This is what happened to the man who fell for the

Hard-to-Get Girl

By ROBERT F. YOUNG

Much had Henry Cooper traveled in the realms of girls, and many goodly dolls and dishes seen. But when love passed him by for the fifth consecutive time and thumbed his cupid nose at him, he resolutely turned his back on the elusive paradise toward which he had yearned and striven so futilely and dedicated himself to a life of confirmed celibacy.

He arrived at this momentous decision on his twenty-second birthday and he was still abiding by it when, several months later, he applied for work in the town of Ridgeville and accepted a job in the local brass foundry, running the hot-metal hoist for Furnace John Piwko.

Henry was a little disconcerted by Furnace John. There was something rather awesome about him. He was in his late fifties, and he had a heat-withered complexion, a big blunt nose, burly shoulders and grapnellike hands. "This up," he said in a deep, rumbling voice, after the foundry superintendent had left them together. "This down." He emphasized the first statement with a yank on one of the hoist cables and the second with a yank on the other cable. Then, the fundamentals of the operation explain to his—if not Henry's—satisfaction, he rested his elbows on a packing box that functioned as a desk, lighted a cigarette with a kitchen match, and added a lungful of bluish smoke to the already bluish atmosphere. Henry took in his surroundings a little uneasily. He had never been in a nonferrous foundry before. In fact, he had never been in any kind of foundry before. Not far from where he was standing, eight roaring pit furnaces emitted bright yellow flames through round apertures in their lids. Beyond them, eight merry-go-round racks stood in two staggered rows. A monorail extended in a straight line from one end of the big barnlike building to the other, passing over the furnaces and over the aisle between the merry-go-rounds. Suspended from the monorail was the hot-metal joist, the basic modus operendi of which Furnace John had just finished explaining to him.

Presently the furnaceman came over to the desk and told them that Number Three was ready. Furnace John donned apron, gloves and leggings and motioned for Henry to do the same. Then they proceeded to pull and pour the heat.

The temperature inside the foundry was in the nineties: the temperature of the metal was in the twenty-two hundreds; the temperature in the vicinity of the crucible was in the one hundred fifties. By the time the last of the molds that the machine molders had set upon the first two merry-go-round racks were filled, Henry was ready to terminate his career as a hoist operator. Possibly he would have, too, if they hadn't had to pull another heat right away.

It was a heat that was to have a profound influence on his life. He could tell that there was something special about it from the way Furnace John inspected the metal. From the way that he glowered at the furnaceman and said "Too hot!" From the way he poured it.

He choked each sprue with elaborate care: he cut each stream of reddish-yellow metal at the precise millisecond: he did not spill a single drop. If the contents of the crucible had been molten gold instead of molten brass, Henry would have sworn he was pouring $1000 gold pieces. What was he pouring?

In his eagerness to find out, Henry forgot all about quitting, and as soon as they replaced the crucible he hurried back to the merry-go-round. By the time he got there the shakeout man had already dumped the first mold and was reaching into the resultant pile of steaming sand with a long-handled hook. Presently, he pulled forth an object that looked like a turtle with a long neck and four backs and, after knocking the sand free, laid it to one side. Henry bent over it curiously, wondering what possible use there could be for such a monstrosity. It was some time before he realized that he was looking at several objects instead of just one—that the turtle's backs were the end products and that the necks and the spinal column were merely the solidified means the metal had followed in order to form them. It was an even longer time before he realized what the backs were.

He straightened, the thought of quitting more remote from his mind than ever. Furnace John had struck him as being anything but a book lover; nevertheless, the turtle's backs were book ends.

He had been running the hoist for a little more than a week when Furnace John asked him one morning if he liked kielbasa. A month ago he never would have dreamed that someday he'd be working in a foundry as a pour-off man's helper. He'd left his home town of Appleton with the intention of touring the surrounding countryside while awaiting word on the post-college application he'd put in at Appleton Advertising, Inc.; but the amount he'd saved up for his travels proved to be inadequate for the appetites of his 'Forty-nine jalopy, and when he reached Ridgeville he had barely enough cash left to see him through to a theoretical payday two weeks in the future. Either he had to make that payday a reality or sell his 'Forty-nine. His 'Forty-nine was like an old and faithful dog that has served its master far beyond the call of duty: relegating it to a used-car lot was unthinkable. Hence the foundry; hence the hoist; hence Furnace John.

" Kielbasa?"

" Polski sausage," Furnace John explained.

Henry looked dubious.

