The Red Book Magazine/Volume 19/Number 5/Hats

by Earl Derr Biggers

HATS

AN IMPORTANT FACTOR
IN POLITICS AND LOVE

by
EARL DERR BIGGERS

Author of “LILACS
and COBBLESTONES,”
“A PATRIOT,” ··· etc.

ILLUSTRATED ·· ·· BY

JAMES
MONTGOMERY
FLAGG

SLOWLY, as the summer advanced, the black steel framework of the Hotel Porcellian was clothed in white, and the luxurious hostelry promised to the city by the passionate press-agents of Eastern enterprise neared completion. As the people of the Middle West capital hurried about their daily quest for the elusive dollar, they glanced often and with awe at the unfinished structure. Soon such of their number as could afford it would sport there with the filet mignon in the shade of the rubber trees. Soon visitors (who could afford it) would linger grandly in their midst on the European plan.

Senator Duncombe, pausing one morning in August at the cigar store of Buck O'Neill for his matutinal Havana, was moved to “view with alarm” the great stone hotel that was rising across the square from Buck's modest stand.

“We're going the way that Babylon went,” he said pompously.

“Which way is that?” asked O'Neill, who had not read of Babylon in the pink sporting extras.

“The way of vanity, and finger bowls, and pride,” explained the Senator. “The way that ends in a howling smash up.”

“Oh, maybe not,” said O'Neill, hopefully.

The Senator removed his broad-brimmed black hat. It was an impressive ceremony, for the rough old felt was the somber crown of his statesmanship. For years he had never been seen without it; from end to end of the state it was known and loved. It was picturesque, symbolic; it suggested solidity, bulk, brains. It proclaimed almost audibly that the man underneath combined the deliberative power of Henry Clay with the fiery eloquence of Daniel Webster. He laid the famous hat on the show-case, while Buck O'Neill wide-eyed, expecting the glass to crash beneath so much dignity and weight.

“I don't hold with these new-fangled notions.” And Senator Duncombe applied a handkerchief to his perspiring, noble brow. “They may be all right in the effete East, but out here among the plain people they're a downright insult. I've et for nearly sixty years without any Merry Widow waltz keeping time for me, and I reckon I could go on doing it. And if a man can do more effective work with a knife, why in thunderation should he be made to use a fork?”

“That's what I say,” put in Buck, admiringly, “but my wife—oh, well, she reads the magazines. I suppose I'll have to take her to dinner at this hotel when it's finished, and it'll mean a lot of changes in our way of living at home.”

The Senator smiled, and restored the symbol of his statesmanship to his bald head.

“Bands playing, and ‘we monsteur' waiters, and decadent pictures on the walls, and a menu no American can read,” he remarked. “It's Babylon all over again, Buck. And it means a good smash-up unless we call a halt soon. I'm for plain people and plain ways.”

He paid grandly for his smoke, and pursued his sleek, oily way up the street. As he did so he glanced with interest at the new Hotel Porcellian. There was also anticipation in his glance. For the painted splendors of Babylon did not, as a matter of strict fact, fill him with the horror he described. Squab, and capon, and sauce Bernaise, and an orchestra behind the palms, had been known to soothe his versatile soul in democratic corners of the land. However, he was not sorry he had impressed on Buck O'Neill his scorn for fol-der-rol. The question of his return to the Senate would soon be raised, and Buck was an influential member of the state legislature.

 

January saw the last workman hurried from the Hotel Porcellian, and the first bell-boy installed. Amid roses and music that brought smiles to the lips of women, and half-page advertisements that similarly affected newspaper men, the hostelry's doors were thrown open.

Other things, too, January brought: among them the surprise of Senator Duncombe's eventful life. For several years the children of progress in the state had waged war on his grim stand-pat-ism. He had laughed merrily at their efforts; as he waved the impressive hat up and down the countryside, he had heaped ridicule upon them. Now the legislature had met, and his insurgent opponent, Seaton, had shown remarkable strength. Instead of being triumphantly returned to Washington, Senator Duncombe found both houses dead-locked.

In the midst of this unexpected complication, the Senator was invited to investigate the new Hotel Porcellian's manifold comforts. He did so. “Just to see how far this craze for luxury has gone in our fair city,” he explained.

