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O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1921 by Various

V >> Various >> O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1921




Then Comet disappeared, and old Swygert, riding hard and looking for
him, went out of sight over a hill. But Comet had not gone far. As a
matter of fact, he was near by, hidden in some high straw, pointing a
covey of birds. One of the spectators spied him, and called the
judges' attention to him. Everybody, including Larsen, rode up to him,
but still Swygert had not come back.

They called him, but the old man was a little deaf. Some of the men
rode to the top of the hill but could not see him. In his zeal he had
got a considerable distance away. Meanwhile, here was his dog,
pointed.

If any one had looked at Larsen's face he would have seen the
exultation there, for now his chance had come--the very chance he had
been looking for. It's a courtesy one handler sometimes extends
another who is absent from the spot, to go in and flush his dog's
birds.

"I'll handle this covey for Mr. Swygert," said Larsen to the judges,
his voice smooth and plausible, on his face a smile.

And thus it happened that Comet faced his supreme ordeal without the
steadying voice of his god.

He only knew that ahead of him were birds, and that behind him a man
was coming through the straw, and that behind the man a crowd of
people on horseback were watching him. He had become used to that, but
when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the face of the advancing
man, his soul began to tremble.

"Call your dog in, Mr. Larsen," directed the judge. "Make him
back stand."

Only a moment was lost, while Peerless, a young dog himself, came
running in and at a command from Larsen stopped in his tracks behind
Comet, and pointed. Larsen's dogs always obeyed, quickly,
mechanically. Without ever gaining their confidence, Larsen had a way
of turning them into finished field-trial dogs. They obeyed, because
they were afraid not to.

According to the rules the man handling the dog has to shoot as the
birds rise. This is done in order to test the dog's steadiness when a
gun is fired over him. No specification is made as to the size of the
shotgun to be used. Usually, however, small-gauge guns are carried.
The one in Larsen's hands was a twelve gauge, and consequently large.

All morning he had been using it over his own dog. Nobody had paid any
attention to it, because he shot smokeless powder. But now, as he
advanced, he reached into the left-hand pocket of his hunting coat,
where six shells rattled as he hurried along. Two of these he took out
and rammed into the barrels.

As for Comet, still standing rigid, statuesque, he heard, as has been
said, the brush of steps through the straw, glimpsed a face, and
trembled. But only for a moment. Then he steadied, head high, tail
straight out. The birds rose with a whir--and then was repeated that
horror of his youth. Above his ears, ears that would always be tender,
broke a great roar. Either because of his excitement, or because of a
sudden wave of revenge, or of a determination to make sure of the
dog's flight, Larsen had pulled both triggers at once. The combined
report shattered through the dog's eardrums, it shivered through his
nerves, he sank in agony into the straw.

Then the old impulse to flee was upon him, and he sprang to his feet,
and looked about wildly. But from somewhere in that crowd behind him
came to his tingling ears a voice--clear, ringing, deep, the voice of
a woman--a woman he knew--pleading as his master used to plead,
calling on him not to run, but to stand.

"Steady," it said. "Steady, Comet!"

It called him to himself, it soothed him, it calmed him, and he turned
and looked toward the crowd. With the roar of the shotgun the usual
order observed in field trials was broken up. All rules seemed to have
been suspended. Ordinarily, no one belonging to "the field" is allowed
to speak to a dog. Yet the girl had spoken to him. Ordinarily, the
spectators must remain in the rear of the judges. Yet one of the
judges had himself wheeled his horse about and was galloping off, and
Marian Devant had pushed through the crowd and was riding toward the
bewildered dog.

He stood staunch where he was, though in his ears was still a
throbbing pain, and though all about him was this growing confusion he
could not understand. The man he feared was running across the field
yonder, in the direction taken by the judge. He was blowing his
whistle as he ran. Through the crowd, his face terrible to see, his
own master was coming. Both the old man and the girl had dismounted
now, and were running toward him.

"I heard," old Swygert was saying to her. "I heard it! I might 'a'
known! I might 'a' known!"

"He stood," she panted, "like a rock--oh, the brave, beautiful thing!"

"Where is that----" Swygert suddenly checked himself and looked
around.

A man in the crowd (they had all gathered about now), laughed.

"He's gone after his dog," he said. "Peerless has run away!"



FIFTY-TWO WEEKS FOR FLORETTE

By ELIZABETH ALEXANDER HEERMANN [ELIZABETH ALEXANDER in _Saturday
Evening Post_, August 13,1921.]


It had been over two months since Freddy Le Fay's bill had been paid,
and Miss Nellie Blair was worried. She had written to Freddy's mother
repeatedly, but there had been no answer.

