*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65070 ***

                     "WHAT SO PROUDLY WE HAIL...."

                             By DAY KEENE

            The Pig and Whistle of 1789 was a far cry from
          Central Park in 1950. And Ephraim Hale was certain
          that more than rum had been used to get him there!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                             December 1950
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Ephraim Hale yawned a great yawn and awakened. He'd expected to have
a headache. Surprisingly, considering the amount of hot buttered rum
he'd consumed the night before, he had none. But where in the name
of the Continental Congress had he gotten to this time? The last he
remembered was parting from Mr. Henry in front of the Pig and Whistle.
A brilliant statesman, Mr. Henry.

"_Give me liberty or give me death._"

E-yah. But that didn't tell him where he was. It looked like a cave.
This sort of thing had to stop. Now he was out of the Army and in
politics he had to be more circumspect. Ephraim felt in his purse, felt
flesh, and every inch of his six feet two blushed crimson. This, Martha
would never believe.

He sat up on the floor of the cave. The thief who had taken his clothes
had also stolen his purse. He was naked and penniless. And he the
representative from Middlesex to the first Congress to convene in New
York City in this year of our Lord, 1789.

He searched the floor of the cave. All the thief had left, along with
his home-cobbled brogans, his Spanish pistol, and the remnants of an
old leather jerkin, was the post from Sam Osgood thanking him for his
support in helping to secure Osgood's appointment as Postmaster General.

Forming a loin cloth of the leather, Ephraim tucked the pistol and
cover in it. The letter could prove valuable. A man in politics never
knew when a friend might need reminding. Then, decent as possible under
the circumstances, he walked toward the distant point of light to
reconnoiter his position. It was bad. His rum-winged feet had guided
him into a gentleman's park. And the gentleman was prolific. A dozen
boys of assorted ages were playing at ball on the greensward.

Rolling aside the rock that formed a natural door to the cave, Ephraim
beckoned the nearest boy, a cherub of about seven. "I wonder, young
master, if you would tell me on whose estate I am trespassing."

The boy grinned through a maze of freckles. "Holy smoke, mister. What
you out front for? A second Nature Boy, or Tarzan Comes To Television?"

"I beg your pardon?" Ephraim said puzzled.

"Ya heard me," the boy said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Close up, he didn't look so cherubic. He was one of the modern
generation with no respect for his elders. What he needed was a beech
switch well applied to the seat of his britches. Ephraim summoned the
dignity possible to a man without pants. "I," he attempted to impress
the boy, "am the Honorable Ephraim Hale, late officer of the Army
of The United States, and elected representative from Middlesex to
Congress. And I will be beholden to you, young sir, if you will inform
your paternal parent a gentleman is in distress and wouldst have words
with him."

"Aw, ya fadder's mustache," the boy said. "Take it to the V.A. I should
lose the old man a day of hackin'." So saying, he returned to cover
second base.

Ephraim was tempted to pursue and cane him. He might if it hadn't been
for the girl. While he had been talking to the boy she had strolled
across the greensward to a sunny knoll not far from the mouth of
the cave. She was both young and comely. As he watched, fascinated,
she began to disrobe. The top part of her dress came off revealing
a bandeau of like material barely covering her firm young breasts.
Then, stepping out of her skirt, she stood a moment in bandeau and
short flared pants, her arms stretched in obeisance to the sun before
reclining on the grass.

[Illustration: He stared at the girl in amazement, for he had never
seen such brazen nakedness in all his life--and such real beauty....]

Ephraim blushed furiously. He hadn't seen as much of Martha during
their ten years of marriage. He cleared his throat to make his presence
known and permit her to cover her charms.

The girl turned her head toward him. "Hello. You taking a sun bath,
too? It's nice to have it warm so oily, ain't it?"

Ephraim continued to blush. The girl continued to look, and liked what
she saw. With a pair of pants and a whiskey glass the big man in the
mouth of the cave could pass as a man of distinction. If his hair was
long, his forehead was high and his cheeks were gaunt and clean shaven.
His shoulders were broad and well-muscled and his torso tapered to a
V. It wasn't every day a girl met so handsome a man. She smiled. "My
name's Gertie Swartz. What's yours?"