He found that the craze had gone far. Not without secret admiration, he stood amid magnificent furnishings in the shade of the sheltering palm; he held his breath amid the glories of the “show” suites; he stumbled clumsily through a dainty tea room, expressing meanwhile a deep scorn for oolong. He was shown the workings of the cigar humidor; he peered with interest into the wine cellar.

And, not the least of these splendors, he saw, standing just outside the door of the main dining-room beside a series of polished shelves bearing hats, the gratifying apparition of Miss Myra Pearson.

Senator Duncombe looked, and his keen old eyes opened wide. Miss Pearson had that effect on eyes. She herself had a pair gray, cool, deep, able to read a heart or a hat-check the length of the corridor. She had a complexion suggesting the complexion of Eve, which bloomed before the cosmetic and the corset, the steam radiator and the chocolate cream. And she had wavy hair, of brown. Hair that waves without the aid of wind, electric fan, or curling iron is pleasing to man. Miss Pearson's did that.

She had appeared before the manager of the Porcellian on a cold, rainy, morning, when annoying details had made him churlish. She had asked for work.

“Nothing doing,” snarled the manager. Then, fortunately, he looked up. “What sort of work?” he asked, melting.

“I don't know,” she answered frankly.

“I do,” replied the manager, who understood his business. He put her at the door of the main dining-room.

The shrewdness of the manager's plan was proved by the action of Senator Duncombe. He had fully intended, after inspecting the glories of the new hotel, to go elsewhere for his dinner. But as Myra Pearson's calm, even gaze met his, without a moment's hesitation he put the huge black hat, famous through the state, into her slim hands. In return he received a check—and a smile that entitled him to leave all his political worries for the time being with the hat. He disappeared through the dining-room door, and so passes temporarily from the lime-light of this story. In that lime-light Myra Pearson shall take his place.

Day after day, week after week, as the winter passed, Miss Pearson stood apart from the gaiety of the dining-room, in the company of men's hats. It was a new experience for her; she had never worked before. Life had previously meant just her quiet home, the romance of the printed page, the church social, her mother's tired chatter. Now she had stepped out among the people of the great world; many of them laid their headgear metaphorically at her feet. She was the handmaiden of luxury. At home in her little room of nights she dreamed constantly of—hats.

Women and men alike put articles of apparel in her keeping, and often her fingers caressed the gay plumage of her sisters. But it was man and his hat that most concerned her. For she was young, eager-eyed, romantic, and man was the great experience.

She came to know hats thoroughly. The shining tile of the bishop, the rake, or the butterfly; the pearl-gray or brown derby of the sporting man; the giddy cap or flippant felt of the college youth; the decorous dark derby of business; the affected novelty of the actor; the pompous sombrero of the politician—all these passed through her hands. She sat alone with them in the shadows outside the dining-room, while there drifted out to her the tinkle of a union orchestra, the silvery laughter of women, the popping of noisy corks.

And, in three months, she had made fair progress in knowing the men beneath the hats. Certain styles spoke to her of cupidity and greed, others of a taste for trifling; here and there one seemed to indicate manliness and truth. Once, when she took a jaunty brown derby from a man, he smiled and asked her the hour of her leaving the hotel.

“We might take in a show somewhere,” he said when she told him. “I suppose there isn't anything in town but ancient vaudeville. And then a supper afterward. What do you say, little one?”

Miss Pearson turned her cool eyes upon him. They saw and appraised the rainbow necktie, the exaggerated stick-pin, the sleek black hair, the unpleasant hint in the green eyes. They were dropped to the brown derby. Miss Pearson disliked brown derbies by instinct.

“No, I'm sorry,” she said in a low voice. “I can't accept. Thank you just the same.” One must be polite to guests.

The man laughed lightly and passed into the dining-room. After he had gone Miss Pearson gazed steadily at the derby. She inwardly raged that a man who could wear it had looked with favor upon her.

When he of the rainbow tie returned, he was inclined to be facetious.

“Well, Lady of the Hats,” he sneered, “what's the matter. Don't my derby catch your fancy? Waiting for an imported tile from London, I suppose? Or something chic and Alpine?”

Yes, he had spoken the truth—she knew it. She was waiting—waiting for a hat. Waiting for the hat that could make her happy for life—the hat of her dreams. What hat? She did not know. The whole affair was clouded in mists. But she knew that the hat would come, the hat that was meant for her, and that she would recognize its coming.

