A Cool Million (16 page)

Riley and Robbins wore striped blue
flannel suits of the latest cut, white linen spats and pale gray derby hats. To
accent further the contrast between themselves and their “stooge,” they were
very gay and lively. In their hands they carried newspapers rolled up into
clubs.

As soon as the laughter caused by
their appearance had died down, they began their “breezy crossfire of smart
cracks.”

Riley: “I say, my good man, who was
that dame I saw you with last night?”

Robbins: “How could you see me last
night? You were blind drunk.”

Riley: “Hey, listen, you slob, that’s
not in the act and you know it.”

Robbins: “Act? What act?”

Riley: “All right! All right! You’re
a great little kidder, but let’s get down to business. I say to you: ‘Who was
that dame I saw you out with last night?’ And you say: ‘That was no
dame, that
was a damn.’”

Robbins: “So you’re stealing my
lines, eh?”

At this both actors turned on
Lem
and beat him violently over the head and body with
their rolled-up newspapers. Their object was to knock off his toupee or to
knock out his teeth and eye. When they had accomplished one or all of these
goals, they stopped clubbing him. Then
Lem
, whose
part it was not to move while he was being hit, bent over and with sober
dignity took from the box at his feet, which contained a large assortment of
false hair, teeth and eyes, whatever he needed to replace the things that had
been knocked off or out.

The turn lasted about fifteen
minutes and during this time Riley and Robbins told some twenty jokes, beating
Lem
ruthlessly at the end of each one. For a final curtain,
they brought out an enormous wooden mallet labeled “The Works” and with it
completely demolished our hero. His toupee flew off, his eye and teeth popped
out, and his wooden leg was knocked into the audience.

At sight of the wooden leg, the
presence of which they had not even suspected, the spectators were convulsed
with joy. They laughed heartily until the curtain came down, and for some time
afterwards.

Our hero’s employers congratulated
him on his success, and although he had a headache from their blows he was made
quite happy by this. After all, he reasoned, with millions out of work he had
no cause to complain.

One of
Lem’s
duties was to purchase newspapers and out of them fashion the clubs used to
beat him. When the performance was over, he was given the papers to read. They
formed his only relaxation, for his meager salary made more complicated
amusements impossible.

The mental reactions of the poor lad
had been slowed up considerably by the hardships he had suffered, and it was a
heart-rending sight to watch him as he bent over a paper to spell out the
headlines. More than this he could not manage.

“PRESIDENT CLOSES BANKS FOR GOOD,”
he read one night. He sighed profoundly. Not because he had again lost the few
dollars he had saved, which he had, but because it made him think of Mr.
Whipple and the Rat River National Bank. He spent the rest of the night
wondering what had become of his old friend.

Some weeks later he was to find out.
“WHIPPLE DEMANDS DICTATORSHIP,” he read. “LEATHER SHIRTS RIOT IN SOUTH.” Then,
in rapid succession, came other headlines announcing victories for Mr. Whipple’s
National Revolutionary Party. The South and West,
Lem
learned, were solidly behind his movement and he was marching on Chicago.

One day a stranger came to the
theater to see
Lem
. He addressed our hero as
Commander Pitkin and said that he was Storm Trooper Zachary Coates.

Lem
made
him welcome and asked eagerly for news of Mr. Whipple. He was told that that
very night
Shagpoke
would be in the city. Mr. Coates
then went on to explain that because of its large foreign population New York
was still holding out against the National Revolutionary Party.

“But tonight,” he said, “this city
will be filled with thousands of ‘Leather Shirts’ from upstate and an attempt
will be made to take it over.”

While talking he stared hard at our
hero. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he saluted briskly and said, “As
one of the original members of the party, you are being asked to cooperate.”

“I’ll be glad to do anything I can
to help,”
Lem
replied. “Good! Mr. Whipple will be
happy to hear that, for he counted on you.”

“I am something of a cripple,”
Lem
added with a brave smile. “I may not be able to do
much.”

“We of the party know how your wounds
were acquired. In fact one of our prime purposes is to prevent the youth of
this country from being tortured as yen were tortured. Let me add, Commander
Pitkin, that in my humble opinion you are well on your way to being recognized
as one of the martyrs of our cause.” Here he saluted
Lem
once more.

Lem
was
embarrassed by the man’s praise and hurriedly changed the subject. “What are
Mr. Whipple’s orders?” he asked.

“Tonight, wherever large crowds
gather, in the parks, theaters, subways, a member of our party will make a
speech. Scattered among his listeners will be numerous `Leather Shirts’ in
plain clothes, who will aid the speaker stir up the patriotic fury of the
crowd. When this fury reaches its proper height, a march on the City Hall will
be ordered. There a monster mass meeting will be held which Mr. Whipple will
address. He will demand and get control of the city.”

“It sounds splendid,” said
Lem
. “I suppose you want me to make a speech in this
theater?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“I would if I could,”
replied
Lem
, “but I’m afraid I can’t.
I have never made a speech in my life. You see, I’m not a real actor but only a
‘stooge.’ And besides, Riley and Robbins wouldn’t like it if I tried to
interrupt their act.”

