A Thousand and One Afternoons in Chicago Part 6

And I'm so rotten big that none of my friends can loan me a suit. And my credit is gone with at least twelve different tailors. I'm sort o' taboo as a borrower. Barry, old top, if you will chase the blighter after another highball, I'll drink your excellent health."

"There's a job if you want it that you can do in your dress suit," said his friend Barry. "If you don't mind night work."

"Not at all," growled Capt. MacVeagh.

"Well," said the friend, "there's a circus in town and they want a man to drive the chariot in the chariot race. It's only a little circus. And there's only three chariots in the race. You get $10 for driving and $25 a night if you win the race. And they give you a bloomin' toga to put on over your suit, you know, and a ribbon to tie around your head. And there you are."

"Righto !" cried the captain, "and where is this rendezvous of skill and daring? I'm off. I'll drive that chariot out of breath."

Capt. MacVeagh got the job. Capt. MacVeagh won the first race. Clad in a flapping toga, a ribbon round his forehead, the hero of the British army went Berserker on the home stretch and, las.h.i.+ng his four ponies into a panic, came gloriously down the last lap, two lengths ahead and twenty-five marvelous coins of the realm to the good.

That night at the club Capt. MacVeagh stood treat. British wa.s.sail and what not. The twenty-five dollars melted pleasantly and the captain fell off in a happy doze as rosy fingered Aurora touched the city roof-tops.

But, alas, the wages of sin! For the captain was not so good when he mounted his chariot the second night. A beehive buzzed in his head and huge, globular disturbances seemed to fill the air. And, standing waveringly on his feet as the giddy chariot bounced down the track, the captain let forth a sudden yell and sailed off into s.p.a.ce. The chariot ponies and hero of the British army had gone cras.h.i.+ng into the side lines.

"When they brought him to the hospital in the ambulance," explained the captain's friend, "they had taken the toga off him, of course, and the old boy was in his dress clothes. This kind o' knocked their eyes out, so what do they do but give him the most expensive suite in the place and the prettiest nurse and the star surgeon. And they mend and feed him up for two weeks. We all called on him and brought him a few flowers. The lad was surely in clover.

"The hospital authorities had nothing to go on but this dress suit as evidence. And when the nurse asked him what he wanted done with the suit, saying it was a bit torn from the accident, MacVeagh waves his hand and answers, 'Oh, throw the blasted thing out of the window or give it to the janitor.' And she did. I always thought it quite a story."

"But how did it end? What became of the captain when they found out he couldn't pay his bill and all that? And where's he now?"

"You'll have to end the thing to suit yourself," said the captain's friend. "All I know is that after almost forgetting about MacVeagh I got a letter from him from London yesterday. A rather mysterious letter on Lady Somebody's stationery. It read something like this: 'The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Thanks for the flowers. And three cheers, me lad, for the British Empire.'"

THE SYBARITE

They had been poor all their lives. The neighbors said: "It's a wonder how the Sikoras get along."

They lived in a rear flat. Four rooms that were dark and three children that were noisy. The three children used Wabansia Avenue as a playground.

Dodging wagons and trucks was a diversion which played havoc with their shoes, but increased their skill in dodging wagons and trucks.

The neighbors said: "Old man Sikora is pretty sick. It's a wonder where they'll get money to pay the doctor."

Then old man Sikora, who wasn't so old (but poverty and hard work with a pick give a man an aged look), was taken to the county hospital. The Sikora children continued to dodge wagons and trucks and Mrs. Sikora went out three days a week to do was.h.i.+ng. And the milkman and the grocer came around regularly and explained to Mrs. Sikora that they, too, had to live and she must pay her bills.

Then the neighbors said: "Did you hear about it? Old man Sikora died last night in the hospital. What will poor Mrs. Sikora do now? They ain't got a thing."

And old man Sikora was brought home because his widow insisted upon it.

The neighbors came in and looked at the body and wept with Mrs. Sikora, and the children sat around after school and looked uncomfortably at the walls. And some one asked: "How you going to bury him, Mrs. Sikora?"

"Oh," said Mrs. Sikora, "I'm going to have a good funeral."

