The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (e book reader pc .TXT) 📕

moved men and women quite sober, the men vainly trying to shield the women from contact with anyone who was drunk. There was an angry light in those men’s eyes, but most of them said nothing, merely kept close to their partners, ready to defend them from any too assertive friend.

Again the music, again the tom-tom of the drums. On and on for hours. A man “passed out cold” and had to be carried from the gymnasium. A girl got a “laughing jag” and shrieked with idiotic laughter until her partner managed to lead her protesting off the floor. On and on, the constant rhythmic wailing of the fiddles, syncopated passion screaming with lust, the drums, horribly primitive; drunken embraces.⁠ ⁠… “Oh, those Wabash Blues⁠—I know I got my dues⁠—A lonesome soul am I⁠—I feel that I could die.⁠ ⁠…” Blues, sobbing, despairing blues.⁠ ⁠… Orgiastic music⁠—beautiful, hideous! “Candle light that gleams⁠—Haunts me in my dreams.⁠ ⁠…” The drums boom, boom, boom, booming⁠—“I’ll pack my walking shoes, to lose⁠—those Wa-bash Blues.⁠ ⁠…”

Hour after hour⁠—on and on. Flushed faces, breaths hot with passion and whisky.⁠ ⁠… Pretty girls, cool and sober, dancing with men who held them with drunken lasciviousness; sober men hating the whisky breaths of the girls.⁠ ⁠… On and on, the drunken carnival to maddening music⁠—the passion, the lust.

Both Hugh and Cynthia were drinking, and by midnight both of them were drunk, too drunk any longer to think clearly. As they danced, Hugh was aware of nothing but Cynthia’s body, her firm young body close to his. His blood beat with the pounding of the drums. He held her tighter and tighter⁠—the gymnasium, the other couples, a swaying mist before his eyes.

When the dance ended, Cynthia whispered huskily, “Ta-take me somewhere, Hugh.”

Strangely enough, he got the significance of her words at once. His blood raced, and he staggered so crazily that Cynthia had to hold him by the arm.

“Sure⁠—sure; I’ll⁠—I’ll ta-take you some-somewhere. I⁠—I, too, Cyntheea.”

They walked unevenly out of the gymnasium, down the steps, and through the crowd of smokers standing outside. Hardly aware of what he was doing, Hugh led Cynthia to Keller Hall, which was not more than fifty yards distant.

He took a flask out of his pocket. “Jush one more drink,” he said thickly and emptied the bottle. Then, holding Cynthia desperately by the arm, he opened the door of Keller Hall and stumbled with her up the stairs to Norry Parker’s room. Fortunately the hallways were deserted, and no one saw them. The door was unlocked, and Hugh, after searching blindly for the switch, finally clicked on the lights and mechanically closed the door behind him.

He was very dizzy. He wanted another drink⁠—and he wanted Cynthia. He put his arms around her and pulled her drunkenly to him. The door of one of the bedrooms opened, and Norry Parker stood watching them. He had spent the evening at the home of a musical professor and had returned to his room only a few minutes before. His face went white when he saw the embracing couple.

“Hugh!” he said sharply.

Hugh and Cynthia, still clinging to each other, looked at him. Slowly Cynthia took her arms from around Hugh’s neck and forced herself from his embrace. Norry disappeared into his room and came out a minute later with his coat on; he had just begun to undress when he had heard a noise in the study.

“I’ll see you home, Cynthia,” he said quietly. He took her arm and led her out of the room⁠—and locked the door behind him. Hugh stared at them blankly, swaying slightly, completely befuddled. Cynthia went with Norry willingly enough, leaning heavily on his arm and occasionally sniffing.

When he returned to his room, Hugh was sitting on the floor staring at a photograph of Norry’s mother. He had been staring at it for ten minutes, holding it first at arm’s length and then drawing it closer and closer to him. No matter where he held it, he could not see what it was⁠—and he was determined to see it.

Norry walked up to him and reached for the photograph.

“Give me that,” he said curtly. “Take your hands on my mother’s picture.”

“It’s not,” Hugh exclaimed angrily; “it’s not. It’s my musher, my own mu-musher⁠—my, my own dear musher. Oh, oh!”

He slumped down in a heap and began to sob bitterly, muttering, “Musher, musher, musher.”

Norry was angry. The whole scene was revolting to him. His best friend was a disgusting sight, apparently not much better than a gibbering idiot. And Hugh had shamefully abused his hospitality. Norry was no longer gentle and boyish; he was bitterly disillusioned.

“Get up,” he said briefly. “Get up and go to bed.”

“Tha’s my musher. You said it wasn’t my⁠—my musher.” Hugh looked up, his face wet with maudlin tears.

Norry leaned over and snatched the picture from him. “Take your dirty hands off of that,” he snapped. “Get up and go to bed.”

“Tha’s my musher.” Hugh was gently persistent.

“It’s not your mother. You make me sick. Go to bed.” Norry tugged at Hugh’s arm impotently; Hugh simply sat limp, a dead weight.

Norry’s gray eyes narrowed. He took a glass, filled it with cold water in the bedroom, and then deliberately dashed the water into Hugh’s face.

Then he repeated the performance.

Hugh shook his head and rubbed his hands wonderingly over his face. “I’m no good,” he said almost clearly. “I’m no good.”

“You certainly aren’t. Come on; get up and go to bed.” Again Norry tugged at his arm, and this time Hugh, clinging clumsily to the edge of the table by which he was sitting, staggered to his feet.

“I’m a blot,” he declared mournfully; “I’m no good, Norry. I’m an⁠—an excreeshence, an ex-cree-shence, tha’s what I am.”

“Something of the sort,” Norry agreed in disgust. “Here, let me take off your coat.”

“Leave my coat alone.” He pulled himself away from Norry. “I’m no good. I’m an ex-cree-shence. I’m goin’ t’ commit suicide; tha’s what I’m goin’ t’ do. Nobody’ll care ’cept my musher, and she wouldn’t either if she knew