MOTHER’S KNEE
Archie Moffam’s with that popular ballad, “Mother’s Knee,” was one to which he always looked later with a pride. “Mother’s Knee,” it will be remembered, through the world like a pestilence. Scots it on their way to kirk; it to their in the of Borneo; it was a best-seller among the Bolshevists. In the United States alone three copies were of. For a man who has not anything great in his life, it is something to have been in a for a song like that; and, though there were moments when Archie some of the of a man who has a in the of one of the larger reservoirs, he his in the of the thing.
It almost now to think that there was a time when one person in the world had not “Mother’s Knee”; but it came fresh to Archie one some after the of Washy, in his at the Hotel Cosmopolis, where he was with cigarettes and his with Wilson Hymack, he had met in the of Armentières the war.
“What are you doing these days?” Wilson Hymack.
“Me?” said Archie. “Well, as a of fact, there is what you might call a of of in my at the moment. But my old father-in-law is about, up a new hotel a down-town, and the is for me to be manager when it’s finished. From what I have in this place, it’s a of job, and I I shall be stuff. How are you in the long hours?”
“I’m in my uncle’s office, it!”
“Starting at the and learning the and all that? A pursuit, no doubt, but I’m to say it would give me the in no manner.”
“It me,” said Wilson Hymack, “a pain in the thorax. I want to be a composer.”
“A composer, eh?”
Archie that he should have this. The had a look. He a bow-tie and all that of thing. His at the knees, and his hair, which the of his career had been pruned to the roots, about his ears in disarray.
“Say! Do you want to the best thing I’ve done?”
“Indubitably,” said Archie, politely. “Carry on, old bird!”
“I the as well as the melody,” said Wilson Hymack, who had already seated himself at the piano. “It’s got the title you heard. It’s a lallapaloosa! It’s called ‘It’s a Long Way Back to Mother’s Knee.’ How’s that? Poor, eh?”
Archie a smoke-ring doubtfully.
“Isn’t it a little stale?”
“Stale? What do you mean, stale? There’s always room for another song Mother.”
“Oh, is it Mother?” Archie’s cleared. “I it was a at the skirts. Why, of course, that makes all the difference. In that case, I see no why it should not be ripe, fruity, and well all to the mustard. Let’s have it.”
Wilson Hymack pushed as much of his out of his as he with one hand, his throat, looked over the top of the piano at a photograph of Archie’s father-in-law, Mr. Daniel Brewster, played a prelude, and to sing in a weak, high, composer’s voice. All sing alike, and they have to be to be believed.
“One night a man through the of Broadway:
His money he had squandered. For a he couldn’t pay.”
“Tough luck!” Archie, sympathetically.
“He about the village where his he had spent,
And for all the with which he’d been content.”
“The right spirit!” said Archie, with approval. “I’m to like this chappie!”
“Don’t interrupt!”
“Oh, right-o! Carried away and all that!”
“He looked upon the city, so and gay; And,
as he a sigh, these he then did say:
It’s a long way to Mother’s knee,
Mother’s knee,
Mother’s knee:
It’s a long way to Mother’s knee,
Where I used to and prattle
With my teddy-bear and rattle:
Oh, those days in Tennessee,
They sure look good to me!
It’s a long, long way, but I’m start to-day!
I’m going back,
Believe me, oh!
I’m going back
(I want to go!)
I’m going back—back—on the seven-three
To the dear old where I used to be!
I’m going to Mother’s knee!”
Wilson Hymack’s voice on the final high note, which was of an his powers. He with a cough.
“That’ll give you an idea of it!”
“It has, old thing, it has!”
“Is it or is it not a of fire?”
“It has many of the of a egg,” Archie. “Of course—”
“Of course, it wants singing.”
“Just what I was going to suggest.”
“It wants a woman to sing it. A woman who out for that last high note and teach it to take a joke. The whole is up to that. You need Tetrazzini or someone who would just that note off the and it till the came to lock up the for the night.”
“I must a copy for my wife. Where can I it?”
“You can’t it! It isn’t published. Writing music’s the job!” Wilson Hymack fiercely. It was plain that the man was out the pent-up of many days. “You the biggest thing in years and you go trying to someone to sing it, and they say you’re a and then the song away in a and about it.”
Archie another cigarette.
“I’m a old child in these matters, old lad,” he said, “but why don’t you take it direct to a publisher? As a of fact, if it would be any use to you, I was with a music-publisher only the other day. A bird of the name of Blumenthal. He was in here with a of mine, and we got matey. Why not let me tool you to the office to-morrow and play it to him?”
