Outside again Basil walked up and down, considering. He would give Mr. Rooney half an hour. If, at the end of that lime, he had not come out, he would go back to school. After all, Mr. Rooney had laid for him ever since football season—Basil was simply washing his hands of the whole affair, as in a day or so he would wash his hands of school.
He had made several turns up and down, when, glancing up an alley that ran beside the theatre his eye was caught by the sign, Stage Entrance. He could watch the actors come forth.
He waited. Women streamed by him, but those were the days before Glorification and he took these drab people for wardrobe women or something. Then suddenly a girl came out and with her a man, and Basil turned and ran a few steps up the street as if afraid they would recognize him—and ran back, breathing as if with a heart attack—for the girl, a radiant little beauty of nineteen, was Her and the young man by her side was Ted Fay.
Arm in arm, they walked past him, and irresistibly Basil followed. As they walked, she leaned towards Ted Fay in a way that gave them a fascinating air of intimacy. They crossed Broadway and turned into the Knickerbocker Hotel, and twenty feet behind them Basil followed, in time to see them go into a long room set for afternoon tea. They sat at a table for two, spoke vaguely to a waiter, and then, alone at last, bent eagerly towards each other. Basil saw that Ted Fay was holding her gloved hand.
The tea room was separated only by a hedge of potted firs from the main corridor. Basil went along this to a lounge which was almost up against their table and sat down.
Her voice was low and faltering, less certain than it had been in the play, and very sad: “Of course I do, Ted.” For a long time, as their conversation continued, she repeated “Of course I do” or “But I do, Ted”. Ted Fay’s remarks were too low for Basil to hear.
“——says next month, and he won’t be put off any more… I do in a way, Ted. It’s hard to explain, but he’s done everything for mother and me… There’s no use kidding myself. It was a foolproof part and any girl he gave it to was made right then and there… He’s been awfully thoughtful. He’s done everything for me.”
Basil’s ears were sharpened by the intensity of his emotion; now he could hear Ted Fay’s voice too:
“And you say you love me.”
“But don’t you see I promised to marry him more than a year ago.”
“Tell him the truth—that you love me. Ask him to let you off.”
“This isn’t musical comedy, Ted.”
“That was a mean one,” he said bitterly.
“I’m sorry, dear, Ted darling, but you’re driving me crazy going on this way. You’re making it so hard for me.”
“I’m going to leave New Haven, anyhow.”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to stay and play baseball this spring. Why, you’re an ideal to all those boys! Why, if you——”
He laughed shortly. “You’re a fine one to talk about ideals.”
“Why not? I’m living up to my responsibility to Beltzman; you’ve got to make up your mind just like I have—that we can’t have each other.”
“Jerry! Think what you’re doing! All my life, whenever I hear that waltz——”
Basil got to his feet and hurried down the corridor, through the lobby and out of the hotel. He was in a state of wild emotional confusion. He did not understand all he had heard, but from his clandestine glimpse into the privacy of these two, with all the world that his short experience could conceive of at their feet, he had gathered that life for everybody was a struggle, sometimes magnificent from a distance, but always difficult and surprisingly simple and a little sad.
They would go on. Ted Fay would go back to Yale, put her picture in his bureau drawer and knock out home runs with the bases full this spring—at 8:30 the curtain would go up and She would miss something warm and young out of her life, something she had had this afternoon.
It was dark outside and Broadway was a blazing forest fire as Basil walked slowly along towards the point of brightest light. He looked up at the great intersecting planes of radiance with a vague sense of approval and possession. He would see it a lot now, lay his restless heart upon this greater restlessness of a nation—he would come whenever he could get off from school.
But that was all changed—he was going to Europe. Suddenly Basil realized that he wasn’t going to Europe. He could not forgo the moulding of his own destiny just to alleviate a few months of pain. The conquest of the successive worlds of school, college and New York—why, that was his true dream that he had carried from boyhood into adolescence, and because of the jeers of a few boys he had been about to abandon it and run ignominiously up a back alley! He shivered violently, like a dog coming out of the water, and simultaneously he was reminded of Mr. Rooney.
A few minutes later he walked into the bar, past the quizzical eyes of the bartender and up to the table where Mr. Rooney still sat asleep. Basil shook him gently, then firmly. Mr. Rooney stirred and perceived Basil.
“G’wise to yourself,” he muttered drowsily. “G’wise to yourself an’ let me alone.”
“I am wise to myself,” said Basil. “Honest, I am wise to myself, Mr. Rooney. You got to come with me into the washroom and get cleaned up, and then you can sleep on the train again, Mr. Rooney. Come on, Mr. Rooney, please——”
V
It was a long hard time. Basil got on bounds again in December and wasn’t free again until March. An indulgent mother had given him no habits of work and this was almost beyond the power of anything but life itself to remedy, but he made numberless new starts and failed and tried again.
He made friends with a new boy named Maplewood after Christmas, but they had a silly quarrel; and through the winter term, when a boys’ school is shut in with itself and only partly assuaged from its natural savagery by indoor sports, Basil was snubbed and slighted a good deal for his real and imaginary sins, and he was much alone. But on the other hand, there was Ted Fay, and Rose of the Night on the phonograph—“All my life whenever I hear that waltz”—and the remembered lights of New York, and the thought of what he was going to do in football next autumn and the glamorous mirage of Yale and the hope of spring in the air.
Fat Gaspar and a few others were nice to him now. Once when he and Fat walked home together by accident from downtown they had a long talk about actresses—a talk that Basil was wise enough not to presume upon afterwards. The smaller boys suddenly decided that they approved of him, and a master who had hitherto disliked him put his hand on his shoulder walking to a class one day. They would all forget eventually—maybe during the summer. There would be new fresh boys in September; he would have a clean start next year.
One afternoon in February, playing basketball, a great thing happened. He and Brick Wales were at forward on the second team and in the fury of the scrimmage the gymnasium echoed with sharp slapping contacts and shrill cries.
“Here yar!”
“Bill! Bill!”
Basil had dribbled the ball down the court and Brick Wales, free, was crying for it.
“Here yar! Lee! Hey! Lee-y!”
Lee-y!
Basil flushed and made a poor pass. He had been called by a nickname. It was a poor makeshift, but it was something more than the stark bareness of his surname or a term of derision. Brick Wales went on playing, unconscious that he had done anything in particular or that he had contributed to the events by which, another boy was saved from the army of the bitter, the selfish, the neurasthenic and the unhappy, it isn’t given to us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world. They will not be cured by our most efficacious drugs or slain with our sharpest swords.
Lee-y! It could scarcely be pronounced. But Basil took it to bed with him that night, and thinking of it, holding it to him happily to the last, fell easily to sleep.
The typescript of the story
Heavily revised typescript of the short story “The Freshest Boy,” 47 pages (11 x 8 1/2 in.; 280 x 215 mm), [Paris, April 1928], ribbon copy, double-spaced on paper watermarked “Smith Co. Bond,” author’s name typed under the title, minor rust marks from clip at upper left corner of first page, a few small marginal
