The Voice of the City
Dougherty's
Eye-Opener
1,993 words
Big Jim Dougherty was a sport. He belonged to that race of men.
In Manhattan it is a distinct race. They are the
Caribs of the North— strong, artful, self-sufficient, clannish,
honorable within the laws of their
race, holding in lenient contempt neighboring tribes who bow to the
measure of Society's tape-line. I refer, of course, to the titled nobility
of sportdom. There is a class which bears as a qualifying adjective the
substantive belonging to a wind instrument made of a cheap and base metal.
But the tin mines of Cornwall never produced the material for
manufacturing descriptive nomenclature for "Big Jim" Dougherty.
The habitat of the
sport is the lobby or the outside corner of certain hotels and combination
restaurants and cafes. They are mostly men of different sizes, running
from small to large; but they are unanimous in the possession of a
recently shaven, blue-black cheek and chin and dark overcoats (in season)
with black velvet collars.
Of the domestic life of the sport little is known. It has been said
that Cupid and Hymen sometimes take a hand in the game and copper the
queen of hearts to lose. Daring theorists have averred—not content with
simply saying—that a sport often contracts a spouse, and even incurs
descendants. Sometimes he sits in the game of politics; and
then at chowder picnics there is a revelation of a Mrs. Sport and little
Sports in glazed hats with tin pails.
But mostly the sport is Oriental. He believes his women-folk should
not be too patent. Somewhere behind grilles or flower ornamented fire
escapes they await him. There, no doubt, they tread on rugs from Teheran
and are diverted by the bulbul and play upon the dulcimer and feed upon
sweetmeats. But away from his home the sport is an integer. He does not,
as men of other races in Manhattan do, become the convoy in his unoccupied
hours of fluttering laces and high heels that tick off delectably the
happy seconds of the evening parade. He herds with his own race at
corners, and delivers a commentary in his Carib lingo upon the passing
show.
"Big Jim" Dougherty had a wife, but he did not wear a
button portrait of her upon his lapel. He had a home in one of those
brownstone, iron-railed streets on the west side that look like a recently
excavated bowling alley of Pompeii.
To this home of his Mr. Dougherty repaired each night when the hour
was so late as to promise no further diversion in the arch domains of
sport. By that time the occupant of the monogamistic harem would be in
dreamland, the bulbul silenced and the hour propitious for slumber.
"BigJim" always arose at twelve, meridian, for breakfast,
and soon afterward he would return to the rendezvous of his
"crowd."
He was always vaguely conscious that there was a Mrs. Dougherty. He
would have received without denial the charge that the quiet, neat,
comfortable little woman across the table at home was his wife. In fact,
he remembered pretty well that they had been married for nearly four
years. She would often tell him about the cute tricks of Spot, the canary,
and the light-haired lady that lived in the window of the flat across the
street.
"Big Jim" Dougherty even listened to this conversation of
hers sometimes. He knew that she would have a nice dinner ready for him
every evening at seven when he came for it. She sometimes went to
matinees, and she had a talking machine with six dozen records.
Once when her Uncle Amos blew in on a wind from up-state she went
with him to the Eden Musee. Surely these things were diversions
enough for any woman.
One afternoon Mr. Dougherty finished his breakfast, put on his hat
and got away fairly for the door. When his hand was on the knob he heard
his wife's voice.
"Jim" she said, firmly, "I wish you would take me
out to dinner this evening. It
has been three years since you have been outside the door with me."
"Big Jim" was astounded. She had never asked anything
like this before. It had the flavor of a totally new proposition. But he
was a game sport.
"All right," he said. "You be ready when I come at
seven. None of this 'wait two minutes till I primp an hour or two' kind of
business, now, Dele."
I'll be ready," said his wife, calmly.
At seven she descended the stone steps in the Pompeian bowling
alley at the side of "Big Jim" Dougherty. She wore a dinner gown
made of a stuff that the spiders must have woven, and of a color that a
twilight sky must have contributed. A light coat with many admirably
unnecessary capes and adorably inutile ribbons floated downward from her
shoulders. Fine feathers do make fine birds; and the only reproach in the
saying is for the man who refuses to give up his earnings for the ostrich-tip
industry.
"Big Jim" Dougherty was troubled. There was a being at
his side whom he did not know. He thought of the sober-hued plumage that
this bird of paradise was accustomed to wear in her cage, and this winged
revelation puzzled him. In some way she reminded him of the Delia Cullen
that he had married four years before. Shyly and rather awkwardly he
stalked at her right hand.
"After dinner I'll take you back home, Dele," said Mr.
Dougherty, "and then I'll drop back up to Seltzer's with the boys.
You can have swell chuck tonight if you want it. I made a winning on
Anaconda yesterday so you can go as far as you like."
Mr. Dougherty had intended to make the outing with his unwonted
wife an inconspicuous one. Uxoriousness was a weakness that the precepts
of the Caribs did not countenance. If any of his friends of the track, the
billiard cloth or the square circle had wives they had never complained of
the fact in public. There were a number of table
d'hote places on the cross streets near the broad and shining way; and
to one of these he had proposed to escort her, so that the bushel might
not be removed from the light of his domesticity.
