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The scorners came in together Moe Tchatzsky, the syndicalist and direct actionist, and Jane Schott, the writer of impressionistic prose and they sat silently sneering on a couch. Istra rose, nodded at Mr. Wrenn, and departed, despite Olympia's hospitable shrieks after them of "Oh stay! It's only a little after ten. Do stay and have something to eat." Istra shut the door resolutely.
How about 'em?" "Fine," said Tom and Teddem together. Not only did Mr. Wrenn buy a large newspaper-covered bundle of bottles of beer and Swiss-cheese sandwiches, but also a small can of caviar and salty crackers. In his room he spread a clean towel, then two clean towels, on the bureau, and arrayed the feast, with two water-glasses and a shaving-mug for cups.
Wrenn would not only be grievously disappointed but horrified at the fate of the three members of his crew. They now had just four hours in which to reach their goal. That meant they must travel at an average rate of better than 160 miles an hour. Since they had gone considerably faster than this when the occasion had warranted it in the past, they felt no anxieties now.
The play was on. It ended at seven. Mr. Wrenn took but fifteen minutes for Sunday supper, and wrote till one of the morning, finishing the first draft of his manuscript. Revision was delightful, for it demanded many conferences with Nelly, sitting at the parlor table, with shoulders confidentially touching. They were the more intimate because Tom had invited Mr. Wrenn, Nelly, and Mrs.
Wrenn had stood, frightened and unprotected and rain-wrinkled, before the gathering by the fireless fireplace, wondering how Mrs. Stettinius could get her nose so blue and yet so powdery. Despite her encouragement he gave no fuller account of the "gipsying" than, "Why uh we just tramped down," till Russian-Jewish Yilyena rolled her ebony eyes at him and insisted, "Yez, you mus' tale us about it."
She pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord, and the old-fashioned North Country landlady came tall, thin, parchment-faced, musty-looking as though she had been dressed up in Victorian garments in 1880 and left to stand in an unaired parlor ever since. She glowered silent disapproval at the presence of Mr. Wrenn in Istra's room, but sent a slavey to make the fire "saxpence uxtry." Mr.
Giddings instantly recognized, in the short figure in linen coming toward them, the person of the publisher of the Clarion. "I shall have this matter out with him right now," was the grim declaration of the Daily Independent's director. "Well, well! how are you, Giddings? How are you, Robert?" cried Mr. Wrenn, sticking out his pudgy hand when he came up to the little group.
A few days later, in mid-June, there was an unusually cheerful dinner at the boarding-house. Nelly turned to Mr. Wrenn yes, he was quite sure about it; she was speaking exclusively to him, with a lengthy and most merry account of the manner in which the floor superintendent had "called down" the unkindest of the aislesmen.
Tom: Oh, how we will squat you!... What you bidding, Wrenn? Behind Mr. Wrenn, Nelly Croubel whispered to him: "Bid seven on no suit. You've got the joker." Her delicate forefinger, its nail shining, was pointing at a curious card in his hand. "Seven nosut," he mumbled. "Eight hearts," snapped Miss Proudfoot. Nelly drew up a chair behind Mr. Wrenn's.
Wrenn spoke as though he would be pleased to have the objection overruled at once, which it was with a universal: "Oh, rats!" Crunching oysters in a brown jacket of flour, whose every lump was a crisp delight, hearing his genius lauded and himself called Bill thrice in a quarter-hour, Mr. Wrenn was beatified.
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