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The Afternoon Of A Faun
by
“Why–say—-” Nick stared at her, and yet she felt he did not see her. A sudden peace came into his face–the peace of a longing fulfilled. He turned his head. A Lake Park Avenue street car was roaring its way toward them. He took a step toward the roadway. “I got to be going.”
Fear flashed its flame into Miss Bauers’s pale blue eyes. “Going! How do you mean, going? Going where?”
“I got to be going.” The car had stopped opposite them. His young face was stern, implacable. Miss Bauers knew she was beaten, but she clung to hope tenaciously, piteously. “I got to see a party, see?”
“You never said anything about it in the first place. Pity you wouldn’t say so in the first place. Who you got to see, anyway?” She knew it was useless to ask. She knew she was beating her fists against a stone wall, but she must needs ask notwithstanding: “Who you got to see?”
“I got to see a party. I forgot.” He made the car step in two long strides; had swung himself up. “So long!” The car door slammed after him. Miss Bauers, in her unavailing silks, stood disconsolate on the hot street corner.
He swayed on the car platform until Sixty-third Street was reached. There he alighted and stood a moment at the curb surveying idly the populous corner. He purchased a paper bag of hot peanuts from a vender’s glittering scarlet and nickel stand, and crossed the street into the pathway that led to Jackson Park, munching as he went. In an open space reserved for games some boys were playing baseball with much hoarse hooting and frenzied action. He drew near to watch. The ball, misdirected, sailed suddenly toward him. He ran backward at its swift approach, leaped high, caught it, and with a long curving swing, so easy as to appear almost effortless, sent it hurtling back. The lad on the pitcher’s mound made as if to catch it, changed his mind, dodged, started after it.
The boy at bat called to Nick: “Heh, you! Wanna come on and pitch?”
Nick shook his head and went on.
He wandered leisurely along the gravel path that led to the park golf shelter. The wide porch was crowded with golfers and idlers. A foursome was teed up at the first tee. Nick leaned against a porch pillar waiting for them to drive. That old boy had pretty good practise swing … Stiff, though … Lookit that dame. Je’s! I bet she takes fifteen shots before she ever gets on to the green … There, that kid had pretty good drive. Must of been hundred and fifty, anyway. Pretty good for a kid.
Nick, in the course of his kaleidoscopic career, had been a caddie at thirteen in torn shirt and flapping knickers. He had played the smooth, expert, scornful game of the caddie with a natural swing from the lithe waist and a follow-through that was the envy of the muscle-bound men who watched him. He hadn’t played in years. The game no longer interested him. He entered the shelter lunchroom. The counters were lined with lean, brown, hungry men and lean, brown, hungry women. They were eating incredible dishes considering that the hour was 3 P. M. and the day a hot one. Corned-beef hash with a poached egg on top; wieners and potato salad; meat pies; hot roast beef sandwiches; steaming cups of coffee in thick white ware; watermelon. Nick slid a leg over a stool as he had done earlier in the afternoon. Here, too, the Hebes were of stern stuff, as they needs must be to serve these ravenous hordes of club swingers who swarmed upon them from dawn to dusk. Their task it was to wait upon the golfing male, which is man at his simplest–reduced to the least common denominator and shorn of all attraction for the female eye and heart. They represented merely hungry mouths, weary muscles, reaching fists. The waitresses served them as a capable attendant serves another woman’s child–efficiently and without emotion.