Nothing But the Truth

CHAPTER XIII – AN ENFORCED REST CURE

They kept him two days in the padded room on Dickie’s recommendation, who made Bob out as highly dangerous. “Powerful and vicious,” he described him to the suave individual in charge of the “sanatorium.” That particular apartment was somewhat remote from the other rooms, so that any noises made by the inmate of the former wouldn’t disturb the others. Becoming more reconciled to the inevitable, Bob found the quiet of the padded room rather soothing to his shaken nerves. He didn’t have to talk to hardly a soul. Only an attendant came around once in a while to shove cautiously something edible at him, but the attendant didn’t ask any questions and Bob didn’t have to tell him any truths. It was a joyful relief not to have to tell truths.

Bob’s eye was swollen and he had a few bruises, but they didn’t count. He had observed with satisfaction that Dickie’s lip had an abrasion and that one of his front teeth seemed missing. Dickie would have to wait until nature and art had repaired his appearance before he could once more a-wooing go. Bob didn’t want the temperamental young thing himself, but he couldn’t conscientiously wish Dickie success in that quarter, after the unnecessarily rough and unsportsmanlike manner in which Dickie had comported himself against him (Bob).

At first, it had occurred to Bob to take the attendant – and through him, the manager of the institution – into his confidence, but for two reasons he changed his mind about doing so. The attendant would probably receive Bob’s confidence as so many illusions; he would smile and say “Yes – quite so!” or “There! there!” – meaning Bob would get over said illusions some day, and that was why he was there. He was being treated for them. Again, if he unbosomed himself fully, as to the fundamental cause of all this trouble and turmoil, he would lose to the commodore, et al., and have to pay that note which he didn’t very well see how he could pay.

Bob gritted his teeth. Would it not be better to win now to spite them and in spite of everything? About the worst that could happen, had happened. Why not accept, then, this enforced sojourn philosophically and when the time came, he would walk up to the captain’s (or commodore’s) office and demand a little pay-envelope as his hard-earned wage? There would be a slight balm in that pay-envelope. With the contents thereof, he could relieve some of dad’s necessities which soon would be pressing. Why not, with a little stretch of the imagination, tell himself he (Bob) was only taking a rest cure? People paid big prices for a fashionable rest cure. They probably charged pretty stiff prices here, but it wouldn’t cost him a cent. His dear friends who put him here would have to pay. He wasn’t a voluntary boarder. They would have to vouch for him and his bills. So Bob made up his mind to have as good a time as he could; in other words, to grin and bear it, as best he might.

It was a novel experience. Maybe he might write an article about it for one of the Sunday newspapers some day – “How It Feels for a Sane Person to be Forcibly Detained in an Insane Asylum, by One who Has Been There.” The editor could put all manner of gay and giddy head-lines over such an experience. Bob tried to chronicle his feelings in the padded cell, but he couldn’t conjure up anything awful or harrowing. There weren’t spiders, or rats, or any crawly things to lend picturesqueness to the situation. It was only deadly quiet – the kind of quiet he needed.

He slept most of those first two days, making up for hours of lost sleep. His swollen eye became less painful and his appetite grew large and normal. He had to eat with his fingers because they were afraid to trust him with a knife and fork, but he told himself cheerfully that high-class Arabs still ate that way, and that all he had to do was to sit cross-legged, to be strictly comme il faut– that is, from the Arab’s standpoint. Since he had adopted truth as his mentor, Bob had learned, however, that “what should be” or “what shouldn’t,” or “mustn’t,” depends a great deal upon the standpoint, and he was beginning to be very suspicious, or critical, about the standpoint.

The third day the doctor in charge thought he could trust him in a room without pads. Bob had a good color, his eye was clear and his appearance generally reassuring, so they gave him now the cutest little cubby-hole, with a cunning little bed and a dear little window, with flowers outside and iron bars between the inmate and the flowers. The managing-medico proudly called Bob’s attention to the flowers and the view. One gazing out could see miles and miles of beautiful country. The managing-med. talked so much about that view that Bob chimed in and said it was lovely, too, only, it reminded him of the bone set just beyond reach of a dog chained to his cute little cubby-hole; or the jug of water and choice viands the Bedouins of the desert set before their victim after they have buried him to the neck in the sand. Bob was going on, trying to think of other felicitous comparisons, when he caught a look in the managing-med’s. eye that stopped him.

“I wonder if you are well enough, after all, to appreciate this cozy and home-like little apartment?” said the med. musingly.

