F. Scott Fitzgerald: Complete Works. F. Scott Fitzgerald
got to be a pusher-in-the-face, eh? Well, we’ll push your face right into jail!”
“I—I couldn’t help it,” gasped Stuart. “Sometimes I can’t help it.” His voice rose unevenly. “I guess I’m a dangerous man and you better take me and lock me up!” He turned wildly to Cushmael, “I’d push you in the face if he’d let go my arm. Yes, I would! I’d push you—right-in-the-face !”
For a moment an astonished silence fell, broken by the voice of one of the waitresses who had been groping under the table.
“Some stuff dropped out of this fella’s back pocket when he tipped over,” she explained, getting to her feet. “It’s—why, it’s a revolver and——”
She had been about to say handkerchief, but as she looked at what she was holding her mouth fell open and she dropped the thing quickly on the table. It was a small black mask about the size of her hand.
Simultaneously the Greek, who had been shifting uneasily upon his feet ever since the accident, seemed to remember an important engagement that had slipped his mind. He dashed suddenly around the table and made for the front door, but it opened just at that moment to admit several customers who, at the cry of “Stop him!” obligingly spread out their arms. Barred in that direction, he jumped an overturned chair, vaulted over the delicatessen counter, and set out for the kitchen, collapsing precipitately in the firm grasp of the chef in the doorway.
“Hold him! Hold him!” screamed Mr. Cushmael, realizing the turn of the situation. “They’re after my cash drawer!”
Willing hands assisted the Greek over the counter, where he stood panting and gasping under two dozen excited eyes.
“After my money, hey?” shouted the proprietor, shaking his fist under the captive’s nose.
The stout man nodded, panting.
“We’d of got it too!” he gasped, “if it hadn’t been for that little pusher-in-the-face.”
Two dozen eyes looked around eagerly. The little pusher-in-the-face had disappeared.
The beggar on the corner had just decided to tip the policeman and shut up shop for the night when he suddenly felt a small, somewhat excited hand fall on his shoulder.
“Help a poor man get a place to sleep—” he was beginning automatically when he recognized the little cashier from the restaurant. “Hello, brother,” he added, leering up at him and changing his tone.
“You know what?” cried the little cashier in a strangely ominous tone. “I’m going to push you in the face!”
“What do you mean?” snarled the beggar. “Why, you Ga——”
He got no farther. The little man seemed to run at him suddenly, holding out his hands, and there was a sharp, smacking sound as the beggar came in contact with the sidewalk.
“You’re a fakir!” shouted Charles Stuart wildly. “I gave you a dollar when I first came here, before I found out you had ten times as much as I had. And you never gave it back!”
A stout, faintly intoxicated gentleman who was strutting expansively along the other sidewalk had seen the incident and came running benevolently across the street.
“What does this mean!” he exclaimed in a hearty, shocked voice. “Why, poor fellow—” He turned indignant eyes on Charles Stuart and knelt unsteadily to raise the beggar.
The beggar stopped cursing and assumed a piteous whine.
“I’m a poor man, Cap’n—”
“This is—this is horrible !” cried the Samaritan, with tears in his eyes. “It’s a disgrace! Police! Pol ——!”
He got no farther. His hands, which he was raising for a megaphone, never reached his face—other hands reached his face, however, hands held stiffly out from a one-hundred-and-thirty-pound body! He sank down suddenly upon the beggar’s abdomen, forcing out a sharp curse which faded into a groan.
“This beggar’ll take you home in his car!” shouted the little man who stood over him. “He’s got it parked around the corner.”
Turning his face toward the hot strip of sky which lowered over the city the little man began to laugh, with amusement at first, then loudly and triumphantly until his high laughter rang out in the quiet street with a weird, elfish sound, echoing up the sides of the tall buildings, growing shriller and shriller until people blocks away heard its eerie cadence on the air and stopped to listen.
Still laughing the little man divested himself of his coat and then of his vest and hurriedly freed his neck of tie and collar. Then he spat upon his hands and with a wild, shrill, exultant cry began to run down the dark street.
He was going to clean up New York, and his first objective was the disagreeable policeman on the corner!
They caught him at two o’clock, and the crowd which had joined in the chase were flabbergasted when they found that the ruffian was only a weeping little man in his shirt-sleeves. Someone at the station house was wise enough to give him an opiate instead of a padded cell, and in the morning he felt much better.
Mr. Cushmael, accompanied by an anxious young lady with crimson hair, called at the jail before noon.
“I’ll get you out,” cried Mr. Cushmael, shaking hands excitedly through the bars. “One policeman, he’ll explain it all to the other.”
“And there’s a surprise for you too,” added Edna softly, taking his other hand. “Mr. Cushmael’s got a big heart and he’s going to make you his day man now.”
“All right,” agreed Charles Stuart calmly. “But I can’t start till tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“Because this afternoon I got to go to a matinee—with a friend.”
He relinquished his employer’s hand but kept Edna’s white fingers twined firmly in his.
“One more thing,” he went on in a strong, confident voice that was new to him, “if you want to get me off don’t have the case come up in the 35th Street court.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he answered with a touch of swagger in his voice, “that’s the judge I had when I was arrested last time.”
“Charles,” whispered Edna suddenly, “what would you do if I refused to go with you this afternoon?”
He bristled. Color came into his cheeks and he rose defiantly from his bench.
“Why, I’d—I’d——”
“Never mind,” she said, flushing slightly. “You’d do nothing of the kind.”
Love in the Night.
Saturday Evening Post (14 March 1925)
The words thrilled Val. They had come into his mind sometime during the fresh gold April afternoon and he kept repeating them to himself over and over: “Love in the night; love in the night.” He tried them in three languages—Russian, French and English—and decided that they were best in English. In each language they meant a different sort of love and a different sort of night—the English night seemed the warmest and softest with a thinnest and most crystalline sprinkling of stars. The English love seemed the most fragile and romantic—a white dress and a dim face above it and eyes that were pools of light. And when I add that it was a French night he was thinking about, after all, I see I must go back and begin over.
Val was half-Russian and half-American. His mother was the daughter of that Morris Hasylton who helped finance the Chicago World’s Fair in 1892, and his father was—see the Almanach de Gotha, issue of 1910—Prince Paul Serge Boris Rostoff, son of Prince Vladimir Rostoff, grandson of a grand duke—“Jimber-jawed Serge”—and third-cousin-once-removed to the czar. It was all very impressive, you see, on that side—house