Our Mr. Wrenn: The Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man Part 35

"Got a date for dinner this evening, Morty?"

"N-no. No, I don't _think_ I've got anything on." Morton's voice seemed to sound a doubt. Mr. Wrenn reflected that Morton must be a society person; and he made his invitation highly polite:

"Well, say, old man, I'd be awful happy if you could come over and feed on me. Can't you come over and meet me, Morty?"

"Y-yes, I guess I can. Yes, I'll do it. Where'll I meet you?"

"How about Twenty-eighth and Sixth Avenue?"

"That'll be all right, Bill. 'Bout six o'clock?"

"Fine! Be awful nice to see you again, old Morty."

"Same here. Goo'-by."

Gazing across the table at Miggleton's, Mr. Wrenn saw, in the squat familiar body and st.u.r.dy face of Morton of the cattle-boat, a stranger, slightly uneasy and very quiet, wearing garments that had nothing whatever to do with the cattle-boats--a crimson scarf with a horseshoe-pin of "Brazilian diamonds," and sleek brown ready-made clothes with ornately curved cuffs and pocket flaps.

Morton would say nothing of his wanderings after their parting in Liverpool beyond: "Oh, I just b.u.mmed around. Places....

Warm to-night. For this time of year." Thrice he explained, "I was kind of afraid you'd be sore at me for the way I left you; that's why I've never looked you up." Thrice Mr. Wrenn declared that he had not been "sore," then ceased trying to make himself understood.

Their talk wilted. Both of them played with their knives a good deal. Morton built a set of triangles out of toothpicks while pretending to give hushed attention to the pianist's rendition of "Mammy's Little Cootsie Bootsie c.o.o.n," while Mr. Wrenn stared out of the window as though he expected to see the building across get afire immediately. When either of them invented something to say they started chattering with guilty haste, and each agreed hectically with any opinion the other advanced.

Mr. Wrenn surprised himself in the thought that Morton hadn't anything very new to say, which made him feel so disloyal that he burst out, effusively:

"Say, come on now, old man; I just got to hear about what you did after you left Liverpool."

"I--"

"Well--"

"I never got out of Liverpool! Worked in a restaurant.... But next time--! I'll go clean to Constantinople!" Morton exploded. "And I did see a lot of English life in Liverpool."

Mr. Wrenn talked long and rapidly of the world's baseball series, and Regal _vs._ Walkover shoes.

He tried to think of something they could do. Suddenly:

"Say, Morty, I know an awful nice guy down here in a cigar-store. Let's go down and see him."

"All right."

Tom Poppins was very cordial to them. He dragged brown canvas stools out of the tobacco-scented room where cigars were made, and the three of them squatted in the back of the store, while Tom gossiped of the Juarez races, Taft, cigar-wrappers, and Jews.

Morton was aroused to tell the time-mellowed story of the judge and the darky. He was cheerful and laughed much and frequently said "Ah there, cull!" in general commendation. But he kept looking at the clock on the jog in the wall over the watercooler. Just at ten he rose abashedly, hesitated, and murmured, "Well, I guess I'll have to be beating it home."

From Mr. Wrenn: "Oh, Morty! So early?"

Tom: "What's the big hurry?"

"I've got to run clear over to Jersey City." Morton was cordial, but not convincing.

"Say--uh--Morton," said Tom, kindly of face, his bald head shining behind his twin bangs, as he rose, "I'm going to have Wrenn up to dinner at my boarding-house next Monday. Like to have you come along. It's a fine place--Mrs. Arty--she's the landlady--she's a wonder. There's going to be a vacant room there--maybe you two fellows could frame it up to take it, heh?

Understand, I don't get no rake-off on this, but we all like to do what we can for M--"

"No, no!" said Morton. "Sorry. Couldn't do it. Staying with my brother-in-law--costs me only 'bout half as much as it would I don't do much chasing around when I'm in town.... I'm going to save up enough money for a good long hike. I'm going clean to St. Petersburg!... But I've had a good time to-night."

"Glad. Great stuff about you fellows on the cattle-ship," said Tom.

Morton hastened on, protectively, a bit critically: "You fellows sport around a good deal, don't you?... I can't afford to....

Well, good night. Glad to met you, Mr. Poppins. G' night, old Wr--"

"Going to the ferry? For Jersey? I'll walk over with you,"

said Mr. Wrenn.

Their walk was quiet and, for Mr. Wrenn, tragically sad. He saw Morton (presumably) doing the wandering he had once planned. He felt that, while making his vast new circle of friends, he was losing all the wild adventurousness of Bill Wrenn. And he was parting with his first friend.

At the ferry-house Morton p.r.o.nounced his "Well, so long, old fellow" with an affection that meant finality.

Mr. Wrenn fled back to Tom Poppins's store. On the way he was shocked to find himself relieved at having parted with Morton.

The cigar-store was closed.

At home Mrs. Zapp waylaid him for his rent (a day overdue), and he was very curt. That was to keep back the "O G.o.d, how rotten I feel!" with which, in his room, he voiced the desolation of loneliness.

The ghost of Morton, dead and forgotten, was with him all next day, till he got home and unbelievably found on the staid black-walnut Zapp hat-rack a letter from Paris, in a gray foreign-appearing envelope with Istra's intensely black scrawl on it.

He put off the luxury of opening the letter till after the rites of brushing his teeth, putting on his slippers, pounding his rocking-chair cushion into softness. Panting with the joy to come, he stared out of the window at a giant and glorious figure of Istra--the laughing Istra of breakfast camp-fire--which towered from the street below. He sighed joyously and read:

Mouse dear, just a word to let you know I haven't forgotten you and am very glad indeed to get your letters. Not much to write about. Frightfully busy with work and fool parties. You _are_ a dear good soul and I hope you'll keep on writing me. In haste, I. N.

Longer letter next time.

He came to the end so soon. Istra was gone again.

CHAPTER XIV

HE ENTERS SOCIETY

England, in all its Istra-ness, scarce gave Mr. Wrenn a better thrill for his collection than the thrill he received on the November evening when he saw the white doorway of Mrs. R. T.

Ferrard, in a decorous row of houses on Thirtieth Street near Lexington Avenue.