"I think you like," Furnace John went on. "You come supper my place tonight, Hank." He lived atop the wide ridge from which Ridgeville derived its name. A narrow road wound up through elms and maples, ribboned amoung green fields beneath a sky that seemed suddenly bluer. The house, which he had built himself, was fronted by a dozen rows of grape-vines, flanked by vegetable gardens and backgrounded by a small barn, a chicken coop and a stand of beeches. It was painted a bright red and was dominated by a staunch brick chimney.

They ate in the kitchen—Henry, Furnace John, his wife and their three daughters. The daughters, who ranged in age from the earliest teens to the latest, were a triple testimony to the fact that once upon a time their father had been far less fearsome of appearance, and that their mother had taught the torches to burn bright.

The conversation, at first, was in English, but after a while Mrs. Piwko lapsed into Polish, and Josephine, the oldest daughter, followed suit. Henry wouldn't have had the remotest idea what they were talking about if weren't for the fact that some words aren't readily translatable from one language to another and stand out like loud signals to the groping listener. The signals, in this case, were TV and Steve Allen.

" Ja tylko sysze TV i STEVE ALLEN. STEVE ALLEN i TV i to wszystk!" Furnace John exclaimed suddenly.

Henry turned to Josephine, who sat to his left. "Do you like TV," he asked.

"Of course I like TV." she said, bestowing on him a look that might have been fatal to a less cynical young man. Her face was wide and warm, and her golden eyebrows seemed about to take flight into the sunrise of her hair.

"What kind of set do you have?" he continued matter-of-factly. Her reaction disconcerted him. "Ha! Tell him what kind of set we got, pop!"

"TV," Furnace John said, with patriarchal dignity, "keeps kids from reading books."

"But everybody watches TV, pop." It was Christina, the youngest daughter. "My English teacher even said it's educational. I don't see why we can't have a set."

"Steve Allen and big dumb wrestlers give you education like books, hah?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake, pop," Anna, the second oldest said in sudden exasperation. "It's not education you're worried about half so much as those silly book ends you pour at the foundry!" Abruptly she clapped her hand over her mouth. Furnace John stood up—awesomely, majestically. He pointed to the living-room doorway. Anna left the table and scurried out of the kitchen. Furnace John sat down. The meal continued without further reference to TV.

There was nothing complicated about the thought pattern that lay behind his adamant attitude. Book ends were made to put books in between. The more books people bought, the more book ends they would need and the more orders there would be for the foundry to fill. The fewer books they bought, the fewer book ends they would need and the fewer orders there would be for the foundry to fill. TV kept people from reading books and consequently from buying them. Therefore TV was a threat to the economic security of the Piwkos—a wolf on the doorstep dressed in Steve Allen's clothing.

"Can't you talk to him?" Josephine asked later on, when she and Henry were sitting on the sofa in the living room, and Furnace John had gone outside. "Can't you make him understand that those book ends don't mean his job?"

"I can try," Henry said. "Maybe, though, he's right. Maybe you should read books."

"I do read books!" Her blue eyes kindled "I also went two years to business college, and I happen to be the legal secretary for the leading lawyer of Ridgeville. Just because my parents are immigrants and my father is a pour-off man in a brass foundry is no reason for you to think we're peasants!"

"I didn't mean to knock the chip off your shoulder," Henry said. "I like your father. I think your mother is swell."

Suddenly she smiled. Her eyes sparkled, her nose crinkled and dimples danced in her cheeks. But he refused to be impressed. Not for nothing had he loved and lost for five times running. He knew by heart all the little tricks and subtleties lovely women employ to break down a man's defenses, and he was careful to keep the conversation on a businesslike level for the rest of its duration. It did not endure for long. Around eight o'clock a horn sounded from the driveway, and Josephine got up to leave. Henry's carefully cultivated cynicism gloated. There, you see? he told himself.

"Don't forget to talk to pop," she said just before she went out.

"I won't," he said.

He launched his short-lived campaign the next morning, after the first book-end heat, when he and Furnace John walked down to the book-end floor to see how the exalted castings had run. They had, of course, run perfectly.

"I wonder why they don't make them out of iron?" Henry asked. "Brass seems kind of expensive for book ends."

"Brass heavier," Furnace John said.

