I Walked in Arden Part 3

Chapter Three

I CAMP IN THE DESERT

About an hour after a turbulent portion of my night's rest, later identified as something being done to the train in the yards at Buffalo, the porter aroused me, and I made such preparations as a Pullman makes possible to face the new day and a new world. We were rapidly drawing near Deep Harbor, and Knowlton's briskness at the imminent approach of business increased even beyond its normal. It was akin to the pawing of the mediaeval charger when he knew it near the time for the oriflamme to be advanced. The diner was not yet ready, so Knowlton sat beside me and pointed out the potential and actual resources of the country as we whizzed along. For me, my first sight of Lake Erie lying blue and serene in a hot early morning July sun was sufficient. I cared little for statistics in the face of that. In spite of the heat the vegetation was still vividly green and fresh, washed from the showers of the day before. At frequent intervals turbulent and muddy little brooks rushed lakewards through red shale gorges full of moss, ferns, and gorgeous old trees. From the railway tracks to the mile-or-so-distant lakesh.o.r.e interminable vineyards stretched, interspersed with an occasional field of Indian corn. On our left, low-lying hills rolled backward to the horizon. The sunlight was vivid, almost painful, and the whole country seemed to glow and teem with life.

The villages were less encouraging. As a rule they were straggly and unkempt, with tumble-down wooden houses and barns, and showed no pride in neatness, apart from a well-kept school-house or other solitary public building. There were few if any flowers about the cottages, and what few there were were neglected. The gardens were composed of gra.s.s, which the more careful owners were already out sprinkling with garden hose. In fact the garden hose seemed almost the only sign of community pride. Even kitchen gardens were few and badly cultivated.

"What do they do with these millions of grapes?" I asked Knowlton.

"Make grape-juice of them," he answered. "See--there's a grape juice factory over there."

It seemed to me a strange way of repaying Heaven's bounty, as I felt quite certain these same grapes would make excellent claret, but I knew better than to say this to Knowlton.

"I suppose," I said at last, as the vineyards began to get a little on my nerves, "that, like everything else over here, these are the largest vineyards in the world?"

"No," he surprised me by replying, "the California vineyards are much more extensive." Knowlton had a weakness for words like "extensive."

When he abandoned slang he used in its place, not always accurately, a language of almost eighteenth century formality.

"There's Deep Harbor," he suddenly exclaimed in much excitement; "you can see the towers of the Polish cathedral."

"Polish cathedral?" I asked in utter amazement, thinking perhaps this was one of Knowlton's jokes.

"Sure. All the unskilled labour in Deep Harbor is Polish--that's their church. Just beyond are the chimneys of the Lake Board Paper Company.

These are the yards--get your suit-case."

"Polish!" I thought. "Here is an unexpected complication." There was no time to ask more about the "sledded Polacks," for at that moment the train stopped with a jerk and we got off.

"Right on time--5.30 to the second," said Knowlton, consulting his watch. "We'll just go down State Street to Schaefer's Hotel, leave our grips, and get breakfast. Then to work."

The train was already moving--evidently one had to be quick in order to disembark at Deep Harbor. I glanced about. The platform of the station was of rotten and irregularly laid planks. The station itself was a grey, forbidding-looking structure with a tower on which was the date 1864. A truck load of trunks charged us profanely, and we were just able to dodge aside. A youth offered to sell me some sandwiches wrapped in tissue paper. I was seized with an irresistible desire to test Knowlton at his own briskness.

"Why not breakfast here on sandwiches and then go straight out to the factory? We can save an hour."

Knowlton snorted. "Not much. Railroad sandwiches! I must have a cup of coffee; besides, we can't get in until quarter of seven."

"Oh," I said, "then these people do get some sleep." Knowlton ignored this. "Is Schaefer's far? My suit-case is heavy--let's take a cab."

Knowlton laughed. "I doubt if you can get a hack at this hour of the morning--and why waste two dollars? We can take the trolley."

With that we dodged across a maze of terrifying tracks, between charging switch engines and lines of freight cars in the throes of some internal convulsion, to emerge safely at last on the opposite side, where a pale yellow trolley car was awaiting us. As I climbed aboard, the conductor spat with amazing, albeit disturbing, accuracy one inch to the right of my ear, but gave no other sign in answer to our mild query if he went by Schaefer's. Concluding that silence gave consent, we sat down.

Schaefer's proved surprisingly near--so near that the trolley, which seemed to me to travel at a fearful speed, carried us one street too far before the non-committal conductor could be induced to pull the signal bell. As we left I felt certain that, for some unknown reason, we had earned his disapprobation.

Schaefer's was an old, dirty-looking building, with a large plategla.s.s window giving on to the pavement. Behind the window was a row of large golden oak rocking chairs, and beside each chair a highly polished bra.s.s vessel of convenient height. We entered its portal to encounter a strange, musty odour composed in part of sawdust, warm rubber, and generations of bad cooking. Behind a desk, on which was spread open a large book, a young man with glazed hair and an unpleasant cravat was chewing a wooden toothpick. Without even glancing at us he removed a pen from a raw potato and silently handed it to Knowlton. I wanted to ask why pens were kept sticking in raw potatoes, but decided to wait for a more opportune time. Knowlton signed his name in a fine Spencerian flourish with beautifully shaded lettering, added "New York," and pa.s.sed the pen to me. Underneath I wrote mine in a somewhat trembling hand, most self-conscious under the eyes of the young man with the toothpick, and placed "London" after my signature. The clerk suddenly revolved the book as if it were on a pivot and studied our handiwork attentively.

