The Last Night

Jay Arnold, being a resident of Chicago and not stone deaf, knew there was a war somewhere in Europe. He had heard also that the United States had gone or was going into it. But until the twenty-ninth day of June, this year of so-called grace, he didn’t care. For Mr. Arnold was a man of simple tastes⁠—rye and water all morning, a seat in the bleachers all afternoon, rye and water all evening and then eight or nine hours of melodious sleep⁠—and the tumult Over There had not interfered a bit with his daily program of innocent pleasure.

The gentleman’s reading was confined to the sporting pages of the morning papers and “Today’s Results” in the evening sheets. It was simply tough luck that he had to sit, on his way gameward this blizzardy June day, beside one of those born genials to whom proximity is a formal introduction and an excuse for opening up.

“Looks,” said this fluent soul, “like as if we’d soon be bone dry.”

“Oh, I guess not for ten or a dozen years,” said Mr. Arnold.

“Years, nothing!” the other ejaculated. “It’s liable to be all off tomorrow morning.”

Mr. Arnold scrutinized the stranger. He looked sober.

“Where do you get that stuff!” said Mr. Arnold.

“In the morning paper. I seen an article this morning where the fella says Wilson’s to have the whole say and if he says dry, dry she is.”

“What fella says that?” asked Mr. Arnold.

“He signed his name, but I forget it,” replied our hero’s seat-mate. “It’s the fella that writes the articles from Washington, DC.”

“They wasn’t no game in Washington yesterday!” And Mr. Arnold smiled triumphantly.

“This ain’t got nothing to do with a game,” said the other. “This guy ain’t the baseball-article writer. He pulls the stuff about Wilson and the Senate and Congress⁠—deep stuff.”

“Those fellas are crazy,” Said Mr. Arnold. “Besides, you probably misread it wrong.”

“I guess I can read!” said his companion peevishly.

“But listen,” said Mr. Arnold: “The President of the United States ain’t the king of the world. He can’t vote the country dry without Congress and the people having their say.”

“He can in war-times. He can do anything he feels like in war-times.”

“What’s the war got to do with the liquor business?”

“A whole lot! And Wilson’s going to call off the liquor business to preserve the food.”

Mr. Arnold laughed hoarsely.

“A fine way to preserve the food!” he said. “A Democrat ought to know that when a man’s drinking he ain’t got no time to eat. I remember one time eight years ago last fifth of May,” he added. “I went on the waterwagon four days at that time, and I eat like a bay horse.”

“You don’t get the point,” said the other. “The stuff that liquor is made out of is the stuff that could be made into food if it wasn’t made into liquor. And we’re going to be up against it for stuff to eat during war-times, so the President’s going to help preserve the food by cutting out the liquor.”

“But,” objected Mr. Arnold, “why should he cut out a necessity, like drinking, to preserve eating, that’s just a habit?”

“They’s more people that eats than there is that drinks,” said Mr. Fisher, for that was his name.

“Now you’re talking wild,” said Mr. Arnold. “If that’s true, why is there more saloons than restaurants?”

“Because people don’t eat all day.”

“Of course not! They’s no fun in it.”

And as they had reached the ballpark, Mr. Arnold rose and left the car, an easy winner in the argument.

But neither Mr. Arnold’s victory nor the game pleased him, and at the end of three innings he got up and walked out, worried for the first time in eight years.

“I must find some fella I can trust,” he said to himself. “I must find out if it’s true.” And he boarded a car for his first post-pastime local stop.

Eddie, the barkeeper, and two ticker-fans observed his entrance with surprise.

“Well, Jay,” said the former, “what’s the idear? Wasn’t it going to suit you?”

“They’s other things besides baseball,” said Mr. Arnold shortly.

“Yes,” agreed Eddie, “but this ain’t no time to quit⁠—not when old Commy’s got the best club he’s had in years.”

Mr. Arnold appeared not to be listening.

“You look like an undertaker,” said Eddie. “What about a shot?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Mr. Arnold, and he helped himself from the bottle placed before him. “Eddie,” he said, lowering his voice, “what’s this bunk I been hearing?”

“You mean about Commy getting another manager?”

“No!” said Mr. Arnold. “But I was reading in the paper where Wilson’s going to stop the liquor-business to preserve the food.”

“Sure,” replied Eddie. “It’s bound to come.”

“When?”

“Most any time. But we figure it’ll be about the first of September.”

“The paper I seen it in,” said Mr. Arnold, “talked like it was liable to happen any morning.”

“They’s no telling,” said Eddie.

“Maybe it’ll come tomorrow morning,” said Mr. Arnold.

