An Extra Blanket

Steve was angry. You could see that from the way he paced up and down the platform of the covered railroad station, muttering to himself in short, explosive bursts, like an automobile sputtering to life. Steve had lost his sample trunk, and a traveling salesman without his trunk is as helpless as a lone fisherman without bait.

Outside, a snowstorm was building into a blizzard. The cuts were level with the fences, the short curves choked with drifts, and the flat stretches bare of a single flake. Inside, a panting locomotive crawled ahead of two Pullman cars and a baggage car—a special train from Detroit to Kalamazoo, six hours late, loaded with comic opera performers, their baggage, scenery, and Steve's lost trunk.

When the train pulled up opposite where Steve stood, the engine looked like a snowplow that had burrowed through a drift.

Steve moved down to the step of the first Pullman car, his sharp eyes taking in the train, the remnants of the drift, and the noses of the chorus girls pressed flat against the frosted windows. The conductor was now on the platform, crunching a tissue telegram that the stationmaster had just handed him. He had stopped for orders and for a wider breathing space, where he could get out into the open and stretch his arms, and become personal and perhaps profane without upsetting his passengers.

Steve stepped up beside him and showed him an open telegram.

"Yes, your trunk's aboard all right," replied the conductor, "but I couldn't find it in a week. A lot of scenery and ladders and truck all piled in. I'm sorry, but I wouldn't—"

"What you 'wouldn't,' my sweet Aleck, don't interest me," exploded Steve. "You get a couple of porters and go through that stuff and find my trunk, or I'll wire the main office that—"

"See here, young feller. Don't get gay. Hit that gourd of yours another crack and maybe you'll knock some sense into it. We're six hours late, ain't we? We got three hours to make Kalamazoo in, ain't we? This show's got to get there on time, or there'll be hell to pay and no pitch hot. Now go outside and stand in a door somewhere and let the wind blow through you. I'll wire you in the morning, or you can take the 5:40 and pick your trunk up at Kalamazoo.—Let her go, Johnny," he said to the engineer. "All aboard!"

Steve yanked a cigar from his vest pocket, bit off the end, and said with a grim smile, "Steve, you're 'it.' I'll get that trunk at Kalamazoo."

Then he crossed the platform, made his way to the street entrance, and stepped into the omnibus of the only hotel in town.

When the swinging sign of the Two-dollar House, blurred in the whirl of the storm, hove in sight, Steve's face was still knotted in wrinkles. He had a customer in this town good for three hundred dozen table knives, and but for "this gang of cross-tie steppers," he said to himself, he would have been able to... Here the hind heels of the bus hit the curb, cutting short Steve's curses.

The salesman picked up his grip and made his way to the desk.

"What's the matter, Steve?" asked Larry, the clerk. "You look sour."

"Sour? I'm a green pickle, Larry, that's what I am—a green pickle. Been waiting five hours for my trunk in that oriental palm garden of yours you call a station. It was aboard a special train loaded with chorus girls and props. The conductor wouldn't dump it, and now it's gone on to Kalamazoo—"

"Oh, but you'll get it all right. All you've got to do, Steve, is to—"

"Get it! Yes, when the daisies are blooming over us. I want it now, Larry. Whenever I run up against anything solid it's always one of these fly-by-nights. What do you think of going upstairs in the dark and hauling out a red silk hat and a pair of gilt slippers, instead of a sample card of carvers? Well, that's what a guy did for me last fall down at Logansport. Sent me two burial caskets full of chorus-girl props instead of my trunk. Oh, yes, I'll get it—get it in the neck. Here, send this grip to my room."

The clerk pursed his lips and looked over his key rack. He knew that he had no room—none that would suit Stephen Dodd—had known it when he saw him entering the door, the snow covering his hat and shoulders, his grip in his hands.

"Going to stay all night with us, Stephen?" Larry asked.

"Sure! What do you think I'm here for? It's blowing and snowing outside fit to beat the band. What do you want me to do—bunk in the station?"

"H'm, h'm," muttered the clerk, studying the key rack and name board as if they were plans of an enemy's country.

