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“I am,” Thadeus Lowry said, turning himself and his walking stick in a half circle. “Thadeus Lowry of The New York Star.”

  “We tried to phone you at the newspaper. No one there seemed to know where you were.” The Evacuation Lady straightened her hat. “In fact, some we talked to there didn’t know who you are.”

  “You must have been talking to the advertising department,” said Thadeus Lowry. “Those who sell space for the dollar feel my writing intrudes upon their displays offering hair restoratives.”

  “Well, if you’d come this way and sign forms…”

  “Forms? For what?”

  “For Burnes, here. He’s an orphan, Mr. Lowry. Don’t you understand? He’s been evacuated from England.”

  Thadeus Lowry looked at Robby as if Robby suddenly had grown larger. “An orphan. Oh, yes.”

  “There’s a war on, Mr. Lowry. We all have to do our bit.”

  “Oh. And what are you saying is my bit?”

  The Evacuation Lady jerked her elbow toward Robby Burnes. “That’s your bit. Take him along with you.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Thadeus Lowry. “Take him along…”

  “He’s been here, you know, waiting for you since before dawn. The others were picked up before seven this morning.”

  “Ah. Well. You see, this way the boy and I will be able to appreciate a timely and leisurely lunch.”

  “Come into the shed.”

  Robby picked up his suitcase and followed them into the shed. The office was not much warmer than the dock.

  The Evacuation Lady put a sheet of paper on a grimy counter and said, “Have you a pen?”

  “Is a carpenter ever without his saw, or a plumber without his wrench? The answer to both questions, of course, as these poltroons of the lower classes are now paid by the hour, is yes. The pen, however, is the tool of my trade, and I know no hours.”

  “Apparently not. You’re a reporter?”

  “A man of letters, ma’am, a writer, a journalist…”

  “Would you sign the forms, please?”

  “Let me see, now: Robert Burnes, male, age eight, English, good God,” said Thadeus Lowry, looking down at Robby, “is that all they have to say for you? They ask me to acquit myself little better. Married, yes, American citizen, yes; yes, I promise to run him ’round to the post office to get him stamped English, send him to school, keep him out of the pool room, provide him with clean hankies…” Thadeus Lowry’s voice dwindled as he signed the paper with a large hand.

  Putting his pen back into his pocket, he said more loudly to the Evacuation Lady, and more precisely: “And now, where is his leash?”

  3

  Penetrating the Frozen Tundra by Foot

  “What a journalist needs most, Burnes, is a good set of legs.”

  Thadeus Lowry, his walking stick preceding him, and Robby Burnes, running behind, dragging his black suitcase, set off briskly from the customs shed into America. As they stabbed and dragged their way along the sidewalk several taxicabs passed, honking their horns, their drivers shouting through their windows offers of quick, warm, comfortable transportation. The mist had turned to light, blowing snow.

  “Am I to be a journalist then, sir?”

  “I should certainly hope so,” said Thadeus Lowry into the wind, “if you take proper advantage of being under my influence. There’s no higher estate to which one may aspire. We’re all reporters, one way or another, in life. We’ll turn up this street. But only those of us who make a fine art of observation and have good legs are privileged to be employed as the minds and the hearts of The People, as journalists.”

  “Observation, sir?”

  “Observation and legs: the foundation and erection of a noble career in journalism. Look at The People, young Burnes. A story in every one of them. Up this way.”

  “Look at all the taxicabs, sir.”

  “Things aren’t so easy in England just now, are they? Around this corner.”

  Robby’s legs were still wobbly from his sea voyage. His school shoes were not much good on the frozen slime of the sidewalks. His suitcase was as heavy and as disobedient hanging from his left arm as from his right. And the only area of his body which was partly warm was the section of his left leg being abraded by Pomfrey’s kneesock’s name tag.

  “I daresay you’d like some lunch.”

  “I’d like anything, sir.”

  “Something warming.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Melted cheddar cheese over crackers. A mug of chowder. A warm egg sandwich in the fist. Just the morning for it.”

  “It’s afternoon, sir.”

  “I know a place just up this street.”

