So fascinated were the group that they failed to see Basil’s eyes brighten with a ray of hope, his feet take four quick steps backwards with all the guile of a gentleman burglar, his torso writhe through the parting of a tent wall into the deserted premises of the Harvester and Tractor Show. Once safe, Basil’s tensity relaxed, and as he considered Riply’s unconsciousness of the responsibilities presently to devolve upon him, he bent double with hilarious laughter in the darkness.
IV
Ten minutes later, in a remote part of the fair-grounds, a youth made his way briskly and cautiously towards the fireworks exhibit, swinging as he walked a recently purchased rattan cane. Several girls eyed him with interest, but he passed them haughtily; he was weary of people for a brief moment—a moment which he had almost mislaid in the bustle of life—he was enjoying his long pants.
He bought a bleacher seat and followed the crowd around the race track, seeking his section. A few Union troops were moving cannon about in preparation for the Battle of Gettysburg, and, stopping to watch them, he was hailed by Gladys Van Schellinger from the box behind.
“Oh, Basil, don’t you want to come and sit with us?”
He turned about and was absorbed. Basil exchanged courtesies with Mr. and Mrs. Van Schellinger and he was affably introduced to several other people as “Alice Riley’s boy,” and a chair was placed for him beside Gladys in front.
“Oh, Basil,” she whispered, glowing at him, “isn’t this fun?”
Distinctly, it was. He felt a vast wave of virtue surge through him. How anyone could have preferred the society of those common girls was at this moment incomprehensible.
“Basil, won’t it be fun to go East? Maybe we’ll be on the same train.”
“I can hardly wait,” he agreed gravely. “I’ve got on long pants. I had to have them to go away to school.”
One of the ladies in the box leaned towards him. “I know your mother very well,” she said. “And I know another friend of yours. I’m Riply Buckner’s aunt.”
“Oh, yes!”
“Riply’s such a nice boy,” beamed Mrs. Van Schellinger.
And then, as if the mention of his name had evoked him, Riply Buckner came suddenly into sight. Along the now empty and brightly illuminated race track came a short but monstrous procession, a sort of Lilliputian burlesque of the wild gay life. At its head marched Hubert Blair and Olive, Hubert prancing and twirling his cane like a drum major to the accompaniment of her appreciative screams of laughter. Next followed Elwood Leaming and his young lady, leaning so close together that they walked with difficulty, apparently wrapped in each other’s arms. And bringing up the rear without glory were Riply Buckner and Basil’s late companion, rivalling Olive in exhibitionist sound.
Fascinated, Basil stared at Riply, the expression of whose face was curiously mixed. At moments he would join in the general tone of the parade with silly guffaw, at others a pained expression would flit across his face, as if he doubted that, after all, the evening was a success.
The procession was attracting considerable notice—so much that not even Riply was aware of the particular attention focused upon him from this box, though he passed by it four feet away. He was out of hearing when a curious rustling sigh passed over its inhabitants and a series of discreet whispers began.
“What funny girls!” Gladys said. “Was that first boy Hubert Blair?”
“Yes.” Basil was listening to a fragment of conversation behind:
“His mother will certainly hear of this in the morning.”
As long as Riply had been in sight, Basil had been in an agony of shame for him, but now a new wave of virtue, even stronger than the first, swept over him. His memory of the incident would have reached actual happiness, save for the fact that Riply’s mother might not let him go away to school. And a few minutes later, even that seemed endurable. Yet Basil was not a mean boy. The natural cruelty of his species towards the doomed was not yet disguised by hypocrisy—that was all.
In a burst of glory, to the alternate strains of Dixie and The Star-Spangled Banner, the Battle of Gettysburg ended. Outside by the waiting cars, Basil, on a sudden impulse, went up to Riply’s aunt.
“I think it would be sort of a—a mistake to tell Riply’s mother. He didn’t do any harm. He—”
Annoyed by the events of the evening, she turned on him cool, patronizing eyes.
“I shall do as I think best,” she said briefly.
He frowned. Then he turned and got into the Van Schellinger limousine.
Sitting beside Gladys in the little seats, he loved her suddenly. His hand swung gently against hers from time to time and be felt the warm bond that they were both going away to school tightened around them and pulling them together.
“Can’t you come and see me tomorrow?” she urged him. “Mother’s going to be away and she says I can have anybody I like.”
“All right.”
As the car slowed up for Basil’s house, she leaned towards him swiftly. “Basil—”
He waited. Her breath was warm on his cheek. He wanted her to hurry, or, when the engine stopped, her parents, dozing in back, might hear what she said. She seemed beautiful to him then; that vague unexciting quality about her was more than compensated for by her exquisite delicacy, the fine luxury of her life.
“Basil—Basil, when you come tomorrow, will you bring that Hubert Blair?”
The chauffeur opened the door and Mr. and Mrs. Van Schellinger woke up with a start. When the car had driven off, Basil stood looking after it thoughtfully until it turned the corner of the street.
Published in The Saturday Evening Post (21 July 1928).
