Radio Digest (Nov 1929-Apr 1930)

117 you, Jimmy, I'll route myself some other way next fall. You see, it's this way — " Oscar drew a long breath and lowered his voice confidentially: "Now that I'm married to Evelyn, Jimmy — I wouldn't sit through that confounded act another time if my life depended on it!" Gertrude (Continued from page 15) usually didn't; she hated his sleeping till ten o'clock every morning. But the poor fish had to. You see he'd gone back to the only thing he knew — playing a pipe organ in a little dump on Broadway which ground film steadily from 11 A. M. till 11 P. M. And he had to be on the job from two till four and from nine till eleven. As if that wasn't enough, in between times he'd begun writing songs for a music-publishing house; and before long he was all hopped up because he'd sold one for a hundred dollars. "It's great stuff, Harry," he said. "Irving Berlin began at Nigger Mike's — and look at him now." "Sure," I said. "And if the Western Union ever does have a daughter, you'll probably marry her. But in the meantime, what about your lawful wedded wife." "Well, she wanted me to work, didn't she?" "She did. And if you ask me, the less she sees of you, the more she's likely to care for you. Anyway, .that's the way it's worked out with me. Now that I almost never see you, I'm beginning to like you, Victor. And I've a feeling if I never saw you again I'd love you like a brother." "That goes double," said Victor. "Here! Have a cigar." As this was the first return I'd ever received for supporting both Victor and his ex-wife in luxury for over a year, I was deeply touched. "You're all right," I said. "Work, worry and women will make a man of you yet. By the way, who was that peach I saw you with yesterday on Broadway?" "Oh, just a cabaret singer. She wants me to write her a song." "Well, I'd be careful, if I were you." "I will," said Victor. "And I'll be good, too. Gert is a wonderful woman, Harry, only I don't believe she'd understand my renting a flat down by the theatre." ''A flat?" "Just a little one — with a piano in it. So I can compose myself — and maybe a song — between shows." "No," I said, "I don't believe Gert would understand that." <t"VX7"ELL, it's a nice quiet place," said '' Victor. "It's got one of those ice machines, too. And that big bottle in the bathroom marked turpentine is really Scotch. Here's the key." Can you beat it? Two presents from Victor in one day — a twenty-five cent cigar, the freedom of his flat. "I don't know that I ought to take this," I said. "Of course I am down town a good deal, and one does get thirsty." "Where did you say your flat was?" It's odd, but the more I approved of Victor (I spent quite a lot of time in his flat) the more I disapproved of Gert. And one day I made it a point to tell her so. "Look here!" I said. "It's none of my business, but the way you pick on Victor anybody would think he was a mandolin and you were taking lessons on him. What's the big idea?" "He makes me tired," said Gert. "He might as well be a boarder here, for all I see of him." "But he can't be here when he's working, and it was you who wanted him to go to work." "I know it was. I wanted him to marry me, too. But I was wrong, Harry. He's only my husband now — and he used to be so wonderful." <<YK/"ELL, life is like that," I said. W 'Great lovers make poor husbands, and great husbands are the poorest kind of lovers. You did the right thing by little Harry, though." "I'm not so sure," said Gert. "While I got my health and you got your money, little Harry don't need a father any more than a dog needs a pocket handkerchief." "That may be true now. But it will be different when he grows up." "Yes, it will! You know perfectly well what most fathers are to their kids when they grow up — nothing but bad examples." "But Victor's never had a chance," I said. "You kept him in idleness for a year. Now he's trying to catch up. Just wait till he sells a few more songs. Then he'll give up his job playing the pipe organ, and have a lot more time for you. Come! Think it over." "I've thought and thought," said Gert. "I'd'feel a lot better if I could have a real row with Victor. BuJ he won't even row with me any more. At night he's too tired and in the morning he's too darned cheerful." "Oh, then it's a row you need?" "Yes, Harry. Only I haven't been able to start anything. You see Victor never does anything really wrong." "Maybe