LATE RETURNS ON RUPERT

Vee and I were goin’ over some old snapshots the other night. It’s done now and then, you know. Not deliberate. I’ll admit that’s a pastime you wouldn’t get all worked up over plannin’ ahead for. Tuesday mornin’, say, you don’t remark breathless: “I’ll tell you: Saturday night at nine-thirty let’s get out them last year’s prints and give ’em the comp’ny front.”

It don’t happen that way not with our sketch. What I was grapplin’ for in the bottom of the window-seat locker was something different maybe a marshmallow fork, or a corn-popper, or a catalogue of bath-room fixtures. Anyway, it was something we thought we wanted a lot, when I digs up this album of views that Vee took durin’ that treasure-huntin’ cruise of ours last winter on the old Agnes, with Auntie and Old Hickory and Captain Rupert Killam and the rest of the bunch. I was just tossin’ the book one side when a picture slips out, and of course I has to take a squint. Then I chuckles.

“Look!” says I, luggin’ it over to where Vee is curled up on the davenport in front of the fireplace. “Remember that?”

A giggle from Vee.

“’Auntie enjoying a half-hour eulogy of the dear departed, by Mrs. Mumford,’ should be the title,” says she. “She’d been sound asleep for twenty minutes.”

“Which is what you might call good defensive,” says I. “But who’s this gazin’ over the rail beyond J. Dudley Simms, or is that a ventilator?”

“Let’s see,” says Vee, reachin’ for the readin’ glass. “Why, you silly! That’s Captain Killam.”

“Oh!” says I. “Reckless Rupert, the great mind-play hero.”

“I wonder what has become of him?” puts in Vee, restin’ her chin on the knuckle of her forefinger and starin’ into the fire.

“Him?” says I. “Most likely he’s back in St. Petersburg, Florida, all dolled in white flannels, givin’ the tin-can tourists a treat. That would be Rupert’s game.”

I don’t know as you remember; but, in spite of Killam’s havin’ got balled up on the location of this pirate island, and Vee and me havin’ to find it for him, he came in for his share of the loot. Must have been quite a nice little pot for Rupert, too enough to keep him costumed for his mysterious hero act for a long time, providin’ he don’t overdress the part.

Weird combination Rupert: about 60 per cent. camouflage and the rest solemn boob. An ex-school-teacher from some little flag station in middle Illinois, who’d drifted down to the West Coast, and got to be a captain by ownin’ an old cruiser that he took fishin’ parties out to the grouper banks on. Them was the real facts in the life story of Rupert.

But the picture he threw on the screen of himself must have been something else again seasoned sailor, hardy adventurer, daredevil explorer, and who knows what else? Catch him in one of his silent, starey moods, with them buttermilk blue eyes of his opened wide and vacant, and you had the outline. But that’s as far as you’d get. I always thought Rupert himself was a little vague about it, but he would insist on takin’ himself so serious. That’s why we never got along well, I expect. To me Rupert was a walkin’ joke, except when he got to sleuthin’ around Vee and me and made a nuisance of himself.

“How completely people like that drop out of sight sometimes,” says Vee, shuttin’ up the album.

“Yes,” says I. “Contrary to old ladies who meet at summer resorts and in department-stores, it’s a sizable world we live in. Thanks be for that, too.”

But you never can tell. It ain’t more’n three days later, as I’m breezin through a cross street down in the cloak-and-suit and publishin’ house district, when a taxi rolls up to the curb just ahead, and out piles a wide-shouldered gent with freckles on the back of his neck. Course, I don’t let on I can spot anybody I’ve ever known just by a sectional glimpse like that. But this was no common case of freckles. This was a splotchy, spattery system of rust marks, like a bird’s-eye view of the enemy’s trenches after a week of drum fire. Besides, there was the pale carroty hair.

Even then, the braid-bound cutaway and the biscuit-colored spats had me buffaloed. So I slows up until I can get a front view of the party who’s almost tripped himself with the horn-handled walkin’-stick and is havin’ a few last words with someone in the cab. Then I sees the washed out blue eyes, and I know there can’t be any mistake. About then, too, he turns and recognizes me.

“Well, for the love of beans!” says I. “Rupert!”

The funny part of it is that I gets it off as cordial as if I was discoverin’ an old trench mate. You know how you will. And, while I can’t say Captain Killam registered any wild joy in his greetin’, still he seemed pleased enough. He gives me a real hearty shake.

“And here is someone else you know,” says he, wavin’ to the cab: “Mrs. Mumford.”

