Model Gentleman

Model Gentleman

By L. Ron Hubbard

“You can’t,” said Mrs. O’Mara, decisively, “make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

Sheila O’Mara’s piquant mouth drew down in a pout.

“Spike Sloan isn’t exactly a sow, Mother. I like him because he’s big and strong and manly. I hate men who are weak. You wait and see the way I make a gentleman out of Spike. I have a perfect example for him.”

“Humph,” said Mrs. O’Mara, removing a dust cap from her marcelled gray hair.

Someone knocked delicately upon the door and Sheila said, “That’s him now.” She departed and returned a moment later with the caller. “Mother, this is Mr. Chauncey DeLaney. He’s … he’s on the stage.”

Chauncey DeLaney bowed precisely. He was dressed in blue serge, a white gardenia in his buttonhole, gloves in hand, spats showing gray lines above his patent leather shoes. His shoulders were well proportioned, almost too well, and upon his face there appeared traces of powder. His eyes, decided Mrs. O’Mara, were mascaraed.

Chauncey DeLaney was very complimentary, very gracious.

He made another precise bow, held the door open for Sheila, bowed to Mrs. O’Mara again, and closed the door softly behind him.

“There,” said Mrs. O’Mara with an ecstatic sigh, “is a gentleman.”

Chauncey DeLaney looked attentively at Sheila. He was thinking what he had thought for the two months he had known her. She was witty and spoiled and terribly attractive. Her mouth was made to be kissed, her black hair to be smoothed, her white hands to be held. “Where are we going?” he asked when they entered the cab.

“To Spike Sloan’s gymnasium,” said Sheila, a wicked light in her black eyes. “I promised him that I would take you there. You see … well … I told Spike I wanted him to meet a … well, a real gentleman.”

“Oh,” said Chauncey DeLaney, and gave the cabby his orders.

At the Athletic Club, it did not take long to find Spike in the dim, sweat-reeking interior. On the other side of a pile of mats, Spike was boxing with a sparring partner, half hearted in the heat, his great hulking body glistening with sweat.

Spike’s trainer hissed for attention. “There’s the dame. I see she brought the model gentleman.”

Spike glanced out of the corner of his small eye, but did not deign to turn his bull head. The sparring partner, almost asleep, suddenly had the impression that the floor had erupted and swallowed him. Spike hammered in, one, two, one, two. He chucked a fist into the solar plexus, one into the heart, one into the jaw, and let a fourth to the body knock his partner unconscious.

He stepped over the body with the air of a gladiator about to receive a wreath from the emperor. Rounding the mats, muscles rippling like a big cat’s, lips drawn back in a frightening smile, he approached Sheila and her escort.

“Howdy, Sheila. How’s a gal?” Then he turned and eyed Chauncey DeLaney, his lips drawing slowly down, reversing the smile. “I see you brought the model gentleman with you. He’s cute. My, my. Dog blankets and everything.”

Spike thrust out his hand. Chauncey took it with misgivings. Instantly, Spike gave him the pressure. By looking at DeLaney’s face, you could hear the bones crack. Spike guffawed.

Spike minced away, looking like a polar bear imitating a cat, “See you in a moment, girls, soon’s I dress.”

DeLaney picked his fingers apart gingerly, polite surprise on his face.

“Isn’t he strong, though?” said Sheila. “He’s raw and untamed and violent. But his manners aren’t so good. He’s like a jewel that needs cutting. Your influence could do a lot for him, Chauncey.”

Chauncey looked at the poor, unsuspecting sparring partner who was just now coming back to God’s earth and said, “Undoubtedly, Sheila.”

“If I could just make him understand. The way he is now, I’m very often afraid of him. Although I like strong men, Chauncey, I can’t stand barbarism. I once knew a young fellow who was very nice, but one night he started a fight right in my presence. I never saw him after that. Spike … well, that’s different. Spike doesn’t know any better. But when I get through with him…”

Spike came back to them, resplendent in a forty-dollar suit and a glaring tie which was held down by a diamond. He grinned at Sheila. “Where to, kid?”

“Mother is expecting us back for tea, Spike.”

“Tea? Haw! Well, let’s be going.” He took her arm and steered her roughly out of the Athletic Club and to a cab. Chauncey DeLaney, sorrow in his eyes, brought up the rear, flicking his palm with his gray gloves in deep thought.

