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Title: My Life and Hard Times
Author: Thurber, James Grover (1894-1961)
Date of first publication: 1933
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York and London: Harper & Brothers
   [thirteenth edition; undated, but not later than 1944]
Date first posted: 25 October 2013
Date last updated: 25 October 2013
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1121

This ebook was produced by
Barbara Watson, Mark Akrigg, Dianne Nolan
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






                                  _MY_
                         _LIFE AND HARD TIMES_




[Illustration: _One woman climbed up into the "These Are My Jewels"
statue_]




                              My Life and
                               Hard Times


                                   By

                            _James Thurber_


                          =Harper & Brothers=
                               PUBLISHERS
                         _NEW YORK AND LONDON_




                         MY LIFE AND HARD TIMES
                                   BY
                             JAMES THURBER

                  _Copyright, 1933, by James Thurber_
               _Printed in the United States of America_

                _All rights in this book are reserved._
             _No part of the text may be reproduced in any_
            _manner whatsoever without written permission._
                       _For information address_
                          _Harper & Brothers._

                           THIRTEENTH EDITION
                                  K-S




                                 _FOR_
                           _MARY A. THURBER_




                               _CONTENTS_

                          _Preface to a Life_
                       I. _The Night the Bed Fell_
                      II. _The Car We Had to Push_
                     III. _The Day the Dam Broke_
                      IV. _The Night the Ghost Got In_
                       V. _More Alarms at Night_
                      VI. _A Sequence of Servants_
                     VII. _The Dog That Bit People_
                    VIII. _University Days_
                      IX. _Draft Board Nights_
                          _A Note at the End_




                            _ILLUSTRATIONS_

    _One woman climbed up into the "These Are My Jewels" statue_
    _Some nights she threw them all_
    _He came to the conclusion that he was suffocating_
    _Roy had to throw Rex_
    _It took sometimes as many as five or six_
    _The Get-Ready Man_
    _Electricity was leaking all over the house_
    _He caught the same disease that was killing the chestnut trees_
    _Two thousand people were in full flight_
    _"It's got us!" he shouted_
    _He always half suspected that something would get him_
    _Police were all over the place_
    _"Dusting," said Gertie_
    _"One night while doing the dishes ..."_
    _Nobody knew exactly what was the matter with him_
    _Lots of people reported our dog to the police_
    _Muggs at his meals was an unusual sight_
    _He was beginning to quiver all over like Lionel Barrymore_
    _Bolenciecwcz was trying to think_
    _About four o'clock he caught his brother asleep_
    _There was a tremendous to-do_
    _An abdominal man worrying_
    _A hotel room in Louisville_
    _They tried to sell me baskets_




                          _Preface to a Life_


Benvenuto Cellini said that a man should be at least forty years old
before he undertakes so fine an enterprise as that of setting down the
story of his life. He said also that an autobiographer should have
accomplished something of excellence. Nowadays nobody who has a
typewriter pays any attention to the old master's quaint rules. I myself
have accomplished nothing of excellence except a remarkable and, to some
of my friends, unaccountable expertness in hitting empty ginger ale
bottles with small rocks at a distance of thirty paces. Moreover, I am
not yet forty years old. But the grim date moves toward me apace; my
legs are beginning to go, things blur before my eyes, and the faces of
the rose-lipped maids I knew in my twenties are misty as dreams.

At forty my faculties may have closed up like flowers at evening,
leaving me unable to write my memoirs with a fitting and discreet
inaccuracy or, having written them, unable to carry them to the
publisher's. A writer verging into the middle years lives in dread of
losing his way to the publishing house and wandering down to the Bowery
or the Battery, there to disappear like Ambrose Bierce. He has sometimes
also the kindred dread of turning a sudden corner and meeting himself
sauntering along in the opposite direction. I have known writers at this
dangerous and tricky age to phone their homes from their offices, or
their offices from their homes, ask for themselves in a low tone, and
then, having fortunately discovered that they were "out", to collapse in
hard-breathing relief. This is particularly true of writers of light
pieces running from a thousand to two thousand words.

The notion that such persons are gay of heart and carefree is curiously
untrue. They lead, as a matter of fact, an existence of jumpiness and
apprehension. They sit on the edge of the chair of Literature. In the
house of Life they have the feeling that they have never taken off their
overcoats. Afraid of losing themselves in the larger flight of the
two-volume novel, or even the one-volume novel, they stick to short
accounts of their misadventures because they never get so deep into them
but that they feel they can get out. This type of writing is not a
joyous form of self-expression but the manifestation of a twitchiness at
once cosmic and mundane. Authors of such pieces have, nobody knows why,
a genius for getting into minor difficulties: they walk into the wrong
apartments, they drink furniture polish for stomach bitters, they drive
their cars into the prize tulip beds of haughty neighbors, they
playfully slap gangsters, mistaking them for old school friends. To call
such persons "humorists," a loose-fitting and ugly word, is to miss the
nature of their dilemma and the dilemma of their nature. The little
wheels of their invention are set in motion by the damp hand of
melancholy.

Such a writer moves about restlessly wherever he goes, ready to get the
hell out at the drop of a pie-pan or the lift of a skirt. His gestures
are the ludicrous reflexes of the maladjusted; his repose is the
momentary inertia of the nonplussed. He pulls the blinds against the
morning and creeps into smokey corners at night. He talks largely about
small matters and smally about great affairs. His ears are shut to the
ominous rumblings of the dynasties of the world moving toward a cloudier
chaos than ever before, but he hears with an acute perception the
startling sounds that rabbits make twisting in the bushes along a
country road at night and a cold chill comes upon him when the comic
supplement of a Sunday newspaper blows unexpectedly out of an areaway
and envelopes his knees. He can sleep while the commonwealth crumbles
but a strange sound in the pantry at three in the morning will strike
terror into his stomach. He is not afraid, or much aware, of the menaces
of empire but he keeps looking behind him as he walks along darkening
streets out of the fear that he is being softly followed by little men
padding along in single file, about a foot and a half high, large-eyed,
and whiskered.

It is difficult for such a person to conform to what Ford Madox Ford in
his book of recollections has called the sole reason for writing one's
memoirs: namely, to paint a picture of one's time. Your short-piece
writer's time is not Walter Lippmann's time, or Stuart Chase's time, or
Professor Einstein's time. It is his own personal time, circumscribed by
the short boundaries of his pain and his embarrassment, in which what
happens to his digestion, the rear axle of his car, and the confused
flow of his relationships with six or eight persons and two or three
buildings is of greater importance than what goes on in the nation or in
the universe. He knows vaguely that the nation is not much good any
more; he has read that the crust of the earth is shrinking alarmingly
and that the universe is growing steadily colder, but he does not
believe that any of the three is in half as bad shape as he is.

Enormous strides are made in star-measurement, theoretical economics,
and the manufacture of bombing planes, but he usually doesn't find out
about them until he picks up an old copy of "Time" on a picnic grounds
or in the summer house of a friend. He is aware that billions of dollars
are stolen every year by bankers and politicians, and that thousands of
people are out of work, but these conditions do not worry him a tenth as
much as the conviction that he has wasted three months on a stupid
psychoanalyst or the suspicion that a piece he has been working on for
two long days was done much better and probably more quickly by Robert
Benchley in 1924.

The "time" of such a writer, then, is hardly worth reading about if the
reader wishes to find out what was going on in the world while the
writer in question was alive and at what might be laughingly called "his
best". All that the reader is going to find out is what happened to the
writer. The compensation, I suppose, must lie in the comforting feeling
that one has had, after all, a pretty sensible and peaceful life, by
comparison. It is unfortunate, however, that even a well-ordered life
can not lead anybody safely around the inevitable doom that waits in the
skies. As F. Hopkinson Smith long ago pointed out, the claw of the
sea-puss gets us all in the end.

                                                                   J. T.

_Sandy Hook,_
_Connecticut,_
_September_ 25, 1933.




                        _MY LIFE AND HARD TIMES_




                              CHAPTER ONE


                        _The Night the Bed Fell_

I suppose that the high-water mark of my youth in Columbus, Ohio, was
the night the bed fell on my father. It makes a better recitation
(unless, as some friends of mine have said, one has heard it five or six
times) than it does a piece of writing, for it is almost necessary to
throw furniture around, shake doors, and bark like a dog, to lend the
proper atmosphere and verisimilitude to what is admittedly a somewhat
incredible tale. Still, it did take place.

It happened, then, that my father had decided to sleep in the attic one
night, to be away where he could think. My mother opposed the notion
strongly because, she said, the old wooden bed up there was unsafe: it
was wobbly and the heavy headboard would crash down on father's head in
case the bed fell, and kill him. There was no dissuading him, however,
and at a quarter past ten he closed the attic door behind him and went
up the narrow twisting stairs. We later heard ominous creakings as he
crawled into bed. Grandfather, who usually slept in the attic bed when
he was with us, had disappeared some days before. (On these occasions he
was usually gone six or eight days and returned growling and out of
temper, with the news that the federal Union was run by a passel of
blockheads and that the Army of the Potomac didn't have any more chance
than a fiddler's bitch.)

We had visiting us at this time a nervous first cousin of mine named
Briggs Beall, who believed that he was likely to cease breathing when he
was asleep. It was his feeling that if he were not awakened every hour
during the night, he might die of suffocation. He had been accustomed to
setting an alarm clock to ring at intervals until morning, but I
persuaded him to abandon this. He slept in my room and I told him that I
was such a light sleeper that if anybody quit breathing in the same room
with me, I would wake instantly. He tested me the first night--which I
had suspected he would--by holding his breath after my regular breathing
had convinced him I was asleep. I was not asleep, however, and called to
him. This seemed to allay his fears a little, but he took the precaution
of putting a glass of spirits of camphor on a little table at the head
of his bed. In case I didn't arouse him until he was almost gone, he
said, he would sniff the camphor, a powerful reviver. Briggs was not the
only member of his family who had his crotchets. Old Aunt Melissa Beall
(who could whistle like a man, with two fingers in her mouth) suffered
under the premonition that she was destined to die on South High Street,
because she had been born on South High Street and married on South High
Street. Then there was Aunt Sarah Shoaf, who never went to bed at night
without the fear that a burglar was going to get in and blow chloroform
under her door through a tube. To avert this calamity--for she was in
greater dread of anesthetics than of losing her household goods--she
always piled her money, silverware, and other valuables in a neat stack
just outside her bedroom, with a note reading: "This is all I have.
Please take it and do not use your chloroform, as this is all I have."
Aunt Gracie Shoaf also had a burglar phobia, but she met it with more
fortitude. She was confident that burglars had been getting into her
house every night for forty years. The fact that she never missed
anything was to her no proof to the contrary. She always claimed that
she scared them off before they could take anything, by throwing shoes
down the hallway. When she went to bed she piled, where she could get at
them handily, all the shoes there were about her house. Five minutes
after she had turned off the light, she would sit up in bed and say
"Hark!" Her husband, who had learned to ignore the whole situation as
long ago as 1903, would either be sound asleep or pretend to be sound
asleep. In either case he would not respond to her tugging and pulling,
so that presently she would arise, tiptoe to the door, open it slightly
and heave a shoe down the hall in one direction, and its mate down the
hall in the other direction. Some nights she threw them all, some nights
only a couple of pair.

[Illustration: _Some nights she threw them all._]

But I am straying from the remarkable incidents that took place during
the night that the bed fell on father. By midnight we were all in bed.
The layout of the rooms and the disposition of their occupants is
important to an understanding of what later occurred. In the front room
upstairs (just under father's attic bedroom) were my mother and my
brother Herman, who sometimes sang in his sleep, usually "Marching
Through Georgia" or "Onward, Christian Soldiers." Briggs Beall and
myself were in a room adjoining this one. My brother Roy was in a room
across the hall from ours. Our bull terrier, Rex, slept in the hall.

My bed was an army cot, one of those affairs which are made wide enough
to sleep on comfortably only by putting up, flat with the middle
section, the two sides which ordinarily hang down like the sideboards of
a drop-leaf table. When these sides are up, it is perilous to roll too
far toward the edge, for then the cot is likely to tip completely over,
bringing the whole bed down on top of one, with a tremendous banging
crash. This, in fact, is precisely what happened, about two o'clock in
the morning. (It was my mother who, in recalling the scene later, first
referred to it as "the night the bed fell on your father.")

