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The Stray Lamb
THE EAR HAS LEGS
STILL numbed by the high voltage of those passionate eyes—Mr. Lamb had slightly refined his first expletive—he made his way down the aisle and, mingled with his kin on the station platform. In his deep abstraction he failed to respond with his customary briskness to the salutations of his friends.
"'Lo there, Lamb, how's the boy?" passed unchallenged, as did, "Evening Larry, how's tricks?" and other such innocuous inquiries.
Following the trail of commuters up the circular stairs, Lamb paused in the waiting-room by the newspaper counter and looked through a window at the glittering array of waiting motors. Some of them were already pulling out bearing their complacently successful owners homeward through the neat, well-ordered streets of that opulent suburban town.
Ordinarily this massing of wealth, this tangible evidence of purchasing power, would have given Mr, Lamb a comfortable sense of security. It would have made him feel that all was well with the state of the nation and that under the beneficent guidance of a cautious administration prosperity was assured.
This evening, however, Lamb looked upon Automobiles without elation. They were mostly being driven by wives and daughters—smartly togged women for whom this moment constituted one of the high spots of the day.
Any woman so unfortunate as to be forced to meet her bread-winner in an outmoded car was the object of some pity and no little secret self-congratulation. Her costume was examined a little more critically, and questions were asked about her husband. Did he count or was he unimportant? Why did people like that try to hold their own in such a well-to-do community? There were other commuting towns, nice little places where they would feel more at home.
The bemused Lamb picked out his own well-groomed automobile and dwelt on its handsome lines unappreciatively. There was his daughter at the wheel. A good girl Hebe, but after all was she really good? Was any woman fundamentally good? Lamb was none too sure.
He saw another person standing by his car. A young man in white flannels, light sweater, and sport shoes. A well-set-up youngster. Obviously very much absorbed in Hebe. This youth was leaning over the side of the automobile, and Mr. Lamb was struck by the lithe, unconscious grace of the vigorous young boy. A fine-looking pair those two made. A romantic splash of colour and animation. Romance—that was for them. They still had time ahead. Heaps of it. His was rapidly running low.
Without realising how far he was going, Lamb leaned over the newspaper counter and attempted to strike an attitude similar to that held by the youth. The effect, was, somewhat surprising. The counter was low, and Lamb was long. As a result of this combination, Lamb appeared to be sprawlingly, jauntily, suggestively confidential.
The newspaper man looked at him with startled eyes for a moment, then, mistaking Mr. Lamb's motives, approached slowly and leaned tensely forward across the counter.
Unconscious of the man's presence, Mr. Lamb maintained the immobility of his peculiar position. Believing that he might be still too far away to receive the delicate communication Mr. Lamb desired to make, the news-paper man drew even nearer, placed his ear to the other's lips, and waited expectantly.
For a long moment this odd tableau remained fixed as if in wax, then the man's curiosity got the better of him.
"Shoot, Mr. Lamb," he murmured. "Something good?"
Slowly Mr. Lamb turned. It took a little time for him to realise the full import of the situation. All he could see at first was an avid ear. Then he drew back as if stung and gazed blankly at the vendor of papers. Why was the creature so breathlessly expectant ? With a shiver of apprehension he suddenly realised the full significance of the situation. He looked down at his unnaturally cascading body and immediately assumed a more normal position.
"What?" he asked, fighting for time. "What's that you said about something being good?"
"Oh, nothing," replied the man defensively. "From the way you were leaning over, I thought you wanted to whisper something. You know, something sort of er—racy."
The newspaper man had basely avoided the use of the word "dirty." In his substitution of "racy" for it, he felt he had achieved a conversational triumph. Nevertheless, he considered himself cheated—let down.
Mr. Lamb regarded him with growing disapproval. He studied the eager eyes and half-parted lips. Sedulously he avoided the ear. That face, he feared, that repellent face would henceforth haunt his dreams.
"No," he replied at last. "There seems to have been some misunderstanding. Those stairs got me. I was merely resting. It must be the weather. Somehow I feel quite worn out this evening."
He turned wearily, his shoulders suddenly sagged, and arranging his body in lines of utter exhaustion he dragged his feet away from the presence of the hateful person behind the counter. Lamb was not cut out to be an actor. His idea of feigning fatigue was far too elaborate. It was arresting, but lacked conviction. Mr. Lamb had never progressed in such a remarkable way in the whole course of his life. He looked as if he had been mortally wounded and was blindly making his way towards human aid.
How many others had witnessed his momentary madness, he wondered. How many eyes had dilated at the sight of his humiliating posture? Had the ear chanced to see his breakdown? Lamb was filled with panic.
"Sort of a funny place to pick out for a rest," pondered the mystified newspaper man, looking after the half-crouching figure of Mr. Lamb. "Hope he makes his car before he drops in his tracks."
The object of his solicitude was by this time painfully approaching his automobile. He was relieved to see that the youth he had so disastrously attempted to imitate had departed, but was not at all reassured by the puzzled look of inquiry in his daughter's eyes.