An odd view of the great experience was this, but men had come to mean to Myra Pearson nothing but hats. Henceforth, in the moments when she sat alone by her hat-stand, she listened no longer to the light opera airs that drifted out from the dining-room, to the popping of corks on the Middle West's wine. Instead, she gazed at the hats in her keeping, and mused on the one of many. What would it be like when it came?

And, more important, how should she make known to the wearer of the one hat the fact that life held only him for her? Other girls, by the grace of social equality, might by smile and glance and blush indicate preferences. But she—she was only a machine that cared for hats. How could she make it known, when the one hat came, that she was flesh and blood, and had a heart—a heart that could recognize its mate.

So, not knowing how she was to act when the time came, but hoping, fearing, dreaming, she waited.

 

April came, and the legislature still writhed in the agony of deadlock. Senator Duncombe grew a little flabbier, a little less genial, beneath the celebrated hat. Rumors blossomed with the spring. One had it that Buck O'Neill and his crowd would desert him. Amid the smoke of battle in his cigar shop, Buck assured the Senator that the story was false. The old man gave often into Miss Pearson's keeping the hat of black; amid the splendors of a new Babylon he liked to forget the state's ingratitude.

April was half gone; still the procession of men and hats swept by Myra Pearson. Now and then an unusual bit of male head-gear caused her heart to beat faster for the moment. But always it developed this was not the one. Bishops, rakes, butterflies, drummers, college boys, actors, politicians and business men passed by on the other side.

And then. one fine evening in April, THE hat came.

She knew its identity the moment her hand touched it, and she trembled slightly as she found a place for it on the shelf. Scarcely did she look at the owner—then. But when all was again quiet in her corner—though not in her heart—she studied the hat.

It belonged in no category. It was a soft, melting brown felt—and how she hated brown! But this was quite different from the ordinary brown. Though she did not know it, it was exactly the fascinating shade of her own wavy hair. It would have been an Alpine hat, she decided, had not Alpine hats become common and cheap. The rim tipped almost imperceptibly in front and behind; the front was crushed in as none but a thoroughbred would dare crush it. And it was wound with a strange band of cloth that was no one color, but many.

Myra Pearson spent the time during dinner in an exultant dream. She lingered near the hat, now and again touching it tenderly with her shapely hand. The man who could wear this was, she felt sure, the man who could have and hold her heart. But how could she let him know?

In two hours he returned and gravely presented his check. Miss Pearson flushed, and the color in her pure cheek would have caught the eye even of an artist. It caught that of this young man; he looked long and earnestly. One hand was in his pocket; the girl at the hat-stand heard the rattle of silver. But he withdrew the hand—empty.

“I—er—thank you,” he remarked, and his own cheek flushed slightly.

At that moment Senator Duncombe stalked grandly from the dining-room, searching through the pockets on the extensive area of his stomach for his check. He smiled at the young man.

“Hello, Bob. How are you?” he said. “I heard you'd got back from your course of Eastern frills. Going to practice here?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the owner of the one hat. He seemed somewhat embarrassed. “I suppose you know, Senator, that I'm working to defeat you.”

The old man laughed sonorously.

“Go as far as you like, Bob,” he said. “I know all about it. Insurgency, and the rule of the people, and smash the bosses. You're young, and foolish. Have your fling—you don't bother me any. And the son of my old law partner is my friend, whichever side of the political fence he's on. Come up to the house and see us whenever you get time.”

He settled the big hat on his head, and looked so austere, and thoughtful, and important under it, that even his youthful opponent stared. The two went away together, and left Miss Pearson palpitating by the hat-stand. Unfortunately, she could not hear the conversation between them.

“Notice that girl, Senator?”

“Which girl?”

“The one at the hat-stand. Rather pretty, isn't she?”

“Pretty enough.”

“She's a wonder. I tell you, Senator, the Middle West girls make all the rest of 'em look like the pictures of beautiful heiresses the newspapers print. They win in a walk. And their sweetness isn't the kind you can buy in a drug store, like the Broadway article. Funny thing—I couldn't tip that girl. I tried to, but I couldn't.”

“What was the matter,” asked the Senator, “—didn't you have any change?”

“It wasn't that,” smiled the young man. “I just couldn't do it.”

