The Right Approach

About once every two months, wind and weather permitting, it was the practice of Mrs. Elphinstone-Golightly, who was as confirmed a hypochondriac as ever bit a charcoal biscuit, to leave her residence in the London suburb of Wimbledon and go off to try some new spa. Every time she did so her daughter Evangeline had to go with her to keep her company. And came a day when the latter felt that if she ever saw another invalid, she would scream thinly and shoot six feet in the air with her hair standing stiffly up from the roots.

It was unfortunate, therefore, that Augustus Brattle, seeing the two at Droitgate Spa and falling for Evangeline with a thud plainly audible in the next county, should have got the idea that the way to win her heart was to look weak and fragile and talk a good deal about his symptoms, though actually he had none. Pity, he gathered from the experts, always leads to love. Get a girl's gentle heart bleeding for you, and the rest is but a question of time. In his own Blood by the Bucketful -- the was a writer of mystery thrillers and had gone to Droitgate Spa to obtain background for a work to be entitled Death Takes the Cure -- the heroine had not been attracted to the hero in a really large way till she found him in a minced-up condition on the sidewalk after having had a difference of opinion with the Black Spot gang.

It was not difficult to make Mrs. Elphinstone-Golightly's acquaintance, and he was chatting with her one morning about the odd feeling she felt in her abdomen if she drew a deep breath, when the girl joined them and Mrs. Elphin-stone-Golightly said:

"Oh, Evangeline, dear, I want you to meet Mr. Brattle. He suffers from paresthesia, gastroenteritis and splenic anemia."

"And consumption," Augustus added.

"Oh, yes, and consumption. I have (continued on page 66) Right Approach (continued from page 37) asked him to come and see us when we get back to Wimbledon."

"I hope to be a frequent visitor," said Augustus. "If," he added, with a hacking cough, "I am spared."

And a week or two later he was haunting Chatsworth, Wimbledon Common, daily.

At the outset of his wooing he had had some anxious moments owing to the constant presence at Chatsworth of Mrs. Elphinstone-Golightly's nephew Oswald Stoker, a gay and debonair young man of a type no suitor likes to have associating with the woman he loves, and it was with profound relief that he learned one day that Oswald was earmarked elsewhere, being betrothed to a girl named Yvonne something who composed ballads. No doubt he had met her in the way of business, for Oswald was the London representative of Lester Clam, Inc., the New York publishers of popular music. Emboldened by this discovery, Augustus lost no time in asking Evangeline to be his wife, and you could have knocked him down with a salicylate pill when he heard her decline the offer. He had supposed that his gastroenteritis alone would have been enough to swing the deal.

All through the day and far into the night he sat in his rooms brooding on the girl's extraordinary attitude, and toward one in the morning he came to the conclusion that maidenly modesty had caused her to fluff her lines, and he decided that this theory must be tested immediately. The hour was a little advanced, but your impetuous lover does not keep his eye on the clock. Shortly before two, he was ringing the front door bell of Chatsworth, and after a considerable interval the door was opened by Staniforth, the butler, in pajamas and a dressing gown. His manner seemed a little short, Augustus was unable to think why, and it was almost curtly that he informed the visitor that Mrs. Elphinstone-Golightly and Evangeline were attending a dance at the Town Hall and would not be back for some time.

"I'll come in and wait," said Augustus.

He was in error. Even as he spoke, the door was slammed, leaving him alone in the silent night with nothing to do but stand gazing up at Evangeline's window. He was engaged in this occupation when a voice spoke behind him, causing him to break the European record for the standing high jump.

"Ah, Brattle, old friend," said Oswald Stoker, for the voice was his. "Gazing up at her window, eh? There is no healthier pursuit. Keeps you out in the open and fills your lungs with fresh air. But is window-gazing enough? I say no. In this matter of wooing, everything, I contend, turns on getting the right approach, and this you have not yet got. I have watched with a fatherly eye your passion for my cousin Evangeline, and I feel that you have overlooked the one essential factor in winning a girl's heart. I allude to the serenade. Have you ever stood beneath her window and to the accompaniment of a banjo begged her to throw you down one little rose from her hair? I believe not. You should iron out this bug in the production at the earliest possible moment, Brattle, if you want the thing to be a success."

It had been gradually borne in on Augustus during these remarks that the other was, if not ossified, indubitably plastered, and it was on this aspect of the matter that Oswald Stoker now touched.

"It has probably not escaped you, my dear Brattle, that I am a trifle under the influence of the sauce. This is the inevitable outcome of dining, as I have been doing, with J. Lester Clam, my overlord, who is in London at the moment with vine leaves in his hair. I suppose there is no wilder Indian than the head of a New York music publishing firm, once he gets off the reservation. Relieved for the nonce of the nauseous daily task of listening to Tin Pan Alley songwriters doing their stuff, he has an exhilarating sense of freedom. He expands. He lets himself go. Well, when I tell you that in a few short hours J. Lester Clam got self and guest thrown out of three grillrooms and a milk bar, you will appreciate what I mean. Rightly or wrongly he feels that electric fans are placed there to have eggs thrown at them, and he saw to it that before we started making the rounds he was well supplied with these. He kept showing me how a baseball pitcher winds up and propels the ball. Speed and control, he told me, are what you have to have."

