From the Housetops

by George Barr McCutcheon

"Rest? My God, Simmy, I'm never going to rest again, not even in my grave. Say, do you know who I blame for all this business? Do you?"

"Sh!"

"I won't shoosh! I blame myself. I am to blame and no one else. If I'd been any kind of a man I'd have put my foot down—just like that—and stopped the thing. That's what I'd have done if I'd been a man, Simmy. And instead of stoppin' it, do you know what I did? I went down there and stood up with old Thorpe as his best man. Can you beat that? His best man! My God! Wait a minute. See, he was sittin' just like you are—lean back a little and drop your chin—and I was standing right here, see—on this side of him. Just like this. And over here was Anne—oh, Lord! And here was Katherine Browne,—best maid, you know,—I mean maid of honour. Standin' just like this, d'you see? And then right in front here was the preacher. Say, where do all these preachers come from? I've never seen that feller in all my life, and still they say he's an old friend of the family. Fine business for a preacher to be in, wasn't it? Fi-ine bus-i-ness! He ought to have been ashamed of himself. By Gosh, come to think of it, I believe he was worse than I. He might have got out of it if he'd tried. He looked like a regular man, and I'm nothing but a fish-worm."

"Not so loud, George, for heaven's sake. You don't want all these men in here to—"

"Right you are, Simmy, right you are. I'm one of the fellers that talks louder than anybody else and thinks he's as big as George Washington because he's got a bass voice." He lowered his voice to a hoarse, raucous whisper and went on. "And mother stood over there, see,—right about where that cuspidor is,—and looked at the preacher all the time. Watchin' to see that he kept his face straight, I suppose. Couple of old rummies standin' back there where that table is, all dressed up in Prince Alberts and shaved within an inch of their lives. Lawyers, I heard afterwards. Old Mrs. Browne and Doc. Bates stood just behind me. Now you have it, just as it was. Curtains all down and electric lights going full blast. It wouldn't have been so bad if the lights had been out. Couldn't have seen old Tempy, for one thing, and Anne's face for another. I'll never forget Anne's face." His own face was now as white as chalk and convulsed with genuine emotion.

Simmy was troubled. There was that about George Tresslyn that suggested a subsequent catastrophe. He was in no mood to be left to himself. There was the despairing look of the man who kills in his eyes, but who kills only himself.

"See here, George, let's drop it now. Don't go on like this. Come along, do. Come to my rooms and I'll make you comfortable for the—"

But George was not through with his account of the wedding. He straightened up and, gritting his teeth, went on with the story. "Then there were the responses, Simmy,—the same that we had, Lutie and I,—just the same, only they sounded queer and awful and strange to-day. Only young people ought to get married, Simmy. It doesn't seem so rotten when young people lie like that to each other. Before I really knew what had happened the preacher had pronounced them husband and wife, and there I stood like a block of marble and held my peace when he asked if any one knew of a just cause why they shouldn't be joined in holy wedlock. I never even opened my lips. Then everybody rushed up and congratulated Anne! And kissed her, and made all sorts of horrible noises over her. And then what do you think happened? Old Tempy up and practically ordered everybody out of the house. Said he was tired and wanted to be left alone. 'Good-bye,' he said, just like that, right in our faces—right in mother's face, and the preacher's, and old Mrs. Browne's. You could have heard a pin drop. 'Good-bye,' that's what he said, and then, will you believe it, he turned to one of the pie-faced lawyers and said to him: 'Will you turn over that package to my wife, Mr. Hollenback?' and then he says to that man of his: 'Wade, be good enough to hand Mr. Tresslyn the little acknowledgment for his services?' Then and there, that lawyer gave Anne a thick envelope and Wade gave me a little box,—a little bit of a box that I wish I'd kept to bury the old skinflint in. It would be just about his size. I had it in my vest pocket for awhile. 'Wade, your arm,' says he, and then with what he probably intended to be a sweet smile for Anne, he got to his feet and went out of the room, holding his side and bending over just as if he was having a devil of time to keep from laughing out loud. I heard the doctor say something about a pain there, but I didn't pay much attention. What do you think of that? Got right up and left his guests, his bride and everybody standing there like a lot of goops. His bride, mind you. I'm dead sure that so-called stroke of his was all a bluff. He just put one over on us, that's all. Wasn't any more sick than I am. Didn't you hear about the stroke? Stroke of luck, I'd call it. And say, what do you think he gave me as a little acknowledgment for my services? Look! Feast your eyes upon it!" He turned back the lapel of his coat and fumbled for a moment before extracting from the cloth a very ordinary looking scarf-pin, a small aqua-marine surrounded by a narrow rim of pearls. "Great, isn't it? Magnificent tribute! You could get a dozen of 'em for fifty dollars. That's what I got for being best man at my sister's funeral, and, by God, it's more than I deserved at that. He had me sized up properly, I'll say that for him."

He bowed his head dejectedly, his lips working in a sort of spasmodic silence. Dodge eyed him with a curious, new-born commiseration. The boy's self-abasement, his misery, his flouting of his own weakness were not altogether the result of maudlin reaction. He presented a combination of manliness and effectiveness that perplexed and irritated Simeon Dodge. He did not want to feel sorry for him and yet he could not help doing so. George's broad shoulders and splendid chest were heaving under the strain of a genuine, real emotion. Drink was not responsible for his present estimate of himself; it had merely opened the gates to expression.

Simmy's scrutiny took in the fine, powerful body of this incompetent giant,—for he was a giant to Simmy,—and out of his appraisal grew a fresh complaint against the Force that fashions men with such cruel inconsistency. What would not he perform if he were fashioned like this splendid being? Why had God given to George Tresslyn all this strength and beauty, to waste and abuse, when He might have divided His gifts with a kindlier hand? To what heights of attainment in all the enterprises of man would not he have mounted if Nature had but given to him the shell that George Tresslyn occupied? And why should Nature have put an incompetent, useless dweller into such a splendid house when he would have got on just as well or better perhaps in an insignificant body like his own? Proportions were wrong, outrageously wrong, grieved Simmy as he studied the man who despised the strength God had given him. And down in his honest, despairing soul, Simmy Dodge was saying to himself that he would cheerfully give all of his wealth, all of his intelligence, all of his prospects, in exchange for a physical body like George Tresslyn's. He would court poverty for the privilege of enjoying other triumphs along the road to happiness.