Henry Is Twenty: A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd

by Samuel Merwin

4

Arthur P. Davis was just rising from the supper table when the door-bell rang. He answered it himself; found young Calverly there, in a state of haggard but vigorous youthful intensity. He contrived, after a slight initial difficulty, to draw out of the curiously verbose youth the essential facts. He considered the matter with a deliberation and caution that appeared irritating to the boy. But he had read and (in the bosom of his family) chuckled over Sinbad the Treasurer. He had wondered a little, though he didn't mention the fact to Henry, whether Charlie wouldn't sue. Charlie had a case.

When Henry left, clearly still in a confused condition, it was Mr Davis's impression that Henry had placed the matter in his hands as counsel and further had distinctly agreed to shut his head.

Henry apparently understood it differently. Or, more likely, he didn't understand at all. Henry was, at the moment, a storm centre with considerable emotional disturbance still to come. Any one who has followed Henry, who knows him at all, will understand that such disturbance within him led directly and always to action. Whatever he may have said to Mr Davis, he was helpless. He had to function in his own way. Probably Mr Davis's use in the situation was to stimulate Henry's already overactive brain. Hardly more.

Certainly it was hardly later than a quarter or twenty minutes past seven when Henry appeared at Charlie Waterhouse's place on Douglass Street.

The town treasurer was on the lawn, shifting his sprinkler by the light of the arc lamp on the corner and smoking his after-supper cigar.

The conversation took place across the picket fence, one of the few surviving in Sunbury at this time.

Henry said, fiercely:—

'I want to talk to you about that libel suit.'

'Can't talk to me, Henry. You'll have to see my lawyer.'

'Yay-ah, I know. I've got a lawyer too.'

'All right. Let 'em talk to each other.'

'You know you can't get any ten thousand dollars.'

'Can't talk about that.'

'Yes, you can. You gotta.'

'Oh, I've gotta, have I?'

'Yes, you bet you have. Some people seem to think you've got a case.'

'Guess there ain't much doubt about that.'

'Mebbe there ain't. Even if what I said was true.'

'Look here, Henry, I don't care to have this kind o' talk going on around here. You better go along.'

'Go along nothing! I'll say every word of it. And what's more, you'll listen. No, don't you go. You stand right there.'

Charlie, a stoutish man in an alpaca coat, with a florid countenance and a huge moustache, gave a moment's consideration to the blazing young crusader before him. The boy wasn't going to be any too easy to handle. He had no need to see him clearly to become aware of that fact. Charlie shifted his cigar.

'Lemme put it this way. S'pose you could sting me. You'd never get ten thousand. But s'pose, after I get through talking, you decide to go ahead and push the case——-'

'Push the case? Well, rather!'

'Wait a minute! All right, let's say you're going ahead and fight for part o' that ten thousand. What you think you could get. Then what'm I going to do?'

'Do you suppose I care what——'

'Oh, yes you do! Now listen! I want you to get this straight. You——'

'You want me to——'

'Keep still! Now here's——'

'Look here, I won't have you——'

'Yes, you will! Listen. If you fight, I'll fight. I'll go straight after you. I'll run you to earth. I'll hire detectives to shadow you. I know you ain't straight, and I'll show you up before the whole dam town. I'm right and I tell you right here I'm going to prove it! I'll put you in prison! I'll——'

During most of this speech Charlie was talking too. But in so low a tone that he could hardly miss what Henry was saving. He broke in now with a loud:—

'Shut up!'

Henry stopped really because he was out of breath. It gratified him to see that neighbours were appearing in their lighted windows. And a youthful chorus on a porch across the way was suddenly hushed.

'Came here to make a scene, did you? Well, I'll——'

'No, I didn't come here to make a scene. I came here to make you listen to reason and I'm going to do it.'

'Well, drop your voice a little, can't you! No sense in yelling our private affairs.'

'Sure I'll drop my voice. You're the one that started the yelling.'

'Well, I don't say you couldn't make it hard for any man in my position if you want to be nasty—fight that way.'

'You wait!'

'But what I'd like to know is—what I'd like to know... Where you goin' to get the money to hire all those detectives?'

'Where'm I going to get the money to pay you if you win the suit?'

Though Charlie came back with, 'Oh, I'll win the suit all right, all right!' this was clearly a facer. He added, pondering, 'I guess Munson'll manage to attach anything you've got.' But he was at sea. 'Fine dirty idea o' yours, hounding a decent man, with detectives.' And finally, 'Well, what do you want?'

'Listen! S'pose you did win. You'd never get ten thousand.'

'I'd get five.'

'No, you wouldn't. Why don't you act sensible and tell me what you'll take to stop it.'

'I'd have to think that over.'

'You tell me now or I'll bust this town open.'

'No good talking that way, Henry. Can you get any money?'

'Tell you for sure in twenty-four hours.'

'But it ain't the money. You've assailed my character. That's what you've done. Will you retract in print?'

'No, I won't. But if you'll come down to a decent price and promise to call off the boycott——'

'What boycott?'

'Advertising. You know. You do that, and I'll agree to leave you alone. Somebody else'll have to find you out, that's all. I've gotta help Hump Weaver pull the Gleaner out. I guess that's my job now.'

He said this last sadly. He had read stories of wonderful young St Georges who slew a dozen political dragons at a time. Who never compromised or gave hostages to fortune. But there was only one chance for the paper and for old Hump. That chance was here and now.

He was sorry he couldn't see Charlie Waterhouse's face. 'What'll you give?' asked that worthy, after thoughtfully chewing, his cigar.

'A thousand.'

'Lord, no. Four thousand.'

'That's impossible.'

'Three, then.'

'No, I won't pay anything like three.'

'I wouldn't go a cent under two.'

'Well—two thousand then. All right. I'll let you know by to-morrow night.'

'You understand, Henry, it ain't the money. It's for the good o' the town I'm doing it. To keep peace, y' understand. That's why I'm doing it. Y' understand that, Henry.' He actually reached over the fence and hung to the boy's arm.

'We'd better shake hands on it,' said Henry.

'Sure! I'll stand by it, if you will.'

'I will. Good-bye, now.'

And Henry, somewhat confused regarding his ethical position, depressed at the thought that you couldn't rise altogether out of this hard world, that you had to live right in it, compromise with it, let yourself be soiled by it—Henry, his eyes down to beads, flushed about the temples, caught the eight-six to Chicago.

He rode out to the West Side on a cable-car. It is an interesting item to note in the rather zig-zag development of Henry's highly emotional nature that he never once weakened during that long ride. He was burning up, of course. It was like that wonderful week when he had written day and night, night and day, the Simpson Street stories. But it was, in a way, glorious. That ethereal electricity was flowing right through him. The Power was on him. He knew, not in his surface mind but in the deeper seat of all belief, in his feelings, that he couldn't be stopped or headed. Not to-night.