Blamed if it ain’t the cooin’ widow. She’s right there with the old familiar purry gush, too, squeezin’ my fingers kittenish and askin’ me how “dear, sweet Verona” is. I was just noticin’ that she’d ditched the half mournin’ for some real zippy raiment when she leans back so as to exhibit a third party in the taxi a young gent with one of these dead-white faces and a cute little black mustache reg’lar lounge-lizard type.

“Oh, and you must meet my dear friend, Mr. Vinton Bartley,” she purrs. “Vinton, this is the Torchy I’ve spoken about so often.”

“Ah, ya-a-as,” drawls Vinton, blowin’ out a whiff of scented cigarette smoke lazy. “Quite so. But er hadn’t we best be getting on, Lorina?”

“Yes, yes,” coos Mrs. Mumford. “By-by, Captain. Good-by, Torchy.”

And off they whirls, leavin’ me with my mouth open and Rupert starin’ after ’em gloomy.

“Lorina, eh?” says I. “How touchin’!”

Killam only grunts, but it struck me he has tinted up a bit under the eyes.

“Say, Rupert,” I goes on, “who’s your languid friend with the cream-of-cabbage complexion?”

“Bartley?” says he. “Oh, he’s a friend of Mrs. Mumford; a drama-tist so he says.”

Now, I might have let it ride at that and gone along about my own affairs, which ain’t so pressin’ just then. Yes, I might. But I don’t. Maybe it was hornin’ in where there was no welcome sign on the mat, and then again perhaps it was only a natural folksy feelin’ for an old friend I hadn’t seen for a long time. Anyway, I’m prompted sudden to take Rupert by the arm and insist that he must come and have lunch with me.

“Why er thanks,” says the Captain; “but I have a little business to attend to in here.” And he nods to an office buildin’.

“That’ll be all right, too,” says I. “I’ll wait.”

“Will you?” says Rupert, beamin’. “I shall be pleased.”

So in less’n half an hour I have Rupert planted cozy at a corner table with a mixed grill in front of him, and I’m givin’ him the cue for openin’ any confidential chat he may have on hand. He’s a good deal of a clam, though, Rupert. And suspicious! He must have been born lookin’ over his shoulder. But in my own crude way I can sometimes josh ’em along.

“Excuse me for mentionin’ it, Rupert,” says I, “but there’s lots of class to you these days.”

“Eh?” says he. “You mean ”

“The whole effect,” says I, “from the gaiters to the new-model lid. Just like you’d strolled out from some Fifth Avenue club and was goin’ to ’phone your brokers to buy another block of Bethlehem at the market. Honest!”

He pinks up and shakes his head, but I can see I’ve got the range.

“And here Vee and I had it doped out,” I goes on, “how you’d be down on the West Coast by this time, investin’ your pile in orange groves and corner lots.”

“No,” says Rupert; “I’ve been here all the while. You see, I I’ve grown rather fond of New York.”

“You needn’t apologize,” says I. “There’s a few million others with the same weakness, not countin’ the ones that sleep in New Jersey but always register from here. Gone into some kind of business, have you?”

Rupert does some fancy side-steppin’ about then; but all of a sudden he changes his mind, and, after glancin’ around to see that no one has an ear out, he starts his confession.

“The fact is,” says he, “I’ve been doing a little literary work.”

“Writin’ ads,” says I, “or solicitin’ magazine subscriptions?”

“I am getting out a book of poems,” says Rupert, dignified.

“Wh-a-a-at?” I gasps. “Not not reg’lar limerick stuff?”

I can see now that was a bad break. But Rupert was patient with me. He explains that these are all poems about sailors and ships and so on; real salt, tarry stuff. Also, he points out how it’s built the new style way, with no foolish rhymes at the end, and with long lines or short, just as they happen to come. To make it clear, he digs up a roll of galley proofs he’s just collected from the publishers. And say, he had the goods. There it was, yards of it, all printed neat in big fat type. “Sea Songs” is what he calls ’em, and each one has a separate tag of its own, such as “Kittywakes,” “Close Hauled,” and “Scuppers Under.”

“Looks like the real stuff,” says I. “Let’s hear how it listens. Ah, come on! Some of that last one, about scuppers, now.”

With a little more urgin’, Rupert reads it to me. I should call him a good reader, too. Anyway, he can untie one of them deep, boomin’ voices, and with that long, serious face of his helpin’ out the general effect well, it’s kind of impressive. He spiels off two or three stickfuls and then stops.

“Which way was you readin’ that, backwards or forwards?” says I.

Rupert begins to stiffen up, and I hurries on with the apology. “My mistake,” says I. “I thought maybe you might have got mixed at the start. No offense. But say, Cap’n, what’s the big idea? What does it all mean?”

