IX
“Grandpère,” said Bobby, slowly twirling the stem of his glass, “I wish you would tell Tom about the time you and Mr. Anderson butchered the pigs at the Country Club.”
The talk had been growing too serious. Masterson had an annoying tendency, when exhilarated, to become didactic. It was all clever enough, informative, interesting—but more dogmatic than suited the temper of a Thanksgiving dinner.
By a circuitous route they had arrived at the problem of caste in America, Masterson conducting the excursion and pointing out the essential facts of interest to be noted along the way. Bobby was for a change of topic. Old Nicholas had some convictions on this subject. He would probably not express them to the same degree with which he believed them; but Masterson must not be encouraged to deliver himself of too many sentiments unshared by his genial host.
“Why shouldn’t there be a leisured class? Loafers—if you like that word better? This was about the only sign America had exhibited that she was maturing, ever so little, in a few restricted zones. Wasn’t our brand of democracy dangerous? Referendum—huh! What did the average voter know? Every nation that had become great had achieved its distinction through the leadership of small social and intellectual minorities!”
Masterson was still talking—Hyde Parking, almost—a bit flushed about the temples. Bobby determined upon a change of subject.
Old Nicholas was not in accord with many of young Masterson’s views, but he liked his views better than the manner in which he delivered them, and liked both the views and the delivery better than the way he drank his wine.
Meggs had been told to bring up a long-neglected bottle of choice Burgundy. In the opinion of the elder Merrick, wine like this deserved to be caressed, its colour admired, its fragrance inhaled, its story reconstructed. It was to be sipped, drop by drop. It pleased him that Bobby seemed to know how. Liquid sunshine, it was; sunshine that had warmed the pleasant banks of the Rhone, in tranquil days before the war. One did not toss it off at a draught. Masterson gulped it. It was good to see Bobby close his eyes as his lips touched the rim of the glass, as if he saw merry groups of bare-legged little girls tramping it out in the shade at the corner of some Provençal vineyard. The boy was maturing rapidly, reflected old Nicholas. He had the posture and gesture of a man.
“Bobby occasionally insists upon this story,” said Nicholas obediently, “I have repeated it, at his request, many times.”
“And each time it is better,” commented Bobby, appreciatively.
“Let’s have it then, by all means!” shouted Masterson, much more boisterously than he had intended, an error he instantly endeavoured to correct by bowing very formally and dignifiedly in an affirmative to Meggs’ unspoken query as the bottle was again tilted, tentatively, inquiringly, over his glass. Meggs had tried to put into the gesture just the right degree of reserve, but the finesse was a bit too subtle for his customer.
“Well,” said Nicholas, clearing his throat, “it was this way. You see, where Axion now stands, there used to be nothing but pasture fields. Joe Anderson and I, when we were kids, had a contract with most of the village folks to drive their cows out to pasture, every morning, in the summer, and bring them home in the evening to be milked. Each cow was worth a dollar a month to us.
“Out there, in those fields, where we freckled-faced youngsters, with stone bruises on our calloused feet, sat all day, whittling kite sticks, playing mumble-peg, and bragging about the teams we captained at school—three-old-cat; you never played it, either of you—Joe and I later built a couple of big factories which quite changed the look of the landscape.
“These factories also brought changes in most people’s mode of living. Many men, who might have spent all their lives in ordinary financial circumstances, came to have quite a little money. They built big houses, and their children took on airs. It was hard to recognize the place, after a while, and even harder to recognize some of the people.
“Well, no matter how much absorbed we became in our business, Joe and I remained, through the years, just kids—to each other. I suppose it was a subject for many little jokes with other people. We kept up our boyish relations—always bragging about our speed, strength, and endurance, whenever we met, and invariably in the language we had used in the old days. Like ‘Gemunee Crickets!’ and ‘Gosh darn ut!’ and ‘Fer the love o’ Mike!’ It was rather silly, I’ll admit; but we enjoyed it.
“Joe and I used to help our fathers with the hog butchering in November. Every family, in those days, had a few hogs in a pen. The time came, when we were in our late ’teens, that the annual slaughter was left pretty much to our management, and we usually combined forces—pulling it off at the Anderson place, where they had better facilities for such work. We became quite expert butchers, and were very proud of our accomplishment. I dare say our fathers flattered us in the hope of making us too vain to see how glad they were to dodge the job.
“Well, one day, after Joe and I had retired from our business concerns, we were having lunch together at the Country Club. It was brand splinter new; had been open only a week. The only natural hazard, on the golf course, was a little stream where Joe and I used to fish for crawdads and minneys. Nobody ever said ‘minnows.’ On the knoll, where the new club house stood, there had been quite a nice little grove. Joe and I used to sit among those trees, on a log, slapping mosquitoes, and watching for grey squirrels. He owned an old muzzle-loading shotgun. Mighty dangerous toy, too. Wonder we weren’t killed a dozen times.
“We were having a good time reminiscing. It seemed queer to be sitting there, on that spot, lunching at a solid mahogany table sprinkled with Venetian doilies that slid about under crested silver. Everybody belonging to that club had plenty of money, and the club house had been built and equipped without regard for expense. There was a lot of swank too. The servants seemed to have been let into the secret that this was one of our better clubs. The institution was by way of becoming a bit snobbish, we feared. Practically all the natives who belonged to it had been derived from quite humble origins, like Joe’s and mine; and we worried a bit about the decline of the old democracy. It struck us that the mere fact of our having accidentally made a little money didn’t require us to pretend we were of the British peerage.
“At adjoining tables sat some of the second-growth crop of Axionites—male and female—talking about polo and Derbies and regattas and Biarritz and grouse in Scotland; and we thought the general tone of the place should be improved. So we fell to discussing some of the good old times the Axion boys and girls used to have before the automobiles came along and scared the horses off the roads, and drove the cows out of the pastures to make room for the golfers. Then, one of us remembered about the butchering.
