Plum Pudding by Christopher Morley

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We were false to our credo in that we went via the P.R.R., but we
were compensated by a man who was just behind us at the ticket
window. He asked for a ticket to Asbury Park. "Single, or return?"
asked the clerk. "I don't believe I'll ever come back," he said, but
with so unconsciously droll an accent that the ticket seller
screamed with mirth.

There was something very thrilling in strolling again along Chestnut
Street, watching all those delightful people who are so unconscious
of their characteristic qualities. New York has outgrown that stage
entirely: New Yorkers are conscious of being New Yorkers, but
Philadelphians are Philadelphians without knowing it; and hence
their unique delightfulness to the observer. Nothing seemed to us
at all changed--except that the trolleys have raised their fare from
five cents to seven. The Liberty Toggery Shop down on Chestnut
Street was still "Going Out of Business," just as it was a couple of
years ago. Philip Warner, the famous book salesman at Leary's Old
Book Store, was out having lunch, as usual. The first book our eye
fell upon was "The Experiences of an Irish R.M.," which we had
hunted in vain in these parts. The only other book that caught our
eye particularly was a copy of "Patrins," by Louise Guiney, which we
saw a lady carrying on the campus of the University of Pennsylvania.

But perhaps New York exerts its own fascination upon Philadelphians,
too. For when we returned we selfishly persuaded a friend of ours to
ride with us on the train so that we might imbibe some of his ripe
orotund philosophy, which we had long been deprived of. He is a
merciless Celt, and all the way over he preached us a cogent sermon
on our shortcomings and backslidings. Faithful are the wounds of a
friend, and it was nice to know that there was still someone who
cared enough for us to give us a sound cursing. Between times, while
we were catching breath, he expatiated upon the fact that New York
is death and damnation to the soul; but when we got to Manhattan
Transfer he suddenly abandoned his intended plan of there catching
the next train back to the land of Penn. A curious light began to
gleam in his mild eyes; he settled his hat firmly upon his head and
strode out into the Penn Station. "I think I'll go out and look
round a bit," he said. We wonder whether he has gone back yet?

II

The other day we had a chance to go to Philadelphia in the right
way--by the Reading, the P. and R., the Peaceful and Rapid. As one
of our missions in life is to persuade New York and Philadelphia to
love one another, we will tell you about it.

Ah, the jolly old Reading! Take the 10 o'clock ferry from Liberty
Street, and as the _Plainfield_ kicks herself away from the slip
with a churning of cream and silver, study Manhattan's profile in
the downpour of morning sun. That winged figure on the Tel and Tel
Building (the loveliest thing in New York, we insist) is like a huge
and queerly erect golden butterfly perched momently in the blue. The
10:12 train from Jersey City we call the Max Beerbohm Special
because there are Seven Men in the smoker. No, the Reading is never
crowded. (Two more men did get on at Elizabeth.) You can make
yourself comfortable, put your coat, hat, and pipecleaners on one
seat, your books, papers, and matches on another. Here is the stout
conductor whom we used to know so well by sight, with his gold
insignia. He has forgotten that we once travelled with him
regularly, and very likely he wonders why we beam so cheerfully. We
flash down the Bayonne peninsula, with a glimpse of the harbour,
Staten Island in the distance, a schooner lying at anchor. Then we
cross Newark Bay, pure opaline in a clear, pale blue light. H.G.
Dwight is the only other chap who really enjoys Newark Bay the way
it deserves to be. He wrote a fine poem about it once.

But we had one great disappointment. For an hour or so we read a
rubbishy novel, thinking to ourself that when the Max Beerbohm
Express reached that lovely Huntington Valley neighbourhood, we
would lay down the book and study the scenery, which we know by
heart. When we came to the Neshaminy, that blithe little green
river, we were all ready to be thrilled. And then the train swung
away to the left along the cut-off to Wayne Junction and we missed
our bright Arcadia. We had wanted to see again the little cottage at
Meadowbrook (so like the hunting lodge in the forest in "The
Prisoner of Zenda") which a suasive real-estate man once tried to
rent to us. (Philadelphia realtors are no less ingenious than the
New York species.) We wanted to see again the old barn, rebuilt by
an artist, at Bethayres, which he also tried to rent to us. We
wanted to see again the queer "desirable residence" (near the gas
tanks at Marathon) which he did rent us. But we had to content
ourself with the scenery along the cut-off, which is pleasant enough
in its way--there is a brown-green brook along a valley where a
buggy was crawling down a lane among willow trees in a wealth of
sunlight. And the dandelions are all out in those parts. Yes, it was
a lovely morning. We found ourself pierced by the kind of mysterious
placid melancholy that we only enjoy to the full in a Reading
smoker, when, for some unknown reason, hymn tunes come humming into
our head and we are alarmed to notice ourself falling in love with
humanity as a whole.

