"Chet" (Yates)/Chapter 12
BOB STEVENS walked part way home from school with me the next afternoon. "What are you taking algebra for?" he asked, snapping his thumb and finger against my book.
"Why, because I like it;—and then it's necessary for geometry, and that sort of thing. You know I'm going to be a civil engineer."
"Algebra hasn't any sense to it," said Bob.
"Well, indeed it has," I said. "If you just use your thinking apparatus along with it, it's just as plain and reasonable as can be."
Bob sniffed. "You think it sounds big to say you're taking algebra; and of course you have to say you understand it. I don't believe that any one understands it;—it's just a jumble of letters and figures that haven't a speck of meaning to them;—and it says one thing on one page, and then turns around and says something exactly opposite on the next one. I know, because I've read it; and it's what some of the other boys say, too."
"Not the boys who are studying it and understand it."
"Some of them are studying it, and say it can't be understood. They say they didn't believe there was anything in it to start on, and they haven't wasted much time on it."
"Well, why don't you ask some of the boys who have put time on it?"
"Oh, they wouldn't want to back down and admit that there was nothing in it, after they had put in a lot of work on it."
I looked at Bob to find whether he was in earnest. I didn't see how any one could argue in that sort of a way. "But you haven't studied it, Bob," I said. "You're not in a position to know anything about it."
"Well, I've read enough of it," said Bob; "all I want to. Here," and he reached for my book, and opened it just anywhere; "here it says 'a=10, b=5'; now how can a letter equal a figure, tell me that? It's all tommyrot."
"But it's because you don't understand."
"And listen to this," he went on, "here on page twenty-seven it says 'a=240,' and here on page thirty-two it says 'a=17,' and back there it said 'a=10.' Now how do you get around a thing like that? And it's right here in plain sight in the same book; and yet you say the book has some sense to it! If it has, just explain that,—unless it's a secret that only a few are allowed to know," and he snapped on the book cover again.
I only looked at him. How could I explain it to him when he didn't know the first thing about it, to begin with?
"You can't," he said, and tossed the book back to me. "It's full of things like that," he added.
"But," I said, "when you study it, it's all plain, and you find that it isn't contradictory at all."
"Well then, why don't you explain it?"
"I couldn't make you understand, until you've studied it."
"Oh!" said Bob, "you know such a lot more than I do, that you can't reach down to my level to make me understand?"
I was never so aggravated at Bob before in my life; and yet all the time I had the feeling as if all this had happened before, and I was living it over again; and it made me feel queer.
Bob went on, "What's the use of me studying a thing that I can see at a glance hasn't any reason or sense to it, that I can't understand and that nobody else does or can?"
"But think of the teachers, and the mathematicians, and the students—"
"Oh, they like to talk," said Bob, tossing his head.
"Bob Stevens,— "I began,—and then suddenly it came over me what was familiar about the conversation, and I sort of gasped.
"Well?" said Bob.
I laughed. "Think what you want to about algebra," I said. "It's none of my affair what you think, if you are satisfied. It isn't up to me to make you change your mind, if your own ideas suit you, and get you anywhere."
Bob looked surprised and disappointed.
"And it certainly doesn't make any difference to you, what I think, so long as I mind my own business and don't thrust my views upon you."
Bob scuffed his feet in the fallen leaves. "I hate to see you gulled," he said. "It makes me mad to see you waste your time on something that isn't good for anything."
"Don't you worry about me," I said. "You look after Bob Stevens, and I'll see what I can do toward bringing up Chester Williams right;—he's all I can manage just at present,—unless somebody really wants a lift that I can give him."
Bob laughed, and the air cleared up some sat down on the curb and pulled out my compasses. Mother had been showing me something about geometry, evenings, so I knew some little, easy problems. "Come on, Bob," I said, "and see the way my compasses work." He thought I'd given up the argument and was trying to change the subject, so he came and sat down beside me.
I got out some paper and drew some circles and things, and he got awfully interested; and then I started in on a little problem, but I didn't letter the lines. He's got a mighty sharp mind, and he followed what I was trying to do, just as easy as could be, at first; but by and by he got mixed up as to which line I meant, and so I marked one of them x, and another y, and then it went easier, and he got more and more interested.
Then I started another and marked the lines with the same letters, and we worked that one out.
