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The Log of The "Jolly Polly"
by
In her lovely eyes was an expression of mingled doubt and indignation and in her hand freshly torn from the papers in which I had wrapped it, was “The Log of the JOLLY POLLY.” In action Miss Briggs was as direct as a submarine. At sight of me she attacked. “Did you send me this?” she asked.
I lowered my bag to the sidewalk and prepared for battle. “I didn’t think of your going to the post-office,” I said. “I planned you’d get it to-morrow after I’d left. When I sent it, I thought I would never see you again.”
“Then you did send it!” exclaimed Miss Briggs. As though the book were a hot plate she dropped it into my hand. She looked straight at me, but her expression suggested she was removing a caterpillar from her pet rosebush.
“You had no right,” she said. “You may not have meant to be impertinent, but you were!”
Again, as though I had disappeared from the face of the earth, Miss Briggs gazed coldly about her, and with dignity started to cross the street. Her dignity was so great that she glanced neither to the left nor right. In consequence she did not see an automobile that swung recklessly around a trolley-car and dived at her. But other people saw it and shrieked. I also shrieked, and dropping the suit-case and the “Log,” jumped into the street, grabbed Miss Briggs by both arms, and flung her back to the sidewalk. That left me where she had been, and the car caught me up and slammed me head first against a telegraph pole. The pole was hard, and if any one counted me out I did not stay awake to hear him. When I came to I was conscious that I was lying on a sidewalk; but to open my eyes, I was much too tired. A voice was saying, “Do you know who he is, Miss?”
The voice that replied was the voice of the lovely Miss Briggs. But now I hardly recognized it. It was full of distress, of tenderness and pity.
“No, I don’t know him,” it stammered. “He’s a salesman–he was in the store this morning–he’s selling motor-cars.” The first voice laughed.
“Motor-cars!” he exclaimed. “That’s why he ain’t scared of ’em. He certainly saved you from that one! I seen him, Miss Briggs, and he most certainly saved your life!”
In response to this astonishing statement I was delighted to hear a well-trained male chorus exclaim in assent.
The voices differed; some spoke in the accents of Harvard, pure and undefiled, some in a “down East” dialect, others suggested Italian peanut venders and Portuguese sailors, but all agreed that the life of Miss Briggs had been saved by myself. I had intended coming to, but on hearing the chorus working so harmoniously I decided I had better continue unconscious.
Then a new voice said importantly: “The marks on his suitcase are ‘F. F., New York.”
I appreciated instantly that to be identified as Fletcher Farrell meant humiliation and disaster. The other Fletcher Farrells would soon return to New Bedford. They would learn that in their absence I had been spying upon the home I had haughtily rejected. Besides, one of the chorus might remember that three years back Fletcher Farrell had been a popular novelist and might recognize me, and Miss Briggs would discover I was not an automobile agent and that I had lied to her. I saw that I must continue to lie to her. I thought of names beginning with ” F,” and selected ” Frederick Fitzgibbon.” To christen yourself while your eyes are shut and your head rests on a curb-stone is not easy, and later I was sorry I had not called myself Fairchild as being more aristocratic. But then it was too late. As Fitzgibbon I had come back to life, and as Fitzgibbon I must remain.
When I opened my eyes I found the first voice belonged to a policeman who helped me to my feet and held in check the male chorus. The object of each was to lead me to a drink. But instead I turned dizzily to Miss Briggs. She was holding my hat and she handed it to me. Her lovely eyes were filled with relief and her charming voice with remorse.