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A new story by the world-famous HUGH WALPOLE For two years Jimmy Kerns had his hand on the door of Paradise, but was never able to walk in fortv-c nr far: by Max Brand He kept only a tenth part of his brain for the work in hand, concentrated the rest as an audience for the rear seat Once Jimmy Kerns made seven pounds and a half which is taxi slang for thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents, but that was his biggest haul. It happened when he was regu larly stationed in a hotel full of con vention delegates who insisted on go ing places and paying for things, but as a rule he averaged around eighteen or twenty dollars a week. He cut out whisky and stuck to beer but still he could not save very much; and so he went on living for two years with his hand on the door of Paradise but never able to walk in and make himself at home. He drove his taxi all day long with a misting dream of happiness before his eyes. That glance which could pick out from a block away the prosperous pe destrian and lure him into the cab with a smile and an open door, had now grown dim; and just as his hunger of heart grew greater and greater his income grew less and less. There had been a time when Jimmy could tell by instinct just how to please a fare. He knew when the gay young bucks wanted to raise a breeze and skid the comers; he knew the rhythm which pleases cautious age, just one pulse slower than the beat of the traffic; he knew when he and she wanted to go softly on, unjarred by the brakes, un startled by squawks upon the horn, and once he had a couple in the Park he often kept them in their enchant ment for two or three rounds while the meter clicked out its own little story of the miles. But now his preoccupation blinded him to others. There had been days when he learned so much from the back seat that the papers hardly could give him news; but now the voice of melancholy at his own ear drowned all others until, on this afternoon, the girl in his cab said to her man: “It’s just because I’ve loved you so much that I’m tired of it all.” It was a rainy afternoon with the downpour turning to hot steam. In the lower stories of buildings, lights were coming on in this false twilight. The traffic, thickened everywhere by the sudden demand for taxis, stalled even along Park Avenue, tied itself into in extricable knots along the sidestreets, and now and then moaned far and near with hopeless voices. It was a time when the driver needed to pick his openings like a fencer, but Jimmy Kerns, after that first sentence from the girl, forgot the greasy streets, for got how his hands stuck to the wheel and how his collar stuck to his neck. He kept only a tenth part of his brain for the work in hand and concentrated his soul and the rest of his brain as an audience for the rear seat. The vision of his own Molly came entrancingly close to him. with that one line Of worry incised each year more permanently between her eyes. It was true that she had waited pa tiently but now her patience seemed to be drawing to a close and the years had slipped away from her like an un happy spell last Saturday night when she was with Garry Doolan at the dance. Garry Doolan, in the cab of a ten-wheel truck, made forty dollars a week. The picture of Molly still dwelt in his mind's eye as he recalled the girl who now rode in the cab. She was not a patch on Molly, for she was thin, with big, shadowy eyes; the man was full-necked and there was a good bit more of him, now, than his clothes had been cut for. He was saying: "I know. It’s been that way since the Bible days. It’s the man who has to wait and like it; it’s the girl who can afford to get tired. All the old stories are rot. There’s no more ‘forever’ stuff in the world. ‘Love but one and love forever’ — that’s rot.” ‘‘Why do you say that?” asked the girl. ‘‘Because it’s true,” said he. His voice swelled. It was a good voice. It had the resonance of song in it, though muted and controlled for speech. "There’s no mote of the real love. When a girl looks at a man, she has one eye on Reno. She signs a Declara tion of Independence, not a marriage certificate or a family Bible; and once a week after she’s married she touches off the fireworks for another Fourth f of July. Isn’t it the truth?” It was strong talk. It was severe talk. Every word of it plucked at the heartstrings of Jimmy Kerns. He won dered what the girl could say to this. Would even Molly have an answer? In his heart he wrote down the words for later use. She was replying: “Don't complain about me, Terry. Complain of nature.” “Ah, you’re natural enough,” said Terry. “You’re all perfectly nat ural. It’s natural for a woman to change her mind, m and you change ’em fast ^ S enough. You’re more nat- S . ural than nature.” 