“The man sitting on your right is Abe Goldstein, of Harris and Goldstein. They are a new firm without much capital, but they have an original and artistic line with the punch. He only asks a chance to show you.”
And that was the way I became acquainted with Sadie Levine, buyer of ladies’ suits for the most exclusive house on Fifth Avenue. Usually it takes years to get an account like that. It happened last night. I called on her this morning and sold her a bill of fourteen different numbers, three of each, for a total of $1,760.50. How’s that for a first order?
Old Fools and Young
Stout’s longest and last piece for Young’s Magazine was this novelette. It appeared in the April 1918 issue, but must have been written more than a year earlier, as Stout had been busy collaborating with his brother Robert in promoting a school banking system, the Educational Thrift Service, since the end of 1916. This farewell appearance marks the only time that one of Stout’s early stories for Young’s was promoted on the cover: “OLD FOOLS AND YOUNG — Complete Novelette by REX T. STOUT”
I
Before the large granite pillars flanking the entrance to Roselawn — one of those showy country estates that turn the east bank of the Hudson into an unbroken series of formal parks and flower gardens — a high-powered Shinton roadster came to an abrupt stop early one July morning. At the wheel was a man of middle age, not more than a year or two either side of forty; he was the sole occupant of the car. The perplexed and somewhat resentful expression of his pleasing, still youthful countenance showed that he had certainly not halted as a tribute to the surrounding landscape, though such a tribute would have been not undeserved. On one side green valleys and gently sloping hills, thickly wooded, rested and charmed the eye with their endless variety of form and color; on the other, gardens and terraced lawns led past the buildings of the estate to where a glimmer of the broad river shone through the foliage. The day promised to be hot, but just now a gentle, steady breeze was stirring freshness in the air.
The man in the car, having stopped, had taken a letter from his pocket and glanced through it. It read as follows:
Fred:
Morton Waring has just telephoned that Kate is ill, and I am going right over; so again I have to call on you to help me out.
Three girls are to arrive here today from New York, from that East Side Vacation Club, and now I can’t be here to receive them. They would probably feel slighted with no one here except the servants; so won’t you come over and do the honors? Just make them welcome and turn them loose; they can amuse themselves. That’s a good brother; I know you’ll do it.
I’ll be back this evening or tomorrow.
I forget what train they’re coming on; it’s in my desk somewhere. I ’phoned, but you were out, so I’m sending this over by Simmons.
The man at the wheel refolded the letter with a grunt of irritation and returned it to his pocket.
“No, she doesn’t even say what train,” he observed glumly to the radiator. “Of course she wouldn’t. Well, I’ll have to find out.”
He started the motor and turned into the driveway between the granite pillars. It led him deviously, around sweeping curves, to the carriage entrance of the house itself — a large rambling structure of gray stone and uncertain architecture, set in the centre of a century-old grove not more than a hundred yards from the bank of the river. A man came running up from the garage in the rear, touching his cap as he approached with a deferential,
“Good morning, Mr. Canby.”
“Good morning, Simmons. Put her away,” returned the other as he leaped out and mounted the steps of the piazza. At the door he was met by a red-faced middle-aged woman who greeted him with unfeigned relief and began to explain vociferously that her mistress had left so suddenly she didn’t know what to think, and she had been so afraid Mr. Canby wouldn’t come, and the young women expected from the city any minute—!
Without waiting for her to finish, Canby passed through to the front of the house and on upstairs to his sister’s writing-room, where, after a ten-minute search, he finally found a typewritten letter containing the information that the Misses Rose Manganaro, Mildred Lavicci and Nella Somi would arrive Wednesday morning on the 10:50 local; also, Mrs. Janet Morton Haskins would please accept the profound thanks of the East Side Vacation Club for giving these working girls the opportunity of enjoying the myriad delights and advantages of country life for the two weeks they would be free from their toilsom labor in the cruel city...
“This is what comes of having a widowed sister with contemplations on humanity,” observed Canby, as he tossed the letter back in the drawer. ‘Here’s a nice job I’ve got. Pleasant task for an aged bachelor: playing croquet with Tired Working Girls! I’m not sure it’s even decent. Lord, what names! Manganaro! — Lavicci! — Somi! They won’t be able to speak English, their hands and feet will be in the way, and they’ll have their pockets full of garlic to nibble between meals! Sis says she’ll be back tonight or tomorrow, and maybe she will and maybe she won’t. Oh Lord! Hanged if I’ll go to the station, anyway; I’ll send Simmons.”
Downstairs, having summoned the chauffeur from the garage and delivered his instructions, and having ascertained from the housekeeper that the rooms of the expected guests were in readiness, Canby deposited himself in a shady corner of the piazza with a morning newspaper, a box of cigarettes, a bottle, a siphon, and a glass. Soon he saw Simmons, in a new seven-passenger touring car, winding along the driveway on his way to the station, seven miles distant. Canby sighed and returned to his paper. He had had a match on for this morning with Garrett Linwood, a guest at his own country home, some fifteen miles to the northeast, and he had expected at about this hour to be standing on the sixth tee, driving across the brook. That’s what comes of having a sister...
Buried in the sporting page of his newspaper some forty-five minutes later, Canby came to with a start at the sound of the returning automobile whizzing along the driveway. Hastily tossing off his glass and throwing the paper aside, he reached the central arch of the main portico just as the car drew up at the foot of the steps.
The three young women from the East Side Vacation Club descended rather stiffly, with embarrassed movements. Canby glanced at them with idle curiosity and then spoke, welcoming them to Roselawn in the name of his sister, their hostess, and explaining her temporary absence. They mumbled something in reply, and Canby, somewhat embarrassed himself, was relieved to find the housekeeper at this elbow.
“Mrs. Garton will show you your rooms,” he finished. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”
“I’m going back for the luggage, sir,” came from Simmons.
Canby nodded; in his indifference he had forgotten all about it; but, come to think of it, of course even working girls would have luggage. Having followed the housekeeper with his eyes as she led the visitors into the house, he returned to his corner on the piazza and took up his newspaper; but by the time he had finished the financial page he was vaguely uneasy. As host pro tem., he felt that he probably ought to do something; so a few minutes later, he started in search of Mrs. Garton. As he crossed the reception hall he heard footsteps above, and there, on the landing of the great staircase, stood his three guests, huddled together as if for protection and gazing down at him doubtfully.