"Gee!" he said, "I'd like a set like that. Let's see if I can work one of those puzzles."
I gave him the figures and he worked it out fine, and when he got through, he said, putting his pencil on a line, "x equals 78."
"Sure that's right?" I asked.
"Of course it is! It's perfectly plain. I can prove it, too."
But I put my pencil on the one we'd worked just before. "This says 'x equals 90,'" I said.
"Well, but that—" began Bob; and then suddenly he stopped and looked at me as if he was going to chew me all up, and then—he laughed.
"Chet, you're a fraud," he said. "You got me off my guard."
"It's different when you understand it, isn't it?" I said.
"It sure is! And is this the sort of thing that algebra and geometry are?"
"Yep."
"And everything is just as clear and plain as these?" and he pointed to the paper.
"It is if you use your common sense."
"I'm a fool," said Bob.
"I'm with you," said I, with conviction, and we separated at the corner.
When I got to the house, Mother was sitting on the veranda. "Wait a minute, Chester," she said, "I have something I want to talk to you about."
I knew in a second what was coming. I'd been keeping that other girl under lock and key in the coal-cellar of my "brown study," and to come home and find her as good as sitting on the front steps and grinning at me, made me warm around the collar. I stopped in my tracks. "What is it?" I said, keeping my teeth pretty close together.
Mother thought I didn't look very promising, and sort of hesitated.
"Is it about her coming here?" I asked, in a very level voice.
Mother looked surprised. "Yes. I didn't know that you—"
"Never mind," I said. I could feel the wrinkles getting tight around my eyes. "There's no use in talking about it." Then I had a moment of hope. "There's no way of getting around it, is there?"
"No," said Mother, very decidedly for her.
"Well, then, let's drop it until the times comes."
"Very well," said Mother, her lips a little narrow.
I started into the house, then I stopped. I remembered what Bess had said about not wanting folks to tease her about it. "Say," I said, "I wish you'd see that Dad or anybody doesn't start to teasing Bess about it when she gets back. There isn't any reason why it should make any difference between her and me; but she doesn't want to have it rubbed in, any more than I do," and I stumped off to my room.
On the table I found a letter from Bess. I had had only two or three short notes from her since the one from Chicago. The notes had come from Indianapolis and Washington; but here was a fine, long, type-written one, and it was from Chicago again;—that meant that she would soon be home. I keeled over into my Morris chair and opened it. Here it is:—
"I'm coming home next week. That's to put you in a good humor to begin with.
"Next come adventures.
"I went from here to Indianapolis, and had my type-writer shipped by express; and when I unpacked it there, it was smashed to—well, it was the worst smashed up machine you ever saw. It wasn't any use for me to get out my manicure set again; for the carriage was broken square in two, and the ball-bearings were scattered all through the box, and the keys looked as if somebody had walked on them. It wasn't the express company's fault; for it was all because the carriage wasn't tied, and had just slammed around every time the box was pitched five or ten feet. It wasn't my fault, either, for I tied the carriage before I left, and Uncle Fred said he'd see to having the thing packed;—but I kind of think that he used it a time or two before he packed it, and then forgot to tie it up again;—but I'll never tell him I think so.
"When Father got to Indianapolis, I took him, first thing, to see the wreck; and he said it looked as if I had been trying to use it for an automobile, and had had a collision. He didn't fuss about it, because there wasn't any one there who was responsible. Father is sensible that way;—he doesn't just fuss on principle, but only when it will do some good. He can go some then, though!
"So that afternoon we went down to see about having it fixed; and when he found what it would cost,—he whistled. 'But will it stand up then?' he asked.
"'Won't guarantee it to stand up one week,' said the manager. 'We'll fix it for you, but you can't tell a thing about a machine as old as this, when it once begins to go.'
"That didn't sound promising, and I began to see my trip acting like an engine when the wheels don't catch the rails. I felt my chin getting tight, and I went and looked out of the window at the fountain.
"Father stayed and chatted with the manager for a while, and then he came over to where I was and asked if I was ready to go.
"'Yes,' I said.
"'Where's your smile?' asked Father.
"'I swallowed it,' I said. 'It's right there,' and I put my hand on my throat. 'I can feel it! I never knew it was such an awfully big one!'