9 ■ “Steady. Terry! Steady!” B B said the girl. T| B "I’m sorry,” hesaid." Was 1 ™ that too loud?” 9 H “A great deal,” she an- K 2 swered. 9 JimmyKerns was 9 touched. His people, when 9 they were moved, let out 9 their voices to the full, but 9 he recognized the sign of 9 culture when he met it. This 9 fellow was a little over* weight and a little severe, but Jimmy hoped with all his heart that he would win. Jimmy sat with every (acuity in tent on listening, like a child hear ing its first fairy story. ‘Tve done all the talking.” said Terry. “Now it’s your turn.” “You’re doing the talking be cause you’re the one who feels most hurt,” said the girl. “The fact is that you’ve been just as tired of the long wait as I’ve been. But the first one to turn the back and decide on the change is sure to leave a heart ache with the other fellow.” • “Say that over again!” “Why, Terry, if you had walked out on me the world would be simply an empty house to me and there would be nothing but rainy days, but like a selfish little cat I knew that. So I did the scratching and then I ran away and left most of the hurt with you. But there’s pain enough for me, too.” Terry said: “Is there? You’re a reasonable girl. If you had nothing else, I’d love you for that.” “You shouldn’t, though,” she an swered. “It’s the reason that you’re hating, isn’t it? I’ve reasoned it out and see that we can’t go on waiting forever for one another. And you hate that.” I don t. said Terry. “It's that you’ve stopped caring a hang about me. That’s what knocks the props out from under. Waiting? We’ve waited three years, but what’s that?” “Somebody in the Bible waited seven. Is that what you mean?” she asked. “Well, they had more durable complexions in those days, perhaps. But look — a girl has just one great moment. There's only one time when she’s fresh and on her toes. Afterward — the bubbles leave the drink. I’ve spent that whole moment loving you. I never was beautiful but in my mo ment I was given a sort of beauty. Now it’s gone. It never will come back. I want to live. I want to have children. But now I go back into the world like shelf-worn goods and the price is marked down.” The heart of Jimmy stopped. What living answer was there to this crush ing truth, he wondered? “You talk as though it were a mar ket— an exchange," said Terry, bitterly. “Well, it is,” said the girl. “What have I to offer? I can’t walk as far or run as fast or jump as high as a man. I can’t lift his weights. I haven’t his nerves in the pinches. His brain is go Illustrated by C. C. Beall ■ ing to outlast me, in most things. I’m going to offer him an illusion, first, and when the illusion has worn off, I’ll give him love to the end of time. You see, I’m reasonable about it; but I hate being reasonable. I hate to have every action planned and schemed like a moving picture . . . that’s why I'm saying goodby.” A greater cold than that of winter entered the heart of Jimmy Kerns. He felt that he had lost; that all poor men had lost forever. “Damn reason, then,” said Terry., “You can’t say goodby. You’re going to marry me!” * “And live on what?” she asked. “On what I make,” he answered. ^ "We can’t live on that,” she said. “Then we’ll starve on it,” said Terry. “We’d have to live in two furnished rooms,” she said. “Why not?” he asked. “You’re crazy!” said the girl. “Your, friends would hoot at you!” "Damn my friends,’’ said Terry. “I’m not marrying them. Stop being reasonable and just tell me you’ll marry me!” "When?” she asked. "Now!" said Terry. , “Darling,” said the girl, "it’s such a habit for me to do what you wish!" Jimmy Kerns, through the whirling mist of his excitement, drew up at the Broadway address and took in his hand the fifty-cent piece which paid* the fare and gave him a ten-cent tip. It meant nothing to him that Terry was rolling up a bit of typewritten paper. For the tongue and the heart and the hands of Jimmy now were blindly eager to grapple with Molly and destiny. “Is it all right?” Terry asked. “I think it’s rather good,” said the girl, judicially. “But what’s the matter with that driver?” For Jimmy Kerns had shot his car away from the curb and darted it into the throng of the traffic like a hurled javelin. His mudguards clashed like the shields of heroes against a truck* on one side and an ambulance on the other as he rode past a red light and plunged wildly on his way. “He acts like a fellow who has his mind made up for something,” said Terry, and walked with the girl into the entrance of the Pacific and At lantic Broadcasting Company, fitting the script of their scene into an inner pocket. TfefM