The Eye of Wilbur Mook Part 1

The Eye of Wilbur Mook.

by H. B. Hickey.

"Wilbur!" his mother called. "Better get up or you'll be late for work!"

Slowly but surely Wilbur Mook came out of his beautiful dream. And what a dream it was! He had Peter Bellows down and was busily punching his head. What a dream!

Then his mother's voice pulled him away from Pete Bellows and dragged him back to reality. Wilbur opened one eye and looked at the clock on his bedside table. Its hand said eight o'clock.

Wilbur flung off the covers and slid his bare feet into lamb's wool bedroom slippers. If he didn't hurry, Wilbur thought, he'd be late to work. At the thought of facing Pete Bellows' angry stare Wilbur shuddered. It was all right to dream, but real life was quite another thing.

Quickly, he ran water into the washbowl and washed his hands and face.

No time to shower or shave. Running his hand over his chin Wilbur found he didn't need a shave anyway. By skipping that operation he could get to the office early.

[Ill.u.s.tration: When the world's most cowardly man met the world's bravest--history was changed]

He took a moment to survey himself in the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. "Every day in every way I am getting better and better," Wilbur muttered. Then he heard his mother's footsteps outside in the hall and he hurried to put on his robe. Just in time he got his head out of the way as the door swung inward.

"You look nice this morning," Mrs. Mook said. "Now hurry before your breakfast gets cold."

He did look pretty good, Wilbur admitted to himself as he looked again into the mirror. At twenty-five his skin was firm and healthy looking, his body straight and neither too thin nor too fat. His reddish-brown hair was free of dandruff, his blue eyes clear.

Only one thing wrong with the picture. He had the soul of a rabbit. He was a coward. There was a tinge of desperation in his voice as he spoke again to his image in the mirror:

"Every day in every way I am getting braver and braver."

Unfortunately it was not true and Wilbur Mook knew it. And the only reason he was not growing more timid, Wilbur reflected miserably, was that such a thing lay outside the realm of possibility.

What was even worse was the fact that everyone else knew it too. It could not have been more evident had Wilbur carried a sign. The only thing he could say was that his mother loved him anyway. Small consolation.

"Read the paper on the streetcar," she said as she helped him into his coat. "And don't run. You know it upsets your stomach when you've just eaten breakfast."

His breakfast had consisted, as always, of orange juice, one poached egg on toast and warm milk. Anything stronger than warm milk, Mrs. Mook had discovered, disturbed Wilbur no end.

As he walked to the car Wilbur's mind went back over the dream. That was the stuff! And one of these days he was going to make that dream come true. Pete Bellows was going to find out a thing or two.

"Whyncha look where you're goin'?" a shrill voice demanded.

Wilbur stopped abruptly. In his trance-like state he had stepped on the heel of a twelve-year-old boy bound for school. The boy was glaring at him fiercely and Wilbur cringed.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," he said, knowing that his face was losing color.

"Yah!" the boy snarled. "Look where you're goin' and you won't have to be sorry."

For a moment Wilbur feared the boy was going to hit him. Then a call came from down the street as another school-bound lad hove into sight, and the first one promptly forgot about Wilbur.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Wilbur crossed gingerly to the safety island and waited for his car. When it came he found that all the seats were occupied but he discovered a vacant corner at the front and huddled there.

Unfolding his paper carefully he scanned the world news and found it depressing. It always was, Wilbur thought. He turned to the sport pages for solace. That too was depressing, for it featured the doings of those public heroes who battered each other to a pulp for profit and applause.

Not that Wilbur would have been unwilling to attend a prize fight. No indeed. He would have enjoyed it immensely, except that he could not stand the sight of men beating each other. And the blood! Even the thought of blood made him slightly ill.

He turned quickly to the want ads. Those were always safe, sometimes even exciting. Today there was a man who needed a bodyguard. Wilbur reflected wistfully that he would have made a fine bodyguard, if only things were different.

Actually he was a writer of greeting-card poetry, and as he swung off the car his mind was already busy on a poem for Mother's Day. All he needed was a good last line. So far it went:

"To the Mother so loving and tender, On this day that is yours alone, Homage I willingly render, Ta ta-ta tum ta ta."

The last line would come to him, Wilbur knew. It always did. In the meantime he nodded shyly to the elevator starter and found himself a place at the back of the car. It rose swiftly and his heart pounded.

What if it should stop suddenly between floors? There was a beautiful girl standing next to Wilbur and he thought how fear would flood her face. That was the time when a cool and confident voice could avert panic. But Wilbur was aware that there was more chance that the voice would be the girl's rather than his.

His mind went back to the last line of the ditty he had been composing.

He almost had it, then it was gone. He bit down on his tongue in concentration, unaware that he was staring at the girl next to him.

"My devotion you'll always own," Wilbur murmured.

"On such short acquaintance?" the girl smiled.

Wilbur turned pink, then red. He wanted to tell her he hadn't meant it that way, and he found himself wishing he had. She was the kind of girl he sometimes dreamed about, tall and not too thin, with golden hair and gray eyes in which flecks of color danced.

"I meant my mother," Wilbur managed at last.

"How sweet. Now would you mind getting out of my way?"

Wilbur looked down and found that he had somehow managed to walk from the elevator to his office without knowing it. He had his hand on the doork.n.o.b.

"I beg your pardon," he mumbled, and flung the door open in what he hoped was a gallant gesture.

There was a crash as the door swung inward for a few feet and stopped.

The crash was immediately followed by a howl of pain. A moment later Pete Bellows' flushed and furious face came around the side of the door.

He was rubbing his head.

"Mook, you idiot!" Bellows roared. "I ought to punch your nose for this!"

"He didn't know your head was in the way," the girl said.

"Huh?" Bellows grunted. He took a good look at the girl and the anger drained from his face. Without thinking he straightened his tie and slicked back his oily black hair.

"You must be Miss Burnett, the girl the agency said they were sending,"

Bellows murmured in his most dulcet tones. "Well, well, Wilbur, this is my new secretary."

"But how do you know I'll do?" Miss Burnett said, startled.