Steve looked up. When a clerk began to say "H'm," Steve knew something was wrong.

"Full?"

"Well, not exactly full, Steve, but—h'm—we've got the 'Joe Gridley Combination' with us overnight, and about everything—"

"Go on—go on—what'd I tell you? Up again' these fly-by-nights as usual!" blurted out Steve.

The clerk raised his hand apologetically.

"Sorry, old man. Put you on the top floor with some of the troupe—good rooms, of course, but not what I like to give you. The leading lady's got your room, and the manager's got the one you sometimes have over the extension. It'll only be for tonight. They're going away in the morning, and I—"

"Cut it out—cut it out—and forget it," interrupted Steve. "So am I going away in the morning. Got to take the 5:40 and hunt up that trunk. Can't do a thing without it. Only waltzed in here to get something to eat and a bed. Be back later. Put me anywhere. This week's hoodooed, and these show guys are doing it. You want a guardian, Stephen—a gentle, mild-eyed little guardian. That's what you want."

The clerk rang a gong that sounded like a fire alarm, and the porter came in on a run.

"Take Mr. Dodd's grip and show him up to Number 11."

On the way upstairs Steve's quick eye caught the flare of a playbill tacked to one wall.

"What is it?" he asked the porter, pointing to the poster—"an 'East Lynne' or a 'Mother's Curse'?"

"No—one o' them mix-ups, I guess. Song and dance stunts. Number 11, did Larry say? There ye are—key's in the lock." The porter pushed open the door with his foot, dropped Steve's bag on the pine table, turned up the gas—the twilight was coming on—asked if there was "anything more"—found there wasn't—not even a dime—and left Steve alone.

"'Bout as big as a coffin, and as cold," grumbled Steve, looking around the room. "No steam heat—one pillow—and"—here he punched the bed—"one blanket, and thin at that—the bed hard as a—Well, if this doesn't take the cake! If this burg doesn't get a hotel soon I'll cut it out of my territory."

He washed his hands; wiped them on a small towel; hung it flat to dry for the morning, gave his hair a comb, scooped up a dozen cigars from a paper box, stuffed them in his outside pocket, relocked his grip, and retraced his steps downstairs.

When he reached the playbill again he stopped to read the details. Condensed and stripped of flashy adjectives, the colorful document announced that the "Joe Gridley Combination" would play for one night only, with the performance beginning at 8 PM sharp. Molly Martin and Jessie Hannibal would dance, Jerry Gobo, the clown, would have the audience rolling in the aisles, and Miss Pearl Rogers would charm them with her modern portrayals of high society. Then followed a list of the lesser performers, including chorus girls, clog dancers, and acrobats.

The porter was now shaking the red-hot stove with a cast-iron crank the size and shape of a burglar's jimmy, the ashes falling on a square of zinc protecting the uncarpeted floor. Steve recognized the noise, and looking down over the handrail, called out, pointing to the poster:

"How far's this shebang?"

"'Bout a block."

"That settles it," said Steve to himself in the only contented tone of voice he had used since he entered the hotel. "I'll take this in." And continuing downstairs, he dropped into a chair, completing the circle around the stove.

The business of the hotel went on. Trains arrived and were met by the lumbering stage, the passengers stepping out into the snow on the sidewalk—some for supper, one or two for rooms.

Supper was announced by a tight-laced blonde in a white muslin dress, all hips and shoulders, throwing open the dining room door and standing guard at the entrance, her face wearing that challenging expression common to her kind.

Instantly, with a simultaneous scraping of chair legs, the men around the stove flung themselves into the narrow passageway.

Soon the racks were spotted with hats, their owners seated four to a table—Steve among them—while the waitress-ladies served with sweet smiles and graceful manners, their elegant poses enhanced by an inward curve of the back and an outward bulge below the waist, a style seen only on wax figures in department stores.

Steve had a steak, liver and bacon, apple pie, a cup of coffee, and a toothpick—all in ten minutes. Then he resumed his place by the stove, lit a cigar, and kept an eye on the clock.