[Illustration: _He came to the conclusion that he was suffocating._]

Always a deep sleeper, slow to arouse (I had lied to Briggs), I was at
first unconscious of what had happened when the iron cot rolled me onto
the floor and toppled over on me. It left me still warmly bundled up and
unhurt, for the bed rested above me like a canopy. Hence I did not wake
up, only reached the edge of consciousness and went back. The racket,
however, instantly awakened my mother, in the next room, who came to the
immediate conclusion that her worst dread was realized: the big wooden
bed upstairs had fallen on father. She therefore screamed, "Let's go to
your poor father!" It was this shout, rather than the noise of my cot
falling, that awakened Herman, in the same room with her. He thought
that mother had become, for no apparent reason, hysterical. "You're all
right, Mamma!" he shouted, trying to calm her. They exchanged shout for
shout for perhaps ten seconds: "Let's go to your poor father!" and
"You're all right!" That woke up Briggs. By this time I was conscious of
what was going on, in a vague way, but did not yet realize that I was
under my bed instead of on it. Briggs, awakening in the midst of loud
shouts of fear and apprehension, came to the quick conclusion that he
was suffocating and that we were all trying to "bring him out." With a
low moan, he grasped the glass of camphor at the head of his bed and
instead of sniffing it poured it over himself. The room reeked of
camphor. "Ugf, ahfg," choked Briggs, like a drowning man, for he had
almost succeeded in stopping his breath under the deluge of pungent
spirits. He leaped out of bed and groped toward the open window, but he
came up against one that was closed. With his hand, he beat out the
glass, and I could hear it crash and tinkle on the alleyway below. It
was at this juncture that I, in trying to get up, had the uncanny
sensation of feeling my bed above me! Foggy with sleep, I now suspected,
in my turn, that the whole uproar was being made in a frantic endeavor
to extricate me from what must be an unheard-of and perilous situation.
"Get me out of this!" I bawled. "Get me out!" I think I had the
nightmarish belief that I was entombed in a mine. "Gugh," gasped Briggs,
floundering in his camphor.

By this time my mother, still shouting, pursued by Herman, still
shouting, was trying to open the door to the attic, in order to go up
and get my father's body out of the wreckage. The door was stuck,
however, and wouldn't yield. Her frantic pulls on it only added to the
general banging and confusion. Roy and the dog were now up, the one
shouting questions, the other barking.

Father, farthest away and soundest sleeper of all, had by this time been
awakened by the battering on the attic door. He decided that the house
was on fire. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" he wailed in a slow, sleepy
voice--it took him many minutes to regain full consciousness. My mother,
still believing he was caught under the bed, detected in his "I'm
coming!" the mournful, resigned note of one who is preparing to meet his
Maker. "He's dying!" she shouted.

[Illustration: _Roy had to throw Rex._]

"I'm all right!" Briggs yelled to reassure her. "I'm all right!" He
still believed that it was his own closeness to death that was worrying
mother. I found at last the light switch in my room, unlocked the door,
and Briggs and I joined the others at the attic door. The dog, who never
did like Briggs, jumped for him--assuming that he was the culprit in
whatever was going on--and Roy had to throw Rex and hold him. We could
hear father crawling out of bed upstairs. Roy pulled the attic door
open, with a mighty jerk, and father came down the stairs, sleepy and
irritable but safe and sound. My mother began to weep when she saw him.
Rex began to howl. "What in the name of God is going on here?" asked
father.

The situation was finally put together like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle.
Father caught a cold from prowling around in his bare feet but there
were no other bad results. "I'm glad," said mother, who always looked on
the bright side of things, "that your grandfather wasn't here."




                              CHAPTER TWO


                        _The Car We Had to Push_

Many autobiographers, among them Lincoln Steffens and Gertrude Atherton,
describe earthquakes their families have been in. I am unable to do this
because my family was never in an earthquake, but we went through a
number of things in Columbus that were a great deal like earthquakes. I
remember in particular some of the repercussions of an old Reo we had
that wouldn't go unless you pushed it for quite a way and suddenly let
your clutch out. Once, we had been able to start the engine easily by
cranking it, but we had had the car for so many years that finally it
wouldn't go unless you pushed it and let your clutch out. Of course, it
took more than one person to do this; it took sometimes as many as five
or six, depending on the grade of the roadway and conditions underfoot.
The car was unusual in that the clutch and brake were on the same pedal,
making it quite easy to stall the engine after it got started, so that
the car would have to be pushed again.

[Illustration: _It took sometimes as many as five or six._]

My father used to get sick at his stomach pushing the car, and very
often was unable to go to work. He had never liked the machine, even
when it was good, sharing my ignorance and suspicion of all automobiles
of twenty years ago and longer. The boys I went to school with used to
be able to identify every car as it passed by: Thomas Flyer,
Firestone-Columbus, Stevens Duryea, Rambler, Winton, White Steamer, etc.
I never could. The only car I was really interested in was one that the
Get-Ready Man, as we called him, rode around town in: a big Red Devil
with a door in the back. The Get-Ready Man was a lank unkempt elderly
gentleman with wild eyes and a deep voice who used to go about shouting
at people through a megaphone to prepare for the end of the world, "=GET
READY! GET READ-Y!=" he would bellow, "=THE WORLLLD IS COMING TO AN
END!=" His startling exhortations would come up, like summer thunder, at
the most unexpected times and in the most surprising places. I remember
once during Mantell's production of "King Lear" at the Colonial Theatre,
that the Get-Ready Man added his bawlings to the squealing of Edgar and
the ranting of the King and the mouthing of the Fool, rising from
somewhere in the balcony to join in. The theatre was in absolute
darkness and there were rumblings of thunder and flashes of lightning
offstage. Neither father nor I, who were there, ever completely got over
the scene, which went something like this:

Edgar: Tom's a-cold.--O, do de, do de, do de!--Bless thee from
whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking . . . the foul fiend vexes!

                                                         (_Thunder off._

Lear: What! Have his daughters brought him to this pass?--

Get-Ready Man: Get ready! Get ready!

Edgar: Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill:--

                                               Halloo, halloo, loo, loo!
                                                   (_Lightning flashes._

[Illustration: _The Get-Ready Man._]

Get-Ready Man: The Worllld is com-ing to an End!

Fool: This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen!

Edgar: Take heed o' the foul fiend: obey thy paren----

Get-Ready Man: Get _Rea_-dy!

Edgar: Tom's a-_cold_!

Get-Ready Man: The _Worr_-uld is coming to an end! . . .

They found him finally, and ejected him, still shouting. The Theatre, in
our time, has known few such moments.

But to get back to the automobile. One of my happiest memories of it was
when, in its eighth year, my brother Roy got together a great many
articles from the kitchen, placed them in a square of canvas, and swung
this under the car with a string attached to it so that, at a twitch,
the canvas would give way and the steel and tin things would clatter to
the street. This was a little scheme of Roy's to frighten father, who
had always expected the car might explode. It worked perfectly. That was
twenty-five years ago, but it is one of the few things in my life I
would like to live over again if I could. I don't suppose that I can,
now. Roy twitched the string in the middle of a lovely afternoon, on
Bryden Road near Eighteenth Street. Father had closed his eyes and, with
his hat off, was enjoying a cool breeze. The clatter on the asphalt was
tremendously effective: knives, forks, can-openers, pie pans, pot lids,
biscuit-cutters, ladles, egg-beaters fell, beautifully together, in a
lingering, clamant crash. "Stop the _car_!" shouted father. "I can't,"
Roy said. "The engine fell out." "God Almighty!" said father, who knew
what _that_ meant, or knew what it sounded as if it might mean.

It ended unhappily, of course, because we finally had to drive back and
pick up the stuff and even father knew the difference between the works
of an automobile and the equipment of a pantry. My mother wouldn't have
known, however, nor _her_ mother. My mother, for instance, thought--or,
rather, knew--that it was dangerous to drive an automobile without
gasoline: it fried the valves, or something. "Now don't you dare drive
all over town without gasoline!" she would say to us when we started
off. Gasoline, oil, and water were much the same to her, a fact that
made her life both confusing and perilous. Her greatest dread, however,
was the Victrola--we had a very early one, back in the "Come Josephine
in My Flying Machine" days. She had an idea that the Victrola might blow
up. It alarmed her, rather than reassured her, to explain that the
phonograph was run neither by gasoline nor by electricity. She could
only suppose that it was propelled by some newfangled and untested
apparatus which was likely to let go at any minute, making us all the
victims and martyrs of the wild-eyed Edison's dangerous experiments. The
telephone she was comparatively at peace with, except, of course, during
storms, when for some reason or other she always took the receiver off
the hook and let it hang. She came naturally by her confused and
groundless fears, for her own mother lived the latter years of her life
in the horrible suspicion that electricity was dripping invisibly all
over the house. It leaked, she contended, out of empty sockets if the
wall switch had been left on. She would go around screwing in bulbs, and
if they lighted up she would hastily and fearfully turn off the wall
switch and go back to her _Pearson's_ or _Everybody's_, happy in the
satisfaction that she had stopped not only a costly but a dangerous
leakage. Nothing could ever clear this up for her.

[Illustration: _Electricity was leaking all over the house._]

Our poor old Reo came to a horrible end, finally. We had parked it too
far from the curb on a street with a car line. It was late at night and
the street was dark. The first streetcar that came along couldn't get
by. It picked up the tired old automobile as a terrier might seize a
rabbit and drubbed it unmercifully, losing its hold now and then but
catching a new grip a second later. Tires booped and whooshed, the
fenders queeled and graked, the steering-wheel rose up like a spectre
and disappeared in the direction of Franklin Avenue with a melancholy
whistling sound, bolts and gadgets flew like sparks from a Catherine
wheel. It was a splendid spectacle but, of course, saddening to
everybody (except the motorman of the streetcar, who was sore). I think
some of us broke down and wept. It must have been the weeping that
caused grandfather to take on so terribly. Time was all mixed up in his
mind; automobiles and the like he never remembered having seen. He
apparently gathered, from the talk and excitement and weeping, that
somebody had died. Nor did he let go of this delusion. He insisted, in
fact, after almost a week in which we strove mightily to divert him,
that it was a sin and a shame and a disgrace on the family to put the
funeral off any longer. "Nobody is dead! The automobile is smashed!"
shouted my father, trying for the thirtieth time to explain the
situation to the old man. "Was he drunk?" demanded grandfather, sternly.
"Was who drunk?" asked father. "Zenas," said grandfather. He had a name
for the corpse now: it was his brother Zenas, who, as it happened, _was_
dead, but not from driving an automobile while intoxicated. Zenas had
died in 1866. A sensitive, rather poetical boy of twenty-one when the
Civil War broke out, Zenas had gone to South America--"just," as he
wrote back, "until it blows over." Returning after the war had blown
over, he caught the same disease that was killing off the chestnut trees
in those years, and passed away. It was the only case in history where a
tree doctor had to be called in to spray a person, and our family had
felt it very keenly; nobody else in the United States caught the blight.
Some of us have looked upon Zenas' fate as a kind of poetic justice.

[Illustration: _He caught the same disease that was killing the chestnut
trees._]

Now that grandfather knew, so to speak, who was dead, it became
increasingly awkward to go on living in the same house with him as if
nothing had happened. He would go into towering rages in which he
threatened to write to the Board of Health unless the funeral were held
at once. We realized that something had to be done. Eventually, we
persuaded a friend of father's, named George Martin, to dress up in the
manner and costume of the eighteen-sixties and pretend to be Uncle
Zenas, in order to set grandfather's mind at rest. The impostor looked
fine and impressive in sideburns and a high beaver hat, and not unlike
the daguerreotypes of Zenas in our album. I shall never forget the
night, just after dinner, when this Zenas walked into the living-room.
Grandfather was stomping up and down, tall, hawk-nosed, round-oathed.
The newcomer held out both his hands. "Clem!" he cried to grandfather.
Grandfather turned slowly, looked at the intruder, and snorted. "Who air
_you_?" he demanded in his deep, resonant voice. "I'm Zenas!" cried
Martin. "Your brother Zenas, fit as a fiddle and sound as a dollar!"
"Zenas, my foot!" said grandfather. "Zenas died of the chestnut blight
in '66!"

