CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Keeping Options Open

Adam made a point of arriving in the parlor early the next morning.   He hoped for a peek at the newspaper before breakfast, but even if he didn’t get it, at least he’d have equal access with Bert to any relevant news of the day.  He wanted no more nasty surprises like the one at yesterday’s noontime meal.  With that purpose in view, he asked Mr. McCrory, who had his nose buried in the paper, if there was anything of interest in the Times.

“Still no notice of any performance by Artemus Ward,” the older man advised.  Then, seeing Adam’s frown, he said, “I’m sorry.  I thought that’s what you’d be interested in.”  He didn’t mention that both Bert and Adam usually looked first at the list of attractions on page four, often before even scanning the headlines.

“Well, yes, that would be of interest,” Adam replied, adding with what he hoped was a nonchalant air, “I was somewhat curious if there was any further news about . . . the draft.”  Despite his best efforts, he knew that his hesitance had been palpable.

“Oh, of course,” McCrory said kindly.  “Yes, there is a long article discussing the various reasons for exemption.”  He folded the paper and handed it to Adam.  “Oh! and a short piece about the war meeting in New Haven last night . . . on the last page.  Since that’s your home, perhaps . . .”

“Yes,” Adam muttered.  New Haven wasn’t exactly home, of course, but as close as he had here in the East, and he did have concern for what went on there.  It was as much because that article was easy to find as for any special interest in war meetings that he turned to it first.  It took him only a couple of minutes to read the brief description.  Like every war meeting he’d heard of this summer, it had been well attended; in fact, the crowd had been so large that the meeting had adjourned to the Green at the north portico of the State House.  A bounty of $100 was now being offered, in addition to any incentives from other sources, a powerful one for the married men the nine-month enlistment term was primarily aimed at.  With encouragement like that, perhaps the quota would be filled by the time he returned to New Haven, Adam mused.

A resolution had also been passed to publish the names and nature of disease of those applying for a Disability Certificate.  That didn’t affect Adam personally, because he was certainly fit enough to fight, but he thought immediately of Jamie, who had no business subjecting himself to a soldier’s life of camping in the open, particularly in inclement weather.  It might well mean his death.  Was it fair that such men, with legitimate physical problems, have their intimate health details published for a curious world to see?  Everyone would understand why a man who had lost a limb or even a finger or thumb might consider himself unable to serve, but the disabilities the newspaper listed included ailments that would normally be closely guarded secrets, such as large hemorrhoids or a fistula in the private parts.  It seemed cruel to publicly announce anything that personally invasive, but the likely alternative was having the man’s character or patriotism questioned . . . as Adam’s own might be, should he, a sturdy specimen of masculine strength, refuse to enlist.

Still, that was no reason to join a regiment.  If he did join, Adam wanted it to be for high principles: for the preservation of the Union and for the freedom of enslaved men, women and children.  He still hadn’t decided, so he turned to the article that detailed the conditions under which a man might seek exemption from the draft.  In addition to everyone under eighteen or over forty-five, he learned that the exempt classes included all government workers, police officers, coroners, firemen and members of the Quaker and Shaker faiths, as well as professors, teachers and students at all levels of education.

Adam breathed a sigh of relief, not for himself, but for Jamie.  His friend was exempt and would not have to submit himself to the humiliation of proclaiming his physical weakness publicly.  For that matter, he wasn’t even sure Jamie would have qualified on those grounds.  A tendency toward respiratory ailments might not be considered a specific illness, after all, but winter in a tent would be an open invitation to pneumonia for his friend, so Adam was particularly glad that, for Jamie, there was an honorable way to avoid the army.  For himself also . . . should he choose to exercise it.  And if the country valued the education of its young men more than their service, then maybe he should, too.  Maybe the same government that had provoked this difficult decision had itself provided the answer he’d sought for so long.  He still wasn’t sure, but he now knew that he could, with honor, decide either way.  He had only to determine what was right for him.  One corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile as Hamlet’s line again fluttered through his mind.  Yeah, the decision was wholly his; therein lay the rub.