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Ephraim told her.

"That's a nice name," she approved. "I knew a family named Hale in
Greenpernt. But they moved up to Riverside Height. Ya live in the
Heights?"

Ephraim tried to keep from looking at her legs. "No. I reside on a
farm, a league or so from Perth Amboy."

"Oh. Over in Joisey, huh?" Gertie was mildly curious. "Then what ya
doin' in New York in that Johnny Weismuller outfit?"

"I," Ephraim sighed, "was robbed."

The girl sat up, clucking sympathetically. "Imagine. Right in Central
Park. Like I was saying to Sadie just the other night, there ought to
be a law. A mugger cleaned you, huh?"

A bit puzzled by her reference to a _crocodilus palustris_, but
emboldened by her friendliness, Ephraim came out of the cave and sat on
the paper beside her. Her patois was strange but not unpleasant. Swartz
was a German name. The blond girl was probably the offspring of some
Hessian. Even so she was a pretty little doxy and he hadn't bussed a
wench for some time. He slipped an experimental arm around her waist.
"Haven't we met before?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Gertie removed his arm and slapped him without heat. "No. And no hard
feelings, understand. Ya can't blame a guy for trying." She saw the
puckered white scars on his chest, souvenirs of King's Mountain. "Ya
was in the Army, huh?"

"Five years."

She was amazed and pleased. "Now ain't that a coincidence? Ya probably
know my brother Benny. He was in five years, too." Gertie was
concerned. "You were drinking last night, huh?"

"To my shame."

Gertie made the soft clucking sound again. "How ya going to get home in
that outfit?"

"That," Ephraim said, "is the problem."

She reached for and put on her skirt. "Look. I live just over on 82nd.
And if ya want, on account of you both being veterans, I'll lend you
one of Benny's suits." She wriggled into the top part of her four piece
sun ensemble. "Benny's about the same size as you. Wait."

Smiling, Ephraim watched her go across the greensward to a broad
turnpike bisecting the estate, then rose in sudden horror as a
metallic-looking monster with sightless round glass eyes swooped out
from behind a screen of bushes and attempted to run her down. The girl
dodged it adroitly, paused in the middle of the pike to allow a stream
of billings-gate to escape her sweet red lips, then continued blithely
on her way.

His senses alerted, Ephraim continued to watch the pike. The monsters
were numerous as locusts and seemed to come in assorted colors and
sizes. Then he spotted a human in each and realized what they must be.
While he had lain in a drunken stupor, Mother Shipton's prophecy had
come true--

'_Carriages without horses shall go._'

He felt sick. The malcontents would, undoubtedly, try to blame _this_
on the administration. He had missed the turning of an important page
of history. He lifted his eyes above the budding trees and was almost
sorry he had. The trees alone were familiar. A solid rectangle of
buildings hemmed in what he had believed to be an estate; unbelievable
buildings. Back of them still taller buildings lifted their spires
and Gothic towers and one stubby thumb into the clouds. His pulse
quickening, he looked at the date line of a paper on the grass. It was
April 15, 1950.

He would never clank cups with Mr. Henry again. The fiery Virginian,
along with his cousin Nathan, and a host of other good and true men,
had long since become legends. He should be dust. It hadn't been a
night since he had parted from Mr. Henry. It had been one hundred and
sixty-one years.

A wave of sadness swept him. The warm wind off the river seemed cooler.
The sun lost some of its warmth. He had never felt so alone. Then he
forced himself to face it. How many times had he exclaimed:

"_If only I could come back one hundred years from now._"

Well, here he was, with sixty-one years for good measure.

A white object bounded across the grass toward him. Instinctively
Ephraim caught it and found it was the hard white sphere being used by
the boys playing at ball.

"All the way," one of them yelled.