Grandfather was given to these sudden, unexpected, and extremely lucid
moments; they were generally more embarrassing than his other moments.
He comprehended before he went to bed that night that the old automobile
had been destroyed and that its destruction had caused all the turmoil
in the house. "It flew all to pieces, Pa," my mother told him, in
graphically describing the accident. "I knew 'twould," growled
grandfather. "I allus told ye to git a Pope-Toledo."




                             CHAPTER THREE


                        _The Day the Dam Broke_

My memories of what my family and I went through during the 1913 flood
in Ohio I would gladly forget. And yet neither the hardships we endured
nor the turmoil and confusion we experienced can alter my feeling toward
my native state and city. I am having a fine time now and wish Columbus
were here, but if anyone ever wished a city was in hell it was during
that frightful and perilous afternoon in 1913 when the dam broke, or, to
be more exact, when everybody in town _thought_ that the dam broke. We
were both ennobled and demoralized by the experience. Grandfather
especially rose to magnificent heights which can never lose their
splendor for me, even though his reactions to the flood were based upon
a profound misconception; namely, that Nathan Bedford Forrest's cavalry
was the menace we were called upon to face. The only possible means of
escape for us was to flee the house, a step which grandfather sternly
forbade, brandishing his old army sabre in his hand. "Let the sons --
---- come!" he roared. Meanwhile hundreds of people were streaming by
our house in wild panic, screaming "Go east! Go east!" We had to stun
grandfather with the ironing board. Impeded as we were by the inert form
of the old gentleman--he was taller than six feet and weighed almost a
hundred and seventy pounds--we were passed, in the first half-mile, by
practically everybody else in the city. Had grandfather not come to, at
the corner of Parsons Avenue and Town Street, we would unquestionably
have been overtaken and engulfed by the roaring waters--that is, if
there had _been_ any roaring waters. Later, when the panic had died down
and people had gone rather sheepishly back to their homes and their
offices, minimizing the distances they had run and offering various
reasons for running, city engineers pointed out that even if the dam had
broken, the water level would not have risen more than two additional
inches in the West Side. The West Side was, at the time of the dam
scare, under thirty feet of water--as, indeed, were all Ohio river towns
during the great spring floods of twenty years ago. The East Side (where
we lived and where all the running occurred) had never been in any
danger at all. Only a rise of some ninety-five feet could have caused
the flood waters to flow over High Street--the thoroughfare that divided
the east side of town from the west--and engulf the East Side.

[Illustration: _Two thousand people were in full flight._]

The fact that we were all as safe as kittens under a cookstove did not,
however, assuage in the least the fine despair and the grotesque
desperation which seized upon the residents of the East Side when the
cry spread like a grass fire that the dam had given way. Some of the
most dignified, staid, cynical, and clear-thinking men in town abandoned
their wives, stenographers, homes, and offices and ran east. There are
few alarms in the world more terrifying than "The dam has broken!" There
are few persons capable of stopping to reason when that clarion cry
strikes upon their ears, even persons who live in towns no nearer than
five hundred miles to a dam.

The Columbus, Ohio, broken-dam rumor began, as I recall it, about noon
of March 12, 1913. High Street, the main canyon of trade, was loud with
the placid hum of business and the buzzing of placid businessmen
arguing, computing, wheedling, offering, refusing, compromising. Darius
Conningway, one of the foremost corporation lawyers in the Middle-West,
was telling the Public Utilities Commission in the language of Julius
Caesar that they might as well try to move the Northern star as to move
him. Other men were making their little boasts and their little
gestures. Suddenly somebody began to run. It may be that he had simply
remembered, all of a moment, an engagement to meet his wife, for which
he was now frightfully late. Whatever it was, he ran east on Broad
Street (probably toward the Maramor Restaurant, a favorite place for a
man to meet his wife). Somebody else began to run, perhaps a newsboy in
high spirits. Another man, a portly gentleman of affairs, broke into a
trot. Inside of ten minutes, everybody on High Street, from the Union
Depot to the Courthouse was running. A loud mumble gradually
crystallized into the dread word "dam." "The dam has broke!" The fear
was put into words by a little old lady in an electric, or by a traffic
cop, or by a small boy: nobody knows who, nor does it now really matter.
Two thousand people were abruptly in full flight. "Go east!" was the cry
that arose--east away from the river, east to safety. "Go east! Go east!
Go east!"

Black streams of people flowed eastward down all the streets leading in
that direction; these streams, whose headwaters were in the dry-goods
stores, office buildings, harness shops, movie theatres, were fed by
trickles of housewives, children, cripples, servants, dogs, and cats,
slipping out of the houses past which the main streams flowed, shouting
and screaming. People ran out leaving fires burning and food cooking and
doors wide open. I remember, however, that my mother turned out all the
fires and that she took with her a dozen eggs and two loaves of bread.
It was her plan to make Memorial Hall, just two blocks away, and take
refuge somewhere in the top of it, in one of the dusty rooms where war
veterans met and where old battle flags and stage scenery were stored.
But the seething throngs, shouting "Go east!," drew her along and the
rest of us with her. When grandfather regained full consciousness, at
Parsons Avenue, he turned upon the retreating mob like a vengeful
prophet and exhorted the men to form ranks and stand off the Rebel dogs,
but at length he, too, got the idea that the dam had broken and, roaring
"Go east!" in his powerful voice, he caught up in one arm a small child
and in the other a slight clerkish man of perhaps forty-two and we
slowly began to gain on those ahead of us.

A scattering of firemen, policemen, and army officers in dress
uniforms--there had been a review at Fort Hayes, in the northern part of
town--added color to the surging billows of people. "Go east!" cried a
little child in a piping voice, as she ran past a porch on which drowsed
a lieutenant-colonel of infantry. Used to quick decisions, trained to
immediate obedience, the officer bounded off the porch and, running at
full tilt, soon passed the child, bawling "Go east!" The two of them
emptied rapidly the houses of the little street they were on. "What is
it? What is it?" demanded a fat, waddling man who intercepted the
colonel. The officer dropped behind and asked the little child what it
was. "The dam has broke!" gasped the girl. "The dam has broke!" roared
the colonel. "Go east! Go east! Go east!" He was soon leading, with the
exhausted child in his arms, a fleeing company of three hundred persons
who had gathered around him from living-rooms, shops, garages,
backyards, and basements.

Nobody has ever been able to compute with any exactness how many people
took part in the great rout of 1913, for the panic, which extended from
the Winslow Bottling Works in the south end to Clintonville, six miles
north, ended as abruptly as it began and the bobtail and ragtag and
velvet-gowned groups of refugees melted away and slunk home, leaving the
streets peaceful and deserted. The shouting, weeping, tangled evacuation
of the city lasted not more than two hours in all. Some few people got
as far east as Reynoldsburg, twelve miles away; fifty or more reached
the Country Club, eight miles away; most of the others gave up,
exhausted, or climbed trees in Franklin Park, four miles out. Order was
restored and fear dispelled finally by means of militiamen riding about
in motor lorries bawling through megaphones: "The dam has _not_ broken!"
At first this tended only to add to the confusion and increase the
panic, for many stampeders thought the soldiers were bellowing "The dam
has now broken!," thus setting an official seal of authentication on the
calamity.

All the time, the sun shone quietly and there was nowhere any sign of
oncoming waters. A visitor in an airplane, looking down on the
straggling, agitated masses of people below, would have been hard put to
it to divine a reason for the phenomenon. It must have inspired, in such
an observer, a peculiar kind of terror, like the sight of the _Marie
Celeste_, abandoned at sea, its galley fires peacefully burning, its
tranquil decks bright in the sunlight.

An aunt of mine, Aunt Edith Taylor, was in a movie theatre on High
Street when, over and above the sound of the piano in the pit (a W. S.
Hart picture was being shown), there rose the steadily increasing tromp
of running feet. Persistent shouts rose above the tromping. An elderly
man, sitting near my aunt, mumbled something, got out of his seat, and
went up the aisle at a dogtrot. This started everybody. In an instant
the audience was jamming the aisles. "Fire!" shouted a woman who always
expected to be burned up in a theatre; but now the shouts outside were
louder and coherent. "The dam has broke!" cried somebody. "Go east!"
screamed a small woman in front of my aunt. And east they went, pushing
and shoving and clawing, knocking women and children down, emerging
finally into the street, torn and sprawling. Inside the theatre, Bill
Hart was calmly calling some desperado's bluff and the brave girl at the
piano played "Row! Row! Row!" loudly and then "In My Harem." Outside,
men were streaming across the Statehouse yard, others were climbing
trees, a woman managed to get up onto the "These Are My Jewels" statue,
whose bronze figures of Sherman, Stanton, Grant, and Sheridan watched
with cold unconcern the going to pieces of the capital city.

"I ran south to State Street, east on State to Third, south on Third to
Town, and out east on Town," my Aunt Edith has written me. "A tall spare
woman with grim eyes and a determined chin ran past me down the middle
of the street. I was still uncertain as to what was the matter, in spite
of all the shouting. I drew up alongside the woman with some effort, for
although she was in her late fifties, she had a beautiful easy running
form and seemed to be in excellent condition. 'What is it?' I puffed.
She gave me a quick glance and then looked ahead again, stepping up her
pace a trifle. 'Don't ask me, ask God!' she said.

"When I reached Grant Avenue, I was so spent that Dr. H. R. Mallory--you
remember Dr. Mallory, the man with the white beard who looks like Robert
Browning?--well, Dr. Mallory, whom I had drawn away from at the corner
of Fifth and Town, passed me. 'It's got us!' he shouted, and I felt sure
that whatever it was _did_ have us, for you know what conviction Dr.
Mallory's statements always carried. I didn't know at the time what he
meant, but I found out later. There was a boy behind him on
roller-skates, and Dr. Mallory mistook the swishing of the skates for
the sound of rushing water. He eventually reached the Columbus School
for Girls, at the corner of Parsons Avenue and Town Street, where he
collapsed, expecting the cold frothing waters of the Scioto to sweep him
into oblivion. The boy on the skates swirled past him and Dr. Mallory
realized for the first time what he had been running from. Looking back
up the street, he could see no signs of water, but nevertheless, after
resting a few minutes, he jogged on east again. He caught up with me at
Ohio Avenue, where we rested together. I should say that about seven
hundred people passed us. A funny thing was that all of them were on
foot. Nobody seemed to have had the courage to stop and start his car;
but as I remember it, all cars had to be cranked in those days, which is
probably the reason."

[Illustration: _"It's got us!" he shouted._]

The next day, the city went about its business as if nothing had
happened, but there was no joking. It was two years or more before you
dared treat the breaking of the dam lightly. And even now, twenty years
after, there are a few persons, like Dr. Mallory, who will shut up like
a clam if you mention the Afternoon of the Great Run.




                              CHAPTER FOUR


                      _The Night the Ghost Got In_

The ghost that got into our house on the night of November 17, 1915,
raised such a hullabaloo of misunderstandings that I am sorry I didn't
just let it keep on walking, and go to bed. Its advent caused my mother
to throw a shoe through a window of the house next door and ended up
with my grandfather shooting a patrolman. I am sorry, therefore, as I
have said, that I ever paid any attention to the footsteps.

They began about a quarter past one o'clock in the morning, a rhythmic,
quick-cadenced walking around the dining-room table. My mother was
asleep in one room upstairs, my brother Herman in another; grandfather
was in the attic, in the old walnut bed which, as you will remember,
once fell on my father. I had just stepped out of the bathtub and was
busily rubbing myself with a towel when I heard the steps. They were the
steps of a man walking rapidly around the dining-room table downstairs.
The light from the bathroom shone down the back steps, which dropped
directly into the dining-room; I could see the faint shine of plates on
the plate-rail; I couldn't see the table. The steps kept going round and
round the table; at regular intervals a board creaked, when it was trod
upon. I supposed at first that it was my father or my brother Roy, who
had gone to Indianapolis but were expected home at any time. I suspected
next that it was a burglar. It did not enter my mind until later that it
was a ghost.

