What's-His-Name. George Barr McCutcheon

13

      “Yes. Six to four,” said our hero, brightly, turning in his seat. He always read the baseball news. He could tell you the batting average of every player in the big leagues for ten years back.

      “Lot of bone-heads,” said the other sourly. At first glance our friend thought he looked like an actor and his heart sank. But perhaps he might be a travelling salesman. He liked them. In either event, the stranger’s estimate of the New York ball team pleased him. He rejoiced in every defeat it sustained, particularly at the hands of the Chicagos.

      “Not in it with the Cubs,” he announced, blitheness in his manner. Here was a man after his own heart.

      But the stranger glared at him. “The Cubs?” he said, his voice hardening, his manner turning aggressive.

      “They make the Giants look like two-spots,” went on our friend, recklessly.

      The stranger looked him over pityingly and then ended the conversation by deliberately hiding himself behind his newspaper. Our hero opened his lips to add further comment, but something in the way the paper crackled caused 14 him to close them and turn back to his bitter survey of the Hudson. And the confounded fellow had invited his confidence, too!

      He got down at Tarrytown and started up the hill. The station-master pointed him out to a friend.

      “That’s—er—What’s-His-Name—Nellie Duluth’s husband.”

      “That guy?”

      “She keeps him up here in a cottage to take care of the baby. Away from the temptations of the city,” said the agent, with a broad wink.

      “I didn’t know she was married,” said his friend, who lived in Yonkers.

      “Well, she is.”

      Mr.—(I declare, his name escapes me, so I will call him by his Christian name, Harvey)—Harvey, utterly oblivious to the pitying scrutiny of the two men, moved slowly up the road, homeward bound. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to light a “Sweet Cap,” threw back his unimposing shoulders, and accelerated his gait a trifle in deference to his position as the master of a celebrity.

      It was his habit to take a rather roundabout way up to the little cottage on the hill. The 15 route led him past a certain drug store and a grocer’s where he was on speaking terms with the clerks. They knew him. He did the marketing, but the account was in Miss Duluth’s name. A livery stable, too, was on the line of progress. He occasionally stopped in to engage a pony phaeton for a drive in the afternoon with Phoebe.

      To-day he passed these places by. Every one seemed to be busy. He could see that at a glance. So there wasn’t any use stopping. That was what he got for coming home from town in the middle of the day. He nodded to several acquaintances—passing acquaintances in both senses of the word. They turned to look after him, half-smiles on their lips.

      One woman said to another, “I wonder if he’s really married to her?”

      “If he wasn’t, he’d be living in the city with her,” was the complete rejoinder.

      “He seems such a quiet little man, so utterly unlike what a husband of hers ought to be. He’s from the far West—near Chicago, I believe. I never can remember his name. Can you?”

      “I’ve never heard it.” 16

      “It’s not an uncommon name.”

      “Why doesn’t he call himself Mr. Duluth?”

      “My husband says actresses are not supposed to have husbands. If they have them, they keep them in the background.”

      “That’s true. I know I am always surprised when I see that they’re trying to get divorces.”

      Harvey was never so far in the background as when he appeared in the foreground. One seldom took notice of him unless he was out of sight, or at least out of hearing.

      He was not effeminate; he was not the puerile, shiftless creature the foregoing sentences may have led you to suspect. He was simply a weakling in the strong grasp of circumstance. He could not help himself; to save his life, he could not be anything but Nellie Duluth’s husband.

      Not a bad-looking chap, as men of his stamp go. Not much of a spine, perhaps, and a little saggy about the shoulders; all in all, rather a common type. He kept his thin moustache twisted, but inconsistently neglected to shave for several days—that kind of a man. His trousers, no matter how well made, were always in need of pressing and his coat was 17 wrinkled from too much sitting on the small of his back. His shirts, collars, and neckties were clean and always “dressy.” Nellie saw to that. Besides he always had gone in for gay colours when it came to ties and socks. His watch-fob was a thing of weight and pre-eminence. It was of the bell-clapper type. In the summer time he wore suspenders with his belt, and in the winter time he wore a belt with his suspenders. Of late he affected patent-leather shoes with red or green tops; he walked as if he despised the size of them.

      Arriving at the snug little cottage, he was brought face to face with one of the common tragedies of a housekeeper’s life. The cook and the nursemaid, who also acted as waitress and chambermaid, had indulged in one of their controversies during his absence, and the former had departed, vowing she would never return. Here it was luncheon time and no one to get it! He knew that Bridget would be back before dinner time—she always did come back—but in the meantime what were they to do? There wasn’t a thing in the house.

      He found himself wishing he had stayed in the city for luncheon. 18

      Annie’s story was a long one, but he gathered from it that Bridget was wholly to blame for the row. Annie was very positive as to that.

      “Have we any eggs?” asked the dismayed master.

      “Eggs? How should I know, sir?” demanded Annie. “It’s Bridget’s place to know what’s in the pantry, not mine. The Lord knows I have enough to do without looking after her work.”

      “Excuse me,” said he, apologetically. He hesitated for a moment and then came to a decision. “I guess I’d better go and see what we’ve got. If we’ve got eggs, I can fry ’em. Bridget will be back this evening.”

      “I’m not so sure of that,” said Annie, belligerently. “I told her this was the last time, the very last.”

      “I’ll bet you a quarter she comes back,” said he, brightly.

      “Gee! What a sport you are!” scoffed Annie.

      He flushed. “Will you please set the table?”

      “It’s set.”

      “Oh!” 19

      “I’ll help you make the toast, if you’d like,” said she, a sudden feeling of pity for him coming into her niggardly soul.

      “Thanks,” he said, briskly. “And the tea, too?”

      “I think we’d better have coffee,” said she, asserting a preference for the housemaid’s joy.

      “Just as you say,” he acquiesced, hastily. “Where is Phoebe?”

      “Next door with the Butler kids—children, I mean. Maybe they’ll ask her to stay to lunch.”

      He gave her a surprise. “Go over and tell her to come home. I don’t want her staying to luncheon with those damned Butlers.”

      She stared, open-mouthed. “I’m sure, sir, they’re quite as good as—as we are. What have you got against ’em?”

      He could not tell her that Butler, who worked in a bank, never took the trouble to notice him except when Nellie was out to spend Sunday.

      “Never mind. Go and get Phoebe.”

      He made a dash for the kitchen, and when the exasperated Annie returned a few minutes later with Phoebe—rebellious Phoebe, who at