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Page 74
"Oh, no, no," said he. "You ain't a reporter. Reporters don't talk
that way. They pretend to be one of us, and say they've just got in
on the blind baggage from St. Louis. I can tell a reporter on sight.
Us park bums get to be fine judges of human nature. We sit here all
day and watch the people go by. I can size up anybody who walks past
my bench in a way that would surprise you."
"Well," I said, "go on and tell me. How do you size me up?"
"I should say," said the student of human nature with unpardonable
hesitation, "that you was, say, in the contracting business--or maybe
worked in a store--or was a sign-painter. You stopped in the park to
finish your cigar, and thought you'd get a little free monologue out
of me. Still, you might be a plasterer or a lawyer--it's getting kind
of dark, you see. And your wife won't let you smoke at home."
I frowned gloomily.
"But, judging again," went on the reader of men, "I'd say you ain't
got a wife."
"No," said I, rising restlessly. "No, no, no, I ain't. But I will
have, by the arrows of Cupid! That is, if--"
My voice must have trailed away and muffled itself in uncertainty and
despair.
"I see you have a story yourself," said the dusty vagrant--impudently,
it seemed to me. "Suppose you take your dime back and spin your yarn
for me. I'm interested myself in the ups and downs of unfortunate
ones who spend their evenings in the park."
Somehow, that amused me. I looked at the frowsy derelict with more
interest. I did have a story. Why not tell it to him? I had told
none of my friends. I had always been a reserved and bottled-up man.
It was psychical timidity or sensitiveness-perhaps both. And I smiled
to myself in wonder when I felt an impulse to confide in this stranger
and vagabond.
"Jack," said I.
"Mack," said he.
"Mack," said I, "I'll tell you."
"Do you want the dime back in advance ?" said he.
I handed him a dollar.
"The dime," said I, "was the price of listening to your story."
"Right on the point of the jaw," said he. "Go on."
And then, incredible as it may seem to the lovers in the world who
confide their sorrows only to the night wind and the gibbous moon, I
laid bare my secret to that wreck of all things that you would have
supposed to be in sympathy with love.
I told him of the days and weeks and months that I had spent in
adoring Mildred Telfair. I spoke of my despair, my grievous days and
wakeful nights, my dwindling hopes and distress of mind. I even
pictured to this night-prowler her beauty and dignity, the great sway
she had in society, and the magnificence of her life as the elder
daughter of an ancient race whose pride overbalanced the dollars of
the city's millionaires.
"Why don't you cop the lady out?" asked Mack, bringing me down to
earth and dialect again.
I explained to him that my worth was so small, my income so minute,
and my fears so large that I hadn't the courage to speak to her of my
worship. I told him that in her presence I could only blush and
stammer, and that she looked upon me with a wonderful, maddening smile
of amusement.
"She kind of moves in the professional class, don't she?" asked Mack.
"The Telfair family--" I began, haughtily.
"I mean professional beauty," said my hearer.
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