“No, thanks. Much obliged, but I’m not going to play that in any publisher’s office with his of Tin-Pan Alley at the and taking notes. I’ll have to wait till I can somebody to sing it. Well, I must be going along. Glad to have you again. Sooner or later I’ll take you to that high note by someone in a way that’ll make your tie itself in the of your neck.”
“I’ll count the days,” said Archie, courteously. “Pip-pip!”
Hardly had the door closed the when it opened again to admit Lucille.
“Hallo, light of my soul!” said Archie, and his wife. “Where have you been all the afternoon? I was you this many an hour past. I wanted you to meet—”
“I’ve been having tea with a girl in Greenwich Village. I couldn’t away before. Who was that who out just as I came along the passage?”
“Chappie of the name of Hymack. I met him in France. A and what not.”
“We to have been moving in circles this afternoon. The girl I to see is a singer. At least, she wants to sing, but no encouragement.”
“Precisely the same with my bird. He wants to his music but nobody’ll sing it. But I didn’t know you any Greenwich Village warblers, of my home. How did you meet this female?”
Lucille sat and at him with her big eyes. She was something, but Archie not what it was.
“Archie, darling, when you married me you to my sorrows, didn’t you?”
“Absolutely! It’s all in the book of words. For or for worse, in and in health, all-down-set-’em-up-in-the-other-alley. Regular iron-clad contract!”
“Then ’em!” said Lucille. “Bill’s in love again!”
Archie blinked.
“Bill? When you say Bill, do you Bill? Your Bill? My brother-in-law Bill? Jolly old William, the son and of the Brewsters?”
“I do.”
“You say he’s in love? Cupid’s dart?”
“Even so!”
“But, I say! Isn’t this rather—What I to say is, the lad’s an scourge! The Great Lover, what! Also ran, Brigham Young, and all that of thing! Why, it’s only a ago that he was about that vermilion-haired female who on to old Reggie Tuyl!”
“She’s a little than that girl, thank goodness. All the same, I don’t think Father will approve.”
“Of what is the latest exhibit?”
“Well, she comes from the Middle West, and to be trying to be twice as Bohemian as the of the girls in Greenwich Village. She her and goes about in a kimono. She’s read magazine about Greenwich Village, and has herself on them. It’s so silly, when you can see Hicks Corners out of her all the time.”
“That one got past me I it. What did you say she had out of her?”
“I meant that see that she came from out in the wilds. As a of fact, Bill tells me that she was up in Snake Bite, Michigan.”
“Snake Bite? What names you have in America! Still, I’ll admit there’s a village in England called Nether Wallop, so who am I to the stone? How is old Bill? Pretty feverish?”
“He says this time it is the thing.”
“That’s what they all say! I wish I had a for every time—Forgotten what I was going to say!” off Archie, prudently. “So you think,” he on, after a pause, “that William’s latest is going to be one more for the old dad?”
“I can’t Father of her.”
“I’ve your old closely,” said Archie, “and, you and me, I can’t him of anybody!”
“I can’t why it is that Bill goes out of his way to these horrors. I know at least twenty girls, all and with of money, who would be just the thing for him; but he away and goes in love with someone impossible. And the of it is that one always one’s got to do one’s best to see him through.”
“Absolutely! One doesn’t want to a into the of Love’s dream. It us to round. Have you this girl sing?”
“Yes. She sang this afternoon.”
“What of a voice has she got?”
“Well, it’s—loud!”
“Could she a high note off the and it till the came to lock up the for the night?”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Answer me this, woman, frankly. How is her high note? Pretty lofty?”
“Why, yes.”
“Then say no more,” said Archie. “Leave this to me, my dear old four-fifths! Hand the whole thing over to Archibald, the man who lets you down. I have a scheme!”
As Archie approached his on the he through the closed door the of a male voice; and, going in, Lucille in the company of his brother-in-law. Lucille, Archie thought, was looking a fatigued. Bill, on the other hand, was in great shape. His were shining, and his looked so like that of a that Archie had no in that he had been on the of his latest enslaver.
“Hallo, Bill, old crumpet!” he said.
“Hallo, Archie!”
“I’m so you’ve come,” said Lucille. “Bill is telling me all about Spectatia.”
“Who?”
“Spectatia. The girl, you know. Her name is Spectatia Huskisson.”
“It can’t be!” said Archie, incredulously.
“Why not?” Bill.
“Well, how it?” said Archie, to him as a man. “I to say! Spectatia Huskisson! I there is such a name.”
