The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
ear said, 'Keep still; don't struggle. There's no danger.'
George did not struggle. His brain, working with the cool rapidity of a
buzz-saw in an ice-box, had planned a line of action. Few things are
more difficult in this world for a young man than the securing of an
introduction to the right girl under just the right conditions. When he
is looking his best he is presented to her in the midst of a crowd, and
is swept away after a rapid hand-shake. When there is no crowd he has
toothache, or the sun has just begun to make his nose peel. Thousands
of young lives have been saddened in this manner.
How different was George's case! By this simple accident, he reflected,
as, helping the good work along with an occasional surreptitious
leg-stroke, he was towed shorewards, there had been formed an
acquaintanceship, if nothing more, which could not lightly be broken. A
girl who has saved a man from drowning cannot pass him by next day with
a formal bow. And what a girl, too! There had been a time, in extreme
youth, when his feminine ideal was the sort of girl who has fuzzy,
golden hair, and drops things. Indeed in his first year at the
University he had said--and written--as much to one of the type, the
episode concluding with a strong little drama, in which a wrathful,
cheque-signing father had starred, supported by a subdued, misogynistic
son. Which things, aided by the march of time, had turned George's
tastes towards the healthy, open-air girl, who did things instead of
dropping them.
The pleasantest functions must come to an end sooner or later; and in
due season George felt his heels grate on the sand. His preserver
loosed her hold. They stood up and faced each other. George began to
express his gratitude as best he could--it was not easy to find neat,
convincing sentences on the spur of the moment--but she cut him short.
'Of course, it was nothing. Nothing at all,' she said, brushing the
sea-water from her eyes. 'It was just lucky I happened to be there.'
'It was splendid,' said the infatuated dramatist. 'It was magnificent.
It--'
He saw that she was smiling.
'You're very wet,' she said.
George glanced down at his soaked clothes. It had been a nice suit
once.
'Hadn't you better hurry back and change into something dry?'
Looking round about him, George perceived that sundry of the
inquisitive were swooping down, with speculation in their eyes. It was
time to depart.
'Have you far to go?'
'Not far. I'm staying at the Beach View Hotel.'
'Why, so am I. I hope we shall meet again.'
'We shall,' said George confidently.
'How did you happen to fall in?'
'I was--er--I was looking at something in the water.'
'I thought you were,' said the girl, quietly.
George blushed.
'I know,' he said, 'it was abominably rude of me to stare like that;
but--'
'You should learn to swim,' interrupted the girl. 'I can't understand
why every boy in the country isn't made to learn to swim before he's
ten years old. And it isn't a bit difficult, really. I could teach you
in a week.'
The struggle between George and George's conscience was brief. The
conscience, weak by nature and flabby from long want of exercise, had
no sort of chance from the start.
'I wish you would,' said George. And with those words he realized that
he had definitely committed himself to his hypocritical role. Till
that moment explanation would have been difficult, but possible. Now it
was impossible.
'I will,' said the girl. 'I'll start tomorrow if you like.' She waded
into the water.
'We'll talk it over at the hotel,' she said, hastily. 'Here comes a
crowd of horrid people. I'm going to swim out again.'
She hurried into deeper water, while George, turning, made his way
through a growing throng of goggling spectators. Of the fifteen who got
within speaking distance of him, six told him that he was wet. The
other nine asked him if he had fallen.
* * * * *
Her name was Vaughan, and she was visiting Marvis Bay in company with
an aunt. So much George ascertained from the management of the hotel.
Later, after dinner, meeting both ladies on the esplanade, he gleaned
further information--to wit, that her first name was Mary, that her
aunt was glad to make his acquaintance, liked Marvis Bay but preferred
Trouville, and thought it was getting a little chilly and would go
indoors.
The elimination of the third factor had a restorative effect upon
George's conversation, which had begun to languish. In feminine society
as a rule he was apt to be constrained, but with Mary Vaughan it was
different. Within a couple of minutes he was pouring out his troubles.
The cue-withholding leading lady, the stick-like Mifflin, the funereal
comedian--up they all came, and she, gently sympathetic, was
endeavouring, not without success, to prove to him that things were not
so bad as they seemed.
'It's sure to be all right on the night,' she said.
How rare is the combination of beauty and intelligence! George thought
he had never heard such a clear-headed, well-expressed remark.
'I suppose it will,' he said, 'but they were very bad when I left.
Mifflin, for instance. He seems to think Nature intended him for a
Napoleon of Advertising. He has a bee in his bonnet about booming the
piece. Sits up at nights, when he ought to be sleeping or studying his
part, thinking out new schemes for advertising the show. And the
comedian. His speciality is drawing me aside and asking me to write in
new scenes for him. I couldn't stand it any longer. I just came away
and left them to fight it out among themselves.'
'I'm sure you have no need to worry. A play with such a good story is
certain to succeed.'
George had previously obliged with a brief description of the plot of
_The Footpills_.
'Did you like the story?' he said, tenderly.
'I thought it was fine.'
'How sympathetic you are!' cooed George, glutinously, edging a little
closer. 'Do you know--'
'Shall we be going back to the hotel?' said the girl.
