“Yours sincerely,
“William Brownell.
“P.S. — I will send you postcards from Paris and Rome and other places if you want me to.
In two weeks came the answer, and, though very short and rather discreet, it raised William to the seventh heaven of delight. His eyes were filled with tears of gratitude as he tried to express his thanks to Jimmy in a faltering voice.
“Nothing to it,” declared Jimmy. “It was bound to come. It was the postcards that got her. She’ll get ’em, all right, and more, too.”
“We must answer it to-night,” said William, “so the orderly can take it ashore on his first trip.”
Jimmy regarded him with contempt. “Lothario, you leave this to me. You know as much about this game as a rookie does about a marlin hitch. We may answer it in a week — not a minute sooner. The first and only rule is, keep ’em guessing.”
This policy met with strong objections from William. He was afraid Annie wouldn’t like it, and he knew he didn’t. It was only when Jimmy threatened to desert the ship that he agreed to obey orders and wait for the tide before weighing anchor.
Annie’s second letter was distinctly encouraging; the third began “Dear William,” and the fourth was almost reckless. By the time they sailed for Lisbon she was signing herself “Your loving Annie,” and William was sheenying on the berth deck and making endless computations of the cost of furniture for four rooms.
Jimmy pursued his labor of friendship, seemingly with the constancy of a Pythias and the zeal of a Jonathan. He appropriated Annie’s photograph for his own use, claiming he needed it for inspiration in the composition of William’s weekly letter. And even considering William’s innocence and ignorance, it is remarkable that his confiding breast felt no touch of suspicion when he had a daily opportunity of viewing the green lights in Jimmy’s eyes as they rested on Annie’s likeness.
The cruise in the Mediterranean was twice as long as anybody had expected. Their first orders had been for Genoa, where they took part in a naval celebration, but subsequently they were told to proceed to Manila and the Asiatic, there to leave half their own crew and bring home an equal number of short-timings. By a miracle William escaped the danger of being buried in a Japanese “take-it-and-leave-it,” but even then eighteen months had passed before the Kansas found herself at Cherbourg, carrying a three hundred-foot homeward-bound pennant and a happy crew.
Long before this Annie had finally and unconditionally surrendered. It had been arranged that William should apply for a furlough immediately upon arrival at New York, and spend it in Annie’s arms. And William, who had conducted the most brilliantly successful bumboat operation of the cruise at Iloilo, and was therefore rolling in untold wealth, gave himself up to so excessive a jollification the night before sailing that he spent the first five days of the trip across in the ship’s brig.
On the morning of the day that the Kansas tied up at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, Jimmy Spear, whose enlistment had expired in the middle of the Atlantic, walked down the gangway with his canvas bag on his shoulder and his ditty box under his arm. Close behind was William, with the hammock. Arrived at the Naval Y. M. C. A. on Sands Street they deposited their burdens on a settee in the lobby and shook hands solemnly.
“Remember,” said William, “you promised to write. Of course, I’ll be on furlough for two weeks, but I want to hear from you as soon as I get back to the ship. I ain’t going to try to thank you for what you’ve done. Some day, maybe, I’ll tell Annie, and she’ll invite you to call and rock the baby.”
“Forget it,” said Jimmy, roughly. “You probably won’t ever see me again. It’s the Pacific for mine. I’ll send you my address from ’Frisco. And say,” as William turned to go, “give Annie my love!”
William returned to the ship to wait for the approval of his furlough. With Jimmy gone it was horribly lonesome, and, since they had not yet received the expected orders to go into dry dock, even furloughs were uncertain. He sent a telegram to Annie, advising her of the delay, and swallowed his impatience with difficulty. It was the second day after Jimmy’s departure that he was called to the cabin and advised by the captain’s writer that his leave would commence at four o’clock of that day. He was ready to go in fifteen minutes, thanks to the simplicity of his wardrobe, and promptly at eight bells he went over the side with a joyous heart.
His first act after he got ashore was to array himself magnificently and expensively in a suit of “cits.” Then he proceeded to Nolan’s, and after an hour of selecting and bickering became the possessor of a diamond solitaire ring. Thence to the Y. M. C. A., where, having hung the suit carefully on the back of a chair, and having placed the ring reverently under his pillow, he slept the sleep of the unrighteous, healthy and happy. To-morrow he would see Annie.
As his train pulled into the old familiar station in the middle of the following afternoon, William stood on the car step with a shining new suit case in his hand and tears in his eyes. He was about to enjoy the triumph which had for years been his fondest dream. The pride and joy that filled his heart were indescribable. He had not told Annie the time of his arrival, and an expectant smile parted his lips as he pictured to himself her glad surprise. He quickly made his way through the knot of loungers around the station door and started down Main Street.
“Ship ahoy!” came a voice.
William turned. Coming toward him with a rolling gait, his eyes red, his face pale, was Jimmy Spear.
“What in—” began William.
“Hello!” Jimmy interrupted. “It took you a devil of a time to get here. For forty-eight hours I’ve been hanging around this blooming station to head you off.”
“Head me off from what?”
“Wait till you see it! But first I want to admit that I tried to double-cross you. I intended to take Annie for myself. What you said about her, and that damn picture—”
“Where is she?” demanded William, his face white with fear.
“Port your helm,” said Jimmy. “Lead me to Snyder’s soda fountain. I’ve been drunk for two days and couldn’t tell one from an iceberg. I’m sorry I tried to hand it to you, but I got what I deserved.”
William turned as one dazed and, with Jimmy at his side, started down the street. The whole thing was incomprehensible to him, and he didn’t even try to understand it.
As they turned in at Snyder’s Jimmy caught his arm and directed his gaze toward the soda fountain. What he saw was a girl incredibly fat and unmistakably German, with straw-colored hair and a nose buried in the ample folds of flabby cheeks. The only thing doubtful about her was whether she was above or below four hundred pounds.
“That’s her,” said Jimmy.
William leaned against a counter for support. Notwithstanding the frightful change, there could be no mistake. It was Annie.
They had reached the station before William found his tongue.
“For Pete’s sake,” he demanded, “how did she get all that in three years?”
“That,” said Jimmy, as he laid down a twenty dollar bill to pay for two tickets to New York, “is more than I can say. By George, she’d make a fine anchor!”
“And yet,” mused William, “there was a time when—”
“Forget it!” said Jimmy, sternly.
The Pickled Picnic
In this tale of local politics, Stout muses on the theme of idealism versus practicality. This was one of several stories Stout contributed to The Black Cat, a literary magazine published in Boston.