Ephraim cocked his arm and threw. The sphere sped like a rifle ball
toward the target of the most distant glove, some seventeen rods away.

"Wow!" the youth to whom he had spoken admired. The young voice was so
shocked with awe Ephraim had an uneasy feeling the boy was about to
genuflect. "Gee. Get a load of that whip. The guy's got an arm like Joe
DiMaggio...."

       *       *       *       *       *

Supper was good but over before Ephraim had barely got started. Either
the American stomach had shrunk or Gertie and her brother, despite
their seeming affluence, were among the very poor. There had only been
two vegetables, one meat, no fowl or venison, no hoe cakes, no mead or
small ale or rum, and only one pie and one cake for the three of them.

He sat, still hungry, in the parlor thinking of Martha's ample board
and generous bed, realizing she, too, must be dust. There was no use in
returning to Middlesex. It would be as strange and terrifying as New
York.

Benny offered him a small paper spill of tobacco. "Sis tells me ya was
in the Army. What outfit was ya with?" Before Ephraim could tell him,
he continued, "Me, I was one of the bastards of Bastogne." He dug a
thumb into Ephraim's ribs. "Pretty hot, huh, what Tony McAuliffe tells
the Krauts when they think they got us where the hair is short and want
we should surrender."

"What did he tell them?" Ephraim asked politely.

Benny looked at him suspiciously.

"'Nuts!' he tol' 'em. 'Nuts.' Ya sure ya was in the Army, chum?"

Ephraim said he was certain.

"E.T.O. or Pacific?"

"Around here," Ephraim said. "You know, Germantown, Monmouth, King's
Mountain."

"Oh. State's side, huh?" Benny promptly lost all interest in his
sister's guest. Putting his hat on the back of his head he announced
his bloody intention of going down to the corner and shooting one of
the smaller Kelly Pools.

"Have a good time," Gertie told him.

Sitting down beside Ephraim she fiddled with the knobs on an ornate
commode and a diminutive mule-skinner appeared out of nowhere cracking
a bull whip and shouting something almost unintelligible about having a
Bible in his pack for the Reverend Mr. Black.

Ephraim shied away from the commode, wide-eyed.

Gertie fiddled with the knobs again and the little man went away. "Ya
don't like television, huh?" She moved a little closer to him. "Ya
want we should just sit and talk?"

Patting at the perspiration on his forehead with one of Benny's
handkerchiefs, Ephraim said, "That would be fine."

As with the horseless carriages, the towering buildings, and the water
that ran out of taps hot or cold as you desired, there was some logical
explanation for the little man. But he had swallowed all the wonders he
was capable of assimilating in one night.

Gertie moved still closer. "Wadda ya wanna talk about?"

Ephraim considered the question. He wanted to know if the boys had ever
been able to fund or reduce the national debt. Seventy-four million,
five hundred and fifty-five thousand, six hundred and forty-one
dollars was a lot of money. He wanted to know if Mr. Henry had been
successful in his advocation of the ten amendments to the Constitution,
here-in-after to be known as the Bill Of Rights, and how many states
had ratified them. He wanted to know the tax situation and how the
public had reacted to the proposed imposition of a twenty-five cent a
gallon excise tax on whiskey.

"What," he asked Gertie, "would you say was the most important thing
that happened this past year?"

Gertie considered the question. "Well, Rita Hayworth had a baby and
Clark Gable got married."

"I mean politically."

"Oh. Mayor O'Dwyer got married."

Gertie had been very kind. Gertie was very lovely. Ephraim meant to
see more of her. With Martha fluttering around in heaven exchanging
receipts for chow chow and watermelon preserves, there was no reason
why he shouldn't. But as with modern wonders, he'd had all of Gertie he
could take for one night. He wanted to get out into the city and find
out just what had happened during the past one hundred and sixty-one
years.

Gertie was sorry to see him go. "But ya will be back, won't you,
Ephraim?"

He sealed the promise with a kiss. "Tomorrow night. And a good many
nights after that." He made hay on what he had seen the sun shine.
"You're very lovely, my dear."