[Illustration: _He always half suspected that something would get him._]

After the walking had gone on for perhaps three minutes, I tiptoed to
Herman's room. "Psst!" I hissed, in the dark, shaking him. "Awp," he
said, in the low, hopeless tone of a despondent beagle--he always half
suspected that something would "get him" in the night. I told him who I
was. "There's something downstairs!" I said. He got up and followed me
to the head of the back staircase. We listened together. There was no
sound. The steps had ceased. Herman looked at me in some alarm: I had
only the bath towel around my waist. He wanted to go back to bed, but I
gripped his arm. "There's something down there!" I said. Instantly the
steps began again, circled the dining-room table like a man running, and
started up the stairs toward us, heavily, two at a time. The light still
shone palely down the stairs; we saw nothing coming; we only heard the
steps. Herman rushed to his room and slammed the door. I slammed shut
the door at the stairs top and held my knee against it. After a long
minute, I slowly opened it again. There was nothing there. There was no
sound. None of us ever heard the ghost again.

The slamming of the doors had aroused mother: she peered out of her
room. "What on earth are you boys doing?" she demanded. Herman ventured
out of his room. "Nothing," he said, gruffly, but he was, in color, a
light green. "What was all that running around downstairs?" said mother.
So she had heard the steps, too! We just looked at her. "Burglars!" she
shouted, intuitively. I tried to quiet her by starting lightly
downstairs.

"Come on, Herman," I said.

"I'll stay with mother," he said. "She's all excited."

I stepped back onto the landing.

"Don't either of you go a step," said mother. "We'll call the police."
Since the phone was downstairs, I didn't see how we were going to call
the police--nor did I want the police--but mother made one of her quick,
incomparable decisions. She flung up a window of her bedroom which faced
the bedroom windows of the house of a neighbor, picked up a shoe, and
whammed it through a pane of glass across the narrow space that
separated the two houses. Glass tinkled into the bedroom occupied by a
retired engraver named Bodwell and his wife. Bodwell had been for some
years in rather a bad way and was subject to mild "attacks." Most
everybody we knew or lived near had _some_ kind of attacks.

It was now about two o'clock of a moonless night; clouds hung black and
low. Bodwell was at the window in a minute, shouting, frothing a little,
shaking his fist. "We'll sell the house and go back to Peoria," we could
hear Mrs. Bodwell saying. It was some time before Mother "got through"
to Bodwell. "Burglars!" she shouted. "Burglars in the house!" Herman and
I hadn't dared to tell her that it was not burglars but ghosts, for she
was even more afraid of ghosts than of burglars. Bodwell at first
thought that she meant there were burglars in his house, but finally he
quieted down and called the police for us over an extension phone by his
bed. After he had disappeared from the window, mother suddenly made as
if to throw another shoe, not because there was further need of it but,
as she later explained, because the thrill of heaving a shoe through a
window glass had enormously taken her fancy. I prevented her.

The police were on hand in a commendably short time: a Ford sedan full
of them, two on motorcycles, and a patrol wagon with about eight in it
and a few reporters. They began banging at our front door. Flashlights
shot streaks of gleam up and down the walls, across the yard, down the
walk between our house and Bodwell's. "Open up!" cried a hoarse voice.
"We're men from Headquarters!" I wanted to go down and let them in,
since there they were, but mother wouldn't hear of it. "You haven't a
stitch on," she pointed out. "You'd catch your death." I wound the towel
around me again. Finally the cops put their shoulders to our big heavy
front door with its thick beveled glass and broke it in: I could hear a
rending of wood and a splash of glass on the floor of the hall. Their
lights played all over the living-room and crisscrossed nervously in the
dining-room, stabbed into hallways, shot up the front stairs and finally
up the back. They caught me standing in my towel at the top. A heavy
policeman bounded up the steps. "Who are you?" he demanded. "I live
here," I said. "Well, whattsa matta, ya hot?" he asked. It was, as a
matter of fact, cold; I went to my room and pulled on some trousers. On
my way out, a cop stuck a gun into my ribs. "Whatta you doin' here?" he
demanded. "I live here," I said.

The officer in charge reported to mother.

"No sign of nobody, lady," he said. "Musta got away--whatt'd he look
like?" "There were two or three of them," mother said, "whooping and
carrying on and slamming doors." "Funny," said the cop. "All ya windows
and doors was locked on the inside tight as a tick."

Downstairs, we could hear the tromping of the other police. Police were
all over the place; doors were yanked open, drawers were yanked open,
windows were shot up and pulled down, furniture fell with dull thumps. A
half-dozen policemen emerged out of the darkness of the front hallway
upstairs. They began to ransack the floor: pulled beds away from walls,
tore clothes off hooks in the closets, pulled suitcases and boxes off
shelves. One of them found an old zither that Roy had won in a pool
tournament. "Looky here, Joe," he said, strumming it with a big paw. The
cop named Joe took it and turned it over. "What is it?" he asked me.
"It's an old zither our guinea pig used to sleep on," I said. It was
true that a pet guinea pig we once had would never sleep anywhere except
on the zither, but I should never have said so. Joe and the other cop
looked at me a long time. They put the zither back on a shelf.

[Illustration: _Police were all over the place._]

"No sign o' nuthin'," said the cop who had first spoken to mother. "This
guy," he explained to the others, jerking a thumb at me, "was nekked.
The lady seems historical." They all nodded, but said nothing; just
looked at me. In the small silence we all heard a creaking in the attic.
Grandfather was turning over in bed. "What's 'at?" snapped Joe. Five or
six cops sprang for the attic door before I could intervene or explain.
I realized that it would be bad if they burst in on grandfather
unannounced, or even announced. He was going through a phase in which he
believed that General Meade's men, under steady hammering by Stonewall
Jackson, were beginning to retreat and even desert.

When I got to the attic, things were pretty confused. Grandfather had
evidently jumped to the conclusion that the police were deserters from
Meade's army, trying to hide away in his attic. He bounded out of bed
wearing a long flannel nightgown over long woolen underwear, a nightcap,
and a leather jacket around his chest. The cops must have realized at
once that the indignant white-haired old man belonged in the house, but
they had no chance to say so. "Back, ye cowardly dogs!" roared
grandfather. "Back t' the lines, ye goddam lily-livered cattle!" With
that, he fetched the officer who found the zither a flat-handed smack
alongside his head that sent him sprawling. The others beat a retreat,
but not fast enough; grandfather grabbed Zither's gun from its holster
and let fly. The report seemed to crack the rafters; smoke filled the
attic. A cop cursed and shot his hand to his shoulder. Somehow, we all
finally got downstairs again and locked the door against the old
gentleman. He fired once or twice more in the darkness and then went
back to bed. "That was grandfather," I explained to Joe, out of breath.
"He thinks you're deserters." "I'll say he does," said Joe.

The cops were reluctant to leave without getting their hands on somebody
besides grandfather; the night had been distinctly a defeat for them.
Furthermore, they obviously didn't like the "layout"; something
looked--and I can see their viewpoint--phony. They began to poke into
things again. A reporter, a thin-faced, wispy man, came up to me. I had
put on one of mother's blouses, not being able to find anything else.
The reporter looked at me with mingled suspicion and interest. "Just
what the hell is the real lowdown here, Bud?" he asked. I decided to be
frank with him. "We had ghosts," I said. He gazed at me a long time as
if I were a slot machine into which he had, without results, dropped a
nickel. Then he walked away. The cops followed him, the one grandfather
shot holding his now-bandaged arm, cursing and blaspheming. "I'm gonna
get my gun back from that old bird," said the zither-cop. "Yeh," said
Joe. "You--and who else?" I told them I would bring it to the station
house the next day.

"What was the matter with that one policeman?" mother asked, after they
had gone. "Grandfather shot him," I said. "What for?" she demanded. I
told her he was a deserter. "Of all things!" said mother. "He was such a
nice-looking young man."

Grandfather was fresh as a daisy and full of jokes at breakfast next
morning. We thought at first he had forgotten all about what had
happened, but he hadn't. Over his third cup of coffee, he glared at
Herman and me. "What was the idee of all them cops tarryhootin' round
the house last night?" he demanded. He had us there.




                              CHAPTER FIVE


                         _More Alarms at Night_

One of the incidents that I always think of first when I cast back over
my youth is what happened the night that my father "threatened to get
Buck." This, as you will see, is not precisely a fair or accurate
description of what actually occurred, but it is the way in which I and
the other members of my family invariably allude to the occasion. We
were living at the time in an old house at 77 Lexington Avenue, in
Columbus, Ohio. In the early years of the nineteenth century, Columbus
won out, as state capital, by only one vote over Lancaster, and ever
since then has had the hallucination that it is being followed, a
curious municipal state of mind which affects, in some way or other, all
those who live there. Columbus is a town in which almost anything is
likely to happen and in which almost everything has.

My father was sleeping in the front room on the second floor next to
that of my brother Roy, who was then about sixteen. Father was usually
in bed by nine-thirty and up again by ten-thirty to protest bitterly
against a Victrola record we three boys were in the habit of playing
over and over, namely, "No News, or What Killed the Dog," a recitation
by Nat Wills. The record had been played so many times that its grooves
were deeply cut and the needle often kept revolving in the same groove,
repeating over and over the same words. Thus: "ate some burnt hoss
flesh, ate some burnt hoss flesh, ate some burnt hoss flesh." It was
this reiteration that generally got father out of bed.

On the night in question, however, we had all gone to bed at about the
same time, without much fuss. Roy, as a matter of fact, had been in bed
all day with a kind of mild fever. It wasn't severe enough to cause
delirium and my brother was the last person in the world to give way to
delirium. Nevertheless, he had warned father when father went to bed,
that he _might_ become delirious.

About three o'clock in the morning, Roy, who was wakeful, decided to
pretend that delirium was on him, in order to have, as he later
explained it, some "fun." He got out of bed and, going to my father's
room, shook him and said, "Buck, your time has come!" My father's name
was not Buck but Charles, nor had he ever been called Buck. He was a
tall, mildly nervous, peaceable gentleman, given to quiet pleasures, and
eager that everything should run smoothly. "Hmm?" he said, with drowsy
bewilderment. "Get up, Buck," said my brother, coldly, but with a
certain gleam in his eyes. My father leaped out of bed, on the side away
from his son, rushed from the room, locked the door behind him, and
shouted us all up.

We were naturally enough reluctant to believe that Roy, who was quiet
and self-contained, had threatened his father with any such abracadabra
as father said he had. My older brother, Herman, went back to bed
without any comment. "You've had a bad dream," my mother said. This
vexed my father. "I tell you he called me Buck and told me my time had
come," he said. We went to the door of his room, unlocked it, and
tiptoed through it to Roy's room. He lay in his bed, breathing easily,
as if he were fast asleep. It was apparent at a glance that he did not
have a high fever. My mother gave my father a look. "I tell you he did,"
whispered father.

Our presence in the room finally seemed to awaken Roy and he was (or
rather, as we found out long afterward, pretended to be) astonished and
bewildered. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Nothing," said my mother.
"Just your father had a nightmare." "I did not have a nightmare," said
father, slowly and firmly. He wore an old-fashioned, "side-slit"
nightgown which looked rather odd on his tall, spare figure. The
situation, before we let it drop and everybody went back to bed again,
became, as such situations in our family usually did, rather more
complicated than ironed out. Roy demanded to know what had happened, and
my mother told him, in considerably garbled fashion, what father had
told her. At this a light dawned in Roy's eyes. "Dad's got it backward,"
he said. He then explained that he had heard father get out of bed and
had called to him. "I'll handle this," his father had answered. "Buck is
downstairs." "Who is this Buck?" my mother demanded of father. "I don't
know any Buck and I never said that," father contended, irritably. None
of us (except Roy, of course) believed him. "You had a dream," said
mother. "People have these dreams." "I did not have a dream," father
said. He was pretty well nettled by this time, and he stood in front of
a bureau mirror, brushing his hair with a pair of military brushes; it
always seemed to calm father to brush his hair. My mother declared that
it was "a sin and a shame" for a grown man to wake up a sick boy simply
because he (the grown man: father) had got on his back and had a bad
dream. My father, as a matter of fact, _had_ been known to have
nightmares, usually about Lillian Russell and President Cleveland, who
chased him.

We argued the thing for perhaps another half-hour, after which mother
made father sleep in her room. "You're all safe now, boys," she said,
firmly, as she shut her door. I could hear father grumbling for a long
time, with an occasional monosyllable of doubt from mother.

