Johnny went through his pockets one by one. At last he came up with a crumpled dollar bill.

Joe took it. "Letsh get a cab," he said. "I know a saloon where we can get shome credit."

Johnny's head lay on the table. The cool marble top felt good against his face. Someone was trying to pull him up, but he didn't want to get up. He pushed the hands away. "Ish my fault, Peter, ish my fault."

Joe looked down at him, then turned to the man standing with him. "He'sh drunk, Al."

Al Santos spoke tersely. "You'ra the fin-a one to talk."

"He'sh drunker than I am," Joe insisted.

"That'sa only because he hasn't the experience with drinking that you have," Al replied. "He'sa not as old as you are. He's still a kid."

"He'sh twenty-two."

"I wouldn't care if he was fifty," Al shot back. "He'd still be a kid to me." He turned back to Johnny and shook him. "Come on, Johnny boy, get up. It's Al, I been looking for you all night."

Johnny just turned his head and mumbled: "I'm sorry, Peter. 'Sall my fault."

Al turned to Joe. "What's this he always keeps saying he's sorry for?"

Joe was beginning to sober up, his eyes were beginning to clear. "Poor kid," he said. "He wanted to make a picture that busted up the works. We all lost our dough and Johnny keeps saying it's his fault."

"Is it?" Al asked.

Joe looked at him. "No, it isn't. True enough, it was his idea, but it was a good one and n.o.body made us go into it. We were old enough to know what we were doing."

"Come over here and tell me about it," Al said, leading the way to another table. The waiter came up and he ordered a bottle of wine.

He listened silently to Joe's story. Every now and then he would look over at the table where Johnny was sleeping and smile to himself fondly.

Johnny Edge. He remembered the first time he had heard the name. A wagon had pulled into the carnival he had been running, late one night in 1898. That was thirteen years ago. A long time, but now it didn't seem so long ago. The years had flown by.

That was the year he and his brother, Luigi, had bought that farm in California. Luigi wanted to see things grow, raise grapes for wine, and see oranges hanging from the trees like in the old country, and he wanted to have some place to go when he retired. And here he was, fifty-four years old and retired, and going out to the farm in California.

It had been early morning and he had come out of his wagon. The purple gray mists of the dawn still hung closely to the ground as he walked around to the back of his wagon and relieved himself. He had felt someone watching him and he turned around.

It was a small boy, about nine years old. Al looked at him closely; there weren't any boys that age around the carnival. "Who are you?" he had asked.

"Johnny Edge," the boy had answered, looking at him levelly out of candid blue eyes.

Al's face looked blank and the boy hastened to explain. "I'm with my mother and father. They just joined your show last night."

"Oh," Al said as he understood suddenly. "You're with Doc Psalter?"

"That's my father," Johnny had answered gravely, "but that's not his real name. He's really Walter Edge and my mother is Jane Edge." He turned and pointed. "That's their wagon over there."

"Well then," Al had said, "let's go over and say h.e.l.lo."

The boy turned and looked up at him gravely. "You're Al Santos, aren't you?"

Al nodded his head and started for the Edge wagon. Suddenly he stopped and looked down. The small boy had taken his hand as they walked toward the wagon together.

He remembered the night Johnny's parents had been killed in the fire that burned down the big tent. Jane had been caught by the tent just as the center pole came down, and Johnny's father had gone in after her. When they got to him, he was burned badly. The hair was gone from his head and face, pieces of raw flesh shone redly through the cracked skin.

They took him out and stretched him on the ground. Al knelt on one side of him, Johnny on the other.

Johnny's father looked up at them. "Jane?" he asked. His voice was so faint they could hardly hear him.

Al shook his head and looked pityingly over at Johnny. Johnny was only ten years old then and his face was dull with shock. He could not understand what had happened so quickly.

Walter Edge reached up and took his son's hand. With his other hand he brought Al's hand over to the boy's. "Look after him for me, Al," he whispered. "He's just a tyke an' he's got a long way to go." He gasped for breath and then turned an agonized face to Al. "If the time comes that he ever wants to get out of this business, Al, help him. Don't let what happened to me ever happen to him."