We could write a whole newspaper page about travelling to Philly on
the Reading. Consider those little back gardens near Wayne Junction,
how delightfully clean, neat, domestic, demure. Compare entering New
York toward the Grand Central, down that narrow frowning alleyway of
apartment house backs, with imprisoned children leaning from barred
windows. But as you spin toward Wayne Junction you see acres and
acres of trim little houses, each with a bright patch of turf. Here
is a woman in a blue dress and white cap, busily belabouring a rug
on the grass. The bank of the cutting by Wayne Junction is thick
with a tangle of rosebushes which will presently be in blossom; we
know them well. Spring Garden Street: if you know where to look you
can catch a blink of Edgar Allan Poe's little house. Through a
jumble of queer old brick chimneys and dormers, and here we are at
the Reading Terminal, with its familiar bitter smell of coal gas.

Of course we stop to have a look at the engine, one of those
splendid Reading locos with the three great driving wheels. Splendid
things, the big Reading locos; when they halt they pant so
cheerfully and noisily, like huge dogs, much louder than any other
engines. We always expect to see an enormous red tongue running in
and out over the cowcatcher. Vast thick pants, as the poet said in
"Khubla Khan." We can't remember if he wore them, or breathed them,
but there it is in the poem; look it up. Reading engineers, too,
always give us a sense of security. They have gray hair, cropped
very close. They have a benign look, rather like Walt Whitman if he
were shaved. We wrote a poem about one of them once, Tom Hartzell,
who used to take the 5:12 express out of Jersey City.

Philadelphia, incidentally, is the only large city where the Dime
Museum business still flourishes. For the first thing we see on
leaving the Terminal is that the old Bingham Hotel is now The
World's Museum, given over to Ursa the Bear Girl and similar
excitements. But where is the beautiful girl with slick dark hair
who used to be at the Reading terminal news-stand?

How much more we could tell you about travelling on the Reading! We
would like to tell you about the queer assortment of books we
brought back with us. (There were twelve men in the smoker, coming
home.) We could tell how we tried to buy, without being observed, a
magazine which we will call _Foamy Fiction_, in order to see what
the new editor (a friend of ours) is printing. Also, we always buy a
volume of Gissing when we go to Philly, and this time we found "In
the Year of Jubilee" in the shop of Jerry Cullen, the delightful
bookseller who used to be so redheaded, but is getting over it now
in the most logical way. We could tell you about the lovely old
whitewashed stone farmhouses (with barns painted red on behalf of
Schenk's Mandrake Pills) and about the famous curve near Roelofs, so
called because the soup rolls off the table in the dining car when
they take the curve at full speed; and about Bound Brook, which has
a prodigious dump of tin cans that catches the setting sunlight----

It makes us sad to think that a hundred years hence people will be
travelling along that road and never know how much we loved it. They
will be doing so to-morrow, too; but it seems more mournful to think
about the people a hundred years hence.

When we got back to Jersey City, and stood on the front end of the
ferryboat, Manhattan was piling up all her jewels into the cold
green dusk. There were a few stars, just about as many as there are
passengers in a Reading smoker. There was one big star directly over
Brooklyn, and another that seemed to be just above Plainfield. We
pondered, as the ferry slid toward its hutch at Liberty Street, that
there were no stars above Manhattan. Just at that moment--five
minutes after seven--the pinnacle of the Woolworth blossomed a ruby
red. New York makes her own.

III

You never know when an adventure is going to begin. But on a train
is a good place to lie in wait for them. So we sat down in the
smoker of the 10 A.M. Eastern Standard Time P.R.R. express to
Philadelphia, in a receptive mood.

At Manhattan Transfer the brakeman went through the train, crying in
a loud, clear, emphatic barytone: "Next stop for this train is North
Philadelphia!"

