§ 70
Of course Peter's statement to McGivney had not been literally true.
He had winked at a number of women, but the trouble was none had
returned his wink. First he had made friendly advances toward Miriam
Yankovich, who was buxom and not bad looking; but Miriam's thoughts were
evidently all with McCormick in jail; and then, after her experience
with Bob Ogden, Miriam had to go to a hospital, and of course Peter
didn't want to fool with an invalid. He made himself agreeable to others
of the Red girls, and they seemed to like him; they treated him as a
good comrade, but somehow they did not seem to act up to McGivney's
theories of "free love." So Peter made up his mind that he would find
him a girl who was not a Red. It would give him a little relief now and
then, a little fun. The Reds seldom had any fun — their idea of an
adventure was to get off in a room by themselves and
sing the International or the Red Flag in whispers, so the
police couldn't hear them.
It was Saturday afternoon, and Peter went to a clothing store
kept by a Socialist, and bought himself a new hat and a new suit of
clothes on credit. Then he went out on the street, and saw a neat little
girl going into a picture-show, and followed her, and they struck up an
acquaintance and had supper together. She was what Peter called a "swell
dresser," and it transpired that she worked in a manicure parlor. Her
idea of fun corresponded to Peter's, and Peter spent all the money he
had that Saturday evening, and made up his mind that if he could get
something new on the Reds in the course of the week, he would strike
McGivney for forty dollars.
Next morning was Easter Sunday, and Peter met his manicurist by
appointment, and they went for a stroll on Park Avenue, which was the
aristocratic street of American City and the scene of the "Easter
parade." It was war time, and many of the houses had flags out, and many
of the men were in uniform, and all of the sermons dealt with martial
themes. Christ, it appeared, was risen again to make the world safe for
democracy, and to establish self-determination for all people; and Peter
and Miss Frisbie both had on their best clothes, and watched the crowds
in the "Easter parade," and Miss Frisbie studied the costumes and
make-up of the ladies, and picked up scraps of their conversation and
whispered them to Peter, and made Peter feel that he was back on Mount
Olympus again.
They turned into one of the swell Park Avenue
churches; the Church of the Divine Compassion it was
called, and it was very "high," with candles and incense —
althogh you could hardly smell the incense on this occasion for the
scent of the Easter lilies and the ladies. Peter and his friend were
escorted to one of the leather covered pews, and they heard the Rev. de
Willoughby Stotterbridge, a famous pulpit orator, deliver one of those
patriotic sermons which were quoted in the "Times" almost every Monday
morning. The Rev. de Willoughby Stotterbridge quoted some Old Testament
text about exterminating the enemies of the Lord, and he sang the
triumph of American arms, and the overwhelming superiority of American
munitions. He denounced the Bolsheviks and all other traitors, and
called for their instant suppression; he didn't say that he had actually
been among the crowd which had horse-whipped the I. W. Ws. and smashed
the printing presses and typewriters of the Socialists, but he made it
unmistakably clear that that was what he wanted, and Peter's bosom
swelled with happy pride. It was something to a man to know that he was
serving his country and keeping the old flag waving; but it was still
more to know that he was enlisted in the service of the Almighty, that
Heaven and all its hosts were on his side, and that everything he had
done had the sanction of the Almighty's divinely ordained minister,
speaking in the Almighty's holy temple, in the midst of stained-glass
windows and brightly burning candles and the ravishing odor of incense,
and of Easter lilies and of mignonette and lavender in the handkerchiefs
of delicately gowned and exquisite ladies from Mount Olympus. This, to
be sure, was mixing mythologies, but Peter's education had been
neglected in his youth, and Peter could not be blamed for taking the
great ones of the earth as they were, and believing what they taught
him.
The white robed choir marched out, and the music of "Onward
Christian Soldiers" faded away, and Peter and his lady went out from the
Church of the Divine Compassion, and strolled on the avenue again, and
when they had sufficiently filled their nostrils with the sweet odors of
snobbery, they turned into the park, where there were places of
seclusion for young couples interested in each other. But alas, the
fates which dogged Peter in his love-making had prepared an especially
cruel prank that morning. At the entrance to the park, whom should
Peter meet but Comrade Schnitzelmann, a fat little butcher who belonged
to the "Bolshevik local" of American City. Peter tried to look the other
way and hurry by, but Comrade Schnitzelmann would not have it so. He
came rushing up with one pudgy hand stretched out, and a beaming smile
on his rosy Teutonic countenance. "Ach, Comrade Gudge!" cried he. "Wie
geht's mit you dis morning?"
"Very well, thank you," said Peter, coldly, and tried to
hurry on.
But Comrade Schnitzelmann held onto his hand. "So! You been
seeing dot Easter barade!" said he. "Vot you tink, hey? If we could get
all de wage slaves to come und see dot barade, we make dem all
Bolsheviks pretty quick! Hey, Comrade Gudge?"
"Yes, I guess so," said Peter, still more coldly.
"We show dem vot de money goes for — hey, Comrade Gudge!" And
Comrade Schnitzelmann chuckled, and Peter said, quickly, "Well,
good-bye," and without introducing his lady-love took her by the arm and
hurried away.
But alas, the damage had been done! They walked for
a minute or two amid ominous silence. Then suddenly the
manicurist stood still and confronted Peter. "Mr. Gudge,"
she demanded, "what does that mean?"
And Peter of course could not answer. He did not dare to meet her
flashing eyes, but stood digging the toe of his shoe into the path. "I
want to know what it means," persisted the girl. "Are you one of those
Reds?"
And what could poor Peter say? How could he explain
his acquaintance with that Teutonic face and that Teutonic
accent?
The girl stamped her foot with impatient anger. "So you're one of
those Reds! You're one of those pro-German traitors! You're an imposter,
a spy!"
Peter was helpless with embarrassment and dismay.
"Miss Frisbie," he began, "I can't explain — "
"Why can't you explain? Why can't any
honest man explain?"
"But — but — I'm not what you think — it isn't true! I — I — " It was
on the tip of Peter's tongue to say, "I'm a patriot! I'm a 100%
American, protecting my country against these traitors!" But
professional honor sealed his tongue, and the little manicurist stamped
her foot again, and her eyes flashed with indignation.
"You dare to seek my acquaintance! You dare to take me to church!
Why — if there was a policeman in sight, I'd report you, I'd send you to
jail!" And actually she looked around for a policeman! But it is well
known that there never is a policeman in sight when you look for one; so
Miss Frisbie stamped her foot again and snorted in Peter's face.
"Goodbye, Comrade Gudge!" The emphasis she
put upon that word "comrade" would have frozen the fieriest Red soul;
and she turned with a swish of her skirts
and strode off, and Peter stood looking mournfully at her little French
heels going crunch, crunch, crunch on the gravel path. When the heels
were clean gone out of sight, Peter sought out the nearest bench and sat
down and buried his face in his hands, a picture of woe. Was there ever
in the world a man who had such persistent ill luck with women?
