Scoring Bertram Wiggly by Man Martin

Author:Man Martin
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2010-02-13T05:00:00+00:00

The Search Continues

I sat on a bench from which I could keep an eye on the outer section of the downs and most of the square. If Sam’s orchestra were determined to play hide and seek, I could wait them out; I’d keep still, giving them no ammunition for musical jests at my expense, and sooner or later they’d be bound to show themselves.

Sure enough, keeping motionless silenced the music, except for the faint “Ode to Joy”-ish strains I have mentioned. Then even these stopped as people came down the path, evidently in the midst of a prior discussion. It was Mary and another girl; I recognized the bobbed blond hair of Lottie, a young lady – if you can call her that – of whom I never approved. They were trailed by Buddy, a young man who always struck me as likable enough in spite of being Jim Hansom’s childhood friend and something of a thimble wit. Mary did not notice me, and I did not call myself to her attention. It was a pleasure to see her beauty while being unobserved myself.

“C’mon, Lottie,” Buddy said. He was several steps behind them endeavoring to catch up; evidently Lottie and Mary had recently left his company in a huff. Lottie was still in it. Buddy’s pudgy face was flushed, and perspiration dampened the roots of his curly blond hair. “Why won’t you go to the Spring Festival with me?”

Lottie turned on her heel, “I’ve told you, Buddy Boyle, we’re through!”

“Aw, Lottie,” Mary said soothingly, “why not? You used to like him.” In spite of interceding in some sort of lovers’ quarrel, Mary’s parted lips wore a smile, and her dimple graced her cheek.

“You used to like me,” Buddy seconded.

“I used to like lots of things,” Lottie said, haughtily crossing her arms and turning away with a lifted chin. “I used to like Pabulum. As we mature, there are some tastes we outgrow.”

Buddy said, “Golly, Lottie, why don’t you like me love you used to do?” and Sam’s orchestra, which had been mute, instantly un-muted. Buddy broke into plaintive song:

“Lottie, I throw my heart before you,

“Why don’t you love me the way you used to do?

“I left a dozen roses when I knew that you were home,

“I left a box of candy, I even left a poem.”

Lottie uncrossed her arms and responded,

“Why don’t you take a hint and just leave me alone?”

“I don’t love you like I used to do, no sir!

“I don’t love you like I used to do.”

I fidgeted uncomfortably on my bench. I wanted to get away so I wouldn’t have to witness Buddy’s humiliation at the hands of this woman, but they seemed determined to make a public spectacle. They were standing so close to me, I couldn’t get up and slip away without knocking them down. Mary, I saw, had somehow evaporated; so it was just me, Buddy, Lottie, and of course Sam’s invisible orchestra that was even now leading into the second verse.

“Lottie,” Buddy sang, “you know that I adore you,

“If you’d love me the way you used to do.

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