sue and the worm had no more than seated themselves at the muscovy when zanin came briskly in, hat in hand—still in the wrinkled old suit, still wearing the gray sweater for a waistcoat—but keen of face, buoyant even. he threaded his way between the tables, nodding here and there in response to the cries of “hello, jacob!”—came straight to sue, and, with a casual greeting for the worm, bent over and claimed her ear.
“sue,” he said low; “i called up, then took a chance on finding you here. i've sent the bill to peter. and i've told him of the break in our plans. the lawyer for the interstellar people is coming with the new contract—meets me up-stairs in the club. i've told peter to be here at eight. but i've got to know about you. is there any danger that you won't go through—finish the pictures?”
“you mean—in case—”
he nodded. “if peter and i smash up. whatever happens. i can't see ahead myself. but the pictures are half done, and they're all you. it would be serious if you—”
sue silenced him with a nervous glance about; compressed her lips; turned her fork over and over on the table; then slowly nodded. “i'll finish,” she said very soberly.
“all right,” he replied. “i knew you would, of course. but i had to ask. things have changed so.... i'll be down later.”
sue watched him, still turning the fork with tense fingers, as he made his way to the door, paused for a word with one of the girl waitresses—an impoverished young writer and idealist, jewish, rather pretty, who had played with them at the crossroads—and finally disappeared in the hall, turning back toward the stairway that led up to the rooms of the free woman's club.
the worm was studying the menu. he waited until her eyes and her thoughts returned to the table, then looked up at her with a quiet grin. “how about food, sue?” said he.
she gazed at him, collected her thoughts, looked down at the card. then she made an effort to smile.
“sorry, henry—i've lost my appetite.” she pressed the edge of the card against her pursed lips. “henry, let's get out—go over to jim's.”
he shook his head. “we can't,” he said. then he saw her gaze narrow intently, over his shoulder—so intently that he turned.
peter was standing in the doorway, peering about the room—a repressed, elaborately self-contained peter. his mouth drooped at the corners. the lines that extended downward from his nose were deeper than usual, had something the appearance of being carved in a gray marble face.
peter's gaze—he seemed to find it difficult to focus his eyes, was laborious about it—finally rested on their table. slowly he got through the crowd, approaching them. he jostled one of the girl waiters; and turning, apologized with rather extraordinary formality. the girl glanced after him, curious.
the worm looked around, perceived an unoccupied chair at a neighboring table, lifted it over the heads of his neighbors and set it down beside his own. peter dropped into it, saying, “i'm sorry to disturb you two... something has come up.” the worm found it rather uncomfortable. his first impulse was to withdraw and let peter and sue talk. but people were looking at them; there were audible whispers; he decided to do nothing conspicuous. he sat back in his chair and studied the menu again. “i'll know the thing by heart pretty soon!” he thought.
peter leaned forward, toward sue. she was watching him calmly, the worm thought; but she was a little hushed. there was no escaping the conversation that followed. peter managed to keep his voice fairly low; but it was plain that he barely realized where he was. the whole engine of his mind—racing now at several thousand r. p. m.—was headed inward.
“we'll have to quit the pictures, sue, dear. i can't tell you the whole story now—not here—but zanin has absolutely broken faith. he has wrecked me... not that i mind that... it's the crookedness of the thing... the ideals he professed... he's sold us out, it's a dirty commercial scheme after all that he's dragged you into.”... the inner pressures were evident now in peter's voice. it was still low, but it shook and came out jerkily and huskily. he was stopping frequently to swallow.
sue's fingers strayed toward the fork; turned it slowly. her eyes followed her fingers. a waitress came toward them, stood unnoticed and turned away, exchanging an amused glance with friends at the next table.
“it's a complete smash,” peter went on. “any way you look at it, it's a smash. there's just that last step to take—we must get out.”
“please—” sue murmured, “not here!”
“but, sue—”
“don't, peter. we can talk later.”
“but there's nothing to say.” now the worm caught in his voice peter's uncertainty of her. “is there, sue?”
she turned and turned the fork. peter's eyes were fastened on her face, hungrily, abjectly. she slowly nodded.
“but, sue, you and i—”
she drew a long breath, faced him. “i've got to finish the pictures, peter.”
“sue, you can't—”
“i simply won't talk about this out here. but it would wreck jacob if i stopped now.”
it seemed to the worm that peter had to make a desperate effort to comprehend this. his brows were knit, his eyes wandering. finally he said: “but, sue, good god! you don't understand. zanin has wrecked me.”
“i'm not sure about that. if we finish the pictures. if we don't—yes.”
peter's hands gripped the edge of the table. “sue—zanin has been talking with you!”
“please, peter—not so loud!”
“has he? answer me!”
slowly she nodded.
“are you playing fair with me?”
“oh, peter—yes! i am.”