We sat comfortably, and in that mood of secretly exhilarated mental
activity which is induced by riding on a fast train. We were looking
over the June _Atlantic_. We smiled gently to ourself at that
unconscious breath of New England hauteur expressed in the
publisher's announcement, "_The edition of the Atlantic is carefully
restricted._" Then, meditating also on the admirable sense and skill
with which the magazine is edited, and getting deep into William
Archer's magnificent article "The Great Stupidity" (which we hope
all our clients will read) we became aware of outcries of anguish
and suffering in the aisle near by.

At Manhattan Transfer a stout little man with a fine domy forehead
and a derby hat tilted rather far aft had entered the smoker. He
suddenly learned that the train did not stop at Newark. He uttered
lamentation, and attacked the brakeman with grievous protest. "I
heard you say, This train stops at Newark and Philadelphia," he
insisted. His cigar revolved wildly in the corner of his mouth;
crystal beads burst out upon the opulent curve of his forehead.
"I've got to meet a man in Newark and sell him a bill of goods."

The brakeman was gentle but firm. "Here's the conductor," he said.
"You'll have to talk to him."

Now this is a tribute of admiration and respect to that conductor.
He came along the aisle punching tickets, holding his record slip
gracefully folded round the middle finger of his punch hand, as
conductors do. Like all experienced conductors he was alert,
watchful, ready for any kind of human guile and stupidity, but
courteous the while. The man bound for Newark ran to him and began
his harangue. The frustrated merchant was angry and felt himself a
man with a grievance. His voice rose in shrill tones, he waved his
hands.

Then began a scene that was delightful to watch. The conductor was
magnificently tactful. He ought to have been an ambassador (in fact,
he reminded us of one ambassador, for his trim and slender figure,
his tawny, drooping moustache, the gentle and serene tact of his
bearing, were very like Mr. Henry van Dyke). He allowed the
protestant to exhaust himself with reproaches, and then he began an
affectionate little sermon, tender, sympathetic, but firm.

"I thought this train stopped at Newark," the fat man kept on
saying.

"You mustn't think, you must _know_," said the conductor, gazing
shrewdly at him above the rims of his demi-lune spectacles. "Now,
why did you get on a train without making sure where it stopped? You
heard the brakeman say: 'Newark and Philadelphia'? No; he said
'North Philadelphia.' Yes, I know you were in a hurry, but that
wasn't our fault, was it? Now, let me tell you something: I've been
working for this company for twenty-five years...."

Unhappily the noise of the train prevented us from hearing the
remark that followed. We were remembering a Chinese translation that
we made once. It went something like this:

A SUSPICIOUS NATURE

_Whenever I travel
I ask at least three train-men
If this is the right train
For where I am going,
Even then
I hardly believe them._

But as we watched the two, the conductor gently convincing the
irate passenger that he would have to abide by his mistake, and the
truculent fat man gradually realizing that he was hopelessly in the
wrong, a new aspect subtly came over the dialogue. We saw the stout
man wither and droop. We thought he was going to die. His hat slid
farther and farther upward on his dewy brow. His hands fluttered.
His cigar, grievously chewed, trembled in its corner of his mouth.
His fine dark eyes filled with tears.

The conductor, you see, was explaining that he would have to pay the
fare to North Philadelphia and then take the first train back from
there to Newark.

We feared, for a few minutes, that it really would be a case for a
chirurgeon, with cupping and leeching and smelling salts. Our rotund
friend was in a bad way. His heart, plainly, was broken. From his
right-hand trouser emerged a green roll. With delicate speed and
tact the conductor hastened this tragic part of the performance. His
silver punch flashed in his hand as he made change, issued a cash
slip, and noted the name and address of the victim, for some
possible future restitution, we surmised, or perhaps only as a
generous anaesthetic.

The stout man sat down a few seats in front of us and we studied his
back. We have never seen a more convincing display of chagrin. With
a sombre introspective stare he gazed glassily before him. We never
saw any one show less enthusiasm for the scenery. The train flashed
busily along through the level green meadows, which blended exactly
with the green plush of the seats, but our friend was lost in a
gruesome trance. Even his cigar (long since gone out) was still,
save for an occasional quiver.

The conductor came to our seat, looking, good man, faintly stern and
sad, like a good parent who has had, regretfully, to chastise an
erring urchin.

"Well," we said, "the next time that chap gets on a train he'll take
care to find out where it stops."

The conductor smiled, but a humane, understanding smile. "I try to
be fair with 'em," he said.

"I think you were a wonder," we said.