When, in the course of a moment or two, he reached my signature he took a pen from behind his ear--the other equivalent of a raw potato, I thought--and gratuitously scratched "Canada" after the "London." I took the book, revolved it as I had seen him do it, silently crossed out the "Canada" and wrote in "England." Once more the book was revolved and this alteration examined. Satisfied that the word was no other than the one I had apparently written, he calmly looked me over from head to foot and again waited, silently as before.

"Two breakfasts," said Knowlton.

"Front!" the clerk e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the length of his toothpick. "Show Mr.

Knowlton and his friend to the dining room. Check the grips."

"Front" was another pale youth, of tender years, but with an evil leer in his face. He seized our hand luggage.

"This way, gents!"

We followed.

"Does the clerk know you?" I asked Knowlton. The latter shook his head.

"But he called you by name," I protested.

"He read my name in the register."

I had not thought of that.

The odour of the dining room was different, but no better than that of the office. There was evidently a closer contact with the bad cooking and less of the warm rubber. There advanced to meet us across the black and white tile floor a tall and majestic young lady with pyramidal yellow hair and a black satin gown which fitted her most snugly. She billowed up to us, turned upon her high patent leather heels, and undulated over to a long table, her hips swinging like an Oriental water carrier's. Meekly we trailed after her and sat where she indicated. Just above our heads, a large wooden-propeller kept a swarm of flies pleasantly agitated. On the table in front of my seat were a coffee stain, a jar of wooden toothpicks, and a large wire fly-trap full of prisoners buzzing over their misfortune. The Hebe-like personage withdrew, to reappear with two very thick gla.s.ses filled to overflowing with pale yellow ice water. These she casually spilled at each of our places and added a dirty and grease-stained card containing an itemized list of all the things the mind of man had as yet been able to conceive as edible at breakfast. Seven varieties of tea alone were enumerated, including many that had a novel sound. The lady disappeared and left us to our emotions in tranquillity.

While I was still marvelling at the things the menu offered for breakfast, I was suddenly aware of another damsel's presence. As I looked up, I discovered her leaning pleasantly on her elbow, looking over my shoulder, above which I noted her jaws in rapid motion about a piece of chewing gum. When I finally reached her eyes, the mastication ceased, and she smiled a most open and friendly smile. I did all I could to return it as heartily. She put into its proper place an erring lock of brilliant auburn hair, and in a voice that hurt, it was so sharp and searching, she exclaimed:

"Well, gents--what'll it be? Baked apples, prunes, or oranges?" This was completely to ignore the menu, which ranged all the way from peaches to melon in its printed promises.

"What about cantaloupe?" I asked timidly.

"It's all out," she replied promptly; "nothin' in but baked apples, prunes, and oranges."

"Then why this elaborate list?" I enquired.

"Gee whizz! What do you expect for fifty cents? This ain't the Auditorium Hotel. Prunes is nice today." All this she spoke in one breath.

"Bring me some prunes and milk," said Knowlton. I shuddered. I was determined not to be bullied into ordering something I didn't want.

"I'll take an orange, bacon and eggs, and coffee," I said firmly. Her jaws slowed down almost to a pause, as she looked me steadily in the eye, decided she would not fight it out just then, and departed, apparently much hurt. Knowlton rubbed his hands briskly, a sure sign he was preparing to utter some cheerful remark. I looked at him in a way which was an obvious defiance to any happy _bon-mot_ he might conceive, so he thought better of it and returned to a contemplation of the menu.

For some time the room was empty and silent, save for the buzzing of the captured flies and the hum of the overhead propeller. Then the auburn-haired maid returned, with a bowl of prunes and a generous pitcher of milk, upon whose bluish-ivory surface there struggled a solitary fly.

"Where is my orange?" I ventured.

"'Scuse me--did you say 'orange'?" she asked as sweetly as that acid voice would permit. "Thought you said 'ham an' eggs an' coffee'."

With a whish of her skirts she was gone once more, and I realized that the first step in her revenge for my ignoring prunes was accomplished.

Knowlton deftly removed the fly from his milk with a teaspoon, flicked the creature carelessly on to the floor, and poured the whole contents remaining over the prunes. Next he seized a handful of crisp biscuits, crushed them in the palms of his hands, and added them to the mixture.

The resultant compound seemed to me very nearly equivalent to half a bushel, dry measure. With a large sized spoon he attacked the mess vigorously. It was not wholly a silent operation. I pressed my lips firmly together and said nothing as the level in his bowl rapidly diminished.

Again the lady with sunset-glow hair came back. With a thump that startled me, she dropped in front of me a platter on which was a thick slice of ham ornamented by two highly glazed fried eggs. Beside it was deposited a plate containing a pale roll, a piece of yellow corn-bread, and a m.u.f.fin made out of some strange refuse--all these warm and soggy.

The cup of coffee followed, in a cup innocent of any handle. The coffee had already been diluted with milk and a spoon stuck in it.

"Sugar?" and she began to ladle heaping spoonfuls of granulated sugar rapidly from a gla.s.s dish. There was no trace of any orange.

"Stop!" I commanded so suddenly she spilt a spoonful of sugar over the table cloth. "Where is my orange?"