Hy Lowe was a slim young man with small features that appeared to be gathered in the middle of his face. His job might have been thought odd anywhere save in the Greenwich Village region. After some years of newspaper work he had settled down to the managing editorship of a missionary weekly known as My Brother’s Keeper. Hy was uncommunicative, even irreverent regarding his means of livelihood, usually referring to the paper as his meal ticket, and to his employer, the Reverend Doctor Hubbell Harkness Wilde (if at all) as the Walrus. In leisure moments, perhaps as a chronic reaction from the moral strain of his job, Hy affected slang, musical comedy and girls. The partly skinned old upright piano in the studio was his. And he had a small gift at juggling plates.
The Worm was a philosopher; about Peter’s age, sandy in coloring but mild in nature, reflective to the point of self-effacement. He read interminably, in more than one foreign language and was supposed to write book reviews. He had lived in odd corners of the earth and knew Gorki personally. His name was Henry Bates.
Peter came slowly into the studio, threw off coat and hat and stood, the beginnings of a complacent smile on his face.
“I’ve got my girl,” he announced.
“Now that you’ve got her, what you gonna do with her?” queried Hy Lowe, without turning from the new song hit he was picking out on the piano.
“What am I gonna do with her?” mused Peter, hands deep in pockets, more and more pleased with his new attitude of mind – “I’m gonna vivisect her, of course.”
“Ah, cruel one!” hummed Hy.
“Well, why not!” cried Peter, rousing. “If a girl leaves her home and strikes out for the self-expression thing, doesn’t she forfeit the consideration of decent people? Isn’t she fair game?”
Over in the corner by a window, his attention caught by this outbreak, the Worm looked up at Peter and reflected for a moment. He was deep in a Morris chair, the Worm, clad only in striped pajamas that were not over-equipped with buttons, and one slipper of Chinese straw that dangled from an elevated foot.
“Hey, Pete – get this!” cried Hy, and burst into song.
Peter leaned over his shoulder and sang the choppy refrain with him. In the interest of accuracy the two sang it again, The third rendition brought them to the borders of harmony.
The Worm looked up again and studied Peter’s back, rather absently as if puzzling him out and classifying him. He knit his brows. Then his eyes lighted, and he turned back in his book, fingering the pages with a mild eagerness. Finding what he sought, he read thoughtfully and smiled. He closed his book; hitched forward to the old flat-top desk that stood between the windows; lighted a caked brier pipe; and after considerable scribbling on scraps of paper appeared to hit upon an arrangement of phrases that pleased him. These phrases he printed out painstakingly on the back of a calling card which he tacked up (with a hair-brush) on the outer side of the apartment door. Then he went into the bedroom to dress.
“Who is she?” asked Hy in a low voice. The two were fond of the Worm, but they never talked with him about their girls.
“That’s the interesting thing,” said Peter. “I don’t know. She’s plumb mysterious. All she’d tell was that she is playing a boy at that little Crossroads Theater of Zanin’s, and that I’d have to go there to find her out. Going to-night. Want to come along?”
“What kind of a looking girl?”
“Oh – pretty. Extraordinary eyes, green with brown in ‘em – but green. And built like a boy. Very graceful.”
“Hm!” mused Hy.
“Do you know her?”
“Sounds like Sue Wilde.”
“Not – ”
“Yes, the Walrus’s child.”
“What’s she doing, playing around the Village?”
“Oh, that’s an old story. She left home – walked right out. Calls herself modern. She’s the original lady highbrow, if you ask me. Sure I’ll go to see her. Even if she never could see me.”
Later, Hy remarked: “The old boy asked me yesterday if I had her address. You see he knows we live down here where the Village crowds circulate.”
“Give it to him?”
“No. Easy enough to get, of course, but I ducked… I’m going to hop into the bathtub. There’s time enough. Then we can eat at the Parisian.”
Peter settled down to read the sporting page of the evening paper. Shortly the Worm, clad now, drifted back to the Morris chair.
They heard Hy shuffle out in his bath slippers and close the outer door after him. Then he opened the door and came back, He stood in the doorway, holding his bathrobe together with one hand and swinging his towel with the ether; and chuckling.
“You worm!” he observed. “Why Bolbo ceeras?”
The Worm looked up with mild eyes. “Not bolboceeras,” he corrected.
“Bolboeseras. As in cow.”
“But why?”
The Worm merely shrugged his shoulders and resumed his book.
Peter paid little heed to this brief conversation. And when he and Hy went out, half an hour later, he gave only a passing glance to the card on the door. He was occupied with thoughts of a slim girl with green eyes who had fascinated and angered him in a most confusing way.
The card read as follows:
CHAPTER III – JACOB ZANIN
THE Crossroads Theater was nothing more than an old store, with a shallow stage built in at the rear and a rough foyer boarded off at the front. The seats were rows of undertaker’s chairs, But the lighting was managed with some skill; and the scenery, built and painted in the neighborhood, bordered on a Barker-Craig-Reinhardt effectiveness.
Peter and Hy stood for a little time in the foyer, watching the audience come in. It was a distinctly youthful audience – the girls and women were attractive, most of them Americans; the men running more foreign, with a good many Russian Jews among them. They all appeared to be great friends. And they handled one another a good deal. Peter, self-conscious, hunting copy as always, saw one tired-looking young Jewish painter catch the hand of a pretty girl – an extraordinarily pretty girl, blonde, of a slimly rounded figure – and press and caress her fingers as he chatted casually with a group.
After a moment the girl drew her hand away gently, half-apologetically, while a faint wave of color flowed to her transparent cheek.
All Peter’s blind race prejudice flamed into a little fire of rage. Here it was – his subject – the restless American girl experimenting with life, the selfish bachelor girl, deep in the tangles of Bohemia, surrounded by just the experimental men that would be drawn to the district by such as she…
So Peter read it. And he was tom by confused clashing emotions. Then he heard a fresh voice cry: “Why, hello, Betty!” Then he remembered – this girl was the Picabia dancer – Betty Deane – her friend! There was color in his own face now, and his pulse was leaping.
“Come,” he said shortly to Hy, “let’s find our seats.”
The first playlet on the bill was Zanin’s Any Street.
The theme was the grim influence of street life on the mind of a child. It was an uncomfortable little play. All curtains were drawn back. Subjects were mentioned that should never, Peter felt, be even hinted at in the presence of young women. Rough direct words were hurled at that audience.
Peter, blushing, peered about him. There sat the young women and girls by the dozen, serene of face, frankly interested.
Poor