"If there's ever a shortage of copper, they'll have to make them out of iron," Henry added. Furnace John didn't say anything. "You know yourself," Henry went on a little uneasily, "that the principal uses for brass are plumbing fixtures, and machine parts that come in contact with water, and—" His voice trailed away. Furnace John had turned and was headed for the grinding room. He beckoned to Henry to follow. In the grinding room he picked up a book end from one of the benches. It had been deburred and had been through the sand-blast machine. It had a reddish-gold cast, and on its outer side there was a bas-relief of an open book. Just beneath the book, the raised letters, EX LIBRIS, prefixed a little rectangle in which the owner-to-be could have his or her name engraved. Furnace John held the book end up to the morning sunlight that was pouring through the grinding-room windows. The burnished surface, kindled, blazed forth in purest splendor. It Was like Edison holding up the first electric-light bulb. It was like Doctor Johnson holding up The Dictionary.

"Beautiful," Furnace John said simply.

Henry reported his failure to Josephine on Saturday afternoon, when he met her in the supermarket where she was doing the family shopping. "You might as well forget about Steve Allen," he said in conclusion. "He's not coming to your house."

She put a big cabbage into the tote cart she was pushing. "Do you like pigeons?'" she asked. He was a little bewildered. "Pigeons?"

" Golabki. Pigs in the blanket."

"Oh. Sure I like them."

"We're having them for supper tonight. Will you come?"

He looked at her suspiciously. She was wearing a blue dress with tiny whitecaps printed on it. Amethyst earrings twinkled from her ears. Her face was like a blue-eyed flower.

" La belle dame sans merci," he thought. And then he thought, Pigs in the blanket!

It was a grueling match, but finally his appetite won out over his discretion and he heard himself saying, "I'll be there."

This time, neither TV nor Steve Allen was mentioned during the meal. But afterward, when everyone—with the exception of Anna and Christina, who jointly shared the burden of doing the supper dishes—had retired to the living room, and Furnace John had settled down to his evening paper, and Mrs. Piwko had taken up her crocheting needles, Josephine said, "Tell me something Hank. How many parts in the average TV set are made either partly or entirely out of brass and other copper-based alloys?"

Considering the fact that she was sitting right next to him on the sofa, it seemed to Henry that she had spoken with unnecessary loudness. "Quite a lot, I imagine," he said.

"Would you say two thirds of them?"

The room become ominously still. "I—I really don't know," Henry said.

"Would you say half of them?"

Furnace John's paper rustled. "There—there might be," Henry said.

"Wouldn't it be logical to conclude, then," Josephine finished triumphantly, "that TV benefits rather than hurts the nonferrous industry?"

"Well—"

"Be honest now, Hank. Does the television industry help brass foundries or doesn't it?" Abruptly a horn sounded from the driveway, and she gave a little start. Again Henry's cynicism gloated. You see? he told himself. You see? Aloud he said, looking her straight in the eye, "It might help brass foundries in general, but it's a liability to any foundry that depends on casting book ends for ten to twenty per cent of its income."

Presently he realized that he was sitting all alone on the sofa. In the back of his mind was the jarring memory of a door slamming, and the sound of a car backing out of the driveway came distantly to his ears. Suddenly he felt a big hand on his shoulder. "Come," a comradely voice said. "Out in the kitchen with Furnace John. We have beer together."

Monday afternoon the superintendent dropped the remark that the bookend order had been canceled. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday Furnace John poured off with a brooding countenance, spoke only when spoken to, and then only in monosyllables. Friday night, after he got his pay, he made the rounds like a male Carry Nation and put a verbal hatchet through every tavern TV set in Ridgeville.

Henry didn't really have to go to that supermarket Saturday afternoon. He had bought enough cigarettes the previous Saturday to last him for yet another week. But he'd been smoking more than usual lately, and he decided, around two o'clock, that maybe he'd better replenish his stock, just in case—

Even so, there was no reason for him to go wandering through all the self-service aisles. The cigarettes were kept behind the counter where you checked out—not stashed away among the cabbages or hidden in the frozen-food lockers, or concealed in the canned-fruit aisle, where their paths finally crossed.

"Hi," she said brightly, without the slightest trace of the rancor he had expected. "How are you weathering the book-end crisis?"

"Fine," he said with elaborate aplomb. "And you?"

"I think it was awfully mean of them, canceling their order that way. I've got a good notion to write them a letter and tell them so. Do you happen to know their address?"

"No, but I can find out."

"Would you? This afternoon? I'd like to write them right away."

He looked at her. Had she known he was coming for cigarettes? Had she expected to meet him the canned-fruit aisle? But he had never seen such a guileless countenance. "All right," he said presently. "But I can't understand why you should want to tell them off. You should be glad instead of mad."

