“I know,” said George, going over to a sagging couch and tossing back the pile of foul-looking bedclothes that covered it and flinging himself down wearily. “I’ve thought of it,” he said.
Randy did not press the point. He knew it would be no use. George would have to work round to it in his own way and in his own good time.
George shaved and dressed, and they went out for breakfast. Then they returned and talked all morning, and were finally interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.
George answered it. Randy could tell by the sounds which came from the transmitter that the caller was female, garrulous, and unmistakably Southern. George did nothing for a while but blurt out polite banalities:
“Well now, that’s fine…I certainly do appreciate it…That’s mighty nice of you…Well now, I’m certainly glad you called. I hope you will remember me to all of them.” Then he was silent, listening intently, and Randy gathered from the contraction of his face that the conversation had now reached another stage. In a moment he said slowly, in a somewhat puzzled tone: “Oh, he is?...He did?...Well”—somewhat indefinitely—“that’s mighty nice of him…Yes, I’ll remember…Thank you very much…Good-bye.”
He hung up the receiver and grinned wearily.
“That,” he said, “was one of the I-just-called-you-up-to-tell-you-that-I’ve-read-it-all-every-word-of-it-and-I-think-it’s-perfectly-grand people—another lady from the South.” As he went on his voice unconsciously dropped into burlesque as he tried to imitate the unction of a certain type of Southern female whose words drip molasses mixed with venom:
“‘Why, I’ll declayah, we’re all just so proud of yew-w! I’m just simply thrilled to daith! It’s the most wondaful thing I evah read! Why it is! Why, I nevah dreamed that anyone could have such a wondaful command of lang-widge!’”
“But don’t you like it just a little?” asked Randy. “Even if it’s laid on with a trowel, you must get some satisfaction from it.”
“God!” George said wearily, and came back and fell upon the couch. “If you only knew! That’s only one out of a thousand! That telephone there”—he jerked a thumb towards it—“has played a tune for months now! I know them all—I’ve got ‘em classified! I can tell by the tone of the voice the moment they speak whether it’s going to be type B or group X.”
“So the author is already growing jaded? He’s already bored with his first taste of fame?”
“Fame?“—disgustedly. “That’s not fame—that’s just plain damn rag-picking!”
“Then you don’t think the woman was sincere?”
“Yes”—his face and tone were bitter now—“she had all the sincerity of a carrion crow. She’ll go back and tell them that she talked to me, and by the time she’s finished with me she’ll have a story that every old hag in town can lick her chops and cackle over for the next six months.”
It sounded so unreasonable and unjust that Randy spoke up quickly:
“Don’t you think you’re being unfair?”
George’s head was down dejectedly and he did not even look up; with his hands plunged in his trouser pockets he just snorted something unintelligible but scornful beneath his breath.
It annoyed and disappointed Randy to see him acting so much like a spoiled brat, so he said:
“Look here! It’s about time you grew up and learned some sense It seems to me you’re being pretty arrogant. Do you think you can afford to be? I doubt if you or any man can go through life successfully playing the spoiled genius.”
Again he muttered something in a sullen tone.
“Maybe that woman was a fool,” Randy went on. “Well, a lot of people are. And maybe she hasn’t got sense enough to understand what you wrote in the way you think it should be understood. But what of it? She gave the best she had. It seems to me that instead of sneering at her now, you could be grateful.”
George raised his head: “You heard the conversation, then?”
“No, only what you told me.”
“All right, then—you didn’t get the whole story. I wouldn’t mind if she’d just called up to gush about the book, but, look here!”—he leaned towards Randy very earnestly and tapped him on the knee. “I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m just a conceited fool. I’ve lived through and found out about something these last few months that most people never have the chance to know. I give you my solemn word for it, that woman didn’t call up because she liked my book and wanted to tell me so. She called up,” he cried bitterly, “to pry round, and to find out what she could about me, and to pick my bones.”
“Oh, look here now—” Randy began impatiently.
“Yes, she did, too! I know what I’m talking about!” he said earnestly. “Here’s what you didn’t hear—here’s what she was working round to all the time—it came out at the end. I don’t know who she is, I never heard of her before—but she’s a friend of Ted Reeve’s wife. And apparently he thinks I put him in the book, and has been making threats that he’s going to kill me if I ever go back home.”