  After another block or two, Thadeus Lowry opened a recessed brown door. Flashing red neon lights on each side of the door warned MEN ONLY.

  Thadeus Lowry was holding the door open. Inside was darkness. The same smell of wet pine-tree disinfectant and vomit emanated from the darkness as had from the ship.

  “Is this place called Men Only, sir?”

  Thadeus Lowry pointed with his walking stick to three golden orbs stuck together, hanging over the door. “It’s called The Three Balls,” he said. “It’s named after the entire Nazi High Command.”

  “But, sir, the signs say nothing about small boys.”

  “That,” said Thadeus Lowry, “is because there is nothing to be said about small boys. Will you come in?”

  The floor was a pentagonal tile. Green sawdust collected in piles and swirls on it.

  Along the right-hand wall ran a tall, brown, wooden bar. A brass rail ran along its base. Half the men at the bar had one foot on the rail.

  “Lowry!” shouted one of them. “Great story this morning. Great human interest.”

  “My byline wasn’t in the morning newspaper,” Thadeus Lowry said with dignity.

  “That’s what was so great about it,” the man said. “In behalf of human interest, the editors threw your story in the wastebasket!”

  Along the wall across from the bar were brown wooden booths with tables in them.

  “Who’ve you got carrying your suitcase now, Thadeus?” asked a man breathing on Robby.

  “This is Burnes. My bit for the war effort.”

  “He’s rather short, Thadeus.”

  “I expect so. It’s all right. I’ll pay.”

  Thadeus Lowry raised his stick and called at someone over the bar.

  “Solomon! A drink!”

  A voice said, “What will you have, Mr. Lowry?”

  “A double whiskey for me, please, and a proper Guinness for my friend here.”

  “What friend, Mr. Lowry?” said the voice. “Are you seeing the small, crawly things again?”

  “My friend,” said Thadeus Lowry, pointing his stick at Robby. “My friend. Down here.”

  “Can you spell your name backwards for me, Mr. Lowry?”

  “Solomon, if you’d just look over the bar, you’d see my friend. Indulge me this much.”

  The top of a head, eyeglasses, and a nose appeared over the edge of the bar and peered down at Robby.

  “You see, Solomon? A person.”

  “He drinks Guinness?” asked the head.

  “Never touches a thing stronger before lunch.”

  “He hasn’t had lunch?”

  “We’re coming to that.”

  “It’s quarter to three in the afternoon, Mr. Lowry.”

  “As long as you’re bringing the drinks over to a booth,” said Thadeus Lowry, “you might save yourself a truss by bringing me two double whiskeys.”

  “And two Guinnesses?”

  “And two Guinnesses.”

  “And how many straws?”

  After Thadeus Lowry had hung his overcoat and his hat on a peg and propped his walking stick against a wall, he conducted Robby to a booth.

  Robby continued wearing his overcoat, as he had since leaving Wolsley School.

  “Is this a gentlemen’s club, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Thadeus Lowry,
looking at Robby carefully. “It is. In a way.”

  “And are all these gentlemen members?”

  “They are. But in this country we call them regulars.”

  “Is it terribly difficult to get into a club like this?”

  “Allow me to explain,” said Thadeus Lowry. “In England, the expression is, you have to stand for a club. In America, being more of a democracy, all you have to do to be admitted to a place like this is to stand.”

  “You mean: stand up?”

  “Yes. That’s what I mean. Things are more democratic here.”

  “Is your newspaper office near here?”

  “Not far, not far. We’ll go there after lunch. Ah, here’s lunch.”

  On Solomon’s tray were two glasses of whiskey, the two glasses of beer, and a bowl of chowder crackers.

  Solomon waited at the edge of the table until Thadeus Lowry paid him.

  “This is the American bookkeeping system,” said Thadeus Lowry. “Nothing on the cuff. Simplifies things.”

  “It’s the only way of getting paid regular,” said Solomon, thus allowing Robby to understand why the club members were called regulars. “I brought you some hors de saison,” Solomon said, pushing the bowl of chowder crackers nearer to Robby.