"Why should I be glad?" She took down three cans of applesauce from a nearby shelf and dropped them into her tote cart. "Have you ever had potato pancakes?"

Potato pancakes happened to be Henry's gastronomic Achilles heel; but he was careful to keep his enthusiasm in check. "Once or twice," he said casually.

"We're having them for supper. Will you come?"

"Do you really want me to?"

"Of course I do. Why else would I be asking you if I didn't?'" To lure me into another one of your nefarious schemes to compromise your fathers values, Henry almost said: but he didn't, and a moment later she blurted, "I'm sorry about last Saturday. I didn't really have a date, and I wouldn't have run out on you that way if you hadn't let me down." It seemed to him that she was making a big issue out of something which, in view of his dedication to confirmed celibacy, amounted to less than nothing. But come to think of it, he had neglected to inform her of his vow.

He decided to be magnanimous. "All right," he said, "I'll come. And I'll bring the address too." The foundry was his first stop. The superintendent usually worked in the office Saturday afternoons, and he certainly ought to know the book-end company's address if anybody did. But the superintendent, according to the watchman, had gone home at noon. I'll give him a ring, Henry decided. He called from a nearby drugstore, and when he received no answer he drove out to the superintendent's house on the chance that he might be working out in the yard. He was not, but the gardener, who was, informed Henry that the superintendent and his wife had driven over to the Granover Country Club for a round of golf. The Granover Country Club was fifteen miles on the other side of Ridgeville.

Henry sighed. After promising Josephine the address, he was a little diffident about showing up without it. Halfway to he club one of his rear tires blew out. Several miles farther on the other one blew out. He had to walk three miles in the hot sun to a service station to get the tube patched and to borrow a hand pump. He had to walk three miles in the hot sun back to the car. By the time he got the tube back in the tire and the tire back on the wheel and the wheel back on the axle, he felt as though he'd just poured sixteen book-end heats without stopping.

It was 3:30 when he reached the club, and it was going on four when he finally caught up to the superintendent and his wife between the fifth and sixth holes. The superintendent stared at him when e asked for the address. So did the superintendent's wife. Henry felt a little foolish. No, the superintendent said, he couldn't recall the address offhand, but if Henry needed it right away, the watchman could tell him. The watchman, the superintendent explained sardonically, snooped through everything in the office and knew more about the company's business than the president himself did. It was almost five by the time Henry got back to Ridgeville, and it was 5:15 by the time he convinced the watchman that he wasn't a company spy and didn't have the slightest intention of turning the watchman in for knowing things he had no business knowing. It was 5:30 when he finally stopped off at the hotel where he was staying.

There was a letter that had been forwarded from Appleton, lying on his dresser. It was from Appleton Advertising Inc., and informed him that his application had been accepted and that he could start work immediately. He stood there staring at the words for a long time, waiting for elation to overwhelm him. But for some reason elation was not forthcoming. After a while he got sick of waiting and dropped the letter to the top dresser drawer; then he showered, shaved and changed, and headed for the Piwko house.

The Piwkos had two living rooms—the common one where they spent most of their time, and the special one adjoining it, which was reserved for christening, confirmation and wedding celebrations. Up until tonight, Henry had never been beyond the boundries of living room Number One. Consequently he was a little disconcerted when, after they got up from the table, Josephine led him into living room Number Two.

They sat down side by side on the brocaded sofa in the soft shadows that twilight was shedding through the tapestried windows. "Did you get it?" she asked.

He handed her the slip of paper on which he'd jotted down the address. He kept wondering why his heart was pounding so hard. She was sitting very close to him, and presently she moved even closer—so close, in fact, that he had to put his arm around her to get it out of the way. "Jo," he began, "I—" Two things happened then, with such near simultaneity that it was impossible for him to determine which occurred first—a horn sounded from the driveway and Josephine said, "Well, of all the nerve!" She got up abruptly and ran from the room. A moment later he heard the front door slam. He sat there for some time, listening to the sporadic rustling of Furnace John's paper, to the clicking of Mrs. Piwko's needles, to the water-muted sound of dishes in the kitchen sink. Then he got up, stopped long, enough in the living room to say good night to Furnace John and to thank Mrs. Piwko for her potato pancakes; long enough in the kitchen to say good night to the kids; long enough on the back steps to light a cigarette. Dusk lay deep and dark over the vineyard and the gardens, shrouded the beeches and the barn. The first star flickered faintly in the east. Finally he climbed into his car and backed out to the road. He had to back around the other car that was parked in the driveway, and his headlights picked up the belle dame sans merci leaning with her elbows on the rolled-down window and talking earnestly with the driver. She waved to him as he backed away, and her mouth moved us though she were shouting something; but the roar of the engine drowned out whatever it was, and he didn't much care what it was anyway.