* * * * *

Adam felt a rub of an entirely different nature as he sliced into his pork chop that night at dinner.  Before he could take his first bite Mrs. Whitney cleared her throat in such a significant manner that she drew everyone’s attention.  She smiled sweetly in the direction of the trio of men lining one side of the table.  “Have you all been able to read the newspaper as thoroughly as you wish, gentlemen?” she asked.

“Yes, I finished it before leaving for work,” Mr. McCrory replied, his attention returning at once to his plate.

“I, of course, had the entire day for reading,” Mr. Randolph chuckled.

“Yes, yes, of course,” the landlady all but hissed.  Pasting the sugary smile back on, she looked questioningly at Bert and Adam.  Bert said that he’d had ample time to read the paper before dinner, while Adam merely nodded his assent.  Since his perusal that morning had given him more than enough to chew on, he hadn’t felt inclined to open the Times after work.

Mrs. Whitney cleared her throat again.  “I was wondering if you’d noticed the announcement of a grand picnic and festival to aid our poor sick and wounded soldiers . . . the one at Jones Wood?”

“I believe I did,” Bert said hesitantly, with a wary glance at Adam.

“Such a worthy cause,” the landlady gushed.  “Of course, I realize that fifty cents for a ticket might seem a bit dear to working men, but it does include any ladies you might wish to escort.”

The suggestion could not have been more blatant.  She was plainly suggesting that one or all of them might consider attending that picnic in the company of one or more of her daughters.  Not really knowing how to respond, Adam countered with a question, “I’m afraid I didn’t see that notice.  Where, exactly, is Jones Wood?”

“Up on the East River, no further than Central Park, I assure you,” Mrs. Whitney replied, “and much more to your liking in particular, Mr. Cartwright.”

Although he recognized the bait being dangled before him, curiosity compelled Adam to ask, “Oh?  Why is that?”

She tittered lightly.  “Why, the forest, of course.  It’s positively dense there, and, well, you did say that your family was prominent in the timber industry out West, didn’t you?  You must miss your trees greatly.”

Adam couldn’t recall ever having described the Cartwrights as “prominent in the timber industry,” but she had correctly perceived that he missed the majestic pine forests of the Ponderosa.  Still, since he realized a trap was being laid, he answered cautiously, “I suppose I do, but I doubt that anything in New York City is likely to assuage that.”

When the mother frowned in frustration at the density of men, her middle daughter asked sharply, “Do none of you gentlemen care about supporting men wounded in the service of our great Union?”

Mr. McCrory and Bert at once protested vociferously that they were, of course, concerned, as all good citizens should be.  Adam didn’t say anything, but nodded his concession.

“Perhaps their concern is financial, my dear,” Mrs. Whitney interrupted, extending a restraining hand toward Grace.  She turned back to the men, the syrup returning to her voice.  “Forgive me, gentlemen.  I hadn’t intended to embarrass you in any way.  The girls, of course, wanted to support this wonderful cause, but they obviously cannot attend without male escort.  I merely thought that if you were attending anyway, you might consent to allowing them to accompany you.”  Then she said, as if it had just occurred to her, “Of course, if your only concern is financial, I would happily supply the funds for the outing, for surely our brave soldiers have earned far more than fifty cents of my support.”

“Absolutely not,” Mr. McCrory protested.  “I certainly can afford that sum.  I won’t hear of your paying, dear lady.”

“Certainly not,” both Adam and Bert agreed, although more feebly, for both felt that to escort one of the Whitney girls was a much more dangerous proposition for them than for the older man.  A sudden thought sparked hope in Adam.  “When is this picnic?” he asked.  Unless it were soon, he might well be on his way back to New Haven by that date.

“The twentieth,” Mr. Randolph supplied.  “That’s a Wednesday, a working day, of course, but the notice didn’t specify the hours.”

