CHAPTER V

STRANGE EXPERIENCES OF AN ARTIST'S MODEL


"I say, old thing!"

Archie spoke plaintively. Already he was looking back ruefully to
the time when he had supposed that an artist's model had a soft job.
In the first five minutes muscles which he had not been aware that
he possessed had started to ache like neglected teeth. His respect
for the toughness and durability of artists' models was now solid.
How they acquired the stamina to go through this sort of thing all
day and then bound off to Bohemian revels at night was more than he
could understand.

"Don't wobble, confound you!" snorted Mr. Wheeler.

"Yes, but, my dear old artist," said Archie, "what you don't seem to
grasp--what you appear not to realise--is that I'm getting a crick
in the back."

"You weakling! You miserable, invertebrate worm. Move an inch and
I'll murder you, and come and dance on your grave every Wednesday
and Saturday. I'm just getting it."

"It's in the spine that it seems to catch me principally."

"Be a man, you faint-hearted string-bean!" urged J. B. Wheeler. "You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, a girl who was posing for me
last week stood for a solid hour on one leg, holding a tennis racket
over her head and smiling brightly withal."

"The female of the species is more india-rubbery than the male,"
argued Archie.

"Well, I'll be through in a few minutes. Don't weaken. Think how
proud you'll be when you see yourself on all the bookstalls."

Archie sighed, and braced himself to the task once more. He wished
he had never taken on this binge. In addition to his physical
discomfort, he was feeling a most awful chump. The cover on which
Mr. Wheeler was engaged was for the August number of the magazine,
and it had been necessary for Archie to drape his reluctant form in
a two-piece bathing suit of a vivid lemon colour; for he was
supposed to be representing one of those jolly dogs belonging to the
best families who dive off floats at exclusive seashore resorts. J.
B. Wheeler, a stickler for accuracy, had wanted him to remove his
socks and shoes; but there Archie had stood firm. He was willing to
make an ass of himself, but not a silly ass.

"All right," said J. B. Wheeler, laying down his brush. "That will
do for to-day. Though, speaking without prejudice and with no wish
to be offensive, if I had had a model who wasn't a weak-kneed,
jelly-backboned son of Belial, I could have got the darned thing
finished without having to have another sitting."

"I wonder why you chappies call this sort of thing 'sitting,'" said
Archie, pensively, as he conducted tentative experiments in
osteopathy on his aching back. "I say, old thing, I could do with a
restorative, if you have one handy. But, of course, you haven't, I
suppose," he added, resignedly. Abstemious as a rule, there were
moments when Archie found the Eighteenth Amendment somewhat trying.

J. B. Wheeler shook his head.

"You're a little previous," he said. "But come round in another day
or so, and I may be able to do something for you." He moved with a
certain conspirator-like caution to a corner of the room, and,
lifting to one side a pile of canvases, revealed a stout barrel,
which, he regarded with a fatherly and benignant eye. "I don't mind
telling you that, in the fullness of time, I believe this is going
to spread a good deal of sweetness and light."

"Oh, ah," said Archie, interested. "Home-brew, what?"

"Made with these hands. I added a few more raisins yesterday, to
speed things up a bit. There is much virtue in your raisin. And,
talking of speeding things up, for goodness' sake try to be a bit
more punctual to-morrow. We lost an hour of good daylight to-day."

"I like that! I was here on the absolute minute. I had to hang about
on the landing waiting for you."

"Well, well, that doesn't matter," said J. B. Wheeler, impatiently,
for the artist soul is always annoyed by petty details. "The point
is that we were an hour late in getting to work. Mind you're here
to-morrow at eleven sharp."

It was, therefore, with a feeling of guilt and trepidation that
Archie mounted the stairs on the following morning; for in spite of
his good resolutions he was half an hour behind time. He was
relieved to find that his friend had also lagged by the wayside. The
door of the studio was ajar, and he went in, to discover the place
occupied by a lady of mature years, who was scrubbing the floor with
a mop. He went into the bedroom and donned his bathing suit. When he
emerged, ten minutes later, the charwoman had gone, but J. B.
Wheeler was still absent. Rather glad of the respite, he sat down to
kill time by reading the morning paper, whose sporting page alone he
had managed to master at the breakfast table.

