From: Arden Town (1913; Unpublished MS)
Author: Scott Nearing
Published:
The clock in Fred Allen’s office was pointing to three, when a tall, awkward man, loaded down with a suit case and an umbrella, was ushered in by Miss Fisher.
“Please wait in Mr. Allen’s room, Mr. Bennett,” she said. “He is going over the factory just now, but I expect him back here by three.”
“Thank you, I’ll make myself quite at home,” answered the newcomer. Having set his suit case in a corner, he sank gratefully into the comfortable desk chair, and pulled out a cigar, remarking half aloud,—
“Just like home—and Freddie. Electric fans and all of the paraphernalia.”
Sam Bennett and Fred Allen had gone through college together, but years had passed since their last meeting. While Fred was selling ornamental brass work on the East Coast, Sam had been selling legal advice in the Middle West. Each had met with a large measure of success, to judge by their correspondence, and each was anxious to see the other and talk over old times. Therefore, when Sam had written to say that he was coming East on business, Fred Allen had written back asking him if it was not possible for them to spend a week together at the shore. The whole matter had been arranged. Sam was to stop at the factory, which was midway between the stations, and they were to take the four o’clock train for the shore.
Sam Bennett was far from good-looking. Indeed, as he sat shrunken together in the office chair, the weariness of the oppressive heat and the lines of travel grime about his eyes, made him look much older than he was. Then, the streaks of gray in his dark hair added to the impression of age. Still his manner was boyish and free, and the glance which he threw over the filing cases and the designs of ornamental iron and brass work, which hung above the desk, were full of active intelligence. His mouth was large enough to be trustworthy, and his clothes, which fitted him loosely, became his gaunt frame.
Sam Bennett sat smoking contentedly. The minute hand of the clock crept several points past the hour before Fred Allen hurried into the room and gripped his friend by the hand.
“Well, this is good, old man, after seven years. How well you look!”
“You, too, Fritz,—you are as round and rosy as a school girl.”
“And age!” Fred Allen laughed, seizing the broad shoulders. “Why, boy, you aren’t a day older than you were the last time I saw you, while I have been racing toward fifty at the rate of three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”
“Well,” Sam Bennett drawled, “to a Westerner that sounds like a mighty fast pace, but you have stood it tolerably well. Here, have a cigar. No? Same old habits, eh? Never dissipate, never waste time. I suppose you are just as busy as ever—don’t let me keep you.”
“No, Sam, I got the last tag-end cleared away before you came in. See that desk? Not a speck of the universe on it anywhere. I am as free as—”
“A convict,” suggested Sam.
“No, no, I’m not married—yet.”
“By the way, Fritzie—speaking of marriage reminds me of women, and thinking of women reminds me of my cousin. You never met her did you? Ruth Wade? You know I had her picture in my room at college – the kid with the big eyes and the long brown curls. I believe you once remarked that if she was at the hair-up stage, she’d just about suit you. Well, she has passed the hair-up stage, am I judge that she has grown into quite a girl by this time. I grew very fond of her out in Minneapolis, before she started for Paris, but it is three or f our years since I last saw her.”
“You bet I remember,” Fred Allen answered, looking up quickly. “Who could forget the only graceful thing that ever found its way into old Sammy’s room. She always shone by contrast with the other things there. Is she here in the East?”
“Yes, she lives right here near the city in some kind of queer colony or settlement—mostly cranks, you know, anarchists and that sort of thing, with a few artists scattered among them. They call the place Eden or Arden, or something like that. Perhaps you have heard of it?”
Fred Allen smiled whimsically,—“Yes, I have,” he replied.
“Anything serious?”
“Oh, no—just newspaper comment—the kind you would eventually buy if you were in my business. It’s certainly well advertised, from baseball to circuses. I have noticed accounts of both.”
“I see. Well, to get to the point. I wrote to Ruth to say that I was coming East to transact a little business and to spend a week at the shore, and believe me, if she didn’t write back to the effect that she intended to go to the shore for a few days herself, and that if I would let her know where I was going to stop, she would come along, barring objections on my part. I was rather taken aback at the idea of a chit of a girl offering to accompany me to the shore, especially after I had made an engagement with you; but bless you, I didn’t object—far from it. So I wrote back telling her what train to take and all other particulars. Do you mind?”
“Not a little bit. The whole thing sounds quite romantic. Look out, old men, she may marry you out of hand, and take you down to Arden with her. Those folks down there are reported to have queer and efficacious methods of doing things.”
“Well, if she hasn’t deteriorated since she came East, I’m not sure that I should put in any plea in self defense. If she could furnish a comfortable wood pile, a hunting-jacket, fish rod, end a perpetual-motion box of good Havanas, I should stand Arden or any other place for a long while with her about to touch up the purples and grays.”
“So, so! Old Sammy goes to it with open eyes. I’d be sorry for you, son, if you weren’t so big, but six feet, one, surely ought to be able to give a good account of itself in an encounter with a chit of a girl, as you call her. May I purchase a ring-side season ticket, or will you pass in an old college chum free?”
“You’ll come in free, and I suppose I shall have to depend upon you to wield the sponge in my behalf, unless little Ruth sees you first. Anyway, I’m glad you don’t mind the addition to our party. I thought of telegraphing, but I was afraid that even a night letter would not explain, so I decided to wait and give it to you in longhand”
“Speaking of romance and women”—began Fred, slowly,—
“Near-wed, old boy?” broke in Sam.
“Not exactly, but I have a confession to make. This trip to the shore kills three birds for me. First, I see you; second, I get a much-needed vacation; and third, I stay at the same hotel with a charming young lady who is much sought by the men of this big town.”
“Is it settled?”
“What?”
“Your relations with her.”
“Not exactly. You see, Sam, I’ve seen so much of matrimonial infelicity that I am chary about risking my little birch canoe on the stormy waters. However, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if the whole affair would be arranged on this trip. I’m perfectly willing that it should be, and I think the young lady is like-minded. Her fond mamma is, unmistakably. At any rate the thing has ceased to be gamey. It has a domesticated air about it already.”
“I suppose she is a corker?” Sam Bennett asked.
“Well, yes. She is considered one of the most beautiful women in town. Her family is old; she moves in the best society; and her father is pretty well fixed. On the whole, the man who gets her will make a brilliant match.”
“And you will be that man?”
“Probably.”
“Cabbage top and crab grass! The same old duffer. You haven’t changed a bit, Fritz. ‘Hm,’ you remark, ‘here is an excellent bargain—dear at ‘twice the figure, very, dear,’ in fact. The mathematical probabilities are seventeen to eight in my favor. I will probably get her.’ Ha, ha,” and Sam gave vent to his feelings in a great peal of laughter.
Fred rose unperturbed.
“You word-bandying attorney,” he retorted, “you scorner of scientific exactitude, you depender on the fates, put on your hat and give me your bag. My machine will wait, but the train will not. Come along.”
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