In some ways Rupert is good-natured. He was then. He explains how in this brand of verse you don’t try to tell a story or anything like that. “I am merely giving my impressions,” says he. “That is all. Interpreting my own feelings, as it were.”

“Oh!” says I. “Then there’s no goin’ behind the returns. Who’s to say you don’t feel that way? I get you now. But that ain’t the kind of stuff you can wish onto the magazines, is it?”

Which shows just how far behind the bass-drum I am. Rupert tells me the different places where he’s unloaded his pieces, most of ’em for real money. Also, I pumps out of him how he came to get into the game. Seems he’d been roomin’ down in old Greenwich Village; just happened to drift in among them long-haired men and short-haired girls. It turns out that the book was a little enterprise that was being backed by Mrs. Mumford. Yes, it’s that kind of a book so much down in advance to the Grafter Press. You know, Mrs. Mumford always did fall for Rupert, and after she’s read one of his sea spasms in a magazine she don’t lose any time huntin’ him out and renewin’ their cruise acquaintance. A real poet! Say, I can just see her playin’ that up among her friends. And when she finds he’s mixin’ in with all those dear, delightful Bohemians, she insists that Rupert tow her along too.

From then on it was a common thing for her and Rupert to go browsin’ around among them garlic and red-ink joints, defyin’ ptomaïnes and learnin’ to braid spaghetti on a fork. That was her idea of life. She hires an apartment right off Washington Square and moves in from Montclair for the winter. She begun to have what she called her “salon evenings,” when she collected any kind of near-celebrity she could get.

Mr. Vinton Bartley was generally one of the favored guests. I didn’t need any second sight, either, to suspect that Vinton was sort of crowdin’ in on this little romance of Rupert’s. And by eggin’ Rupert along judicious I got the whole tale.

Seems it had been one of Mrs. Mumford’s ambitions to spring Rupert on an unsuspectin’ public. Her idea is to have Rupert called on, some night at the Purple Pup, to step up to the head of the long table and give one of his sea songs. She’d picked Vinton to do the callin’. And Vinton had balked.

“But say,” says I, “is this Vinton gent the only one of her friends that’s got a voice? Why not pick another announcer?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” says Rupert. “She she hasn’t mentioned the subject recently.”

“Oh!” says I. “Too busy listenin’ to the voice of the viper, eh?”

Rupert nods and stares sad into his empty demi-tasse. And, say, when Rupert gets that way he’s an appealin’ cuss.

“See here, Rupert,” says I; “if you got a call of that kind, would you come to the front and make a noise like a real poet?”

“Why,” says he, “I suppose I ought to. It would help the sale of the book, and perhaps ”

“One alibi is enough,” I breaks in. “Now, another thing: How’d you like to have me stage-manage this debut of yours?”

“Oh, would you?” says he, beamin’.

“Providin’ you’ll follow directions,” says I.

“Why, certainly,” says Rupert. “Any suggestions that you may make ”

“Then we’ll begin right now,” says I. “You are to ditch that flossy floor-walker outfit of yours from this on.”

“You mean,” says Rupert, “that I am not to wear these clothes?”

“Just that,” says I. “When you get to givin’ mornin’ readin’s at the Plaza for the benefit of the Red Cross, you can dig ’em out again; but for the Purple Pup you got to be costumed different. Who ever heard of a goulash poet in a braid-bound cutaway and spats? Say, it’s a wonder they let you live south of the Arch.”

“But but what ought I to wear?” asks Rupert.

“Foolish question!” says I. “Who are you, anyway? Answer: the Sailor Poet. There you are! Sea captain’s togs for you double-breasted blue coat, baggy-kneed blue trousers, and a yachtin’ cap.”

“Very well,” says Rupert. “But about my being asked to read. Just how ”

“Leave it to me, Rupert,” says I. “Leave everything to me.”

Which was a lot simpler than tellin’ him I didn’t know.

You should have seen Vee’s face when I tells her about Rupert’s new line.

“Captain Killam a poet!” says she. “Oh, really now, Torchy!”

“Uh-huh!” says I. “He’s done enough for a book. Read me some of it, too.”

“But but what is it like?” asks Vee. “How does it sound?”

“Why,” says I, “it sounds batty to me like a record made by a sailor who was simple in the head and talked a lot in his sleep. Course, I’m no judge. What’s the difference, though? Rupert wants to spout it in public.”

“But the people in the restaurant,” protests Vee. “Suppose they should laugh, or do something worse?”