not," I said. "But if you must have a row, why not ask him about that little flat he's rented on East 8th Street?" CHAPTER V. MAYBE you think I was a dirty dog to give poor Victor away like that. But Gert simply had to have a row, and here was material for half a dozen. Also, I felt sure Victor was innocence itself; that he really needed the flat to go on with his song-writing, and the only thing he'd been guilty of was not telling Gert about it. Besides, I've no patience with husbands who keep innocent secrets from their wives. Why should they when they have so many guilty ones? So I spilled poor Victor's secret. And did it work? Oh, Calvin! You should have seen Gert hit the ceiling. "A flat? On 8th Street?" she gasped. "What for?" "You can search me," I said. "But I don't believe he rented it to hold prayer meetings in." What followed was a wild rush of dressing to go down town. "You'll go with me, of course," said Gert. "I will not," I replied. "Though you're only a poor, defenseless woman, I'd be sorry for any lions or tigers that got in your way." "But I may need you." "It's your row," I said. "Hop to it." And she did — in a taxi. The minute she left the house I dashed to the telephone to warn Victor. Yes, I had that much heart. I'd have done the same for Florida if I'd known a hurricane was swooping down on her — and I'm a Californian. Only the very WOrst thing happened that could have happened: Victor's telephone was out of order. WHO to telephone to? I knew this was the hour Victor was usually in his flat; I also know Jack Parkinson, my lawyer, whose office was near by. would do this for me. But I couldn't very well ask Jack to go to a certain place and tell my brother-in-law to beat it because his wife was on the warpath. Family pride! Well, it was in the hands of Fate, on the knees of the gods — in the laps of the lazuli. If Victor was innocent, no harm could possibly come to him. If he wasn't, Heaven help him! In the meantime, since I couldn't tune in and listen to the great war over the Radio, perhaps I'd better go down town, too. Only what good would that do? Maybe I could stand on the sidewalk and catch Victor as he came through the window. But his flat was on the third floor. And I couldn't very well appear on the scene and mix in. For surely, of the few sacred things left in the world, the most sacred is a family row. No, decidedly, this was Gert's and Victor's affair. I mixed myself a gin-fizz and waited. Maybe Gert would telephone. She did. "Is that you, Harry?" "It are." "Well, you were right." "How do you mean right?" "Everything." "As bad as that?" "Worse. Please pack all his things and send them down to him at once. I don't want a rag of his around when I get back." YOU could have knocked me down with a feather. I would have staked my last dollar on Victor. And here was Gert turning him out of house and home. Of course nothing is really important. No doubt in years to come. ... It reminded me of Victor's song — the one he'd got a hundred dollars for. He didn't write the words; some low-browed Shelley from Tinpan Alley was responsible for them — a coon song, entitled: I Ain't Lost Nuthin' — Yet Lose your hat You go to a store, Lose your money You get you some more. Your house burns down? 'Tain't nuthin', brother. Your wife runs away — You get you another. Some folks say A nigger won't steal. I caught two In my corn field. But I ain't lost nuthin' And I won't lose nuthin' 'Til I lose my sex appeal. Well, there you are! According to his song, Victor hadn't lost a thingonly his home, his wife and big-hearted Harry, his brother-in-law. He was nothing now. but the quon-dam husband of the 2nd Mrs. Wiggins. So I packed his things, slipping in a box of my best cigars, a couple of my neckties he'd admired and a photograph of Gert and little Harry. For I was sorry for Victor. I also felt the least bit guilty. If I'd kept my mouth shut. . . . Still, there's no use crying over spilt husbands. So 1 dispatched his worldly goods in a yellow cab, mixed myself another gin-fizz, and sat down to wait Gert. How would she return? Would it be as a raging lioness, or as a broken lily? You never know about women. They'll stand up under a wallop that would floor Gene Tunney, and then go to pieces over an ink spot on the parlor floor. CHATTER VI. AS I WAS saying, you never knowabout women. I'll bet we know more about centipedes. And all we (Continued on page 183)