sunshine sketches of a little town-第25部分

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taking　lemon　sour　and　sarsaparilla　and　cherry　pectoral　and　caroka
cordial　and　things　they　wouldn't　have　touched　before。　So　in　the　long
run　they　drink　more　than　ever。　The　point　is　that　you　can't　prevent
people　having　a　good　time；　no　matter　how　hard　you　try。　If　they　can't
have　it　with　lager　beer　and　brandy；　they'll　have　it　with　plain　soda
and　lemon　pop；　and　so　the　whole　gloomy　scheme　of　the　temperance
people　breaks　down；　anyway。

But　I　was　only　saying　that　Eliot's　drug　store　in　Mariposa　on　a
Saturday　night　is　the　gayest　and　brightest　spot　in　the　world。

And　just　imagine　what　a　fool　of　a　place　to　commit　suicide　in！

Just　imagine　going　up　to　the　soda…water　fountain　and　asking　for　five
cents'　worth　of　chloroform　and　soda！　Well；　you　simply　can't；　that's
all。

That's　the　way　Pupkin　found　it。　You　see；　as　soon　as　he　came　in；
somebody　called　out：　〃Hello；　Pete！〃　and　one　or　two　others　called：
〃Hullo；　Pup！〃　and　some　said：　〃How　goes　it？〃　and　others：　〃How　are　you
toughing　it？〃　and　so　on；　because　you　see　they　had　all　been　drinking
more　or　less　and　naturally　they　felt　jolly　and　glad…hearted。

So　the　upshot　of　it　was　that　instead　of　taking　chloroform；　Pupkin
stepped　up　to　the　counter　of　the　fountain　and　he　had　a　bromo…seltzer
with　cherry　soda；　and　after　that　he　had　one　of　those　aerated
seltzers；　and　then　a　couple　of　lemon　seltzers　and　a　bromo…phizzer。

I　don't　know　if　you　know　the　mental　effect　of　a　bromo…seltzer。

But　it's　a　hard　thing　to　commit　suicide　on。

You　can't。

You　feel　so　buoyant。

Anyway；　what　with　the　phizzing　of　the　seltzer　and　the　lights　and　the
girls；　Pupkin　began　to　feel　so　fine　that　he　didn't　care　a　cuss　for
all　the　Browning　in　the　world；　and　as　for　the　poetoh；　to　blazes
with　him！　What's　poetry；　anyway？only　rhymes。

So；　would　you　believe　it；　in　about　ten　minutes　Peter　Pupkin　was　off
again　and　heading　straight　for　the　Pepperleighs'　house；　poet　or　no
poet；　and；　what　was　more　to　the　point；　he　carried　with　him　three
great　bricks　of　Eliot's　ice　creamin　green；　pink　and　brown　layers。
He　struck　the　verandah　just　at　the　moment　when　Browning　was　getting
too　stale　and　dreary　for　words。　His　brain　was　all　sizzling　and　jolly
with　the　bromo…seltzer；　and　when　he　fetched　out　the　ice　cream　bricks
and　Zena　ran　to　get　plates　and　spoons　to　eat　it　with；　and　Pupkin　went
with　her　to　help　fetch　them　and　they　picked　out　the　spoons　together；
they　were　so　laughing　and　happy　that　it　was　just　a　marvel。　Girls；　you
know；　need　no　bromo…seltzer。　They're　full　of　it　all　the　time。

And　as　for　the　poetwell；　can　you　imagine　how　Pupkin　felt　when　Zena
told　him　that　the　poet　was　married；　and　that　the　tubby　little　woman
with　her　head　on　sideways　was　his　wife？

So　they　had　the　ice　cream；　and　the　poet　ate　it　in　bucketsful。　Poets
always　do。　They　need　it。　And　after　it　the　poet　recited　some　stanzas
of　his　own　and　Pupkin　saw　that　he　had　misjudged　the　man；　because　it
was　dandy　poetry；　the　very　best。　That　night　Pupkin　walked　home　on　air
and　there　was　no　thought　of　chloroform；　and　it　turned　out　that　he
hadn't　committed　suicide；　but　like　all　lovers　he　had　commuted　it。

I　don't　need　to　describe　in　full　the　later　suicides　of　Mr。　Pupkin；
because　they　were　all　conducted　on　the　same　plan　and　rested　on
something　the　same　reasons　as　above。