That was why Al didn't try to stop Johnny when he left the carny. He remembered the way Johnny had followed him around the carny until he learned to do everything that Al could do.

Al never had time to get married and raise a family like his brother, Luigi, and after a while it seemed to him just as if Johnny had become his own son. When Johnny decided to go back to Peter, Al said nothing. If that was what the kid wanted, that was what Al wanted for him.

Now that he had retired, he wanted to see Johnny before he went out west. He had gone up to the studio, but found no one there. He called Peter on the phone, but Peter didn't know where Johnny had gone. He then called Johnny's home, but there was no answer.

And now, only through accident, he had found him. It was in the saloon on Fourteenth Street where all the carny men hung out that he had come looking for Joe. He hadn't expected to find Johnny there, but he figured that Joe would know where he was.

Joe finished his story. Al was silent for a second, then he took out a thin black stogie and lit it.

"What's this-a combine you're talking about?" he asked.

"They control all the picture patents among them. Without their say-so you can't make motion pictures." Joe looked at him curiously. He wondered what Al was getting at.

"You gotta the stuff to make-a this pitch' with?"

"It's all layin' there, up in the studio," Joe nodded.

Al turned the stogie reflectively in his hand for a moment. "Wake Johnny up," he said, "I wanna talk to him."

Joe got up and walked over to the bar. Tiny p.r.i.c.kles were jumping around in his skin as they always did when he was excited. "Gimme a pitcher of ice water," he said to the bartender.

Silently the bartender filled a pitcher under the counter and handed it to him.

Joe walked back to Johnny and held the pitcher over his head and emptied it.

The water splashed over the back of Johnny's head and dripped down on his clothes. Johnny only stirred.

Joe went back to the bar. "Fill it up again."

The bartender refilled the pitcher and Joe went back to Johnny and repeated the treatment.

This time Johnny came up with a start. He sat up and shook his head and stared at Joe through blurred eyes. "It's raining," he said.

Joe looked at him and then turned back to the bartender. "One more ought to do the trick," he said.

Johnny tried to focus his eyes on Joe as he came back to him, but his eyes kept blurring. What was that thing Joe was carrying in his hand?

The water hit him like a flood. It was icy cold and bit through to his marrow. Suddenly his head cleared. He stood up. He was still a bit wobbly on his feet. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" he managed to ask Joe through chattering teeth.

Joe grinned at him. "I'm trying to sober you up. We got company," he said, pointing to Al.

10.

Peter couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned on his bed all night, and the sheets were damp with sweat. Quietly Esther lay beside him. She lay awake watching him, a curious hurt within her for his suffering.

"If there were only something I could do for him," she thought, "something I could say to make him really feel that it doesn't matter what happens-that the only important thing is that he tried. But there's nothing."

Peter looked up through the dark at the ceiling. He knew Esther was awake and he wanted her to sleep. The kids kept her running around all day. It was too much that she should have to spend the night up with him. He lay quiet and tried to simulate the slow breathing of sleep.

"If I had only taken Segale's offer things would be all right now," he thought, his mind going over the same ground for the thousandth time. "Johnny wouldn't have said anything then. He knew there wasn't anything else I could have done." He reproached himself silently. "Johnny didn't have anything to do with it. I wanted to make the picture, he didn't force me. It was my own fault, I was too stubborn in Segale's office." He stirred restlessly. He wanted a cigar, then he remembered he wanted Esther to think he was sleeping, so he lay quiet.

The night wore on and neither of them slept. Each lay as quietly as possible, wanting the other to get some rest, but neither of them succeeded in fooling the other.

At last Peter couldn't lie still any more. Slowly, carefully, he sat up in bed, listening for a change in Esther's breathing. She was quiet. He slipped his feet softly into the slippers at the foot of the bed and stood up. He stood there for a second and then silently tiptoed into the kitchen. He shut the door softly behind him so that the light would not shine into the bedroom and waken her.

The bright light hurt his eyes for a moment. As soon as his eyes cleared, he went to the table and picked up a cigar and lit it. He heard the door open behind him. He turned around.

Esther stood there. "Maybe you'd like a cup of coffee?"