“you are still engaged to be my wife?”
“yes. please, peter....”
“then”—the moment henry bates had shrewdly, painfully waited as he watched the man, came now; the suppressions that had been struggling within peter's breast broke bounds; his voice suddenly rang out—“then, i forbid you to go on!”
sue paled; seemed to sink down a little in her chair; knit her brows; said nothing.
the room was very still. even the greenwich village group was startled, hushed, by the queer sense of impending drama that filled the room.
during the long hush several girls went out, hurriedly. others struggled unsuccessfully to make talk. one laughed.
peter looked around with half-hearted defiance, then dropped his eyes. “evidently,” he said, addressing the worm with queer precise formality, “the thing for me to do is to go. i am not desired here.” but he sat motionless.
it was at this point that zanin came in. he saw peter, crowded bruskly across the room, laid a legal appearing document on the table at peter's elbow and said: “look this over, peter, and meet me up-stairs a little later. their man is coming. they give us no choice—we must sign to-night.”
peter squared around at the first tones of the strong, slightly husky voice, drew in his chin, scowled. it appeared to the worm that he was making a desperate effort to look dignified. but at the last words, zanin dropped a large hand on peter's shoulder. that was what made the tremble; or rather what set it off.
i have explained that the muscovy occupied a basement. the ceiling was low. the tables—small ones around the walls and two longer ones across the center space with their chairs (common kitchen chairs, they were) filled the room except for an opening near the door. in the opening, at one side of the door, was the small table that served as a cashier's desk. it was covered with slips of paper and little heaps of coin and some bank notes under an iron paper-weight. the whole in charge of a meek girl with big spectacles.
there were twenty-five or thirty persons in the room—mostly women and girls. of the four or five men, two, in a party near the door, were painters with soft curling beards; the others, young anarchists and talkers, were seated over in the farther corner near one of the barred front windows.
a feature of the scene that henry bates will never forget was that peter first rose, very deliberately, produced an eye-glass case from an inner pocket and carefully put his glasses away. then he sprang at zanin—apparently not striking cleanly with clenched fists but clawing and slapping, and shouting breathlessly. i suppose that in every man who has been a boy and a youth there is a strain of vulgarity, innate or acquired. it is exhibited when reason flees. reason had certainly, at last, fled from peter. for what he was shouting was this——over and over—“a jew won't fight! a jew won't fight!”
in the surprise of this first rush zanin retreated, sparring ineffectually; backed into the corner of a table; crashed over it; went down with it to the floor amid broken dishes, steaming food and the wreckage of a chair. two young women were thrown also. one of them screamed; the other appeared to be stunned, and the worm somehow got to her, lifted her up and supported her out the service door to the kitchen.
when he returned the panic was on. gasping and shrieking, various hitherto calm young women whom nothing in life could surprise, were fighting past one another for the door. but one young man, pasty-faced, longish hair—name of waters coryell—went through the struggling group like a thin tornado, tearing aside the women that blocked his way, symbolizing, in a magnificent burst of unselfconscious energy, the instinct of self-preservation, with a subconscious eye, doubtless to later achievements in self-expression.... the worm saw his flight and smiled. he had heard waters coryell expound the doctrine that a man should do what he wants to do. “he wants to get out,” mused the worm.
peter did not at once leap upon the fallen zanin. he first cast about for a weapon. at sue's elbow was a large water pitcher. he seized this and for a moment stood over his opponent, blandishing it and again shouting, “a jew won't fight!” he was in this attitude when the worm returned from the kitchen.
the room was nearly empty now. over at the door, the meek little cashier with the big spectacles was calling out in a sharp small voice, “pay your checks, please! pay your checks!” and one girl, her eyes glassy with fright, automatically responding to the suggestion, was fumbling in her wrist bag, saying, “i don't seem to have the change.”
the worm hesitated for a moment between getting sue out and trying to stop the fight. sue had pushed back her chair a little way but was still sitting there.
at this moment zanin, who was trying to draw himself away on his elbows to a point where he could get up in reasonable safety, saw an opportunity to trip peter. instantly he put the idea into effect. peter went down. the water pitcher was shattered on the floor. the two men clinched and rolled over and over among the chairs and against the legs of another table.
the worm turned to sue. “you'd better get out,” he said.
she was quite white. “i suppose,” she managed to say, “i'm no use here.”
