COMPANIONSHIP.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2616, 25 September 1909, Page 2 (Supplement)

COMPANIONSHIP.

(By Roscoe Gilmore Stott.) To be on the level with you, friend, I didn’t marry exactly for love. Mamie’s old man owned a barber-shop sort of two-by twice affair —out on Stony Island Avenue. There was two chairs in the shop, and I barbered at the back chair at an even nine per. When he got laid up, with his CivilWar leg, I took the shop off his hands, paying him three dollars a week for it. Mamie and I was friends all the time. She was as nico-looldng as the usual run, and before long we got married. I dar© to say that our case don’t seem in no way out of date.

But my story is mostly about Dick White, i took Dick in at my old chair, particularly for the Saturday rush. Ho wasn’t nothing unusual, but ho was a steady worker, and kept sober. I never expected Dick to draw trade because of his good looks. He was tall and shambly, light-haired and blueeyed ; and when lie grinned he showed two full sets of tobacco-cheiving teeth. He wore low, colored collars, and never gave up tan shoes, even for an alderman’s fuliferal. But, outside of looks, I can’t say anything against Dick, and I wouldn’t if I could.

“I fool ’most lost of Sundays,” he used to say to me, “my folks being so far off, and me not being chummy with none of the boys. And a feller like mo just naturally needs companionship. “Don’t you feel like to read, Dick?” I asked' him one night after work. “Read your grandmother !” He leaned his head far back on his hands. “Why, Sam, you couldn’t talk to no newspaper. I want talk, and occasionally a smile, if it comes fro© gratis. I’m the kind that ought to have a home, but I —l’ve never yet seen the girl, ner. tho cart-wheels to fix it up.”

I’m not much on feeling, as Mamie will tell you, but I asked Dick over for Sunday dinner the very next week. And how he did beam! I can see him now, sitting by the front window talking to Mamie. He made Sunny Jim look exactly like thirty cents. That Sunday I had my big fivc-cent. paper, as usual, but Mamie somehow found time to get a mighty good dinner and entertain Dick, too. She seemed happy at her. job, and I like my paper, Sundays.

Well, it just got to be a habit —that’s all. Mamie ■would tell in© to ask Dick over Sunday, and every time he was Johnny-on-the-spot. The Sundays didn’t differ much, either. 1 read my sporting sheet, while Mamie showed Dick her new colored post-cards or some fancy woi'k on such stuff. Dick would sit and grin, and th© interest lie took in fancy work would surely have done credit to a women’s sewingcircle. Actually, he appeared to knew a pile about muslins and laces, and that pleased Mamie sure enough. I know liow to hone a razor with the next one, but I never was strong on women’s trinkery.

I never noticed; things much. Dick said Mamie was looking so mu or. brighter than she did the first Sunday morning he first came over. I believe now, I did sort of realise a change for the better; but, if I did, I never figured out a good reason.

Before so very long, Mamie formed a new habit of coming down to the shop—generally about closing hours. Both of us told her not to, but she tired of being home, and our arguments went to the bad in a hurry when she smiled at us. She used to ask Dick to walk up to the house with us, and he never hesitated to accept. 1 didn’t mind. Fact is, I admired Mamio for being hospitable. I would never have thought of it, but I was glad she did. Sometimes he would come in for the evening, and some of the winter nights he stayed in our little spare room. One' night Mamie surprised me. The three of us were slowly making our way to the cottage.

“Say, 'Sam, I want to ask a favor o’ both you barbers. I know you’ll let me. but maybe Dick won’t want to.” She laughed merrily, and we “both urged her to tell all about it; but she hung back until we reached home, both of us nagging at her to tell. “It’s the hall Tuesday night at the Germania Hall, Sam.” She stopped and waited for some exclamation, hut none coming, she went on: “You know, the Bakers’ Union give it. I want to ,go!” I laughed outright, though old Dick was sober as a judge.

“Honestly, Sam,” she said, with a lower tone. “I used to go to ’em all, and I haven’t had .a look at a waxed door for two years.' There’ll be a swell crowd, and—”

“But", Mamie,” I began, “you know I don’t dance. Fact is, I haven’t for going on five years. Wouldn’t Sam Budd look like a robin in among them guys! I know, you want to go, Mamie, but’-”

“You don’t like to dance, Sam; hut I’ll wager a big piece of pie that Dick does. I thought, maybe, if you didn’t care—”

I spoke before Dick got a chance. “Sure thing, girlie—Dick and you go. I won’t mind an ounce. Only get supper before you start, and wake up in time to got breakfast.” So lie went on. in, and Dick was the happiest man I had ever seen him. It was the next Saturday night that Dick himself took to the surprise game. I.caught him sniffling a hit behind the hat-rack. His old smile was gone, and I .noticed a big change in his face and manner. He looked older by a good ten years, and his nerves all played out. “Sam, I guess I won’t he back on Monday- ) think I’ve got a new job in my fisj>, and I—” I faced him almost savagely. “Going to leave me, Dick? What in the-”

He pulied on his coat, and nervously brushed at his black soft hate “Sam, I’m going to beJair—fair and straight as the Lord will let me.” iHe puL'.ed me into a chair beside him. “Listen, Sam. Your wife loves me. Why couldn’t you see it, Sam ? Why couldn’t you?” I started to my feet, but he held me in a grip of iron. F “See here, Sam ; I’m going to quit tho job. You have been a prince to me, and you’ve trusted me with anything you owned—everything —and I know how to play fair- It may look bad, hut I know!” Then ho .burst out crying, and I sniffed a bit. When he got hold of himself my mind was working better. “I understand, Dick. It’s all right, boy. Mamie’U see it all right in a week or so. Ain’t used to attention, and it’s turned her fool head. I won’t scold her. I’ll talk it over calm, and—”

“Sam, I’m going.” He almost ran to the door. “Sanit I promise never to see her again. Sam—l—Sam, I love her too!”

So he slipped out into the night without his pay; and it was a week before. I got a word. It was just a not© Gaying that he’d got a job at Feeby’s place, on th© West Side. He told me to forgive Mamie, and to blame him, and that things were—well, I trusted Mamie, and he needn’t have added it. In another week there Nine Labor Day. I sat down for a morning with my paper, and some particular good smoking. Mamie was washing dishes in the kitchen. *

“Sam, where is Dick White?” clie said, coming to the door.

This was the first word that had been said; for I keep my promises, and I had not scolded.

T fixed my eyes on the page before me.

“He quit me of his own free will, Mamie. He’s got a job at Feeby’s place, they tell me out on the West Side.”

She was very sober; and for once, in my fool life I saw something and felt a hunch. In a moment more I had thrown down my paper. “Mamie, I’m tired of home-sweet-home Let’s go out to White City or Riverside —any old place but home. Let’s he real sports, girlie, and have a dinner at some eating-joint. Are you in s ” »

Her face was lit up with joy that wouldn’t come off. So I laid down my trump.

“Maybe we might as well have supper too, and stay to step round a bit to the ‘Merry Widow’ waltz in the pavilion. Does that have a good sound?”

Well, it was the gay life, and we had our time. Mamie laughed more than any woman I saw, and that’s a mighty reasonable test with her. Three times at supper she slipped her hand into mine, and, like a blame fool, I had to blink to keep tho tear-spout dry. I got right down and said more love sentiments than that girl’s heard in four years—on the level, I did. We held hands all the way home; and at the door, just for fun, I kissed her goodnight! Think of that, all for lour dollars and a quarter! Tnside the door was a note from Dick White —said he was married, and wanted us to forget how foolish he had been.

Oh, there’s nothing like companionship ! Any fool ought to know that!