She slipped a bill into the pocket of his coat. "For the Ferry-fare
back to Joisey." There were lighted candles in her eyes. "Until
tomorrow night, Ephraim."

       *       *       *       *       *

The streets were even more terrifying than they had been in the
daytime. Ephraim walked east on 82nd Street, south on Central Park
West, then east on Central Park South. He'd had it in mind to locate
the Pig and Whistle. Realizing the futility of such an attempt he
stopped in at the next place he came to exuding a familiar aroma and
laying the dollar Gertie had slipped into his pocket on the bar, he
ordered, "Rum."

The first thing he had to do was find gainful employment. As a
Harvard graduate, lawyer, and former Congressman, it shouldn't prove
too difficult. He might, in time, even run for office again. A
congressman's six dollars per diem wasn't to be held lightly.

A friendly, white-jacketed, Mine Host set his drink in front of him and
picked up the bill. "I thank you, sir."

About to engage him in conversation concerning the state of the nation,
Ephraim looked from Mine Host to the drink, then back at Mine Host
again. "E-yah. I should think you would thank me. I'll have my change
if you please. Also a man-sized drink."

No longer so friendly, Mine Host leaned across the wood. "That's an
ounce and a half. What change? Where did you come from Reuben? What did
you expect to pay?"

"The usual price. A few pennies a mug," Ephraim said. "The war is over.
Remember? And with the best imported island rum selling wholesale at
twenty cents a gallon--"

Mine Host picked up the shot glass and returned the bill to the bar.
"You win. You've had enough, pal. What do you want to do, cost me my
license? Go ahead. Like a good fellow. Scram."

He emphasized the advice by putting the palm of his hand in Ephraim's
face, pushing him toward the door. It was a mistake. Reaching across
the bar, Ephraim snaked Mine Host out from behind it and was starting
to shake some civility into the publican when he felt a heavy hand on
his shoulder.

"Let's let it go at that, chum."

"Drunk and disorderly, eh?" a second voice added.

The newcomers were big men, men who carried themselves with the
unmistakable air of authority. He attempted to explain and one of them
held his arms while the other man searched him and found the Spanish
pistol.

"Oh. Carrying a heater, eh? That happens to be against the law, chum."

"Ha," Ephraim laughed at him. "Also ho." He quoted from memory Article
II of the amendments Mr. Henry had read him in the Pig and Whistle:

"'A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free
state the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be
infringed'."

"Now he's a militia," the plain-clothes man said.

"He's a nut," his partner added.

"Get him out of here," Mine Host said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ephraim sat on the bunk in his cell, deflated. This was a fine
resurrection for a member of the First Congress.

"Cheer up," a voice from the upper bunk consoled. "The worst they can
do is burn you." He offered Ephraim a paper spill of tobacco. "The name
is Silovitz."

Ephraim asked him why he was in gaol.

"Alimony," the other man sighed. "That is the non-payment thereof."

The word was new to Ephraim. He asked Silovitz to explain. "But that's
illegal, archaic. You can't be jailed for debt."

His cell mate lighted a cigarette. "No. Of course not. Right now I'm
sitting in the Stork Club buying Linda Darnell a drink." He studied
Ephraim's face. "Say, I've been wondering who you look like. I make
you now. You look like the statue of Nathan Hale the D.A.R. erected in
Central Park."

"It's a family resemblance," Ephraim said. "Nat was a second cousin.
They hung him in '76, the same year I went into the Army."

Silovitz nodded approval. "That's a good yarn. Stick to it. The wife of
the judge you'll probably draw is an ardent D.A.R. But if I were you
I'd move my war record up a bit and remove a few more cousins between
myself and Nathan."

He smoked in silence a minute. "Boy. It must have been nice to live
back in those days. A good meal for a dime. Whiskey, five cents a
drink. No sales or income or surtax. No corporate or excise profits
tax. No unions, no John L., no check-off. No tax on diapers and
coffins. No closed shops. No subsidies. No paying farmers for cotton
they didn't plant or for the too many potatoes they did. No forty-two
billion dollar budget."