"Father laughed. 'When children get things stuck in their throats, we hold 'em up by the heels until it drops out.'
"Even that didn't bring it. Not because I was cross; but because I was afraid that if I let go of the corners of my mouth, they would go down, instead of up.
"'Well,' said Father, 'it looks to me as if I'd have to go fishing for it. We'll go out and look up some tackle presently, but I've got some bait here. Shall we go now, or would you like to look at your new type-writer first?"
"Well, that smile came up so quick that it left an empty feeling all over me!
"Oh, Chet, it's the dandiest machine! And they had some of the characters changed, so as to give me just the things I wanted. Father said I ought to have two question marks and two exclamation points put on, because he was afraid that one of each would get overworked; and he said they might leave off the comma, because I never used it anyway; and he'd like to have them throw in a dozen extra capital I's, and would like to get their rate on them by the hundred, because they wore out so fast.
"And then he and the manager got to talking about how much bother it was to have it packed and shipped every time, when I was travelling, and then the manager said:—'Why don't you get a carrying case, and have it checked with her trunk?'
"Father pricked up his ears: 'Could I do that?' he asked.
"'Sure,' said the manager.
"'Let's see them,' said Father.
"The manager brought out a fine large sole-leather case with metal corners, and set it up on a table. 'What do you think of that?' he asked. 'You just put your machine in that and have it checked with your trunk; and when your trunk comes to the hotel, there's your type-writer along with it, and all you have to do is to open it up and go to work,' and he threw the lid back, for us to see. It certainly was fine.
"Then he put the type-writer in and fastened the clamps. 'There you are,' he said; 'you don't even have to take it out of the case to use it; and when you're through, you just lock it up, and it's all ready to go with your trunk; no packing to do, and no waiting for the express company to deliver it at the other end.'
"Of course there was nothing to do but to get it, and my smile surely did get overworked for a while there.
"The case had to be marked 'Fragile—with care,' and my initial; and there were the changes to be made in the type of the machine; so Father told them just to express it to Columbus when it was done, for I was going there the next day, and he was to join me later.
"You remember the Kirbys who live in Columbus, and visited us last Winter? Well, Father had promised that I should spend some time with them, and had written that I would arrive that week. He left me to tell them what train I would come on; so I wrote a note the night before starting, telling them that I would be in at half-past eight the next evening.
"I had never been to Columbus before, and so when I got off the train, I looked all up and down the platform for Mr. Kirby and Mabelle; but they weren't anywhere in sight. 'Couldn't get through the gates,' thought I, and I took a better grip on my things and started down the platform. I had my valise,—it's alligator, you know, and it's heavy,—and a three pound box of candy for Mabelle, and some magazines, and a bag of fruit, and my umbrella, and another box of candy that had been in my valise and wouldn't go back. My hat was wabbly, too.
"At the end of the platform was a tall flight of steps,—I never saw steps look so tall!—and I started up, trying to keep my shoulders back and my head high,—and then I stepped on the front of my dress with the heel of my right foot. I never knew any one else who could do that trick,—and I can't, when I try. I didn't tumble, but my hat went so far over one eye, that I had to cock my head cornerwise to see where I was going,—and the bag of fruit under my arm got squashy.
"When I reached the top, I was glad that the Kirbys weren't in sight; and I wriggled my head until my hat went straight, and dropped the fruit so it wouldn't stain my waist;—and a man picked it up and tried to hand it to me, and as my hands were busy, he laid it on top of the pile of candy-boxes, and went on.
"I was sure that the Kirbys would be at the gate; but they weren't, and I went through and looked all around, and began to wonder what I'd better do. I went across the platform and stood in the door of the station, so as to be in plain sight if they were looking for me,—but they didn't seem to be. I stood there until the clock said five minutes to nine, and then I decided to go and telephone to find out if they were on their way down there,—or how to get to their house.
"I loaded up my belongings and went across the waiting-room to the information desk. There I unloaded again, and picked up the telephone directory. There were two or three telephones setting along the ledge of the desk. I followed the K's down the column, and then up, and then down again; but there wasn't an R. M. Kirby among them.
"That was different. It hadn't occurred to me that they might not have a telephone. The man in charge of the desk was busy writing. I waited a moment, and then I said:—'Can you tell me the best way to get to 1944 Iuka Avenue?'