It was some six months after this that father went through a similar
experience with me. He was at that time sleeping in the room next to
mine. I had been trying all afternoon, in vain, to think of the name
Perth Amboy. It seems now like a very simple name to recall and yet on
the day in question I thought of every other town in the country, as
well as such words and names and phrases as terra cotta, Walla-Walla,
bill of lading, vice versa, hoity-toity, Pall Mall, Bodley Head,
Schumann-Heink, etc., without even coming close to Perth Amboy. I
suppose terra cotta was the closest I came, although it was not very
close.

Long after I had gone to bed, I was struggling with the problem. I began
to indulge in the wildest fancies as I lay there in the dark, such as
that there was no such town, and even that there was no such state as
New Jersey. I fell to repeating the word "Jersey" over and over again,
until it became idiotic and meaningless. If you have ever lain awake at
night and repeated one word over and over, thousands and millions and
hundreds of thousands of millions of times, you know the disturbing
mental state you can get into. I got to thinking that there was nobody
else in the world but me, and various other wild imaginings of that
nature. Eventually, lying there thinking these outlandish thoughts, I
grew slightly alarmed. I began to suspect that one might lose one's mind
over some such trivial mental tic as a futile search for terra firma
Piggly Wiggly Gorgonzola Prester John Arc de Triomphe Holy Moses Lares
and Penates. I began to feel the imperative necessity of human contact.
This silly and alarming tangle of thought and fancy had gone far enough.
I might get into some kind of mental aberrancy unless I found out the
name of that Jersey town and could go to sleep. Therefore, I got out of
bed, walked into the room where father was sleeping, and shook him.
"Um?" he mumbled. I shook him more fiercely and he finally woke up, with
a glaze of dream and apprehension in his eyes. "What's matter?" he
asked, thickly. I must, indeed, have been rather wild of eye, and my
hair, which is unruly, becomes monstrously tousled and snarled at night.
"Wha's it?" said my father, sitting up, in readiness to spring out of
bed on the far side. The thought must have been going through his mind
that all his sons were crazy, or on the verge of going crazy. I see that
now, but I didn't then, for I had forgotten the Buck incident and did
not realize how similar my appearance must have been to Roy's the night
he called father Buck and told him his time had come. "Listen," I said.
"Name some towns in New Jersey quick!" It must have been around three in
the morning. Father got up, keeping the bed between him and me, and
started to pull his trousers on. "Don't bother about dressing," I said.
"Just name some towns in New Jersey." While he hastily pulled on his
clothes--I remember he left his socks off and put his shoes on his bare
feet--father began to name, in a shaky voice, various New Jersey cities.
I can still see him reaching for his coat without taking his eyes off
me. "Newark," he said, "Jersey City, Atlantic City, Elizabeth, Paterson,
Passaic, Trenton, Jersey City, Trenton, Paterson--" "It has two names,"
I snapped. "Elizabeth and Paterson," he said. "No, no!" I told him,
irritably. "This is one town with one name, but there are two words in
it, like helter-skelter." "Helter-skelter," said my father, moving
slowly toward the bedroom door and smiling in a faint, strained way
which I understand now--but didn't then--was meant to humor me. When he
was within a few paces of the door, he fairly leaped for it and ran out
into the hall, his coat-tails and shoelaces flying. The exit stunned me.
I had no notion that he thought I had gone out of my senses; I could
only believe that he had gone out of _his_ or that, only partially
awake, he was engaged in some form of running in his sleep. I ran after
him and I caught him at the door of mother's room and grabbed him, in
order to reason with him. I shook him a little, thinking to wake him
completely. "Mary! Roy! Herman!" he shouted. I, too, began to shout for
my brothers and my mother. My mother opened her door instantly, and
there we were at 3:30 in the morning grappling and shouting, father
partly dressed, but without socks or shirt, and I in pajamas.

"_Now_, what?" demanded my mother, grimly, pulling us apart. She was
capable, fortunately, of handling any two of us and she never in her
life was alarmed by the words or actions of any one of us.

"Look out for Jamie!" said father. (He always called me Jamie when
excited.) My mother looked at me.

"What's the matter with your father?" she demanded. I said I didn't
know; I said he had got up suddenly and dressed and ran out of the room.

"Where did you think you were going?" mother asked him, coolly. He
looked at me. We looked at each other, breathing hard, but somewhat
calmer.

"He was babbling about New Jersey at this infernal hour of the night,"
said father. "He came to my room and asked me to name towns in New
Jersey." Mother looked at me.

"I just asked him," I said. "I was trying to think of one and couldn't
sleep."

"You see?" said father, triumphantly. Mother didn't look at him.

"Get to bed, both of you," she said. "I don't want to hear any more out
of you tonight. Dressing and tearing up and down the hall at this hour
in the morning!" She went back into the room and shut her door. Father
and I went back to bed. "Are you all right?" he called to me. "Are you?"
I asked. "Well, good night," he said. "Good night," I said.

Mother would not let the rest of us discuss the affair next morning at
breakfast. Herman asked what the hell had been the matter. "We'll go on
to something more elevating," said mother.




                              CHAPTER SIX


                        _A Sequence of Servants_

When I look back on the long line of servants my mother hired during the
years I lived at home, I remember clearly ten or twelve of them (we had
about a hundred and sixty-two, all told, but few of them were
memorable). There was, among the immortals, Dora Gedd, a quiet, mousy
girl of thirty-two who one night shot at a man in her room, throwing our
household into an uproar that was equalled perhaps only by the goings-on
the night the ghost got in. Nobody knew how her lover, a morose garage
man, got into the house, but everybody for two blocks knew how he got
out. Dora had dressed up in a lavender evening gown for the occasion and
she wore a mass of jewelry, some of which was my mother's. She kept
shouting something from Shakespeare after the shooting--I forget just
what--and pursued the gentleman downstairs from her attic room. When he
got to the second floor he rushed into my father's room. It was this
entrance, and not the shot or the shouting, that aroused father, a deep
sleeper always. "Get me out of here!" shouted the victim. This situation
rapidly developed, from then on, into one of those bewildering
involvements for which my family had, I am afraid, a kind of unhappy
genius. When the cops arrived Dora was shooting out the Welsbach gas
mantles in the living room, and her gentleman friend had fled. By dawn
everything was quiet once more.

There were others. Gertie Straub: big, genial, and ruddy, a collector of
pints of rye (we learned after she was gone), who came in after two
o'clock one night from a dancing party at Buckeye Lake and awakened us
by bumping into and knocking over furniture. "Who's down there?" called
mother from upstairs. "It's me, dearie," said Gertie, "Gertie Straub."
"What are you _doing_?" demanded mother. "Dusting," said Gertie.

[Illustration: _"Dusting," said Gertie._]

Juanemma Kramer was one of my favorites. Her mother loved the name
Juanita so dearly that she had worked the first part of it into the
names of all her daughters--they were (in addition to a Juanita)
Juanemma, Juanhelen, and Juangrace. Juanemma was a thin, nervous maid
who lived in constant dread of being hypnotized. Nor were her fears
unfounded, for she was so extremely susceptible to hypnotic suggestion
that one evening at B. F. Keith's theatre when a man on the stage was
hypnotized, Juanemma, in the audience, was hypnotized too and floundered
out into the aisle making the same cheeping sound that the subject on
the stage, who had been told he was a chicken, was making. The act was
abandoned and some xylophone players were brought on to restore order.
One night, when our house was deep in quiet slumber, Juanemma became
hypnotized in her sleep. She dreamed that a man "put her under" and then
disappeared without "bringing her out." This was explained when, at
last, a police surgeon whom we called in--he was the only doctor we
could persuade to come out at three in the morning--slapped her into
consciousness. It got so finally that any buzzing or whirring sound or
any flashing object would put Juanemma under, and we had to let her go.
I was reminded of her recently when, at a performance of the movie
"Rasputin and the Empress," there came the scene in which Lionel
Barrymore as the unholy priest hypnotizes the Czarevitch by spinning
before his eyes a glittering watch. If Juanemma sat in any theatre and
witnessed that scene she must, I am sure, have gone under instantly.
Happily, she seems to have missed the picture, for otherwise Mr.
Barrymore might have had to dress up again as Rasputin (which God
forbid) and journey across the country to get her out of it--excellent
publicity but a great bother.

Before I go on to Vashti, whose last name I forget, I will look in
passing at another of our white maids (Vashti was colored). Belle Giddin
distinguished herself by one gesture which fortunately did not result in
the bedlam occasioned by Juanemma's hypnotic states or Dora Gedd's
shooting spree. Belle burned her finger grievously, and purposely, one
afternoon in the steam of a boiling kettle so that she could find out
whether the pain-killer she had bought one night at a tent-show for
fifty cents was any good. It was only fair.

Vashti turned out, in the end, to be partly legendary. She was a comely
and sombre negress who was always able to find things my mother lost. "I
don't know what's become of my garnet brooch," my mother said one day.
"Yassum," said Vashti. In half an hour she had found it. "Where in the
world was it?" asked mother. "In de yahd," said Vashti. "De dog mussa
drug it out."

Vashti was in love with a young colored chauffeur named Charley, but she
was also desired by her stepfather, whom none of us had ever seen but
who was, she said, a handsome but messin' round gentleman from Georgia
who had come north and married Vashti's mother just so he could be near
Vashti. Charley, her fianc, was for killing the stepfather but we
counselled flight to another city. Vashti, however, would burst into
tears and hymns and vow she'd never leave us; she got a certain pleasure
out of bearing her cross. Thus we all lived in jeopardy, for the
possibility that Vashti, Charley, and her stepfather might fight it out
some night in our kitchen did not, at times, seem remote. Once I went
into the kitchen at midnight to make some coffee. Charley was standing
at a window looking out into the backyard; Vashti was rolling her eyes.
"Heah he come! Heah he come!" she moaned. The stepfather didn't show up,
however.

Charley finally saved up twenty-seven dollars toward taking Vashti away
but one day he impulsively bought a .22 revolver with a mother-of-pearl
handle and demanded that Vashti tell him where her mother and stepfather
lived. "Doan go up dere, doan go _up_ dere!" said Vashti. "Mah mothah is
just as rarin' as he is!" Charley, however, insisted. It came out then
that Vashti didn't have any stepfather; there was no such person.
Charley threw her over for a yellow gal named Nancy: he never forgave
Vashti for the vanishing from his life of a menace that had come to mean
more to him than Vashti herself. Afterwards, if you asked Vashti about
her stepfather or about Charley she would say, proudly, and with a
woman-of-the-world air, "Neither one ob 'em is messin' round _me_ any
mo'."

Mrs. Doody, a huge, middle-aged woman with a religious taint, came into
and went out of our house like a comet. The second night she was there
she went berserk while doing the dishes and, under the impression that
father was the Antichrist, pursued him several times up the backstairs
and down the front. He had been sitting quietly over his coffee in the
living room when she burst in from the kitchen waving a bread knife. My
brother Herman finally felled her with a piece of Libby's cut-glass that
had been a wedding present of mother's. Mother, I remember, was in the
attic at the time, trying to find some old things, and, appearing on the
scene in the midst of it all, got the quick and mistaken impression that
father was chasing Mrs. Doody.

[Illustration: _"One night while doing the dishes . . ."_]

Mrs. Robertson, a fat and mumbly old colored woman, who might have been
sixty and who might have been a hundred, gave us more than one turn
during the many years that she did our washing. She had been a slave
down South and she remembered having seen the troops marching--"a mess
o' blue, den a mess o' gray." "What," my mother asked her once, "were
they fighting about?" "Dat," said Mrs. Robertson, "Ah don't know." She
had a feeling, at all times, that something was going to happen. I can
see her now, staggering up from the basement with a basketful of clothes
and coming abruptly to a halt in the middle of the kitchen. "Hahk!" she
would say, in a deep, guttural voice. We would all hark; there was never
anything to be heard. Neither, when she shouted "Look yondah!" and
pointed a trembling hand at a window, was there ever anything to be
seen. Father protested time and again that he couldn't stand Mrs.
Robertson around, but mother always refused to let her go. It seems that
she was a jewel. Once she walked unbidden, a dishpan full of wrung-out
clothes under her arm, into father's study, where he was engrossed in
some figures. Father looked up. She regarded him for a moment in
silence. Then--"Look out!" she said, and withdrew. Another time, a murky
winter afternoon, she came flubbering up the cellar stairs and bounced,
out of breath, into the kitchen. Father was in the kitchen sipping some
black coffee; he was in a jittery state of nerves from the effects of
having had a tooth out, and had been in bed most of the day. "Dey is a
death watch downstaihs!" rumbled the old colored lady. It developed that
she had heard a strange "chipping" noise back of the furnace. "That was
a cricket," said father. "Um-_hm_," said Mrs. Robertson. "Dat was uh
death watch!" With that she put on her hat and went home, poising just
long enough at the back door to observe darkly to father, "_Dey ain't no
way!_" It upset him for days.