Three hours later, Steve was back in his chair by the stove. He had been to the show and sat through two hours of the performance. If his expression had been sour over the loss of his sample trunk, it was now pure acid.

"Thought you was goin' to the show," grunted the porter between his jerks at the handle; he was again at the stove, with the thermometer marking zero outside.

"Been. A regular frost; swindled out of fifty cents! That show is the limit! A couple of skinny-legged girls doing a clog dance; a bag of bones in a low-necked dress playing Mrs. Langtry; and a cross-eyed clown that looked like a grave-digger. Rotten—the worst I ever saw!"

"Full house?"

"Full of empties. About fifty people, I guess, counting deadheads—and me."

Steve stressed that last word as if his fifty cents had been the only real income of the house.

Just then the outer door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and a cough.

Steve turned in his chair and recognized Jerry Gobo, the clown. His greasepaint was gone, but his haggard face and that hacking cough gave him away.

Jerry loosened the collar of his frayed, almost threadbare coat, approached the stove slowly, and stretching out one blue, emaciated hand, warmed it for a moment at the open door—in an apologetic way, as if warming one hand was all he was entitled to.

Steve took him in at a glance. He saw that his neck was thin, especially behind the ears, the cords of his throat visible; his cheeks sunken; his sad, kindly eyes peering out furtively from under bushy eyebrows, bright and glassy. His knees seemed unsteady. As he stood warming his chilled fingers, his body drawn back, Steve got the impression of a boy reaching for an apple, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

"Kind o' chilly," the clown ventured, in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere below his collar button.

"Yes," said Steve gruffly. He didn't intend to start a conversation. He knew these fellows. One had cheated him out of eleven dollars in a dice game up at Logansport the winter before. That particular guy didn't have a cough, but he would have if it could have helped him double his winnings.

Jerry, rebuffed by Steve's curt reply, brought up the other hand, warmed it briefly at the but blaze, rubbed his bony knuckles together, and remarking—this time to himself—that he "guessed he'd turn in," walked slowly to the foot of the stairs and began climbing the long flight. Steve watched his fingers slide along the handrail as he went up. He noticed that the clown stopped at the first landing, and after a spell of coughing, slid slowly on around the corner.

Steve bit the end off a fresh cigar, scraped a match on the underside of his chair, lit the thing, and said with his first puff of smoke, his mind still on the emaciated form of the clown:

"Kindlin' wood for a new crematory."

Again the outer door swung open.

This time the Walking Lady entered, accompanied by the Business Agent. She wore a long brown cloak that reached her feet and a stringy fur tippet, her head and face covered by a hat veiled in thick blue cloth. She unwound the veil inside the hall, and seeing Steve monopolizing the stove, began the ascent of the stairs, one step at a time, as if she was exhausted.

Steve turned his face away. The bag of bones looked worse than ever. "'Bout fifty in the shade, I should think," he said to himself. "Ought to be taking in washing." Meantime, Mathews, the Business Agent, was occupied with the clerk—Larry had presented him with a bill. The rates, the agent pleaded, were to be a dollar sixty. Larry insisted on two dollars. Steve pricked up his ears; this interested him. If Larry wanted any backing on the price, Steve was within call. He conveyed this to Larry by lifting his chin and slowly closing one eye.

The outer door continued to swing open with the rapidity of the kitchen door, ushering in more members of the troupe, including an elderly woman who had played the Duchess in the first act and a fishwife in the second; some young men with their hats pulled low, and four or five chorus girls. The men looked around for the sign pointing to the bar, and the girls, after a burst of giggling, began the climb to their rooms. Steve noticed that two of them continued up to the third floor, where Jerry Gobo, the clown, had gone, and where Steve himself was to sleep. One of the girls looked down at him as she turned the corner of the stairs and nudged her companion—all of which was lost on the salesman. They had probably recognized him in the audience.