Almost as good, Adam thought.  “Yes, a working day,” he said quickly.  “Well, of course, it would be totally dependent on the hours.  We’ll need more information, won’t we, before we make further plans.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose we will,” Mrs. Whitney sighed.  She didn’t appear quite ready to concede the battle to the men, but her deflated air reflected a feeling of, at least, temporary defeat.

* * * * *

Adam paused at the foot of the stairs on Friday morning to indulge in one last yawn before entering the polite society of the boardinghouse parlor.  He’d had so much on his mind of late that he found getting to sleep difficult and, consequently, rose later than was his usual habit and with much less sense of feeling rested.  Whatever weariness he felt, however, vanished when he heard the sound of soft weeping as he entered the room where the boarders were accustomed to await the announcement of all meals.  He was particularly surprised to see the source from which it came.  Crossing the room quickly, he squatted down in front of the elderly woman in the doily-draped chair and asked anxiously, “My dear Mrs. Randolph, whatever is wrong?”

“Too tender a heart,” Pearl, the only one of the Whitneys in the room, opined.  Adam sent a glancing scowl her direction and turned back to his friend.

“Harsh, but true, I fear,” Mr. Randolph muttered, stroking his wife’s thin-veined hand.  “You mustn’t carry the cares of the world, my dear, but place them in the hands of God.”

“I know, I know,” she murmured, “but oh! so many lives lost.  How can I not care?”  She reached suddenly for Adam’s hand.  “I do so hope that no one you know is affected by this tragedy, dear boy.”

Adam’s brows knit together as he looked inquiringly into the face of Mr. Randolph.

“The steamer Golden Gate,” the older man said, half his attention still on his wife.  “Burned at sea.  There’s no need to assume our Adam knew any of the passengers, my dear.”

“It’s his part of the world,” she whispered, handkerchief held to her sniffling nose.  “They could be friends . . . family.”  Her voice choked, perhaps as she envisioned someone special to her going down on that ship.

Mr. McCrory cleared his throat.  “Perhaps you’d like to read the article, Adam?  I’m afraid it was my sharing it that started the”—he started to say “waterworks,” but reworded it more delicately as “the lady’s distress.”

“Yes, I would.”  Adam rose and crossed the room.  Quickly scanning the article McCrory pointed out to him, he learned that a steamer of the Pacific Mail line, which had left San Francisco on July 21^st, had caught fire and sunk just under a week later off the shore of Mexico.  Though the newspaper printed nothing but the bare facts, imagination could supply the cries of terror as men, women and children rushed for lifeboats or jumped into the sea to avoid the roasting flames.

At least two hundred passengers and crew members had perished, but Adam was certain that no one he knew had been on board.  Most of his friends and acquaintances were simple people and, with the possible exception of the mercantile-owning Larrimores, had no reason to travel anywhere by ocean steamer.  They’d chosen to make their homes in the far West, and most had made that choice in full knowledge that they would never again see their eastern homes.  He was, in fact, the exception, rather than the rule, as he gently explained to Mrs. Randolph.  “I so appreciate your concern on my behalf,” he told her, “but please don’t distress yourself.  As you say, the loss of life is tragic, and no one with a heart could fail to be moved by it, but it’s a national loss, not a personal one.”

“A national loss,” her husband said soberly.  “Yes, I suppose that’s how we should think of it.”

“No.”  Mrs. Randolph shook her head in a rare dispute of another’s opinion.  “I’m grateful that your loved ones are safe, Adam, and I’m grateful that none of mine were aboard that fated ship, but to the grieving families of those who were, it is as personal as I feared it might be for you.”  She wiped her eyes with the attitude of one who now knew her duty.  “I shall pray for them.”

* * * * *

The door to the inner office opened about midmorning on Saturday.  Mr. Bainbridge leaned out the doorway and called, “Adam, could you step in here, please?”

“Yes, sir,” Adam said at once.  He laid aside his drawing pencil and walked across the room to enter his employer’s private office.

“Close the door,” Mr. Bainbridge said as he circled his mahogany desk and sat down behind it.

