But even as they plucked at him and struck him Ikey remained in his ecstatic trance of joy. His head was in the clouds; the star was drawing his wagon. Compared with what he had achieved the loss of wages and the bray of womens tongues were slight affairs.
He had shaken the hand of Billy McMahan.
Billy McMahan had a wife, and upon her visiting cards was engraved the name Mrs. William Darragh McMahan. And there was a certain vexation attendant upon these cards; for, small as they were, there were houses in which they could not be inserted. Billy McMahan was a dictator in politics, a four-walled tower in business, a mogul[321], dreaded, loved and obeyed among his own people. He was growing rich; the daily papers had a dozen men on his trail to chronicle his every word of wisdom; he had been honored in caricature holding the Tiger cringing in leash.
But the heart of Billy was sometimes sore within him. There was a race of men from which he stood apart but that he viewed with the eye of Moses[322] looking over into the promised land. He, too, had ideals, even as had Ikey Snigglefritz; and sometimes, hopeless of attaining them, his own solid success was as dust and ashes in his mouth. And Mrs. William Darragh McMahan wore a look of discontent upon her plump but pretty face, and the very rustle of her silks seemed a sigh.
There was a brave and conspicuous assemblage in the dining saloon of a noted hostelry where Fashion loves to display her charms. At one table sat Billy McMahan and his wife. Mostly silent they were, but the accessories they enjoyed little needed the indorsement of speech. Mrs. McMahans diamonds were outshone by few in the room. The waiter bore the costliest brands of wine to their table. In evening dress, with an expression of gloom upon his smooth and massive countenance, you would look in vain for a more striking figure than Billys.
Four tables away sat alone a tall, slender man, about thirty, with thoughtful, melancholy eyes, a Van Dyke beard and peculiarly white, thin hands. He was dining on filet mignon, dry toast and apollinaris. That man was Cortlandt Van Duyckink, a man worth eighty millions, who inherited and held a sacred seat in the exclusive inner circle of society.
Billy McMahan spoke to no one around him, because he knew no one. Van Duyckink kept his eyes on his plate because he knew that every one present was hungry to catch his. He could bestow knighthood and prestige by a nod, and he was chary of creating a too extensive nobility.
And then Billy McMahan conceived and accomplished the most startling and audacious act of his life. He rose deliberately and walked over to Cortlandt Van Duyckinks table and held out his hand.
Say, Mr. Van Duyckink, he said, Ive heard you was talking about starting some reforms among the poor people down in my district. Im McMahan, you know. Say, now, if thats straight Ill do all I can to help you. And what I says goes in that neck of the woods, dont it? Oh, say, I rather guess it does.
Van Duyckinks rather sombre eyes lighted up. He rose to his lank height and grasped Billy McMahans hand.
Thank you, Mr. McMahan, he said, in his deep, serious tones. I have been thinking of doing some work of that sort. I shall be glad of your assistance. It pleases me to have become acquainted with you.
Billy walked back to his seat. His shoulder was tingling from the accolade bestowed by royalty. A hundred eyes were now turned upon him in envy and new admiration. Mrs. William Darragh McMahan trembled with ecstasy, so that her diamonds smote the eye almost with pain. And now it was apparent that at many tables there were those who suddenly remembered that they enjoyed Mr. McMahans acquaintance. He saw smiles and bows about him. He became enveloped in the aura of dizzy greatness. His campaign coolness deserted him.
Wine for that gang! he commanded the waiter, pointing with his finger. Wine over there. Wine to those three gents by that green bush. Tell em its on me. D n it! Wine for everybody!
The waiter ventured to whisper that it was perhaps inexpedient to carry out the order, in consideration of the dignity of the house and its custom.
All right, said Billy, if its against the rules. I wonder if twould do to send my friend Van Duyckink a bottle? No? Well, itll flow all right at the caffy to-night, just the same. Itll be rubber boots for anybody who comes in there any time up to 2 A. M.
Billy McMahan was happy.
He had shaken the hand of Cortlandt Van Duyckink.
The big pale-gray auto with its shining metal work looked out of place moving slowly among the push carts and trash-heaps on the lower east side. So did Cortlandt Van Duyckink, with his aristocratic face and white, thin hands, as he steered carefully between the groups of ragged, scurrying youngsters in the streets. And so did Miss Constance Schuyler, with her dim, ascetic beauty, seated at his side.
Oh, Cortlandt, she breathed, isnt it sad that human beings have to live in such wretchedness and poverty? And you how noble it is of you to think of them, to give your time and money to improve their condition!