He nodded his head silently and watched her as she went over to the stove and lit the flame under the coffee pot. She came over to the table and sat down opposite him.

Her hair was loose and hung over her shoulders in thick, luxuriant waves. He wanted to reach out and touch it, it looked so alive and warm, but he didn't. He just puffed silently at his cigar.

"When my father used to have troubles," she said, "he always came into the kitchen and smoked a cigar and drank a cup of coffee. 'It clears the head,' he used to say, 'it helps a man to think.' It's funny you should do the same thing."

He looked down at his cigar. "I'm not as wise a man as your father was. I make too many mistakes."

She reached across the table and put her hand on his. "My father used to tell me a story that went something like this. There was once a very wise old man known in his village as Yacov the Wise. And people used to come from all the countryside to sit at his feet and thus gain in wisdom from the pearls the Wise One would drop from his lips. One day there came a young, impetuous man who wanted to learn all he could from the master in one sitting. He did not have time to sit, as the others did, for weeks at the feet of the Wise One. He had to learn everything at once so he could be about his business. 'O Wise One,' he said, 'I am overcome with the wonders of your knowledge and would like to know how I could gain the wisdom so necessary in order to avoid the foolish mistakes of youth.' The Wise One turned and looked at the brash young man. He looked at him for a long, long time. At last he spoke. 'Impetuous young seeker after knowledge,' he said gently, 'you can learn to avoid the mistakes of youth by living to a ripe old age.' The young man thought this over and at last he got to his feet and thanked the Wise One for answering his question. For it was the truth the Wise One had spoken. A mistake is not recognized until it has been made and pa.s.sed. For a mistake recognized before it was made would not be made and therefore would not be a mistake."

Peter turned his hand over and held her hand in his. He looked at her seriously and spoke softly in Yiddish. "Thy name was not given thee for nought. Thy wisdom is that of the good Queen whose name thou bearest."

The coffee bubbled over on the stove. Startled, she jumped to her feet and turned off the flame. She looked back at him over her shoulder. "Of what good is the wisdom of Queen Esther in a wife if she can't make her husband a good cup of coffee?"

They laughed and suddenly began to feel better.

Peter stood up and put out his cigar. He was smiling warmly at her. "Come," he said, "let's go to bed. The worries can keep for the morrow."

"No coffee?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No coffee. That can wait for the morrow too."

They were sleeping when the telephone began to ring. Esther sat up in bed, frightened. To her, the telephone ringing in the night meant tragedy. She sat there in the dark, her heart pounding; her hand reached out for Peter.

He picked up the phone. "h.e.l.lo," he said, "h.e.l.lo."

Johnny's voice came excitedly through the receiver. "Peter, are you up?"

Peter answered in a testy voice: "To whom would you be talking if I was asleep?"

"It's fixed, Peter," Johnny was shouting. "We can make the picture!"

"You're drunk," Peter said flatly. "Go home and go to sleep."

"I was drunk," Johnny answered, "but honest, Peter, I'm sober as a judge now. It's all set. We can make the picture!"

Peter was wide awake. "You mean it?" His voice was incredulous, he couldn't believe his ears.

"Would I call you up at four o'clock in the morning if it weren't the truth?" Johnny asked. "Now go back to sleep and be at the studio at eight o'clock and I'll give you all the dope." Johnny hung up the phone.

Peter clicked the empty receiver in his hand. "Johnny!" he said. "Johnny!"

There was no answer, the phone was dead.

Peter hung up and turned to Esther, his eyes shining with tears. "Did you hear him? Did you hear that crazy kid?"

She was excited. "I heard him," she said.

"Isn't it wonderful?" he cried, putting his arms around her and kissing her.

"Now, Peter," she laughed happily, "remember. You want the neighbors should think we're newlyweds?"

11.

Johnny was seated at his desk talking excitedly to a short dark man as Peter entered the studio at a quarter to eight. Peter had never seen the man before. Johnny had some sheets of paper in front of him and was just showing them to the stranger when he saw Peter.

He jumped to his feet and came halfway across the office to meet Peter. The little man in the loud plaid suit followed him. Johnny looked at Peter and grinned. "This is Al Santos," he said.