"WHAT'S HIS NAME"

Sun (Christchurch), Volume I, Issue 193, 19 September 1914, Page 4

"WHAT'S HIS NAME"

Copyright b7 Georsc Barr M'Cntcheon. CHAPTER 1. OUR HERO. TWO men were standing in front of the Empire Theatre, on Broadway, at the outer edge of the sidewalk, amiably discussing themselves in the, first person singular. It was late in September and somewhat early in the day for actors to be abroad, aVcircums'tance which invites speculation. Attention to their conversation, which was marked by the habitual humility, would have convinced the listener (who is always welcome) that both had enjoyed a successful season on the road, although closing somewhat prema- ;. turely on account of miserable booking, and that both had received splendid "notices" in every town visited. ' These two loiterers serve.a single purpose'in this tale —they draw your attention to the principal character, to the person who plays ,- the title role, so r .to speak, and then, having done. so. sink back into an oblivion from which it is quite unnecessary to retrieve them. - :The younger of the two players was in the act of lighting a cigarette, considerately tendered by the older, when his gaze fell upon ..the figure of the approaching hero. He hesitated for a moment, squinting his eyes reflectively - as if to make sure of both vision and memory before committing himself to the declaration that was to follow. "See that fellow there? The little,chap with his hands in his pockets?" 7 Tlie other permitted a. vague, indifferent \ glance to enter the throng of pedestrians, : plainly showing that he did not see the person indicated. (Please note this proof of the person's qualifications as a hero.) '•The fellow in front of P»rowne!s," added the first speaker, so eagerly that his friend tried __,. once more and succeeded. "What of him?" he demanded, unimpressed. "That's What's-His-Name, Nellie Duluth's husband.'' The friend's stare was prolonged and incredulous. "That?" • .'""Yes. That's the fair Nellie's anchor. Isn't be a wonder?" : The object of these remarks passed slowly in front of them and soon was lost in the crowd. Now that we know who he is we will say thank you to the obliging thespian and be off up Broadway in his wake, not precisely in the capacity of spies and eavesdroppers, but ,as acquaintances who would know him better. He.was not an imposing figure. You would not have looked twice at him. You could not have remembered looking once at him, for that matter. He was the type of man who arables through life without being noticed, even by those amiably inclined persons who make it their business to see everything that is going on, no matter how trivial it is. Somewhere in this wide and unfeeling world the husband of Nellie Duluth had an identity i)f his own, but New York was not the place. Back in the little Western town from which he came he had a name and a personality all his own, but it was a far cry from Broadway and its environments. For a matter of four or five years he had been known simply as "Er, What's-His-Name? Nellie Duluth's husband!" ■ You have known men of this stripe, lam sure; men who never get. anj T where for the good and 'sufficient reason thft it isn't necessary. Men who stand still. Men who do not even shine by reflected glory. Men whose names you cannot remember, tt might be Smith or Brown or •Jones or any of the names you can't forget if you try, and yet it always escapes you. You know the sort I mean. Nellie Duluth's husband was a smallish young man, nice looking, even kind looking, with an habitual expression of inquiry in his face, just as if he never quite got used to seeing or beinsr seen. The most ovnm»+ tailor haber-

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A IfeMaiice of the Theatrical World—Story of an Actress, a Star, Who Possesses an Obscure Husband

dasher could not have provided hirn with apparel that Wally belonged to him. Not that be was awkward or ill favored in the matter of figure, but that he lacked individuality. He always seemed to be a long way from home. Sometimes you were sure that he affected a slight, straw colored mustache; then, a moment afterward, if you turned your back, you were not quite sure about it. As a matter of fact, he did possess such an adornment. The trouble came in remembering it. Then, again, his eyes were babyish blue and unseasoned; he was always looking into shop windows, getting accustomed to the sights. Trolley cars and automobiles were never decreasing novelties to him, if you were to judge by the startled w T ay in which he gazed at them. His respect for the crossing policeman, his courtesy to the street car conductor, his timidity in the presence of the corner newsboy, were only surpassed by his deference to the waiter in the cheap restaurants he affected. But, ah! You should have seen him in that little Western town! He was a "devil of a fellow" out there! He knew the policemen by their first names and had no respect for them; street car conductors were hail fellows well met, and the newsboys wore spectacles and said, "Yes, sir/' to him. As for the waitresses, lie knew them all by their Christian names, which usually was Annie, or Mamie,-or Katie. On Broiwivvji.v he* was Quite another person.

He knew his Broadway from one end to the other—that is to say. he knew that side of the "Great White Way" which stares you in the face and rebukes you for staring back—the outside of Broadway. He had been on and off Broadway for a matter of five years, and yet he had never recovered from the habit of tur.n-

ing out for every pedestrian he met, giving the other man the right of way instead of holding to his own half of it, sometimes steppiug in puddles of water to do so, and not infrequently being edged off the curbstone by an accumulation of the unexpected. Once in a while, during his peregrinations some one recognized him and bowed in a hesitating manner, as if trying to place him, and at such times he responded with a beaming smile and a half carried out impulse to stop for a bit of a chat, but always with a subsequent acceleration of speed on discovering that the other fellow seemed to be in a hurry. They doubtless knew him for Miss Duluth's husband, but for the life of them they couldn't call him by name. Every one understood that Nellie possessed a real name, but ho one thought to ask what it was. Moreover, Nellie had a small daughter whose name was Phoebe. She was unquestionably a collaboration, but every one who knew the child spoke of her as that "darling little girl of Nellie's." The only man in New 7 York who appeared to know Nellie's husband by name was the postman, and he got it second hand. At the stage door of the theatre he was known as Miss Duluth's husband; to the stage hands and the members of the chorus he was What's-His-Name, to the principals he was "old chap/' to Nellie herself he was Harvey, to Phoebe he was "daddy," to the press agent he was nnmeloszj—he didn't exist.