"It's all your own fault, sister. You should never have taken Freddy,"
Miss Eva said sharply. "I told you so at the time, when I saw his
mother's hair. And of course Le Fay is not her real name. It looks to
me like a clear case of desertion."

"I can't believe it. She seemed so devoted," faltered Miss Nellie.

"Oh, a girl like that!" Miss Eva sniffed. "You should never have
consented."

"Well, the poor thing was so worried, and if it meant saving a child
from a dreadful life----"

"There are other schools more suitable."

"But, sister, she seemed to have her heart set on ours. She begged me
to make a little gentleman out of him."

"As if you could ever do that!"

"Why not?" asked Mary, their niece.

"That dreadful child!"

"Freddy isn't dreadful!" cried Mary hotly.

"With that atrocious slang! Won't eat his oatmeal! And he's such a
queer child--queer! So pale, never laughs, doesn't like any one. Why
should you take up for him? He doesn't even like you. Hates me, I
suppose."

"It's because we are so different from the women he has known," said
Mary.

"I should hope so! Well, sister, what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know what to do," sighed Miss Nellie. "He hasn't any other
relatives as far as I know. And the summer coming on, what shall we
do?"

"Nothing for it but to send him to an orphanage if she doesn't write
soon," said Miss Eva.

"Oh, auntie, you wouldn't!"

"Why not? How can we afford to give children free board and
education?"

"It's only one child."

"It would be a dozen, if we once started it."

"I'll wait another month," said Miss Nellie, "and then, really,
something will have to be done."

The girl looked out of the window.

"There he is now," she said, "sitting on the stone wall at the end of
the garden. It's his favourite spot."

"What on earth he wants to sit there for--away from all the other
children! He never plays. Look at him! Just sitting there--not moving.
How stupid!" exclaimed Miss Eva impatiently.

"I do declare, I believe he's fallen asleep," said Miss Nellie.

Freddy was not asleep. He had only to close his eyes and it would all
come back to him. Memories that he could not put into words,
sensations without definite thought, crowded in upon him. The
smell--the thick smell of grease paint, choking powder, dust, gas, old
walls, bodies, and breath, and sharp perfume; the sickening,
delicious, stale, enchanting, never-to-be-forgotten odour of the
theatre; the nerves' sudden tension at the cry of "Ov-a-chure"; their
tingling as the jaded music blares; the lift of the heart as the
curtain rises; the catch in the throat as Florette runs on to do her
turn.

Florette was a performer on the trapeze in vaudeville. Her figure was
perfect from the strenuous daily exercise. She was small, young, and a
shade too blonde. First she appeared in a sort of blue evening dress,
except that it was shorter even than a d butante's. She ran out
quickly from the wings, bowed excessively, smiled appealingly, and,
skipping over to the trapeze, seized the two iron rings that hung from
ropes. Lifting her own weight by the strength in her slender wrists,
she flung her legs upward and hooked her knees into the rings. Then
hanging head downward she swung back and forth; flung herself upright
again, sat and swung; climbed to the topmost bar of the trapeze and
hung down again. Her partner ran on and repeated her monkeylike
manoeuvres. Then Florette held his hands while he swung upside down,
he held Florette while she swung upside down. They turned head over
heels, over and over each other, up and down, catching and slipping,
and adjusting their balance, in time to gay tunes.

Sometimes the audience clapped. Sometimes they were too familiar with
their kind of flirtation with death to clap. Then Florette and her
partner would invent something a little more daring. They would learn
to balance themselves on chairs tilted on two legs on the trapeze, or
Florette would hang by only one hand, or she would support her partner
by a strap held in her teeth. Sometimes Florette's risks were great
enough to thrill the audience with the thought of death.

The thought of a slip, broken bones, delighted the safe people in
comfortable chairs. They laughed. Florette laughed, too, for Freddy
was waiting in the wings.

There were mothers in the audience who cooked and mended, swept and
dusted, ran up and down innumerable stairs, washed greasy dishes, wore
ugly house dresses, slaved and scolded and got chapped hands, all for
their children. Florette, always dainty and pretty, had nothing to do
but airily, gracefully swing, and smile. Other mothers spent their
lives for their little boys. Florette only risked hers twice a day.

While the partner played an accordion Florette ran out for her quick
change. Freddy was waiting, with her dress hung over a chair. He flew
to meet her. His eager, nimble fingers unfastened the blue frock. He
slipped the next costume over her head without mussing a single
beloved blonde hair. The second costume was a tight-fitting silver
bodice with a fluff of green skirt underneath. Freddy had it fastened
up in a twinkling. Florette ran out again and pulled herself up into
the trapeze.