“They’s no telling,” said Eddie cruelly. “But we don’t know if they’re going to cut it all out or not. They’re talking about barring just the heavy stuff and letting us keep on selling the stuff that ain’t as much as ten percent dynamite.”

“What would that leave?”

“Well, beer and a few of the very light wines.”

“This stuff’s bound to go?” asked Jay, pointing to his glass.

“Sure as one o’clock,” said Eddie.

“And cocktails and those things?”

“All of them.”

“Put me up two bottles of that rye,” said Mr. Arnold.

On the way downtown Mr. Arnold reached a decision, Never in his life had he tasted a cocktail; never had his finely chiseled lips touched the edge of a cordial-glass. It was not fair to himself to die without knowing all there was to know of alcoholic delights. He had seen their hilarious results in dozens of his friends, but rye and its two or three cousins had been his special study. He would take a full course tonight. He would be a graduate with an M.A. degree before tomorrow’s dawn and the President’s facile signature had taken the joy out of life.

“Ben,” he said to his favorite at Carney’s, “what kind of cocktails is they?”

“Oh, they’s a raft of them,” said Ben, “⁠—Manhattan, Bronx, Clover Leaf, Sazarac, Southern Comfort, rum⁠—oh, a raft of them!”

“Mix them up for me,” said Mr. Arnold.

“You could do it quicker with chloroform,” said Ben.

“Don’t try and kid somebody,” said Mr. Arnold. “As long as I got the money, I guess I can get what I order.”

“Sure you can,” agreed the gentleman on the sane side of the mahogany. “But we don’t want nobody dying on our hands, and that’s what’d happen to you if you tried to put away all them things at once.”

“I don’t want them all at once,” said Mr. Arnold. “I want them one at a time, in succession. While I’m cuddling one, you can be mixing the next, and so on Do you get me?”

“The cocktails will tend to that,” said Ben.

A Martini was the ninth on the list that Mr. Arnold put down.

“That’s all I know how to make,” said Ben after a close observation of his guest. “If I was you, I’d get myself something to eat.”

“That wouldn’t be the right spirit,” said Mr. Arnold. “We got to lay off of food and preserve it. Give us another cocktail.”

“They ain’t no more,” said Ben.

“All right. Start in on the cordials.”

“Cordials! You don’t drink them till after you’ve eat.”

“Is that the rules?” inquired Mr. Arnold.

“That’s the rules. Go back in the café and throw a big steak into you.”

“But I don’t feel like a steak. I feel like some cheese.”

“I thought you would,” said Ben.⁠ ⁠…

“I want to go where they’s music and dancing.”

So said Mr. Arnold to the driver, and he climbed into the car without mishap save for a barked shin.

Before he had got fairly asleep, the taxi stopped in front of the Red Duck.

“This is about the livest place,” the driver said, and Mr. Arnold, relieved of one dollar and thirty cents, walked in.

“What will it be?” inquired the waiter.

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Arnold.

“Something to drink?”

“Why, certainly. What did you think I came in for⁠—to get a suit pressed?”

“What kind of a drink?”

“What kind ain’t I had?”

“I don’t believe they’s any,” said the waiter.

“But listen here, George. You must know of some fancy drink I ain’t had.”

“How about an absinthe frappée?”

“What is that like?” asked Mr. Arnold.

“Well, let’s see⁠—” said George. “It’s a good deal like shrapnel, kind of mild and harmless.”

“I don’t want nothing mild, but I don’t want to miss nothing. So bring it on.”

And it happened that in George’s absence they began to dance, and a girl at the next table thought Mr. Arnold looked so funny that she had to laugh at him just as the music started. And Mr. Arnold took the laugh as an invitation and went over there.

“Good evening,” he said.

Promptly arose the girl’s escort, a tall well-dressed young man.

“I guess you’ve made a mistake,” he said.

Mr. Arnold was embarrassed and said:

“I beg your pardon. I beg your pardon.”

“All right. Beat it!” said the youth.

“Yes, but I don’t want no bad feeling. I ain’t a bad fella. My friends’ll tell you that.”

“I’ll bet you they don’t.”

“They would if they was here. But that makes no difference. We’d ought to all be friends tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the last night.”

“The last night! Are you one of those bugs?”

Mr. Arnold laughed uproariously.

“That’s pretty good!” he said at length. “ ‘One of those bugs.’ I’ll bet they don’t nobody get ahead of you. I’d liked to of met you before it was too late.”

“I hope we’re not detaining you.”

“Not a minute! I’m all alone and just looking for company. It’s pretty tough running round alone the last night.”

“Say, what are you talking about? Did somebody tip you off that Gabriel was going to play ‘The Holy City’ tomorrow?”