  Thadeus Lowry saluted Solomon’s back and drained one of the glasses of whiskey. “Now I’ll show you how to drink the Guinness.” He took one of the glasses of stout, drained it, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked at Robby and said, “Ah, the first drink of the day. Makes sleeping late worthwhile.”

  Robby was eating the chowder crackers by the fistfuls. “Is that why you missed the boat, Mr. Lowry? You slept late?”

  “‘Missed the boat!’ I never missed the boat in my life. A true journalist, Robby, strong in the thigh and quick of eye, never misses a story within his purview.”

  “Am I a story, sir?”

  Thadeus Lowry sipped from his second glass of whiskey. “There was a moment, there, when I thought you might be. Why else would I have shown up at the dock this morning?”

  “You didn’t, sir. You showed up at the dock this afternoon. Everyone else showed up this morning.”

  “A story, Robby, doesn’t happen until a journalist arrives.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You must learn these things, if you’re to take advantage of my influence upon you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I received a cable, from London, saying, ‘Meet Robby Burnes, H.M.S. Scaramouche, New York,’ etc., etc. The spelling of your name puzzled me, somewhat, your extra E in Burnes, but then again the cable company had managed to spell New York with three A’s. Now, I ask you, what journalist in his sane mind wouldn’t put in an appearance having received such a cable? As a journalist, Robby, one must consider the best uses of one’s valuable time. At best, I reasoned, a dead poet would appear; at worse, a smokeable cigar. A story. You must always think in terms of the story, Robby.”

  “You’re not my uncle, sir.”

  “Hardly likely,” said Thadeus Lowry. “I had only one sibling I knew of, a sister. An impatient child, she was crushed by an ice-cream wagon at the age of six. Story was she was in a mortal rush for a chocolate ripple cone.”

  “Honorary uncle, sir? Lots of lads have ’em.”

  “My name must have entered your life, somewhere, been mentioned somehow in your family’s progress. Of course, it’s entirely possible your parents were admirers of my journalism, perceived my wit, wisdom, sagacity, and agreed between themselves that, should anything befall them, the best thing that could happen to their son would be to be brought up under my tutelage.”

  “I don’t think my parents read The New York Times, sir.”

  “Actually, I don’t write for The New York Times. I write for The New York Star. The Star is somewhat smaller than The Times, but a livelier newspaper. It has a reputation for attracting the more imaginative writers.”

  “Is The New York Star read in London, sir?”

  “Who knows how far the written word flies? Sagacity cannot be confined within borders.”

  “Could there be some other explanation, sir?”

  The redness of Thadeus Lowry’s face had increased greatly since coming into the warmth of The Three Balls after his brisk walk in the snow from the dock. His eyes, coursing over the various glasses on the table, had softened. He reached into a pocket. “One thing you can say for your family’s attorneys is that they do not fritter away your shillings by being garrulous in a transatlantic cable.”

  Thadeus Lowry unfolded a yellow rectangle of paper and read from it. “‘Meet Robby Burnes, H.M.S. Scaramouche, New York.’ It’s addressed to me at The Star, and it’s signed ‘Pollack, Carp and Fish, Solicitors.’” Thadeus Lowry dropped the sheet of yellow paper onto the wet table. “Someone at Pollack, Carp and Fish has missed a wonderful career as a headline writer. Or maybe they have T. S. Eliot on retainer to do their cables for them. I could have used a column or two of information. At least a sidebar. And note if you will, young Robby, the cable does not conclude with the usual, forward-looking phrase, Letter following. In truth, it doesn’t even indicate—at least to the guileless and unwary—Boy following.”

  Robby did not pick up the cable. He said, “Our house was bombed.”

  “While you were away at school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good for you. Is that your school uniform?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I like the school emblem,” Thadeus Lowry said, looking at Robby’s cap. “How many years has that moose been sharpening his horns against that tree?”

  “Is that what it means, sir? No one ever said. The school is three hundred years old. We’re celebrating this year with a special Games Day.”

  “Sounds drafty.”

  Robby picked up the cable from where it had been lying wet in a beer ring and handed it back to Thadeus Lowry.

  “I’ve been left in your charge, sir.”