He stopped long enough at the hotel to pack his clothes and to pay his bill, then he hit the highway for Appleton. All he could think of were the two blowouts he'd had, the miles he'd walked, and the incontrovertible fact that, despite his high-flown resolutions, love had thumbed its cupid nose at him once again; and he told himself that he'd never go back to Ridgeville again.

He ought not have either—if Ridgeville hadn't been located between Appleton and a town which he had to visit several months later to interview a prospective advertising client. Even so, he only had to drive through; he didn't have to stop. Above all, he didn't have to turn—But his 'Forty-nine, refurbished now and painted a robin's-egg blue, seemed to have a mind of its own.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and the fields slept beneath the crisp white sheets of the season's first snow. The sky seemed bluer than ever, and the bright red clapboards of the house contrasted nicely with the glistening whiteness of the gardens and the vineyard: the stanch chimney stood out as individualistically as before against the backdrop of the beeches—No, not quite.

At first Henry couldn't believe that the tinselly object attached to the chimney top was real. It was an optical illusion, he told himself. But when he turned into the driveway and saw the telltale ribbon running down the side of the house, he could deny the truth no longer: TV had come at last to the Piwkos'. Josephine met him at the kitchen door, a strange look on her face. "I saw you drive in," she said. And then, half in anger, half in tears, "It should have occurred even to someone as square as you are, Henry Cooper, that when a girl practically asks you to put your arm around her, she doesn't bawl you out when you finally get around to doing so. And she doesn't get up and run outside either, unless she's got a darn good reason to--such as telling someone she's already told twice before that there's no sense in his blowing his horn outside her window any more, because now there's someone else!" It was some time before Henry realized that he had taken her in his arms and was kissing her, a rather thick fog having settled around his sensibilities. Presently she drew gently away. She took his hand.

"Come on in the living room," she said "There's something I want you to see." The antenna and the ribbon had not lied: a twenty-four-inch TV console now pre-empted the spot where Furnace John's easy chair once had stood. And seated before it, staring into the magic depth of the picture tube, were Furnace John himself, Mrs. Piwko, Christina and Anna. Furnace John stood up and shook hands. "How you like, Hank?" he asked enthusiastically.

"All right, I guess."

Bewildered, Henry looked at the set again, half expecting it to turn into a bookcase. It did nothing of the sort. And then he saw them, gleaming dully on top of the cabinet, embracing five new books—the Ex Libris book ends.

"Look nice, don't they?" Josephine said, picking one up and handing it to him. No, they weren't the Ex Libris book ends after all. He stared at the place where the bas-relief of the open book was supposed to be, wondering why it had turned into the bas-relief of a TV set. He lowered his eyes to where the raised letters, EX LIBRIS, should have been, and saw instead, FOR THE TV SET

OF, and then, freshly engraved, JOHN JOSEPH PIWKO.

"They're TV-console book ends," Josephine explained later on, when she and Henry were sitting on the brocaded sofa in living room Number Two. "They come free with every console, and I get two cents'

royalty on every pair!"

"You—you get two cents royalty!"

"Certainly. I'm the one who wrote the idea. I planned on having you help me, but I didn't get a chance to ask you. In any event, the book-end company wrote back it just might work because most people really do feel guilty about substituting TV viewing for reading, and a set of book ends thrown in free with the purchase of every TV console might be just the thing to placate their consciences—and stimulate sales. Anyway, a major TV company went for the idea and first thing you knew, orders galore were pouring into the foundry—Don't look at me like that, Hank."

Henry said nothing. He kept right on looking at her.

"You know yourself," she went on, "that mom and pop never read a book voluntarily. And you also know that they need something more substantial than a pair of crocheting needles and an evening paper to keep them compatible and contented. They need a mutual interest. Besides, pop only made the down payment—my royalties are taking care of the balance."

Henry continued to look at her—at her wide warm face, her bird-wing brows, her eyes--at the lovely light shining in those eyes that he himself had kindled. But he paid little attention to what she was saying. For the miracle of TV's coming to the Piwkos' had already been superseded by another. Love had come to Henry Cooper.

THE END