Appointment in Samarra - John O'Hara [54]
I guess so.
They waited until the train was beginning to move, and then they got on the front platform of the caboose. They had to get off a couple of times at way stations, and finally they were caught. They were turned over to the railroad police in Reading, and were brought back to Gibbsville on the late train. Butch Doerflinger the elder, and Dr. English were standing on the platform of the Gibbsville station when the train pulled in. The elder Doerflinger had made many, too many, remarks about his son being a chip off the old block, and he was amused and a little proud of his son. Only twelve years old yet and hopping freights already. By Jesus, you don t know what kids are today, say, Doc? His plans were made: a good beating for young Butch and make him work on the delivery wagon every day. But William Dilworth English, M.D., was not thinking of the immediate punishment of his son; that was something which could be decided upon. He was not thinking of the glory of having a son who hopped freight trains. The thing that put him in the deep mood and gave him the heavy look that Julian saw on his face was that chip off the old block refrain of Butch Doerflinger s. William Dilworth English was thinking of his own life, the scrupulous, notebook honesty; the penny-watching, bill-paying, self-sacrificing honesty that had been his religion after his own father s suicide. And that was his reward: a son who turned out to be like his grandfather, a thief. Julian never stole anything else, but in his father s eyes he was always a thief. In college Julian about once a year would be overdrawn at the bank, invariably because of checks he wrote while he was drunk. His father never spoke to him about it, but Julian knew from his mother what his father thought of his money habits: ... do try to be more careful (his mother wrote). Your father has so many worries and he is specially worried about you where money matters are concerned because he thinks it s in the blood, because of Grandfather English.
It was nine-thirty, the morning after the night at the Stage Coach. It couldn’t have been more on the dot of nine-thirty by the modern little clock on Caroline s dressing-table. The little clock had no numerals but only squares of metal where the numerals were supposed to be. He lay there thinking about the pictures evoked by the sound of nine-thirty : people still hurrying to work, coming in to Gibbsville from Swedish Haven and Collieryville and all the other little towns nearby; people with worried faces, worried because they were late to work. And the early shoppers. But there would be no early shoppers today, Friday, the day after Christmas. It was too early to start to exchange Christmas gifts. Monday would be time enough for that. But the stores had to be open, and the banks, and the coal company offices, and the business men who made a business of being conscientious about getting to work, got to work. Me, for instance, he thought, and got out of bed. He was wearing his underwear. His tailcoat and trousers were folded and hanging on a chair, and other things told him that Caroline had taken the studs out of his shirt, the garters from his socks, his tie, his waistcoat, and put the things in the laundry that belonged in the laundry. That meant she was up, because in the mood she must have been in when they came home last night she wouldn’t have bothered to take care of his things. He shaved, bathed, dressed, and went downstairs and poured himself a drink. Oh, you’re up, said Mrs. Grady, the cook. Good morning, Mrs. Grady, said Julian. Mrs. English come down for breakfast but she went back to bed, said Mrs. Grady. Any mail?
I don t think anything important. Christmas cards, by the look of them, she said. Do you want eggs for breakfast or what?
Sure.
Well, I didn’t know, she said. I seen you was taking a drink of liquor so I didn’t know if you wanted the eggs. I ll have them ready for you. The coffee s ready. I was just having a little cup myself when I heard you in here.
Oh, one of those little cups, said Julian. Hmm?
Nothing. Nothing at all. Three and a half minutes for the eggs, remember?