auditorium. Tight rows of wooden camp chairs were packed with the usual crowd of mission stiffs-birds who were too low, lazy or incapacitated to get their grub and flop by other means.
The man shoved Toddy into a chair in the front row, gave him a menacing glare, and stepped to the rostrum.
'I apologize for this slight delay, brethren,' he said, with no trace of apology. 'For your sakes, I hope there will be no more. You are not entitled to the comfortable beds and nourishing food which you find here. They are gifts-something given you out of God's mercy and goodness. Remember that and conduct yourselves accordingly… We will rise now and Praise Him from Whom All Blessings Flow.'
He nodded to the woman on the platform, and her hands struck the keys of the upright piano. Everyone rose and began to sing.
There was a comedian immediately behind Toddy. He liked the melody to the hymn, apparently, but not the lyrics; and he improvised his own. Instead of 'Praise Him from Whom All Blessings Flow,' he sang something about raisin skins and holy Joe.
The next song was 'Onward, Christian Soldiers,' which the comedian turned into a panegyric on rocks and boulders, the padding, in his opinion, of mission mattresses.
Toward the end of the hymn, the preacher cocked his head to one side and sharply extended his hand. The pianist stopped playing; the bums lapsed into silence.
'Someone here-' he said, staring hard at Toddy, 'someone thinks he is pretty funny. If he persists, if he commits any further disturbance, I am going to take stern measures with him. Let him be warned!'
Toddy stared intently at the song book. There was a heavy silence, and then another song was struck up- 'Nearer My God to Thee.'
The comedian behaved himself this time, but some guy in the back of the house was sure giving out with the corn. He was gargling the words; he seemed to be trying to sing and swallow hot mush at the same time.
The preacher looked at Toddy. He stood on tiptoe and stared out over the congregation. They went on singing fearfully, afraid to stop, and the corny guy seemed to edge closer.
Toddy stole a glance up from his book. The preacher's mouth had dropped open. He was no longer singing, but his hand continued to move through the air, unconsciously waving time to the hymn.
Then, at last, the owner of the preposterous voice came into Toddy's view. He sat down at his side, on the floor, and laid his great pear-shaped head against Toddy's hip. Having thus established proprietorship, he faced the rostrum, opened his great jaws to their widest, and 'sang':
'Nrrahhhh me-odd t'eeeee…'
He was best on the high notes, and he knew it. He held them far beyond their nominal worth, disregarding the faltering guidance of the piano and the bums' fear-inspired determination to forge ahead with the song.
'Nrrahhh t'eee,' he howled. 'Neee-rroww t'EEEE…'
There was a crash as the preacher hurled his hymnal to the floor. Purple with rage, he pointed a quivering finger at Toddy.
'Get that animal Out of here! Get him out instantly!'
'He's not mine,' said Toddy.
'Don't lie to me! You sneaked him in here tonight! That's why you were skulking upstairs! Of course he's yours! Anyone can see he's yours. Now get him OUT!'
Toddy gave up. He had to. The guy would be blowing the whistle on him in a minute.
He turned and started for the door. The dog hesitated, obviously torn between desire and training. Then, with a surly I-never-have- any-fun look, he followed.
Toddy paused on the sidewalk and put on his coat. The dog nudged him brusquely in the buttocks. He walked toward the curb, and the front door of the convertible swung open.
Toddy climbed in, heard the dog thump into the back seat, and leaned back wearily.
'What the hell's it all about?' he demanded. 'What do you want with me?'
'You will know very soon,' the girl said, and she would say no more than that.
10
Up until he met and married Elaine Ives, Toddy's world, despite its superficially complex appearance, was remarkably uncomplicated. Sound and practical motives guided every action; whims, if you were unfortunate to have them, were kept to yourself. Given a certain situation, you could safely depend upon certain actions and reactions. You might get killed for the change in your pocket. You would never get hurt, however, simply because someone felt like dishing it out.
Thus, on his wedding night, as he pushed himself up from the floor and slowly massaged his aching head, he couldn't accept the thing that had been done to him. He couldn't see it for what it was.
She'd been playing, putting on a show for him. Obviously, she'd just carried the act a little too far. She couldn't have meant what she'd said, what she'd done. She just couldn't have!
'Gosh, honey,' he said, with a rueful smile. 'Let's not play so rough, huh? Now what kind of whiskey would you like?'
'I'm sorry, T-Toddy. I-' She choked and tears filled her eyes.
'Forget it,' he said. 'You've just had a little more excitement than you can take. I should have seen it. I shouldn't have made you beg for a drink after all you've been through.'
That was the way the incident ended. It was the way a dozen similar ones ended during the next few months. He gave in, and with each giving in her charm became thinner, the pretense of affection a leaner shadow. Why bother with charm, with pretending something she was incapable of feeling? It was easier and more to her taste simply to raise hell.
Still, Toddy couldn't understand; he refused to understand. She'd married him. Why had she done that unless she loved him? He wouldn't accept the contemptuous explanation she gave-that marriage, even to a chump like him, was better than working. She couldn't mean that. How could she when he'd done nothing to hurt her and was willing to do anything he could to help her? The fact that she'd make such a statement was proof that she was seriously ill. And so Toddy took her to a couple of psychiatrists.
The first had offices in his own building on Wilshire Boulevard, and he charged fifty dollars for a thirty-minute consultation. He allowed Toddy to spend one hundred and fifty with him before curtly advising him to spend no more.
'Your wife is not an alcoholic, Mr. Kent,' he said. 'In alcoholic circles she is what is known as, to speak plainly, a gutter drunk. A degenerate. She could stop drinking any time she chose to. She does not choose to. She is too selfish. In a way, you are fortunate; she might have had a penchant for murder. If she had, she would probably pursue it as relentlessly as this will to drink.'
The opinion of the second psychiatrist coincided pretty largely with that of the first, but he was longer in arriving at it. He spent much more time talking to Toddy than to Elaine, usually detaining him for an hour or so after each consultation. Toddy didn't mind. The guy was obviously a square shooter and interesting to talk to.
'Toddy,' he said quietly one afternoon, the last afternoon they talked together, 'why do you stick with her anyway? I've told you she's no good. I'm sure you must know it's the truth. Why continue a relationship that can only end in one way?'
'I don't know that she's no good,' said Toddy. 'I know that she needs help, that I'm the only person-'
'She doesn't need help. She's been helped too much. She got along most of her life without you, and she can get along very well without you for the rest of it. The Elaines of this world have a peculiar talent for survival.'
'Put it this way, then,' said Toddy. 'I married her for better or for worse. I'm not going to pull out- and, no, I'm not going to let her- just because things don't break quite the way I think they should.'
The psychiatrist nodded seriously. 'Now we're getting somewhere,' he said. 'We're approaching