While Florette went through the second part of her act Freddy folded
up the blue costume and trudged upstairs with it. Florette's dressing
room was usually up four flights. Freddy put the blue dress on a coat
hanger and wrapped a muslin cover about it. Then he trudged down the
four flights again, with the third costume over his arm. It was a
Chinese jacket and a pair of tight, short blue satin trousers, and
Freddy was very proud of this confection. He stood as a screen for
Florette while she put on the trousers, and there are not many little
boys who have a mamma who could look so pretty in them.

Florette skipped out lightly and finished her act by swinging far out
over the audience, back and forth, faster and faster, farther and
farther out, until it seemed as if she were going to fling herself
into the lap of some middle-aged gentleman in the third row. His wife
invariably murmured something about a hussy as Florette's pretty bare
legs flashed overhead. The music played louder, ended with a boom from
the drum. Florette flung herself upright, kissed her hands, the
curtain fell, and the barelegged hussy ran up to the dressing room
where her little son waited.

Freddy had already hung up and shrouded the silver-and-green costume,
and was waiting for the Chinese one. He pounced upon it, muttered
about some wrinkles, put it into place, and went to the dressing table
to hand Florette the cold cream. He found her make-up towel, all caked
with red and blue, which she had flung down on the floor. He patted
her highly glittering hair and adjusted a pin. He marshalled the jars
and little pans and sticks of grease paint on her shelf into an
orderly row and blew off the deep layers of powder she had scattered.
Then he took down her street dress from its hook and slipped it deftly
over her shoulders and had it buttoned up before Florette could yawn.
He handed her her saucy bright hat. He flung himself into his own
coat.

"Well, le's go, Florette!" cried Freddy gayly, with dancing eyes. He
had never called her mamma. She was too little and cute.

Then they would go to the hotel, never the best, where they were
stopping. The room with its greenish light, its soiled lace curtains,
the water pitcher always cracked, the bed always lumpy, the sheets
always damp, was home to Freddy. Florette made it warm and cozy even
when there was no heat in the radiator. She had all sorts of clever
home-making tricks. She toasted marshmallows over the gas jet; she
spread a shawl on the trunk; or she surprised Freddy by pinning
pictures out of the funny page on the wall. She could make the nicest
tea on a little alcohol stove she carried in her trunk. There was
always a little feast after the theatre on the table that invariably
wabbled. Freddy would pretend that the foot of the iron bed was a
trapeze. How they laughed. On freezing nights in Maine or Minnesota,
Florette would let Freddy warm his feet against hers, or she would get
up and spread her coat that looked just like fur over the bed.

When they struck a new town at the beginning of each week Freddy and
Florette would go bumming and see all the sights, whether it was
Niagara Falls or just the new Methodist Church in Cedar Rapids. Freddy
would have been sorry for little boys who had to stay in one home all
the time--that is, if he had known anything at all about them. But the
life of the strolling player was all that he had ever known, and he
found it delightful, except for the dreaded intervals of "bookin' the
ac'."

The dream of every vaudevillian is to be booked for fifty-two unbroken
weeks in the year, but few attain such popularity. Florette's seasons
were sometimes long, sometimes short; but there always came the
tedious worrying intervals when managers and agents must be besought
for work. Perhaps she would find that people were tired of her old
tricks, and she would have to rehearse new ones, or interpolate new
songs and gags. Then the new act would be tried out at some obscure
vaudeville house, and if it didn't go the rehearsals and trampings to
agents must begin all over again. Freddy shared the anxieties and
hardships of these times. But the only hardship he really minded was
the loss of Florette, for of course the pretty Miss Le Fay, who was
only nineteen on the agents' books, could not appear on Broadway with
a great big boy like Freddy.

However, the bad times always ended, and Florette and Freddy would set
out gayly once more for Oshkosh or Atlanta, Dallas or Des Moines.
Meals expanded, Florette bought a rhinestone-covered comb, and the two
adventurers indulged in an orgy of chocolate drops. With the optimism
of the actor, they forgot all about the dismal past weeks, and saw the
new tour as never ending.

Freddy felt himself once more a real and important human being with a
place in the sun, not just a child to be shushed by a dingy landlady
while his mother was out looking for a job. He knew that he was as
necessary a part of Florette's act as her make-up box. He believed
himself to be as necessary a part of her life as the heart in her
breast, for Florette lavished all her beauty, all her sweetness on
him. No Johns for Florette, pretty and blonde though she was. To the
contempt of her contemporaries Florette refused every chance for a
free meal. Freddy was her sweetheart, her man. She had showered so
many pretty love words on him, she had assured him so often that he
was all in the world she wanted, that Freddy was stunned one day to
hear that he was to have a papa.

