Our Mr. Wrenn: The Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man Part 34

"Well, well, well, well!" sounded the voice of his friend, the fat man, who stood at the desk paying his bill. "Pretty easy, heh? Two boxes for one cent! Sting the restaurant." c.o.c.king his head, he carefully inserted a cent in the slot and clattered the lever, turning to grin at Mr. Wrenn, who grinned back as the machine failed to work.

"Let me try it," caroled Mr. Wrenn, and pounded the lever with the enthusiasm of comrades.h.i.+p.

"Nothing doing, lady," crowed the fat man to the cas.h.i.+er.

"I guess _I_ draw two boxes, too, eh? And I'm in a cigar-store.

How's that for stinging your compet.i.tors, heh? Ho, ho, ho!"

The cas.h.i.+er handed him two boxes, with an embarra.s.sed simper, and the fat man clapped Mr. Wrenn's shoulder joyously.

"My turn!" shouted a young man in a fuzzy green hat and a bright-brown suit, who had been watching with the sudden friends.h.i.+p which unites a crowd brought together by an accident.

Mr. Wrenn was glowing. "No, it ain't--it's mine," he achieved.

"I invented this game." Never had he so stood forth in a crowd.

He was a Bill Wrenn with the cosmopolitan polish of a floor-walker. He stood beside the fat man as a friend of sorts, a person to be taken perfectly seriously.

It is true that he didn't add to this spiritual triumph the triumph of getting two more boxes of matches, for the cas.h.i.+er-girl exclaimed, "No indeedy; it's my turn!" and lifted the match machine to a high shelf behind her. But Mr. Wrenn went out of the restaurant with his old friend, the fat man, saying to him quite as would a wit, "I guess we get stung, eh?"

"Yuh!" gurgled the fat man.

Walking down to your store?"

"Yuh--sure--won't you walk down a piece?"

"Yes, I would like to. Which way is it?"

"Fourth Avenue and Twenty-eighth."

"Walk down with you."

"Fine!"

And the fat man seemed to mean it. He confided to Mr. Wrenn that the fis.h.i.+ng was something elegant at Trulen, New Jersey; that he was some punkins at the casting of flies in fis.h.i.+ng; that he wished exceedingly to be at Trulen fis.h.i.+ng with flies, but was prevented by the manager of the cigar-store; that the manager was an old devil; that his (the fat man's own) name was Tom Poppins; that the store had a slick new brand of Manila cigars, kept in a swell new humidor bought upon the advice of himself (Mr. Poppins); that one of the young clerks in the store had done fine in the Modified Marathon; that the Cubs had had a great team this year; that he'd be glad to give Mr.--Mr.

Wrenn, eh?--one of those Manila cigars--great cigars they were, too; and that he hadn't "laughed so much for a month of Sundays as he had over the way they stung Miggleton's on them matches."

All this in the easy, affectionate, slightly wistful manner of fat men. Mr. Poppins's large round friendly childish eyes were never sarcastic. He was the man who makes of a crowd in the Pullman smoking-room old friends in half an hour. In turn, Mr.

Wrenn did not shy off; he hinted at most of his lifelong ambitions and a fair number of his sorrows and, when they reached the store, not only calmly accepted, but even sneezingly ignited one of the "slick new Manila cigars."

As he left the store he knew that the golden age had begun.

He had a friend!

He was to see Tom Poppins the coming Thursday at Miggleton's.

And now he was going to find Morton! He laughed so loudly that the policeman at Thirty-fourth Street looked self-conscious and felt secretively to find out what was the matter with his uniform. Now, this evening, he'd try to get on the track of Morton. Well, perhaps not this evening--the Pennsylvania offices wouldn't be open, but some time this week, anyway.

Two nights later, as he waited for Tom Poppins at Miggleton's, he lashed himself with the thought that he had not started to find Morton; good old Morton of the cattle-boat. But that was forgotten in the wonder of Tom Poppins's account of Mrs. Arty's, a boarding-house "where all the folks likes each other."

"You've never fed at a boarding-house, eh?" said Tom. "Well, I guess most of 'em are pretty poor feed. And pretty sad bunch.

But Mrs. Arty's is about as near like home as most of us poor bachelors ever gets. Nice crowd there. If Mrs. Arty--Mrs. R.

T. Ferrard is her name, but we always call her Mrs. Arty--if she don't take to you she don't mind letting you know she won't take you in at all; but if she does she'll worry over the holes in your socks as if they was her husband's. All the bunch there drop into the parlor when they come in, pretty near any time clear up till twelve-thirty, and talk and laugh and rush the growler and play Five Hundred. Just like home!

"Mrs. Arty's nearly as fat as I am, but she can be pretty spry if there's something she can do for you. Nice crowd there, too except that Teddem--he's one of these here w.i.l.l.y-boy actors, always out of work; I guess Mrs. Arty is kind of sorry for him.

Say, Wrenn--you seem to me like a good fellow--why don't you get acquainted with the bunch? Maybe you'd like to move up there some time. You was telling me about what a cranky old party your landlady is. Anyway, come on up there to dinner. On me.

Got anything on for next Monday evening?"

"N-no."

"Come on up then----East Thirtieth."

"Gee, I'd like to!"

"Well, why don't you, then? Get there about six. Ask for me.

Monday. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I don't have to get to the store evenings. Come on; you'll find out if you like the place."

"By jiminy, I will!" Mr. Wrenn slapped the table, socially.

At last he was "through, just _through_ with loafing around and not getting acquainted," he told himself. He was tired of Zapps. There was nothing to Zapps. He would go up to Mrs.

Arty's and now--he was going to find Morton. Next morning, marveling at himself for not having done this easy task before, he telephoned to the Pennsylvania Railroad offices, asked for Morton, and in one-half minute heard:

"Yes? This is Harry Morton."

"Hullo, Mr. Morton! I'll just bet you can't guess who this is."

"I guess you've got me."

"Well, who do you think it--"

"Jack?"

"Hunka."

"Uncle Henry?"

"Nope." Mr. Wrenn felt lonely at finding himself so completely outside Morton's own world that he was not thought of.

He hastened to claim a part in that world:

"Say, Mr. Morton, I wonder if you've ever heard of a cattle-boat called the _Merian?_"

"I--Say! Is this Bill Wrenn?"

"Yes."

"Well, well, well! Where areyou? When'd you get back?"

"Oh, I been back quite a little while, Morty. Tried to get hold of you--almost called up couple of times. I'm in my office--Souvenir Company--now. Back on the old job. Say, I'd like to see you."

"Well, I'd like to see _you_, old Bill!"