Nothing, however, in their present getup could have reminded Steve of them. Molly Martin had traded her green silk tights and gauze wings for a red flannel shirt-waist, a black leather belt, a blue skirt, and a cat-skin jacket. Jessie Hannibal had shed her frilly dress and was buttoned to her ears in a long gray coat that reached down to her feet, now muffled in a pair of galoshes.

The dispute over the bill at an end, the Business Agent fished a roll of bills from one pocket and a handful of change from the other, counted out the exact amount, waited until the clerk marked a cross against his room number, told him to call him at seven in the morning, tucked the receipt in his inside pocket, and began the weary climb.

Steve shook himself free of the chair. It was about time for him to turn in. He stretched, yawned, tipped his hat farther over his eyebrows, called to Larry to be sure to wake him for the 5:40, and mounted the stairs to his room. If he had had any doubts about the shabby character of the whole "shooting match," his brief look at the cast had put them to rest.

On entering his room, Steve made several discoveries, none of which lifted his mood.

First, the temperature was so cold that the water pitcher was skimmed with ice and the towel frozen stiff as a board. Second, Jerry the clown occupied the room to the right, and the two chorus girls the room to the left. Third, the walls were paper thin, or as Steve put it, "thin enough to hear a feller change his mind."

With the gas turned off and Steve's round face tucked under the single blanket and quilt, the sheet gripped about his chin, a harsh, rasping cough came from the room on his right. Jerry had started up. Steve ducked his head and covered his ears. The clown would stop in a minute, and then Mr. Dodd would fall asleep.

Another sound now reached his ears—a woman's voice, with a note of sympathy in it. Steve raised his head to listen.

"Say, Jess, ain't that awful? I knew Jerry'd get it on that long jump we made. I ain't heard him cough like that since we left Toronto."

"Oh, dreadful! And, Molly, he don't say a word about how sick he is. Billy had to help him off with his— Oh, just hear Jerry!"

Their talk ceased and Steve snuggled his head back down. He wasn't interested in Jerry, or Molly, or Jessie. All he wanted was six hours' sleep, a wake-up call at 4:45, and his sample trunk.

Another fit of coughing broke out, and again Steve uncovered his ear.

"Jerry ain't got but one little girl left, and she's only five years old. She's up at the Sacred Heart in Montreal. He sends her money every week—he told me so. He showed me her picture once. Say! Give me some of the cover; it's awful cold, ain't it?"

Steve heard the rustle of bedclothes as the girls nestled closer. Molly's voice broke the short silence.

"Say, Jess, I'm dreadful worried about Jerry. I bet he ain't got no more cover 'n we have. He's right next to us, and it ain't no warmer where he is than it is here. I'd think he'd tear himself all to pieces with that cough. I hope nothing happens to him. He ain't like Mathews. Nobody ever heard a cross word out of Jerry, and he'd cut his heart out for ye and—"

Steve covered his head again and shut his eyes. Through the sheet, as he dozed off (Jerry's cough had become a familiar sound, no longer keeping him awake), he caught more details of Jerry's life and misfortunes, in broken fragments:

"She never cared for him, so Billy told me. She went off with— Why, sure! Didn't you know he got burnt out? Lost his trick ponies when he was with Forepaugh— It'll be awful if we have to leave him behind, and—I'm goin' to see a doctor just as soon as we get to—"

Here Steve fell into a deep sleep.

Ten minutes later, he was startled by the opening of his door. In the dim glow of the hall light, he caught the outline of a girl in her nightdress, her hair in two braids down her back. She was moving silently toward his bed, carrying a quilt. Bending over him—Steve lay in the shadow—she spread the covering gently over his body, tucked the end softly around his throat, and as quietly tiptoed out of the room. Then a voice came from behind the partition:

"He ain't coughin' any more—he's asleep. I got it over him. Now get all your clothes, Molly, and pile 'em on top. We can get along."