"'No, lady, I don't know the street,' he said, without looking up.
"'It's out near the University,' I said.
"He kept on writing.
"I waited another minute. 'Can you tell me where I can get a cab?' I asked, meekly.
"He looked up for a second, and pointed with his pen: 'Outside,' he said.
"Of course I hadn't supposed that it would be right in the waiting-room; but until he pointed, I hadn't known which was the way out; for it is an awfully big station, and I didn't know in which direction to start.
"I loaded up again, and hung my umbrella to my little finger, and went down the waiting-room; it is at least two miles and a half long,—I know, because my arms were positively groaning when I reached the door at the end, and my knees felt shaky. I asked a man where the cabstand was, and he pointed to a little sentry box with a window in it. I went and stood in line, and when I saw that the other people were handing out their checks to the heavy man inside, I thought I might as well attend to mine at the same time; so when my turn at the window came, I handed him the check and gave the address and paid for having my trunk taken out; and then asked what he would charge me for a cab out there. Father says I must always make my bargains beforehand, so as not to have any trouble.
"'One dollar,' he said, 'anywhere in town.'
"'All right. I want to go to 1944 Iuka Avenue.'
"'Where?' he said.
"'1944 Iuka Avenue.'
"'You've got the number wrong, lady," he said, and looked as if I had done it on purpose.
"'No,' I said, 'that is the right number.'
"'It couldn't be, lady,' and he leaned around and asked the person behind me what he wanted and I found myself away from the window and out of line.
"I set my things down and reloaded them, and then I asked a cab-driver who was standing close by, if he knew where 1944 Iuka Avenue was.
"'Nope,' he said. 'Never heard of such a street.' Then he got out a little vest-pocket book, and went to studying it. 'Um-m-um, um-hum, here it is,' he said. 'What did you say was the number?'
"'1944.'
"'Couldn't be that, lady. Street's only two blocks long and goes east and west,—couldn't run higher than two hundred.'
"I turned away. I wasn't worried, for I knew I could go to a hotel for the night, if it was necessary, but I hated to be worsted. So I got in line again, and when I reached the window once more, there was no one behind me. The man didn't recognize me at first; but when I said '1944 Iuka Avenue,' he scowled.
"'I told you that you had the wrong number, lady,' he said, and began checking his checks.
"'But it's the right number,' I said. 'I've been writing letters there for two years.'
"He kept on checking checks. 'Probably the postman knows where they live,' he said, without looking up.
"'But all their letters are headed that way,' I said.
"He pushed some papers aside with a jerk, and picked up a little book like the one the cabman had, and began shoving the leaves over with his thumb; then he said with a little snort, 'Street's only two blocks long;—couldn't be no such number.' Then he stuck the book in his pocket and went to checking checks.
"I thought things over for a minute. I did hate to give up; but he didn't seem to be interested enough so's you could notice, and I didn't know who else to apply to. By and by I leaned close to the window:—'What would you do if you were in my place?' I asked.
"'I'd find out the right address,' he said, without looking up,—and went on checking checks.
"'How?' I asked, humbly.
"'Look in a city directory,' still figuring.
"'Where will I find one?'
"'Information desk,' he said in a tired tone,—checking checks.
"There was a city directory on a shelf right at his elbow, and when I thought of that several miles of waiting-room between me and the information desk, I felt like pinching him. I turned around, though, and started on the journey. I didn't dare to leave my belongings setting around there alone, and so I lugged them along.
"My umbrella was dragging when I reached the desk. I unloaded, and stretched my arms, and then tackled the directory. There it was, perfectly plainly to be seen, 'R. M. Kirby, 1944 Iuka Avenue.' There wasn't any way around it;—but I couldn't see that it helped me any.
"I turned to the information man. He was still writing,—and kept on. 'If you please,' I said.
"When he had written two or three sentences more, he looked up.
"'I wonder if you can't advise me a little,' I said.
"He dipped his pen again. 'What is it?' he said, holding it close to the paper and looking at it.
"I began at the beginning and told him all about it, going carefully into every detail. When I had finished, he was still looking at his pen,—then he examined the point carefully, to see if the ink was dry.
"I waited a becoming length of time. 'What would you do in a case like that?' I asked, at last.
"'I don't know, lady,' said the information man;—and dipped his pen and went on writing again.