Still palpitating, Miss Pearson stood by her hat-stand. The hat of her dreams had come. Oh, most assuredly, this was the one. But with it had come the great problem—how she should ever be able to appear to its owner in some other rôle than that of a machine that took care of his hat while he dined?

That night, in the family sitting room, she startled her father by making inquiries about the political situation.

“Senator Duncombe,” he said, “is a great statesman—you can tell it by looking at him. He stands for the common people, against the greed of Big Business. I know he does—he told me so himself. These insurgents are just sore because they aint in power. They'd be as bad as the worst if they was. The Senator told me that, too.”

Mr. Pearson looked sternly about him, as one who would call his family's attention to the fact that he frequently conversed with the great.

“Did the Senator have a law partner once?” asked Miss Pearson, haltingly. “With a son—did he have a law partner with a son?”

“He and old Bob Norris,” her father returned, “used to have an office together. Norris is dead now. I hear his son's back from the East and is working against the Senator. They get fool notions in the East. What do you want to know for?”

“Because,” answered Miss Pearson.

In the days that followed she turned to the newspapers for information. From one she learned that Senator Duncombe was saint-like, kindly, capable, the innocent victim of black demagogues. From the other side she gathered that he most resembled Satan, that his pockets were lined with ill-gotten gains, and that his fingers itched for more. She was puzzled, but she clung to the second paper. For in this she read occasionally of Robert Norris.

Two nights after his first appearance there, Norris came again to the Hotel Porcellian. With him was a man whom Miss Pearson recognized from pictures in the paper as Seaton, Duncombe's opponent in the Senatorial race. She took the hat that had fascinated her, and received its owner's kindly smile and “thank you.” As the two entered the dining-room, there ensued a conversation:

“Notice that girl, Seaton?”

“Which girl?”

“The at the one hat-stand. Rather pretty, isn't she?”

“Why—er—yes.”

“She's a corker. I tell you, Seaton, these Middle West girls make all the rest of 'em look like the pictures of beautiful heiresses you see in the newspapers. They win in a walk. And their sweetness isn't the kind you can buy in a drug store, like the Broadway article. Funny thing—I couldn't tip that girl the other night. I tried to, but I couldn't.”

“What was the matter? Broke?”

“Oh, go to the devil.”

“The Senate,” smiled Seaton, “is what I am aiming for.”

Again and again Robert Norris gave into Miss Pearson's keeping his distinctive hat, and they smiled into one another's eyes. One black night he came with a woman—a tall, haughty, fair beauty who left with the girl at the hat-stand a languorous silk wrap. Miss Pearson felt that she could tear the wrap into shreds.

When the pair reappeared and Norris, with grave courtesy, draped the filmy wrap about the girl's shoulders, Myra Pearson stood mute in agony. They went away, and Norris remarked, very, very nonchalantly:

“Rather pretty girl, Martha.”

“Which girl?”

“The one at the hat-stand. I tell you, you Middle Western—”

“I never notice servants”—chillingly.

Mr. Norris' ardor cooled, and he kept his well-known sentiments on Middle Western beauty to himself.

Two nights later Senator Duncombe, with a tired gesture, again resigned his notable hat to her care. Ten minutes more and Norris and Seaton appeared. As they stood waiting for Miss Pearson to select their checks she heard Norris say, with a nod toward the Senator's broad-brimmed felt:

“There's Duncombe's old war hat. It's got him more votes than all his hypocritical eloquence and his oily lies. I really believe it's the secret of his hold on the people.”

“No doubt about it,” laughed Seaton. “If it wasn't for the hat, I think we could beat him. But—he knows the game, and he'll never lose his crown if he can help it.”

They went from Miss Pearson's presence, leaving her to her thoughts. These were many and startling. Those light words spoken in jest she took in deadly seriousness. “If it wasn't for the hat—” Why not?

She looked at the check on Norris' hat, and that on the Senator's. They were 267 and 276. In the confusion and rattle of departing diners, might not her first mistake occur?

Was this not a way, after all, in which she might serve the man she felt was intended for her? Perhaps, in the tangle of events following—and even if that didn't happen, she would at least have helped him in his work.