“What’s with it?” the Bill. “It’s a name than Archibald Moffam.”
“Don’t fight, you two children!” Lucille, firmly. “It’s a good old Middle West name. Everybody the Huskissons of Snake Bite, Michigan. Besides, Bill calls her Tootles.”
“Pootles,” Bill, austerely.
“Oh, yes, Pootles. He calls her Pootles.”
“Young blood! Young blood!” Archie.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk as if you were my grandfather.”
“I look on you as a son, laddie, a son!”
“If I had a father like you—!”-“Ah, but you haven’t, young-feller-me-lad, and that’s the trouble. If you had, would be simple. But as your father, if you’ll allow me to say so, is one of the of the vampire-bat in captivity, something has got to be done about it, and you’re lucky to have me in your corner, a guide, philosopher, and friend, full of the ideas. Now, if you’ll to me for a moment—”
“I’ve been to you since you came in.”
“You wouldn’t speak in that of voice if you all! William, I have a scheme!”
“Well?”
“The to which I is what Maeterlinck would call a lallapaloosa!”
“What a little he is!” said Lucille, her husband affectionately. “He eats a of fish, Bill. That’s what makes him so clever!”
“Shrimps!” Bill, churlishly.
“Do you know the leader of the in the restaurant downstairs?” asked Archie, the slur.
“I know there is a leader of the orchestra. What about him?”
“A fellow. Great of mine. I’ve his name—”
“Call him Pootles!” Lucille.
“Desist!” said Archie, as a from his brother-in-law. “Temper your with a of reserve. This is unseemly. Well, I’m going to have a with this and it all up.”
“Fix what up?”
“The whole business. I’m going to kill two with one stone. I’ve a about in the one ambish. is to have his song a audience. You have a singer at the leash. I’m going to with this egg who leads the that your female shall sing my chappie’s song one night dinner. How about it? Is it or is it not a of fire?”
“It’s not a idea,” Bill, visibly. “I wouldn’t have you had it in you.”
“Why not?”
“Well—”
“It’s a idea,” said Lucille. “Quite out of the question, of course.”
“How do you mean?”
“Don’t you know that the one thing Father more than anything else in the world is anything like a cabaret? People are always to him, that it would up the dinner hour if he had singers and things, and he them into little bits. He thinks there’s nothing that the of a place more. He’ll bite you in three places when you it to him!”
“Ah! But has it your notice, of my soul, that the dear old is not at present in residence? He off to fish at Lake What’s-its-name this morning.”
“You aren’t of doing this without him?”
“That was the idea.”
“But he’ll be when he out.”
“But will he out? I ask you, will he?”
“Of he will.”
“I don’t see why he should,” said Bill, on plastic mind the plan had a impression.
“He won’t,” said Archie, confidently. “This is for one night only. By the time the old guv’nor returns, to the by mosquitoes, with one small in his suit-case, will be over and all once more along the Potomac. The is this. My wants his song by a publisher. Your girl wants her voice by one of the who up and all that of thing. No you know such a bird, you to the hotel for a of dinner?”
“I know Carl Steinburg. As a of fact, I was of to him about Spectatia.”
“You’re sure that is her name?” said Archie, his voice still with incredulity. “Oh, well, I she told you so herself, and no she best. That will be topping. Rope in your and him at the table till the finish. Lucille, the on the sky-line yonder, and I will be at another table Maxie Blumenthal.”
“Who on earth is Maxie Blumenthal?” asked Lucille.
“One of my chums. A music-publisher. I’ll him to come along, and then we’ll all be set. At the of the performance Miss—” Archie winced—“Miss Spectatia Huskisson will be up for a weeks’ tour, and old Blumenthal will be making all for the song. Two birds, as I before, with one stone! How about it?”
“It’s a winner,” said Bill.
“Of course,” said Archie, “I’m not you. I make the suggestion. If you know a ’ole go to it!”
“It’s terrific!” said Bill.
“It’s absurd!” said Lucille.
“My dear old partner of and sorrows,” said Archie, wounded, “we criticism, but this is abuse. What to be the difficulty?”
“The leader of the would be to do it.”
“Ten dollars—supplied by William here—push it over, Bill, old man—will remove his tremors.”
“And Father’s to out.”
“Am I of Father?” Archie, manfully. “Well, yes, I am!” he added, after a moment’s reflection. “But I don’t see how he can possibly to know.”
“Of he can’t,” said Bill, decidedly. “Fix it up as soon as you can, Archie. This is what the doctor ordered.”