“I guess you know what I’m talking about,” said Mr. Arnold, winking. “I guess you read the papers.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I guess you’re on the square,” said Mr. Arnold, “and if you really ain’t heard the dope, I’ll give it to you.”

“Go ahead.”

“And I may as well set down and buy a drink while I’m at it,” said Mr. Arnold.

“Walter,” said the young lady, “let’s finish this dance. Please!”

“No,” said Walter, “we’ll have the next.”

And he and Mr. Arnold sat down.

“Now,” said Walter, “what’s the big secret?”

“What are we going to drink?” said Mr. Arnold.

“What are you drinking?” inquired the younger man.

“Mine’s over to that other table. I’ll have the waiter fetch it. It’s something new⁠—an absinthe frappée.”

“Yes, that is a new one. But anyway, it suits me.”

“Walter! Anything but that! You promised!” said the girl.

“Yes, yes, I know!”⁠—impatiently. “But if this is the end of the world, promises don’t go.”

“And,” said Mr. Arnold, “won’t the young lady have one too?”

“Never mind her!” said the youth impatiently. “She’s Miss Gloom tonight. Let’s get to the secret.”

Mr. Arnold lighted a cigar with an unsteady hand.

“Well,” he said, “you know this here war⁠—”

“I’d heard there was one,” said Walter.

“Well, this war’s what’s brought up this here other thing. It seems like the President wants to preserve food.”

“Strawberries and stuff like that?”

“No, no. He wants to keep a hold of all the food, so’s they won’t be no famines during the war. And the stuff they make liquor out of could be made into something to eat if they didn’t make it out of liquor.”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“So tomorrow morning it’s off.”

The girl looked up eagerly.

“Was that in tonight’s paper?” she said.

“Sure, it was in all of them,” said Mr. Arnold.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s a cinch⁠—that is, the papers didn’t say it was going to be tomorrow, but it’s liable to be.”

The young man laughed.

“So you’re taking no chances,” he said.

“That’s me,” said Mr. Arnold. “When I heard about it, when I found out we was liable to wake up tomorrow morning and find everything closed, I says to myself I’d finish in a blaze of glory. And I swore I wouldn’t go home till I’d tasted every drink that’s made. I guess I’m pretty near to the end of the list now.”

“What have you had?”

“Well, I had nine different cocktails and seven cordials and I forget what all. And now I’m winding up with a few of the fancy ones.”

“Maybe I can think of some you’ve missed.”

“Walter!”

“Have you tackled a julep?”

“No.”

“Or a Swiss Ess?”

“No.”

“Or⁠—”

“Wait a minute. Let’s make lis’. Write ’em all down black and white.”

“Go ahead.”

“You write ’em. My hand kind of shakes.”

“I don’t see why it should.”

“Never mind. Make lis’.”

“I could make one a mile long. But I don’t believe you’d appreciate them all tonight. I’ll give you a few to wind up the evening on. And if you run shy tomorrow, call me up and I’ll give you some more.”

Whereupon Walter handed Mr. Arnold his card.

“You’ve got a good system,” continued Walter. “Pretend every night’s the last one and enjoy it to the limit.”

“No sys’m ’bout it. This’s pos’ively las’.”

“I’d like to bet you.”

“All bets off. I know!”

The girl rose from her chair. “Walter,” she said, “I’m tired. I’m going home.”

“All right, if that’s the way you feel about it. I’ll call you a cab.”

“Tha’s right,” said Mr. Arnold. “Time for li’le girls to be in bed.”

Jay Arnold awoke at noon on the thirtieth in a room in the Grand Hotel. The telephone was ringing insistently. He got out of bed⁠—a head-splitting operation⁠—and went to answer it. A voice at the other end announced that its owner was Walter Crowell.

“What of it?” said Mr. Arnold testily. “I don’t know nobody of that name.”

“Yes, you do,” said the voice. “Anyway, I’m coming up.”

“Well, don’t stay long,” said Mr. Arnold.

A few moments later he admitted the young man of the Red Duck.

“You!” said Mr. Arnold. “And how did you know I was here?”

“I put you to bed,” said Walter.

“The dickens you say! Well, it’s the first time that ever had to be done.”

Walter produced a morning paper.

“Arnold,” he said, “if you’d made that bet, you’d have lost it.”

“What bet?”

“I wanted to bet you that the country wouldn’t be bone dry this morning. It isn’t. And it probably won’t be for some time to come.” He paused. “But as far as I’m concerned, it is. I want to apologize for leading you on last night, and I hope that terrific mixture won’t kill you.”

“I think it has,” said Mr. Arnold.

“I acted,” said Walter, “like a first-class mutt.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” said Mr. Arnold. “I don’t know how you acted. I don’t know if you acted at all. All as I remember is that I and you and some girl were together.”