Sometimes　he　would　go　down　at　night　to　the　offices　of　the　bank　below
his　bedroom　and　bring　up　his　bank　revolver　in　order　to　make　an　end　of
himself　with　it。　This；　too；　he　could　see　headed　up　in　the　newspapers
as：

BRILLIANT　BOY　BANKER　BLOWS　OUT　BRAINS。

But　blowing　your　brains　out　is　a　noisy；　rackety　performance；　and
Pupkin　soon　found　that　only　special　kinds　of　brains　are　suited　for
it。　So　he　always　sneaked　back　again　later　in　the　night　and　put　the
revolver　in　its　place；　deciding　to　drown　himself　instead。　Yet　every
time　that　he　walked　down　to　the　Trestle　Bridge　over　the　Ossawippi　he
found　it　was　quite　unsuitable　for　drowningtoo　high；　and　the　water
too　swift　and　black；　and　the　rushes　too　gruesomein　fact；　not　at
all　the　kind　of　place　for　a　drowning。

Far　better；　he　realized；　to　wait　there　on　the　railroad　track　and
throw　himself　under　the　wheels　of　the　express　and　be　done　with　it。
Yet；　though　Pupkin　often　waited　in　this　way　for　the　train；　he　was
never　able　to　pick　out　a　pair　of　wheels　that　suited　him。　Anyhow；　it's
awfully　hard　to　tell　an　express　from　a　fast　freight。

I　wouldn't　mention　these　attempts　at　suicide　if　one　of　them　hadn't
finally　culminated　in　making　Peter　Pupkin　a　hero　and　solving　for　him
the　whole　perplexed　entanglement　of　his　love　affair　with　Zena
Pepperleigh。　Incidentally　it　threw　him　into　the　very　centre　of　one　of
the　most　impenetrable　bank　mysteries　that　ever　baffled　the　ingenuity
of　some　of　the　finest　legal　talent　that　ever　adorned　one　of　the　most
enterprising　communities　in　the　country。

It　happened　one　night；　as　I　say；　that　Pupkin　decided　to　go　down　into
the　office　of　the　bank　and　get　his　revolver　and　see　if　it　would　blow
his　brains　out。　It　was　the　night　of　the　Firemen's　Ball　and　Zena　had
danced　four　times　with　a　visitor　from　the　city；　a　man　who　was　in　the
fourth　year　at　the　University　and　who　knew　everything。　It　was　more
than　Peter　Pupkin　could　bear。　Mallory　Tompkins　was　away　that　night；
and　when　Pupkin　came　home　he　was　all　alone　in　the　building；　except
for　Gillis；　the　caretaker；　who　lived　in　the　extension　at　the　back。

He　sat　in　his　room　for　hours　brooding。　Two　or　three　times　he　picked
up　a　bookhe　remembered　afterwards　distinctly　that　it　was　Kant's
Critique　of　Pure　Reasonand　tried　to　read　it；　but　it　seemed
meaningless　and　trivial。　Then　with　a　sudden　access　of　resolution　he
started　from　his　chair　and　made　his　way　down　the　stairs　and　into　the
office　room　of　the　bank；　meaning　to　get　a　revolver　and　kill　himself
on　the　spot　and　let　them　find　his　body　lying　on　the　floor。

It　was　then　far　on　in　the　night　and　the　empty　building　of　the　bank
was　as　still　as　death。　Pupkin　could　hear　the　stairs　creak　under　his
feet；　and　as　he　went　he　thought　he　heard　another　sound　like　the
opening　or　closing　of　a　door。　But　it　sounded　not　like　the　sharp
ordinary　noise　of　a　closing　door　but　with　a　dull　muffled　noise　as　if
someone　had　shut　the　iron　door　of　a　safe　in　a　room　under　the　ground。
For　a　moment　Pupkin　stood　and　listened　with　his　heart　thumping
against　his　ribs。　Then　he　kicked　his　slippers　from　his　feet　and
without　a　sound　stole　into　the　office　on　the　ground　floor　and　took
the　revolver　from　his　teller's　desk。　As　he　gripped　it；　he　listened　to
the　sounds　on　the　back…stairway　and　in　the　vaults　below。