“So this bird’s on the stage, huh? Chorus man,” decided Spike. He looked back at DeLaney and laughed.

DeLaney held the cab door open and aided Sheila as she climbed in. Spike bustled past him. DeLaney stood back, courteously, and let him through.

DeLaney’s thoughts, as they spun back to the uptown apartment, were very dark. Sheila was chattering to Spike, and DeLaney decided that it must be the strength which got her. But still, she’d left off seeing one chap just because he’d started a row before her. DeLaney, sadly puzzled, held the cab door open again, held the outer apartment door open, helped Sheila remove her wrap, bowed to Mrs. O’Mara who had changed to a better dress, and finally sat down.

The tea came presently. Sheila poured daintily. DeLaney held his cup and plate neatly balanced upon his knee. Spike completely hid his with his great hands. Spike, drinking like a vacuum cleaner, found time to pat Mrs. O’Mara’s arm without noticing that Mrs. O’Mara moved away.

“Model gentleman,” said Spike and laughed again. “How’s it feel to be in a chorus, guy?” DeLaney did not answer. Sheila looked at him. There was friendship in her eyes when DeLaney wanted to see something more.

Spike, having drained his cup in three gusty drafts, and having swallowed his four cakes one at a time, stood up and prowled down the room, still chuckling. Then he said, “How’s it go in the chorus? Like this?” He kicked clownishly, and somehow his foot connected with DeLaney’s tea cup.

DeLaney sprang up. The liquid had been hot. He shed broken fragments of china on the rug. But Spike wished to interpret the sudden move in quite another way.

Spike lashed out with a mighty paw and caught DeLaney’s coat. “No, you don’t start nothing like that with me!”

Sheila and her mother suddenly vanished. DeLaney watched Spike’s big fist sweep back for a paralyzing jaw jolt. With a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach, DeLaney knew he must act. He did.

Before Spike’s fist had gone all the way back, DeLaney snatched his hand. He hauled Spike toward him and caught Spike’s other wrist with a dexterous snatch. DeLaney’s hands crossed over, whipped wide apart.

Suddenly Spike’s feet left the rug. He did a cartwheel which ended with a violent lurch. DeLaney whirled and somehow laid Spike across his shoulders. Spike soared down the room and struck the wall. Two pictures leaped out and shattered themselves on the floor. A chair went into a shattered shambles.

Spike slumped against the wall. His nose was bleeding, his eyes were flat and expressionless. His hands flopped limply.

DeLaney replaced a stray hair which had come loose. He knew it was all over now. She didn’t like fights in her presence. He picked up his hat and opened the door to the hall, walking slowly, head bowed.

Swift, nervous footsteps sounded behind him. A white hand reached out and dragged him back into the apartment. He saw Sheila’s uplifted face, saw two tears glisten in her oddly changed black eyes.

“Chauncey,” said Sheila, as though it was a caress.

Spike was still down, trying futilely to stem the red tide from his nose. “I … I thought you was a chorus man,” said Spike.

“But, aren’t you?” said Sheila.

Chauncey looked embarrassed. “I didn’t say that. I said I was on the stage. I’m … well, I’m an acrobat.”

“Oh,” said Sheila, ecstatically, arms tight about his neck.

Mrs. O’Mara smiled and patted her marcelled gray hair. “You can’t,” she murmured, “make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but why try when you’ve got the silk?”

Glossary

dog blankets: spats. The phrase comes from dog meaning foot or shoe and blanket referring to a shoe accessory covering the instep and ankle. Spats were primarily worn in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.⬆︎

marcelled: hair styled with deep, continuous waves.⬆︎

piquant: engagingly provocative.⬆︎

serge: a twilled woolen fabric.⬆︎

solar plexus: the pit of the stomach.⬆︎

sow: a female pig.⬆︎

spats: cloth or leather covers that fit on the top of men’s shoes, extending up over the ankles and fastening under the shoes with a strap.⬆︎

© 1992 L. Ron Hubbard Library. All Rights Reserved. Any unauthorized copying, translation, duplication, importation or distribution, in whole or in part, by any means, including electronic copying, storage or transmission, is a violation of applicable laws.