“She’s my wife, Arnold. She’s forgiven me for two reasons. One is that I’ve jumped aboard the wagon for keeps. And the other is that she knows I was downhearted and had reason to be.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“I can’t go.”

“Go where?”

“Well, to France.”

“Good Lord! That’s the last place I’d want to be.”

“Not if you’re a real man.”

“Well, I certainly ain’t, not this morning.”

“And I certainly wasn’t last night. But it’ll be different from now on.”

“If you want to go, why don’t you go?”

“They won’t let me in. My vision’s bad.”

“It was all right when you picked that girl.”

“But even if it was all right now, I couldn’t leave her. We have nothing saved.”

“Well, listen, kid: I don’t believe you’re liable to save nothing, hanging round the Red Duck nights.”

“There’s no mistake about that,” said Walter. “But you can bet I’m going to save from this out, because the day may come when they’re not so particular about vision.”

“Do you think we’re in for extra innings?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And they need more men than they’ve got?”

“You bet they need them⁠—all they can grab.”

“Well,” said Mr. Arnold, “I’m going back to that bed and lay down awhile longer.”

“Sure. Go ahead, and I’ll be running along.”

Walter started toward the door.

“Wait a minute!” said Mr. Arnold. “On your way out, I wish you’d tell them to send me up a drink.”

“Something brand new and fancy?”

“Yeah! Ice water,” said Mr. Arnold.⁠ ⁠…

“How old are you?” asked the doctor Arnold consulted a little later.

“Thirty-seven,” answered Mr. Arnold without evasion.

“There’s just one thing the matter with you. You drink too much.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Doc,” said Mr. Arnold. “I’m bone dry.”

“Since when?”

“Well, about three o’clock yesterday morning.”

“I thought so.”

“I’m through with it now.”

“If you want to get anywhere, you’ll have to be.”

“But if I obey orders, there’s a chance?”

“Yes.”

“All right, Doc. Shoot!” ordered Mr. Arnold.⁠ ⁠…

Eddie was taking the third inning from the ticker when Mr. Arnold blew in.

“Well, if it ain’t old Jay,” said Eddie. “I figured you must be sick when you didn’t show up yesterday, with Detroit here and everything.”

“I was sick, good and sick,” said Mr. Arnold.

“And why ain’t you there today?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. It don’t seem right to go and watch a lot of fellas play ball when they’s a game across on the other side that really means something. And besides, a man can’t get no exercise setting in the bleachers.”

“Who in blazes wants exercise?”

“I do.”

“You get plenty of exercise walking from one place to the next.”

“You know how much I walk! If they was a streetcar line from one side of my bed to the other, they’d get all my nickels on a restless night.”

“Well,” said Eddie, “this ain’t giving you no service.”

“I don’t want no service.”

“You certainly are sick!”

“I’m sick, but it ain’t incurable. It ain’t even going to cost me anything to get well⁠—that is, no money.”

“What is it going to cost you?”

“Just some nerve, Eddie⁠—enough to carry me through the rye-fields without stopping to pick the fruit.”

“You’re on the wagon?”

“Yes sir.”

“For how long?”

“Well, if those Dutchmen’s aim is as good as they say, it’ll be all my life.”

“What in thunder are you talking about? Have you went nuts?”

“I’ve learned something, Eddie.”

“You’ve been to a doctor or something.”

“Yes sir.”

“And he throwed a scare into you?”

“Well, he did that too. He said I’d last about two years longer if I didn’t cut it out right away. So I’ve cut it out, and I may not even last two years. But if they get me, it’ll be with a shot that don’t need no chaser. I’ve learned about this war, Eddie. They’s fellas right here in this town that want to go and can’t. They’re tied down with their families or something. And they’s fellas all over this country that don’t think much of a guy that can go and won’t. Well, I can go and I’m going.”

“When?”

“Not for a couple of months⁠—maybe more. They won’t take me now. But the Doc says if I’ll go to some springs and boil awhile, and if I’ll exercise, and if I’ll behave, he thinks eight or nine weeks will make a man out of me. I’m leaving the old burg tonight, and I thought I’d drop in and say goodbye.”

“Well, I’m hanged!” said Eddie. “And it was only two days ago that you was worried to death for the fear Wilson was going to take out your meter. And I was trying to kid you, telling you that night would probably be the last.”

“It was,” said Mr. Arnold.

“And did you make it a good one?”

“Oh, boy!” said Mr. Arnold.

“There’s another inning coming in,” said Eddie, and he walked over to the ticker. “Cleveland nothing, Sox two. Did you see what Felsch done yesterday?”

“No,” said Mr. Arnold. “I was reading about some other Dutchmen, on the front page.”