"I beg your pardon?" Ephraim said.

"Ya heard me." Swept by a nostalgia for something he'd never known,
Silovitz continued. "No two hundred and sixty-five billion national
debt. No trying to spend ourselves out of the poor house. No hunting or
fishing or driving or occupational license. No supporting three-fourths
of Europe and Asia. No atom bomb. No Molotov. No Joe Stalin. No
alimony. No Frankie Sinatra. No video. No be-bop."

His eyes shone. "No New Dealers, Fair Dealers, Democrats, Jeffersonian
Democrats, Republicans, State's Righters, Communists, Socialists,
Socialist-Labor, Farmer-Labor, American-Labor, Liberals, Progressives
and Prohibitionists and W.C.T.U.ers. Congress united and fighting to
make this a nation." He quoted the elderly gentleman from Pennsylvania.
"'We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang
separately.' Ah. Those were the days."

Ephraim cracked his knuckles. It was a pretty picture but, according
to his recollection, not exactly correct. The boys had hung together
pretty well during the first few weeks after the signing of the
Declaration Of Independence. But from there on in it had been a dog
fight. No two delegates had been able to agree on even the basic
articles of confederation. The Constitution itself was a patch work
affair and compromise drafted originally as a preamble and seven
Articles by delegates from twelve of the thirteen states at the May
'87 convention in Philadelphia. And as for the boys hanging together,
the first Congress had convened on March 4th and it had been April 6th
before a quorum had been present.

Silovitz sighed. "Still, it's the little things that get ya. If only
Bessie hadn't insisted on listening to 'When A Girl Marries' when I
wanted to hear the B-Bar-B Riders. And if only I hadn't made that one
bad mistake."

"What was that?" Ephraim asked.

Silovitz told him. "I snuck up to the Catskills to hide out on the
court order. And what happens? A game warden picks me up because I
forgot to buy a two dollar fishing license!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A free man again, Ephraim stood on the walk in front of the 52nd
Street Station diverting outraged pedestrians into two rushing streams
as he considered his situation. It hadn't been much of a trial. The
arresting officers admitted the pistol was foul with rust and probably
hadn't been fired since O'Sullivan was a gleam in his great-great
grandfather's eyes.

"Ya name is Hale. An' ya a veteran, uh?" the judge had asked.

"Yes," Ephraim admitted, "I am." He'd followed Silovitz's advice.
"What's more, Nathan Hale was a relation of mine."

The judge had beamed. "Ya don' say. Ya a Son Of The Revolution, uh?"

On Ephraim admitting he was and agreeing with the judge the ladies of
the D.A.R. had the right to stop someone named Marion Anderson from
singing in Constitution Hall if they wanted to, the judge, running for
re-election, had told him to go and drink no more, or if he had to
drink not to beef about his bill.

"Ya got ya state bonus and ya N.S.L.I. refund didncha?"

Physically and mentally buffeted by his night in a cell and Silovitz's
revelation concerning the state of the nation, Ephraim stood frightened
by the present and aghast at the prospect of the future.

Only two features of his resurrection pleased him. Both were connected
with Gertie. Women, thank God, hadn't changed. Gertie was very lovely.
With Gertie sharing his board and bed he might manage to acclimate
himself and be about the business of every good citizen, begetting
future toilers to pay off the national debt. It wasn't an unpleasing
prospect. He had, after all, been celibate one hundred and sixty-one
years. Still, with rum at five dollars a fifth, eggs eighty cents a
dozen, and lamb chops ninety-five cents a pound, marriage would run
into money. He had none. Then he thought of Sam Osgood's letter....