Bob hastily apologized for the figures of speech. The padded place was very restful, no doubt, but he was quite rested now. Any more padded-room kind of rest would be too much. He looked at the view and expatiated upon it, even calling attention to certain charming details of the landscape. The flowers made a charming touch of color and they were just the kind of flowers he liked – good, old-fashioned geraniums! He could say all this and still tell the truth. The medico studied him attentively; then he concluded he would risk it and permit Bob to stay in the room.

But he didn’t stay there long. Several nights later a pebble clicked against his window; at first, he did not notice. The sound was repeated. Then Bob got up, went to his window, raised it noiselessly and looked out. In the shadow, beneath the window, stood a figure.

“Catch,” whispered a voice and instinctively Bob put out his hand. But he didn’t catch; he missed. Again and again some one below tossed something until finally he did catch. He looked at the object – a spool of thread. Now what on earth did he want with a spool of thread? Did the person below think some of his garments needed mending? It was strong, serviceable enough thread.

For some moments Bob cogitated, then going to the bureau, he picked up a tooth-brush, tied it to the thread, and let it down. After an interval he pulled up the thread; the tooth-brush had disappeared and a file was there in its stead. Then Bob tied to the thread something else and instead of it, he got back the end of an excellent manila rope. After that he went to work. It took Bob about an hour to get those bars out; it took him, then, about a minute to get out himself. Fortunately some one in a near-by room was having a tantrum and the little rasping sound of the filing couldn’t be heard. The louder the person yelled, the harder Bob filed.

When he reached the earth some one extended a hand and led him silently out of the garden and into the road beyond. Bob went along meekly and obediently. Not far down the road was a taxicab. Bob got in and his fair rescuer followed. So far he hadn’t said a word to her; language seemed superfluous. But as they dashed away, she murmured:

“Isn’t it lovely?”’

“Is it?” he asked. Somehow he wasn’t feeling particularly jubilant over his escape. In fact, he found himself wondering almost as soon as he had reached the earth, if it wouldn’t have been wiser, after all, to have spent the rest of those three weeks in pleasant seclusion. The presence of the temperamental young thing suggested new and more perplexing problems perhaps. He had regarded her as somewhat of a joke, but she wasn’t a joke just now; she was a reality. What was he going to do with her, and with himself, for that matter? Why were they dashing madly across the country like that together?

It was as if he were carrying her off, and he certainly didn’t want to do that. He wasn’t in love with her, and she wasn’t with him. At least, he didn’t think she was. It was only her temperamental disposition that caused her to imagine she was in love, because she thought him something that he wasn’t. And when she found out he wasn’t, but was only a plain, ordinary young man, not of much account anyhow, what a shock would be the awakening! Perhaps he’d better stop the machine, go back into the garden, climb up to his room in the crazy-house and tumble into bed? His being here, embarked on a preposterous journey, seemed a case of leaping before looking, or thinking.

“Why so quiet, darling?” giggled the temperamental young thing, snuggling closer.

“Don’t call me that. I – I won’t stand it.”

“All right, dearie.” With another giggle.

“And drop that ‘dearie’ dope, too,” he commanded.

“Just as you say. Only what shall I call you?”

“I guess plain ‘darn fool’ will do.”

“Oh, you’re too clever to be called that,” she expostulated.

“Me, clever?” Scornfully.

“Yes; think how long you have fooled the police.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense.” Irritably.

“I won’t. On condition!”

“What?”

“If you’ll put your arm around me.”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, yes, you will.” She adjusted it for him.

“All right! If you want some one to hug you when he doesn’t want to!” he said in aggrieved tones.

“That makes it all the nicer,” she returned. “There are ever so many men that want to. This – this is so different!” With a sigh.

“There you go, with some more nonsense talk!” grumbled Bob.

“Well,” she giggled, “there’s always a way to make a poor, weak, helpless little thing stop talking.”

“Of all the assurance!” he gasped.

“I love to have some one I can command to make love to me.”

“I’m going back.” Disgustedly.

“Oh, no, you’re not. You can’t.”

“Why?”

“You’d be arrested, if you did. They are coming for you. That’s why I came – to circumvent them!”

“They?”

“All has been discovered.”

“I fail to understand.”

“What did you do with it?” she countered.

“It?”

“The swag.”

Bob started to withdraw his arm but she clapped a small warm hand on his big warm hand and held his strong right arm about her slim, adaptable waist. Her head trailed on his shoulder, while she started floating off in dreamland.

“I just love eloping,” she murmured.