Only his taut lips revealed his tension as Adam followed the instruction.  For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what he’d done to merit a dressing down, but both Mr. Bainbridge’s expression and his tone were so serious that he expected nothing less as he turned nervously around.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Bainbridge said, gesturing toward a chair.

“I’d just as soon stand, sir,” Adam replied.  It was the stance he had always assumed when “on the carpet” with Pa.

Bainbridge’s brow furrowed.  “Is something wrong, Adam?”

“That’s what I was going to ask,” Adam murmured nervously.  He had, of course, entertained no such idea as actually asking that question, but it was uppermost in his mind.  “If my work has been unsatisfactory . . .”

Bainbridge gasped.  “Oh, goodness, no.  No, my boy!  Your work is exemplary.  I hope you won’t think I’m meddling, but I wanted to ask some rather personal questions.”

“Oh.  All right.”  Adam couldn’t imagine what personal matters would be of interest to his employer, but he owed this man so much that he felt willing to share almost anything.  To signal his willingness to answer, he took the seat he’d been offered before.

“Are you in the habit of reading the newspaper, Adam?” Bainbridge asked.

“Well, yes,” Adam replied, “although I’m not able to do so thoroughly until the evening.”  After another restless night, he had again come to breakfast so late that he’d been unable to give the newspaper so much as a glance, although Mr. McCrory, knowing his interest, had mentioned that the third part of Les Misérables would be on sale today.  That didn’t seem likely to be what Mr. Bainbridge wanted to talk about, but suddenly Adam was sure he knew.  Smiling, he said, “I’m confident that no one I knew was on the Golden Gate, sir.”

Bainbridge stared at him blankly.  “I hadn’t assumed they were.”

Adam flushed.  “Oh, well, it’s just that it did come from my part of the world,” he stammered, echoing Mrs. Randolph’s words.  “I thought . . . perhaps”—he trailed off, not knowing how to extricate himself from his misconception.

Mr. Bainbridge looked slightly chagrined.  “Perhaps I should have made that connection, but it never occurred to me.”

“No reason it should, sir,” Adam babbled hastily.  “An elderly friend at the boardinghouse did; that’s why I thought . . . well . . . no matter.  What did you wish to speak about, sir?”

“The draft,” Bainbridge said bluntly.

Adam stared at him.  Of all the subjects he did not wish to discuss!  “The . . . draft?” he asked hesitantly, mostly to stall for time.

Bainbridge nervously shuffled some papers on his desk.  “I know it’s none of my business, but I wondered if you were planning to enlist or seek an exemption.”

Adam slumped forward.  “I wish I knew.”  He lifted his head and gazed frankly at the senior architect.  “Frankly, sir, I’ve debated that issue all summer, and I’m no closer to a decision than when I started.  Either way, I won’t be leaving the firm before the time we’ve discussed, sir.”

“Adam, Adam,” Bainbridge chided gently.  “It’s not the firm I’m concerned about: it’s you.  If you didn’t see the newspaper this morning, you may not be aware of the new restrictions on travel, but I was concerned that they might affect you, if you planned to return to Yale.”  His color heightened as he impatiently slapped the newspaper against the desk.  “Ridiculous ruling!  Restricting foreign travel is one thing, but to suggest that anyone traveling outside the county might be trying to evade the draft.”

“I can’t leave the county?” Adam asked anxiously.

“Or the state, not if you’re eligible for the draft,” Mr. Bainbridge amplified.  “I’m afraid, Adam, that you’ve resided in New York City long enough to make you subject to its jurisdiction.  And if they decide that you are trying to flee the draft, they can forcibly take you to the nearest military post and place you on compulsory military duty for the duration of the draft period, anywhere from nine months to three years, depending on whether you were drafted to fill a veteran regiment or one of the new ones.  To add insult to the injury, they would also require you to pay for your transportation there and an extra five dollars to the officer who arrested you.”

“Then I’d better enlist,” Adam murmured, feeling a certain measure of relief.  If he absolutely couldn’t get back to Yale, the decision he had agonized over all summer had, in effect, been made for him.  He still wasn’t sure he wanted to be a soldier, but he knew this much about himself: he would rather go by his own choice than by compulsion.