* * * * *
Those noisome creatures, the hired murderers of _Fate's Footpills_,
descended upon Marvis Bay early next afternoon, and George, meeting
them at the station, in reluctant pursuance of a promise given to
Arthur Mifflin, felt moodily that, if only they could make their
acting one-half as full of colour as their clothes, the play would be
one of the most pronounced successes of modern times. In the forefront
gleamed, like the white plumes of Navarre, the light flannel suit of
Arthur Mifflin, the woodenest juvenile in captivity.
His woodenness was, however, confined to stage rehearsals. It may be
mentioned that, once the run of a piece had begun, he was sufficiently
volatile, and in private life he was almost excessively so--a fact
which had been noted at an early date by the keen-eyed authorities of
his University, the discovery leading to his tearing himself away from
Alma Mater by request with some suddenness. He was a long, slender
youth, with green eyes, jet-black hair, and a passionate fondness for
the sound of his own voice.
'Well, here we are,' he said, kicking breezily at George's leg with his
cane.
'I saw you,' said George, coldly, side-stepping.
'The whole team,' continued Mr Mifflin; 'all bright, bonny, and trained
to the minute.'
'What happened after I left?' George asked. 'Has anybody begun to act
yet? Or are they waiting till the dress-rehearsal?'
'The rehearsals,' admitted Mr Mifflin, handsomely, 'weren't perfect;
but you wait. It'll be all right on the night.'
George thought he had never heard such a futile, vapid remark.
'Besides,' said Mr Mifflin, 'I have an idea which will make the show.
Lend me your ear--both ears. You shall have them back. Tell me: what
pulls people into a theatre? A good play? Sometimes. But failing that,
as in the present case, what? Fine acting by the leading juvenile? We
have that, but it is not enough. No, my boy; advertisement is the
thing. Look at all these men on the beach. Are they going to roll in of
their own free wills to see a play like _The Footpills_? Not on
your life. About the time the curtain rises every man of them will be
sitting in his own private corner of the beach--'
'How many corners do you think the beach has?'
'Gazing into a girl's eyes, singing, "Shine on, thou harvest moon", and
telling her how his boss is practically dependent on his advice. You
know.'
'I don't,' said George, coldly.
'Unless,' proceeded Mr Mifflin, 'we advertise. And by advertise, I
mean advertise in the right way. We have a Press-agent, but for all the
good he does he might be back on the old farm, gathering in the hay.
Luckily for us, I am among those present. I have brains, I have
resource. What's that?'
'I said nothing.'
'I thought you did. Well, I have an idea which will drag these people
like a magnet. I thought it out coming down in the train.'
'What is it?'
'I'll tell you later. There are a few details to be worked upon first.
Meanwhile, let us trickle to the sea-front and take a sail in one of
those boats. I am at my best in a boat. I rather fancy Nature intended
me for a Viking.'
Matters having been arranged with the financier to whom the boat
belonged, they set forth. Mr Mifflin, having remarked, 'Yo-ho!' in a
meditative voice, seated himself at the helm, somewhat saddened by his
failure to borrow a quid of tobacco from the _Ocean Beauty's_
proprietor. For, as he justly observed, without properties and make-up,
where were you? George, being skilled in the ways of boats, was in
charge of the sheet. The summer day had lost its oppressive heat. The
sun no longer beat down on the face of the waters. A fresh breeze had
sprung up. George, manipulating the sheet automatically, fell into a
reverie. A moment comes in the life of every man when an inward voice
whispers to him, 'This is The One!' In George's case the voice had not
whispered; it had shouted. From now onward there could be but one woman
in the world for him. From now onwards--The _Ocean Beauty_ gave a
sudden plunge. George woke up.
'What the deuce are you doing with that tiller?' he inquired.
'My gentle somnambulist,' said Mr Mifflin, aggrieved, 'I was doing
nothing with this tiller. We will now form a commission to inquire into
what you were doing with that sheet. Were you asleep?'
'My fault,' said George; 'I was thinking.'
'If you must break the habit of a lifetime,' said Mr Mifflin,
complainingly, 'I wish you would wait till we get ashore. You nearly
upset us.'
'It shan't happen again. They are tricky, these sailing boats--turn
over in a second. Whatever you do, don't get her broadside on. There's
more breeze out here than I thought there was.'
Mr Mifflin uttered a startled exclamation.
'What's the matter?' asked George.
'Just like a flash,' said Mr Mifflin, complacently. 'It's always the
way with me. Give me time, and the artistic idea is bound to come. Just
some little thought, some little, apparently obvious, idea which stamps
the man of genius. It beats me why I didn't think of it before. Why, of
course, a costume piece with a male star is a hundred times more
effective.'
'What are you talking about?'
'I see now,' continued Mr Mifflin, 'that there was a flaw in my
original plan. My idea was this. We were talking in the train about
the bathing down here, and Jane happened to say she could swim some,
and it suddenly came to me.'
Jane was the leading woman, she who omitted to give cues.
'I said to myself, "George is a sportsman. He will be delighted to do
a little thing like that".'
'Like to do what?'
'Why, rescue Jane.'
'What!'
'She and you,' said Mr Mifflin, 'were to go in swimming together,
while I waited on the sands, holding our bone-headed Press-agent on a