“Joe recalled that one time we put on a contest to see which of us could dress a hog in the shortest time. I recalled the incident perfectly, but was sure I had won the small stake we had put up. Joe disputed me so strongly that the neighbouring tables became interested and, presently, alarmed. When we observed that we had collected quite a sizable audience, we obligingly continued our debate chiefly for their benefit. The upshot of the argument was that Joe and I bet a thousand dollars aside that each of us could dress a hog in less time than the other. The old chaps, when they heard of it, insisted that the contest be held in the grillroom, and a book was made which, I learned afterwards, involved bets running into scandalous sums.
“The engagement was put on the club calendar. I’m not sure it was pointed to with much pride by the younger set; but the old fellows seemed to want it there, and, seeing their wishes really had to be consulted, more or less, the polo crowd waived their objections. On the next Tuesday, after luncheon, no man went back to his office—if he had one. Two live pigs—pretty good sized ones, too—were fetched in crated. A tarpaulin was spread on the grillroom floor, and Joe and I stripped to the skin and put on butchers’ togs. We went through it, from squeal to sausage. I was told, afterwards, that the club house had to be gone over, from crypt to spire. They had grease on the stairsteps and bristles in the soup and cracklings in the rugs for days thereafter.”
“Did it improve the democratic tone of the club?” asked Masterson, laughing.
Old Nicholas shook his head and smiled.
“No. I don’t think so. Once you outgrow the simplicities, you can’t recover them or even remember them with any satisfaction. It’s not far, you know, from corn pone to plum pudding, but it’s a long way back!”
“What do you make of our new second generation, Mr. Merrick?” inquired Masterson.
“You mean—yours and Bobby’s, perhaps? Yours is the third, you know—counting from where I am. Well—I presume there’s more to be hoped for from yours than from the one that immediately preceded you.”
Nicholas’ eyes strayed in Bobby’s direction, and he continued, “There’s a youngster, for example, preparing to be a doctor. His father, at his age, was an amateur deer-slayer. When Clif heard about this hog-dressing episode, he was considerably excited. I said, ‘But, Clif, I heard you bragging about skinning and curing a buck.’ ‘Oh, well,’ he said, ‘that was quite a different matter.’ … And—I ’spect it was,” he added generously, after a pause.
“Our family”—there was a trace of cynicism in Masterson’s tone—“has been curiously undisturbed by the problems incident to the accumulation of large fortune. My father is the editor of a small town paper in Indiana. His father was a country doctor, his grandfather a Methodist circuit rider. All the trouble that money has ever given us has been how to get enough of it to pay our bills … But, so far as Bobby is concerned, he isn’t running true to type, at all … He’s a biological—or, should one say—a fiscal sport?”
Nicholas was meditative.
“Well, yes—Bobby’s case is, as you say, somewhat unusual.”
Masterson’s corrugated brow signed that he was tuning his kettledrums to this key and would presently be holding forth again unless promptly checked.
“Let’s not bother to diagnose my case,” protested Bobby, with an amicable growl. “Besides, I haven’t done anything yet. And this is no time for serious talk … Grandpère—how about telling Tommy the story of the time you and Mr. Anderson bet on which one of you could mow the most hay in an hour.”
Masterson furtively glanced at his watch and was caught at it by old Nicholas who immediately pushed back his chair, ignoring Bobby’s suggestion, and led the way toward the big drawing-room where he paused to toy with the music on the piano desk.
“What’s this Unfinished Symphony, Bobby? … Mind playing it for us?”
“Not much in a mood for that one, Grandpère … Too stuffed. We need something a bit livelier.”
“How about this one—‘Neapolitan Nights’?”
“Pretty good; but it’s rather soft and sticky too for a holiday celebration.”
“Something with a lot of bang in it, then,” said Nicholas, sinking with a satisfied sigh into a deep chair.
Masterson edged up to Bobby and muttered, under his breath, “I say, do you think your grandfather would take it nicely if I ran along? I’ve promised to look in, later, at Gordon’s. There’s a special little party on there tonight … a Revue … Wouldn’t care to come along, would you?”
“Who will be there?”
“Oh—everybody! The old gang … that you’ve snooted so damnably for months!”
Bobby was thoughtful for a moment; then, quite on impulse and greatly to Masterson’s surprise, he said, “I believe I will, Tommy. I’d rather like to see the bright lights again, myself. It’s been a good while.”
Masterson drummed nervously on the top of the piano. Recalling himself suddenly, he said with enthusiasm, “Attaboy, old mole! Let’s tell Grandpère and hop … Just make the eight-twenty-five … In at midnight. Right time to be there.”
“You weren’t taking anybody, were you?”
“Well—yes,” Tom admitted hesitantly. “That is, I had a tentative arrangement to pick up Joyce Hudson, around midnight, and drive her out—provided it was quite agreeable I should return from here. But there’s no reason why you can’t come with us, is there?”
“Not so good! … Don’t care to horn in … But—I’ll run down with you and spend the night at Grandpère’s club … Have to be there in the morning, anyway … Perhaps I’ll drop in for a look at Gordon’s … We’ll see.”
Old Nicholas was glad enough to have done with both of them. So long as they stayed, he must be mindful of his sacred obligation as host. Late that afternoon he had arrived at a most perplexing situation in The Tragedy in Stateroom 33, and was feverish to discover whether the pilot, whom the count had tied up in the closet, would contrive to release himself and warn the American girl before the motor-launch returned with the conspirators.
“Willing you should go?” rumbled Nicholas, as they scampered upstairs, “Great Snakes!”