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Le Duc Neimors was so excited he could hardly balance his pince-nez
on the aquiline bridge of his well-bred nose. It was the first time in
the multi-millionaire's experience as a collector of Early Americana
he had ever heard of, let alone been offered, a letter purported to
have been written by the First Postmaster General, franked by the First
Congress, and containing a crabbed foot-note by the distinguished
patriot from Pennsylvania who was credited with being the founding
father of the postal system. He read the foot-note aloud:

    _Friend Hale:_

    _May I add my gratitude to Sam's for your help in this matter. I
    have tried to convince him it is almost certain to degenerate into
    a purely political office as a party whip and will bring him as
    many headaches as it will dollars or honors. However, as 'Poor
    Richard' says, 'Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will
    learn in no other'._

                                                       _Cordially, Ben_

The multi-millionaire was frank. "If this letter and cover are genuine,
they have, from the collector's viewpoint, almost incalculable
historic and philatelic value." He showed the sound business sense
that, along with marrying a wealthy widow and two world wars, he
had been able to pyramid a few loaves of bread and seven pounds of
hamburger into a restaurant and chain-grocery empire. "But I won't pay
a penny more than, say, two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.
And that only after an expert of my choice has authenticated both the
letter and the cover."

Weinfield, the dealer to whom Ephraim had gone, swallowed hard. "That
will be satisfactory."

"E-yah," Ephraim agreed.

He went directly to 82nd Street to press his suit with Gertie. It
wasn't a difficult courtship. Gertie was tired of reading the Kinsey
Report and eager to learn more about life at first hand. The bastard
of Bastogne was less enthusiastic. If another male was to be added to
the family he would have preferred one from the Eagle or 10th Armored
Division or the 705th Tank Destroyer Battalion. However on learning
his prospective brother-in-law was about to come into a quarter of a
million dollars, minus Weinfield's commission, he thawed to the extent
of loaning Ephraim a thousand dollars, three hundred and seventy-five
of which Gertie insisted Ephraim pay down on a second-hand car.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a busy but happy week. There was the matter of learning to
drive. There were blood tests to take. There was an apartment to
find. Ephraim bought a marriage license, a car license, a driver's
license, and a dog license for the blond cocker spaniel that Gertie
saw and admired. The principle of easy credit explained to him, he
paid twenty-five dollars down and agreed to pay five dollars a week
for four years, plus a nominal carrying charge, for a one thousand
five hundred dollar diamond engagement ring. He paid ten dollars more
on a three-piece living room suite and fifteen dollars down on a four
hundred and fifty dollar genuine waterfall seven-piece bedroom outfit.
Also, at Gertie's insistence, he pressed a one hundred dollar bill into
a rental agent's perspiring palm to secure a two room apartment because
it was still under something Gertie called rent control.

His feet solidly on the ground of the brave new America in which he
had awakened, Ephraim, for the life of him, couldn't see what Silovitz
had been beefing about. E-yah. Neither a man nor a nation could stay
stationary. Both had to move with the times. They'd had Silovitz's
at Valley Forge, always yearning for the good old days. Remembering
their conversation, however, and having reserved the bridal suite at
a swank Catskill resort, Ephraim, purely as a precautionary measure,
along with his other permits and licenses, purchased a fishing license
to make certain nothing would deter or delay the inception of the new
family he intended to found.

The sale of Sam Osgood's letter was consummated the following Monday
at ten o'clock in Mr. Le Duc Neimors' office. Ephraim and Gertie were
married at nine in the City Hall and after a quick breakfast of dry
martinis she waited in the car with Mr. Gorgeous while Ephraim went up
to get the money. The multi-millionaire had it waiting, in cash.

"And there you are. Two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars."

Ephraim reached for the stacked sheaves of bills, wishing he'd brought
a sack, and a thin-faced man with a jaundice eye introduced himself.
"Jim Carlyle is the name." He showed his credentials. "Of the Internal
Revenue Bureau. And to save any possible complication, I'll take Uncle
Sam's share right now." He sorted the sheaves of bills into piles. "We
want $156,820 plus $25,000, or a total of $179,570, leaving a balance
of $45,430."

