“Just suppose,” he said in a falsely jocular tone, “that I wanted a bid to the Ball; where could I get one?” He thought that “bid” was rather good; just the right note of casualness.
“Well,” said Mr Adams, who was not at all deceived; “you might be able to get a card from somebody who had one and decided not to use it. That’s sometimes done.”
“Oh? As a matter of fact, I had thought of going, just to see what it’s like. You don’t know anybody who has a spare card, I suppose?”
“Not a soul. There’s one thing you have to be careful about, of course; if they spot you at the door with somebody else’s card, they’ll ask you to leave at once.”
“Oh? As stiff as that, eh?”
“Oh, very stiff. You know how these military people are. Why, I once saw a man tapped on the shoulder and asked to leave just as he was making his bow to the Commandant’s wife. He turned as red as a beet, and slipped away. Several people laughed as he passed. I’d hate to put myself in that position.”
“Yes; yes indeed,” said Hector, reflecting sombrely on this disgrace, which was entirely Mr Adams’ invention. If Griselda were to see, or even hear, that he had been attempting to get to the Ball on false pretences! He would never be able to explain it.
Still, there must be some way. He turned next to Geordie.
“Of course, my card is strictly legitimate,” said Geordie.
“Of course,” said Hector.
“Still, I’ve heard of people getting to the Ball in all sorts of funny ways. Some are smuggled in in the rumble seats of cars. I knew a fellow once who drove over in a truck, with a white coat on; said he was taking ice-cream to the caterer; drove round to the back, took off the white coat and tripped the light fantastic till three, laid a girl from Montreal in the shrubbery, and was in the group photo at five, having had a swell time. And sometimes people row across the harbour in boats; they haven’t any guards along the shore, you know; just beach the boat and walk in.”
Hector did not think that any of these bold ruses would suit him.
“Of course, there are always a few invitations to be had, if you want them bad enough,” said Geordie, with the air of rectitude which becomes a man whose invitation is strictly legitimate.
“How do you get them?” said Hector.
“It’s entirely a matter of money.”
“Yes; I expected that. Who has them?”
“Well, don’t tell anybody I told you, but Pimples Buckle always has a few.”
Hector had not been permitted, at his first visit, to see Pimples himself. He had talked with a dark, greasy young man, who wore sidewhiskers and a dirty sweatshirt, in the office of Uneeda Taxi, which was the legitimate part of Pimples’ business. Unwillingly he had revealed to the young man what he wanted, and the young man had chewed a match and looked at him with scorn.
“Ain’t no use talkin’ to Pimples now,” he had said. “Come back the day before the dance.”
“You’ll tell him what I want?”
“Yeah.”
“Shall I ‘phone him before I come in?”
“Naw. Pimples don’t like the ‘phone. Don’t be a dope. And bring cash.”
“How much?”
“Dunno. Better bring plenty.”
At half past four on the day before the ball Hector stood in the inner office of Uneeda Taxi, and Pimples Buckle sat with his feet on a rolltop desk.
“Well prof,” said he, “so you want a ticket to the Big Ball.”
“Yes,” said Hector.
“What’s the matter? Did yours get lost in the mail?”
“I have no invitation. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh, so that’s why you’re here, eh? Funny, I was wondering what brought you.”
“I supposed you knew. I left a message with your man outside.”
“Wop? Yeah, he told me you’d been in. But what I want to know is this: what makes you think I’ve got any tickets, eh?”
“Somebody said you usually had a few.”
“Jeeze, the stories that get around. Why, prof, don’t you know I could get into a lotta trouble selling tickets to the Ball? And you’d get in trouble too; you’d be an accessory after the fact, and you’d be compounding a felony, and Jeeze knows what else.”
“Have you any tickets?”
“Not so fast, prof. You remember me, don’t you?”
“Yes, I remember you.”
“Yeah, you was new at the school the last year I was there. I was in one of your classes. Algebra. And you remember what you used to tell us? Take it easy, you used to say; just take it easy. Well, prof, you take it easy now. Would you like to sit down?”
“Thank you, I would.”
“Well, you can’t because there ain’t no chair.” Pimples chuckled with enjoyment. “Now, prof, why do you want to go to this Ball?”
“Is that any affair of yours?”
“I’ll say it is. You don’t look the type, somehow. Who’s the broad?”
“The—?”
“The dame. What’s a guy like you want to go to the Ball for if it ain’t to take some dame? You want to romance her under the stars, prof?”
“If you will sell me a ticket, let’s do it now.”
“Jeeze, you’re touchy. Most fellows your age would be complimented to think somebody thought they was after a dame. Are you getting plenty of what she’s got?”
“What is your price?”
“Very special to you prof. Fifty bucks. I always treat my old teachers right.”
“Fifty!”
“Sure. This ain’t no two-bit belly-rub you’re going to, y’know.”
Sick with humiliation and outraged prudence, Hector counted out five ten-dollar notes. Pimples reached into an inner pocket and produced an envelope, from which he drew an engraved and crested card in the upper left-hand corner of which was written, in an official hand, “Hector Mackilwraith, Esq.”
“Make sure you get your fifty bucks worth outa the broad,” he said, winking cheerily, as Hector hurried from the room.
There was a very good crowd at the auction, which was gratifying to young Mr Maybee, for he had worked hard to persuade old Mr Elliot that the day of the Ball was a good day to hold it. Mr Elliot, product of a more leisurely age, had insisted that every woman of the sort who might be expected to attend the sale of a professor’s effects would be at home on such an afternoon, lying in a darkened room with pads of cotton soaked in ice-water upon her eyes. Mr Maybee had assured his partner that, on the contrary, all of Salterton would be keyed up and eager for amusement, and what was more amusing than an auction in June? He had carried his point, and here was the crowd to prove it. The morning sale, when the bedroom furnishings and kitchen effects had been sold, had been successful; the goods had brought within fifty dollars of what he had privately estimated, and he congratulated himself on good selling and good reckoning. This afternoon he hoped to do a little better than his estimate. Like an actor, or a concert performer, he put out his feelers—his sensitive auctioneer’s antennae—to receive intuitions from his audience. It was a good audience, alert, receptive to suggestion, and sufficiently excited by the thought of the approaching Ball to be ready to bid freely. After a few deep breaths to refresh his voice, Mr Maybee stepped upon his auctioneer’s rostrum, and looked out over the lawn at the bidders, the curiosity seekers, the amateurs of auctions, some standing, some perched on shooting sticks. He rapped upon the table with his pencil, and promptly at two o’clock the afternoon sale began.