in
on the Ferris wheel,” he said, “but couldn’t figure out how to compensate for
the movement. Gets blurry and so forth.”
Lew Basnight seemed a sociable enough
young man, though it soon became obvious that he had not, until now, so much as
heard of the Chums of Chance.
“But every boy knows the Chums of
Chance,” declared Lindsay Noseworth perplexedly. “What could you’ve been
reading, as a youth?”
Lew
obligingly tried to remember. “Wild West, African explorers, the usualadventure
stuff. But you boys—you’re not storybook characters.” He had a thought.
“Are you?”
“No more than Wyatt Earp or Nellie
Bly,” Randolph supposed. “Although the longer a fellow’s name has been in the
magazines, the harder it is to tell fiction from nonfiction.”
“I guess I read the sports pages
mostly.”
“Good!” declared Chick Counterfly,
“at least we won’t have to get on to the Anarchist question.”
Fine with Lew, who wasn’t even sure
what Anarchists were, exactly, though the word was sure in the air. He was not
in the detective business out of political belief. He had just sort of wandered
into it, by way of a sin he was supposed once to have committed. As to the
specifics of this lapse, well, good luck. Lew couldn’t remember what he’d done,
or hadn’t done, or even When. Those who didn’t know either still acted puzzled,
as if he were sending out rays of iniquity. Those who did claim to remember,
all too well, kept giving him sad looks which soon—it being
Illinois—soured into what was known as moral horror.
He was denounced in the local
newspapers. Newsboys made up lurid headlines about him, which they shouted all
through the civic mobilities morning and evening, making a point of pronouncing
his name disrespectfully. Women in intimidating hats glared at him with
revulsion.
He became known as the
UpstateDownstate Beast.
It would’ve helped if he could
remember, but all he could produce was this peculiar haze. The experts he went
to for advice had little to tell him. “Past lives,” some assured him. “Future
lives,” said other confident swamis. “Spontaneous Hallucination,” diagnosed the
more scientific among them. “Perhaps,” one beaming Oriental suggested, “ it was hallucinating you. ”
“Very helpful, thanks,” Lew murmured,
and tried to leave, only to find that the door would not open.
“A formality. Too many bank drafts
have come back unhonored.”
“Here’s cash. Can I go?”
“When your anger has cooled, consider
what I have told you.”
“It’s no use to me.”
He fled in among the skyscrapers of
Chicago, leaving a note at work suggesting he’d be back shortly. No use. A
close business associate followed, confronted, and publicly denounced him,
knocking his hat off and kicking it into the middle of Clark Street, where it
was run over by a beer wagon.
“I don’t deserve this, Wensleydale.”
“ You have destroyed your name.” And
without speaking further, turned, there, right out among the city traffic, and
walked away, soon vanishing into the summertime clutter of noise and light.
Worst of all, Lew’s adored young
wife, Troth, when she found his breezy note, headed straight for the interurban
and up to Chicago, intending to plead with him to come back, though by the time
she got off at Union Station, reflection to the pulse of the rails had done its
work.
“Never more Lewis, do you understand,
never under the same roof, ever.”
“But what are they saying I did? I
swear, Troth, I can’t remember.”
“If I told you, I would have to hear
it once again, and once has already been more than enough.”
“Where’ll I live, then?” All through
their long discussion they had been walking, walkers in the urban unmappable,
and had reached a remote and unfamiliar part of the city—in fact, an
enormous district whose existence neither, till now, had even suspected.
“I don’t care. Go back to one of your
other wives.”
“God! How
on the Ferris wheel,” he said, “but couldn’t figure out how to compensate for
the movement. Gets blurry and so forth.”
Lew Basnight seemed a sociable enough
young man, though it soon became obvious that he had not, until now, so much as
heard of the Chums of Chance.
“But every boy knows the Chums of
Chance,” declared Lindsay Noseworth perplexedly. “What could you’ve been
reading, as a youth?”
Lew
obligingly tried to remember. “Wild West, African explorers, the usualadventure
stuff. But you boys—you’re not storybook characters.” He had a thought.
“Are you?”
“No more than Wyatt Earp or Nellie
Bly,” Randolph supposed. “Although the longer a fellow’s name has been in the
magazines, the harder it is to tell fiction from nonfiction.”
“I guess I read the sports pages
mostly.”
“Good!” declared Chick Counterfly,
“at least we won’t have to get on to the Anarchist question.”
Fine with Lew, who wasn’t even sure
what Anarchists were, exactly, though the word was sure in the air. He was not
in the detective business out of political belief. He had just sort of wandered
into it, by way of a sin he was supposed once to have committed. As to the
specifics of this lapse, well, good luck. Lew couldn’t remember what he’d done,
or hadn’t done, or even When. Those who didn’t know either still acted puzzled,
as if he were sending out rays of iniquity. Those who did claim to remember,
all too well, kept giving him sad looks which soon—it being
Illinois—soured into what was known as moral horror.
He was denounced in the local
newspapers. Newsboys made up lurid headlines about him, which they shouted all
through the civic mobilities morning and evening, making a point of pronouncing
his name disrespectfully. Women in intimidating hats glared at him with
revulsion.
He became known as the
UpstateDownstate Beast.
It would’ve helped if he could
remember, but all he could produce was this peculiar haze. The experts he went
to for advice had little to tell him. “Past lives,” some assured him. “Future
lives,” said other confident swamis. “Spontaneous Hallucination,” diagnosed the
more scientific among them. “Perhaps,” one beaming Oriental suggested, “ it was hallucinating you. ”
“Very helpful, thanks,” Lew murmured,
and tried to leave, only to find that the door would not open.
“A formality. Too many bank drafts
have come back unhonored.”
“Here’s cash. Can I go?”
“When your anger has cooled, consider
what I have told you.”
“It’s no use to me.”
He fled in among the skyscrapers of
Chicago, leaving a note at work suggesting he’d be back shortly. No use. A
close business associate followed, confronted, and publicly denounced him,
knocking his hat off and kicking it into the middle of Clark Street, where it
was run over by a beer wagon.
“I don’t deserve this, Wensleydale.”
“ You have destroyed your name.” And
without speaking further, turned, there, right out among the city traffic, and
walked away, soon vanishing into the summertime clutter of noise and light.
Worst of all, Lew’s adored young
wife, Troth, when she found his breezy note, headed straight for the interurban
and up to Chicago, intending to plead with him to come back, though by the time
she got off at Union Station, reflection to the pulse of the rails had done its
work.
“Never more Lewis, do you understand,
never under the same roof, ever.”
“But what are they saying I did? I
swear, Troth, I can’t remember.”
“If I told you, I would have to hear
it once again, and once has already been more than enough.”
“Where’ll I live, then?” All through
their long discussion they had been walking, walkers in the urban unmappable,
and had reached a remote and unfamiliar part of the city—in fact, an
enormous district whose existence neither, till now, had even suspected.
“I don’t care. Go back to one of your
other wives.”
“God! How
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