CHAPTER IX
From the moment that he went out upon the little stage of his theatre until he came wearily into his own apartment at five o’clock, Henry lived upon a mental plane so far removed from his usual existence that he was hardly aware of any bodily sensations at all. A brand-new group of emotions had picked him out for their play-ground, and Henry had no time to be self-conscious.
In the first place, he was too stunned to remember that he hated to be conspicuous, and that he had never made a public speech in all his life. He was paralyzed by the contrast between last night and today. Consequently, he made a very good speech indeed, and it had some acrid humour in it, too, and the audience actually cheered him––although later, when he reviewed the incident in his mind, he had to admit that the cheers were loudest just after he had told the audience to keep the souvenirs.
Then, when in the custody of the patrolman, he went out to the street, his mood was still so concentrated, his anger and depression so acute, that he was transported out of the very circumstances which caused him to be angry and depressed. He realized, with a hazy sort of perception, that a tail of small boys had attached itself to the lodestar of the policeman’s uniform; but even at this indignity, his reaction was curiously impersonal. It was as though the spiritual part of him and the material part had got a divorce; and the spiritual part, which was the plaintiff, stood coldly aloof, watching the material part tramping down Main Street, with a flat-footed policeman beside it, a voluntary escort behind, and rumour flying on ahead to all the newspapers. He was actually too humiliated to suffer from the humiliation.
To be sure, this wasn’t by any means his first entanglement with the law, but heretofore his occasions had been marked by a very different ritual. He recalled, phlegmatically, that whenever, in the old days, a member of the 137 motorcycle squad had shot past him, and signalled to him to stop, the man had always treated him more or less fraternally, in recognition of the fellowship of high speed. The traffic officers had cheerfully delivered a summons with one hand, and accepted a cigar with the other. There was a sort of sporting code about it; and even in Court, a gentleman who had been arrested for speeding was given the consideration which belonged to his rank, and the fine was usually doubled on the assumption that a gentleman could afford it. But this was different. A Devereux––which was almost the same thing as a Starkweather––was haled along the highway like a common prisoner. And if the Devereux hadn’t been engaged in that two-for-a-cent, low-class, revolting business,––and if Aunt Mirabelle hadn’t been Aunt Mirabelle––it couldn’t have happened. The spiritual part of him looked down at the material part, and wondered how Henry Devereux could be so white-hot with passion, and yet so calm.
What would his friends say now? What 138 would Bob Standish say, and Mr. Archer and Judge Barklay? And what would Aunt Mirabelle not say? This was a grim reflection.
During the journey he spoke only once, and that was to say, brusquely, to his captor: “Court isn’t open today, is it?”
“Nope. But we’re goin’ to a Justice o’ the Peace. Might save you a night in the hoosegow. Can’t tell. Orders, anyway.”
The Justice of the Peace (or, as he took some pains to inform Henry, the Most Honourable Court of Special Sessions) was a grizzled dyspeptic who held forth in the back room of a shoemaker’s shop, while the rabble waited outside, flattening their noses against the window-glass. The dyspeptic had evidently been coached for the proceeding; on his desk he had a copy of the ordinance, and as soon as he had heard the charge, he delivered a lecture which he seemed to have by heart, and fined Henry twenty-five dollars and costs. Henry paid the fine, and turning to go, stumbled against two more policemen, each with his quarry. “Just out of curiosity,” said Henry, speaking to no one in particular, and in a voice which came so 139 faintly to his ears that he barely heard it, “Just out of idle curiosity, when the justice gets half the fine, isn’t this court open on Sunday for godless profit, too?” And in the same, enduring haze of unreality, he paid an additional twenty dollars for contempt, and went out to the sidewalk.