Van Duyckink turned his solemn eyes upon her.
It is little, he said, sadly, that I can do. The question is a large one, and belongs to society. But even individual effort is not thrown away. Look, Constance! On this street I have arranged to build soup kitchens, where no one who is hungry will be turned away. And down this other street are the old buildings that I shall cause to be torn down and there erect others in place of those death-traps of fire and disease.
Down Delancey slowly crept the pale-gray auto. Away from it toddled coveys of wondering, tangle-haired, barefooted, unwashed children. It stopped before a crazy brick structure, foul and awry.
Van Duyckink alighted to examine at a better perspective one of the leaning walls. Down the steps of the building came a young man who seemed to epitomize its degradation, squalor and infelicity a narrow-chested, pale, unsavory young man, puffing at a cigarette.
Obeying a sudden impulse, Van Duyckink stepped out and warmly grasped the hand of what seemed to him a living rebuke.
I want to know you people, he said, sincerely. I am going to help you as much as I can. We shall be friends.
As the auto crept carefully away Cortlandt Van Duyckink felt an unaccustomed glow about his heart. He was near to being a happy man.
He had shaken the hand of Ikey Snigglefritz.
The Purple Dress
We are to consider the shade known as purple. It is a color justly in repute among the sons and daughters of man. Emperors claim it for their especial dye. Good fellows everywhere seek to bring their noses to the genial hue that follows the commingling of the red and blue. We say of princes that they are born to the purple; and no doubt they are, for the colic tinges their faces with the royal tint equally with the snub-nosed countenance of a woodchoppers brat. All women love it when it is the fashion.
And now purple is being worn. You notice it on the streets. Of course other colors are quite stylish as well in fact, I saw a lovely thing the other day in olive green albatross, with a triple-lapped flounce skirt trimmed with insert squares of silk, and a draped fichu of lace opening over a shirred vest and double puff sleeves with a lace band holding two gathered frills but you see lots of purple too. Oh, yes, you do; just take a walk down Twenty-third street any afternoon.
Therefore Maida the girl with the big brown eyes and cinnamon-colored hair in the Bee-Hive Store said to Grace the girl with the rhinestone brooch and peppermint-pepsin flavor to her speech Im going to have a purple dress a tailor-made purple dress for Thanksgiving.
Oh, are you, said Grace, putting away some 7½ gloves into the 6¾ box. Well, its me for red. You see more red on Fifth avenue. And the men all seem to like it.
I like purple best, said Maida. And old Schlegel has promised to make it for $8. Its going to be lovely. Im going to have a plaited skirt and a blouse coat trimmed with a band of galloon under a white cloth collar with two rows of
Sly boots! said Grace with an educated wink.
soutache[323] braid over a surpliced[324] white vest; and a plaited basque[325] and
Sly boots sly boots! repeated Grace.
plaited gigot sleeves with a drawn velvet ribbon over an inside cuff. What do you mean by saying that?
You think Mr. Ramsay likes purple. I heard him say yesterday he thought some of the dark shades of red were stunning.
I dont care, said Maida. I prefer purple, and them that dont like it can just take the other side of the street.
Which suggests the thought that after all, the followers of purple may be subject to slight delusions. Danger is near when a maiden thinks she can wear purple regardless of complexions and opinions; and when Emperors think their purple robes will wear forever.
Maida had saved $18 after eight months of economy; and this had bought the goods for the purple dress and paid Schlegel $4 on the making of it. On the day before Thanksgiving she would have just enough to pay the remaining $4. And then for a holiday in a new dress can earth offer anything more enchanting?
Old Bachman, the proprietor of the Bee-Hive Store, always gave a Thanksgiving dinner to his employees. On every one of the subsequent 364 days, excusing Sundays, he would remind them of the joys of the past banquet and the hopes of the coming ones, thus inciting them to increased enthusiasm in work. The dinner was given in the store on one of the long tables in the middle of the room. They tacked wrapping paper over the front windows; and the turkeys and other good things were brought in the back way from the restaurant on the corner. You will perceive that the Bee-Hive was not a fashionable department store, with escalators and pompadours[326]. It was almost small enough to be called an emporium; and you could actually go in there and get waited on and walk out again. And always at the Thanksgiving dinners Mr. Ramsay
Oh, bother! I should have mentioned Mr. Ramsay first of all. He is more important than purple or green, or even the red cranberry sauce.