"I felt myself grin,—and also felt myself stiffen with the determination to get there that night,—even if it took until morning to do it.
"I loaded up again. I had got to be a regular expert in arranging those particular articles so that they wouldn't drop very often; for when one dropped, I had to put them all down on the floor and stack them back in my arms, one at a time, and then get up without scattering any,—and a thing like that takes pretty steady knees. I put my unbrella crosswise of both arms this time, and it worked first rate.
"When I had done the waiting-room journey again, and got out to the sentry box, the heavy man was still checking checks. I stopped at the window. '1944 Iuka Avenue is right,' I said; 'The directory gives it that way.'
"The man stopped figuring and looked squarely at me. 'Then the directory is wrong,' he said,—and went on checking checks.
"My enthusiasm was up, and I didn't feel a bit cross or worried, although it was almost ten o'clock, and I didn't know where I belonged,—or rather, how to get there. 'See here,' I said, 'I want to go out to that place to-night. Can't you send a cabman out with me, to find it?'
"He shoved his papers aside and yanked down the city directory. 'What's the name?' he asked, slamming over the chunks of leaves.
"'R. M. Kirby.'
"He ran his finger down the column, with an expression that said:—'Well, I suppose I've got to show you your mistake, if you're too stupid to see it yourself.' Then his finger stopped. 'H-m,' he said. He took out his vest-pocket book and studied it again. 'They got a telephone?' he asked.
"'No.'
"He slammed the directory shut and came out of the door. I followed him over to a row of cabs. He called to a driver, and said, jerking his head at me,—'She wants to go to 1944 Iuka Avenue.'
"'I told her there wasn't no such number,' said the man. 'Why, a number like that would be clear out to Newark!'
"'It's close to the University,' I said; 'because Mr. Kirby is a professor, and walks to classes.'
"They didn't seem to be interested in my conversation. 'Couldn't be no such number,' protested the cabman, in a sort of a hurt tone.
"'Well,' said the heavy man, looking snippy, 'she wants to go out there and ride around for a while, so you take her;—and say,' he called, 'charge her for whatever trouble you have.'
"That last aroused some more enthusiasm in me, all in a minute. 'See here,' I said, 'you agreed in the first place to take me anywhere in town for a dollar.'
"'Well, lady,' he said, in an exasperated tone, 'we can't drive you around all night, looking for some wrong number, for any dollar!'
"'But it isn't my fault if you don't know the town,' I said, 'and if 1944 Iuka Avenue is right, I don't see why I should pay you more than a dollar.'
"He grinned an awfully unpleasant grin. 'That's right, lady,' he said. 'If he finds that there's any 1944 Iuka Avenue, you don't owe me but one dollar.'
"'All right, thank you,' I said, and jumped into the cab, and the cabman piled my luggage in and climbed up to his seat.
"We hadn't gone much more than a block, and I was sputtering to myself because folks weren't up to date enough to have a telephone, when suddenly I had a bright idea. You remember Mr. Spencer, who went from our town last year? Well, I knew that he was a friend of the Kirbys; and he was a railroad man, so I was perfectly sure that he would have a telephone, and could tell me how to get to that blessed number.
"I tapped on the window and the cabman leaned around and opened the door. 'Stop at the first drug store,' I said, 'and I'll call up some one who knows.'
"In a minute he drew up, and I went into the store and laid hold of the telephone directory. I knew that everything would be all right, now, for Mr. Spencer would probably come down and see me 'safe home.'
"But—his name was not in the telephone book! I ran up and down that column six times; for I was perfectly sure that he would have one if no else in Columbus did,—but he wasn't there.
"Chester, Columbus has two telephone companies,—and I didn't know it! Some people have one kind of a 'phone, and some people have another. Mr. Kirby has one kind,—and in the station, I had picked up the other directory,—so I didn't find his name. Mr. Spencer has the other kind,—and in the drug store, I got the different directory, never thinking but that they were all alike, and so his name wasn't down.
"The druggist wasn't checking checks nor writing, so I went up to him. 'Would you mind telling me whether you ever heard of such a number as 1944 Iuka Avenue?' I asked.
"'Well, I know right where it would be,' he said. 'I was out to 1948 to dinner Sunday.'
"My smile got into service again quick.
