her gaze.