The Senator always dined long and enthusiastically. Norris and Seaton were the first to leave the dining-room. When the former handed her his check, she turned quickly. Her heart beat wildly; her cheeks burned; her hands trembled. Resolutely she put into his hand Senator Duncombe's celebrated hat.

Norris was so busy reveling in the glory of her eyes that he had turned to leave before he realized that the hat in his hand was not his. He started violently. For a long moment he gazed at the old black felt. Then he smiled delightedly at Seaton, and the two hurried out.

Miss Pearson leaned weakly against her hat-stand and waited for the storm she knew was headed her way, barometers to the contrary notwithstanding. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. Then Senator Duncombe came in ruddy geniality from the dining-room. Again he pursued the elusive check across the area of his stomach. When he had captured it, Miss Pearson took it from his flabby hand, and calmly handed him the somewhat flippant hat of Norris in exchange.

“What's this?” remarked the Senator, smiling. “This isn't my hat.”

Miss Pearson looked him in the eyes.

“Not yours,” she said, and her voice put the union orchestra to shame. “Oh, I'm sorry—I'm afraid there has been some mistake.” She examined the shelves. “I remember now—yours is a big black felt, isn't it? I'm very sorry.”

“A mistake,” cried the Senator.

“I'm afraid,” she went on, “I have given your hat to the wrong man.”

Senator Duncombe stared dully at the giddy near-Alpine affair in his hand.

“But—I can't wear this thing,” he said pitifully.

“The man who has yours will surely bring it back,” she told him, “as soon as he sees his mistake.”

“His mistake,” bellowed the old man. “Yours, you mean. You're a stupid girl. I can't go down the street with this playful burlesque on my head. I can't do it, I tell you.” He looked at the shelves. “Why should you give me this one?”

“It belongs to the man who has yours,” she said. “I remember I gave it to—Mr. Norris. The checks were so much alike. I'm sorry—”

“Bob Norris,” cried the Senator. “I'll find him.”

He clapped the pert brown felt on his head, and Miss Pearson very nearly laughed outright at the transformation it worked. Well as it had suited the thin, dark, handsome face of Norris, it was never built and sent into the world to perch above the pomp and bulk and ceremony of a senator. Duncombe was no longer the austere statesman, but a giddy rake of the boulevards—old enough to know better.

He hurried away, and Miss Pearson caught glimpses of him in full flight through the palms. She saw men turn and burst into laughter as he passed.

He went out into the street, the flippant hat perched saucily on his august head. The crowds stared, and grinned. He took off the hat and carried it. They stared still more. He put it back in place. It seemed that everyone he had known in his long life was abroad to enjoy a laugh at his expense—everyone, that is, but young Bob Norris.

Madly he searched for Norris. He visited club, house, office. It was all in vain; the earth seemed to have swallowed the young man. At nine o'clock he had an appointment with Buck O'Neill and certain other politicians at the cigar store. The hour struck, and reluctantly he had come into Buck's presence thus madly crowned.

The men gathered in the cigar store gazed in open-mouthed astonishment.

“For God's sake, Senator,” cried Buck, “what's that on your head?”

“A mistake,” growled Duncombe, snatching off the hat. “They gave me the wrong one over at the Porcellian.”

The astonishment of Buck and his crowd gave way to a gale of laughter. They had caught, in a flash, something of the real nature of the impressive “statesman.” In the brief second when he stood before them topped off by the giddy and ludicrous hat, he had suggested something far different than the plain people and their ways. He had suggested the popping of corks, a menu in French, the fork of propriety—gout.

“At the Porcellian, Senator,” laughed O'Neill. “Say, we're going the way Babylon went—going it fast, with little Alpine hats on our heads.”

This was not a good sign. Never before had Buck O'Neill shown anything but the deepest respect in addressing the Senator. Other jests and gibes flew about. Senator Duncombe, leaving unmentioned the matter he had come to attend to—the question of Buck's loyalty to him in the last days of the session—departed in a towering rage.

Myra Pearson, still hot-cheeked and thrilled by what she had done, read next day in the evening papers of an unexpected occurrence in the legislature. As the weary vote on the senatorial question was taken again, Buck O'Neill and two of his friends electrified the House by deserting the cause of Duncombe and voting for his opponent. The deadlock was broken, and Seaton was elected.

Long over her paper Miss Pearson pondered. Was this, she wondered, the outcome of her impulsive “mistake?” And how would the matter end?