But while on the way Mr. Dougherty altered those intentions. He had
been casting stealthy glances at his attractive companion and he was
seized with the conviction that she was no selling plater. He resolved to
parade with his wife past Seltzer's cafe, where at this time a number of
his tribe would be gathered to view the daily evening processions. Yes;
and he would take her to dine at Hoogley's, the swellest slow-lunch
warehouse on the line, he said to himself.
The congregation of smooth-faced tribal gentlemen were on watch at
Seltzer's. As Mr. Dougherty and his reorganized Delia passed they stared,
momentarily petrified, and then removed their hats—a per formance as
unusual to them as was the astonishing innovation presented to their
gaze by "BigJim. " On the latter gentleman's impassive face
there appeared a slight flicker of triumph—a faint flicker, no more to
be observed than the expression called there by the draft of little casino
to a four-card spade flush.
Hoogley's was animated. Electric lights shone—as, indeed, they
were expected to do. And the napery, the glassware, and the flowers I also
meritoriously performed the spectacular duties required of them.
The guests were
numerous, well-dressed, and gay.
A waiter—not
necessarily obsequious—conducted "Big Jim" Dougherty and his
wife to a table.
"Play that menu straight across for what you like, Dele,
" said "Big I Jim." "It's you for a trough of the
gilded oats tonight. It strikes me that maybe we've been sticking too fast
to home fodder."
"Big Jim's" wife gave her order. He looked at her with
respect. She had mentioned truffles; and he had not known that she knew
what truffles were. From the wine list she designated an appropriate | and
desirable brand. He looked at her with some admiration.
She was beaming with the innocent excitement that woman derives
from the exercise of her gregariousness. She was talking to him about I a
hundred things with animation and delight. And as the meal progrossed her
cheeks, colorless from a life indoors, took on a delicate flush. "Big
Jim" looked around the room and saw that none of the women
there had her charm. And then he thought of the three years she had
suffered immurement, uncomplaining, and a flush of shame warmed him, for
he carried fair play as an item in his creed.
But when the Honorable Patrick Corrigan, leader in Dougherty's
district and a friend of his, saw them and came over to the table, matters
got to the three-quarter stretch. The Honorable Patrick was | a gallant
man, both in deeds and words. As for the Blarney stone, his previous
actions toward it must have been pronounced. Heavy damages for breach of
promise could surely have been obtained had the Blarney stone seen fit to
sue the Honorable Patrick.
"Jimmy, old man!" he called; he clapped Dougherty on the
back; he shone like a midday sun upon Delia.
"Honorable Mr. Corrigan . . .
Mrs. Dougherty," said "BigJim."
The Honorable Patrick became a fountain of entertainment and
admiration. The waiter had to fetch a third chair for him; he made another
at the table, and the wineglasses were refilled.
"You selfish old rascal!" he exclaimed, shaking an arch
finger at "Big dim," "to have kept Mrs. Dougherty a secret
from us."
And then "Big Jim" Dougherty, who was no talker, sat
dumb, and saw the wife who had dined every evening for three years at
home, blossom like a fairy flower. Quick, witty, charming, full of light
and ready talk, she received the experienced attack of the Honorable
Patrick on the field of repartee and surprised, vanquished, delighted him.
She unfolded her long-closed petals and around her the room became a
garden. They tried to include "Big Jim" in the conversation, but
he was without a vocabulary.
And then a stray bunch of politicians and good fellows who lived
for sport came into the room. They saw "Big Jim" and the leader,
and over they came and were made acquainted with Mrs. Dougherty. And in a
few minutes she was holding a salon. Half a dozen men surrounded her,
courtiers all, and six found her capable of charming. "Big Jim"
sat, grim, and kept saying to himself: "Three years, three years!
"
The dinner came to an end. The Honorable Patrick reached for Mrs.
Dougherty's cloak; but that was a matter of action instead of words, and
Dougherty's big hand got it first by two seconds.
While the farewells were being said at the door the Honorable
Patrick smote Dougherty mightily between the shoulders.
"Jimmy, me boy," he declared, in a giant whisper,
"the madam is a jewel of the first water. Ye're a lucky dog."
"Big Jim" walked homeward with his wife. She seemed quite
as pleased with the lights and show windows in the streets as with the
admiration of the men in Hoogley's. As they passed Seltzer's they heard
the sound of many voices in the cafe. The boys would be starting the
drinks around now and discussing past performances.
At the door of their home Delia paused. The pleasure of the outing
radiated softly from her countenance. She could not hope for Jim of
evenings, but the glory of this one would lighten her lonely hours for a
long time.
"Thank you for taking me out, Jim," she said, gratefully.
"You'll be going back to Seltzer's now, of course."
"To—with Seltzer's," said "Big Jim,"
emphatically. "And d-------- Pat Corrigan!
Does he think I haven't got any eyes?"
And the door closed behind both of them.
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Eye-Opener
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