"What happens to have broken down in you, major?" the young lady demanded in a cool, censorious voice. "From that peculiar walk you appear to be practising, I'd say you needed a hot water bottle and a dose of castor—"
"Don't!" interrupted Mr. Lamb sharply. "You may be right. Perhaps I do, but why advertise my shame to the entire community? Would you like to have people pointing out your father as a man who has or is about to take a dose of castor-oil? Do you desire to drag your own flesh and blood through the dust of these streets? And why do you persist in calling me major?"
"As for the dust of these streets," the girl replied, "you seem to be doing the dragging of your own free will. How came you to get your middle section all bunged up like that? And why are you crouching before me like a jackal about to spring? One would think you'd checked your stomach somewhere. And that agonised shuffle of yours. Why did you embark on that?"
Mr. Lamb looked at his daughter with hopeless eyes. With a deep sigh he opened the door to the front seat and crawled in beside her.
"My stomach got itself that way," he explained briefly. "Don't know exactly how it did it. Had a frightful day in the city. Dog-tired."
Why had he ever attempted to deceive that hellish newspaper vendor with such an obviously artificial walk? It had only succeeded in making matters worse. Now he must somehow save his face. His daughter was regarding him with an undermining look of sympathy. Lamb essayed a groan. Perhaps that. might help a little.
"If you go on like that," observed Hebe, "you'll not only be dragging yourself through the dust, but you will actually have to get a prop for your stomach to keep your head from bouncing along on your feet."
"A horrid picture," thought Lamb. Then to keep his daughter's mind from dwelling any longer on the subject, he asked abruptly:
"Just who was that emaciated-looking loafer who was practically swooning all over my car just now?"
"That emaciated-looking loafer," replied Hebe unemotionally, "might be occupying the position of your son-in-law at any minute now. You'd better be careful how low you classify him. I have an idea he was admiring my legs. So many people do."
The physical collapse aroused himself sufficiently to consider his daughter's legs. He had always been interested in legs.
"Is that so?" he remarked. "Well, if he wasn't near-sighted to the point of blindness, he must have got an eyeful."
"Father, dear," admonished the girl, "I am still but a child."
"Not with those legs," replied Lamb. "From the way that fellow was peering into the car you would have thought he was trying to learn your legs by heart, or to subject them to the third degree."
"And why not?" demanded Hebe ominously. "What's wrong with the legs?"
"Don't like them," said Lamb. "They're too vigorous. Interminable legs. Do they never come to an end?"
"I wouldn't worry about that," said Hebe. "They're better than Sapho's legs. Not so frank and confiding."
Hebe was alluding to her mother, who had unfortunately been christened Mary, and who, because of her penchant for amateur dramatics, had been renamed Sapho by her daughter. The name had been gratefully accepted by Mrs. Lamb. She was strongly of the opinion that she deserved it. Mary Lamb would not have been a livable name.
"You might be right," agreed Mr. Lamb. "Your mother's legs seem to be pretty well all over the place these days. Yours are a little less visible at least."
He paused to consider the subject in all its ramifications. Hebe at times was quite a relief. Only she understood how to treat unimportant matters with academic thoroughness.
"You know," he went on reminiscently. "In spite of Sapho's extreme leggishness, I personally don't seem to see them any more—not as legs, if you get what I mean. But she must have had legs at one time, I suppose."
Certainly," replied Hebe, "or else I wouldn't be here."
"Logically arrived at," agreed Mr. Lamb, "although your way of putting it has rather indelicate implications. Your parental respect also needs a little brushing up."
They were alone now, the other automobiles having departed, and a new flock was arriving for the next contingent of commuters. Neither father nor daughter seemed to care whether they ever reached home or not. The casual ways of the pair were quite a trial to Mrs. Lamb. They were not popular around the house.
"Speaking of legs," observed Hebe casually, "yon is an upstanding pair of shafts."
She pointed directly across the street, and Mr. Lamb's eyes followed the direction of his inelegant daughter's finger. The shafts referred to belonged to a pair of arms busily intent on carrying several large bundles from the delicatessen store. Lamb looked on the legs with instinctive covetousness, then, like a frightened rabbit, froze defensively to his seat. They were the legs of the ear.
"Uh-hoo!" bawled Hebe's uncultured voice. "Uh-hoo, Sandy! Over here!"
"Don't!" pleaded her father. "Don't make that awful noise. You sound like some sort of animal."
"Over here!" shouted Hebe with unabated enthusiasm. "We'll take you home."
The legs paused in their progress, altered their course, and came forward attractively in spite of the bundles.
"That ear would have such legs," thought Lamb.
There was something startlingly personal about them. They were vicious legs—suggestive. Lamb decided he had never seen such demoralisingly feminine legs. And Lamb was not elated. He had a premonition of change, of some complication arising to disturb the comfortable regularity of his life. He seriously resented this. He was Lamb of Lamb & Co., a contented, successful man. He was all set—had his own interests. Why should those legs come walking into his life? With characteristic thoroughness he washed his hands of the legs. Nevertheless, washed or unwashed, the legs continued to approach.