It ended that same evening. Norris entered the Porcellian gaily, the broad-rimmed hat of the fallen statesman on his head. He came up to the hat-stand and smiled pleasantly into the eyes of which he so heartily approved.

“Last night,” he said, “there was a slight—error. I went away wearing Senator Duncombe's hat. I'm sure he will ask for it—if he hasn't already?”

“He asked for it, all right,” smiled Myra Pearson.

“I'll bet he did.” Norris paused to enjoy the picture. Then his face went grave. “Say, I hope this doesn't cause any row—get you in trouble, you know. If there's anything I could do—”

If there was anything he could do? ‘The irony of that! But Miss Pearson only shook her pretty head.

“Oh, it'll be all right—”

Would it? There was a portentous rumble as Senator Duncombe stalked through the lobby. He came toward the hat-stand. With him came the manager of the hotel.

“I want this girl dismissed,” said the Senator, pointing dramatically. “She's incompetent—she's stupid—”

“Hello, Senator,” Norris broke in. “Say, I'm awfully sorry. I got your hat last night, by mistake. It was all my fault—I was in a hurry, you know. I looked for you everywhere—”

“The devil you did,” remarked the Senator expressively. He took the big black felt which Norris held out to him, and gazed at it sadly. “I'll send you your fool hat by a messenger. I took it off this morning—as soon as the stores opened.” He turned again to the manager. “This girl goes?” he roared.

“Why—yes,” replied the manager reluctantly. He was sorry to lose so attractive a drawing card, but the Senator was still a power in the city and he did not dare displease him. “Yes, she shall leave the Porcellian at once. I cannot tolerate such stupidity. I'm sorry,” he said more gently to Miss Pearson, “but you have caused the Senator great embarrassment and inconvenience. You finish here—to-night.”

Miss Pearson did not reply at once. She stood gazing down at the expensive rug on which the scene was. being enacted. Her heart was heavy. For she had been called stupid before the one man who meant anything to her. And he would go away and think her so to the end of time.

She raised her cool, deep, wonderfully clear eyes to the manager's face.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I will leave the hotel now—at once. I cannot stay, after this. But I want you to know—I'm not stupid. I changed the hats—but I did it—purposely.”

Her glance stole for a second to Norris' face.

“Purposely!” cried the astounded manager.

“Why?” asked Norris

The Senator's face was purple.

“A conspiracy!” he cried. “By the gods, a regular conspiracy! You're all in it together.” He turned to the manager. “I'm through with your hotel forever. I'll never set foot in it again. It's nothing but a rotten hot-house of luxury and sin anyhow. As for you, Norris, there are more elections coming—”

He jammed his old hat down over his ears, and, sputtering, muttering, swearing, strode away. By his side the manager trotted, expostulating, pleading, denying, promising. The old man looked straight ahead, and passed sternly out through the portals of the Hotel Porcellian.

“Why did you do it?” Norris pleaded wildly at Miss Pearson's side.

“I heard you say,” she answered, “that with his hat out of the way you might win. And I wanted you—to win.”

Norris' face was incredulous, but a light was dawning in it.

“You wanted me to? Why?”

“Because—” The complexion so highly spoken of was drowned now in a sea of crimson. “Because I liked—your hat.”

“You're a wonder,” said Norris, almost reverently. “I said so the first time I saw you. I did, really. Get your things; I'm going to walk home with you.”

Flushed, thrilled, exultant, she ran from him, discarded forever the neat white apron of her servitude, and reappeared ready for the street. It was nine blocks to her home. At the end of the second block Norris was saying:

“If we should meet anyone we both know, we could ask to be introduced. But it really doesn't matter, does it?”

“No,” she breathed, “it really doesn't.”

“By the way,” he said, “would you mind telling me your name?”

And at the end of the fifth block:

“I think you are very beautiful. Have other men told you that? I said so the first night I saw you. I tell you, you Middle West girls—”

And at the gate before her home:

“Say—do you realize it?—I didn't—I've walked all the way up here bare-headed. Tell me—do you like me—without the hat?”

Myra Pearson looked up at him, and the April moon had added its own magic to her face.

“I know now,” she said softly, “that a man is something more than a hat.”

“Take me inside,” answered Mr. Norris. “I want to meet—your mother.”