Steve lay still. His first instinct was to cry out that they had made a mistake—that Jerry was next door. His next was to slip into Jerry's room and put the quilt on him. But he checked himself: the first would alarm and embarrass the girls, and the second would be like robbing them of the joy of their generous act. Jerry might wake, and the girls would hear, and there would be explanations, and all the pleasure of their sacrifice would be spoiled. No, he'd return it to the girls and say he appreciated it but didn't need it. But he stopped again—this time with a sudden jolt. Going into a chorus girl's room, under any pretense, in a hotel at night! Not a chance! He had been around; he knew what that could look like.

All the while, the quilt was feeling heavier, his breath growing shorter, as if he were being smothered. A strange warmth crept over his throat, and a lump rose near his Adam's apple, followed by a slight dampness in his eyes—new sensations for Steve, not felt since childhood.

Suddenly, he remembered a low-roofed attic room with a trundle bed tucked under the slant of the roof. In the dim light, he saw the small window, the bare branches of a butternut tree outside, and heard the creak of its limbs bending in the storm. The room was full of old-fashioned things: a bureau with brass handles, a spinning wheel, strings of onions, a shelf of apples, an old saddle, and a rocking chair with one arm missing and the bottom half gone. A soft step sounded on the stairs, a white figure stole in, and a warm hand, gentle against his cheek, tucked the edge of a quilt under his chin. Then came a voice: "I thought you might be cold, son."

With a start, Steve sprang from the bed.

For a moment he sat on the edge of the hard mattress, staring at the floor, deep in thought.

"Those two girls lying there freezing, and all to get that feller warm!" he muttered. "You're a dog, Stephen Dodd—that's what you are—a yellow dog!"

He reached noiselessly for his shoes and socks, put them on, pulled on his trousers and shirt, threw his coat around his shoulders—he was shivering now—opened his door cautiously, letting in more light from the hall, and crept down the corridor to the staircase. He looked into a dark void. The only lights were the one by the clerk's desk and the glow of the stove. He hurried down the stairs to the lower floor. The porter would be up, he thought, or the night watchman, or maybe the clerk; someone would be around. He looked over the counter, but Larry wasn't there. He checked the porter's room, studied the trunks and boot stand, peered behind the screen, and finding no one, made a tour of the floor, opening and closing doors. No one was awake.

Then a new idea struck him, and he slapped one fist into the other palm, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. He mounted the stairs again—the first flight two steps at a time, the second flight one step at a time, the final steps on tiptoe. If he had planned to burglarize one of the rooms, he couldn't have been more careful. Entering his own room, he picked up the quilt the girls had left, folded it carefully, and laid it on the floor. Then he stripped off his own blanket and quilt and placed them beside it. Tucking both bundles under his arm, he crept with the quiet of a cat down the corridor to the stairway. Once there, he turned and, with both heels striking the bare floor, came tramping back toward the girls' room.

Then came a knock—like a five o'clock call—low so as not to wake the neighbors, but firm and clear. Steve knew how it sounded.

"Who's there?" cried Molly, startled awake. "'Tain't time to get up, is it?"

"No, it's the night watchman. Some folks is complaining of the cold and saying there warn't covering enough, so I thought you ladies might want some more bedclothes," and Steve pushed the quilt through the crack in the door.

"Oh, thank you," began Molly; "we were sort o'—"

"Don't mention it," answered Steve, closing the door firmly and cutting off any further talk.

He tiptoed to Jerry's door. For a moment he listened, and when he heard the labored breathing of the sleeping man, he opened the door gently and laid the blanket and quilt over Jerry's thin shoulders, then slipped out and back to his own room, feeling the same relief as a thief after a successful heist. He finished dressing.

Catching up his grip, he opened his door, peered out to make sure no one was watching, and crept along the corridor to the stairs and down to the first floor.

An hour later, the porter, roused by his alarm clock to get ready for the 5:40, found Steve by the stove. He had dragged up another chair and lay stretched out across the two, his head buried in the upturned collar of his coat, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

"Why, I thought you'd turned in," yawned the porter, dumping a shovelful of coal into the stove.

"Yes, I did, but I couldn't sleep." There was a note in Steve's voice that made the porter look up.

"Ain't sick, are ye?"

"No—kind o' nervous—get that way sometimes. Not in your way, am I?"