"Swarm in," said Hebe urgently to the girl. "Slither over the major and drop your bundles in the back."
"Why do we all have to huddle up here in the front seat like so many immigrants?" asked Lamb inhospitably. "Let me get out. I'll sit behind. Willingly. Gratefully."
In spite of his protest, the legs brushed past Mr. Lamb's knees and arranged themselves alarmingly beside him.
"This is your father—yes?" asked the girl. "Is be a nice father? He doesn't sound very. Is he?"
"He's too long," answered Hebe briefly.
"And drawn-out, perhaps?" suggested the other.
"Exactly," agreed Hebe. "That's just it. He's too long and drawn-out. Take his neck for instance."
"Me take his neck!" cried her friend. "You suggest I should take your father's neck. How amiable!"
Mr. Lamb noticed that her voice was surprisingly deep and rich and that she spoke with an insinuatingly rising inflection. An unwholesomely foreign type, he decided.
"You're mistaken," he hastened to assure the girl. " My daughter didn't mean for you literally to take my neck. She meant for you merely to look at it. She seems to think it's too long."
The girl scrutinised Mr. Lamb's neck avidly. Mr. Lamb thanked God that he was a cleanly man.
"Why, I love that neck!" she suddenly exclaimed, and Lamb was both relieved and outraged. "I think I could neck with that neck."
"What sort of a friend is this, Hebe?" asked Lamb. "Something imported?"
His mood was waxing retaliatory.
"Her name's Sandra," replied his daughter, "and in a manner of speaking she is imported. Russian on her mother's side. A nice girl, but prone to folly."
"Name doesn't sound quite real," observed Lamb. "Does she work in an office?"
"Not Sandra," he was informed. "She's a swell model. Underwear and things."
"You should see me," put in Sandra enthusiastically, "Then I am at my best. Then you would make me much. But to return to the neck, tell me, Hebe, your father doesn't neck, perhaps?"
"Not sure," said that young lady impersonally. "I doubt it. His sex life is practically nil."
"Well, I'll be damned!" ejaculated Lamb, rapidly changing colour.
"Such a big man, too," replied the other girl sympathetically. "The poor thing must be starved for some loving."
"Hear that, major?" said Hebe. " What you got to say?
"I wash my hands of the both of you," came the emphatic response. "Never did I hear such stuff. Do all young women go on nowadays like you two?"
"This is mild," his daughter calmly informed him. "So far, we have respected your feelings."
"But I won't any longer," cried Sandra tragically. "He is trying to go back on himself. He is taking a flat leave of me. I must tell all. For weeks this man has been devouring with hungry eyes the back of my head. Do not deny it, major. I have watched you in my mirror. To-day I regarded him with these eyes."
Here she cast these eyes wildly about the automobile, and Mr. Lamb became slightly dizzy. He was glad he was not driving.
"To-day I observed him eye to eye, so to speak, and he wilted—wilted before my gaze. Now he would wash his hands of me. Do not let him do that, Hebe. Do not let him wash. I shall not be washed by this long Lamb, do you hear? I shall remain unwashed for ever."
On this high note of resolve the emotional young woman paused for breath and gazed magnificently about her. Mr. Lamb was filled with amazement and consternation. The complication had arrived. He was embroiled.
"You may remain unwashed for ever, so far as I am concerned," he remarked soothingly. "I shall make no attempt to wash you."
"Good!" she exclaimed with a pleased expression. "I knew you would make me much. And now I depart."
The car drew up before a small, neat-looking home of the modest order, and the girl quickly slipped out.
"Bring him yourself the first time, Hebe," she said. "After that he will come alone."
"By stealth and at night," added Hebe.
"I shall do nothing of the sort," Mr. Lamb retorted emphatically. "Neither alone nor accompanied do I come. The two of you have gone far in depravity. I wash—"
"For goodness' sake, no more washing," protested Hebe. "We're all washed out as it is."
The other girl stood gazing soulfully at Lamb for a moment, then she observed complacently, as if addressing the world at large, "The Long Lamb will come, never fear. I shall have him."
"Stop talking like an adulteress in a French farce and go away," urged Lamb. "I want to get home and snatch a drink."
"I shall make you suffer for that," she retorted.
With an emotional swirl of her scanty skirt, Sandra turned and hurried up the walk to the small house. Mr. Lamb in spite of his resolution, followed with his eyes the retreating figure, missing no details of its trim lines.
"Well, major, what do you think of Sandy?" his daughter asked. "Fairly hot stuff, what?"
"Torrid," Lamb agreed. "Does she always go on like that, or is this some sort of maidenly pastime you two indulge in?"
"That's for you to find out," she said. "As for me I've discovered the cause of your weird conduct when you left the train just now. Sandy had regarded you with these eyes. Brace up, major. You're a favoured man."
"Drive on," growled Mr. Lamb, "and for God's sake don't be an ass."
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