Ephraim looked at the residue sourly and a jovial man slapped his back
and handed him a card. "New York State Income Tax, Mr. Hale. But we
won't be hogs. We'll let you off easy. All we want is 2% up to the
first $1,000, 3% on the next $2,000, 4% on the next $2,000, 5% on the
next $2,000, 6% on the next $2,000, and 7% on everything over $9,000.
If my figures are correct, and they are, I'll take $2,930.10." He
took it. Then, slapping Ephraim's back again, he laughed. "Leaving,
$42,499.90."

"Ha ha," Ephraim laughed weakly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Weinfield dry-washed his hands. "Now we agreed on a 15% commission.
That is, 15% of the whole. And 15% of $225,000 is $32,750 you owe me."

"Take it," Ephraim said. Mr. Weinfield did and Ephraim wished he hadn't
eaten the olive in his second martini. It felt like it had gone to seed
and was putting out branches in his stomach. In less than five minutes
his quarter of a million dollars had shrunk to $9,749.90. By the time
he paid for the things he had purchased and returned Benny's $1,000 he
would be back where he'd started.

Closing his case, Mr. Carlyle asked, "By the way, Mr. Hale. Just for
the record. Where did you file your report last year?"

"I didn't," Ephraim admitted. "This is the first time I ever paid
income tax."

Mr. Le Duc Neimors looked shocked. The New York State man looked
shocked. Mr. Weinfield looked shocked.

"Oh," Carlyle said. "I see. Well in that case I'd better take charge of
this too." He added the sheaves remaining on the desk to those already
in his case and fixed Ephraim with his jaundiced eye. "We'll expect
you down at the bureau as soon as it's convenient, Mr. Hale. If there
was no deliberate intent on your part to defraud, it may be that your
lawyers still can straighten this out without us having to resort to
criminal prosecution."

Gertie was stroking the honey-colored Mr. Gorgeous when Ephraim got
back to the car. "Ya got it, honey?"

"Yeah," Ephraim said shortly. "I got it."

He jerked the car away from the curb so fast he almost tore out the
aged rear end. Her feelings hurt, Gertie sniveled audibly until
they'd crossed the George Washington Bridge. Then, having suffered in
comparative silence as long as she could, she said, "Ya didn't need to
bite my head off, Ephraim. And on our honeymoon, too. All I done was
ast ya a question."

"Did," Ephraim corrected her.

"Did what?" Gertie asked.

Ephraim turned his head to explain the difference between the past
tense and the participle "have done" and Gertie screamed as he almost
collided head on with a car going the other way. Mr. Gorgeous yelped
and bit Ephraim on the arm. Then, both cars and excitement being new to
the twelve week old puppy, he was most inconveniently sick.

On their way again, Ephraim apologized. "I'm sorry I was cross." He
was. None of this was Gertie's fault. She couldn't help it if he'd been
a fool. There was no need of spoiling her honeymoon. The few hundred in
his pockets would cover their immediate needs. And he'd work this out
somehow. Things had looked black at Valley Forge, too.

Gertie snuggled closer to him. "Ya do love me, don't ya?"

"Devotedly," Ephraim assured her. He tried to put his arm around her.
Still suspicious, Mr. Gorgeous bit him again. Mr. Gorgeous, Ephraim
could see, was going to be a problem.

His mind continued to probe the situation as he drove. Things had come
to a pretty pass when a nation this size was insolvent, when out-go
and deficit spending so far exceeded current revenue, taxes had become
confiscatory. There was mismanagement somewhere. There were too many
feet under the table. Too many were eating too high off the hog.
Perhaps what Congress needed was some of the spirit of '76 and '89. A
possible solution of his own need for a job occurred to him. "How," he
asked Gertie, "would you like to be the wife of a Congressman?"

"I think we have a flat tire," she answered. "Either that, honey, or
one of the wheels isn't quite round on the bottom."

       *       *       *       *       *

She walked Mr. Gorgeous while he changed the tire. It was drizzling by
the time they got back in the car. Both the cowl and the top leaked.
A few miles past Bear Mountain, it rained. It was like riding in a
portable needle-shower. All human habitation blotted out by the rain,
the rugged landscape was familiar to Ephraim. He'd camped under that
great oak when it had been a young tree. He'd fought on the crest of
that hill over-looking the river. But what in the name of time had he
been fighting for?

