WE FEAR that the Salamis dealer in cigars, newspapers, and ice cream cones thinks we are a low-spirited fellow. For ten days or so preceding the Fourth of July he urged us every day not to forget to buy our supply of firecrackers from him. Finally he grew so insistent that we had to tell him the truth. We don’t believe in firecrackers for small children, we told him. Well, how about some nice rockets, balloons, Roman candles? he cried. No, we said firmly; Mr. Mackay, up on Harbour Hill, shoots off about five thousand dollars’ worth of very lovely fireworks every Fourth of July evening for the pleasure of the villagers; why should we attempt vainly to compete?
But of course, something had to be done to celebrate the Fourth. It would be only just, we thought, to have an adventure that would give pleasure to Dame Quickly, who has given us more innocent cheer than any one else during the past year. Besides, she had just attained the dignity of having travelled more than 8,000 miles. Excepting for two or three tentative and brief excursions upon Manhattan, she had never been off Long Island. We had heard, from time to time, that across the Sound there lay a region of mystery and heyday called Westchester County—a land supposed to be more aristocratic and splendid than anything our lowly Paumanok could show. A land, they said, flowing with gasolene and Eskimo Pie. But, in our timid and non-temerarious disposition we had never ventured. The ferry from Sea Cliff to New Rochelle ceased running during the war and has never resumed. The ferry from Oyster Bay to Greenwich—well, we had once made inquiry as to the prices; 25 cents per foot, measured over all, for the vehicle alone, to say nothing of the fare for the occupants. But, then, we had heard rumour of a humbler craft plying between College Point and The Bronx. This, we had an instinctive prompting, would be the caper. We determined to make the attempt.
No one has yet (so far as we know) properly uttered the fine poetry of a car that feels herself turned loose for the day upon unknown paths. That strong, rigorous hum underneath the bonnet, the intelligent questing look of her hood as it goes snouting along the road—these are potent mystery. The Younger Generation, duly caparisoned for either shine or rain, were installed, and ejaculated innocent defiance. Two small and quite useless wooden rabbits accompanied them, emblems of fortune and also of the Occupational Therapy Society (from whom they were purchased). The Urchin and Urchiness were hopeful of storm; they enjoy seeing a parent hustle to rig up the curtains. Some day we shall fool them by getting a sedan. We have a name already chosen for her. She will be Diana of the Crossways. The Microcosm, still too young to care what happens to her, was a nugget of plump, regardless cheer. Titania wore her khaki breeks, which are astoundingly comely. This had all the earmarks of a Foray against Relentless Destiny.
So, without hap—save for two grievous motor-bikers near Willets Point, who had jammed their clutch and halted the Dame to beg the borrow of a screwdriver—the equipage proceeded mildly to College Point. Here there was secret applause when the official said that only 50 cents would be necessary. That excellent ancient vessel the Steinway was already waiting. The Dame, with an air of skittish enterprise, trundled aboard. Befitting a boat of such orchestral name, a person with the word Musician embroidered on his cap played a powerful concertina. Already it seemed a literary excursion, for the chauffeur, studying his map, learned that not far away was a region of The Bronx called Casanova. Let this be a reminder, he said to himself, to read the frequently but enigmatically commended memoirs of De Seingalt. The chevalier himself, it is said, was once reduced to playing a fiddle in a cabaret: perhaps this concertina person is also a virtuoso of quality in an ad interim embarrassment. In the brass bowl ingeniously affixed to the machine of melody the chauffeur contributed a nickel as cautious largesse to Art.
On such occasions, adventuring in little-known parts of this great panorama of surprise known as New York, we reflect sadly on our own lack of enterprise in exploring its grim hilarities. Indeed we always intend to spend all our time on the streets, where we are endlessly happy and entertained; it is only a lack-lustre and empty resolution towards answering letters that brings us to the office. By this time, however, the Steinway had reached Clason Point, and with a keen sense of excitement we set forth to examine new lands and strange.
The first thing to do was to lay in some lunch. On Westchester Avenue our eye was caught by the sign Bible & Son, Undertakers and Real Estate; right next door was a meritorious-looking delicatessen shop, which we invaded. The young man in charge was much pleased. All his family had gone away for a three days’ holiday and had left him to run the store; the Fourth was proving shockingly tranquil, he said; he was so gratified by getting our trade that he gave us a bottle opener for the near-beer. We thought we were doing very well in our purchasing when Titania entered and revised it, saying that sardines would not do for the Younger Generation. Turning north at a venture, we found the Williamsbridge Road, where lunch was enjoyed beside a damp, quiet woodland.
But it was after lunch, when we turned into the Boston Post Road, that the real thrills began. On that famous highway Dame Quickly seemed to feel herself really in swell company. But we were glad we had not attempted it in our freshman days as a driver. Off in the distance we could see Long Island, a quiet, blue profile: how calm it looked. A vast vanload of elated coloured folk, packed ecstatically on lurching camp stools, groaned uphill on low gear. All subsequent traffic was stalled by this vehicle’s sudden halt, and we found an impulsive flivver browsing along our fender. We began to wonder whether Westchester was as élite as they had told us. We were startled, also, by the number of kennels offering chows and those animals called Pekingese. We were glad Gissing had not accompanied us: we fear his hardy, vulgar soul would have scoffed.
New Rochelle seemed an almost unnecessarily large town; much larger than Long Islanders are used to. Larchmont is evidently very civilized. In Mamaroneck, when we sought the waterfront, we found ourself embarrassingly arriving at the front door of a private mansion. On such occasions Dame Quickly, who is really a very noble creature, looks suddenly paltry and shameful. We turned towards home, though we were sorry to leave the view of the rocks called SCOTCH CAPS. These appealed to all our instincts as a printer. And by the way: the low tide seems to go much lower over there than it does along Paumanok. Real estate men, we are told, always take care to bring their clients out that way at high water.
Titania had an eagerness to see Neptune Avenue in New Rochelle, where she had lived as an urchin. She hadn’t been there for more than twenty years and said it was much changed. Trying to discover which had been the house, we found one for sale, and the door yielded to pressure. Inside, in an empty room, was a gilt sword blazoned with emblems of the Knights of Pythias or the Knights Templars or something of that sort. Somehow this seemed like an ideal setting for a humorous mystery story. We hoped that a crime had been committed; and yet the sword was very blunt.
We are still a confirmed Long Islander.