There was not a great deal in the paper to interest him. The usual
bond-robbery had taken place on the previous day, and the police
were reported hot on the trail of the Master-Mind who was alleged to
be at the back of these financial operations. A messenger named
Henry Babcock had been arrested and was expected to become
confidential. To one who, like Archie, had never owned a bond, the
story made little appeal. He turned with more interest to a cheery
half-column on the activities of a gentleman in Minnesota who, with
what seemed to Archie, as he thought of Mr. Daniel Brewster, a good
deal of resource and public spirit, had recently beaned his father-
in-law with the family meat-axe. It was only after he had read this
through twice in a spirit of gentle approval that it occurred to him
that J. B. Wheeler was uncommonly late at the tryst. He looked at
his watch, and found that he had been in the studio three-quarters
of an hour.

Archie became restless. Long-suffering old bean though he was, he
considered this a bit thick. He got up and went out on to the
landing, to see if there were any signs of the blighter. There were
none. He began to understand now what had happened. For some reason
or other the bally artist was not coming to the studio at all that
day. Probably he had called up the hotel and left a message to this
effect, and Archie had just missed it. Another man might have waited
to make certain that his message had reached its destination, but
not woollen-headed Wheeler, the most casual individual in New York.

Thoroughly aggrieved, Archie turned back to the studio to dress and
go away.

His progress was stayed by a solid, forbidding slab of oak. Somehow
or other, since he had left the room, the door had managed to get
itself shut.

"Oh, dash it!" said Archie.

The mildness of the expletive was proof that the full horror of the
situation had not immediately come home to him. His mind in the
first few moments was occupied with the problem of how the door had
got that way. He could not remember shutting it. Probably he had
done it unconsciously. As a child, he had been taught by sedulous
elders that the little gentleman always closed doors behind him, and
presumably his subconscious self was still under the influence. And
then, suddenly, he realised that this infernal, officious ass of a
subconscious self had deposited him right in the gumbo. Behind that
closed door, unattainable as youthful ambition, lay his gent's
heather-mixture with the green twill, and here he was, out in the
world, alone, in a lemon-coloured bathing suit.

In all crises of human affairs there are two broad courses open to a
man. He can stay where he is or he can go elsewhere. Archie, leaning
on the banisters, examined these alternatives narrowly. If he stayed
where he was he would have to spend the night on this dashed
landing. If he legged it, in this kit, he would be gathered up by
the constabulary before he had gone a hundred yards. He was no
pessimist, but he was reluctantly forced to the conclusion that he
was up against it.

It was while he was musing with a certain tenseness on these things
that the sound of footsteps came to him from below. But almost in
the first instant the hope that this might be J. B. Wheeler, the
curse of the human race, died away. Whoever was coming up the stairs
was running, and J. B. Wheeler never ran upstairs. He was not one of
your lean, haggard, spiritual-looking geniuses. He made a large
income with his brush and pencil, and spent most of it in creature
comforts. This couldn't be J. B. Wheeler.

It was not. It was a tall, thin man whom he had never seen before.
He appeared to be in a considerable hurry. He let himself into the
studio on the floor below, and vanished without even waiting to shut
the door.

He had come and disappeared in almost record time, but, brief though
his passing had been, it had been long enough to bring consolation
to Archie. A sudden bright light had been vouchsafed to Archie, and
he now saw an admirably ripe and fruity scheme for ending his
troubles. What could be simpler than to toddle down one flight of
stairs and in an easy and debonair manner ask the chappie's
permission to use his telephone? And what could be simpler, once he
was at the 'phone, than to get in touch with somebody at the
Cosmopolis who would send down a few trousers and what not in a kit
bag. It was a priceless solution, thought Archie, as he made his way
downstairs. Not even embarrassing, he meant to say. This chappie,
living in a place like this, wouldn't bat an eyelid at the spectacle
of a fellow trickling about the place in a bathing suit. They would
have a good laugh about the whole thing.

"I say, I hate to bother you--dare say you're busy and all that sort
of thing--but would you mind if I popped in for half a second and
used your 'phone?"

That was the speech, the extremely gentlemanly and well-phrased
speech. Which Archie had prepared to deliver the moment the man
appeared. The reason he did not deliver it was that the man did not
appear. He knocked, but nothing stirred.

"I say!"