By the time we reached North Philadelphia the soothing hand of Time
had exerted some of its consolation. The stout man wore a faintly
sheepish smile as he rose to escape. The brakeman was in the
vestibule. He, younger than the conductor, was no less kind, but we
would hazard that he is not quite as resigned to mortal error and
distress. He spoke genially, but there was a note of honest rebuke
in his farewell.

"The next time you get on a train," he said, "watch your stop."

[Illustration]

OUR TRICOLOUR TIE

We went up to the composing room just now to consult our privy
counsellor, Peter Augsberger, the make-up man, and after Peter had
told us about his corn----

It is really astonishing, by the way, how many gardeners there are
in a newspaper office. We once worked in a place where a
horticultural magazine and a beautiful journal of rustic life were
published, and the delightful people who edited those magazines were
really men about town; but here in the teeming city and in the very
node of urban affairs, to wit, the composing room, one hears nought
but merry gossip about gardens, and the great and good men by whom
we are surrounded begin their day by gazing tenderly upon jars full
of white iris. And has not our friend Charley Sawyer of the dramatic
department given us a lot of vegetable marrow seeds from his own
garden and greatly embarrassed us by so doing, for he has put them
in two packets marked "Male" and "Female," and to tell the truth we
had no idea that the matter of sex extended even as far as the
apparently placid and unperturbed vegetable marrow. Mr. Sawyer
explained carefully to us just how the seeds ought to be planted,
the males and females in properly wedded couples, we think he said;
but we are not quite sure, and we are too modest to ask him to
explain again; but if we should make a mistake in planting those
seeds, if we were to---- Come, we are getting away from our topic.
Peter had told us about his corn, in his garden, that is, out in
Nutley (and that reminds us of the difficulties of reading poetry
aloud. Mr. Chesterton tells somewhere a story about a poem of
Browning's that he heard read aloud when he was a child, and
understood the poem to say "John scorns ale."

Now Mr. Chesterton--you understand, of course, we are referring to
Gilbert Keith Chesterton--being from his very earliest youth an
avowed partisan of malt liquor, this heresy made an impression upon
his tender cortex, and he never forgot about John, in Browning's
poem, scorning ale. But many years afterward, reading Browning, he
found that the words really were: "John's corns ail," meaning
apparently that John was troubled by pedal callouses.) Peter, we
repeat, and to avoid any further misunderstanding and press
diligently toward our theme, having mentioned his garden, who
should come up to us but Pete Corcoran, also of the composing room
force, and a waggish friend of ours, and gazing on us in a manner
calculated to make us feel ill at ease he said, "I suppose you are
going to write something about that tie of yours."

Now we were wearing a scarf that we are very fond of, the kind of
tie, we believe, that is spoken of as "regimental stripes"; at any
rate, it is designated with broad diagonal bands of colour: claret,
gold, and blue. It was obvious to us that Pete Corcoran, or, to give
him his proper name, Mr. Corcoran, had said what he did merely in a
humorous way, or possibly satiric, implying that we are generally so
hard up for something to write about that we would even undertake so
trifling a subject as haberdashery; but as we went downstairs again
to our kennel, _au dixieme_, as Mr. Wanamaker would call it, we
thought seriously about this and decided that we would cause Pete's
light-hearted suggestion to recoil violently upon his friendly brow,
and that we would write a little essay about this tie and tell its
story, which, to be honest, is very interesting to us. And this
essay we are now endeavouring to write, even if it has to run in
several instalments.

It was curious, incidentally (but not really more curious than most
human affairs), that Pete (or Mr. Corcoran) whether he was merely
chaffing us, or whether he was really curious about a scarf of such
wanton colour scheme, should have mentioned it just when he did, for
as a matter of fact that tie had been on our mind all morning. You
see to-day being warm (and please remember that what we call
to-day, is now, when you are reading this, yesterday) we did not
wear our waistcoat, or, if you prefer, our vest; but by the time we
had decided not to wear our waistcoat we had already tied our scarf
in the usual way we tie that particular scarf when we wear it, viz.,
so as to conceal a certain spot on it which got there we know not
how. We do not know what kind of a spot it is; perhaps it is a soup
stain, perhaps it is due to a shrimp salad we had with Endymion at
that amusing place that calls itself the Crystal Palace; we will not
attempt to trace the origin of that swarthy blemish on the soft silk
of our tie; but we have cunningly taught ourself to knot the thing
so that the spot does not show. (Good, we have made that plain: we
are getting along famously.)