"I don' wan' one," said Freddy flatly. "I ain't never had one, an' I
ain't got no use for one."

Florette looked cross--an unusual thing.

"Aw, now, Freddy, don't be a grouch," she said.

"I don' wan' one," repeated Freddy.

"You ought to be glad to get a papa!" cried Florette.

"Why?"

"Makes you respectable."

"What's that?"

"Who'd believe I was a widow--in this profession?"

Freddy still looked blank.

"Well," said Florette, "you're goin' to get a nice papa, so there
now!"

Then the cruel truth dawned on Freddy. It was Florette who wanted a
papa. He had not been enough for her. In some way Florette had found
him lacking.

Tactfully, Freddy dropped the subject of papas, wooed Florette, and
tried to atone for his shortcomings. He redoubled his compliments,
trotted out all the love words he knew, coaxed Florette with
everything she liked best in him. He even offered to have his nails
filed. At night, in bed, he kissed Florette's bare back between the
shoulder blades, and snuggled close to her, hugging her desperately
with his little thin arms.

"Flo," he quavered, "you--you ain't lonesome no more, are you?"

"Me? Lonesome? Whatcher talkin' about, kid?" sleepily murmured
Florette.

"You ain't never lonesome when you got me around, are you, Flo?"

"Sure I ain't. Go to sleep, honey."

"But, Florette----"

Florette was dozing.

"Oh, Florette! Florette!"

"Florette, if you ain't lonesome----"

"Sh-h-h, now, sh-h-h! Le's go to sleep."

"But, Florette, you don' wan'--you don' wan'--a pop----"

"Sh-h-h! Sh-h-h! I'm so tired, honey."

Florette slept. Freddy lay awake, but he lay still so as not to
disturb her. His arms ached, but he dared not let her go. Finally he
slept, and dreamed of a world in which there was no Florette. He
shuddered and kicked his mother. She gave him a little impatient
shove. He woke. Day was dawning. It was Florette's wedding day. Freddy
did not know it until Florette put on her best coral-velvet hat with
the jet things dangling over her ears.

"You ain' gonna wear that hat," said Freddy severely. "It's rainin'."

"Yeah, I'm gonna wear this hat," said Florette, pulling her blonde
earbobs into greater prominence. "An' you put on your best suit an'
new necktie. We're goin' to a weddin'."

Her tone was gay, arch, her eyes were happy.

"Who--whose?" Freddy faltered.

"Mine!" chirped Florette. "I'm goin' to get you that papa I promised
you."

Freddy turned away.

"Sulkin'!" chided Florette. "Naughty, jealous boy!"

The new papa did not appear so formidable as Freddy had expected. In
fact, he turned out to be only Howard, Florette's acrobatic partner.
Freddy philosophically reflected that if one must have a new papa, far
better so to call Howard, who necessarily encroached on Florette's
time, than a stranger who might take up some of her leisure hours.

But Freddy received a distinct shock when the new papa joined them
after the evening performance and accompanied them up to their room.

Freddy had always regarded Florette's room as his, too. He felt that
the new papa was an intruder in their home. Alas! It soon became all
too apparent that it was Freddy who was _de trop_, or, as he would
have expressed it, a Mister Buttinski.

They were having a little supper of pickles and cheese and liver
sausage and jam. Florette and the papa drank out of a bottle by turns
and laughed a great deal. Florette seemed to think the papa very
clever and funny. She laughed at everything he said. She looked at him
with shining eyes. She squeezed his hand under the table. Freddy tried
in vain to attract her attention. Finally he gave up and sat staring
at the oblivious couple with a stupid expression.

"That kid's half asleep," said the new papa.

Florette looked at Freddy and was annoyed by his vacant eyes.

"Go to bed right away," she commanded.

Freddy looked at her in amazement.

"Ain't you goin', too, Florette?" he asked.

"No, you go on--go to sleep."

"Git into that nice li'l cot an' go by-by," said the new papa
genially.

Freddy had not seen the cot before. It had been moved in during his
absence at the theatre, and stood white, narrow, and lonely, partly
concealed by a screen.

"I--I always slep' with Florette," faltered Freddy.

This seemed to amuse the new papa. But Florette flushed and looked
annoyed.

"Now, Freddy, are you goin' to be a grouch?" she wailed.