“Don’t be hasty, my boy,” Bainbridge advised.  “I can’t believe they’re serious about this travel restriction.  For mercy’s sake, they’d shut down all commerce and communication if they followed it to the letter.  People couldn’t even commute between here and Brooklyn or Jersey City!  But until saner minds prevail, I think you should protect yourself by filing for exemption.  As a student, you would qualify.”

Adam pursed his lips.  “I don’t know,” he said slowly.  “I hate to tie myself down, either way, when I haven’t made a firm decision yet.  I know it’s a weakness to be so vacillating, but—”

“Not at all, not at all,” Mr. Bainbridge interrupted to say.  “It’s an important decision, one that should not be made in haste, and that is why I say you should file for exemption.”

Adam cocked his head in puzzlement.  “But wouldn’t that be making the decision . . . right now?”

The senior architect came around the desk to lay his hands on the young man’s shoulders.  “No, son.  Don’t you see?  If you should later decide that you want to serve, you can still make that choice, but if you’re drafted, then the choice is taken out of your hands.  You would have to serve, unless you could pay for a substitute.”

“No,” Adam said at once.  Though his father would probably be willing to pay for a substitute, he just couldn’t let another man take his place in battle.

Mr. Bainbridge nodded as if he understood Adam’s unspoken reasons.  “Then, file for exemption,” he said, “to preserve your right to choose.”  Seeing Adam slowly nod, he said, “I want you to take the rest of the day off and get that taken care of now.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Adam protested.  “We leave early today as it is.  Surely, there’ll be time after work.”

“The lines may be long,” Bainbridge argued, “and you have little time to spare, Adam.  The exemptions must be filed by the 15^th, and that’s only six days from now.”

“Then I do need to get it done today—or early next week, when my absence here might pose more inconvenience,” Adam admitted.

“Precisely,” Bainbridge said with a smile.

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness in bringing this to my attention, sir,” Adam said, “and your generosity in giving me time off to take care of the matter.”

“Generosity?” Bainbridge laughed.  “I thought I was being selfish, ensuring that you return to us next summer.”  He sobered quickly.  “I’m not trying to discourage you from enlisting, you understand?  The War Department has also called for the arrest and imprisonment of anyone doing that, and I would not want my motives so misconstrued in any case.”

“Not at all, sir,” Adam assured him.  “You’ve given me wise counsel, but left the decision entirely to me.  I’d testify to that, if need be.”

Chuckling, Bainbridge hauled him up by one arm.  “I doubt there’ll be any need of that.  Off with you now.  You might as well take Bert with you for an early lunch, but I will expect him back afterwards.”

Adam thanked him again and hurried out to tell Bert that they were free to leave for lunch.

“What’s up?” Bert demanded as they exited the office.

“Tell you over lunch,” Adam promised.  “Where to?”

They decided on Windust’s, because Adam mentioned that he had an errand at City Hall after lunch and that restaurant was on his way, while still being close to the office for Bert’s return.  As they came in sight of #5 Ann Street, Adam smiled at the motto over the door: Nunquam No Paratus.  Imperfect Latin, but he knew from previous visits how well it suited the restaurant, which was “never not prepared,” whether for the newspapermen that thronged it during the day or the actors and patrons of the nearby Park Theatre in the evening.  Wanting their conversation to be private, Adam gestured toward one of the stalls that lined one side of the basement room.  With a fond glance at the playbill of Hamlet that hung on the wall above the table, he slid onto the bench on one side of the stall.

Bert followed, taking the other side of the table.  “So, what’s the errand?” he asked as soon as he and Adam had turned in their orders.  “Not a delivery, I take it, since you didn’t bring any papers with you.”

“No, not a delivery,” Adam said.  “Mr. Bainbridge has given me the afternoon off, to file for exemption from army service.”  He gave his friend a mischievous grin.  “You, on the other hand, will be slaving away until the usual hour.”