Archie now perceived that the door was ajar, and that on an envelope
attached with a tack to one of the panels was the name "Elmer M.
Moon" He pushed the door a little farther open and tried again.

"Oh, Mr. Moon! Mr. Moon!" He waited a moment. "Oh, Mr. Moon! Mr.
Moon! Are you there, Mr. Moon?"

He blushed hotly. To his sensitive ear the words had sounded exactly
like the opening line of the refrain of a vaudeville song-hit. He
decided to waste no further speech on a man with such an unfortunate
surname until he could see him face to face and get a chance of
lowering his voice a bit. Absolutely absurd to stand outside a
chappie's door singing song-hits in a lemon-coloured bathing suit.
He pushed the door open and walked in; and his subconscious self,
always the gentleman, closed it gently behind him.

"Up!" said a low, sinister, harsh, unfriendly, and unpleasant voice.

"Eh?" said Archie, revolving sharply on his axis.

He found himself confronting the hurried gentleman who had run
upstairs. This sprinter had produced an automatic pistol, and was
pointing it in a truculent manner at his head. Archie stared at his
host, and his host stared at him.

"Put your hands up," he said.

"Oh, right-o! Absolutely!" said Archie. "But I mean to say--"

The other was drinking him in with considerable astonishment.
Archie's costume seemed to have made a powerful impression upon him.

"Who the devil are you?" he enquired.

"Me? Oh, my name's--"

"Never mind your name. What are you doing here?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I popped in to ask if I might use your
'phone. You see--"

A certain relief seemed to temper the austerity of the other's gaze.
As a visitor, Archie, though surprising, seemed to be better than he
had expected.

"I don't know what to do with you," he said, meditatively.

"If you'd just let me toddle to the 'phone--"

"Likely!" said the man. He appeared to reach a decision. "Here, go
into that room."

He indicated with a jerk of his head the open door of what was
apparently a bedroom at the farther end of the studio.

"I take it," said Archie, chattily, "that all this may seem to you
not a little rummy."

"Get on!"

"I was only saying--"

"Well, I haven't time to listen. Get a move on!"

The bedroom was in a state of untidiness which eclipsed anything
which Archie had ever witnessed. The other appeared to be moving
house. Bed, furniture, and floor were covered with articles of
clothing. A silk shirt wreathed itself about Archie's ankles as he
stood gaping, and, as he moved farther into the room, his path was
paved with ties and collars.

"Sit down!" said Elmer M. Moon, abruptly.

"Right-o! Thanks," said Archie, "I suppose you wouldn't like me to
explain, and what not, what?"

"No!" said Mr. Moon. "I haven't got your spare time. Put your hands
behind that chair."

Archie did so, and found them immediately secured by what felt like
a silk tie. His assiduous host then proceeded to fasten his ankles
in a like manner. This done, he seemed to feel that he had done all
that was required of him, and he returned to the packing of a large
suitcase which stood by the window.

"I say!" said Archie.

Mr. Moon, with the air of a man who has remembered something which
he had overlooked, shoved a sock in his guest's mouth and resumed
his packing. He was what might be called an impressionist packer.
His aim appeared to be speed rather than neatness. He bundled his
belongings in, closed the bag with some difficulty, and, stepping to
the window, opened it. Then he climbed out on to the fire-escape,
dragged the suit-case after him, and was gone.

Archie, left alone, addressed himself to the task of freeing his
prisoned limbs. The job proved much easier than he had expected. Mr.
Moon, that hustler, had wrought for the moment, not for all time. A
practical man, he had been content to keep his visitor shackled
merely for such a period as would permit him to make his escape
unhindered. In less than ten minutes Archie, after a good deal of
snake-like writhing, was pleased to discover that the thingummy
attached to his wrists had loosened sufficiently to enable him to
use his hands. He untied himself and got up.

He now began to tell himself that out of evil cometh good. His
encounter with the elusive Mr. Moon had not been an agreeable one,
but it had had this solid advantage, that it had left him right in
the middle of a great many clothes. And Mr. Moon, whatever his moral
defects, had the one excellent quality of taking about the same size
as himself. Archie, casting a covetous eye upon a tweed suit which
lay on the bed, was on the point of climbing into the trousers when
on the outer door of the studio there sounded a forceful knocking.

"Open up here!"