Mrs. Robertson had only one great hour that I can think of--Jack
Johnson's victory over Mistah Jeffries on the Fourth of July, 1910. She
took a prominent part in the colored parade through the South End that
night, playing a Spanish fandango on a banjo. The procession was led by
the pastor of her church who, Mrs. Robertson later told us, had
'splained that the victory of Jack over Mistah Jeffries proved "de
'speriority ob de race." "What," asked my mother, "did he mean by that?"
"Dat," said Mrs. Robertson, "Ah don't know."

Our other servants I don't remember so clearly, except the one who set
the house on fire (her name eludes me), and Edda Millmoss. Edda was
always slightly morose but she had gone along for months, all the time
she was with us, quietly and efficiently attending to her work, until
the night we had Carson Blair and F. R. Gardiner to dinner--both men of
importance to my father's ambitions. Then suddenly, while serving the
entre, Edda dropped everything and, pointing a quivering finger at
father, accused him in a long rigamarole of having done her out of her
rights to the land on which Trinity Church in New York stands. Mr.
Gardiner had one of his "attacks" and the whole evening turned out
miserably.




                             CHAPTER SEVEN


                       _The Dog That Bit People_

Probably no one man should have as many dogs in his life as I have had,
but there was more pleasure than distress in them for me except in the
case of an Airedale named Muggs. He gave me more trouble than all the
other fifty-four or five put together, although my moment of keenest
embarrassment was the time a Scotch terrier named Jeannie, who had just
had six puppies in the clothes closet of a fourth floor apartment in New
York, had the unexpected seventh and last at the corner of Eleventh
Street and Fifth Avenue during a walk she had insisted on taking. Then,
too, there was the prize winning French poodle, a great big black
poodle--none of your little, untroublesome white miniatures--who got
sick riding in the rumble seat of a car with me on her way to the
Greenwich Dog Show. She had a red rubber bib tucked around her throat
and, since a rain storm came up when we were half way through the Bronx,
I had to hold over her a small green umbrella, really more of a parasol.
The rain beat down fearfully and suddenly the driver of the car drove
into a big garage, filled with mechanics. It happened so quickly that I
forgot to put the umbrella down and I will always remember, with
sickening distress, the look of incredulity mixed with hatred that came
over the face of the particular hardened garage man that came over to
see what we wanted, when he took a look at me and the poodle. All garage
men, and people of that intolerant stripe, hate poodles with their
curious hair cut, especially the pom-poms that you got to leave on their
hips if you expect the dogs to win a prize.

But the Airedale, as I have said, was the worst of all my dogs. He
really wasn't my dog, as a matter of fact: I came home from a vacation
one summer to find that my brother Roy had bought him while I was away.
A big, burly, choleric dog, he always acted as if he thought I wasn't
one of the family. There was a slight advantage in being one of the
family, for he didn't bite the family as often as he bit strangers.
Still, in the years that we had him he bit everybody but mother, and he
made a pass at her once but missed. That was during the month when we
suddenly had mice, and Muggs refused to do anything about them. Nobody
ever had mice exactly like the mice we had that month. They acted like
pet mice, almost like mice somebody had trained. They were so friendly
that one night when mother entertained at dinner the Friraliras, a club
she and my father had belonged to for twenty years, she put down a lot
of little dishes with food in them on the pantry floor so that the mice
would be satisfied with that and wouldn't come into the dining room.
Muggs stayed out in the pantry with the mice, lying on the floor,
growling to himself--not at the mice, but about all the people in the
next room that he would have liked to get at. Mother slipped out into
the pantry once to see how everything was going. Everything was going
fine. It made her so mad to see Muggs lying there, oblivious of the
mice--they came running up to her--that she slapped him and he slashed
at her, but didn't make it. He was sorry immediately, mother said. He
was always sorry, she said, after he bit someone, but we could not
understand how she figured this out. He didn't act sorry.

Mother used to send a box of candy every Christmas to the people the
Airedale bit. The list finally contained forty or more names. Nobody
could understand why we didn't get rid of the dog. I didn't understand
it very well myself, but we didn't get rid of him. I think that one or
two people tried to poison Muggs--he acted poisoned once in a while--and
old Major Moberly fired at him once with his service revolver near the
Seneca Hotel in East Broad Street--but Muggs lived to be almost eleven
years old and even when he could hardly get around he bit a Congressman
who had called to see my father on business. My mother had never liked
the Congressman--she said the signs of his horoscope showed he couldn't
be trusted (he was Saturn with the moon in Virgo)--but she sent him a
box of candy that Christmas. He sent it right back, probably because he
suspected it was trick candy. Mother persuaded herself it was all for
the best that the dog had bitten him, even though father lost an
important business association because of it. "I wouldn't be associated
with such a man," mother said, "Muggs could read him like a book."

We used to take turns feeding Muggs to be on his good side, but that
didn't always work. He was never in a very good humor, even after a
meal. Nobody knew exactly what was the matter with him, but whatever it
was it made him irascible, especially in the mornings. Roy never felt
very well in the morning, either, especially before breakfast, and once
when he came downstairs and found that Muggs had moodily chewed up the
morning paper he hit him in the face with a grapefruit and then jumped
up on the dining room table, scattering dishes and silverware and
spilling the coffee. Muggs' first free leap carried him all the way
across the table and into a brass fire screen in front of the gas grate
but he was back on his feet in a moment and in the end he got Roy and
gave him a pretty vicious bite in the leg. Then he was all over it; he
never bit anyone more than once at a time. Mother always mentioned that
as an argument in his favor; she said he had a quick temper but that he
didn't hold a grudge. She was forever defending him. I think she liked
him because he wasn't well. "He's not strong," she would say, pityingly,
but that was inaccurate; he may not have been well but he was terribly
strong.

[Illustration: _Nobody knew exactly what was the matter with him._]

One time my mother went to the Chittenden Hotel to call on a woman
mental healer who was lecturing in Columbus on the subject of
"Harmonious Vibrations." She wanted to find out if it was possible to
get harmonious vibrations into a dog. "He's a large tan-colored
Airedale," mother explained. The woman said that she had never treated a
dog but she advised my mother to hold the thought that he did not bite
and would not bite. Mother was holding the thought the very next morning
when Muggs got the iceman but she blamed that slip-up on the iceman. "If
you didn't think he would bite you, he wouldn't," mother told him. He
stomped out of the house in a terrible jangle of vibrations.

One morning when Muggs bit me slightly, more or less in passing, I
reached down and grabbed his short stumpy tail and hoisted him into the
air. It was a foolhardy thing to do and the last time I saw my mother,
about six months ago, she said she didn't know what possessed me. I
don't either, except that I was pretty mad. As long as I held the dog
off the floor by his tail he couldn't get at me, but he twisted and
jerked so, snarling all the time, that I realized I couldn't hold him
that way very long. I carried him to the kitchen and flung him onto the
floor and shut the door on him just as he crashed against it. But I
forgot about the backstairs. Muggs went up the backstairs and down the
frontstairs and had me cornered in the living room. I managed to get up
onto the mantelpiece above the fireplace, but it gave way and came down
with a tremendous crash throwing a large marble clock, several vases,
and myself heavily to the floor. Muggs was so alarmed by the racket that
when I picked myself up he had disappeared. We couldn't find him
anywhere, although we whistled and shouted, until old Mrs. Detweiler
called after dinner that night. Muggs had bitten her once, in the leg,
and she came into the living room only after we assured her that Muggs
had run away. She had just seated herself when, with a great growling
and scratching of claws, Muggs emerged from under a davenport where he
had been quietly hiding all the time, and bit her again. Mother examined
the bite and put arnica on it and told Mrs. Detweiler that it was only a
bruise. "He just bumped you," she said. But Mrs. Detweiler left the
house in a nasty state of mind.

[Illustration: _Lots of people reported our dog to the police._]

Lots of people reported our Airedale to the police but my father held a
municipal office at the time and was on friendly terms with the police.
Even so, the cops had been out a couple of times--once when Muggs bit
Mrs. Rufus Sturtevant and again when he bit Lieutenant-Governor
Malloy--but mother told them that it hadn't been Muggs' fault but the
fault of the people who were bitten. "When he starts for them, they
scream," she explained, "and that excites him." The cops suggested that
it might be a good idea to tie the dog up, but mother said that it
mortified him to be tied up and that he wouldn't eat when he was tied
up.

Muggs at his meals was an unusual sight. Because of the fact that if you
reached toward the floor he would bite you, we usually put his food
plate on top of an old kitchen table with a bench alongside the table.
Muggs would stand on the bench and eat. I remember that my mother's
Uncle Horatio, who boasted that he was the third man up Missionary
Ridge, was splutteringly indignant when he found out that we fed the dog
on a table because we were afraid to put his plate on the floor. He said
he wasn't afraid of any dog that ever lived and that he would put the
dog's plate on the floor if we would give it to him. Roy said that if
Uncle Horatio had fed Muggs on the ground just before the battle he
would have been the first man up Missionary Ridge. Uncle Horatio was
furious. "Bring him in! Bring him in now!" he shouted. "I'll feed the
---- on the floor!" Roy was all for giving him a chance, but my father
wouldn't hear of it. He said that Muggs had already been fed. "I'll feed
him again!" bawled Uncle Horatio. We had quite a time quieting him.

[Illustration: _Muggs at his meals was an unusual sight._]

In his last year Muggs used to spend practically all of his time
outdoors. He didn't like to stay in the house for some reason or
other--perhaps it held too many unpleasant memories for him. Anyway, it
was hard to get him to come in and as a result the garbage man, the
iceman, and the laundryman wouldn't come near the house. We had to haul
the garbage down to the corner, take the laundry out and bring it back,
and meet the iceman a block from home. After this had gone on for some
time we hit on an ingenious arrangement for getting the dog in the house
so that we could lock him up while the gas meter was read, and so on.
Muggs was afraid of only one thing, an electrical storm. Thunder and
lightning frightened him out of his senses (I think he thought a storm
had broken the day the mantelpiece fell). He would rush into the house
and hide under a bed or in a clothes closet. So we fixed up a thunder
machine out of a long narrow piece of sheet iron with a wooden handle on
one end. Mother would shake this vigorously when she wanted to get Muggs
into the house. It made an excellent imitation of thunder, but I suppose
it was the most roundabout system for running a household that was ever
devised. It took a lot out of mother.

A few months before Muggs died, he got to "seeing things." He would rise
slowly from the floor, growling low, and stalk stiff-legged and menacing
toward nothing at all. Sometimes the Thing would be just a little to the
right or left of a visitor. Once a Fuller Brush salesman got hysterics.
Muggs came wandering into the room like Hamlet following his father's
ghost. His eyes were fixed on a spot just to the left of the Fuller
Brush man, who stood it until Muggs was about three slow, creeping paces
from him. Then he shouted. Muggs wavered on past him into the hallway
grumbling to himself but the Fuller man went on shouting. I think mother
had to throw a pan of cold water on him before he stopped. That was the
way she used to stop us boys when we got into fights.

Muggs died quite suddenly one night. Mother wanted to bury him in the
family lot under a marble stone with some such inscription as "Flights
of angels sing thee to thy rest" but we persuaded her it was against the
law. In the end we just put up a smooth board above his grave along a
lonely road. On the board I wrote with an indelible pencil "Cave Canem."
Mother was quite pleased with the simple classic dignity of the old
Latin epitaph.




