“Devlin blinked hard, and I thought he’d jumped it. But bein’ a grafter, that hundred looked too good to lose. He pulls out a big black wallet, counts out five tens, and hands ’em to me careful-like.
“ ‘Delman,’ says he, ‘I know you’re an honest man. I can tell it by your eyes. I feel sure you’ll get the money.’
“ ‘Mr. Devlin,’ says I, holdin’ his hand in one hand and the fifty in the other, ‘I will get the money.’ And I leaves him standin’ there in the bank, watchin’ me through the window.
“Did you go to Pittsburgh?” asked Bendy.
“Bendy,” said Dudd, “don’t be factious in the presence of genius. You offend me.”
“Forgive me,” said Bendy, humbly. “Let me see the fifty, Dudd. I just want to touch it.”
Pamfret and Peace
Pamfret was happy. To be back in the world again, to feel once more that old sense of incompleteness — what could be more delightful? He laughed aloud as he recollected how Satan had warned him that the earth might not prove so attractive after all.
For Pamfret was no ordinary mortal. In 1910 he had died, and as he had done some things and left undone some others, he had been sent with slight ceremony to the land of darkness. Of his existence there we have no knowledge, save that he found it somewhat darker and a great deal more interesting than he had imagined. Nor do we know the exact nature of the service he rendered the Prince; but it was an important one, and Satan rewarded him with ten years more of life. Pamfret was wildly grateful, and almost incurred the Prince’s displeasure by his eagerness to return to the world above. Once there he forgot everything but the joy of mortality.
He was considerably surprised when he found that the world had gotten as far as 1970. Sixty years! Everything, of course, was changed. But he felt that just to be alive was enough. It was really very silly of Satan to give him that vial, he thought — as if there were any chance of his wishing to return before the ten years ended.
It was noon of his first day. As he walked along Fifth Avenue and noted the many changes and additions, the absence of old landmarks and the encroachments of commercialism, he experienced little of that feeling of unreality he had expected. After all, it was only natural that there should be changes. The world does not stand still. At Forty-second Street he stopped at the library, and felt a strange pleasure in renewing old acquaintances on its shelves. Two blocks farther on he was delighted to find that Sherry’s had remained faithful to its old corner, and congratulated himself that he had not yet lunched.
He passed through the outer hall into the dining room on the left, intending to find a table near the orchestra, but found that the place formerly set aside for the musicians had been rearranged and furnished for diners. When he had found a seat and summoned a waiter, “Is there no orchestra?” he asked.
The waiter looked surprised. “Certainly not.”
“Why certainly?”
“But it would cause disagreement. Some people like music and some do not. But Monsieur is jesting?”
Pamfret could see no joke. But at least they still had a menu. “Bring me some clams.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And some cold turkey with jelly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And — have you any alligator pears?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then Salad Macédoine, and a pot of coffee.”
“Yes, sir,” and the waiter hurried away.
“That waiter has no imagination,” thought Pamfret. “He had not a single suggestion to offer.” And he leaned back in his chair the better to watch the crowd.
There was a curious air of calm about the room. Everyone was talking, but no one seemed at all interested in what anyone said. There was no animation, nothing of piquancy in either face or gesture. “What stupid people!” said Pamfret to himself.
Seated at the next table were a man and a girl. “I don’t care to go,” the girl was saying. “I adore opera but I hate plays.”
“I have heard that this is a very good play, and I shall go,” said the man.
“Very well, then I shall return home. Goodby,” and she rose to go.
“Oh, are you finished?” asked the man. “All right. Goodby.”
Pamfret was astonished. “The girl is pretty and the man is a fool,” he declared; but the arrival of his waiter with a plate of clams put a stop to his soliloquy.
Three o’clock found Pamfret seated in the grandstand at the Polo Grounds. It was a day of glorious sunshine, and promised still more glorious sport. The old rivalry between New York and Chicago had been heightened by time, and the Cubs were even now battling with the Giants for first place. Pamfret felt a joyous excitement. He turned to his nearest neighbor. “The Giants are really the stronger team, aren’t they?” he queried.
“That is a matter of opinion,” replied his neighbor.
“Are you from Chicago?”
“No.”
Pamfret subsided.
At three-thirty the game was called. “Now there’ll be something doing,” thought Pamfret.
The first inning passed quickly. The play was snappy, but there were no runs made, and there was no applause. In the second inning Chicago’s batters were soon disposed of. The first man up for New York drew a base on balls, and then — the next batter hit a triple to left, scoring the runner. The crowd was silent. Pamfret clapped his hands furiously.
An usher approached and handed Pamfret a printed card. Pamfret turned it over and read as follows:
Rule 19. It shall be unlawful for a spectator at any athletic game to show preference to any contestant by any manner of applause or derision.
Pamfret was so bewildered that he forgot to watch the game. So that was the cause of this curious silence. He wondered what was the penalty, and decided, inasmuch as he was not disturbed further, that a warning was considered sufficient for a first offense.
Then he heard the crack of the bat against the ball, and looked just in time to see the little leather sphere bound against the left field fence and roll back onto the field. The runner tore wildly around the bases, while the crowd uttered not a sound. On past second he dashed, and rounded third just as the ball was being returned by the fielder. He flew down the home stretch with the speed of an arrow, and reached the plate the merest fraction of a second before the ball landed in the catcher’s mitt.
“Out!” called the umpire.
“Robber!” shrieked Pamfret. “Thief! Robber!”
The crowd gazed at Pamfret in dismay. Again the usher approached and handed him a card. Pamfret, partially realizing what he had done, took it in a rather shamefaced manner, and read:
Rule 26. It shall be unlawful for a spectator at any athletic game to show either approval or disapproval of any decision of the umpire or referee. Penalty: ejection from the grounds.
A silver gong sounded somewhere under the grandstand. Pamfret looked up. The entire mass of spectators was standing, each with bowed head and arm raised, pointing with outstretched finger to the outer gates. On the field each player had stopped still in his position and turned to point. Pamfret was confused; he wanted to laugh; but the air of solemnity about the whole proceeding forbade it. There could be no doubt about the meaning of this universal gesture, and he descended from the grandstand and started across the field toward the gates. As he arrived there, he turned and looked back. Thirty thousand fingers were pointing at him in a sort of contemptuous scorn. As he passed through the gates he heard the silver gong ring out as before.