Down among men

by Will Levington Comfort

He had been a sick man since the Hun Crossing. When the big New York task was finished, and it was done with something of the same drive of will that characterized the second writing of the main story on board the Sickles, he was again ready to break, body and brain. Running down entirely, he had reached that condition which has an aversion to any task. His productive motors had long lain in the dark, covered from the dust. This was the time he clubbed about. The Boabdil was a favorite, but even here, men drew up their chairs from time to time, day and night, dispatching the waiter for drink and saying:

“Those Japs are pretty good fighters, aren’t they?” or, “What do you consider will become of China in the event of——” or, very cheerily, “Well, Mr. Morning, are you waiting for another war?”

He slept ill; drank a very great deal; the wound in his side had not healed and he had made no great friends. He thought of these four things on this particular mid-day in the Boabdil library.... Nearby was old Conrad with the morning papers, summoning the strength to dine. It was usually late in the afternoon, before he arose to the occasion, but with each stimulant, he informed the nearest fellow-member that he was going to eat something presently. The old man stopped reading to think about it. After much conning, he decided that he had better have just one more touch of this with a dash of that—which he took slowly, listening for comment from within.... After dinner he would smoke himself to sleep and begin preparing for the following morning’s chops. “Eat twice a day, sir—no more—not for years.”

Conrad in his life had done one great thing. In war-time, before the high duty was put on, he had accumulated a vast cellar full of whiskey. That had meant his hour. Riches, a half century of rich dinners, clean collars and deep leather chairs—all from that whiskey sale.... “Picturesque,” they said of Conrad at the Boabdil. “What would the club do without him?”...

Morning watching him now, remembered an old man who used to sit at a certain table in a Sixth avenue bar. The high price of whiskey had reversed conditions in this case, and a changed collar meant funeral or festivity. Forty years ago this old man had bred a colt that became a champion. That was his hour, his answer for living. After all, Morning concluded, having seen Conrad fall asleep one night, the old horseman was less indecent.

Finally Morning thought of the little Englishman at Tongu and the blanket; then of Fallows and Nevin—Fallows saying, “Come on upstairs,” that day of their first meeting at the Imperial, and Nevin saying, “Well, you gave me a night——” .... Morning began to laugh. “Picturesque, what-would-we-do-without Conrad”—sitting five days and nights on the deck passage from the mouth of the Pei-ho to the lowest port of Japan....

He hadn’t thought much of Nevin and Fallows and the Tongu Endicott in the months that followed his arrival from San Francisco, when the work went with a rush. And Betty Berry—there were times when he was half sure she—name, Armory and all—formed but an added dream that Nevin had injected hypodermically the night before.

Morning could think about all these now. The editors had begun to tell what they wanted. He had sent in stuff which did not meet their needs. He was linked to war in their minds. Moreover, plentiful money had brought to the surface again his unfinished passion to gamble, as his present distaste for work had increased the consumption of alcohol.... It was Reverses that reminded him of Fallows and Nevin and the Tongu blanket and the angel he had entertained in the Armory room.

Editors didn’t care for his fiction. “A good war story is all right any time,” they said, but apparently his were not, for five or six trials didn’t take. He had a tendency to remember Fallows when he wrote fiction. The story of the Ploughman came curiously back to mind, when he was turned loose from straight narrative, and he was “balled” between planes.... He thought of a play....

Varce now came into the library and drew up a chair. Varce had one of his stories; Varce edited a magazine that sold several million every two weeks. Long ago, with great effort, and by paying prodigiously, Varce had secured from Morning one of the final tiles of the great Liaoyang mosaic.... Varce was tall, a girl’s dream of poet-knight—black, wavy hair, straight excellent features, a figure lean enough for modern clothes.