 | Tales of the jazz age |  |
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Mr. In and Mr. Out are not listed by the census-taker.
You will search for them in vain through the social
register or the births, marriages, and deaths, or the
grocer's credit list. Oblivion has swallowed them
and the testimony that they ever existed at all is vague
and shadowy, and inadmissible in a court of law. Yet
I have it upon the best authority that for a brief
space Mr. In and Mr. Out lived, breathed, answered
to their names and radiated vivid personalities of their
own.
During the brief span of their lives they walked in
their native garments down the great highway of a great
nation; were laughed at, sworn at, chased, and fled from.
Then they passed and were heard of no more.
They were already taking form dimly, when a taxicab
with the top open breezed down Broadway in the
faintest glimmer of May dawn. In this car sat the souls
of Mr. In and Mr. Out discussing with amazement the
blue light that had so precipitately colored the sky behind
the statue of Christopher Columbus, discussing
with bewilderment the old, gray faces of the early risers
which skimmed palely along the street like blown bits of
paper on a gray lake. They were agreed on all things,
from the absurdity of the bouncer in Childs' to the absurdity
of the business of life. They were dizzy with
the extreme maudlin happiness that the morning had
awakened in their glowing souls. Indeed, so fresh and
vigorous was their pleasure in living that they felt it
should be expressed by loud cries.
"Ye-ow-ow!" hooted Peter, making a megaphone
with his hands—and Dean joined in with a call that,
though equally significant and symbolic, derived its
resonance from its very inarticulateness.
"Yo-ho! Yea! Yoho! Yo-buba!"
Fifty-third Street was a bus with a dark, bobbed-hair
beauty atop; Fifty-second was a street cleaner who
dodged, escaped, and sent up a yell of, "Look where
you're aimin'!" in a pained and grieved voice. At
Fiftieth Street a group of men on a very white sidewalk
in front of a very white building turned to stare after
them, and shouted:
"Some party, boys!"
At Forty-ninth Street Peter turned to Dean. "Beautiful
morning," he said gravely, squinting up his owlish
eyes.
"Probably is."
"Go get some breakfast, hey?"
Dean agreed—with additions.
"Breakfast and liquor."
"Breakfast and liquor," repeated Peter, and they
looked at each other, nodding. "That's logical."
Then they both burst into loud laughter.
"Breakfast and liquor! Oh, gosh!"
"No such thing," announced Peter.
"Don't serve it? Ne'mind. We force 'em serve it.
Bring pressure bear."
"Bring logic bear."
The taxi cut suddenly off Broadway, sailed along a
cross street, and stopped in front of a heavy tomb-like
building in Fifth Avenue.
"What's idea?"
The taxi-driver informed them that this was Delmonico's.
This was somewhat puzzling. They were forced to
devote several minutes to intense concentration, for if
such an order had been given there must have been a
reason for it.
"Somep'm 'bouta coat," suggested the taxi-man.
That was it. Peter's overcoat and hat. He had left
from the taxi and strolled toward the entrance
arm in arm.
"Hey!" said the taxi-driver.
"Huh?"
"You better pay me."
They shook their heads in shocked negation.
"Later, not now—we give orders, you wait."
The taxi-driver objected; he wanted his money now.
With the scornful condescension of men exercising tremendous
self-control they paid him.
Inside Peter groped in vain through a dim, deserted
check-room in search of his coat and derby.
"Gone, I guess. Somebody stole it."
"Some Sheff student."
"All probability."
"Never mind," said Dean, nobly. "I'll leave mine
here too—then we'll both be dressed the same."
He removed his overcoat and hat and was hanging
them up when his roving glance was caught and held
magnetically by two large squares of cardboard tacked
to the two coat-room doors. The one on the left-hand
door bore the word "In" in big black letters, and the
one on the right-hand door flaunted the equally emphatic
word "Out."
"Look!" he exclaimed happily—
Peter's eyes followed his pointing finger.
"What?"
"Look at the signs. Let's take 'em."
"Good idea."
"Probably pair very rare an' valuable signs. Probably
come in handy."
Peter removed the left-hand sign from the door and
endeavored to conceal it about his person. The sign
being of considerable proportions, this was a matter of
air of dignified mystery he turned his back. After
an instant he wheeled dramatically around, and stretching
out his arms displayed himself to the admiring Dean.
He had inserted the sign in his vest, completely covering
his shirt front. In effect, the word "In" had been
painted upon his shirt in large black letters.
"Yoho!" cheered Dean. "Mister In."
He inserted his own sign in like manner.
"Mister Out!" he announced triumphantly. "Mr.
In meet Mr. Out."
They advanced and shook hands. Again laughter overcame
them and they rocked in a shaken spasm of mirth.
"Yoho!"
"We probably get a flock of breakfast."
"We'll go—go to the Commodore."
Arm in arm they sallied out the door, and turning
east in Forty-fourth Street set out for the Commodore.
As they came out a short dark soldier, very pale and
tired, who had been wandering listlessly along the sidewalk,
turned to look at them.
He started over as though to address them, but as
they immediately bent on him glances of withering unrecognition,
he waited until they had started unsteadily
down the street, and then followed at about forty paces,
chuckling to himself and saying "Oh, boy!" over and
over under his breath, in delighted, anticipatory tones.
Mr. In and Mr. Out were meanwhile exchanging pleasantries
concerning their future plans.
"We want liquor; we want breakfast. Neither without
the other. One and indivisible."
"We want both 'em!"
"Both 'em!"
