CHAPTER XXIII
One quiet evening Deane and Martin walked down to a street Exhibit in the Village. Since Roberts’ visit to Martin, Deane had felt a melancholy restlessness about the man she loved; and on this evening, with small stationary clouds in the west prolonging the summer twilight, she tried with careful intrigue to bring him back again.
They walked the long way—past odd, forsaken streets; past streets with checkered, foreign signs; past junk shops, curio shops; past streets where old furniture, silverware and books were on display within the dusty, ill-kept windows; past lending libraries; past a little half-street with quiet, mysterious houses; past streets that wandered helplessly about until, faced with some busy thoroughfare, they paused abruptly, bewildered, and of necessity came to their end. There was one street built like a dagger, with a single row of trees across it for its hilt. There were crooked streets, dirty streets, smart streets; streets attempting to be gay and failing miserably; streets falling over themselves; scrambled streets; streets running pell-mell at last into Greenwich Square.
The Exhibit centered around Eighth Street and meandered, after various aimless shambles, along MacDougal Street and into the somewhat limited security of MacDougal Alley. Countless easels which held oils or studies in crayon, finished or unfinished, were scattered about the sidewalks. Odd bits of craftsmanship hung on the walls of buildings or were placed for sale on the curbs. Caricaturists and cut-out artists in their batik smocks were hawking their talents to the crowd, not with the loud, raucous voices of sideshow barkers at a fair, but with proud and careful gestures, and an occasional remark about art in general which most of the crowd took seriously.
At the end of MacDougal Alley a hard, slim man who looked like Popeye was daubing wildly at his canvas. Martin grinned and pulled Deane back by her elbow, stopping her suddenly.
“Look at that old boy,” he said under his breath, all his melancholy abstraction leaving him in an instant. “He’s mad as a hatter, and dreaming of a Dutch ship he took one time out of Sumatra. See, honey?” Martin grew more excited and pointed to the painting. “She’s built like a sabot—equally stable in the North Sea or the South Pacific. The Hollanders knew how!” He nodded wisely. “By God! I have a little of their blood in my own veins,” he continued with pride. “The painting’s bad. But the thing’s there, all right. The man has memories.” He jigged Deane’s arm again. “I’m going to tell the old chap I’m a steamship man. Watch him blow up. He never sailed under anything but canvas.”
Deane grew concerned.
“Don’t make him angry, Martin,” she said, holding back.
“I won’t. Come on, darling,” and pulling her after him, he walked up casually behind the old seaman.