“Doing double duty, your work and mine,” Bert snorted.  “So, you’ve decided against enlisting, then?”

Adam sighed.  “No, not definitely, but Mr. Bainbridge advised me to get the exemption, to avoid being forced into the military against my will.”

“Oh . . . the draft.”  Bert shook his head.  “You’re lucky, Adam, that you qualify for exemption.”

The waiter served their plates, and then Adam commented, “It’s always best to have a choice.”  Seeing the sour skew of his friend’s mouth, which had nothing to do with the bite of corned beef he’d just placed in it, he said, “Maybe voluntary enlistments will be sufficient, and they won’t have to resort to the draft.”

“Hope so,” Bert said after swallowing his meat.

“You’ve definitely made your decision, then?” Adam inquired.  He had avoided the topic for so long that he wasn’t sure what his friend’s current feelings were.

“I’d rather not be a soldier,” Bert admitted.  “I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

Adam frankly agreed, but didn’t say so.  Instead, he tentatively asked, “Is a substitute a possibility?”

Bert nodded.  “It’s a lot of money, of course, but I think Mother would insist on it.”

Adam sliced into his beefsteak.  “Well, you’d better not plan on visiting them for a while, my friend,” he said lightly.

“Hmm?” Bert mumbled past a full mouth.

Knowing that Bert had probably not seen the article, either, Adam explained the new edicts from the War Department.  “That’s why Mr. Bainbridge urged me to establish my exemption; otherwise, I might never have made it to New Haven to start the new term!”

“Good lands,” Bert gasped.  “Well, I guess I’m stuck here in New York until it’s settled one way or the other, but I hadn’t planned to go home before Thanksgiving, anyway.”

“Bound to be settled by then,” Adam assured him as they both dug into the fried potatoes that came with their meat.

* * * * *

With promises to meet in City Hall Park after two o’clock, Adam separated from Bert once they reached Broadway.  He went north to the park, grimacing again at the white tents dotting the lawn.  Nothing like the sight of soldiers drilling to make a man on his way to file an exemption cringe, he thought, as he strode purposefully past them and entered City Hall.

It was a madhouse.  Adam quickly realized that he was not the only young man who had delayed this decision to the last minute, for hundreds packed the halls and stairways, all buzzing with their business like a swarm of bees.  In a way, that made him feel less an oddity, but it also sent a shiver racing up his spine.  He had to get this done today, and the length of the line snaking its way upstairs made him wonder if he could.  Not everyone was trying to avoid the draft, however; some were evidently there only to turn the mayhem to their advantage.  Adam hadn’t even reached the second floor before the first approached him and offered, for a fee, to fill out his exemption papers for him.  “I can handle that myself,” he’d grunted coldly, only to have to repeat himself every few minutes as he slowly made his way upward.

On the first landing he frowned when he saw a gray-haired man surrounded by three of those here only for profit.  Each was offering to file exemption papers for the man, touting his expertise and the fairness of his fee.  Deciding that there was nothing honest about these men’s offers of help, Adam stepped out of line and walked over to the older man.  “Excuse me, sir,” he began.

“Move on, sonny,” one of the three men surrounding the other snapped.  “A young whippersnapper like you can’t have the know-how to help this gentleman.”

“More than you, unless my eyes deceive me,” Adam said sharply.  Ignoring them, he again addressed the gray-haired man.  “Please pardon my forwardness, sir, but would you mind telling me your age?”

“None of your business!” shouted another fee-filer.

“Why, I don’t mind,” the older man said.  “The Lord has blessed me with fifty years, young man.”

“Then, sir, you don’t need to file exemption papers,” Adam informed him.  “No one under eighteen or over forty-five does.  You are automatically exempt.”

The man stared at him, wide-eyed with hope of escaping the madhouse.  “Are you certain?”

“Completely certain,” Adam said.  “Please don’t waste your time or money, sir.”

“Doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” the third man sputtered.  “You can see he’s barely out of diapers!”