“That’s where Rupert is takin’ a chance,” says I. “Personally, I think he’ll be lucky if they don’t throw plates at him. But we ain’t underwritin’ any accident policy; we’re just bookin’ him for a part he claims he can play. Are you on?”

Vee gets that eye twinkle of hers workin’. “I think it will be perfectly lovely.”

I got to admit, too, that she’s quite a help.

“We must be sure Mrs. Mumford and that Bartley person are both there,” says she. “And we ought to have as many of Captain Killam’s friends as possible. I’ll tell you. Let’s give a dinner-party.”

“Must we?” says I. “You know we ain’t introducin’ any London success. This is Rupert’s first stab, remember.”

We set the date for the day the book was to be out, which gives Rupert an excuse for celebratin’. He’d invited Mrs. Mumford and Vinton to be his guests, and they’d promised to be on hand. As for us, we’d rounded up Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ellins and J. Dudley Simms.

Well, everybody showed up. And as it happens, it’s one of the big nights at the Purple Pup. The long center table is surrounded by a gay bunch of assorted artists who are bein’ financed by an out-of-town buyer who seems to be openin’ Chianti reckless. We were over in one corner, as far away from the ukulele torturers as we could get, while at the other end of the room is Rupert with his two. I thought he looked kind of pallid, but it might have been only on account of the cigarette smoke.

“Is it time yet, Torchy?” asks Mr. Robert, when we gets through to the striped ice cream and chicory essence.

“Let’s hold off,” says I, “and see if someone else don’t pull a curtain-raiser.”

Sure enough, they did. A bald-headed, red-faced old boy with a Liberty Bond button in his coat-lapel insists on everybody’s drinkin’ to our boys at the front. Followin’ that, someone leads a slim, big-eyed young female to the piano and announces that she will do a couple of Serbian folk-songs. Maybe she did. I hope the Serbs forgive her.

“If they can take that without squirmin’,” says I, “I guess they can stand for Rupert. Go on, Mr. Robert. Shoot.”

Course, he’s no spellbinder, but he can say what he wants to in a few words and make himself heard. And then, bein’ in naval uniform helped.

“I think we have with us to-night,” says he, “Captain Rupert Killam, the sailor poet. I should like, if it pleases the company, to ask Captain Killam to read for us some of his popular verses. Does anyone second the motion?”

“Killam! Killam!” roars out the sporty wine-opener.

Others took up the chorus, and in the midst of it I dashes over to drag Rupert from his chair if necessary.

But I wasn’t needed. As a matter of fact, he beat me to it. Before I could get half way to him, he is standin’ at the end of the long table, his eyes dropped modest, and a brand-new volume of “Sea Songs” held conspicuous over his chest.

“This is indeed an unexpected honor,” says Rupert, lyin’ fluent. “I am a plain sailor-man, as you know, but if you insist ”

And, before they could hedge, he has squared his shoulders, thrown his head well back, and has cut loose with that boomin’ voice of his. Does he put it over? Say, honest, I finds myself listenin’ with my mouth open, just as though I understood every word. And the first thing I know he’s carryin’ the house with him. Even some of the Hungarian waiters stopped to see what it’s all about.

Tides!
Little, rushing, hurrying tides
Along the sloping deck.
And the bobstay smashing the big blue deep,
While under my hand
The kicking tiller groans
Its oaken soul out in a gray despair.

That’s part of it I copied down afterward. Yet that crowd just lapped it up.

“Wow!” “Brava! Brava!” “What’s the matter with Killam?” they yells. “More!”

Rupert was flushin’ clear up the back of his neck now. Also he was fumblin’ with the book, hesitatin’ what to give ’em next, when I pushes in and begins pumpin’ his hand.

“Shall shall I ” he starts to ask.

“No, you boob,” I whispers. “Quit while the quittin’s good. You got ’em buffaloed, all right. Let it ride.”

And I fairly shoves him over to his table, where Sister Mumford has already split out a new pair of gloves and is beamin’ joyous, while Vinton is sittin’ there with his chin on his necktie, lookin’ like someone had beaned him with a bung-starter.

But we wasn’t wise just how strong Rupert had scored until we saw the half page Whitey Weeks had gotten out of it for the Sunday paper. “New Poet Captures Greenwich Village” is the top headline, and there’s a three-column cut showin’ Rupert spoutin’ his “Sea Songs” through the cigarette smoke. Also, I gather from a casual remark Rupert let drop yesterday that the prospects of him and Mrs. Mumford enterin’ the mixed doubles class soon are good. And, with her ownin’ a big retail coal business over in Jersey, I expect Rupert can go on writin’ his pomes as free as he likes.