                             CHAPTER EIGHT


                           _University Days_

I passed all the other courses that I took at my University, but I could
never pass botany. This was because all botany students had to spend
several hours a week in a laboratory looking through a microscope at
plant cells, and I could never see through a microscope. I never once
saw a cell through a microscope. This used to enrage my instructor. He
would wander around the laboratory pleased with the progress all the
students were making in drawing the involved and, so I am told,
interesting structure of flower cells, until he came to me. I would just
be standing there. "I can't see anything," I would say. He would begin
patiently enough, explaining how anybody can see through a microscope,
but he would always end up in a fury, claiming that I could _too_ see
through a microscope but just pretended that I couldn't. "It takes away
from the beauty of flowers anyway," I used to tell him. "We are not
concerned with beauty in this course," he would say. "We are concerned
solely with what I may call the _mechanics_ of flars." "Well," I'd say,
"I can't see anything." "Try it just once again," he'd say, and I would
put my eye to the microscope and see nothing at all, except now and
again a nebulous milky substance--a phenomenon of maladjustment. You
were supposed to see a vivid, restless clockwork of sharply defined
plant cells. "I see what looks like a lot of milk," I would tell him.
This, he claimed, was the result of my not having adjusted the
microscope properly, so he would readjust it for me, or rather, for
himself. And I would look again and see milk.

I finally took a deferred pass, as they called it, and waited a year and
tried again. (You had to pass one of the biological sciences or you
couldn't graduate.) The professor had come back from vacation brown as a
berry, bright-eyed, and eager to explain cell-structure again to his
classes. "Well," he said to me, cheerily, when we met in the first
laboratory hour of the semester, "we're going to see cells this time,
aren't we?" "Yes, sir," I said. Students to right of me and to left of
me and in front of me were seeing cells; what's more, they were quietly
drawing pictures of them in their notebooks. Of course, I didn't see
anything.

"We'll try it," the professor said to me, grimly, "with every adjustment
of the microscope known to man. As God is my witness, I'll arrange this
glass so that you see cells through it or I'll give up teaching. In
twenty-two years of botany, I--" He cut off abruptly for he was
beginning to quiver all over, like Lionel Barrymore, and he genuinely
wished to hold onto his temper; his scenes with me had taken a great
deal out of him.

[Illustration: _He was beginning to quiver all over like Lionel
Barrymore._]

So we tried it with every adjustment of the microscope known to man.
With only one of them did I see anything but blackness or the familiar
lacteal opacity, and that time I saw, to my pleasure and amazement, a
variegated constellation of flecks, specks, and dots. These I hastily
drew. The instructor, noting my activity, came back from an adjoining
desk, a smile on his lips and his eyebrows high in hope. He looked at my
cell drawing. "What's that?" he demanded, with a hint of a squeal in his
voice. "That's what I saw," I said. "You didn't, you didn't, you
_did_n't!" he screamed, losing control of his temper instantly, and he
bent over and squinted into the microscope. His head snapped up. "That's
your eye!" he shouted. "You've fixed the lens so that it reflects!
You've drawn your eye!"

Another course that I didn't like, but somehow managed to pass, was
economics. I went to that class straight from the botany class, which
didn't help me any in understanding either subject. I used to get them
mixed up. But not as mixed up as another student in my economics class
who came there direct from a physics laboratory. He was a tackle on the
football team, named Bolenciecwcz. At that time Ohio State University
had one of the best football teams in the country, and Bolenciecwcz was
one of its outstanding stars. In order to be eligible to play it was
necessary for him to keep up in his studies, a very difficult matter,
for while he was not dumber than an ox he was not any smarter. Most of
his professors were lenient and helped him along. None gave him more
hints, in answering questions, or asked him simpler ones than the
economics professor, a thin, timid man named Bassum. One day when we
were on the subject of transportation and distribution, it came
Bolenciecwcz's turn to answer a question. "Name one means of
transportation," the professor said to him. No light came into the big
tackle's eyes. "Just any means of transportation," said the professor.
Bolenciecwcz sat staring at him. "That is," pursued the professor, "any
medium, agency, or method of going from one place to another."
Bolenciecwcz had the look of a man who is being led into a trap. "You
may choose among steam, horse-drawn, or electrically propelled
vehicles," said the instructor. "I might suggest the one which we
commonly take in making long journeys across land." There was a profound
silence in which everybody stirred uneasily, including Bolenciecwcz and
Mr. Bassum. Mr. Bassum abruptly broke this silence in an amazing manner.
"Choo-choo-choo," he said, in a low voice, and turned instantly scarlet.
He glanced appealingly around the room. All of us, of course, shared Mr.
Bassum's desire that Bolenciecwcz should stay abreast of the class in
economics, for the Illinois game, one of the hardest and most important
of the season, was only a week off. "Toot, toot, too-tooooooot!" some
student with a deep voice moaned, and we all looked encouragingly at
Bolenciecwcz. Somebody else gave a fine imitation of a locomotive
letting off steam. Mr. Bassum himself rounded off the little show.
"Ding, dong, ding, dong," he said, hopefully. Bolenciecwcz was staring
at the floor now, trying to think, his great brow furrowed, his huge
hands rubbing together, his face red.

[Illustration: _Bolenciecwcz was trying to think._]

"How did you come to college this year, Mr. Bolenciecwcz?" asked the
professor. "_Chuf_fa chuffa, _chuf_fa chuffa."

"M'father sent me," said the football player.

"What on?" asked Bassum.

"I git an 'lowance," said the tackle, in a low, husky voice, obviously
embarrassed.

"No, no," said Bassum. "Name a means of transportation. What did you
_ride_ here on?"

"Train," said Bolenciecwcz.

"Quite right," said the professor. "Now, Mr. Nugent, will you tell us--"

If I went through anguish in botany and economics--for different
reasons--gymnasium work was even worse. I don't even like to think about
it. They wouldn't let you play games or join in the exercises with your
glasses on and I couldn't see with mine off. I bumped into professors,
horizontal bars, agricultural students, and swinging iron rings. Not
being able to see, I could take it but I couldn't dish it out. Also, in
order to pass gymnasium (and you had to pass it to graduate) you had to
learn to swim if you didn't know how. I didn't like the swimming pool, I
didn't like swimming, and I didn't like the swimming instructor, and
after all these years I still don't. I never swam but I passed my gym
work anyway, by having another student give my gymnasium number (978)
and swim across the pool in my place. He was a quiet, amiable blonde
youth, number 473, and he would have seen through a microscope for me if
we could have got away with it, but we couldn't get away with it.
Another thing I didn't like about gymnasium work was that they made you
strip the day you registered. It is impossible for me to be happy when I
am stripped and being asked a lot of questions. Still, I did better than
a lanky agricultural student who was cross-examined just before I was.
They asked each student what college he was in--that is, whether Arts,
Engineering, Commerce, or Agriculture. "What college are you in?" the
instructor snapped at the youth in front of me. "Ohio State University,"
he said promptly.

It wasn't that agricultural student but it was another a whole lot like
him who decided to take up journalism, possibly on the ground that when
farming went to hell he could fall back on newspaper work. He didn't
realize, of course, that that would be very much like falling back
full-length on a kit of carpenter's tools. Haskins didn't seem cut out
for journalism, being too embarrassed to talk to anybody and unable to
use a typewriter, but the editor of the college paper assigned him to
the cow barns, the sheep house, the horse pavilion, and the animal
husbandry department generally. This was a genuinely big "beat," for it
took up five times as much ground and got ten times as great a
legislative appropriation as the College of Liberal Arts. The
agricultural student knew animals, but nevertheless his stories were
dull and colorlessly written. He took all afternoon on each of them, on
account of having to hunt for each letter on the typewriter. Once in a
while he had to ask somebody to help him hunt. "C" and "L," in
particular, were hard letters for him to find. His editor finally got
pretty much annoyed at the farmer-journalist because his pieces were so
uninteresting. "See here, Haskins," he snapped at him one day, "Why is
it we never have anything hot from you on the horse pavilion? Here we
have two hundred head of horses on this campus--more than any other
university in the Western Conference except Purdue--and yet you never
get any real low down on them. Now shoot over to the horse barns and dig
up something lively." Haskins shambled out and came back in about an
hour; he said he had something. "Well, start it off snappily," said the
editor. "Something people will read." Haskins set to work and in a
couple of hours brought a sheet of typewritten paper to the desk; it was
a two-hundred word story about some disease that had broken out among
the horses. Its opening sentence was simple but arresting. It read: "Who
has noticed the sores on the tops of the horses in the animal husbandry
building?"

Ohio State was a land grant university and therefore two years of
military drill was compulsory. We drilled with old Springfield rifles
and studied the tactics of the Civil War even though the World War was
going on at the time. At 11 o'clock each morning thousands of freshmen
and sophomores used to deploy over the campus, moodily creeping up on
the old chemistry building. It was good training for the kind of warfare
that was waged at Shiloh but it had no connection with what was going on
in Europe. Some people used to think there was German money behind it,
but they didn't dare say so or they would have been thrown in jail as
German spies. It was a period of muddy thought and marked, I believe,
the decline of higher education in the Middle West.

As a soldier I was never any good at all. Most of the cadets were glumly
indifferent soldiers, but I was no good at all. Once General
Littlefield, who was commandant of the cadet corps, popped up in front
of me during regimental drill and snapped, "You are the main trouble
with this university!" I think he meant that my type was the main
trouble with the university but he may have meant me individually. I was
mediocre at drill, certainly--that is, until my senior year. By that
time I had drilled longer than anybody else in the Western Conference,
having failed at military at the end of each preceding year so that I
had to do it all over again. I was the only senior still in uniform. The
uniform which, when new, had made me look like an interurban railway
conductor, now that it had become faded and too tight made me look like
Bert Williams in his bellboy act. This had a definitely bad effect on my
morale. Even so, I had become by sheer practise little short of
wonderful at squad manoeuvres.

One day General Littlefield picked our company out of the whole regiment
and tried to get it mixed up by putting it through one movement after
another as fast as we could execute them: squads right, squads left,
squads on right into line, squads right about, squads left front into
line, etc. In about three minutes one hundred and nine men were marching
in one direction and I was marching away from them at an angle of forty
degrees, all alone. "Company, halt!" shouted General Littlefield, "That
man is the only man who has it right!" I was made a corporal for my
achievement.

The next day General Littlefield summoned me to his office. He was
swatting flies when I went in. I was silent and he was silent too, for a
long time. I don't think he remembered me or why he had sent for me, but
he didn't want to admit it. He swatted some more flies, keeping his eyes
on them narrowly before he let go with the swatter. "Button up your
coat!" he snapped. Looking back on it now I can see that he meant me
although he was looking at a fly, but I just stood there. Another fly
came to rest on a paper in front of the general and began rubbing its
hind legs together. The general lifted the swatter cautiously. I moved
restlessly and the fly flew away. "You startled him!" barked General
Littlefield, looking at me severely. I said I was sorry. "That won't
help the situation!" snapped the General, with cold military logic. I
didn't see what I could do except offer to chase some more flies toward
his desk, but I didn't say anything. He stared out the window at the
faraway figures of co-eds crossing the campus toward the library.
Finally, he told me I could go. So I went. He either didn't know which
cadet I was or else he forgot what he wanted to see me about. It may
have been that he wished to apologize for having called me the main
trouble with the university; or maybe he had decided to compliment me on
my brilliant drilling of the day before and then at the last minute
decided not to. I don't know. I don't think about it much any more.




                              CHAPTER NINE


                          _Draft Board Nights_

I left the University in June, 1918, but I couldn't get into the army on
account of my sight, just as grandfather couldn't get in on account of
his age. He applied several times and each time he took off his coat and
threatened to whip the men who said he was too old. The disappointment
of not getting to Germany (he saw no sense in everybody going to France)
and the strain of running around town seeing influential officials
finally got him down in bed. He had wanted to lead a division and his
chagrin at not even being able to enlist as a private was too much for
him. His brother Jake, some fifteen years younger than he was, sat up at
night with him after he took to bed, because we were afraid he might
leave the house without even putting on his clothes. Grandfather was
against the idea of Jake watching over him--he thought it was a lot of
tomfoolery--but Jake hadn't been able to sleep at night for twenty-eight
years, so he was the perfect person for such a vigil.

