“I will not remain to be insulted,” the woman in chiffon cried distractedly, “I’m leaving.”
This chorus was taken up by at least a majority of the “girls.”
Mrs. Rewbarb rose, a stalwart avenging figure, and bore down on the cringing figure of her husband.
“Apologize at once,” she cried. “Don’t you see what you’ve done, you little fool?”
“Good riddance,” the voice from the radio said with relish.
“Stop that,” Mr. Rewbarb wailed, “don’t you see what you’ve done?”
“Oh,” Mrs. Rewbarb cried wrathfully, “I’ll teach you to mimic me, Rupert Rewbarb.”
“I’m not mimicing you,” Mr. Rewbarb said frantically. “I wasn’t even talking to you. As a matter of fact I haven’t said a word.”
There was a sudden silence in the room. The disorganized women paused in the act of putting on their wraps. They looked at Mr. Rewbarb with a new interest. They noticed his disordered appearance, his flushed face, his eyes opened wide in pleading supplication.
Then they exchanged knowing glances. Glances that said, “we’ll talk this over later.” One of them even tapped her forehead significantly.
The radio took this pause in proceedings to laugh sarcastically.
Mr. Rewbarb’s outraged feelings and trampled dignity rebelled at this mockery. He strode angrily to the radio.
“Why don’t you keep quiet?” he demanded, shoving his face within inches of the speaker. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”
“Rupert!” Mrs. Rewbarb cried imperiously.” Stop that this instant.”
“Keep your nose out of this,” the radio snapped angrily. “What the devil are you women hanging here for anyway? Clear out, you overstuffed herd of cows!”
“Rupert,” Mrs. Rewbarb cried again, “what’s come over you?”
“It’s not me,” Mr. Rewbarb wailed piteously.
“Get out!” the radio blared.
The women left in a wild milling scramble. As they swept through the front door and down the steps they encountered a lone figure who had the misfortune to be going in the opposite direction. This gentleman was swept along by the stampeding women until finally he stumbled to the ground, dazed and battered. His hat was crushed foolishly down to his ears and his cane had been swept away in the vortex.
Mr. Tadmington Glick crawled to his feet, simmering with incarnate rage. He glared furiously after the women who were disappearing down the street, and then wheeling, he strode up the stone steps and into the Rewbarb residence.
The door was standing ajar and he entered without knocking.
“Well,” he said, “well!”
Mr. Rewbarb turned and paled.
“It’s Mr. Glick,” he said weakly to his wife, “Mr. Glick — it’s Mr. Glick,” his voice trailed off aimlessly.
“Don’t give me double talk,” Mr. Glick fumed. “Tell me what occasioned the feminine stampede that just about killed me as I tried to enter your home. I hope for your sake Rewbarb that it was not deliberate.”
“Oh how could you think such a horrid thought,” Mrs. Rewbarb trilled sweetly. It was one of the never-ending mysteries to Mr. Rewbarb how his wife could accomplish such amazing transformation in temperament. The instant before Mr. Glick’s arrival she’d have gladly fricaseed him on an open fire, but now saccharine was as bitter gall compared to her.
Mr. Glick’s rumpled feathers subsided somewhat under this onslaught of verbal glucose.
“Of course,” Mr. Glick said with ponderous joviality, “I was merely jesting, merely jesting.”
Mr. Rewbarb breathed a tremulous sigh of relief. He forced a feeble smile of welcome to his lips. He knew with deadly certainty, though, that this respite would be short-lived. If the perverse ill-humor of the radio broke loose now the jig would be up and over.
He decided on strategy.
“Very, very proud to have you, Mr. Glick,” he said breathlessly. He crossed the room, took his employer by the arm. “Let’s step into the dining room,” he said hurriedly. “Less noise, less interruptions.”
Mr. Glick looked at Mr. Rewbarb searchingly and then settled down in an over-stuffed chair.
“I’m quite comfortable here,” he said, “but you don’t seem to be. You’re acting rather strangely, you know, Rewbarb. All flushed and excited. I don’t know quite what to make of you.”
“It’s perfectly comfortable here,” Mrs. Rewbarb said sweetly. “I always say Mr. Glick has such good sound judgment about things in general.”
“No, no,” Mr. Rewbarb interrupted hastily, “it just won’t do to stay here. It just won’t do.” He grabbed Mr. Glick’s arm tugged frantically at it. “You’ve simply got to get out of here. I mean, I want to show you my garden, and then maybe we can take a little walk. Just a — a eight or ten mile hike to sort of look around.”
“Are you feeling all right?” Mr. Glick asked irritatedly. “For the last time I’m quite comfortable here. My business won’t take but a few minutes. That should please you since you’re making such an obvious attempt to get rid of me.”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Rewbarb cried unctuously. “Rupert didn’t mean that Mr. Glick.”
A cold hand of terror closed over Mr.
Rewbarb’s heart as he heard a warning cough emanate from the radio. Mr. Glick looked up inquiringly.
“What was that?” he asked.
“N-nothing at all,” Mr. Rewbarb quaked.
“It was me,” the radio said suddenly.
“Eh?” Mr. Glick was obviously exasperated.
“It was me,” Mr. Rewbarb cried in a falsetto voice, “it was me, it was me, it was me.”
Mr. Glick waved his hand despairingly.
“More double talk,” he said bitterly. “I don’t know what’s got into you, Rewbarb.”
“What business is it—” the radio began savagely.
But Mr. Rewbarb leaped frantically into the breach.
“Oooooh say can you see,” he sang loudly and badly, drowning completely the voice from the radio, “by the dawn’s early light, What so prrrroooudly we hailed, at the twilight’s last gleammmming.” Drawing a frantic breath he roared on? “And the rocket’s red glaaaarrrre, bombs bursting in airrrrr! Gave proof through the night, that our flag was still therrrre!”
Mr. Rewbarb flung both arms wide and struck a heroic pose before the astounded eyes of Mr. Glick and his wife. With laboring lungs and crimson face, Mr. Rewbarb bawled out all three verses of the national anthem. Between breaths he cast despairing glances at the grimly silent radio. He simply had to keep anything from happening in front of Mr. Glick. It might mean his job.
But in spite of these heroic resolves, Mr. Rewbarb’s flesh weakened. His tortured vocal chords felt as if the north wind had been howling over them, and his lungs were about ready to go out on strike. After the last verse he stopped, in fact he almost collapsed.
Mr. Glick was slumped deep in his chair, a haunted look on his face.
“Very nice,” he said weakly. “I didn’t suspect you did things like this.” His tone implied that he didn’t suspect him of beating his wife either — until now.
Mr. Glick pulled out a cigar and bit the end from it. He looked about for a match. Mr. Rewbarb felt his pockets, then turned to an ashtray.
“Why doesn’t he get his own matches?” the radio snapped.
Mr. Rewbarb froze. Mrs. Rewbarb almost strangled on a mouthful of air. A heavy tension grew in the room.
“What was that?” Mr. Glick inquired icily.
“I said,” Mr. Rewbarb began.
“Why don’t you get your own matches,” the radio interrupted.
“And furthermore why don’t you put your hat on, shut your big mouth and clear out of here. I’ve had enough of you. You’re a triple-distilled pain in the neck. So clear out — fast!”