The gray-haired man compared the three angry faces with the calm and kindly young one before him.  “I think I’ll trust the toddler,” he said, extending his hand toward Adam.  “Thank you, young man.”

Adam shook his hand, and as the older man started down the stairs, he turned back toward the line, wondering if anyone would let him in or if he’d have to start back downstairs at its tail.  A hefty hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Not so fast, sonny,” an ominous voice snarled.  “You cost me my fee, so either cough it up yourself or—”

“You have no fee coming,” Adam snorted.  “You’re nothing but a swindler, preying on those who don’t know better.”

“And you’re nothing but an interfering brat, about to get his comeuppance,” a second swindler announced, punctuating his remark with a punch to Adam’s jaw.

The blow, something he hadn’t expected here in the civilized East, took Adam off guard, but he quickly recovered and drove a solid fist into the other man’s stomach.  When the man dropped to the floor, Adam kept one eye on him, while facing the other two, fists raised at the ready.  Neither seemed inclined to try him.  One slapped the other’s arm and said, “Come on.  There’s other fish to fry.”  And the two of them tromped down the stairs.

Behind Adam, a round of applause broke out and a voice up the line called out, “Up here!”  Seeing the man who had previously been behind him in line, Adam trotted up the stairs and again took his place.

“Thanks,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.  “Good of you to let me back in.”

The man shrugged.  “Oh, I just want a ringside seat, in case you decide to go at another one.”

Adam grinned as he rubbed his jaw.  “Well, I’d rather not.”

The other man, probably five years his senior, grinned back.  “Too bad.  We could use the entertainment while we wait.”

“You can take your turn at entertaining us next time,” Adam suggested wryly.  “There’s enough of those pests infesting the place to give us both plenty of exercise.”

Perhaps his reputation preceded him, but Adam had no more trouble with the pests that afternoon.  Instead, he almost enjoyed the long wait because he now had someone to share it with.  Eventually, he reached the County Clerk’s office, filed the proper papers and made his way past the throng still waiting in line.  Consulting his watch, he determined that it would be at least another half hour before Bert could reach the park, so he walked up Broadway to D. Appleton and Company and purchased a copy of Part III of Les Misérables.  Bert still wasn’t there when he returned to the park, so he dropped down on the grass next to the streetcar stop and began to read “Marius.”

He was so absorbed in trying to discover what this completely new character had to do with his old friends, Jean Valjean and Cosette, that he didn’t notice when Bert dropped down beside him on the lawn.  “Hey,” Bert said, bumping Adam’s shoulder with his own.  “Are we still going to the park concert or would you rather go home and read that thing?”

Adam laughed and closed the book.  “Like any petulant child, I want both, of course—music and the book—but not at home.  Let’s go on to Central Park, as we’d planned, and I’ll try not to rudely bury my nose in the book between numbers.”

“Wouldn’t bother me if you did,” Bert said amiably.  “Perhaps I’ll find someone chattier than you at the park to keep me entertained.”

Adam got to his feet, reached down a hand to pull his friend up and, with a positively impish twinkle in his eye, suggested, “If it’s someone chattier you want, I suppose we should go home, so you can invite Miss Rose along.”

“Not that chatty,” Bert moaned.  “It’s been too long a week for that.  I prefer the relative quiet of the tubas and trumpets, in spite of the horrendous heat.”

Laughing in agreement, Adam shoved him toward the horse car that had just pulled up to their stop.  To pass the time, he began throwing out names beginning with “L,” attempting once again to guess Bert’s middle name.  “Lael, Laird, Landon, Lancelot,” he tried.

“No, no, a thousand times no,” Bert laughed.

Adam’s eyes dropped to the book in his lap.  Inspired by the setting of Les Misérables, he tried another French name.  “How about Lafayette?”

Bert gasped.  “How—I mean”—he tried to cover his gaffe by gazing out the window of the car.

Adam laughed in triumph and announced smugly, “I told you I’d figure it out.”  Then he shook his head in commiseration.  “Bertram Lafayette, huh?  What were your parents thinking?  We hang people in Nevada for lesser crimes!”