“Don’t worry about those gentlemen.”
Mr. Coates said with a smile. “They will be taken care of. As for your other
reason, I have a speech in my pocket that was written expressly for you by Mr.
Whipple. I have come here to rehearse you in it.”

Zachary Coates reached into his
pocket and brought out a sheaf of papers. “Read this through first,” he said
firmly, “then we will begin to study it.”

That night
Lem
walked out on the stage alone. Although he was not wearing his stage costume,
but the dress uniform of the “Leather Shirts,” the audience knew from the
program that he was a comedian and roared with laughter.

This unexpected reception destroyed
what little self-assurance the poor lad had and for a minute it looked as
though he were going to run. Fortunately, however, the orchestra leader, who
was a member of Mr. Whipple’s organization, had his wits about him and made his
men play the national anthem. The audience stopped laughing and rose soberly to
its feet.

In all that multitude one man alone
failed to stand up. He was our old friend, the fat fellow in the Chesterfield
overcoat. Secreted behind the curtains of a box, he crouched low in his chair
and fondled an automatic pistol. He was again wearing a false beard.

When the orchestra had finished
playing, the audience reseated itself and
Lem
prepared to make his speech.

“I am a clown,” he began, “but there
are times when even clowns must grow serious. This is such a time. I…”

Lem
got no
further. A shot rang out and he fell dead, drilled through the heart by an
assassin’s bullet.

*

Little else remains to be
told, but before closing this book there is one last scene which I must
describe.

It is Pitkin’s Birthday, a national
holiday, and the youth of America is parading down Fifth Avenue in his honor.
They are a hundred thousand strong. On every boy’s head is a coonskin hat
complete with jaunty tail, and on every shoulder rests a squirrel rifle.

Hear what they are singing. It is
The
Lemuel
Pitkin Song.

“Who dares?”—this was L. Pitkin’s
cry,
As
striding on the Bijou stage he came— “Surge
out with me in
Shagpoke’s
name, For him to live, for
him to die!” A million hands flung up reply, A million voices answered, “I!”

Chorus

A million hearts for Pitkin, oh! To
do and die with Pitkin, oh! To live and fight with Pitkin, oh!
Marching for Pitkin.

The youths pass the reviewing stand
and from it Mr. Whipple proudly returns their salute. The years have dealt but
lightly with him. His back is still as straight as ever and his gray eyes have
not lost their keenness.

But who is the little lady in black
next to the dictator? Can it be the Widow Pitkin? Yes, it is she. She is
crying, for with a mother glory can never take the place of a beloved child. To
her it seems like only yesterday that Lawyer
Slemp
threw
Lem
into the open cellar.

And next to the Widow Pitkin stands
still another woman. This one is young and beautiful, yet her eyes too are full
of tears. Let us look closer, for there is something vaguely familiar about
her. It is Betty
Prail
. She seems to have some
official position, and when we ask, a bystander tells us that she is Mr.
Whipple’s secretary.

The marchers have massed themselves
in front of the reviewing stand and Mr. Whipple is going to address them.

“Why are we celebrating this day
above other days?” he asked his hearers in a voice of thunder. “What made
Lemuel
Pitkin great? Let us examine his life.

“First we see him as a small boy,
light of foot, fishing for bullheads in the Rat River of Vermont. Later, he
attends the Ottsville High School, where he is captain of the nine and an
excellent outfielder. Then, he leaves for the big city to make his fortune. All
this is in the honorable tradition of his country and its people, and he has
the right to expect certain rewards.

“Jail is his first reward.
Poverty his second.
Violence is his third. Death is his
last.

“Simple was his pilgrimage and
brief, yet a thousand years hence, no story, no tragedy, no epic poem will be
filled with greater wonder, or be followed by mankind with deeper feeling, than
that which tells of the life and death of
Lemuel
Pitkin.

“But I have not answered the
question. Why is
Lemuel
Pitkin great? Why
does
the martyr move in triumph and the nation rise up at
every stage of his coming? Why are cities and states his pallbearers?

“Because, although
dead, yet he speaks.

“Of what is it that he speaks? Of
the right of every American boy to go into the world and there receive fair
play and a chance to make his fortune by industry and probity without being
laughed at or conspired against by sophisticated aliens.

“Alas,
Lemuel
Pitkin himself did not have this chance, but instead was dismantled by the
enemy. His teeth were pulled out. His eye was gouged from his head. His thumb
was removed. His scalp was torn away. His leg was cut off. And, finally, he was
shot through the heart.

“But he did not live or die in vain.
Through his martyrdom the National Revolutionary Party triumphed, and by that
triumph this country was delivered from sophistication, Marxism and
International Capitalism. Through the National Revolution its people were
purged of alien diseases and America became again American.”

“Hail the Martyrdom in the Bijou
Theater!” roar
Shagpoke’s
youthful hearers when he is
finished.

“Hail,
Lemuel
Pitkin!”

“All hail, the American Boy!”

THE END