On the third night, grandfather was wakeful. He would open his eyes,
look at Jake, and close them again, frowning. He never answered any
question Jake asked him. About four o'clock that morning, he caught his
brother sound asleep in the big leather chair beside the bed. When once
Jake did fall asleep he slept deeply, so that grandfather was able to
get up, dress himself, undress Jake, and put him in bed without waking
him. When my Aunt Florence came into the room at seven o'clock,
grandfather was sitting in the chair reading the _Memoirs of U.S. Grant_
and Jake was sleeping in the bed. "He watched while I slept," said
grandfather, "so now I'm watchin' while he sleeps." It seemed fair
enough.

[Illustration: _About four o'clock he caught his brother asleep._]

One reason we didn't want grandfather to roam around at night was that
he had said something once or twice about going over to Lancaster, his
old home town, and putting his problem up to "Cump"--that is, General
William Tecumseh Sherman, also an old Lancaster boy. We knew that his
inability to find Sherman would be bad for him and we were afraid that
he might try to get there in the little electric runabout that had been
bought for my grandmother. She had become, surprisingly enough, quite
skilful at getting around town in it. Grandfather was astonished and a
little indignant when he saw her get into the contraption and drive off
smoothly and easily. It was her first vehicular triumph over him in
almost fifty years of married life and he determined to learn to drive
the thing himself. A famous old horseman, he approached it as he might
have approached a wild colt. His brow would darken and he would begin to
curse. He always leaped into it quickly, as if it might pull out from
under him if he didn't get into the seat fast enough. The first few
times he tried to run the electric, he went swiftly around in a small
circle, drove over the curb, across the sidewalk, and up onto the lawn.
We all tried to persuade him to give up, but his spirit was aroused.
"Git that goddam buggy back in the road!" he would say, imperiously. So
we would manoeuver it back into the street and he would try again.
Pulling too savagely on the guiding-bar--to teach the electric a
lesson--was what took him around in a circle, and it was difficult to
make him understand that it was best to relax and not get mad. He had
the notion that if you didn't hold her, she would throw you. And a man
who (or so he often told us) had driven a four-horse McCormick reaper
when he was five years old did not intend to be thrown by an electric
runabout.

Since there was no way of getting him to give up learning to operate the
electric, we would take him out to Franklin Park, where the roadways
were wide and unfrequented, and spend an hour or so trying to explain
the differences between driving a horse and carriage and driving an
electric. He would keep muttering all the time; he never got it out of
his head that when he took the driver's seat the machine flattened its
ears on him, so to speak. After a few weeks, nevertheless, he got so he
could run the electric for a hundred yards or so along a fairly straight
line. But whenever he took a curve, he invariably pulled or pushed the
bar too quickly and too hard and headed for a tree or a flower bed.
Someone was always with him and we would never let him take the car out
of the park.

[Illustration: _There was a tremendous to-do._]

One morning when grandmother was all ready to go to market, she called
the garage and told them to send the electric around. They said that
grandfather had already been there and taken it out. There was a
tremendous to-do. We telephoned Uncle Will and he got out his Lozier and
we started off to hunt for grandfather. It was not yet seven o'clock and
there was fortunately little traffic. We headed for Franklin Park,
figuring that he might have gone out there to try to break the car's
spirit. One or two early pedestrians had seen a tall old gentleman with
a white beard driving a little electric and cussing as he drove. We
followed a tortuous trail and found them finally on Nelson Road, about
four miles from the town of Shepard. Grandfather was standing in the
road shouting, and the back wheels of the electric were deeply entangled
in a barbed-wire fence. Two workmen and a farmhand were trying to get
the thing loose. Grandfather was in a state of high wrath about the
electric. "The ---- ---- ---- backed up on me!" he told us.

                 *        *        *        *        *

But to get back to the war. The Columbus draft board never called
grandfather for service, which was a lucky thing for them because they
would have had to take him. There were stories that several old men of
eighty or ninety had been summoned in the confusion, but somehow or
other grandfather was missed. He waited every day for the call, but it
never came. My own experience was quite different. I was called almost
every week, even though I had been exempted from service the first time
I went before the medical examiners. Either they were never convinced
that it was me or else there was some clerical error in the records
which was never cleared up. Anyway, there was usually a letter for me on
Monday ordering me to report for examination on the second floor of
Memorial Hall the following Wednesday at 9 =P.M.= The second time I went
up, I tried to explain to one of the doctors that I had already been
exempted. "You're just a blur to me," I said, taking off my glasses.
"You're absolutely nothing to me," he snapped, sharply.

I had to take off all my clothes each time and jog around the hall with
a lot of porters and bank presidents' sons and clerks and poets. Our
hearts and lungs would be examined, and then our feet; and finally our
eyes. That always came last. When the eye specialist got around to me,
he would always say, "Why, you couldn't get into the service with sight
like that!" "I know," I would say. Then a week or two later I would be
summoned again and go through the same rigmarole. The ninth or tenth
time I was called, I happened to pick up one of several stethoscopes
that were lying on a table and suddenly, instead of finding myself in
the line of draft men, I found myself in the line of examiners. "Hello,
doctor," said one of them, nodding. "Hello," I said. That, of course,
was before I took my clothes off; I might have managed it naked, but I
doubt it. I was assigned, or rather drifted, to the chest-and-lung
section, where I began to examine every other man, thus cutting old Dr.
Ridgeway's work in two. "I'm glad to have you here, doctor," he said.

I passed most of the men that came to me, but now and then I would
exempt one just to be on the safe side. I began by making each of them
hold his breath and then say "mi, mi, mi, mi," until I noticed Ridgeway
looking at me curiously. He, I discovered, simply made them say "ah,"
and some times he didn't make them say anything. Once I got hold of a
man who, it came out later, had swallowed a watch--to make the doctors
believe there was something wrong with him inside (it was a common
subterfuge: men swallowed nails, hairpins, ink, etc., in an effort to be
let out). Since I didn't know what you were supposed to hear through a
stethoscope, the ticking of the watch at first didn't surprise me, but I
decided to call Dr. Ridgeway into consultation, because nobody else had
ticked. "This man seems to tick," I said to him. He looked at me in
surprise but didn't say anything. Then he thumped the man, laid his ear
to his chest, and finally tried the stethoscope. "Sound as a dollar," he
said. "Listen lower down," I told him. The man indicated his stomach.
Ridgeway gave him a haughty, indignant look. "That is for the abdominal
men to worry about," he said, and moved off. A few minutes later, Dr.
Blythe Ballomy got around to the man and listened, but he didn't blink
an eye; his grim expression never changed. "You have swallowed a watch,
my man," he said, crisply. The draftee reddened in embarrassment and
uncertainty. "On _purpose_?" he asked. "That I can't say," the doctor
told him, and went on.

[Illustration: _An abdominal man worrying._]

I served with the draft board for about four months. Until the summonses
ceased, I couldn't leave town and as long as I stayed and appeared
promptly for examination, even though I did the examining, I felt that
technically I could not be convicted of evasion. During the daytime, I
worked as publicity agent for an amusement park, the manager of which
was a tall, unexpected young man named Byron Landis. Some years before,
he had dynamited the men's lounge in the statehouse annex for a prank;
he enjoyed pouring buckets of water on sleeping persons, and once he had
barely escaped arrest for jumping off the top of the old Columbus
Transfer Company building with a homemade parachute.

He asked me one morning if I would like to take a ride in the new
Scarlet Tornado, a steep and wavy roller-coaster. I didn't want to but I
was afraid he would think I was afraid, so I went along. It was about
ten o'clock and there was nobody at the park except workmen and
attendants and concessionaires in their shirtsleeves. We climbed into
one of the long gondolas of the roller-coaster and while I was looking
around for the man who was going to run it, we began to move off.
Landis, I discovered, was running it himself. But it was too late to get
out; we had begun to climb, clickety-clockety, up the first steep
incline, down the other side of which we careened at eighty miles an
hour. "I didn't know you could run this thing!" I bawled at my
companion, as we catapulted up a sixty-degree arch and looped headlong
into space. "I didn't either!" he bawled back. The racket and the rush
of air were terrific as we roared into the pitch-black Cave of Darkness
and came out and down Monohan's Leap, so called because a workman named
Monohan had been forced to jump from it when caught between two
approaching experimental cars while it was being completed. That trip,
although it ended safely, made a lasting impression on me. It is not too
much to say that it has flavored my life. It is the reason I shout in my
sleep, refuse to ride on the elevated, keep jerking the emergency brake
in cars other people are driving, have the sensation of flying like a
bird when I first lie down, and in certain months can't keep anything on
my stomach.

During my last few trips to the draft board, I went again as a draft
prospect, having grown tired of being an examiner. None of the doctors
who had been my colleagues for so long recognized me, not even Dr.
Ridgeway. When he examined my chest for the last time, I asked him if
there hadn't been another doctor helping him. He said there had been.
"Did he look anything like me?" I asked. Dr. Ridgeway looked at me. "I
don't think so," he said, "he was taller." (I had my shoes off while he
was examining me.) "A good pulmonary man," added Ridgeway. "Relative of
yours?" I said yes. He sent me on to Dr. Quimby, the specialist who had
examined my eyes twelve or fifteen times before. He gave me some simple
reading tests. "You could never get into the army with eyes like that,"
he said. "I know," I told him.

Late one morning, shortly after my last examination, I was awakened by
the sound of bells ringing and whistles blowing. It grew louder and more
insistent and wilder. It was the Armistice.

                          _A NOTE AT THE END_




                          _A Note at the End_


The hard times of my middle years I pass over, leaving the ringing bells
of 1918, with all their false promise, to mark the end of a special
sequence. The sharp edges of old reticences are softened in the
autobiographer by the passing of time--a man does not pull the pillow
over his head when he wakes in the morning because he suddenly remembers
some awful thing that happened to him fifteen or twenty years ago, but
the confusions and the panics of last year and the year before are too
close for contentment. Until a man can quit talking loudly to himself in
order to shout down the memories of blunderings and gropings, he is in
no shape for the painstaking examination of distress and the careful
ordering of event so necessary to a calm and balanced exposition of
what, exactly, was the matter. The time I fell out of the gun room in
Mr. James Stanley's house in Green Lake, New York, is for instance, much
too near for me to go into with any peace of mind, although it happened
in 1925, the ill-fated year of "Horses, Horses, Horses" and "Valencia."
There is now, I understand, a porch to walk out onto when you open the
door I opened that night, but there wasn't then.

[Illustration: _A hotel room in Louisville._]

The mistaken exits and entrances of my thirties have moved me several
times to some thought of spending the rest of my days wandering
aimlessly around the South Seas, like a character out of Conrad, silent
and inscrutable. But the necessity for frequent visits to my oculist and
dentist has prevented this. You can't be running back from Singapore
every few months to get your lenses changed and still retain the proper
mood for wandering. Furthermore, my horn-rimmed glasses and my Ohio
accent betray me, even when I sit on the terrasses of little tropical
cafes, wearing a pith helmet, staring straight ahead, and twitching a
muscle in my jaw. I found this out when I tried wandering around the
West Indies one summer. Instead of being followed by the whispers of men
and the glances of women, I was followed by bead salesmen and native
women with postcards. Nor did any dark girl, looking at all like
Tondelaya in "White Cargo," come forward and offer to go to pieces with
me. They tried to sell me baskets.

[Illustration: _They tried to sell me baskets._]

Under these circumstances it is impossible to be inscrutable and a
wanderer who isn't inscrutable might just as well be back at Broad and
High Streets in Columbus sitting in the Baltimore Dairy Lunch. Nobody
from Columbus has ever made a first rate wanderer in the Conradean
tradition. Some of them have been fairly good at disappearing for a few
days to turn up in a hotel in Louisville with a bad headache and no
recollection of how they got there, but they always scurry back to their
wives with some cock-and-bull story of having lost their memory or
having gone away to attend the annual convention of the Fraternal Order
of Eagles.

There was, of course, even for Conrad's Lord Jim, no running away. The
cloud of his special discomfiture followed him like a pup, no matter
what ships he took or what wildernesses he entered. In the pathways
between office and home and home and the houses of settled people there
are always, ready to snap at you, the little perils of routine living,
but there is no escape in the unplanned tangent, the sudden turn. In
Martinique, when the whistle blew for the tourists to get back on the
ship, I had a quick, wild, and lovely moment when I decided I wouldn't
get back on the ship. I did, though. And I found that somebody had
stolen the pants to my dinner jacket.

                                THE END





[End of My Life and Hard Times, by James Thurber]
