CHF SPRINGS is a lively place notwithstanding the
place notwithstanding the fact that it is,first of all,a health resort. There are merry-go-rounds, bowling alleys, and shooting galleries galore; and they are all well patronized. The mornings ring with the laughter of children romping in and out the hotel verandas and spring-houses. The afternoons, thanks to the sun, are not so noisy. In the evenings there is music at the hotels when the young dance while the old and invalid look on. All through the day men, women and children go with their cups and jugs to have them filled at the different springs. Down town everything is "wide-open"—saloons, dance halls, gambling—everything.
I was sitting on the veranda of a hotel when a man, very much under the influence of liquor, came up and introduced himself to me. He was J. T. Whitely of Kansas City. I didn't care to make myself conspicuous by talking with him and tried to excuse myself, but he was determined to talk to me and wouldn't let me go. I had already observed that all the hotel guests avoided him. Even the clerk, who noticed how he persisted in talking to me, told me confidentially that they were going to have him leave soon.
The offender was a tall,smooth faced man, about forty-five. He was not strikingly different from most men except that he looked dejected, evidently from care, and was intemperate. He was thin and nervous. The people at the hotel said his mind was affected though what he said to me in our short conversations seemed sane enough for one who was drunk. His talk was merely disconnected. One evening I noticed a cold, set, glassy stare in his eyes and suspected that it was the result of morphine. Something about me atttracted him for he invariably came and sat beside me when ever he had an opportunity.
There were two musicians playing at the hotel who lived in the town where I attended college. I knew them well. They were fine fellows; both, and play—well I have never heard their equal on the mandolin and guitar. They provided entertainment during meal time and every morning at ten they played at the Ferromanganese spring.
One evening I meandered down to the spring where the boys were playing, when, much to my annoyance, Whitely came in and sat beside me. He didn't say a word and I appeared not to notice him. The boys played the Miserere from Il Trovatore. Whitely sat perfectly still like one stupefied and looked only at the floor. When the piece was finished he turned abruptly to me and said, "Good God, young fellow, how they play!" The tone of his voice, the earnestness
with which the words were uttered, startled me.
Before I returned to the hotel I asked one of the musicians to play a certain piece for me which they kindly did. It was a lively march, full of variations, and took with the crowd. As I was about to depart Whitely came up, and looking me squarely in the face, said in a whimpering, child-like voice, "You did that. You asked them to play that. It's all your fault. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. That's not music." Then he walked away. Those in the pavillion smiled.
"Pity the old fool doesn't sober up," a man near me said. Turning, I saw one of the musicians beckoning to me.
"What'd the old codger say?" he asked.
I told him.
"He's a hard case. Talks sort of ramblin' don't he? We've had lots of fun with him at the hotel. You know he's fond of music. Gave us boys five apiece the other afternoon for playing Trovatore for him. He likes only the best music. Strange, isn't it? You'd ought of watched him listen to us. "Dig down into it boys," he said. "Tear her to pieces." So we dug and how he did enjoy it! Sat and listened to us like he's in a trance. Just like he did this morning. He kept us in his room and wouldn't let us go. Said he'd get drunk if we did. Imagine his gettin' drunk. Why he's a saturated solution already. But I'm glad our music didn't drive him to drink, anyway. You know he's down here takin' treatments. Have to give him powders to get him to sleep. We boys couldn't break loose from him so we tried to dope him. Gave him four of his powders in less than an hour. Do you know the stuff sort of brought him to. Woke him up and he wanted to tell us the story of his life. Says he killed a fellow in a poker game and was sent up for it. A convict, mind you. Guess he's tryin' to drown his sorrows, don't you think? Keep your eye on him; he's a character."
After that I did keep my eve on him. I was curious to know more about his life.
What strange people one meets at a summer resort! People of all kinds—good, bad and indifferent. The bad and indifferent are always the more interesting. One wonders why they are indifferent, or how bad they really are. For example, there was the mother and daughter who were stopping at The Oaks. Every new arrival heard about them within two days at least. They were unnaturally blonde and very pretty. They looked alike. The women said they never wore the same dresses twice. One couldn't help but notice them as they came down the street—their
pretty clothes, their wasp-like waists, their hair, their complexions, their smiles, their eyes—and as they passed most women and all the men turned to look and watched four very French heels and two pairs of very attractive black ankles trip lightly on their way.