“not a bit.”
he took her arm and steadied her until she was clear of the wreckage. every one else had got out now excepting the girl with the big spectacles. she stood flattened against the wall, apparently all but unable to breathe. as sue wilde passed, however, she gasped out, “check, please!”
the worm snorted, caught sue's arm again and rushed her out and up the steps to the sidewalk. out here most of those who had been in the basement stood about in groups. others, street children and loungers, were appearing. the situation was ripening swiftly into a street crowd with its inevitable climax of police interference. “move away!” said the worm to sue. “as far as the square.” and he spoke to others whom he knew. the crowd thinned. then making a wry face in the dim light, the worm headed back down the steps, muttering, “physical prowess is not my specialty, but...”
he carefully shut the street door after him and turned the key. the little cashier was on the stairs now, crouching low against the wall. the worm half listened for a “check, please!” as he came down the corridor; but she was silent. there was, too, a suspicious, silence in the dining-room. the worm hurried to the door.
there, just within the door, stood peter. his right coat sleeve had been ripped nearly off, at the shoulder seam, and hung down over his hand. he was fumbling at it with the left hand, frantically trying, first to roll it back, then to tear it off. zanin, over against the farther wall, was getting heavily to his feet. he paused only an instant, then charged straight at peter.
one glance at the eminent playwright made it plain that his frenzy already was tempered with concern. he had made, it appeared, a vital miscalculation. this particular jew would fight—was, apparently, only just beginning to fight. there was blood on zanin's cheek, trickling slowly down from a cut just under the eye. his clothes, like peter's, were covered with the dirt of the floor. his eyes were savage.
peter again groped blindly for a weapon. his hand, ranging over the cashier's table, closed on the iron paper-weight. he threw it at the onrushing zanin, missed his head by an inch; caught desperately at a neat little pile of silver quarters; threw these; then zanin struck him.
the thing was no longer a comedy. zanin, a turbulent hulk of a man, was roused and dangerous. the worm caught his arm and shoulder, shouted at him, tried to wrench the two apart. zanin threw him off with such force that his head struck hard against the wall. the worm saw stars.
the fighters reeled, locked together, back into the dining-room, knocked over the cashier's table and fell on it. zanin gave a groan of pain and closed his big hands on peter's neck.
the worm ran up the stairs. three men were sitting, very quiet, in the reading-room of the free-woman's club. waters coryell dominated.
“for god's sake,” said the worm quietly, “come down!”
waters coryell, who professed anarchism, surveyed him coolly. “the thing to do,” he replied, “obviously, is to telephone the police.”
“telephone your aunt!” said the worm, and ran back down-stairs.
peter and zanin were still on the floor, at grips. but their strength seemed to have flagged. one fact, noted with relief, was that zanin had not yet choked peter to death. they were both purple of face; breathing hard; staring at each other. some of zanin's still trickling blood had transferred itself to peter's face and mixed with the dirt there.
the worm caught up a chair, swung it over his head and cried, in deadly earnest, “you two get up or i'll smash both your heads!”
they glared at each other for a moment. then zanin managed to catch enough breath to say—
“but the man's insane!”
peter gulped. “i am not insane! nothing of the kind!”
“get up,” commanded the worm.
very slowly, eying each other, they obeyed. zanin brushed off his clothes as well as he could with his hands; then, for the first time conscious of the blood on his face, mopped at it with his handkerchief. peter went off under the low-hanging center chandelier and examined with a pained expression, his ruined coat.
there were steps and voices on the stairs. she of the big spectacles appeared in the doorway.
“i beg your pardon,” observed peter with breathless formality, “but have you got a pin?”
she stared at him; then at zanin, finally at the worm.
“there's a gentleman up-stairs,” she said mechanically in a lifeless voice.
the worm went up. a businesslike young man was standing in the upper hall, looking about him with mild curiosity.
“whom did you wish to see?” asked the worm.
“mr. zanin and mr. mann.”
“oh—you must be the attorney for the interstellar people.”
“i am.”
“come this way,” said the worm with calm, and ushered him down the stairs and into the dining-room.
sue was sitting alone on a bench in washington square. she saw henry bates approaching and rose hurriedly to meet him.
“it's all over,” said he cheerfully.
“but, henry—tell me—what on earth!”
“no particular damage beyond what court plaster and peter's tailor can fix up.”
“but—but—-how is it over so soon? what are they doing?”
“when i left, zanin was entertaining that attorney chap.”
“and peter?”
“down on his hands and knees trying to find the contract.”
“is he—will he—”
“sign it? yes. they want you to sign, too. but i told them you'd do it in the morning. you're to have a ten per cent, interest—zanin and peter each fifteen.”
“but i don't want—”
“may as well take it. you've earned it.... look here, sue, has it occurred to you that we—you and i—haven't had a morsel to eat yet?”
she started in genuine surprise; looked up at him with an intent expression that he could not, at the moment, fathom; then suddenly threw back her head.
“henry',” she said, a ring in her voice, “i—i'm not engaged any more—not to anybody! i want—” she gave a slow little laugh—“some oysters.”
“at jim's!” he cried.
he slipped his arm through hers. free-hearted as the birds that slumbered in the trees overhead they strolled over to the congenial oyster bar.
so passed the nature film producing co., inc., jacob zanin, pres't.