"'Would you mind saying that to the cabman out there?' I said, motioning toward the door.
"'Glad to,' said he, and followed me out.
"He and the cabman discussed matters a little, and he said 'Seventeenth Avenue,' and then I got back into the cab and we started on again.
"We rattled along beside the car tracks for ever so far, and then we turned off onto asphalt, and then turned again, and the lights in the houses got away back from the street,—and some of them away up high, and there were trees all about;—and then the lights stopped, and the trees seemed to come clear together overhead, and it was the very darkest road I ever was on.
"We had been going very slowly, and then we stopped for a moment, and then turned around and started back, and across a wide street, and then we stopped again beside a steep bank that had been newly cut down to the road. There were no trees just there, and there was moonlight enough so that I could see a little. The cabman got down and came around to the door. 'I don't know where we are,' he said; 'but there's some sort of a sign up on the bank there. I'll get up and see what it is.'
"The bank was about ten feet high, and he started to climbing up. I leaned out and saw that there were lights in houses away back from the street, and made up my mind to inquire in some of those places, if the cabman didn't find out anything on top of the bank. When he got through scrambling up, he lighted a match and held it up to the sign. 'Eighteenth Avenue,' he said.
"What's on the other side?' I asked.
"'Your street runs east and west,' he said, and began to climb down.
"'But look, do look!' I cried, perfectly certain that he would find it to be 'Iuka.'
"He scrambled back and lighted another match. 'Waldeck Avenue,' he read, cheerfully.
"I groaned, and he came sliding down the bank.
"'Where now, lady?' he asked.
"I got out of the cab. 'You wait here,' I said, 'I'm going to inquire at that house.'
"He climbed into his seat again, and followed slowly, as I headed for the nearest window. I went along the sidewalk at first; and then, because it was too dark to find the pathway, I crossed the lawn, under the trees, and up onto somebody's veranda, and rang the bell.
"A gentleman came to the door, and looked rather surprised when he saw me, with my valise, at that time of night. 'Can you tell me where 1944 Iuka Avenue is?' I asked.
"'Right across the street, there,' he said, motioning with his hand.
"'But,—but,—' I gasped '—this is Waldeck Avenue!'
"'Yes,' he said, kindly, 'this side of it is,—and the other side is Iuka.'
"'Oh,' I said 'it's simple enough when you understand it, isn't it? Are all the streets here named like that? It's a little puzzling to strangers, you know.'
"He laughed. 'No,' he said, 'they're not all that way; but the two streets come together here at a sharp,—and this is just above the point.'
"'And that's it?' I inquired, sighting carefully at the light, so as not to let it get away.
"'Yes,' he said, 'that's it. Mr. Kirby lives there.'
"I thanked him and started on a bee-line for the light. The cabman followed me; but he had to go around by the street, while I went straight across the grassy flat-iron which divided the two streets, and up over the terraces, aiming squarely for the light.
"On the veranda steps I waited for the cabman with the rest of my belongings. I had my valise with me, because my valuables were in it. As he came up, I rang the bell, and in a moment Mrs. Kirby opened the door,—and she was the most surprised woman you ever saw. My note to her arrived the next morning!
"Before we had any explanations, though, I said: 'What street is this, please?'
"'Why, it's Iuka Avenue,' said she.
"'And what is the number of the house?'
"She pushed the button that lighted the veranda, and pointed to the '1944' at the side of the door.
"'How much do I owe you?' I asked, turning to the cabman.
"'One dollar, lady,' he said,—and then he grinned.
"I paid him, and then gave him something extra for the grin and for climbing that steep bank;—and then I asked him to please tell the gentleman in the sentry box that the number was 1944 Iuka Avenue.
"'You bet I will!' he said,—and he said it as if he liked the job.
"I found out afterward that it's a new addition out there, only about two years old, and they are going to have some curly streets in it, like the ones in a suburb of Indianapolis, where you step on your own heels if you walk too fast; and Iuka is going to be one of the curly ones. The upper part of it is pretty nearly east and west, and runs into a wild ravine; and the lower part, where the Kirbys live, comes out of the ravine more than a mile below, and is so short that it hasn't gotten onto the map yet;—so the station people weren't so much to blame for not knowing where to find it; but they needn't have been so afraid of over-thinking themselves in the effort.