Once I began to discharge my obligations, however, it was startling to note how considerably I was in the red. For example: I found that there were a good many men, scattered here and there, who had been scratched off my books. Either actually, or to all practical intents, they had been told to go to hell. In some cases, there had been enough provocation to justify my pitching them out of my life, I thought. But, more often than otherwise, they were to be remembered as persons with whom I had sustained some manner of close contact—close enough to make a disruption possible. I discovered that almost without exception the people I had pushed away from me—consigned to hell, if you like—were once intimately associated with me … So far as I was concerned they had gone to hell taking along with them a very considerable part of me!
To lose a friend in whom one had invested something of one’s personality was, I discovered, to have lost a certain amount of one’s self.
The successful pursuit of the philosophy now before you demands that you restore whatever of your personality has been dissipated, carted off by other people. If any of its essential energy has been scattered, it must be recovered.
The original proposer of this theory, aware of the importance of insuring against such losses, advised that all misunderstandings should be settled on the spot. When an estrangement takes a friend out of your normal contacts with him, he leaves with part of you in his hand. You must gather up these fragments of yourself, by some hook or crook, so that you have at least all of the personality that rightfully belongs to you, before you attempt its larger projection.
In the next place: you may make the mistake of seeking far and wide for opportunities to build yourself into other personalities through their rehabilitation. A happy circumstance kept me from doing that. Strangely enough, the first really important service I was permitted to do, prefatory to experimenting with this mysterious dynamic, was for the daughter of the man who had shown me the way to it … I risked what small repute I had, and put a mortgage on whatever I might hope to acquire by the performance of an operation that saved her life, and, quite incidentally, brought me three pages of comment in the next edition of the Medical Encyclopaedia.
Bobby left his papers as they were, dressed carefully, called a taxi, and proceeded to Gordon’s. He had no one definite answer to give to himself for his sudden decision. If queried, he would have had to say that there came a moment when he felt he was needed at Gordon’s. Certainly he was not going in quest of pleasure.
His arrival at the famous cabaret could not have been better timed. An hour earlier he would have found a noisy, chaffing welcome at a table of silly and excited friends hopeful of seeing him as drunk as themselves; half resentful of his appearance sober.
Because it was a festival night, the cabaret’s bill of amusements was more elaborate than usual.
The girl chorus, obviously much the worse for the holiday hospitality—during intermissions they were accorded many courtesies at the tables of diners—were softly caterwauling the refrain of a popular opera song, while a huge fellow, open-shirted, velvet-trousered, and bandanna-ed in a bandit role, held the spotlight with a solo dance.
Aleppo was the headliner on the bill. Primarily an acrobat and strong man, with fancy dancing and a bit of florid song to supplement his feats of agility and strength, Aleppo’s versatility was acknowledged with tumultuous applause. Smug satisfaction and self-assurance were spelled in every line of his swarthy face as he executed his intricate dance steps.
Bobby waited, just inside the entrance, until the number should be finished. He was too far from the stage to hear Aleppo’s announcement. Some time afterwards, he learned that the cad had called for a volunteer dancing partner from the audience. A tall blonde, in blue chiffon, was unsteadily mounting the steps to the stage. She lurched into the big dancer’s arms, and he swung her into rhythm with him in a fast and furious foxtrot. The girl was Joyce Hudson.
The crowd cheered them lustily. The orchestra took fresh interest. The chorus receded to give them room.
Eager to offer a final thrill to his audience, the huge Aleppo lifted his amateur teammate to his shoulder. No one but an experienced acrobat could have met the situation gracefully. Aleppo continued to spin about the stage with light steps. His burden meant nothing to him. Dizzily drunk, Joyce swayed, clutched at Aleppo’s shaggy head for support, and sank back limply over his shoulder, while he, with big, muscled arms encircling her knees, revolved like a top, quite as if the act had been rehearsed, and he need have no concern about his partner’s safety. Joyce’s hair stood straight from her head and her arms wildly groped as the rapid revolutions of the dancer whirled her through the air.
Bobby could not remember later how he arrived at the stage. There was some ruthless elbowing through the crowd, chairs upset, tables pushed aside, as he made his way. He ran up the steps and confronting the dancer with an outstretched arm commanded him to stop. His face was grim and pale. With an ironical smile, Aleppo eluded the intruder, and Bobby rushed. Pandemonium broke loose among the tables, and the diners jostled about the foot of the stage.
Tom Masterson forced his way through the crowd, climbed the steps, and clutched at Bobby’s sleeve.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he screamed. “If Joyce wants to have a bit of fun with this fellow, what business is it of yours?”
The orchestra had stopped now. Aleppo put Joyce down, and she crumpled on the floor. Several girls from the chorus bent over her, and one