Since the above was written we have been uptown and had lunch with
Alf Harcourt and Will Howe and other merry gentlemen; and Will Howe,
who used to be a professor of English and is now a publisher, says
we ought to break up our essays into shorter paragraphs. We are fain
and teachable, as someone once said in a very pretty poem; we will
start a new paragraph right away.

But when our tie is tied in the manner described above, it leaves
one end very much longer than the other. This is not noticeable when
we wear our waistcoat; but having left off our waistcoat, we were
fearful that the manner in which our tie was disposed would attract
attention; and everyone would suspect just why it was tied in that
way.

And we did not have time to take it off and put on another one,
because we had to catch the 8:06.

So when Pete Corcoran spoke about our tie, was that what was in his
mind, we wondered? Did he _infer_ the existence of that spot, even
though he did not see it? And did he therefore look down upon, or
otherwise feel inclined to belittle our tie? If that were the case,
we felt that we really owed it to ourself to tell the story of the
tie, how we bought it, and why; and just why that tie is to us not
merely a strip of rather gaudy neckwear, but a symbol of an
enchanting experience, a memory and token of an epoch in our life,
the sign and expression of a certain feeling that can never come
again--and, indeed (as the sequel will show), that should not have
come when it did.

It was a bright morning, last November, in Gloversville, New York,
when we bought that tie. Now an explanation of just why we bought
that tie, and what we were doing in Gloversville, cannot possibly be
put into a paragraph, at any rate the kind of paragraph that Will
Howe (who used to be a professor of English) would approve. On the
whole, rather than rewrite the entire narrative, tersely, we will
have to postpone the denouement (of the story, not the tie) until
to-morrow. This is an exhibition of the difficulty of telling
anything exactly. There are so many subsidiary considerations that
beg for explanation. Please be patient, Pete, and to-morrow we will
explain that tie in detail.

II

It was a bright and transparent cold morning in Gloversville, N.Y.,
November, 1919, and passing out of the Kingsborough Hotel we set off
to have a look at the town. And if we must be honest, we were in
passable good humour. To tell the truth, as Gloversville began its
daily tasks in that clear lusty air and in a white dazzling
sunshine, we believed, simpleton that we were, that we were on the
road toward making our fortune. Now, we will have to be brief in
explanation of the reason why we felt so, for it is a matter not
easy to discuss with the requisite delicacy. Shortly, we were on the
road--"trouping," they call it in the odd and glorious world of the
theatre--with a little play in which we were partially incriminated,
on a try-out voyage of one-night stands. The night before, the
company had played Johnstown (a few miles from Gloversville), and if
we do have to say it, the good-natured citizens of that admirable
town had given them an enthusiastic reception. So friendly indeed
had been our houses on the road and so genially did the company
manager smile upon us that any secret doubts and qualms we had
entertained were now set at rest. Lo! had not the company manager
himself condescended to share a two-room suite with us in the
Kingsborough Hotel that night? And we, a novice in this large and
exhilarating tract of life, thought to ourself that this was the
ultimate honour that could be conferred upon a lowly co-author. Yes,
we said to ourself, as we beamed upon the excellent town of
Gloversville, admiring the Carnegie Library and the shops and the
numerous motor cars and the bright shop windows and munching some
very fine doughnuts we had seen in a bakery. Yes, we repeated, this
is the beginning of fame and fortune. Ah! Pete Corcoran may scoff,
but that was a bright and golden morning, and we would not have
missed it. We did not know then the prompt and painful end destined
for that innocent piece when it reached the Alba Via Maxima. All we
knew was that Saratoga and Newburgh and Johnstown had taken us to
their bosoms.

At this moment, and our thoughts running thus, we happened to pass
by the window of a very alluring haberdasher's shop. In that window
we saw displayed a number of very brilliant neckties, all rich and
glowing with bright diagonal stripes. The early sunlight fell upon
them and they were brave to behold. And we said to ourself that it
would be a proper thing for one who was connected with the triumphal
onward march of a play that was knocking them cold on the one-night
circuit to flourish a little and show some sign of worldly vanity.
(We were still young, that November, and our mind was still subject
to some harmless frailties.) We entered the shop and bought that
tie, the very same one that struck Pete Corcoran with a palsy when
he saw it the other day. We put it in our pocket and walked back to
the hotel.

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