"You must be glad to have seen the last of him."

"I haven't seen the last of him. He's out there somewhere, exercising the dog."

"The dog?"

"He bought a dog earlier in the evening. He generally makes some such purchase on these occasions. I have known him to buy an ostrich. I suppose I had better be going and looking for him," said Oswald Stoker, and vanished into the darkness.

It was perhaps two minutes later that the dog to which he had alluded entered Augustus' life.

It was a large, uncouth dog, in its physique and deportment not unlike the hound of the Baskervilles, though of course not covered with phosphorus, and it seemed to be cross about something. Its air was that of a dog which has discovered plots against its person, and it appeared to be under the impression that in Augustus it had found one of the ringleaders, for the menace in its manner, as it now advanced on him, was unmistakable. A few words of explanation might have convinced the animal of his innocence, but Augustus deemed it wisest not to linger and deliver them. To climb the nearest tree was with him the work of an instant, and he crouched there in the upper branches while the dog, seeming puzzled, as if unused to having members of the underworld take to themselves the wings of a dove, paced to and fro like a man looking for a dropped collar button. Presently it abandoned the search and trotted off with a muffled oath, and some little time after that Augustus, peering down from his eyrie, saw Oswald Stoker returning, accompanied by a very stout man holding a bottle of champagne by the neck and singing Chanson d'Amour. They halted beneath the tree.

It would have been possible for Augustus at this juncture to have made his presence known, but something told him that the less he had to do with Oswald Stoker in his present unbalanced condition, the better. He continued crouching, therefore, in silence, and Oswald Stoker spoke:

"Well, well," he said, "my young friend Brattle, of whom I was speaking to you just now, appears to have left us. I was telling you, if you remember, of his love for my cousin Evangeline and of my wish to do all that lies in my power to promote his interests. Your singing reminds me that the first step, the serenade, has yet to be taken. Yes, yes, I know what you are going to say. You are about to draw my attention to the fact that he can't serenade her, if he isn't here. Very true. But what happens in the theatre when the star is absent? You put on an understudy. I propose to step into the breach and take his place. It would be more effective, of course, if I had some musical instrument, such as a clavichord or sackbut, on which to accompany myself, but if you would hum the bass, I think the performance should be adequate."

Lester Clam stood for a moment considering this. He shook his head.

"Gotta launch ship first."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Launch ship," repeated Mr. Clam. "Customary ceremony," and raising the bottle he held he flung it adroitly through one of the upper windows.

"Good luck to all who sail in you." he said.

It was Oswald Stoker's turn to demur.

"Now there, my dear fellow, if you don't mind me saying so, I think you (continued overleaf) Right Approach (continued from page 66) made a mistake. It is surely the bottle, not the ship, that should be broken. However," he went on, as the head of Staniforth the butler thrust itself out, "it has produced results. We have assembled an audience. You were saying?" he said, addressing Staniforth.

"Who," demanded the butler, who, like the dog, seemed to be cross about something, "is there?"

"Augustus Brattle speaking. Or, rather," said Oswald Stoker, starting to do so, "singing."

The sight of the protruding head had had the effect of rousing Mr.Clam to sudden animation. Once more Oswald Stoker was privileged to witness his impersonation of a baseball pitcher winding up. The next moment an egg, unerringly aimed, had found its target.

"Me and Bob Turley," said Mr. Clam contentedly, and with a word to the effect that there was nothing wrong with the old soup bone, wandered off. Oswald Stoker had scarcely had time to light a cigarette and enjoy a few refreshing puffs when he was joined by Mrs. Elphinstone-Golightly's major domo, carrying a shotgun.

"Ah, Staniforth," he said genially. "Out for a day with the birds?"

"Good evening, Mr. Stoker. I am looking for Mr. Brattle."

"You want him for some special reason?"

"I think he should be overpowered and placed under restraint before the ladies return."

"Why, what has he been doing?"

"He sang beneath my window."

"Rather a compliment."

"As far as I could understand him, he was requesting me to throw him a rose from my hair."

"You didn't?"

"No, sir."

"Quite right. Roses cost money."

"He also threw an egg at me."

"So that is why you have so much yolk on your face. I thought it might be one of those beauty treatments, like the mud pack. Ah, well, young blood, Staniforth. At Brattle's age one has these ebullitions of high spirits. Much must be excused in the young."

"Not singing under windows and throwing eggs at three in the morning."

"No, there perhaps he went too far. He has been a little overexcited all the evening. We dined together, and he got us bounced from three grillrooms and a milk bar in rapid succession. Would keep throwing eggs at the electric fan. Hullo," said Oswald Stoker, as a distant splash sounded in the night, "I think a friend of mine has fallen in the pond. I will go and investigate. He may need a helping hand."

