What's-His-Name. George Barr McCutcheon

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       George Barr McCutcheon

      What's-His-Name

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066145842

Table of Contents

       ILLUSTRATIONS

       What’s-His-Name

       CHAPTER I

       OUR HERO

       CHAPTER II

       MISS NELLIE DULUTH

       CHAPTER III

       MR. FAIRFAX

       CHAPTER IV

       LUNCHEON

       CHAPTER V

       CHRISTMAS

       CHAPTER VI

       THE REVOLVER

       CHAPTER VII

       THE LAWYER

       CHAPTER VIII

       BLAKEVILLE

ILLUSTRATIONS

       Table of Contents

Nellie Duluth	Frontispiece
Fairfax was sitting on a trunk, a satisfied smile on his lips	67
Phoebe	134
He stopped, aghast, petrified	238

What’s-His-Name

       Table of Contents

      1

CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

OUR HERO

       Table of Contents

      Two men were standing in front of the Empire Theatre on Broadway, at the outer edge of the sidewalk, amiably discussing themselves in the first person singular. It was late in September and somewhat early in the day for actors to be abroad, a circumstance which invites speculation. Attention to their conversation, which was marked by the habitual humility, would have convinced the listener (who is always welcome) that both had enjoyed a successful season on the road, although closing somewhat prematurely on account of miserable booking, and that both had received splendid “notices” in every town visited.

      These two loiterers serve a single purpose in this tale—they draw your attention to the principal character, to the person who plays the title rôle, so to speak, and then, having done so, sink back into an oblivion from which it is quite unnecessary to retrieve them.

      The younger of the two players was in the 2 act of lighting a cigarette, considerately tendered by the older, when his gaze fell upon the figure of the approaching hero. He hesitated for a moment, squinting his eyes reflectively as if to make sure of both vision and memory before committing himself to the declaration that was to follow.

      “See that fellow there? The little chap with his hands in his pockets?”

      The other permitted a vague, indifferent glance to enter the throng of pedestrians, plainly showing that he did not see the person indicated. (Please note this proof of the person’s qualifications as a hero.)

      “The fellow in front of Browne’s,” added the first speaker, so eagerly that his friend tried once more and succeeded.

      “What of him?” he demanded, unimpressed.

      “That is What’s-His-Name, Nellie Duluth’s husband.”

      The friend’s stare was prolonged and incredulous.

      “That?”

      “Yes. That’s the fair Nellie’s anchor. Isn’t he a wonder?” 3

      The object of these remarks passed slowly in front of them and soon was lost in the crowd. Now that we know who he is we will say thank you to the obliging Thespian and be off up Broadway in his wake, not precisely in the capacity of spies and eavesdroppers, but as acquaintances who would know him better.

      He was not an imposing figure. You would not have looked twice at him. You could not have remembered looking once at him, for that matter. He was the type of man who ambles through life without being noticed, even by those amiably inclined persons who make it their business to see everything that is going on, no matter how trivial it is.

      Somewhere in this wide and unfeeling world the husband of Nellie Duluth had an identity of his own, but New York was not the place. Back in the little Western town from which he came he had a name and a personality all his own, but it was a far cry from Broadway and its environments. For a matter of four or five years he had been known simply as “Er—What’s-His-Name? Nellie Duluth’s husband!” You have known men of his stripe, I am sure; men who never get anywhere for the good and 4 sufficient reason that it isn’t necessary. Men who stand still. Men who do not even shine by reflected glory. Men whose names you cannot remember. It might be Smith or Brown or Jones, or any of the names you can’t forget if you try, and yet it always escapes you. You know the sort I mean.

      Nellie Duluth’s husband was a smallish young man, nice-looking, even kind-looking, with an habitual expression of inquiry in his face, just as if he never quite got used to seeing or being seen. The most expert tailor haberdasher could not have provided him with apparel that really belonged to him. Not that he was awkward or ill-favoured in the matter of figure, but that he lacked individuality. He always seemed to be a long way from home.

      Sometimes you were sure