Freddy was kissed good-night, and went to sleep in the cot. He found
it cold and unfriendly. But habit, the much maligned, is kind as well
as cruel; if it can accustom us to evil, so can it soften pain. Freddy
was beginning to assume proprietary airs toward the cot, which
appeared in every town, and even to express views as to the relative
values of cots in Springfield, Akron, or Joliet--when one night he
woke to hear Florette sobbing.

Freddy lay awake listening. He had sobbed, too, when he was first
banished to the cot. Was Florette missing him as he had missed her?
Ah, if she at last had seen that papas were not half so nice as
Freddy's, he would not be hard on her. His heart swelled with
forgiveness and love. He stole on tiptoe to Florette's bedside.

"Flo," he whispered.

The sobbing ceased. Florette held her breath and pretended to be
asleep. Freddy wriggled his little thin body under the covers and
threw his arms around Florette. With a gulp, she turned and threw her
arms around him. They clasped each other tight and clung without
speaking. They lay on the edge of the bed, holding their breath in
order not to wake the papa who snored loudly. Freddy's cheeks and hair
were wet, a cold tear trickled down his neck, his body ached from the
hard edge of the bed; but he was happy, as only a child or a lover can
be, and Freddy was both.

In the morning the papa was cross. He did not seem to care for his own
breakfast, but concentrated his attention on Freddy's. Freddy had
always been accustomed to a nice breakfast of tea and toast and jam,
but Howard insisted on ordering oatmeal for him.

"Naw, Freddy can't stand oatmeal," Florette objected.

"It's good for him," said Howard, staring severely at his son across
the white-topped restaurant table.

"I don' see no use forcin' a person to eat what they can't stomach,"
said Florette.

"Yeah, tha's the way you've always spoiled that kid. Look a' them pale
cheeks! Li'l ole pale face!" Howard taunted, stretching a teasing hand
toward Freddy. "Mamma's boy! Reg'lar sissy, he is!"

He gave Freddy a poke in the ribs. Freddy shrank back, made himself as
small as possible in his chair, looked mutely at Florette.

"Aw, cut it out, Howard," she begged. "Quit raggin' the kid, can't
you?"

"Mamma's blessed sugar lump!" jeered Howard, with an ugly gleam in his
eye. "Ought to wear a bib with pink ribbons, so he ought. Gimme a
nursin' bottle for the baby, waiter!"

The impertinence of this person amazed Freddy. He could only look at
his tormentor speechlessly. Freddy and Florette had been such great
chums that she had never used the maternal prerogative of rudeness. He
had never had any home life, so he was unaware of the coolness with
which members of a family can insult one another. Howard's tones,
never low, were unusually loud this morning, and people turned around
to laugh at the blushing child. The greasy waiter grinned and set the
oatmeal which Howard had ordered before Freddy.

"Now, then, young man," commanded Howard sternly, "you eat that, and
you eat it quick!"

Freddy obeyed literally, swallowing as fast as he could, with painful
gasps and gulps, fighting to keep the tears back. Florette reached
under the table and silently squeezed his knee. He flashed her a smile
and swallowed a huge slimy mouthful.

"You ain't eatin' nothin' yourse'f, Howard," said Florette acidly.
"W'y don' you have some oatmeal?"

"Tha's right!" shouted Howard. "Side with the kid against me! Tha's
all the thanks I get for tryin' to make a man out o' the li'l sissy.
Oughta known better'n to marry a woman with a spoiled brat."

"Sh-h-h!" whispered Florette. "Don't tell the whole resterunt about
your fam'ly troubles."

"Say," hissed Howard, bending down toward her and thrusting out his
jaw, "lay off o' me, will yer?"

"Lay off yourse'f!" retorted Florette under her breath. "If you wanna
fight le's go back to the hotel where it's private."

"I don' min' tellin' the world I bin stung!" roared Howard.

Florette flushed up to the slightly darker roots of her too-blonde
hair.

"You?" she gasped furiously. "After all I've put up with!"

"Say, you ain't got any kick comin'! I treated you white, marryin'
you, an' no questions asked."

"What-ta you mean?" breathed Florette, growing deathly pale.

Freddy, alarmed, half rose from his chair.

"Sit down there you!" roared Howard. "What-ta I mean, Miss Innocence?"
he said, mimicking Florette's tone. "Oh, no, of course you ain't no
idea of what I mean!"

"Come on, Freddy," Florette broke in quickly. "It's a katzenjammer. He
ain't got over last night yet."

She seized Freddy's hand and walked rapidly toward the door. Howard
lurched after her, followed by the interested stares of the
spectators. On the street he caught up with her and the quarrel
recommenced.