There was an insurance policy for $500. The Sikoras had kept it up, sc.r.a.ping together the $10 premiums when the time came. Mrs. Sikora took the policy to the husband of a woman whose was.h.i.+ng she had done. The husband was in the real estate business.

"I need money to bury my man," she said. "He died last night in the hospital."

She was red-eyed and dressed in black and the real estate man said: "What do you want?"

When Mrs. Sikora explained he gave her $400 for the policy and she went to an undertaker. Her eyes were still red with crying. They stared at the luxurious fittings of the undertaker's parlors. There were magnificent palms in magnificent jardinieres, and plush chairs and large, inviting sofas and an imposing mahogany desk and a cuspidor of s.h.i.+ning bra.s.s. Mrs.

Sikora felt thrilled at the sight of these luxuries.

Then the undertaker came in and she explained to him.

The neighbors said: "Are you going to Mr. Sikora's funeral? It's going to be a big funeral. I got invited yesterday."

Wabansia Avenue was alive with automobiles. Innumerable relatives of Mr.

and Mrs. Sikora arrived in automobiles, their faces staring with surprise out of the limousine windows as if they were seeing the world from a new angle. There were also neighbors. These were dressed even more impressively than the relatives. But everybody, neighbors and relatives, had on their Sunday clothes. And the unlucky ones who hadn't been invited leaned out of the windows of Wabansia Avenue and looked enviously at the entourage.

There was a band--fifteen pieces. And there was one open automobile filled with flowers, filled to overflowing. The band stopped in front of the Sikora flat, or rather in front of the building, for the Sikora flat was in the rear and Mrs. Sikora didn't want the band to stop in the alley.

Then the envious ones leaning out of the windows couldn't see the band and that would be a drawback.

The band played, great, sad songs. The cornets and trombones sent a muted s.h.i.+ver through the street. The band stopped playing and the people leaning out of the windows sighed. Ah, it was a nice funeral!

Inside the Sikora house four men stood up beside the handsome black coffin and sang. Mrs. Sikora in a voluminous black veil listened with tears running from her face. Never had she heard such beautiful singing before--all in time and all the notes sweet and inspiring. She wept some more and solicitous arms raised her to her feet. Solicitous arms guided her out of the flower-filled room as six men lifted the black coffin and carried it into the street.

Slowly the automobiles rolled away. And behind the open car heaped with flowers rode Mrs. Sikora. The dolorous music of the band filled her with a gentle ecstasy. The flower scents drifted to her and when her eyes glanced furtively out of the back window of the limousine she could see the procession reaching for almost a half block. All black limousines filled with faces staring in surprise at the street.

And in front of the flower car in an ornamental hea.r.s.e rode Mr. Sikora.

The wheels of the hea.r.s.e were heavily tired. They made no sound and the chauffeur was careful that his precious burden should not be joggled.

Slowly through the loop the procession picked its way. Crowds of people paused to stare back at the staring ones in the automobiles and to listen to the--fine music that rose above the clamor of the "L" trains and the street cars and the trucks.

The sun lay over the cemetery. The handsome black coffin went out of sight. The fifteen musicians began to play once more and Mrs. Sikora, weeping anew, allowed solicitous arms to help her back into the limousine and with a sigh she leaned back and closed her eyes and let herself weep while the music played, while the limousine rolled smoothly along. It was like a dream, a strange thing imagined or read about somewhere.

The neighbors sniffed indignantly. "Did you hear about Mrs. Sikora?" they said. These were the same ones who had leaned enviously out of the Wabansia Avenue windows.

"She spent all her insurance money on a crazy funeral," the neighbors said, "and did you hear about it? The Juvenile Court is going to take her children away because she can't support them. The officer was out to see her yesterday and she's got no money to pay her bills. She spent the whole money--it was something like $2,000--on the funeral. Huh!"

Mrs. Sikora, weeping, explained to the Juvenile Court officer.

"My man died," she said, "and--and I spent the money for the funeral. It was not for myself, but for him I spent the money."

It will turn out all right, some day. And in the meantime Mrs. Sikora, when she is was.h.i.+ng clothes for someone, will be able when her back aches too much to remember the day she rode in the black limousine and the band played and the air was filled with the smell of flowers.

DAPPER PETE AND THE SUCKER PLAY