He hurried off, and Augustus was glad to see him go. But his pleasure was rendered imperfect by the fact that the butler did not follow his example. He remained in statu quo, and presently there was a sound of wheels and a taxicab drew up at the front door. Mrs. Elphinstone-Golightly and Evangeline got out. The former entered the house, but the latter, saying something about a breath of fresh air, sauntered in the direction of the tree. Staniforth's "Good evening, miss," coming out of the shadows like the voice of a disembodied spirit, startled her considerably.

"Staniforth! What on earth are you doing out here at this time?"

"I am pursuing Mr. Brattle, miss. He called shortly before two o'clock, and rang the front door bell. I informed him that you were not at home, and supposed that he had left the premises. Such, however, was not the case. Ten minutes ago he flung a bottle of champagne through my window, and when I looked out, expressed a wish that I would throw him a rose from my hair. He then hit me in the left eye with an egg."

"Mr. Brattle did this?"

"Yes, miss. I gather from Mr. Stoker, with whom I was conversing a short while ago, that his behavior throughout the evening has been on similar lines. He was a member of the dinner party which Mr. Stoker attended, and Mr. Stoker tells me he was instrumental in getting himself and friends ejected from three grillrooms and a milk bar. Mr. Stoker attributed his exuberance to youthful high spirits, and advanced the suggestion that such conduct should be excused in the young. I must confess that I am unable to take so liberal a view. I will now, with your permission, miss," said the butler, "withdraw to the kitchen and heat myself a glass of warm milk."

He left Evangeline with her mind in a whirl, and it was still gyrating when Oswald Stoker appeared, waving a genial hand.

"Hullo there, my bright and bounding Evangeline!"

"Oswald! What are you doing here?"

"Just winding up the evening. Oh, before I forget, my boss fell into the pond and is now in the hothouse, drying out. So if you go there and see a nude music publisher, pretend not to notice."

"Oswald, you're blotto!"

"It is virtually impossible not to be," said Oswald Stoker gravely, "when you have a night out with Augustus Brattle."

"Then it is true what Staniforth has been telling me?"

"What did he tell you?"

"That Mr. Brattle sang under his window and threw eggs at him."

"Perfectly correct. I was an eyewitness."

"And that he got you thrown out of three grillrooms and a milk bar."

"Was it only three? It seemed more."

"But Mr. Brattle is a tottering wreck with one foot in the grave."

"You wouldn't think that if you saw him playing football. He turns out for the Aldwych Assassins every Saturday and seldom leaves fewer than five corpses on the field. Undertakers come in their hundreds to watch him." He broke off. Evangeline was shaking with uncontrollable sobs and gulping like a leaky radiator. "Why, what's the matter? Something wrong?"

"I have lost the man I love!"

"Where did you see him last?"

"Why did he not tell me," cried Evangeline, her voice vibrating with pain, "that he was simply putting on this invalid act to get in solid with Mother? When she introduced us at Droitgate Spa, I was thrilled. I had read all his books and loved them. He was so handsome, too. 'This is it, Evangeline Elphinstone-Golightly!' I said to myself. You need look no further for your ideal man.' And then he pulled all that stuff about gastroenteritis and splenic anemia, and I wrote him off. Romantically considered, he seemed to me strictly a cigar-store Indian, wood from the neck up. And all the time the poor lamb was merely giving Mother the old oil in order to kid her into inviting him to the home. I must find him and tell him I love him. But how can I find him? Where is he now?"

Had she waited a moment, she would have had no need to ask the question, for even as she spoke there was a rustling of leaves and a cracking of branches, and Augustus Brattle descended to terra firma like a sack of coals. Rising to his feet and reassembling his arms and legs, he directed at the girl a burning glance which seemed to her to go straight through her and come out on the other side.

"Au-ustus!" she cried. His sudden advent, so like the descent from heaven of Lucifer, son of the morning, had caused her to bite her tongue rather severely.

"Evangeline," he said, "I heard all! Correct me if I am wrong, but the impression I received was that you loved me. Did you mean it?"

"Ek, ek, a ousand imes ek!"

"She says yes," said Oswald Stoker. "And so came a day when the laughing love god threw his silken fetters about Augustus Brattle and Evangeline Elphinstone-Golightly. Hand in hand they wandered out into the sunset together to the land where dreams come true. Don't pinch that line, by the way. It's copyrighted. It comes from a ballad written by my fiancee and published by J. Lester Clam, Inc. And talking of J. Lester Clam, I must be getting along and finding how he is making out. Have you ever seen a New York music publisher sitting in a hothouse with nothing on except horn-rimmed spectacles? It is a sight well worth seeing, but not one that I would recommend to nervous people and invalids."

He disappeared into the darkness, but Augustus and Evangeline had not been listening to him. They were knit in an embrace which, had it occurred in a motion picture, would have made the Johnston office purse its lips and suggest the cutting of several hundred feet of film.

"It has probably not escaped you," said Oswald, "that I am a trifle under the influence of the sauce."