l r ou could see Nellie in big red letters on all the billboards. She was inevitable. Her face smiled at you from every nook and corner—and it was a pretty face, too—and you had to get your tickets of the scalpers if you wanted to see her in person any night in the week, Sundays excepted. Hats, parasois, perfumes and face

powders were named a fter her. It was Nellie here, and Nellie there, and Nellie everywhere. The town was mad about her. It goes without saying that her husband was not the only man in love with her. As Harvey —let me see —oh, never mind— What's-His-Name—ambled up Broadway on the-morning of his introduction into this homely narrative he was smiled at most bewitchingly by his wife—from a hundred windows —for Nellie's*smile was never left out of the lithographs (he never missed seeing one of them, you may, be sure)—but it never occurred to him to resent the fact that she was smiling in the same inviting way to every other man who looked. He ambled on. At F;orty-second street be turned toihe right, peering at the curtained windows of the Knickerbocker with a-sort of fearful longing in his mild blue eyes, and kept on his way toward, the Grand Central Station. Although he had been riding in and out of the city on a certain suburban train for nearly two years and a half, he always heaved a sigh of relief when the gate tender told him he was taking the right train for Tarrytown. Once in a great while, on matinee days, he came to town to luncheon with Nellie before the performance. On Sundays*she journeyed to Tarrytown to see him and Phoebe. In that way they saw quite a bit of each other. This day, however, he was taking an earlier train out, and he was secretly agitated over the possibility of getting the wrong one. Nellie had sent word to the theatre that she had a headache and could not have luncheon with him. He was not to come up to her apartment. If he had known a human being in all New York with whom he could have had luncheon he would have stayed in town and perhaps gone to a theatre. But, alas, there was no one! Once he had asked a low comedian, a former mem-

ber of Nellie's company, but at the time out of a job and correspondingly meek, to luncheon with him at Rector's. At parting he had the satisfaction of lending the player eleven dollars. He hoped it would mean a long and pleasant acquaintance and a chance to let the world see something of him. But the low comedian fell unexpectedly into a "part" and did not remember Nellie's husband the next time' he . met him. He forgot something else as well. Harvey's memory was not so short. He never forgot it. It rankled. He bought a noon extra and found a seat in ", the train. Then he sat up very straight to let people see that they were riding in the same car with the great Nellie. Duluth's husband. Lucky dog! Every one was saying that about him, he was sure. But every one else had a noon extra, worse luck! After awhile he sagged down into the seat and allowed his baby bine eyes to fall into a < brown study. In his mind's eye he was seeing a thousand miles beyond the western bank of. the Hudson, far off into the quiet streets of a town that scarcely had heard the name of Nellie Duluth and yet knew him by name and fame, even to the remotest nook of it. They were good old days, sweet old days, those days when he was courting her —when she was one among many and he the only one. Days when he could serve customers in Ms . shirt sleeves and address each one familiarly: Every one was kind. If he had a toothache they sympathized with him and advised.him ' to have it pulled and all:that sort of thing. In New York (he ground his teeth, proving. . that he retained them) no one cared whether he lived or died, He hated New York. 0e would have been friendly to New York —cheerfully, gladly—if New York had been willingjto meet him half way. It was friendly to Nellie; why couldn't it be friendly to him? He was ' her husband. Why, confound it all, out in Blakeville, where they came from, he was - somebody, while she was merely "that girhof ■Ted Barkiey's." He had drawn soda water for her a hundred times and she had paid him in pennies! Only five years ago. Sometimes she had the soda water charged—that is to say she had it put on her mother's bill. Tec couldn't get credit anywhere in town. And now look at her! She was getting su . hundred dollars a week and spurned soda water as if it were poison. His chin dropped lower. The dreamy look . deepened. "Doggone he mused for the hundredth time, "I could have been a partner in the store by this time if I'd stuck to Mr. Davis." He was thinking of Davis' drug store, in Main street, and the striped blazer he wore while tending the soda fount in the summer time. A red and yellow affair, that blazer was. Before the "pharmacy law" went into effect he was permitted to put up prescriptions while Mr. Davis was at meals. Afterward be was restricted to patent medicines, perfumes, soaps, toilet articles, cigars, razor strops and all such, besides soda water in season. Moreover, when circuses came to town the reserved seat sale was conducted in Davis' drug store. He always had passes without asking for them. Yes, he might have been a partner by this time. He drew a lot of trade to the store. Mr Davis could not have afforded to let him go elsewhere. Five years ago! It seemed ages. Me was twenty-three when he left Blakeville. Wasted ages! Somehow he liked the ready made garments he used to buy atsthe Emporium much better than those he wore nowadays—fashion able duds from Fifth avenue at six times the price. He used to be busy from.seven A. M. till ten P. M., and he was happy. Nowadays he had nothing to do but get up and shave and take Phoebe for walks, eat, read the ""papers, tell stories to Phoebe and go to bed. To be sure, the food was good and plentiful, the bed was soft and the cottage more attractive than anything Blakeville could boast of; Phoebe was a joy and Nellie a jewel, but—heigho! he might have been a partner in Davis' drug store if he'd stayedin the old town. (TO BE COXTTXutiD.V "- /