It was quite light now, and passers-by began to bend
curious eyes on the pair. Obviously they were engaged
in a discussion, which afforded each of them intense
seize upon them so violently that, still with their arms
interlocked, they would bend nearly double.
Reaching the Commodore, they exchanged a few
spicy epigrams with the sleepy-eyed doorman, navigated
the revolving door with some difficulty, and then made
their way through a thinly populated but startled lobby
to the dining-room, where a puzzled waiter showed them
an obscure table in a corner. They studied the bill of
fare helplessly, telling over the items to each other in
puzzled mumbles.
"Don't see any liquor here," said Peter reproachfully.
The waiter became audible but unintelligible.
"Repeat," continued Peter, with patient tolerance,
"that there seems to be unexplained and quite distasteful
lack of liquor upon bill of fare."
"Here!" said Dean confidently, "let me handle him."
He turned to the waiter—"Bring us—bring us—" he
scanned the bill of fare anxiously. "Bring us a quart
of champagne and a—a—probably ham sandwich."
The waiter looked doubtful.
"Bring it!" roared Mr. In and Mr. Out in chorus.
The waiter coughed and disappeared. There was a
short wait during which they were subjected without
their knowledge to a careful scrutiny by the headwaiter.
Then the champagne arrived, and at the sight
of it Mr. In and Mr. Out became jubilant.
"Imagine their objecting to us having champagne for
breakfast—jus' imagine."
They both concentrated upon the vision of such an
awesome possibility, but the feat was too much for them.
It was impossible for their joint imaginations to conjure
up a world where any one might object to any one else
having champagne for breakfast. The waiter drew the
cork with an enormous pop—and their glasses immediately
foamed with pale yellow froth.
"Here's health, Mr. In."
"Here's same to you, Mr. Out."
The waiter withdrew; the minutes passed; the champagne
became low in the bottle.
"It's—it's mortifying," said Dean suddenly.
"Wha's mortifying?"
"The idea their objecting us having champagne
breakfast."
"Mortifying?" Peter considered. "Yes, tha's word
—mortifying."
Again they collapsed into laughter, howled, swayed,
rocked back and forth in their chairs, repeating the
word "mortifying" over and over to each other—each
repetition seeming to make it only more brilliantly absurd.
After a few more gorgeous minutes they decided on
another quart. Their anxious waiter consulted his immediate
superior, and this discreet person gave implicit
instructions that no more champagne should be served.
Their check was brought.
Five minutes later, arm in arm, they left the Commodore
and made their way through a curious, staring
crowd along Forty-second Street, and up Vanderbilt
Avenue to the Biltmore. There, with sudden cunning,
they rose to the occasion and traversed the lobby,
walking fast and standing unnaturally erect.
Once in the dining-room they repeated their performance.
They were torn between intermittent convulsive
laughter and sudden spasmodic discussions of politics,
college, and the sunny state of their dispositions. Their
watches told them that it was now nine o'clock, and a
dim idea was born in them that they were on a memorable
party, something that they would remember always.
They lingered over the second bottle. Either of them
had only to mention the word "mortifying" to send
whirring and shifting now; a curious lightness permeated
and rarefied the heavy air.
They paid their check and walked out into the lobby.
It was at this moment that the exterior doors revolved
for the thousandth time that morning, and admitted
into the lobby a very pale young beauty with dark circles
under her eyes, attired in a much-rumpled evening
dress. She was accompanied by a plain stout man,
obviously not an appropriate escort.
At the top of the stairs this couple encountered Mr.
In and Mr. Out.
"Edith," began Mr. In, stepping toward her hilariously
and making a sweeping bow, "darling, good morning."
The stout man glanced questioningly at Edith, as if
merely asking her permission to throw this man summarily
out of the way.
"'Scuse familiarity," added Peter, as an afterthought.
"Edith, good-morning."
He seized Dean's elbow and impelled him into the
foreground.
"Meet Mr. In, Edith, my bes' frien'. Inseparable.
Mr. In and Mr. Out."
Mr. Out advanced and bowed; in fact, he advanced so
far and bowed so low that he tipped slightly forward
and only kept his balance by placing a hand lightly on
Edith's shoulder.
"I'm Mr. Out, Edith," he mumbled pleasantly, "S'misterin
Misterout."
"'Smisterinanout," said Peter proudly.
But Edith stared straight by them, her eyes fixed on
some infinite speck in the gallery above her. She
nodded slightly to the stout man, who advanced bulllike
and with a sturdy brisk gesture pushed Mr. In and
walked.
But ten paces farther on Edith stopped again—stopped
and pointed to a short, dark soldier who was eying the
crowd in general, and the tableau of Mr. In and Mr. Out
in particular, with a sort of puzzled, spell-bound awe.
"There," cried Edith. "See there!"
Her voice rose, became somewhat shrill. Her pointing
finger shook slightly.
"There's the soldier who broke my brother's leg."
There were a dozen exclamations; a man in a cutaway
coat left his place near the desk and advanced alertly;
the stout person made a sort of lightning-like spring
toward the short, dark soldier, and then the lobby closed
around the little group and blotted them from the
sight of Mr. In and Mr. Out.
But to Mr. In and Mr. Out this event was merely a
particolored iridescent segment of a whirring, spinning
world.
They heard loud voices; they saw the stout man
spring; the picture suddenly blurred.
Then they were in an elevator bound skyward.
"What floor, please?" said the elevator man.
"Any floor," said Mr. In.
"Top floor," said Mr. Out.
"This is the top floor," said the elevator man.
"Have another floor put on," said Mr. Out.
"Higher," said Mr. In.
"Heaven," said Mr. Out.
| Tales of the jazz age | |