Major Peabody waited until I had rung the bell to his apartment three times. I knew he was there. It was nearly eleven o’clock in the evening. I was preparing to perform my obligation to deliver his monthly Spendthrift Trust remittance. Peabody would be no place in the entire universe except in his apartment, waiting for me.
On the last day of the month, without fail, the Major invites me to dinner at some Philadelphia restaurant. The phrase “the Major invites me to dinner” is a euphemism meaning: Since I must deliver his check as soon as possible after midnight, I might as well spend the evening enjoying a leisurely meal with him at my expense. After dinner we usually retire to his apartment for conversation until the clock strikes twelve. After delivering his remittance, I am free to leave.
On the evening in question, that pattern had been broken. I was absent from Philadelphia while attending a two day seminar dedicated to tax reduction through intricate trust arrangements. I returned to town well after sundown. This meant I was unable to receive the Major’s end-of-the-month telephone call inviting me to dinner. By keeping me waiting outside of his apartment door, Peabody was indicating his displeasure.
Finally, the door opened. Peabody’s greeting was subdued. “Oh, it’s you, counselor,” he said. “You are tardy. I was concerned. I thought, perhaps, you had been arrested for committing some sadistic crime, disbarred and sentenced to a long term in prison, or, perhaps, one of you dissatisfied clients had, justifiably, murdered you.”
I got the impression the Major was mildly displeased. Feeling somewhat guilty, I immediately explained my absence from the office and apologized for not advising him in a timely manner and for not rushing from the seminar before its conclusion in order to get back to Philadelphia in time to dine with him. The Major seemed mollified only after I made amends by inviting him to dinner on the following evening. Then, too late, it occurred to me that I had done nothing to require an apology.
Major Peabody has an almost uncanny ability to put me on the defensive. Whenever I point out one of his various derelictions of duty or violations of social grace, it always seems to end up with me apologizing to him. He’s been getting away with it for years. I thought it was about time for me to strike back. Yes, it was time for me to turn the tables on him.
“Major,” I said, “when you greeted me at the doorway, I received the distinct impression you thought I purposely avoided the dubious pleasure of taking you to dinner. Frankly, your conduct surprised me. Can it be that my impression was accurate?”
There, I thought. For a change I’ve put him on the defensive. I said no more. I waited for his explanation and for his apology. I was disappointed on both counts. I should have expected his response.
“And I, my young friend, am also surprised,” he answered. “Surely you can’t interpret my sincere concern for your safety and welfare to be an indication of displeasure. Surely my interest in your well-being should give you no cause to attack me.”
He had done it again. I was back on the defensive. Before I could think of an appropriate cutting response, the Major waved his hand as if to dismiss the mitigation I would certainly be expected to tender. He lit a cigar, sipped at a Scotch and water, leaned back in his chair and began a soliloquy.
“Don’t apologize, young man,” he said. “Impressions are often wrong. I remember a fellow who had been invited into our grouse camp a few years ago. He behaved well during the first day of our hunt and I was left with a favorable initial impression of him. I thought he deserved to be invited to join us in future hunts. Later in the evening, however, I was forced to change my opinion.
“After dinner, when the sun went down and the temperature dropped, the cabin began to cool and the wood box began to empty. That fellow actually moved his chair closer to the fire! Can you believe it?” Peabody slowly moved his head from side to side and said no more. I sat there, somewhat perplexed.
“And?” I questioned.
“And nothing,” was the Major’s answer. “The man should have gone outside to the wood pile and brought back an armful of wood to replenish the fire. By his inaction, he proved to me that he was, at best, of dubious character. My suspicions were later positively confirmed when I was told he was a Congressman.
“Impressions that have been built over a long period of time can be equally inaccurate. Jeffery Schultz is a case in point. Many believed Jeff was an insensitive, sarcastic, cynical, mean spirited son of a gun.” (The Major did not say “gun”.) “At least,” the Major continued, “that was what his long time associates and closest friends called him. His enemies did not hold him in such high regard.
“I, on the other hand, had an entirely different impression of him. I had formed a favorable opinion of him and there was a good reason for my opinion. Jeff had a cabin and eighty wooded acres in northern Minnesota. When the Ruffed Grouse season opened, he always invited me to hunt with him. That, of course, is the mark of a true gentleman.
“On the morning of my first visit to Jeff’s camp, I flushed a grouse twice - once on my way to the outhouse when I was unarmed and a few minutes later on my way back to the cabin. When I enthusiastically mentioned it to Jeff, he told me the hunting of that particular bird was strictly off limits.
“The grouse was Jeff’s pet. It lived in a spruce thicket not more than thirty yards from the cabin door. Jeff asked me never to divulge the bird’s existence, let alone its location. Of course, I honored his request. Many times, during our return to the cabin from subsequent hunts, we would flush that grouse, but even when game was scare, we never entered that thicket to look for it.
“Jeff and the grouse had an extraordinary relationship. He kept the bird supplied with corn and mushrooms, beetles, when he could find them, and an occasional apple. Jeff had become attached to the bird and the bird apparently liked him. It would often perch and spend the night on the balsam pole that served as a railing around the cabin’s porch. For two years I watched that exceptional relationship of confidence and trust between man and bird.
“Last Spring I visited Minnesota and spent an evening reminiscing with Jeff. When I inquired of his pet grouse, he became somber. He explained what had happened. Toward the end of the previous year’s bird season, Jeff was told the word of his pet grouse had somehow spread throughout the county. A group of hunters intended to invade Jeff’s property when he was absent and shoot the bird.
“Jeff immediately tried everything he knew to chase his pet from the grove near his cabin. He yelled at it. He swore at it. He fired his shotgun in its general direction. Nothing worked. The bond of friendship the grouse had established with Jeff could not be broken. The bird would not leave that small adjacent-to-the-cabin stand of spruce. Jeff faced the certain prospect of some grouse hunter killing his friend.
“My impression of Jeff’s sensitive nature was then proven.
“Jeff frustrated the hunters’ attempt to kill his pet. He, himself, shot and ate the bird.”