"Who are they?" one would ask.
The addressed would shrug his shoulders most likely and say, "Why, don't you know? Haven't you seen the song and dance?"
"Oh, actresses!"
"Yes. That is, one of them is. The younger, mother's baby, simply stays with mama. They say there's only eighteen years difference in their ages."
"Is it possible? I took them for sisters."
"The man who deals faro at The Oaks Glub is paying a great deal of attention to the young one."
And the very next night if one is like most human beings one goes to the theater to see the mother in her song and dance "stunt."
"Yes, I understand."
I did. She certainly was bewitching, and rather alluring. Once I thought she smiled at me, but I heard that she generally smiled at all men so I didn't feel particularly favored.
Whitely hadn't noticed them, so he said; but then a drunken man isn't responsible. I tried to pursue him to go with me to see them, but he refused, saying that he hadn't been inside a theater since,—and then stopped. He wouldn't say anymore.
I was intensel, interested in Whitely by this time, especially after all the musician told me. At first I had tried to be merely amiable toward him but now I became positively friendly. I solicited his company, which he noticed and seemed to enjoy. Though he remained in his room most of the day, I saw him on the veranda, as a rule, every morning and evening.
One morning I was sitting with him, casually talking, when the wind blew my coat open and he saw the fraternity badge on my vest. Leaning over, he examined it carefully and said, "I thought so. What college?"
"Enjoying it?" he asked, after reflecting over something for several minutes. "Well, that's good. Make it last as long as you can. I am a college man myself."
I told him.
Then his mind began to wander and he talked at random.
"Fraternity man?" I asked again.
"What college?"
He didn't answer. He didn't like to be questioned.
In the evening I saw him again. He was listening to the music. There was a little girl with curly brown hair sitting on his knee. He was stroking her hair and looking into her face. I was becoming abnormally curious to know more about the fellow. I went over and sat beside him. He looked at me but said nothing. The child jumped down and ran away. The thought came to me that possibly if I succeeded in getting him into my room I could induce him to tell me more
of his life. I decided to try it, at all hazards.
"I have some college pictures in my room," I said, "which are rather interesting. Perhaps you would enjoy looking them over."
"Yes, I would," he replied at once. And he willingly followed me to my room.
He was very much interested in all I showed him. My collection of souvenirs acted as a stimulous and recalled his own college days. For a long time he said nothing, then turning to me he said, "You think I'm an odd genius, don't you? I rather amuse you, now don't I? Be honest and confess?"
I told him he was different from any one I had ever met:
"Yes," he replied, "I guess I am, and it may be a good thing. But I am not ashamed of my alma mater, young fellow, neither am I of my fraternity."
"You love your college don't you?"
"I do."
"You love your fraternity don't you?" "I do."
"I do."
"So do I and I always shall. I am not lying to you, God knows I can tell the truth once in a while. Here is my fraternity pin. If I didn't love it would I have carried it next to my heart all of these years?"
He was greatly agitated and spoke excitedly. Fumbling in his upper vest pocket he pulled out a small package of brown paper, which he slowly and carefully unwrapped.
"Here is my pin—see. No don't take it. You've seen enough already."
I only saw that its form was rhombic.
"I don't wear any pin, not because I'm ashamed of it, but because I love it so. You have principles in your fraternity haven't you—a ritual?"
"Yes."
"Well so do we. If I had followed the principals laid down in our ritual, if I had only listened to the counsel and pleading of my fraternity brothers, I would not be the useless wreck that I am today, people would not have to sit around and laugh at me as they do. I disgraced my fraternity and I'm ashamed to wear its emblem."
He stopped and looked out the window, remaining thus for many minutes.
"But you're a boy—a college man—a Greek—you're broad— you'll understand. I've wanted to unload my heart to someone for a long time and I guess you're my man. Will you let me tell you?"
The emotion in his voice was awful—heattrending.
"I was an orphan when I was in college. My mother died when I was a child; my father the year before I entered college. I haven't any relatives, that I know of, and I thank God I haven't. I was left rather wealthy, about seventy-five thousand in all. I selected an eastern college near New York and continued there three years. The third year I fell in love—yes, in love; and I am still. She was a concert hall singer, she danced. Like me, she was an orphan, so she said. One of the many un-
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