  Thadeus Lowry studied the cable further. “H.M.S. Scaramouche is clearly a ship. Normally, it would have been a simple matter to look up ship arrivals in The New York Star, and thus find when, and particularly where, the self-same Scaramouche was to dock, but something Pollack, Carp and Fish failed to realize, in their red-hot desire for terseness, is that that sort of information, concerning the comings and goings of ships, is not published information in these dark days of World War Two. It took my best reportorial instincts until late last night to discover against which dock, out of seven thousand miles of New York docks, the Scaramouche would nestle this morning. Throughout this entire intellectual exercise, the thought never entered my head—not once—that a small boy was being sent to me for safekeeping.”

  “I feel rather dizzy, sir.”

  “I am similarly overwhelmed.”

  “My stomach, sir. And my head.”

  “Drink up your stout,” said Thadeus Lowry, quaffing the last of his whiskey. “Lots of vitamin P. The thing is,” he said, “lots of you children are being shipped over to dodge the bombs.”

  “You don’t have bombs here?”

  “Only those we set ourselves. They’re all right, if you’re careful where you step.”

  “I’ll be careful, sir.”

  “I spent a few days with an Englishman, once,” Thadeus Lowry ruminated. “And got decorated for it. Maybe the occasion meant more to him than it did to me.” Thadeus Lowry signalled Solomon for more service. “Allow me to explain.”

  4

  Thadeus Lowry Offers an Explanation

  “Twenty-five years ago,” Thadeus Lowry explained, his fingers warming a fresh, iced double whiskey, “when I was not that much older than you, it now seems, although three times your size and doubtlessly possessing ten times your wisdom, there was another world war raging—a war now referred to as the First World War, as if we plan a steady succession of them, which probably we do. At that time it was called the Great War; some benighted politician referred to it as ‘the war to end all
wars.’ It wasn’t great, in the preferred definition of the word—it was nasty and mean and stupid, and nothing nasty, mean and stupid can be great. It wasn’t the war to end all wars, either, as present evidence indicates. In fact, it (and its settlement) went a long way toward causing the present altercation. It will be a lark, I expect, to see what the present war causes.”

  In the big brown booth of The Three Balls Tavern, Robby Burnes began to feel warm and drowsy. Thadeus Lowry’s voice was a sonorous, gravelly growl. Listening to himself, he smiled at certain points he made, and at certain pleasing, well-lathed phrases.

  “You see, no civilized adult really likes the young. Whenever you have a universal consensus on such topics as the loveliness of youth you know profound feelings run dialectically opposite. The young human being is like a kitten: Everyone thinks kittens are cute and one should have one, but, as the kitten grows and gets older and reveals more and more of its own cold, churlish, independent, insolent, destructive, demanding, and otherwise quite human nature, the more one devises ingenious means to get rid of it. Notice what happens to the human child: Immediately it begins to assert itself, yowling and thrashing, it is put behind bars in something called a crib, or a playpen; as soon as it is able to escape the playpen successfully, it is imprisoned in a building, usually made of stone, brick or concrete, called a school; and once the child grows to the point where school can no longer physically or intellectually confine it, and its own human nature becomes frighteningly assertive, adults arrange a war for it, and off it is sent to destroy itself and other youth. Nothing threatens older people more than the existence of youth. If you ever meet an adult, my boy, who genuinely loves the young and does not fear and resent youth at all, if not murderously, send him or her to me, and I’ll see to it a statue is raised in his or her image.

  “It was this revelation which allowed me, in all good conscience, to desert.”

  Thadeus Lowry, smiling, swallowed a fair portion of his drink.

  Robby asked, “Aren’t deserters shot, sir?”

  “Under circumstances then prevailing”—Thadeus Lowry smacked his lips with his tongue like an old cat—“everyone was being shot. Every day, sometimes twice a day, with our officers’ handguns at our backs, we were forced to rush forward into the rifles of our enemies. The enemies would push us back with their bayonets. We would go five trenches forward and five trenches back. In the stink and the dust and the smoke of the battle I came to recognize in which trench I was by the bodies in it. I was only sure time was passing in this nightmare by the decomposition of these same bodies—each time I jumped back into a trench, the flesh of these bodies separated more easily from the bone.