I　should　explain　that　in　the　Exchange　Bank　of　Mariposa　the　offices
are　on　the　ground　floor　level　with　the　street。　Below　this　is　another
floor　with　low　dark　rooms　paved　with　flagstones；　with　unused　office
desks　and　with　piles　of　papers　stored　in　boxes。　On　this　floor　are　the
vaults　of　the　bank；　and　lying　in　them　in　the　autumnthe　grain
seasonthere　is　anything　from　fifty　to　a　hundred　thousand　dollars　in
currency　tied　in　bundles。　There　is　no　other　light　down　there　than　the
dim　reflection　from　the　lights　out　on　the　street；　that　lies　in
patches　on　the　stone　floor。

I　think　as　Peter　Pupkin　stood；　revolver　in　hand；　in　the　office　of　the
bank；　he　had　forgotten　all　about　the　maudlin　purpose　of　his　first
coming。　He　had　forgotten　for　the　moment　all　about　heroes　and　love
affairs；　and　his　whole　mind　was　focussed；　sharp　and　alert；　with　the
intensity　of　the　night…time；　on　the　sounds　that　he　heard　in　the　vault
and　on　the　back…stairway　of　the　bank。

Straight　away；　Pupkin　knew　what　it　meant　as　plainly　as　if　it　were
written　in　print。　He　had　forgotten；　I　say；　about　being　a　hero　and　he
only　knew　that　there　was　sixty　thousand　dollars　in　the　vault　of　the
bank　below；　and　that　he　was　paid　eight　hundred　dollars　a　year　to　look
after　it。

As　Peter　Pupkin　stood　there　listening　to　the　sounds　in　his　stockinged
feet；　his　faced　showed　grey　as　ashes　in　the　light　that　fell　through
the　window　from　the　street。　His　heart　beat　like　a　hammer　against　his
ribs。　But　behind　its　beatings　was　the　blood　of　four　generations　of
Loyalists；　and　the　robber　who　would　take　that　sixty　thousand　dollars
from　the　Mariposa　bank　must　take　it　over　the　dead　body　of　Peter
Pupkin；　teller。

Pupkin　walked　down　the　stairs　to　the　lower　room；　the　one　below　the
ground　with　the　bank　vault　in　it；　with　as　fine　a　step　as　any　of　his
ancestors　showed　on　parade。　And　if　he　had　known　it；　as　he　came　down
the　stairway　in　the　front　of　the　vault　room；　there　was　a　man　crouched
in　the　shadow　of　the　passage　way　by　the　stairs　at　the　back。　This　man；
too；　held　a　revolver　in　his　hand；　and；　criminal　or　not；　his　face　was
as　resolute　as　Pupkin's　own。　As　he　heard　the　teller's　step　on　the
stair；　he　turned　and　waited　in　the　shadow　of　the　doorway　without　a
sound。

There　is　no　need　really　to　mention　all　these　details。　They　are　only
of　interest　as　showing　how　sometimes　a　bank　teller　in　a　corded
smoking　jacket　and　stockinged　feet　may　be　turned　into　such　a　hero　as
even　the　Mariposa　girls　might　dream　about。

All　of　this　must　have　happened　at　about　three　o'clock　in　the　night。
This　much　was　established　afterwards　from　the　evidence　of　Gillis；　the
caretaker。　When　he　first　heard　the　sounds　he　had　looked　at　his　watch
and　noticed　that　it　was　half…past　two；　the　watch　he　knew　was
three…quarters　of　an　hour　slow　three　days　before　and　had　been　gaining
since。　The　exact　time　at　which　Gillis　heard　footsteps　in　the　bank
and　started　downstairs；　pistol　in　hand；　became　a　nice　point
afterwards　in　the　cross…examination。

But　one　must　not　anticipate。　Pupkin　reached　the　iron　door　of　the　bank
safe；　and　knelt　in　front　of　it；　feeling　in　the　dark　to　find　the
fracture　of　the　lock。　As　he　knelt；　he　heard　a　sound　behind　him；　and
swung　round　on　his　knees　and　saw　the　bank　robber　in　the　half　light　of
the　passage　way　and　the　glitter　of　a　pistol　in　his　hand。　The　rest　was
over　in　an　instant。　Pupkin　heard　a　voice　that　was　his　own；　but　that
sounded　strange　and　hollow；　call　out：　〃Drop　that；　or　I'll　fire！〃　and
then　just　as　he　raised　his　revolver；　there　came　a　blinding　flash　of
light　before　his　eyes；　and　Peter　Pupkin；　junior　teller　of　the　bank；
fell　forward　on　the　floor　and　knew　no　more。

At　that　point；　of　course；　I　ought　to　close