He felt a new wave of tenderness for Gertie. This was the only world
the child had ever known. A world of video and installment payments,
of automobiles and war, of atom bombs and double-talk and meaningless
jumbles of figures. A world of confused little men and puzzled, barren,
women.

"I love you, Gertie," he told her.

She wiped the rain out of her eyes and smiled at him. "I love you,
too. And it's all right with me to go on. But I think we'd better stop
pretty soon. I heard Mr. Gorgeous sneeze and I'm afraid he's catching
cold."

_Damn Mr. Gorgeous_, Ephraim thought. Still, there was sense in what
she said. The rain was blinding. He could barely see the road. And
somewhere he'd made a wrong turning. They'd have to stop where they
could.

The hotel was small and old and might once have been an Inn. Ephraim
got Gertie inside, signed the yellowed ledger, and saw her and Mr.
Gorgeous installed in a room with a huge four poster bed before going
back for the rest of the luggage.

A dried-up descendant of Cotton Mather, the tobacco chewing proprietor
was waiting at the foot of the stairs when he returned sodden with rain
and his arms and hands filled with bags.

"Naow, don't misunderstand me, Mr. Hale," the old witch-burner said,
"I don't like t' poke m' nose intuh other people's business. But I run
a respectable hotel an I don't cater none t' fly-b'-nights or loose
women." He adjusted the glasses on his nose. "Y' sure y' an' Mrs. Hale
are married? Y' got anythin' t' prove it?"

Ephraim counted to ten. Then still half-blinded by the rain dripping
from the brim of his Homburg he set the bags on the floor, took an
envelope from his pocket, selected a crisp official paper, gave it
to the hotel man, picked up the bags again and climbed the stairs to
Gertie.

She'd taken off her wet dress and put on a sheer negligee that set
Ephraim's pulse to pounding. He took off his hat, eased out of his
sodden coat and tossed it on a chair.

"Did I ever tell you I loved you?"

Gertie ran her fingers through his hair. "Go ahead. Tell me again."

Tilting her chin, Ephraim kissed her. This was good. This was right.
This was all that mattered. He'd make Gertie a good husband. He--

A furtive rap on the door side-tracked his train of thought. He opened
it to find the old man in the hall, shaking as with palsy. "Now a look
a yere, Mister," he whispered. "If y' ain't done it, don't do it. Jist
pack yer bags and git." One palsied hand held out the crisp piece of
paper Ephraim had given him. "This yere fishin' license ain't for it."

Ephraim looked from the fishing license to his coat. The envelope had
fallen on the floor, scattering its contents. A foot away, under the
edge of the bed, his puppy eyes sad, Mr. Gorgeous was thoughtfully
masticating the last of what once had been another crisp piece of
paper. As Ephraim watched, Mr. Gorgeous burped, and swallowed. It was,
as Silovitz had said, the little things.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was three nights later, at dusk, when Mickey spotted the apparition.
For a moment he was startled. Then he knew it for what it was. It was
Nature Boy, back in costume, clutching a jug of rum to his bosom.

"Hey, Mister," Mickey stopped Ephraim. "I been looking all over for
you. My cousin's a scout for the Yankees. And when I told him about
your whip he said for you to come down to the stadium and show 'em what
you got."

Ephraim looked at the boy glass-eyed.

Mickey was hurt by his lack of enthusiasm. "Gee. Ain't you excited?
Wouldn't you like to be a big league ball player, the idol of every
red-blooded American boy? Wouldn't you like to make a lot of money and
have the girls crazy about you?"

The words reached through Ephraim's fog and touched a responsive
chord. Drawing himself up to his full height he clutched the jug still
tighter to his bosom with all of the dignity possible to a man without
pants.

"Ya fadder's mustache," he said.

Then staggering swiftly into the cave he closed the rock door firmly
and finally behind him.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65070 ***